#neon strobe

[nextgenfoals]

Neon Strob and Bumblebee :>

Another next next gen!! Despite Jitterbug’s bright colors, they don’t really like attention, and would much rather be playing video games :) — mod charm

[crows4luna]

DANCING WITH ANOTHER GUY TO MAKE HIM JEALOUS.  ﹒˚ ₊ ︵ LOVE & DEEPSPACE EDITION.

mature, suggestive content. explicit content in zayne's section (fingering, nipple play, teasing, pussy slapping). possessive caleb, brief mention of bondage. mentions of miscommunication, disagreements, generally being petty. set in a nightclub. slightly toxic? i think? everything is consensual! reader is gn!afab. reader is not mc but works in the respective fields of their own position (xavier's and sylus' sections). xavier and rafayel's sections are the least horny. sorry, i tried. unedited. 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀now playing: lokera - rauw alejandro, lyanno, brray [ author's note ] thank you so much @ivohex for helping me brainstorm a little more for xavier's and caleb's sections. also, if anyone has rauw alejandro tickets, please hmu. tysm.

Subtle, strobing lights make the dark intimacy all the more enticing. A beautiful gradient that casts over the bodies that meld with one another in the dark. Beneath them is a fluorescent square platform, following similar color switch patterns as the neon lights above. Those who move on this illuminated island are either drunk, tipsy, or—looking for something with bold intentions.

And bold, you are.

You stand near the middle among these half-inebriated bodies, in a position that makes you secure enough to be within a keen line of sight across the bar. It’s intentional, of course. The music that booms throughout the venue is like a natural, instant spell. Each song that shuffles through is a repetition of a dembow riddim, accompanied by a backing track of pop and R&B instrumentals mixed together.

Naturally, your hips lead a sultry sway. Your body is captivated by the nightclub’s inviting aura, melding with the beat like it’s moving you. A dance that heightens your own enjoyment of the night that’s bound to be filled with opportunity.

Tonight—you’re wearing an outfit skimpier than you’re used to. Showing more skin than you would ever bare on any other night.

And your partner’s here.

But it’s not him who’s pressed up against you from behind. There’s an emboldening heat between yourself and the stranger grinding against you, moving in that same natural gyration. His hands on your waist, squeezing the flesh as you two circle and move as one.

You glance up within that keen line of sight—wearing a hazy, teasing smirk—meeting your significant other’s eyes across the room. Even with the stranger damn near close to bursting in his pants, his hardening bulge grinding up and down against your ass—the only people who exist in this intense atmosphere being yourself and the man you always go home with.

XAVIER - You two were here on a whim to join your coworkers on a night out. It was a spot that had been pointed out by Tara, begging her tight-knit bonds within the Association to ‘let loose for one night.’ - Disagreements were bound to take place between partners, but the light air of tension between you both had been a result of small misunderstanding. He had promised you could accompany him on a mission that was said to be a little bit more precarious. Yet he went alone. - He knows this sight right now was your way of getting back at him. - He gets it. Sure. - But his hand clenches tighter around the glass in hand, ice tumbling and clinking as the liquor inside begins to tumble like a troubled wave. Unknown to him, his jaw is clenched tighter than it ever has. And if anyone knew Xavier better than his usual, composed demeanor, nothing would have been amiss. - You’re always stunning. You’re the most beautiful person to him, and he’s seen you, embraced you in all of your glory. That’s why he finds it unfair that you look as pretty as ever, allowing some random stranger to touch you in a way that only he can. - The glass shatters into pieces—and his tense fingers clench around nothing but the air. - And you’re giggling at the sight. You’re enjoying yourself heartily, feeling a thrum of warmth course between your thighs as Xavier takes an eased stride onto the platform. - You’ve already loosened your grip on the stranger just slightly, giving your partner the ample room to pull away the guy and taking his place. Xavier is stiff at first, but his grip relaxes while keeping a firmer hold on you. - “They already have a dance partner. Find someone else.”

RAFAYEL - The after party following his new gallery opening is handled and arranged by Thomas (surprisingly). Rafayel takes his kindness in good stride. - Yet the artist struggles to enjoy his evening at all. It’s to the point where he’s dissatisfied with the selection of paintings he had for the gallery. He makes a mental note to go over them again, rearrange the space later on so that he’s satisfied. - His biggest gripe isn’t the paintings, though. He realizes it now that the earlier disagreement between you two should’ve been handled better. He misses the normal, casual banter with you, and he hasn’t had ample time to properly whisk you away and apologize. - You’re not holding a grudge against him, but— - You do feel excitement at the thought of him taking the lead. Making the first move tonight. - And Rafayel gets it. It’s why he’s casual, leaned back against the bar as he watches you get lost to the music—as the man behind you is very apparent in fantasizing about taking you home for the night. - Fat chance, the artist thinks. The thought remains when he matches your own playful smile, subtly lifting his hand, in the motion that he would be adjusting his cuff links. - You know each other’s antics already—and you let out a giggle as you make slight distance between yourself and the stranger. Within that same split second, Rafayel snaps his fingers—enjoying how a flame singes the other man’s pant hem, causing him to instantly distance himself as he sputters in panic.

CALEB - It doesn’t take you long to understand that he is seething. The pinch of his brows, slight twitch of the corner of his lips, and a vein damn near outlining on his forehead. - Good. It’s what you wanted anyway. Another petty jest on your end just to rile him up. It’s a fun game, the way you two work together. - Caleb has never once bat an eyelash towards anyone else but you. Yet in the time you were apart, in the time he knew he fucked up and should’ve reached out sooner, you’ve learned how to have your fun. - Don’t get him wrong, he’s absolutely heated in every way possible. You look ready for the taking more than anything tonight—but the sight of that man’s hands on your hips is all that he can focus on. Caleb doesn’t hear a damn thing his colleague is blabbering about. - His teeth might just break from how hard he’s grinding them against each other, hidden behind a forced smile he can no longer maintain. All the while, another vein pops. You’re laughing, knowing how miserable he is seeing this. - He could easily walk up to you, make a scene, and take you into a dark corner and remind you who you belong to. But this was supposed to be a fun occasion. You’ll end up going back with him anyway—and he knows which tie he wants to blindfold you with when he takes you tonight. - Caleb would rather make that happen now. - He subtly lifts his hand with a flick of his fingers—and the stranger you’re dancing with is suddenly pulled back by his pant leg, falling back onto the dancefloor. It startles the other patrons, helping him stand as you walk away with ignorance. You mirror the satisfied smile on his face as you walk towards him—ready to be his for the rest of the night.

SYLUS - It became routine for you two to take on missions together whenever it was something that required going undercover or bringing a plus one. Nightclubs in the N109 Zone were a sleazy but vibrant scene, making the venue all the more intimate when you both stepped foot inside. - Sylus was efficient as ever in handling his task, another arrangement having gone smoothly. He doesn’t have to kill anyone tonight. - Or so he thought. - It’s rare you’re ever in this kind of scene, even more so that you dress for this occasion. Who would you be if you didn’t have your own fun? Especially when it came to riling up your beloved. Between you two, it stirs the very heat needed when you’d like him to be a little more rough. - Sure enough—Sylus is positively seething despite the too calm expression that makes his striking features tense. The look in his eyes is one you’ve come to recognize; it’s the same ferocity that his enemies see in their final moments. - The slightest smirk quirks up on his lips. You’re being cheeky tonight, he thinks. He doesn’t tear his gaze away from your own—ogling him, beckoning him over without a word. - His sharp eyes notice how the man behind you has squeezed your hips a bit tighter, like he doesn’t want to let go. You indulge in it, grinding your ass back into the stranger harder—and that’s all it takes for Sylus to finally prop himself up from the bar. - No, he hadn’t planned on harming anyone at all. He’s a good, morally-abiding citizen. - But oh… the things he was planning to do you. Perhaps keeping you up until the morning was a fair punishment.

ZAYNE - You should have known better by now that your games with him always end up in his victory. - You don’t ever look away from one another as the stranger continues to grind against you, oblivious to the tension and how this was all just an act. But you wonder why Zayne is as calm as he normally is. Eased, relaxed, with no drink in hand. - No, it bothers you. - Your initial, teasing smile begins to soften, and you’re becoming desperate. Your half-lidded eyes now slightly wider, while you jut your bottom lip into a pathetic pout. You’re losing, and your frustration about it makes Zayne smile, ever so slightly. - Your partner eventually pulls away, muttering something about going to get a drink. Just as he turns his back to head towards the opposite side where another bar stands—you feel a familiar, calloused palm tug your wrist, leading you out of the club. - You barely have time to process anything—when Zayne pushes you onto your back against the backseat cushions. He grips your calves, instantly folding your legs back as he slots in between your thighs. - He pants against your throat, humming in satisfaction as his trained hand instantly finds your slicked folds. You gasp for air, instantly weakening beneath him. Your back arches as he presses and circles his fingers into your aching flesh. - “Zayne… Zayne, I—please—please—oh!” You chant his name hurriedly, breathless as you grind into his hand sloppily. - But in trying to chase your pleasure, Zayne retracts his fingers just as fast as he found your skin. His palm strikes against your pussy, drawing a surprised yelp from you. You cry out a whimper, trying to reach out to your lover—and his hand strikes the same spot again. - “What if I just left you like this, hm?” The doctor breathes huskily into your ear, nipping your lobe between his teeth. He groans as his fingers easily slide into you, his low chuckle vibrating against your neck. - His other hand comes forward to expose your chest, instantly latching his lips onto a nipple. You moan out loud into the cramped darkness, more needy than you ever have been. “Ah… agh, fuck… Zayne, I’m sor—” - “How about you go right back into that building, and give him another dance, hm? Just like this.” - You can only whine at this point, huffing with such intense arousal it makes you look pathetic. Zayne is relishing in it, you can feel his smirk against your breast as he flattens his tongue against opposite nipple this time. - “That’s what I thought.”

[lady-lauren]

❥ SATORU GOJO X SUGURU GETO X NANAMI KENTO X TOJI FUSHIGURO X FEM!READER

❥ WORD COUNT: 4.7k

❥ WARNINGS/TAGS: fivesome gangbang, some (okay, um, a lot) of m/m action, ass play, ass fucking, vaginal fucking, double penetration, throat fucking, hair pulling, snowballing (cum + mouth + spitting in another mouth), creampie, excessive cum in all your holes, cum swallowing, spitting (it's Toji, he spits on someone's cock, don't ask questions), praise, use of "good girl", some degradation, they're all nasty fuckers, Toji does show up eventually I promise he's just ~late~

~Happy Halloween~ let's go out with a bang

→ Kinktober Masterlist ←

This is not what you signed up for.

Satoru opens your thighs in his lap, long fingers spreading your pussy wide. A smirk kisses the back of your throat as you shiver, flushing so unbearably hot as Suguru’s dark gaze smolders at the sight of your drooling cunt. 

Suguru’s mouth fastens over your pussy and you arch in Satoru’s hold, whining with every wicked flick and suck of his warm tongue. Your arms tangle back around Satoru’s neck, nails scratching down his skin, knotting in snowy hair already melting with sweat. 

“Be a good boy and make her cum, Sugu. I want our girl nice and loose when we fuck her.”

This isn’t—you never imagined this is where you’d end up, in Satoru Gojo’s bed, an electric hum from the frat party below thumping through the walls, pounding the floor. 

When you signed the form to have an upperclassman mentor, you pictured a few lackluster coffee meetups and texts about class schedules. Something more…casual, cursory, trivial. 

Only Satoru Gojo is none of the above.

Day one he sunk his fingers into you, charming and carefree, with a pride only the most popular name on campus can muster. The whole year has been a blur of gentle loopings of his string around you until you trusted him. And you do, especially as his strong fingers press into your rib cage to keep you from squirming away from Suguru’s mouth.

Every walk to class with his arm around your shoulder, every late night text with just a little too much innuendo, every party with his fingers toying just a little close to the edge of your skirt. It’s all been building to this. 

“Told ya I had the best end of year present~,” Satoru sing-songs in your ear. 

Neon lights pulsate purple, long black hair catching and reflecting every strobe as Suguru leans in deeper, muscular shoulders rolling as he presses his nose to your clit. He groans in some sick mixture of pleasure and annoyance at Satoru.

“Whose name is she going to scream out? Yours or mine?” The man between your legs is toying with fire.

“Or mine?” 

Your heart kickstarts in your chest at the new voice ringing in your ears, baritone and slicing through the heady room. 

“Ah, Nanami! Didn’t expect you to respond to the group text.” 

Satoru’s voice is still so playful, like he doesn’t have you open and vulnerable and trembling in his lap. You cling on to him tighter, jumping and gasping as Suguru slides his tongue over your swollen clit. 

“Well,” Nanami looks directly at you, through you, shutting the door behind him, “this year your little pet is especially pretty.”

Being Satoru’s fledgling meant Suguru was always around—you know him, feel only the normal amount of embarrassment as he pushes his tongue into your cunt—but Nanami? He’s barely acknowledged your presence until now.

Nanami shrugs his button-down shirt over his arms, stalking the few paces to where you’re being held open and eaten. He reaches down and digs his strong fingers into Suguru’s hair, holding his slick mouth against your cunt. 

“Ride his face and make a mess of him.” 

Your hips roll before you can even think to stop them, lashes fluttering as you listen and start to grind against Suguru’s face. You can feel his smirk as his arms slip between your thighs and Satoru’s, jerking until you’re sliding farther down damp sheets. 

Suguru locks his arms around your legs, blunt fingernails digging into your thighs. He sucks on your clit until you’re whining and cooing, all the while being shoved deeper into your pussy by the consistent tug from Nanami.

“Atta girl, you like his mouth, yeah?” Satoru pats your cheek. 

“Ah, y-yeah, f-feels so good, fuck.” 

His hot tongue dips deeper in your folds, tip prodding your fluttering hole. He slips in for just a moment, grinning as he teases and pulls back out to smooth the wide flat of his tongue against your clit again.

“Oh Sugu, fuck, please, oh god, in me, put your t-tongue back in me.”

“Are you gonna deny our girl? She’s practically shaking.” 

Satoru lets your head fall to the mattress between his thighs, fisting his cock just above your eye line. The pump of his hand is lewd, already wet from the pre leaking down his slit from watching Suguru eat you out.

Nanami takes one of your tits in hand, fingers mean against your nipple like they are in Suguru’s hair. He rolls the bud between thumb and forefinger, making you gasp and arch into his palm.

“Sensitive,” he grunts. “Did that make her wet, Geto?”

“Oh fuccckk, I…” 

“That’s right, be a good girl.” Suguru’s voice vibrates down your pussy and you’d scream if it weren’t for Nanami’s fingers slipping between your parted lips. He teases them around your tongue, dragging them out so he can use your spit to swirl around your puffy nipple. 

“Oh fuck, oh god, like that, ‘s good,” you writhe on the bed, your legs squeezing around Suguru’s cheeks.

Your eyes blink open and your vision is filled with Satoru’s long cock, pretty and angry and throbbing in the color-changing lights. 

Your body trembles as you come undone, tongue lolling from your mouth like you’re dying to taste Satoru. It’s a fast, painful kind of pleasure, like Suguru sucked it from your core only to swallow it for himself.  

He watches the aftershocks of pleasure racing across your skin like a cat not yet done with his meal, your legs still shivering as you pant and try to catch your breath.

Suguru sits to his knees, shaking Nanami’s hold away with a slight sneer. He’s tempted to wipe his messy mouth with the back of his hand, but thinks better of it when he catches Satoru’s hungry gaze. He leans forward, pressing a hot, open mouthed kiss onto Toru’s lips, letting him taste you. They both groan, Satoru pulling away only to trace his tongue around Suguru’s lips, licking at his ruined cheeks.

“Stop doing that before I get jealous,” you pur from below them, tugging at the long hair that brushes Suguru’s back so he will bring his lips to yours.

“Jealous?” he mumbles into your mouth, “I just had your pussy in my mouth and you already miss me?”

You grasp his messy jaw in your hand, fingers mean, bruising. It’s rougher than he expects.

“Toru said this is my present.”

“Sure is, sweetheart,” your head jerks to where Nanami stands next to the bed, fisting his naked cock, “now let’s get something else inside you, hm?” 

“You know the rules. I get her pussy first.” 

Bodies reposition like this is a dance with familiar steps. Satoru settles below you, smearing his cock through your sloppy folds and grinning when you tremble from how sensitive your clit is already.

“God you’re fucking soaked. Good job, Sugu.”

All three pairs of eyes are too excited to watch as you sink down on Satoru’s cock, pussy lips bulging at the stretch of him. You suck in his dick inch by inch, time turned to slush, head thrown back and lips parting. 

Suguru’s hands are eager, gripping your hips from behind so he can slam you down onto his best friend’s cock.

“Fuck that’s so good, fuck, Toru!” 

Nanami’s hand is suffocating his cock, standing still, patient, watching you get used to the bounce of Satoru’s hips.

Suguru runs his nose up the back of your neck, groaning as he paws at your tits, tweaking both nipples until you hiss. He flicks a nipple quickly with his middle finger, smarting your skin. Then he licks a hot stripe up your throat, the length of his hair falling over your shoulder.

Your head lulls back against his chest, “I th-thought you’d be nice to me, Sugu.” 

“I am the nice one, princess. Just wait.”

You look absolutely stuffed, belly nearly bulging from Satoru’s thick, intrusive cock making a home inside you. 

Nanami brushes his fingers over your face, cupping your cheek to cull your attention away from Suguru.

“So pretty. You’re a good little slut, aren’t you?”

Grabbing his wrist, you move his strong hand on your face closer to your mouth, wet lips closing around his thumb. You suck hard, mischief gleaming in your eyes as you watch his normally stoic mouth open at the feeling. You repeat the action, licking at the digits and moving his fingers in and out of your mouth. You release his fingers when Satoru pushes his cockhead into a particularly soft spot of your walls, making you gasp.

“I’m a very good girl.”

“Oh yeah?” You hear Satoru’s unmistakable, demeaning laugh from below. “Put his cock in your mouth, suck him ‘til he cums.” 

Suguru’s hand splays across your spine and pushes you down, smashing your body to Satoru’s and lining your face with Nanami’s cock. The new angle of Toru’s dick in your guts makes you mewl, hips rolling and begging. 

You shift your weight, balancing one hand on the bed so the other can wrap around Nanami’s cock, silken and hot and pounding in your little palm. Satoru has the perfect view below as you spit onto the cock in your hand, tracing your tongue along the vein lines. 

“Fuck, you’re gonna be messy, aren’t ya?” Icey eyes shine before winking up at you, one of Satoru’s hands wiping away a stray drop of spit on his forehead. 

“Don’t pay attention to him,” Nanami grunts and shoves his fingers into your hair, making you look up the muscular planes of his body to his face, “focus on me.”

You obey, lips sucking at his swollen head before taking the rest of him slowly. Nanami groans as he watches you, ass in the air, cock in your cunt, pretty eyes not leaving his as you slide him to the back of your throat and swallow.

Suguru smears lube onto your ass as you get to work, grinding down into Satoru and sucking Nanami. He thumbs your tight, puckered hole and you moan low and deep around the cock in your mouth. The vibrations tingle down Nanami’s spine and make him jerk your hair, shoving you into the blonde curls at the base of his cock until you gag around his length. 

Satoru swirls his thumb against your clit to make your brain think about him again, about the way he’s thrumming into your hole, stretching you so wide you barely notice when Suguru’s thumb dips into your ass. 

There’s nothing you can do but let them work your body, every part of you pulsing and throbbing with this hot, wormy need to be filled and fucked. 

“Fuck her cunt’s so tight, gonna b-bust,” Satoru moves quicker, making you break the rhythm you’ve built sucking cock. You pull back to breathe, tongue flattening on the underside of Nanami’s dick. 

“So early, Toru,” Suguru tuts, “I’m not even in her ass yet.” Two fingers now scissor into your tight hole as lube drips down to where Satoru’s balls are slapping into your ass cheeks.

Nanami keeps you distracted, roughly shoving his cock back between your lips once you have enough breath in your lungs. You bob your head, keeping him moist and slick between hollowing cheeks. His impressive thickness has saliva dripping down your cheeks and falling into Satoru’s hair.

Suddenly, your clit is pinched between Satoru’s cruel fingers, with no pleasurable intent beyond his own. You scream and the opening has Nanami pushing his cock halfway down your throat. 

“Oh that’s it baby, get tight, milk me, fucking god.” 

“Satoru,” Suguru bites in annoyance, “fucking hold it in until—”

“I can’t, been dreaming of fucking this little cunt. Can’t wait, fucking can’t, she’s too soft and wet and—” 

You’re not sure who cums first, you from the blistering force of Toru’s thumb on your clit, or him from the way your pussy convulses and sucks around his shaft. Not that it matters, you’re both whining. 

Your tongue goes slack against Nanami’s cock as you feel the thump thump of ropes of cum unloading into your hole. Bliss makes you numb, makes you dumb, easier for Nanami to control and for Suguru to play with. 

“Don’t swallow.” Nanami’s groan is the only warning you get. His powerful hips go still, cock pumping, before a grunt precedes the salty burst of his release coating your tongue. 

Of course you listen to him. There’s barely any will left you beyond to fuck and be fucked. 

Only you’re not prepared for Nanami slipping his cock from your mouth and tilting your chin up, making you stare into the rapacity of hazel eyes. 

“Now give it to Satoru.”

Your heart knocks in your chest, heat fissuring down your spine as if you’re worried about getting in trouble. You stare at Nanami with wide eyes, having to forcibly stop yourself from swallowing in shock.

Satoru gives you a lopsided, fucked out grin as you look down to face him, his hand reaching up to brush hair from your face. He kisses you before you overthink it, forcing his tongue into your mouth until spit and cum spill from the edges of your lips. 

You’ve thought about kissing him before. Too many times, really, and never once did you picture it sloppy and tangy with Kento Nanami’s cum swishing from your mouth to Satoru’s. He groans at the taste and you moan as he shifts his hips below you, cock still hard and raging. 

“Well isn’t this just disgusting.”

That voice is new. Taunting. 

You look at the cracked door, your swollen, cum stain lips parting at who fills the gap.

“Fushiguro,” Suguru clicks his tongue against his teeth, “you’re late.”

“Surprised I’m still invited since I broke the last one.”

Toji Fushiguro is nearly a myth, a revenant that you’ve only seen shadows of in the dark corners of parties. Yet here he is, arms crossed across his shirtless chest, a dark gray spot already leaking through his sweats at the sight of you sandwiched between three sweaty men. 

“Are you just gonna stand there and stare?” you ask, unsure where your audacity came from.

The smirk he gives you is sinister, the door slamming as he fists his cock through his pants, “Make room for me.”

Nanami pulls you up and off Satoru’s cock. He keeps your wobbly legs steady as bodies move around you, one of his big hands smoothing down your back as if to reassure you. Not that you need it, the headspace of sex is still engulfing you, like a haze all around the room. 

“I want her ass.” Toji’s knees sink into the mattress. 

“She’s prepped,” Nanami grins, hand reaching down, pawing at your ass, before he slides one of his big fingers into your asshole. You groan at the stretch, a filling pleasure shooting down to your toes. 

Toji snatches you in his arms, his strength allowing him to tug you around like a little rag doll. His mouth seals over yours with a primal groan, settling you into his lap so his cock can twitch against the softness of your belly. You moan and let him have you, calloused hands groping your sore tits.

“Taste good,” he licks against your lips, “pretty little thing, aren’t ya? Toru outdid himself this time.” 

He grabs your hand in his, forcing your fingers to wrap around the width of his cock. He helps you pump the shaft, thick neck tilting back when your thumb presses right under his mushroom head and you squeeze along his veins. 

“Suppose you need another one of these in your pussy too, hm?” 

The thought of being completely filled makes you leak, slick sticking to your thighs. 

Your eyes flicker over your shoulder. Three men are waiting, naked, ready to fill whichever hole you want. 

You reach first for Suguru. 

“Oh, oh, don’t tell me he’s your favorite?” Toji’s laugh rumbles your whole body in his hold. 

“No, I-I mean…” you flush hot.

“He’s just trying to rile you up, baby,” Satoru’s white lashes sweep to where his cum is starting to drip from your hole, “besides, I want your mouth next. I have…payback, in mind.” His gaze cuts to Nanami. 

Five bodies tango around each other far too easily. 

Suguru slips beneath you, Satoru stands before you, while Nanami and Toji make the bed groan and creak under the weight of their knees.

There’s no pause once Toji’s hands latch on to your hips, his fat fingers mean and greedy as he pops the head of his cock into your asshole. You hiss at the full feeling, only for the sound to bleed into a whine as Suguru nudges his cock into your puffy folds, pressing until he breaches the first ring of slicked muscle. 

Your head falls to Suguru’s chest as they both begin to push. 

The spread is delicious and excruciating all at once, so much pressure in your holes as Toji ruthlessly starts thrusting. He’s working his way in, grunting, worming his cock until you’re halfway down his thick shaft. 

“Ahhh, oh, oh, ‘s so much!”

“Shhh, shhhh, it’s okay, pretty baby.” Satoru pets your head as your nails rake down Suguru’s arms. 

“Toru—can’t fuck, too full, oh god, god, god, fuckkkk.”

Suguru notches his cock just a little deeper in your pussy, making you weep. 

“Yeah you can, sweetheart,” Nanami’s talking to you but looking at where you’re being split apart, lip sucking between his teeth. “You can take more. Promise.”

Not that you have a choice. Toji grunts as he thrusts once, twice, finally forcing his way in deep and smacking his hips until he’s flush with the jiggle of your ass. You scream and you’re sure any music playing in the house can’t drown out the sound. 

“Hurry up, Sugu. Or I’ll start fucking her without you.” Toji kneads his knuckles into the fat of your ass, tsking. 

You do it for him. You press down, down, down until you’re sucking Suguru’s raw cock all the way in so you can feel full. 

Your walls feel thin, like you can feel the outline of both dicks as they start to move together. Slow, at first, since you whine and coo and reach up and grab Satoru’s thighs like you’re afraid you’re going to topple over from their power. Then the pace really starts, a cacophony of skin on skin and grunts that have your eyes rolling into the back of your head. 

Your guts are a mess as you finally pick your head up and look at Satoru, tears and mascara streaming down your face as your silly brain tries to make sense of the all-encompassing ecstasy of being so full and used. 

“God damn you’re perfect, aren’t ya?” Satoru weaves his fingers in your hair, soft and sweet, guiding your mouth to his cock. You open your mouth and stick out your tongue, hiccuping every time the cocks inside you slam up and in sync. 

Satoru smears his cock over your awaiting tongue, popping the head into the softness of your cheek before pulling out and rubbing the leaking slit over your tastebuds. 

“Mhmmm gonna keep you as a little pet, okay? I’ll let you have any dick you want, whenever you want it. Sound good?” 

You nod, finally feeling stable enough to reach back and wiggle your fingers for Nanami. 

Nanami slots his cock into your palm, groaning as your fingers fasten around him and begin to pump along his length.

“Need some help with that?” Toji’s scarred lip pulls into a smirk before a suck, swish sounds in his mouth. He spits over Nanami’s cock, the wet glob sinking between your fingers as you tug and pull his heated shaft.

“Nasty fucker.” You hear Nanami mumble under his breath.

“Oh yeah?” Suguru snaps out his pussydrunk haze beneath you, one of his hands leaving your thigh so he can curl his fingers over yours on Nanami’s cock and help jerk him off. “Toru can still taste your cum in the back of his mouth.”

Satoru gives you a wink and one last chance to breathe before he pushes his cock between your lips. You moan around him, finally, completely, entirely fucking full. 

Every hole is stretched, your body aches, pleasure bubbling under every inch of your overheated skin like you’ll erupt at any moment. 

You barely know who you are, can barely think beyond the carnal craving of being full and filled and used. Your hips roll back to match the sinful pace set by Suguru and Toji, your head and hand move in rhythm together as you work for Satoru and Nanami.

Toji fists one hand in your hair, pulling you back and bouncing you against their cocks. Your eyes snap up as Satoru follows the shift of your body, settling his knees over Suguru’s face so he can keep fucking into your hot mouth. You hear Suguru groan as the thick threads of his hair get tangled beneath Satoru’s weight—though it doesn’t sound like he minds it.

“What a fuckin’ slut,” Toji sneers and latches his other hand around your neck from behind. “Push deeper, Toru, wanna feel your cock in her throat.” 

Satoru cants his hips forward and you open your mouth the best you can, still gagging as the length of him pounds into the back of your throat. Squeezing his thick fingers around the sides of your neck, Toji pets his thumb down the center column of your throat. He can see and feel the dick inside your neck. 

Drool soaks your cheeks, bubbling around the tight suck of your lips. You hollow your cheeks and press your tongue to the veiny underside of Toru’s cock and let him use you.

Suguru’s cursing, cock plunging into the wet squish of your pussy with every groan. He squeezes his fingers over yours around Nanami’s cock, both of you moaning at the increase of pressure. Then he dips his hand lower, fingers sinking around heavy balls as you twist your wrist and tug, thumbing the Nanami’s sensitive ridge.

“Shit fuck, fuck you both.” Nanami grumbles, knees faltering until he has to brace himself on one arm on the mattress.

“Kento,” Toji grits his teeth, panting now from how hard he’s thrusting into your abused, tight hole, “cum on her ass. Gonna, ah, need more lube.”

Nanami swats your hand away, moving out of your eyesight to kneel behind you. You hear the deep baritone of his groan before you feel his hot cum pool and drip down your ass. 

“That’s it, yeah.” Toji’s fingers smear in the mess Nanami made, coating the base and middle length of his cock with cum as he pulls out, only to push the gooey mess back into your hole. 

Nanami collapses on his back, lungs expanding as he watches your breasts bounce from below.

“Ah, ah, god, ah,” you don’t know how long you’ve been babbling around Toru’s cock for—probably this whole time, a garbled, drooling mess of lewd sounds. 

“Fuck, keep, ah, shit, keep fucking her just like that, her throat’s gettin’ tight.” 

Suguru takes the initiative to swipe his thumb over your sensitive clit. Your nerves buzz instantly, making your cunt convulse and suck. You’re close, so overstimulated you’re not sure if any of your senses actually work anymore. Your vision is blurred, your hearing just a thump of music and skin and groans, your fingers numb as you grip both hands into Satoru’s thighs, and all you can taste and smell is his salty cock twitching on your tongue and thumping into your hot mouth. 

Your sanity is only held together by the push and pull of the cocks inside you. You can feel how both Suguru and Toji’s cockheads bully past one another, curving and dipping just perfectly into spongey, soft spots you didn’t know existed in your body. Your gummy walls are swelling, straining around the double penetration.

“Fuuckkk, make her cum, Sugu. I bet this little ass will get so god damn tight and strangle my fucking cock. Fuckin’ do it.”

The way you try to say please around Satoru’s dick in your mouth makes him laugh, a little maniacal sound that makes you burn with need. You jolt your hips forward as much as you can, pressing into the thumb that starts flicking like lightning across your clit. 

“Shit, she’s already m-making a mess,” Suguru lets out a groan that rumbles your body, sinks into your bones and makes you tremble. Slick is so wet and hot between your legs, making both your holes sloppy as cocks search for bliss inside your tight suction. 

Satoru suddenly cums down your throat and you’re suffocating, spurting and gagging as he forces you to swallow a few spurts before he jerks his cock from your lips. He fists himself until pearly strings shoot across Nanami’s chest. 

“Filthy,” Nanami drags his finger through the cum on his skin, gathering enough to flick toward your tits, “all of you.”

You’re gasping like you’ve been beached, falling down onto Suguru and burying your face in his shoulder.

Finally you reach the peak, the point of no return, your whole body spasming as you cum. 

You scream and bite into skin, every single nerve ending in your body exploding and firing with ecstasy and intensity. It hurts, your cunt clenching and pulling and sucking around two throbbing cocks. Your body squeezes them together, walls stretched so thin that you can feel their veins pumping like heartbeats searing your insides. You’re so stuffed, plugged, fuller than you fear you ever will be again.

The choked sounds from Suguru and Toji are divine, four hands gripping and bruising your body to keep you still so they can fill your holes until cum bursts from your seams. 

Suguru’s hand cups the back of your head, both to soothe and pry your canines from his flesh. 

“Atta girl, atta girl, so good, you’re okay.”

“More than okay,” Toji wolf-whistles, smacking his hand across your ass to hear you yelp, “your little body is fuckin’ spectacular.”

He takes his time sliding out of your ass, more for him than you, you’re sure, so he can savor the last drags of your swollen walls around his shaft.

The empty feeling of your open ass makes you whine, but still you lift your head, sitting back on your heels, moaning as you shift on Sugu’s cock. You watch Toji step back into his gray sweats, grinning as he snaps the elastic band low on his toned stomach. 

“Well, well, guess this one didn’t get broken.” He slaps Satoru’s shoulder as he throws open the bedroom door and leaves with, “She might even be up for round two.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, slinking deeper into the desk chair he’s occupying, spent cock resting between his thighs. 

“You okay?” Two voices say in unison, Nanami and Satoru. Suguru has his arm across his eyes, dark hair like ink spilling over the sheets.

“Mhhhmm,” you nod, the afterglow rolling over your skin as you manage to pull yourself off the last remaining cock plugging your body. You collapse next to Nanami, face down in pillows that have been shoved to the back of the bed. 

The group of them start talking, but your ears are ringing, thumping with your blood and the still raging music below the floorboards. 

“Baby.” Satoru runs his fingers down your back, shaking your ass to get your attention. You groan as you feel cum spill from both holes from the movement. 

“You should treat your playthings better, Gojo.” Nanami pats your head and out of the corner of your eye you see him almost smile. 

“Oh yeah? You think you can do a better job? She loves me, don’t you baby?” 

You nod your heavy head, one of your feet kicking up playfully.

“Give her to me for a week and we’ll see if she comes crawling back to you.”

“You can have her anytime she wants,” you hear Suguru grunt from what sounds like a hefty pat on his chest from Satoru, “any of you. She’ll be our pet.”

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

night out

a/n: we back babyyy!!! i haven't been able to stop thinking about these two for fucking months, so i wrote both this aaaaand another part to wrap up their story and get it out of my system.

summary: “I can’t believe you’re fucking jealous right now…”

warnings: bodyguard!bucky barnes x reader x ex!peter parker, light smut, reader’s mom is the british ambassador to france, age gap (10-15 years), tattooed!bucky (both a metal arm and tattoos as picked in a poll by you), beefy!bucky, forbidden romance, bffs kate bishop and yelena belova, french rave, dancing, kissing, over-the-clothes fun, foreplay, references to public sex, choking, manhandling, jealousness, possessiveness, angst, arguments, brat mode activated (though its totally justified), these hoes are not dealing with their emotions in a healthy way but it's just for the sake of yummy drama

word count: 1993

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“I thought we were just going to a cute little wine bar, not a fucking rave,” you yelled over the music as your friends dragged you further into the warehouse. 

“Oh, come on, babe,” Yelena boomed, slinking her arm around both yours and Kate's neck, “don’t be a chicken now.”

“Yeah,” your brunette friend on the other side of Yelena tilted her frame to catch your apprehensive eye, “you already sneaked out, so you might as well make it count.” 

“I hate it when you’re right,” you groaned, your gaze narrowed to a squint as you got used to the warm flashing lights that dully illuminated the club. 

“Then you must always hate me,” a smug smirk spread across her features before the trio of you ventured further into the crowded space. 

As the night faded away, you found yourselves bathing in the strobes of neon light as your bodies moved on their own accord, like you were all part of a hive, buzzing together in harmony.

But then when you tapped both of your dancing friends on their shoulders and ushered their ears to lean in close to your lips, you told them, “I’m gonna go get some water,” receiving two thumbs up before you made your way through the crowd to the curved bar in the corner. 

However, after the bartender handed you a plastic bottle and you tilted your head back to take a much-needed sip, a familiar voice found your ears from across the bar. 

“As I live and fucking breathe,” you tipped the bottle back down and glanced down the way at the unexpected figure moseying closer to where you stood. 

“Peter!” a surprised smile couldn’t help but spread across your features, “what are you doing here?” 

Settling in beside you, he said, “it’s a Saturday night, where else would I be?”

“No, I mean, what are you doing in Paris?” 

“Oh, what, am I not allowed to be in your city anymore since the breakup?” he joked.

“No, of course, you can be here.” 

Leaning in even closer so that he didn’t have to yell as loud, he asked, “so how are you doing?”

“Me? I’m good, yeah,” your head bobbed in a nod, “how about you?”

“Can’t complain,” his gaze washed over you as if no time had passed at all, “so… can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” you shifted the water bottle to your other hand. 

“You seeing anyone?” 

“Oh, wow,” you half coughed, “Peter Parker, king of subtlety.” 

“Yeah, well, I’ve seen you naked more times than I can count, so I figured subtlety went out the window a long time ago,” he smirked, “so, are you?”

“I–, uhm…” your eyes averted a moment as you uttered, “no.” 

You weren’t, it was true. Though the reason for why you’d sneaked out in the first place did have to do with a matter of the heart. 

You’d asked your friends what their advice would be if you hypothetically needed to get over someone. They both of course assumed that you were referring to the man standing before you in the disco and not the person who watched you like a hawk every minute of every day. The method they had suggested wasn’t a sound one, though one that still found you desperate enough to try. 

To go out, meet someone else and bang the dude out of your system. 

“Can I ask you something else?” Peter asked again, ripping you out of your thoughts, away from your bodyguard and back in the moment. As you offered him a nod, he smiled brightly, “you wanna dance?”

And that’s how you found yourself in the middle of a crowded dancefloor, plastered against your ex.

It didn’t take long before your lips reunited as well, staying locked as you both let your hands wander, though for you it wasn’t entirely in the spirit of rekindling something that you’d missed, and more to help you forget about the person who you truly wished to lose yourself on a dancefloor with. 

“Fuck,” you heard Peter groan in your ear and his desperation poked your lower abdomen for the attention you used to give it, “you wanna go slip into the bathroom?”

“Uhh,” you giggled as his lips tickled the side of your neck, “what kinda woman do you take me to be?”

“Mine,” he smiled, “that’s who. I know you. A club bathroom is nothing… remember Amsterdam?”

“Y-yeah, I remember,” your body tingled at the thought. 

“That’s also an option, if that’s the kind of mood you're in,” he winked. 

Chuckling as he squeezed your tit, you shook your head lightly, “I’m not fucking you here on the dancefloor.” 

“Oh, come on, it–”

But the rest of your ex’s sentence was cut short as a figure forced itself between you two and pried you apart.  

Instinctively reaching out for Peter as he was forcefully pushed back, your arm then faltered as you blinked up to discover who had shoved him. 

“Barnes,” a shiver ran down your spine at the stormy expression plastered all over his face, a side of him you’d never witnessed before, “I–”

But he cut you off, only to bark, “out, now.”

“But I–”

“Do you wanna walk on your own or should I just toss you over my shoulder?” he glared down at you just before you watched Peter’s hand plant itself on Bucky’s broad shoulder. 

“Hey, dude, don’t touch her, back off,” your ex tried to square up to the intimidating guard dog. 

“No, no, Peter, it’s alright,” you rushed to explain, knowing full well that your bodyguard could and would put him in the hospital, “he’s–…” your eyes briefly flickered up to Bucky’s steely blue eyes, still directed at you, “he’s my bodyguard,” before you let your touch graze Peter’s forearm, “I’m so sorry, it was great seeing you again, but I have to go.” 

Getting dragged out of the club like a perp from a crime scene was not the way you’d imagined your night would wrap up. 

After he’d virtually tossed you in the back and slammed the car door shut behind you, you fished out your phone and swiftly sent your friends an explanatory text while you half-watched Bucky march around the vehicle to the driver’s side. 

The silent treatment he then served you nearly felt worse than the heated words you imagined tumbled around in his head as he fumed, his knuckles nearly turned white from how fiercely he was gripping onto the steering wheel. 

But when you finally mustered the courage to break the eerie silence, your words came out just above a whisper, “I’m sorry…”

“Are you?” his eyes snapped up to find yours in the review mirror, “really? Because I don’t fucking buy it.” 

“Well, I am!” you threw up your arms, “what do you want me to do?” 

“Not sneak out like a fucking teenager to get drunk with your little boyfriend,” 

“I’m not drunk and he’s not my boyfriend!” 

Not taking any of your words to heart, Bucky went on, “you know how stupid this was, right? What if something had happened, huh? I know you didn’t personally read the threats you got back when I first got this job, but trust me when I tell you that if any of those fuckers had gotten their hands on you tonight, you’d be lucky if you were still breathing when the sun rose. This is exactly the sort of reckless behaviour that caused you to need my help in the first place.”

Your mouth then fell open, utterly stunned at his audacity, “oh my god… you’re unbelievable…” you uttered breathlessly before hazily commanding, “stop the car…”

“No–”

“Stop the fucking car!” you roared, casting your gaze to him once more till you felt his foot step on the break. 

As the car screeched to a stop, you wasted no time ripping the door open and storming out. 

Though you didn’t dare to look back, you still heard him exit the vehicle as well and shadow you as you wandered a few paces away, just far enough for you to be able to get some air. 

“Y/n,” you heard him from just a few meters behind you, “get back in the car–”

But you didn’t shift your feet as you then interrupted, back still turned to him.

“I can’t believe you’re fucking jealous right now…”

“What?”

