#notes from the confessional

[salt-and-sin-and-spn]

Imagining Dean begging to fuck your tits and coming hard between then

⛥ Notes from the confessional #11 ⛥

"Come on, princess," Dean says, soft smile on his lips, which he's bitten and licked to an obscene amount over the last few minutes since he sprung his idea on you. "We can just try it."

"I don't know," you say, turning your head slightly, but you're acting more coy than you actually are. It's just too good to see Dean begging like this, pleading his case. "Isn't it a little crass?"

"I just love them so much, baby," he says, then lowers his head to kiss at the exposed skin, the rolling hills of your chest. His plush lips are gentle and teasing, making a shudder go through you. "Please. They're so fucking soft. Would feel amazing."

You time a lip bite just as Dean looks up again, and he groans, dips down again to kiss your mouth.

"Babe," he mumbles. "Don't you wanna... don't you wanna try? We don't have to try. But it could be fun." You purse your lips. He's trying to be reasonable, but you can see that your teasing has him nearly flipping his lid already. You arch your back, watch as Dean's eyes shoot to your low cleavage, his lips part as he rocks himself against you.

"Well, okay, we can try," you say, like you've just been convinced. Dean's eyes widen and his breath comes fast. Just as fast as he likely will.

He sits up, leans back. You feel for the hem of your shirt, stretching and moving more than you need to. Dean helps, fingers dragging along your skin more than necessary. You're a good match.

Dean sighs, brings his hands forward, cupping himself two handfuls, massaging them, runs the rough pads of his fingers over your nipples. You drop the shirt, lean back again. Moan.

"So fucking pretty," he says, his voice cracked. "So soft and perfect, and, uh, I..." He interrupts himself, leans forward. He pushes them together, then laps at the skin that prickles up. In response, you run your hand into the hair at the back of his head.

"Fuckin' perfect," he murmurs, like he's whispering to your tits, and you giggle at the idea. Dean looks up at your face, searches your features. Then he sits back again.

He's already hard as steel in his boxers. You reach for him, run your fingertips along him. He twitches in response.

Dean reaches to the side for your favorite massage oil, the one that smells like vanilla and almond. You push up on your elbows. He opens the cap, raises the bottle high. You sigh when the first spattering of drops hits your chest.

He puts the bottle down, then brings his hands to your breasts again. Massages them slowly, the scent and his touch warming you up. You bring your hand to your chest, collect some of the sweet-smelling essence. Bring it back to Dean's cock, stroke him slowly. Not that he needs it.

He shuffles forward, straddles you low on your chest. It keeps you in place and looking up at him is like looking up at the heavens. You bring your hands up, push your breasts together. Dean looks into your eyes, and then he slowly pushes in.

His hands go over yours, pressing your breasts closer together. He pulls back, pushes in again.

"Fuck, that's perfect," he pants. "You're so good, doing this for me. You're so -- oh shit!"

He rolls his hips, faster. Whines, in that way only he can. You raise your chin, trying to keep your body steady as much as possible.

"Is that good?" you ask, voice low. Dean's eyes are squeezed shut, lips parted.

"So good," he mumbles. "Gonna come so fucking hard. So good." You grin to yourself.

He's not lying, you find out a few minutes later. He keeps going faster, desperate noises leaving him while he keeps mumbling about how good you are to him, how soft, how perfect. When his eyes roll up and you can feel him twitch, you stick out your tongue. Dean whines and moan and grunts while his grip on you tightens even more. His come runs over your collarbones, a drop of it landing on your chin.

Came so hard he blew a gasket, he tells you later, both of you cleaned up, him curled around you, fingers like butterfly kisses on your hip. Maybe next time you can try it with that toy you have inside of you, make sure you get some too. You just grin.

Remind him you got plenty, and Dean goes red as a beet.

⛥Come and share your own headcanons here! The confessional is open.⛥

[dullahandyke]

Rewatching total drama island feministly is like. Woww we have not progressed as far as we would like to say we have

[cxffecoupx]

falling to my knees at the confessional because 'forgive me father for i have sinned' has taken a whole new meaning

in good faith 🕯️ seungcheol x reader.

“because angels are beautiful.” he pauses for a beat. “more than that— they’re obedient.”

★ word count: 5.8k ★ genre/warnings: 18+ content. smut. alternate universe: non-idol, religious themes and references, blasphemy, corruption kink. morally gray/manipulative csc, inexperienced reader, oral (m), fingering. let me know if i missed anything. not proofread. ★ footnotes: this is not the first fic that will be written about these photos. it will also not be the last. dedicated to @cxffecoupx, who so generously let me play with her idea and add a bit of my spin to it. love you dearly, ris; i hope this lives up even the teensiest bit to what you had in mind! ‹𝟹

The first time you meet Seungcheol again, it’s in the dimly lit corner of your parish hall. Your mother drags you over to him like an offering, her fingers biting into your wrist as she beams up at him.

“This is my daughter,” she says, voice brimming with pride. “You remember her, don’t you?”

Seungcheol’s smile is gentle, his head dipping in a slight bow. “Of course,” he says, steady as a psalm. “It’s been a long time.”

It has. You barely remember him— just a vague recollection of a boy with scraped knees and a perpetual grin. Someone who always stood too close to the altar, staring up at the crucifix like he wanted to be swallowed whole by it.

This man before you is different. He stands taller now, his shoulders broad. His dark hair is neatly trimmed; his white button-down, pristine. A silver cross dangles from a chain around his neck. 

“Seungcheol is leading the youth ministry now,” your mother gushes. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Wonderful,” you echo, eyes flicking to the way his fingers curl around the spine of a leather-bound Bible.

Seungcheol chuckles. A low, rich sound that hums in your chest. “I’m just doing what I can,” he responds. “It’s a blessing to be able to serve.”

The conversation drifts around you. Talks of charity events, of how Seungcheol spends his weekends visiting the sick, of how he volunteers to clean the church after late-night vigils. Your mother calls him a godsend. A good man. 

And he is. Seungcheol meets your gaze with the unwavering steadiness of a saint, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows across his face. He offers to walk you home, and your mother all but shoves you toward him.

It should be safe. Seungcheol is good. Seungcheol is holy.

But something lingers in the air as he falls into step beside you.

“You didn’t say much back there,” he muses, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Do I make you nervous?”

You hesitate. “No,” you lie.

He smiles. Not the same polite, tempered curve of his lips from earlier. This one is smaller, sharper. As if he knows something you don’t.

“Good,” Seungcheol murmurs with a tone of velvet and smoke. “I’d hate to scare you away.”

The streetlights above you flicker, their glow dimming like a prolonged inhale. You wonder, briefly, if you should be afraid.

The walk home is quiet, save for the steady echo of your footsteps against the pavement. Seungcheol doesn’t push for conversation, letting the silence stretch between you like an unspoken understanding. Every so often, he glances at you. 

When you finally reach your doorstep, he lingers, his fingers slipping into his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. The porch light casts a warm halo over his head. For a moment, he looks almost ethereal. Like a painting of an angel, edges softened by the glow.

“You’ll be at mass on Sunday?” he asks conversationally. 

You nod, your hand gripping the doorknob like a lifeline. “Yeah.”

His grin returns. “It’s important to stay close to God,” he says. 

There’s a beat of silence and you think he might finally leave. But Seungcheol steps closer instead, his presence looming; pressing against you without ever touching. His eyes dip to your hand on the doorknob before lifting back to meet your gaze.

“If you ever need someone to talk to,” he says, “you can call me.”

Your throat tightens. “Okay.”

Seungcheol tilts his head, studying you like he’s searching for something just beneath your skin. Then, he reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against your shoulder. It’s supposed to be casual, supposed to be part of his carefully packaged goodbye. 

Why does it burn, then? Why does it feel like some forbidden apple, hanging just within your reach? 

“Good night,” Seungcheol says, voice dripping with something saccharine. Something final.

“Good night,” you say back as your heart hammers against your ribs.

He turns and disappears into the night, footsteps fading until you can no longer hear them. Even as you step inside and lock the door, the weight of him lingers. 

That Sunday, Seungcheol’s presence bears down on you once more. 

Families are packed into the wooden pews, the soft hum of hymns echoing against the stone walls. Candles flicker, drawing long shadows over stained glass windows. The air smells of incense and old wood.

You spot Seungcheol right away.

He’s kneeling at the front of the church, head bowed in prayer, his fingers delicately clasped around his cross. The morning light catches in his hair, turning the dark strands golden at the edges. For a moment, he looks like he belongs in one of the frescoes above the altar.

You sit, try to focus on the mass, but it’s impossible. Not when he finally rises, turning to scan the crowd. His eyes find yours like a hook, and you swear he smiles before he looks away.

When it’s time for the sign of peace, he’s suddenly there, slipping into the pew beside you.

“Peace be with you,” Seungcheol murmurs, his hand reaching for yours.

It should be an innocent gesture. Everyone is doing it— trading handshakes and wishes of peace. But when his fingers wrap around yours, his thumb drags over your knuckles, slow and deliberate. The touch is fleeting. It sears. 

You don’t even register your automatic response before he pulls away, stepping back as if nothing happened. His expression remains serene, respectful, as he nods politely and returns to his spot at the front.

Your heart pounds through the rest of the service.

Afterward, as the congregation drifts outside, you linger near the vestibule. You half hope and half dread that he’ll seek you out. 

In the end, he does. 

“You’re staying for fellowship?” he asks you smoothly.

“I— no,” you stammer. “I was just leaving.”

Seungcheol tilts his head, considering. “I’m glad you came today.” The corner of his mouth lifts with the hint of a smirk. “It’s nice to see you.”

It shouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it does. But as he steps back, joining the rest of the parishioners with effortless ease, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s still watching you— even when his back is turned.

You tell yourself you’re going to church for yourself. That the knot of anticipation in your stomach is just leftover nerves, not expectation. When you slip into a pew, your gaze flicking over the heads of the faithful, you know better.

Seungcheol finds you like he always does. He slides into the seat beside you just before the first reading, the scent of his sharp cologne mingling with the sharp tang of incense.

“You came back,” he whispers, the hint of a praise just for you. Just for you. 

You try not to balk. “Of course.”

His gaze lingers, dark and steady, before he turns back to the altar. His thigh presses against yours, just enough that you can’t ignore it.

Through the homily, he doesn’t move away. If anything, he shifts closer, his knee brushing yours every time you shift in your seat. Your skin sparks where he touches. The ache in your chest only deepens.

When mass ends, he doesn’t let you slip away this time.

“Can I walk you home?” Seungcheol offers. 

You should say no. 

You don’t.

As you head out together, the only sound initially is the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes and the distant toll of the church bells. Seungcheol walks beside you, his cross glinting in the late morning light.

“You’ve been on my mind,” he says after a couple of minutes, breaking the silence. The words are soft, carefully chosen.

Your pulse jumps. “What?”

He stops and turns to face you. For the first time, he makes no effort to hide it— the way he looks at you, like he’s already made up his mind about what he wants.

“I think,” Seungcheol says, taking an infinitesimal step closer to you, “you like when I pay attention to you.”

You step back, but he matches it. His hand lifts, fingers barely grazing your wrist. Not holding. Just enough to feel your pulse hammering beneath the skin.

“I shouldn’t say things like that, should I?” His voice is low, nearly apologetic. “I’m sorry if I’m wrong, angel.”

Angel. The choice of pet name settles over you like a second skin. This is the part where you’re supposed to agree that he shouldn’t say things like this, that you deserve the apology he’s doling out. Instead, you find yourself willingly trapped in whatever dance Seungcheol has orchestrated. 

And the smile he gives you— all dimples and sharp teeth— tells you he notices.

He tilts his head, studying you as if you’re a puzzle he’s already halfway solved. “Angel,” Seungcheol repeats. “Is that alright with you?”

“Why that?” you ask, voice quieter than you’d like.

His thumb grazes the inside of your wrist, the faintest touch, like he’s testing the weight of your reaction. “Because angels are beautiful.” He pauses for a beat. “More than that— they’re obedient.”

The word lingers, heavy and deliberate, and the heat that rushes through you feels sinful. He waits, gaze unwavering. “Do you mind?” he asks again, and his concern would be genuine there weren’t a dozen alarm bells going off in your brain.

You’re a lamb being primed for slaughter, you think, as you give a jerky shake of your head. No, you don’t mind, you’re saying, even though you’re not a hundred percent sure what you’re walking into. 

“That’s what I thought,” Seungcheol says, his hand sliding to entangle your fingers with his.

The satisfaction in his voice sounds a lot like benediction.

You hadn’t expected to see Seungcheol waiting for you outside the parish hall.

The evening mass just ended, the lingering scent of incense clinging to the humid air. Most of the congregation had already filtered out, murmuring goodbyes and making their way home. 

You should be among them, with your mother. Instead, you find yourself waiting with bated breath by the outside of the building— watching Seungcheol shuffle toward you with slow, deliberate purpose.

His eyes drop to your dress. It’s subtle, the way his expression changes, the slight shift in his stance. You feel his scrutiny like a weight.

“This is new,” he says, gaze dragging over the delicate fabric. The way the hem flutters just above your knees.

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly unsure if you should shrink under his stare or stand taller. “I wear dresses to church all the time.”

“Mm.” Seungcheol hums, something unreadable in his tone. “Not like this.”

It’s not a condemnation, not exactly. But it makes your skin prickle. Your pulse, too loud in your ears.

You exhale shakily, trying to maintain at least some composure. “Is there a problem?”

His answer comes slower this time, drawn out like he’s considering it carefully. “Not at all,” he says, though his voice has dropped to something quieter, rougher. “It just makes it a little harder to behave.”

Your breath catches.

“Did you wear it for me?” He takes another step forward, crowding the space between you. The parish hall looms behind him, dark and quiet, as if holding its breath.

“No,” you fib, but you’re not sure why you bother.

Seungcheol clicks his tongue and reaches out. His fingers graze the hem of your dress, barely a touch. Enough to send a shiver up your spine. “Shame,” he murmurs. “It’s a pretty little thing.” 

His hand trails upward. Not far, just a few inches. The implication is there, hanging thick in the night air.

Your lips part, a protest or a prayer— you don’t know which. Then, Seungcheol lifts his other hand, cradling the side of your face. His thumb brushes over your cheek. Featherlight. Loving, in another lifetime. 

Seungcheol leans in, his breath warm against your lips. “Angel,” he murmurs, “tell me if you want me to stop.”

You don’t. 

When he finally closes the distance, kissing you slowly and deliberately, you realize— he already knew that.

The gentleness from before fades quickly, replaced by something more desperate, more demanding. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss. His lips part against yours, tongue sweeping over the seam of your mouth until you give in and let him take more.

You whimper, and he swallows the sound like it belongs to him. It’s reckless— the way he presses you back against the stonewall of the parish hall, the way his body cages yours in. The silver cross hanging from his neck brushes against your chest. A cold contrast to the heat blooming between you.

His fingers ghost down your arm, trailing lower, lower, until he’s gripping your waist. His thumb rubs slow, deliberate circles against your ribs, inching dangerously close to the curve of your chest. He doesn’t go further, but the tease of it— the way he lingers right on the edge of propriety— makes your knees go weak.

This must be how it felt like, your brain screams, for Daniel in that lion’s den. 

Seungcheol bites your bottom lip, sharp enough to make you gasp. He soothes it with a slow drag of his tongue. The shift in pace makes your head spin, your body leaning into him as if begging for more.

But just when you think he might give, he stops.

Seungcheol pulls away sharply, suddenly, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath. His lips are pink and kiss-bruised; he licks them absently, savoring the taste of you.

You try to chase after him, to bridge the distance, but his grip on your waist tightens. Not to pull you closer, but to hold you still.

“That’s enough,” he whispers, voice rough.

It’s not. It’s nowhere near enough.

He must see the frustration on your face, because he laughs. The sound borders on cruel. Seungcheol lifts his hand, dragging his knuckles along your jaw in a gesture so unnecessarily tender it makes your chest cave.

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he speaks. “Wear a longer dress next Sunday,” he hisses, his voice low and filled with something dangerous, belying the softness of his touch, “unless you want me to forget my manners again.”

He steps back before you can respond, adjusting the collar of his shirt like he hasn’t just unraveled you in the church’s shadow. His silver cross catches the light as he walks away, gleaming like a promise. Or maybe a warning.

And you’re left standing there, heart pounding, lips swollen, with the taste of him still lingering in your mouth. 

Wanting.

Your mother is practically glowing, flitting around the kitchen to refill side dishes and top off drinks, beaming every time Seungcheol so much as glances her way. 

Across the table, Seungcheol's mother sits with perfect posture, hands folded in her lap, watching her son with quiet pride.

Your family reestablishing its presence back at church has made this a normal thing now. Having Seungcheol and his mother over is something you suppose you should expect a lot more frequently, especially with the way Seungcheol effortlessly charms your parents. 

“This is delicious, ma’am,” Seungcheol says, flashing your mother that gentle, saintly smile. “As good as I remember it. Maybe even better.”

“Oh, you’re too kind!” your mother gushes, waving her hand. “It’s nothing special, really.”

“I don’t know about that,” Seungcheol says, eyes flicking to you. “Everything here feels... special.”

You nearly choke on your water.

His mother, ever composed, laughs softly. “He’s always been so gracious,” she says, glancing fondly at her son. “Even as a child.”

Seungcheol offers her a modest shrug. The perfect image of humility. 

But beneath the table, his knee brushes against yours. 

At first, you think it’s accidental. Then he presses closer. When you try to shift away, he follows— his calf locking you in place.

“Are you seeing anyone, Seungcheol?” your mother asks conversationally.

He hums, considering. “No one serious,” he replies, his free hand drifting under the table.

His fingers graze your knee, light as a prayer. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t give any indication that he’s doing anything at all. Just keeps chatting like he isn’t testing your composure in front of your families.

“I’ve been focused on church,” he continues, his thumb brushing slow circles against your skin. “And helping the community where I can.”

Seungcheol’s mother nods approvingly. “He’s very dedicated,” she says. “Always has been.”

Your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, your heart pounding loud in your ears.

“We need more young men like you these days,” your father adds as Seungcheol’s fingers creep higher.

“I just try to do what’s right,” Seungcheol answers. His voice is steady, almost pious. But the way his touch trails higher, fingertips teasing the hem of your dress— is anything but.

You shift in your seat, enough to have Seungcheol’s hand stilling. “Are you okay?” Seungcheol’s mother asks as she notices your supposed discomfort.

You nod quickly, your pulse hammering. “Just a little warm,” you say, grabbing your glass with a trembling hand.

By the grace of God, Seungcheol pulls away. He resumes his polite conversation, plays the role of a righteous man. 

After dinner, your mothers settle in the living room with cups of tea, conversation flowing easily as it always does whenever they catch up.

Seungcheol lingers with you in the hallway. “Got any movies?” he asks almost casually. “We could put something on while they talk.”

You blink, caught off guard. “I— yeah, but my laptop is in my room.”

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “That okay?”

You should find some excuse, any reason to keep him downstairs, but the way he looks at you— patient, steady, like he knows you’ll give in— makes your resolve crumble.

“Sure,” you breathe.

