#too little time not enough draw ;c;

[flaming-toads]

.

[drpicklesart]

they are going to mehnahnaroo

[maddieandangel]

Had a weird Hollow Knight-related dream a couple days ago, so I decided to draw a major scene I remembered from it dgsgshf

More context will be in the tags, for those interested!

[stickbug-made-entirely-of-spite]

Hiya, friends! ^-^

Here's two quick illustrations of our favourite feathered biped landing after a morning glide (with a twist!) :D

Or, well, two versions of the same illustration lmfao, sketched traditionally in graphite and completed digitally on my phone

This is clearly not Eshra's usual colour scheme, but instead inspired by the Palawan peacock-pheasant! (pictured below)

The first version still adheres to Eshra's already existing colour scheme to some extent, while the second one is made completely with the reference material in mind :]

I did take some creative liberty with the purple iridescence under his wings, as that's not something that exists in either Eshra's design or the pheasant. It felt necessary i order to better tie the brown in with the rest of the colour scheme

I had honestly forgotten completely about the existence of this bird until @so-called-yokai (also the creator of this lovely character, go check them out) brought up the idea of giving Eshra a pheasant-themed makeover, which I obviously couldn't resist ^-^

Not-quite-peafowls and feathered bipeds inspired by said not-quite-peafowls aside, I hope you have a wonderful rest of your day! 🧡

Yours truly, Stickbug 🪲

[wolviensabes]

NSFW Alphabet: Wolverine

a/n: I was excited to write a nsfw version of this because his character was surprisingly fun and easy to write for this. I like Logan because you can really be flexible with how he is in bed. It all depends on preference and writer ofc, but still it was fun to write. Wrote mostly gender neutral, on parts where body is described, I wrote for afab and amab. Not edited please ignore mistakes ty <3

18+ under the cut. MDNI.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex):

Aftercare king.

He knows just what to do, especially since sex with him is normally pretty rough and crazy. He leaves you a mess under him and you're barely able to walk. "Atta girl/boy, princess/prince, up you come." he grabs hold of you and lifts you up, carrying you to the bathroom to get you all clean.

He's a messy partner so you need a shower to get all the sex off you. He leaves you alone to do anything you need privately, but otherwise he's helping you maintain your balance in the shower and drying off.

You're in such a dazed state, you feel dizzy and lightheaded, still a little loopy. He will get you back to bed and lay you down, feeling pride and satisfaction within himself at how he could bring you to such a state. Only he could do that to you.

He will hold you close to him, you feel cold now, his body will warm you up. He likes skin to skin, so unless you want a shirt, he won't dress you so he can feel your softer skin against his own.

The praise he gives you makes you feel so special and worth so much, it helps when you come down from your high, knowing he was satisfied and loved every moment of the act.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s):

I don't think he really has a favorite part of his partner, but I will die on the hill that he likes his partners a little chunky. He loves to grab onto you, he likes how he can manhandle you without worry of hurting you.

Those plush hips and belly drive him insane. If you are afab, your ass draws his hand in every single time and he loves to smack and grab it. If you are amab, he will grab onto your thighs or soft, relaxed chest muscles and squeeze them. Both afab and amab, his hands come around from behind and gently knead your belly.

Logan is a dude so on himself...he holds his manhood very high, and for good reason.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically):

Filthy.

He gets that shit all over the place and he loves it.

He loves marking you inside and out. He loves shooting his spunk on your body just as much but something about releasing inside you makes him somehow cum harder and with more.

He's not that bad taste wise, I mean cum doesn't taste great, but he's not bad. Not too bitter, not too salty, but his cum is thick. And when he does climax, he cums a LOT.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs):

Logan, being a primal mutant, loves scents. It's one of the things that he relies on a lot, and your scent is intoxicating. He steals some of your clothes and smells them, or sometimes he will dive into your crotch and inhale you.

Not exactly dirty, but Logan secretly likes when you scratch his head or mess with his hair after sex. He likes to keep himself up as a tough guy most of the time but when you wind down, even if he's the one holding you, he sometimes scoots down enough to let you play with his hair.

He will move his head where he wants your hand to scratch and leans into it when you reach that sweet spot.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?):

He's over 200 years old, he's got experience.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying):

Literally anything where he can watch you mewl and moan for him.

He also likes from behind or positions where he can watch his cock sink into you with each thrust.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.):

Logan isn't goofy but he also isn't serious. He's open to messing around and with tossing, turning, all sorts of play, it's not going to be serious 100% of the time.

He will chuckle and tease, sometimes funny noises are made, that's just how it is, and you both will laugh a little...but then you get back to it because who can resist?

Sometimes he will play fight you, wrestle you down to the bed and hold you there, with ease, and he smirks down at you trying to overpower him. It's a fun way to rile him up for sex and he enjoys it quite a bit.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.):

Logan is hairy, but not insanely so. I think below he is pretty crazy but he trims it down enough once you two get more intimate. Though he thought it was funny watching you spit out his pubes.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect):

He can be romantic but he is more passionate than anything. He likes to make sure you feel good, and he loves doing it. Once he gets you feeling good, he gets a little more rough and tells you what he likes without shame.

He's very forward, and his communication in the bedroom is immaculate. You wished he were like that outside of the bedroom sometimes, because there's no hesitation, no secrets, he's fully confident and tells you exactly what he wants.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon):

Sometimes he masturbates, sometimes he doesn't. It all depends on how horny he is in the moment.

He'll fist his cock to the thought of you, or since he likes your scent a lot, he will practically inhale your underwear and jerk himself until he cums all over his hand.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks):

Logan...he's kinky as hell.

Dom/sub dynamics drive him up the wall. He loves being in control, manhandling you, having you listen to what he says without fail.

Slight primal play would be up his alley. The playful wrestling and fighting gets him going and he likes to bite and mark you up during sex. Almost looking like an animal attacked you, but no, it was just Logan marking you as his.

Dirty talk king. He is so brazen with his language, whispering it into your ear as he pounds your poor, swollen hole full of another load.

Praise, praise, praise! He loves to praise you and how good you take his thick cock inside you.

Overstimulation/denial, he loves the control. He often makes you cum multiple times before even penetrating you just to hear you cry and whimper for him.

Maybe a slight breeding kink, since he loves the idea of filling you up to the brim with his thick cum, (this goes regardless of afab or amab), he's going to fill you up regardless if it's biologically possible to impregnate you or not. It's just for fantasy anyway.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do):

He will do it anywhere he feels like. He doesn't care who sees. You're his and he likes everyone around you to know it.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going):

I love that most everyone agrees that wearing his clothes makes him fucking feral. He would lose it seeing you in a shirt of his...or maybe even naked and only wearing a flannel. Slowly unclasping each button to make him growl and almost rip the damn thing off you.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs):

He'd never want to hurt you. There are things he likes that might harm you but he doesn't actually want to cause you harm.

He can be rough and he doesn't want to actually hurt you. A spank or choking just enough to get you dizzy is about as far as he would go. Logan would never intentionally try to harm you, especially during something as intimate as sex.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.):

He has a hard time picking what he likes better. He loves diving between your legs and lapping you. But he also loves to see you choke around his thick cock.

Logan loves the dirtiness of it, his dick in your throat and watching you try your best to please him. He loves seeing you choke and gag on him, your face gets so sloppy with spit and cum, it makes him more crazy in bed when he's fucking you.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.):

With Logan it can be 50/50. He can be rough and hard, or slower and passionate. Most of the time he is ensuring you cum multiple times, and then he fucks you into the bed while you cry around his cock. Then, he gives you another orgasm, he cums, and the cycle repeats until you literally can't take it anymore.

Then he cleans you up and makes sure you know how good you were for him. You'll have trouble walking for a few days.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.):

He's down for a quickie, he can make you cum fast when he wants to. However he does prefer to make you whine and beg instead of giving you a solid, quick orgasm unless you really need it.

Sometimes he needs a quick one too, so a fast blowjob helps. But again, he likes to take his time rather than rush it.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.):

He takes plenty of risks. He loves to test the waters with you and experiment with all sorts of things. He's down to try almost anything.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?):

His mutation allows him to have enhanced stamina so be prepared for that.

He can go for literal hours and not be tired at all. His mutation also allows his refectory period to be very short. So...you will be filled to the brim.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?):

I don't think he would have any for himself, but he would start to grow a collection if you had any or showed interest in some. He'd keep them under his bed in his room whenever you wanted to spice things up.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease):

Logan is the king of teasing you. He loves to tease until you can't take it and tears are rolling down your cheeks.

He always gives you what you want in the end, but not without that asshole making you beg.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.):

He doesn't give two shits who hears him, or you, he is loud. He grunts, groans, snarls. Not to mention the insane level of dirty talk he does, and he loves to make you scream out his name.

By the time you're done, you swear half the mansion heard you.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character):

He dirty talks like crazy.

Sometimes he will fuck you when you're wearing his clothes, or when he comes back from a mission, he doesn't bother cleaning up before he storms up to your shared room and he fucks you.

Angry sexxx

He lets out his frustrations from missions as he pounds into you.

"Goddamn slim, stupid fuckin' self-designated leader thinks he can boss me around like I'm nothin' but a loyal scout to 'em." he grunts and snarls with each plap of his hips into you, his cock driving against you. You have no idea what happened on the mission but can you complain? No.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes):

Logan's dick is huge let's get that out of the way.

He's thick, it feels like he rips you open each time he penetrates you and it feels fucking incredible. That also means lots of foreplay~

He's veiny, his cock throbs as he stands erect, and his balls are heavy.

He's a good 8 to 8.5 inches fully erect, the damn thing leaks precum constantly when he's horny.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?):

Insanely high. He will fuck you every single day if he could.

He is down to fuck all the time, anytime. You just have to say the word and he's on top of you.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards):

Logan makes sure you're comfortable before he even attempts to sleep. He stays awake, letting you curl into him and he watches you, making sure nothing he did was too much or causing pain.

Once you seem okay and have fallen asleep, he will allow himself to relax and fall asleep beside you.

Thanks for reading.

*SNIKT*

Tag list: @strawberryshortcake20

Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list by leaving a 🧡.

dividers by @/strangergraphics

[landoughnut]

Made With Love

♡ masterlist - request

♡ pairing - max verstappen x fem!reader

♡ summary - while visiting your boyfriend working, why not bring a little surprise sign you made for him?

♡ warnings - blushy and in love max, drivers and fans teasing max, fluffffff

♡ w/c & a/n - 1.08k | IM BACK 🫶🏻 hehe sorry yall this isn't too great but I gotta get back into the groove so pls send in thoughts or requests bc my minds a blank canvas

Race weekends were always chaotic, but the energy in the paddock today was on another level. Fans packed the grandstands, waving flags, banners, and signs - some are more simple, some are memes of the drivers, yet they were all made with the same excitement for the race ahead.

And somewhere in that sea of people, standing right at the front, was you. Normally, you’d be in with Red Bull but you went over to the fans to join them for the time being. Some had given you bracelets and asked for pictures, which you happily agreed to. 

So here you stand, clutching a sign you had spent way too much time making the night before.

It wasn’t your fault, really. You had been up late, watching Max’s past races for “inspiration” (which was really just an excuse to admire him), when an idea popped into mind. With a few markers, a ridiculously pathetic and cheesy pun, glittery heart stickers, and maybe a questionable drawing of you two, you created what could only be described as likely the most embarrassing thing he would ever see before a race.

“DRIVE FAST BUT NOT TOO FAST, I HAVE PLANS FOR YOU LATER ;)”

You could already imagine his reaction - probably an exasperated sigh, followed by that little smirk he always gave you when he pretended to be unimpressed but was actually very much an attempted cover up of how he falls deeper in love with you. 

The drivers started their walk to the grid, and your raced just a little bit when you spotted him looking impossibly handsome. Max looked calm - focused, sharp, already in his zone - but you knew him well enough to see the tiny traces of nerves beneath the surface. 

As they passed by, you lifted the sign above your head and glanced at some of the fans around you who giggled when they read it.

It took him a second, but then he stopped.

He just… stood there, staring at the sign like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or melt into the asphalt. His mouth was parting and closing again, unsure of how to react, but you just gave him your perfect smile and it made his heart flutter. His ears went pink first, then the blush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks.

“Oh, for f-” Max muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple, but the amused smile on his face betrayed him.

And that’s when the teasing began.

Lando cackled loud enough for the entire grid to hear. “Oh, this is GOLD!”

Before Max could escape, Lando slung an arm around his shoulder, grinning like he’d just won the championship. “So, what’re these ‘plans’ about, mate? Anything we should be worried about? Should we clear the podium early?”

“Do we need to tell Christian?” Charles chimed in, barely holding back his laughter. “You know, just in case he needs to schedule some extra… recovery time for you.”

A chorus of laughter followed. Max groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but the pink on his cheeks only deepened. “You’re all the worst,” he grumbles.

Meanwhile, the nearby fans had caught on fast.

“Oh my god, he’s BLUSHING,” one girl gasped, tugging her friend’s arm.

“He’s practically making heart eyes, how adorable,” another comments, phone already in hand and recording the scene.

Max, looking positively doomed, glanced at you - a mix of betrayal, affection, and desperate pleading. But you? You just continued to smile sweetly with a tilted head.

“You like it.”

“I hate it.”

“You’re literally blushing.”

“I’m warm.”

“Mhm,” you roll your eyes and chuckle.

The teasing didn’t stop as he pulled out his phone and snapped a quick picture of your masterpiece, grumbling something about “evidence to haunt me later.” But before he walked away, he pointed at you, eyes narrowed.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

Your heart did a little flip and you grinned. “Oh, I know.”

And just like that, he was gone, back into the pre-race frenzy - but not before stealing one last loving glance at you over his shoulder.

Later on, the celebration was loud and chaotic. Max had finished on the podium - not a win, but a damn good race - and when he finally found you in the paddock, you barely had time to react before he crashed into you, arms wrapping tight around your waist.

“Enjoy the show?” he asked, voice still breathless with adrenaline.

“Loved it. Thought you might’ve forgotten about my sign, though.”

“Oh, trust me,” he groaned, pulling back just enough to look at you. “Hard to forget when the im being tagged in posts of it nonstop.”

Your brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

He sighed dramatically before pulling out his phone. Everywhere, Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, was flooded with clips from earlier.