“Well aren’t you?” you heatedly twisted around to face him, “because it sure fucking looks like it. Getting all fucking possessive, ripping me away from my ex before I can crawl my way back to him, before I get the chance to feel anyone inside of me but you–”

“Stop–”

“Is that it? You just want me all to yourself?” you kept on poking, too blind by your fury to consider the consequences, “you want it to be you that I’m so in love with that I’d make you personalised porn, which would consequently ruin my life and cause me to have a babysitter essentially stalking me.”

“Stop!” he took a step closer as he barked.

“Unless you’ve already seen the tape,” your feet shifted back, keeping him at a distance, “fantasising that it’s for you, getting yourself off to the image of me bouncing on that pretty pink dildo–”

Your sentence then crumbled into a shrivelled yelp as you felt his cold metal hand seize your neck and push you the last few inches up against the brick wall behind you. 

His fingers didn’t squeeze you in the slightest, though you still knew just how easy it would have been for him to tighten his grip and turn it into more than just a raging warning. 

“You done?” he spat as his eyes pieced directly into your soul, “or do you wanna give me more reasons why you’re nothing more than a spoiled little brat, why I should just quit now and not have to deal anymore with what a fucking pain you are in my ass?”

For the life of you, no attempts at offering him an answer were successful on your lips. 

He scared you. 

He’d never scared you before. 

Both because of the explosion you’d undoubtedly made even worse than it had to be, but also his fleeting threat of leaving you for good. 

It all terrified you… 

Though, there was also a different sensation that it awoke within you, one that caused your eyes to flutter down towards his lips, an action that your bodyguard surprisingly mirrored as well as your heated breaths synced up. 

You had no idea who moved first, if it was you or him, but the next thing you knew, you were kissing him.

With adrenaline still pumping in your veins, you clawed at his broad frame as you let your tongue flicker out and flutter against his own. The steely hand that had locked itself around your neck softened and whisked down your form, mirroring your own starving touch as he securely held you like you were about to fall. 

However, just as your palm slid down to find the bulge in his pants, rubbing it needily before your fingers tried to seize the short zipper, Bucky took a large step back, snapping to his senses and creating a wide distance between him and your melted form against the brick. 

His eyes refused to meet your foggy ones as he held them to the ground, slowly catching his breath before uttering, “get in the car,” defeat shining through in his low tone.

“Bucky–,” you tried, but without success as he then cut you off. 

“Please, just–…” his gaze fluttered shut a moment as you then heard him sombrely promise, “look, I’ll make sure your mom doesn’t hear word of what happened tonight. If we go now, then we’ll arrive before any of the staff wakes up, no one will notice.”

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble

[thef1diary]

Forgive Me, Father | C. Sainz

summary: returning to religion seems like an impossible task, especially as you’ve lived a life of sinful indulgence, but fortunately, Father Carlos knows exactly how to purify you…in questionable ways

warnings: 18+ content, slow burn, dark!carlos, manipulation in the name of religion, oral (m receiving), masturbation, degradation, praise kink, fingering, spanking, light anal, use of religious items in an inappropriate manner, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, spit kink, choking, breath play, squirting, overstimulation, cum play, blood kink, use of knives.

wc: 23.5k

masterlist

— commissioned by my lovely 🩵 & 🐱 nonnies. This is a dark fic, read the warnings. Don’t like, don’t read. Also, I’m not catholic so some details may be inaccurate

The bass thrummed deep in your chest, a steady pulse that matched the rhythm of your heart, or maybe it was the other way around—it was hard to tell. The club was suffused with the kind of haze that didn’t just cling to the air but seemed to sink into your skin. Neon lights strobed in fractured patterns, reds, blues, and yellows smearing together like watercolours left out in the rain. You danced in the middle of it all, a body among bodies, indistinguishable in the tangle of limbs, sweat, and laughter that didn’t reach anyone’s eyes, only reflecting intoxication by one means or another. 

Your drink had warmed in your hand, condensation rolling down the glass, forgotten. You weren’t drinking to get drunk tonight; you were already too far gone. Maybe not on anything tangible—not this time—but the hollow ache inside your chest was the same high—emptiness that burned brighter than the neon overhead. You leaned into it like you always did, letting the throb of music drown out the thoughts you refused to name. 

Another stranger’s hand found the curve of your hip, his presence lingering just long enough to make you notice. You didn’t turn to look at him right away—there was a rhythm to these things, a game played in the undertow of the music. The press of his body against yours came next, deliberate but not desperate, his movements syncing effortlessly with your own. It wasn’t anything more than lust, only fuelled by the pure, unadulterated mind mingling with unspoken, primal need. 

When you finally glanced over your shoulder, you were met with dark eyes and a half-smile that might’ve been charming if you cared enough to notice. He leaned in to say something, his breath warm against your ear, but the words dissolved into the music, incomprehensible and unimportant. You didn’t ask him to repeat himself; you just nodded, tilting your head slightly in invitation, the universal sign for keep going. 

His arm slipped around your waist, drawing you closer, until there was no space left between you. His scent was sharp, woodsy, and undercut with something faintly spicy—cologne, expensive but over-applied. His lips brushed against your temple, then your jaw, soft and searching, and you let him find his way. It didn’t matter who he was. What mattered was the way he let you feel the rush of living, at least for a little while. 

The transition from club to the street to his bed was seamless, blurred by alcohol and autopilot. You didn’t need to think, didn’t need to process. You let him guide you through the neon-streaked darkness, his hand gripping yours as if you’d slip away otherwise. The taxi ride was a haze of whispered filth and soft laughter, his hand resting on your thigh, thumb brushing slow circles that sent sparks up your spine. 

His apartment was generic, clean in the way of someone who didn’t spend much time there. You barely registered the details—a couch in muted gray, a framed print of something abstract, the faint smell of laundry detergent that clung to the air. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, he turned, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you with a fervour that bordered on desperation. 

You didn’t resist. You let him pull you in, let him press you against the wall, his mouth trailing down your neck as your fingers found their way into his hair. It was all mechanical, rehearsed—a dance you’ve done too many times to count. Clothes hit the floor in a haste, and you let him lead you to the bed, its cool sheets a startling contrast to his fevered skin. 

The hours passed in a blur of touches and murmurs, bodies tangling and untangling, the kind of intimacy that didn’t linger, that didn’t leave marks. It wasn’t bad, you’d give him that. But it wasn’t remarkable either. It wasn’t meant to be. 

Morning came like it always did, dragging you back to reality with its pale light and dull, persistent headache. You cracked an eye open, the sharp scent of the stranger’s cologne hitting you first—musky, unfamiliar. The sheets were tangled around your legs, the air too warm against your bare skin. You shifted, squinting against the sunlight filtering through the unfamiliar curtains, and found him still asleep beside you.

His face was peaceful in the half-light, lips slightly parted, hair messy from the night before. For a moment, you almost lingered. Almost traced the curve of his shoulder or let yourself wonder about his name, his life, the kind of person he was when he wasn’t tangled up in the haze of a one-night stand. But that wasn’t part of the routine.

You moved slowly, deliberately. Clothes scattered across the floor—your skirt halfway under the bed, your shirt draped over the arm of a chair. The bra took a minute to find, caught between a pair of discarded shoes. Each step was silent, measured, like muscle memory kicking in. You’d done this too many times to count, slipping out of strangers’ apartments before the sun had fully risen, before you had to face the awkward small talk or the possibility of vulnerability.

When you reached the door, you paused. Not to look back—you never did—but to steady yourself, to push aside the faint flicker of something you couldn’t name. You told yourself it was nothing, that it didn’t matter, and turned the handle.

Outside, the morning air was crisp, a stark contrast to the warmth of the bed you’d just left. The streets were quiet, save for the faint hum of traffic in the distance and the occasional jogger passing by. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to ignore the faint sting of regret in your chest. Regret for what, though? You weren’t sure.

As you walked, your mind drifted back to the stranger’s apartment, more specifically to the small, battered book you’d spotted on his nightstand while searching for your shoes. It hadn’t fit the vibe of the person you’d met—worn leather and gilded edges. You hadn’t touched it, but the word embossed on the cover had stayed with you: Psalms.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have stopped you in your tracks the way it did. But it brought a memory rushing back, sharp and unbidden—kneeling in a church pew, sunlight streaming through stained glass, the quiet cadence of whispered prayers. You could almost hear it, the echo of your own voice repeating verses you’d long since forgotten.

You shook your head, trying to dispel the thought. It was just a book, you told yourself. Just another reminder of the life you left behind, of rules you didn’t need, of beliefs that had only held you back. But as you turned a quiet corner, the ache inside you—the one you’d spent years trying to drown in neon lights and borrowed warmth—seemed sharper.

Catholicism was part of your foundation, woven into you from childhood like a second skin, But somewhere along the way, that skin cracked. You couldn’t pinpoint when it happened exactly. Maybe it was gradual, the questions piling up until they formed a wall you couldn’t climb. Or maybe it was sudden, a clean break the first time you realized life was more fun without rules. Without limits. Without guilt. 

The things you were told would damn you—the hookups, the drinking, the thrill of losing yourself in the night—turned out to be the very things that made you feel alive. So you let go. You didn’t turn back. You stopped praying, stopped going to church, stopped pretending to care about a salvation that felt distant and abstract. Life became simpler, freer, unbound by restrictions you no longer believed in. You lived for the rush, for the here and now, for the electric thrill of knowing you could do anything you pleased. 

However, the word lingered in your mind like a whisper you couldn’t shake. Psalms.

And for the first time in years, you wondered if the life you’d chosen—the freedom, the endless nights, the fleeting pleasures—was really as limitless as it seemed. Or if you’d simply traded one kind of emptiness for another.

You paced back and forth in your apartment, gnawing at your bottom lip as your thoughts spiraled. It wasn’t like you to dwell on this, to feel torn between choices that seemed so far apart they shouldn’t have even been on the same spectrum. You’ve lived years without this pull, without the pang of guilt or the ache of longing for something you didn’t quite understand. But now, here it is, creeping up on you in quiet moments like this, refusing to be silenced. 

Could you even go back? After everything? After living the way you had, the sins you’d committed willingly and often gleefully, the sheer rebellion against the rules you once swore to follow? Or was this all just a fleeting moment of weakness, nostalgia wrapped in shame? 

You shook your head, hating the way your chest tightened at the thought of stepping inside a church again. But would it really hurt to try? You weren’t promising anything. You weren’t giving up your freedom, your indulgences, your life. You were just going to test the waters. One service. If it was awful, if it suffocated you the way you feared it would, you’d never set foot in a church again. 

That’s how you rationalized it. One hour on a Sunday. 

But when Sunday rolled around, the hours seemed to evaporate, and before you knew it, you were standing outside the church. It wasn’t the one you grew up in—thank God. No familiar faces here to judge you, no whispers behind hands as they recognized the “wild child” who’d fallen off the path. This place was different. Unfamiliar. 

The building was tall and imposing, made of pale gray stone that seemed to glow in the morning light. The arched windows were lined with intricate stained glass, and the doors were massive, made of dark wood with brass handles polished to a gleaming shine. A single bell tower stretched high above, the sound of its chime faintly echoing in the crisp morning air. 

You hesitated at the entrance, your palms clammy as you pushed the heavy doors open. Inside, the scent of incense hit you immediately—earthy, smoky, and strangely comforting. The space was vast, the high ceilings adorned with painted murals of saints and angels, the pews polished and lined up in perfect symmetry. At the far end, the altar gleamed with golden accents, the crucifix at its center casting a quiet shadow. 

There was a small basin of holy water near the door. You froze for a moment, unsure, before dipping your fingers in and making the sign of the cross—forehead, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder—all with your right hand. The motion felt foreign but oddly automatic, like muscle memory you hadn’t realized was still there.

You glanced around, watching others kneel beside their pews before sitting. Following suit, you dropped to one knee and made another sign of the cross before sliding into a seat near the back. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap as you looked down at the polished wood, your heart pounding in time with the faint murmur of voices around you.

The sacristy bells rang out sharply, and everyone stood. You rose with them, your heart hammering. The organist began to play, the notes swelling and filling the space as the priest entered.

He was younger than you expected, his presence commanding despite the simplicity of his vestments. He wore ivory vestments edged in deep gold embroidery. The robes were layered, a chasuble over an alb, the fine fabric catching the light and emphasizing his broad shoulders as he moved with deliberate grace toward the altar. 

You couldn’t help but notice how perfectly the vestments suited him, his every movement calm and measured. He wasn’t supposed to stand out—he was merely a vessel for the divine—but somehow, you couldn’t look away. His dark hair caught the light, and his face was too handsome for a man of God. Sharp cheekbones, a strong, shaven jaw, and an expression of quiet authority. Your stomach churned with guilt at the thought, but the realization didn’t stop your wandering gaze.

The mass began with the priest leading the opening prayer. His voice resonated with an almost magnetic pull, commanding attention without effort. You tried to focus on the prayers, on the carefully chosen words echoing through the nave, but your attention drifted to the man leading them. 

When the Liturgy of the Word began, the scripture readings washed over you. Passages you hadn’t thought about in years took on new weight as they were spoken aloud, the cadence of the lector’s voice rhythmic and deliberate. But it was during the priest’s homily that you found yourself truly captivated.

He spoke with an eloquence that felt personal, as if every word were meant to reach you directly. His tone was gentle but firm, guiding rather than demanding. And when his dark eyes swept across the congregation, lingering on you for just a moment too long, your heart stuttered in your chest.

The Eucharistic celebration followed, the altar boys moving with precision as they prepared the chalice, the cruets of wine and water, and the golden paten filled with wafers. The priest raised his hands in blessing, murmuring the sacred words over the elements. The congregation echoed him in parts, their voices a low hum of devotion.

When the line for Communion began to form, you hesitated again. You were baptized, yes, but the years you’d spent away from the Church made you feel unworthy. You were a sinner in ways you didn’t even want to admit, and the thought of stepping in front of the altar filled you with both dread and longing.

But you stood, your legs shaky as you moved forward with the others. The line felt interminable, every step closer to the priest making your chest tighten. When it was your turn, you felt the heat rise to your face as he looked directly at you.

“Body of Christ,” he said, his voice softer now, almost intimate.

Your throat was dry, but you managed to respond, “Amen,” before holding out your hands. His fingers brushed yours as he placed the wafer in your palm, and the contact sent an electric jolt up your arm.

“Welcome,” he added quietly, his dark eyes catching yours.

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”

He leaned in slightly, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re new here. I’d remember you.”

A short nervous laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it, and you nodded. “First time in a long while,” you admitted, trying to ignore the way his gaze seemed to linger.

“I’m Father Carlos,” he said, his smile disarming but tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “If you ever have questions—or just need to talk—I’m here.”

The weight of his words followed you back to your seat, and even as the congregation sang together for the final hymn, your mind was elsewhere.

When you returned home, you slipped into your room, letting the door close with a quiet click behind you. The weight of the mass still lingered, a strange mixture of comfort and unease settling over you like an ill-fitting coat. Your gaze fell instinctively on the drawer beside your bed, the one that held your collection of toys—your private solace during years of loneliness and indulgence. It was almost muscle memory now, reaching for that drawer at the end of a long day. Satisfying yourself had become routine, a way to fill the void left by the chaotic life you’d built.

But tonight, as you stood there, hand hovering just above the handle, a pang of doubt struck you. Could you keep living like this? If you were truly serious about returning to the Church—about reconnecting with your faith—didn’t that mean letting go of these habits? The thought sent a shiver through you, twisting your stomach in a knot of frustration.

You dropped your hand, leaving the drawer closed, but it wasn’t easy. The itch of desire simmered beneath your skin, and you clenched your fists to distract yourself from the temptation. Sleep came fitfully that night, your dreams haunted by flashes of past indulgences and the faint, magnetic pull of the priest’s steady gaze.

The next few days were an uphill battle. You avoided the places that had once been your playground: the dimly lit bars, the pulsing nightclubs where temptation always waited at the next table or on the dance floor. Instead, you stayed home, trying to distract yourself with books and movies. But the silence of your apartment seemed to stretch on endlessly, and your thoughts drifted back to nights spent in someone else’s arms—or their bed.

The memories came unbidden, vivid in their detail. The way their hands had roamed your body, the low laughter shared over drinks, the exhilarating rush of the unknown. Sometimes there had been more than one at a time, and those memories in particular felt sharp, electric, impossible to ignore. Your chest ached with longing, but it was more than that. It was the frustration of trying to suppress a part of yourself that had always felt so natural, so vital.

By the second or third day, it became clear you couldn’t keep this up. The idea of refraining from all indulgence—of denying your body its needs for the sake of purity—felt like a punishment rather than a path to salvation. The thought of waiting until marriage was unbearable, a horror story playing on a loop in your mind. And since marriage wasn’t even on the horizon, the idea of living without touch, without pleasure, was unthinkable.

The unholy thoughts became harder to resist. They fed off your frustration, growing louder and more vivid with every passing hour. The memory of a man’s lips trailing down your neck, the press of warm bodies against yours, the shared moans and whispered promises—it was too much. You clenched your thighs and tried to force the thoughts away, but they only came back stronger, taunting you with what you’d given up.

In the quiet moments, a different thought began to creep in: Father Carlos. You remembered how kind he had been during the mass, how welcoming he’d seemed in that brief exchange. He had made you feel seen, not judged, even as you stood there awkward and unsure. And though it made your cheeks flush with guilt, there had been something about him that you couldn’t quite shake. The warmth of his smile, the way his dark eyes lingered just a moment too long—it was magnetic in a way that left you both intrigued and uneasy.

Surely he could help you. Surely a man like him, so rooted in his faith, could offer you some direction. The thought was fleeting at first, and you tried to dismiss it as a momentary lapse in judgment. But as the days wore on and your frustration mounted, it took hold, refusing to let go. You were still running on the high of that brief, strange attraction to him, though you knew you shouldn’t be. You should feel guilty for thinking about him this way. But you didn’t.

It was ironic, really. The old you—the one who embraced every indulgence without hesitation—would have scoffed at the idea of seeking guidance from a priest. Yet now, here you were, unafraid to admit you were lost, that you needed help finding your way back to something that felt steady, something that could ground you.

By the time the thought became a decision, you were nearly vibrating with frustration. You couldn’t continue like this, teetering between desire and guilt, trapped in a cycle of indulgence and denial. You needed someone to pull you out of it, to show you the path forward. And so, one evening, as the sky darkened and the weight of your sins pressed heavy on your chest, you found yourself heading toward the church.

The confessional was small, with dark wood panels enclosing you in a space that seemed built for secrets. You sat down slowly on the chair, your palms damp against your thighs as you adjusted to the intimacy of the setting. The screen between you and Father Carlos offered a sliver of anonymity, but even that did little to quiet the thunder of your heart. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the faint outline of his figure through the lattice, a shadow of a man who seemed larger than life in this moment. 

His voice came low, warm, and steady, breaking through the tense silence. “Take your time. Begin when you’re ready.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” you began, your voice soft but thick with shame. The words felt foreign on your tongue after years of silence, but they were all you could manage at first. 

“How long has it been since your last confession?” he asked gently.

You hesitated. “Years. I… I don’t even remember the last time.”

He hummed thoughtfully, his tone patient and unjudging. “That’s all right. The important thing is that you’re here now. What’s been weighing on your soul?”

You exhaled shakily, staring at your hands. “I’ve been trying to change, to walk the right path again. But it’s been… hard. The temptations are strong, very strong and I find myself weak in these moments. The things I’ve done, purely selfishly, the life I lived full of pure sin—it’s like I can’t escape these memories.”

“Tell me about this life,” he prompted, his voice soft but firm. “Be honest, as you are before God. There is no forgiveness without the truth.”

Your cheeks flushed with heat as you stared at the wooden panels, knowing he was just beside you, listening intently. “I’ve… I’ve been with men,” you began, the admission falling from your lips in a shaky whisper. “Many men. I lived a life of indulgence, seeking out pleasure wherever I could find it.”

“What kind of indulgence?” he pressed, his tone remaining calm but carrying an edge of insistence. “Describe it, so I may understand the depth of your struggle.”

Your throat tightened, the weight of shame making it difficult to speak. “There were nights where I… gave myself over completely. I’d let him do whatever he wanted to me. Sometimes, there were two or three of them at once. They’d touch me, praise me, degrade me—and I… I enjoyed it. I craved it.”

There was a faint shift on the other side of the screen, the sound of fabric rustling, but you didn’t think much of it, too caught up in your confession.

“I let them take control,” you continued, your voice trembling. “I wanted to feel used yet wanted. There was something… intoxicating about surrendering to it, about letting go of everything else and just living in that moment of raw pleasure.”

“And these memories,” he said after a moment, his voice noticeably deeper, though still even, “they haunt you now?”

“Yes,” you admitted. “They come back to me all the time. The sounds, the touches, the way they made me feel… it’s like I can’t get them out of my head.”

His voice softened, but there was a tension beneath it. “Have you continued to give in to these temptations? Have you sought out this pleasure recently?”

Your throat tightened, your shame threatening to choke you. “Not like that,” you said quickly. “I’ve stayed away from men, from bars, from everything that used to tempt me. But…”

“But?” he pressed, his tone gentle but insistent.

You lowered your head, the words coming out barely above a whisper. “I haven’t been able to stop myself from… from giving in on my own. I’ve used toys, even when I told myself I wouldn’t. Last night…” You trailed off, your face burning with humiliation.

“Go on,” he urged, his voice soft yet commanding. His hand slipped beneath his attire, fingers brushing against his hardened cock as he gripped himself firmly. He began to stroke slowly, spreading his precum dripping from the tip. 

“Last night, I gave in,” you admitted, the confession spilling out of you. “I was alone, thinking about everything I’m trying to leave behind. But instead of praying, instead of fighting it, I reached for my vibrator. I… I used it, again and again. I moaned, loudly, shamelessly, just chasing the pleasure. I let myself fall completely into it, like I used to.” 

“And did you feel guilty afterwards?” he asked, his voice slightly strained now, though you didn’t notice.

“Yes, it was unbearable,” you said, tears stinging your eyes. “I feel like I’ll never be good enough, like no matter how much I want to change, I’m too far gone.”

He exhaled shakily, his grip tightening around his cock as he leaned closer to the screen. “You’ve taken the first step by coming here,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “But to find true forgiveness, you must lay everything bare. Speak your sins in their entirety, without holding back. What else did you do with these men?”

Your voice wavered as you continued, diving deeper into the memories you’d tried so hard to suppress. “There were nights when I’d let him tie me up, blindfold me. I liked the control he had over me, the way he’d whisper filthy things in my ear. And I’d beg him for more. I let him push me further than I ever thought I’d go.”

Carlos groaned softly, catching himself just in time to muffle the sound as his hand moved faster now, the pleasure sending shivers through him. He tilted his head back, his breath uneven as your voice wrapped around him like a forbidden hymn.

“And now?” he asked, his words coming out in a low growl. “What do you desire now?”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “I want to be free of it,” you said. “I want to stop feeling like this. But…” You hesitated, the truth catching in your throat.

“But what?” he pressed, his voice a little sharper now, more commanding.

“But part of me still wants it,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “Part of me doesn’t want to let it go.”

Father Carlos closed his eyes, his movements growing erratic as he came with a muffled groan, his cum spilling over his hand. There was a long pause on the other side of the screen, and when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse, yet a thread of promise was woven into his words. 

“I feel there is more weighing on your heart and soul. Years of sins cannot be wiped clean in a single confession,” he said. “You’ve done well to confess so far but this is only the beginning. There’s still so much you’re holding back. You’ll need more guidance, more reflection. I want to meet with you again—face to face. Privately. These sessions will help you overcome the temptations you’re struggling with. But it will take time, and you’ll need to commit to this fully.”

You nodded quickly, desperate for relief, for salvation. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” you said, your voice earnest. “Whatever you say, I’ll do it. Just… help me.”

“Good,” he said softly, though his tone held a weight you couldn’t quite decipher. “Trust me, I will lead you back to the light.”

But as his words settled over you, the truth of what lay beneath them was something you couldn’t see. Father Carlos’ calm exterior masked the darker intentions that churned within him. He would use your desperation, your guilt, to make you his—willingly, eagerly.

“Come to me next week,” he said, the finality in his tone making it clear this wasn’t a suggestion. “Another confessional. Just you and I.”

“Yes, Father,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and hope.

“Go in peace,” he said, his voice a low rumble that lingered in the confined space of the confessional.

You left the booth with your heart racing, the promise of salvation hanging heavy over you. But you didn’t know that salvation would come at a cost—and you would pay it willingly.

The following week, you returned to church, your nerves fluttering in your stomach. Though Father Carlos had assured you he only wanted to guide you toward salvation, the memory of last week’s confession lingered in your mind, heavy and raw. The thought of spilling your sins again—and facing whatever questions he might ask—made your palms sweat. Still, you came, dressed modestly in a long skirt and a high-collared blouse, hoping to show your humility and commitment to change.

The confessional booth loomed ahead, its wooden structure both inviting and suffocating. You stepped inside, taking a deep breath as you settled onto the bench. While you felt more prepared this time, knowing what to expect, the ritual was still unfamiliar enough to leave you slightly uneasy.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you began, your voice quiet but steady.

“It has been one week since your last confession,” Father Carlos said, his tone soft yet commanding. “Tell me, nena, have you committed the same sin again?”

Relief surged through you as you shook your head, though he couldn’t see it. “No, Father,” you said, your voice carrying a note of pride. “I haven’t touched myself or been with anyone else all week.”

There was a pause, and then he hummed approvingly. “You’re on the right path,” he said. “Resisting temptation is never easy, but you’ve proven your strength. I’m proud of you.”

You hesitated, the words caught in your throat. The relief you felt was quickly overshadowed by the heat rising in your cheeks as you prepared to share the rest. “But…” you began, your voice faltering. “I… I’ve still been having the thoughts.”

The silence on the other side of the screen was heavy, urging you to continue. You took a shaky breath, pressing on despite the shame that burned in your chest. “I—I feel like they’ve been worse, Father. Every time I think of… of the things I used to do, it’s like I can’t stop. And even though I didn’t give in, I feel… wet, almost all the time.” The confession came out in a rush, and your cheeks burned so hot it was as though the weight of your sin had taken physical form.

Father Carlos exhaled slowly, the sound low and measured. “It’s good that you told me,” he said, his tone soothing yet firm. “You must not keep anything from me, nena. Hiding even the smallest detail will only hold you back.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, guilt tightening your throat. “I was so ashamed to say it.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” he reassured you, his voice taking on a gentler tone. “Your shame is a sign that you’re on the right path. But these thoughts, this… wetness—it is your body betraying your spirit. You must address it, or it will fester like a wound.”

You swallowed hard, your head dipping in an instinctive show of obedience. “How do I stop it?” you asked, your voice small and uncertain. “I’ll do anything, Father.”

“I’m glad you’re willing to do anything,” he said, the approval in his tone sending an unexpected ripple of warmth through you. “Then we’ll take it to the next step. Strip for me.”

You froze, your breath hitching in your chest. “I… I don’t understand,” you stammered. “Why do I need to—”

“It’s the sin you confessed last week,” he said, cutting you off gently but firmly. “You indulged in your body, purely for selfish reasons. Now, you must confront it head-on, under my guidance, so I can truly help you. Strip, nena. Lay yourself bare, and let’s rid you of this burden together.”

Your heart raced, confusion warring with the trust he’d instilled in you. “But wouldn’t that be… a sin?” you asked, your voice trembling.

“No. It is not a sin when done for the man of the church. This is not indulgence—it is penance. By allowing me to hear the full extent of your struggle, I can guide you more effectively. Better to confront this temptation here, in the presence of the Lord, than to fight it alone and risk falling further.”

His words felt strange, yet his conviction was unshakable. You hesitated, your hands trembling in your lap as shame and obedience fought within you. Slowly, your fingers moved to the buttons of your blouse, your cheeks burning even hotter as you fumbled with the fabric.

“Good,” he said softly as he heard the rustle of fabric. “Do not be afraid. You are proving your devotion. This is how you’ll rid yourself of the sins that weigh you down.”

Though shame curled in your stomach, a strange sense of purpose propelled you forward. One by one, the barriers between you and his judgment fell away, leaving you vulnerable in a way you hadn’t been for a while despite the screen separating you. 

“Are you completely bare now, nena?” His tone was smooth, patient, but laced with an unyielding authority that made it clear he expected your honesty.

Your breath hitched as the word escaped your lips. “Yes, Father,” you replied, barely above a whisper.

“Good,” he said, the approval in his voice sparking something deep within you. “Now, listen carefully. I want you to follow every word I say. No hesitation, no resistance. Put your trust in me to guide you.”

“Yes, Father,” you murmured, your voice trembling with a mixture of nervousness and submission.

"Good girl," he praised, and the warmth of those two simple words seeped into your chest, easing the tension coiling there. "Now, spread your legs for me. And tell me, are you wet?"

Your breath hitched at the directness of his question, but you obeyed. Slowly, you adjusted your position, hiking your heels up to the edge of the bench. The cool air kissed your pussy, sending a jolt of awareness through you. "Very," you whispered, feeling the damp heat between your thighs.

He hummed, "now, slide two fingers down. Spread your folds. Look at yourself, nena. Take in every detail."

Your hand moved instinctively, gasping when you felt the wetness gathering between your folds before spreading them like he asked. You couldn’t help the soft moan that slipped past your lips as you explored the glistening wetness coating your skin, your fingers brushing lightly over your pussy. 

The sensation was electric, and temptation won over caution. Your fingers moved instinctively, circling your clit with slow, teasing strokes that sent ripples of pleasure through you. Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut as your body surrendered to the feeling.

“Stop.”

The sharpness in his voice snapped you out of your haze, and you whimpered softly at the loss, your body craving more even as guilt flared at your disobedience. “I’m sorry, Father,” you whispered, the apology tumbling from your lips unbidden.

“You gave in too quickly,” he chided, the firmness in his voice tinged with calm authority. “That’s not why you’re here. Discipline, nena. Learn to control yourself.”

“I’ll do better,” you murmured, shame and a strange sort of thrill twining together in your chest.

“Slap your pussy,” he instructed, his tone uncompromising. “You need to be taught some manners.”

Your eyes widened at the order, heat rising to your cheeks as his words settled in the air between you. But the pull to obey was stronger than your embarrassment. Tentatively, you let your fingers pull back before snapping them forward with a sharp slap, the sting sending a jolt through your body that made your thighs quiver. A soft cry escaped your lips, part pain, part pleasure.

“I didn’t tell you to stop, did I?” His voice sharpened, his disapproval clear, and you whimpered at the weight of his command.

“N-no, Father,” you stammered, the words trembling on your tongue.

“Then again,” he instructed, his tone brooking no argument.

Whimpering at his shift in tone, you struck your cunt again, the second slap echoing louder in the quiet room, mingling with the wetness. The sharpness of it sent a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you, leaving you trembling in its wake.

“On your clit this time, harder.” 

Using two fingers, you separated your folds again, exposing your throbbing clit to the air. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself and brought your hand down with more force. The sound of the slap rang out, wet and sharp, as the sting spread through your core. A moan tore from your throat, unbidden and shameless.

“You like this,” Father Carlos stated, the certainty in his voice making it less a question and more a declaration.

Your cheeks burned, the heat of embarrassment mingling with the undeniable pleasure coursing through you. Even though he couldn’t see you, the weight of his gaze felt tangible. “I do,” you admitted, the words soft and tremulous as you lowered your head in submission. Your fingers stilled, retreating away from your aching core.

“Why?” he pressed, his tone thoughtful yet firm, like he was peeling back the layers of your soul. “How does it make you feel?”

Your throat tightened, but the truth spilled out before you could second-guess yourself. “It… it puts me in my place,” you murmured, the words barely audible as you fought to meet the intensity of his inquiry. “A punishment for being bad.”

A beat of silence passed, his presence thick and unyielding. Then, a low chuckle rolled from his throat, smooth and edged with dark amusement. “Tsk, even punishment wouldn’t work on you,” he said, the faintest trace of mockery lacing his tone.

Your head shot up slightly, startled by his words. “What?” you whispered, your voice barely audible, though your body reacted—every nerve alight under the weight of his teasing.

He exhaled sharply, the sound deliberate. “You heard me, nena. If I were to spank you myself…” He let the sentence hang for a moment, heavy with implication, his tone almost contemplative. Then, his voice dipped lower, carrying a teasing lilt that sent shivers down your spine. “You’d just get off on that too, wouldn’t you?”

Your breath caught in your throat, shame and heat crashing through you in equal measure. “I-I wouldn’t…” you stammered, though the words felt hollow, even to your own ears.

He laughed again, a deep, knowing sound that made your stomach flip. “Don’t lie to me now, not during a confessional” he said, a note of playful reprimand in his voice. “I can hear it in your voice, in the way you’re breathing. You’d take anything I gave you, wouldn’t you? Anything to feel this alive.”

You bit your lip, your hands curling into fists in your lap as his words settled over you. You couldn’t bring yourself to respond, the truth of his accusation striking too close to the ache inside you.

“Hmm,” he mused, as though considering his own words. “Maybe I should test that theory one day. See how many slaps it takes before you think of it less as punishment and more as pleasure.” His tone was light, almost casual, but the gravity of his suggestion sent a jolt of heat through you, pooling low in your belly.

You swallowed hard, your voice trembling as you finally managed to reply. “I… I’d do whatever you ask, Father.”

His low hum of approval vibrated through the air, a sound that left you aching for more even as it reminded you of your place. “Good girl,” he murmured, his words settling over you like a benediction. “But remember—your place isn’t to crave. It’s to learn.”

“Yes, Father, I want to learn,” you murmured, ready to do anything he asked for, giving yourself completely to him so he could guide you. 

“That’s my good girl,” he said, his voice a low rumble of approval that wrapped around you like a warm embrace. “Now, are you ready to truly listen and follow what I say?”

“Yes, Father,” you replied, your voice soft but resolute, surrendering entirely to his guidance.

“Take your fingers and trace them down, slowly. Don’t rush, nena. I want you to feel every moment, every inch of yourself.”

You shivered at his words, your fingers obeying as they moved back to the warmth between your thighs. The wetness grew due to his commanding words, making your breath hitch, and you teased your hole with a feather-light touch, just as he instructed.

“Slide in,” he said, his tone softening slightly, though the authority remained. “Just one finger.”

The tip of your finger slipped inside, the tight heat you haven’t touched in a week making you gasp softly. You pressed deeper, following his guidance, every sensation heightened by the sound of his voice.

“That’s it,” he said, and you swore you heard the faintest edge of strain in his tone. “Curl your finger upward. Feel for the spot that makes your toes curl, the one you’re familiar with.” 

You obeyed, your breath hitching as your fingertip brushed against a sensitive spot inside you that made your thighs tremble. A soft moan escaped you, unbidden, and you bit your lip to stifle it.

“Don’t hold back,” he instructed, as if sensing your hesitation. “Let me hear you, nena. I want to know how good it feels, I need to know why you give in to the temptation.”

Your moans slipped free, shamelessly filling the confessional with their soft echo. As you moved your finger in slow, deliberate strokes, his breathing shifted. It grew heavier, deeper, and you could hear the faintest sounds slipping from his lips—soft, almost inaudible groans that made your pulse race.

You didn’t dare ask, but your mind raced with possibilities. Was he as affected as you were? Was he merely listening and guiding, or was he doing more, letting his own body succumb to the same heat that had taken hold of you? Surely, as the priest, he wouldn’t use your struggle of restraint for his own pleasures. 

Though, the thought sent a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you, and you bit your lip to stifle the sound it drew from your throat. You pressed your palm against your pussy for added pressure, your body moving instinctively as you followed his instructions.

“Add another finger,” he said, his voice raspier now, the strain unmistakable. “Take your time with it, don’t chase the pleasure, let it come to you.”

Your fingers slid deeper, the sensation both intense and electrifying. A gasp escaped your lips, and you couldn’t stop yourself from imagining what he might look like, what he might be doing to make his breathing sound so laboured, his voice so heavy with need.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, his tone laced with approval. “Keep going, nena. Circle your clit with your thumb. Let the pleasure wash over you.”

As your thumb found your clit, your body arched, the added sensation driving you closer to the edge. The soft sounds escaping his lips grew more frequent, each one fanning the flames of your imagination.

You pictured him there, his jaw tight, his hand moving over himself as he guided you. The thought was almost too much to bear, and your fingers moved faster, the rhythm becoming desperate as you chased the pleasure building inside you.

“Not so fast,” he chided, his voice a strained growl. “You’re too eager. Slow down. Make it last.”

You whimpered at the command but obeyed, forcing your movements to slow despite the ache radiating through your body. Your mind was spinning, the sound of his heavy breathing mingling with your own ragged gasps.

The combination was intoxicating, the not knowing, the imagining, the thought that he might be as undone as you were. It fueled you, drove you to move your fingers in deeper, slower strokes, each one pushing you closer to the edge.

“Do you feel it?” he asked, his voice rough and low. “That heat building inside you, the one you haven’t released in a week? Let it take over, nena. Let yourself feel every second of it.”

“Yes, Father Carlos,” you whispered, your voice shaking with the wave of pleasure crashing over you as you uttered his name. 

Your body trembled as the high of your orgasm ebbed, leaving you flushed and breathless, your heart pounding against your ribs. For a moment, the room felt utterly still, the only sound your uneven breaths mingling with the faint echo of his steady, deep exhale.

“You’ve done well, nena,” he murmured, “now, lick your fingers clean.”

The command was unexpected, and your eyes widened slightly as you processed his words. Heat flared in your cheeks, but you obeyed without hesitation, bringing your trembling fingers to your lips. Slowly, you drew them into your mouth, tasting your cum as you cleaned them, your tongue flicking over each finger.

When you finally lowered your hand, you whispered, “Thank you, Father, for allowing me this… for guiding me.” Slowly, you redressed, feeling satisfaction wash over you. 

He chuckled softly, the sound low and almost indulgent. “You’re welcome, nena. But don’t let gratitude cloud your understanding. This was a means to reduce your temptations, nothing more.”

His words cut through the lingering haze of your release, grounding you abruptly. You turned your head to look at the screen, making out the outline of his presence. ���What do you mean?” 

He sighed, the sound a mix of patience and reproach. “Let me be clear. This is the last time you’ll take matters into your own hands.”

Your breath caught, a sharp protest forming in your throat, but his steady outline behind the screen silenced it before it could take shape.

“From now on,” he continued, his voice calm but unyielding, “if the temptations become too strong, if you feel the pull of desire overwhelming you, you will come to me.”

Your pulse quickened at the implication, your thoughts a tangled web of confusion and longing. “I… I don’t understand, Father, will you make me cum?”

His shadow shifted, and a soft, almost amused sigh escaped him. A moment later, he opened the door to the confessional, stepping into the dim light of the church. You hesitated for a second before following him, your heart racing as you stood before him, desperate for clarity.

“Father, please,” you said, your voice shaky but insistent. “What do you want me to do?”

He turned to you, his gaze steady, and though his expression was composed, the intensity in his eyes made your knees weak. Before you could rationalize the thought, the question spilled from your lips. “Will you touch me?”

The corner of his mouth curled into a wry smile, and he chuckled—a deep, knowing sound that sent a fresh wave of heat rushing through you. “Nena,” he murmured, shaking his head. “I’m a priest, not your hookup.”

Shame engulfed you instantly, your cheeks burning under the weight of his words. You dropped your gaze, your hands twisting nervously in front of you.

“But,” he added, his voice softening slightly, “I understand where the confusion lies. What happened today wasn’t for your pleasure. It was for my understanding.”

You looked up at him, your brows furrowed in bewilderment. 

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming as his hand gently brushed against your arm, trailing down to your wrist. The touch was light, almost comforting, yet it sent a jolt of awareness through your body. “You need to rid yourself of these temptations,” he explained, his tone patient but firm. “Start by getting rid of anything that fuels them. Like your toys—anything that keeps your mind in sin.”

Your lips parted in protest, but he silenced you with a raised hand. “And that’s not all,” he continued. “I want you to write down every impure urge the moment it crosses your mind. Get it out of your head and onto paper.”

“Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“So you’re not burdened by it and I can keep track of how far you’ve come,” he said simply. “Every time you visit me, you’ll bring the notebook with you. I want to see how many temptations you’ve faced—and how many you’ve resisted.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of his expectations settling heavily on your shoulders. His hand slipped down to settle on your waist, his thumb brushing over your skin in a way that felt almost too intimate, too deliberate. But you told yourself it was nothing. He was a priest, after all. He only wanted the best for you.

As you lowered your gaze, another question gnawed at the edge of your mind. Timidly, you looked up at him again. “Father… even if I do all that—what if I still feel… wet?”

His expression didn’t falter, but his lips curved into a faint smile. His hand tightened its grasp on your waist as he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Then you come to me,” he said, his tone smooth yet commanding. “And I’ll deal with it how the Lord wants me to.”

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding as his words lingered in the air between you. You nodded, unable to form a coherent response, and his thumb stroked your waist one final time before he stepped back.

“Go now,” he said, his voice returning to its calm authority. “And don’t forget what I told you. I expect obedience, nena. Nothing less.”

“Yes, Father,” you murmured, bowing your head before turning to leave, your body still trembling from the weight of his words and his touch.

The days had been an endless blur of restless thoughts and scribbled confessions—fantasies. 

Every moment had been consumed with the lure of the notebook Father Carlos had instructed you to start. It had become your constant companion, a tether to the guidance and obedience he demanded of you. You carried it everywhere, pen poised to capture every unholy thought that flickered through your mind, no matter how fleeting or detailed. 