No one questions it. Your mothers send you off with twin simpers; your father barely looks up from the television. As you lead Seungcheol up the stairs, you realize just how much misplaced faith they have.

When you reach your room, Seungcheol steps inside, hands in his pockets as he surveys the space with quiet interest. The soft glow of your bedside lamp casts long shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp edge of his jaw, the silver glint of the cross around his neck.

He turns to you. “What do you feel like watching, angel?” he asks, just loud enough for your parents downstairs to catch.

But then the door clicks shut behind you. 

All pretenses go up in smoke. 

“We’re not here to watch a movie,” Seungcheol says plainly. 

A shiver runs down your spine as he closes the space between you, crowding you up against your door. Wordlessly, he cups your jaw, fingers resting just below your earlobe.

“Do you want to tell me what we’re here for, angel?” he prompts. 

Your answer is a weak one. It’s a trained response, similar to the way your body involuntarily melts against his whenever he touches you. 

“Practice,” you say hoarsely, and Seungcheol hums with approval. 

“Practice,” he confirms— and then he leans in to crash your lips against his. 

Ever since that first kiss, the tension between the two of you have crackled like a livewire. It’s only been making out so far. Heated sessions stolen every Sunday, in some dinky, dark corner of the parish where nobody might find either of you. 

Practice, Seungcheol had told you about all your rendezvouses. He’s helping you practice for the man you’re someday going to marry, the one you’re obligated to please under your archaic religion. 

It had struck you, of course, that Seungcheol never referred to himself as that. He was not your future husband, not somebody who wanted to be shackled by the label ‘boyfriend’. You were not that big of a fool to insist on that. 

But you are enough of a fool to think that it will be the same thing this evening. That Seungcheol might exhibit some restraint, considering the fact your parents are a floor away. 

He tips you back, one hand in your hair and the other wrapped around your waist. He pulls away from the heated kiss to survey the heat in your cheeks, the haze in your eyes. His breath is hot on your throat, and when he presses his lips to the sensitive skin there, they feel like fire. You shiver, unable to do anything except grip the front of his shirt in both hands, and Seungcheol laughs lowly.

“Trembling already?” he says as he nips at your pulse point, tongue licking over the indentations he’s left. It won’t leave any marks, but the threat of it thrills you enough. 

He’s everywhere. Hands roaming, lips mapping out the terrain of your body. When he kisses you, it’s like being consumed by something larger than life. 

The hand in your hair tightens, forcing your head back. His other hand pushes your hips flush against his. Seungcheol swallows your gasp, tongue pushing past the barrier of your lips to meet yours. It’s overwhelming— to be kissed so thoroughly— but you’re helpless to the rush of pleasure. 

Seungcheol draws back, chest heaving. “You make the prettiest noises, angel," he purrs. “But keep it down, hm? We can’t get caught.” 

“Can’t get caught,” you repeat dumbly, still trying to catch your breath. 

He seems pleased to see you unravelling. Hand still threaded in your hair, Seungcheol begins to guide your body away from the door. He acts like he has a right to navigate your room, like this isn’t his first time in your private space. 

You’d expected him to guide you to your bed, and so you’re mildly surprised when he pulls you over to your work space instead. You stumble over your steps but he holds you upright, tugging at the roots of your hair in a way that borders on painful.

Seungcheol lets go of you as he sinks into your desk chair. You’re dazed as you watch him settle in— as if it’s his God-given right. 

“How far have you gone, pretty thing?” If you strained your ears, you might hear just how condescending he is underneath his curious facade. “Has anyone gotten a proper taste of you? Have you had a cock in your mouth?” 

Your face flushes at the filth that spills from Seungcheol's mouth. For a moment, you hesitate, your fingers nervously toying with the edges of your dress.

“None of that,” you whimper, partially afraid that your inexperience will ruin the moment. “I haven't done... any of that. Just kissing.”

It’s exactly what Seungcheol wants to hear. 

He doesn’t have to probe about any of the other boys you might’ve kissed. In his head, they’re good as gone. He’s the one in your bedroom right now; he’s the one who has you wrapped around his finger. 

“We’ve got a lot more practicing to do, then,” he muses. He goes the extra mile, injecting a tinge of disappointment into his tone. 

Panic flares in your chest like a firecracker. You resist the urge to clamber on to his lap and try to atone for your inexperience. 

Seungcheol is quiet as he surveys your nervous expression. When he speaks, his tone has the blood in your veins running cold. 

“On your knees.” 

You don’t immediately comply. The slowness of your uptake has Seungcheol arching one eyebrow upward, his fingers flexing over the armrest of your chair. 

“Come on,” he coaxes, “you go to church. You know how to kneel, don’t you?” 

You feel pathetic, the way you scramble to prove him right. You’ve never been so grateful that your parents insisted you get a carpet. The plush materials press into your knees, and you gingerly shift until you’ve got the skirt of your dress as an extra layer of protection.

There’s something demeaning about this, you think to yourself. About the way Seungcheol’s gaze is heavy-lidded, full of wicked intent. About his fingers finding their way back into your hair, threading through the strands in a way that verges on menacing. 

But how could he be wicked, how could he be menacing? He’s smiling down at you, urging you to rest your cheek against his knee. You follow— you always do— and you lean against him, some of the tension in your body easing out. 

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asks, and your foolish heart sings. He’s concerned. He’s worried. 

“No,” you say quickly. “I’m— it’s okay.” 

Seungcheol makes a small hum of approval. His nails ghost over your scalp, lulling you into a sense of safety. You lay your head in his lap, reveling in the feeling. 

A couple of moments pass like that. Just as your eyes flutter close, Seungcheol’s voice breaks through the silence. 

“Angel,” he says softly, “do you want to help me feel good?” 

He poses it like a question, like he doesn’t already know what you’re going to say. You haven’t denied Seungcheol a single thing up until this point. And now you feel indebted, now you have to repay all his guidance. 

“Yes,” you breathe, the word a cold, broken Hallelujah. 

Seungcheol keeps his hand on your head— holding you in place or comforting you, it’s not clear. His free hand works on the button of his slacks. You shift uneasily, your eyes taking in every movement. 

His zipper being pulled. His boxers being pushed down, just enough for his semi-hard cock spring free. 

He picks up on your trepidation immediately. 

“It’s practice, angel,” he reminds you, his hold loosening in your hair. He’s giving you the option to pull away, you realize.

You’re not going to. You don’t want to. 

Desperate to prove yourself, you reach out. He gives a low hiss in response, his eyes darkening at the way your fingers wrap around his cock. 

“Spit on it first.” His words aren’t advice or a plea. They’re a command. 

You do as you’re told. You note how the spit makes things easier; it lets your palm slide along him much better. There’s a hint of fascination on your expression as Seungcheol twitches and swells underneath your hold, belying the facade of nonchalance that he’s put on. 

“Does it feel good?” you ask, peering up at Seungcheol. 

His gaze is half-lidded as he stares down at you. “It does, angel,” he says, voice rough around the edges, “but you can go a little faster for me, yeah?” 

You comply instantaneously, your hand running from tip to base and back up again with a little more intent. A part of you preens when Seungcheol’s head lolls backward, resting against the back of the arm chair. He’s obviously trying to keep his sounds of pleasure at bay, and you chalk it up to the fact your families might clock you if they were to find anything suspicious. 

“Good girl,” he grunts. “My perfect angel.” 

The praise goes straight to your head. You’re a little more enthusiastic as you pump his shaft at the pace he seems to like. After a couple of moments of Seungcheol’s quiet grunts, you ask the question that secures you a one-way ticket to hell. 

“Will this be enough?” 

Blink and you’ll miss it. The way Seungcheol’s jaw clenches. The millisecond where he looks contemplative, thoughtful. The moment he realizes what he’s going to say, what he’s going to ask of you. 

“No,” he answers. “It’s not enough.” 

You falter, but you keep your hand firmly wrapped around Seungcheol. So much about this situation is unfamiliar, from the coil in your stomach to the inexplicable need to gain Seungcheol’s approval. 

“I’ll need your mouth,” he says plainly. 

It makes sense to you now, how easily Eve had succumbed to that apple. The original sin, they called it, and you think you’ve learned a thing or two about sin as Seungcheol spreads his legs. You move until you’re positioned a little better over him, your breath warm against his cock.

Seungcheol grips your hair again. You can feel the reservation in his touch, the way he’s holding back with every fraying inch of his control. Letting you set the pace.

You lean forward, hesitantly licking a strike up Seungcheol’s cock. He masterfully keeps his expression under control. The lack of an enthusiastic reaction spurs you to take him in your mouth, to bob your head up and down experimentally. 

Your movements are a bit awkward; the taste of Seungcheol, new to your senses. You grin and bear it as you start to see progress— his fingers tightening in your hair, his breaths coming up a little more ragged.

Instinctively, Seungcheol’s hips buck upwards. You gag when you feel him hit the back of your throat. “Sorry, angel,” he groans. “Feels like heaven.” 

You hum with approval, the sound reverberating around Seungcheol’s cock. He twitches underneath you and squeezes his eyes shut, like it’s taking every ounce of his control not to fuck into your mouth.

When you try to hollow your cheeks, Seungcheol tugs you off of him. You gasp— for air, and in surprise— but he’s maneuvering you faster than you can properly react. 

It happens so quickly. One moment, you’re sucking Seungcheol off. The next, he has you folded over your desk. 

“That was a little too good, angel,” he murmurs into your ear, his cock pressing into the curve of your ass through your dress. “If I come, I want to do it inside of you.” 

A cold shiver runs down your spine. With his chest to your back, Seungcheol feels it; he chuckles lowly, wasting no time to flip over your dress. 

“Cute,” he says, fingers running along the hem of your underwear. 

You feel weak-kneed, supported only by the table and the press of Seungcheol’s body. “What are you—?” you’re asking, even as Seungcheol nudges your thighs apart to give himself a little more room to work with. 

“Say ‘stop’.” Seungcheol’s voice has taken on that quality again. That do-no-wrong reverence. “Say the word and I’m off, angel.” 

The speed of your response surprises even you. “No,” you blurt out, like you’re afraid he’ll pull away if he sees even a moment’s hesitation. “No, no. I— want this. Want you.” 

His smile is sharp against the side of your neck. 

He pushes your underwear to the side. You hadn’t realized how neglected you’d been feeling until the first brush of his fingers tears an unbidden gasp out of you. It feels almost cruel, the way he teases the slick gathered at your core. 

“Seung—cheol,” you complain, and he breathes a soft ‘shhh’ into your ear. 

“What did I say earlier?” 

You swallow. “To— keep it down.” 

He rewards you by pressing the tip of his finger into your cunt. Your teeth sink into your lower lip in a futile attempt to bite back your moans. Seungcheol’s breaths are heavy as he slowly eases his finger into your heat, giving you time to adjust to the intrusion. 

You’ve touched yourself before, but this is something new entirely. Seungcheol’s fingers are thick and he hits parts of you that you couldn’t reach by yourself. Your jaw has gone slack, the sounds of pleasure catching in your throat as you try to keep yourself quiet. 

Seungcheol must deem your efforts insufficient, because he lets out a ‘tch’ of disapproval. “This won’t do,” he grunts. 

His free hand abandons its hold of your hip. You’re just about to ask what he’s going to do when he shows you— tugging the necklace around his neck, leaning over your shoulder. The chain dangles in your peripheral for a second before he’s shoving the cross past your lips, the silver cold against your tongue. 

“Bite,” he hisses. “Keep quiet.” 

Your mouth clamps down on the cross. You have only a moment to feel like this is something damning, something sacrilegious, before Seungcheol fucks his finger into you a little faster. 

It takes a mammoth effort to be the angel he wants you to be. Your legs are shaking; your forehead is slicking with sweat. Seungcheol deigns to slide another finger in, and it goes by without a hitch. You’re so wet that you don’t doubt it’ll gather all over your underwear and the inside of your thighs. 

“Hear that?” Seungcheol coos, referring to the loud, obscene squelching echoing in your room. You can only pray that your parents are deaf to the world as Seungcheol goes on, “Better than a fucking choir. Such a perfect pussy, angel.” 

He shifts from behind you. You can feel all of his hardness pressing up against you— everything from the planes of his body to the shape of his cock. There’s a moment where you hesitate, where you worry that your inexperience and softness might turn him off. 

If anything, it only seems to excite him more. 

“There are bad men out there,” he murmurs, “who will want to take advantage of a pretty little thing like you.” 

You try to nod, but there isn’t much room for you to move. Your brain feels like it’s melting, and it only worsens when Seungcheol’s thumb begins to rub tight circles over your clit. That— paired with the two fingers he’s driving deep into your cunt— is enough for you to see stars. 

But it’s his words that threaten to do you over. 

“Not me,” he says into the side of your neck. “Never me. I’m going to take good care of you. And that starts with having you come all over my fingers, like the angel that you are. The next thing I’m going to do is fill you up, make you feel it right here—” 

He presses into the gummy spot inside of you, and you’re done for. Your body slumps and you come with a soft cry, the cross in your mouth muffling the sound. 

You’re still riding the high of your orgasm when Seungcheol tugs his necklace free. The silver shines with your saliva, filling you with a sort of indignity that coils low in your stomach. 

Seungcheol’s fingers— still lazily fucking into you— distract you from your shame. And when he kisses you hard, as if rewarding you for your compliance, you can’t even think of things like sin. 

There is only Seungcheol. There will only ever be Seungcheol. 

“You did so well for me,” he says against your lips. “I don’t think they heard a thing, angel.” 

The bliss has made your head hazy, has robbed you of your coherency. You can only manage a breathless “Thank God.” 

His smile returns. It makes him look like he’s about to swallow you whole. 

“No need to thank God,” he murmurs, “when you can thank me.” 

[altarplay]

i guess it's good to have confirmation that our best is everyone's elses mediocre. lack of effort. doesn't care enough. etc.

[theindyreview]

Music and Memory

Music and Memory Indy Review Author delves into the healing power of perspective and #memory within #music #healing #nostalgia @dashboardmusic @HansZimmer #emo #cinema #scores #orchestral #classical #alt #rock #music #memory

Photo via artist Eric Nopanen: Unsplash There really is something about music, and the signature it leaves on our consciousness and the extended moments of our lives. When a person reaches a certain age and loses their memories, it has been found that music is a tether that can ground those back to their identity and reality. What a great power and tool this is. But you don’t need to be old to…

[pipszhou]

𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

✧ — synopsis: She came to the confessional to cleanse her soul—confessing every filthy thought she’s ever had about the priest she was never supposed to love.

But Reverend Caleb doesn't forgive. He claims. “Don’t you see?” he said, voice now just above a whisper. “Your sin… was never in thinking of me.” His next words were slower, darker, rich with promise.

“Your sin was in not letting me have you.”

✧ — pairing: caleb x mc

✧ — wc: ~11k

✧ — warnings: religious imagery and symbolism, cunnilingus, semi-public sex, confessional, choking, loss of virginity, virginity, first time, biting, licking, altar sex, breeding, power imbalance, submission, dom/sub, spanking, degradation, pet names, worship, praise kink, sexual overstimulation, multiple orgasms, marking, improper use of a rosary, forbidden love, possessive behavior, dubious morality, obsession, jealousy, slow burn, blasphemy, plot what plot/porn without plot, marriage, begging, caleb fulfilling his prophecy to marry mc

✧ — notes: just priest!caleb fucking and breeding mc on the altar after she confessed her sins—wanting her soul cleansed by him. a thought i had days before easter that made me write this gigantic nasty porn without plot oneshot. i hope u enjoyed the wild sinful ride with me <3

The confessional. It is tonight.

The rain taps gently against the cathedral roof—soft, persistent, like fingertips brushing glass. You step through the heavy doors, and the world behind you vanishes into silence.

Inside, the air is cold, tinged with centuries. It smells of beeswax and incense, like time sealed in amber. Faint smoke still lingers in the rafters, curling toward the arched ceiling like the breath of ghosts.

The hush is deep. Not empty, but full—of prayers, of echoes, of things unsaid. Each of your steps sinks into the silence like a secret. The floor, made of cool, polished stone, reflects the colored light that streams in through the stained glass.

Crimson, cobalt, and gold spill across the nave, painting your skin in fragments of saints and sacrifice. The windows tower above, depicting stories of martyrdom and mercy, their faces staring down with solemn, eternal knowing. You’ve known these windows your whole life. And yet now they seem to burn with judgment.

The pews stretch in rows to either side of you, carved from pale oak and worn soft by devotion. Between them rest narrow stands—each one holding hymnals and Bibles with curled edges, opened and closed by countless trembling hands. A rosary is draped over one, forgotten or perhaps left as penance.

Your dress brushes against your legs as you walk, each step careful, deliberate. The candlelight flickers in alcoves along the walls, casting long shadows that sway and watch. They seem to move with you. Or maybe ahead of you.

You walk past the baptismal font where you were once cradled in holy water. Past the wooden doors of the confessional, their slatted windows dark and closed like eyes half-lidded in sleep. You avoid looking at them. You’re not ready for that part yet.

Your breath trembles as you near the altar.

He is already there.

A figure cloaked in black, bowed in prayer, unmoving. The flickering light outlines his silhouette in gold. The dark fabric clings to his shoulders, heavy with devotion and restraint. His hands are clasped. His lips move, just barely. You cannot hear the words—but you feel them, somehow.

You hesitate. Then step forward.

Your shoes make the faintest creak against the steps, swallowed quickly by the vaulted stillness. Each movement feels too loud. Too alive.

You lower yourself into a bow before the great wooden cross, your gaze falling on the carved figure of Christ. The crown of thorns. The ribs etched in wood. The face turned slightly, as though even He cannot look at you.

You climb the short steps, one at a time. Then kneel on the stair just beneath him—close, but not enough to touch. Not yet.

Your hands rise into a prayer clasp. You bow your head.

But your thoughts are not clean.

Your lashes lower, and all you can feel is the warmth of his presence just above you. The gravity of him. The silence between you vibrating like a held breath.

You are here to confess.

But something in you already knows:

You will not leave absolved.

“Your Reverence,” your voice broke through the silence like a crack in stained glass.

Instantly, it felt as though the very walls had turned against you—thorns blooming from the stone, pricking your skin for daring to disturb his prayer. The altar seemed to hum with disapproval.

He didn’t answer. Not at first.

But then—he breathed in sharply, like he’d been struck. And from his lips came a soft, warning hush, as if silencing you was the only way to silence himself. It was soft, but it sank into your skin like warm wine.

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t kind. It echoed like a warning, but it settled deep in your chest, stirring a part of you that had been asleep for too long. It had been years since you last saw him. And even now, kneeling behind him, you recognized him instantly.

He hadn’t changed, not really. Not where it mattered.

Still in prayer, his posture remained perfect—back straight, hands folded, head slightly bowed. His hair was a shade darker now, but it gleamed under the moonlight pouring through the stained glass above. Silky. Soft. Untouched. His side profile had sharpened with age—more defined, more elegant—but it was still the face you once memorized during slow, stolen moments in the university library.

He was still everything you ever wanted.

And yet, now he was untouchable. A man of God. A priest.