Fan tweets scrolled across the screen:

“THE WAY HE STOPPEDDDD LOOK AT HIM. HE’S A GONER”

“If my future man doesn’t hold up a sign like this for me, I don’t want him”

“This man is so down baddd LOOK AT THE BLUSH”

“MAX VERSTAPPEN ‘I’M WARM’ CHALLENGE (IMPOSSIBLE)”

You bit your lip, trying (and failing) not to laugh. “I mean… they’re not wrong,” you poke his cheek.

Max groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re never making a sign again,” he says, although you both know he doesn’t mean it.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, swaying slightly. “Oh, baby, you know that’s a lie.”

Before he could argue, you kissed him, soft at first, teasing. But then he tilted his head, deepening it, fingers pressing into your waist like he didn’t care that people were watching.

Somewhere in the background, some group of fans started shouting.

“Oh my goshh, he’s in love!.”

“Life is so unfair! Where’s my Max?”

When you finally pulled away, breathless, he was grinning like a lovestruck idiot.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, thumb brushing over your cheek.

“And you love it.”

His gaze flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered. “That I do.”

Later, when you made it back to his driver’s room, you caught him slipping the sign into his bag, folding it carefully like it was something worth keeping.

“… You’re keeping that?” you asked, amused.

He shot you a look. “Shut up.” You didn’t push it. But you did smile. He bites his lip, placing it into his pocket, knowing that no matter how many trophies he collects, this - you - might just be his favorite thing he’d ever won.

[dooberific]

❝𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘔𝘳. 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘢.❞

harumasa x afab!reader

genre/warnings: suggestive, nsfw mentions, he’s just a boy loser guys idk what you want me to say

summary: you are order, and he is chaos. He thinks you’re his type, and you think he deserves a good tease for the trouble he’s caused you.

wc: 1.8k

Asaba Harumasa was convinced that Deputy Chief Tsukishiro had made up her mind to finally put an end to his existence.

Now sure he liked to skimp on his paperwork every now and then, or call out sick for multiple days in a row, or do whatever he could to clock out early, or fall asleep at his desk (all things he firmly understands don’t help his case), but this? Convincing the Chief to let her handpick an “executive assistant” to run the Section 6 office like a real prison? He was sure it violated some law against war crimes and torture.

You were everything his existence in the unit contradicted and he knew it from the moment you stepped through the doors of their suite in a perfectly pressed skirt suit and a terrifyingly cool expression on your face.

It was like Yanagi spawned a twin of herself, one that’s sole purpose was to work every kink in the system out by force and relieve the paperwork load so effectively that even the dedicated Deputy Chief was able to clock out of work on time. Your critique was swift and harsh, and the execution of your corrections to the administrative side of their work just as damning. Within a week the sound of your heels clicking on the tiles was enough to draw a fear response out of him and Soukaku (though she was spared more of your wrath and gained your affections, further solidifying his theory that you are yanagi’s more evil twin).

You were order. You were dependable. You were the warden of a paper prison that ruled with an iron fist.

And you were totally his type.

He didn’t even realize it in the beginning, after all, you were like a monster from one of his nightmares. Very little slipped past your keen eye, forcing him into the submission of not cutting corners and actually doing his job. You were particularly hard on him, but he had to contribute most of that to the fact that he resisted the change as long as he could before he lived in fear of the snap of a folder of incorrect paperwork back onto his desk and a disapproving glare on your face.

Maybe it was the fact that you were never inherently mean about things too. You were very fair and worked diligently to boost morale, he couldn’t count the times you footed the bill for drinks after a big mission, and you always offered praise for improvements. You had everyone’s coffee order memorized too, everyone coming into the office bright and early to a hot coffee or tea of their preference already on their desks next to a neatly printed agenda customized to their schedules. Oh, and those tight little skirts you wore over your sheer stockings certainly didn’t help him to not like you, but that was neither here nor there.

The first to arrive and the last to leave, your dedication pretty much knew no bounds, and that’s exactly how he ended up in the position he was in now.

He had made it through his night shift by the grace of whatever powers existed in the universe, and promptly crashed on the sectional tucked into the corner of the office, choosing not to expend the energy to walk back to his apartment when he would have to be at the office first thing in the morning for a big meeting anyways. The plan was to wake up early enough to hit one of the locker room showers to freshen up and get himself looking half decent.

The plan died immediately upon him snoozing his first alarm. Then it shriveled a little more with the second snooze. The third snooze was him digging the plan up to kill it again. By the fourth time he was basically dancing on the grave of his plan and digging his own grave while he was at it, because there was no plan conceived that involved you showing up early.

It was muscle memory triggered by the click of your heels as you entered the suite that shocked him out of sleep as he practically rocketed upright with bleary eyes and a sleep muddled brain struggling to catch up with his body’s dramatic response. It was enough that you fully paused in your tracks, coffee cup hovering millimeters from your lips as you eyed him with thinly veiled confusion.

“Good morning, Mr. Harumasa.”

“Good morning, Miss (y/n).” He yawned out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he squinted into the bright office lights.

While you found it humorous to watch the wheels in his brain slowly begin to turn in real time, the brutal hand of time waited for no one and you were nothing if not punctual. Your lips quirked momentarily as you checked the time, eyes darting from your dainty wristwatch back to your dear newly awakened coworker.

Asaba Harumasa’s lack of care for the precision of his work uniform was a hill you had chosen not to die on from the very beginning. You weren’t the dress code police after all, and he wasn’t so dramatically out of regulation that it irked you or anything like that. Most days. But today wasn’t most days, because most days you had a solid hour of silence to prepare for your day, and he would saunter in fashionably late, pass you some lame pickup line, then slink back to his desk where he promptly assumed the look of a kicked puppy until his paperwork was done and he could leave. He had been so methodical about this routine that this disturbance almost took you by surprise.

Almost.

It did bring you a new challenge however. He looked like a total wreck. His hair was matted on one side while the other dramatically cowlicked out in three directions, there were sleep marks on the side of his face from the couch upholstery, his tie was loosely hanging on to one side just pinned enough by his rumpled collar that it hadn’t fully fallen off, his shirt was wrinkled to high heavens and unbuttoned down to his navel revealing a very well sculpted chest, and were those the outline of abs you were seeing—?

You cleared your throat as you averted your eyes, thanking your lucky stars that he was still half clinging to this side of reality. How embarrassing it would have been to be caught practically ogling his body like some degenerate teenager! You are not one to stare, let alone ogle. It was completely uncharacteristic, you were a dedicated administrative assistant after all, you were immune to anything that threatened the routine flow of your workplace.

Right?

Right. Your carefully crafted defenses had not failed you, and it was simply an undiagnosed heart condition that had rendered you breathless every morning for the past three months as you locked yourself in a stall in the women’s bathroom to calm the hot flush that burned your cheeks and the thundering of your heart behind your ribs at the coy tone of his voice as he hammered you with another pick up line before walking away like nothing ever happened.

This was simply a new hurdle to your morning. Nothing more, nothing less, and you had a duty to perform on the behalf of your entire section to ensure the morning went off without a hitch. Definitely no ulterior motives.

You sighed heavily as you set your coffee and bag down on the edge of his desk before propping yourself upon the flat surface, a hand coming down to tap it impatiently.

“You look like a wreck. Come here, Asaba.”

If hearing his surname fall from your pretty painted lips wasn’t a wake up call for his brain enough, the sight of you in all your glory seated upon his desk certainly was. He practically scurried from his spot on the couch to you as if efficiency was going to save him from the wrath of the office warden, electrifying eyes dancing nervously as he attempted to readjust his tie.

“Take it easy on me boss, I had a long night and—,” he never finished his thought as your manicured nails wrapped around his tie, yanking him forward till his hands braced against the desk on either side of you, caging you between him and his own designated workspace.

This close and he could smell the pretty floral undertones of your perfume as he sucked in a shaky breath, eyes blown wide compared to your own ever-cool expression. You met his gaze, stifling the smirk that threatened your lips.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Harumasa? Not feeling chatty this morning?” You pressed, your thighs parting just enough to slot his body between them.

He really hoped there was a merciful god out there somewhere that was orchestrating all of this, cause he was feeling so damn tired but he was ready to die a happy man between your thighs if you’d let him. He swore your skirt had to be a little shorter today ‘cause how else was that lace edge of your stockings peeking out from under the hem of your skirt? If you slid your leg up a little higher he’s sure he’d get a peek of your pretty thigh fat bulging over the edge of the elastic band snuggly bound around your upper thigh.

His fingers twitched as he felt his blood run south at the very thought, catalyzed by the way you leaned in so close, hands running from his chest to his waistband in a sinfully slow manner.

“Oh, don’t tell me no one’s ever…,” your tone was sultry as your breath tickled his ear, your fingers latching around his buckle as you slid your body closer to the edge of the desk, feeling him shudder as he failed to stifle a nervous squeak.

“Helped you get ready?”

He would love to say that he pinned you to his desk and gave you exactly what you were asking for, that he kissed you stupid as he wrestled that damn skirt up just high enough to press aside those lace panties he just knows you love and sink into your pretty cunt and make you beg for him. That your nails left a burning impression down his back that seared his skin as perfectly as the hot kisses that stained the column of his neck every shade of your favorite lipstick. That the office of Section 6 sounded more like a filthy wet dream straight from a porno than a sterile work environment, and that he would never be able to look at his desk without remembering how pretty you looked bent over it crying for him.

There’s a lottttt of things he would love to say. At this point mostly profanities as he blinked stupidly back at you, your hands busy as you neatly fastened his tie all the way up to the base of his throat, his shirt now perfectly tucked and buttoned as well.

You hummed in satisfaction at your work, hands bracing his shoulders as you guided him away from his desk so you could slide gracefully off it yourself, pausing just to smooth your skirt.

“See, isn’t that better?” You said with pride, swiping up your coffee cup as you took a sip, marching to your little desk in the corner as if nothing had ever transpired.

“Now go fix your hair and get ready for the meeting, the others should be arriving soon.” You called over your shoulder, never looking back in fear of your expression cracking at how bewildered he looked.

Oh, he would certainly be fixing something in the bathroom, but his hair was the least of his concerns right now.

Rey 2024, crossposted to ao3

[angelic--kitty]

𝖈𝖆𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖜𝖊𝖇

𝖋𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖉𝖗𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖗!𝖆𝖗𝖑𝖊𝖈𝖈𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖔

warnings: smut (mdni), wlw content, fem!reader x transfem!drider arlecchino, dark content, stalking, breeding, oviposition, fingering, you're her human pet ♡, collars, arachnophobia, size kink, tummy bulge, nipple play, arle uses her webs to tie you up

a/n: kinksgiving yippee lmao

𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖋𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖐𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖙𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗

she watches you curiously, tied up so prettily in her webs while you squirm around in a futile fashion. your eyes are so wide, desperate, frightened as you struggle, oblivious to the creature watching you.

she creeps forward through the shadows, easily maneuvering through her own webs as she steps just hard enough for you to feel the vibrations and freeze up.

she'd been watching you for quite some time in that little cottage you lived in at the edge of her woods. she planned this perfectly, setting out bait of berries and herbs she knew would draw you in, only to trap you in her sticky web.

it was almost adorable how easily you fell for it. clearly you needed her to keep you safe. little more than a sweet pet, too curious for your own good.

as she revealed herself to you, your eyes almost brightened, and she wondered if you knew she was watching you. perhaps you actually had been hoping she would snatch you up. from how your breath turned shaky, your struggling ceased, she realized you were intrigued.

how... sweet. yet so foolish.

she helped you out of the silky strands, instead cradling your smaller frame to her body, carrying you back to her den. you were so pliant, she already knew you'd make a wonderful mate, and, perhaps, an excellent mother.

you had such a pretty body, such a sweet little look in your eyes when you'd kneel for her, dressed in nothing more than a collar she made for you.

clothes? you didn't need those anymore, right? she kept you warm, ensuring you stuck close to her side, enjoying her body heat while she enjoyed your soft form pressed against her.

and, oh, you were just as soft on the inside as you were on the outside. even better were the sounds you produced when her fingers slid into your sweet little cunt. she learned your anatomy rather quickly, easing the prettiest sounds from your lips as she crooked her fingers into your sweet spot.

"there, there," she hummed, pulling yet another orgasm from you as you shook against her body, feeling her limbs wrapping around you.

"c-can't-" you whine for her, despite your hips still humping against her hand. "too much-"

"hush, human." she merely mumbles, holding you tighter, rubbing her palm into your clit as you squirm. "i must have you ready for me."

your head was fuzzy, but you had enough sense to listen. "ready for...what?"

she pushed her body up against you, letting you feel the hardness pressed up against your back.

oh.

the squeak she received had her twitching, fingers pumping in and out faster. "it's my mating season, pet. we've talked about this previously, yes?"

you dumbly nod, remembering how she'd given you a long lecture on taking and laying her eggs. though, at the time, you zoned out, merely picturing her inside of you.

"good." she praises you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as she slowly pulls her fingers out, savoring the slick you leaked onto them. she picks you up easily, moving you to face her, your pussy hovering over her cock.

it was pretty, but thick, making you whimper when the tip brushed your hole. you squeezed around nothing and she sighs, rubbing herself across your slick entrance. "you must relax, human."

"you're... too big." you admit softly, your voice both nervous and needy. and it has its intended effect, softening the seldom sweet woman as she leans in, pressing her chin atop your head.

"you can take it, i can assure you of that." she pushes the tip into you, hearing you softly moan, grabbing onto her biceps the further she slides in.

she's thick, stretching you out but filling you with a pleasant warmth that makes you feel even fuzzier as you pant, head falling forward and onto her shoulder. "ah-" you squeak, back arched as she pauses, letting you grow accustomed to half her length. "full..."

she nearly purrs, breasts brushing your own as she feels your perked nipples. "there is still more to take." she tells you, but she pauses at your soft noise of confusion. "i...suppose that can wait if you're not ready. there is always next time, hm?"

you nod eagerly, hips shifting on the half of her fitted inside you, already feeling a little bulge in your lower tummy. one of her limbs slides to tease your clit and press on the bulge, earning a cute little yelp from you.

she eases you up and down her cock, little more than a toy for her as she eases just a bit more of her length into you with every thrust. she grunts, feeling you squeezing around her, your slick dripping down her cock and giving the dark flesh the prettiest creamy ring.

just looking at it has her twitching in you, needing to cum inside of you to watch it drip out all the same.

she begins to give you the same lecture on her eggs, though from the way your eyes have gone glassy and the way you begin to beg for her cum, she figures it's lost on you.

her thumb slides to your clit, rubbing little circles until you cum around her like the good pet you are, giving her the perfect opportunity to fuck you deeper, pushing her eggs into you as your face scrunched up, hands gripping onto her while your nails leave indents into her skin.

she groans, clearly pent up from how thick her cum is inside of you, already dripping out of you as your back arches up, nipples at the perfect height for her tongue to flick out and tease them until they're swollen.

she keeps you on her cock, plugging you up and admiring the image of her eggs in your stomach. her hand brushes over them, picturing the perfect family you'll both have so soon... and how she can't wait to do it over and over again just to see you completely fucked out.

her beautiful little pet.

she kisses your forehead, climbing back into her web, keeping you snuggled against her body, plugged up nicely while you fall asleep, pleased and comfortable together.

