#dark content for ts

[wri0thesley]

work health assessment - dottore x reader (nsfw, 4.8k)

you really need this job, and you're willing to put up with more than you should in order to get it.

cw: dub-con, dark content, medical kink, needles, mentions of drugging. reader is explicitly chubby and a virgin, afab (words such as 'breast' and 'cunt' used, but no pronouns). fingering, glove kink, mentions of forced prostitution. it's dottore!!

You’re trembling. You can feel your leg awkwardly twitching, a trapped nerve in your calf that makes you unable to sit still - and it only gets worse as the last applicant before you comes out with a face like thunder. The other Fatui agent stops and looks at you - he’s obviously higher up in the hierarchy than you are, wearing the trademark hood and red-trimmed coat of a Pyro agent. Somebody looking for a change of pace from combat, then, you suppose. 

“You ought not to bother,” he spits out, vitriol in his tone - but you have been around other people enough to know that the vitriol is directed at the man sitting in the office and not at you. “He won’t care about how well-suited you are, any qualifications, any fucking scientific proficiency--”

The Pyro agent walks away still muttering under his breath; you think you hear something about how clearly graduating the Akademiya meant nothing in a place like this, and you feel an unfortunate pang of sympathy for him. He’s definitely far more qualified for this kind of work than you are. If Il Dottore is looking for an assistant, surely somebody who studied at the Akademiya is going to be a far better prospect than you--

You swallow. You need this role. 

Everybody has been kind to you since The Fair Lady passed on. They knew you were one of her favourites, and they found work for you to do - even if it has been rather menial and trivial, it’s meant that you’ve kept receiving Mora, and been able to keep yourself afloat. Head above water. They’ve looked at you sympathetically for the past year - but this is the Fatui, after all, and you cannot expect to live on pity for the rest of your life. You need to make yourself indispensable to somebody else. 

Heaven knows you’re not primed for combat, you think ruefully, as you look down at the soft curve of your hips and the plush of your thighs where they spread out against the chair you’re waiting on. You’re not clever enough to be an actual scientist underneath Dottore’s instruction, you don’t think; and you hadn’t liked the way that the Regrator had sized you up last time he’d seen you, enquiring after your salary and whether it was truly appropriate for the work you’d been doing around the Palace with that calm, sly smile on his face--

But administration? Handling The Doctor’s papers, filing things away, accounts and schedules and diaries? That is very much the kind of thing you can do, and the thing you did very well for Signora before she met with a shining blade. You grit your teeth and force yourself to think things through and get your words in proper order. The Doctor is not the kind of man who will be kind to you if you start stuttering or falling over yourself; he doesn’t suffer fools gladly, you’ve always been told--

Oh, it would be a step up though, wouldn’t it? To go from the employ of the eighth Harbinger to the second? You’d ordinarily never have dared entertain such a thing, but Pulcinella had sought you out amongst the Palace walls and patted your arm and given you a kind, fatherly smile as he’d told you that he thought you’d be a perfect fit for what Dottore needed. 

The door to the office opens and there he is; tall, imposing, his gaze imperceptible behind the crow-like mask he wears at almost all times. Your breath catches in your throat. You’ve seen him, of course . . . but this close, and with nobody else around, he has a strange aura that makes you feel dizzy and nervous. Like a laboratory mouse being observed through glass. Slowly, his chin tips down, as if he’s looking you up and down, and then he makes an impatient gesture with one gloved hand. 

“Come, then,” he says, in a low, cold voice. “The first thing to learn is not to keep me waiting.” 

You’re clumsy getting up off the chair, still a little rattled by the way he looks and just how much he towers over you. The accoutrements he wears on his lab coat do not soften the effect; they give him the look of a too-large raven who is ready to peck your eyes out, making him seem all the more intimidating and all the wider - and considering he is a Doctor, a scholar . . . he’s not exactly lacking in the breadth department even without them. 

His lip curls for a fraction of a second at the sight of you pulling at your clothes, rearranging yourself, even nervously reaching up to touch your hair to ensure that it’s in place - but then he motions you through the door and his face is blank once again. 

His office is in complete disarray. It’s no wonder he needs an assistant, really; there are files all over his desk, spilling onto the floor. A few tables and chairs in other corners are just as full of ephemera and notes and other things you don’t want to think too hard on. The only things in this office that are meticulously clear and clean are a doctor’s examination bed pressed up against the wall and a tray beside it with an array of silvery instruments that glint cruelly in the snow-bright reflection from the windows. The lock clicks. You swallow again as Dottore motions for you to take a seat in front of his desk and he walks around to recline into his own. 

His is old leather, wingback; more throne than chair, and he sits in it like a king observing one of his subjects in a way that makes you feel so small you can barely stand it. 

“Well?” He asks you, and you squeak in alarm before your words start to careen out of you like a runaway train. 

“I--  The Rooster told me you were looking for an administrative assistant, and you know that’s the same thing I did for the Fair Lady. I-I’m not scientifically-minded or anything, I’d be no help with your experiments - but maybe that’s a good thing, if I don’t know enough to properly even understand the documents I’m handling then I’m no risk with sensitive information--”

He raises one gloved hand to stop you in mid-flow. There’s that quirk of his lip again, as he steeples his fingers together and leans forward on his elbows to rest on the messy wood of his desk. 

“My dear,” he drawls at you, “are you truly trying to get me to employ you by making a show of your own incompetence?”

A cold shiver down your spine. You need this role. You need something to get you out of the drudgery of the boring tasks you’ve been given, to get you away from Pantalone’s prying eyes, to give you some kind of purpose--

“I’m good at admin!” You tell him, your voice pitching high in your nervousness. “I’ve a head for figures, I’m organised, I’m discreet--”

“How’s your health?” Dottore asks, that slight curve to his lip not dissipating even a bit. “I can’t employ somebody who is unreliable, you see. I’m rather more of a workaholic than some of my compatriots, and I do so hate to be interrupted when I’m on the brink of a breakthrough.”

“It’s good!” You blurt out without thinking. It’s true; you’ve never had any issues with it. You had mandated checks every year with a doctor that Signora employed - she always made a point to say she wouldn’t make the Doctor do it, with a pinch to your cheeks and a lazy, indulgent smile. She liked her underlings to think her magnanimous. 

“Mmm.” Dottore says. He regards you over his hands once more, before he says; “When I saw your application on the pile, I had already half a mind to take you on. The Fair Lady was always effusive in your praises, and I do indeed not want a little upstart who thinks they can replace me. You were right to think your lack of scientific knowledge would be a boon to me. My work is very delicate, you understand?”

“I understand entirely, Doctor,” you say, nodding enthusiastically. “I’m the soul of discretion, I promise.”

“Mmm,” he says, the noise not entirely convinced, but your toes have curled in your shoes and you can feel the fingers of hope crawling up your spine. “Despite that, you do not seem unintelligent. I don’t think I could bear having an idiot handle my files. You’re already well-versed in the politics of Zapolyarny and the way working for a Harbinger functions; I would not have to waste time doing too much training.”

“Not at all, My Lord,” you say, trying to smile despite the nerves that you can still feel tingling all over you. “I’d be extremely good at what you want me for, I promise.”

This wins a soft snort from him, as if you’ve said something very funny. You keep yourself as poised as you can, your spine straight, your face as sweet and open as you can manage. Signora always preferred you to be like this . . . in time, you suppose that you’ll learn what Dottore likes, but until then he doesn’t seem opposed to the same gentle demeanour that you’d perfected with the Eighth Harbinger. 

“Nevertheless,” he says, “your physical condition . . .” 

Your cheeks burn hot. You hope he is not referring to the curves of your body; you’ve never been particularly self-conscious about it - it’s rather the fashion in Snezhnaya to be soft, and you receive your fair share of admiring looks and propositions - but . . . you know that Dottore is not originally from your homeland, and there can be such strange stigmas in other lands--

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says to you, as if he’s read your mind. “In a purely biologically aesthetic sense, you’re very much a prime specimen. But looks can be deceiving, my dear, and before we finalise the employment I would like you to submit to a medical examination.” 

Your eyes widen. You hadn’t prepared for him to ask for this; you try and run through in your head what he might want to check in this examination, but even as you do that you realise he has you caught. You need him to employ you, and he has as good as said that as soon as he’s declared you medically fit and able he’ll be able to officially do so. How bad can it really be, then? Let him poke and prod and walk out of this office with a brand new purpose. You swallow. 

“Of course, My Lord,” you say, giving him a blank smile. “What would you like me to do?” 

Dottore gives a pleased hum at your acquiescence as he stands up and walks towards the medical table. 

“Obedient,” he says, approvingly. “That will serve you in good stead. Come here, if you please. For now, I’m simply going to listen to your heart and do a few quick reflex tests. The more . . . invasive tests will come afterwards. Please remove your topmost layer.” 

You do not like the sound of ‘invasive tests’, but you allow yourself the briefest moment of a flinch before you follow his orders. The fur-lined cloak you wear is shed, and the soft knit cardigan follows suit. Seeing you’re wearing a blouse beneath that, Dottore clicks his tongue briefly. 

“That too, I’m afraid,” he says. “I need to be able to place this device directly onto your bare skin.”

It takes another moment of steeling yourself, but the blouse follows your other garments until you stand shivering in your lace-trimmed camisole. You’re suddenly exceedingly aware of the generous curve of your breast within the silken cups of your brassiere, the bare skin of your collarbone, the plumpness of your shoulders - but Dottore, doctorly in the extreme, merely lets his gloved hands brush over them as he steers you to take a seat upon the examination table and presses the cool circle of his stethoscope against your chest. 

The next fifteen minutes are boring but predictable. Dottore takes your vitals; your blood pressure, your heart-rate. He checks your reaction times with a little glowing light - he takes your temperature. You wrinkle your nose when he produces a syringe, but you have had blood taken before and you manage nothing more than a little flinch when you feel the needle slide into the crook of your elbow. He writes all of his findings down in a little black-covered ring bound notebook. 

It is only when he closes the notebook that you finally let yourself relax; your shoulders to slump, the breath it feels as though you’ve been shudderingly holding on to finally dispelled. 

“Do I meet your expectations, My Lord?” You ask him, and Dottore gives a small, considering noise before he looks back up from the notebook. 

“I’m afraid I’m not quite finished yet,” he tells you, with a small smile. “If you’d please remove the rest of your clothing.”

Your eyes widen. 

“I--”

“There’s a hospital gown for you,” he says, interrupting, reaching towards a lower drawer in the silver cart by the side of the bed. He pulls from its depths a pale blue, paper-thin concoction that you do not feel as though deserves the title of ‘gown’ - but Dottore has you at his mercy. If you refuse now, he simply won’t employ you - and who knows what might happen to you after that? You bite your tongue and repeat the mantra in your mind: what’s the worst that could happen? “I’ll turn whilst you change. Your underwear too, if you please.” 

What’s the worst that could happen? You repeat it over and over as Dottore sighs when he turns around, as if he’s being very generous by making this small provision for your modesty and he doesn’t quite see the point. You put your clothes down onto the pile that’s been gradually growing and shrug yourself into the uncomfortable papery gown, perching primly on the very edge of the hospital bed when you’re done with your knees together. 

You are terribly aware of just how naked you are beneath the flimsy covering when Dottore turns back around and gives you a slow once-over. There’s a lot of your bare thigh on display; the thin ties at the back of your neck you have done your best to fasten, but you’re also aware of cool air on the bare skin of your spine and the precarious position you would be in if he bid you to stand up and turn around. You press your thighs more fiercely together as if sheer force of will can make you less tortuously conscious of your bare sex, your missing underwear, the way your nipples have peaked in the cool air. 

“Are you cold?” He asks, conversationally, as he comes closer to you - and your cheeks go hot all over as one gloved finger comes up and softly circles over the slight imprint of your nipple in the gown. You hiss through your teeth, but don’t say anything. “Your temperature was fine . . . so perhaps you’re just sensitive?” 

He tips his head to one side as he considers it. He still has not removed the bird-like mask, but you have the fleeting impression that you’re being ogled by him. His other hand reaches up, and before you can make even a token attempt to slap him away, he is cupping the heavy fat of your breasts through the material, testing their weight in his palms. 

“D-Doctor!”

“Yes?” He tilts his head again. “I simply have to get to grips with your body, my dear. This interest is strictly professional.”

“I-- this doesn’t seem necessary, My Lord Harbinger--”

“Believe me, it is. Unless . . . well, you do want me to employ you, don’t you?”

The last is said in a condescending tone that makes you very much sure that if you deny him, he will send you on his way and happily throw you to the mercy of whoever swoops down to feast upon his leftovers first. You remind yourself that it will be over soon; think of how this role will cement your place in the Palace as someone of use, and when Dottore’s thumbs swipe over your nipples you bite back the whimper that wants to tear from your throat. 

“Mmm,” he says. “Very sensitive, indeed. Tell me when this hurts.” Still through the gown, Dottore uses thumb and forefinger to gently pinch your nipples. Against your will, you squirm on the hospital bed slightly, heat rising to your face as a low ache between your thighs makes itself known. He starts off soft, but gradually increases the pressure, until you blurt out;

“Th-that hurts!”

“Hmm?” He pinches a little harder and watches you in great interest as you flinch, giving a mean little twist before he finally releases the aching nubs of your nipples. “Yes. As I thought. Now, let me try without the obstruction--”

He reaches behind you and undoes the ties of the gown with one quick, fluid motion - so swift you barely have time to bring your hands up to cover the spill of your breasts, as protests die on your tongue. 

“I don’t have time for prudery,” he tells you. “Show me.”

To your great horror, a shaking breath only a moment away from a sob comes trembling out of your throat - but you do as he asks, thinking once more of that job that is dangling over your head. Dottore seems to observe your naked chest for a moment, and then smiles sharp and cruel again. 

“Lovely,” he murmurs, as he returns to touching them - kneading handfuls in those awful gloves, tugging at your nipples, rubbing circles around the areola until your over-sensitive body squirms. “Ah, these are nicely sized, aren’t they? And these . . .” Another pinch to your nipple, and this time you feel a tear slip from the corner of your eye unbidden, your throat clogged. “Such pretty little things. So responsive! I daresay the rest of your body has reacted just as nicely?”

“I--I don’t know what you mean, My Lord,” you say to him, although you have the mounting fear that you understand exactly what he means. Dottore chuckles. 

“So far, you’re passing the physical examination with flying colours,” he says to you, voice low and cool and smooth. “Don’t disappoint me now, darling.” He pats the side of the examination bed. “Get yourself up here please. Feet flat, knees up.” He leers at you even through the mask as he finishes his order with two words that make your blood run cold. “Thighs apart.”

It almost pushes you over the edge. The thought of Dottore looking at you, so vulnerable, so close to naked (actually, you suppose when you move the gown will flutter to the ground and you will be utterly bare before him) - the idea of him having you entirely at his mercy . . . You’re suddenly all too aware that there is nobody waiting for you; no applicant after you, who might poke their head in rudely to see if Dottore is nearly ready for their interview. For all intens and purposes, Dottore could kill you and use you as spare parts and nobody would ever know--

“My patience is not neverending,” Dottore murmurs, drumming fingers on the leather of the bed. “You do want this, don’t you?”

“Y-yes,” you swallow back the fear. You have nothing else that is viable to do, really - you would never beat him to his door if you ran, you would be naked and afraid, you are entirely at his mercy. . . “S-sorry.”

A pleased noise at the apology. You force yourself to keep breathing as you manoeuvre your traitorous body - to your immense horror, you realise that the kneading and the pinching and the petting that Dottore lavished upon your chest earlier has had an effect between your thighs, and there is a definite dampness wetting the curls of your pubic hair. You squeeze your eyes shut so that you don’t have to see that damned bird mask looming down at you. 

“There we are,” Dottore coos to you - fingers slide up your shins, rearranging them slightly until you’re put in exactly the position he wants. “Relax, now. Head on the pillow. This will perhaps be uncomfortable, but I shan’t hurt you on purpose. Ah, there we are. Very good.” You hesitantly settle flat against the leather, and for your obedience you are rewarded with a fleeting pat on your head, like a well-behaved little dog. “Oh, my.”

“I-- is the examination nearly over, Doctor?” You ask him, though you fear that you know the answer - and to answer your fears, Dottore lets out a chuckle that sounds like a creak. 

“Oh, not yet,” he says, airily. “Relax, my dear. If you don’t, perhaps I ought to inject some kind of tranquiliser?”

“N-no,” you shake your head. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to relax.”

“Very good. Ah.” He shifts again, and you hear the sound of the cart being moved. Your heart begins to rabbit at the thought of any of those silvery sharp instruments coming near the soft part of you nestled between your thighs, but Dottore simply pauses at the foot of the bed and once more observes you. 

It’s been a while since he wrote in the notebook, you can’t help but note. 

“You’re just as lovely here,” he says to you. “A perfect specimen, really. Very nice.” Very slowly, all the more terribly enhanced because you cannot see him, you feel Dottore bring his gloved finger to stroke down the plump slit of your labia. Your body tenses at the sensation. “You’re wet, too. Good. I’m going to help that along a little - this might be a bit cold, you can shiver if you need to--”

The clatter of the cart again - and then something thick and viscous and cool is being drizzled over your bare sex. You do indeed take in a deep breath, your nails digging into your palms at the unusual sensation. 

“Wh-what is it?” You whisper, a thousand horrible thoughts flitting across your head - numbing agents, or oils designed to make you all the more sensitive, or any other kind of horrible concoction that the Doctor might have at hand - but he just laughs at you, as if you’ve told a very funny joke. His tone is condescending;

“Merely a lubricant, my dear. We are simply testing your health; your sensitivity, your reactions, how much you can take--”

He gently continues to stroke up and down the slit of your sex, working the lubricant against your cunt - paying particular attention, to your mortification, to the swollen nub of your clit. Of course, you’ve touched yourself - but to have someone else doing it! To have the Doctor, doing it like this!”

“You’re a virgin?” He asks you, with a note of surprise, and you press your lips tightly together because you cannot bear to say it out loud. Dottore chuckles. “Oh, you don’t need to answer that. I can tell from the way your greedy little hole is trying to suck me in even though it barely seems as though it will stretch enough to fit a finger in.” He clicks his tongue and lets out another low little laugh. “I should have guessed when you started panting and whimpering when I played with your nipples. You’re just darling, you know.”

“I don’t . . . I don’t think this is part of an ordinary medical examination,” you whisper, as Dottore’s finger prods testingly against the flutter of your hole. You hate that he’s right - despite how your mind is whispering poison, your body is only aware of how good it feels to be touched like this, by slow and practised and meticulous hands. 

“And I am no ordinary Doctor, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

“Please--”

Your next words are drowned out by the whine that falls from your lips as he slowly slides his finger into the hot tight tunnel of your sex. His gloves are still on; the texture makes you fight against the desire to wriggle as he crooks it inside of you, truly getting a feel for the pulsing walls around him. 

“I’m sure you’re aware the Regrator has inquired about your contract,” he says to you, as he slowly begins to slide his finger out and then in again, the movement aided by the lubrication and your own slick. Your back arches, but you do not receive a scolding for it - Dottore’s voice has shifted just a semi-tone, thickened just a touch. “He’s thinking you’d make him a pretty penny if he loaned you out to some of his more discerning investors.”

The thought of the way that the Regrator looks at you flashes through your mind again, and you find yourself tearfully shaking your head. 

“As well as being a prospect to indulge in himself,” Dottore continues, as if you have not responded. “Now. I’m sure you won’t want that, do you?”

“P-please,” you say, shaking your head. “No.” 

Dottore lets out a satisfied exhale. A second finger prods interestedly at your entrance, and you try to force yourself to relax as he slides two of them inside instead. The stretch now is noticeable, and the muscles in your thighs jump. Two fingers, and you almost tell him that it’s too much - before you remember what it is that Dottore is telling you. 