“Forgive me, Father,” you murmured, your voice softer now, almost lost in the candlelight. “I didn't mean to interrupt your prayers… it’s my time for confession.”

For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t move.

But then—he rose.

Slow, steady, deliberate. The robes fell from his frame like shadows peeling off stone. His back now fully faced you, cloaking your vision in silhouette. Then, he turned slightly, just enough for his voice to reach you.

“Pips,” he said.

The nickname curled from his lips like a benediction. His mouth tilted into a smile.

That smile.

The one that once warmed a life too cold to bear. The one that made children feel safe, and girls fall in love, and you believe in things again. It hadn’t changed. It was still soft, still unbearably kind, still threaded with a mischief only you ever saw. It was the smile that belonged to the boy who carried your books and dried your tears. The boy who once told you heaven must’ve dropped you off early.

It was a smile that made you want to fall to your knees—not to pray, but to beg for things no prayer could grant.

You shouldn’t feel this. Romancing a priest is pure sin.

…Or is it?

“Come with me,” he said.

His hand reached out—hesitant, trembling slightly at the fingertips—but before your skin could meet, he pulled it back. The air between you folded with tension.

He wasn’t yours anymore.

Once, he was your childhood friend. Once, he was the boy you loved in secret.

Now, he was the Father of a church beloved by all. A holy man. A savior to many.

And yet still—still—the one who saved you first.

You rose slowly, your hands brushing against the fabric of your dress as you stood. Then, without a word, you descended the altar steps, footsteps hushed and reverent as you followed him toward the confessional.

He led you down the side aisle, the folds of his black cassock brushing softly with each step, echoing beside your own. The flickering candlelight followed in your wake, illuminating the worn stone and the stillness that draped the pews like sleep.

Neither of you spoke.

You passed by statues of saints, their faces carved in stone serenity, gazes heavy with judgment—or perhaps sorrow. The rain outside still murmured, its rhythm softer now, like a hymn sung just for the two of you.

Then, he stopped.

The confessional stood at the edge of the transept, tucked between columns like a secret waiting to be told. Its doors were carved from dark wood, heavy and timeworn, the surface etched with crosses faded by decades of penance.

He gestured toward the booth.

You entered one side in silence. The door creaked open, then shut with a soft click, sealing you in. The space was small, cloaked in shadows. The only light came through the ornate lattice screen before you—thin and golden, like threads of heaven stitched between you and him.

You knelt.

The bench beneath you groaned faintly as you settled, hands trembling in your lap. You could hear the rustle of his robes on the other side. He hadn’t spoken yet, but his presence filled the air between the walls. You could almost feel his breath through the wood.

The screen kept you from seeing him fully—only the faint outline of his silhouette, only the curve of his mouth if he leaned close enough.

A moment passed.

Then, finally—

“Speak, my child,” he said, the low timbre of his voice threading through the wooden screen and settling deep in your chest. It vibrated somewhere beneath your ribs, making your heart thump faster than you wished it would.

You tried to gather your thoughts, but they scattered like fragile petals underfoot. The silence in the confessional felt dense, heavy, sacred. His breath—steady and measured—was too loud in this small space, brushing the air between you like a secret. You clutched your hands together, but the prayer clasp trembled and fell apart. The cold inside the booth made your skin feel sensitive, hypersensitive—each breath prickled your arms, each moment stretched like a string pulled too tight.

“Forgive me, Reverend,” you whispered, your voice barely holding. “I’ve been having thoughts.” You faltered, swallowing the guilt rising in your throat. “I’ve tried to cast them out. I swear I have, but…” Your words drifted, as though even saying them was dangerous. Shame coiled around your spine, pressing down.

The silence stretched too long. Just when you thought he might break it, you saw the shape of his mouth shift behind the lattice—slightly open, as if to speak, then hesitating.

“Who is this man,” he asked gently, “if I may ask?”

His voice was soft, but it cut through you like confession itself. You flinched, not from the sound but from what it demanded. You weren’t sure if it was his question or the holiness of the place that made your heart ache more. You felt like the walls could hear you, like the carved saints above the booth leaned in to listen.

You hesitated. A war raged in your chest—between what you should say and what you couldn’t keep hidden any longer. You hadn’t even spoken the truth aloud before. It had always been a private torment. A quiet ache that you carried like a cross. But now, with him just on the other side, with the sacred wood between you, the lie refused to hold.

“They’ve always been about you.”

And with that, it was done. The sin you had carried silently, the one you buried beneath forced smiles and half-sincere prayers, spilled from your lips like a cracked dam. It hung in the air between you, heavy and irreversible. You waited for condemnation. For silence. For shame. But he said nothing. Not at first.

His lips shifted—parting, then pressing together again. His expression, though mostly obscured by the lattice, flickered. You knew that face too well. You watched him carefully, searching for rejection, for disdain. Instead, he gave you that smile. Gentle, practiced, familiar. The same smile you had seen a hundred times on Sundays, when he blessed children and comforted widows. It had always made you feel safe.

But now it hurt. Because now, it meant distance.

“So… you’ve been having sinful thoughts. About me?” he asked, not with judgment, but with something else—something softer. His voice was laced with concern, with warmth, with something dangerously close to longing.

“Yes, Reverend. And I know I can’t. I shouldn’t.” You shook your head slowly, your words beginning to tremble. Tears threatened to rise, and it felt as though the air around you was pressing in too tightly. You wanted to reach through the screen, to press your hand to his, to feel something real between you. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

“I… I’m to be married,” you confessed. The words felt like stones being laid down in front of you, one after another, building a path you never wanted to walk. Your tears slipped quietly down your cheeks. You didn’t bother to wipe them. Your palms were dug into your thighs, fingers curled in tight. You felt your voice break in half as you added, “I never wanted this.”

You hadn’t wanted love to become something conditional. Something lost to tradition and duty. But it had been decided. You were a woman raised in the faith, under your grandmother’s roof, under her rules. A Catholic woman must either marry or become a bride of God. You had no voice in the matter—only obedience.

“I don’t even know the man they’ve chosen for me, Caleb.”

You froze the second his name left your mouth. Too raw. Too familiar. Too forbidden.

“I—I meant Reverend. I’m sorry.” You wiped your cheeks quickly, trying to restore some formality to your voice, but it was too late. The intimacy had cracked open between you, and no title could fix it.

This was supposed to be a confession. It wasn’t meant to become therapy, or longing, or a desperate attempt to bury love beneath ritual. And yet here you were, unraveling before the very man you were trying to forget.

You heard his breath again. It was different now—no longer calm. There was a subtle shift, the sound no longer steady but erratic, staggered. He was still breathing through his nose, trying to stay composed, but it was clear. Something inside him had changed.

“I came here to confess,” you said, almost defensively now, trying to hold onto something that had already crumbled. “To let go. To cast this away before the wedding. I needed to be clean. I needed to kill the demon that made me think this way—especially about someone like you. A man who’s respected. Loved. Sacred.”

You trailed off. Your hands were trembling again. There was no more strength to pretend. Not in front of him.

But on the other side of the lattice, he was silent still. Breathing. Just breathing.

And somehow, that was worse than anything he could have said.

Because in that silence, you heard the one thing that terrified you most.

He felt it too.

“You have always been faithful,” he broke the silence, and the sound of his voice—low, deliberate—sent shivers down your spine. There was something in his tone. Not gentle. Not warm. Cold, like marble. Unforgiving.

You looked up toward the lattice, unable to see much beyond the shadow of his form. But you wished—desperately—that the wall between you would break. That something divine might shatter it, or that he might reach through and pull you from this torment. But nothing moved.

“Always obedient,” he continued, voice smooth as silk laced with steel. “Always pure. Always a good girl.”

The words lodged in your throat like thorns. That praise—God, that praise—it wasn’t meant to come from him. Not here. Not in this sacred, confining space. You weren’t a good girl. Not now. Not when your thighs had tensed at the sound of his voice. Not when you had touched yourself the night before while imagining those lips murmuring holy things against your skin.

You wanted to scream, to deny it. You wanted to confess the truth of who you were beneath the purity he believed in—or pretended to. But the words wouldn’t come.

You heard him shift. A soft rustle of fabric, a faint movement—closer now. The sound echoed in the tiny space between you. He wasn’t touching the lattice. But he was near enough for you to feel it. The warmth. The gravity of him.

“Some love,” he said slowly, “is born only to be tested.” A pause. Then a breath, heavy, reverent. “And some prayers,” he exhaled, “should never be answered.”

His voice trailed off like incense smoke curling toward the ceiling. Then—nothing. Silence again, deep and terrible. It swallowed everything.

You could hear your own heartbeat, wild in your ears. Your breathing—too fast, too shallow. You shouldn’t be feeling this. Not in the confessional. Not with him.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

And he just waited.

The stillness between you stretched, pulling taut like a string threatening to snap.

You didn’t know—couldn’t know—that he had planned for this. That he had seen your name on the list. That he had made certain he would be in this booth today, waiting for you. Listening to you. Testing you.

Tempting you.

The silence pressed in around you, thick as velvet. It wrapped around your skin, sank into your lungs. The kind of silence that made you forget where you were—only that you were being watched. Not just by him, but by something older, higher, crueler. Every flickering candle, every carved saint, every fragment of stained glass bearing witness to your descent.

And still, he said nothing.

But he didn’t have to.

The air had already shifted. You could feel it—an unspoken weight settling over both of you, thick as oil and far too warm. He was waiting. Not as a priest. Not as a guide. But as something far more dangerous. A man cloaked in holy black, coaxing you with the patience of a saint and the hunger of a sinner. He was waiting for you to surrender.

Your fingers tightened where they rested in your lap, nails grazing skin, your palms damp with heat. You didn’t know how to begin. Didn’t know how to speak the words that had once only belonged in dreams—secret and desperate things meant to die in the dark. But they were rising now, unbidden, unholy, and you didn’t want to stop them.

“Tell me,” he said at last, his voice no longer the cool blade it had been, but something warm now, deeper, smooth like dark wine poured into a golden chalice. “Tell me what these thoughts looked like.”

You inhaled, shaky and thin, your eyes darting toward the lattice. His shadow was still there—still silent and unreadable—but his presence had changed. There was tension in it now. Heat. Anticipation.

“I…” Your voice faltered. Your cheeks were already burning. “I can’t. Reverend, I can’t say it. Thoughts like these… they don’t belong here. Not in this room. Not in this church.”

You looked down, ashamed of your own boldness. This was sacred space. And you were turning it into something impure.

You had come here with the weight of years pressed on your chest—years of silence, of longing, of loneliness. You had come here, not just for absolution, but with a prayer even you couldn’t name. A hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d look at you the way he used to, back when you were young and foolish and still believed in things like fated love.

But he was a priest now. A man revered. A man entrusted with salvation.

And you… you were just a sinner with trembling hands and a body that ached for things no sermon could erase.

“I need to know,” he said, a smile blooming in his voice—low, rich, and far too knowing. “How can I help you cleanse yourself, Pip-Squeak, if I don’t even know where the stain lies?”

He chuckled then, the sound soft but intimate, curling around your ears like smoke. It struck something deep inside you, something hungry, something ancient. You felt the way your legs pressed tighter together, the way your breath hitched just at the sound of it.

You should have stopped. You should have fled.

But this might be the last time you ever see him.

“I…” Your throat tightened around the words. “I thought of your hands.”

Even saying that made your pulse race.

“On me,” you whispered, barely able to breathe. “Not to comfort. Not to bless. Just… on my skin. Exploring. Possessing.”

The moment the words left your lips, you felt something unravel inside you. Like a string that had been pulled too tight for too long had finally snapped. And you couldn’t stop now.

You couldn’t see his face, but you heard the breath he let out—low, heavy, almost shaky. It wasn’t disapproval. It wasn’t shock.

It was something much closer to relief.

“And how,” he asked slowly, “did you want me to touch you?”

His voice was calm. Pastoral. The kind of tone meant to soothe. But it felt like a test, like he was feeding fire to see how brightly you would burn. You felt it in the way your skin tingled, in the way your breath quickened. He was still playing the reverend, but every word was a step closer to the edge.

“Reverend, I—”

“Caleb.”

His name cut through the air like thunder.

Your whole body jolted.

That was not the voice of a priest. That was not holy. That was him—the real him, the one buried beneath the collar and robes and years of distance. Sharp. Commanding. Possessive.

“Call me Caleb,” he said again, lower this time, almost tender.

You swallowed the heat rising in your throat, your voice shaking as you gave in.

“Caleb,” you whispered, the syllable cracking open something deep inside you. “I always imagine your hands... slowly running up my thighs, over my hips, up to my ribs.” You exhaled, shaky. “I imagine you pausing there—just long enough to hear me beg—and then moving higher. I want your hands on my breasts. I want your fingers teasing the tips of my nipples until I’m shaking, gasping, whispering your name like a broken prayer.”

You heard him move on the other side of the lattice. Not much. Just a shift. But enough to know he was listening. Hanging on every word.

“I want to be laid bare in front of you,” you continued, eyes closed now, shame and need swirling in equal measure. “I want to be underneath you, completely exposed, while you look at me like I’m nothing but temptation itself. I want you to command me. To order me. Like I’m the devil’s own creature, sent to test your will.”

You could barely breathe.

Your thighs clenched. Your hands trembled. You didn’t know whose breath was louder now—yours or his.

“I want to be ruined,” you whispered, “by the man I was told to worship from a distance. I want to be claimed. Marked. Made yours.”

And then, softer. Quieter.

“I want you to breed me, Caleb. I want you to fill me again and again until there’s no part of me that doesn’t belong to you. I want to carry your child—not in shame, but in devotion. As atonement. As worship.”

The confessional pulsed with silence.

But nothing about it felt holy anymore.

Behind the lattice, you caught the faintest curve of his lips—a smile. Soft, serene. Almost saintly.

It unsettled you.

How could he smile like that—so calm, so composed—when your body was trembling, your thoughts stained with everything sacred and forbidden? How could he look at you with such quiet kindness after the filth you’d just confessed?

But then, he spoke.

And his words didn’t match the expression at all.

“My sweet girl,” he said softly, voice like velvet against your ears, “you’ve carried this sin for so long… and yet, you still look to me for forgiveness.”

You stilled, the breath catching in your throat. There was no judgment in his voice. No disappointment. Only something deeper. Richer. A kind of hunger masked as care.

He continued, slow and measured, like every word was chosen for its weight.

“You’ve spent your nights dreaming of my hands, my mouth, my body. You’ve imagined how it would feel to be beneath me, filled, ruined—claimed.” His voice dipped lower. “And still, you come here, to this church, thinking you’ll find absolution. Thinking you’ll be cleansed.”

You could feel the heat curling inside you again—stronger now. Almost unbearable.

“But you’ve misunderstood,” he murmured. “This place is not where you’re purified, Pip-Squeak. It’s where you surrender.”

Your eyes widened, heart pounding. The air in the confessional was too thick now, too close. You couldn’t breathe without inhaling him—his words, his scent, the soft, sacred ache of his voice.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he whispered, still smiling behind the screen. “Even when you try to look away. I’ve seen the tremble in your hands when we share communion. The way your lips part when I speak.”

You could barely hold yourself upright. Shame and want coiled together like thorns under your skin.

“I arranged this moment for you,” he confessed. “I made sure it was me sitting behind this screen. I wanted to hear it. I needed to know just how deeply I’ve carved myself into you.”

You gasped quietly, a soft whimper caught between horror and desire.

“I’ve known for a long time,” he said gently, “that you’d never be able to forget me. Not truly. Not with the way you whisper my name when you think no one hears. Not with the way you ache when I touch your hand during blessing.”

He paused. Let it hang. Let it simmer.

“Don’t you see?” he said, voice now just above a whisper. “Your sin… was never in thinking of me.”

His next words were slower, darker, rich with promise.

“Your sin was in not letting me have you.”

The silence stretched like a lifetime unraveling—deep, suffocating, as though the very air between you had thickened. You inhaled shakily, your chest rising with disbelief. His words echoed in your ears, over and over, like a psalm twisted into something forbidden. He wanted you. He desired you. All that piety, all those prayers—his devotion had not been for God. It had been for you.

“Caleb, I—” you whispered, your voice trembling as you reached through the carved gap in the lattice, fingertips trembling with hope, aching to touch him. To feel even the brush of his hand. But the moment your fingers brushed the open air, he recoiled. His hand withdrew like you were fire—like he had been burned.

As if he hadn’t just shattered your soul with the truth.

As if none of it had been real.

“I’m sorry, Pip-squeak,” he murmured, and the softness in his voice made it worse. Too gentle. Too cruel. It held no resolve, no certainty—only guilt, polished and sharp. Your stomach twisted. No. No, this couldn’t be backpedaling. Not now. Not after everything.

“I should have contained myself,” he continued, and his words broke you. “I made an oath. I’m not just the boy you knew anymore. I’m a priest. I have no right to lust after anyone—especially not you.”

And with that, all the air was stolen from your lungs. The flicker of hope that had dared to rise in your chest—gone. He turned away, slowly, and from the gap between you, something small and delicate dropped into your hand.

A rosary.

Elegant, dark red beads shimmered against your skin—cool, smooth, lovingly chosen. A beautiful offering. A quiet rejection.

“Take this. Use it when you pray. I’ll arrange another meeting with a different reverend—someone more… disciplined,” he said, standing now, his voice tightening as he stepped back. “I’m not fit to hear your confessions anymore. I can’t help you. I’ve already failed you.”

He turned, reaching for the confessional door. His robes whispered against the wood, the sound like parting wings. But just before he stepped out, he paused—his profile half-lit by the flickering candlelight.

And he smiled.

Not a warm smile. Not cruel either. Just… unreadable. Quietly ironic. It was a paradox, that expression—so soft, so subtle, and yet it didn’t match the penitent words that had come before it. You couldn’t tell what he wanted. Couldn’t tell if he was leaving you behind… or waiting for you to chase him.

He stepped into the aisle, disappearing into the dark sanctuary beyond.

But you didn’t move.

You remained kneeling for a moment longer, your knees numb, your breath shallow, your hands clenched tightly around the rosary that felt like a curse. And then something inside you snapped—loud and sharp and undeniable.

No.

No, you couldn’t let this slip through your fingers. You couldn’t walk away and accept a life bound to a stranger, to a marriage you didn’t want. You had tasted the edge of something sacred and feral, and you would not let it go.

You surged to your feet, robes swishing around your ankles as you ran through the cathedral. The air burned in your lungs. Candlelight streaked past you, warping the saints and angels into ghosts as you chased his shadow up the stairs. You called his name—broken, pleading, not in prayer but in desperation.

And then—you reached him.

He had stopped before the altar, his back to you, shoulders bowed as if ready to fall into prayer again. But you grabbed him—your hands clutching his arm, your touch shaking with fury and want.

“Caleb,” you gasped, your voice cracking, “please. One chance. Just one. Allow me to commit this sin and carry the guilt—before I’m shackled into something I never asked for.”

He didn’t speak.

So you pressed on, breathless and trembling.

“I don’t care if I’m to be married. I don’t want him. I never did. Please… just this once—taint me. Make me yours so I can’t belong to anyone else.”

That was the breaking point.