[anemoiars]

SO INTO YOU. ━ nicholas a. chavez & cooper koch ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

❝ pairing. n. chavez x fem!reader x c. koch ❞

a/n. woof this took long... i hope you enjoy though! let me know if you want a part two (i want to write it so bad but really rough & filthy this time). anyways requests are open just like my legs for these two

.ᐟ warnings. fluff (just nick & coop being cuties & in love!!!), SMUT! making out, soft!dom!cooper, more of a mean!dom!nicholas, slapping?, threesome ofc, oral (fem!receiving), fingering, orgasm denial, sum dirty talk (praise & slight degradation), more fluff :)) wc. 4896

The camera flashes made you slightly lightheaded as you posed, well-trained smile on your face ━ your uneasiness not visible to the paparazzi, but the two men next to you noticed it almost immediately.

Nicholas' hand was resting around your waist comfortably; not tight or low enough to draw attention of the cameramen, but with enough force to let you know that he was there for you.

You looked at Cooper, sweet smile on his face when he caught your eye, the flashes finally coming to an end, and all three of you exhaled with relief.

"I thought it would never end", you pressed your glossed lips together, fixing your hair softly, as you fell back against the chair.

Nicholas laughed at that, sitting across from you, the exhaustion visible in his eyes; he made sure no one was looking before taking your hand into his.

Your relationship with Nicholas was quite... complicated. You were best friends ever since you two met on the set of Monsters. It was you, Cooper and Nicholas, a trio that the internet loved.

Although, you were just a woman. And Nicholas was just a man. It soon evolved into something deeper; something you couldn't quite name. The lingering touches, sleeping on a couch together after an exhausting day on set, sporadic kisses on the cheek, a little too close to the corner of your lips. It would be hard to explain to the general public. You were just friends.

When it came to Cooper, he was the sunshine of your trio. His hugs warm, always making sure you were comfortable in his presence. He was so much different than Nicholas; less bold, always touching you with a glint of uncertainty. They complimented each other so well, it actually started driving you crazy.

You liked Nicholas, and you liked Cooper. Although at this point, you weren't sure if you only liked them. You still felt comfortable around them, but every touch from either of them sent a spark of excitement down your spine, which ━ you hoped ━ they didn't notice.

You had no idea what was happening, but you didn't like it.

Nicholas' thumb traced soft circles on the back of your hand, his eyes warm and welcoming, pretty smile adoring his face. You hesitated before returning the gesture, the loud music and incoherent voices seemed to fade into obscurity as you stared at him. He looked so good that night; a patterned, slightly unbuttoned shirt clung onto his body perfectly, simple black dress pants and shoes, and the god damn cross necklace. Such a simple look, but he looked absolutely flawless. You wondered how he managed to leave you speechless every time he walked into the room. His hair looked messier than usual after he ran a hand through it right after you all left the spotlight.

You shook slightly when you realised you were staring. Nicholas chuckled, shaking his head, hand leaving yours, the sudden coldness making you miss his touch almost instantly.

"You look good tonight", you declared, looking him up and down shamelessly, sly smirk appearing on your face. Nicholas leaned back against the chair, spreading his legs; the sight making your mouth water.

"Could say the same about you, Y/N", Nick rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb nonchalantly. A dangerous glint appeared in his eyes, and you crossed your legs at the sight. Your name leaving his mouth made you shift in your seat uncomfortably, the room becoming smaller in a second.

He didn't lie, though. You decided on a bold outfit, yet modest enough to make an impression. A tight bodysuit with built-in shorts, leaving a little to the imagination; brand new, knee high Naked Wolfe boots that made your legs look longer, and a leather, red coat. Nicholas almost choked when he first saw you, and so did Cooper ━ yet you didn't notice the way their eyes lingered on your body for a little too long.

"You look... fucking hot". You couldn't help but smile at the compliment; his voice sincere, eyes glistening with something you couldn't quite name, playful smirk lingering on his lips. You bit your lip, slightly breathless, playing with the hem of your bodysuit mindlessly. Nicholas' eyes wandered down your body as you did, your curves visible through the thin material, and he noticed that instantly.

"Hey!" Cooper's voice saved you from the heat of Nick's stare as he stepped in. You looked up at him, his presence not helping that much, after all; he looked so good, they both did.

"We have to do some interviews and then we can get the hell outta here", he declared, and you nodded, getting up from the chair awkwardly. A waitress stopped next to the three of you, tray with some kind of alcohol in her hand ━ champagne, you assumed, polite smile on her face. Without hesitation, you took a glass, swallowing all of its contents almost at once.

Nicholas and Cooper laughed when you made a face; it definitely wasn't a champagne. It tasted more like a vodka tonic. Your face twisted in pure disgust at the taste, eyes closing involuntarily.

"Now, slow down, pretty", Cooper said in a playful tone; the nickname made you wish you could drink five more of those drinks. You sent him a glare, small smile lingering on your lips nonetheless.

You heard someone call your name, and you exhaled at the sight of an interviewer waving at you. You exchanged knowing looks with both men before you all walked towards the camera.

A few hours and drinks later, you finally felt your body relaxing. The better part of the event came ━ an after party where cameras were not allowed. You were relieved; the annoying and disrespectful paparazzi followed you like lost puppies, as if trying to capture every single moment of your evening.

You found yourself sitting at the bar, Nicholas and Cooper nowhere in sight. You played with the rim of your glass, the slight buzz finally getting to you, small smile playing on your face.

An image of Cooper and Nick popped up in your head again, and you found yourself thinking about them in inappropriate ways.

The way they'd kiss you, Nicholas more harshly, demanding, almost aggressively. And Cooper? Cooper would take his time, leaving you breathless and painfully turned on when he pulled away. You had no idea which one you liked better. Preferably both, at the same time.

You shook your head, finally deciding on going to search for them. The smell of weed filled your nostrils, and you raised your eyebrows; it wasn't usual for celebrities events to go this far.

Your steps were quite unsure and shaky due to the alcohol in your system, but still confident, as you paced through the crowd of people. You looked around you in search of Cooper familiar curls, but you soon realised it was pointless.

What if they're making out with some random girls?

The thought crossed your mind and you shifted uncomfortably, accepting your defeat as you walked towards the bathrooms.

The corridor was dark, and if it wasn't for the music still playing loudly in the background and the alcohol in your system, you would definitely be scared.

Your boots echoed through the walls, shiver running up your spine at the sudden coldness. You almost screamed when the men's bathroom door opened, and you were met with someone's warm chest.

His smell filled your nostrils, and you exhaled, recognising it right away. Nicholas.

"Already falling for me, doll?", he laughed when you looked up at him, the height difference almost ridiculous ━ even when you were wearing the highest boots you could find.

The corridor was lit only by the men's bathroom dim lightning, and you suddenly felt a spark of excitement run through your chest.

"I was looking everywhere for you!", you declared, stepping away from him, the smell of his cologne making your head spin a little. You studied his face; he seemed completely sober, hair in the same condition you last saw it in ━ so he didn't fuck anyone during his absence. Relief run through your veins at the realisation, small smile making its way onto your face.

"I was looking for you, too", he grinned, and your stomach turned at the sight. "We were just talking about getting the hell out of here. Wanna spend the night?", he asked casually, and even though it wasn't unusual for you to stay over at his place, it felt different this time. You nodded frantically, biting your lip. His cross, gold chain glistened in the dim lightning, and you couldn't help but stare at his chest, hiding under the shirt.

"You know...", you started, your hand moving up before you could register, fingertips lingering on his chest softly. Nicholas stiffened when you met his eyes, and his jaw clenched. "You look really good tonight".

"If you were anyone else, I'd think you're flirting with me", he laughed, but you could feel his muscles tensing when you run your fingers over his chest more confidently now. You tilted your head, wanting nothing more than to feel his skin on yours. "And what if I was?", you challenged, voice teasing, and his hands were on your hips in an instant. Nicholas pulled you close, hands slipping under your loose coat, running over your curves greedily.

"I wouldn't mind", he said truthfully, and you breathed out. He was so close, you could feel his breath on your cheek, and your lashes fluttered at the feeling. "I would say... you look tempting. Making it really hard for me to control myself".

You tensed, hands running over the sides of his neck, eyes never leaving his, and you noticed how much darker they've gotten. With one swift movement, you were against the wall, Nicholas' hand lifting your leg to rest on his hip.

"You have no idea what you do to me", he whispered, his voice low and predatory, as his other hand run over your throat softly.

This will ruin our friendship. These words echoed in your head as you looked deep into his eyes, gaze almost innocent, sending jolts of electricity down to his cock. Any doubt left your mind when you realised that you waited for this for the longest time. Maybe I like him a little too much, you thought, as your eyes lingered on his lips, so tempting. Before he could say anything else, you pressed your lips to his greedily.

You couldn't help the moan that escaped your lips at the contact; your lips moved in a perfect sync, hands roaming over his chest, nails digging into his skin. Nicholas held your thigh, squeezing the soft flesh in his big hand, the other one tangling itself in your hair.

He pulled on it, hard, and you whimpered, the pain on your scalp sending sparks of pleasure straight to your core. He smiled into the kiss, body pressing into yours with force as his tongue found its way into your mouth. One more pull at your hair, and you moaned into the kiss, his tongue half down your throat in an instant. It traced the inside of your mouth, almost as if he was trying to memorise every single detail about it.

He swallowed your moan as you arched into him, eager to feel all of him all over you, his strong hold on your hair only intensifying.

You felt his bulge press into your thigh deliciously; you tested the waters by grinding your hips down, and he let out a strangled moan, the sound making you shiver.

The next second Nicholas' lips were all over your neck, and your head tilted back involuntarily, mouth opening in a desperate moan. That was before you realised you were still on an event ━ public event, and that someone could actually catch you making out in a dark corridor.

You tried to form a sentence, but the words died before you could speak, as he sucked the soft skin on the column of your throat: marking you.

"Nick- we need to-", you tried to explain how irresponsible he was being, but he didn't seem to listen; if anything, he got more eager, pressing you flat against the wall, hips moving forward to grind against you.

That's when he opened his eyes and looked into the darkness surrounding you; and he was pleased to see Cooper standing there, leaning against the wall, watching the little show in front of him with interest.

Nicholas smiled as you pulled at his shirt, playing with the buttons, and he kissed your neck once again just to distract you from noticing Cooper.

"Looks like have an audience, doll", he whispered in your ear, and it took you a second to actually process his words; when you did, your eyes shot open.

"Holy shit", you heard a familiar voice; your eyes widened even more in realisation.

Cooper stood there, in the darkness, and if it wasn't for his voice you wouldn't even notice he was there. He took a step closer, and you were surprised to see that he didn't look mad. He didn't look surprised, either. Small smirk made its way onto his face, eyes dark ━ but it could be all about the shitty lightning.

You bit your lip, not quite knowing what to say. Nicholas took a step back, not a trace of shame or embarrassment on his face; he returned Cooper's gaze, a silent deal made between the two.

You knew Cooper was into guys. You weren't quite sure if he liked girls, too ━ you never asked, partially because you were scared of the answer. His words made you think that maybe he was into Nicholas, maybe he liked him the way you did. You shifted uncomfortably, not meeting his eyes.

"Well, we are finally getting there", Nicholas said, fixing the bulge in his pants shamelessly, and your gaze lingered on it for a little too long. You wanted ━ no, needed ━ more, and getting caught by Cooper of all people didn't exactly help the pulsing between your legs. Nick caught your gaze, playful glint in his eyes, but he looked unaffected. You wondered what he meant, but just before you could ask, he already took your hand and leaded you to the door; Cooper following close behind you.

You were panting, hair messy and lipgloss smudged; most of it stayed on Nicholas' face, though. Your eyes glistened insatiably, his words echoing in your mind like a promise of what was about to come.

You didn't remember the way back to your hotel; when you did get there, though, you felt Nicholas' hand low on your back, Cooper keeping his distance as you walked to one of the boys' room; you couldn't help but wonder if he was mad at what he had witnessed, guilt blooming in your stomach.

Nicholas looked relaxed, though, sending you and Cooper an occasional smile, tracing soft circles onto your back, and you shivered at his touch.

You got to the room 230; you remembered it belonged to both of them. As Cooper unlocked the door, Nicholas' presence behind you like a shadow; you walked in, the tension between the three of you lingering in the air as you made your way to the living room.

"Coop, I...", you started, breaking the silence, as Nicholas disappeared in his own room. The older man didn't look at you when he took his coat off, avoiding your gaze. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't... We shouldn't have...".

You could tell he was holding himself back as he did everything but look at you, pretending to be extremely busy with his watch.

"I'm not mad, Y/N", he ensured; you raised your eyebrows at the sound of his voice. Hoarse, low and quite strangled.

"Then why won't you look at me? Why won't you talk to me?", you whined, the need to confess everything you felt for him now stronger than ever.

He didn't answer. You sighed, a hint of annoyance now clear in your voice.

You stared at Cooper from a safe distance, taking in the sight in front of you. He looked just as good as Nick: simple but elegant, making you sweat like a dog in heat. A black, plain sweater, dress pants and shoes complimenting his tan skin. His long fingers played with the watch on his wrist, and you couldn't help but imagine the possibilities.

You took the coat off your shoulders, the sudden heat all over your body making you sweat uncontrollably. Your boots clicked against the marble floor as you made your way to the couch, throwing the coat on it carelessly.

You took a deep breath before deciding on what to do next.

"Coop...", you turned to him, and he finally met your eyes. "I want... For the longest time, I...".

The weight of what you were about to confess fell on your shoulders with force, words dying in your throat under his intense gaze.

"She wants to fuck us".

Your eyes widened at the words leaving Nicholas' mouth. You turned to him, he leaned against the doorframe, shirt slightly unbuttoned, dress pants still low on his hips. He must've been there for quite a while, watching you struggle.