It was your personal book of fantasies, of sins you’ve been tempted to repeat. 

It started innocently enough. You initially started writing on that same night of the last meeting with Carlos, plagued by the memories of what had happened in that confined wooden stall. Even though he hadn’t touched you himself, his words caressed your body, seeping deep into your skin until you were too far gone to remember anything but his name. 

That night, you wrote about the temptation to use your toys again, even after he had told you to get rid of them. The urge to reenact the scenario, to feel the unbearable pleasure again was too high. The words spilled out hesitantly, the pen shaky and unsure in your grasp. You felt as if writing them down, admitting them would only make them more real. But the act of actually writing was oddly satisfying, almost soothing in its own way as you filled page after page with filth, transferring the thoughts from your mind to the once pristine, empty pages. 

As the days went on, instead of having fewer thoughts, the opposite happened. Your thoughts began to shift towards a different, forbidden path. They stopped being about abstract desires you had, focusing on missing the pleasure in general and started starring him. 

You couldn’t help it—he was everywhere. His voice echoed in your mind when you were on your knees, hands clasped in front of you while you tried to pray. As you shut your eyes, all you could imagine was Father Carlos standing in front of you, his commands turning filthier with each word he spoke. You found yourself distracted by the memory of his seemingly innocent touch, the faint graze of his thumb against your cheek. Every Hail Mary became a whispered plea, not for forgiveness, but for release.

In the shower, with hot water cascading over your skin, you caught yourself imagining what it would feel like if he was there, interrupting the steady stream of water with his body, trapping you against the glass walls. You imagined how his hands would feel roaming your wet body, the way his fingers might linger, the press of his calloused palm against your soft curves. You still wrote it all down afterward, confessing in ink what you couldn’t yet say aloud, choosing to obey his command despite the shame creeping up your cheeks.

Even the most mundane tasks became tainted with thoughts of Carlos. Folding laundry, you imagined his robes slipping away, revealing skin you hadn’t yet seen but could only picture in your mind.  

By the time Saturday rolled around, quite a few pages of the notebook were filled. The pages were dense with your handwriting, the words getting messier and more frantic as the week progressed. That night, the night before Sunday mass, the urge was unbearable.

You sat at your desk, pen in hand, the notebook open before you. Your other hand, however, was cupping your cunt over your pants, feeling the heat seeping through. You held your palm tightly against your pussy, as if increasing the still pressure would reduce the need that coursed through your veins. You wrote feverishly, the words spilling onto the page as if they might somehow purge the thoughts from your mind. This time, the words were directed at him, addressing him since you knew he would read each sinful word carefully when you see him again. 

Father Carlos, you began, the formality of his title making your core tighten with want, you have no idea what you do to me. Every time I see you, every time you speak, it’s like my body knows no boundaries. My thighs clench, my heart races, and I can’t help but wonder what you’d look like without your robes.

Your handwriting became messier, the lines slanting as your pulse quickened.

I think about your hands most of all. The way they would feel gripping my hips, rough and firm as you hold me in place. I imagine your fingers dipping lower, brushing against my pussy, exploring me until I’m begging for you to take me. I want to hear you whisper in that deep, commanding voice of yours, telling me how bad I’ve been and how much I need to repent. But the punishment I crave isn’t prayer—it’s you.

Your breathing was shallow, your cheeks burning with a mix of shame and arousal. 

Forgive me, Father. Please, guide me to the right path. Punish me. Take me. 

You dropped the pen with a shuddering gasp, your head falling into your hand as the weight of your confessions hit you. The ache in your core was unbearable, your hips instinctively grinding against your palm. A sharp cry escaped your lips when you accidentally grazed your clit, but you resisted. His voice echoed in your mind, firm and unyielding: “This is the last time you’ll take matters into your own hands.” 

Instead, you grabbed the notebook and headed to bed. You held it in front of you as you lied down, rereading the words, your cheeks burning with shame. At some point, exhaustion claimed you. You fell asleep with the notebook still clutched in your hands, the pages open to the filthiest confession yet. 

When you woke up the next morning, the notebook was resting on your chest, the ink faintly smudged where your fingers had lingered. For a moment, you simply lay there, the sunlight streaming through your curtains, the heat of your dreams still lingering between your legs. 

Before you could turn the pages and refuel the filth you had written last night, you closed the notebook and pressed it against your chest, as if the physical weight of it could anchor you. You had to face him today. You had to sit through mass, knowing the notebook was filled with your darkest desires, and then meet him afterward, alone. 

The thought made your heart race, a mix of dread and anticipation pooling low in your belly. You slipped out of bed, your legs trembling as you made your way to the shower. But even the cold water couldn’t extinguish the heat that had taken root inside you. 

You dressed carefully, choosing a modest outfit that successfully hid the way your body ached  for something forbidden. As you made your way to the church, the notebook tucked securely in your bag, you couldn’t help but wonder what he would say when he saw the truth of what you’d written. 

And more than that, you wondered what he would do. Surely, he would find a way to help you, to rid you of the impure thoughts you’ve been plagued with. 

The mass began, and for a while, you managed to focus on the words, on the hymns, on the solemn rituals that slowly filled you with peace. But as Father Carlos stepped forward to deliver his homily, your resolve faltered. He stood tall and commanding at the altar, his voice rich and steady, weaving through the congregation like a soothing balm. Yet, to you, every word felt like a private message, a call meant to pierce directly through your shame. 

The church was quieter after mass, the congregation filtering out with subdued goodbyes and murmurs of peace. You waited until there were only a few people left before walking to the backroom—Carlos’ private study. The small, unassuming space was lined with books and religious relics, the air thick with incense and something unnameable that always seemed to cling to him. 

He was already there, seated behind a simple wooden desk, his dark eyes lifting to meet yours as you hesitated near the door. For a moment, his gaze flickered over you, taking in your appearance with a small smile that sent shivers throughout your body. 

“Come in,” he said softly, gesturing to the chair across from him. “And close the door.” 

You shut the door behind you before sitting down, carefully placing the notebook on the desk. Carlos glanced at it briefly but made no move to open it. Instead, he leaned back slightly, his hands folded neatly on the desk. 

“You’ve written it all down?” he asked, his piercing gaze studying you for a moment. 

“Yes, Father,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

He grabbed the notebook, opening it to skim through the pages, and you held your breath. “Good,” he murmured, not sticking on a page too long to fully read the extent of your desires. “I’ll read this on my own time, but right now, let’s focus on you.” He set it aside without a second glance. 

The words sent a shiver through you, even as you tried to steady your breathing. You wanted to believe that he was here to help you, guide you back to the light. But there was something in the way he looked at you—a flicker of something darker in his eyes. You ignored it, reasoning that it was because you were no longer familiar with the religion. And instead of turning you away, Father Carlos has taken upon the responsibility to guide you himself. 

He stood and came around the desk, his presence overwhelming as he stopped beside your chair. His hand settled lightly on your shoulder, a touch that felt too deliberate. “You’re trying,” he said, his voice low, almost soothing. “I can see that. But there’s still more to be done.”

You looked up at him, the heat of his gaze making your cheeks burn. “I want to be good again,” you said softly. 

Carlos nodded, his fingers brushing down your arm, his touch too slow, too lingering. “Then you must surrender yourself fully,” he murmured. “Your mind, your body, your heart—all of it must be devoted to God. Do you trust me to guide you?” 

“Yes, Father,” you whispered, the words falling from your lips before you could think. 

He smiled faintly, his hand moving to yours. His fingers curled around your trembling wrist, lifting it slightly. “These hands,” he said, his voice soft, almost reverent. “What have they done? Have they served God—or served sin?”

The question made your stomach twist with guilt. “Sin,” you admitted, your voice barely audible.

Carlos hummed thoughtfully, his other hand coming to guide yours downwards, pressing it to his chest. “Then we must sanctify them,” he said, his tone heavy with meaning. “You must use them to serve, to obey. Only then can they be cleansed.”

His hand moved yours lower, over the fabric of his robe, guiding it with an authority that left you breathless yet completely trusting. When your palm was pressed against his clothed cock, you froze, your breath catching in your throat. Carlos didn’t pull away, only pressing your hand further into him, as he said, “every step I take is for your redemption.” 

Your fingers moved barely an inch, and it was enough to feel his cock twitch beneath the fabric, sending a shock through you. When he finally released your hand, you didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. He stepped closer, leaning down as his fingers grazed your lips while his dark eyes bored into yours. 

“This mouth,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, “has it been used for prayer? Or for sin?”

Your heart pounded, your breath shaky as his thumb lingered, pressing lightly. “Both,” you admitted, the confession trembling on your tongue. 

Carlos’ lips curved in a lazy smirk, his gaze dropping to your mouth. “But more sin, no? Filthy words have left this mouth, obscene sounds…” he trailed off. 

“Yes, Father,” you shamefully admitted. 

His thumb caught onto your bottom lip, dragging it down, allowing your lips to part. “It’s okay, nena, we can easily fix that.” 

Hope fluttered through your chest at his words. “Really?” you murmured, muffled as his thumb rested on your tongue. 

“Yes, you’re just in need of purification,” he said softly, pressing down on your tongue only to feel you wrap your lips around it. “Every inch of you must be made pure again. And we’ll start with your mouth.” 

He slid his thumb out, only to lean in further. He was so close that you could see every detail on his face—the faint shadow of his stubble on his jaw, revealing that he just shaved a couple days ago, the way his dark lashes framed his eyes, the curve of his lips. Your gaze flicked downward, drawn to his mouth despite yourself, and he noticed. 

“You’re trying.” he said quietly, “but temptation clings to you. Let me help you.” 

His lips brushed over yours, a featherlight touch that sent heat surging through your body. You didn’t resist. You couldn’t. The moment you leaned into him, pressing your lips firmly against his, a muffled moan escaped his lips. Just as his hands settled on your waist, a sharp knock at the door made you both jolt apart. 

Carlos straightened quickly, his composure snapping back into place. “Come in,” he called, his voice calm, though his chest still rose and fell with heavy breaths. 

The interruption was brief—someone asking about the upcoming service—but it was enough to break the moment. You were fidgeting with your hands when the door closed again, leaving you alone with him once more. 

Carlos turned to you, his expression unreadable. “Go home,” he said quietly. “Pray for guidance. You’re due for a confession tomorrow—same time, and we’ll begin the process of turning you pure.” 

You nodded quickly, standing up and reaching across the desk for the notebook. Before you could grasp it, his hand laid flat on the cover. “I’ll keep this for tonight, nena, I still have to read what you wrote."

The confessional felt different this time. The familiar, sacred space that had always kept you separated by a thin wooden screen was now charged with an intensity you couldn’t name. Carlos stood by the door this time, his hand resting on the frame as his dark eyes bore into yours, unyielding. The command in his gaze sent a shiver through you.

“Come here,” he said, his voice low and steady.

Your legs carried you forward almost against your will, your heart pounding as you stepped into his side of the confessional. The small space seemed impossibly tight with the two of you inside. The door clicked shut, sealing you both away, and the intimacy of the moment thickened like the air before a storm.

“On your knees,” he instructed, his tone soft yet commanding.

You obeyed without question, lowering yourself onto the polished wooden floor. The surface was cold against your knees, grounding you even as the heat of his presence sent sparks racing through your veins. Carlos lowered himself onto the bench before you, the folds of his dark robe brushing against your skin as he moved. In his hand, he held your notebook, the one where you had poured your innermost thoughts—confessions you were nervous about him reading. But here he was, the pages open, his thumb tracing the lines of your handwriting.

“These words,” he began, his voice quiet but edged with something sharp, “do they strike you as belonging to someone truly asking for forgiveness?” His dark gaze lifted from the page, pinning you in place.

Your throat tightened as you struggled to find your voice. “I… I do want forgiveness, Father,” you managed, the tremor in your tone betraying you. “Please. I need your guidance.”

A low chuckle escaped him, the sound rich and indulgent. He closed the notebook and set it aside with deliberate care before leaning forward. His hand reached out, the rough pad of his thumb brushing against your cheek. The gesture was gentle, almost tender, yet it left your skin burning.

“Oh, nena,” he murmured, his voice softening as he tilted your face upward. “I haven’t given up on you. That’s why you’re here, on your knees for me. You’re ready to be cleansed. And that’s what you need, isn’t it? To be purified?”

“Yes, Father,” you whispered, the words escaping your lips like a prayer.

His thumb lingered, tracing the curve of your jaw, before he withdrew his hand. You followed the movement instinctively, your eyes drawn to him as he adjusted his posture. Slowly, almost methodically, he lifted the hem of his robe. Your breath hitched as the fabric rose, revealing the strong muscle of his thighs, dusted with dark hair. The sight caught you off guard, and you fought the instinct to avert your gaze out of respect. Instead, you drank in the vision before you, the intimacy of the moment almost too much to bear.

“Do you see, nena?” he asked, his tone laced with something unspoken. “Every part of me is here to serve the Lord. But you… you’ve strayed. You’ve used your body, your mouth, for sin.” He shook his head, his expression softening, though his eyes remained sharp. “You need cleansing, and as I told you yesterday, it begins with your mouth.”

Your lips parted to respond, but no words came. Instead, he reached out once more, his hand cupping your chin as his thumb grazed your bottom lip. The sensation sent a spark through you, igniting something deep within.

“This mouth,” he murmured, his tone almost reverent, “has spoken too many sinful words. But we can purify it, together. Are you ready, nena?”

“Yes, Father,” you said, this time with more confidence, though your voice trembled with anticipation.

“Good,” he said softly. His thumb pressed down, parting your lips until your jaw fell open. “Then show me. Stick your tongue out like the whore you are.”

Heat flooded your cheeks at his words, but you obeyed, your tongue slipping out, wet and ready. His other hand moved to gather the folds of his robe higher, revealing the full length of his cock. Thick and heavy, it rested against his thigh, the head glistening with precum. Your eyes widened, wetness immediately pooling in your panties, your cunt throbbing to be filled. It had been far too long since you had been near a cock, but none compared to his. 

Saliva gathered on your tongue at the sight of his cock, a bead of precum spilling out the tip. Carlos chuckled as a drop of spit dripped on the floor, the sound echoing in your ears as he watched you drool for him. “Do you see now, nena? The path to forgiveness is very hard, but it’s necessary. Take it, and I will guide you.”

Tentatively, you licked your palm, wrapping it around his length. His cock twitched in your grasp, and a satisfied groan rumbled in his chest.

“Father Carlos,” you murmured, leaning in until your lips brushed against his heated skin, “you’re so big…”

“I know,” he replied, his voice steady, “and you’ll take it all. Every inch or you won’t be purified.”

Your lips parted further as you let your tongue flick over the tip, tasting the salty bead of precum. Carlos let out a low hum of approval, his hand tangling in your hair as he guided you closer. “That’s it, nena,” he murmured. “Suck. Let your mouth be a vessel of your repentance. Take me in—slowly.”

You obeyed, your mouth enveloping a couple inches. The salty tang of his skin met your tongue as you hollowed your cheeks, drawing him deeper inch by inch. Carlos groaned softly, his hips shifting just enough to press himself further into your mouth. The thickness of him stretched your lips, making your jaw ache, but you welcomed the discomfort, the sensation grounding you in your submission.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his fingers tightening in your hair as he guided your pace. “Look at you, so willing, so eager. This is what true surrender looks like.”

Just as you found your rhythm, the door to the other side of the confessional clicked shut. Your eyes flickered up to Carlos, your lips still stretched around his cock while panic flared in your chest, but he merely smirked, his confidence unshaken.

“Stay quiet,” he instructed softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek, feeling the bulge of his cock protruding as he held your gaze. “This is one of your tests, nena. Do not falter.”

A voice came from the other side of the confessional, muffled but audible through the wooden screen. “Father Sainz? May I speak with you?”

“Of course, my child,” Carlos answered, his tone shifting seamlessly to one of pastoral care. His hand remained firm on your head, though, gently urging you to continue. 

You hesitated for only a moment before resuming your movements, your tongue swirling around his cock as you tried to take him deeper into your throat even though your jaw ached at the stretch. He nudged his hips forward under the pretence of adjusting his posture, forcing his cock deeper down your throat, earning a muffled gag from you. 

The person on the other side began to speak, their voice trembling as they confessed their sins. Carlos listened intently, his words calm and measured as he offered guidance. But his attention never left you. His fingers tightened in your hair with each subtle movement of your tongue, and the weight of his gaze burned into you as you worked to suppress the sounds of your effort. 

“That is a heavy burden you carry,” Carlos said to the unseen penitent, his voice steady even as you took him deeper, your nose brushing against the base of his cock, grazing against his hair. “But the Lord is merciful. Seek forgiveness with a pure heart, and you will find peace.”

You struggled to keep your composure, your eyes watering as the need to breathe and the rising pleasure in Carlos’ expression warred within you. The wet sounds of your mouth filled the small space, and you fought to keep them as quiet as possible. The thrill of being on your knees for the priest, so vulnerable, only heightened your arousal, and you felt the damp heat soaking through your panties as you continued your ministrations.

The person on the other side fell silent for a moment, perhaps in thought, and Carlos seized the opportunity to lean down, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re doing so well, nena,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “Don’t stop now.”

You moaned softly around him, the vibration drawing a low groan from his chest. His hips jerked slightly, and he exhaled a shaky breath before composing himself. “Go in peace,” he said to the penitent, his tone unwavering. “And remember, God sees the effort you make.”

The moment the creak of the other side of the confessional ceased, signaling the departure of the penitent, Carlos’ entire demeanor shifted. The restraint he had so carefully maintained melted away, replaced by an unyielding intensity. His hand tightened in your hair, firm and commanding, as his eyes darkened with a hunger that seemed to consume the space.

“That’s it,” he growled, his voice a rough, guttural sound that sent a shiver through your body. “You’ve done well, nena, almost done.” 

His grip in your hair tightened painfully, and before you could prepare yourself, he pushed you down his cock with a force that stole the breath from your lungs. The tip of his cock hit the back of your throat, and you gagged, your hands flying to his hairy thighs for balance as your body instinctively struggled against the intrusion.

“Stay still,” Carlos commanded, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. His other hand came to rest at the back of your head, holding you in place. “This is part of your penance, nena. You asked for forgiveness—don’t shy away now.”

Your throat tightened around him as you choked, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes and streaming down your cheeks. “I hope you die from this so you can suck me in the afterlife, forever,” he murmured, earning a spluttering mess from you as you tried to respond. 

The sensation was overwhelming—his cock thick and unyielding, filling your mouth completely. You could feel the burn of effort in your jaw, the ache mingling with the steady pulse of your arousal.

“Good,” he rasped, his hips shifting slightly, forcing you to take every inch of him. “Let it all out. The tears, the struggle—it’s what cleanses you. Every gasp, every choke—it’s a prayer, a plea for absolution.”

You couldn’t speak, couldn't breathe, couldn’t do anything but surrender to his control. The taste of him was sharp on your tongue, and the warmth of his length filled you, an undeniable reminder of your submission. His words, manipulative and commanding, wound their way into your mind, twisting your thoughts until you clung to them like gospel.

Carlos held you there, his cock buried deep in your throat, until your vision blurred and your lungs burned for air. Just as you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, your eyes rolling back, he pulled you back, allowing you a desperate gasp of breath.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Tears streaming down your face, lips swollen and red. Do you get it now, nena? This is what it takes—this is the price of purity.”

You barely had a moment to recover before he guided you back down, setting a demanding pace. His cock slid in and out of your mouth, the wet sounds of your effort filling the confessional. Your saliva coated him, dripping from your chin and onto your knees as he used your mouth without mercy.

“You’re doing so well,” Carlos groaned, his hips jerking as he chased his release. “Such a good girl, taking me like this. You were made for this—don’t you see? To serve, to repent, to be purified.”

The words sent a thrill through you, your body trembling as you clung to him, your nails digging into his thighs. His pace quickened, his breaths coming faster, rougher, until he stilled with a deep, guttural moan.

He withdrew suddenly, his cock slipping from your lips as he grasped himself, stroking hard as he came. Warm spurts of his cum painted your face, hot and sticky as it dripped down your cheeks and onto your lips. The sheer filthiness of the act left you breathless, your heart pounding as his cum marked you completely.

Carlos tilted your chin upward, forcing you to meet his gaze. His thumb smeared the evidence of his orgasm across your skin, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and something darker. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. “Marked by a man of God, cleansed by my cum. This is what purification looks like, nena.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy cloak. He leaned closer, his thumb brushing over your lips before pressing into your mouth. “Lick it,” he commanded, his tone soft but unyielding. “Let me see how much you’ve learned.”

Your tongue darted out, tasting the saltiness of him as you obeyed, your gaze never leaving his. He watched you intently, his expression indulgent and possessive, as though you were his most devout follower.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice softening into something almost tender. “Purification is a journey, and slowly I’ll purify your entire body, so no sins weigh down on your soul.” 

You nodded, your cheeks still burning, your body still trembling from the intensity of it all. “Thank you, Father, for purifying my mouth.” 

Carlos smiled faintly, his thumb stroking your cheek one last time before he straightened, adjusting his robes as though nothing had happened. “Take care, nena, and soon your filthy thoughts will disappear.” 

You had fallen off the right track, and you felt it with every passing moment. 

That so-called purification process Father Carlos had initiated—his words, his touch, the commanding presence of him in the confessional—clung to your mind like a heavy fog. It reminded you of the life you had lived before meeting him, the desires you had buried, of the way you once loved to be filled and covered in cum, utterly consumed by lust. 

You didn’t let yourself linger on the idea too long, convincing yourself this wasn’t sin—it was repentance, wasn’t it? Carlos had said so, and you trusted his guidance. But even as you tried to hold on to that belief, the ache he left in your body betrayed you.

Your mouth had been purified, yes, filled by his cock again and again until you were left trembling, gagging, and raw, but no other part of you had been touched. That ache had settled deep in your pussy, a throbbing, relentless reminder of your unfulfilled desires. It was worse than anything you’d ever felt, more intense than you thought possible, and the wetness only grew with each passing hour. By the time you returned home, your panties were soaked through, the fabric sticking to your cunt in a way that made you shiver with both discomfort and longing.

It wasn’t just the physical sensation; it was the thoughts—wicked, unrelenting thoughts of him—that consumed you.

At first, you tried to resist, to distract yourself with prayers and scripture, clutching your rosary tightly as though the beads could anchor you away from sin. But each time your fingers brushed over a smooth, cold bead, your mind betrayed you, imagining the rougher texture of his hands, the weight of them gripping your hips, your hair, your throat. Every word of prayer seemed to morph into whispered thoughts of him, of the way his cock had felt in your mouth, heavy and insistent, the way he’d told you his cum purified you.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, seeking relief, but it only made the throbbing worse, teasing you with what you craved but could not allow yourself to have. 

Walking was torture; each step sent another jolt of awareness to the wetness pooling between your legs. Sitting was no better—your thighs pressed together in search of relief, only for the slickness to betray you, stimulating every shift of your body.

It was unbearable. The heat became a constant companion over the days, slickness pooling and dripping down your thighs, leaving your panties damp before noon and entirely ruined by nightfall. Washing them became a pointless endeavor. You stopped wearing them altogether, the fabric only another tangible reminder of your torment, yet the freedom of bare skin beneath your dress, the air hitting your pussy every time you moved made you more aware of every shift, every brush of fabric. By the end of the second day, you couldn’t even sit without feeling the telltale slide of moisture between your legs, and it drove you mad with frustration.

The nights were the worst. In the stillness of your room, the temptation was louder than any prayer you whispered. Your hands would stray before you even realized it, slipping beneath your shorts, fingers ghosting over the swollen, slick heat of your folds. The first time, you stopped yourself, shaking with shame, tears stinging your eyes as you begged for strength. But the need didn’t go away.

By the fourth night, you gave in. As you lay in bed, the ache became too much to bear. Your hand slid between your legs almost without thinking, your fingers finding your swollen, wet heat. The first touch was electric, and you gasped, your back arching off the bed as pleasure flooded through you.

Your thoughts spiraled back to the confessional, to the way Carlos had brought you to your knees, his voice a mix of command and praise as he filled your mouth with his cock. You imagined being back there, his hand gripping your hair, his hips thrusting as he murmured sinful things about purification and penance. Your fingers moved faster, circling and thrusting as your body writhed against the sheets.

It wasn’t enough. You wanted more—needed more. You imagined his cock again, what it would feel like inside you, stretching you, filling you completely. The thought alone was enough to push you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you as you cried his name into the dark.

But the relief was fleeting. The ache returned almost immediately, stronger than before, and you gave in again. Over and over, you touched yourself, each orgasm leaving you trembling but unsatisfied. The sheets beneath you were soaked, the air heavy with the scent of your arousal, but still, you couldn’t stop. You imagined his hands on you, his words a mix of praise and degradation, his body pinning yours down as he took you apart. 

By the time exhaustion claimed you, your body was utterly spent, forgetting all about the shame of committing a sin and only focusing on the pleasure you experienced after days of resisting.

The early rays of the sun barely kissed the horizon as you jolted awake, your body still warm and bare. The hazy remnants of sleep faded quickly, leaving the weight of what you had done pressing heavily on your chest. You glanced at the stained sheets beneath you, the evidence of your sin undeniable. Shame burned through you, hotter than the pleasure you had indulged in hours ago. You had fallen—fallen far and fast, surrendering to desires you had fought so desperately to suppress.

Your legs trembled as you slipped out of bed. You didn’t even think of covering yourself in layers, grabbing only a loose, flowing dress that hung just a few inches above your knees, not exactly modest. No undergarments, no barriers—it didn’t matter. 

You needed to repent. Now. 

Carlos’ words echoed in your mind: “Your shame is a sign that you’re on the right path.”

The church doors loomed ahead of you as you hurried through the empty streets, your feet carrying you as if possessed. The stillness of the early morning only deepened the unease pooling in your stomach, but it also spurred you forward. The church was where you needed to be, where you might find absolution for the temptation you had given into so fully.

When you pushed open the heavy doors, the creak of the hinges seemed deafening in the silence. The familiar scent of candle wax and old wood greeted you, grounding you momentarily. The church was empty, save for one figure seated near the altar. Carlos.

He was seated casually, not in the attire you’ve always seen him in. His black shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a glimpse of the tanned skin beneath. In his hand was a half-full glass of wine, the deep crimson liquid reflecting the faint glow of the votive candles nearby. 

But what instantly caught your attention—what made your breath hitch and your guilt churn deeper—through your teary eyes, was the growing beard on his face. It was more than just stubble, the kind you’d seen before but which always disappeared before it could grow out. Now, it darkened his jawline, giving him an air of disheveled ruggedness that only fueled the thoughts you’d been trying so hard to banish. 

His brows furrowed when he saw you rush in, disheveled and clearly distressed with tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Nena?” he called out, his voice warm but edged with concern. He placed the wine glass down and rose to his feet, his movements slow and measured as he approached. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

The words tumbled out of you in a broken stream, your sobs punctuating every other sentence. “Father… I—I’ve sinned. I tried to resist, I really did, but I couldn’t… I touched myself. Over and over again.”

Carlos’ eyes darkened at your confession, but his expression remained composed, his lips pressing together as if considering how to respond. “Hush, nena,” he said softly, placing a hand on your shoulder and guiding you to sit on the bench beside him. “Take a deep breath for me. Let it out slowly. That’s it.”

Your hiccuping sobs quieted slightly, though the shame still burned in your chest. You looked at him, tears streaking your cheeks, as you whispered, “I deserve punishment for what I’ve done. I—I couldn’t stop thinking of… impure things. I let it consume me.”

Carlos tilted his head, his gaze flickering over your tear-streaked face before dipping lower, briefly, to where your dress clung to your thighs. “Punishment?” he repeated, his voice low, contemplative. His thumb brushed the side of your face, wiping away a tear. “Nena, do you truly believe you need punishment to find your way back to God?”

“Yes,” you whispered desperately. “I can’t… I can’t live with this guilt. Please, help me. Guide me back.”

A flicker of something dangerous passed through his eyes. He leaned closer, his voice soft but weighted with meaning. “I told you, didn’t I? Purification is not an easy process. It is demanding. It is difficult. And sometimes… it requires sacrifice.”

You nodded, his words sinking into your mind like truth. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” you said, your voice trembling.

Carlos’ faint smile lingered, his expression a disconcerting blend of warmth and authority as he stood. But instead of offering his hand as a gesture of comfort, his fingers suddenly twisted into your hair, gripping it firmly. The sudden tug sent a jolt through your body, forcing you to stumble after him as he led you with deliberate steps, your scalp stinging from his grip. His pace was measured, almost casual, as if he were leading a lamb to slaughter, your body following wherever he commanded.

“This, nena,” he began, his voice calm yet dripping with contempt, “is the consequence of letting your body overpower your soul. Look at you. Weak. Trembling. Desperate.” His words struck like lashes, each syllable digging deeper into your fragile resolve.

He didn’t pause until he reached the space behind the altar, where the morning light streamed in from the stained glass windows, brightening the church, giving Carlos an ethereal aura even though his thoughts were quite the opposite. Only then did his hand release your hair, shoving you towards the wooden pulpit, the edges digging into your back. 

“Do you even realize what you’ve done?” he asked sharply, his voice echoing in the stillness. His hands didn’t wait for an answer. They found your shoulders first, then skimmed down the sides of your dress, his touch bold and shameless. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, then moved upward, deliberately brushing against the sensitive swell of your tits. He stopped there, his palms pressing firmly over the fabric, testing, checking.

His sharp intake of breath was the only warning before he pulled back slightly, his gaze narrowing as he looked at you with a mixture of disapproval and dark curiosity. “Nothing beneath this,” he muttered, his tone laced with mockery. “Not even a shred of decency left in you, is there?”

Your breath hitched, shame and confusion swirling as his hands returned, this time cupping your tits fully. The warmth of his palms seared through the thin fabric, his thumbs dragging over your covered nipples until you flinched. His touch wasn’t gentle; it was purposeful, unrelenting, as if meant to remind you of every sinful thought you’d tried to bury.

“Have you learned anything?” he demanded, his voice low and menacing. His fingers grasped the hardening nipple beneath his touch and pinched sharply, a jolt of pain that made you gasp, your body arching involuntarily. “Or have you simply wasted my time?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat as he pinched again, harder this time, the sting radiating through you. “No answer?” he asked, tilting his head, his gaze boring into yours. “Of course not. Your dumb little mind probably can’t even comprehend the depth of your failure. But at least you understood one thing—you need punishment. Desperately.”

His hands lingered for a moment before he released your nipple, leaving you breathless and trembling. His dark eyes roamed over you, calculating, as he considered his next move. His hands moved lower, gathering the hem of your dress and lifting it to your waist with agonizing slowness. When his fingers finally brushed against your bare cunt, the sound he made was a mixture of amusement and derision. 

“No bra. No panties,” he murmured, his voice thick with disdain. 

One hand stilled against your hip while the other teased your cunt, his thumb tracing small circles against your trembling form. “Tell me, nena,” he began, his voice low and biting, “what made you so wet? Was it thinking about what I’m going to do to you?” 

He gently spread your fold with two fingers, before using his middle finger to gather the wetness that grew with each word of his. “Or was it what I’m going to make you do for me?” 

You couldn’t summon a response. The weight of his words, the heat of his touch—it overwhelmed every rational thought in your mind. Carlos didn’t seem to expect an answer. He dragged his fingers up and down, sliding over your folds easily, nudging your clit a few times. 

“You make this far too easy,” he said, his tone cold, biting. “It’s pathetic, really. You’re lucky you came to me. At least you had enough sense to beg for salvation, though I doubt you even understand what it takes to earn it.” 

His thumb pressed against your clit, testing your reaction, as he continued. “If this is how you present yourself, do you even wonder why you’re consumed by sin? You don’t resist it, you welcome it.”

Carlos straightened, his hand slipping away, leaving you aching and exposed, a whimper slipping past your lips. 

He turned away briefly, retrieving his wine glass from earlier, swirling the crimson liquid in the glass before bringing it to his lips. He drank slowly, letting the wine linger in his mouth before he approached you again. His free hand reached out, gripping your chin firmly and tilting your face up to meet his.

He squished your cheeks using his hand, forcing you to open your mouth. He leaned in closer, his mouth hovering just above yours. When you dropped your jaw completely in obedience, his hand dropped to wrap around your throat, squeezing almost painfully. Without warning, he spit the wine into your mouth, the warm liquid flooding your tongue with its intoxicating flavor.

“Drink up, nena,” he ordered, his tone brooking no argument. “This is your final test. If you can’t follow my commands, you’re too far gone into sin for me to save.” You swallowed forcibly, his fingers tightening around your neck, feeling the sensation of you gulping under his palm.

He stepped back, releasing his grasp on you, letting you inhale sharply while he reached into his pocket and produced his rosary. The beads glinted in the bright light, each one seeming heavier than the last as he held it up between you. “Do you know what this is?” he asked, his tone almost patronizing. “It is a sacred object, yes, but it is also a symbol of discipline—something you clearly lack.”

He held the rosary out toward you, the cross dangling ominously at the end. “Kiss it,” he commanded. “Pray silently, nena. Ask for strength, for forgiveness, for the resolve to endure what comes next. Because what I’m about to do is not for me—it is for you. It is the burden I carry to bring you back to the light.”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering between him and the rosary, but the weight of his words—and the shame curling in your stomach—drove you forward. Your lips brushed the cold metal of the cross, the gesture both reverent and desperate. Your whispered prayer was barely audible, your voice trembling as you begged for forgiveness, for guidance.

Carlos’ hand returned to your shoulder, his grip tightening as he leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “Good,” he murmured, his tone soft but laden with intent. “So you can obey like a good girl, you just need to be put in your place.”

Carlos’ fingers hooked into the neckline of your dress, tugging it down with an effortless precision, letting your tits spill out freely. Your pussy and now your tits were exposed to the cool air of the church, forcing the last shred of dignity out of you as Carlos kept his intense gaze on your body. 

His silence was profound, heavy, and yet spoke volumes. His dark eyes roamed across your form, lingering on the soft curves of your figure still covered by the dress as if committing every detail to memory. A slow exhale escaped him, the sound too quiet to carry through the empty space but loud enough to send shivers across your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low but steady, carrying that familiar blend of praise and reverence. His hand lifted, calloused fingertips brushing along your shoulder, a hint of greed building in him, needing to see more of your soft bare skin. He tugged the sorry excuse of a dress down to bunch around your waist, before tracing the curve of your arm. His touch wandered, exploring with unhurried intent, his palms skimming over the soft swell of your hips, lingering at the softness of your waist. 

“Such a shame you’ve indulged in sin,” he said, almost to himself, his hands gripping your sides firmly for emphasis. The words were biting, yet the reverence in his touch betrayed him, as if he couldn’t stop himself from appreciating the way you felt beneath his hands.

The rosary hung from his fingers, the beads cool and unyielding as they trailed behind his movements, brushing against your heated skin. When the cross touched the hollow of your throat, you flinched, but he didn’t let up. Instead, he let the beads follow the path of his hands, dragging them lightly across the curves of your tits, your sensitive nipples stiffening even further under their cool pressure.

His head dipped suddenly, lips brushing the skin of your mound. The gesture was deceptively soft, almost reverent, before his mouth opened fully. His tongue flicked against your skin, warm and deliberate, before he wrapped his lips around your nipple. The sharp contrast between his mouth’s heat and the rosary’s cool touch made your knees tremble.

A soft moan escaped your lips, breathless and involuntary, but it barely had the chance to echo in the silence. He returned the rosary back to your lips, pressing against it until you obediently parted your lips, allowing the cool beads to slide against your tongue, the faint metallic tang of the cross mingling with the warmth of your breath. 

He didn’t pull back immediately, continuing the relentless torture on your nipples, flicking the peak with his tongue while letting you wet the rosary thoroughly. His teeth grazed the sensitive peak, earning a muffled cry from your lips. His other hand gently kneaded the softness of your tit, then more firmly as if testing your limits. His thumb brushed over your hardened nipple before pinching and twisting it harshly, making a sharp muffled cry fall from your lips. 

The rosary rested heavily on your tongue, its smooth, rounded beads pressing against the roof of your mouth. It felt sacred, forbidden, a weighty representation of your salvation, even as his presence and touch felt as if it pulled you further from its grasp. Each bead carried a history of whispered prayers and faith, and yet here it was, in this profane moment, repurposed into something entirely sinful.

Once he released your nipple from his mouth, he retracted his fingers, slipping the rosary out as well, bead by bead, slick with your saliva. It glistened faintly in the dim light, his eyes, dark and all-consuming, followed the motion as though this simple act held infinite power.

The beads dangled from his hand for a moment, swaying like a pendulum, before he began to drag them down the curve of your neck. The coolness of the cross met the warmth of your skin, leaving behind a wet trail that felt almost electric. It wasn’t just the sensation; it was the way his movements were deliberate, worshipful yet unholy, his touch blurring every boundary of what you thought was right in the name of religion. 

The rosary descended further, tracing the hollow of your throat, the chain tickling against your collarbone before he pressed the beads down the center of your chest. Each ridge of the beads pressed into your skin, a strange contrast of softness and unyielding hardness, and you could feel the trail of spit cooling as it mingled with the heat of your body. His gaze lingered where the rosary had touched, as though marking you with his intent.

He dragged the rosary lower still, over the curve of your soft stomach, the motion unhurried, methodical, as if savouring every inch of skin it passed. He paused for a moment just below your navel, letting the beads rest there, their weight light but unbearably present. His fingers followed, brushing against your skin, spreading the faint moisture left behind, smudging the remnants of sanctity with his touch.

Without warning, he slid the rosary between your legs. You inhaled sharply, the sensation startling and intimate, each bead dragging between your folds, separating them while collecting your wetness on the sacred item, tainting it with your sins. The rhythm was slow, torturous, as if he wanted you to feel each individual bead graze your clit, to memorize its texture and weight against you. His actions were like sins wrapped in the guise of sanctity, pleasure tangled with the echoes of prayer. 

He took it one step further. Using his free hand, he held your pussy spread open before pushing the rosary inside your cunt, bead by bead. Each bead stretched you slightly before it gave way to the next, filling you in a way that felt both intrusive and intimate. He watched your every reaction, his dark eyes gleaming with something that sent a shiver down your spine. 

“There,” he whispered, his breath warm against your lips. “Look at how greedy your pussy is, practically begging to be filled by anything.” His words were laced with a hint of amazement, as if he’s never seen anyone as gullible as you in the name of religion before. 

When he finally began pulling the rosary back out, you felt every bead dragging inside you, the ridges catching in sensitive areas, making your hips move on instinct, chasing the pleasure. His movements were slow, almost tormenting, as if he wanted you to memorize the way it felt, the way he wielded control over you with something once meant for prayer. 

Carlos suddenly turned you around with a firm grip on your hips. He bent you over the wooden pulpit, the rough grain pressing into your skin. The air in the church felt heavier now, stifling, as if the walls themselves disapproved of the desecration happening within them. He kicked your legs apart, his movements sharp and commanding, leaving you no choice but to obey. 

Leaning in behind you, his breath ghosted over the back of your neck as he whispered, “the Lord has given me strength to punish you, and I won’t be gentle.” His words were both a promise and a threat, sending a ripple of heat and dread through your body. 

You opened your mouth to respond, but instead of a word, a loud moan left your lips when his palm came down sharply on your ass, the impact jolting you forward against the pulpit. The sound echoed through the empty church, a sharp crack that left your skin stinging and your body trembling. He did it again, and again, each strike accompanied by murmured words, low and demanding. 

“Such a whore,” he muttered, his voice dripping with condescension. “I have to ruin you to save you.” 

His other hand continued to torment you with the rosary, the beads slick and warm now, sliding over you with a deliberate rhythm that left you breathless. Every motion seemed to blur the line further between punishment and pleasure, his twisted sense of control leaving no room for you to question him.

When the rosary was thoroughly soaked, he dragged it from your dripping cunt to your ass, letting the beads linger on your winking hole. Carlos leaned down, his lips brushing against the curve of your ass, giving you a false sense of security from the tender gesture. It didn’t last long because the soft kisses quickly turned into a sudden sharp pain erupting from his teeth digging into your plush ass. 

“Carlos—” you gasped, looking over your shoulder only to be met with a menacing gaze, a lazy smirk playing at his lips. 

“Father Carlos. Don’t forget your manners just because you’re bent over, dripping like a slut for me,” he corrected, punctuating his words by leaving the indentations of his teeth into your soft skin again. 

“Sorry, Father Carlos,” you murmured, lowering your head, your cheeks burning with shame. 

His rough, hairy hands covered the expanse of your ass, kneading your soft skin. He spreads you apart, exposing your dripping cunt to your clenching hole, all for him to take as he pleased. He didn’t ease up even as you tried to squirm away under his scrutinizing gaze, one you could feel even though you’re turned away from him. 

With deliberate slowness, he allowed a thick string of saliva to pool in his mouth before letting it fall onto your puckered entrance. The warm droplet lingered for a moment, leaving a glistening trail as it slid down between your legs, settling in the slick heat of your folds. His fingers followed its path, tracing the mixture of spit and your arousal with a teasing precision that made your thighs tremble. He smeared the wetness upward, back to the sensitive ring of muscle he was so fixated on, his touch unrelenting yet deliberate as he circled it.