You saw it in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his hands slowly curled into fists. And then—without a word—he turned.

His hand seized your waist, firm and unyielding, and he pulled you flush against him. The sudden closeness knocked the breath from your chest. You could feel everything—his breath against your cheek, the thunder of his heartbeat against yours, the heat between your bodies that had always been there, waiting to be claimed.

His other hand rose, slow and deliberate, and pressed two fingers beneath your chin, tilting your face up. Then, those same fingers slid down, wrapping around your throat. Not to harm, but to hold. Possession, pure and holy.

“You have no idea what you’re asking,” he whispered, his breath brushing your lips, his eyes locked on yours with something darker than longing. “Be careful, Pip-squeak. Because if I say yes—if I give you what you’re begging for…”

He leaned closer, his lips grazing the corner of your mouth, his voice no longer gentle, but a vow.

“I won’t stop. There will be no betrothed. No more prayers to cleanse you.”

He licked the edge of your ears, slow and deliberate, and your whole body arched into him with a soft, desperate moan you couldn’t contain.

“I will ruin you. I’ll make you mine in every way the church says I shouldn’t. I’ll bury myself inside you until your body remembers nothing but me.”

His grip tightened at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

“I won’t let you go,” he growled, “not again.”

His irises darkened, deepening into a shade like violet blood—rich, ancient, and hungry. The passion in his gaze no longer shimmered beneath the surface, no longer cloaked in guilt. It bloomed now, wild and uncontrollable, like a flower that had finally burst through the soil after years of suppression. No burden. No veil. Only want.

And you saw it. You felt it—in the way his fingers clenched tighter around your waist, as though he feared you might vanish. As though he had already lost you once and refused to risk it again. His grip was no longer gentle. It was possession.

How could you—merely a sinful, trembling creature before the divine—deny the priest who had already been yours in secret?

“Then don’t, Caleb,” you whispered, your voice soft, reverent, almost worshipful. Your hands rose to cradle his face, thumbs stroking along the edge of his jaw with aching tenderness. His skin was warm beneath your touch, alive with the kind of heat that could melt sanctity itself.

“Don’t ever let me go,” you breathed, your words barely more than air, “ruin me… consume me, like I am the communion and the wine. Take me as if I were the apple, bitten and bold—tempted by Eve, offered to Adam, as the serpent laughs and God turns away.”

Your eyes met his—wide, wet, unwavering. His breathing was uneven now, ragged, thick with restraint unraveled. His pupils blown wide, devouring you like scripture rewritten in flesh.

“Take me, Caleb,” you said, voice no longer pleading, but resolute. A sacred declaration. A promise. This was your moment. Your fall. Your offering. You had waited long enough to become the Eve of your own story—to tempt the man who was once salvation, now sin. To drag him from the heavens and pull him into you.

He stared at you for one long, breathless second.

And then—he smiled.

Not holy. Not kind.

But hungry.

“With pleasure, Pips,” he murmured, voice deep with something primal, something unholy, and beautiful in its blasphemy.

Before you could react, he spun you by the waist, his grip firm and unrelenting, and pushed you forward—your body guided not roughly, but with the precision of a man who had imagined this a thousand times. You stumbled slightly, catching yourself against the edge of the altar, your hands splayed on the white linen cloth that once held chalices and scripture.

Now, it would hold you.

You looked back at him over your shoulder, your breath shallow, your heart pounding like a liturgical drum. He stood behind you, towering, silent, reverent—his gaze devouring every inch of you like he was memorizing a psalm written on skin.

This was not the priest.

This was the man beneath the collar.

And you were no longer the sinner.

You were the sacrament.

“On the altar, honey,” he murmured, his voice dipped in something sweet and dangerous—menacingly saccharine, like poisoned honey. His hands guided you back, gently but firmly, until your spine met the cool linen-draped table. His touch lingered like reverence, like a prayer not yet spoken.

To him, you must’ve looked like temptation incarnate—your flushed skin glowing in the golden candlelight, long hair fanned out over sacred cloth, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. A vision of sin made flesh, sprawled out where offerings to God were meant to be placed. But tonight, you were the offering.

He traced the shape of your body with a single finger, slow and deliberate, dragging it over the tight curve of your red dress—the one you chose just for this night, just for him. Each pass of his touch sent a thrill crawling across your skin, your thighs tensing with every inch he explored.

“This was intentional, wasn’t it?” he whispered, lips brushing just above your navel as he pressed a kiss there—soft, delicate, intoxicating. You felt butterflies erupt beneath your skin, fluttering desperately under his breath. “You came here wearing this dress that no good Catholic girl would ever wear. You chose my hour in the confessional. Scheduled yourself with me.”

You couldn’t speak. Your head was light, your limbs loose and tingling from the weight of his words and the unbearable heat of his touch. The anticipation dripped from you like holy oil.

He smirked. And then his hands moved lower, gripping your waist hard, like he was claiming you piece by piece.

You gasped, body jolting at the force of it.

“Answer me,” he commanded, the sweetness gone, replaced by steel. His brow furrowed in mock disappointment, his voice like thunder behind stained glass. You nodded weakly, unable to count how many times you’d already said yes to him—in your mind, in your dreams, in the silent ache between your thighs.

“Good,” he purred. “I love it when you give yourself over to me. When your mind shuts down and your body remembers who you belong to.”

His hands slid down, finding the buttons of your dress. He gripped the fabric with both hands and yanked—ripping it apart with one swift, sinful motion. The sound echoed like a heresy in the sacred space. You gasped, heart racing, body bare beneath him.

From above, you saw his expression shift. His mouth fell open slightly. His pupils darkened further, almost black. His face—usually unreadable—now twisted with hunger. He looked at you as if you were the first woman he’d ever seen. As if you were not just desired… but worshipped.

“You look so divine, Pip-squeak,” he growled, voice low and trembling. His hands came up to your chest, cupping your breasts with greedy reverence, his thumbs flicking across your nipples—once, then again, harder, rougher, until your body arched into him. The pleasure bloomed sharp and sudden, your breath catching in a gasp.

“Caleb, I—”

He shushed you immediately, placing two fingers over your lips as his eyes gleamed.

“No words now. Only your sounds. Only your body,” he whispered. “Let me learn it like the Bible.”

And then he did. He moved over you like a man discovering lost relics—hands sliding across your stomach, down your thighs, along your ribs, over your curves. Every part of you was touched like it was rare, precious. As if every inch of skin was sacred parchment he intended to study and memorize.

But when his eyes lowered between your legs, his expression changed again—this time to something quieter. Something awed.

You scrambled to close your thighs, the instinctual shame creeping up your spine. But his hands were faster—firm at your knees, pushing them apart with command.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said. “I never told you to close your legs.”

And then he saw you.

His gaze locked between your thighs, reverent and consuming. You turned your face away, too overwhelmed to meet his stare, too undone to endure the worship in his expression.

“You’re untouched,” he murmured. His thumb grazed your folds—slow, featherlight, unbearably gentle. “So pink. So soft. Your little petals hiding everything sacred inside.”

You whimpered, unable to speak, trembling under the heat of his voice and the slow, circling motion of his thumb. You could hear it now—the wet sound of your arousal, soft and obscene in the quiet church. It should’ve filled you with shame.

But all you felt was need.

“You’re so wet for me,” he whispered, pressing just slightly deeper, letting his thumb slide through your slick folds as if he were parting holy pages. “This is all for me, isn’t it?”

You nodded. He smiled.

“Then let me worship you.”

And then—he lowered himself.

His lips brushed your inner thigh, trailing upward, each kiss placed like benediction. His hands held your thighs wide open as he reached your center, breath warm against your slick entrance. And then his mouth found you—devoured you.

His tongue lapped at your clit slowly, then faster, lips closing around you as if drawing out sin itself. You cried out, moaning his name like a prayer, like it was the only one you remembered. His fingers gripped your thighs harder, anchoring you in place, as his mouth wrote psalms into your body—his tongue spelling out lust and salvation in every circle, every flick, every sinful kiss.

You arched. You gasped. You sobbed his name.

And still—he kept going.

“Gods, you taste like devotion,” he groaned against your folds. “Like you were made just for this.”

And in that moment, as your body trembled on the altar, thighs parted for a man who wore a collar he never truly obeyed—

You believed him.

His fingers trailed downward, slow and exploratory, until they found the slick heat of your folds. He teased the entrance just below where his tongue had ravaged your clit, circling the soft, wet opening with the gentleness of someone handling something precious—something never touched before. Your body arched sharply, your back curving off the altar in a broken cry. It was too much—too much pressure, too much pleasure, too much him.

Your gasped whispers of “Caleb” unraveled into helpless moans as his finger gently breached you, the motion deliberate and careful, but impossibly overwhelming. Your body clamped down around him, wet and trembling, your inner walls drawing him in like they had been waiting for him all your life.

“Let me open you up, alright, baby?” he whispered against your skin, his voice dripping with affection. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to make it perfect for you.” His tone was velvet, contrasting the way his tongue resumed its relentless worship of your clit—wet, fast, devout, like he was trying to write a hymn with his mouth.

His finger moved deeper, slowly curling to explore you from the inside—his touch searching, learning, memorizing the feel of your tight, trembling heat. He found rhythm, divine and sinful, his tongue lapping furiously at your swollen bud while his finger pressed deeper, coaxing moans from your lips like a choir from a cathedral dome.

But then, pain.

It was sharp, unfamiliar, a sting beneath the waves of pleasure.

“Caleb… it hurts…” you murmured, your voice broken and soft. This was your first time—your body had never been opened by another’s touch. You tried to hold back the sobs, your forearm covering your eyes to hide the tears you couldn’t stop. Hiccups escaped you, trembling from your chest, fragile as confession.

And he stopped.

“Aw, Pip-squeak…” he cooed gently, his voice laced with guilt and warmth as he moved up to you. “Was that too much?”

He pushed your hand away from your face, just enough to see the mess of tears on your cheeks, the swollen red of your eyes, the vulnerability etched across every inch of you. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your eyelids—soft, reverent, like you were a butterfly he feared would break in his hands. A breath of love after a storm of lust.

“No, Caleb… it’s all just new,” you whispered through your hiccups, the words slurring as you clung to the edges of control. “I’m not used to it. That’s all.”

He looked at you like you were the most fragile and sacred thing he’d ever touched. As if you weren’t a girl laid bare on an altar, but a miracle. His hand found yours, guiding your palm to his cheek, pressing your fingers into the heat of his skin.

“I know,” he said, voice low and warm. “I know, honey. Let me take care of you.” He nuzzled into your touch like it was the only truth he needed. “You’re going to have a beautiful first night. With me. Just relax. I’ll do everything. All you need to do is feel.”

And before you could answer, his mouth claimed yours.

The kiss was not gentle. It was fierce, hungry, consuming. Your lips moved in a tangled, heated rhythm, tongues sliding and curling, mouths parting only to let out breathless moans. You could feel his teeth grazing your lip, then biting—a sting sharp enough to make your knees buckle. He drew blood, and then licked it away, eyes dark with pride at the mark he left.

Then—his hand was back between your legs.

He slid the same finger inside you again, slow but insistent, and you gasped into his mouth. Your lips were still locked with his, the kiss muffling your cries, your body arching beneath him. He didn’t stop. His hand was working you open again, pushing and curling with more purpose now—loving you, preparing you, ruining you.

And then—another finger joined.

You cried out against his lips, breath stolen, chest heaving. His fingers scissored you open, stretching you with maddening care, moving in and out with slick, obscene sounds that echoed through the sacred chamber. Every motion felt like a new world cracking open inside you—every nerve alight, every breath sharp.

“Fuck—Pip-squeak,” he groaned, watching your face twist in pleasure. “You really are my testament, aren’t you?”

He pumped his fingers deeper, faster, pressing into that sacred spot inside you that made you sob. Your whole body buckled, trembling under the rhythm of his fingers.

“Crying for me… moaning like that…” He kissed your jaw, your throat, your shoulder. “You said you’d walk through hell with me, didn’t you?”

Your breath came in stutters, your body grinding down into his hand, chasing the pleasure like a lifeline. You couldn’t speak. You could only feel.

And then—he stopped.

You whined—needy, devastated.

He pulled his fingers from your soaked heat, the emptiness making your body clench on instinct, your folds slick and pulsing.

“Caleb, what—”

“I can’t wait anymore,” he said, his voice hoarse, desperate. “I think you’re ready. And I need to be inside you, now.”

You watched, spellbound, as he stood upright and reached for the belt around his waist. One by one, his fingers undid the layers of his robe, revealing him beneath—the slow unveiling of a god, not a man. He peeled back the fabric as if shedding holiness itself, as if casting off the weight of every prayer he’d ever made. And what remained beneath…

Was divine.

He was sculpted like marble. Veins coiled along thick forearms, chest broad and heaving, every line of his body drawn with aching precision. It was like something ancient. Like Zeus had carved him from his own likeness, then cast him into a collar to suffer the burden of flesh.

And now, here he stood. Unburdened. Unholy. Yours.

All words fled your mouth. All thoughts vanished. You were no longer a girl with a name, or a sinner with shame.

You were his.

At his mercy. At his altar.

And Caleb—your priest, your first love, your god-made-flesh—was about to make you his church.

When he pulled down the final barrier between you—his undergarments falling to the floor with a soft, weighted thud—it echoed like a vow unspoken. The air shifted, heavy and thick with want. And what you saw made your breath catch in your throat.

He was hard. Gloriously hard.

Thick, veined, and flushed with heat, his cock stood proudly between his thighs—an offering, a punishment, a blessing all at once. You had never seen anything like it, not even in those nights alone with your phone dimmed low and your heart racing in guilt. This… this was real. It was beautiful in a way that made your body ache—his shaft a soft, dusky pink with golden undertones, the crown swollen and weeping beads of precum that glistened like sacred oil under the candlelight. It pulsed with restrained desire, the veins beneath his skin standing rigid with anticipation, as if every part of him had been waiting to be released inside you.

He watched your reaction closely, and you realized—he wanted you to look. He wanted you to witness him like this. Bared. Ready. Sacred.

“It’s…” you whispered, breathless, lips trembling as you tried not to stare, “it’s so big, Caleb. I—” your voice cracked slightly, “I don’t think it’ll fit.”

He stepped closer, the heat of his body brushing against your thighs as he leaned down, his hand curling around your cheek.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, lips grazing your jawline, “it will. And if it doesn’t…” he kissed the corner of your mouth, slowly, deliberately, “I’ll make it fit.”

You shivered beneath him, but his next kiss melted your resistance. It was softer this time—reassuring, protective. His lips moved against yours with a slowness that made you ache, a tenderness that threatened to undo you entirely. He kissed you like he’d never get to again. Like this was both prayer and farewell.

And then—you felt it.

The thick, flushed tip nudged against your folds, slick with both your arousal and his need. Your body jolted at the contact, instinctively trying to pull back, but he held you steady. His hand moved from your cheek to your jaw, cradling you gently but firmly, his thumb stroking the curve of your chin.

“Shh,” he whispered against your lips, “don’t run. Just feel me. Let me love you through it.”

Then—he pushed in.

The stretch was impossible. Raw. Blinding. Your inner walls strained to accommodate him, the head of his cock parting you in a slow, aching invasion that made every nerve in your body seize and tremble. He was too big—too thick, too much—and you cried out, your breath hitching in your throat.

“C-Caleb, it won’t fit,” you gasped, tears pricking your lashes. “It’s too much, I—I can’t—”

But he didn’t let go. He pressed a soft kiss to your nose, eyes full of reverence.

“Trust me,” he said gently. “You can. You’re doing so well. Just relax. Don’t tense up. Let your body take me.”

He kissed your temple, then your jaw, and then your lips again—his mouth never leaving yours as he pushed in deeper, inch by inch, each movement slow and reverent. You could feel every ridge, every vein, as he slid deeper into your warmth. The pressure was maddening, the stretch a sweet agony. He was molding you to him—reshaping you around his cock like you were meant for it.

Your moans were breathless, broken, rising in pitch with every inch he claimed. You felt your pulse in your throat, your fingertips, your womb.

And then—he paused.

He looked down at where you were joined, your slick folds stretched wide around him, your body trembling, your breath hitching with each twitch of his hips. His lips curled into a smile, soft and ruined.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re taking me so well, baby. And this…” he rocked his hips slightly, making you whimper, “this is only halfway.”

Your eyes flew open.

Halfway?

He met your gaze, eyes dark with devotion and desire.

“We’ll take it slow,” he whispered. “I’ll teach your body how to love me. How to worship me.”

And then—he began to thrust.

Slow, deep, rolling movements that dragged his cock against every untouched nerve inside you. Each push was gentle, yet commanding. Every retreat was followed by a deeper plunge, opening you wider, stretching you further, claiming you with each pass.

You sobbed beneath him—not from pain, not anymore—but from the sheer overwhelming pleasure. He filled you so completely, so intimately, that you didn’t know where your body ended and his began.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice breaking, “you’re perfect—tight, warm, mine. You were made to take me, Pip-squeak. This—” he grunted as he thrust deeper, “this is where you belong.”

Your nails raked down his back, clinging to him, needing something to anchor you as the altar shook beneath your bodies. His forehead pressed against yours. His lips hovered above your mouth, panting into you like he was drowning.

“I’m going to ruin you for anyone else,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m going to fill you so full of me, you’ll feel me for days.”

And you believed him.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was worship. This was prophecy.

And he was your god now.

And this god—this man who had once belonged to the altar—was now the one thrusting into you, deeper and deeper, with a rhythm so consuming it blurred the edge of pain and bliss. With each slow push, he reached into places no one ever had—into your body, into your soul. As if this was your final absolution. As if this… was your cleansing of sin.

“Let me feel you deeper, alright?” he murmured, his voice low and full of heat, brushing your ear like a sacrament. “It might sting a bit, but stay with me, my love.” He kissed you again—tender, warm, anchoring—his lips moving over yours in a slow, open rhythm that steadied your breath as much as it stole it.

Your nails found his back again, digging in harder this time, leaving half-moon imprints across the muscles of his shoulders. He welcomed it—grunted into your mouth—and thrust deeper. The stretch was too much, too perfect, and yet you clung to it, welcoming the ache like revelation.

His lips traveled to your throat, then down the delicate slope of your neck. And when his pace quickened, his hips rolling deeper into yours, the sound of slick skin and desperate breathing filled the chapel air. The sensation was overwhelming—every sense dissolved into him. Your vision blurred, your ears rang with the sound of your own heartbeat, and the warmth of his body became the only truth you knew.

He found your collarbone with his mouth, kissing it reverently before biting down—not gently. The bite was harsh, branding. A mark meant to last. You gasped and arched into him, tears spilling down your cheeks—not from pain, but from something greater. You were overwhelmed, undone, and entirely his.

“Caleb…” you whimpered, voice caught in a moan. “It’s… starting to feel so good…”

He chuckled, low and rough, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Knew it, baby,” he murmured between kisses. “Knew you’d take me like this. Like your body belongs to me.”

His rhythm was no longer careful—it was erratic now, frantic, unrelenting. The god inside him had broken free. There was no restraint left, only desire carved deep by years of silence and prayer. You felt the pressure building again, something enormous and electric gathering in your belly, and you didn’t understand it—but you craved it.