"I...", you tried to explain, all of it pointless when he smiled knowingly.

You couldn't lie to then and say that he was wrong; but you couldn't just admit that he was right.

"I'm not doing this", you whimpered, embarrassment filling your whole chest, making it hard to breathe.

"You're not doing what? Admitting the truth? It would be so much easier for us to grant your wishes sooner if you were honest from the start, pretty", Cooper got closer to you by a second, and Nicholas creeped in behind you, the room becoming smaller in a second as you realised that they planned all of this.

Cooper tilted his head, his gaze hardening dangerously as he watched you.

Nicholas' chest pressed against your back, and you whined at the contact; your eyes never left Cooper's, almost as if an invisible string was connecting the two of you.

A wet kiss on the side neck was all it took for your knees to buckle. Before you knew it, Nicholas was devouring the delicate skin of your neck and collarbones, his big hands closing on your hips, making sure you stayed upright.

This is so wrong, you thought when Cooper took a step towards you, and, as if he was testing the waters, leaned over to brush your lips against his. Nicholas licked a wet stripe up your neck, and you arched your back, a quiet whimper leaving your mouth when Cooper came closer, pinning you between his and Nicholas' bodies.

"Tell me you want this", he whispered, voice soft, and you tried to nod, but Nicholas' actions on your neck made you slightly lightheaded. "Tell me".

"I- I do", you breathed out. "Wanted this for so long".

You felt Nick smile against your skin as he pulled away just slightly, his bulge pressing against your ass deliciously. Your mind went blank as Cooper finally pressed his lips to yours, his kiss soft but demanding.

Nicholas squeezed your hips in his big hands, and you whined, clawing at Cooper's chest, the urge to feel his skin on yours overwhelming, and Nicholas was back on you again. He cupped your breasts through the thin material of your bodysuit; you moaned shamelessly, biting on Cooper's lip, the taste of him intoxicating.

You were in one of the boys' room in a blink of an eye. Nicholas grinned at you and sat down on the bed, and your lips were back on his in an instant. He tugged at your hair yet again as you started unbuttoning his shirt; the feeling of his chiselled chest under your fingertips almost making you drool a little.

You pulled away, taking the excess clothing off his body, throwing it somewhere on the floor. You looked at Cooper, his eyes glistening softly as he traced his fingers down your back. You couldn't decide whether to focus on him or Nicholas.

Cooper kissed you again, this time more aggressively, pushing his tongue into your mouth for it to tangle with your own; a groan left his mouth at the taste of you as he held you close, tugging at the material of your bodysuit urgently.

You smiled before pulling away, taking off your shoes ━ the height difference even more prominent now ━ before you removed the bodysuit from your body in one, swift movement.

Your back was met with the soft sheets, the boys towering over you, each on opposite sides of the bed. Your chest heaved with uneven breaths, and you thanked yourself for choosing a sexy set of lingerie for the night.

Nicholas' greedy hands were on you, everywhere at once, running over your curves, squeezing the soft skin of your covered breasts. You whined, searching for Cooper's mouth again, and he gladly leaned in, delicate touch lingering on your neck, making sure to leave you panting under him.

"We've talked about it for months", Nick admitted, and Cooper pulled away, nodding at his words.

"We wanted to have you right here, under us, letting us use you however we please", the younger man continued, exposing your boobs with one strong tug at the lacy material of your bra.

You panted when you felt both of their lips on your sensitive skin there. The difference between the two men more prominent than ever now that they were touching you. Cooper's movements were more thoughtful as he pressed wet kisses on the skin of your boob, tongue darting out to circle around your nipple teasingly. Nicholas didn't hold back, biting at the sensitive nub between strong sucks, making you see stars. They complimented each other so well, it actually made you whine and arch your back as you tugged at their hair.

"Holy shit, please", you begged for god knows what, and you almost cried out in relief when Nicholas lowered his head, pressing kisses all over your stomach, before he found the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

Cooper positioned himself so that he could sit behind you, his legs on both sides of your own. He grabbed your thighs, spreading them open for Nicholas; he lowered his head to look at your drenched cunt, a small patch of wetness on the centre of your panties. He hummed, biting the soft skin of your thighs, and when he looked up at you, you felt as if you could come at the sight alone.

Cooper kept one of his hands on your thigh, while the other one travelled up your stomach, between your boobs, brushing against your hard nipples just for a second.

"Are you sure?" he whispered in your ear softly in the exact moment when Nicholas' lips pressed against your clothed pussy. He placed a dirty, open mouthed kiss on the center, and you shivered, head lulling back against Cooper's shoulder.

"Answer him, doll", Nick demanded; voice sharp and dangerously low as he watched the way your jaw went slack, mouth opening in a quiet whimper.

"She sounds so pretty", the older man smirked, and you felt his bulge press against your back. His grip on your tight tightened, and he pressed a soft kiss on your shoulder.

"Nick, please, yes- I'm sure", your eyes opened involuntarily as he moved your panties to the side, your wet cunt now exposed to the cool air around you.

"Holy shit", Nicholas smiled, tilting his head while his thumb pressed against your clit. The touch was barely there, but it didn't fail to send jolts of electricity down your spine. "She's so wet, Cooper. Almost dripping all over my sheets".

Cooper hummed softly right into your ear and you twitched against both of them. They were talking as if you weren't there, and it made you embarrassingly more turned on.

"Yeah?", he rasped, the sound making you shiver against them. One of Cooper's hands travelled down to brush against your puffy clit. You moaned as they both touched you; Nicholas' fingers slowly dipping into your entrance, the wetness coating your walls making it easy for him to stretch you out. Cooper's thoughtful touch graced the button hiding between your folds. His touch so delicate, unlike Nicholas' ━ his fingers moved slowly but steadily, pulling them out almost fully before dipping back in.

You were breathless; your chest heaved with uneven breaths, one of Cooper's hand resting on your boob ━ not putting any pressure, just letting you feel his hands on your overheated body.

"So good, oh shit-", you managed to get out as your back arched off the bed; Nicholas was quick to hold your hips down with his unoccupied hand. His wrist moved faster now, along with Cooper's; they found just the right rhythm to make you go crazy without making you come too fast.

Whimpers left your mouth as you gripped Cooper's thighs, your nails digging into his skin with enough force to leave marks.

"You're right, she's practically soaking our hands", Cooper murmured, and you could feel your cheeks heating up. Your eyes fell closed for a second, before his free hand reached to grab your neck ━ pressing with pressure that made you slightly lightheaded, but not with enough force to choke you. Your eyes flew open; Cooper looked down at you, his darkened eyes making your legs shake.

"Don't close your eyes, darling", he held your throat harder; both of their hands moving in sync, determined to get you to your peak. "Please", you whispered pathetically, turning your eyes to Nicholas, who was watching you the whole time. His mouth formed into a dirty, open mouthed smirk, sending sparks of electricity down your spine.

Holy shit.

"Are you close, doll?" Nicholas asked, his voice raspier than you've ever heard before. You nodded frantically, the coil in your stomach ready to snap any second now. You whined when Cooper's fingers left your clit and Nick slowed down.

"No, fuck!", you cried out, hips bucking into Nicholas' hand, and they both definitely didn't like it.

You felt a strong sting on your left breast, Cooper's hand slapping it roughly.

"Look at her, practically crying for us to make her cum", Nicholas tutted, his drenched fingers scissoring into your cunt. Before you could come up with a smart reply, his mouth was all over you.

He pressed a wet kiss right on your clit. You squirmed; Cooper held both of your boobs in his big hands as he watched Nicholas devour you with a satisfied smile on his face, index finger and thumb tugging on your nipples experimentally.

Nicholas held your gaze as he licked a stripe from your opening up to your clit. He sucked the little button between his lips, tongue tracing circles around it, his fingers inside of you moving with precision, hitting just the right spot every time.

"She tastes so sweet, Coop", he groaned between licks, winking at you, the vibrations of his voice making your thighs shake around his head.

"Oh, I bet she does", Cooper replied breathlessly and he forced your face towards him; his mouth meeting yours instantly, tongue playing with yours as he swallowed your moans.

"I'm-", you weren't able to finish the sentence, before Nicholas sucked on your clit particularly hard, his fingers moving swiftly inside of you, and you could feel your orgasm nearing.

"Come for us", Cooper whispered softly, fingers playing with your stiff nipples non-stop as you whimpered into his mouth.

"Yeah, baby, come on, make a mess for us", Nicholas pulled away only enough to watch your face twist in pure bliss, the sight of you kissing Cooper while he pleasured you turning him on more than it should.

You cried out, one last withdraw of Nicholas' fingers and your back arched off the bed; they didn't stop you this time. Cooper pulled away to watch your face as you wet Nicholas' hand, creaming all over his thick fingers.

You were breathless, eyes threatening to close, but instead they widened, when Nicholas got up from his knees, grabbing Cooper's hair, and then kissing him.

Obscene sounds left both of their mouths as Nick let Cooper taste you on his tongue. You watched the scene shamelessly, your pussy clenching around nothing as Cooper sucked on Nicholas' mouth before pulling away.

"You're right, she tastes fucking divine", he breathed out, grinning at you and Nick, eyes clouded with lust.

Your legs closed, the earth shattering orgasm leaving you spent and limp between their bodies.

Your head fell against Cooper's chest, and he wrapped his arms around you in an instant.

Nick smiled at the sight of you, so defenceless and spent after only his fingers and mouth.

He pressed a sweet kiss against your forehead, and you murmured something incoherent, almost falling asleep right there and then.

"No. I wanna cuddle", you whined when Cooper and Nicholas tried to pull away, but they were quick to obey. Cooper laid you on your side, his chest pressed firmly against your back, and Nicholas laid down on his back, letting you rest your head against his own chest. He played with your hair mindlessly, and you were fast to fall asleep, nothing but happiness filling both your heart and mind.

hoffmansgirl © 2024 | request here !!

nicholas alexander chavez masterlist 𓂃✮‧₊˚໒꒱ ₊

[y2kstarr]

secret celebration - c. sturniolo

࣪˖ ִ⭑ ࣪ warning : sexual usage of icing, smut w/ zero plot

"Oh fuck, Chris-!"

Your back arched against the cold marble of your kitchen counter, empty beer cans and your already-cut-into birthday cake scattered about the surface, along with your bikini top as your bottoms hung off one of your ankles.

You were throwing a damn good party for your birthday already, having loved getting to spend time with your friends on such a special holiday. But now that everyone went to the backyard to enjoy your pool, leaving the house empty for the time being, you and Chris stayed inside to.. celebrate a bit more.

His long fingers pumped in and out of your soaked cunt, his thumb drawing messy circles against your clit as his mouth worked wonders on your nipples.

A slice of birthday cake sat next to the both of you on a plate, divots in the icing as Chris had smeared it along your tits, his cheesing and chuckling at the action working in persuading you into letting him do it.

"S–shit—" You gasped as your fingers tugged at his brunet curls, hearing him moan against your tit as his tongue pressed flat against your perked nipple, licking up the icing he'd smeared there moments ago.

"Fuck— Taste so sweet, ma," He grinned and chuckled at his tease, being playful in a way you could never get enough of as his eyes looked up at your thrown back head, your hips rolling to meet his fingers desperately.

"Mm— 'M close– A–ah—!" You gasped out a moan as Chris teasingly bit at your other nipple that was yet to have the icing licked off of it, your eyes rolling back as that quick moment of pain blurred into delicious pleasure that just added to the fire in your abdomen. You thanked the gods your friends had the speakers going with music outside.

"C'mon baby, give it t'me, c'mon," He groaned against your tit, his eyes looking up at you as he flicked your nipple with his tongue, pumping his fingers within you just right, and rubbing your clit with such ease. So much pleasure, so much touching you, it finally broke the knot within you, your orgasm washing over you in waves as you moaned out his name blissfully.

You panted as you came down from your high, your thighs quivering as Chris slowed his fingers until they stopped, a whine leaving your lips as he slipped them out and brought them to his lips, sucking them clean with a groan.

"Now nothing is sweeter than that, not even the icing," He teased, licking the corner of his mouth that still sported just a smidge of icing on it, making you breathlessly giggle adorably at his stupid jokes and whatnot, a matching chuckle leaving him too as he leaned in and pecked your lips.

"Happy Birthday, baby."

a / n : did a little side quest to make this as a little birthday gift for my moot @chrissleftshoe 😋 (sorry i'm posting it so late in the day 😭) hope you like!

Inbox is wide open for requests or just chatting :3

tags : @sillysillymatt, @jcsturniolo11, @strnilolover, @whore4mattsturniolo

dividers → @qqmariztwsse and @bernardsbendystraws

[purinfelix]

just for the weekend ᯓᡣ𐭩.ᐟ - franco colapinto

summary: your teammate has an absolutely ridiculous plan to bring your team back from the dead - but it might be just crazy enough to work w/c: 5.5k + some smau style tweets warnings: a little angst, some uncomfortable touching/kissing since it's fake dating (not too bad but better safe than sorry), some miscommunication - just two idiots in love i fear

a/n: WOW it's finally here, fake dating is literally a guilty pleasure trope for me so i hope yall enjoy this HAHA - also sorry to Williams fans bc there's a lot of slander in this but trust its all for the plot <333 (also holy shit this is the longest fic I've ever written WOW)

"You're actually insane."

"Oh c'mon, at least think about it for a minute, it's perfect!"

You fold your arms over your chest and try your best to look uninterested in whatever it is your teammate has to say. The two of you had been racing together for a little over half a year now, and you had witnessed him make (at least in your opinion) a grand fool of himself. Flirting with interviewers, winking at cameras, having absolutely no filter during press conferences - but this, this was by far the craziest thing you had heard come out of his mouth.

"A fake relationship?"

"Ah ah ah," he tuts, jutting a finger in your face, "a media relationship, one that will draw the attention away from how crap we're doing and onto the personalities of the team. Think about it, McLaren has whatever Oscar and Lando have got going on and Ferrari basically has two models for drivers. We need something to put us on the map, to make people care about us!"

You pause, and for a minute you seriously consider his outrageous proposition - he isn't completely wrong. For the two of you, making it into the points range was a rare occurrence, and even though the team always made sure to celebrate it like a podium there was something that stung about constantly being at the bottom.

"Do you realise how much trouble we could get into?"

"Ah," he sighs, and it's starting to annoy you how lightly he's talking about this, "ever the pragmatist."