“Oh, very clever. I am not lying about needing an administrative assistant,” Dottore tells you, fingers pumping in and out of you now, curling against the pounding of your inner walls, the wet click of his fingers fucking into you echoing too loud in the room. You hate that you can feel yourself, wet and sticky and hot. You hate all the more that inside of you is growing a warmth you have never experienced, a tight ball of tension that makes you dizzy. “I am merely a man who believes in . . . multi-tasking. Dual purpose, if you will. I have found that sometimes I get . . . frustrated in my work, and one of the few ways I have found to expel some of that frustration lies in sexual gratification.”

Your face, hot. Your body, responding against your will. Your heart, pounding like a trapped animal. Dottore’s thumb swipes across your clit, circling the bundle of nerves with the practised assurance that only a doctor can truly embody. 

“Your virginity is a variable I hadn’t quite counted on,” he continues, still working you over like your cunt is a puzzle that he needs to solver. You can barely concentrate on what he’s saying now, that ball of heat within you is so overwhelming. “But it’s hardly unwelcome to know I’ll get to shape you to my own desires, if you will.”

You can feel that you’re close; you can feel that if he just carries on a bit longer, if he just lets you get a little further, that ball will explode like fireworks in your head and warmth will spread through your body like a heating lamp on a cold Snezhnayan night. But he stops. 

“So now you know the full terms,” he tells you, whilst you fight and lose against the instinct to try and hump your hips back to the gorgeous sensation of his hand on you. “Tell me, my dear. Do you still wish to be my assistant? Or do Pantalone’s plans sound more desirable? For a virgin, you’re being more than a little desperate - perhaps you like the idea of him sharing you out?”

“N-no,” you gasp out, shaking your head. Better the devil you know. Better the second Harbinger, and the same face, and the familiar walls of Zapolyarny Palace than beds of men you’ll never see again. “M-My Lord Harbinger, Dottore, Doctor, please--!”

He chuckles.

“Alright,” he murmurs, and he resumes fucking into you, the firm pressure on your clit, and before you know it you can feel yourself spasming around him with soft pleasured cries as your body is suffused in the warm glow of pleasure. Dottore fucks you on his fingers through the afterglow, the ebbing tide of your first orgasm at the hands of somebody else - before he abruptly stands and you hear the clack of his boots on the floor as he walks away, leaving you naked and shivering and gasping. 

“Very well,” he says to you, and though you’re still staring at the ceiling you hear the smile. “I shall see you bright and early tomorrow, my dear. We’ll make a start on my next tests. For now . . .”

It all feels like a muddle in your head. You can’t remember what you’ve agreed to; Dottore’s words are so mired in meaning, and you’re an admin and not any kind of genius--!

But it’s too late. Dottore’s voice is lazy and indolent in a way you’ve never heard it be as he says to you;

“You’re dismissed.”

[imgondeletedis]

hey guys so

who would be interested if i wrote a mini-series Benedict bridgerton x reader, like a dark multi-shot, might or might not be inspired by fortnight by Taylor Swift because in my opinion one of the complex songs on this album, you've got to trust the process, I MIGHT GET A LOT OF BLACK LASH BUT ALRIGHT I am kinda proud of it, gonna include a slight cheating warning. So who wants to be on the taglist?

Gif not mine obviously.

Will also post on ao3 if someone's actually interested hehehe

[musthavemods]

Sims 4 Contour Cc

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[tinytacocollection]

We need more gwyndolin fanfic because my man is underappreciated 🥀🥀🥀

[chand-ki-priyatama]

Our tears become holy in the form of ink on a page. Once we have spoken our saddest story, we can be free of it. And then all that's left behind is the tortured poetry....

-Taylor Swift

[notvil]

just looked at the priv to public bookmark ratio on some stuff and—OHH !!!!!

[mypimpademia]

Atp I believe that some of you are simply unintelligent or lack the basic human decency to respect ppls boundaries!!

[cherryribbcns]

♪ ༘⋆ kiss me once 'cause you know i had a long night! ──── spencer reid x reader

(🐈) ─── thinking about spencer reid, the ever gentleman, who waits for your permission before kissing you.

talk talk ✶ i rlly wanted to write ts, so kind of rushed & purely indulgent. probably ooc. not proofread.

spencer shed his peacoat, and then shucked off his shoes. padding across the wooden floor, his mismatched socks a stark contrast to the smooth dark wood, he made his way over to where you were lounging on the couch.

your arm was draped over your eyes, open book on your chest. you did notice him making his way over to you, and scooted over. spencer flopped down and prodded a thumb at your arm. his own arm snaked around your midriff and a sound like a content cat escaped his mouth.

you peeked through your shield, your bright irises twinkling with mirth, crinkled at the edges. "hi. how was your day?"

"tiring, you know how it is," he replies, voice scratchy, nudging the book on your chest out of the way. he drops his cheek there, nuzzling into the warmth. gosh, this man.

"you'd better stay awake. i haven't made dinner yet." an ever-suffering look over to the kitchen, where a myriad of unwashed dishes and papers were strewn across the breakfast bar.

"i'll make it," he pipes up immediately, lifting his head.

you give a shit-eating grin. "well, i can't deny your generous offer," you respond with an exaggerated sigh, though the both of you knew you'd rather stuff a sock in your mouth than cook. it was mostly the dishes that needed to be washed later that you dreaded.

broccoli sizzled in a pan, and in the oven potatoes roasted merrily. spencer alternated between the vegetable and talking to you about his day at the BAU.

once the broccoli was roasted and plopped onto a plate to cool, he turned to you. arms found purchase around your waist and he pulled you into a hug, chin resting your shoulder.

your arms wrapped around spencer, basking in the warmth from his body. this was nice. this was good. this was what you needed.

spencer's hands smoothed down the back of your cotton t-shirt, resting his fingers against the curve of your spine. "you don't know the things you do to me," he whispered.

"no, i do think i know." you smiled gently. the things you'd witnessed through your relationship with this man were questionable but all the same very wholesome.

spencer pulled back just enough to look at you head-on. "it's not exactly a secret is it?" he mumbled abashedly.

you shook your head.

his lips twitched. those big brown eyes behind his glasses flicked over your features, mapping them out. first the space between your brows, then the curve of your nose, then falling on your lips.

"can i kiss you?" he asked; the words would've gone unheard if you hadn't been listening so hard.

"you think i would say no to that?" you responded with a laugh bursting with mirth.

spencer's head tilted one way and then the other, as if debating the best angle to move in. your poor, impatient heart. the bridge of his glasses bumped against your skin, the hand on your back slid to loop around your hips.

then his lips ever so softly draped over yours, eyebrows furrowing together. you kissed him back with equal fervor, grasping both sides of his face until the gentle kiss was not so... gentle.

the broccoli was stone-cold, and the potatoes slightly charred by the time you sat down for dinner.

© cherryribbcns 2025

[pathologicalreid]

all the debts i owe | s.r.

in which Spencer takes your kids into account when deciding whether or not he should take a plea deal, and it doesn't go the way you expect

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: prison reid, takes place during 12x14 "collision course", i love my little reid family so much word count: 1.29k a/n: caamp song fic caamp song fic caamp song fic everyone cheered!!!!

Somehow, you felt like you were invading a conversation that you shouldn’t be a part of. Emily and Spencer knew this world much better than you did, and you were nothing more than a fly on the wall, grateful to be in close proximity to your husband after a few days of him being in jail.

You’d stopped by yesterday, dropping off a bag of his belongings and leaving them with Emily. You had wanted to see him then, if for nothing more than a confirmation that he was still breathing, but he was finally getting some sleep. The comfort of knowing that he had Emily watching over him had to be enough.

Spencer wasn’t allowed to keep his wedding band on. It was something that the jail was going to hold on to, but Emily had intervened and arranged for you to keep it.

The gold band weighed heavy against your chest, suspended by a chain around your neck for safe keeping, you kept it tucked into the collar of your sweater while you watched Spencer and Emily talk. “Please, just think about it,” Emily pleaded with him. “Think about the evidence.”

“I know,” Spencer assured her. “Scratch dots his Is and crosses his Ts. We know that,” he responded, brown eyes flickering over to yours for just a moment.

Leaning heavily against the wall for support, Emily shook her head, “But a jury won’t. A jury will only see what Scratch wants them to see.”

You shifted on your chair, resting your elbows on the table and propping your head in your hands. “You think they’ll convict me?” Spencer asked, a string of hurt threaded through his voice as if the thought of a jury of his peers thinking he was a killer caused him physical pain.

“I don’t know,” Emily answered, her voice barely above a whisper, “But if they do. Five years—that’s doable. You are young. You can have a life after that.” You were grateful for Emily; it seemed like she was doing the begging that you didn’t have the energy for.

“Not as an FBI agent,” Spencer rebutted, “I’d be a convicted felon.”

Her face softened as you watched, “Yes,” she acquiesced, “but you’d be free.”

At the first sign of tears in Spencer’s eyes, you felt water lining your own, “The FBI is my home. It’s where I belong.”

Emily looked at you for help, but you couldn’t get yourself to speak. You understood Spencer in a way few people ever could, the idea of him not being a part of the BAU made your chest ache as much as it did his. “You don’t belong in prison, and if you play Russian roulette with this… twenty-five years. That is a lifetime.”

Your husband lifts his chin in a display of false confidence, “If Scratch is framing me, you guys will get him. I know you will.”

“Yes, we will. I promise you we will never give up, and we will exonerate you.” Familiar silver started to line Emily’s eyes as well, “But what if we can’t do that this week? Or this year? Or this… decade? Because I know we can’t do it before your arraignment.”

Spencer turned to look at you, fully facing you for the first time since you arrived at the conference room this morning. “Thirty, twenty-seven, and twenty-five.”

Emily shook her head, confused. “What? What is that?” Her dark brows were knit together, looking between the two of you as she waited for an explanation.

You faced the two of them, wiping your sweaty palms across your jeans, “That’s how old our kids would be when he gets released.”

“They won’t even know who I am,” he said miserably, looking up at the ceiling to stop tears from gathering in his eyes.

Standing up from the chair, you stepped over to him, taking your rightful place at his side. “You could take the new deal, Spence,” you reminded him. “Five to ten—”

“I need to see them grow up,” he pleaded, brown eyes boring into you as he begged you to understand. Spencer always accounted for every possible outcome. Despite the haze of the past few days, you were sure that he knew what he was getting himself into.

You nodded up at him, taking one of his hands in yours before glancing over at Emily, “Can you give us a minute?”

Prentiss sighed and gave the both of you an understanding look before she slipped out of the room. “I need to see them grow up,” he repeated himself, dragging his free hand down his face while you squeezed his hand comfortingly.

“I know,” you whispered, “but with the deal… five years.”

“Or ten,” he countered. “Ten years… Nell would be in high school.”

Your stomach flipped at the idea, your oldest baby in high school, and just like that, you understood Spencer’s decision. You’d be there, outside in the world with your kids for those five to ten years; you’d see all of the in-between. Spencer would miss everything, learning about his own children through phone calls and letters, he’d play a passive role in their lives. If there was even the slightest chance that he would plead not guilty and win, then this whole nightmare would be over. “You have to fight,” you said, announcing the conclusion that he had already come to.

He nodded in confirmation, “Angel,” he whispered, “I don’t want you to come to the arraignment.”

Your breathing hitched, “What?”

“I want you to be with the kids. You’re the only parent they’ll have for who knows how long,” he explained himself.

You hadn’t worked out what you were going to tell the kids. They were too young to understand. Finn was barely out of the newborn phase, Livvy’s vocabulary was expanding every day, and Nell… Spencer was Nell’s best friend. Steeling your expression, you nodded once, “Okay, I won’t go.”

His lips parted and closed like he wanted to say something but stopped himself, you squeezed his hand in an attempt to be encouraging. “Just in case things don’t go the way we want… don’t wait for me.”

You dropped his hand, shaking your head in horror. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing from him, without a second thought, you reached into your shirt and pulled his wedding band out, leaving it on the chain, “For better or for worse, Spencer.”

“This is far worse than anything we could have ever thought of,” he continued, trying to give you an out. You could leave and he wouldn’t fault you, but you’d fault yourself.

Instead, you waved away his offer, “It would be an honor to wait for you. If that’s what it takes for me to see you again.”

He kissed you. Ducking his head until his lips met yours, there was nothing chaste about it. You both knew it was the last kiss, and it had to be good enough to last a lifetime. It was like nothing you’d ever experienced before, fueled purely by emotion; you kissed him like you’d never see him again. You gripped the collar of his sweater to discourage him from pulling away, and you tried to memorize the feeling of his hands on your waist.

A hollow feeling filled your chest when he pulled away, “I love you,” you breathed.

He nodded, resting his forehead against yours, “I love you too.” He pressed another small kiss to your lips, “I’ll make this up to you.”

You let yourself be pulled into his embrace, burying your face in his chest. You held onto him because this moment couldn’t last forever, but you’d be damned if you weren’t going to drag it out.

[rkivefae]

(DIE)TS ── AARON HOTCHNER

Pairing ── Plus Size/Chubby Fem!Reader x Aaron Hotchner

Summary ── Hotchner hates nothing more than when you go on unhealthy diets. (Or: You were mocked by a woman and her words stuck to you like glue. You internalized it so much that you began restricting and over-exercising but Aaron comes back and talks to you.)

Rating ── Mature

Content Warnings ── Disordered Eating & behaviors, fatphobia, let me know if I need to say something else.

Word Count ── 3.8k+

Note ── I wrote this in like 2 and a half hours and didn't edit it. I pulled this from some dark corner of my brain that's struggling with wanting to relapse and need this comfort. I suggest anyone struggling with an ED or disordered eating to not read if easily triggered. It goes in detail and should not be consumed by just anyone but I'm sure there's someone out there who needs this just as much as me. AND IF ANYONE IS WONDERING ABOUT HIS KID, just assume he's staying the night at family houses and other peoples and at school thx.

Hotchner hates nothing more than when you go on unhealthy diets.

But you can’t help how it’s drilled in your head. You’ve always been a chunky kid and as you got older, your size never really changed. You were always bigger and people had their things to say about it.

You’ve been called many names in the book, there wasn’t anything you haven’t heard of. They used to make you cry, you wouldn’t go out with your friends, you wouldn’t eat out, you wouldn’t wear sexy or tight clothing. You trained yourself to cover yourself, to not show yourself in front of people - including the basic need of eating.

It felt wrong, forbidden of sorts and although you dropped many of those habits now in your early 30s, it still lingered. You’d occasionally forget meals, pull at your clothes when you thought your stomach was showing and on your worst days, you didn’t dare go out.

But then you met Aaron, the sweetest man you’ve ever met. You were out clubbing with your friends, in a tight green dress with a back cut out. And you never felt prettier, dancing under the lights in the club with your friends. You felt the cold air on your heated skin and it was a thrill as your body mingled with your girlfriends. They grabbed on your hips occasionally, your bodies in sync.

You could feel eyes on you, and you knew it was you because your friends giggled it in your ear. Their hands left your body, though they still were near like a precaution, you opened your eyes and your breath was caught in your throat. His jet black hair was pulled back, save a few strands in front of his face but god did it work. He was sculpted by a god who took pride in their work, you were sure of it. 

You smiled, the plump of your lips covered in the gloss you put on, eyes lined with your favorite black eyeliner and thick mascara. It all made your eyes more piercing when the light shined just right - or so you’ve been told. Then before you knew it, you were in his hands that night. And it felt more than right. His hands never left your body that whole night it felt like. He said your name on his tongue like a prayer, chanting over and over again with a rasp, a moan and a raw need that ignited a fire within you.

You both met that night by chance, his friends finally breaking his hard cover and pressuring him to give in and you, god you were looking for a break and boy did you get one. The best night of your life.

You haven’t left each other's side since that night, he worshipped you and you did the same, in your own ways.

And you knew he found you attractive, he told you that every night. And not just in sexual moments. He’d come behind you, wrap his arms around you, lean over to kiss your neck to your ear as you cooked his favorite meal (considering he cooked yours the night before) and he’d tell you how beautiful you are. To which you’d giggle and thank him. Sometimes giving him sass, “compliments will not give you sneaky bites of dinner before it’s done.”

But something got beneath your hard exterior. He was gone for the week on a case (as he is a lot, but you didn’t mind. You’d rather him out there saving lives like he does best) and you were at home. Your girlfriends asked if you wanted to go out, you pondered it for a bit but it’s been a minute since you’ve all gone out, let alone get a drink together.

So you agreed, dressing up in the green dress you met Aaron in. You decided you’d tease him with pictures, especially considering you wanted to wear your green lace set beneath it. It wasn’t to make him jealous, no one could touch him besides you, but to rile him up a little. You weren’t going to send it while he was in the middle of a case but when he was on his way home, just a little treat to show him what he’s coming home to.

You were all having fun, dancing on the floor like the time before but you got achy sooner than you thought you would, you pardoned yourself with a giggle as your friends hands chased after you but didn’t pull you back, respecting your decision to rest for a minute.

But on your way back, you weren’t watching where you were going and before you knew it, you were completely cold. A drink was spilled from your exposed chest down the silk of your dress.

“Fucking fat bitch,” you heard a girl growl out before you were pushed backwards. You went with the motion, too shocked to fight against it. You didn’t register it all at first until your eyes came to hers, the blue pierced your skull as her face twisted into what could only be described as disgust by the scrunch of her nose and snarl of her lips. “Watch where you’re fucking going. That was like fifty bucks of drinks, you lard.”

And just like that, apologies rushed out your lips. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” you say as you bend to pick the glass that dropped. You muttered more apologies and you didn’t even notice when your fingers were pricked by the glass, you fumbled as you tried to put it on the tray. “I’ll pay for a new one, I’m sorry-“

The girl scoffed, “I don’t need your money. Just stay out of the way or better yet, lose some fucking weight.” And you backed into yourself. You’ve been clumsy before but you’ve never had a reaction like this. And it didn’t help that you found out you gained a few more pounds while having been with Aaron.

“Yo, watch who the fuck you’re talking to.” One of your friends came up behind you, her eyes squinting at the girl before you and this time, the girl stepped back, scoffing again, muttering a whatever and walking off.

Sasha was your best friend and always has been, but when her comforting hands made their way to your body, you shrugged them off and turned to her with the best smile you had, it was small and you knew she could see past it.

“It’s okay, I think- I think I’ll just go home.” You muttered before taking off, pushing through the crowd until you made it out.

You wanted nothing more than the world to swallow you up. You hadn’t given it much thought to lose weight, not in a while. But she could barely fit the green dress she was wearing and it was perfect a few months ago.

But you didn’t know how to lose weight. You already ate healthy (with a few occasions of not) and you worked out occasionally but maybe you needed to eat less, way less and work out more.

Your walk home was cold and you were non-stop sniffling. You’ve done this to yourself, you said. You should fix it.

Aaron said they made a break in the case and might be home in a few days. Maybe you could surprise him by losing a few pounds. Maybe he’d like you more. 

These thoughts snowballed. Every thought you’ve had since you were 7 was rushing back and ten times worse.

Over the course of the next few days, you rejected your friends' invitations to eat out and tried to eat only one meal a day and spend the rest of the time working out and being busy.

You tried to eat just a salad most nights and others you were too tired, so you ordered takeout. Work was an absolute pain, you moved on your feet like a zombie. God you looked like one, there were bags under your eyes. You couldn't sleep well, you stayed up most nights because you just couldn't sleep. You had to take melatonin most nights and you tried not to do it every night considering their health concerns but sleep was becoming something that was a treat. You were rarely getting it.

Aaron called you sometimes, he said that the case is taking longer than expected and that he'd be gone for even longer. You tried not to let it get to you but maybe it was your lack of sleep (and probably proper nutrition) but you were getting more emotional. Your period had already passed so you knew it wasn't that, but you were eating yourself up from the inside out. You were getting messages from your friends, you responded as positively as you could but you could tell they were getting concerned for your health and safety as days went by and you didn't accept any of their brunch plans nor hang outs. 