“Caleb, please—please—it feels… so strange,” you sobbed into his shoulder, your voice high and trembling.

He slowed just for a second, lips brushing your temple, smiling like he’d known this moment would come. “You want to come, baby?” he asked softly, lovingly. “Then come for me. You have my permission.”

And then—release.

The world shattered in white.

Your first orgasm rippled through you like holy fire, curling your toes, arching your spine, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your body clenched around him, your cries echoing through the cathedral like sacred hymns, and all you could feel was him—Caleb, Caleb, Caleb—claiming every part of you as if he’d waited lifetimes for this moment.

When your body finally slumped against his, spent and trembling, he gathered you in his arms like something sacred. His hand found the back of your neck, fingers brushing your hair, the other wrapped around your back, lifting you into his lap like a prize, a promise.

“Like it, baby?” he whispered, kissing your forehead, your cheek, your nose. You nodded wordlessly, still floating somewhere between earth and heaven, still pulsing from the aftershocks. “Yeah,” he smiled, his voice soft with wonder, “I can tell.”

Then—he reached for something.

The rosary.

Your rosary.

Dark red beads caught the moonlight streaming through the stained glass, the glow painting your skin in sacred crimson. He unclasped it gently, looped it around your throat, and fastened it like a necklace of devotion. It was weightless and warm, like it had always belonged there.

“You look divine in red,” he whispered, tucking your hair behind your ear. “The hickeys. The tears. The rosary on your throat.” His thumb caressed your cheek as he studied you—eyes soft and worshipful. “You are… heavenly. I’m so fucking glad you chose me.”

You were dazed. Drenched in love. You looked up at him, and for the first time, truly saw him.

The boy you had known was long gone.

What sat before you was a man—a god, a beast, a lover—shaped by prayer, by pain, by desire.

His violet-hued eyes bore into you. His jaw sharp. His lips chapped from too many kisses. His body sculpted like myth, veined and divine, as though made by the same hands that shaped the stars.

And then—he leaned in, voice low and trembling.

“I’m not done with you yet, Pip-squeak.”

Your eyes widened.

“W-what?”

He kissed your mouth—slow and deep.

“On your back, love,” he murmured. “I haven’t had my share. And I intend to fulfill my prophecy—as your future husband.”

Your breath caught as he slowly withdrew from your body, leaving you achingly empty. He helped you to stand, your legs barely steady beneath you. His hands stayed on your waist, guiding you like a lamb, reverent and possessive.

“Hands on the altar,” he said gently, pushing you forward. “Arch your back for me, sweetheart.”

You obeyed.

He leaned down, whispering into your ear, his palm stroking the curve of your spine. “Perfect. Look at you. My obedient little wife.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Caleb…” you gasped. “You’re a priest. You… you can’t marry me. I’m a sinner—”

He stilled behind you.

And then—a quiet laugh. Dark. Dangerous.

His hand gripped your hip, pulling you back against him. The tip of his cock nudged your entrance once more, the heat of him radiating through your trembling thighs.

“I’ll make arrangements,” he said simply. “The moment I breed you… the moment I seal this bond… you’re mine. And no one—no one—will take you away from me.”

He turned your face just enough to kiss you again—deep, claiming, final.

And then, he entered you once more, slowly, fully, with a groan of pure relief.

This time, Caleb wasn’t letting you off easy.

There was no gentleness left in him—only hunger, only need. He drove into you with a rhythm that felt like judgment day: relentless, punishing, divine. His thrusts were thunderous, dragging cries and whimpers from your throat that echoed through the hollow sanctuary like ruined hymns. Each motion forced a sob of pleasure from your lips, your body trembling with every drag of him, every delicious, overwhelming stretch.

“Too deep, Caleb… please—” you moaned, the words barely intelligible between broken breaths.

Your legs had long since given up. Your thighs quivered with exhaustion, and your knees threatened to buckle with every thrust. But before you could collapse, his hand gripped your cheeks—strong, unyielding—guiding you right back into the position he wanted.

“Keep your posture, Pip-squeak,” he growled, his voice rough, breath hot at your ear, and you obeyed like the good little subject he’d made of you.

You let your forehead rest against the altar, body limp under his force, your senses shredded from the high of your first orgasm. But he wasn’t finished with you. He hadn’t even begun to show you what it meant to be his.

Because you wanted it.

You wanted to be ruined again. Used, over and over. You wanted to be his sanctuary and his sacrilege—his only cocksleeve, his blasphemy made flesh.

You pushed your hips back, seeking friction, desperate for the sound—the slick, vulgar squelch that made your thighs shake and his groan rattle through your spine.

“Fuck,” he laughed, dark and delighted. “Look at you. My little whore can’t even wait for my rhythm—now you’re fucking yourself on my cock like a common slut.”

His hand groped your ass, fingers digging into the soft curve before delivering a sharp smack that made your whole body jolt. Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry, eyes fluttering as the sting bloomed across your skin.

“You really are the devil,” he muttered, his voice nearly reverent. “You came here to torment me. To make a man of God fall to his knees for you. And now look at you.”

He reached for the back of your neck where the rosary lay tangled, tugging gently until the red beads tightened around your throat, grazing over the bruises and bite marks he’d left before.

“Imagine me breeding you on the altar,” he whispered, thrusting deeper until you gasped. “Filling you up like a sacrifice. Just you, me, and God watching.”

Then he pulled.

The beads clinked and tightened, the tension making you jolt, your moans gasping and ragged as the cross at the center pressed into your throat. You were sure it would leave a mark—like a collar. Like proof.

“You’d look perfect,” he said, voice low and shaking with lust. “With this mark. Everyone would know who you belong to.”

He loosened it, just long enough for you to breathe, only to tighten it again—controlling the rhythm like a prayer. Your eyes rolled back, tears streaming freely, your body twitching from the overstimulation.

“Caleb…” you sobbed, voice hoarse, lost. “I-I’m close again…”

“I know you are,” he murmured, lips brushing your spine, his teeth catching on your shoulder. “You were made for this. For me.”

His thrusts deepened, the rhythm brutal and beautiful all at once. Your walls clenched hard around him, your body desperate to drag him further inside, to pull him into your core and never let go.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Pips,” he groaned. “But I’ll die with a smile if it means I get to leave it all inside you.”

And then you broke.

Again.

This time harder. This time deeper. Your orgasm crashed through you like a holy reckoning, violent and luminous, a star exploding behind your eyes. Your body seized and shivered uncontrollably, walls fluttering around him as your vision went white. You screamed his name like it was torn from your soul, your throat raw from the effort, from praising him.

It was all too much—the relentless thrusts, the rosary tight against your throat, the weight of him pounding into your most sacred places. The hot stretch of his cock as it hit that tender, deepest spot. The scent of sweat and salt and sex thick in the air. The wet sounds of your bodies clashing, your skin slick against the altar.

You were sobbing now, lips parted, gasping for air between high-pitched moans and fevered, half-sobbed whispers.

“Thank you,” you cried, “thank you, Caleb… thank you for using me… for making me yours… thank you for claiming me—”

He growled—actually growled—his breath hot at your ear, hips stuttering against you as his grip on your hips tightened.

“I’m gonna fill you now, baby,” he moaned, the words shaky and broken with need. “Say it again.”

“Thank you,” you begged. “Thank you for choosing me—thank you for breaking me—thank you for taking me like this.”

Your hands clutched the altar cloth, nails tearing into the fabric, body writhing against his. “Thank you for fucking me, for ruining me… for cleansing me. Thank you for not holding back. Thank you for loving me like this.”

“Gods” he gasped, shuddering behind you. “Fuck—”

And that was all he needed.

With one final, forceful thrust, he sank himself so deep inside you it felt like your bodies had fused. You felt the tremble in his thighs, the groan that tore from his chest, the way his hips twitched as he came undone within you.

You could feel it.

The heat.

The fullness.

His release poured into you, and with it, something even heavier: a bond. His sin, his promise, his final vow.

He collapsed over your back, chest heaving, breath ragged and uneven. His arms wrapped around you like you were holy. Like you were salvation.

And inside you… he left everything.

His vow. His love. His sin.

His seed.

The altar had seen many unions—but none like this.

You both remained there, bodies tangled and trembling, time suspended in the thick, honeyed silence that followed. Minutes passed like lifetimes—slow and sacred—as if every breath you took together rewrote the shape of the world.

His body draped over yours, flushed and heaving, the weight of him pressing against your spine like a divine burden. You could feel his chest rising and falling, his heartbeat still rapid, still syncing with yours, like your souls were too entangled to separate now. His warmth cloaked you, his skin slick and fevered against your back, and it was all you could do to keep breathing.

His name had become your prayer.

His love, your religion.

His presence, your sanctuary.

“Pip-squeak,” he whispered, voice hoarse and soft, barely formed through the haze of what you’d just done. The nickname sounded different now—deeper, claimed, sacred. But you couldn’t answer. There were no words left inside you. Just breath after breath, whispering through your lips like wind through cathedral glass.

Then he said it.

“I love you.”

The words drifted through the air and wrapped around you like a blanket. Your eyes fluttered open, lashes damp, vision hazy. You wanted to turn to him, to see his face in the aftermath of what had just been sealed between you, but your body felt too wrecked, too stretched, still parted by the weight of his shaft still inside you—keeping you open, keeping his warmth in, like he didn’t want a single drop of himself to leave you.

“I…” your voice broke, soft and trembling, “I love you too, Caleb. I have since we were kids.”

You gathered every last shred of strength in your arms, tilting your head back just enough to cup his jaw, your fingers brushing his skin with reverence. You pulled him closer until his forehead rested against yours, the scent of incense, sweat, and sanctified sin thick in the air between you.

“I’m glad I came to you,” you whispered. “I’ll leave everything in your care… then?”

His gaze softened.

And then—he smiled.

That familiar, golden smile from long ago, reshaped by the weight of years and the burden of forbidden love.

“Yes, honey,” he murmured, voice like a lullaby. “I’ll take care of everything. No one will touch you. We’ll leave this place unscathed… and walk the path God truly chose for us.”

He lifted your hand, the same hand that had touched him, clung to him, loved him—and pressed a kiss to your fingers. It was gentle. Tender. Final.

“I love you,” he whispered again, like a promise sealed in your skin. “Now sleep, my love.”

And you did.

You closed your eyes beneath him, your body still held open by his, still trembling with the ghost of every thrust, every vow. And as the darkness settled, soft and warm, you felt his arms wrap around you tighter—like he’d never let you go.

He was the last thing you saw that night.

And you knew, with a quiet certainty blooming in your chest, that he would be the last thing you saw each night for the rest of your life.

Until death… if it dared to separate you apart.

[buckysleftbicep]

salvation never tasted this sweet 𐙚 b.b

pairing: priest!bucky barnes x innocent!fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, dark themes, lowkey dub-con, religious themes, corruption kink, power imbalance, oral sex (m and f receiving), semi-public sex (confessional booth), unprotected sex, creampie (please read the warnings, you're responsible for your media consumption)

summary: you came to confess your sins, but father james had no intention of granting you forgiveness.

word count: 3.1k

author's note: honestly, i think i'm the one that needs help after writing this. enjoy and please leave a comment or a reblog, it would help a lot, thank you sweethearts!

The church was empty this late in the evening, except for the soft creak of pews settling and the dim flicker of candlelight that bathed the altar in a golden haze. The quiet wrapped around you like a heavy cloak, sacred and suffocating all at once, the incense still lingering faintly in the air, it was sweet and spiced, mixing with the scent of old wood and stone. It was familiar, holy and terrifying.

You stood just inside the wide double doors, clutching your little notebook of sins to your chest like it could shield you from what you were about to do. Your fingers trembled and your knees ached from how long you’d knelt at home, debating whether or not to come. How long you’d avoided the confessional booth.

Avoided him.

But tonight, something inside you was unraveling. A knot in your stomach that wouldn’t untangle. Something thick and aching behind your ribs, desire, guilt, longing, all braided together until you couldn’t tell one from the other.

You didn’t know where else to go. So you came here.

Your footsteps echoed softly down the center aisle as you walked on quietly, head bowed, lips moving in silent, desperate prayers. Prayers that you hoped would cleanse you or save you. Make you feel whole again.

You didn’t see him at first.

But he always knew when you were near.

He was already waiting, just as he always did. Behind the screen in the confessional, cloaked in shadow, still and silent like a statue. Father James. His presence alone commanded the air, made the small space feel smaller, tighter. You could just make out the shape of him through the delicate lattice of the screen—the slope of his broad shoulders, the stillness of his hands, the slow, deliberate rise and fall of his chest.

His silhouette was half-swallowed by the darkness of the booth, the edge of his sharp jaw caught in the weak, flickering glow of the single lamp above him. You couldn’t see his eyes, not really. But you felt them. Felt the weight of them as they followed every one of your movements, slow and meticulous, as though memorising you.

His voice, when it came, was deep and deliberate, smooth as velvet, yet marked with something older, something unshakably steady. Each word rolled out with the patient rhythm of a grandfather clock, as if time itself bent to him. It was familiar, comforting and safe.

But beneath that calm, beneath the cadence you’d grown so used to, there was something else. A strain. A tension, carefully buried but not quite hidden. It curled around his words like smoke—something that made your breath catch in your throat, your skin prickle tight, your pulse flutter faster than it should

“Come in, little dove,” he murmured. His words curled around your spine, delicate and dark. “Let’s unburden your soul.”

Your heart beat faster.

You opened the small door and slipped into the booth. It shut behind you with a dull, weighty thunk, final and inescapable. The enclosed space smelled of incense and candle wax and something else. Something faint but unmistakably male, leather and spice, skin warmed by heat and hours of penance.

Something you’d come to associate only with him.

You sat stiffly, back straight, hands pressed into the soft, worn leather of your notebook as it trembled in your lap. You could hear your own heartbeat. Hear the rustle of his robe on the other side of the screen as he shifted slightly, quiet but present.

You swallowed. Your voice barely came out.

“Forgive me, Father,” you whispered, “for I have sinned.”

The words echoed back at you like a death knell, like a bell tolling over some part of you that would never be untouched again.

He didn’t respond at first. Just breathed slowly. Deeply. Waiting.

“Tell me,” he said finally, voice so soft it made your knees weak. “What’s weighing so heavily on your conscience?”

Your lips parted. But nothing came out. You were choking on it. On shame. On arousal, on the thick, guilty longing you hadn’t been able to exorcise from your body, no matter how hard you prayed. It clung to you like incense smoke, sweet, suffocating and impossible to wash clean. Every time you closed your eyes, it was him you saw.

“I… I’ve had thoughts,” you confessed, shame curling like smoke in your chest, thick and acrid. “Thoughts that aren’t pure. About someone I shouldn’t.” Your voice faltered on the last word, barely above a whisper—like speaking it aloud might damn you faster.

Your fingers clenched the hem of your skirt, knuckles white, as if you could hold yourself together just a moment longer.

A pause. The air thickened. The silence between you stretched until it felt unbearable.

Then a soft shift, the quiet, deliberate movement of cloth and weight. The sound of his hand brushing against the wooden divider.

“I see,” he said slowly, his voice dipping into something low and velvet-rich, like the hush of midnight against your skin. Each word was deliberate, drawn out with a kind of sinful patience that made your pulse stutter.

“And what kind of thoughts were these, little one?”

There was no judgment in his tone, only curiosity. Thick and warm, like honey sliding over something forbidden. The kind of voice meant to coax secrets from trembling lips. The kind that made you want to confess everything.

You hesitated. Your entire body was burning. It was one thing to think it. Another to say it. To let it hang in the air between you where it couldn’t be taken back.

“I… dreamt of being touched. Of being kissed. I think about him when I’m alone. In bed.” You were whispering now, voice barely audible.

He exhaled, slow and steady. Controlled.

“And in these moments…” His voice dropped lower, the edges roughening like gravel beneath silk. Darker. The confessional seemed to shrink around you, the shadows pulling tighter as if leaning in to listen. “Did you touch yourself?”

He said it like a prayer and a sin all at once—slow, deliberate, each syllable thick with something that twisted in your stomach.

Your breath caught in your throat. The shame was suffocating. But there was no point in lying. Not to him. Not here.

“Yes,” you breathed. “But I didn’t mean to.”

“Of course not,” he said, almost tenderly. “Sin creeps in when we’re weakest, when we’re vulnerable. You’re not alone in that.”

You looked up instinctively, eyes drawn to the divider. You couldn’t see him fully, just a vague outline, the suggestion of his shoulders, the faint tilt of his head — but it was enough.

More than enough.

The low glow from the booth's lamp cast shifting shadows across the lattice, dancing over the silhouette of his frame like temptation made visible. And still, you felt him. Felt the weight of his gaze through the screen, heavy and unwavering, like it could see straight through skin and bone to the little thoughts buried in your chest.

Something you couldn’t stop craving.

His voice came again, low and coaxing.

"Who is it you dream about, little lamb?"

Your heart stopped. You could barely hear anything over the rush of blood in your ears.

You knew — the second you said it — the words would change everything. That you couldn’t take them back. That the confessional would become something else entirely.

But it was too late to lie.

“You,” you whispered.

The silence that followed was absolute.

You could feel it — his stillness. The way the air shifted, went taut, like a bowstring pulled to its breaking point. Like every muscle in his body had locked tight, coiled with something restrained.

Father James didn’t move, didn't speak, and in that silence, thick and pulsing, your heartbeat thundered in your chest like a warning.

For a long moment, you thought maybe you’d gone too far. That this was it—the confession that broke whatever fragile thread had bound you in innocence. Maybe this was the final straw. The sin he couldn’t forgive. The one that would turn his voice cold, his presence distant, and left you alone in the dark with your shame.

But then—a sound. Barely audible.

A breath.

Not shocked. Not scandalised.

Hungry.

“I tried not to,” you whispered, needing to fill the silence, needing him to know it hadn’t been on purpose. “I swear. I prayed. I did everything. But I kept seeing your hands… your mouth… the way you say my name—"

He shifted again. The screen creaked faintly beneath his weight.

His voice, when it came, was different now. Rougher. Velvet torn to shreds.

“And what do I do to you in these dreams, sweetheart?” he asked, slow and deliberate.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively.

“Everything,” you admitted. “You… touch me. Kiss me. Take me. Like I belong to you.”

You heard it then — the soft sound of something snapping. Maybe a thread of restraint or perhaps the last shred of virtue between you. And just like that, the confessional stopped being a sanctuary and became a temptation neither of you could escape. The silence between you was alive — pulsing, throbbing, choking on unsaid things.

And then, he moved.

The creak of the confessional door startled you. It wasn’t yours — it was his. The soft sweep of his robe, the thud of heavy boots against the stone floor. Your breath caught when you felt him, felt him moving around the side. He wasn’t supposed to come into your side of the booth. He never did.

The door opened slowly, reverently, and then he was there—Father James. Or as he was always known, Bucky. Tall, imposing, the candlelight kissing the sharp lines of his face. His cassock hung heavy on his frame, the deep black clinging to the breadth of his chest, the curve of his arms.