"Well one of us has to be if the other's going to keep saying stupid shit," you huff before turning around and beelining out of his driver's room.

Seriously, a fake relationship? Had he lost his mind? Maybe if he focused more on his racing you wouldn't be constantly outperforming him.

"At least think about it, okay?" You hear him call out from behind you, and consider yourself lucky to be facing the other way so that he doesn't catch your obnoxious eye roll. Surely he had to be kidding because there was no way you were going to devote any amount of time to this ridiculous thought.

God fucking damnit.

It was frustratingly confusing, the kind of power Franco had. You had witnessed it first hand with how smoothly he spoke to anyone and managed to get his way almost instantly - but this was your first time experiencing it first-hand. It was another weekend, another country, another race, but the only thing you could think of was his stupid consideration - which, with each passing moment, seemed increasingly genius.

You had almost a year of experience with the team over your teammate, and with that, your fair share of embarrassment and disappointment. Sure, his idea was a little out there but you were close to being at your wits end and if nothing else, you hoped this would at least be a little fun. Plus you were pretty sure at this point if you didn't act on this thought soon, it would start interfering with your performance.

"Fine," you said a little breathlessly as you burst into his driver's room ahead of a race.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, looking at you with a shocked look, "whatever happened to knocking? I could've been naked in here!"

You roll your eyes before continuing, "You still up to the ..." You pause, thinking of how best to word it, "Fake relationship thing?"

His eyes light up immediately, "Ah, I knew you'd come around eventually."

Letting out a soft huff, just to let him know that you still aren't fully convinced this will work, you sit down on his couch. "I think we should lay down some ground rules first."

"Yes ma'am." He nods, straightening up and forcing a serious expression you can only assume is mocking yours.

"Firstly, no kissing."

"Understood."

"Actually no public affection at all, holding hands, hugging, nothing."

"Oh sure and how exactly are we going to convince people then?"

You pause, thinking for a little, "Okay maybe hand-holding and hugs are fine, but you better not push it - that goes for the pet names as well." He nods with a satisfied smile.

"And no one other than us two can know this is fake, alright? Otherwise, it'll spoil the plan."

"Trust me, I don't need anyone knowing I'm going along with something as ridiculous as this. It'll be our little secret."

"Our little secret," he repeats with a hum, a sly sort of smile spreading across his face as he gets up from his spot. "See you after the race, my love."

You sighed in exasperation, tossing your phone to the side of the couch in your driver's room where it fell with a light thud. You had about a thousand other things to be worrying about - your pretty disappointing result in qualifying for one - but for some reason, the main thing on your mind was your 'relationship' with Franco. Somehow, it had proved even more intense than you had expected, which planted a seed of worry in your mind as you realised how hard this was actually going to be to pull off. Since his not-so-subtle announcement to a hoard of hungry press members at last week's race, the media had managed up a flurry about the two of you.

There were supportive fans who liked you both enough not to see any problem with two teammates dating, as well as others who were more sceptical about how it might impact your performance. However, what really seemed to get to you were those who doubted you more than the relationship.

Your social media had been bombarded with comments and theories about the reason behind your relationship, doubting your place on the grid, and calling you names that - after shedding the status of 'first girl rookie', you thought you had left behind. Regardless, you feel a little stupid for being so unprepared for all this - not just the tweets but the harsh articles, the questions during press interviews and even shouting fans. Maybe if you had done a little more thinking about it first, you would've realised this was a stupid idea that should've been left at just that.

Throwing your head back you let out an exasperated sigh, trying to clear your head so that you could move on and focus on the race that was happening tomorrow. The last thing you wanted was for this plan to start impacting your driving. But Franco always seemed to have the worst timing - or best, depending on who you asked.

"Hello?" A couple quick knocks alert you of his presence before he cracks the door just wide enough to peek in. "There's my beautiful girlfriend." The way the pet names and affection seem to come to him so easily makes you simultaneously impressed and concerned, unsure of whether it's an indication of his great acting or flirting skills.

"What do you want?" You try to make it as obvious as you can that you're not in the mood, and he realises this right away.

"Oh, nothing, I just wanted to ask if you were free after this."

"You know I'm not really a huge fan of the big team dinners, especially not when we have a race tomorrow."

"Oh it's not like that, I was just going to go check out a restaurant near our hotel and wondered if you wanted to join me."

When you finally speak it's just above a whisper, "Is this a part of the fake dating thing?"

He laughs softly, his ability to find everything entertaining has always amazed you. "If you want to, it can be. If that gives you a reason to come hang out with me, though if you don't it's totally fine."

"No, I'll come, not like I've got anything better to do." You hate how every word you've said so far has sounded so pathetic.

"Great, I'll meet you by the paddock entry in ten?"

"See you then."

The street lights were dim, just bright enough to illuminate the street the two of you were walking down. The night was cool and still, and there were barely any people out other than you. You weren't sure why, but you had ended up telling Franco a lot more than you had expected. Maybe it was the extremely fancy restaurant you had initially gone to or the local one the two of you agreed to ditch it for instead, or maybe it was just the freeing feeling of being in another country.

The two of you had talked before, of course - as teammates it was difficult to avoid. But beyond the casual small talk, discussions about strategies or banter during challenges your relationship never extended beyond casual co-existence. It was one of the reasons you were glad your higher-ups had never tried to force the two of you into a professional friendship. There was something about Franco, his ability to strike up a conversation and maintain it even when the topic clearly strayed far beyond his interests, that made him so likeable, so easy to get along with. And the support he got from fans and the media reflected this well. You just never felt like there was any room for you in that equation.

But here, away from the cameras and shedding the roles of drivers, the two of you became normal people. You spoke, you laughed, you vented to him everything that worried you about your 'relationship' and he listened throughout all of it - all the while the two of you shared the biggest, best, pizza you had ever had.

"I have to say, I don't know if our engineers will appreciate the extra weight I've just put on," he jokes, breaking the comfortable silence that had been lingering around you two as you walked.

"Me neither, they might have to roll me into the car at this rate."

"You know, I think this is the first time the two of us have hung out, just us two."

You think for a little before answering, "You're right."

"Do you think there's a reason for that?"

"You mean besides us both being extremely busy people and already seeing each other pretty often? Not really, no."

"Good point, though with our little plan, we're definitely going to be seeing each other a lot more."

There's a beat of silence. "This is nice though, right?" He asks, and his voice is so tentative you almost find it endearing.

"It is nice, this was fun." You try not to think too much about the fact the two of you could be mistaken by any passer-by as a couple of lovebirds on a first date - or that fact that even to those who knew you, you were.

"I appreciate you telling me all that stuff, you know, about what people are saying about you."

"Oh, if anything I should be thanking you for listening to me vent about it."

"It is serious though, I'm so stupid for not even thinking about what you'd have to deal with."

"Well I don't think either of us gave it enough thought but," you pause and look up at him, "we're too far in to back out now."

He shoots you a comforting smile, one that shows how reassured he feels that you seem to finally be coming around to his idea. That is, at least, before his face morphs into one of discomfort.

"God, I'm so full."

"We're almost back at the hotel now, let's just sleep and then we can wake up early tomorrow morning to-"

"Wait, is that ice cream?" Franco interrupts you to point out a street vendor who's about to pack up for the night, and before you know it he's running up to the man eagerly. You can only follow suit with a sigh, knowing full well you wouldn't mind some dessert either.

"You two are lucky, you'll be my last customers for the night," the moustachioed owner of the cart says with a warm smile.

"Thanks," you reply kindly, before turning to Franco, "what flavour do you think you'll get."

"Hm, not sure, maybe chocolate?"

"Wow, boring."

He scoffs, "Oh yeah? And what exotic flavour are you going to get then?"

"Mint choc," you smile, but your face drops once you see your teammate's disgusted expression.

"You've got to be kidding me, that's like the worst choice."

You feign offence, "How dare you insult the best ice cream flavour of all time?"

"Ah, you two are quite the couple," the man laughs and you watch as Franco's eyes widen in embarrassment.

"Oh we're not-"

"Thank you," it's your turn to interrupt him, turning to the man with a smile. "One chocolate and one mint choc chip please."

You go to reach for your wallet to pay but you feel a hand on yours, stopping you.

"No, it's okay, I got this."

"Wh- Franco c'mon you know full well both of us could afford about a thousand of these ice cream cones don't be ridiculous."

"I know," he smiles and even though he's trying to be serious you know he's also trying not to laugh, "but I just figured you know, I'm the one who dragged you out here and like, got you into this whole fake dating mess."

You furrow your brows, a little confused at what exactly he's getting at.

"I guess I just want to say thank you, you know?"

"Alright, alright," you laugh softly, watching as he pays and takes both of the cones, handing you yours. Once you grab yours, you instinctively loop your arm around his, pulling him close and resting your head against his shoulder. The ice cream man laughs endearingly at the two of you.

"You're the best boyfriend ever!" you say in as high and cute a voice you can manage, cringing a little but determined to keep up the bit - you don't even bother to think about how fast you can feel Franco's heart race when you do.

Last night was really nice. You're sitting next to your race engineer, nodding along as she points to various multi-coloured dots and lines on the screen. You hear yourself agreeing with a couple quick "mhms", "of course" and "yep"s even though you can barely hear what she's saying. You're mere minutes away from getting in your car for a race, getting briefed on your strategy, and the only thing you can think of is the 'date' you had with Franco last night - if you can even call it that.

You had thought that getting everything off your chest, the hate comments, the doubt you had, would help you feel better and relieve any worries you had. And it did, at least until you got back to your hotel room alone and caught yourself smiling at the thought of seeing your teammate again the next day. How, even as you washed up and got ready for bed, you found yourself thinking - pizza, ice cream, walking at night together, isn't that something a real couple would do?

"Are you listening to me?" your race engineer's voice cuts through the haze of your thoughts, causing you to straighten up immediately.

"Yes! Sorry," you mumble, but just at that moment, you see him walk into the garage, greeting a couple of the mechanics warmly. Before you realise it, he's beelining straight for you, his arm coming around your waist as he leans in close to your ear.

"There's a ton of cameras, I just wanted to be believable," he whispers, and when he pulls back you can see the smile on his face. You nod curtly, fully aware of how red your face feels over such a small interaction as he waltzes away.

"Okay, so as I was saying," your race engineer pipes up again, though you couldn't be paying her less of your attention - watching as your 'boyfriend' walks off, his brown hair illuminating in the afternoon light. For a fake relationship, the quickening pace of your heart felt far too real.

"Well you two have been teammates since the beginning of this year, can you tell us a little about when you realised you might be more?"

Your struggle was never-ending - or at least, that's what it felt like, finding yourself at the centre of an impromptu interview with Franco. Around you, the other drivers were getting questions about their place in their teams, how they felt about their current strategy and about their racing futures. And there the two of you were, getting thrown question after question about your 'relationship'.

"Well," you begin, before being saved by your teammate. You had to give it to him - he was great at making stuff up on the spot.

"Well, I think it was somewhere around a month after I first joined the team, and met her. It was just something about her, she's sort of electric in this almost untouchable way, you know?"

You try not to look too awkward standing next to him as he talks, feigning your best-interested smile - though a part of you is extremely intrigued by this fake story he's creating.

"At first I thought I just wanted to be like her, her passion and talent were just so respectable, but the more time I spent with her the more I realised it was something completely different."

He turns to look at you, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you close to him. Your expression falters a little as you're caught off guard by the sudden contact and as you turn away from the journalists and towards him, your eyes widen in shock at the sight of his pursed lips nearing yours. Before you realise it, his lips are against yours and you're pulling away as quickly as possible, face bright red. You're just barely aware of the thousands of flashing camera lights as you turn to quickly excuse yourself.

"Thank you all for coming, it was nice talking to you but, uhm, I have to go!" You hurriedly blurt out before slipping out of Franco's grip and darting off to your driver's room.

You hear his footsteps following closely behind you, as well as the sound of him calling out your name. When you near the door of your room, you turn around and grab his wrist to yank him in before you shut the door.

"What the hell was that?" is all you can muster out, "I thought we agreed no kissing?"

"Look, I can explain!"

You cross your arms with a huff, looking at him expectedly.

"I was just going to peck you quickly on the cheek, you know because we were getting all romantic and I wanted it to be believable! B-but then you turned, and then we," he's struggling not to ramble and his quickly moving hands do little to help. That's when you also realise his face is bright red as well, and he doesn't seem any less flustered by it than you do. "I'm really, really sorry I really shouldn't have done that."

You'd be lying if you said his explanation didn't make you feel any better. You're not actually upset about the kiss itself though, in fact, it's the opposite - actually, the grudge you're holding is doing little to help the internal struggle going on in your head. The kiss didn't make you angry, but the realisation that you wanted it to be real, did.

You sigh, rubbing your temples as you slump down in the nearest chair. Franco does the same on the adjacent couch, though his gaze stays carefully on you, almost afraid of what you might say next.

"It's fine, I think we just need to coordinate our PDA a little better then."

"Yes, of course," he nods quickly.

There's a beat of silence. "You're really good at acting though."

"What?"

"That whole story you made up about how you fell in love with me, it was really believable." You laugh lightheartedly trying to lighten the situation and alleviate the awkwardness that's settled between you two.

"Well it's pretty easy, I didn't need to make up much of it," his eyes catch yours and his gaze is soft when he smiles at you.

"What?" you're confused.

"Never mind," he scoffs lightly, his gaze dropping to the floor as he rubs the back of his neck. He looks almost disappointed at something, though you can't realise what. "Well, I'll leave you alone now. I really am sorry about what happened before." You watch as he pushes himself up from the couch, his head hanging guiltily - looking almost like a scolded puppy.

"It's fine Franco, really, please don't feel too bad about it." He nods thankfully before slipping out the door, leaving you alone.

Being a driver, hotel rooms had come to be a companion you knew far too familiarly. Their high ceilings, plush sterile white bedsheets, the empty bathroom - almost everything about them felt a sign of loneliness, of temporality, a house that never felt like home. Even though you knew how ridiculous it would be to complain about something that others would see as a privilege, it was hard to deny the isolation you felt whenever in a new country, away from most of your family or friends.

Maybe that's why you had been so eager to latch onto Franco's idea - it made sense, he had become the person you spent the most time with so why not give yourself some ridiculous reason to be around him even more? However somewhere along the way you stopped needing the reason of fake dating, somewhere in between hushed conversations, planned posts and candid photos - and instead found yourself genuinely enjoying his company. It was a little strange and sometimes acted as a sour reminder of how lonely you'd become but more than anything it felt like a blessing in disguise.