It was unusual of you, it's been 2 weeks since that night and this never ending routine you've been doing was catching up to you. But you needed to continue it. You had to. You don't even understand why anymore, you loved yourself - you thought you did at least and now you weren't so sure. That night destroyed all that you built and you couldn't explain why.

You thought you were pretty before going out, maybe a little upset that you probably wouldn't be able to wear the dress again soon because you gained a few pounds and you didn't want to rip it. It was your favorite dress for multiple reasons and it being the dress that you met Aaron in was definitely the number one reason. It was the dress you were in, shamelessly flaunting yourself and he picked you. Out of everyone there. It was already not his scene, he didn't want to be there and he was dreading the whole night.

Sometimes you think late at night, what is the point of doing this? He loves you, doesn't he? Why would you have to lose weight for that love to be more? But then your other side fights that maybe he wants what every other man in his life has, a skinny girlfriend. It wasn't fair to him. What if he got mocked for dating someone like you just like you received for being yourself?

Being alone consumed you, all you had was yourself (and everything anyone has ever told you in your life). 

Aaron said it was extended another week probably due to new findings of a group. You didn't understand, you weren't allowed to consider that it was confidential business and you weren't upset about not knowing. Just that you missed him, more than anything else right now.

Around week three or four, the days began to blur more. You didn't feel like yourself anymore and you were forgetting things more. Your brain was fogging up compared to the first week, you still had pizazz in your movement. But maybe this is what beauty costs?

"Hey baby," 

Your heart ached at his voice, rough and tired through the phone.

"Hey handsome," You gave out, with a light giggle. In bed yourself. You hoped he was too. He had the tendency to stay up and overwork himself when a case was getting to him. "I miss you." you whispered into the phone after a few beats of silence.

You heard his sigh, like the world was weighing on him - and to him, it probably did feel like this. "I miss you most, angel." he muttered into the phone.

"You're not staying up working, are you?" you chided, a softness to your phone. But there was only silence to your question. You shook your head, he couldn't see it but you knew he could feel your disapproval. "Oh you totally are! You need to go to bed." You reprimanded him through the phone. 

"But I feel so close, I just need to focus on it."

"No, what you need is sleep." You countered. And you heard his groan. You knew it wasn't of annoyance towards you, just everything that's on him.

"But I'm leading this case and I just, I feel like I need to do more."

"Mhm, you may be the leader boss man of the FBI but listen here, mister, I'm the boss now. You need to get your butt into bed and rest. Anything you're missing won't be found through a tired mind and overworked body. It'll still be there when you wake up and you'll be better than right now to be able to find it. I know you will, but you need to nourish your mind." You spoke softly to him. Maybe a few words of yours was childish but this was the one place and way where he didn't have to act so cold. When you're running the FBI and hunting down criminals, you can't act like the true warm teddy bear you are.

"I know baby, I know." He sighed softly. "Sleep on Skype with me?" He asked and you smiled into the phone. You granted him the request, both of you opening your computers (he now carried one regularly for you) and your smile brightened at him but you knew he couldn't see you, you were in a dark room with no light - and thank god for that but he could hear you and maybe that's what he needed, to hear you in the night. 

It definitely helped you, hearing him next to you even though he wasn't truly there. His breathing was all you needed, you recognized it like no other and a big part of you was soothed by it. You slept a little better that night- just a little.

Your days were still rough, you ached in places you never ached before. But when you woke in the morning, you were startled by loud banging on your door. You peeked through the hole and saw the only face those loud knocks could belong to. Sasha.

You purse your lips, knowing if you opened the door, it would be a world of butt whooping and you weren't ready for it. You knew better than to get away with - not ignoring, just not talking to her as much. 

But as soon as you undid the locks, the door swung open as you had the handle in your hand and you were met with a face of fury. Her eyes set on you and they narrowed. 

"Y/n-"

And before you could finish, you took off as her body lurched forward to get you. But she was always faster, her hands catching you and she pulled you along with her to the couch before she threw you down on it. "Now, I'm giving you five seconds to explain why in the world you're ignoring your most amazing and best friend," she paused for only a second before pointing back at herself, "me before I open a can of whoop-ass on you."

You stared for a second and you couldn't think of anything, mind wiped clean.

"One."

And you squeaked.

"Two."

"Idon'tknowI'vejustbeensadwithoutAaron-" You rushed out before she could say 'three' and that was enough for her, she registered it and she lifted a brow to you.

"That's all it is? You're not lying to me, right?"

"I'm not lying to you." You told her, not confirming the first part but it seemed like she took it as an answer to the first question.

And her solution to this very dire problem was a movie marathon. 

A part of you was more than grateful for this break of thinking, just binge watching movies with your best friends was a cleansing you never knew you needed before. It was the best thing to ever have happened to you. You had an excuse for why you didn't sleep last night, having stayed up most of it with her. But she had to leave somewhere around 2 a.m. 

And the following day, Aaron messaged you that he was finally coming home. And small parts of your world was crashing because you only lost so much weight with his absence, you didn't know how you'd be able to hide what you've been doing-

Hide?

Yes, you needed to hide it.

But not all plans follow through, you learned.

As soon as he made it home, you were in his arms, he wrapped around you as tight as he could and breathed you in like you were a drug he was addicted to and truthfully, you probably were. You swore you saw him going through withdrawals - or perhaps that was the delusion of it all. Maybe you were the one addicted. It didn't matter in the end, you both were obsessed and in love with each other.

You both pulled back on for him to press his lips against yours, his hands on your hips - keeping you as close as possible. "I never want to be away that long from you, ever again." He mumbled against your lips and to that you let out a soft giggle.

"I'll just have to keep you all to myself, handsome."

He pulled back and you saw it - for the split second it appeared - his confused gaze, eyebrows pinched. His hand went to your face - and his hand was the perfect size, cupping your face like you were a doll and truly, to him, you were. His thumb lightly traced the bags beneath your eyes and you felt your stomach drop.

"Have you been sleeping?"

And you were never much of a liar, not like you could get away with it while dating a behavioral analysis.

"Uhm, not too well." You muttered. You felt bad, his return should be about him, not you. It was stupid. He looked tired, he should be resting.

"What's been keeping you up?" He asked, eyes now on yours and not the bag beneath them. You sucked in a breath and shrugged because you knew speaking would only make you give it away and you were scared of what he'd say or think.

Would he be happy? Would he think that you were finally doing something about your body? Would he say he was proud because he wanted you thin like other girls?

Or would he cradle you? Would he tell you to eat more, that it was stupid to base your worth off of something like that? That you're more than a plate of pasta that you forbid yourself from and ate only a plate of salad?

You hoped for that but it would probably be the former. Aaron was a fit man, he could already pick you up now and maybe he would want a smaller girl.

"Have you been eating well?"

Your heart sunk deeper into your stomach and you shrugged again. 

"It's okay-" You began but his firm look on you told you otherwise.

"Baby, be honest with me because I can tell by one look the answer to my question already. I just want you to be honest with me."

A part of you was happy and another - was destroyed? You felt like it was blown up and chopped up and put through a shredder. You couldn't explain why, not really.

"I just- I wanted to lose some weight."

"Why?"

And it made you scoff a little, not an exaggerated one, just a small one. He should know this answer, shouldn't he?

"Come on, Aaron, take one look at me. I'm fat and not just phat, the big F. Capital even. And I just want to look better for you, I know what people think when they see us together and I guess I just realized how much better you deserve- which is just so shitty of me- and I'm just trying to give you that. I could look so much better if I was skinny, you can't tell me I wouldn't." You huffed out, your words were to distance him but your grip on his suit kept him close because even with this tough act, you were falling apart. Tears were in your eyes and you sniffed at him.

"You wouldn't."

"Don't lie to me, Aaron."

"You wouldn't." 

You huffed out a laugh, hands letting go of his suit and you moved to turn but his hands stopped you, cradling you by your waist and bringing you closer.

"You wouldn't look "so much better" if you were skinny, you look beautiful to me now. You'll look just as beautiful to me if you gained fifty pounds or lost fifty pounds. Your weight is a number that is out of my mind because I love you, Y/n. And that's not something conditioned by your weight." He began, taking in a breath while his eyes searched yours. Tears that formed before, were finally falling. "You're beautiful to me, Y/n. Your body is beautiful, your personality is beautiful, you are beautiful. If you want to lose weight, that's fine by me but I won't watch you wither away before me. Losing weight shouldn't be about being 'skinny'. It's about loving yourself and changing for health. You're healthy as you are now and if you want to change something to be better, then so be it but it will be in a healthy way. There's nothing about you I want to change, but I'll support any change you want to have. And if you don't want to change, then don't. Because I'm in love with the beautiful woman in front of me. Not an idea of how others may want her to be."

You sniffled by the time he was finished, face completely soaked by tears and you couldn't help a laugh that came from your mouth. "Do you know it's rude to make a girl cry?" And he smiled at that. And you caught your breath a second later, sniffling again. "I love you, I love you- God, I love you, Aaron. I'm sorry for what I said and acted like." You took a long breath. "It's just, something happened when I was out with my friends and it just, it affected me. Those few words she said affected me and I couldn't let it go."

And ever the understanding and loving boyfriend he was, he took the apology and ordered take out (both too tired to cook) and cuddled up to watch a show.

And as the movie began, you peered up at him from your position against his chest and said, in the most quiet voice. "I don't want to lose weight, maybe build muscle a bit but I don't want to be like that, not right now at least." You confided.

And to that he smiled, "Then that's how it'll be. I love you no less." He pressed a kiss against your lips and it truly felt like he didn't love you any less.

Things will get better, you'll get better. And with him by your side, that's more than possible.

please leave thoughts and comments <3 requests are open if you'd like to see more of him or anyone else (esp with plus size reader or buff)

[wri0thesley]

ou..thoma and somno…i must confess my love for guilty perv thoma

cw: non-consensual somnophilia, guilty perv thoma, two of my favourite things <3

You're so pretty when you're asleep.

That's not to say you're not pretty at other times - Thoma could reel them off like he was reciting his daily schedule, how beautiful you look in the morning when you've just woken up or when you're helping him with laundry and there's a faint wrinkle between your brows or when you throw your head back and laugh and his mouth goes dry at the sight of the column of your throat, a perfect space to lay kisses until you whine . . .

But there's something about you sleeping, when the cares and the worries of the day have been smoothed away by the dreams you're having, that makes his pulse race even quicker.

It's probably helping that it's a hot night tonight; that you're asleep atop of the coverlets, and you're wearing only a thin cotton shirt and a pair of underwear cut high on your thighs. In this tempting outfit, he can see the curve of your hips and the imprint of your nipples, the fact that you've shifted enough in your sleep that the underwear has been pulled up so it clings tightly to the shape of your sex. Thoma's breath comes out in hot little pants as he reaches out, as he runs just one finger over the bare skin of your leg.

He shouldn't. Not without your permission; and the two of you have only shared clandestine kisses up until now, your face growing hot when you pull away from him because you hear the young master coming. Ayato has looked strangely at him these past few weeks, but Ayato's weakness for you is well-known even if you don't seem to see it--

But in the servant's quarters, Ayato would never get to see you like this the way that Thoma does. It's the thought of that young master, actually, that spurs him on - the idea of him thinking of you, the fear of you being snatched away at any moment because what the head of the clan wants, he gets. Why should Thoma not get to indulge? And though guilt is tugging at his heartstrings, there's a far more persistent feeling between his thighs, where he can feel his cock twitching against his trousers in want. It doesn't want him to go back to his bedroom and pump it with his fist, thinking of you - not when you're laid out before him like this, in a position so tempting one would surely think that you'd left yourself like it for him to find--!

Maybe you did. He tells himself that as his mouth goes dry and he reaches for the hem of your shirt, gently pushing it up so the expanse of your stomach is your revealed, and then higher and higher . . . As your chest is freed from the confines, you let out a soft sigh of pleasure. Perhaps it is just from the cool air hitting your heated skin, but it's far easier for Thoma to tell himself that it's a sigh to encourage him. To tell him what he's doing is fine.

His fingers, calloused from hard work, brush over the soft curve of your chest - he lets his thumbs gently trace around your nipples, and if his heart wasn't beating like a wild thing in his chest his mouth would water at the sight and the feel of them tightening and hardening beneath his gentle ministrations. He had never guessed you would be so sensitive - that your body would react like this for him! It makes him almost want to pinch them, to see your eyes go wide in shock . . . but no. No. He has to keep you sleeping. He can't be discovered like this, bent over your bed like a pervert.

His hand slides down your stomach until it comes to the waistband of your underwear. Taking these off, he thinks, is too risky - so instead, he lets his hand curve over your mound, lets his fingers gently stroke the indent between your plump labia lips. Your brow furrows and you whine out a noise that goes straight to his cock, and Thoma can't resist any longer. He keeps his hand gently stroking, working over the spot he thinks your clit must be pressing swollen and needy, as he uses his other to fish out his cock.

Dampness smearing over his fingers, even through the underwear. Your body is whispering to him - it wants him to fuck you, it wants him to touch you, it's ready for him . . . but perhaps your mind would not follow so willingly. He groans your name into bitten lips as he strokes over his cock, the leaky reddening tip, the twitching shaft . . . It's hard pretending that the sheath of his fist is the warm, welcoming slickness of your insides, but with the visual of you spread out before him and the feel of your slickness through your underwear, the twitch of your hips as you unconsciously grind against his hand . . .

It's enough.

For now.

In the morning, you'll wonder about the sticky wetness on your thighs, saturating your underwear, a consistency you're unfamiliar with. But the night was hot, and your dream about the Kamisato Clan heir so terribly improper that you can barely think about it, so you'll clean your sheets without comment.

[mssishipi]

the fall of a man — sjy

SYNOPSIS: You were taught that virtue was a woman’s greatest strength, that temptation was a test of will, that desire was the serpent’s whisper leading you astray. But when temptation comes in the form of Sim Jaeyun—holy, untouchable, the very image of devotion—your faith begins to waver.

content tags: slow burn, plot with little bit of porn, mutual pining, both of them are religious and virgins, set in catholic university that is lead by nuns, they don't have sex ed!! adam and eve references, religious guilt, reader crushing and thirsting over jake in religious way that's been written for almost 5k words, some of the scenes are heavily inspired by 'guilty as sin' by ts.

warning: heavy sacrilegious content, karina kind of represent the serpent in reader's pov, blasphemy, explicit content (smut): reader masturbate in the chapel, virgins trying to fuck, virginity loss (obv), blowjob, fingering, unprotected sex (condom don't exist), jake call out god's name a lot of times. wc: 16.7k

note: my darling, @fangel really inspired me and make me overcome my fear in writing the most unholiest thing in the world, i'm inlove with you, bae and you really changed my world with your fics <3 i wrote this fic for armin arlert way back 2023 but never had the guts to publish it, but hey u give me a reason to continue this fic. and to my readers out there, i hope you enjoy reading this fic, i love writing jake's pov here :)

Ever since you were a child, you followed everything your parents told you. Raised in a devoutly religious household, your days revolved around faith—joining church activities, attending every Sunday mass without fail, even flying to Puerto Rico with your family to take part in Misa de Aguinaldo.

Religion wasn't just a part of your life; it was your life.

You loved God. You loved listening to preachers, absorbing their words like scripture carved into your soul. You loved spreading the message of Jesus Christ, the warmth of faith filling you every time you shared His name.

You prayed constantly—palms pressed together, head bowed, whispering words of gratitude for every blessing, of repentance for every misstep. You prayed for strength, for purity, for the will to resist temptation.

And yet—temptation had a name.

And his name is Sim Jaeyun.

You remember the first time you saw him walking through the gates of the Catholic university you both attended.

Jake Sim was the very embodiment of devotion, of unwavering faith. He carried himself with an air of holiness, always with a rosary wrapped around his fingers or a Bible tucked beneath his arm. He spoke with conviction, every word laced with the kind of certainty only true believers possessed. And yet, to you, he was something else entirely.

The way he moved, the way his voice echoed through the chapel—it was hypnotic. Your prayers would falter on your tongue whenever he stood at the altar, leading hymns with a voice so steady, so sure.

You had watched him, your eyes tracing the curve of his lips as he spoke, the way his lashes fluttered when he blinked. You had memorized the way candlelight danced across his skin, the way the veins in his hands shifted when he clasped them in prayer.

The boy who knelt before the cross with his eyes closed in deep, persistent faithfulness.

The boy who touched the rosary beads with such reverence, his fingers gliding over each one as if they held the weight of his salvation.

But all you could think about was how those same fingers would feel tracing the lines of your body, how they would press into your skin—not in prayer, but in something far more sinful.

How his lips would taste if they weren't murmuring scripture, if instead, they whispered your name in the dark.

How his faith would crumble if he ever looked at you the way you wanted him to.

And as you sat in the pews, hands clasped, head bowed, you prayed—not for strength, not for purity, but for him.

You shouldn't think about him that way. You shouldn't let your mind wander, not here, not in the house of God.

You knew the weight of sin, the warnings etched into you since childhood. Your family had made it clear—masturbation, desire, sex before marriage—each was a path to damnation. To act on them was to betray God.

Do not lay a hand on any boy. Do not think of flesh, of pleasure, of sin. Do not touch your body with thoughts of another.

But if you had never touched him, never let your hands stray to your own skin —if all you had were thoughts, then how could you already feel guilty as sin?

The golden light of the late afternoon filtered through the stained-glass windows of the university chapel, casting soft hues of red, blue, and gold onto the polished wooden pews. The air was still, filled only with the faint scent of old parchment and melting candle wax.

You sat near the front, fingers absentmindedly tracing the spine of your prayer book. The chapel was mostly empty, save for a few students lingering in quiet reflection. And him.

Sim Jaeyun stood near the altar, carefully arranging hymnals. Even in the simplicity of his tasks, there was a quiet devotion to him—an unshaken faith that made it impossible to look away.

You tried to focus on the words of the scripture open in front of you, but your thoughts were restless. It wasn't the first time you had stayed after midday prayers, and it wasn't the first time you had found yourself stealing glances at him.

A quiet sound of footsteps against the marble floor.

"You're here again."

You glanced up to find Jake standing at the edge. You nodded, offering a small smile. "I like the chapel in the afternoon. It's peaceful."

Jake hummed in agreement, sliding into the pew beside you, though he kept a respectful distance. "It's my favorite time, too," he admitted, clasping his hands together. "When the day is slowing down, but the world isn't quite asleep yet."

You studied him for a moment, watching as the sunlight touched his face, illuminating the softness in his features. "What do you pray for?" you asked.

Jake exhaled, his gaze fixed ahead. "For strength," he said. "To always follow the right path."

You nodded slowly, looking down at your hands.

"And you?" he asked.

You hesitated. You knew what you should say. Strength. Wisdom. Purity.

But instead, you murmured, "For understanding."

Jake turned to you, brow slightly furrowed. "Understanding?"

You swallowed. "There are... thoughts I don't always understand." You hesitated, fingers tightening around the pages of your prayer book. "And I ask for guidance. To know what is right."

For a moment, Jake was silent, then he offered a small, knowing smile. "God sees our hearts even when we struggle to see them ourselves." His voice was gentle and reassuring. "Sometimes, we don't need to have all the answers. We just need to trust Him to show us the way."

His words should have comforted you. But as you looked at him—at the boy who made your heart race in ways you couldn't explain—you weren't sure if the path you longed for was the one God had intended for you.

Sim Jaeyun barely even knew you. The two of you only shared a religion class, occasionally finding yourselves in the same prayer group. Your interactions were brief—just passing glances, a quiet exchange of smiles. Sometimes, after kneeling in prayer, he would hand you a sandwich and a bottle of water and you always accepted with a small nod of thanks, though the warmth in your chest lingered long after.