A soft, shaky cry escaped your lips as the tip of his finger pressed against the tight entrance, testing your resistance before gently breaching it. Your breath hitched, your body involuntarily tightening around the unfamiliar sensation. The warmth of his body radiated against your back as he leaned closer, his chest brushing against your back with every inhale. His lips hovered by your ear, the heat of his breath fanning across your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’ve been fucked here before, haven’t you?” His voice was sharp, almost taunting, as he let the cruel accusation linger in the space between you. The edge in his tone made your stomach twist, a strange mixture of shame and excitement pooling low in your belly.

“Just—just once,” you stammered, your voice barely a whisper, trembling as you clenched instinctively around the foreign intrusion. The confession seemed to amuse him; a low, satisfied hum vibrated from his chest as his finger pushed in deeper, stretching you with agonizing slowness.

“Just once?” he repeated mockingly, the corners of his lips curling into a wicked smirk. His free hand gripped your hip, keeping you still as he twisted his finger, coaxing your body to accommodate him. “That’s unexpected from a slut like you.”

His finger withdrew slightly before sliding back in, the motion deliberate and calculated, coaxing out every sound of pleasure you tried to suppress.

The rosary rested delicately against your skin, its cool, polished beads a stark contrast to the sinful warmth of his touch. With calculated precision, he pressed it just above where his finger was buried inside you, the holy artifact seeming almost blasphemous in its placement. His breath hitched, a low, dark chuckle escaping him as if the juxtaposition of the sacred and the profane amused him to no end.

Slowly, deliberately, he began sliding the rosary in, bead by bead, each one stretching your ass a little more, leaving a trail of both devotion and desecration. The smooth spheres disappeared inside, swallowed by your trembling body, as if you were offering up your very being to this unholy act.

Your breath hitched, your hands gripping the edge of the wooden pulpit, your knuckles turning pale. Each bead passed with a rhythmic cadence, almost as if he were reciting some forbidden litany in his mind, a dark ritual performed in your ass. The chain connecting the beads grew taut with each sinful insertion, cool metal pressing against your heated skin, a silent reminder of the holiness you were defiling.

Only the cross remained, the small silver crucifix dangling just outside your hole, swaying slightly with your trembling. He caught it between his fingers, letting the edge of the sacred symbol brush against your pussy, a mocking act of reverence. His lips curled into a wicked smile, and he leaned down, his breath hot against your neck.

“Do you feel absolved yet?” he whispered cruelly, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. 

It doesn’t take Carlos long to rid himself of his trousers, not when your moans echo against the walls of the empty church, raw and desperate, a melody of need that makes his control falter. You’re on the edge of reason, begging for him to save you, to guide you back to the light—or pull you deeper into the sin you both crave. Although you weren’t certain on what it was that you were asking for, all that mattered is Father Carlos gave in—albeit to punish you but still gave in. 

Standing behind you, his breath is hot against your shoulder, the soft rasp of it teasing your skin. One hand wraps firmly around his cock, stroking slowly, deliberately, as his gaze drinks in the sight of you bared and waiting, mesmerized by the holy cross hanging out of your ass. His other hand settles on the soft curve of your hip, fingertips pressing into your skin, grounding you both in this shared moment of temptation.

He steps closer, his chest brushing against your back, the warmth of his body enveloping you. The tip of him nudges against your folds, teasingly slow as he slides along your slick heat—once, twice—each movement deliberate, purposeful. He groans low in his throat, the sound reverent, almost guttural, as he coats himself in you, the evidence of your desire clinging to him like a forbidden prayer. 

Carlos glances up at the ceiling for a moment, closing his eyes and murmuring something unintelligible—perhaps a prayer to let his punishment guide you to the right path or an apology to the Lord for straying off the path himself by indulging in sins with you. 

He finally slides his cock inside you, inch by inch, until he is fully seated. The stretch is overwhelming, almost too much, and your breath stutters as you struggle to accommodate him. His hands settle firmly on your hips, holding you steady as your body trembles beneath him. 

The edge of the pulpit is digging into your skin, the unyielding surface grounding you even as your senses threaten to unravel. Your chest lays flat against the smooth, polished wood, your hardened nipples brushing against it with every subtle movement, sending jolts of pleasure skittering through your body.

Behind you, Carlos exhales slowly, his breath warm against your neck, and you feel the tremor in his hands, the way his control frays at the edges. “So much sin,” he murmurs, his voice low and ragged, more to himself than to you. “So much to purge.”

The cross, hanging out from your other hole, moves with every shift of his hips. It’s a thought that should terrify you, but instead, it ignites something deep inside—a forbidden thrill that coils hot and tight in your belly. The steady rhythm of his movements makes the cross sway, a stark reminder of where you are, what you’re doing, and who you’re doing it with. The juxtaposition of holiness and sin makes your head spin.

“You’re soaked,” Carlos growls, his tone both admonishing and reverent. His hips pull back, only to slide forward again, dragging against every sensitive inch of you. The wet, obscene sounds of your cunt fills the air, echoing in the sacred space around you. He shifts his grip on your hips, pulling you back against him with each thrust, and you feel every inch of him—thick, unrelenting—claiming you. “I thought I could guide you away from sins,” he continues, his voice tight, almost anguished. “I thought I could save you by telling you to ignore the wetness. By making you resist.”

He leans over you, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “But I was wrong. You crave this too deeply, too completely. And now, the only way to save you is to drain you through your pussy. To take every ounce of sin from your body until there’s nothing left but exhaustion—until you can’t crave it anymore.”

The words send a shockwave through you, your pussy tightening involuntarily around him, and he groans, a guttural sound that vibrates against your skin. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward with a deliberate rhythm, each thrust driving deeper, harder, as if he’s determined to fulfill his promise. You can feel yourself unraveling under him, the heat building low in your belly, radiating outward in waves that threaten to consume you.

“Do you feel it?” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. “Do you feel me so close to taking it from you? Draining you of everything unholy, everything corrupt?” He punctuates his words with a sharp thrust that leaves you gasping, your nails scraping against the wood of the pulpit as you struggle to hold on.

You try to respond, but the words catch in your throat, replaced by a breathless moan as he shifts the angle of his hips, hitting a spot inside you that makes your vision blur. “Answer me,” he growls, his fingers digging into your hips. “Are you going to come on my cock?”

“Y-yes,” you manage to gasp, your voice trembling with the intensity of it all. “So close, Father. I—”

Your words are cut off as a wave of pleasure crashes over you, your body convulsing around him as he drives you over the edge. 

But he doesn’t stop. He keeps moving, his pace relentless, determined, as though he won’t stop until he’s wrung every last ounce of sin from your body. 

“You’ll come again,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. “And again. Until there’s nothing left. Until you’re too spent to think of sin, too tired to crave it.”

His words are a promise and a warning, and you can feel yourself quickly spiraling toward another orgasm, your body trembling with anticipation and overstimulation. Carlos’ grip tightens, pulling you impossibly closer, and his movements grow more desperate, more unrestrained, as if he, too, is succumbing to the very sin he claims to purge.

Carlos doesn’t stop, his focus unyielding as if his salvation hinges on your complete and utter surrender. He brings his fingers to your clit, rubbing tight circles in rhythm with each thrust, forcing a cry from your lips. Your legs shake, only standing due to the weight of his body holding yours upright, nails pressing into the smooth wooden surface. 

Your eyes roll back as another orgasm crashes over you, his fingers unrelenting on your clit until you’re spent, trembling from the overwhelming pleasure. You’ve completely soaked him, creating a creamy ring of your cum on the base of his cock. 

When he finally slows, it’s not to let you catch your breath—it’s to adjust. He pulls out, but before you could whimper at the emptiness, his rough palms find your waist and with a swift motion, he turns you around so that your back presses against the wooden pulpit.

The sharp edge digs into your lower back, grounding you in this sinful reality, but you barely register it as Carlos pulls one of your legs up to hook around his waist. His cock slides back in without any resistance, your wetness and cum soaking your cunt down to your thighs. The new angle drives him deeper, impossibly so, and the stretch forces a gasp from your lips. His body presses against yours, pinning you between him and the unyielding wood, leaving no room for escape—not that you wanted to.

The rosary, still nestled in your ass, makes the cross swing wildly now with each thrust. The beads shift and press against your walls, a sensation so obscene and contradictory that it makes your head spin. The weight of it, the texture, the unrelenting pressure—it all blends into an overwhelming storm of pleasure and shame. Carlos notices the way you tense, the way your breath catches in your throat, and his lips curl into a knowing smirk.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice rough with exertion and tinged with something darker. “The weight of your sin. The way it clings to you, refuses to let go.”

His grip on your thigh tightens, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds you steady, surely causing visible marks to form as a present for tomorrow. His other hand moves with purpose, sliding up your body until it wraps firmly on your neck. His fingers tighten, a steady pressure that causes a sharp gasp to escape your lips as he slowly restricts your breathing. 

As the pressure builds inside you, it feels different this time—stronger, sharper, an unbearable intensity that has you teetering on the edge of something unrecognizable. Your palms fly to his hairy chest, desperate to push him away, to escape the overwhelming sensation. But Carlos is unrelenting.

“No,” he growls, his hand on your neck tightening just enough to make you still. His dark eyes bore into yours, his expression a mix of command and reverence. “You don’t run from this. Not from me. This is salvation, and you will take it.”

Your protests die on your lips as the pleasure crests, your body seizing with a force that leaves you lightheaded. The release rips through you, blinding and all-consuming, leaving you trembling in his grasp. He removes his grasp on your throat, causing the blood to rush back to your head, sharply inhaling, only making your head spin further. The intensity of it causes him to slip out, and you barely register the loss before you feel him again—his hand wrapped around his cock, slapping the tip of him against your swollen folds, forcing out more gushing cum.

Carlos watches intently as the evidence of your orgasm spills out, glistening and wet, streaming down your thighs. His gaze is dark, predatory, yet there’s a strange satisfaction there, a twisted pride in what he’s done to you. He hums low in his throat, a sound of approval, and leans in closer, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispers, “There we go. That’s what I wanted.”

As you tremble against him, he guides himself back into you, his movements frantic, as if he no longer cares if you’re walking the fine line of pleasure and pain. The stretch is almost unbearable, the sensitive ache from your last release making every thrust sharper, but your body betrays you, greedily pulling him in deeper, tighter, as though it can’t get enough of him.

Your cries spill out uncontrollably now, raw and guttural, filling the vast emptiness of the church as you inch closer to yet another orgasm. The echo of your sounds bounces off the stained glass and stone walls, growing louder with each thrust. 

“Be quiet,” he spat, “Do you want others to hear? Do you want them to walk in while you’re laid out like this, dripping sin onto holy ground?”

The words send a jolt of shame and excitement coursing through you, but you can’t stop the way your body reacts to him, your noises growing louder despite yourself. He stills for a moment, trailing his hand down to your ass. He pulls his hand away before sharply bringing it down, a loud crack sounding in the air, mingling with your moans. 

The sting hasn’t even begun to fade away when Carlos grasps onto the dangling holy cross. You feel the delicate beads shift inside before he tugs it out of you in one slow, deliberate motion. You’re clenching around his cock, begging for friction as he leaves your ass empty. 

Carlos doesn’t give you a moment to adjust. He grips your chin, forcing you to look at him, his dark eyes burning with something unholy, something wild. “Open your mouth,” he commands, his voice sharp and leaving no room for argument. When you do, he spits into it, the warm slickness landing on your tongue. “Good girl. Keep it there.” 

Without missing a beat, he slides the rosary into your mouth, pressing the beads against your tongue. “If you can’t stay quiet on your own, then this will do it for you,” he murmurs, his tone almost mocking. “You won’t make another sound. Not when the faithful will soon arrive for their morning prayers. Do you want them to see you like this? To see what a slut you are?”

The shame floods through you, heating your cheeks, but the way he looks at you—the dark desire in his gaze—only fans the fire inside you. He presses his palm across your lips, forcing your mouth shut at the same time he begins thrusting again. 

Clenching around him, your ass feels empty, aching with the absence of anything to fill it. He doesn’t leave it that way for long. His fingers slide over your thighs, coated in the wetness you’ve left for him, and he plunges two inside your hole without warning. You cry out, the sound muffled around the rosary in your mouth, your body arching as he works his fingers deep, curling them with practiced precision in time with his thrusts. 

“You’ll stay full,” he growls, his voice harsh and low, every word dripping with control. “No part of you will be left wanting. Do you understand me?” His fingers thrust in and out of you, stretching and scissoring, as his other hand remains on your mouth. 

You nod weakly, your vision blurring as he overwhelms your senses. The sound of your wetness as his cock moves in and out of you is obscene, the slick noises mixing with your muffled whimpers and his low grunts. Every movement feels like both punishment and salvation, a deliberate reminder that you are completely at his mercy.

“Good,” he breathes, leaning down to press his lips to the shell of your ear. “Now, be a good little whore and take everything I give you. We wouldn’t want to disturb the faithful, would we?”

Your eyes widen at his words, and you shake your head to the best of your abilities while restrained beneath his hand. His thrusts are deliberate and unrelenting, as though he’s punishing you for every transgression. His fingers slide in and out of your ass, a rhythm that feels both torturous and divine. The small, gilded cross hanging from his neck catches the faint light, swaying with every shift of his body. It dangles dangerously close to your lips, a reminder of the sanctity you’re defiling—and the punishment to resume on the path of purity he insists he’s granting.

Your body trembles, overwhelmed by the sensations he’s forcing out of you. Every orgasm has chipped away at your restraint, leaving you raw and exposed. This time, when you squirt, it’s with a desperate cry muffled against his palm. A fresh wave of pleasure surges through you, and your body reacts instinctively, wetness spilling onto his, leaving no doubt of your surrender.

His lips ghost across your temple, a false act of reverence. “Look at you now—so beautifully broken, so… clean.”

His pace quickens, his own restraint fraying as he chases his release. When he finally stills inside you, the warmth of him fills you completely, his cum spilling deep as if to claim you entirely. He exhales a low, satisfied groan, his head tilting back, exposing the strong column of his throat.

“This,” he says, his voice softer now, reverent almost, “is your purification. My cum, a baptism to rid you of every impurity.”

Your vision blurs, the room spinning as exhaustion pulls at your limbs, leaving you pliant, vulnerable. You barely register when he removes his hand from your mouth, slowly slipping the rosary out, but you inhale sharply, your chest rising with a desperate gasp. His lips find your jaw, their path deliberate and searing, branding your skin with whispered promises of redemption.

The faint glow of flickering candlelight mingles with the sun’s muted rays streaming through the stained glass windows. Colours dance across his face, painting him in hues of red and gold, as though divine light itself had anointed him. For a fleeting moment, he looks holy—an angel cloaked in shadow, his presence both damning and sanctifying.

He pulls out of your used, aching cunt, his cum spilling down your thighs. The sight is obscene, vulgar even, but Carlos’s gaze is steady, reverent, as if each drop is a testament to your purification.

“Thank you,” you whisper hoarsely, your voice trembling with exhaustion and something dangerously close to gratitude. “For cleansing me of my sins.”

His eyes narrow, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Oh, slut,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Before you can question him, he turns toward the wooden pulpit, his movements smooth, purposeful. Your heart pounds as he retrieves a small pocket knife. Your breath hitches, fear prickling at your skin as he flips it open, the metallic click reverberating like a warning, it’s blade gleaming wickedly in the light. 

“Father Carlos,” you whisper, your voice wavering. “Why… why do you have that?”

His breath fans across your face, warm and deliberate. “Religion,” he begins, his voice smooth and laden with a false reverence, “is not merely about worship. It’s about sacrifice. Surrender. It’s giving every piece of yourself to God. And here, now, you give it to me, as His vessel.” 

You shiver as his words sink into you, their weight unbearable yet irresistible. He speaks with the conviction of a preacher delivering salvation, and though you can’t grasp the truth within his claims, his unwavering gaze seems to dim the edges of your resistance.

Carlos lets the blade linger in the air for a moment before dragging it slowly down the bunched fabric of your dress, the ripping sound loud and jarring in the heavy silence of the church. The knife’s edge glides close to your skin but never touches, a taunting reminder of his control. The ruined fabric falls away, leaving you exposed beneath the warm, watchful gaze of flickering candles.

“You’re afraid,” he murmurs, cupping your chin with his free hand, forcing your gaze to meet his. “But don’t be. This is holy. This is right.”

Your lips tremble, a feeble protest forming in the back of your throat, but he’s already moving. He holds his palm out to you, his fingers steady and commanding. “Give me your hand,” he orders, and though every fiber of your being screams to pull away, you find yourself obeying. 

Slowly, you lift your trembling hand and place it in his. His fingers close around yours, warm and firm, grounding you even as your heart pounds in terror.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice laced with approval, as though you’ve passed a sacred test. He flips your hand over, palm facing upward, and trails the knife’s tip along the delicate lines etched into your skin. The touch is featherlight, more teasing than threatening, but the cold steel sends shivers racing up your spine.

You swallow hard, your throat dry. “What… what are you going to do?”

Carlos tilts his head, his expression serene, almost beatific. “Make you mine,” he says simply, as though the answer is self-evident. “For all your life, you will belong to me.” 

His words worm their way into your mind, pulling at the edges of your resistance. You don’t know the Bible well enough to challenge him, but something inside you weakens as his deep voice continues to promise that this is for your own good, that this sacrifice will lead you to the right path indefinitely. His faith, twisted as it is, seems unshakable, and you find yourself caught in its gravity.

The knife gleams, almost mockingly at your gullibility, as he continues to draw it lightly across your skin. You wince at the sting, but it’s nothing compared to the way his words penetrate deeper, whispering how this is the only way to be whole. He’s not just a man with a knife in his hand—he’s an answer, a guide. And in this moment, his words start to make sense.

His voice is almost reverent now as he finishes his sentence: “You will be mine, just as you are God’s. This is the final step.”

The blade cuts deeper, and you gasp, the warm blood flowing freely from the small wound. Your heart races, and there’s a part of you that wants to recoil, to protest. But Carlos’ grip on you tightens, unyielding. The tip of the knife is stained with your blood, and without a second thought, he licks it off, his tongue savoring the taste of your surrender. His eyes never leave yours, filled with a darkness that sends shivers down your spine. 

Carlos watches as the blood pools in your palm, crimson and warm, a stark contrast against the pale trembling of your fingers. His dark eyes gleam with something unspoken, something insidious, as though the sight of your sacrifice—your surrender—has unlocked a primal satisfaction deep within him. The knife clatters softly against the wooden pulpit as he sets it aside, the sound barely audible over the erratic rhythm of your breath.

You flinch as his fingers dip into the blood, warm and slick, and press into the fresh wound. The sharp sting makes you gasp, a soft, broken sound that escapes before you can stop it. His lips curl into a smile—soft, almost benevolent—as though your pain pleases him in a way he can barely contain.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, his voice low and rough, thick with satisfaction. There’s no concern in his tone, no true care for your answer. It’s a question meant to remind you that he is in control, that your pain is his to command.

You manage a shaky nod, unable to meet his gaze as he presses harder against the cut, eliciting another whimper from you.

“Good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “It’s supposed to hurt.”

Slowly, deliberately, he begins to move his finger, dragging it through the blood. You can feel the warmth of it spreading as he marks you, tracing the unmistakable shape of a cross over your chest. The gesture feels intimate in a way that leaves you unsteady, as though the very essence of you is being claimed, piece by piece, with every deliberate stroke of his finger.

You flinch as he presses his fingers firmly into your skin, sealing the symbol with a finality that makes your stomach twist. His hand lingers, the heat of his touch seeping into your skin like a brand.

“The cross,” he says, his voice reverent but laced with something far darker, “is the seal. The mark of what you are now—what you’ve given to me.”

Your chest tightens at his words, at the weight of the moment. You try to convince yourself that this is holy, that it’s right, but there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that whispers otherwise. Still, his words have a power over you that you can’t resist, a pull that drags you deeper into the illusion he’s weaving.

“Now,” he whispers, leaning in close, his lips brushing against your ear. You shudder at the warmth of his breath, at the faint taste of your blood still lingering on his tongue. “Now, you belong to me.”

The weight of his statement settles over you like a heavy shroud, suffocating and inescapable. Your body trembles, your mind reeling, but deep down, you know that it’s already too late. For all your hesitations, for all your doubts, you’ve given yourself to him—completely, irrevocably.

The first drop of blood hits the stone floor, the sound sharp and loud in the oppressive silence of the church. You watch as it pools at your feet, crimson against the gray stone, and a soft, involuntary whimper escapes your lips.

“Father,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, heavy with confusion and something dangerously close to desperation.

He coos at you, his tone almost soothing, but there’s a mockery in his eyes that makes your skin crawl. “Hush, nena,” he murmurs, his hand closing over yours once more. “Don’t cry. It won’t go to waste.”

With that, he brings your trembling hand closer to his mouth. You watch in horrified fascination as he lets a ball of spit fall onto your palm, the moisture stinging the cut as it mixes with the blood. Your breath hitches, the pain sharp and immediate, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, he flattens his tongue against the wound, licking and swallowing the metallic taste of your blood with deliberate slowness.

The intimacy of the act is unbearable, leaving you frozen and helpless as he continues, his tongue dragging over your palm as though savoring every drop. “Divine,” he mutters, his voice thick with satisfaction, “absolutely divine.”

The blood hasn’t stopped flowing, and as you feel the last remnants of your resistance begin to crumble, Carlos moves with purpose, his hands firm as he pushes you down onto your knees. 

“Now,” he says, his tone taking on a commanding edge, “pray to me as you would to the Lord.”

Your lips part in protest, but the words never come. He tilts your chin up, his gaze locking with yours, dark and unyielding. “I am the man of God,” he continues, his voice a low growl that reverberates through you. “I hold the key to your salvation. And you, my little slut, will prove your devotion.”

Behind him, the enormous wooden cross looms, its shadow stretching over him. The faint light from the candles dances around the edges of the symbol, giving it an almost celestial glow. It frames him perfectly, a mockery of holiness, as though he himself is the vessel of divinity. Standing tall and unshaken, he becomes something larger than life, something terrible and magnetic.

You, in contrast, are on your knees before him, stripped bare of your defenses, trembling as though the weight of his words alone could crush you. The image is unshakable: him towering like a god while you kneel as a humble supplicant, desperate and lost.

The air feels heavy, thick with the kind of silence that fills a church just before a hymn begins. The cross behind him seems to pulse, a reminder of the faith you thought you knew, now distorted by his presence. Your heart races, your mind screams that this is not worship, this is not holy—but the power in his voice, the weight of his authority, leaves no room for dissent.

Shakily, your trembling hands clasp together, fingers interlocking in a feeble attempt at prayer. You close your eyes, each breath shallow and uneven as you bow your head. The words that escape your lips are foreign, wrong—they are not for the Lord you once prayed to, but for him. For the man who now claims to hold the keys to your salvation, for the dark, twisted force that has wrapped itself around your soul.

Your blood trails in uneven rivulets down your arm, tracing your trembling skin. The sight of you is unholy—blasphemous—yet it is precisely how he wants you: on your knees before him, utterly undone. Bare, vulnerable, tears streaking your cheeks, and a cross smeared across your chest in the crimson hue of your own sacrifice. The blood dripping from your palm stains the floor in dark, damning blotches, marking the sacred space as profane.

His cum still leaks from your pussy, a viscous reminder of the way he’s claimed you, defiled you. You are ruined, completely and utterly wrecked, and even then, it is not enough for him.

Carlos’ smile is slow, deliberate, and so full of satisfaction that it feels like a blade sinking into you. He steps closer, his presence looming, his shadow cast by the cross falling over your kneeling form. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent, dripping with approval as though your surrender is a sacred offering. “Worship me.”

His words settle over you like a benediction and a curse, heavy with false sanctity. In this moment, he has made himself your god, a figure of twisted devotion and unrelenting control. And though a small, flickering part of you screams to break free, it is drowned out by the overwhelming need to obey.

Carlos eyes rake over you, dark and hungry, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile that borders on cruel. His satisfaction is palpable, a weight in the air that presses down on you as you try to steady your breath, though the tears keep coming. The sting of the cut on your palm hasn’t dulled, each pulse of pain grounding you in this twisted reality you’ve surrendered to.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with mockery and delight. His fingers find your wrist. The grip is firm, possessive, and you shudder as he lifts your bleeding hand into the space between you. The blood flows freely, trickling in thin lines down your fingers. He watches it as though transfixed, his thumb brushing over your palm in a way that makes you wince.

“You’ve given so much to me,” he says, his tone reverent, though his gaze holds none of the holiness his words suggest. “But you’re not done yet.”

He guides your hand toward him, the motion slow and deliberate, as though he’s savouring every second of your hesitation, your trembling compliance. His cock is hard and waiting, and your stomach churns as your bloody hand is wrapped around it. The warmth of him, the slickness of your blood spreading across his skin, makes your breath hitch in your throat.

“Do what you know best, nena,” he commands, his voice low and rough, the kind of tone that leaves no room for defiance.

Your fingers tremble as you begin to move, the pain from your cut sharp with every motion. The blood coats him in uneven streaks, glistening and crimson, each stroke smearing more of your sacrifice onto him. The metallic scent of it fills the space between you, heavy and suffocating, and yet, you find yourself lost in the way he watches you. His eyes are half-lidded, the satisfaction in his expression undeniable, and for reasons you can’t comprehend, it’s all you need to keep going.

“You’re such a slut for me…what if someone walked in right now? You wouldn’t stop worshipping me, would you?” he asks, his voice dipping lower, rougher

The words send a chill down your spine, your cheeks flushing with shame and something darker, something you’re too broken to name. You can’t meet his gaze, but you feel it boring into you, devouring you. The thought of a devotee seeing you like this—wrecked, desperate, ruined—makes your stomach twist, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

“No,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, and his smile widens, wicked and approving.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “You’re too good for me, too devoted. You’d stay here, on your knees, with your blood on my cock and tears on your face, just like this. Wouldn’t you?”

You nod, your movements becoming steadier despite the pain. Each pained motion of your hand draws a groan from him, low and guttural, his head tipping back in a display of raw, unrestrained pleasure. The sound sends a shiver down your spine, and despite the ache in your wrist and the sting in your palm, you keep going, desperate to hear more, desperate to see more of the satisfaction that’s written across his face.

When he finally cums, it’s with a sharp exhale, his hand snapping to your wrist to still your movements. You barely have time to register what’s happening before the warmth of it splashes across your face and your tits. The sticky warmth of it mingles with the blood smeared across your skin, soaking into the cross he’d drawn on you. The lines blur, ruinous and obscene.

Carlos’ chest heaves as he comes down from his high, his expression softening into something almost tender, though the darkness in his eyes remains. He reaches out, his thumb tracing the smeared mess on your chest. His touch is slow, deliberate, as he presses the mixture of blood and his cum deeper into your skin, ruining the cross entirely.

“There,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “Now you’re perfect.”

He lifts his thumb, coated in the remnants of the act, and brings it to your lips. His gaze pins you in place, unrelenting, and you know what he wants without him having to say it. You hesitate, your breath catching in your throat, but his thumb brushes against your lips, insistent.

“Clean it,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

Your lips part slowly, and he presses his thumb into your mouth. The taste is bitter, metallic, and foreign, but you don’t pull away. You can’t. His eyes remain fixed on you, watching every movement of your tongue as you obey, and the weight of his approval is suffocating, all-consuming.

When he finally pulls his thumb away, his smile returns, dark and knowing. “You’ll be back,” he says, his voice soft but certain. “You can’t stay away, can you? From sinning. From me.”

You feel the words settle deep within you, a truth you can’t deny, no matter how much you want to. The part of you that knows this is wrong, that screams this isn’t devotion or love, is drowned out by the part of you that craves his approval, his praise, his touch.

“But that’s okay,” he continues, his thumb brushing against your jaw. “Because I’ll always be here to help you. To guide you. To remind you of who you belong to.”

You manage a weak smile, exhaustion weighing heavy on your limbs. You’re too far gone, too manipulated, too consumed by him to see the depth of his control. Every word he speaks feels like scripture, every command like a divine decree, and you find yourself nodding, willing to follow him wherever he leads, like his most devoted servant. 

In this moment, you are his, wholly and irrevocably. As the tears streak your face, as the blood dries on your skin, you realize you can’t regret it. You don’t want to. You’ve given yourself to him, and there’s no turning back.

[chrollogy]

THE COST OF DEVOTION | chrollo lucilfer x f!reader

synopsis: When Chrollo Lucilfer is assigned to go undercover, and kill a billionaire’s daughter, he finds himself breaking the most sacred rule of the underworld—that there should be no feelings involved. The consequences of his actions backs Chrollo into a corner where he has to choose between fulfilling the job or following his heart at a risky price.

18+ MDNI; undercover assassin!chrollo, bodyguard!chrollo, billionaire’s daughter!reader, loosely follows some canon events (chrollo’s past), reader is referred to as ‘miss’, DARK CONTENT, DARK ROMANCE, heavy angst, hurt/no comfort (no happy ending), explicit smut, SLOW BURN, major character death, touches on arranged marriage, cheating, killing, money laundering, human trafficking, kidnapping, sacrilege & blood (briefly), gun use, chrollo struggles with feelings, chrollo has scars, OCs mentioned, not beta read.

word count: 18.6k

notes: divider: cafekitsune. ITS HERE !! thank u to @ljubimaya & @avatarofstars for supporting me throughout the writing process and for being such amazing friends :3 this is different from my usual fics + super self indulgent so enjoy. feedbacks & thoughts are much appreciated ><

Loud music, enough to make one’s chest thump, annoying bright strobe lights, and the sea of intoxicated bodies that passionately danced with one another without a care in the world, Chrollo wanted out. He observed the luxury club with a subtle scowl, gaze sharp enough to tear one’s throat as he watched the spoiled, and rich carelessly sway to the beat of the music—you were one of them.

A privileged affluent businessman’s daughter who didn’t know how to handle one’s wealth so she resorts to spending nights swiping her card for overpriced drinks, and whatever expensive shit the club had to offer.

Meanwhile, the lower class had to work themselves to near death to be able to provide for their families. One, two, three jobs just to make ends meet—just to pay rent, just to bring food to the table even if it meant working for the underworld.

That was where Chrollo fell into the spectrum; fortunate enough to live but unfortunate enough to live a cruel life in an equally cruel world. He grew up learning how to steal, fight, and kill while you grew up having maids cook every meal, a solid roof over your head, and generational wealth to spend.

It made Chrollo sick to his stomach how wealthy kids like you could just take, take, and take yet had the audacity to complain about their lives as if society didn’t favour them at all. He could go on, and on about this whole ordeal but at the end of the day, no one would even bat an eye, plus, he had a job to do—technically, two jobs.

At the heart of the sweaty, inebriated club, you stood there beneath the neon strobe lights, it bounced off the strands of your hair like a colourful aura mirroring your careless joy. Body perfectly swaying to the beat of the music, a half-full glass of a sweet cocktail, and a blissful expression on your face; maybe if the circumstances were different Chrollo would have smiled at your blithe spirit but it wasn’t.

Your eyes—a drunken haze—found his own to which you immediately acknowledged with a cheery wave of your free hand.

It only took a split second for Chrollo to mask the obvious scowl on his face with a sickly saccharine smile—one that made his gut twist with disgust—he returned the gesture with a dip of his chin paired with raising a glass of water in the air as if to make a toast. Chrollo’s expression fell the minute you turned away, unceremoniously slouching back into the leathered booth you’ve booked beforehand, he let out a deep sigh, and rubbed at his temples.

Two weeks

It had only been two weeks since your father—Chrollo’s employer—hired him as your personal bodyguard, and as expected, extensive pre-screening was a must before one could securely acquire said role which Chrollo found extremely bothersome despite its lack of difficulty. Though this wasn’t a rare occurrence, it only made sense for the rich to hire a skilled bodyguard to protect oneself from unknown dangers.

Obviously, he didn’t apply to be your personal bodyguard for sincere reasons—far from it, actually; Chrollo was here for a task that would land him his heftiest pay yet, even just thinking about made his head spin with immeasurable happiness already but Chrollo figured he’d bask in filthy money after completing the job. He always did.

If anything, this should be a walk in the park for him considering there was nothing more satisfying than seeing the demise of a wealthy brat. But for now, he’d take it slow, and earn your trust ‘til the right time comes; where his mask falls, and true motives come to light.

Where the last thing the assassin would receive from you was a look of pure horror much like his previous targets. Would you beg for him to spare your life like others did? Or would you sit in complete shock, words lodged deep inside your throat?

These thoughts immediately dissipated at the call of his name; a few feet away, you stumbled your way towards the booth, the highball glass tucked in your hand was now empty with only half melted ice cubes remaining. Chrollo stood up, wrapping a firm arm around your back, helping you regain balance before guiding you to the leathered seat, the fabric cool against your feverish skin.

“Should I call the chauffeur, miss?” Chrollo feigned worry. His stature loomed over your sitting figure, back lit with red neon strobe lights, giving him a deep crimson glow. You stared at him longer than necessary before responding with a small nod; the wild atmosphere, paired with your spinning vision seemed like a good enough hint to head home, and retire for the night.

At your agreement, Chrollo let out a big mental sigh of relief—he may be an adept assassin but sitting idly for hours while watching his asset drink the night away exhausted his patience more than one could imagine.

The ride back to the estate was all a drunken haze for you, though, you recalled a brief exchange of words between Chrollo, and your chauffeur as the latter helped you inside the vehicle before, they seemed to get along swimmingly despite the former only being a new addition to your personal staff. Albeit, that description might be a bit too generous, maybe it was just your drunk self thinking but nonetheless, you appreciated the courteous manner between the two. 

“Lukas?”

You called out to the chauffeur, he donned a formal attire just like Chrollo—a black tailored suit—he was an old-timer who had been your father’s previous chauffeur before you were born. It was safe to say you’ve learned a lot from him growing up, and maybe even served more as a father figure than your biological one.

“Yes, miss?” Lukas glanced briefly at the rear-view mirror. “Chrollo . . He’s nice, isn’t he?”

The older man could only chuckle in response, letting your words soak into the darkness of the vehicle before nodding, “He’s a promising young lad.” He glanced at the mirror once again, this time letting his gaze linger on you, headlights from the vehicle Chrollo drove behind poured into the backseat, and illuminated your face; Lukas didn’t know if it was due to your drunken state or from pure sincerity but the subtle smile on your face somewhat warmed his heart.

He took a mental note that you seemed to be quite fond of your new bodyguard.

After safely reaching the estate, and escorting you inside, Chrollo made his way to the staff house. Walking past the wooden double doors, he was stopped in his tracks by a familiar voice, “Off to bed, Chrollo?” It was Lukas, your chauffeur; he sat on one of the crimson couches, one hand nursing a cup of hot coffee.

Chrollo stared at the old man’s face behind the wisps of steam from the drink, the latter donned a rather pleased look on his face, he thought nothing of it, and nodded, “And yourself?”

Lukas returned the nod, “A little later for me.”

Silence occupied the living room for a moment. Chrollo could’ve left the conversation at that but instead, he stood there, feet rooted on the wooden floor, sensing that Lukas had more to say but was debating on it.

Seeing as he didn’t want to waste any more time, Chrollo spoke up “Is there something else you’d like to say?” His voice cut through the quiet atmosphere, he had now angled his body towards the older man. Lukas set the mug atop the coffee table before giving him his full attention, “The young miss seems to have taken a liking to you.”

Chrollo didn’t know how to react to that—even if he did, he wouldn’t have let on.

At his silence, Lukas invited himself to speak further, “At times, she can be quite a handful . . but hearing her speak positively of you warms my heart. What I’m trying to say is, please take good care of the young miss, it means a lot for her to say such things about you.”

Trust? Good.

Chrollo’s rosy lips stretched into a genuine smile, “I will. Thank you.” And with that, he excused himself before heading to his room, the soles of his obsidian shoes produced no noise with each step. He wasn’t happy because you seemed to like him, no, Chrollo was happy because you trusted him so easily—probably the biggest mistake you’ve made.

Though, nothing would really change if you didn’t trust him, either way, you’d meet your demise no matter what.

As the new week rolled around, it was no surprise that Chrollo had already memorised your weekly routine—without a doubt, you spent days in the office but he had noted other destinations you frequented.

On Mondays, you visited a cosy flower boutique in the morning, owned by a lovely old florist who’s cheeks were as pink as the camellias neatly displayed on the counter next to her. You only bought one type of flower—white chrysanthemums, a dozen, to be exact; they were carefully wrapped in a simple brown paper, and topped off with an ivory satin ribbon.

On the way back to the car, Chrollo wondered why you chose these specific flowers, and upon asking, you simply replied with:

‘White chrysanthemums symbolise devoted love, and loyalty—something we need more of in this world, don’t you think?’ 

How ironic. He had no knowledge about flowers but he always thought white chrysanthemums meant death, specifically a symbol of mourning, and grief—a flower fit for one’s grave yet you displayed them in a vase to bring life into your room.

If you were being completely honest, chrysanthemums didn’t hold any significance in your life; one day you decided to visit the flower boutique run by the old lady, and she had told you all about the flower. Oddly enough, you started to grow fond of it.

Chrysanthemums were awfully common in his hometown—Meteor City—and not in a good way; inhabited by untraceable outcasts, it was the perfect hunting ground for illegal activities such as human trafficking, as well as an endless source of disposable hitmen, and assassins like Chrollo himself.

Due to mass abductions, and murders of the people, chrysanthemums were laid out at the church for each victim; he could clearly remember walking down the aisle, a smell so sweet, and minty filled the thick atmosphere. For an aroma so pleasant, who would’ve thought it was associated with such sorrow?

On Tuesdays, you attended your private pilates lesson at 8 AM on the dot which lasted a little under an hour. As usual, Chrollo stayed idly by the entrance of the studio, just at the foyer as the muffled voice of your instructor seeped from under the closed door; this was usually paired with brunch at a local café after, as per your words, ‘a much needed caffeine break’ whatever that meant. He couldn’t care less, he was too busy assessing the layout of the building for an escape route, and potential threats as though he wasn’t the biggest threat here.

The window seat offered a clear view of the street outside, vehicles driving by, people in their own little world as they headed to their destination; not to mention the ample morning sunlight that poured in, allowing you to study Chrollo’s reflection from the glass.

He stood behind you with his back facing the window, scanning the entire café; you watched as his head slowly moved from left to right, then right to left, giving you a peek of his side profile. Your eyes traced every dip, and curve of Chrollo’s face, from the slope of his nose, all the way to the sharpness of his jawline. It was odd how this man—who barely talked to you unless necessary—had piqued your interest. In what way? That was something you were still trying to figure out.

How Chrollo carried himself with silent confidence stood out from the rest of your security team; sure, he was vigilant of his surroundings but each action he displayed was calculated, and clean—too clean. You’ve also noticed how his steps were much lighter than everyone else’s, it made almost no sound as though he was actively stalking a prey. And for a brief moment, you wondered who that prey was.

On Wednesdays, you were present at your father’s company for the whole day. Though, the scowl on your face clearly screamed your opposition; it wasn’t a secret to anyone how uninterested you were in all the business talk—in fact, if anyone were to ask about it, you could probably go on, and on about how boring, and tedious it was, conversely, if asked what you wanted to do in life, you’d probably have a hard time answering.

Alas, as the sole heir, the company automatically fell to your hands whether you liked it or not. Wednesdays were always a drag, having to make acquaintances with investors, and show face during monotonous meetings that rarely concerned you—you’d rather spend time elsewhere.

On Thursdays, you were also at the company but for a different reason. Chrollo only knew you reported straight to your father’s office, and he was often ordered to wait at the ground floor. The meeting with your father always took approximately two hours, and each time, you came out looking like someone had pressed all your buttons.

Though today, for the sake of Chrollo’s own selfish curiosity, seeing as the hallway was deserted, he lingered outside the office for a bit but all he really got was pure silence—either you, and your father conversed in a hushed voice or the walls were soundproof. Whatever the case was, Chrollo didn’t bother sticking around but he was quickly stopped in his tracks as voices from inside were suddenly raised—yours first, followed by your father.

Looking back at the office door, Chrollo heard you shout in opposition, it seemed like the conversation had somewhat turned into a heated argument. Nonetheless, he continued down the hallway—it was none of Chrollo’s business, after all.

“No! I’ve already told you, I’m not doing that!” Loud voice sliced through the growing tension inside the room. The older male—who sat behind his desk—leaned back into the seat, leather groaning beneath his weight as he rubbed his temples at your stubbornness, clearly displeased with how much you were blowing everything out of proportion. You stayed rooted in your spot, just standing a metre away from your father.

“Look, darling, I’ve already agreed—” “Agreed without my consent.” Raising your hands in defeat, you paced around the room, each heavy step muffled by the crimson carpet beneath your soles. “I’m the one getting married to someone I haven’t met! I never even wanted to be in an arranged marriage just because of what—a stupid business partnership?!”

This was the first time you’ve raised your voice at your father; all the years under his care, and guidance, you gladly accepted what was left upon your hands. Continuing the legacy of your father’s company? Sure, no problem, you could deal the burden on your shoulders but marrying a complete stranger?

That was more than crossing a mere boundary.

Your father was a skilled business man, and you never doubted that once—he was excellent at negotiating, and closing deals so for him to stoop as low as agreeing with an arranged marriage for the sake of his company, it baffled you, a lot. What more could he possibly want?

“I’m done with this conversation.”

Letting out a breath you’ve been holding, you turned around, and headed for the door but before reaching the silver handle, your father spoke up from behind, “Next week. You’re attending the corporate event with Euan. That’s final.” All you could do was nod.