You were reminded of this fact as you lay, wrapped in a plush white hotel robe, across your messy bedsheets - laughing to yourself at the tweets your boyfriend had sent you. They were all about you, or the two of you, of course. Comments on the tiniest things, the way the two of you looked at each other, the way Franco held your hand, the way you worried about him.

"I feel a little bad, they're all so gullible," you typed quickly.

"Oh, so now you feel bad?" His response was almost instant.

"Don't you?"

"It's fun, isn't it? All this playing pretend."

Right, pretend. You rolled onto your back with a deep sigh, staring up at the tall hotel ceiling. All of this was just so confusing - as if figuring out how you felt about someone wasn't difficult enough, the two of you had complicated it by tricking the entire world into thinking you were in love. Whether you truly liked him or not, the idea was doomed for failure - and the more you thought about it, the more it seemed like the former.

"You're right," you typed back, watching intently as the three tiny dots appeared, disappeared then reappeared. What could he be saying that would need so much thinking?

"Can we talk tomorrow, after the race?"

You felt your stomach drop, had he finally caught on to how obvious you were being about how you truly felt, and decided that actually it might be better to just drop this whole act and go on as just teammates? With trembling hands, you typed back.

"Sure, what about?"

"I'll tell you then, for now, we should sleep."

"Goodnight Franco."

"Goodnight mi amor." You laughed softly to yourself at the nickname he had given you, though a small part of you took it as salt to the wound - almost as if he was dangling the possibility of something that could never happen right in front of your desperate little face.

However, not like you had a choice - all you could do now was get ready for bed and brace yourself for whatever tomorrow brought.

You couldn't believe it. The sounds of celebration erupted around you, but you sat completely still in your car, silent, attempting to process what had just happened. Your first win, and, your first double podium, with Franco. Your head was spinning as the never-ending stream of thoughts raced through your mind. Suddenly, you heard a voice coming from above your car's halo, muffled by your helmet. You flick the visor up, lifting your head as highly as you could - locking eyes with your teammate.

"We did it! Oh my god!" The excitement on his face is enough to send a slight surge of energy through you as he offers you his hand, helping you out of the car. When you do though, you stumble a little - the nerves are almost too much for you.

"Woah, you alright?" Even through the fog clouding your mind you can make out the concern in Franco's voice and feel his arms steadying you.

"Yeah, just-" you mumble, gesturing to your helmet and making weak attempts to undo the clasps underneath it. It's almost suffocating you, and the chaos going on around you isn't helping the pounding headache.

"Oh, let me," he reacts immediately, dropping his own helmet and bringing his hands below your chin to swiftly undo the clasps and pull the helmet off of you. You take a deep breath of air as you pull off your fireproof mask, though it sounds more like a desperate gasp.

Around you, the crowds roar with excitement, both your team and others as they make attempts to gesture at the two of you to join them. Your head spins though, and you wobble backwards into Franco.

"It's too loud," is all you can stutter out, though he understands you almost immediately, a strong hand gripping your wrist and pulling you away from the noise and somewhere quieter. You're not entirely sure where he's taking you but at that moment you feel as though you'd follow him just about anywhere.

Luckily though, when your eyes refocus you're in his driver's room, and even though outside you can hear the cheers continuing, you're offered some solace here, the walls muffling the sound. You sigh, sinking into his couch as you throw your head back, panting still.

You feel like it's all just too much - not just the physicality of the race, but the feeling of winning it, winning it with Franco, just Franco himself. When you finally manage to catch your breath you lift your head to see him standing over you, watching intently.

"Better?"

"Much better, thank you." You smile earnestly, "Though I don't think we'll be able to hide in here much longer, there is a cooldown room for this exact reason."

"Oh, I mentioned it to someone, not sure who but he looked important, and he said it would be okay."

You laugh softly, amazed at how he can seem so calm even at a moment like this.

"We did it," you say, still not being able to believe it.

"We did," he smiles, sitting on the couch next to you, "a couples podium."

You feel your heart skip a beat at the sudden reminder of your conversation last night, him mentioning he had something to tell you. Was this it? The two of you had achieved what you had been wanting this entire time, and there was no better time to let this ridiculous bit go than now.

You stare at the wall of his room, the gigantic flag of his home country, and let out a shaky breath, mustering up the courage to break the silence. "So..."

He turns to you, one eyebrow raised in interest.

"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" You're trying your best to keep your voice lighthearted, "it sounded serious."

"Oh, well about that," he seems to have forgotten it temporarily as well, but the fact that he turns to look at the flag as well, almost unable to maintain eye contact with you, isn't a good sign.

Maybe it's the adrenaline from the race, maybe it's the fact that both of you are going to be needed out on the podium in about ten minutes - or maybe it's the fact that you're so desperate to get out these feelings and make him understand how you feel, but you start talking before you even realise it.

"Look, Franco, I," you start, not entirely sure of where you're going to end up, "I know you asked me to do this whole fake dating thing with you and I completely understand if you want to end it now, I mean why wouldn't we? It's perfect!"

He looks at you confused, lips parted as if about to interrupt you but you continue anyway, stupidly.

"But, look, here's the thing," you turn to him now, and you're sure your face is bright red, "I don't want this to end!"

You let out a deep sigh, and clutch your hands together to stop them from shaking, though it doesn't help that Franco looks even more confused now.

"What?" he says, and your heart drops.

"I," you pause, struggling to find the right words, and struggling to get them out, "I think I like you, like, for real." Okay, not exactly the best choice of words but it'll do.

"Like, not for the whole fake relationship thing?" his tone is still concerned and he leans in a little for clarification.

"Yes! Okay, I know it's not exactly what we thought would happen and it'll probably jeopardise our relationship as teammates but there, I like you okay."

"When did you realise?"

"A couple days ago, I'm sorry."

There's a beat of silence, and you're left with the agonising feeling of your heart racing in your chest, waiting eagerly for his response - for him to laugh in your face, for him to get mad, for him to reject you.

But instead, you watch as Franco's confused expression melts into one of pure relief as he sinks back into the couch with a sigh. "Oh, thank God."

It's your turn to be confused. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say that," he says, eyes fixed on the ceiling with the widest smile you've ever seen.

"Wait you mean you-"

"I win!"

You're absolutely speechless, not a single coherent thought on what is going on or how to respond. All you can get out is a confused sort of grunt.

"I win, I've liked you for longer!" he laughs, sitting up and grabbing your hands in his.

You feel as though your jaw is going to dislocate at how fast it drops, "I'm sorry?"

"Oh c'mon, we've been teammates for a year I know you're not that oblivious."

"Well, apparently I am because I'm really confused."

"I've liked you since the moment I met you, you idiot."

"Wh-" You're about to be offended at the name-calling until what he says finally hits you. He likes you. He has liked you. For ages. You idiot.

"Even when you proposed this to me?"

"Yep."

"Even when we went to get ice cream?"

"Yep."

"Even when you kissed me?"

"Y- well wait no that was completely unintentional," he holds his hands out in defence. You slump back, trying your best to process everything today has entailed, it's almost too much. That is until you feel Franco move a little closer to you, his arm stretching around your shoulders and gently moving your head to lay on his. At that moment, it all becomes clear, and you're suddenly unsure about why you ever felt confused about any of this.

"What now?" You say, barely above a whisper.

"We go and get our trophies," even though you're not looking you can hear the smile in his voice. "Though, before then."

You lift your head up off his shoulder to turn to him with raised brows. "Hm?"

"Now that we aren't fake dating, do the rules still apply?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I'd really like to kiss you right now," he whispers, and there's a hint of nerves as you watch his eyes dart in between yours and your lips.

"Really can't wait can you," you tease, though you still move to close the space in between you to. But just before your lips can touch his there's a knock at the door, causing you both to slump back with a sigh.

"Hey, are you two in there?" it's your race mechanic, "you're needed, you know, on the podium."

You roll your eyes to show your obvious disappointment at being interrupted, though Franco just watches you with an endeared smile.

"What are you thinking about?" you ask, not being able to hide your own smile.

"I'm just thinking about how beautiful you're going to look up on that podium, and how I won't have to pretend not to be in love with you anymore."

Taglist : @spreadyourwings-my-smiling-angel @cinderellawithashoe @vanicogh @taasgirl @claudiajacobs

@dripostsstuff @boiolay @earth-to-lottie @dejavuontrack @dudududu-fangirl

@kravitzwhore @gavisuntiedboot @reiofsuns2001 @musicmie @danielle12002x-blog

@alelo23 @corrodeddeadlydoll @aliwritex @nina-or-anna-or-nora

@5sospenguinqueen @araunahj @sbrn0905 @halleest @lottieliveslife

@lovestruck-sky @im-an-op81-fan @blubra @vienoiserieetc

(don't ask me why it's formatted so weird, tumblr hates me)

[d0rothydraws]

After a night out things get heated and Sylus can't control himself, revealing a new side of him.

content: f!reader, monster cock, porn without plot, public sex, multiple orgasms, Inappropriate use of Evol, after care, just a lot of smut idk

w/c: 3.7k

Ao3: Here

a/n: This took so long i'm so sorry works been wearing me out so much I haven't been able to post much. I hope this satisfies all the monster fuckers that wanted this from my one post.

Tonight had been.. A lot. You and Sylus were at a dinner banquet. Apparently a very important man was hosting the event and Sylus was looking for information about something. You didn’t really know or ask. You don’t really ask many questions these days. Sylus had custom fit you one of the most beautiful dresses you had ever seen. It was made of the softest silk, the neckline was low yet tasteful, showing enough to catch some looks but not enough to feel exposed. The skirt had a high slit that went to the top of your hip, exposing your leg once in a while. As you walked, the long skirt looked like it was flowing around you like water. You wore matching blood red heels that looked like they were carved out of ruby. The light catching them in a mesmerizing way. Your hair was done in a way where it framed your face, pulled in an updo that bounced slightly every time you took a step. And on your neck was a crow pendant embedded with a ruby. 

To say it simply, you looked beautiful. Elegant. 

And Sylus couldn’t keep his eyes, or hands, off of you.

As you walked, his hand was draped around your waist, hand on your hip. Or his hand was on your lower back, or when you sat his hand was on your thigh, fingers drawing patterns that sent a chill down your spine. He looked at you from the corner of his eye, meeting yours once in a while. You almost could feel the hot breath that left him when this happened, exhaling every time as if he was trying to control himself. 

You couldn’t lie, it felt good to see him like this. It wasn’t like he didn’t know what you would look like in the dress, it was custom fit, custom designed just for you. He had seen it on you before. And yet when anyone looked over at you, giving you just the smallest bit of attention, you felt his hand tighten, body pulled closer. Your hip flush against his. You could feel heat radiating from his body.

Part of you wondered if he was going to end up dragging you into the bathroom. A couple times you thought he was considering it, especially as his hand moved to the inside of your thigh halfway through the banquet. His rough fingers trailed higher, brushing against your panties. He leaned over whispering in your ear, his voice thick as honey. 

“You look delicious.” His words sent a shiver through your body as your hand tightened on the fork you were holding. You looked around, everyone was talking about something you didn't understand. Nobody knew what was happening under the table. And in a bold decision, you parted your thighs just a little bit more. Moving your hips to press against the fingers that were tracing your folds through your panties. You heard his breath catch, his hand pausing for only a second, Sylus’ lips returned to your ear. 

“Try not to squirm too much, kitten. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold back.” He said as his fingers dipped under the fabric, calloused fingers grazing the sensitive skin. You took a bite of food to hide a moan, your face red as a shaky breath left your lipsticked lips. You wanted nothing more than to ride his hand. To throw all caution to the wind and thrust your hips against his fingers until you were clenching and twitching around him, begging for more. 

And suddenly, his hand was gone. Your disappointment must have been audible because he chuckled, bringing his finger to his lips. Swiftly he liked them as if he was licking off a stray drop of sauce that fell onto his hand. You caught the look in his eye as his right eye started glowing slightly. Glancing down you seen the red and black tendrils of his power snake its way around your leg. It felt warm and you tried to not shiver or make a sound as you felt the weight of it move between your thighs. Your panties pushed to the side and as a reflex you tried to close your legs. The tendrils pushed your legs back open gently, like a pair of hands and as you felt the warmth against your core, you couldn’t stop yourself from reaching a hand out, putting it on Sylus’ thigh, nails pressing into the thick meat. 

It felt as if it was Sylus himself between your thighs, just a different version. The feeling was like a warm tongue licking at you, lapping up every bit that you provided as you tried your damndest to not moan, or at least, too loud. You never felt anything like this before. You almost forgot you were in public until you heard his voice in your ear again. 

“Quiet, kitten. You’ll get caught.” His voice was low, strained. A rush of adrenaline flooded your veins as you choked back a whine. The energy pushed inside you, curling exactly where you needed it. Licking your sensitive, throbbing clit. Your hand on his thigh tightened, nails digging in more making him give a low groan deep in his throat. 

“Sylus-” You said, trying to be quiet, but the sound was choked out. Your breathing was heavy, face red and eyes were starting to get glossy. “I can’t. P-please, I-” You let out a choked gasp, louder than you wanted as your orgasm rushed through you. You clenched around the thick mass of energy inside you as you panted, blushing so dark that you probably matched your dress. A few people turned to look, eyebrows raised in curiosity as they saw your out of breath expression. 

“We will be taking our leave now.” Sylus said, the energy around your lower half dissolved as if it never happened. Your legs felt numb as you tried to steady your thoughts, your heart pounding and blood rushing. Your body moved on its own as Sylus stood, as if being willed by him to follow. You had no complaints about this, your anticipation was as high as ever to get him alone. His hand was firm on your lower back giving you much needed support as you walked to the car.

The drive home was quiet but the tension was thick. His body was tense as he pulled into the driveway and before you could even open the door, the red-black tendrils of energy embraced you again. Your body was moved by a force you couldn’t fight even if you wanted to. A thrill ran through your body. He had never used his Evol on you like this before. 

You were placed in the middle of the bedroom, Sylus following you through the door as his eye glowed. His hands in his pockets as he looked at you with a hunger you never saw from him before. You let out a slow breath, feeling the energy dissolve into the air as he towered over you, a hand moving to your chin. 

“Sweetie, you almost made me lose control, looking like that in public. It’s dangerous, you know.” He said, fingers trailing your skin as his other hand trailed down the curve of your waist, admiring the figure hidden under the dress he picked out. 