His gloves were gone. And his eyes—those cerulean depths darkened now with something far more primal—raked over you like a judgment. Or maybe a prayer. They were heavy with hunger, burning with a quiet, restrained desperation that made your breath catch.

There was nothing soft in his gaze, nothing holy, just fire and possession. Like he was carving you into memory. Like he already knew every inch of your body and was daring you to deny it.

You scrambled to your feet, notebook clutched against your chest, but you didn’t run. You couldn’t. Not now. Not with the way he was looking at you—like you were the sin itself.

And he was the man sent to taste it.

“Put it down,” he said softly, nodding to the notebook.

Your fingers loosened instantly and it fell to the floor with a quiet thump.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. You were trapped. The two of you barely fit in the confessional together—your back brushing the wall, his broad chest towering in front of you. His voice, when it came, was low, measured and dangerous.

“Say it again.”

You blinked up at him. “What?”

“What you said in there. About what I do to you in your dreams.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Heat burned across your cheeks. “I… I said you touch me.”

His gaze darkened. “Where?”

You whimpered. “My thighs. My breasts. My—”

“Your cunt?” he finished for you, voice a velvet sin. “Do I make you cum, little dove?”

You nodded.

“Do I use my fingers?” He leaned closer, breath hot. “My tongue? My cock?”

You inhaled sharply. The air was gone. “All of it,” you whispered.

His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked there. Like he was holding back a flood. He reached out slowly, deliberately, fingers brushing beneath your chin.

“And how do you ask for it?” he murmured. “In those filthy little dreams of yours. Do you beg me, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you whispered, trembling. “I beg.”

That was all it took.

He surged forward, hand gripping the back of your head as his mouth crashed to yours, not gentle or slow, but consuming. Father James kissed like a man starved. Like he’d waited years for this moment. And you let him.

You gave in like a sinner at the altar, clutching his cassock, mouth opening for him like it was meant to. He tasted like wine. Like ash. Like damnation.

When he pulled back, he was breathing hard. So were you. His thumb dragged across your lower lip, smearing spit and devotion together.

“On your knees,” he said quietly.

You blinked, heart thundering. “What?”

“You came here to confess, didn’t you?” His tone was calm. Too calm. “So confess properly. On your knees, little lamb.”

Your legs folded without thought. You sank to the floor between his boots, skirt pooling around your thighs. The wood was cold beneath your knees, but you didn’t care.

Not when his body towered above you, dark and powerful, his hands loosening the buttons of his cassock. Your breath caught as he parted the fabric, revealing dark trousers beneath, strained with the thick, visible press of his cock.

And god help you, you licked your lips.

“Look at you,” he said, voice husky now. “On your knees for your priest. What would they say, hmm? What would the parish think if they saw how desperate you are to suck sin straight from the source?”

Your cheeks burned. “I’d never— I mean, I didn’t know it would be like this, I—”

“Oh, you knew,” he growled, reaching down to fist your hair. “You came here with that sweet little skirt and trembling thighs, knowing I’d be the one to ruin you.”

You whined as he guided your mouth forward. You could smell him, warm skin, heady arousal, a musk that made your head spin.

“Open,” he ordered.

You obeyed.

His cock slid past your lips slowly, thick and heavy on your tongue. You moaned. He hissed. His hand tightened in your hair.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Fuck. That mouth…”

He was too big. You gagged slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Just held your head in place, thumb caressing your cheek as your lips stretched around him.

“You can take it,” he said darkly. “You want to take it. Don’t you, little lamb".

You nodded, eyes wide, watering.

He rocked his hips forward—shallow at first—then deeper. You gasped as he hit the back of your throat, but he only groaned in approval.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Confess with your mouth. Take it like a good girl.”

Tears spilled from your eyes as he began to fuck your throat. Slowly, cruelly. The sounds were obscene, wet, slick and gasping. Your nails dug into your thighs as your jaw stretched wide, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

“Is this what you prayed for?” he growled, fucking deeper. “To be on your knees with your priest’s cock down your throat?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. But he felt it—the whimper you gave when he said it.

And he laughed, dark and low. “Sick little lamb,” he murmured. “You came in here to be saved… and now look at you. Crying around my cock like it’s holy.”

You moaned, broken and eager. He was right. You wanted more.

When he finally pulled back, you gasped for air, coughing, tears streaking your cheeks. Spit glistened down your chin. But you looked up at him like he was god. Like he could take the ache away if he just let you worship long enough.

He stroked your hair gently. Then he cupped your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

“You want more?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Please—”

“Stand up.”

Your legs shook, but you rose.

He turned you gently, until your back hit the wooden wall of the booth. His hands swept down your body slowly, until they reached your thighs. He pushed your skirt up and groaned when he saw the wet spot on your panties.

“Fucking soaked,” he muttered. “Knew you’d be wet for me. Bet you’ve been leaking for days thinking about this.”

You whimpered as he dragged the fabric down, baring you completely.

Then he dropped to his knees.

“Bucky—” you gasped.

“Not Bucky,” he growled. “Father.”

You didn’t have time to answer — his mouth was on you, tongue plunging between your folds like he’d waited a lifetime to taste you. You cried out, hands gripping his hair. He groaned into your cunt like it was a sacred offering, tongue circling your clit before dipping lower, devouring you like a man possessed.

“F-Father—!”

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice muffled against your heat. “Cry for me. Cum for me. Cum on your priest’s mouth.”

You shattered, trembling, gasping, your cry cracking in the hush of the confessional like a confession too loud to swallow. Your body slumped against the wooden wall, spent and shaking, but he didn’t stop. He held you there, mouth still working you through it, tongue insatiable as he licked you clean, drinking every last drop like it was sacred.

When he stood again, his mouth was wet, jaw slick with your arousal.

He unzipped his trousers fully, pulling his cock out, hard, flushed, dripping.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

You did. Pressed your hands against the wall, skirt bunched around your waist, trembling.

He lined himself up and paused—just for a breath.

Then he thrust inside you.

You cry out, he was huge, stretching you wide, filling you to the hilt. His hand clamped over your mouth as he began to fuck you—slow at first, then harder, the confessional rocked with each thrust. Your cries were muffled as tears spilled down your cheeks.

“Taking me so well,” he growled, panting. “So tight. So perfect. Like you were made for me.”

You nodded desperately. The words filled you with shame and unbearable pleasure.

“You’ll never be clean again, little lamb,” he whispered, dragging his lips along your ear. “You’re mine now.”

You came again—body clenching, muscles seizing—and he felt it.

“Oh fuck, yes,” he groaned. “Cum for me. Cum on your priest’s cock.”

You sobbed against his hand, and he fucked you through it, relentless and possessive.

When he came, it was with a broken growl against your neck, hot seed spilling inside you as his hips stuttered. He held you there, pressed together, shaking from release.

The silence returned. But it was different now. It was charged and consecrated.

He pulled out slowly. Turned you to face him again. You were a mess flushed, teary and ruined. And still Father James looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He cupped your cheek gently, thumb brushing away a tear.

“You did so well,” he whispered.

Your breath trembled. “What now?” you asked softly.

His smile was slow, dangerous. The kind of smile that made promises in the dark.

“Now,” he murmured, tucking your hair behind your ear, “you come back tomorrow.”

[winxanity-ii]

SINS OF DEVOTION [2/3]

ship: father charlie x fem!nun!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 (p in v ; fem. receiving hand-job/fingering; overstimulation; creampie, wrap before you tap kiddos; coercion/dub-con?; sacrilege, heavy religious imagery) word count: 3.6k a/n: wasn't planning on expanding the one-shot, but here we are. i literally stayed up 7+ hours to write this just cuz i got a bunch of praise in the notes 😩 i'm weak... anywho this is a continuation of my previous one-shot, '𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.' If you haven't read that yet, I recommend starting there to understand the progression of their relationship….final part: 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

★·.·´ɢʀᴏᴛᴇsǫᴜᴇʀɪᴇ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

Ever since that night, you couldn't look Father Charlie in the eyes. How could you, when the man—the symbol of the glory of the Father above—had been buried between your thighs like a man starved?

Just looking at him brought back all the feelings, the emotions that twisted and churned inside you, leaving you breathless and overwhelmed.

Every time you saw him in the chapel, his gaze lingering on you from across the room, your heart would race, your skin tingling with the memory of his touch.

You would try to focus on your duties, your prayers, but the image of him kneeling before you, his mouth claiming every part of you, would flash in your mind, making you falter. Your hands would tremble, your voice would break, and you would feel heat rising in your cheeks, knowing he was watching you.

And he was always watching you.

His eyes would find yours whenever you entered a room, his gaze dark and intent, filled with a hunger that hadn't diminished in the slightest since that stormy night.

You could feel it even from a distance—the way his eyes seemed to follow your every movement, as if he was marking you as his. It made your breath catch, your body reacting in ways you couldn't control, a mix of fear and anticipation coursing through you.

It was a regular Sunday mass when he finally cornered you; a neighboring pastor was visiting, giving a sermon, while you were cleaning out one of the confessionals.

The faint sound of the sermon echoed in the background, the low, rhythmic cadence of the visiting pastor's voice carrying through the church. You were kneeling on the ground, scrubbing the tiles, your sleeves rolled up to keep them out of the soapy water.

The scent of cleaning solution hung in the air as you worked, your humming soft, almost absent-minded, a gentle hymn that you barely even noticed yourself singing.

You were so absorbed in your task that you didn't notice the shadow fall over you until it was too late. You looked up, startled, your eyes widening as you tried to regain your composure.

"I'm sorry, this confessional booth is out of commission at the moment, I'm cleaning—" Your words trailed off as your gaze traveled upward, and your breath caught in your throat when you realized who was standing there.

It was Father Charlie.

His presence filled the small space, and you could feel the air grow heavy around you, your pulse quickening as his eyes locked onto yours. There was something about the way he looked at you—something dark and knowing—that made your heart pound, your hands freezing where they rested on the damp cloth.

The brush slipped from your fingers, falling back into the soapy water with a splash that sprayed droplets onto the floor and your habit, snapping you out of your daze. You stuttered, "F-Father Charlie," quickly standing up, giving a short bow. "Blessed Sunday morning, Father."

Charlie's lips twitched up into a smile as he stepped further into the cramped confessional booth, the door closing with a soft click behind him. "Blessed Sunday to you as well, Sister ____."

Your eyes flickered to his lips, your breath catching as your mind flashed back to how he had used that very mouth to bring you to the brink of pleasure—his lips, his tongue, every sinful movement etched into your memory. You swallowed hard, your face warming at the thought, your hands fidgeting as you struggled to look anywhere but at him.

You cleared your throat, your voice coming out small. "Is there... is there anything I can do for you, Father?"

Charlie hummed thoughtfully, taking another step closer until he was right in front of you, the space between you almost nonexistent.

Your gaze dropped to his chest, the black fabric of his cassock filling your vision, the scent of him overwhelming—something warm and clean, with a hint of incense. You could feel your heart pounding, your breath hitching as he spoke, his voice low and deep.

"There are many things you could do for me, Sister," he murmured, his tone shifting, darkening, as his lips curled into a smirk. "We could pray... or perhaps," he paused, his eyes glinting as his voice dropped even lower, "you could help me find a different kind of release."

Your eyes widened at the crude implication, your gaze shooting up to meet his, only to find him already watching your face, his eyes hooded and dark, filled with a hunger that made your stomach twist.

You felt heat pooling low in your belly, the tension in the small space between you almost unbearable. You shook your head slightly, your voice coming out in a whisper, shaky and unsure. "Father Charlie, we shouldn't... we can't..."

Charlie didn't answer, not with words. Instead, he took another step forward, his body pressing against yours as he used his arms to cage you in, one hand bracing against the wall of the confessional beside your head. His other hand moved to cup your cheek, his fingers tilting your face upward, forcing you to meet his gaze.

You could feel his breath, warm against your skin, his face so close that your noses almost brushed. His eyes were dark, filled with something raw, something that made your knees feel weak.

He leaned in even closer, his lips hovering just above yours, his voice a whisper, almost pleading. "Do you know what you do to me, Sister? How you push me to sin, how you make me want things I shouldn't?"

His hand left your cheek, moving down to grab your wrist, guiding your hand between your bodies, pressing it firmly against the hardness straining beneath his cassock. Your breath caught in your throat, a soft gasp escaping your lips as you felt him, your eyes widening, your entire body tensing at the sensation.

"Feel that?" he whispered against your lips, his voice thick with desire. "That's what you do to me. Every time I see you, every time you look at me with those innocent eyes... you make me lose control."

You felt your heart racing, your mind spinning, a mix of fear and something else—something dark and thrilling—coursing through you as Father Charlie's hand held yours in place, his gaze locked onto yours, unrelenting, his lips brushing against yours in the barest of touches, waiting, coaxing you to give in.

Your thoughts raced. So many times since that night, you had fantasized about him, dreamed about him fully taking you, about giving in to the desires that had been eating away at you. But now, with him right in front of you, so desperate, so wanting, it made you dizzy.

You were a nun, a devoted daughter, a wife to the Lord—yet here you were, on the verge of surrendering. Your lips parted as you took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, trying to cling to the last shreds of your faith.

But then you licked your lips, and you saw how his eyes immediately zeroed in on the movement, darkening with something almost primal. His gaze was intense, unblinking, and you felt the pull, the weight of his need, and it made something inside you snap.

With all the bravery you could muster, you leaned forward, pressing your lips to his.

It was soft, a gentle peck, barely more than a brush of your lips against his, but it was enough to make your heart race like you were running a marathon.

For a moment, you thought you could pull back, that this brief kiss could be enough to satisfy whatever it was burning between you.

But then Charlie groaned, the sound deep and raw, and before you could pull away, his hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you back to him, his lips crashing against yours with a hunger that made your knees weak. His tongue slipped between your parted lips, invading your mouth, exploring, tasting.

The kiss was nothing like your timid attempt—it was fierce, overwhelming, consuming.

You felt his tongue caressing the inside of your mouth, tracing the shape of your teeth, stroking your own tongue, coaxing it to move with his. He moved slowly, deliberately, as if he had all the time in the world, as if he was savoring every second, every taste.

You felt your head grow light from the lack of air, your body trembling, but still, you were locked in the kiss, unable to pull away, unable to do anything but respond to him.

Your hands moved of their own accord, one of them gripping the front of his cassock, the other reaching up to tangle in his hair. The soft strands slipped through your fingers, and you could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the way his body seemed to hum with tension, with need.

Charlie's other hand moved to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the hard lines of his body pressing into yours, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric of your habit. It made you feel like you were drowning in him, in his touch, his taste.

You whimpered against his lips, the sound muffled by the kiss, and he responded with a low growl, his hand tightening on your waist, his lips moving more insistently against yours.

Charlie pulled back, his forehead resting against yours as he panted, his breath hot and heavy, mingling with your own. His eyes were dark, filled with something raw and unrestrained, and he let out a low groan, his voice rough with desire. "I wish so badly to mark you up, to strip you down right here and lose myself in you," he murmured, his words sending a shiver down your spine. The explicitness of his words made your cheeks burn, your face flushing as you pressed it into his neck, trying to hide your embarrassment.

But he wasn't done. He tilted your chin back up, his thumb brushing over your flushed cheek, his eyes searching yours. "But it's too risky," he whispered, his voice filled with regret, and something almost feral. "So I'll settle for something much quicker."

As he spoke, his hands moved down, fingers traveling lower, bunching up the fabric of your tunic around your waist. His touch was frantic, almost desperate, his hands squeezing and kneading every inch of you he could reach, as if he couldn't get enough.

You could feel his fingers digging into your thighs, your hips, pulling you closer, pressing you against him, and it made your head spin, made your body ache with a need you didn't quite understand.

Your hands trembled as they found their place on his shoulders, your fingers hesitating, curling slightly in the fabric of his cassock. You wanted to touch him the way he was touching you, to let your hands explore, but you were too shy, too overwhelmed.

The intensity of his presence, the way his body felt against yours, it all left you breathless, your heart pounding in your chest.

Charlie's gaze remained locked on yours, his eyes dark and filled with something raw, something that made your pulse quicken. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a low murmur, almost a growl. "You don't have to be afraid... just let me take care of you."

Your breath hitched, your body tensing as you felt his hands venture lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear. Your eyes widened, a soft gasp escaping your lips, but it was quickly swallowed by Charlie as he covered your mouth with his own, his lips moving against yours, silencing your small cries and whimpers.

His fingers moved with purpose, finding your most sensitive spot, rubbing slow circles against your clit. The sensation made your knees go weak, your body trembling against him as he worked you with an expertise that left you breathless.

You tried to pull away from the kiss, to catch your breath, but he wouldn't let you, his mouth insistent, his tongue coaxing yours to move with his, swallowing every sound you made.

Your hands clung to his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric as you felt his fingers slide lower, teasing your entrance before slowly pushing inside.

A muffled whimper escaped your throat, your body tensing at the intrusion, the sensation both strange and thrilling. He moved slowly, his fingers stretching you, coaxing your body to relax, to accept him. You could feel every movement, every inch as he filled you, his touch deliberate, patient.

His lips never left yours, his kiss growing deeper, more demanding, as if he could feel your hesitation and was trying to coax you further, to draw you into the darkness with him. He pulled back for just a moment, his forehead resting against yours as he spoke, his voice a low whisper, thick with desire. "You feel so good, Sister... so perfect. Just let go for me."

Before you could respond, before you could even catch your breath, his hand moved to your thigh, his fingers curling around your leg as he lifted it, wrapping it around his waist.

The new angle made everything more intense, his fingers sinking deeper, his thumb brushing against your clit, drawing a shuddering moan from your lips.

The warmth in your belly grew, turning into a small flame that licked at your insides, consuming every thought, every hesitation; your body responded to his touch, your hips moving against his hand, seeking more of the pleasure he was giving you.

Charlie's breathing grew shallow, his eyes darkening as he watched you, his gaze roaming over your flushed cheeks, the way your lips parted, the soft gasps escaping your throat.

Your thighs trembled, your body growing tense as you felt the pressure building, the sensation coiling tightly in your core, threatening to snap at any moment.

But just as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, just as the first waves of your orgasm began to crest, Charlie stopped. He pulled his fingers away, leaving you gasping, the sudden emptiness almost painful.

A soft, desperate whimper escaped your lips, your eyes fluttering open, wide and confused as you looked up at him.

He met your gaze, his lips curling into a wicked smile as he brought his fingers to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as he sucked them clean, his tongue swirling around each digit, savoring the taste of you. "You taste so sweet, Sister," he murmured, his voice thick with lust, his words sending a shiver down your spine. "I could spend all day between your thighs... but right now, I need something more."

He shifted, his hands moving to the waistband of his robe, shuffling the fabric around as he freed himself. You couldn't see anything, the fabric obscuring your view, but you felt it—the hard, heavy length of him brushing against your inner thigh, the sensation making your breath catch, your leg twitch involuntarily at the contact.

Charlie moved with a practiced ease, his hands gripping your hips as he shifted you, lifting you as if you weighed nothing.

Your back pressed against the wall of the confessional, the cold surface a stark contrast to the heat of his body. He adjusted his hold on you, his arms wrapping around your thighs, lifting them until both of your legs were hooked around his waist.