Chrollo spotted your rather distressed figure exit the elevator, and head for the car park, not so much sparing a glance as you passed him; nonetheless, he quietly trailed you, steely gaze observing your figure up, and down—shoulders tight, and fists clenched at your side.

You felt defeated.

The thought of spending the rest of your life with a man you didn’t genuinely love, was that really your so-called future? A bond made for the sole purpose of expanding business?

Stepping into the underground car park, you stopped in your tracks, the automatic glass door silently humming as it closed behind you. Naturally, Chrollo did the same but didn’t dare speak up. Click clack. Two clicks from the soles of your shoes as you turned to face your bodyguard with a deflated expression, he could only raise a brow in surprise before you sat on your haunches, and buried your face inside the hearts of your palms.

Oh.

One, two, three seconds—it took Chrollo exactly three seconds to register the sight before him, and he didn’t know what to do; awkwardness settled in the air between the two of you as you sobbed into your hands. He moved closer—taking a few cautious steps as though he walked on eggshells—and squatted down to your level, “Miss?” He called out, his dulcet voice drowned by your soft whimpers, every muscle in Chrollo’s body was stiff, movements unsure.

What was he supposed to do? Reach out, and stroke your hair? Pull you close against his chest? Chrollo was more than sure that doing so was completely unprofessional on his end. So, he was reduced to sitting next to you, silently watching your shoulders shake with each muffled sob until you finally decided to lift your head, “I apologise for acting this way. I’m certain you probably don’t care but—”

Correct. Chrollo did not care.

“My father has been pushing me in an arranged marriage. I kept saying ‘no’ until he went behind my back, and agreed to it. I found out today and I just—I lost it. The benefits of what comes after marriage are endless for the company; more investors, more money, more security but is that really worth sacrificing my shot at finding the one I truly love?”

Saying the words aloud made it sound so silly. Finding your one true love, how naïve, that only happened in children’s fairy tales.

Upon learning the reason for your upset, Chrollo could only nod, he wasn’t the type to console anyone, let alone his employer’s daughter. The last time he could remember doing so was almost a decade, and a half ago during the time his dear friend—Sarasa—went missing.

It was a rainy day in Meteor City, Chrollo remembered hugging his friends tightly, reassuring them that everything was going to be alright even though uncertainty gnawed at his skin. 

He was innocent, and didn’t know better then.

But the incident with Sarasa was what fuelled his pure hatred for the wealthy. Chrollo was only a kid, full of limitless joy, and hope despite growing up in poverty. It was during the height of abductions in Meteor City, and that was when he learned that not even his friends were immune from illegal activities after seeing it with his own eyes.

It was broad daylight, and Sarasa had been forced into a car by two large men—as if one wasn’t enough to take a helpless little girl. The worst part was, Chrollo could only stand, and watch as his friend got taken away with nothing but helpless tears in his eyes, and a blazing anger that burned a thousand suns.

He could still recall the way his nails dug into the hearts of his palms, the temporary pain it felt. The incident haunted his coming days, hearing Sarasa’s screams at night, and how she begged for the men to spare her life.

Chrollo overheard from the Elders that the ones behind illegal abductions were the wealthy, and that night, he made a promise to avenge Sarasa—even if it meant taking lives. It was clear the rich were parasites of the world, greedy for money, and power, leaving none behind for the unfortunate. 

Chrollo couldn’t bring himself to understand your situation, and emotions—he didn’t have to but some odd part made him want to.

From Fridays to Sundays, you usually spent the time out with friends but as the days came, you remained cooped up inside your room, and only came out unless necessary. The thought of isolating yourself somewhat ate away at Chrollo, despite not being able to fully grasp your situation, he figured it must have been a breaking point for you, and deep down, for some weird reason, he was worried.

This was the first time you’ve shown him an emotion other than happiness—which he presumed was most likely out of professionalism—so seeing your distressed state had him rather curious.

Stationed just outside the doors to your room, Chrollo couldn’t do anything to quench the sparked interest inside him—guarding the entrance of your room was all there was to do which ended up with him drowning in his thoughts while standing idly. Even though Chrollo didn’t understand your sentiment, he knew no one should marry a stranger for the sake of business.

Though, Chrollo didn’t have much time to ponder about your situation as his replacement came walking up the stairs meaning it was the end of his shift for the day. He entertained a brief exchange with his co-worker before heading out.

Walking down the stone path that led to the deserted flower garden, Chrollo dug into the inside pocket of his blazer, and took out a burner phone. As the assassin dialled a number, he was greeted with a view of endless greenery decorated with bright hues from a variety of flowers; the floral aroma wrapped around his body like a fluffy blanket. Somehow, the sweet scent reminded Chrollo of you.

The cheap phone rang once, twice ‘til a familiar voice spilled through its speakers, “I’m guessing you’re here to update me?” The male on the other side of the call questioned. Chrollo agreed, and the line went silent, urging him to give the details.

As he gave a thorough update, Chrollo mindlessly walked down the stone path, various colours making its way to his line of vision. Though, a particular flower caught his eye—a sea of yellow as bright as the morning rays decorated several bushes on the ground. While speaking into the phone, Chrollo squatted down to its level, and examined the delicate flower, Bird’s foot trefoil, the small ivory signage before it read.

Two months, that was the amount of time given to complete the job. It was reasonable enough with the amount of security you were surrounded with, and even though Chrollo was the only bodyguard you took whenever you left the house, Lukas remained by your side as well—he made sure not to underestimate the old timer.

Chrollo had never heard of this man before but from what he knew, he seemed to be about the same age. Why the man was seeking out revenge by targeting your life was also something that remained a mystery—after all, Chrollo was only there to kill, details weren’t necessary when it came to an assassin.

“‘M not gonna tell you how to do your job but remember, time is ticking, and I’m spending a whole lot of money on this, yeah?”

Voicing his agreement before ending the call, he took one last look at the flower, and stood up, heading for the staff house.

It was about time Chrollo hunted for his prey.

With the new week, everyone prepared for the corporate event in a few hours—even Chrollo himself, as well as the rest of the security team was busy scouting the venue, and looking for any potential threats around, and inside the building.

Tonight, he donned a sleek, all black look which was slightly different from the usual white button down, and black suit he wore.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, employees, and important investors began pouring in the building; the inside boasted a formal theme with a lavish teardrop crystal chandelier that mimicked the shine of a thousand diamonds, round tables were draped in ivory cloths which housed a bunch of butterfly pea flowers encased in sleek ceramic vases.

Silence was replaced with melodic laughter, and casual conversations between acquaintances, and co-workers as the vast room was slowly filled with more people.

Having arrived at the venue earlier, Chrollo stood by the entrance, waiting for your arrival. As the familiar vehicle rolled around, Lukas exited the vehicle, and opened the rear passenger door.

Expecting you to come out of the vehicle, Chrollo was caught slightly off-guard when a stranger clad in a navy blue tuxedo did so instead—he donned obsidian strands that carefully framed his handsome face, and piercing honeyed eyes that was sure to make any woman swoon.

The assassin watched as he turned to face the vehicle, and held out a hand to you. Taking up on the polite offer, you held his hand, and gracefully stepped out of the vehicle. And there you were, in all your serene beauty, skin glowing beneath the warm streetlights that made Chrollo inhale a sharp breath for some odd reason.

“Thank you, Euan.” You gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Euan? Chrollo thought.

With how he lovingly kissed the back of your hand, and from the way you forced a smile, it wasn’t hard to piece together that this was the man you were forced to marry. Somehow, Chrollo felt a tinge of annoyance spark within the depths of his chest—maybe because he was aware of the whole arranged marriage situation or maybe because he was yet in the presence of another stuck up, pompous spoiled person. 

Euan interlaced his fingers with yours before heading towards the entrance, Chrollo didn’t miss the way the diamond ring on your finger twinkled like stars in the night sky. Surprisingly, Euan acknowledged Chrollo with a dip of his chin; you mirrored your date’s action, and only then did the assassin respond in the same way.

The event was boring as one would have expected, your father—the CEO—mostly talked about the company’s milestones up on the podium, he held a champagne flute in one hand filled with golden liquid while entertaining the room with uneventful accomplishments. Though, what you didn’t expect tonight was for your father to openly reveal your arranged marriage with Euan in front of your subordinates, and investors,

“It’s my pleasure to announce that the COO of D&J—my daughter—is soon to be wed with Mr. Euan Heston from Heston Enterprises.”

As endless applause, and supportive smiles filled the venue, you sat frozen on your seat, unable to muster even the tiniest smile. From the corner of your vision, you could see Euan bashfully nodding his head, and shaking hands with those in neighbouring tables as they congratulated him. You stared at your father in complete disdain which only prompted a forced smile from him.

Unbelievable.

A shaky breath escaped your lips before swallowing the raging emotions, pushing them down, down, down to the depths of your core, and as though a switch inside you was flipped, a smile stretched across your face, throwing out thank you’s to those who offered their support.

With the end of the CEO’s speech, and certain formalities, all that’s left was to mix, and mingle with everyone else which—thankfully—Euan did while you quietly sneaked away to the open bar. Although, visibly drowning yourself in more champagne only invited more guests to come, and gush about the weighted ring on your finger, not to mention how openly they adored Euan.

Hearing such high praise thrown his way, you caught yourself staring at your soon-to-be husband; you watched as he gracefully waltzed from table to table, engaging in polite conversations with not only the important people in the room but also with your subordinates.

Euan was well-mannered, kind, and respectful—he was everything your father wanted as your husband but he wasn’t made for you, and deep down, you knew that.

From the corner of the room, Chrollo watched it all unfold. From the way you stiffened beneath everyone’s stares as your father revealed the marriage, all the way to your gaze finding Euan amongst the crowd. He felt weird.

Albeit subtle, Chrollo sensed it was there—as though a foreign seed had been planted in his chest waiting for it to grow, and destroy him from inside out. Whether it produced the fruit of anger, revenge or some other emotion in the dictionary, he couldn’t tell, all he knew was it took root inside his heart.

As Chrollo got lost in his thoughts for a bit, he was greeted with an empty barstool that was previously occupied by you; he scanned the vast room, stone cold eyes darting from left to right, and right to left trying to catch a glimpse of your familiar figure.

Slight panic didn’t settle in until Chrollo realised that you were nowhere to be seen—the feeling began to gnaw at his very bones as the attempts of finding your whereabouts led to a dead end, he even went as far as asking a woman standing just outside the bathroom if she’s seen you walk in but only shook her head.

Wide, panicked steps, Chrollo unceremoniously crossed the room in search of you while almost bumping into several guests in a nervous haze; he muttered out whispered apologies, gaze remaining ahead. His heart thumped loudly against his ears, serving as a mere distraction to throw off his already breaking composure.

God, your father would absolutely kill him if he were to find out that he’d lost sight of you.

But Chrollo wasn’t scared of that, not even an ounce of fear in his body at the thought of your father’s wrath, instead, he worried for your safety; the more minutes passed without a trace of you, the more frustration consumed every fibre of him.

The only option left was to check the balcony.

With a bated breath, he opened the sliding door, a gentle, cool breeze of the night greeted him like a welcome hug. His gaze scanned the open area which—thankfully—landed on your familiar figure, you stood there, leaning against the metal railing while looking up at the obsidian skies.

Relief briefly washed over Chrollo as he let out a sigh but this feeling was soon replaced with red, hot anger.

He stalked over to where you stood, each step heavy with annoyance, “Where have you been? I was looking all over for you! Don’t run off like that.”

The ever calm, and collected bodyguard coming for your neck with such ferocity caught you off guard, not to mention the obvious bite in his tone. With furrowed brows, you turned to face Chrollo, a look of disbelief painted on your face. The audacity of this man. Who the hell was he to boss you around as though you were his subordinate?

“That’s ‘miss’ for you—” You crossed your arms, head slightly tilted upwards as you looked down at him from your nose.

“And relax, Chrollo. I’m not harmed. I don’t see what the fuss is about.” You were absolutely right, and Chrollo hated that you were because he didn’t know where else to channel his anger, if anything, your words doused the flame inside his chest with gasoline, allowing it to expand, and burn an azure fire.

Despite his better judgement, Chrollo let it consume him, “Relax? I’m your bodyguard, it’s my duty to keep you safe, and out of danger! What if something happens to you, and I’m not around, hm?”

Chrollo felt the foreign seed inside his chest grow into uncertainty—an odd feeling he’s never felt before. Speaking out like this, and losing his cool over a situation was out of character for him but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to stop, as though words willingly flew out of his throat, and out into the open.

“Exactly, you’re only a bodyguard. You have no right to act this way towards me. Have you forgotten I’m not your equal?” You retorted, dishing out the same amount of ferocity he had given you.

Initially, you were going to let the whole thing slide, it was understandable where Chrollo was coming from—he was only doing his job—but it pissed you off seeing as how he had the audacity to act like that.

You looked up at the taller man, gaze not backing down from his steely ones; it took him a couple of seconds to hold your stare before breaking it, and looking off to the dark horizon. Though, you swore you saw his eyes subtly dip down for a split second before doing so—you weren’t too sure, maybe it was the darkness playing tricks.

You were right. Chrollo was only a bodyguard, so did he cross the line? The unclear answer made him all the more furious but for now, he’d have to settle for the explanation that he’s your bodyguard, and he has the right to worry about your safety. Even if Chrollo himself didn’t entirely believe this reason.

“You’re right. I apologise for crossing any boundaries, miss.”

Chrollo stationed himself near the sliding door, offering you space to enjoy the quiet night in peace. Now, you felt kind of bad for raising your voice at him when he clearly showed nothing but concern; you chalked it up to the stress your father weighed upon you tonight—the decision to tell everyone about the marriage, Euan being your date for tonight, the engagement ring that wrapped around your finger.

It was clear that Chrollo was still bothered about the whole thing, you could see it from the way his jaw tightened, and the subtle crease between his brows. Whatever. You’ll deal with it later.

A petty argument. That was it. But why did it have Chrollo all worked up? Why was he extremely bothered about it? Hell, where was that useless fiancé of yours, and why wasn’t he looking after you? Questions swirled in his mind, chaotic, and uncertain—now, Chrollo was really wondering why he was acting this way. In his twenty-six years of living, never had he felt this feeling before, it stemmed from his chest, blooming across his body, and consuming him in an unpleasant, foreign way.

The feeling stayed rooted inside even until reaching the estate where he stood guarding the door to your room.

Chrollo rubbed his forefinger, and thumb together while staring at the marbled tiles beneath his feet, it was past midnight now, and the only sound heard was the thumping of his own heart—the rhythmic beat that somewhat got louder with each passing minute.

He was soon reeled back into reality at the sound of the door opening behind him. Stepping out of your room, Chrollo watched as the darkness unclasped your body from its confines; he quickly averted his gaze at your vulnerable state—clad in a flimsy ivory nightgown that stopped just below the knees with satin ribbon straps comfortably sitting on your shoulders. He felt it was rather inappropriate seeing you in such an attire.

“Ahem. Anything you need, miss?” Chrollo coughed into his fist, staring at the darkness behind you instead of holding the gaze thrown his way.

Letting out a sigh, you replied, “I think I need to clear my head a bit . . Care to join me for a night drive? That way you’ll know my whereabouts.” The end of your sentence had a tinge of bitterness laced with it but Chrollo shrugged it off, it’d be no use trying to pick up where the two of you left off earlier.

“I take it as a yes, then? Meet me at the garage.” With that, you walked down the stairs, the thin fabric of your nightgown swaying with each step taken.

Chrollo quickly headed to the staff house to grab the keys to his assigned vehicle. Making his way to the door, he immediately stopped in his tracks as a sudden idea popped into mind—the gun hidden beneath his pillows.

Chrollo stared at his bed before swiftly lifting the ivory pillow, revealing a pistol given to him upon acquiring the bodyguard role. Without a word, he tucked it inside the holster beneath the obsidian blazer he donned, and walked out of the bedroom, heading for the garage.

Disappearing into the night, an odd feeling engulfed Chrollo—he wondered whether the gun on his hip portrayed him as your bodyguard or as your assassin.

Something he has never thought about before because it had always been the latter, regardless of the situation. Nonetheless, the weapon felt awfully heavy hanging onto him—as though it was a great burden that took an even greater effort to get rid of.

The drive was awkward, and there was no set destination; the only instruction you gave Chrollo was to keep driving, and he did, without questions asked. The only sound that filled the vehicle was the low humming of the engine which lulled you further into your thoughts, warm streetlights would illuminate the inside which allowed Chrollo to sneak brief glances at you through the rearview mirror. He didn’t want to pry but it was clear you were overwhelmed with a lot of things.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology caught Chrollo off guard, stone cold gaze looking through the mirror to meet your own for a split second. “Miss?” He furrowed his brows. “For earlier. I said some harsh words as well, and you were only doing your job. So, I apologise.” Now, it was your turn to steal glances through the rearview mirror. Chrollo’s expression remained unchanged—most likely trying to find an appropriate answer. 

He shook his head, fully aware you peered at him through the mirror, “It’s no big deal . . It wasn’t my place to raise my voice. As you said earlier, I’m just a bodyguard.” Chrollo’s eyes remained on the road ahead, enveloped by the night, he didn’t know why it suddenly became hard to glance through the mirror—maybe it was the unmistakable knowledge that you’d be staring straight back.

Was he nervous?

Impossible. There was no such emotion in his dictionary.

“It’s just—the whole announcing the marriage with Euan in front of all the guests stressed me out. The marriage is set in stone without my permission, and I just feel so helpless . .” You watched the outside view go by, dull colours of the night blending into a blurry haze.

“I know the arrangement has benefits. I know that.” It was directed more to yourself than Chrollo, as though some part of you agreed with the marriage.

“Euan is . . He’s sweet—a kind soul but I cannot see myself loving him, spending the rest of my life with him.” The assassin gripped the wheel a little tighter at the mention of your fiancé. “I don’t think anyone should ever go through that.” He cleared his throat, stealing another glance at you.

“You mentioned a while ago—” Chrollo spoke up, deciding to deviate the topic from Euan. “That the marriage would benefit the company ‘more security’ . .” He trailed off, realising how he’s prying but you didn’t seem to mind with how openly you replied.

“Long story short, my father had a very close friend—Mr. Driscoll—in the industry. It was later revealed that he was involved in money laundering so most of his assets came from illegal dealings. My father played a significant role in his arrest—basically, Driscoll was stupid enough to tell my father of his underground ties, urging him to do it as well. But my father had tipped the police instead. Naturally, his son, Ciaran Driscoll—who’s now the CEO of the company—saw us in a bad light, and it won’t take long until he makes my father pay for the damages done.”

“The arranged marriage with Euan would obviously combine our security team with theirs which would decrease the chances of Ciaran, and any other dangers from getting near my father, and I.”

Yet Chrollo was here—an assassin tasked to kill you—who easily took on the role of your personal bodyguard.

How ironic.

You really did need that extra security from the Hestons.

“Ciaran Driscoll?” Chrollo muttered the name under his breath which you quickly caught onto. “Yeah. Ciaran Driscoll from Driscoll Pharmaceuticals, you know him?” He wouldn’t necessarily say he knew him but Chrollo was awfully familiar with the name—familiar enough to conclude that Ciaran was the one who hired him to kill you.

Despite meeting at a deserted location back then—nowhere near that gave any hints of Ciaran’s real identity—one of his subordinates had addressed him by his last name which Chrollo immediately picked up.

The pieces fit flawlessly. It made sense for Ciaran to get revenge for Mr. Driscoll’s arrest by targeting what your father held most dear in his life—you. And for that to happen, Chrollo was the middle man, the one to fuel the chaos between two families.

If he got the job done.

“No.” Chrollo lied. “Just thought the last name rang a bell.”

“Understandable, they’re a household name. Well, it used to be.”

Short silence filled the vehicle yet again, both left to their own thoughts before you spoke up, albeit, it was more of thinking aloud, “I truly don’t know what I want in life.” Odd. Chrollo always thought that if one was wealthy, they’d be able to wish for anything, and everything yet somehow, even with all the gold in your hands, you were still lost.

Chrollo pitied you, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

Hell, he didn’t even know whether it was appropriate to reply. What did he know? He was someone born into poverty who didn’t have the luxury to question himself about what he wanted in life, just having to see another was already a blessing itself. Well, it wasn’t like the outcasts of society were given a choice on how to lead one’s life anyway.

The car fell in another silence but this time it was much longer, long enough for Chrollo to glance at the rearview mirror to see your eyes closed, and head leaning against the window, the rhythmic rise, and fall of your chest indicating the slumber you were in.

It was almost laughable how Chrollo was able to prove his theory right—that the rich were greedy for an even greater amount of money, the obvious example was the ex-CEO of Driscoll Pharmaceuticals, Ciaran’s father.

Chrollo’s grip on the wheel tightened, leather burning against his palms at the mere thought of dirty business. Illegal dealings. It was possible he had a hand in Sarasa's kidnapping. Mr. Driscoll didn’t belong in jail, no, he belonged before the barrel of Chrollo’s gun.

Taking another glance at your sleeping form, Chrollo quietly pulled over to the side of the road, putting the car in park before twisting his torso to face you. Warm streetlights casted a gentle glow upon your features, piercing grey eyes carefully tracing each one as though you were a divine creature—otherworldly, and beautiful.

You looked so peaceful, and undisturbed. Vulnerable.

While his eyes remained on you, Chrollo slowly slid a hand inside his blazer, reaching for the gun affixed by his hip.

The assassin pulled it out, pointing the barrel to your head, the weapon cool against the warmth of his hand. In, and out, he drew steady breaths, forefinger hovering over the trigger—one pull, and it’d be over.

The problem was, Chrollo couldn’t do it.

He has pulled the trigger countless times as though it was second nature, so why couldn’t he do it now? He couldn’t even bring himself to let his digit touch it.

As you stirred in your sleep, Chrollo swiftly tucked the gun back in his holster, and faced forward. Shaky, uneven breaths slipped past his parted lips, the sound of his heartbeat clouding his senses.

Hands balling into fists, he wondered what had gotten into him, mind racing with a million thoughts as he drowned in pure uncertainty. Chrollo stared at his hands—the same hands that have spilled blood countless times, the same hands that killed without a second thought, the same hands that were tasked to murder you.

Yet here he was, unable to do so as if it were his first time.

“Chrollo?” You mumbled aloud. As you peeled your eyes open, you tried to register your surroundings. “Why did we stop? Is there something wrong?”

He cleared his throat, taking a quick glance through the rearview mirror before shaking his head, “No, miss. I just had to take a quick call, my apologies.” With that, Chrollo pulled away from the side of the road, taking you back to the estate.

The ride home was silent. Fortunately for Chrollo, this gave him the opportunity to calm his thoughts, and steady his growing breaths.

Obviously this has never happened before, especially while out on a mission; it made sense for the assassin to lose his cool a bit after hesitating. If anything, it was akin to a bird suddenly losing the ability to fly when flying was the only thing it knew. To make things worse, Chrollo had just broken the unspoken rule of the underworld—to never hesitate.

To the underworld, hesitating meant fragility, and fragility meant that the enemy had the upper hand. He was confused, and conflicted, more so upset at himself for being such a coward—why was he a coward?

After returning to the estate, you softly called out to Chrollo who was heading to the staff house, “Do you want to come inside?” All it took was that foreign look in your face for him to fully understand what you meant.

He didn’t have to assume anything—you’ve never looked at Chrollo with such a burning gaze, full of intent, and vulnerability. God, it was a brazen move to do so but you wished he agreed. All you needed was a little company at the moment.

Something in the air shifted. Maybe it was because you were both stripped of your layers, baring your defenceless forms out in the open. Maybe it was the way Chrollo’s rational thinking became compromised on the way home. Or maybe it was how you oddly felt comfortable around his presence, as though he was a lifelong friend.

Nonetheless, Chrollo found himself inside your bedroom, and as expected, it was grand, spacious, fit for a billionaire’s daughter. Sweet aroma of fresh chrysanthemum’s filled the air but it was nothing like he had remembered back in Meteor City which was laced with grief, and sorrow. Instead, it enveloped Chrollo in a warm welcoming hug, he could finally understand your interpretation of chrysanthemums—devoted love, and loyalty.

Moonlight spilled from the windows, illuminating the side of Chrollo’s face. He was just standing there yet he mirrored the divinity of an angel as soft shadows contoured his handsome face, dark eyes gleaming beneath the dulcet glow; you’ve never been able to decipher the emotions behind his gaze but tonight was different, his stare was soft mixed with hint of uncertainty; Chrollo wore his heart on his sleeves.

“Help me escape even for a little while.” 

Like the obedient bodyguard he was, he nodded. Chrollo took one step closer, reaching out a hand to gently undo one of the satin ribbon straps. The flimsy fabric gracefully slid off your right shoulder, just enough to expose your pert nipple. It hardened beneath the cool evening air which had Chrollo swallowing thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing with pure excitement, and hunger; oh, how he couldn’t wait to put his lips on your skin, and devour you.

Wasting no time to undo the other ribbon strap, your nightgown instantly fell to the carpeted floors, the fabric pooling around your feet, leaving you almost completely bare in front of Chrollo.

Your skin grew feverish beneath his observant stare as he traced every dip, and curve, dark eyes gleaming with anticipation. After a heartbeat or two, Chrollo’s lips were on your skin, palms finding home just above your waist; he placed gentle kisses down the side of your neck as though on a mission to mark you, pulling dainty gasps in the process.

You tasted absolutely divine—like a hopeful prayer between his lips, and he craved for more. Soft smacks slowly filled your ears as he praised you with kisses. Down, down, down Chrollo’s lips went before stopping at the junction of your neck, he gave the sensitive skin an experimental lick to which you responded with a heated gasp of his name.

Tilting your head to the side allowed more freedom for Chrollo to explore; hands coming up to tangle with his raven strands, and tug at it urged him to mark your skin with hues of dark purple, and red.

And he did. Gentle, wet kisses turned into rough, electric ones as Chrollo used both teeth, and tongue to nip, and suck at your skin.

“Chrollo—!” 

The assassin could only grunt in response as he carved himself onto your skin like knife on wood—over, and over again ‘til it left a lasting mark. And when you stare at these sinful hues in the mirror, you’d be reminded of the feel of his lips, how his kisses turned your legs into a wobbly mess, and mind into a lustful haze.

Embarrassing, warm wetness pooled on the fabric of your panties as Chrollo neared your breasts, you watched with a bated breath, and keen eyes as he wrapped his lips around a mound—the sinful sight of Chrollo trying to take in as much of it as he could had your legs buckling, you were sure to have met the floor if it weren’t for his firm hold.

You let out a soft moan at the feel of his hot tongue swirling around your nipple, teeth gently grazing the sensitive spot which sent lightning down the length of your spine.

Eager hands tugged at the roots of his obsidian strands, nails raking across his scalp; it was beyond lewd how you readily pushed your bare body into Chrollo’s face—a man you’ve only known for less than a month yet here he was, wicked lips made of fire against your naked skin that melted like ice.

A large hand snaked its way up your front, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and pausing just beneath the other breast before cupping it wholly—the heart of his palm rubbing against your sensitive nipple as he massaged, and toyed with the fat.

Without an ounce of shame left in inside you, you wantonly moaned his name at the feel of his lips, and hand making love to your chest, it had Chrollo twitching in his slacks but he paid no mind to it because tonight was about ravishing your body until no one else could compare—not even Euan Heston.

Chrollo didn’t know what this meant for the both of you after but that was okay because once the night ends, your body would crave for none but him, and only him.

Chrollo let go of your swollen, wet breast with a soft pop, he looked up through his lashes before licking his lips, as though he just devoured the tastiest meal of his life.

Working his way down your torso, he placed chaste kisses down the valley of your breasts, steadily sinking to his knees as he descended further, each passing second growing closer to your heat—where you needed him the most.

Before Chrollo could kiss the intimate spot just below your belly button, you cupped his face, making him look up at you with slight confusion,

“On the bed . .”

Three words was all he needed to understand before standing to his full height, “Jump.” Chrollo ordered. You didn’t need to be told twice before doing so, arms, and legs wrapping around him while he supported your weight.

As Chrollo sauntered to the bed, you used the time to eagerly explore the spot beneath his ear, using teeth, and tongue to suck at it which pulled a few soft sighs from him. His intoxicating scent filled your senses, the sweet minty aroma from chrysanthemums mixed with his musky perfume had you groaning into his skin.

He shuddered at the feeling, the tips of his fingers digging further into the fat of your ass.

Gently laying you down on the pillows beneath, he stared at the serene beauty before him, steely eyes drinking in your nakedness. Chrollo’s stare felt like you stood directly under the blazing sun on a summer day, igniting your skin to the core without anywhere to take cover but you liked it, you liked the feeling of his hungry stare, how he looked at you like fresh meat on a silver platter—a predator, and his prey.

As if to put on a show, Chrollo hastily shrugged off his blazer, mindlessly throwing it on the floor, leaving him with a white button down. He caught a glimpse of your lust-clouded gaze staring at the gun affixed to his hip to which he immediately removed by unclasping the holster.

The weapon landed on the floor with a heavy thud, you paid no mind to it but for Chrollo, it served as a harsh reminder of his real motive, and everything that would happen tonight was nothing but an insignificant moment in his life.

At least that's what he convinced himself this was.

The mattress groaned beneath Chrollo’s weight as he dipped down, wasting no time to connect his lips on your bare skin, and picking up where he left off—right below your belly button.

He kissed at it before wickedly pulling the waistband of your panties using his lips, and letting go of it to snap against your skin. A small gasp escaped your lips at the feel of the slight burning sensation which had you aching for more; it also didn’t help how his hot breath ghosted over the most intimate part of your body.

Though, before you could open your mouth, and beg, Chrollo hooked a forefinger around the waistband, and swiftly tugged it down the length of your legs, wet cunt squeezing at nothing as the cool air embraced its heat.  

Chrollo took his time to enjoy the bare sight before him by placing open-mouthed kisses dangerously near your sopping cunt—on your inner thighs, below your belly button, and the spot just above your clit. It had your eyes rolling to the back of your head, fingers digging into the sheets beneath; what a wicked, wicked man, he hasn’t even properly touched you yet here you were, legs shaking from all the teasing.

Pride bloomed across his chest at the sight of you—the fucked out expression you donned, the heavy rise, and fall of your chest, and the dainty whimpers that filled the air.

Hooking his hands behind your knees, Chrollo gently pushed them towards your chest ‘til you were folded in half, glistening cunt deliciously exposed for him to devour.

A wanton moan slipped past your lips as Chrollo traced his tongue around the outside of your clit before laying the wet muscle flat against it. He expertly rubbed at the sensitive nub, lewd sounds mixed with your shameless moans engulfed his ears, encouraging him to further stimulate the spot.

Your hips bucked against his face, hands flying down to his hair as the electric sensation returned to your body, sending massive jolts of lightning down the curve of your spine.

“Chrollo, right there! Yes—haah!” You gasped as he switched to the tip of his tongue to lick at your clit. 

Chrollo placed his thumb, and forefinger on either side of your clit for better access before moving his tongue side-to-side, across the area beneath the clitoral hood, resulting in a broader stimulation that had you stiffening with pure pleasure.

Looking down at the sinful view between your legs, you let out a loud moan as Chrollo met your eyes through his hooded ones. Without a doubt, ecstasy slowly consumed both his body, and mind with how he subtly rocked his hips against the mattress—cock aching for any kind of contact but Chrollo had to focus more on holding your hips down while you unceremoniously thrashed around, trying to slow your impending orgasm.

As Chrollo continued his torture, it didn’t take long for you to let pleasure consume your body as a whole, and cum on his tongue.

He drank in your pleasured state—lips parted, brows furrowed, and back arched off the mattress; the orgasm that hit you was intense, as though your whole body has been electrified, and the only way to respond was by moaning his name like a sacred prayer in hopes you keep you grounded to reality.

Relishing the taste of your essence on his tongue, he closed his eyes, humming against your sensitive nub in complete satisfaction which had your legs shaking, and hands attempting to push his head away. He gave a few more gentle licks before pulling away, revealing his chin completely drenched in your filthy arousal—Chrollo paid no mind, simply bringing a hand up to his face to wipe at it.

You watched through a lustful haze as Chrollo finally worked on his shirt, each button undone growing closer, and closer to exposing the entirety of his torso.

As he shrugged the fabric off, you couldn’t help but reach out to touch his bare skin—it was pale, fascinatingly chiselled, and scarred; Chrollo’s torso was decorated with a few raised, discoloured patches here, and there indicating the rough past he had. He stared as you traced a scar with your forefinger—a ghostly touch that brought a shudder down his spine—but before you could move onto the next one, Chrollo gently grabbed your wrist, and brought it up to his face, placing a chaste kiss on the heart of your palm.

By no means was he insecure about those scars, in fact, he proudly wore them like a badge, to serve as a reminder that the rest of the world wasn’t his friend.

You’d be lying to yourself if you said your heart didn’t skip a beat or two.

The kiss from Chrollo was different—different from the one Euan had given you during the company event. Yes, the latter was full of sincerity but it didn’t bring warmth to your face like Chrollo’s one had.

Or maybe it was just because of how lost you were in pure lust, unable to decipher even the simplest feelings.

“Tonight is all about you.”

Chrollo shouldn’t be doing this, it goes against his beliefs, and goals—against the very reason why he turned into the person who he was right now.

Mingling with the wealthy, even going to an extent as to have sex with you, if his younger self saw him right now, he wouldn’t be able to believe it.

But what was it about you that had Chrollo rewriting his rules? Why was he so willing to throw away the deep rooted anger inside his heart to pleasure you?

Moreso, what did he gain from all this?—not money, not power, definitely not the justice he sought.

Nonetheless, Chrollo threw those thoughts in the moonlit window—he’d grab them again later at the crack of dawn while guilt eats him alive. Slowly, he dipped his hands below his torso, fumbling with the zipper of his slacks; Chrollo felt your heated stare on his crotch, how your short breaths quickened as he tantalisingly pulled the metal zip down, the sound echoed along with your breathing, allowing Chrollo to bask in your desperation.

You thanked the stars above as he bared himself without anymore teasing, articles of clothing that once hugged his body were now strewn across the floor of your room like unmended pieces of oneself.

Moonlight surrounded Chrollo like a serene aura, an angelic-like glow that had his skin radiating beneath the celestial gleam, turning his hair into the colour of the first starlight. It was hard to focus on his heavenly appearance when sin was right between his legs.

“Do you want me to stop?” 

No, god, no, just the thought of Chrollo completely leaving you high, and dry brought tears to your eyes. Shaking your head vigorously, he crawled atop your lust-fuelled body before placing a chaste kiss on your temple then onto your nose, trailing further down ‘til he reached the valley of your breasts. You let out a shudder as Chrollo lapped his way down, not forgetting to tease at your pebbled nipples by giving them a light nip.

“Chrollo, please . .” For once, this was different from what was usually thrown his way—most people begged for their lives as they stared down the barrel of his gun with pure horror in their eyes, lips disturbingly quivering as they pleaded during their last moments.

Wasting no time, Chrollo met your gaze once more, his face mere centimetres from yours. You gasped as his cockhead gently prodded at your entrance as he reached down between your bodies, he rubbed it a few more times, the sinful contact earning low grunts, and moans from both of you.

Chrollo connected his forehead with yours, damp obsidian hair ghosting over your warmed cheeks, holding it in a gentle caress

Letting out a shaky breath, his cock slowly pushed your folds apart as he inched in. Immediately, your legs curled around the dip of his bare waist, interlocking behind his lower back; your hasty movement jolted Chrollo forward which forced his cock further into the plush of your velvety walls.

He sighed, cursing the eye rolling pleasure sent his body into a pathetic tremble. Though, you were no better, clenching around Chrollo every time he pushed deeper—not only did it test his sanity but it also tested his patience.

He reminded himself a million times that simply fucking you like a mere cocksleeve was not his intention for tonight. Or ever. Rich or not, you were still a woman after all, one deserving of nothing but genuine pleasure.

As Chrollo bottomed out, he held your starry gaze, watching as your eyes glistened with tears—whether it was from the bliss his cock had you under or from sadness, he had no idea.

You felt so full, as though the gaping void inside you had been magically sealed—his cock sat there unmoving yet it hit all the right spots, the ones that had you trembling a little harder, and moaning a little louder.

Hot breaths mingled as the two of you let out heavy pants, he stilled inside your wet cunt, allowing both himself, and you to adjust to the feeling, “You’re so tight—fuck.” You gave your hips an experimental rut at his words which pulled a long hiss from him, brows furrowing together.

After a heartbeat or two, Chrollo slowly pulled out, the languid drag of his cock against the plush of your walls had you whining in the shape of his name. It went straight to his cock, twitching at the pornographic sound you let out—if you noticed, you didn’t let on, you were too focused on the way he moved inside you.

With only the tip remaining, Chrollo pushed his hips using the same pace; all the way until he disappeared in your folds once again, heavy balls kissing the skin of your ass.

You could feel the entirety of his length—every dip, and curve which had your legs shaking, and toes curling a little harder. Chrollo’s cock was slightly curved upward which allowed an easy reach to your sweet spot, and with every languid thrust he gave you, his cockhead kissed it repeatedly.

Hands that were pinned to the pillows were released as Chrollo brought a hand to caress your cheek while the other supported his weight. You leaned into his fiery touch, as if doing so was going to ground you from cloud nine. 

Setting a deep, slow pace, Chrollo’s face remained a breath away from yours—he kept eye contact, nothing but an endless pit of alluring onyx that pulled you further into the ocean of bliss. Every languid stroke pulled oxygen from your lungs, it had you desperately gasping for air, one which only Chrollo could quench by whispering sweet nothings mere inches from your parted lips.

Mixed with breathless sighs of pleasure was the soft creaking of the bed frame which sung in unison beneath the weight of your rocking bodies. The air grew impossibly thick, and hot allowing the sheets to stick uncomfortably to your bare back but you didn’t care, not when Chrollo fucked you into the mattress as if the sun was going to burn out tomorrow.

You pulled him closer, arms instinctively wrapping around his torso to decorate his back with crimson streaks.

The sharp sting of your nails fuelled Chrollo’s drive—he picked up the pace but remained bottoming out with every powerful thrust, causing your body to jolt in response.

You clung to him tighter, legs painfully locked behind his back as he did his best to move in, and out of your sopping cunt. You were close, and despite Chrollo taking you for the first time, he knew—he could feel your body stiffen with each passing second, the way your greedy cunt grew impossibly tighter, making it hard for him move, and not to mention your broken cries of his name so close to his ears that those were all he could hear.

“I’m so near—god, please don’t stop, Chrollo—!” You sounded so vulnerable, so bare it made his cock twitch.

Greed consuming his pleasured state, Chrollo wrapped an arm around your shoulders, deftly snaking it between the mattress, and your back. He pulled you closer, the weight of your limp torso straining against his curled limb while the other supported his own body.

Chrollo cradled your head with his palm, pushing your face closer to his ‘til the tip of his nose brushed your own. Oh, how tempted he was to kiss the very lips that cried out his name as if he were your saving grace—an angel with his hand stretched out to you.

Barely a whisper above the heavy breaths you exchanged, your name smoothly rolled off his tongue. It was the first time Chrollo did so, and god how addictive it sounded; you shuddered at it, his dulcet voice engulfing the entirety of your being right down to your very core.

“You’ve been so good, are you going to cum? To let go, for me?”

With the minute space left between the two of you, you vigorously nodded your head, too fucked to care about the desperation that seeped from your skin like sweat. Chrollo moaned at your wordless response, fingers slightly curling at the back of your head, his nails dragging across your scalp,

“Haah—! That’s right, give in to it.”

And you did.

With a final drive of his hips, you came undone—the pressure that’s been slowly building up finally bursting inside you.

A broken moan escaped your lips, body arching closer to his as you let your orgasm take you beyond cloud nine.

As if you weren’t already breathless from panting like a whore, Chrollo greedily pressed his lips against your quivering ones to capture them in a passionate kiss.

His lips were soft, and sensual, like it was sculpted by the goddess of love herself. He greedily drank in every moan, and whimper you had to offer, claiming them as his own prized possession to keep. Chrollo’s pace faltered at the feel of your cum coating his cock in a warm embrace—a feeling he’s been deprived off, a feeling he didn’t know he needed.

Pulling away from the kiss, he spoke, breathless, “I’m close—fuck. Where do y—” “Inside.” Chrollo swallowed thickly with your legs tightening around him. It dizzied him, the thought of you so willing to let your insides be marked by him without a second thought.

A small gasp escaped you as he gently set you down onto the mattress, his cockhead brushing your sensitive spot. With his orgasm near, Chrollo dropped his body on top of your own, torsos flush against each other as he trapped you with his weight.

With his own pleasure in mind, Chrollo gave short, hasty thrusts, desperately rutting his hips to chase the growing bliss. The only option for you was to lay there, and moan his name from overstimulation; with his weight on yours, you couldn’t squirm your way out of the immense pleasure.

“I’m here—ngh! ‘M close.” Chrollo whispered into your ear, a hint of apology laced his tone, most likely from how overstimulated you were.

After a few more desperate thrusts, he stilled, sheathing his cock all the way inside your cunt, you felt him twitch before releasing his load with a low moan. 

Feeling his hot cum paint your walls white, you mirrored the sound he made. Loud, wet squelches filled the room as Chrollo rode out his high, effectively fucking his cum deeper.