“I guess you could say I had a good stylist.” You said with a half laugh, he chuckled, a low sound that warmed your core. His hand moved behind your neck, fingers making quick work of the tie that held the light dress on your body. With a flick of his fingers, the fabric fell to the floor around your feet. Your hand moved to his chest, trailing up to wrap around his tie. 

The tension broke as you pulled him down into a rough kiss, one of his hands curled in your hair while the other moved to your hip. He guided you as you felt the bed hit the back of your legs, one of his legs coming to rest on the edge of the bed as you fell back. His kiss was hot, hungry. Teeth bite your lip, tongues pushing against each other as your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. He took your hand from his tie, his fingers wrapping around yours as he pinned it above your head. 

“Do you trust me?” He breathed in your ear as he pulled back, panting softly. You could feel the hardness of his cock against your thigh, straining his pants. You arched your hips up to apply some pressure, making him groan. You knew there was only one answer to his question.  

“Yes.” 

The grip on your hand tightened as it was pushed harder into the soft mattress, his other hand moved to your face bringing your lips to his as he kissed you. Slow, deep. Different from the kiss you just had. You felt hot breath on your cheek as he breathed out through his nose asif he was holding his breath waiting for your answer. In turn, the kiss took your own breath away as you pulled back, your lips slightly red from how he bit your lip as you pulled back. His fingers traced the outline of your lower lip as his eyes stared down at you, red orbs swirling.

“Darling,” His voice made a low sound as his eyes looked into you. A serious look that brought you back to reality for a moment. He didn’t give you that look often.  “I’m not sure if I'll be able to hold back tonight.” Sylus sounded just as breathless as you felt. “If you need me to stop at any point, tell me. Promise me.” He said, the hand on your cheek gently tracing the skin under his fingers. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Your heart fluttered as you looked up at him. Your cheeks flushed as you took a deep breath, processing his words. 

You two had a safe word. It was well established when you started becoming physical. There was one time you did have to use it, not because of anything horrible but you weren’t in the right mindset for what he had planned that night. So instead of putting yourself through it, knowing that he wouldn’t want you to do that, you said it. He stopped instantly followed by a warm bath, snacks, and your favorite show. 

“I promise.” You breathed, looking into his eyes as he stared down at you. There was something that you couldn’t tell, that you never had seen before. “I trust you, Sylus.” You whispered, bringing your free hand to pull him into a slow kiss that matched the last one. You put your whole soul into that kiss, as if hoping he would understand just how much you cared for him. How without a thought you would put your life in his hands, knowing damn well that he would do the same for you. 

As the kiss continued, the energy began to change. Once soft and gentle was becoming something more. His lips were hot, hungry as he straddled your hips. His clothed cock grinded against your thigh making your body twitch and shiver with need. His hand on your face became rougher, holding your jaw firmly as his kiss devoured you. He pulled away with a soft growl, licking his lips. 

“You’re like a drug to me.” Sylus said as his hands moved to pull at his clothes, buttons unfastening to reveal his chest. Your mouth started to salivate at the sight.  Your hands moved up to help him, guiding your palms over the surface of his skin. Sylus let out a low sound, watching you as you made your way to his belt. He didn’t stop you as you undid the fasten. The sound of metal was loud in the room as it fell from its hold as Sylus pulled the belt and tossed it on the floor. 

His lips were on you again. Hungry, hot. You felt your breath be taken from your lungs as your hands were pinned above your head. His tongue pushing into your mouth, devouring you whole. He pulled away with a low growl, looking down at you, his eyes dark and his lips red from the kiss and the stain of your lipstick. 

“Roll over kitten.” Sylus purred as he let go of your hands and instantly you followed his direction. You felt the slick of your arousal as you moved, making your need even more known to you as you turned. Now with your ass to him, arched as your cheek laid against the pillow. You felt his fingers wrap under the lace of your panties, pulling them down to your knees. You looked over to him, your view obstructed but still managed to match his eyes. 

No words needed to be said, both of you needed the same exact thing and he wasn’t in a mood to tease you, at least not at the moment. His hands worked on his pants, letting them fall to the floor as he stood off of the bed, his boxers following. Your mouth watered, moaning into the pillow at the sight of him. Hard, dripping. His hand wrapped around his cock, pumping slowly as his thumb brushed against the angry red head. You felt your pussy clench as if trying to draw him in. He was beautiful. He didn’t even look human. No human could be this beautiful. 

As he climbed back onto the bed he wasted no time in positioning himself. He kissed your back, one hand on himself to adjust while the other was on your ass, sinking into the soft flesh. He kissed your back again before speaking into your ear, his voice was rough, deep.

“Remember our promise?” He whispered, his voice strained. Reminding you that you would use the safe word if you needed. You felt his tip slide against you, eager for the final confirmation. You nodded into the pillow, shifting your hips as you grinded against him. He groaned, the hand on your ass getting rougher as he held you still. 

He began to push into you slowly. You felt your body stretch to accommodate him, your moan loud as your body felt like electricity was pulsing through your veins at the feeling. Fuck he always felt so good. So thick, so heavy inside you. Your eyes rolled as he bottomed out his hands gently rubbing your back, your ass, the back of your thighs. He waited a moment, his breath strained as he tried to contain himself. But as he started to thrust it was a lost cause. 

You cried out moaning as he pulled out, thrusting back in. Your body shook as you felt him fuck you, his thrusts started to get faster the louder you moaned as if the sound of your cries edged him on, which was very much the case. You tightened around him, gasping as you felt his hand coming to rub against your clit, his rough thumb brushing the sensitive skin. 

“You sound so beautiful darling. Let me hear how you sound as you cum on my cock.” He purred in his ear. His voice sounded.. Different. Deeper somehow, more primal, needy. It drove you wild. You moaned gasping as you moved your body against him, fucking yourself on his cock while he pressed his thumb against you. You felt the sensation take over your body as Sylus hit that spot inside you that made you cry out and see stars. Your orgasm flowed through you as your pussy fluttered and clenched around him, pushing him to the brink as he filled you with his hot cum. 

You caught your breath, your forehead sticky with sweat as you felt your body tremble from the release. Sylus on the other hand, was still inside you. Cock hard, twitching as if he didn't just cum inside you. His hands gripped your hips, his lips moving to your back as he kissed your sweaty skin. You could hear his heart pounding, as fast as ever. 

“I’m not done with you yet, sweetie. That was a warmup.” He said as he started to thrust again, slowly at first. Your body shivered and moaned at the sudden movement, sensitive from your orgasm as he stated to fuck you. You felt his cum inside you, being fucked deeper. You blushed gasping, your head spinning with pleasure. 

As he fucked you, you swore his hands on your hips felt larger. His nails were digging into your skin as if they were talons. Not cutting into you, but more noticeable than before. You gasped, your mouth opening against the pillow, eyes widening as you whimpered. 

“Sylus!” You cried out as you felt your pussy stretch more than before. You felt his cock, which was already big and thick, get even bigger. The girth stretching you out more to the point your legs were shaking. You felt him hit places inside you you didn't even know existed. You felt tears fall from your eyes, sure it hurt a little but god you never felt so good in your life. You felt his tongue lick up your spine, long, thick. His mouth moved to your ear, sharp teeth nipping the skin. You could hear your heart pound. What was he? How did he become… like this? 

“Wow kitten, you took me so well.” Sylus purred. He wasn’t even moving yet and you were a whimpering crying mess. “I bet you love being stretched out on my cock like this, don’t you? I’m not even moving and it feels like you’re about to cum again.” He teased as you felt a rough, larger than normal thumb brush against your clit. “Careful, if you do, you might boost my ego. I could get addicted to this.”

Your head spun as you whimpered and moaned. You couldn’t see him. Even if you tried to turn, he was pressed against your back. But he wasn’t wrong. You were close. So agonizingly close that when he touched his thumb to that damn spot between your legs it was instant. You cried out, clenching around him and he hissed at the feeling. His cock twitched inside you as he felt you cum on his cock from nothing more than just being inside you. Filling you up completely. Stretching you to your limit to the point you weren’t sure if you’d be able to walk later. 

“Good girl. You’ve been such a good girl for me, haven’t you?” Sylus purred into your ear as he started to move. Your eyes widened as you cried out, hands clawing at the bedsheets as you felt how massive he truly had become now that he started moving. Your legs shook as you struggled to keep yourself propped up on your knees. His hands came to grab your hips as you whimpered and moaned mindlessly into the pillow. His hands felt so big, so strong. He had always been strong but this was different, otherworldly. He held you exactly how and where he wanted you as he began to fuck into you. Your body bounced and shook as if you were a ragdoll. 

“That’s it, sweetie, just like that. You’re a perfect little slut for me, aren’t you. Taking anything I give you, no matter how big. You’ll stretch your tight little pussy for me, won’t you?” Sylus growled in your ear and you gasped, eyes rolling back at his words. You couldn’t control the sounds coming from your lips, or the drool that spilled out onto the silk pillowcase. You couldn’t stop the loud needy whimper at the things he said to you. His nails pressed into your soft flesh as he continued to ravish you. 

His thrusts started to get unsteady as he panted, one hand groping your ass as the other curled into your hair, turning your face for him to kiss you. His long tongue forced its way into your mouth, his teeth were sharper but it felt more like fangs now that you could feel him better. You opened your eyes for a second, catching a glimpse to see that he looked normal. As he pulled away and opened his eyes though, you noticed how both eyes were glowing red. It looked like orbs of the red mist of his Evol flowing inside his eyes. It was beautiful. If you weren’t getting your brains fucked out you would have more time to appreciate it. 

The hand returned between your thighs, drawing circles against your sensitive nub. As he felt you twitch and whimper, his hand continued until he pulled another orgasm out of you. Your scream was muffled by the pillow but the sound made him take in a sharp breath. Even when he was like this, the sounds you made affected him more than you could ever know. You felt as his cock twitched, his thrusted uneven before he came inside you. The feeling was different than before. It was thicker and it felt like there was more than usual. You gasped, moaning as you felt him thrust a few more times, the thick globs of cum running down your thighs. 

Slowly, you felt him begin to pull out. Your body was too weak and tired to turn around and look at him but that was the last thing on your mind right now. You didn’t care what form he took. He was still yours. And you were still his. You felt him shift around you, his arms pulling you into his chest as he kissed your head. The smell of him flooded your senses as a sense of calm you never felt before came over you. 

His hands were so gentle as he carefully checked for marks and scratches. You felt a warm cloth on your thighs. A cold bottle of water pressed to your lips. You opened your mouth and the bottle tipped so gently. His hands were still on you, gently touching and caressing you. As you opened your eyes gently you saw the oh so familiar black and red mist surrounding you. Cleaning you, giving you water. You felt a kiss on the top of your head as Sylus pulled you closer. 

“Relax, kitten. You’ll need to recover. I’ll take care of everything.”

~•~•~•~

some people on my post asked to be tagged or really seemed to want this so here u guys go i hope you dont mind the tag

@lunacielooo @in-too-deepspace @sefynarose

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

teeth | i. rin

✮ tags ; afab + fem!reader, marking, sexual tension, dry-humping, cumming through clothes, 18+

✮ wc ; 1.5k

✮ a/n ; a flash comm for @1bananabread. thank u for your patience!!! i tried to focus as best i could on tension.

this is a snippet so it won't show up in the main fic at any point!! it can be an extra in that way!!! and it is from the fujoverse tag on this blog - a blog au abt fujoshi + recovering neet reader and rin.

Across the room, you give Rin a look.  

One that he’s starting to recognize without trying to. It makes his jaw clench when he sees it. Big, wet eyes like a baby deer and the soft undertone of desperation. He’s becoming good at knowing your ticks, mostly against his will. How you chew your lip, how you tap the pen of your tablet, how you draw in a frenzied anxious way when you want something from him and don’t know how to open your mouth and ask.  

It’s irritating. But it’s going to get under his skin even more if you keep it up. 

“What.” He grits. You startle. Jump in your skin like you’re surprised he even noticed you, as if you’re not staring at him. You open your mouth, then close it. “Spit it out.”  

You look flustered. You always look that way. But right now you embody it. He can’t imagine what your request could be at this point that would incite this much embarrassment.  

By now, Rin has “helped” you with a number of things. Too many to recount and all of them too close, too personal for plausible deniability. Helping you take photos for references takes up a majority of your requests - but it always ends in something more. Rin tries mostly not to think about it. Not to think about where its led and how normal you still seem to act despite it.

The fact you keep making these requests reason enough to make him seethe. Just a little.  

You take a shaky breath and give Rin a look from above the frames of your glasses.  

“C-can I give you a hickey?” 

Rin pauses. Opens his mouth before he can even think about what the appropriate reply might be. His words come out like a hiss.  

“Why?”  

You seem surprised that he asks. That he cares to. That alone feels reason enough for him to shake some sense to you. Grab you by the shoulders until it clicks.  

(He doesn’t interrogate what it is that he wants to click for you. Just that he wishes it fucking would already.)  

“Well. Uhm.”  Your feet rub together under your desk. Woolen socks worn until they’re matter as you fidget endlessly. Rin holds his stare until you crumple just slightly under the weight of it. “There’s n-not a particular reason. It’s not for my book or anything, I just uhm—wanted to do it. To you,”  

There’s a brief moment there where the world stops spinning entirely. Rin breathes. A sharp, steadying breath. Chest tight, dizzy with an emotion that wells up from the depths of him. He can’t think of anything clever to retort with, or really any good way for him to respond. He sits across from you at a complete loss.  

The next words that come out of his mouth leave before he has a chance to make sense of them. He swallows a lump in his throat.  

“Fine,”  

Your eyes go wide again. Shocked like you weren’t the one who ask. Tension lingers in the air, but Rin can’t figure out what to do about it. How to settle it. He doesn't know if he fucking can.

“A-are you sure?”  

That’s the first time you’ve asked him that. Most of the time, you’re shameless in your asks. You do it for work, just work  - and it’s always Rin who ends up….going further. Because it frustrates him to see you cower over it. Rin is used to you, by now. How you have the demeanor and general anxiety of a small shelter dog. He’s been over it all already one hundred times but—

It’s like something clicks hearing you ask him that. If he's sure. You can be so thick. It’s not like Rin doesn’t fucking know. But it’s the first time it he realizes the brunt of it.

You two are on completely different pages about your relationship.  And he's pissed about it, but not at you. Not really.