During every community outreach, you would catch glimpses of him—kneeling to pet stray dogs and cats, laughter spilling from his lips as children clung to his arms, their tiny hands gripping at his sleeves. He spoke to the elderly with a patience and gentleness that felt almost sacred, offering up his seat without hesitation, carrying their bags.

He was the kind of person people gravitated toward, the kind of person who made faith feel tangible—something living and breathing, rather than just words in a book.

You wondered if someone like him, someone pure as gold, ever sinned.

Sim Jaeyun was a name whispered often in the girls' residence hall. Every night, as curfew neared, you would hear them murmuring from their bunks.

"He'd make such a good husband." "Imagine him as a father—he'd be perfect." "Any girl would be lucky to have him."

A quiet admiration, soft and innocent. So why was yours so much heavier? So much more?

Why did yours feel like something that sat in your chest, something that pressed against your ribs with every prayer, something that burned?

"Your body is sacred."

The nun's voice rang through the classroom. She moved slowly between the rows of desks, the wooden stick in her hand tapping lightly against her palm with every step.

It was an all-girls class since she was teaching anatomy. But this wasn't just about the body. It was about purity.

She stopped near the front of the room, turning to face the class. Her gaze swept over each of you, as if she could see straight into your thoughts. "God has given you this body," she continued. "A temple. A gift. A vessel meant for holiness, not for sin."

You swallowed, shifting slightly in your seat.

"Temptation is everywhere," she said. "It creeps into your thoughts, into your hands, into the desires you do not speak of. But hear me, girls—"God is watching.""

The stick tapped against her palm again.

"Masturbation," she said, the word itself feeling heavy as it filled the silence, "is a sin against your own flesh. To lay a hand upon yourself in lust is to defile what was meant to be pure."

A hush settled over the room. Some girls looked down at their desks, others sat rigid, eyes wide, hands folded neatly in their laps as if to prove they had never done such a thing—never even thought about it.

You felt a heat crawl up the back of your neck.

"When you indulge in these acts," she continued, voice sharp with a warning, "your body burns—not with passion, not with pleasure, but with sin. A fire that does not cleanse, but corrupts."

She paused, her gaze sweeping the room again,

"And when you engage in sex outside of marriage, when you surrender yourself to the desires of the flesh, that fire does not leave you. It stays. It marks you. And on the day of judgment, when you stand before God, He will see it. He will know."

A shudder ran through you. You clenched your hands together, nails pressing into your palms.

Then, the nun's eyes landed on you.

"You understand, don't you?" she asked, though it wasn't really a question.

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came.

And just for a moment, you thought of him.

Sim Jaeyun.

Of the way his fingers brushed over rosary beads in prayer. Of the way his voice sounded when he spoke of faith, of devotion. Of how those hands, that voice, could ruin you.

And as the nun continued, warning of damnation, of the watchful eyes of God, you couldn't help but wonder.

If God was watching, did He already know what was in your heart? And worse—had He already condemned you for it?

"Yes, I understand," you said, though the words felt heavy on your tongue.

Guilt settled deep in your chest. Your palms were damp, fingers twitching slightly as you clasped them together.

You needed to repent.

You needed to pray until the thoughts left you, until the weight of sin lifted from your heart. Until the fire the nun spoke of no longer burned beneath your skin.

"Here, an apple for you."

A small hand reached toward yours, fingers curled around a tiny, imperfect apple. The child's eyes were bright with innocence, his smile wide as he offered it to you.

It was community outreach day in the mountains, where children ran barefoot over the uneven ground, laughter ringing through the crisp afternoon air. The scent of earth and firewood lingered, mingling with the distant voices of volunteers.

You knelt slightly, accepting the apple with a gentle smile. "Thank you," you said, your voice soft.

The boy beamed, pleased by your gratitude before running off to join the others.

You were about to take a bite of the apple when a sudden tap on your shoulder made you pause. Turning, you found your classmate standing behind you, her expression impatient.

"I need you to find Karina," she said, arms crossed. "She's missing again. And we need to leave by three."

You sighed, tucking the apple into your pocket. "Alright, I'll look for her."

With that, you made your way up the stone steps leading further into the hills, where the trees grew denser and the voices of the other volunteers faded into the rustling of leaves. The fresh mountain air brushed against your skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke.

As you climbed higher, a small tug on your sleeve made you stop.

"Lady, where are you going?"

You looked down to see a little girl standing beside you, her dark eyes round with curiosity. She was sucking her thumb, her tiny fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt.

Crouching down to her level, you offered a reassuring smile. "I need to find my friend."

The girl tilted her head, studying you with the kind of seriousness only children could manage. Then, after a moment, she leaned in slightly and whispered, "Be careful out there."

You raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

She pulled her thumb from her mouth and grinned, baring her tiny teeth. "There's a snake," she hissed, making a slithering motion with her hands. "They bite!"

You laughed, shaking your head. "I'll be careful."

With a gentle pat on the girl's head, you urged her to go play with the others before continuing your search.

"Karina!" you called, your voice echoing through the trees. The afternoon air was with the scent of damp earth and pine, the only sounds around you the rustling of leaves and the distant chatter of children below.

After what felt like ages of wandering, you sighed, pulling the apple from your pocket. Your thumb brushed against its smooth surface as you took slow steps forward, letting yourself take a small break.

Then, just as you were about to take a bite, something caught your eye.

It was small cabin, worn by time, tucked between the trees. You hadn't noticed it before, hadn't even realized anyone lived this far up the mountain.

Lifting your head, you parted your lips to call for Karina again but you heard a low, quiet, barely audible voice over the wind.

Your breath hitched slightly, and instinctively, you stayed silent.

Tilting your head, you slowly took a bite of the apple, the crunch loud in the stillness. Step by step, you moved around the cabin, careful not to make a sound.

You crept closer, your breath shallow, your fingers curled tightly around the apple. The rough wooden cabin stood against the trees, its single window slightly ajar. Through the gap, the muffled voices inside grew clearer—soft murmurs, hushed laughter.

A breathless moan.

Your body tensed, You hesitated for only a moment before tilting your head, peering through the dust-coated glass.

And that's when you saw the most sinful acts you've ever witness.

Karina was sprawled against the wooden table, her back arching beneath the weight of the farmer pressing into her. Her dress was bunched up around her waist, her bare thighs caging his hips. His hands gripped her skin, fingers digging into the softness of her legs, his mouth trailing down the curve of her neck.

Your stomach twisted, but you couldn't look away.

Karina wasn't resisting. She wasn't recoiling in shame or horror. There was no fear in her expression, no sign of guilt or repentance.

She was pulling him closer.

Her fingers wove into his hair, tugging slightly as her head fell back, exposing more of her throat to his lips. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, her mouth parting with quiet, trembling gasps.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

The nun's words echoed in your head, warnings of fire, of suffering, of bodies burning for their sins.

But Karina wasn't burning.

Your breath trembled as you stared, as the world you had known—the one built on prayer, on restraint, on the fear of temptation—began to splinter.

How is she not burning?

The apple slipped from your fingers, tumbling to the ground with a dull thud.

A hiss was heard. The sound was sharp, unnatural, cutting through the silence of the forest. Your body stiffened, a cold shiver crawling up your spine. Slowly, your gaze flickered to the tree beside you.

A snake. Its body coiled around the rough bark, scales glistening in the fading sunlight. It was watching you, its tongue flickering out.

Eve was tempted. Eve took the fruit.

Your stomach twisted violently as you staggered back, tearing your eyes away from both the serpent and the scene inside the cabin.

You ran. Branches scraped against your skin as you pushed through the trees, your feet barely touching the ground. The echoes of Karina's breathless moans clung to you, no matter how fast you tried to outrun them.

You needed to forget. To erase the moment of sin that had burned itself into your mind. To cleanse yourself before the weight of temptation swallowed you whole.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee..."

Your eyes clenched shut as you muttered the prayer, over and over, you repeated the words, as if their rhythm alone could cleanse your mind, could undo what you had seen.

The rosary felt heavy in your hands, the beads pressing into your palm. But no matter how tightly you held it, no matter how desperately you clung to prayer, the memory would not leave you.

"Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

You sucked in a sharp breath, your chest tightening.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners—"

Your voice broke. This was your fall.

A single tear slipped down your cheek, then another, until you were gripping the rosary so tightly your knuckles turned white. A quiet sniffle escaped you, but the tears kept coming, blurring the dim candlelight of the chapel.

You could not stop trembling, your stomach tightening, a dull ache spreading between your legs, heat pooling where it should not.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, but it did nothing to stop the throbbing. You clenched your fists, willing the sensation away, but the images had already taken root.

Karina. The farmer. The way her body had arched into him, how she had clung to him. It should have horrified you. It should have disgusted you.

Instead, a shudder ran through you as your mind betrayed you, as the image shifted, reshaped itself into something far more forbidden.

Not Karina.

You.

And not the farmer.

Jake.

Your breath hitched. The thought was wrong—blasphemous. But it came unbidden, vivid and consuming, slipping into the cracks of your mind like sin itself. You saw him above you, his hands gripping your waist, his lips murmuring something against your skin.

Your rosary slipped from your fingers, the beads scattering against the marble floor.

You gasped softly, snapping your eyes open as if waking from a dream—no, a nightmare.

Your hands flew to your chest, pressing against your heart as if you could smother the racing beat beneath your skin.

No. No, no, no.

Tears welled in your eyes again, this time not just from guilt but from fear—of yourself.

This was your fall.

The serpent had coiled itself around you, whispering its venom into your ears, seeping into your thoughts, your body.

Karina was expelled after the nuns discovered what she had done during the community outreach.

You helped her pack in silence, folding the last of her skirts into a worn-out suitcase.

Your nose was red, your eyes swollen—for many reasons. Of course, you hadn't told anyone what you saw. That was yet another reason you were a sinner. You had kept her secret, watched in silence as she was cast out.

But worse—you couldn't stop thinking about it.

And worst of all, you had lost another prayer partner.

Your voice was quiet when you finally asked, "Do you regret it?"

Karina's hands stilled over the fabric of her blouse. She stared at the ground for a long moment before exhaling slowly. "No."

"They're sending me away," she continued. "Some isolated place, far from men. Away from temptation. They'll make me enter seminary, force me to repent, try to fix me."

She let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. "Fix me. As if I'm broken."

You said nothing, letting her words settle between you.

Karina turned then, her gaze finding yours. "But I don't regret it. No matter what they try to tell me." A small, humorless smile tugged at her lips. "But you wouldn't understand, would you?"

Your fingers curled into the fabric of her dress as you folded it, staring at the delicate lace trim. "There are a lot of things I don't understand," you admitted. Then, meeting her eyes, you added, "But I do not judge. I am here to listen."

Karina studied you, her expression is pained. Then she let out a slow breath, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You know the story of Adam and Eve," she said.

You nodded. "Of course."

"They call it the fall," she murmured, tilting her head slightly. "But have you ever thought that maybe it wasn't a fall at all?"

You frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her fingers intertwined. "Eve took the apple. She chose knowledge, chose to know desire, hunger, craving. And for that, she was cast out." Karina exhaled through her nose, a bitter smile on her lips. "But maybe that was never a punishment. Maybe it was freedom."

She glanced at you then, "Christianity tells us that craving is sinful. That wanting—whether it's knowledge, pleasure, or love—will ruin us." Her voice lowered, "but tell me—why would God give us bodies that feel if He didn't want us to use them?"

Your throat felt dry.

"You've thought about it, haven't you?" Karina questioned. "You've felt it."

Heat crept up your neck, shame curling tight in your stomach.

Karina smiled, but it wasn't mocking. If anything, it was knowing. "It's normal to crave, you know," she said. "To want."

"In the city," Karina continued, "I heard students openly talk about sex. About how it's natural. They even discuss things like hormones, the way the body reacts to desire. When your clitoris—"

"Shhh!" Your eyes widened as you shot a panicked glance toward the door. Your hand moved on instinct, pressing against her lips to silence her.

"Do not use such vulgar words!" you hissed, even hearing such a thing felt wrong, like an invitation for sin to take root inside you.

Karina only laughed, she gently pulled your hand away, her lips curling into a teasing smile. "Why? Because the nuns don't want you to know your own body?"

Your cheeks burned, your fingers curling into your lap as you looked away. "Because it's wrong," you muttered. "You speak of things that lead to damnation."

Karina sighed, tilting her head. "Says who? The nuns? The ones who tell us that touching ourselves will set our bodies on fire?" She leaned in slightly, "Tell me, have you ever actually tried it?"

Your breath hitched as you swallowed, your pulse hammering against your skin. "I—I would never—"

Karina smiled knowingly. "Of course you wouldn't. Because you're afraid, aren't you?"

You stiffened. "Afraid of what?"

"That they were lying to you," she said simply.

You stared at her, Karina reached for your hand, her touch gentle as she placed it over your own lap. "If it's really so sinful," she murmured, "if it really makes you burn... then why don't you test it?"

Your breath caught in your throat. Her fingers pressed lightly against yours. "Go on. Just once. Just to see if their words hold any truth."

"If you want to touch yourself," she continued, undeterred by your silence, "put your fingers inside—but don't just push in and out. Curl them inside, find the spot that makes your legs shake."

Your entire body went rigid as Karina leaned closer, her lips curling, almost amused at your reaction. "And your clitoris—"

"Stop," you gasped, eyes widening as you instinctively clamped a hand over her mouth. Your other hand flew to the door, your head snapping toward it, terrified that someone might hear.

She giggled against your palm, her laughter muffled before she gently pulled your hand away. "Why are you so scared?" she teased. "It's just your body. It's natural."

Your cheeks were burning now, hot with embarrassment.

Karina sighed, tilting her head as if she pitied you. "If you ever do find someone," she continued, undeterred, "a boy—"

You swallowed hard.

"Let him play with your nipples." Her voice dipped lower, as if she were sharing a secret meant only for you. "Let him suck them, bite them just a little. It feels so good."

Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

"And a boy," she went on, eyes glinting with mischievous, "his penis—"

"Karina!"

She laughed, completely unashamed of her own words. "What? It's true! If you want to make a boy weak, touch him there. Play with it, stroke it, suck on it—especially the tip."

A choked sound escaped you.

"Giving someone pleasure," she said, watching your reaction, "is just as enjoyable as receiving it. Maybe even more."

Your hands trembled in your lap. You couldn't even look at her now. Your mind felt clouded, a war raging between every lesson the nuns had taught you and the curiosity her words planted deep inside you.

Karina exhaled, shaking her head. "You poor thing," she murmured, you bit your lip hard, trying to drown out the heat rising in your body with pain.

"You should try it, you know," she said after a beat, her voice almost gentle now. "Just once. Just so you know if they were lying to you all along."

Your chest tightened, your heart hammering so loudly you feared it might betray you.

Because the worst part wasn't her words.

It was that you wanted to know if she was right.

So you repented again.

You prayed and prayed for forgiveness, whispering desperate pleas beneath your breath, pressing your forehead against the cold chapel floor. You gripped your rosary so tightly that the beads left indentations in your palm, as if pain itself could cleanse you.

But it was getting harder. Especially now, with Holy Week approaching. Longer prayers, deeper fasting, more time spent in solemn reflection. And yet, the more you immersed yourself in worship, the more temptation gnawed at you.

Especially since Sim Jaeyun was the one leading Passion Week.

You sat among the others, hands folded in your lap, your gaze fixed on the cross, trying not to think about him. Trying not to remember Karina's words.

"If you ever find someone, let him touch you, let him play with you—"

You swallowed hard, clenching your fists against your thighs.

Women and men were not allowed to be seen too close together. A proper distance must always be kept, a respectable space left between bodies. A simple conversation was permitted—but only from afar.

"You do pray very often."

The voice came from behind you. You stiffened, your breath catching in your throat as you turned slightly—only to find him.

Jake stood just a few feet away, hands clasped in front of him. "Is something bothering you?"

You turned back toward the cross, swallowing the lump in your throat. Your fingers curled against your knees, sweat forming at your temples.

"No," you whispered, though the lie burned on your tongue.

Jake was silent for a moment. Then, softly, he said, "You can talk to me, you know. If something is troubling you."

You closed your eyes. How could you tell him?

How could you tell him that the prayers weren't working? That no matter how hard you tried, the thoughts would not leave you? That he was becoming the temptation you could no longer escape?

Your eyes started to water again, he knelt beside you, as his presence settled so dangerously close—closer than what was proper.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, your fingers tightening around the rosary.

Jake watched you. From this close, he could see the way the candlelight illuminated your face, casting soft shadows along the delicate curve of your cheekbones. Your skin glowed, almost ethereal, as if touched by something divine.

You looked like a painting—one of the old Renaissance depictions of saints and martyrs.

Beautiful.

His gaze drifted lower, to the way your lips barely moved as you whispered prayers, the words shaky, your hands trembled over the rosary, clutched so tightly.

His eyes fell to your knees. The fabric of your skirt had shifted slightly, revealing the barest hint of bruised skin—evidence of hours spent kneeling.

He had seen piety before. He had witnessed countless prayers, watched the most devout of worshippers bow their heads in absolute faith.

But this—the way you prayed, the way you looked before the altar—felt different. He couldn't imagine what sin someone like you could have possibly committed.

His voice came quietly, "You should rest."

You flinched slightly at the sound of his voice,

"I can't," you murmured.

And then softly, without thinking—he reached out.

His hand hovered over yours for just a breath before settling atop your trembling fingers. Palm to palm, warm and steady, stopping you mid-prayer.

He didn't know what possessed him to touch you. Perhaps it was the way you looked so lost, so utterly consumed by something unseen. Or perhaps it was the fact that no nun was watching, no one to scold him for standing too close, for placing his hand over yours.

His touch was meant to be assuring. Nothing more. Nothing sinful.

But then you stiffened beneath him.

Your breath caught in your throat, your shoulders going rigid, your fingers twitching beneath his. Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs.

You turned your face toward him.

Jake sucked in a quiet breath as his eyes met yours—wide, desperate, a single tear slipping down your cheek.

He had never seen a gaze like that before. Not in church, not in prayer, not in the face of someone seeking salvation.

His fingers flexed slightly against yours, the warmth of your skin radiating beneath his palm. His thumb brushed against the back of your hand, a slow, instinctive movement, like a silent reassurance.

Before he could stop himself, his other hand lifted. Gently, hesitantly, he swiped away the tear that had slipped down your cheek, his fingertips barely grazing your skin.

You gasped softly. It was the smallest sound, but it sent something through him, something that made his fingers linger just a second too long against your face.

Your skin was warm beneath his touch. Soft. Alive.

It took everything in him to pull away.

The moment his fingers left your cheek, a strange kind of loss settled in his chest. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the fabric of his handkerchief before carefully pulling it out. Silently, he placed it in your trembling hands.

"Whatever you were praying for," he murmured, "I'm sure God will understand."

As if to anchor you back into the faith you were grasping so desperately onto, he smiled.

The kind of smile meant to bring comfort. But to you, it only made it worse.

"I should go," Jake said, you nodded, unable to meet his gaze. He shift beside you, the soft rustling of fabric as he stood. His presence lingered for just a moment longer before the sound of his footsteps echoed against the chapel floor, growing fainter.

And yet, his warmth remained.

Your hands trembled as you lifted the handkerchief to your face, pressing it against your damp cheeks. His scent clung to the fabric—a faint trace of sandalwood and incense, something undeniably him.

You exhaled shakily, squeezing your eyes shut.

God will understand.

A broken sob escaped your lips as you clutched the fabric tighter, your body trembling with something you no longer had the strength to fight. Tears slipped freely down your cheeks, soaking into the handkerchief as you sniffled against it.

Your fingertips skimmed over the waistband of your skirt, then lower, brushing against the thin fabric beneath.