The two of you stayed still for a moment, letting your bodies bathe in serene moonlight. You laid beneath him, listening to his rhythmic heartbeat pound away against his ribcage, it effectively lulled you to the borders of sleep, your heavy eyelids slowly closing in exhaustion.

Though, before you could fully close them, Chrollo rolled off your body with a soft grunt, his cock slipping out in the process. The loss of contact had you clenching around nothing at the feel of his cum slowly seeping out of your cunt. Before you could speak up, Chrollo beat you to it,

“I should go.” He cleared his throat, voice low, a hint of sadness laced in his tone. Though, you didn’t catch on. Chrollo quietly gathered his clothes, putting them on layer by layer until he was fully clothed. An indiscernible emotion washed over you as he made his way to the door, each quiet step taken tugging at an invisible string tangled in your heart. Oddly enough, it stung.

“Yeah . .” You nodded in a daze.

The lack of response from your end tore at Chrollo’s insides—it made sense, after all, he was nothing but a quick fuck, what did he expect? For you to convince him to stay the night? That was beyond delusional.

As Chrollo reached for the handle, you called his name out of instinct. His heart skipped a beat. “Yes, miss . . ?” He spoke your title in a small voice, unsure which name was appropriate in this situation.

“Thank you.”

That was all you could muster. What else was there anyway? Chrollo wasn’t a person you were supposed to be sleeping with in the first place, nor was he your lover who you could be intimate with after sex.

He was nothing but a bodyguard, and will remain your bodyguard. Whatever happened in this room was to be forgotten.

The sound of the door clicking reached your ears, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone. His scent lingered in the air, becoming one with the sweet aroma of chrysanthemums.

Within the next coming days, you were right, and wrong. Right because in the face of others, the professional relationship between you, and Chrollo remained—a bodyguard, and his principal.

Wrong because stupidly enough, the both of you had not forgotten what happened a couple of nights back. The days were filled with stolen glances, and stuttering heartbeats, you couldn’t stand by idly while your heart yearned for your bodyguard.

At first, you convinced yourself that this feeling was purely lust-driven, it was only natural to seek out Chrollo’s presence after a night with him.

You believed it for a week.

One whole week until you felt your heart clenching at the sight of your bodyguard exchanging a conversation with one of the maids. Chrollo was all smiles, the kind that reached his eyes; the maid wasn’t any better, an obvious blush extending from her cheeks to her ears said it all.

He never smiled at you like that.

Why was he treating you—his boss—any different? Chrollo was always nonchalant with you, barely any words spoken yet here he was animatedly cracking jokes left, and right like he had some kind of alter ego. It pissed you off.

More so, being angry at the fact that Chrollo treated you differently upset you even more. At best, this was a trivial matter, something you shouldn’t even think about. 

But you couldn’t let go of it, not when he gazed at you the same way he had done so that night.

Within the next week, you’d realise that merely having Chrollo by your side wasn’t enough.

On Monday, you did your best to converse with him while buying chrysanthemums at the boutique, even going as far as giving him a flower from your bouquet, hoping that he’d think of you whenever he looked at it.

On Wednesday, instead of asking your personal assistant to grab your lunch, you took Chrollo instead, and headed out the office which gave you more alone time with him. 

And by Friday, you couldn’t take it anymore. You called Chrollo into your bedroom late at night after finding the courage to do so. Naturally, he stood inside as if he didn’t have you filling the room with your own moans two weeks ago.

The familiar sweet scent of chrysanthemums filled his lungs, taking him back to the pleasure-filled night with you. Chrollo pushed the thought down, deeming it extremely inappropriate, especially being alone with you like this, again.

He swallowed as you pat the empty spot next to you, your vulnerable state beckoning him to devour you. Who was he to deny himself of acting on his predatory instincts? 

“This is . . rather unprofessional, miss.”

That was the last thing he said before he found himself sitting on the edge of your bed, kissing you like he loved you. Did he? Large hands cupped your jaw, eagerly pulling you closer to his face. Even though Chrollo didn’t bare his heart, the zeal behind his kisses revealed the truth hidden in his chest.

Both lips fell into a unison, slotting into each other like they were made for one another. Before getting carried away, Chrollo pulled back, brows lifting in amusement as he watched the way your face leaned in, searching for his lips.

“What—What about Mr. Euan?” He asked, breathless, onyx strands dishevelled, courtesy of your wandering hands. 

You both knew you didn’t have feelings for Euan but saying it aloud wasn’t going to change the fact that a ring sat on your finger, it was far more complicated than that.

Lowering your gaze, you shrugged. Guilt picked at your skin, the thought of disrespecting Euan had you freezing in place. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be prying.” Chrollo whispered, hot breath fanning across your face. He tucked a strand behind your ear before sliding his digit down to your chin, lifting your face.

“Kiss me?”

You didn’t have to be told twice.

What the two of you had wasn’t exactly a relationship—beyond a professional relationship but less than a romantic one. But Chrollo cared for you all the same, even if it meant watching in the sidelines as Euan made his polite advances—kiss on your cheek, a hand on the small of your back, his fingers tucking stray hairs aside, Chrollo endured it all. Whether or not it affected him, he didn’t let on.

Instead, he returned affection tenfold in comparison to what Euan gave you. Your room had turned into a rendezvous—every night, behind its closed doors, Chrollo took you in his arms, and whisked you away from reality, from all the inhibitions you felt. And amidst all the meaningful conversations, the shared pleasure, the tears shed, a bond deeper than one could comprehend blossomed within these walls.

Chrollo became a rock you could lean on—a significant person you could be vulnerable with, and bare your heart on the table, unguarded. He listened to your problems, and silly thoughts with open arms, and ears, stroking your hair beneath the moonlight as the two of you lay underneath the ivory sheets.

With you, he was a completely different person, a person who he deserved to become. One that could relate to the little joys in life—whether it be chasing sunsets, dipping salty fries in vanilla ice cream or looking up at the night sky without any remorse in one's heart.

With you, Chrollo had a fleeting glimpse of the life he was robbed of because all he knew was how to survive for another day—how to kill swiftly, and effectively.

And he’d be reminded of all these when returned to his own quarters in the dead of the night. That the sole purpose of his arrangement in this estate was to take you out—not to nurture a bond with you, not to have sex with you, not to listen to all your thoughts, no. Chrollo was here as your assassin.

To hold you so gently in his hands knowing they would be the same ones covered in your blood. It was almost laughable, it surprised Chrollo how he—a person conditioned to destroy—was able to touch you with the utmost gentleness as if he’s never once tasted violence on his tongue.

Clearly, you both felt something for one another but acting on it was easier said than done—not to mention how this mission wasn’t supposed to end up like this, all tangled up in a web known as you. 

Did Chrollo love you? Truth be told, he didn’t know. He never had the privilege of experiencing what romantic love was. Wanting to be by your side was the only thing he was certain of.

Lying in bed, Chrollo looked over at his nightstand, it housed a singular piece of chrysanthemum soaked in a glass of water—one that you had given him earlier this week. Now, his room smelled just like yours, the flower’s sweet aroma lingering in the air.

It helped Chrollo sleep a little better; smelling its familiar scent tricked his mind into thinking he slept in your presence.

A little over a week.

That was how much time Chrollo had left to get the job done assigned by Ciaran. It wasn’t long, and he knew he had to make the decision soon but not before taking a gamble.

As Saturday arrived, you stuck to your routine as usual, the only difference was, the late night was spent driving around with Chrollo.

The atmosphere inside the vehicle grew thicker by the minute, he could tell something weighed your mind from the way you pursed your lips, and fidgeted with the hem of your shirt. But of course, the ever polite man he was, he waited ‘til you opened up to him—Chrollo knew you like the back of his hand, whenever things bothered you to an extent, it didn’t take long for you to break.

“Can I tell you something?” You murmured above the hum of the engine. Staring to the side, you watched as Chrollo wordlessly nodded his head, stealing a brief glance your way before focusing on the wheel. He took notice of how you sat on the front passenger seat instead of your usual spot.

Looking out the window, you spoke up, “I . . don’t know how to deal with all this.” Chrollo remained silent, urging you to continue. “I’m going to be married to a man I don’t love, and I’ll be running a company I don’t want. And us. I want you, Chrollo, I really do but I . .”

Chrollo’s grip tightened around the wheel.

“Why don’t we just run away, and leave all this behind? We can build a new life together and—” 

“Is that what you want? To run away with me?” Chrollo cut you off. Coming to a full stop at the red lights, he turned to you, the seriousness in his expression made you somewhat nervous.

Would it be foolish of him to comfort you with words he partially meant?—words that would only hurt you in the end?

“I can give you that.”

At this point, Chrollo was lying to himself. To be so brazen, and accept running away with you knowing well enough his neck was chained to the underground—loyal to his roots.

Weighing the options, it was crystal clear that the odds were against the both of you. Of course, you didn’t know that, you had absolutely no idea Chrollo had underground ties nor was he assigned to kill you by none other than Ciaran.

Considering the latter’s involvement in underground business, you wouldn’t be the only one with a target on their back; it only made sense for Ciaran to put a hit on Chrollo as well for disobeying his orders if he were to consider running away. It would elicit a whole lot of enemies, and he couldn’t put you in a situation where he was willing to risk you dying in someone else’s hands. 

Living a life hiding from dangers of the world—that’s what you would have to go through if you, and Chrollo were to run away. Did you really deserve to live that way? Did you deserve to live in the conditions Chrollo tried to run away from?

The answer was more than obvious.

Obviously, a life with Euan benefitted you more—you’d have more stability, and security. Who was he to take away all those things from you?

Having never tasted something as sweet as this feeling with you, Chrollo found himself holding tighter rather than letting go, he fed on greed, and delusion. 

Truth be told, it tore him apart. A part of him cursed, and yelled at him for being so naïve, and easily moved by a woman he had only known for a month and a half—not to mention how he despised your kind.

The other part urged him to reach for the unthinkable, and build a new life he deserved, with you. Chrollo was ready to lay his weapon down if it meant being by your side ‘til the end of time.

Maybe in another life.

He knew he had to make a decision. Soon. Ciaran had been making calls to his burner more often than not, and he could sense the former’s patience growing thinner, and thinner as each day turned into night.

Whatever Chrollo’s decision was, he just hoped you’d still love him all the same—forgive him.

There was one crucial piece of information Chrollo had remembered. On Sundays, you dismissed all security staff that accompanied you, including the chauffeur, Lukas. This meant that for one day, you were completely unguarded, and alone.

Chrollo was unaware of the reason but it was obvious you wanted to experience a sense of independence one way or another.

Nonetheless, he managed to keep an eye on you by using an ample amount of distance—it was a piece of cake, after all, he tracked his targets in stealth mode for a living; akin to a predator sizing up its prey before sinking its canines.

Sundays weren’t particularly eventful, you spent the day alone running around swiping your credit card left, and right until it made you feel a tad better. So when Chrollo had ‘accidentally’ bumped into you at the parking lot, hidden from public cameras, he was aware of how effortless it was to whisk you away from the public.

“Chrollo? What brings you here?”

The bodyguard was dressed in his usual attire, a white button down neatly tucked beneath his black slacks, and this time, he didn’t wear a blazer.

“I figured you’d be here, miss. Something came up at the estate—you’re needed back home.” A lie.

Chrollo observed as the sparkle in your eyes drained at his words, genuine concern rolling in like grey clouds looming above on a stormy night. His heart clenched. Not in a good way. “Don’t worry, no one is hurt.” With his reassurance, your shoulders dropped with ease, the breath you’ve been holding slipped past your lips in a relieved sigh.

It pained the assassin how trusting you were, how easily one could play you into the palm of their hand the same way he did right now. Why?—why didn’t you question how effortlessly Chrollo pinpointed your exact location? The city was expansive, no normal person would be able to trace your steps unless they followed right from when you left the estate.

The vehicle was quiet, leaving room for Chrollo to notice the faint scent of chrysanthemums inside—it was your personal car, not the one Lukas used to drive you around hence the flowery aroma.

For some odd reason, the smell no longer comforted him the same way it did whenever he frequented your room. It made him nauseous. If Chrollo was to put it in words, the aroma smelled of sweet death, and it reminded him of the church back in Meteor City.

Consumed by concern, and lost in your own thoughts, you paid no attention to your surroundings outside, how it grew less, and less familiar with each kilometre driven by your bodyguard. You also didn’t notice Chrollo repeatedly stealing glances through the rearview mirror every now, and then, missing the way his steely gaze housed a hint of nervousness—an emotion he didn’t normally harbour.

Though, as you finally came to, you gazed out the window, eyes carefully scanning the fleeting hues outside as the car drove by. Soft colours of pinks, and oranges seeped through the glass which casted an ethereal glow inside, it hinted at the setting sun, and the darkness that loomed just around the corner. As your brain registered the foreign roads, confusion settled in, 

“Are we taking a detour, Chrollo?”

He wordlessly nodded. You mirrored his action in acknowledgement but the feeling of unease was oddly difficult to dismiss, especially with how deserted these roads were. The streets were decorated with construction sites, abandoned buildings, and old houses that were decorated with wooden planks to seal off windows, and entrances.

A weird feeling settled in the pit of your stomach. You caught the way Chrollo’s stone cold gaze locked with yours for a split second but didn’t dare speak up.

Just as your heart started to race, the vehicle came to a halt, Chrollo had parked in front of an abandoned building—an old church, based on its architecture. Its unmistakable pointed roof aiming at the skies above, and stained glass windows marked with angels, and other holy beings said it all.

The building was surrounded by overgrown greenery, and wrecked furniture dumped on the side which hinted at years of apparent neglect. Its dressed stone walls were the epitome of sacrilege itself, littered with colourful vandalism from top to bottom; even just seeing it with your own eyes felt like a grave sin. A forbidden image.

“What—” “Get out.” Chrollo cut you off. For a tone so cold you could’ve swore a subtle shudder ran down the length of your spine. His stare met your own through the mirror for a second time and your heart sank all the way down to your stomach at how serious he was, dread slowly engulfing your body. What the hell was happening!? Why was Chrollo acting strangely?

“No.”

Chrollo turned to face you, still wearing that stoic expression. You felt small under his gaze, it almost felt predatory—no—not almost, it did; you didn’t want to admit but you caught a glimpse of the way his eyes sparkled with sharp, murderous intent.

Swallowing thickly, you crossed your arms, trying to appear nonchalant, albeit, it was more for yourself than for the man before you.

“Not until I get an answer. You mentioned something had come up at the estate, so why aren’t we—” “I lied.”

Before you could question his motives, Chrollo swiftly got out, the resounding thud as he shut the door closed had your body flinching a bit. You watched as he rounded the car, and made his way just before your door.

Opening it, a hand reached in for your wrist; gentle fingers curled around your skin as if you were a delicate flower—a daring contrast from the way his piercing gaze stabbed shards of unease throughout your body.

You pulled away, easily slipping off Chrollo’s placid grasp before helping yourself out of the vehicle. His hand curled into a loose fist as he watched you exit the car with an evident scowl on your face; funnily enough, Chrollo had the audacity to feel upset at the rejection. Never once have you denied his touch.

Crossing the narrow clearing that led to the unsealed church entrance, chunks of loose stone, and dirt moved beneath your steps; you stared at your feet as they navigated through the unstable terrain.

It was odd. Calm, and composed were the last two things you should be feeling in this situation, given the sudden shift in Chrollo’s demeanour, you were supposed to be fearing for your life right this instance despite your blindness to the hidden danger that lay ahead.

Chrollo . . He would never do that to you, right? Upon taking the job, he swore to protect you. But your better judgement screamed at all the glaring crimson coloured flags—an abandoned church in a deserted neighbourhood? It was the perfect set up for heinous crimes.

Out of instinct, you scanned the layout of the building from where you stood, if it came down to it, there was only one viable escape route which was through the main entrance of the church, the one Chrollo pulled open.

By now, the sun had fully disappeared below the horizon, and the colourful remnants the burning star left in its wake slowly faded into deep hues of night azure. Strangely, this end of the town harboured harsher winds with a freezing bite that had you rubbing your arms over the sleeves of your top.

A heavy groan sounded from the mahogany doors, it cut through the wind’s endless howl as it danced with the leaves, and through the sharp branches, interlocking trees in a soft sway.

A chill ran down your spine at the loudness of it. The doors parted revealing a view you’d expect in an old abandoned church—disorganised pews to create a spacing in the middle, antique chandeliers affixed to the high ceiling covered in thick layers of dust and cobwebs, and trash scattered across its marbled floors; by the state of the inside, squatters most likely frequented the building due to its unsealed entrance.

The inside was dimly lit from street lights outside, it poured through the stained glass windows which allowed a deep scarlet glow to illuminate the building. Chrollo stepped inside, the soles of his obsidian dress shoes quietly clicked with every calculated step further into the church.

Foolishly enough, you followed as though a crimson string bound yourself to his—he was acting strangely, and the most appropriate approach as of now was to question his behaviour, and the bizarreness of the situation. Walking away would only prove useless with how far he has driven, and he had your car keys; at best, you could only cooperate.

“Chrollo, will you please tell me what’s going on?” You navigated inside the old building, the scent of mildew, and rotten wood lingered in the damp air, it captured your senses in a tight hold.

Ruby bounced off Chrollo’s inky strands as he stood at the heart of the church, right beneath the stained windows with divine beings. It turned his pale skin into an angry red, and you wondered if that’s what he felt right this very moment, clearly you weren’t far off with how he pierced your soul earlier.

He turned to face you, “I’m doing this for your sake.” For the first time today, emotion seeped through the cracks of his nonchalance. 

Chrollo looked almost sad, you weren’t entirely sure given the lack of lighting but the unmistakable glint behind those obsidian eyes was anything but foreign. For a split second, it was the same Chrollo that spent countless nights in your bedroom; not as your bodyguard, not as anyone else but simply as Chrollo—your Chrollo.

“For my sake? What the hell are you talking about, Chrollo?” Like the vermillion glow that bounced off your skin as you stepped closer, anger slowly bubbled in the pit of your stomach. Chrollo was nothing but cryptic with his responses, and you couldn’t wrap your head around any of them! He had always been a straightforward person, sometimes blunt, so why was he holding back now?

Standing beneath the scarlet light softly illuminated your features, Chrollo thought you looked exquisite bathed in the brilliance of red. Even with a tinge of doubt, and anger in your eyes, you were filled with love the same way the colour kissed every part of your skin.

“An escape from all this . . That’s what you want, right?” With his right hand, Chrollo reached inside his pocket, it took you a few seconds to identify the item in his hand—a gun.

With the way it’s unmistakable silver glistened beneath the dim lighting, you could tell it was a weapon of his own; not the ones registered under your father’s name. You stiffened, and your body ran cold, gaze met with the barrel of his gun.

“Chrollo?” Barely a whisper, you called out his name above the thick atmosphere, each second spent inside it had you desperately gasping for air; whether it be from nervousness or confusion, you didn’t care to find out.

He swallowed thickly, fingers curling tighter around the handle of his gun, trying to ignore the way your desperate plea violently struck a chord in his heart.

“Chrollo please put the gun down! You’re out of your mind!” Panic surged from head to toe, it came in vicious waves, scratching, and gnawing at your bare skin like a vehement beast. Chrollo tried to ignore the apparent tremble in your voice, he couldn’t afford to mess this up.

“Yes, I want to escape—with you. Why are you doing this to me, Chrollo? Why do you want me dead?!”

The third time his name rolled off your tongue, he was ready to throw the gun across the room, and cradle you in his arms while whispering apologetic nothings in your ear.

But he didn’t.

Chrollo stayed rooted in his spot, gun aimed at you, “Remember Ciaran Driscoll?—” You furrowed your brows. Ciaran? “He paid me to kill you.” A shaky breath, that was all you could muster, your mind was too busy trying to piece everything together.

Ciaran. Chrollo. Kill. Your blood ran cold.

But Chrollo didn’t give you time to breathe, steady clicks of his shoes echoed throughout the church as he paced back, and forth, “I was elated when I agreed to his proposal. Why? Because a pompous soul dying by my hands is what I’m made for—” He was calm, and collected, a faint smile displayed on his face as he slowly walked towards you. “Did you know what your people did? To my home? To my friend?” Stopping just before you, Chrollo leaned in, obsidian gaze piercing right through you.

“A lot of you treated Meteor City like some kind of hunting ground at your disposal. As if—as if its inhabitants were nothing but mere animals. For what? The sake of illegal dealings? For more money? Power?”

Chrollo caressed the side of your face with the back of his left hand—the other remained motionless by his side—his ghostly touch trembled against your skin, afraid that if he pressed down any further, you’d crack.

The situation baffled you. Not only was Chrollo blaming you for the atrocities caused by other people, you still couldn’t wrap your mind around the fact that he was in cahoots with Ciaran Driscoll to orchestrate your demise.

Is that why Chrollo applied to become your bodyguard? To get close before finally killing you off? You felt another wave of dread wash over you. Everything felt numb, your limbs, your torso, your heart.

Shaking your head, you finally broke the silence with a trembling voice, tears threatening to spill out,  “I’m not involved in any of those, Chrollo. Do you even hear yourself right now?”

He did. God. He fucking did and he felt absolutely foolish for blaming you. After you had bared your soul to him every night, Chrollo stopped seeing you in the same light as he did before. Yes, his deep-rooted disdain never left but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of loving you; it was a battle between desire and duty, and he already knew the victor.

The determination in your eyes, you were set on running away from the current life you had, and as tempting as that was, he didn’t have the courage to lead you into a new life full of nothing but danger.

Chrollo would rather have you dying by his own bloodied hands—for him to live each day filled with regret—than have someone else basking in the glory of killing you. At least that way, he’d be tainted by you.

“You’re all the same. Ciaran’s father is proof enough! You said it yourself that he was involved in illegal business—”

“So those nights we spent together . . were they just all part of the act? You never cared for me.” Chrollo barely caught the last part of your sentence as you muttered it under your breath; he watched as your gaze lowered, a wave of sadness engulfing you for a split second before finding his eyes once again. This time, you wore a glare.

You straightened up, “Tell me, Chrollo. Was it all just an act? A show you put on just to get close to me?” Questions lingered in the air the same way dust did, it sat heavy on Chrollo’s shoulders but he remained stubborn—silent. Would his answer change the circumstances? No.

After all, nothing good came out of trivial matters. At his stillness, you grabbed his right hand, trembling fingers curling around the shaft of his wrist as you brought it up to your face, pressing the barrel of his gun to your forehead. It felt icy against your feverish skin, like the kiss of a grim reaper.

Ever so slightly, Chrollo’s brows rose in shock, breath hitching at your brazenness. “Did you ever love me?” A broken whisper spoken into the crimson-lit night, so dainty, so weak yet it pierced his heart without a second thought. It left a gaping hole, as ugly as sin, and no amount of repentance could heal.

Love. How would one define love? Was it the act of sacrificing someone dear to oneself? Chrollo didn’t know. But more importantly, how did you define love?

“Did you?”

Digging deeper into the subject would only lead to the grave of his heart but Chrollo couldn’t care less, it was already six feet under since the day he sought revenge for his friend.

With a heavy sigh, your eyes finally softened, “Of course. I still do.” You felt his hand twitch in your hold, as if he briefly tried to pull the gun away.

Glimmering like the first starlight were tears staining your cheeks, one by one they fell down as a surge of emotions drowned your body; your brows were furrowed yet your eyes looked at Chrollo like he held the cosmos in his hands.

Is this what was meant when they said love and anger were painted in the same shade of red?

In his line of work, Chrollo has never seen anything as haunting as your gaze. It was natural for his targets to look up at him in complete horror, tears welled up in their eyes as they begged him to spare their lives but you—your eyes were full of nothing but love, and adoration despite his gun pointed at you. That look alone was enough to torment his coming days.

“Do you, Chrollo? Do you love me?” His chest tightened at the hopeful glint in your eye. Nothing good ever came out of trivial matters because at the end of the day, Chrollo was nothing but a man chained to his sinful revenge—blindly devoted to the hatred planted in his heart, and it came with a great price.

A sudden wave of red washed over his body, resulting in an ear splitting bang that resounded within the church’s bricked walls. Chrollo flinched at the sound—he’s never done that before—followed by a heavy thud against the marbled floors. It took the assassin one, two, three seconds to register the situation, the violent sensation of the gun’s recoil still fresh on his trembling hand.

The faint scent of iron hung in the air.

Chrollo looked down at the grisly sight before him, gun in his hand weighing heavy before it finally slipped from his absent grip. The weapon fell beside his right foot.

For the first time, Chrollo Lucilfer—the bringer of death—weeped, and mourned the demise of his target. He wailed into the darkness as warm crimson slowly pooled around your head, it resembled a faux halo, a tainted fallen angel.

Broken sobs, and ugly cries filled the damp building—this was the first in a long time that he had heard the sounds of his own grief. Guilt, and sorrow consumed Chrollo the same way the shadows of the night did but no amount of tears would bring you back to life, no amount of whispered I love you’s would reciprocate his words, no amount of cracks in his heart would turn back time.

You were dead, and it was all because of the man you loved so blindly. ‘Til your dying breath, you were shielded from the secrets of his true identity, and feelings, ones he swore he would take to the very grave he dug.

Chrollo fell to his knees, his fingers dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood. The vile pungence of your blood suffocated his senses, despite something so familiar to him, Chrollo heaved and curled over himself, quivering like an autumn leaf in the wind—he looked pathetic; hot tears and snot covered his reddened face as he cried out into darkness.

Every bit of air left his lungs and each breath felt like a chase he couldn’t win. Truth be told, he didn’t have the courage to reach out to your body, no, he didn’t feel like he deserved to do so.

To taint you more than he already had. So, Chrollo didn’t, instead, he weeped until the moon decorated the obsidian skies, until his tears tried, until your body ran cold, and every bit of colour you wore was gone. 

And when the assassin finally pieced himself together, he did three things.

One, let Ciaran Driscoll know that the job had been done using a burner phone.

Two, with the same device, Chrollo called the police, brazenly letting them know he murdered someone, and the exact location of the crime scene.

Three, he covered your car in flames, and fed the burner phone into it; he watched as bright hues of oranges and yellows devoured the vehicle before doing what he did best: disappearing into the night, and becoming one with the shadows to never be found again.

The night before, he had quietly handed in his resignation to Lukas who gave him an appreciative pat on the back, the old timer parted with words that Chrollo knew would remain ingrained in his mind, ‘I’m quite sure the young miss appreciated your service. Thank you for taking care of her.’ 

His heart shouldn’t have clenched at that but it did, and painfully so.

The coming days blended into nights with Chrollo sitting inside his hideout—a dingy, rundown motel with paper thin walls that housed interesting individuals. Completely unaware of the time, his only company was the ticking ivory wall clock above the cramped dining space.

The hefty payment from Ciaran lay untouched on the bed, concealed within a briefcase. He didn’t eat nor drink, not even having the energy to step outside for occasional sunlight, and every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the look you gave him during your final moments, he remembered the metallic tang in the air.

The old chunky television situated atop a rusty console table was what kept Chrollo’s sanity intact.

Day to night, it blasted morning, afternoon, and evening news—to the point of fellow motel goers knocking at his door to complain about the noise—just to keep up with information about you. As much as Chrollo yearned to bask in the memory of you, seeing your face plastered on television followed by a variety of words such as ‘rest in peace’, ‘murdered’, ‘assassinated’, and ‘dead’ didn’t help his mind at all.

At least what kept him entertained were the updates on potential suspects that may be tied to the crime scene; the murder weapon was an unregistered gun loaded with an unregistered bullet, and the footprints left at the scene had no unique tread.

So at best, there were no concrete leads in the case.

Not that it mattered to Chrollo.

Atop the cheap wooden table on which he sat were two things, the murder weapon and a singular stem of a white chrysanthemum. The one you had given him from your bouquet. Chrollo let the flower sit there for days on end until its ivory petals shrivelled into a brown hue—its sweet aroma turning pungent.

Until it withered. 

Until the scent of death choked him the same way his cries did that night—a mockery of what was lost, of what he willingly destroyed.

One month. It took Chrollo a month to finally step into the day, and out of the drab motel room. Brightness engulfed his vision, the sun’s afternoon rays shone as brightly as ever, enveloping him in a warm, gentle hug as if to welcome him back to reality.

He was certain he didn’t deserve kindness from this world, not even the permission to step foot in the very earth that held your body dearly in its grasp as though you were its prized possession.

Oddly enough, Chrollo found himself standing before a familiar flower boutique. With his gaze locked onto the floor-to-ceiling windows, he looked around the inside, as if doing so was going to have you magically pop out of nowhere, and buy a dozen of white chrysanthemums like before.

But you didn’t.

Pulled from his thoughts, a recognizable voice filled his ears, it was the owner, “Are you here to buy flowers for a lover, perhaps? I can recommend a few—” She stopped halfway through her sentence, realising the familiar face that stood before her. Chrollo watched as her face morphed into a sad smile, the cheery glint in her eyes disappearing beneath the thickness of her lashes,

“If I’m not mistaken, you’re her bodyguard, right?” He inhaled a sharp breath at the mention of you, heart violently thumping against the confines of his chest. Chrollo could only nod, anything more than that would have him breaking.

The old lady reached out her plump hand, and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, “I’m so sorry for your loss. She was lovely—”

Don’t say that. Don’t say it to me like I’m not the cause of her death. Don’t say it to me like I should be mourning for someone who died by my hands.

Chrollo gritted his teeth, jaw clenching at the sympathy thrown his way. He felt sick and disgusted with himself—as if he were a vile being trapped beneath human skin. All of a sudden the sun rays that gently enveloped his body didn’t feel like a warm hug anymore, sharp, hot prickles spread throughout his clothed skin, leaving a painful itch.

“—and the only customer who bought chrysanthemums frequently. Others usually bought the flowers once or twice for funerals and death anniversaries; she was the only one who truly saw chrysanthemums in a different light.”

A symbol of devoted love and loyalty, that’s how you saw them.

How ironic that the flowers you once adored would be laid upon your grave, holding a completely different message; mourning and grief. That didn’t sit well with Chrollo, you loved white chrysanthemums but not for that reason.

“Apologies, I ramble too much.” The owner let out a polite chuckle before continuing. “Well, can I at least interest you in some flowers? What would it be for you?”

“Can I get a dozen of those?” Chrollo pointed at the lively bunch soaked in water, situated just beside the boutique’s entrance. Following his finger, she looked behind her and smiled, “Right away.”

Its petals resembled rays of the first sunshine, the golden hue it wore promised eternal warmth even after death.

As day turned into night with the crescent moon high above the obsidian skies, Chrollo made his way to your perpetual resting place—it didn’t take much effort to do some digging around to find out where your body had been buried.

The chilly wind howled as it danced with the dark, trees and leaves swaying to accompany it with a silent song. He walked down the moonlit path of the cemetery, land that outstretched before him was decorated with tombstones, and in his left hand was the bouquet he bought earlier.

Moonlight shone over your grave as if the moon herself knew the secrets shared between you and Chrollo on cloudless nights. Bouquets of white chrysanthemums decorated the space around your grave, candles that were once lit rested atop the marbled tombstone that housed your full name.

Oddly enough, this felt like déjà vu. Maybe it was due to the fact that you and Chrollo rendezvoused in your room the same way he visited your grave—under a lonely moonlit night where soft whispers, and beating hearts were heard.

Bending down, Chrollo lightly caressed your carved name, cleaning out stray pieces of grass and dirt blown by the wind. He gently placed the bouquet amongst the sea of white, its colourful hue greedily taking all the limelight from the sombre flowers,

“I know these aren’t your favourite but I figured you’d like them too . .” He paused for a moment, foolishly waiting for you to reply.

“. . Yellow chrysanthemums just like the white ones but—” Who was he kidding? Chrollo felt stupid. Talking to your grave as if you were alive—as if he wasn’t the one who brought you to your demise.

The audacity he had.

Truth be told, every fibre inside his body screamed at him to turn back, and never show his disgusting self but Chrollo was as greedy as the darkness that drank the moonlight each night.

He envied the ground like sin, how held you in its arms, cradling your rotting body in its eternal embrace. It should be him. Now, he’d have to remember you longer than he had known you.

Instead, Chrollo was six feet above—alive; tied to, and haunted by the shackles of foolish regret. The memory of that night replayed in his mind over and over again like a cursed broken record, the disgusting thump as your lifeless body hit the floor, blood pooling around your head.

Most nights he’d find himself calling your name in his sleep—he always dreamt of the same dream: you, running away from him in a field of flowers, no matter how hard he worked his legs, he never seemed to reach your body. 

Chrollo sat before your grave and sobbed, letting creatures of the night feel his vulnerability; as the wind howled, the breeze carried the sounds of his cries to the trees, where it promised him to keep it a secret—a story only reserved for the dead.

Hot tears rolled down his frost-bitten cheeks, pooling on the tip of his chin before it fell on the damp grass beneath.

In antique texts, yellow chrysanthemums represented one’s heart left to desolation. Neglected love. It was only befitting for he has killed the very person who grew to love his blood-stained soul because in the end, he was nothing but a man only adept at destroying.

He let out shaky exhale, and whispered into the night the answer you sought, 

“I love you.”

—

affiliated with @houseofsolisoccasum & @pixelcafe-network !

[yandere-wishes]

｡ ₊°༺ Pink Pony Club ༻°₊ ｡

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆Yandere! Dr Phosphorus x Reader ⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

⋆.𝄞𝓟𝓲𝓷𝓴 𝓟𝓸𝓷𝔂 𝓒𝓵𝓾𝓫 𝓑𝔂 𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓡𝓸𝓪𝓷𝄞˚.⋆

✮★✮ Oh Mama, I'm just having fun, on the stage in my heels it's where I belong, down at the Pink Pony Club, I'm gonna keep on dancing at the Pink Pony Club. ✮★✮

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He lets the music roll over him, allowing the drums to melt over his flames and bleed into the marrow of his black bones. When you dance, you have to focus on the turn out of each step, on the wave of your arms, when to stiffen when to loosen. It makes it all so easy to forget the pain of being constantly on fire. To forget the melancholy that festers inside you. When the adrenaline is this high, you can only make out the strobing neon lights and the dazed amusement of the crowd.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ It's hard to hate the music and the lights, to shy away from a crowd so easily fascinated by the gleeful macabre. It's really the most sanity-inducing thing you can cling to when your body has turned into the thing you once loved. When you've become your research after watching your old self die in a furnace at the hands of those who once wielded all the power in the world. Funny how we make our own monsters, funny how the thing that kills us, is nothing more than the very man we once tried to kill, now engulfed by his own invention. Phosphorus spins, left leg, right leg, jump, and twirl.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ The dancing, the music, the clapping, the lights, it's all so perfect for melting away the terrible things that slither inside him, to burn away all those good memories until the kill and the luxury are all the remains. It's getting just too easy to forget his son's face, to forget the smile his wife gave him on their wedding day.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ There's a moment between moments when the world seems to stop. It's only then that he notices you, or rather notices what you're wearing. It's the dress he thinks, pink like the mushroom clouds he'd once adored, like the sunset framing devastation. Or maybe it's the way you have your hair so cruelly tied. Tight circle above your head like an atom waiting to explode. In a flash it's over, someone is handing him a drink. Another sitting on his lap. And he's thrust harshly back into reality, back to a world of trying to forget.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ Phosphorus is and always will be a man of logic. A man of science. He lets his fingers glide over the stack of pristine hundred-dollar bills. To think he'd spent his whole life begging for a quarter of all of this. Begging for scraps of funding to save the lives of thousands. It had all been so important once. Still, he can't help but let his mind wonder, what could he build with all of this? What could he solve, discover, create? He tells his men to lock it up in the safe, he's not ready to go back to all of that just yet.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ The next time Phosphorus sees you, he's half sunken into the plush couch of the VIP lounge. It's been a long day, a long tough day. Everything had gone wrong and all so right in the same breath. This time your dress is the shade of clouds marred by the blood of a dying sun. He should know this shade from the history books he'd used to read, the shade of skylines behind ancient temples. Back then he'd been trying to understand. Understand what he's not quite sure, he'd been so desperate to pry every little answer from the world. To chew their solutions, breaking them with his teeth and spitting out his own variation, his own thesis. He'd been so utterly convinced of his own intellect, convinced that reading Saadi at the same time as the latest research paper on Nuclear decay meant understanding the world.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He watched with staunch fascination as you tried to dance. Following your friend's steps, heels stepping awkwardly completely out of tune. You bend your knees, sinking to the floor. And Phosphorus can't think of any excuses for why his cheeks feel hotter than usual. Why his eyes are permanently affixed to the sway of your arms.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He thinks you look just like nuclear fission dancing in the limelight with your friends. Like you've split your own body to create them. Little atomic nucleus dancing under his microscope. You look perfect, your toned legs amplified by the radioactive pink of your heels. Long neck he'd love to kiss decorated with a thin string of gold. You don't look a thing like the other girls at the lounge, you look like an experiment beckoning him, seducing him into cutting you open, and observing how you explode.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He's been following you keenly, trying to see what happens next. It's the fourth week in a row that he's forgotten about dancing for the crowd, about the girls who used to hang off his arms. He's too devoted to this experiment. "Nuclear scientist finds atomic bomb inside ancient temple from the bronze age". Phosphorus examines the sway of your hips, the bob of your head, and the crude kicks of your legs. There's something wrong with those heels, they're too thin, too high, inviting everyone to stare at you. But he's quick to shove them away, circling you from afar. He can't let anyone tamper with his experimentation. Certain matter performs differently when it knows it's being observed. So he allows the notion of invisibility, making you feel unobserved, safe in your own ignorance.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He hasn't felt this alive in years. This ecstasy tastes utterly sweet, pure saccharine. It's the same thrill as watching your particles stabilize after days of trying to find the right frequency. Watching them organize into the right motion. And isn't that what you are? An ionized atom. After all, what is dancing if not ionization, if not trying to lose a part of yourself you can no longer bear?

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He's late tonight, rivals had somehow bled in and were after the safe from Phosphorus' newest heist. He'd burned them to a crisp and danced on their ashes until they flew away. But that doesn't change the fact that he's late, too late in fact. When he rushes through the door, men nervously run behind him. His eyeless sockets fall upon an uttermost dreary sight...

⋆☠︎︎⋆ The problem with people is that they never truly appreciate beauty. They treat it as if it's something to conquer something to tame. They never bother to understand it, to study it from afar whispering prayers of gratitude for bearing witness to this new discipline. The man's body is too close to yours, head following your lips, as you awkwardly try to sidestep. The moment you try to flee he grabs your wrist. You scream, no one ever hears screaming through the bass and the rhythm.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ There's smoke in your eyes, sickly-sweet honey in the back of your throat. It's all too acrid but at least the hand assaulting your wrist subsides. The thing in front of you glows green, an acidic neon green that feels too familiar in shade. You watch as the skeleton seizes your shoulders, such a warm touch hearthlike in every way. He pulls you closer till all you can smell is null and all you can feel is smothering warmth.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ You never quite quiver under his touch, never fully shy away when he cups your jaw and tilts your head. It's like you want the radiation, want to feel his nuclear essence bleeding into you. Maybe then you'll be whole. Maybe then neither of you will need the music, and the lights, and the crowd to feel whole.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ You never belonged in the clubs, it was painfully obvious you could never mold to their dances, their music. Your heels never fit right. Phosphorous knows he's been trying to do the very same for all so long. Neither of you needed to kill off your electrons, to throw them away to ignorant nobodies who would sooner hurt you for their own voracious motivations. "Give me your electrons and I'll give you mine." Phosphorus tucks your head into the crux of his shoulder, "I'll fuse with you so you'll never need anyone else."

⋆☠︎︎⋆ Phosphorus' hands mirror yours, swaying overhead before falling lower like the cascade of a wave. Side step, side step, stop, and bend. He thinks this is better than any club, any choreography he could do by himself. He feels so whole dancing only for your eyes. He feels so happy having you dance only for his eyes. Your palms touch as you circle slowly. Dancing like the airy rotation of electrons. There's no more dancing at the Pink Pony Club.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ What do you call a dance that feels like merging two atoms? What do you call it when your heart feels like the denotation of a bomb? He presses his lips to yours slowly, feeling the nuclei crash, a nuclear reaction, his tongue hum between your teeth endeavoring to melt away your fear. His fingers, dance across your hips heating up, leaving burning hearts and hand prints, claiming you as his, making you death just like him.

Lost the request for this but thank you so so much to the sender!! 💞💋💞💋

[unboundprompts]

Hi do you by chance have any prompts for describing the city (especially at night)? I'm looking for like a futuristic fantasy setting if that makes sense. Thanks!

Describing a City at Night

-> feel free to edit as you see fit.

The city glowed with neon veins, casting a strange, electric light over towering spires that scraped the sky. Holographic advertisements danced across windows while streams of fog curled through alleyways like rivers of light. Above, drones drifted lazily, their shadows weaving patterns on the streets below, creating an endless maze of pulsing, glowing reflections.

The skyline stretched sharp and unbroken, towers of glass and steel rising in clean, geometric lines against the sky. Windows glowed softly, each one a story of someone working late or an empty office left on standby.

In the dead of night, the city seemed to take on a different rhythm: quiet but with an underlying hum of energy. Few people walked the streets, but the occasional flicker of a phone screen or quiet murmur from an all-night café hinted at life. The shadows of the alleys were cut by security lights, giving them a strobe-lit effect, while the dull glow from rooftop gardens and balconies softened the city’s sharp edges.