“I wouldn’t say it was if it wasn’t,” 

You look so surprised for a minute he wants to bite you. Take his teeth and dig them into the place your pulse is just to see you squirm. It’s always like this with you but right now it feels like something searing. Pressed up right against his ribs and threatening to puncture his lungs.

“Are you gonna do it or not?” He snaps, meaner than he wants. You nod, movements stiff, and clamber onto your feet before walking his way. Rin watches as you approach him nervously. Your eyes meet and you hold his gaze.  

Then, without word, you crawl into his lap. Straddling him - just barely fitting over his wide frame as both of your knees end up on either side of his thigh. Rin watches you silently. Piercingly. Your movements are trembling.  

You kiss him first. This shocks him into total silence. He returns it just so you don’t pass out from nerves. It’s clumsy like he knew it would be but it’s the first time you’ve done completely of your own accord. Normally you ask him to kiss you, beg with teary eyes.  

But you’ve got both of them squeezed shut now, kissing him with your hands fisted at his chest. Something stirs in his jeans, and you yelp when it presses against you. You gasp, low and quiet.  

“You’re—“ 

“Shut up.”  

You nod. Keep kissing him, opening his mouth up to slide your tongue in. It’s sloppy and unpracticed. You have no grace whatsoever.

Rin feels himself get so hard he’s lightheaded.  

You pull away, gently kissing the corner of his mouth. Down the line of his jaw. Mimicking something he’s sure you’ve read in your stupid doujins at one time or another. He can feel the nerves radiating off of you in waves, feel the way your body shakes in his lap. How uncertain you are. There’s that feeling again. Gnashing, possessive, mean. Not that Rin has ever been someone especially saintly.

But it’s not cruelty he wants to expose you to. It’s something else, far more demanding.  

His hands find your hips in a single breath. Pushing you down onto his lap until your full weight is rested over his hard-on. You whine when he presses up against your core, clothed cunt protected through ratty PJs. Rin doesn’t say anything, buy you know better than to stop now.  

Kissing down slowly, sweetly - you scrape and lick along his skin until you’re just underneath where his jaw and neck meet. Your eyes flutter open to look at him. It's too much for him.

Rin grinds his hips up in retaliation until you whimper. He does it over and over, steadily until you’re both rocking against each other in tandem. All clothes and hot heaving breaths, layers of fabric acting as barrier for what he's after.  

You’ve done everything under the sun aside from sex. This barely counts as foreplay by now. Even so, he’s bucking up into you with every ounce of his strength, unspoken desire shredding his sense. His hands gripping your hips, jaw grit - pleasure coiling in his stomach and wound so tight.  

“Fuck,”  

You’re crying out against his shoulder before you remember what you were trying to do.  

Your lips find his neck again trying not to be too noisy. Latching on with a soft kiss, Rin hisses as your teeth finally sink into the flesh. Your mouth is small. It’s all he can think about. He feels your incisors scrape against the skin, tongue tracing a vein. Before long, you’re sucking hard on the same spot. He can feel it. A bruise forming, broken capillaries blooming in deep dark hues of purple and red. Rin groans at the feeling. You give it every ounce of effort, holding onto his bicep tight when you do. It aches in a pleasant way.  

Pleasant enough to make his hips buck. A jolt of desire and want rips through him like a shockwave - until he’s pushing you down against the hard outline of his cock and forcing you to grind against it. It’s hard and sharp, fingers bruising. 

He cums hard. Seconds later, like a flash of lighting. His stomach flips and something rips through him and—

It’s the first time he’s cum before you. Fuck, h can feel his own cum seeping through his boxers and jeans. It’s so intense his vision blacks out for a minute before returning to him, chest heaving as you pull away and stare.  

“You—“  

Horror washes over him. Rin puts a hand over your mouth, angry and irritated. Red up to his ears to his ears and internally having the worst crisis of his life for the third time over.

He looks at your face and there's that feeling in his chest. But he recognizes it this time. Knows exactly whats making him like this, forced to confront it for the first time.

“Shut up,” He hisses, breathing heavily. “Not a fucking word,”  

You nod at him docile. Rin forces himself steady as he thinks of pinning you down and taking you.

Like he knows you'd let him. Like he fucking knows he wants to.

[ptergwen]

can you do a fic where one of the peters (garfield or holland) is making out with the reader and starts to kiss and bite her neck and the little sounds she makes drives him insane

three strikes

ask box  |  taglist  |  blurb masterlist  |  main masterlist

w/c: 655

warnings: making out, suggestiveness

a/n: i went with tasm!peter hehe, def a fluffier approach to it but so so adorable & i hope you enjoy! keep the reqs coming y'all <3

winter in the city is magical. everything in the park is covered in a light dusting of snow, all the stone pathways and the trees, couples hand in hand and kids playing. then, there's peter. he's looking up at the sky with his tongue stuck out. he's so focused on trying to catch snowflakes that he doesn't notice you digging your hands into the snow, collecting a handful.

something hits peter's chest; a snowball. he looks across the way, where you're smiling mischievously. he brushes the snow off his jacket, chuckling. you're already making another snowball.

"i dunno, babe. i wouldn't do that if i were you."

despite peter's warning, you aim your arm to throw.

"you're playing with fire, you know that?"

"no, i’m playing with snow."

"oh, that's cute. really cute."

you promptly hit peter with the snowball. he raises a challenging eyebrow, and you know you're in for it. you start to run away, giggling, peter chasing after you. he's quick to catch up. he grabs your waist and pins you against a streetlight, breathing out smoke into the cold air through laughter.

"you wanna try that again?"

peter's gaze darts between your eyes and lips. you bite back a grin.

"kind of."

"what a shame. it'd be strike three."

"what happens after strike three?"

"you wouldn't get this."

peter leans in and kisses you. you loop your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. he hums in content, hands squeezing your waist and lips trailing over to your cheek. he pecks both your cheeks, your nose, just above your lips, peppering kisses all over your face until you're giggling and trying to push him away.

"no, no, no, stop! that tickles!"

peter kisses down your chin and back up, across your forehead, over to your temple. you grin despite yourself, tugging at his locks that are damp with snow.

"i’m serious, pete! stop it!"

"no can do, babe. can't help myself, you're just too damn cute."

peter pecks your cheek a few times, earning a noise of protest.

"so cute i could eat you up."

"nuh uh."

you pull the zipper of your jacket all the way up so it's covering the lower half of your face.

"yeah huh."

peter leaves big, lingering kisses on your forehead, each one punctuated with a mwah. when you realize he's not going to let up, you finally concede. you uncover your face and capture his lips with yours, the only way to make him stop. your nose nudges his, head tilting to look at him.

"are you done?"

"not even close."

peter kisses you again. you kiss him back, smiling into it. he moves your jacket out of the way and continues his kiss attack, this time on your neck. you let him have his fun, enjoying the feeling of his lips on your skin. you squeal when he finds one particular spot and nips at it.

"pete! what're you doing?"

"i told you, eating you up."

he playfully bites at your neck between a series of kisses, arms locked around your waist, drawing the most adorable sounds out of you that he can't get enough of. you thread your fingers through his hair.

"don't forget we're in public, mister."

your tone doesn't match your words, unconvincing, and you're resting your head on the lamp pole so peter has more access. he smirks.

"i know, they're just love bites."

he starts to suck at your neck. the pressure is light, but enough to leave a hickey. you play with his fluffy hair, letting out a noise between a sigh and a moan. you feel the vibrations from peter laughing. you feel something poking at your thigh, too.

"and you're telling me we're in public? whew, i think we'd better get you home."

"you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

peter answers by holding you in place and kissing down your neck, making you breathless from laughter.

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[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.

[iqxatlantic]

chat hear me out incubus Ness x fem reader….

INCUBUS NESSSS i'm going feral omg!

"be each other's company"

ft. alexis ness . incubus! ness . ooc! ness ? . fem! reader . lonely ahh reader . disrespected! reader . somnophilia . dub-con/non-con . marking woooh... . smut . tittiesss (idk i feel like ness a boob boy even tho hed adore ur whole body heaven n back) . unreliable narrator

cw: somnophilia + dub-con/non-con

wc: 1.2k

despite having many friends or zero friends — you've always felt lonely. you never understood why. there were people there for you occasionally or always. you were just constantly lonely.

you broke up with your ex because you felt like they didn't care even with the fact that they did care. sex fucking sucked cause they just did it to their own pleasure. comfort and words of affirmation just wasn't enough.

you were fast asleep after bawling your eyes out. your shirt was slightly riden up, exposing your stomach. your blanket was lazily draped to cover a portion of your thighs.

"what a sight," ness thought. his lips formed a small smile. ness always saw faces of sadness or loneliness as intriguing. you had that. perfect body, perfect face, perfect emotions. that's silly. everyone has emotions. why is it that ness especially felt a bond with you the most.?

he approached your bed silently. admiring you for a moment. holy shit. you were (and are dont forget that >:c) breathtaking. he brought his calloused fingertips and traced it along the hem of your panties. his other hand swiftly tossed the blanket.

he smiled softly. your shallow breathing made him happy for some reason. he gently positioned himself in front of your pussy. lifting your body from the bed, he set a small kiss on your clothed cunt. he set you back into your mattress. the material sinking slightly due to both of your weight.

ness reluctantly moves your shirt above your chest. admiring the two soft mounds of flesh in front of him. it was a whole feast for his eyes! <3 shifting himself, he got a lil' lower and began suckling on your sensitive tits :c

luckily, ness isn't an asshole. hes a nice boy. well — he isn't the nicest. he bit on your nipple while fondling your other breast with his free hand! his calloused fingers had such a contrast in comparison to your soft skin. he bit a little hard there's oughta be marks left after. maybe that's what he wants.

ness knew you'd wake up sooner or later. did he really care? no. not at the moment. he was too engaged in covering your skin with hues of blues, purples, reds, n pinks like your skin was a canvas. he sunk his teeth into your collarbone. he bit hard enough to draw a little blood but, not hard enough to wake you up.

focusing on your tits again he played with them like no tomorrow! flicking your nipples with his tongue, sucking on them, pinching them, fondling your boobs... he did everything! he peeled himself off one of your breasts with a lewd pop noise. he admired the work of art.

your boobs got a little bigger! :D (yea no shit he was sucking on them and playing w them like the world itself would end) ness's fingers wasted no time sliding your panties off.

whilst sliding down your panties, his purple eyes widened a lil at the wet spot. you were just as aroused as he was! you shifted slightly in your slumber, your legs spread a little wider now.

"scheiße, prinzessin, do you want this more than me..?" the magician mumbled. he aligned your slit with his blushed tip. at the moment you woke up. your eyes were almost as puffy as your pussy lips :3

you finally caught up to what was going on with that big tip already stretching you open! before you could panic and bitchslap him, he smiled at yu warmly. "what's your name, meine schönste?"

"[first name].." you mumbled out. ness smiled. "pretty name for a pretty girl." you were in awe at his toned physique. so much in awe you almost disregarded those incubus features. eh who cared right? he's cute... and you were lonely anyways.

he slid his cock into you in such a gentle way. "y'know, [name]. you were so wet i didn't even need to give you foreplay!" ness giggled. you were a little embarrassed. "whats your name..?" you asked softly.

his pace was so slow it was killing you. but oh he was so sweet with his movements. despite being slow, the thrusts were DEEP. ness is so gentle with your body. treating you like porcelain. you shut your eyes as you scratched at his back. mewling for him to be a little faster.

ness would always set painfully slow paces. he'd never want to hurt such a doll. but something in him faltered. he wanted to please you. going rough is what you wanted right? will you be less lonely if he abided to your request?

he snapped, the same way his hips snapped into yours aggressively. he didn't know why. the pace got faster and faster, the room got tighter. the tension... everything.

"a-alexis... oh scheiße.. i'm sorry for swearing — alexis ness.. that's my name." he moaned out. he was fucking your frail figure so rough you almost forgot how about how he had such a nice demeanor.

you couldn't understand why ness was so nice. but, then again you understood. you knew ness was lonely as well. his hands intertwined with yours. all 27 of the bones in your hands had for some reason missed his.

why? you didn't know the man whatsoever. never met him once in your life. how come you just had this weird click with him.? who gafs, for once you were being respected while getting fucked. his thrusts was so violent but oh so loving!

"alexis!" you cried out. his thrusts got sloppier n sloppier. your eyes rolled back as you felt yourself close to finishing. your walls clenched tighter against his dick, the knot in your stomach loosened as you came all over his dick.

even though he hated t' do so, he silenced your sweet noises by giving you a passionate kiss. he pulled away from your pleasant lips. he admired your gorgeous fucked-out face.

"you're so pretty." he began tearing up. he also didn't know why. he buried his face into the crook of your neck. he pulled out and came undone on your stomach. he felt sinful despite being a sin. his warm seed was sliding from your stomach onto your sheets, soiling them :c

he scooped a bit of his semen onto his fingers and parted your lips with his free hand. ness softly shoved his fingers into your mouth. you licked it clean, savouring the taste of his slightly sweet n salty cum.

you looked at him with big doe eyes, beads of tears fighting to leak out. ness felt his now soft dick harden again. you embraced him into a tight hug. "thank you alexis..." you muttered.

"[name]. you're so lovely..." the man sighed contently. "thank you." the loneliness slowly faded as you spent more time with ness. thrust after thrust after thrust. shit just got more n more steamy...

ness watched you fall asleep. he was so happy. so fuckin' happy. he had never connected more emotionally with someone... he had this radiant smile on as he pressed a soft kiss on your lips and forehead. shit. he knew he loved you. he pressed one last kiss on your chest before he left.

you woke up — confused. you had no memory of what happened last night. the hell? why are there so many bruising and markings..? one thing you remembered was a gorgeous man.. purple eyes... light brown hair that turns purple towards the edges... fuck!

that loneliness washed over you again. nightfall came once again, so did you and ness. you both easily forgot about the negative feelings and the solitude you two had. :3

— ©iqxatlantic / isaisliterallyhim, 2025

a/n: FAWKKK NESS i love love lOVEEEE ness!! this ended up being more emotional.. srry for the booty english n plot i kinda j lost mtivation half way again </3 hopefully u enjoyed !! ness is so cute i see myself in him :c like in him hehe... but also in him ! TT no proofreading at all i j pulled this out my ahh idk how to write smut but its so fun to write </3 tjhis was unironically rly hard to write omfg but it was for NESS and my pookie hehe my grades r so cooked