You felt exposed, vulnerable, the position leaving you completely at his mercy, but there was something about the way he looked at you, something in his eyes that made your heart race, made your body ache for more.

His gaze locked onto yours, his eyes filled with a mix of lust and something deeper, something that made your breath hitch, your fingers clinging to his shoulders as he held you up, pressing you against the wall. His forehead rested against yours for a moment, his breath warm against your lips, his voice barely above a whisper. "You drive me mad, Sister... Forgive me, I can't hold back any longer."

He adjusted his hold on you, one arm wrapping tightly around your waist, holding you up against the wall with ease while his other hand moved beneath the ruffled fabric of your habit.

Your legs hitched open wider, instinctively allowing him more access as you felt the warmth of his hand trailing up your inner thigh, his fingers brushing against your skin. The anticipation made your breath catch, your heart pounding in your chest as you waited, your body aching for his touch.

You gasped softly as you felt something blunt press against your clit, moving up and down your slit, the sensation different this time—firmer, hotter. You thought it was his fingers again, but then Charlie let out a soft sigh, a quiet, breathless "fuck" that made your eyes widen, the realization hitting you all at once.

He wasn't using his fingers. It was him, the hard length of him brushing against you, spreading your slickness as he moved, the pressure making your head spin, your body growing even wetter at the sinful, blasphemous intimacy of it.

His movements were slow, deliberate, his eyes locked on yours as if daring you to look away, to deny what was happening. But you couldn't—your gaze was trapped by his, your lips parted as soft whimpers escaped, the sound swallowed by the heavy air between you.

Charlie's breath grew more ragged, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "Do you feel that, Sister? Do you see what you do to me?" His voice was thick with lust, his words a mixture of reverence and something far more depraved. He moved his hips, sliding himself against you, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through your body, making you moan softly, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

His lips moved to your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against your skin as he began to push inside you, his voice low and shaky as he muttered a scripture, the holy words twisted by the desire lacing his tone. "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..." His voice trailed off into a deep, guttural groan as he sank deeper, the stretch almost too much, a sharp burn that made you gasp, your eyes squeezing shut as your body struggled to adjust to him.

Charlie paused for a moment, his forehead resting against yours once again, his breathing heavy, his eyes searching your face as if looking for any sign of hesitation. But you were too lost in the sensation—the way he filled you, the way your body seemed to mold around him, the burn slowly giving way to something else, something that made your toes curl, your breath hitching as you nodded, a silent plea for him to keep going.

He smiled, a dark, almost tender smile, his lips brushing against yours as he whispered, "Perfect." His hips moved again, slowly at first, his movements careful, deliberate, as he began to build a rhythm, each thrust sending a wave of pleasure through you, the feeling overwhelming, all-consuming.

And as you clung to him, your body trembling, you knew there was no turning back, no escaping the hold he had on you.

The two of you got lost in one another, the heat between you burning like a fire, desire crackling like embers, growing hotter with every movement. Charlie's pace quickened, his breaths coming out in harsh pants, his groans muffled as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body pressing against yours as if he couldn't get close enough.

The rhythm of his thrusts grew more erratic, each one more desperate than the last, the intensity making your head spin, the pleasure building until it was almost too much.

You could hear him, his voice a mix of groans and soft, needy whines, his lips brushing against your neck, the sensation sending shivers down your spine. His hands gripped you tighter, holding you in place as he moved, the friction, the pressure, everything pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

Your body tensed, your muscles clenching around him as the band inside you finally snapped, the pleasure washing over you in a blinding wave. You gasped, your head falling back against the wall, your eyes squeezing shut as your entire body trembled, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you clung to him, riding out the high.

Charlie shuddered in your arms, his own body tensing as he felt you tighten around him, his movements growing sloppy, desperate, until he finally stilled, his hips pressing against yours as he let out a low, guttural groan.

You felt the warmth of him spreading inside you, the sensation almost surreal, the realization that you had pushed him to this point, that you had made him lose control, making your heart pound even harder.

He stayed like that for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his eyes half-lidded as he looked at you, something almost soft in his gaze.

Slowly, he pulled away, his hands moving to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing against your flushed cheeks as he leaned in, his nose bumping gently against yours, a small, tender gesture that made your heart swell.

Charlie's eyes held yours, his gaze intense, filled with a mix of emotions that you couldn't quite decipher. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, his voice still thick with the remnants of his desire. "Pleasure is deceitful... as it was for the harlot, yet I cannot resist you."

A/N: alright guys, chill with the praise and notes or i won't be able to get rest 😔🫶🏾🫶🏾jkjkjk keep them coming i'm a whore for them 🥴

[salt-and-sin-and-spn]

I love the idea of Dean having a breeding kink-just wanting to fill you up until your pregnant and never stopping even when you are

⛥ Notes from the confessional #9 ⛥

Dean stumbles into the kitchen, almost toppling a chair. His eyes are wide, he's breathing heavily. You look up from the peach you're cutting, put the knife down on the board.

"What's going on, baby?"

Dean looks at you in disbelief. He crosses the room in long strides and crowds you against the counter in no time.

"What do you mean, what's going on?"

There's a look of surprise on his face, one that might even suggest he's a little offended by your question. You giggle and squeal as his mouth lands on your neck, hands hastily wandering down to your ass.

"We've got about two hours of alone time and today is the 6.," he mumbles in-between kisses, feeling you up.

"Dean," you laugh, "let me clean up at least." You try to push him away without getting peach juice everywhere, but Dean doesn't cooperate. He just pulls back for a second, looks at you with that hungry look, grasps your hand. And then your fingers are in his mouth, tongue wet and hot against your skin as he licks each digit clean.

You can't help a tiny moan escaping you at his intensity, and it just spurs him on. His lips move to your mouth, kissing, biting, working himself into a frenzy. You gasp when he turns you around, bending you over the counter. You can feel his hot breath fanning over your cheek.

"You know I can smell it, right?" You tilt your head back as Dean shuffles up your skirt, giving your ass a firm squeeze. "You smell even better when your body is ready to have my baby," he whispers, hands fumbling with the button on his jeans.

You turn back for a sloppy kiss, all tongue and teeth as you feel his fingers pushing into you, spreading your wetness all over your lips. You stand on the tips of your toes and moan into his mouth when he finally presses against and, seconds later, into you.

Dean whimpers your name as he sinks into you like a hot knife into butter with how wet you are. Mumbles something about you being so soft. And then he starts thrusting like his life depends on it.

That's it, baby - God dammit you're so wet - you feel so good - want me to fill you up, huh? - put another baby in you? - make you nice and round and soft again? - let everyone see you're mine?

You come when he does, and you can feel him spilling himself deep inside you, hot, sticky. Dean holds you tight as he pants, steadying himself on the sink, not slipping out of you.

When you try to move, all muscles in your lower body still tense so you won't drip all over the kitchen floor, Dean holds you in place with his hips.

You turn back to look at him, seeing a self-satisfied grin on his face.

"Where do you think you're going, sweetheart? We still got an hour and 50 minutes left."

⛥Come and share your own headcanons here! The confessional is open.⛥

[drewsephrry]

Love Island - Episode 8: Kiss it Better, Baby

pairings: rafe cameron x fem!reader

words: 3k

warnings: intimate kissing, cuss words

kissing challenge results | series masterlist

The girls are huddled on a bench, buzzing with excitement. Across from them, the boys stand in a line, blindfolded and wearing headphones. Maddy stands by a giant whiteboard with everyone's names, holding a heart-shaped board covered in notes.

“Alright, ladies.” Maddy grins, slipping into full presenter mode. “How are we feeling about this kissing challenge?”

Laughter and cheers erupt from the bench. Maddy smirks.

“Ready to kiss some boys?” She teases. The girls erupt again, hollering in agreement as Maddy glances at her board.

“Okay, first up is Kiara!”

Kiara stands, smoothing her dress.

“Wish me luck.” She quips and the girls give her a playful shove toward the lineup.

She starts with JJ. Their kiss is intense, deep. Then she moves down the line: Ryan, Topper, Kelce, Rafe, John B and finally, Pope. That one’s gentler, a little awkward, but still sweet. She gives him another soft peck before heading back to the bench, her cheeks flushed.

The boys take off their headphones as the music cuts.

“So, boys.” Maddy asks. “Thoughts on our first girl?”

“Good kiss.” Pope says, grinning. Kiara shakes her head with a laugh.

“Pretty solid start.” JJ agrees.

Maddy records their ratings and Kiara scores 53 points. She does a little shoulder shimmy, proud of the result.

“Cleo, you’re up!” Maddy calls, as soon as the boys put their headphones back on

Cleo's approach is slower, more thoughtful. Her kisses are softer, lingering a bit longer on new guy, Ryan and Pope. With Pope, there's something deeper. His hands drift up her sides and when they separate, his lips are slightly swollen and shimmering with her Fenty gloss.

Cleo earns 55 points. She flashes Kiara a cheeky middle finger making Kiara laugh.

Next is Sarah. Her kisses are sensual, soft but confident.

“I think I’m getting turned on.” Y/N mutters, fanning herself as Sarah kisses Ryan.

When she gets to John B, her arms loop around his shoulders. He instinctively wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her close. Their kiss deepens and she giggles mid-way before moving to his neck, trailing up to his ear with a slow lick and a playful bite. John B gasps in response and the girls erupt in squeals. Sarah walks back with 63 points.

Then comes Alyssa. She lingers on Topper, but it’s clear her moment is with Rafe. She turns to the girls with a smirk.

“I never got my chance with him so…sorry, Y/N.” She says, before tugging Rafe down into a kiss.

Y/N rolls her eyes, watching closely. The kiss is messy, desperate but Rafe doesn’t lean in. His hands stay crossed behind his back. When it’s over, he wipes his mouth and Cleo elbows Y/N, wide-eyed.

Alyssa scores the lowest, even with Topper’s generous 10. She scowls as she returns to the bench.

Confessional - Alyssa She stares at the camera, fully offended. “I got a 52? Are you kidding me?” She scoffs, arms crossed.

Now it’s Maddy’s turn. The girls cheer as she heads to the boys with purpose. Her kisses are slow and deliberate, especially with Kelce. His hands grip her ass as her dress rides up slightly. They kiss longer than anyone else so far and when she pulls back, her cheeks are flushed.

Maddy earns 60 points. Not a win, but close enough to be proud.

Then, Abigail dives in with pure excitement, making the most of every kiss. She scores 53 points and returns to the bench beaming, not worried about the score.

Last but definitely not least, Y/N rises from the bench and walks slowly toward the lineup of blindfolded boys. She starts with JJ. Their kiss begins soft, but he wastes no time making it messier. His hands grip her waist while her nails trail across his abs, exposed beneath his open shirt.

Next is Ryan. She surprises him by pulling him down to her height, confidently guiding his hands to her ass while cupping his face. Their kiss is slow, sensual and charged. Ryan melts into it, drawing her in closer.

“Oh my god.” Maddy breathes, watching with wide eyes as the rest of the girls exchange stunned looks.

Y/N pulls away with a smirk and moves on to Topper. Their kiss is more tentative as he fumbles with his hands, unsure of where to place them. But Y/N holds her ground and kisses him gently, keeping the moment light.

She approaches Kelce, bracing herself for discomfort, but it never comes. The kiss is unexpectedly sweet, stirring up old memories and forgotten wounds. When she pulls away, she pats his cheek twice, almost fondly, before stepping toward Rafe.

She stops in front of him, pausing to take him in. His head bobs lightly to the beat in his headphones, arms still crossed behind his back like they’ve been for every kiss, so far. His polo clings to his chest, the stubble on his jaw making her knees wobble.

She closes the distance, fingers grazing his chest, then his neck, before cradling his face. Her lips meet his softly at first, but the moment they connect, his hands drop to her waist, pulling her in. The kiss deepens. He groans low in his throat, his grip tightening on her ass, not rough, but firm enough to leave a mark in her memory.

She pulls back to breathe, then kisses down his neck, slowly, deliberately. He tightens his grip on her hips, pressing her against him.

“Y/N…” He whispers. Though he can’t see her, she looks up at him anyway, then leans in again. This time the kiss is shorter, but just as intense. So much that it leaves her dizzy and him breathless. Before walking away, she bites his bottom lip gently, drawing another groan. The girls laugh from the bench as Rafe exhales sharply and bends slightly, adjusting his pants, clearly flustered.

Confessional - Y/N She nods slowly, her voice soft. “The kiss with Rafe…yeah, it was steamy.” Her eyes drift slightly, a dazed look in them. “And he…he said my name.” A pause. “He’s still not forgiven, though.”

Still catching her breath, Y/N kisses John B. It’s soft, sweet and brief. She knows nothing else could measure up after Rafe.

Finally, she reaches Pope. Their kiss is warm, unhurried. When she pulls back, she’s smiling and so is he.

Y/N returns to the bench just as the music cuts and the boys remove their headphones, but not their blindfolds.

“Boys.” Maddy announces. “That was our seventh and final girl. Thoughts?”

“Hell.” Rafe mutters, drawing chuckles from the girls. Maddy raises an eyebrow.

“Well, Rafe, it seemed like you got a little more...engaged during that round. Any notes? Comments?”

Y/N rolls her eyes as Maddy looks at her knowingly. She reapplies her lip gloss, trying not to smirk. Rafe shakes his head.

“No notes. Just…she’s a fucking amazing kisser.” Down the line, Ryan nods, clearly agreeing. Sarah elbows Y/N.

“You seem confident.” Maddy teases. “Think you know who you were kissing?”

“I don’t think.” Rafe says. “I know.”

Confessional - Rafe “When her lips touched mine…I knew. That’s it. I just knew.” He looks dead serious, like he’s just had a revelation.

Maddy turns back to her chalkboard.

“Alright, time for the ratings. JJ?”

“Solid kiss.” JJ replies. “The nail thing? Hot. I’ll give her an 8.”

Maddy scribbles it down.

“Ryan, you seemed to be enjoying yourself…”

Ryan nods, glancing toward where he thinks Y/N might be.

“Yeah, she definitely knew what she was doing. I liked how she took control, put my hands where she wanted.”

Rafe scoffs.

“It’s a 10 from me.” Ryan adds. The girls react with surprise. Even Y/N raises an eyebrow. Maddy clears her throat theatrically.

“Would you kiss her again?” She asks, glancing at Y/N.

“No hesitation.” Ryan says with a grin. Rafe shifts, jaw clenched, clearly irritated.

“Topper?”

“A little awkward, probably my fault.” He admits. “And considering Rafe ‘knows’ who it was, I’d rather not get my ass beat, so…6.”

The girls laugh and Y/N grins, unfazed.

“Good man.” Rafe mutters approvingly.

“Kelce?”

Kelce scratches the back of his neck.

“I had my suspicions before, but Rafe confirmed them. Great kiss. No hard feelings. I’ll give it a 9.”

Y/N gives him a grateful smile as Maddy turns to Rafe.

“Okay, Ra-” “10.” Rafe cuts her off, arms crossed, smirking. Maddy blinks but jots it down.

With John B and Pope’s ratings added, Y/N earns 61 points, which confirms Sarah's win. The girls cheer for the final scores as the boys remove their blindfolds and crowd around the board.

Rafe’s eyes find Y/N immediately, lingering on her flushed cheeks and glossed lips.

Now it’s the girls’ turn, as they line up with playful grins and nervous giggles, slipping on their headphones and adjusting their blindfolds while the boys take their seats on the bench. Kelce stands front and center, holding the heart-shaped board filled with notes.

“Alright, first up is John B!” He announces, earning cheers as John B rises.

John B moves down the line smoothly, planting soft kisses with ease. He lingers a little longer on Sarah, wrapping her up in his arms, making her giggle into his chest. It’s sweet, familiar. He returns to the bench with 53 points, shrugging nonchalantly.

Topper is next and things immediately get awkward. He’s all elbows and bad timing. Pulling Maddy a little too hard, landing a kiss on Kiara’s nose and going way too intense with Y/N.

“I am really, really sorry for this.” Y/N says, readjusting her blindfold, her tone apologetic but honest. “It just wasn’t my speed. I’m gonna have to give it a 6.”

Topper returns to the bench with 50 points as the guys try to lift his spirits.

Kelce’s turn brings a wave of energy. He’s charming, deliberate, taking his time with each girl. Deep kisses, roving hands, a confident swagger and he racks up an impressive 65 points, leaving everyone cheering in surprise.

Pope follows, more tender and precise. His soft touch earns him a ‘10’ from Cleo, boosting him to a solid 58 points.

And then, it’s Rafe. He stands slowly, his jaw tight, but eyes scanning the lineup until they land on her.

She doesn’t know he’s watching, of course. Her head’s tilted slightly to the beat of the music in her ears, her weight shifting from foot to foot. Her hands tucked into her back pockets. And those jeans hugging her figure just right.

He starts with Cleo, a soft kiss and steady hands. Then Maddy, with a light grip around the waist. Alyssa, Kiara, Abigail, Sarah, each kiss deliberate, measured. But they’re just stepping stones. Because then, he’s in front of her.

And something shifts.

He doesn’t hesitate. His hands find her waist and pull her toward him in one swift motion, surprising her. Her breath catches as her fingers instinctively clutch his shirt. The scent of his cologne, familiar yet dangerous, wraps around her like a second skin. She doesn’t know it’s him, but her body remembers.

He cups her face gently, his lips brushing hers, tender at first before deepening the kiss with purpose. His tongue slips past her lips, drawing a breathy sound from her throat. One hand moves to the nape of her neck, holding her in place, while the other slides down, gripping her thighs and lifting her up effortlessly. She gasps as her legs wrap around his waist. His hand grips her ass firmly, massaging the flesh and she lets out a sound she doesn’t even recognize.

His lips find her neck. A kiss. Then a bite. She grips his shoulders hard, nails digging into his skin and he hisses in delight. He kisses her again, hungrier now, messier. Her lip gloss smears onto his lips as her head tilts to chase more.

When he finally pulls back, it’s not to catch his breath but to admire her. Lips swollen. Hair tousled. Cheeks flushed. Two faint marks on her neck.

He knows she’s going to kill him for that. And he also knows he doesn’t care.

He sets her down gently, presses one last squeeze to her ass and walks back without a word. The boys erupt in laughter and high fives and he accepts them all with a smug smile, casually wiping her lip gloss from his mouth with the back of his hand.

Confessional - Rafe “I particularly enjoyed the kiss with Y/N.” He says, dragging out the words. “No surprise there.” He smirks.

The girls remove their headphones just as Kelce speaks up.

“Girls, what did you think of boy number five?”

“It was nice.” Maddy smiles.

“Very sweet. And very respectful too.” Abigail adds. But Y/N tilts her head, still blindfolded, brows furrowed.

“Y/N, you’re making a face.” Kelce notes.

“I…I think I got some type of different treatment with this one?” She says, laughing awkwardly, touching her flushed cheeks.

“Good different?” Maddy asks and Y/N doesn’t hesitate.

“No, yeah. Definitely good.”

Topper’s laughing, practically shaking Rafe beside him. Rafe just leans back with a smug grin.