A canal snaked through the heart of the city, the water dark and reflecting neon signs from towering skyscrapers above. Sleek boats glided quietly, transporting passengers between stops along the waterfront, each boat’s headlights cutting clean lines through the night. Pedestrians strolled along the edge, pausing to take photos or enjoy the city’s lights reflected in the gentle ripples below.

Even at 3 a.m., the city streets were alive, the constant flow of traffic muted yet steady as it moved beneath rows of LED streetlights. All-night coffee shops and convenience stores dotted the blocks, their windows spilling soft light onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians, many lost in their own world of screens and earbuds, walked with purpose, the occasional laughter or conversation blending into the endless hum of the city’s heartbeat.

[nino-rox]

Stiles Stilinski x Male Reader | S

Warnings: NSFW Gay Sex, Explicit content, Teen Wolf AU, Teen Wolf x Male reader, Top Stiles Stilinski x Bottom Male Reader, degradation, raw (please use protection !)

Disclaimer : This is a Fan-fiction story written for entertainment purposes only, no part of the story implies or affirms anything regarding real world events or individuals. Please be of the appropriate age ( i.e, Adult as per your country’s stipulations and regulations) before interacting with this post

NOT PROOF READ !

—

{A/N: Not proof-read! Have fun Pookies <3}

The thundering bass of the rave wrapped around Stiles like a living thing, vibrating through his chest, shaking the ground beneath his feet. Strobe lights flashed like lightning across the crowd—a blur of sweaty bodies, neon accents, and wild energy that surged with every beat. The air was thick with sweat, alcohol, and smoke, and it felt like chaos incarnate.

But none of that mattered to Stiles.

Because Y/N was here.

And holy crap, he looked good.

“Scott!” Stiles hissed, his voice barely cutting through the music. He grabbed his friend’s arm, nearly dislocating it in his urgency. “Scott! Look.”

Scott stumbled slightly, squinting in the direction Stiles was pointing. “Is that… Y/N?”

“Uh, yeah, that’s Y/N,” Stiles confirmed, his voice cracking slightly. “I knew he was lying. He said he was too busy, right? Those were his exact words. Too busy. But now he’s here, and—oh my God.”

Scott glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “Maybe he just didn’t want to come with us, man.”

“Okay, first of all, rude. Second, do you see him?” Stiles stammered, gesturing wildly toward the figure leaning casually against the bar. “Look at him! He’s a whole—he’s like—Scott, he’s a walking thirst trap.”

“Dude,” Scott sighed, already tired of this, but Stiles wasn’t listening anymore.

Y/N was there, drink in hand, the pulsing neon lights painting his skin in shades of purple and red. His dark button-down was halfway unbuttoned, hanging loose around his torso, and Stiles’ eyes zeroed in on the exposed lines of his collarbone, sharp enough to draw blood. His sleeves were rolled up, the veins on his forearms faintly visible in the light. But it was the shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of his abs—a sheen of sweat glistening faintly—that made Stiles’ throat go completely dry.

And then, the jeans.

They were impossibly, unfairly tight, hugging Y/N’s thighs in a way that made Stiles’ brain glitch like an old computer. When Y/N shifted his weight, Stiles’ eyes darted, unbidden, to the curve of his bubble butt, and a very inappropriate thought hit him like a truck: That’s not fair. No one’s butt should look that good in jeans. I could probably grab—

“Stop staring at his ass, Stiles,” Scott muttered, elbowing him hard.

“I’m not—okay, fine, maybe I was,” Stiles said defensively, snapping his head up to find Y/N’s face instead.

Only to find that Y/N was looking right at him, a sly, knowing smile curving his lips. Stiles’ heart stuttered violently, and Y/N gave the faintest tilt of his head before turning back to his drink.

“I’m dead,” Stiles whispered, running a hand down his face.

“You’re embarrassing,” Scott corrected with a smirk. “Let’s just say hi before you combust.”

As they pushed closer, the details of Y/N became sharper. Stiles could see the faint flush to his cheeks, the way his hair looked messily perfect, as though he hadn’t even tried. His posture was lazy, his body loose and relaxed in a way that screamed confidence. Stiles wanted to touch him—trace a finger down the bare column of his throat, drag his teeth against that stupidly perfect collarbone. Mark him, his brain supplied unhelpfully.

Stiles was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice Y/N had turned toward them until it was too late.

“Hey, guys!” Y/N called, his grin wide and inviting. The music muffled his words, but they still hit Stiles like a punch to the chest. He had that lazy slur to his voice, the kind that said he’d already been drinking, and his smile was slightly crooked, his eyes bright with mischief.

“Hey!” Stiles blurted, far too enthusiastically. “You—uh—you’re here! You said you weren’t coming!”

Y/N shrugged, taking a long sip of his drink before leaning forward slightly, voice dropping to a teasing lilt. “Plans change.”

And then—he winked.

Stiles froze, his face turning a dangerous shade of red. Scott, mercifully, stepped in to save him. “We were just gonna look for Allison,” Scott said, his tone amused but casual. “You and Stiles have fun.”

Scott gave Stiles a quick thumbs-up before disappearing into the crowd. Stiles didn’t even have time to glare at him because Y/N stepped closer, his body brushing against Stiles’ arm.

“Come drink with me,” Y/N said, reaching out to grab Stiles’ wrist.

The contact burned in the best way possible—Y/N’s palm was warm, his fingers rough and strong. Stiles’ heart nearly leapt out of his chest as Y/N tugged him toward the bar, weaving through the crowd with a casual ease that made Stiles’ brain sputter.

They ended up with shots in their hands, Y/N grinning like he’d won something. “Cheers,” he said, raising his glass, his fingers brushing Stiles’ again in a lingering, deliberate way.

Stiles swallowed, his eyes locking onto Y/N’s. “Cheers.”

They downed their drinks, and Stiles coughed, the burn of alcohol scorching his throat. Y/N laughed, leaning into him as they both stumbled slightly. The motion brought their faces close, their foreheads nearly touching.

“Careful there, lightweight,” Y/N teased, voice low and warm.

“Careful yourself,” Stiles shot back, trying to sound confident even though his brain was short-circuiting.

The music shifted, deepening into something heavier, darker. Y/N turned toward him, his grin softening as he tilted his head. “Dance with me.”

Stiles barely had time to process before Y/N’s hands were sliding around his neck, their bodies aligning as though they were made to fit. Stiles’ own hands found Y/N’s bare waist, his fingers brushing over the smooth skin. He swore he could feel the heat radiating off Y/N.

They moved slowly at first, the beat thudding like a heartbeat beneath their feet. Stiles’ gaze dropped again—Y/N’s shirt was long gone, tossed somewhere near the bar, and all that was left was miles of skin and muscle, flushed pink from the heat and alcohol.

Teeth marks, Stiles thought helplessly. I want to leave teeth marks right there.

Y/N’s fingers curled into the nape of his neck, drawing him closer until their foreheads nearly touched. Stiles could feel Y/N’s breath on his lips, warm and faintly sweet.

“You’re staring,” Y/N murmured, his voice low and teasing.

Stiles didn’t even pretend to deny it. “Can you blame me?”

Y/N laughed softly, the sound barely audible over the music. “No,” he whispered. “Not really.”

Their movements slowed, more swaying than dancing now, the space between them nonexistent. Stiles tightened his grip on Y/N’s waist, his thumbs brushing slow, deliberate circles against the bare skin. Y/N shivered slightly under his touch, and Stiles grinned, leaning in just enough that his lips brushed the corner of Y/N’s jaw.

Y/N sucked in a sharp breath, his grip on Stiles’ neck tightening.

“I should’ve dragged you here sooner,” Y/N murmured, his voice soft but charged.

Stiles smirked, letting his hands slide a little lower, teasing the edge of Y/N’s waistband. “Better late than never.”

Y/N didn’t respond—not with words, anyway. Instead, he leaned in, their lips hovering dangerously close, the tension between them so thick it felt like it might snap.

And Stiles was perfectly fine with that.

He closed the distance between them, pressing his lips firmly against Y/N, his grip on the other boy’s waist tightening and pulling him closer - till they could completely feel each other. It was electric, the way they fit together, their bodies moving instinctively.

As Y/N’s hands held Stiles face, their tongues intertwining in a dance of its own, a feeling of euphoria rushed through him, like nothing else existed. Just the two of them, their breaths mingling and hearts pounding together in sync.

It was perfect.

When they finally pulled away, both boys were flushed, breathing heavily and staring into each other's eyes. The intensity between them was palpable, and as they slowly began to regain their composure, they couldn't help but burst out laughing.

"That was... unexpected," Stiles remarked, chuckling slightly.

"You're telling me," Y/N replied, a slight blush spreading across his cheeks.

Stiles bit his lip, glancing up at him. "So, are we doing this?"

"What do you mean?" Y/N asked, raising an eyebrow.

Stiles smiled, leaning in and gently pressing his lips against the other boy's, before whispering, "Let's get out of here."

They left the club, their fingers intertwined and their hearts beating rapidly in anticipation. The air was cool and crisp, and as they basically ran down the street to Stiles’ jeep. The tension between them was growing with every passing moment, and it wasn't long before they wouldn’t be making it do bed.

Pushed against the jeep, Stiles Stilinski and Y/N, kissing hungrily. Y/N was pinned against the car door, their tongues fighting for dominance. They were both moaning loudly, and it was obvious that the sexual tension between them had grown too much.

"We're not going to make it to the bed, are we?" Y/N murmured against Stiles's lips, his voice breathy and heavy with lust.

"Hell no," Stiles growled, pulling y/n off the car, hurriedly slamming the jeep’s back door open. They fell into the backseat, their limbs tangling, and the next thing they knew, they were kissing again.

It was passionate and messy, the air between them filled with nothing but heat and desire. They were both panting and moaning, their hands roaming each other's bodies, exploring every inch. Stiles took a moment to pause and just admire Y/N … in his car … he was so ready to ravage that body.

“You’re drooling sexy,” Y/N said as he winked, sending Stiles a smirk.

Stiles wasted no time in dragging his lips down the other boy's neck, pushing the other on his back. His skin was warm and soft, and as he reached the collarbone, he bit down, drawing a loud moan from y/n, whose hands snaked their way grabbing & tugging at Stiles’ hair.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he breathed into y/n’s neck, running his hands over y/n's bare chest and torso.

He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his chest, and Y/N squirmed beneath him as the other’s tongue flicked across his nipple. He then moved to the other, sucking and nibbling. Y/N arched his back, letting out a string of whimpers.

"God, Stiles..."

Y/N bucked his hips up, desperate for some friction, but Stiles held him down, pressing him further into the car seat. His mouth continued its trail downwards, stopping to nibble at y/n's hip bones, biting, bruising and - marking.

Y/N’s already had a fucked out expression, one that Stiles was coming to love.

Y/N’s hands sneaked under Stiles’ t-shirt, roughly yanking it off.

“You’re sure getting needy,” Stiles said smirking as he dragged his tongue across Y/N’s v-line again, placing gentle kisses on the burning bruises, licking occasionally - making y/n arch his back his pleasure and pain.

"You're so good with your mouth," Y/N moaned, his eyes shut tight as his fingers tangled in Stiles' hair.

"Oh, trust me. You haven't seen anything yet," Stiles muttered, his voice low and husky.

Y/N let out another moan as he felt Stiles' fingers hook on the hem of his boxers, sliding them down painfully slow. Once they were discarded on the floor, he immediately turned the other around, gently smacking his ass.

Y/N gasped, a moan escaping his lips as the pain slowly turned into pleasure, making him rock his hips back, his cock rubbing against the leather seat.

"Fuck your ass is so juicy,” Stiles growled as his hands squeezed Y/N’s ass, spreading them apart. He leaned down, blowing gently against his hole.

"Please," Y/N breathed, his body shivering. "Stiles, please."

Stiles smirked and licked a wet stripe along the crack, tasting Y/N, hearing him moan loudly.

"Oh my God," Y/N panted, his fingers gripping the car seat. "Please, Stiles."

"Begging already, huh?" Stiles whispered, his voice dripping with lust. "You're so fucking sexy."

Stiles leaned forward again, this time letting his tongue slip inside. Y/N's legs shook, and he let out a long moan, his cock leaking onto the seat.

He continued to fuck the other with his tongue, his finger slowly creeping up the crack, teasing his hole, as his other hand grabbed y/n’s dripping cock.

"You taste amazing," he groaned, stroking the other.

"Fuck, Stiles, I'm gonna cum," Y/N whimpered, his legs shaking.

Stiles pulled away, his lips red and swollen.

"I don't think so, sweetheart," he said, his eyes glinting.

He flipped y/n around, pressing his lips against the other cock deep-throating it hungrily. Y/N's body arched, his eyes rolling back.

“Fuck STILES Oh MY GOD!” Y/N squealed arching his back as Stiles continued furiously bobbing his head, his finger gently massaging Y/N’s hole.

"Shit, fuck, I'm gonna cum!" Y/N screamed, but Stiles had other ideas.

He quickly pulled his mouth away from the other, leaving him a whimpering, horny mess, as he pushed a finger into his hole.

"Please, please, I need to cum," he begged, his eyes pleading.

"You'll get to," Stiles promised, leaning down and sucking on his nipple.

Y/N was practically sobbing, his body convulsing. "Please, fuck me, please," he begged, tears streaming down his face.

"You're so fucking hot," Stiles muttered, pushing another finger inside.

Y/N cried out, his whole body shuddering as he came hard, his cum spraying all over his stomach.

"Fuck, that was hot, and I haven’t even gotten started yet," Stiles breathed, his cock twitching.

"Stiles," Y/N gasped, his chest heaving. "I need you to fuck me."

Stiles smirked, his hand running along the other's length.

"You're such a dirty slut, aren't you?" he teased, pressing his fingers into the other's entrance.

"Please," Y/N begged, his face flushed, with the most fucked out expression every, the kind that made Stiles’ hard on HURT even more.

Stiles pulled his fingers out, and pushed them in repeatedly, thrusting, and curving his fingers. Y/N was writhing and panting, his cock already hard again, his prostate sending waves of arousal through him.

"Fuck, I can't wait any longer," Stiles growled, unbuckling his pants as he licked his lips.

Y/N got up, grabbing stiles arm pushing him down. Straddling him and rubbing his ass on his raging hard on.

"Fuck me, How are you so huge,” y/n said panting as the other positioned himself.

"You're the one who's going to take all of this," he growled, grabbing y/n by the hips.

Stiles bucked his hips, his tip prodding but not entering the other's hole.

"Fuck, stop teasing," Y/N said, his voice trembling.

"Beg for it," he whispered, his fingers digging into the other's flesh.

"Please, please, I need it, I want it, fuck, please, Please let me ride you! I want you I want you so bad," Y/N whimpered, his legs shaking.

Stiles gave him a wicked smile and slowly bucking his hips, entering the other with his tip, and slowly letting himself fill the other.

"Ah, fuck, you're so tight," Stiles moaned, his hands gripping the other's waist.

"Ah, ah, ah," Y/N whimpered as he felt the other fill him up, stretching his walls, his body tensing.

"Oh my god, fuck, you're so big," Y/N groaned, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

"God, you feel so fucking good," Stiles grunted, his fingers digging into the other's hips, spanking his ass as hard as he could.

Y/N moaned, his eyes rolling back, his body shivering.

"Please, please, harder, fuck me harder, oh my god," he whimpered, his voice a low whine.

"I'll give you harder," Stiles grunted, spanking the other, as he began thrusting into the other with full force.

"Fuck, you're such a slut, aren't you?" he groaned, his nails raking across the other's back, unconsciously drawing blood.

"Oh, fuck, please, yes, fuck me harder, harder," Y/N begged, his body tensing, his cock throbbing.

"That's right, beg for it," he growled, spanking the other again.

Stiles’ hands moved all over y/n’s body, as if he was making a mental map of every inch of him - and now it all belonged to him. His fingers gently played with Y/N’s nipple, causing him to squirm.

"Fuck, you're so hot, so beautiful," Stiles murmured, his thrusts growing more erratic, y/n struggling to keep riding at such a pace.

"I'm gonna cum," Y/N panted, his body trembling, his toes curling.

"Not yet, not yet, I'm not finished with you yet," Stiles grunted, his grip tightening. As he pushed y/n onto his back.

"Wait, what, are you gonna-"

Before he could finish, Stiles was pushing the other's legs apart, his tip brushing against his hole.

"Oh, fuck, yes, yes, yes," Y/N moaned, his body arching.

"Such a good little slut," Stiles said, grinning down at the other, his cock throbbing, as he entered the other's hole.

"Yes, yes, oh my god," y/n panted, his hands gripping the leather seat.

Stiles thrust deep and hard, his tip brushing against the other's prostate, causing him to scream, his whole body spasming.

"You like that, don't you?" he grunted, thrusting deeper, harder.

"Yes, oh god, yes, please, please, fuck, don't stop, don't stop," y/n begged, his body shuddering, his legs trembling.

"So tight, you're so tight, fuck," Stiles moaned, his hips slamming against the other, his balls slapping the other's ass, his grip on the other's hips almost painful.

"Harder, harder, fuck, fuck, please, fuck, oh my god," Y/N cried, his face twisted in pleasure, his cock dripping, as Stiles slammed his prostate with his thick 10 inches.

"Such a slut," Stiles grunted, his nails digging into the other's thighs.

"Yes, fuck, I'm your slut, fuck, I'm your dirty whore, please, I'm your fucking slut, fuck me, use me, oh my god, please, fuck, oh god," Y/N whimpered, his words incoherent, his mind spinning, his whole body shaking.

"I'm gonna cum," Stiles growled, gripping the other's hair, as he bit down hard sinking his teeth into y/n’s neck again -

| his thrusts growing erratic.

"Cum in me, cum in me, please, fuck, I want it, I want it," y/n begged, his legs wrapping around the other, pulling him closer, his hands clutching the leather seat.

"Take it," Stiles growled, thrusting his full length deep into the other's tight, hot hole, as he shot his load inside.

"Fuck, fuck, yes, yes, oh god, fuck," Y/N panted, his eyes rolling back, his legs quivering, as the other filled him, his whole body shuddering with orgasm.

They stayed like that for a few moments, both of them panting, sweaty, and breathless, their bodies glistening in the dim light and sweat.

"Holy shit," Stiles finally managed to say, still not pulling out of the other, his cock still twitching, his breathing ragged.

"Yeah," Y/N panted, his eyes still unfocused, his face flushed.

"That was..."

"Fucking amazing," Y/N finished for him, grinning, his hair matted, his body drenched.

"Yeah," Stiles said, his chest still heaving.

"Yeah," Y/N agreed, his breathing beginning to steady.

"So, what do we do now?"

"Well, we could always go again," Stiles said, smirking.

"I like the way you think," Y/N said, laughing softly.

(Author’s Note: RINSE AND REPEAT BITCHES ! Thank you for reading ! This was originally written for my Stiles x male oc reader Story: ANOMALY. So please don't be shocked if I reformat and edit to put this smut into ANOMALY! THANK YOU FOR READING )

CHECK OUT ANOMALY ! From my master list in bio!

[psycherprince]

The first Percy Jackson book had an interesting concept that combined the island of the lotus eaters (from the odyssey, for those familiar- essentially an island on which people forget who they are/why they are there/how long they've been there/etc) with a Las Vegas casino (though specifically written to be kid-appealing bc you know. It's a kids book. Most 12 year olds aren't interested in roulette afaik.) and the main characters spend like... a week inside it, only thinking it's been a few hours? The main character catches on when he talks to another kid who fully insists that it's 1986 (or so, iirc).

Two books later they meet two kids who recently escaped the lotus casino after being there since 1940-something, which is in itself a fascinating concept, but that's beside the point

Thinking about the New Vegas Dead Money DLC. We need more horror set in casinos

[angelic--kitty]

*ringing the dinner bell* hi kitty I cooked, obligatory ask in your inbox to post it 🤭

party girls!mavuika and xilonen x inexperienced!reader

warnings: smut (minors/ageless blogs dni), wlw content, xilonen and mavuika are sorority party girls, reader is an inexperienced nerdy college girl, fingering, cunnilingus, exhibitionism, dom!characters x sub!reader

a/n: everybody say thank you @myfriendscallmebun for these yummy thoughts. love you, pook

Imagine being in a polycule with Mavuika and Xilonen- specifically being the cute nerdy inexperienced college girl that’s getting sandwiched between these two popular sorority party girls

Mavuika preferring to take you out clubbing for the night- pulling you to dance with her on the dance floor under near total darkness, save for the neon colored strobe lights occasionally illuminating the provocative way she has you pulled against her.

She’ll pull your back to her chest, hands roaming up and down your body in such a way that she’s practically groping you- and you don’t have much objection when she slips her hand under that miniskirt she picked out for you.

It’s so loud and claustrophobic in the club, you’re thankful that not even she would be able to hear your moans from the way she’s curling her fingers inside you so deliciously, although you’re amazed no one seems to notice, or if they do, that they don’t care.

Mavuika isn’t shy about letting others know that you’re her cute little girlfriend, and that no one else could ever have a chance with you- not with the way she’s making you cum on her hand like this.

Xilonen on the other hand, enjoys dragging you along to the frat parties and house parties she frequently DJ’s at. She prefers the less intense lighting, the free booze, and the shitty party snacks that get left out in the kitchen.

When she’s not at the turntables she’s usually got you pushed up against a couch so she can do bodyshots off of your stomach. Her favorite part about house parties is that it’s usually easy to grab your arm and drag you off to one of the bathrooms as soon as she gets turned on.

She’ll pick you up like you’re nothing and perch you on a bathroom counter so she has plenty of room to kneel down and lap at your cunt like it’s the first thing she’s drank all night. She takes her time dragging her tongue over your clit, her fingers massaging that gummy spot inside of you so slowly it’s almost torturous.

Even your climax with her is long and drawn-out; a stark contrast to the fast-paced thumping of the music you can still feel resounding through you.

And if you thought parties alone with them were bad enough, be prepared for when they take you out together; Mavuika pulling you against her at a frat party, your ass practically grinding on her hips while her fingers assault your cunt. Xilonen watching intently from her perch at the turntables, fiddling with the music so she can time the bass drop to the moment you cum all over Mavi’s hand.

They’ll trade places, Mavuika coming in to take over while Xilo takes a break between sets- tugging you along to a spare bedroom so she can start eating you out while you’re still shaky and sensitive.

Once a playlist gets set up, Mavuika is coming back in to ensure that by the time you leave, you’ll be a sobbing and shaking mess <3

Mavuika pulling you into her lap on the bed, hands shoved under your shirt and playing with your chest while Xilonen shoves her tongue in and out of your hole. Xilo leaving scratches all over your thighs while Mavi is leaving hickies on your neck.

They’ll pull a mirror in front of you so you can see how that mascara Mavuika helped you put on is running down your face as Xilonen draws another orgasm out of you with her mouth.

[drivenaxl86]

[maiamore]

MILLER ASSOCIATES

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female!Reader - No Outbreak

Rating: 18+ | W/C: 5k-ish

Summary: A one-night-stand with your boss at the firm you work in turns out not to be such a good idea. Tags: lawyer a/u, alcohol, colleagues to lovers type, breeding themes, able bodied reader, joel being a southern sweetheart, creampie, p-in-v, unprotected sex, mentions of anal, mutual pining, dual pov, dry humping

A/N: very much suits inspired, had to get this out of my head PREQUEL | MASTERLIST

A rhythmic, low bass filled your senses, thrumming against your ears. All the chatter & laughter from the crowd blending into each other, forming one singular noise. 

The stickiness from the floor dragged across the ball of your strappy heels. Causing you to wince in displeasure. Thankfully, you’d had enough to drink so it’d dulled the pain of wearing heels all night—you supposed going to town on those cocktail shots wasn’t all that bad now. 

The growing chants of the countdown filled the air, the giddy excitement was almost contagious. 

Pushing past the wave of swaying bodies, you’d locked on to the figure ahead of you, the only sure thing in the nauseating strobe of lights that grounded you. Briefly, that figure disappeared within the crowds. A slight panic surged through you. 

You’d taken a couple steps forward, scanning the crowd. Just when you were on the verge of giving up, a warm hand guides you out with a swift tug by the back of your waist, pulling you against a leather clad wall—or well, chest. 

You blinked a few times. Joel, who was quietly ahead of you, gave you a look. Letting you step back a little. “Keep up.” He said. Or, you thought he said by the ways his lips moved. His hands assuredly tightened around your waist this time. He wasn’t going to lose you through the crowd again.

“Okay.” Your voice competed with the chaos around you—countdown timer flashing on all the screens situated in every corner of the room. The reality was bleary at best, you’d definitely drunk enough to scramble the rational side of your brain. 

He wasn’t looking at you anymore. You’d followed his gaze to the bar's back door. 

As soon as you’d stepped out of the bar, the chilly air outside hit you like a force. Sobering you up, barely. 

This was happening. 

Joel’s hands flattened against the back of your waist. Thumb soothing you from the decision you both made in the heat of the moment earlier. You could feel just how needy he was just by how touchy he was. 

This was happening. 

“Wait.” Your panicked voice interrupted his movements when he dipped his head to your level. “...Let’s..let’s just establish the situation before we actually do this.” You managed. Earning a confused look from him.

“I came on to you. And..I kissed you first.”

Deep brown eyes settled to look into yours. A slight scoff leaving his stupid pretty pouty lips. 

“This ain’t Law & Order, darlin’.”

Even with nothing but the residual glow blue neon signage illuminating above you both beneath the moonless skies, you could see it in his eyes that he’d been waiting. Way past his limits. His usually assured voice came out barely restrained. 

Joel could tell by your less than amused expression that you weren’t fuckin’ around. You needed an acknowledgement from him.

“Yeah.” Backtracking, humour lost in his words now. A much more complicated sentiment taking its place. 

 “Alright. Sounds good t’me.”

You’d exchanged a look of mutual understanding. As sure as you could’ve been with your current combined blood alcohol levels. The same hand on your waist gently turning your body around. 

That was how you found yourself getting fucked against the walls by your boss. 

6 Months Later

After that anomaly in your offices’ New Year get together nearly half a year ago, you both swore you’d never bring it up again. It was just too complicated to unpack you said—at least that’s what you told yourself.  

He’d been more than happy to oblige. Which stung somehow.  Maybe you were just too afraid to deal with the implications of what allowed you both to indulge in something that was hugely just the tip of the iceberg. Or maybe he just didn’t want to create a workplace imbalance. Maybe. The thought had always gnawed at you, the idea that he might’ve regretted whatever happened even though he showed no indication of it.

Tension ran high in the law offices of Miller Associates. There’d been some sort of situation. You figured. You weren’t all that concerned, yet.

“You didn’t hear?” An obnoxious noise crept up from behind you. Interrupting your concentration. “What?” A sharp gasp filled your lips when your chair had swiveled, your colleague, Serena, leaning down towards you. “The case you’re working on! With Mr Miller.” Her voice a mere whisper. “Someone fucked up. Big time. The settlement was voided.”

A chill ran down your spine. “What? When?” You said a little too quickly. Grabbing your phone in a haste. A single notification glowing on your phone.

Fuck.

“Dunno. I just heard Mr Miller was at Wheeler’s trying to work out a deal. Someone leaked information—”

You were on your feet even before she could finish her sentence. This was officially your problem now. You’d been on the case with Joel for weeks.

What was supposed to be a straightforward division of assets—a separation of a couple's joint built company—quickly unraveled. Someone had leaked sensitive information to the opposing counsel's client, costing the firm its leverage in negotiating the settlement.

“Get Leighton out. Make shit up. Do whatever the hell & buy us some fuckin’ time.”

Joel’s voice carried through the halls. A silent look shot towards you to drop whatever pointless errand the other associates tasked you with. Warily, you trailed after him. It was a rare sight to witness Joel frayed. 

His normally slicked back curly hair was visibly in disarray. 

So he looked perfect even when he was about to lose his shit. Great. 

You’d noticed the lack of his tailored jacket or vest. Navy sleeves rolled up snug around his forearms. 

This wasn’t like him at all. 

He dragged his hand down his scruffed jaw as he remained on the phone. Not even looking back to see if you were following. He just knew. 

“Need you on this.” He’d gestured to the stack of documents that lay on the edge of his wide dark oak wood desks. Bringing the phone up to rest against the edge of his shoulder. 

You took a few steps ahead to pick up the stack of papers. The initial settlement documents for the Leighton versus Anders proceedings.

“So you want me to look through it again, find the discrepancies. Get references—“

When he’d finally put the phone down to look at you, you were already focused. Your gaze hadn’t lifted while you flipped through the papers. 

“No need for the subtitles, darlin’. Do what you have t’do. Get me somethin’ by 11.”

That frustratingly smooth southern drawl in his tone made it sting even more when he’d rendered you an idiot that easily just for asking.

Nodding, you glanced over to your watch with a tilt of your wrist. 4pm. So two hours till the end of work and another four hours tomorrow. Seemed pretty doable. 

“Okay. I’ll get back to you by the morning.” 

“No. 11pm, tonight.”

“What?” A breath of disbelief that blended into your exclamation left your lips. He hadn’t responded. Merely raising a brow at your confusion. 

“I can’t. I have plans—“

“So cancel.” 

He’d said it so matter of factly like it was the most natural next step, you’d brought your hand down. The papers crumpling slightly in your grip. It didn’t help that some part of you admired how easily he got people to do as he wished. Well. You’d have known that first hand. Evidently. 

You couldn’t trust yourself to speak then. It would probably start with something like listen here you fucking inconsiderate shit.  

Mumbling a begrudging got it, you got started as soon as you head back to your cubicle. 

JOEL

Joel Miller was a man who’d thrived on setting specified routines for himself, following rules set in place in his life. He had to. It was what kept him sane despite everything that came his way. 

Wake up, 0700. Shower, 0715. Breakfast with his daughter, 0800. Office by 0900. 

He was off rhythm today. It was only the start of his bad mood. He couldn’t kiss his little girl goodbye before she headed off to school, skipped breakfast and had to drive over to the other end of Manhattan to deal with a literal growing trash fire. 

The deal was called off by 0800. He’d lost one hundred and twenty five thousand dollars by 0830. 

He couldn’t lose his shit just yet. It was his last name, his fathers legacy, staring back at him in bolded letters of the building. 

He was aware that his intense presence had everyone on high alert, though some part of him was grateful he supposed that when it came down to it, his employees were on the ball. 

And then…there was you. 

Fluttering around helping everyone. Back and forth, through offices of his associates, to the secretaries. Arms always full with stacks of papers you delivered even when you didn’t have to. 

Six months ago, you’d officially wrecked the part of his life he’d carefully built walls around. If he was being honest, you already had two years ago when you’d joined the firm as a paralegal. 

“So you want me to look through it again, find the discrepancies. Get references—“

Good girl. 

He thought. He’d known the sort of person you were. Always compartmentalising. He wasn’t sure if you’d thought about him the way he’d thought about you still. Fixated on the little furrow on your brows as you concentrated on the documents. Lips slightly pursed. It wasn’t that long ago he’d had the privilege of feeling the heady sweetness and the softness of your lips. 

“I can’t. I have plans—“

Yeah. I know you had, sweetheart. 

He’d heard it all when the other ladies, in the break room, had been squealing at the fact that Marcus from Mergers & Acquisitions had asked you out at the cafeteria. 

Fuck. Did you need a probable cause to fire jerkoff, always wearing suspenders, Marcus? He probably could. Shouldn’t though. 

Admittedly, he had some sort of satisfaction that he actually had a reason to keep you around his orbit. 

PRESENT

It wasn’t like you wanted to go on that date with Marcus. He was a little too egotistical for your tastes, always flaunting his Dior clothes and that obviously second-hand Patek Philippe watch like it was his entire personality. But you were at your wit's end. You needed to stop moping and pining over the one amazing sexual encounter you had all year.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair and stretching your arms above your head. The lights flickered overhead, casting harsh shadows across your face. The glow lulled you—finally allowing yourself some reprieve with a brief shut-eye.

“So..so pretty.” His voice came out in rough whispers against the back of your earlobes. It sent chills down your spine. 

He’d hoisted you back up against him with a grunt. You could feel his thick cock filling you up even deeper. A rough hand coming up to cradle around your forehead so it wouldn’t have to touch the walls. Even when you had been so out of it, his attentiveness heightened every nerve ending of your body. 

His other hand slid downwards to give your clit much needed attention with a swipe of his thumb. “Been so good f’me—…ah..fuck. Shit.” A sharp hiss leaving his lips when you’d clenched around his cock subconsciously in overstimulation. 

You couldn’t trust yourself to speak. Feeling his fingers tip you over the edge. Whining against the arm that held you firm. “Can’t—…t’much..”

“I know baby, you can give me another one, can’t you?” You could feel the purrr in his words. Gently pressing over the bulge on your stomach where he could feel how deep he was fucking into your soft pussy. Praises littered into your skin that felt like kisses. You nodded with renewed desire to give this man anything he'd asked for. 

You’d lifted your head up from where it’d rested against your palm. Snapping out of your daydreams at the familiar voice calling your name. 

You blinked a few times, registering the office’s law library’s attendant. “Are you okay, honey? I have to leave now.”

You offered a polite smile. “I’m good, see you tomorrow Mrs Balmaceda.” 

You’d looked back down at the piles of books across the desk. The coldness of the library—evident by the building's foggy condensation outside the windows. Your exhaustion was finally catching up to you in the worst ways possible. Briefly glancing around at the amber overhead lights, illuminating the books tucked in large floor to ceiling bookshelves. 

You’d inwardly sighed at the lack of references you had yet to find—grabbing the paper, scribbled with names of references that Joel had neatly written on it. You pushed past the attached ladders.

This was going to be a long night. 

—

“This book..isn’t even supposed to be here.” You grumbled at the lack of care of the people who’d haphazardly shoved books into the shelves in places it didn’t belong. A stack grew in your arms, piling up the wrongly filed books. Taking it upon yourself to reshelve it. 

“Are you supposed to be the librarian now?”

You’d nearly jumped out of your skin at the sudden voice from behind you. Books nearly slipping out of your hands, you’d acted quickly enough to stop them. Twisting your body to see the intruder. 

JOEL

“Make sure she eats dinner and packs her books fore’ bed. Thanks Tommy…’ppreciate it.”

He’d ended the call, leaning back in his chair with a fist over his eyes. Not a single thing had gone the way he needed it to. He pushed the stacks of paperwork on his desk, blue ink that curved with the initials of your name on a document stared back at him. Confirmation that you were quite literally the only one other than him to have read the settlement papers.

He covers it with a stack of files. As though he didn’t quite want to face the truth behind it.

—

“Anything to show me yet?”

Barely able to register the object coming towards you, you awkwardly managed to catch the can of black coffee hurled towards you. Even with his odd way of showing it, you felt it. The care. 

You’d trailed behind him. Eyeing the slump in his shoulders now. “Yeah. Couple of things in the settlement we can take advantage of because of the disparity,” you explained. 

The sound of the can flicking open caught your attention. Watching as Joel took a swig. You swallowed. Holding the unopened can tightly in your palms. 

Instinctively, your tongue darted out to wet your lower lip as your eyes lingered on the subtle movement of his adam's apple, rising and falling with each swallow. Your gaze trailed downward, drawn to his collarbone, partially revealed by the undone top buttons of his shirt.

You would’ve told him that you didn’t like black coffee. But you’d pretty much lost the window to say anything by now. That didn’t matter. You needed something for how dry your throat felt. 

You’d open your can of coffee. Taking sips of the bitter liquid to quench the metaphorical desire building in you. 

“Looks good enough. Two or three more references would do.”  

He’d noticed the brief look of disgust on your face as you took another sip. Raising his brow slightly at your conformity. “Not much of a coffee person, are you?”

“Not really, no.” You admit. Sitting down across him by the chairs. He’d been flipping through the stacks of papers with you. Hastening the process a little more. 

A quiet silence filled the air between you both. You’d have been okay not to acknowledge it. But Joel didn’t want to let it. 

“What did you do?” He offered after a couple minutes of silence. You furrowed your brows at his words. “...Over the weekend, I mean.”

Since when did he care for small talk? 

“Nothing much. I’ve been studying for the LSAT’s again.” He’d hummed in acknowledgment to your words. Observing you and your little quirks. 

He’d noticed. You had a preference for the blue sticky tabs in any paperwork you did for him. When you’d been really concentrated, you opted not to speak. 

“Again?” He questions. 

“Again.” You repeated. The word leaves a bitter note on your tongue. “I’m not…I don’t test well.”

That earned a frown from him. He’d figured you got a little twitchy at times, but you had heart. 

“What about you?” You’d tried to fill in the awkward silence after that. Trying to change the subject now. “What’d you do?”

It was as though your question caught him off guard. As though you’d interrupted his line of questioning that seemed to build up to something. “A play—…my daughter had a play, in her high school.”

You’d actually lifted your head up at his words. You were paying attention now. Something about your silence prompted him to continue. A daughter. You didn’t know he had a daughter.

“I was thinkin’ these kids were going to do some..Shakespeare thing. And then—...Sarah walked on stage as some blonde girl. From that movie.”

“That movie?” You repeated. Brows knit together. 

He lets out a sigh. “The movie.” He repeats. His expression mirroring yours, hand gesturing vaguely as though to mortalise the words in his head. “Girl gets hit by a bus at the end…” He manages, in deeper thought. His thumb swipes the bottom of his lips in concentration.

You weren’t sure if you were paying attention after ‘girl gets his by bus.’ He may as well have had a sign on his forehead to say, “kiss me please” with the way he’d been bringing attention to it.

“I wanna say…it was somethin’ bout’ some girl named Caddy. Kayde?”

You were confused at first. Eyes widening. 

“Mean Girls?”

A sigh of relief left his lips. As though it would’ve bugged him all night for not being able to remember. “That’s the one.” He says finally. 

An amused scoff left your lips, the combined laughter of yours and his filled the silence in the room. Ignoring the fact that high schools nowadays didn’t quite care about literary classics, you were more focused on the fact that Joel seemed chillingly human. It was breaking through the carefully built mental barriers you had in place. Your ability to shove any lingering feelings—with the excuse he was just your boss didn’t quite matter anymore.

You didn’t realize how much you’d been staring at his every movement—how he just looked softer. 

—

A considerable amount of time had passed, the both of you working together in sync to get the last of what you needed. You’d been eyeing Joel, his weariness evident in the constant furrow of his brows—or in the way a few curls had fallen effortlessly against his forehead.

You shouldn’t be thinking about him like this anymore. What was it about a man looking so damn attractive when their life seemed to be falling apart?

“How did things go with Leighton?” He inquires. Rudely interrupting your thoughts.

You’d stopped for a moment. Why was he asking this now?

You swallowed thickly. Feeling your nerves fray. Your current demeanor wasn’t lost on Joel. He’d been looking at you carefully. Despite your best efforts, Joel studied you enough to understand your behavior in his entire time knowing you. 

He'd spent all day untangling the mess, he was asking this out of courtesy at this point.

“Good…there weren't any issues.”

“I’m askin’ you, since you were the last person to see her.” 

“..I—“

When he’d repeated your name firmly, you tensed. It was far too late to keep up with hiding the fact now. He just wanted to hear it from you directly.

That you were the reason why the initial settlement was thrown out the window after you told Leighton about Ander’s infidelity yesterday. It was purposefully withheld from her during the proceedings.

But then…you’d seen Anna and how tired she looked. One look at her and you knew that she deserved all the facts. 

“Tell me you didn’t, sweetheart.” The way he said it churned your guts. Of course he’d already been aware–some part of him wanted to believe otherwise.

You’d pressed your lips into a thin line. Not daring to look up. You could feel the way he’d been looking at you. How disappointed he would’ve been. 

When you had looked up, however, disappointment wasn’t what you found. In the times you’d known Joel, you’d observed him and his little quirks. 

You’d noticed. When he’d tried to practice patience in withholding his anger. His jaw ticked. 

“I thought I was doing the right thing.”

The sigh he let out had you looking at the ground. It was a feeling not unlike the sinking weight of having utterly disappointed your parents. “You went behind my back.” His tone devoid of any kindness. 

“I did the right thing.” You repeated. Firmer now.

“You’re fuckin’ deluded if you think you did the right thing, darlin’.”

That stung. Far more than you’d expected. Joel’s anger had been simmering over the edge. Minutes from saying something he shouldn’t have. It wasn’t just betrayal he’d felt, it was his naïveté in trusting you completely. 

You knew you’d made a mistake. You knew. You should’ve apologized and moved on because he was right. But the words spilling out from you was anything but. The venom laced in his tone was not something you liked in the slightest. It’d rubbed you raw, a blooming pain that bled through the wake of your recklessness.

You’d gotten up abruptly. Grabbing the list of documents you’d needed from the archive room. The hastened clacks of your heels against the carpeted floors was soon joined by the low thud of Joel’s oxfords.

“You know.” He began, his voice trailing closer behind you.

“Through all this bullshit I still expected some level of humility from you at the very least.”

His footsteps grew closer. It was clear that he had no plans to let you get away with everything. Not without an acknowledgement to what you’d done. 

You’d attempted to shut the door behind you, but Joel’s hands came up to wedge through the archive rooms doors to let himself in.

Your pace quickened, stepping into the room tucked in the corner of the library. Situating yourself between the metal racks. Stacked with dusty boxes of old case files. Barely lit by fluorescent lighting that hadn’t been changed in years.

He’d repeated your name. A little louder now. 