A sharp breath left you when you felt the wetness, sticky and warm, pooling between your thighs, evidence of the thoughts you had failed to purge.

You should stop. You should repent.

And yet, your other hand only tightened around the handkerchief, pressing it closer to your face, inhaling the faint traces of him.

Still kneeling, you stared at the cross before you. Your body trembled, shame curling in your stomach.

You sobbed, your weight tipping forward, forehead pressing against the marble floor. Your free hand clenched at your skirt, your knuckles white with restraint.

Your finger dipped inside, a choked gasp slipping past your lips at the sudden intrusion.

The feeling was new, startling and unfamiliar. You hesitated only for a moment before pressing deeper, your body clenching around the touch, breath hitching as pleasure licked up your spine.

The nuns had warned you—the body will burn.

But as your fingers curled, as something electric shot through your legs, making them tremble, you realized this was not pain nor suffering.

Your mouth parted, a quiet, breathless sound escaping as you rocked into your own touch, your other hand bracing against the marble floor to steady yourself, the overwhelming scent of him filling your senses.

Sim Jaeyun—his hands hovering over yours, the warmth of his palm against your trembling fingers, the way he had wiped away your tear.

Your fingers pressed deeper, and a soft gasp escaped your lips. You imagined it was his touch, his fingers exploring you with hesitant curiosity.

"You do pray very often," his voice echoed in your mind, "Is something bothering you?"

Yes, he was bothering you.

You pictured him above you, his fingers tracing over the same places your own were now.

"Does it burn?" he would ask, voice laced with something both sinful and sacred.

And you would shake your head—because it didn't.

It felt holy.

Your body arched into your own touch, your legs trembling as heat coiled deep inside you, tighter and tighter, threatening to consume you whole. The pressure, the ache, the need—it was overwhelming. It was blasphemous.

Yet, it was the closest you had ever felt to salvation.

A gasp tore from your lips, soft yet sinful in the silence of the chapel. Your fingers pushed deeper, your body rocking to meet them, each movement sending dizzying waves of pleasure through you.

Beads of sweat dripped from your forehead, falling onto the floor. You added another finger, stretching yourself further, testing the limits of your own body. A choked whimper escaped as your walls clenched around the intrusion, your breathing ragged. Your other hand fumbled against the floor, grasping for stability, but there was none—no safety, no sanctuary, no way to stop now.

You think about his hands on your waist, his lips trailing down your neck. Your body tensed, your fingers working faster, chasing the edge of an unknown pleasure that built higher and higher—until it was too much, too much.

With one final, shuddering breath, the world shattered around you. Your body trembled, pleasure crashing over you in violent waves, a silent cry caught in your throat as your mind went blank.

Your body slumped forward, forehead pressing against the cool marble floor, your fingers slipping out as the aftershocks of pleasure left you breathless.

There was only silence. Only your heaving breaths, the scent of candle wax and incense thick in the air, the fading echoes of his name somewhere in the depths of your mind.

Then, guilt settled in, so heavy. You had really fallen.

And yet, as you lay there, pulse still racing, you couldn't bring yourself to repent.

The days blurred into nights, and with each passing moment, you felt yourself slipping further into something you could no longer control.

You couldn't meet your own reflection anymore. The girl in the mirror was not the same—her eyes hollow with guilt, her lips parted in silent prayer that never reached the heavens. You had abandoned the comfort of your rosary, leaving it untouched on your bedside table. Even the scent of candle wax and incense, once a balm to your soul, now felt suffocating.

It was as if a devil had settled inside you, whispering in your ear, feeding your thoughts with things no holy woman should crave. And yet, no matter how fiercely you fought it, you kept returning to your sin.

Each night, beneath the shroud of darkness, your body became a traitor. Your hands moved without permission, exploring places you had been taught were forbidden. Your bedsheets tangled around your legs, damp with sweat, evidence of your transgressions.

And always, always, his name spilled from your lips.

Each time, you found yourself back in the same position—fingers trembling, thighs clenched, gasping into the silence of your room, drowning in him. And it felt too good to stop.

"Have mercy on me, O God, according to Your unfailing love..."

You whispered it every day in the chapel, hands clutching the rosary so tightly. "According to Your great compassion, blot out my transgressions. Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin..."

Tears slipped down your cheeks, soaking into the fabric of your sleeves as you knelt before the altar. You sobbed, your body wracked with guilt, your lips forming words of repentance.

And yet—when you returned to your bed that night, your body trembling with guilt, your prayers still lingering in the air—

You touched yourself anyway.

"It's impressive how you always pray," Jake said, his voice gentle, filled with quiet admiration. A small smile graced his lips. Another interaction. Another moment that would be burned into your mind, another weight added to the burden of your sin.

"How you always find time to speak with Him," he continued. "I'm sure whatever you're praying for, you'd be heard."

You swallowed hard. Would God listen when your prayers were no longer pure? When you begged not for salvation, but for relief from the temptation standing before you?

You forced a polite nod, quickly wiping at your damp cheeks, hoping he wouldn't notice how red your eyes were. How broken you looked. Your knees ached from kneeling for so long, your fingers sore from gripping the rosary too tightly. If only he knew what your prayers had become—not words of devotion, but desperate pleas for deliverance.

You were about to stand, to create distance, to escape before your body could betray you again. But before you could move, Jake lowered himself to kneel beside you.

The proximity sent a shiver down your spine. His presence was grounding, yet it set something uneasy alight inside you.

"You know," he said, voice soft, "I quite admire you."

Jake smiled, warm and sincere, his eyes searching yours as if he was seeing something sacred in you. "You share a special relationship with God," he continued. "The way you pray, the way you devote yourself—it's beautiful."

"I've seen the way you never miss a prayer," he went on. "The way you kneel here for hours, speaking to Him when no one else is watching. I've seen the tears, the way you hold your rosary."

His gaze flickered down to your hands, still red from gripping the beads too tightly.

"And I think... that kind of devotion is rare."

You swallowed, forcing yourself to look away, because his words—his praise—felt heavier than anything the nuns had ever told you.

Because it was him saying it.

He didn't know that your devotion wasn't pure. That your prayers were not for holiness, but for control. That when you closed your eyes at night, it wasn't scripture that filled your mind, but the memory of his touch.

"God must love you very much," Jake murmured, tilting his head slightly. "To have someone as loyal as you."

You inhaled shakily, without thinking, you shifted back, settling onto the wooden pew. Jake stayed where he was, still kneeling, his gaze fixed on the cross. You swallowed. Your fingers curled around the rosary in your palm

"Can I confess, Jake?"

Your voice was barely above a whisper. Jake turned his head, he hesitated for a moment before moving to sit beside you, his posture still composed. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice is with quiet curiosity. "I am not a priest—I can't take such confessions."

You exhaled sharply, your grip tightening around the rosary.

"Forgive me, for I have sinned."

Jake stilled beside you his confusion was evident in the way his brows knitted together, in the way his head tilted slightly as if trying to piece together what you meant. "Why?" he asked slowly.

You couldn't look at him. If you did, you feared he would see it. The truth. The war inside you. The way he was the very thing you needed to confess.

Your throat tightened as you muttered the next following words. "Because," you whispered, forcing the words out before you lost the courage to speak them, "I don't think I want to repent."

Jake stiffened beside you. His breath hitched, his entire body going rigid. His fingers curled against his lap, gripping the fabric of his trousers. "H-How can you say that?" His voice was unsteady, a stark contrast to the usual calmness he carried. His soft features, always composed, always gentle, were now pulled into shock and disbelief.

You swallowed, your throat dry, your heart slamming against your ribs as you forced yourself to continue. If you stopped now, if you let fear take hold, you would never be free of this.

"I think of things I shouldn't."Your voice trembled, but your gaze didn't waver this time. "I touched myself."

Jake's body jerked slightly, his lips parted again, but no words came, as if he had been struck speechless, as if the confession had ripped the breath from his lungs. His Adam's apple bobbed with a harsh swallow, the tendons in his neck tightening. His gaze flickered away, darting briefly to the cross above the altar, as if seeking guidance, as if seeking a way out. But there was none. He could not look at you, not when the weight of your confession was still lingering in the air

"You..." he started, but the words failed him. He shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose. His brows furrowed, "Why are you telling me this?"

Your hands clenched into fists in your lap, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to speak—forced yourself to ruin yourself completely. "Because it was you, Jake."

Jake inhale, his eyes widening, but only for a second. Something changed—something deep inside him, something that flickered behind his dark gaze like a dying flame suddenly reignited.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, your skin tingling under the intensity of his stare. But you didn't stop. You couldn't.

"I touch myself with the thought of you."

Jake's fingers dug into his thighs, gripping so tightly. His breathing turned shallow, uneven, his chest rising and falling at a pace that betrayed his struggle. His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips, before snapping back up, but the damage was already done.

He was flustered.

"D-Do not say v-vulgar things," Jake whispered, his hands trembling slightly where they rested against his lap. But it was his eyes that held you captive—wide, burning, conflicted.

Your throat tightened, and before you could stop yourself, tears welled in your eyes again. "I don't think I'm free of guilt if I confess to God."

Jake flinched at your words. His fingers twitched as if he wanted to reach for you, to stop you, to comfort you—but he didn't. Because he shouldn't.

"I keep praying for forgiveness," you continued, your voice trembling, "but I do not regret what I have done."

Jake inhaled sharply. His gaze flickered to the cross for only a moment—as if searching for guidance—before returning to you. Your lips trembled as you forced out the truth, the final confession that sealed your fall.

"I only feel guilty because thinking of you is a sinful act against my own people."

A tear slipped down your cheek, falling onto your lap, soaking into the fabric of your skirt. You weren't sure what you were asking from him—absolution, understanding, or something far more dangerous.

"God is willing to forgive again and again, right?" you choked out. Jake's breath hitched, and then you asked the only question that truly mattered. "But are you willing to forgive me?"

His throat bobbed with another hard swallow, but he couldn't speak. Because there was no answer to give. Not one that would be right. Not one that would be true. He stood abruptly. The movement was sudden, almost jerky, as if he was running—fleeing.

You watched him, lips quivering, hands still clenched together in your lap.

His palm was sweaty as he brushed it against his robe, his pulse erratic as he stepped out of the chapel, the heavy door closing behind him with a finality that made your chest ache.

You didn't call after him. You didn't move. Because what could you say? He was already gone.

Jake arrived early at the residence hall, his movements stiff, controlled, as if forcing himself into habit, but as soon as the door shut behind him, his composure cracked. His chest rose and fell with deep, unsteady breaths, his hands running through his hair in frustration. The ghost of your voice lingered in his ears, wrapping around his mind like a noose.

"I touch myself with the thought of you."

"I do not regret what I have done."

His jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. He sank onto the bed, head falling back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut.

"But are you willing to forgive me?"

His breath came out shaky, ragged, as he muttered, "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..." His voice was strained and the prayer did nothing.

Nothing to rid him of the images flooding his mind, of your tear-streaked face, of the way your voice trembled, of the way you looked at him as if he held the answer to your salvation. He sucked in a sharp breath as his hands gripped the sheets beside him, as the tension in his body coiled so tight it hurt.

And then—he felt the unbearable heat pooling low in his stomach. The painful ache of his cock pressing against the fabric of his pants.

He let out a quiet, desperate whine, the sound muffled against his palm as he ran a hand over his face, as if trying to scrub away the shame, the want, the overwhelming weight of you. Still, the words of his prayer tumbled from his lips, over and over, between broken breaths.

Just like Adam, he had been steadfast. Pure. Untouched by temptation. He had walked the path of righteousness without faltering, without question, his faith as unwavering as the ground beneath his feet. He had known his purpose—to obey, to serve, to resist.

And yet, you— the Eve.

A whisper of temptation. Just as Eve had reached for the fruit, her fingers brushing against the knowledge of sin, you had reached for him—not with hands, but with words.

And now, like Adam, he was failing. He had seen the fruit before him. He had heard the serpent's voice, had felt the first stirrings of doubt deep in his chest, where conviction once lived.

He wanted to reach back.

To taste. To know. To fall.

Because wasn't that what Adam had done? He hadn't been deceived—he had chosen to fall with Eve. He had taken the fruit from her hand, knowing what it would cost.

"Take a bite."

The voice echoed in his mind, low and insistent, curling around his thoughts like a serpent coiled around a branch. Jake sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, but he did not see it.

Instead, he saw you.

He imagined you whispering to him, your lips forming the very words that now tormented him. He imagined your fingers brushing against his wrist, leading him closer to ruin. Just as Eve had turned to Adam with the fruit cradled in her palm, you had turned to him with your confession, tempting him in ways he had never been tempted before.

His cock throbbed painfully beneath the confines of his pants, damp with his own arousal.

"Take a bite," the voice urged again, slithering through the cracks of his crumbling resistance. His hands clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He should continue praying, to fight whatever temptation the devil was filling him.

But instead, he lay there, panting, burning not with the way the nun teaches, his body betraying him as he squeezed his eyes shut. He let himself imagine.

"Heaven and earth are full," the voices soared inside the chapel, the morning light streaming through the stained-glass windows.

"Are full of your glory."

Jake's lips parted, but he did not sing. His gaze was fixed on you. You stood in the choir, your voice blending seamlessly with the others, yet somehow, to him, it was the only one that mattered.

Your long white dress fell in soft folds to your feet, the fabric catching in the gentle morning breeze drifting through the open doors. The wind moved through your hair, shifting it slightly, making it look almost weightless.

You were a vision of purity wrapped in divinity.

"Hosanna, hosanna."

Your eyes are dull and distant, told a different story. You sang the words, but you were not present. There was no joy, no reverence, only an emptiness that should not belong to someone standing before God.

"Hosanna in the highest."

But to him, you were the highest. More than the chapel's towering walls, more than the altar bathed in candlelight, more than the cross above them all. His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to touch, to reach, to worship. But not as a believer should.

"Show me."

The words slipped from Jake's. Your breath caught in your throat, your eyes widening as you stared at him.

The small room at the back of the chapel felt unbearably tight, with the scent of old books and dust, the faint aroma of candle wax lingering in the corners. A candlelight was at the center of the table.

This was a place of study, of quiet contemplation, and A man and a woman should not be alone together. Not when the door was shut.

"Show me." Jake swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Show me how you touch yourself."

"H-Huh?" You stuttered, barely able to form words, your mind struggling to comprehend what he had just said. "Jake, you're so pure... I don't want you to be tainted like me. I already disappoint God—"

"Please, just show me."

His voice was desperate, his restraint fraying at the edges. Jake stepped forward, closing the distance between you.

Your breath hitched as he leaned over the table between you, hands bracing against the worn wood, trapping you between his body and the cold stone wall.

"I have thoughts about you too."

Your eyes snapped up to his, his eyes were glassy, his lips trembling as if the weight of his own confession was too much to bear, unshed tears brimming in his lashes.

"I thought of you that night," he murmured. You sucked in a breath, pressing yourself further into the table.

"I disappointed God too."

"Jake. . . " Your breath hitched at his confession as your eyes is searching on him. "Are you not afraid? Of the fire that will burn you?" you asked.

Jake's breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling as he leaned closer, his hands tightening against the edge of the table. "Does it burn you when you touch yourself?"

"Because when I thought of you," Jake continued, "my body just ached for your embrace."

Your heart pounded so loudly; you almost want to lower your head due to the proximity.

"It's not the fire that burns me."

He swallowed hard, his jaw clenched as his gaze bore into yours, "It's the ache of longing for you."

You had feared he would resist, that he would turn away, condemn you, beg for salvation. But he wasn't begging for salvation. He was begging for you.

"Take a bite," a voice in the back of your mind hissed—low and insidious.

And without another word, without hesitation, you reached for him. Your fingers curled around the nape of his neck, you pulled him in, lips met his.

A low, desperate moan escaped Jake's throat as he crushed you against him, his hands finding your waist, gripping you so tightly. His body pressed into yours, heat radiating through the layers of fabric that still separated you.

His lips moved against yours with a hunger that startled you. The tears that had brimmed in his eyes slipped down his cheeks.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling, needing. The kiss was desperate, both of your teeth are clashing. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. The pressure of his mouth against yours softened after a moment, his lips parting slightly, then his tongue brushed against yours.

A soft gasp left your lips, and Jake seized the moment, his tongue slipping past the seam of your mouth, exploring, tasting. He groaned into you, the sound vibrating against your chest, making something hot coil in your stomach.

Your grip tightening in his hair as the kiss deepened, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes, coaxing you into submission.

"If you want to make a boy weak, touch him there. Play with it, stroke it."

Still kissing him, your free hand drifted lower, hesitant, until your fingers pressed over the hardness beneath his pants.

Jake cried out. His entire body jerked, his hips stuttering beneath your touch as he broke the kiss with a sharp gasp.

"Oh my Lord—"

His head fell forward, forehead pressing against your shoulder as his breath came out in ragged, uneven pants. His hands clenched at your waist, gripping the fabric of your dress.

You swallowed, watching in fascination as his body trembled beneath your touch.

Carefully, experimentally, you pressed your palm more firmly against him, stroking him slow through the fabric.

Jake whimpered. His hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more friction, chasing the pleasure, more relief, yet it was never enough. Your name slipped from his lips in a strangled moan, muffled against your shoulder.

"I want to see you. Please." You whisper, more like a whine as your fingers continued to stroke him through the fabric of his pants.

Jake lifted his head slowly, his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide with something that had nothing to do with faith. Tears streaked his flushed cheeks, his lips parted as they trembled.

His gaze locked onto yours, vulnerable yet so needy.

"W-Will you touch me more?"

His voice cracked at the end, his body shuddering as he fumbled with the buttons of his pants, his fingers shaking too much to work quickly. You watched as he hesitated, his chest rising and falling rapidly, before finally tugging the fabric down past his hips.

Your breath caught in your throat.

A penis. His cock was thick, long, flushed a deep shade of red. Fluid leaked from the swollen tip, dripping down the shaft in slow, glistening trails.

You remembered feeling disgusted way in anatomy class, staring at the stiff, clinical images in textbooks, thinking the male body was strange, almost grotesque.

Now, your mouth watered.

Heat pooled deep in your belly, your pussy clenching together involuntarily. You didn't even realize what you were doing until you were already on your knees.

Jake's breath hitched, his body going rigid. His wide, teary eyes stared down at you.

"W-What a-are you doing?" He exhaled sharply, his voice cracking. You glanced up at him, your hands settling on his thighs.

A whisper from your past came back to you, "Suck on it—especially the tip."

Your lips parted, and you murmured, "I'm going to pray for forgiveness." then you took him into your mouth.

"Ahhh—!"

A choked gasp tore from his lips, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. His hands flew to your head, fingers tangling in your hair, but he didn't push. He held on for dear life.

His knees buckled slightly, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps as your warm mouth engulfed him.

You tasted the saltiness of his arousal, the unfamiliar flavor spreading across your tongue, but instead of pulling away, you took more.

"Jesus Christ, this is disgusting," Jake cried, his voice shaking—yet his hands remained buried in your hair, his hips jerking forward, pushing himself deeper into your mouth.

His breath came out in broken gasps as he watched you, watched the way your cheeks hollowed around his cock, the way your lips stretched to accommodate him. His fingers trembled where they tangled in your hair, torn between holding back and pushing in further.

"It feels too good—too good, too good—" he whined, his mouth falling open, eyes glassy.

Your stomach tightened at the sound, heat curling between your thighs at the way he was breaking apart. You wanted more, you needed more.

Your tongue traced along the underside of his shaft, your head bobbing steadily, each movement coaxing more whimpers from his lips. His thighs trembled beneath your hands, his entire body shaking with pleasure so foreign to him that he didn't know what to do with it.

"You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain." The words echoed in the back of your mind, a commandment you had already shattered beyond repair.

But you like hearing him, hearing the way he gasped for God, the way his voice cracked when he moaned between whispered prayers.

Your eyes flickered up, meeting his gaze. Jake whimpered, his breath stuttering as you took him further, pushing yourself until the tip of his cock brushed the back of your throat. Your gag reflex tightened, but you didn't pull away. You held him there, letting him feel everything.

"A-Ahhh—!"

A loud, uncontrollable moan ripped from his throat as his head fell back, exposing the column of his neck, veins prominent, his Adam's apple bobbing with every gasping breath.

His body tensed, his fingers gripping you too tightly, as if he was seeing God Himself in the pleasure washing over him.

His moans grew louder, needier—his entire existence reduced to you and the sin you were leading him into.

His grip in your hair tightened, his hips stuttering as he fought to keep himself from thrusting into your mouth, from losing himself entirely.

"S-Something's coming—something's coming."

His voice broke, whimpering and breathless. Still bobbing your head, you reached down with one hand, lifting your skirt, fingers sliding beneath the fabric of your underwear. The moment your fingers brushed against your slick folds; a moan vibrated against his shaft.

Jake gasped, his thighs tensing, his entire body shuddering at the sensation.

Your wetness coated your fingers, and with no hesitation, you pushed one inside, curling it the way you always had when you were alone—except now, you weren't alone.

Now, it felt too good to be true. Because Jake was in front of you.

Because Jake was falling with you.

Your own pleasure built with every movement of your fingers, every muffled moan that sent vibrations through him.

His hand slid down, trembling, until it brushed against your cheek, his thumb wiping away the tears pooling at the corner of your eyes, tears from how deep you had taken him, from how overwhelming it all was.

His touch was tender, contradicting the broken, filthy sounds spilling from his lips.

"You're—" he choked out, his voice wrecked. "You're touching yourself?"

You hummed around him, confirming, not slowing down, your fingers working deeper inside yourself as his body tensed above you.

Jake whimpered, his head falling forward, his lips barely parted as he stared. His stomach coiled tighter and tighter, his body trembling as his hips stuttered, chasing the feeling, unable to hold back.

"You look so beautiful," he sobbed, his voice raw and shaking. "So divine."

His gaze never left you, drinking in the sight of you—on your knees before him, lips wrapped around his length, taking him so deep without breaking eye contact.

A choked moan tore from his throat at the way you looked up at him, at the sheer devotion in your eyes. It was as if you had been sculpted by God Himself, crafted not from dust but from light, from holiness.

Jake had always admired you.

The way you prayed every afternoon in the chapel, hands clasped. How your lips moved so softly in whispered hymns, the way your voice blended into the choir like something celestial.

How you knelt before the altar, head bowed, untouched by the world around you, your beauty standing apart from anything he had ever known.

Now, you were kneeling for him, your mouth worshipped something else entirely.

His hips jerked forward, unrestrained, a sob catching in his throat.

"Oh—oh, my God—"

His entire body shook, the pleasure nearly blinding. A choked sob left his lips as his release spilled into your mouth, hot and thick, coating your tongue. His hips jerked involuntarily, pressing deeper until your nose met his abdomen, forcing you to take every last drop.

You moaned at the sensation, fingers working faster inside yourself, chasing the same pleasure that had just undone him. The taste of him lingered on your tongue, salty, forbidden—yet you swallowed it all, not letting a single drop go to waste.

Above you, Jake shuddered violently, his hands tangling in your hair as if clinging to you for stability.

His head tipped back; his lips parted in a silent cry as he came down from his high. His fingers trembled against your scalp, stroking gently.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he whispered, his eyes clenched shut, his chest rising. He held you there, cradling your head against his abdomen, his body still twitching from the aftershocks.

You tapped his thigh twice, a silent signal. Jake inhaled sharply, His grip loosened instantly, and with shaky hands, he let go of you, his cock slipping from your mouth.

A thin string of saliva connected you, stretching between your lips and the flushed tip of him before breaking. Your tongue remained out, your breath ragged, your lips swollen and slick with the remnants of his release.

"You... you swallowed my seed," Jake whispered, you stared up at him through lidded eyes, your breath shaky, your body still moving, fingers still working inside yourself.

His gaze flickered downward, following the slow, desperate motion of your hand beneath your lifted skirt. His cock twitched, still sensitive, yet already stirring again at the sight of you.

"It... it should be in your uterus," he muttered, his brows drawing together. "Not your mouth."

A slow smile curled at your lips, heat simmering beneath your skin as you reached for his hand, guiding it to your cheek.

"Then pump me with your seed, Jake," you whispered.

A sharp inhale left his lips, his fingers tightening at your sides before he pulled you to your feet.

His mouth was on yours again, his hands trailing down your back, finding the zipper of your dress. He tugged it down slowly, the fabric loosened, slipping over your shoulders, pooling at your feet.

Jake pulled away, his lips parting as he took you in—your bare form. His throat bobbed, fingers trembling slightly as they traced over your waist.

He bent down, lips finding the curve of your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone.

Your gaze lifted past him, to the walls of the room—where portraits of nuns, saints, and martyrs hung in quiet judgement. Their solemn eyes bore into you, unblinking, unwavering. Your chest tightened, guilt creeping in but you didn't want to stop.

Instead, you let your eyes fall shut, choosing to surrender—to savor the moment.

"Teach me how to please you," Jake murmured against your skin, his hands encircling your waist, holding you close.

You inhaled sharply, your fingers threading through his hair before drifting down to cup his face. Your foreheads pressed together, breath mingling.

Jake's eyes fluttered shut as he sighed against your palm, his lips brushing against the center of it before pressing a tender kiss there. His own hands lifted, fingers tracing the shape of yours.

You pulled away slowly, you reached behind you, unclasping your bralette. The straps slipped from your shoulders, the fabric falling away, leaving your bare skin exposed to the afternoon light. Your underwear followed, sliding down your legs until you stepped out of them, standing before him in nothing but temptation itself.

Jake's breath caught, his entire body rigid as he took in the sight of you—completely bare, completely his to look upon, to touch.

His lips parted, his gaze roamed over you, over the soft curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the smooth expanse of your thighs. He had seen statues of angels, paintings of the Virgin Mary draped in flowing white, but no work of art, no scripture, no vision of heaven itself had ever looked as divine as you did now.

You turned, settling yourself onto the wooden table behind you, your legs parting slowly, revealing yourself to him without hesitation.

A shaky exhale left your lips as your fingers trailed down your own skin, tracing along your inner thigh before sliding to your labia. You arched your back slightly, sighing as you spread yourself wider, holding his gaze.

"Come here, J-Jake," you moaned, your breath hitching as you pushed a single finger inside yourself. Jake swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he reached for the buttons of his shirt. One by one, he undid them. He let the fabric slide from his shoulders, pooling onto the floor before taking slow steps toward you.

As he neared, his breath hitched, his gaze lowering to where your fingers disappeared inside your slick folds. His pupils dilated, "It's so wet," he whispered.

Before you could respond, his hand moved. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, still slick from your arousal, and gently pulled your hand away.

Jake's gaze flickered to your glistening fingers, then he brought your hand to his lips.

You gasped, your walls clenching involuntarily as his tongue flicked out, tasting you for the first time. His lashes fluttered shut, a soft groan slipping past his lips as he took more of you onto his tongue, savoring the taste.

When Jake opened his eyes again, they were darker.

"I want more." A sudden moan tore from your throat at his words, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. You reached for his wrist, guiding his hand between your legs, breath hitching the moment his fingers brushed against your slick folds.

Jake sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers trembling as they hesitated at your entrance, slowly he pushed a single finger inside you.

A gasp escaped you as he entered. His jaw clenched at the sensation, his breath uneven as he felt you—felt the way your walls clenched around him, soft and wet and so impossibly tight.

His free hand gripped your thigh for support, his own body shuddering. Then he curled his finger.

"Oh God!" A sharp cry left your lips, your back arching at the sudden jolt of pleasure. Jake choked on a moan, watching you intently, his eyes locked onto every flicker of expression on your face.

He did it again, this time slower, pressing deeper, and your fingers dug into his shoulders.  His breathing grew heavier, his forehead nearly pressing against yours as he whispered, "Can I touch your breasts?"

Your head fell back, your lips parting on a silent gasp. You nodded frantically, eyes shut, too overwhelmed to speak properly. But a pleading "please" slipped from your lips.

That was all the permission he needed. Jake's other hand rose cautiously, fingers ghosting over the curve of your breast before cupping it fully, squeezing experimentally. His breath hitched at the feeling—warm, soft, the peak pebbling under his touch.

You moaned at the contact, pressing into his palm, "You like that?" he asked.

You nodded quickly, tilting your chin up to kiss him again, swallowing his breath. Your body was burning in a way that the nuns never depicted, your core aching with want, and you didn't care how shameless you sounded when you pleaded, "Please, touch me more."

Jake swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as his fingers kneaded your breast, his other hand still buried deep inside you, working slow, torturous circles that made you gasp.

"Lean down and suck my breast," you whispered against his lips. "I heard it feels good."

Jake pulled back slightly, blinking down at you, his cheeks flushed. "Like a baby?" he asked, almost innocently, though the way his hips pressed forward, grinding his aching cock against your thigh, told another story entirely.

You let out a breathy laugh, though it was cut short when he twisted his fingers inside you, making your back arch.

"No," you whimpered. "Like a man who wants me."

Jake groaned, before lowering his head, his lips parting as he took your nipple into his mouth. The moment his tongue flicked over the sensitive bud; a cry left you.

He started gently at first, his lips soft and warm against your breast, still testing, still learning how to touch you. But as your back arched, as your fingers tangled into his hair and held him there, he grew bolder.

His lips sealing around your nipple, his tongue swirling. Then his teeth grazed the sensitive flesh, just enough to send a delicious shudder down your spine.

"Jake—" you gasped, thighs clenching around his waist, trapping him against you.

He moaned against your skin, his free hand massaged your other breast, fingers rolling the hardened peak between them, mimicking the movements of his tongue.

"Add another finger inside me—please, please," you begged, voice breaking, hands clutching at his shoulders, urging him deeper.

Jake's forehead pressing against your chest bracing himself as he obeyed. His second finger slipped inside, stretching you further, filling you in a way that made your toes curl. Your walls clenched around him, tight, warm, so wet, and Jake whimpered, his hips bucking against your thigh at the feeling of you around his fingers.

"I want you inside me," you whispered into his ear, tears slipped down your cheeks. Jake let out a shuddering breath, his body stiffening at your words. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment. "They said it will hurt," Jake whispered, his fingers, still buried deep inside you, twitched. His free hand came up to your cheek, wiping away your tears with the pad of his thumb, his touch so tender it made your chest ache.

He swallowed hard. "I don't want to hurt you."

You leaned into his touch, your lips brushing against his wrist as you whispered, "I want to feel all of you, Jake. Even if it hurts, I want you."

Jake's breath hitched, his forehead pressing against yours. With trembling hands, he withdrew his fingers from your heat, watching the way your body shuddered, the way your thighs quivered as he left you empty. He brought his fingers to his lips without thinking, tasting you again, his eyes fluttering shut as he let out a quiet, needy moan.

Jake let out a shaky exhale, gripping himself at the base. His other hand rested on your thigh, rubbing soothing circles into your skin. "Are you sure?" he asked.

You nodded, spreading your legs further, offering yourself to him completely. "Please, Jake."

With a shaky breath, Jake lined himself up with your entrance, his tip pressing against your heat. His hands trembled as he gripped your thighs, steadying himself, his forehead resting against yours as he slowly, carefully, began to push inside.

A gasp tore from your lips the moment he breached you. Your arms wrapped around him, clinging to his shoulders, molding yourself against him as your body adjusted to the slow intrusion of his thick cock.

The stretch was overwhelming. Tears welled in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks as your walls struggled to accommodate him. Looking down, you saw—he had barely entered you. Only the tip, and yet, it already felt so much.

Jake let out a strangled moan, his breath stuttering as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

"S-Slow," you whimpered, your body trembling beneath him. Jake nodded rapidly, biting his lip so hard. His entire body was tense, his self-control hanging by a thread as he forced himself to move at an excruciatingly slow pace.

"You’re so—" He choked on his words, a desperate whimper escaping him. "So tight—God—"

His hips twitched involuntarily, and you gasped, your nails raking down his back at the sudden jolt of sensation. Jake's breath hitched at the sharp sting of your nails, his cock throbbing as he pushed in another inch.

A broken sob escaped you.

"I-It’s too much—" you whimpered, your walls fluttering around him, trying to adjust, trying to take all of him.

"Shh, I know, I know—" he whispered, kissing your tear-streaked cheek, peppering soft kisses along your jaw, trying to ease the overwhelming stretch. His hands slid down to your thighs, holding you open, rubbing gentle circles into your skin as he murmured against your lips, "do you want me to pull out?"

You shake your head, Jake exhaled sharply, his breath warm against your skin, his hands steadying you before he pressed forward again, stretching you further. Until you felt his abdomen on your navel. Every movement forcing your walls to open for him, to take him in ways you hadn’t known were possible.

A hiss escaped you, your back arching off the wooden table at the overwhelming sensation of being completely full. "Y-You're inside me," you gasped, as your gaze dropped between your bodies.

Jake groaned softly, his hands gripping your waist, his cock throbbing inside you as he fought to remain still, to give you time to adjust. "Yeah," he murmured, "I'm inside you."

Your breath was ragged, your fingers shaking as they slid up to his face, tracing the curve of his jaw. "I'm not burning," you whispered, half in disbelief. "I'm not burning."

The nuns had lied. The warnings, the fear, the fire they swore would consume you if you ever gave in to desire—it was nowhere to be found. There was only warmth. Only Jake.

Jake swallowed hard, his gaze locking onto yours. He reached for your chin, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

"You're not burning," you whispered. Jake brows furrowing, a gasp tore from your lips as he pulled out slightly before thrusting forward again, sinking into you. His mouth fell open, his head tilting back as he felt you, felt the way your walls clung to him, squeezing him.

His lips parted, but the only sounds that came were broken, incoherent prayers.

"Oh, God—" he choked out. His hands shook as they traced over your body, touching you, his fingers skimming your sides, your stomach, your breasts. You cried out as the pain shifted, morphing into pleasure.

"You're so beautiful," Jake sobbed, he thrust back inside you, deeper than before, his arms tightening around you. His chin rested atop your head, his lips brushing against your hair as he inhaled, breathing you in, letting your scent consume him as much as your body did.

"You're—you're everything," he whispered shakily, his hips rolling into you. "Made perfect, sculpted by God’s own hands," he moaned against your skin. "How could something so sinful feel so good?"

You whimpered beneath him, clinging to his shoulders. 

"I could do this every day," he moaned. Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering open, finding his face above you. He pulled back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his trembling hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks, wiping away the remnants of your tears. His forehead pressed against yours.

"I would do this every day," he corrected himself, groaned as he thrust deeper, his hips stuttering slightly at the way your walls clenched around him. "Worship you like this. Love you like this."

Your moans grew louder, your nails pressing deeper into his skin, leaving marks along his back as if claiming him in return.

Jake groaned, his lips parting, his body trembling from the way you felt. "Would you let me?" His eyes searched yours. "Would you let me taint you? Every day?"

His hands roamed your body, gripping your waist, then sliding lower to cup the back of your thighs, pulling you closer. His movements slowed, dragging out every sensation, every inch of him inside you.

Your back arched, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, locking him in place, your breath coming in soft, desperate gasps as the pleasure built inside you. 

"Yes, yes!" you cried out. "Taint me, fill me with your seed—I don’t care anymore!"

A ragged moan tore from his throat as he thrust harder. "You're all I've ever wanted." His pace turned desperate, frantic. His hands shook as he rocked into you. His lips crashed against yours, swallowing your moans as he drove deeper, his body pressing you down into the wooden table. The room was filled with the sinful sounds of skin meeting skin, of breathless gasps and muffled cries.

"I’ll give you everything," Jake panted, his forehead pressing against yours, sweat dripping from his temple. "I’ll fill you up, I’ll make you mine—"

His thrusts grew erratic, his hips snapping forward, chasing release, chasing you.

Your walls clenched tighter, pulsing around him, and he whimpered, his body tensing, his breath stuttering as the pleasure coiled unbearably tight inside him.

"Jake, Jake," you whimpered, your hands drifted lower, fingers grazing over the stretch where your bodies met. You could feel him inside you, thick, pulsing, dragging against your walls with each deep, sliding thrust. 

Your fingers dipped lower, pressing against your clit. A sharp gasp escaped you. The moment your fingers touched the sensitive bundle of nerves, a bolt of another intense pleasure shot through you. 

Jake groaned at the movement, his grip tightening, his lips parting as he watched you touch yourself.

"It feels too good—too good," you sobbed, rolling slow, shaky circles against your clit, heightening the pleasure building inside you. Your walls spasmed around him, gripping him tighter, making his hips stutter.

"Oh my Lord," Jake moaned, his head dropping against your shoulder, his body shaking with the effort to keep himself together. "This—this feels too good. I am willing to sin every day to get a taste of you."

"I would trade heaven just to stay inside you forever—"

His teeth grazed your jaw, his fingers locking around your wrists, guiding your movements against your clit, urging you faster, desperate to bring you with him.

"Please—please, come for me," he begged, and with one last deep thrust, as your fingers circled your clit faster, as his cock hit the perfect spot inside you.

The pleasure snapped through you, your entire body seizing as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. Your walls clenched around him, pulsing, milking him as your climax washed through every inch of your being.

Jake choked on a moan, his body jerking as he buried himself deep, hips stuttering, his breath breaking into ragged gasps. His hands trembled as they gripped your hips, holding you still as his release spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you completely.

His lips found yours again as he emptied himself into you, his body still shaking from the intensity of it all.

You gasped into his mouth, still riding the aftershocks, feeling the warmth of him inside you. Neither of you moved for a long moment, too overwhelmed, too wrecked to do anything but exist in the sinful haze of what had just happened.

Jake’s hands slowly slid up your back, his fingers tracing over your spine made your chest tighten. Finally, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze soft but dazed, as if he still couldn’t quite believe what he had done—what you had done together.

 "Are you okay?"

Your heart ached at the tenderness in his voice, at the way he searched your face for any sign of regret. But there was none. You reached up, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering against his cheek.

"I'm full of you," you murmured, "I can feel you inside me."

Jake groaned, his hands tightening on your hips, his entire body tensing as he let out a shaky breath. Yet, even as exhaustion threatened to pull him under, his cock twitched inside you—still buried to the hilt, still too sensitive, yet already stirring again at your words

"Don't say that," he whispered, but his hands betrayed him.

They slid upward, over your waist, tracing the curve of your ribs before finding your breasts again, cupping them, thumbs circling your pebbled peaks. His fingers kneaded softly, rolling the sensitive flesh between his palms. 

Your back arched, your head tipping back, letting your hair cascade over the edge of the table. Your lips parted in a breathless moan, the aftershocks of pleasure still tingling in your veins, yet now, a new wave of desire was coiling inside you again. 

You were undone beneath him, your body glistening with sweat, your lips swollen from his kisses, your eyes still dazed, darkened with lust. And yet, you looked untouched. 

His grip on your breasts tightened slightly, his hips pressing forward just enough to remind you that he was still inside you.

"You make me forget who I am," he murmured, his breath shaky against your throat. "What I'm supposed to be."

His lips found the pulse at your neck, trailing down again at every inch of your skin. 

Neither of you noticed the way the candlelight flickered. Because you had both awakened the Tree of Knowledge.

And neither of you would ever return to Eden.

Jake had always been a man of God.

From the moment he could speak, he was taught that he was formed from the dust of the earth, molded by divine hands, a creation of purpose. His parents instilled in him the belief that he was meant to walk the righteous path, to live a life devoted to prayer, to obedience, to purity.