“The hell do you want me to say?” You snapped back finally. 

“Something that isn’t an excuse.”

You felt your own anger take the place of the supposed humility you were supposed to feel. You hated this side of him, pushing, cornering, intimidating people into submitting. You rifled through the boxes. Feeling his quiet presence overwhelm you, demanding an answer from you. Words bubbling up like word vomit, you couldn’t stop them from spilling.

“It’s not an excuse.”

“Are you that much of a sociopath that you’re sacrificing ethics and morals over getting a fucking payout for the firm?” You breathed out. Whipping your head around to look at him. “Is that what you wanna hear?”

“This isn’t about ethics or morals!” He’d raised his voice. Louder than he’d intended. No, he was more hurt that you didn’t trust him enough to handle it. Didn’t trust him enough to let him know before going behind his back. He would’ve done anything you’d asked. But you hadn’t.

“I should’ve known better than to trust a damn paralegal with helping me.” He’d felt regret even as he spoke, but he couldn’t help it. “I was fucking naive to think you were more. That you had something—“

“I was a goddamn fool to think that some kid who couldn’t even pass the LSATs could be trusted.”

Your heart twisted at his words.

“Did that make you feel better, Joel?” Your tone was laced with an equal amount of bitterness. “Come on. Tell me what else you fucking feel.” Challenging him. He had a feeling this wasn’t all you’d held back on. 

The air went still. He’d known he’d gone too far when he’d said it. But you weren’t upset at the fact that you’d both been exchanging words that were intended to hurt each other, but because all you’d managed to say were shit neither of you meant.

All you could think about was how you’d felt. About him. About all the feelings you’d forced yourself to swallow down. 

“I don't need to hear it. I don’t need to hear how much you’ve regretted it.”

“You know damn well that isn’t what I’m talkin’ bout’.”

Did you regret it? Did you regret sleeping with me the same way you regret trusting me with the case?

The unsaid words that couldn’t leave your lips hadn’t gone past him. Despite it all—the residual anger was still there—Being clouded by his wants that bubbled up whenever he was around you. The want that was being amplified now that all he could hear was your breathing and his.  

Your eyes traced his features carefully. Not being able to swallow down the anger and humiliation that churned in you. Threatening to consume you whole. You knew he blamed himself for how you seemed to be falling apart. It was all in the subtle furrow of his brows, the faint twitch beneath his eyes, and the way his deep brown eyes locked with yours. 

He’d stepped forward the same time you had. 

Hands coming down to maneuver you against the shelves. His hand gripping around your waist, dipping his head lower to finally kiss you. It wasn’t slow, or careful. He kissed you like he’d been wanting to for months. You met his kisses with the same intensity—stumbling backwards to catch your footing. Both hands cupped around the base of his neck. You tilted your head to match his movements, the weight of his palm cradling your jaw securely.

Not giving you a chance to catch your breath. You sighed into his lips slowly & he’d drunk it all in—your lips slotting perfectly against his. He’d stepped backwards, panting, like you were. Looking for a sign that you didn’t want this. You’d clumsily yanked his tie off, answering that question for him.

It was quiet at first. All but the rustling of him throwing his jacket off and you attempting to unbutton your blouse in unison—You didn’t like the silence. The last time you’d fucked he was vocal, with praises singing into your skin. 

So when he’d finally grabbed you, legs slotting between your thighs, your gasp broke the practiced silence. 

He was a man on a mission. He needed to make you come, needed to drink in the sweet saccharine noises you made. The very thing he missed in those six months that haunted him whenever he’d heard you speak. 

He tugged you tighter, rocking you against his thigh. Encouraging you to rut against him. You’d whined in his grasp. Your hips tilting to grind against the fabric of his slacks. Tipping your head back, the ache grew. The friction wasn’t enough. This wasn’t enough. You wanted to feel him. 

His bigger hands casing your jaw—tutting at your struggle. “…Sh—…shh shh. I know. I know.”

You gripped around his forearms. Tip toeing, you tried to angle yourself just right so your pussy could feel the friction of his thigh properly. Your hips stuttered, feeling him notch your needy pussy right against him with his guidance. He’d tilted your jaw up so you'd maintain eye contact with him. Your lips parted wider, feeling the steady pleasure build in you, your clit stimulated in all the right ways.

“Needy baby, workin’ so damn hard—“ He’d leaned in, tracing the curves of his nose down your jawline. “C’mon sweetheart, need you to come f’me, need you to feel good.” Muttering against your neck. It’d sent shivers down your spine, drinking in the praises that had followed after what he’d said.

“Look at you, pretty…pretty..pretty, pretty.” His wanton sighs against your neck. 

His other hand sliding upwards, kneading your tits over your clothes. You’d whined a little when he’d lifted up your blouse. Tugging your lacy bra downwards to free your tits. Head lowering so he could suckle on one. Low vibrations of the rumble in his own grunt of pleasure in seeing you feel good reverberated against you. Steadily massaging the softness while his other hand thumbed over your nipples. 

How was it possible that this man knew you more than you’d known yourself?

You’d felt the build up hitting you faster than you’d realized. Your thighs had given in—quivering in the wake of your release. “Atta girl.” He’d leaned in and gave you an appreciative kiss, smiling against your lips. His palms circled around your hips to turn you over before you’d known what had hit you. 

Your head rested against the cool metal of the shelves, catching your breath from the intensity. His thumb traced over the dampness of your panty hose. Groaning at the sensation of how turned on you were just by grinding pathetically against him.

“This wet already, desperate lil’ thing.” He mumbled. Placing a few kisses against your pulse point.

A hand slid down to knead the globe of your ass. The sight of you earned a hum of admiration from behind you. If only you’d known just how many nights he’d spent, fucking his fist, thinking about the sight of your pretty ass fucked to the hilt that night.

He hooked a finger over your panty hose, clicking his tongue at just how inaccessible it’d been. You felt a cold gust of air followed by a ripping sound. You didn’t have time to reprimand him when the sensation of two fingers tentatively slid up your clit, down to your slick folds—effectively shutting you up. Wiggling your hips backwards, you attempted to urge him deeper. 

He tutted once more. Pressing down on your lower back to hold you in place. Reminding you on patience. Not that you even cared at this point. Your eyes widened at the sensation of his thick fingers finally sliding into your aching cunt, scissoring through the tight valleys of your velvety warm pussy. You’d let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

You found yourself whining. Growing frustrated. He’d let you move back against him, your pussy sucking his fingers back in everytime he pulled it out just a little. Your senses hyper focused on chasing the release you felt yourself closing in to once more. A loud clunk caused you to snap your head up, catching the sight of him unbuckling his belt over your shoulders with a half-lidded look. 

“Back t’reality sweetheart? Ain’t done with you, far from it.” He gripped around his lanyard to toss his security keycard over his shoulder. Holding you secure and snug on both sides of your waist.

He could come just from the sight alone.

You felt the heat of his cock slide against your folds, gathering the slick that had him slipping back out every time he’d attempted to fuck his tip into your pussy—Earning a gasp from both Joel and yourself when he did manage to notch his cockhead in.

“Fuck me, sweetheart, it’s a slip’n’slide out here.” 

You looked over your shoulder. Frowning through your fucked out gaze. He chuckled, a sound that only made you throb all the more. He’d raised a hands up in defense at your glare.

He guided the base of his cock with a firm grip—feeding you his cock. Inch by inch. 

You gripped tightly against the shelf. Eyes rolled back at just the sensation of him filling you up after he’d been such a goddamn tease. You’d managed to catch him off guard by grinding backwards, he hissed at the tightness of your pussy, choking him like vice, forcing him to bottom out in you.

A low groan leaves his lips at the sight. Head lolled to the side at how perfect you fit against him. His hips began to rock steadily around you, not even having to move much with how you were eagerly bouncing against him. 

He smirks at the sight, leaning back to observe. Allowing you to set the pace. Gently rubbing down both sides of your hips as a soothing gesture. 

Joel couldn't handle it any longer. He needed to fuck you like you deserved. 

“Still owe you an apology, sweetheart.”

You’d let out a sharp gasp when he’d tugged you harshly up against him. His arm coming up across your chest. Anchoring you in place before he starts to jackhammer into your pussy.

“F-Fuck, Joel!”

He gripped underneath your jaw, tilting your head back–kissing you sloppily, drowning your reverent moans into his mouth. He’d set the pace, fucking you hard until the shelves rattled underneath your combined weight. His sweat mixed into yours in the almost intolerable heat your bodies emitted.

You’d probably come again, you didn’t know, didn’t care. Feeling Joel’s grunts and gasps was enough to send you over the edge. 

“Tight pussy’s gonna be the death of me.” He gasped against your neck. Nose rubbing against your cheeks. 

“M’gonna come.” He managed, barely. “Please baby, tell me I can come inside you.”

You mewled at his words. The breathy way he’d practically begged you for permission. Grinding against him in finality–you nodded desperately when two fingers rubbed against your clit. 

“Yes, f-fuck, yes.”

With renewed fervour, he’d buried his head into the crook of your neck—rutting into you until you felt his hips stutter. Feeling his heavy breathing as he held you snug against him, your smaller hands gripped around his hand that was flattened against your chest. He could feel you pulsing in your own release around him and that was enough to tip him over the edge.

He grunted into your shoulder, pumping you with ropes of his hot come. Filling you deep. 

He’d pulled out of your pussy after a few seconds with a slick pop, his thumb swiping against your entrance, two fingers stuffing the come dribbling out back into you. You’d briefly glanced back to see a lazy smile curled up one side of his lips.

He leaned in to kiss your shoulder. Firm hands adjusting your skirt back into place.

“C’mon. I’ll drive you home.”

[chewnotchoke]

yearnings, in every glance.

pairings: bnd taesan x fem!reader x riize sungchan warnings: love triangle, making out, red flags, reader is in their hoe phase, alcohol intake, vaping, jealousy, suggestive jokes note: this is very self-indulgent. sungchan had been running on my mind and i might as well just write smth abt him along w/ taesan. i did not proofread btw..i recommend listening to the playlist while reading! wc: 3.6k playlist: the weeknd - after hours, die for you, reminder, is there someone else, one of the girls, the party & the after party, come through (unreleased)

“wait... you invited taesan?” sungho’s eyes flicked to your phone screen, disbelief widening his expression as he spotted the chat with taesan. his mouth hung open for a moment, processing the bold move you’d just made.

you’d been in the talking stage with taesan for two weeks now, a slow, careful move of interest and flirtation. and tonight, you’d taken the plunge, inviting him to join you at the club for a friday night out.

digging into the depths of your bag, your fingers searched for your hand mirror. finding it, you touched up your lip gloss, the final flourish to your look before stepping into the neon-lit night. the thought of going with sungho brought a sense of ease. though your closest girlfriends would be there too, it was reassuring to have sungho along. he was not just reliable, but also a mutual friend of taesan’s, aware of the subtle, magnetic pull you seemed to have on him. even sungho, who knew your charm well, was amazed. taesan was a tough one to catch.

the moment you crossed the threshold into the club, the pounding bass reverberated through your chest, mingling with the flashing lights to create a heady cocktail of excitement. the atmosphere was electric, heightening your anticipation for what the night might hold. your friends drifted toward the reserved table, their laughter weaving through the thrumming beats. you weren’t one to be overtly extroverted, often finding comfort in the familiar comfort of your friends. 

but tonight felt different. there was a spark of curiosity, a desire to explore a version of yourself that even you rarely glimpsed.

a few shots in, the alcohol’s warmth coursed through your veins, loosening the edges of your usual restraint. some of your friends had already taken to the dance floor, swaying and spinning under the strobe lights. sungho, meanwhile, had found his way to another table, chatting up a girl who fit his type perfectly. you stayed back with a couple of your girlfriends, enjoying the rhythm of the night but feeling a tinge of nerves as you waited for taesan. the mere thought of him, imagining how he might look tonight, dressed with that effortless charm sent a thrill skimming over your skin.

while your eyes wandered around the place, you laid on your eyes to the entrance door where you saw taesan enter with a nonchalant confidence. 

his hair, sleek and dark. his denim jacket, worn loose. underneath, a graphic tee peeked out and his jeans matched the jacket, creating a cohesive look that spoke of effortless style. a few silver rings adorned his fingers, and a slim bracelet rested on his wrist, and the pair of glasses just below his intense eyes perfected the look. (pic here)

your heart raced, a whirlwind of emotions swirling within you, as his eyes met yours. taesan’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile that sent a jolt through your chest. his friends veered off toward their own table but taesan leaned in to whisper something to them before making his way toward you.

as he stopped in front of you, the world seemed to narrow, the pounding music and flashing lights dimming for just a moment. the subtle, intoxicating scent of his cologne wafted toward you. and that scent, so effortlessly alluring, stirring something deep and indescribable within you.

“hi, y/n.” 

"hey," you greeted softly as he slid into the seat beside you. the air between you was tinged with a quiet awkwardness. it was not uncomfortable, but the kind that hinted at the flirting you had for the past days. 

taesan glanced at you, a hint of curiosity in his eyes, and asked if you'd been sitting and drinking for a while. you shrugged, explaining that you didn’t want to burn through your energy too quickly, though your girlfriends and sungho had been making frequent trips back to the table for more shots.

leaning your head against your palm, you watched as taesan’s gaze wandered around the room, taking in the vibrant chaos of the club. your eyes, however, never wavered, staying fixed on him. 

when his gaze finally met yours, he caught the lingering stare. a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. he lowered his head slightly, as if to hide it, but the amusement in his expression was undeniable.

"why?" he asked, his voice low and teasing, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

you shook your head, a playful smile curving your lips as you reached for the bottle on the table. pouring alcohol into an empty shot glass, you slid it toward him. "want one?" you offered.

without hesitation, he took the glass from your hand, his fingers grazing yours ever so slightly. his gaze locked with yours, unwavering, as he brought the glass to his lips, downing the drink in one smooth, effortless motion. a smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he shook the empty glass, raising his eyebrows in playful acknowledgment.

just then, one of his friends appeared, clapping him on the shoulder and urging him back to their table. "hold on, i’ll be back," taesan promised, flashing you a quick smile before turning to follow his friend.

moments later, sungho returned, and soon after, your girlfriends came to pull you onto the dance floor. you took another shot, feeling the warmth spread through you, finally ready to release the energy you’d been holding back. the dj spun a hypnotic mix of the weeknd’s songs. the lights shimmered and swayed in rhythm with the crowd, creating an electric atmosphere that pulled you in.

as the night wore on, heat blossomed on your cheeks, the music and movement carrying you away. but amidst the pulsating crowd, your eyes caught sight of taesan at the edge of the dance floor, chatting with an unfamiliar girl. curiosity stirred within you, not jealousy, but a quiet intrigue. while sungho was too absorbed in dancing with your friends to notice, you continued to move with the music, sneaking glances in taesan’s direction.

then, out of nowhere, you felt a subtle touch on your waist, a gentle hand on your shoulder. the touch was firm, guiding, as you turned around to face someone. it wasn’t sungho.

“what are you so busy looking at?” a familiar voice murmured. 

your eyes lifted to meet sungchan’s, his hands steady on your shoulders. for a moment, you stood there, caught off guard, trying to process. the way the lights illuminated his face made it almost impossible to look away.

“sungchan?” you breathed, the word barely audible over the pounding music, your pulse quickening as you met his steady gaze. 

sungchan wore a plain black t-shirt paired with dark coated pants. his hair is styled in a slightly tousled cut, which was  complemented by a pair of black-rimmed glasses which you noticed was almost similar to taesan’s. (pic here)

a few weeks ago, something undefined had unfolded between you and sungchan, something that wasn’t quite a relationship but felt too tangled to be dismissed as mere casual flirting. he had a way of making you question if you were being ghosted—he'd slip away, just when you thought he had lost all interest. yet, like clockwork, he’d pull you back in, knowing exactly what to say or do to reignite the spark. it was a moment of unpredictability, with no real stability, but somehow the tension between you lingered. and now, as you stood there, staring at him, you felt it again.

sungchan had always shown flashes of interest and glimpses of something deeper. but neither of you seemed ready for anything defined, for anything that could be called commitment. gradually, the texts slowed, the messages less frequent, as if you were both drifting without really trying. still, even as the silence grew, his presence never fully vanished. his occasional heart reaction to your instagram stories, small but telling, kept a thread of connection between you. 

and that’s when taesan entered the picture. you hadn’t exactly been searching for anything serious, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you wondered if it was even possible for you to stay intrigued by someone for long.

now that you were facing sungchan, blocked off any view you might get from taesan and the girl he was talking to, sungchan, catching the direction of your gaze, glanced over at him. 

as taesan’s eyes flickered to the two of you, sungchan couldn’t resist a playful pinch to your cheek, a subtle challenge to keep taesan wondering about whatever was unfolding between you.

“what’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone on the dance floor, hm?” he teased, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the pulsing music.

“i’m with sungho and the girls,” you replied with a casual shrug, as though it had been no time at all since you last spoke. “how long have you been here?” you asked. "just after you arrived. i saw you in line earlier," sungchan replied, his tone casual yet deliberate. you simply nodded, acknowledging his presence with a soft smile. 

before you knew it, he was dancing beside you on the crowded floor. sungchan’s sudden appearance felt almost surreal, yet his energy seamlessly blended with the atmosphere, almost similar to sungho's steady and grounding presence. 

a few minutes into dancing, sungchan leans in close, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs an invitation to step outside. you already have a hint of what’s coming, a subtle tension lingering in the air, so when he takes your wrist gently, you follow without hesitation. the pulse of the music fades behind you, replaced by the quiet hum of the night.

unbeknownst to you, taesan’s gaze has been fixed on you ever since sungchan entered the scene. his eyes reflected a quiet intensity. sungchan and taesan—two sides of a coin, each with their own allure.

sungchan is a master of the game, effortlessly weaving between moments of closeness and distance, keeping you teetering on the edge of curiosity and desire. he knows how to ignite a spark and let it smolder, leaving you wanting more.

taesan, on the other hand, plays no games. his interest is steady and unwavering, his flirtation consistent and straightforward. though it seems like he can give the same attention to other people.

yet despite their differences, one thing remains clear: neither of them, including you, seem ready to venture into the depths of something serious.  

outside a closed store beside the club, sungchan leaned against the glass wall, his silhouette framed by the dim streetlights. he pulled a small device from his pocket, inhaling deeply before exhaling a plume of smoke that curled into the night air. you watched him, a smirk tugging at your lips as a chuckle escaped.

"you still vape?" he asked, offering the device in his hand.

you shrugged nonchalantly. "i'm trying to quit. but since you're being generous..."

just as you reached for the vape, his firm hands gently cupped your face instead, pulling you closer. his breath mingled with yours as he exhaled the smoke directly into your mouth. the boldness of his move left you momentarily stunned. you shook your head in disbelief. sungchan was as unpredictable as ever. you blew the smoke out from your mouth.  

"you dating anyone?" he suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

"huh?" you replied, caught off guard. "the guy from earlier," he clarified, his tone casual but his eyes searching. he was referring to taesan.

"nope," you answered directly. "why?" he asked. you shrugged again, trying to find the right words. "just doesn't feel like the right time yet."

he nodded slowly, though his furrowed brow betrayed his thoughts. "so, you will soon?"

"don't know," you said, your voice soft.

sungchan looked away, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. a faint laugh escaped him, puzzling you further. but as his gaze returned, it drifted from your eyes to your lips and back again.

"wanna leave and go somewhere?" he asked, his hand gently caressing yours as he waited for your response.

before you could answer, a voice called out. "y/n!"

both of you turned to see taesan approaching. sungchan sighed, a hint of annoyance in his breath. "seriously..." he muttered under his breath, his brow arching in disinterest. his posture remained relaxed, but there was a subtle tension in the way his eyes briefly narrowed.

taesan drew nearer, his gaze inevitably falling on sungchan’s hand clasping yours. his expression remained stoic, but the spark of something unspoken danced across his eyes. “hey, taesan. what’s up?” you asked, trying to break the sudden tension in the air.

taesan’s eyes flicked to yours, then shifted briefly to sungchan. his lack of amusement was palpable. “sungho’s looking for you,” he said, his voice steady but edged with something that felt like urgency. it was only then you noticed sungchan’s hand still entwined with yours. gently, you slipped free from his grasp, feeling a momentary pang of awkwardness.

“sungho?” you echoed, tilting your head slightly.

taesan gave a curt nod. “mhm. let’s go inside.”

you glanced at sungchan, “i’ll be back in a bit,” you said softly. he nodded, offering a smile. “sure, i’ll wait here,” he murmured, but as his gaze shifted to taesan, the warmth drained from his expression, leaving a cold, unreadable mask in its place.

taesan trailed behind you as you wove through the crowd, your destination clear—the table where your friends gathered earlier. the thrum of the music reverberated through the floor, and your gaze swept over the scene: your girlfriends perched on the seats, laughing, while others swayed freely on the dance floor. yet, sungho was out of sight.

“where’s sungho?” you asked taesan, your tone light, almost curious.

taesan ran a hand through his tousled hair, the gesture casual but charged with something unspoken. without a word, he guided you upstairs, his grip firm yet gentle, leading you to the secluded vip area. the corridor dimmed as you followed him into an empty room, the door clicking softly shut behind you. you thought, or perhaps hoped, sungho would be waiting.

but deep down, you knew better. you had known from the start, ever since taesan had stepped outside while you were with sungchan, his gaze never wavering from a distance.

a chuckle escaped your lips, the situation unfolding in a way you found both amusing and intriguing. “you could’ve just told me you wanted me all to yourself, taesan.” you teased, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

taesan’s eyes shifted, his playful demeanor shifting into something far more intense, a fire burning beneath the surface. “can i do that?” his voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of his desire.

you tilted your head, a nonchalant nod giving him all the permission he needed. he studied you for a heartbeat longer, his breath hitching, the air between you charged with anticipation.

“then,” he murmured, stepping closer, his words barely audible but filled with unmistakable intent, “can i have you for myself right now, y/n?” 

instead of giving him an answer, you leaned into his face, parting your lips on his with deliberate intent. his hands cupped your face, thumbs grazing your jawline, while yours tangled in taesan’s hair, tugging him closer, deeper, pulling him into you like a lifeline.

his mouth was soft but demanding, lips parting slightly, brushing over yours with a desire that made your pulse quicken. you responded in kind, lips moving with an eager, almost frantic rhythm, tracing his mouth with your own.

taesan’s hands roamed lower, sliding over your neck, down your spine, pulling you flush against him. the heat between you was unbearable, each shift of his body was a sign of how much he needed you. one hand slid to your waist, fingers digging into your side, tugging you even closer, while the other found its way to your thigh, fingers curling around it possessively.

your lips moved faster, more urgently now, each kiss building on the last, deepening with need. his breath came in shallow gasps against your mouth, his body trembling slightly as if he too was losing control. you moaned softly, the sound muffled against his lips, and taesan responded with a groan, pressing harder against you, the intensity between you both thickening, overwhelming.

and then you stopped. you gave him a reassuring smile telling him, “that’s enough for now.” his chest fell in and out heavily and his eyes became softer, like a puppy asking for more. but he didn’t beg and push you for more. right before you open the door to get out, taesan’s hand settled on your wrist. 

“what is it?” you asked. 

“just in case you’re wondering…i only came because you’re here.” he says, a tone of reassurance hinted in his voice. and all it did was make you smile as you cup his cheek with your hand, your thumb gently grazing over his skin. 

both of you emerged from the vip room and returned to the table, where sungho was waiting. his eyes narrowed in suspicion as he directed a short, sharp nagging your way.

"you keep disappearing. why are you with taesan?" his gaze flicked between the two of you, probing for answers. you offered none, brushing off his concern with a casual deflection. "i’m going outside for a bit," you said, already turning to leave.

but taesan wasn’t having it. before you could take a single step, he blocked your path, his expression soft but firm. "you’re really going?" his head tilted slightly, and there was a quiet plea in his sparkling eyes, as if asking you to stay.

"i’ll be quick," you murmured, offering him a faint smile before slipping away. sungho was left behind, puzzled, while taesan’s disappointment lingered in the air like an unspoken wish.

outside, just as promised, sungchan stood waiting. he was surrounded by a small crowd of friends, but the moment he spotted you, he maneuvered to a quieter corner. as he exhaled, the thin mist whirled in the air, curling off his lips, with a faint hint of smoke lending a strange appeal. his glasses sat comfortably on the bridge of his nose, highlighting his features with a certain charm.

leaning casually against the wall, he radiated an irresistible confidence.

in that moment, your thoughts betrayed you, consumed by a wish and an impossible longing—for both sungchan and taesan to be yours.

“fuck my life.” you hissed under your breath.

his confident smile faltered slightly when his eyes landed on your slightly smudged lip gloss, though he tried to mask his reaction. "you're back," he said, his voice warm but tinged with a hint of concern, as if he had noticed more than he was letting on. sungchan gently wiped the smudged gloss from your lips.

"you know," he murmured, his thumb brushing against your skin, "you look even more beautiful when you're a little undone."

the way he said it, with a hint of vulnerability and desire, sent a shiver down your spine, making your heart falter in a way you hadn't expected. you took a step back, trying not to falter much more. “sungchan…” you started. 

“i’m going to date taesan.” 

you expected a flicker of surprise, maybe even a hint of hesitation, but sungchan was calmer than you anticipated. instead, a small smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. “how can you date him if you still can’t stop thinking about me.” he teased. your heart skipped a beat because, deep down, you knew he was right. thoughts of sungchan still crept into your mind, wondering what could have been if things hadn’t ended the way they did.

“that’s not true,” you protested, furrowing your brows, annoyed by the smugness in his tone.

“don’t lie to yourself, y/n. i’m the only person you think about when you touch yourself at night. am i wrong?”

you couldn’t help but roll your eyes and laugh, brushing off the tension with a casual wave of your hand. “thinking about you doesn’t make me as wet as when i think about taesan,” you shot back.

sungchan raised his hands in mock surrender, shrugging. “whatever you say.”

gathering your resolve, you met his gaze with a steady one of your own. “i’m serious about taesan. don’t reach out to me anymore.” you offered him a final, insincere smile before turning on your heel and walking away.

back inside, your eyes scanned the room until they landed on taesan, seated with sungho at your table. taesan’s face lit up with a small grin as he watched you approach, his gaze sweeping over you with quiet adoration. “taesan,” you said softly, stopping in front of them. “will you take me home tonight?”

sungho’s eyes widened in surprise. “what?!” taesan’s smile grew, a spark of amusement dancing in his eyes. he glanced at sungho, a knowing look passing between them. “sungho, may i take your friend home tonight?”

“i—yeah! of course!” sungho stammered, still looking a bit bewildered.

a silent sense of anticipation filled your heart as you and taesan went hand in hand. the two of you still had a lot to work out, layers of each other that had not yet been revealed. there were many unknowns on the way ahead, but for some reason, you weren't frightened. rather, it made you excited.

you secretly hoped that taesan would be the one to firmly ground you, the one who would push you to give your all without hesitation. you had the reassuring hope that choosing him was the start of something genuinely valuable, even though the future still seemed uncertain.

please let me know your thoughts through reblogs, comments, or asks! thank you so much for reading <3

[yungistiny]

camgirl ═ chapter seven

[ S. Mingi ]

chapter seven: the L word

╚═════════

summary: mingi just really needs some cash and he was told all he had to do was hold a camera. simple enough. he just didn’t anticipate the type of content he’d be helping to create

warning: emo mingi, stoner mingi, switch mingi, switch reader, mingi is hung, creampie, unprotected sex, choking, spanking, masturbation, rough sex, degradation, size kink, spitting, deep throating, possessive mingi/reader, public sex

pairing: mingi x afab/reader

genre: smut, angst, drama, romance

word count: 2.9k

chapter six

chapter eight

masterlist

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“That’s like your fourth one.”

San watched Mingi, slowly and clumsily roll another blunt. Gladiolus , the big black cat, was curled up in Mingi’s lap, his girlfriend’s cat being left in his care while y/n was gone out of the country, visiting her real mother in the US for the last two weeks.

And San’s best friend was moping.

Mingi had been fine those first few days, kept himself occupied, stayed high. By the fifth day, he was getting agitated. It’s been over a month since he met y/n and he had grown a little clingy, a little possessive. He needed her. He missed her.

They tried phone sex but it just wasn’t the same. It was nothing like the real thing. Y/N fingers just weren’t long enough, not thick enough like Mingi’s own.

Mingi’s hand just wasn’t warm enough, not wet enough, like being buried inside his girlfriend’s tight cunt. He even rewatched their old streams and it wasn’t enough, no matter how hot it was for Mingi to watch himself fuck her.

“She’s supposed to be back in a couple of days, stop being dramatic.” San teased him, going to finish getting ready, dragging Mingi with him who was protesting. “Come with me and Wooyoung to this Halloween party, you need a distraction.”

Mingi was too stoned to care, allowing San to push him into his room, digging through his closet and pulling out an all black outfit, the baggy jeans were dark washed, rips all over them, a black tank top and and a long sleeved black fishnet top. “Put this on, I have to finish getting ready.”

San paused in the hallway, noticing Gladiolus preening while Byeol rubbed her head against him. “I think our cats are dating.”

Mingi peaked his head out his bedroom door, snorting. “You glad you got Byeol fixed now?” He teased, San had been terrified the time he let his precious cat get surgery, he had kept Mingi up all night panicking when the vet had insisted they keep Byeol overnight.

“Oh!” San seemed to remember something, bolting into his room and returning with a black choker, a metal ring hooked on it. He held it up to Mingi. “This was made for that look. And put some eyeliner on, I know you still have some.”

“Why do you have this?” Mingi eyed the choker, slipping a finger through the metal loop on it. It wasn’t exactly his best friend’s style. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.” San told him before disappearing back into his room to finish getting ready.

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The “party” was a massive rave in a club in Itaewon. Flashes of colorful strobe lights danced across the club, bodies in various costumes were crowded together and the music based, so low, so deep, Mingi could feel it like a pulse.

“Wooyoung texted, he’s almost here.” San shoved his phone back into his pocket of the Slytherin costume he had on. Wooyoung was running late, said he had to pick something up.

Mingi groaned when a girl in a blue costume, he really didn’t care what she was supposed to be, tried to dance on him. “I need a drink.” He pushed his way through the crowd towards the neon green lit bar, San right behind him, his apologies towards others going unheard against the loud music.

Mingi was already on his fourth shot of soju, San only having one, when Wooyoung finally showed up. He was dressed like Harry Potter, Gryffindor outfit, glasses and all. “Oh, look at you…” he slipped a finger through the metal loop dangling on the choker, tugging it.

Wooyoung had this teasing, knowing smirk. If only Mingi knew what that choker was used for. He took in his best friend’s boyfriend. The thick black eyeliner, the black painted nails, everything about his look at the moment was gonna send y/n spiraling.

Mingi swatted at Wooyoung’s wondering hand, grabbing another shot of soju as Wooyoung whispered something to San, his lips grazing his ear.

“Have fun.” San patted Mingi on the back, following Wooyoung into the crowd of costumed people. Of course they’d leave him to his own while they go do whatever the hell it is those two do. Mingi rolled his eyes, a buzz finally hitting him, it took a lot to get him drunk. He was a big guy.

“I know you…”

Mingi side eyed the guy that leaned against the bar beside him. “Jeno, no you don’t.” The guy’s friend shoved him as Jeno protested, clearly drunk. “Yes I do! Jaemin, I know him….”

Mingi stared right at him, him and his friend, Jaemin, were dressed like two Squid Games guards, mask pushed atop their heads, eyebrow raised, waiting to hear how this Jeno guy knew him. “SPIKE! MINGI!” Jeno clapped his hands together as if a lightbulb went off in his head.

Oh! Jeno was a viewer of their stream. It seemed Jaemin had no idea what the hell his friend was talking about. “Sorry, he’s wasted.” He pulled Jeno away, Jeno drunkenly protesting the entire time.

Mingi tossed his head back, downing another shot. He had no idea where the hell San and Wooyoung were and he wasn’t exactly getting the distraction he needed.

He just needed y/n.

“Mingi?”

Seriously! How many people were gonna recognize him? He rolled his eyes, ready to tell the person to fuck off….

“Shit.” He was moving from the bar, creating a distance. “Oh, so you’re just going to avoid me? That’s childish, Song Mingi!” Nari was following him.

“Just leave me alone, Nari.” Mingi turned around, towering over her and glaring his eyes at her, the dark charcoal black eyeliner accentuating them, making him much more intimidating.

“What is your deal? Just because my mom has it in her head that I’m gonna fucking marry you or something, it’s not going to happen.” He was harsh, his voice was laced with disdain. Mingi turned around again, ready to just leave.

“I wonder what your parents would say if they knew what you and her do?”

Mingi froze, jaw clenched as he turned back around. Nari had a snide look, shaking her head at him in mock disappointment. “What would your mother say if she knew her son was practically sleeping with a pornstar?”

It took a lot to make Mingi really mad. To push him. It seemed Nari knew just exactly how to do it. “What are you gonna tell them?” He hid the shock he had that Nari knew about the stream behind a mask of unconcern. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of being nervous at his parents finding out the truth.

“That I fuck my girlfriend on livestream? Or,” Mingi smirked darkly at her, his next words leaving him before he could think, before he could truly process what he had just admitted. “that I’m in love with someone that isn’t you?”

Love. That fucking L word! It had been fighting with him for weeks, since he met y/n. Nari gaped at him, scoffing. “As if you even know how to be in love!” She mocked him, clearly hurt at his rejection and words. “You’re only with her because she’s easy and I’m sure it puts cash in your pocket.”

Mingi wished he had more girl friends, he’d let them punch that smug look right off of Nari’s face. “Tell them.” What was the worst that could happen? His dad would scold him but not really give a shit. His mom would probably give him the cold shoulder for a while and certainly never approve of y/n.

He didn’t care. Mingi didn’t need anyone’s approval of who he decided to love. He left Nari standing there in the middle of the crowd, his tall frame leaning against the wall towards the back of the club, eyes closed as he tried to take a minute to calm his nerves.

A hand was touching him, his eyes snapping open, his own hand darting out to wrap around the wrist of the stranger’s wondering one. “Well,” the familiar teasing voice of y/n was like a hit of the best drug. Mingi’s nerves vanished, demeanor instantly relaxing. “that was rude.”

Mingi could only assume she was what Wooyoung had to get before getting there. The grip on y/n wrist loosened but he didn’t let go as he pulled her to him, spinning her around to cage her against the wall. “Are you really here or am I drunk?”

Y/N giggled at him, the hand that wasn’t in the grasp of his own, reaching up to grip two of her fingers in the metal loop on his choker. “I missed you…” she tugged him down with the choker, their lips brushing. She had, really, really missed him.

Mingi wasted no more time kissing her, melting into her, fingers interlocking together as y/n pulled at the choker with her other hand. Mingi’s arm reached for her waist in the very short dark red dress she had on, his touch scorching through the fabric.

“Nice costume.” Mingi grinned, tugging at one of the black cat ears atop her head. Y/N tugged at his choker again much like he had once done to her. “You gonna make me purr?”

Y/N had come home early because….. maybe she was having some….. attachment issues, her mother’s words not hers. Her mother had teased her about Mingi, wanting to know everything about her daughter’s new boyfriend. Telling her mother about him only made y/n miss him more.

“The ears stay on.” Mingi smirked, a crooked smirk that fell into that crooked smile of his. “So does the choker.” Y/N tugged it again.

Fuck.

Mingi missed her.

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“Shut the door!” Y/N mumbled against Mingi’s lips as he carried her into his room. They didn’t need either of the cats trailing inside with them. Mingi closed it with his shoulder, lips trailing down to y/n neck.

“That phone sex shit has nothing on actually feeling you….” Mingi practically growled against the cleavage of her breast, tongue darting out to lick his way back up to her throat, giving him one of those beautiful moans he loved hearing from her.

“No teasing…” y/n was impatient tonight, she needed him. Two weeks was way too long going without him. Mingi smiled against her neck, kissing it before placing a kiss back on her lips.

Y/N looped a finger into his choker, holding him close, her other hand grabbing at his short hair, tugging his head back so she could look down at him from her spot still in his arms, legs wrapped tightly around his waist, prominent bulge hard and pressing against her ass.

“You look so fucking hot.” And he did. Y/N couldn’t wait to see his eyeliner smudge from sweat and exertion. Couldn’t wait to see what beautiful fucking mess he’ll look like when he’s done with her.

Mingi loved the praise, a moan leaving him. He sat her down on his bed, both of them making quick work of their clothes, Mingi pulling one of the fake fluffy black cat ears still atop y/n head.

Y/N reached a hand out, wrapping it around Mingi’s length, his dick twitching in her grasp. “No teasing…” he repeated her words from before, crawling atop her, y/n back hitting his mattress with a little gasp, hand still stroking him.

Mingi felt like a fucking virgin again, her touch against him so sensitive, a whimper left him. Her hand definitely felt better than his own. He kissed her to muffle his moans, thrusting into her touch. “Fuck…. I need to taste you…”

“I thought we said no teasing?” Y/N nipped at his adams apple. “I lied.” Mingi flipped them, y/n squealing losing her hold on him. She made a moment of contact with his dick before Mingi was grabbing her, moving her up his body until he was holding her right above him, his gaze locked on her soaked cunt.

“You better hold on.”

“Fuck..” y/n leaned forward, hands gripping at Mingi’s headboard as his tongue plunged inside her, his nose angled just right, rubbing her clit with every movement. His grip on her was tight, probably bruising, but she didn’t care.

Mingi moaned at the taste of her, licking his lips as he pulled back just enough so he could speak, voice deeper and much raspier. “Don’t just sit there, I haven’t fucked you dumb yet, baby, ride my race.” He was almost begging her to.

Y/N could barely hold herself up without suffocating him due to how touch deprived and sensitive she was after not having him for what felt like forever to her. How was she gonna ride him?

Mingi pulled her down completely flushed against his face, sucking her clit. She was moving now, moans that sounded much more like cries as she began to grind against him, Mingi growling into her causing a whimper to catch in y/n throat as she came.

Mingi gripped her waist, working her against his tongue as she shook from the crash of her orgasm, making a mess all over his face. “Mingi…. enough…” she was spasming from the little aftershocks his mouth would give her while still trying to catch her breath after coming.

Mingi eased her off him, letting y/n collapse to her knees on the bed. Y/N almost wished they were streaming, that way she could rewatch this moment. He looked like the most beautiful mess she’d ever seen, his eyeliner smudged, face completely covered in her juices and still looked like he could stay drowning in her.

Y/N had come to a conclusion while visiting her mother. A realization hitting her so hard she was afraid to admit it out loud. She was finding it difficult however, keeping her emotions in check. Biting her tongue to keep from saying anything.

Mingi reached for her, pulling the little fake cat ears off her head, easy to not pull her hair with them. Everything about him was suddenly gentle even when at the moment, the choker, the messy eyeliner, made him look anything but.

Mingi could blame it on the alcohol or all the weed he smoked for letting his emotions take control of him. It wasn’t the truth though, he just….. loves her. He’s never been in love before so all these new feelings were new to him and kind of scared the shit out of him.

“I really fucking missed you…” He had her pinned beneath him, both his hands interlaced with her own, arms stretched, held above y/n head. He had to let one of her hands go to be able to reach down and guide himself into her.

They were both moaning in unison as Mingi pushed his entire length into her, the stretch almost as tight as the first time he had her after not being together for the last two weeks. It felt like the most comforting fucking hug Mingi had ever had, like he belonged there, was meant to be here with her.

He’d have to genuinely thank Wooyoung eventually for sending him to her.

Y/N reached up with her free hand, gripping the choker still around Mingi’s neck as he started moving, thrusting deep, slow, taking his time as if he were trying to feel every inch of her as he could.

Mingi was squeezing her hand gently, his other moving to fit his arm under her head so he could wrap himself around her as much as he could, y/n legs holding him snugly wrapped around his waist. He had never made love before but he’s sure it felt something like this.

He brought her up with him, kneeling on his knees on the bed, dick still buried inside her as y/n wrapped her arms around him, both hands gripping at his hair, straddling him.

Mingi’s arms wrapped around her, moving her to ride against him, lips catching the loud whimpering moan leaving her as he kissed her, mumbling against her lips. “You were fucking made for me.”

Y/N pulled back just enough to press her forehead against his own, sweat dampening their skin, her eyes were closed as she felt her orgasm approaching as Mingi’s dick repeatedly hit her wonderful spot deep in her cunt that she was sure her boyfriend made a mission to find every time.

Mingi was watching her through half lidded eyes, wanting to see all of it, all of her. “Look at me.” His voice was soft yet commanding at the same time. Y/N lifted her head back, her legs tightening around him, thighs starting to tremble as she opened her eyes.

“Cum for me.”

And she did, a sobbing mess, shaking against her orgasm so intense, washing over her like a hurricane. Mingi splayed her back down onto the bed as her walls convulsed and clenched around him, his thrusts faster now, harder, as he chased his own approaching high.

“Mingi….” Y/N had just finished gaining her breath back from her second orgasm but she could feel another one already edging, ready to erupt as Mingi buried his face into the crook of her neck, his own breath panting against her damp skin as he pounded, thrusts sloppy as he came, filling y/n cunt full as she too was hit by another orgasm.

His own orgasm coursing through him, heart beating so fast he had no idea how he was still breathing, the words escaping him so fast, so lost in the moment, in her, that Mingi couldn’t stop himself.

“I love you.”

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