He appreciated every intricate work of the Creator—the way the sun spilled golden light over the stained-glass windows of the churches, the way the choir’s voices soared in perfect harmony, the way scripture spoke of faith and the reward of salvation. He saw God in everything, and in return, he gave himself to Him, dedicating his days to scripture, to service, to resisting the sins that so easily ensnared others.

Where others strayed, he remained steadfast. Where others indulged in temptation, he turned away.

He had watched boys his age succumbs to their own desires— lusting over naked bodies, wandering hands beneath heavy blankets. He had seen the way girls blushed at their names being called by the wrong kind of voice, the way they giggled behind cupped hands, oblivious to how close they danced to damnation.

But not him.

Jake had spent his youth guarding his body, his mind, his soul. He never allowed himself to waver, never let his thoughts wander to things he had been told were unholy. And if—if—his body ever betrayed him in the quiet of night, if his skin burned with an unfamiliar ache, if his mind was tempted by images that had no place in his heart, he would fall to his knees in prayer.

He would beg for forgiveness, whispering fervent apologies, asking for the strength to resist, the grace to overcome.

And for years, he believed he was strong enough.

He believed his faith was unshakable, that no force on earth could tempt him away from his devotion. He had spent his life resisting, rejecting, turning away from desire as though it were a serpent poised to strike.

During one of his evening services at the university chapel, he saw you. At first, it was nothing. A passing glance. A new face among many, just another student filling the pews, singing hymns.

But then, he saw you again.

And again.

You stood among the choir, always placed near the back, always just slightly out of reach—like something meant to be admired from afar, never touched. Your voice wove seamlessly into the others, rising with the organ, filling the chapel, but it wasn't just your voice.

It was the way you bowed your head in prayer, hands folded so delicately. It was the way you knelt before the altar, the way your fingers curled around your rosary.

And every time he saw you, every time your lashes fluttered closed, every time your lips parted to whisper scripture. He would whisper to himself, Song of Solomon 4:7.

"You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you."

Because when he looked at you, he saw something more than human.

He saw a reflection of God’s love, a testament to His creativity—flawless, untouched, pure in ways he never realized he could ache for.

He told himself it was admiration. That his heart only quickened because he saw God in you. That the warmth spreading through his chest whenever you smiled at the nuns, whenever your fingers brushed against the pages of your worn bible, was nothing but spiritual devotion.

But the more he saw you, the harder it became to believe the lie. Because you were forbidden. So untouchable it hurt.

And by the time he had a taste of your poison, by the time your lips had met his, by the time he had felt the warmth of your body pressed against him, wrapped around him. He couldn’t stop craving.

"Jake—" you whined, your voice hushed, breathless, your hands pressed against the cool tiles of the wall for balance. Your body rocked with each deep thrust, your skirt bunched up around your waist, your panties pulled aside in rushed desperation.

Here he was, buried deep inside you in the thin, suffocating space of the girls’ restroom, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you as you bounced against him. He had barely gotten them down before he was inside you. 

Jake let out a shaky breath, his forehead falling against the back of your shoulder, his hips snapping forward, a choked moan escaping his lips as your walls squeezed around him.

"D-Do you love my c-cock inside you?"  He stammered. His hands slid from your hips, traveling up, slipping beneath your uniform blouse to cup your breasts, kneading them, his thumbs rolling over your sensitive peaks as he thrust deeper.

"Answer me," he pleaded, breath hot against the shell of your ear.

A sharp gasp left your lips, your head tilting back against his shoulder as your walls clenched even tighter. "Y-Yes," you whispered, your fingers curling against the cold tile, your knees going weak.

"Say it."

"I love it, Jake," you sobbed, barely holding yourself up as he drove into you faster. "I love your cock inside me—I love it so much—"

Jake whimpered, his grip on you tightening, his entire body shuddering against yours as he lost himself again.

Nothing in this world felt holier than you. Every secret rendezvous was another prayer whispered in the dark, another moment stolen between fleeting glances and hurried footsteps, another sin sealed between trembling lips.

It was your skin against his, pressed against the cold walls of empty classrooms, hidden beneath the dim glow of flickering candlelight in the chapel, tangled in sheets that smelled of guilt and devotion.

It was your kiss—sweet and sinful, your lips brushing against his top lip before capturing him fully, pulling him under, making him forget the weight of his conscience.

It was the way your fingers found his face, tracing over his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, down to the sharp line of his jaw.

"Jake," you would whisper, your touch like a baptism, washing away the person he once was and leaving behind someone entirely yours.

Your hands never hesitated when they roamed his body, memorizing the contours of his muscles, the dip of his collarbone, the ridges of his spine. Your body molded to his, fitting perfectly, as if you had been crafted just for him.

And God, how could something that felt this right be wrong? How could he look at you and believe this was damnation?

You were not a temptation.

You were his salvation, And if this was sin—if loving you, wanting you, needing you—meant turning away from heaven, then so be it.

Because Jake had already made his choice and he would choose you every time.

"They say if you have sexual preferences, it's called a kink," Jake mused, his arms wrapped loosely around your shoulders as he stared out at the lake, watching the water ripple under the soft afternoon light.

It was a rare that the both of you escape—just the two of you, away from the suffocating walls of the university.  Here, it was quiet. Peaceful.

You hummed in amusement, leaning back against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. "Hmm, I think I have a nose kink."

Jake chuckled, tilting his head slightly. "A nose kink?"

You grinned, turning to look up at him, mischief dancing in your eyes. "I love your nose," you said simply, reaching up to tap the tip of it gently with your finger. "I love how it bumps against my clit."

A giggle slipped from your lips as Jake let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, his ears tinged slightly pink.

"You're unbelievable," he murmured, pressing his chin lightly against your shoulder, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his fondness.

You shifted, wrapping your arms around his, your fingers playing with the fabric of his sleeves. "What about you? Do you have a kink?"

Jake pretended to think, his lips pursing before he finally admitted, "I love your tongue."

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh?"

His smile widened, his fingers trailing lazily along your arms. "I love how soft it is when you kiss me," he said, voice dropping slightly. "I love the way it feels against my skin, how warm it is when you—"

He stopped himself, biting his lip, his cheeks darkening as he let out a flustered chuckle. "You know."

You turned fully in his embrace, resting your chin against his chest as you beamed up at him. "Say it."

Jake groaned, rolling his eyes, but there was nothing but adoration in them as he dipped his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "I love how your tongue feels when you're tasting me."

Your giggles turned into full laughter, your arms tightening around him, and he let out a breathy laugh of his own, shaking his head in defeat.

The wind rustled through the trees, the lake shimmering under the sunlight.

"Do you think God still loves us?" you asked, Jake's fingers threaded through your hair, slow and gentle, playing with your scalp as he stared out at the lake, watching the way the sunlight danced over the rippling water.

"Yes," he said, without hesitation.

You blinked, tilting your head slightly to look up at him. "How can you be so sure?"

Jake exhaled softly, his lips curling into a small, thoughtful smile. "Because love doesn’t disappear just because we fall." His gaze met yours. "God loved David even after his sins. He loved Peter even after he denied Him three times. Love isn’t something that fades because of our mistakes. It’s unconditional."

Your chest tightened at his words, at the quiet conviction in his voice.

"Then why do I still feel guilty?" you whispered, pressing your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Jake sighed, his chin resting lightly atop your head. "Because we've been taught to fear Him more than we've been taught to trust His love."

Silence stretched, only the soft rustling of trees and the distant laughter from the festival carrying through the breeze. After a moment, Jake spoke again, "but when I’m with you…" he paused, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your arm, "I feel closer to God than I ever have before."

You pulled back slightly, eyes searching his, the weight of his words settling deep in your chest. "How?"

He smiled, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead again before whispering,

"Because you are the most beautiful thing He’s ever created."

Your breath hitched, your hands tightening around his shirt as warmth bloomed in your chest.

Jake tilted his head, his lips hovering just above yours. "And if loving you is a sin…" he murmured, a teasing smile playing on his lips, "then I guess I’ll just have to keep repenting."

His hands wandered lower, tracing slow, idle patterns along your upper thigh. You shivered slightly at his touch, but it wasn’t just the sensation that made your breath hitch—it was the way his finger moved deliberately, forming letters, one by one, spelling out a single word:

"Mine."

Your lips parted, your heart stuttering in your chest as your gaze flickered up to meet his.

Jake only smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting, "I will leave the university," he said suddenly. 

Jake exhaled slowly, "I’ve realized a lot of things, and one of them is…" He hesitated, searching your face, then sighed. "I don’t think I was ever meant to be the man they wanted me to be."

Your throat tightened. "Jake—"

"Everything is okay," he reassured you, his voice firm, calming. "I don’t regret any of it. Not the prayers, not the faith—but I also don’t regret you. And if the only way to keep you is to walk away from what was never truly mine, then I’ll do it."

Your eyes glistened with unshed tears, your fingers curling around his wrists. "You would do that?"

"I would do anything for you," he muttered, "I was never meant to be a saint, and I don’t think I want to be anymore." His fingers tightened around yours, grounding himself in the warmth of your touch, in the certainty of this moment. "I just want to be yours." 

A breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding.  You swallowed, your lips parting before you whispered, "Ruth 1:16-17."

Jake tilted his head slightly, his brows raising in curiosity. You smiled softly, squeezing his hand. "Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay."

His gaze softened, warm and full of love, as if in that moment, there was nothing else in the world but you and him. Jake swallowed, his fingers tightening around yours as he whispered back, "Song of Solomon 3:4."

Your breath hitched. A sharp sting burned behind your eyes as you realized what he was saying, as the words sank into your skin, into your soul. Tears welled up, spilling onto your cheeks as he brought a trembling hand to cup your face, his thumb wiping them away.

"I have found the one whom my soul loves."

A quiet sob escaped you as you leaned into his touch, closing your eyes, letting the weight of his words settle into the deepest parts of you.

That was the day you faced the judgment of others.

Whispers followed you down the chapel halls, sharp as knives, spoken behind cupped hands and lowered eyes. You were no longer the devout girl they had known, no longer the image of purity they had placed on a pedestal.

You were cast out, stripped of the life you had once known, condemned for surrendering to the desires they warned you against. For falling, like Eve, for stepping into temptation and taking the bite that could never be undone.

But none of it mattered. Because just as Adam had followed Eve into exile, Jake followed you. It had always been him and you. It would always be him and you.

You would always choose him—religiously, faithfully.

You clutched Jake’s hand, sweat beading on your forehead, your body trembling as pain surged through you. Your body trembling with exhaustion. The midwife kneeled before you, her voice firm yet reassuring, guiding you through labored breaths as she prepared to deliver your third child.

Jake pressed a kiss to your damp temple, whispering words of encouragement, of love, his grip unwavering as he held onto you, just as he always had.

He wiped away the tears spilling from your eyes, just as he had that day by the lake, when he promised you that everything would be okay.

And as you cried out, as life pushed forward, as your body bore the proof of your love.

"You’re so strong," he murmured. "Just a little more, my love. I’m right here."

Another sharp cry left your lips, your back arching as the final push sent waves of relief crashing over you.

A baby’s cry filled the room.

A sharp, piercing sound, followed by the relieved murmurs of the midwife as she carefully wrapped the tiny, wriggling form in soft cloth. Your head fell back against the pillow, your chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. Jake’s hand trembled as he reached for you, his lips pressing against your knuckles, his gratitude unspoken but infinite.

Tiny footsteps thundered against the wooden floor.

"Mama!"

The door burst open, and two small figures ran inside, their eager little hands gripping the edges of your bedsheet.

Cain and Abel—your firstborns.

Their wide eyes shimmered with excitement; their faces flushed from running. Cain, the elder, clung to Jake’s arm, while Abel climbed onto the edge of the bed, trying to peer over your shoulder.

"Did it hurt, Mama? Are you okay?" Cain asked, his brows furrowed in concern, his little hands gripping onto Jake’s sleeve.

"It’s okay, my love," you soothed, your voice weak but filled with warmth as you reached for them. "I am okay."

Jake’s breath hitched as the midwife gently placed the newborn into his waiting arms. A soft gasp left his lips as he cradled the tiny child against his chest, his eyes glistening with tears. His fingers traced the delicate curve of the baby’s cheek, his voice breaking as he whispered, "Seth."

At the sound of his father’s voice, the newborn let out a small, sleepy whimper, tiny fists curling against Jake’s chest. Cain and Abel watched in awe; their excitement momentarily silenced as they stared at their new baby brother.

"Seth," Abel repeated softly, as if testing the name on his tongue.

"He’s so small," Cain murmured, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to reach out and touch him.

Jake let out a choked laugh, pressing a kiss to Seth’s forehead before carefully settling beside you on the bed. His arm curled around your shoulders, pulling you close, his free hand still cradling your newest son. And as your children gathered around you, their voices filled with wonder.

As Jake’s lips found your forehead once more, you exhaled, a breathless, relieved sigh. You thought of Eden. Of Adam, formed from dust. Of Eve, crafted from his rib, made for him, meant to be his. The two of them had once lived untouched, unburdened, perfect in their innocence.

But love—true love—was never meant to exist without choice.

And so, they had fallen. Not out of defiance. Not out of sin. But out of love—a love so deep, so human, it had rewritten the course of existence itself.

Your body spent, your children nestled close, your husband’s arms wrapped around you as he held his world in his hands. Your tired eyes fluttered shut, as Jake pressed another soft kiss against your skin, your newborn stirred gently in his father’s arms.

Falling had never been a punishment. Because It is a gift.

perm taglist: @won4me @ikaw-at-ikaw, @kristynaaah, @fancypeacepersona @tunafishyfishylike @vvenusoncasual, @cutehoons02,

[miange1]

your brian moser content is fire (and the only male reader ones i’ve seen). please make more

BRIAN MOSER

summary: he realizes your a virgin a bit too late

male reader, virgin reader, bottom reader, rough sex, overstimulation, cumming too much, breeding kink(?), kitchen counter sex, needy stuff, leg lifting to get deeper(like that one cabin scene in polar with duncan), belly bulges, this is short im lazy

note: happy new year i was listening to videoclub writing ts

his lips rushed to crash onto yours, his hands gripping your body as he had rushed you into the kitchen and not even bothering to go to the bedroom to finish getting your clothes off.

your shirt was already scattered to the floor, belt falling out of your unbuttoned pants. a whimper came from you as you'd feel his erection press against your hip as he pinned you to the counter top.

"brian.." yes, fuck he loved that. finally having his real name moaned so perfectly like that. his lips came to your neck, latching and sucking dark and deep purple bruises to your skin.

he'd lift your lower half, allowing your pants and boxers to fully slide off. he gave a quick spit to his two fingers, practically shoving them inside of you and curling them quickly.

"fuck, oh my god." your arms flew to his shoulders, fingers crumpling his shirt as they dug through almost painfully. "shh, i've got you," he spoke lowly in your ear, pumping his fingers in and out of your hole, your velvety walls clenching around his fingers which made it a bit difficult for him to fully prep you.

"hurts..slow down.." his eyebrows raise a moment, slowing his movements down momentarily, to then take his fingers fully, and a string of slick saliva connecting then breaking off as quickly as it had come.

he'd spit one last glob on his palm, rubbing down from his tip to full length. his singular hand still holding you changed your position, your ass pressing against him, a small shiver going through your body as you'd felt his half lubed cock against your ass.

"brian please.." you were begging, god how much more perfect could you get? it's as if he had hit some sort of jackpot, was he simply this lucky? "im going, im going." he spoke, slipping himself inside you, his eyes rolling back and he'd groan from the overly tight feeling surrounding him.

"fuck— so damn tight, shit.." and he'd mean it, he wasn't just saying it to be hot because fuck, you were tight. he wasn't even sure if he could move as hard and quick as he wanted to.

but sooner or later he did, few thrusts in and he had been going crazy. wet skin slaps echoed throughout his kitchen, your moans practically being screams being like a melody to his ears. his eyes watched as you'd try and grip the table– grip something to keep yourself holding on.

your jaw slack open, tongue slightly lolling out and your eyes glazed and glossed over with tears and disassociation. you couldn't even form words, just choked up moans and gasps.

his fingernails had dug into your skin, he stopped for a moment to crack his neck, and lift his knee up onto the counter to thrust inside deeper. he wasn't going to fast this time, focusing on how deep and rough his motion was.

you could only muster up strained gasps, any noise you'd make would make your throat hurt and your voice raspy. your body was shaking like a leaf, saliva dripping off of your tongue as you could no longer have the mindset to even swallow. your eyes either stuck in one spot or frantically moving around to chase your vision back because he was making you see stars.

he would put his leg back down, hoisting you up so your back could press flush against his chest. his hand pressured on your stomach, a lump being felt underneath his fingertips. "feel that?" his dick twitched catching sight of your expression. "how hard you've got me?" you'd mindlessly nod, barely taking in his words because all you had understood was the fact he asked you a damn question.

he'd make another groan,your body finally resting and going limp as he had cum inside much more than intended. even as he was deep inside you, cum still managed to drip down your thigh. when he'd pull out he'd see it all, see your hole twitch from the cold air and how much cum had truly leaked out.

glops of white overloading inside of you, your legs wobbling slightly as you could barely hold yourself up. "just a sec," his thumb came to spread you, to peer more at the way your body gushed his cum.

"enjoying the view."

in bed you had been fast asleep, breathing finally steady and your body finally calm. he'd laugh a bit to himself as he thought back to how you acted.

you acted as if it was your first time fucking or something.

his smile then faded, and he'd sit up. it was your first time, of course it was! who else reacts that way while fucking. he'd taken your virginity on a kitchen counter.

[sakusaswifee]

“𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐄”

𓆩༒︎𓆪 YANDERE + TS!KENMA

Content Warnings: Non-consensual voyeurism, masturbation (m + f), obsession, stalking, tech-related yandere behavior, possessive behavior, NSFW content (18+ only), dark themes, female!reader.

Note: This is fiction. The behaviors depicted here are not acceptable in real life.

Minors DNI. You must be 18+ to read.

This is inspired by @chanif-art ‘s mini kenma comic I saw

𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪

The screen flickered, casting soft, pixelated light across Kenma’s sharp features as he leaned into his microphone.

“Thanks for the donation,” he said quietly, voice low and indifferent to the thousands watching his stream. His golden eyes lazily flicked over the chat, catching your message:

Your content is amazing. I love it!

His lips barely curved into a smile, the kind only long-time fans could tell was real. “Appreciate it,” he murmured, fingers tapping at his controller as if you were just another viewer. Just another name.

But he knew your name.

He knew the way your face lit up when you watched his streams.

He knew what time you usually logged on.

He knew what kind of panties you wore.

Because while one monitor showed his gameplay, and the other tracked his stream stats..three more were hidden off camera. Covered in split feeds. Live footage..from your apartment.

One showed your bedroom, soft lighting, your sheets rumpled from restless nights.

Another showed your bathroom mirror, where you sometimes stared into space in a towel.

And the main screen? Right now it showed you. Sitting on your bed. Phone in one hand. Fingers disappearing between your thighs.

You hadn’t even turned off his stream.

He bit back a groan, muting his mic and leaning back in his gaming chair, legs spread wide, breath shallow.

“Fuck..” he whispered, palm slowly working over the tent forming in his sweats. “She’s watching me..and she’s touching herself..”

He could see it all, how your fingers circled your clit lazily, how your thighs trembled slightly, how you were biting your lip to stay quiet. He zoomed in, couldn’t help it. That cute expression you made when you got close? He’d memorized it. He lived for it.

And you didn’t even know he could see you.

His hand slipped into his pants, wrapping around his already dripping cock. He hissed, head tilting back, groaning low as his eyes stayed glued to your feed.

You gasped softly. Back arched. His name left your lips in a breathless whisper.

There it is..

“Fuck, baby..” he growled, quiet and unhinged, stroking himself harder. “You’re so fucking perfect. You don’t even know how much I want to break into that room and fuck you stupid right now..”

Your body twitched..close. His breath sped up.

“Come for me,” he whispered, voice tight. “Do it. I want to see your pretty little body shake for me..”

And as you fell apart, trembling on your sheets, back arching..he came too. A deep, broken groan tearing from his throat as he spilled hot over his hand, panting, eyes wild with obsession.

His screen glowed. You were catching your breath. Reaching for your phone.

Kenma leaned forward, wiped his hand lazily on a tissue and unmuted his mic.

“Alright,” he said smoothly, voice calm like nothing happened. “Break’s over. Let’s keep playing.”

But his eyes never left you, his treasure. His secret.

And tomorrow? He’d be watching again.

𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪

[hiraizyo]

touch me with a kiss.

pairing: lara raj x female reader

synopsis: any moment spent with lara would be considered your favorite, even if it was just lounging around at your place. a day of rest, no distractions, and little moments of sweet, innocent intimacy was where you found you love her the most.

tags: established relationship. fluff. slice of life.

a/n: super soft & fluffy <3 yn and lara really just wna cherish each other :(

it was barely past nine thirty in the morning, the sun’s rays peaking in through the curtains of your bedroom came in streaks of golden light. the place was quiet — a contrast to the outside world as people began waking up for their day despite it being a sunday; the reserved day for laziness.

it wasn’t like you were trying to be loud, but with the minimal amount of sleep you’d gotten (and the struggle of getting out of bed so early), plus the still dark and cozy room, made it difficult to move about as you knocked into the medium sized bookshelf, wincing to yourself as you steadied the wooden shelving unit.

you glanced over your shoulder, wondering if you’d woken up lara, but the girl was still asleep, nestled in the mess of the sheet and comforter.

you blew out a grateful breath, continuing the walk towards the corner of the room where all your shoes were kept in a messy heap. you reached down to quickly undo the laces and then rested your hands against the wall, forcefully pushing each shoe of by your heel.

unbeknownst to you, the sound of feet shuffling about stirred lara from her light slumber, turning over to lay on her stomach, head facing the left of her. eyes fluttering open slowly, she caught sight of you in the corner, pulling off a hoodie and throwing it to the side.

you faced the bed, expecting to see lara still sound asleep. once you’d noticed she was awake, even if it was barely, you smiled and sauntered over to the bed, sitting down beside her.

“g’morning, princess.” you said quietly, tucking a couple strands of hair behind her ear. your hand stayed there, playing with the bottom ends. “sorry, did i wake you?”

lara shook her head weakly, “i woke up earlier but you were gone, i didn’t even realize i dozed off again.”

the corners of your lips upturned in a small smile at her sleepy state, her voice still sounding tired. it was endearing to watch the way she struggled to stay awake, knowing how exhausted she was from all the work katseye had been doing.

“i had to leave to take my cousin to the airport this morning.” you briefly explained, tucking yourself back under the covers. “it slipped my mind to let you know, though.”

“‘ts fine,” the redhead yawned. you leaned your head on your elbow, right hand propped up as you gazed over her features. “you’re here now.”

“i am.” you replied, mumbling quietly into the air.

chuckling lightly, your eyes followed the girls movements as she lifted herself off the pillow and turned over to lay on her back, her hand gently wrapping around the base of your neck as she pulled you to lay with her. your propped up arm was now tucked under the pillow of your side, head resting on her chest. lara’s nails raked through your hair, sending tingles down your spine as you felt your muscles relax.

“did you miss your cuddle buddy?” you cheekily asked, eyelashes grazing her skin of her collarbone.

your girlfriend hummed, smiling to herself. “i did,” she whispered, closing her eyes as she welcomed the warm feeling of love. “you know i can’t sleep properly without you.”

“i know, my love.” you pressed a kiss to her collarbone, and then settled to snuggle in further against her, sighing contently.

lara’s breathing was slow and steady, your head rising and falling in sync with her upper body. being this close, you could practically hear her heartbeat, the sound calming you and lulling you into a drowsy state. soon, your eyes closed, and while the rest of the world awoke, sleep overtook you and lara once again.

later in the day, after you and lara had cooked and eaten breakfast together, you’d taken the time to start your morning routine, dressing in comfy clothes for the unproductive and lazy day. lara had been in the lounge, waiting for you once again.

“baby, have you seen any of my white shirts?”

the redhead turned around from her sitting position on the couch, now leaning up on her knees as she watched you walk out from the hallway. you wore a pair of sweats, hanging loosely on your hips, and a bra. her eyes danced over your body, being distracted by the lack of coverage on your chest.

she blinked, humming absentmindedly. “mh?”

you cocked your head to the side at her shameless staring, “my white nike shirt? you know, the one with the blue sleeves?”

lara was certainly enjoying the view, her mind short circuiting. if you’d been standing any closer, you’d be able to see the way her pupils dilated at the sight of you. finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the words registered.

“ah,” she nodded slowly. “what about it?”

you groaned at her unfocused response. “have you seen it?” you repeated your question, hoping this time lara was actually paying attention.

the indian bit her lip sheepishly, stifling a laugh and coughed lightly. “oh— um, it may or may not be at the katseye dorm.” her cheeks felt warm as she watched your head dipped, giving her look of fake disapproval.

“laraaa,” you drawled out, craning your neck upwards towards the ceiling. “that’s my favorite shirt.” you huffed, jutting your lips out slightly.

lara could only giggle at the sight. how could you be so cute and breathtaking all at the same time?

she moved from the couch and walked towards you, her hand extending out to grab onto your wrist, but you managed to slip away just in time and walked back into your room. she followed after you, a string of chuckles rolling past her lips.

you grabbed whatever shirt that caught your sight first, slipping it over your head, your arms going through the sleeves. lara stood behind you, watching you fix the shirt and begin to close the closet door, before her eyes caught sight of a certain pair of jeans that looked oddly familiar.

she shook her head, “i can’t believe you’re upset about the shirt when you have a pile of my clothes right there.”

you turned to face her after quickly shutting the closet door, “that’s different.” you replied, tilting your head to the side cheekily. “those ones aren’t special to you.”

the corner of her lips tugged into a smile. lara stepped closer to you as her hand snuck around your waist. “hypocrite.”

your hands found their way to her waist like second nature, as you stood holding one another delicately. when you went to respond, lara spoke again, an eyebrow raised teasingly. “besides, should your favorite shirt not belong to your favorite girl?”

your heart stuttered from how close she was, her voice low and her fingers traced circles against the material of the shirt. “mmkay, you got me there.” you replied, accepting defeat.

lara laughed softly, her lips pressing against yours for a brief kiss. it was sweet, filled with love and tender care, one that made your head spin and your knees weak.

“come on,” lara’s hand fell to intertwine your fingers. “we’ve got a movie waiting to be seen.”

“alright.” you said, taking in a sharp breath, and allowed her to pull you back to the living room, falling into one another on the couch.

it wasn’t out of the ordinary for lara to play you a few of her unreleased songs. in fact, it was almost a routine for you to be the first to hear any song of hers, whether it be the process of her writing, recording, and composing, or just hearing the final product. lara wanted you to be the first each time, she wanted to know your thoughts, hear your feedback.

the sound of her voice echoed around the kitchen as it played through a small speaker, lara’s phone being connected for over two hours now. you were finishing up the final touches of the pasta you and her decided to cook together, when she snuck up behind you and rested her chin on your shoulder.

“i wrote this song with you in mind, y’know.” she confessed, her breath tickling your skin.

you looked at her through your peripheral vision, smiling to yourself as your cheeks reddened. “is that so?” you hummed, dusting off your hands against the apron you wore.

“mmh,” lara nodded slowly, “what do you think?”

“i think it’s perfect, darling.” you told her, turning around in her arms and gazing at her with a look that made lara’s chest fill with heat. “i like every song of yours, but this… this one is something else. you never cease to amaze me.”

lara’s usual cool and confident demeanor shifted quickly. she ducked her head down and tucked it into your neck, a sudden wave of nervousness overtaking her.

it wasn’t the first time you’d compliment her work, but tonight seemed different. perhaps it was finally having you all to herself after the weeks of a busy schedule. or maybe it was the way you were able to spend a day together with no other commitments. maybe, it could’ve been the way you looked at her, the way you held onto her, but lara couldn’t deny you had her completely at your mercy.

your hand ran up to the back of her neck, fingers combing through her locks and over her baby hairs. “let’s dance.”

“what?” lara laughed, pulling away from you.

you nodded vigorously, smiling brightly at her. she laughed once again at your unexpected enthusiasm, watching as you gripped onto her hands and began to awkwardly sway by yourself.

“dance with me.”

lara could only stand and stare.

never in her life had she felt anything as strong as she did for you. with her experience in liking girls, they usually ended up loving her more. but with you, everything was different, more intensified, more electric — she’d never loved anyone as much as she did you.

her heartbeat quickened as you awkwardly tried to twirl her around. when she was facing you again, her breathing slowed and she felt herself fall all over again.

“you are so…” her words trailed off. lara began to sway slowly to regain some focus, allowing herself a moment of peace. “words can’t even begin to describe how i feel for you, yn.”

“that’s so cheesy,” you laughed, stepping backwards until your were arm’s length away. then, you stepped forward again until your lips ghosted over hers. “and extremely gay.”

lara’s daze of love quickly faltered at your comment, rolling her eyes with exaggeration.

“i hate you.” she mumbled, though her feet still moved in rhythm with yours. you let out a breathless titter, shaking your head.

“not in this lifetime.” you replied, and held up your right arm, bent slightly as your hand clasped into lara’s. you pulled her closer, until she was pressed against you in such a way that left no room for space.

lara placed a kiss on the crown of your head, and then in between your eyebrows, moving her lips all the way down until she reached your own.

the swaying stopped, now standing in one another’s arms, lips pressed together, while the rest of the world faded away. her lips were soft and tasted sweet, you sneakily swiped your tongue over her bottom lip, teasing her.

lara gripped your hand tighter, your arms still raised. she leaned into you some more, enough for her stumbling forward, feet almost crashing into yours. you pulled away with a giggle at her needy antics, kissing her lips a couple more times until the need for air for too much.

“we should eat before the food gets cold.” she told you, nodding to the side where the dish of pasta rests on the counter. you hummed, nodding in agreement, and pressed another lingering kiss before finally separating.

“i love our days like this.” you told her after a moment of silence, walking towards the dinner table with a plate of pasta.

lara followed behind you, two glasses of wine in hand and sat down to your left. “me too.” she smiled, “i can’t wait for more.”

you took her hand in your own and pressed a kiss against it, staring at her with shining eyes that held nothing but affection and endearment. you knew then and there, in that moment, lara would always be the one you’d love.

this love was raw, tender, passionate. this love was yours — and you cradled it carefully, clung to it like it was your lifeline — nothing could ever compare.

guess who’s back ??!?!!?? i hope y’all enjoyed <3 sorry for any typos or mistakes, i missed writing for katseye but i fear life & university took sm out of me. hopefully a few more fics will be posted while i still have the chance :)

until next time x

[churipu]

I love you so so much omg ur posts, ur content, un vibe everything. you’re so so nice and yet you have me crying over every single post because of how good this is. Like yesterday i had a whole debate talking to myself abt how good of a person you were and how the likes were not doing you justice.. usually I never send requests mostly because i’m scared they take a look at it and be like “you cannot be srs”. Idk if it makes sense but oh well😭😭

can i request u make a scenario where the reader is insecure and worried their partner is going to leave them for someone prettier but they dont say anything and just start to distance themselves from them from how big of a toll it was taking on the reader? thank you sm😭🫶🏽

YOU BEING INSECURE + JJK MEN

featuring. gojo satoru, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen x reader

warning. cursing

note. ANON YOU'RE SO SWEET OMG BRB SOBBING HAVE ABIG FAT KISS, and i love this request so much, you don't have to worry <33 thank you for requesting my love, sorry it took so long :')

GOJO SATORU. even if gojo didn't seem like the type to be aware of his surroundings — he is very much aware. behind those blindfolds and dark glasses, his eyes darts everywhere, making sure everything is fine. even if one small thing is different to his eyes, he'll notice.

so when you began distancing yourself from him, he notices off the bat. but decided to say nothing just to make sure of it, gojo did not want to jump into conclusions. it started off as you telling him that you're busy to go on dates, or even declining his offers when he wanted to come over to your place.

he didn't think much of it until it visibly worsened, you looked miserable. when he sees you, it was like the shine in your eyes have gone away — gojo didn't know what happened, but he automatically assumed that he was behind the disappearance of it. when he asks you if you were okay, you brushed him off with a forced out smile, and he was dying to push you to just tell him everything.

but he didn't. he was afraid that if he'd push you, it would spiral an argument. for a while, he was walking on eggshells around you, you were like a ticking time bomb ready to blow up at any minute.

it was gnawing internally in gojo's mind, what did he do? what happened to you? what happened to y/n?

his y/n.

so when shoko drops the bomb on him, asking if he had broken up with you. gojo was mortified, is that what it looks like to other people? him and you calling it off? he was terrified, scared, nervous. the strongest sorcerer. yeah — he was scared.

and so he felt like it was a now or never situation.

"y/n, can we talk?"

you grimaced at his soft voice, wondering if this is the part where he's had enough and decided he'd leave you. but you nodded your head, your mind was ready, you were ready to hear it, those words: "i want to break up with you."

"please talk to me. i can't do this whole...you avoiding me, tell me what's bothering you...please." the desperation in his voice was visible, almost as if he was in the verge of tears.

his cerulean eyes were filled with such hopelessness, one you've never seen even when he was fighting a curse. you widened your eyes and inhaled sharply, "i...i'm sorry, satoru."

that was all you managed to muster up and gojo was clueless, he needed more answers, he needed answers to why you were like this, "baby, i don't... is it me? did i do anything wrong to you? please tell me, don't run away.. let me make it up to you."

it pained you to see that he thinks it was him, when it was you behind this. you shook your head, "'s not you 'ts me."

and that made gojo even more terrified than he already is, a lot of questions spiraling in his mind, did you find someone else? did you get bored of him? were you finally breaking up with him because of his constant bothering? so many questions.

"i just...there're so many more people prettier than i am. i just can't stop thinking about it. you leaving and all. 'm sorry i distanced myself from you." when you said that, gojo felt like half of his questions were all useless and he felt a bit relieved to finally get an answer to his speculations.

gojo wasted no time pulling you into his embrace, he needed it, you needed it. both of you needed it just as much, you felt so small in his embrace, head buried into his chest. gojo didn't move a bit, fearing if he moved at all — you'd break, you looked so fragile and so dainty, it scares him.

"i..love you so much." was all he could say,

"'ts you, 'ts you that i love. it hurts me to hear you talk like that." you felt like shit, you really do — so you said nothing back, you kept your face hidden in his chest.

and gojo didn't pry you away, he just needed to be close to you, "sorry."

that was when he pulled away, "you don't have to be sorry, but please talk to me, 'ts not fair if we're happy together and you have to be sad alone.." you hated crying in front of people, especially gojo, and he knew that about you.

so when you cried in that moment, gojo knew this wasn't something light — he didn't need any more explaining from you, he was just there by your side the whole night. and the next day. the next week. month. year. both of you never spoke of it again.

he's in love with you and nobody could change that, he thinks you're the prettiest anyways.

NANAMI KENTO. nanami's eyes are always on you. nobody else. and everyone knows that.

everyone except for you, unfortunately.

usually he comes home and you were always there to greet him, with a hug and kiss. it was an inseparable combo he made a routine, but for the past couple of days — he hasn't been getting that.

instead, he was greeted with silence. and just from the second time, he knew that something was definitely wrong with you. he'll find you curled up in bed, under the covers like it was the only thing that mattered in the world; but he tries to see it as a sign of exhaustion.

nanami watches your every move, for the past couple of days. you have been out of it. to the point where it was plain obvious and nanami tries asking about it, but you tell him it was just because of the stress. a sweetheart he is, he tries telling you to get some rest from work — he'd even excuse you if it's needed, but you tell him that wasn't needed and that you were fine.

obviously lying. he could see it, smell it, hear it.

it was suffocating. everything was suffocating to you, it's like everything was slowly masticating on every fiber in your body. you wanted to just, drop down and cry but whenever you try to, you just end up sitting on the floor blankly staring at nothing.

it scares yourself sometimes how empty your eyes look.

you wouldn't be surprised if nanami didn't come back home one day because he's so fed up — that's what you've been planting in you. that nanami would leave you for prettier people, for people who don't overthink, people who are generally better than you.

"y/n?"

oh. you didn't even hear him come home, you sat on the bedroom floor trying to push yourself up. and you couldn't even do that, so when nanami opens the bedroom door, seeing you on the floor — he said nothing, not even a hello.

nanami just scoops you into his arms and lays you down on the bed mutely, his slender fingers brushing your hair, "i love you," he murmurs quietly.

that was enough to make tears dwell up at the corner of your eyes, and he said nothing, grazing your tears away, "'m sorry. 'm so sorry, kento."

nanami didn't understand why you were apologizing, he hushed you, cradling you in his embrace as you let your tears free fall, "why are you sorry?"

that's when it struck you, why were you apologizing?

nanami didn't question you any further but he held you close, pressing chaste kisses onto your forehead, "is something in your mind?" you nodded slowly, "do you want to tell me about it?"

you nodded, inhaling sharply, "i just don't feel pretty enough...i feel like you deserve better than me, ken."

nanami laced your fingers with his, kissing your knuckles, "why do you say such things?" you didn't answer him, and it just breaks his heart even more, "you're perfect for me."

his words fall into deaf ears, but you didn't continue saying your worries, you just feel like nanami gets a gist of it. nanami didn't leave your side, cradling you in his arms like you're the most fragile being, "i love you," he kissed your forehead, "so much," and he kisses your lips.

nanami makes sure to spend every second telling you how much he loves you, telling you how beautiful you are, and how you're the most perfect for him.

SUKUNA RYOMEN. he hates it when you ignore him without any explanations, he's told you before, "if you have anything to say, say it to my face, don't ignore me."

but this feels like something you couldn't tell him, how you feel. it's obvious that you were distancing yourself from him, when he calls you, you sometimes pretend like you didn't hear him — and when he confronts you later, you tell him that you just didn't hear his calls.

"you're ignoring me, hm?"

"what? no— i just didn't hear you calling out to me."

don't even try to lie to him because he will always confront you about it, he sees right through you and your lies. the second time you try to run away from him when he calls out to you, he wastes no time holding you in place; confronting you right at that moment.

"why're you running away, brat?"

"i...oh, i didn't realize you were here, ryo." sukuna clicks his tongue in mere annoyance — what a bad actor you are, it's so ridiculous sukuna wanted to just burst out into laughter.

"bullshit. why're you avoiding me?"

that was it. you were cornered just like that. sighing, there isn't any way out unless you tell him — sukuna just won't let you go unless you tell him everything behind your recent behaviors.

"just don't feel pretty enough for you," you mutter out, avoiding his sharp gaze, "i feel like you can do much better than me. you deserve better than me."

sukuna gave you nothing but a mere smirk, pushing his lips onto yours. god, he didn't want to admit it — but he hates the way you talk shit about yourself, if he could tell you everything that he loves about you, he would. but he didn't because he's a jackass (and he's too shy to tell you that).

"that's it?" that's it? that's it?

you were about to push him away when he gives you that glare of his, "which person has been making you think like that?"

"no one. me."

he flicks your forehead, "then stop."

if only it was that easy, you grumbled at his response, and said nothing else so you could just leave. but sukuna, despite his ignorant answers always makes sure that you never run away from him anymore, he's a lot more touchy than usual — and he (tries) to compliment you and your appearance.

keyword: tries

he fails at it though. but you gave him kudos for trying, that's all that matters, really. that he makes you feel loved.

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