“Alright, ladies, time to rate the guy.” Kelce says. The scores go around until it’s Y/N’s turn. Everyone watches.

“I’m probably gonna regret this later when he rubs it in my face.” She begins, sighing. “But…I’d give that kiss a 10.”

Topper cheers, the girls burst into laughter and Rafe just sits there smirking, glitter still shining on his lips proudly.

Y/N is still breathless. But not from the kiss. But from knowing exactly who it was because no one else ever made her feel like that.

JJ is next, springing up from the bench with a grin and ripping off his shirt, earning cheers and laughter from the boys. His score isn't quite what he hoped for, but he shrugs it off with a smirk as he returns to his seat.

“At least I beat JB.” He jokes, making John B chuckle. He plops down on the bench as the final boy stands.

Ryan steps forward, making his way toward the girls with smooth confidence. He works down the line with soft kisses and warm touches, a playful charm in every step. But when he reaches the last girl, his pace changes. There’s a flicker of excitement as he crouches down, his hands gently cupping Y/N’s face. Her lips part slightly at the contact and instinctively, he wets his own before leaning in.

His kiss is nothing like Rafe’s. There’s no rush, no urgency. It’s slow and tender, his lips moving carefully against hers, tongue just teasing enough to leave her wanting more. His hands rest lightly on her waist, fingers squeezing her hips with gentle intent. When he finally pulls away, she’s breathless, leaning in again like she might follow him.

Confessional - Ryan “Y/N…she’s addictive. Like, once you get a taste? Good luck walking away.” He bites his lip.

From the bench, Rafe watches, jaw tight, every nerve in his body screaming to look away but he doesn’t. He can’t. He sees her response and it knots something inside him.

Ryan straightens and returns to his seat as the girls begin removing their headphones.

“Last boy, ladies, what’s the verdict?” Kelce grins, glancing at the board before turning back.

“It was cute.” Sarah says casually.

“Unexpected.” Y/N murmurs under her breath.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that.” Kelce pipes up. “Care to repeat that for the group, Y/N?”

She hesitates.

“I...I said it was unexpected.”

Rafe’s eyes flick to her, a quiet question in his gaze. Cleo raises a brow, half amused.

“Girl, don’t talk in riddles. Was it good or bad unexpected?” She asks, getting impatient. Y/N lets out a small laugh with the others.

“It was good.” She licks her lips, fidgeting with her ring. “Really good.”

Kelce looks away from the notes in his hand.

“And why exactly was it unexpected?”

“I’m not sure.” She says, softly. “It just…it surprised me. It was a nice kiss.” She exhales. “Can we just move to the rating?”

Kelce nods and asks Cleo to start. One by one, the girls give their scores, until it’s Y/N’s turn.

“So, Y/N.” Kelce prompts, marker in hand. “What’s it gonna be?”

“It was a nice kiss. Sweet. Soft. More my pace, I guess.” She swallows. “I’d give it a…10.”

The boys erupt in cheers around Ryan as Topper’s head snaps back toward Rafe. Kelce raises his eyebrows, scribbling the score on the board.

“That brings boy number seven to a total of 59 points. Ladies, you can now remove your blindfolds.”

The girls step forward to study the board, their eyes adjusting to the light. The boys follow, teasing and comparing scores. Y/N blinks, scanning the numbers, then gasps.

“Oh my god, Topper, I’m so sorry about the 6.” She exclaims, grabbing his arm and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Don’t worry about it.”

As Sarah points out a name on the board, Y/N turns to her, chatting. When Sarah turns to ask Maddy something, Y/N feels something behind her. Or someone. A hand grazes her waist. A breath brushes her neck. Goosebumps rise on her skin.

“When I give you the signal.” A voice murmurs. “Meet me on the terrace.”

She nods almost imperceptibly, then glances back at Sarah as if nothing happened. But her eyes keep flicking to him. Waiting.

He’s laughing with Pope, fingers running through his hair and then he catches her eye. A wink. A silent cue. He excuses himself before he steps away, heading up the stairs.

Y/N leans into Sarah.

“I’m gonna go…to the terrace.” She murmurs, subtly nodding in that direction. Sarah’s eyes widen, tracking his absence.

“With him?” She asks and Y/N nods.

“We need to talk. Especially after that challenge.”

Sarah sighs, placing a hand on Y/N’s shoulder.

“If anything happens, call my name. Got it?” She advises and Y/N nods, slipping away through the bedroom and up the stairs. She pauses outside the makeup room, inhaling deeply before pushing open the door.

He’s there, sitting on the couch, gaze fixed on the villa below. When the door clicks shut, he turns to her.

“Hey.” He says quietly, sitting up.

“Hi.” She replies, just as softly.

to be continued...

taglist: @cherrygirlfriend @judesgfirl @slickdickwitchbitchh @leather-n-velvet @alinavalentine @littlelamy @nami11 @madiisynnxx @ts1mp0ne @starkeyslibrary @rafecameronsfavourite @rafesbuzzcutseason @lolharrystylesissexy @nofacenocase00 @k4yr14 @drewslefttoe @tinie03 @angielvsnick @dellevans @malibuhearts @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @harryweeniee @imawhoreforu @fastlovela @jjmaybankmylovee @nemesyaaa @drewsnr1slut @laniirackssss @emotionsmgcbabe @oconnrs @missabsey @cornliastreett @pvyden @italk2god @maybankslover @swagmoneydrew @lerclec @emmaaas-posts @rafecameronxxx @dorcas4meadowes @isabellaxlilah @xoxosblogsblog @bxbychxrry @julesbog @annaaaamichelle @st8rkey @lewispool @silkylovey @heartlesslies @akobx

[sknyuz]

sunshine under the weather | l.s.m.

synopsis — when seokmin’s on his “deathbed,” you don’t hesitate. you show up with soup, medicine, and his favorite vitamin jellies. he whines, clings, and insists he’s dying. you roll your eyes and stay anyway.

pairing — lee seokmin (dk) x reader

genre — friends-to-lovers, comfort, fluff, confessionals, soft moments, sick!seokmin, mutual pining, emotional intimacy, lowkey domestic vibes

warnings — none, really... mentions of illnes and skinship

word count — ~2.1k

a/n — doing my first request on here from @seokminfilm !! i hope u enjoy <3 and i hope i did dk’s bright demeanor justice despite him being sick in this one TT enjoy <3

you don’t even knock when you arrive. seokmin gave you the spare key months ago, claiming it was “just in case,” but judging by the way he sounds over the phone—groggy, dramatic, and insistent that he’s “definitely on his deathbed”—this qualifies as an emergency.

“seokmin?” you call out, kicking off your shoes and juggling a tote bag full of supplies: water bottles, medicine, soup, and those vitamin jelly things he weirdly loves.

a faint groan echoes from the couch. “i’m here... barely.”

you find him bundled in a mountain of blankets, only the top of his messy hair and the tip of his nose visible. his cheeks are flushed, his eyes glassy, and there’s a tissue tragically hanging off his pinky finger like he got distracted mid-sneeze and gave up.

“you look like a burrito that’s seen better days,” you say gently, dropping your things on the coffee table.

“you’re lucky i’m too weak to fight back,” he mumbles, voice scratchy but still full of unnecessary sass. “is this... is this my final form?”

“you’re so dramatic,” you reply, already kneeling beside him to press the back of your hand to his forehead. he leans into your touch like a sunflower to sunlight. “yep. you’re burning up.”

he pouts, “told you. i’m dying.” groaning dramatically.

“you have a fever, not the plague.”

he tries to muster a whiny comeback but it’s lost in a cough that has him curling deeper into the blankets. you sigh and start unpacking your bag.

“we need to get you to bed.”

“but the couch is my kingdom now.”

“the couch smells like cough drops and sadness.”

he snorts. “you’re mean to a sick man.”

“and yet, here i am. come on.” you tug at the blanket. “up.”

it takes far too long, with plenty of exaggerated groans and muttered complaints (“you’re stronger than me. just carry me.” “i’m literally trying.”), but you finally manage to get him to his feet. sort of. he slumps against you dramatically, all long limbs and no coordination.

“wow,” you grunt. “you’re heavy.”

“muscle,” he whispers. “pure muscle.”

“you’re a noodle right now.”

he whines at this, flailing his arms as you steady yourself, “okay, now let’s get you to bed,” you say, guiding him slowly down the hallway. each step seems to drain him more, his grip on your arm growing slightly firmer with every passing second. when you finally manage to get him settled in bed, you start pulling the blankets over him.

he’s barely awake, eyes half-lidded, a slight pout on his lips. “i’m comfy... i’ll be fine, y/n.” he mumbles, not sounding very convincing at all.

“you’re feverish, seokmin. you need to cool down.” you brush his hair out of his face. “wait right here. i’ll get a towel with some ice water to help bring your temperature down.” just as you were standing up, he shifts in the bed, his hand weakly reaching out toward you as if he’s not quite ready to let you go. “don’t leave me…” his voice is barely audible, thick with sleep, but there's an almost desperate note to it.

you freeze, turning back to look at him, his big eyes peeking up at you from under his half-closed lashes. his hand is resting limply on the edge of the bed, as if reaching out to you, but it feels soft—fragile, even. you can’t help but pause, heart softening.

"i’m not going anywhere," you reply, moving back toward him. you brush a thumb across his hand, giving him a reassuring smile. “just need to grab a towel, okay?”

he closes his eyes for a second, letting out a little sigh. “stay close…” he murmurs, but there’s a trace of vulnerability in his voice now that he’s too tired to mask it.

you nod, your hand gently cupping his cheek. “i’m right here.”

when you finally leave to grab the towel, you can still hear his weak little hum of protest, but you know he’ll be okay. after all, you’re not going anywhere.

you quickly grab a basin, fill it with cold water and ice from the freezer, then rush back to seokmin’s side. when you re-enter the room, he’s curled up under the covers, his face flushed, cheeks burning with fever. his eyes are closed, but the slow, shallow rise and fall of his chest tells you he’s still awake—still fighting it.

you sit down beside him, carefully lifting his head just enough to slip a towel over his forehead. the second the cold hits his skin, he flinches.

“ah… cold!” he whines, scrunching his nose, his body curling in tighter as if he could escape the chill.

“sorry, i know,” you whisper, smoothing the towel over his forehead, trying to make it more bearable. he looks so fragile like this. not the usual sunshine you’re used to. and it does something to your heart—this version of him, all quiet and needy and not hiding how he feels.

“hold still for me, okay? just a little,” you murmur, fingers brushing his damp hair back gently. seokmin seems to melt back into the pillow, letting out a sigh, still shivering slightly from the cold.

“minnie…” the old nickname slips out before you even realize it, soft and natural, like it’s always been there. “you’re okay. you’re going to feel better soon.”

his eyes blink open, slow and glassy with fever. they search your face, and a tiny, tired smile tugs at his lips. his hand reaches up, rests gently over yours.

“minnie…” he repeats, his voice nothing more than a breath. “that’s... you haven’t called me that since highschool...”

you laugh quietly, heart twisting at the way he says the childish nickname, yet it holds an affectionate ring to it. it makes you want to stay like this forever. to keep him safe. to be the warmth he always is to everyone else.

you trail your fingers along his jaw, soft and comforting. “you’re adorable, you know that?” you whisper. and it’s not just teasing. not this time. there’s something tender in it, something honest.

his eyes flutter, and he lets out a soft yawn. “minnie…” he murmurs and repests the nickname in his tongue again, a little dazed now, and you press the towel to his skin once more.

you chuckle, heart warming at the way he says it, even though he’s still weak and feverish. it makes you realize how much you want to take care of him, how much you want to be there for him—always. maybe he’s always been your sunshine, but today, it feels like he’s the one who needs the warmth.

you brush his cheek gently, your thumb tracing the soft line of his jaw. “you’re adorable, you know that?” you say, your tone light, but there's a softness to it now that wasn’t there before. He’s not just the energetic seokmin now. he’s someone you want to protect, someone who, even in his most vulnerable state, makes you want to take care of him even more.

you don’t leave. you can’t. not when he looks so small in this bed, not when his fingers curl weakly around yours like he doesn’t want you to go.

seokmin’s eyes flutter open suddenly, and for a moment, he’s disoriented. he blinks a few times, trying to adjust to the dim light in the room, and then he sees you—still by his side, sitting right next to him, with your hair messy from the long day. the soft glow from the bedside lamp outlines your face, and his heart does this soft little skip when he notices how you look, a little worn out, but still there.

he can’t help it. he reaches out and gently brushes the strands of hair from your face, his touch tender. you stir, groaning slightly as you shift, but don’t quite wake up.

his hand lifts slowly, brushing a few strands from your face. his touch is gentle, reverent.

“y/n?” his voice is hoarse.

you blink, rubbing your eyes, clearly still half-asleep. “mmm… you up?” you murmur, not fully aware yet. “how do you feel?”

seokmin doesn’t answer immediately. his eyes linger on you, on how you’re still so worried about him despite how exhausted you must be. how you’re always looking out for him, even when you’re drained yourself. he smiles softly, but it’s gentle, sincere.

“i should be asking you that,” he says, and it’s laced with that soft, familiar concern that always makes your heart ache. you sneeze, a tiny, tired sound, and his face shifts immediately into a pout.

“ah… y/n...” he whines, leaning forward to grab your shoulders gently, pulling you toward him. “c’mere…” he murmurs, voice soft but insistent, and before you can react, he’s pulling you into his arms, tucking you against his chest.

you don’t fight it. you let yourself be drawn in, let him wrap his arms around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like it’s where you belong.

he tucks the blanket over both of you, his palm resting between your shoulder blades as he rubs slow, soothing circles.

you melt into him, your ear pressed against his chest, listening to the soft, steady beat of his heart.

you’re quiet for a moment, content in his arms, but there’s something bubbling up inside of him. a feeling he’s been trying to ignore for a while now. his heart beats a little faster, and he can’t quite shake the urge to say what’s been on his mind for longer than he’d like to admit.

“y/n,” he whispers. you tilt your head up, eyes meeting his. his hand cradles your cheek, thumb brushing lightly along your skin.

“i’m not going anywhere, okay?” his voice is steady, quiet but full of something that makes your breath catch. “i know you always take care of me… but this time, i want to take care of you.”

he pauses, swallows.

“and i wouldn’t want it any other way,” he says with a shy grin, like he’s trying to play it off—but the look in his bright, big eyes is serious. “you’re my best friend, yeah. but… i don’t want to be just your friend anymore. i want to be by your side… for real. not only as your ‘sunshine,’ or your study buddy. just as me, lee seokmin. and you.”

your heart stutters. everything goes still.

he’s never looked at you like this before. or maybe he has, and you just never let yourself notice.

you open your mouth, but he’s already speaking again.

“i don’t know when it happened. i just… i’ve always wanted more. i think i’ve always wanted you.”

his confession lingers in the air, warm and honest.

you stare at him, and suddenly all the lingering touches and late-night calls and “accidental” cuddles on movie nights hit you like a wave. it’s always been there. it’s always been him.

you lift your hand, press it gently to his cheek, your thumb brushing over the curve of his jaw.

“i’m not going anywhere either, seokmin,” you whisper. “i think i’ve always known… i wanted you, too.”

his smile stretches wide, eyes crinkling at the corners as he pulls you in tighter, like he’s afraid you might disappear.

“good,” he breathes. “because i don’t think i could ever let you go.” seokmin whines, practically squeezing you in his arms.

you giggle at this, sighing happily, soft and breathless, as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

and in that quiet, under the soft hum of the heater and the fading ice in the basin, something shifts. something clicks into place—

he’s your sunshine. and you’re finally ready to be his, too.

a/n: ahh !! i learned how to make gradient colors on text~ thank u for requesting a fic, it means so much to me and pushes me to write even more. would appreciate a follow and more requests like this. thank u guys sm <3 the taglist for my upcoming mingyu fic is still open !!

[exqorcism]

𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐂𝐇 ━ father charlie mayhew

★ warnings: nsfw content ahead!! making out, blasphemy, slutty!reader, they're both horny as fuck (sorry not sorry...), handjob, oral (m!receiving), face fucking, use of "daddy" like once or twice, use of "father" during sex, unprotected p in v, slight size kink?? lmk if i missed something

☆ note: my first attempt at smut and... not sure how i feel? other than that, it's my first fanfic on tumblr!!! feedback is deeply appreciated, enjoy :)

!! english is not my first language !! ౨ৎ

She knew he craved for her the way she craved for him.

The way her eyes followed him as he spoke, the way a little smile tugged at the corner of her lips every time their eyes met. The way he looked at her with a lust so deep that he couldn't comprehend it. The way he got nervous every time she walked through that big, heavy door in her ridiculously short skirts, making him unable to focus.

She was there every day, watching him, waiting for the perfect time to get to his head. But he never let her. He always left the platform before she could even take a step forward.

Yet he couldn't stop thinking about her. In the night, when he was all alone, he wrapped a hand around his cock and pumped, her pretty face in his mind, as he came hard each time.

Let's say, he was getting pretty good at avoiding her.

It was until, after the Sunday mass, she came up to him and said: “I would like to confess” confidently, even though hesitation could be heard in her soft voice. Everyone else left the church, and it was only them now. The thought made her heart skip a beat.

Father Charlie smiled at her, trying not to look at her exposed legs. She was teasing him, with her ridicolously short skirts and cut-low tops. Her pretty, almond-shaped eyes scanned over his face, and he felt his pants getting tighter every passing second.

“Of course. Come to my office at 8”, he cleared his throat, eyes leaving her small form only to wander around the walls of the church. Suddenly he felt nervous by her presence and the effect she had on him. She bit her pretty glossed lip and he swore he could come just at the sight of her. This little, slutty sinner. He thought about bending her over the bench and fucking the confidence out of her.

“Thank you, Father”, she replied and nodded her head, and then she left. Her voice caused him to take a deep breath; he didn’t realise he was holding it in. Her smell surrounding him, and he inhaled deeply: the smell of vanilla, tobacco and a little bit of her making his head spin.

“Lust is a sin”, he mumbled, closing his eyes, but then he saw her; on her knees, all submissive, taking his cock deep in her mouth. Her face when he made her cum, the way her pretty tits bounced if he let her take control and ride on him. Father Charlie opened his eyes immidiately, and his eyes brimmed with tears. “God, forgive me”.

Y/N knocked on his office door exactly at 8 p.m. She was wearing a short, black skirt, long-sleeved top that barely covered her boobs, a leather jacket and platform boots. She bit her lip nervously when she heard his voice from inside: a raspy “Come in”, that made her heart skip a bit, and she twisted the doorknob.

“Good evening, Y/N”. The way he looked at her made her want to clench her thighs together. His eyes scanned over her legs, and then her boobs, and finally, they settled on her pretty face. She smiled at him, confidently, and replied: “Good evening, Father”.

She sat down in the chair across of him and crossed her legs.

“You know, I thought this should be done in a confessional” She noticed after a while of silence, and he leaned down on the desk, playing with his ring. The sight made her want to clench her thighs together, but she stopped herself from doing so. She knew he would immidiately notice.

“It should be, yes”, he confessed, and then took a deep breath. “But you’re not here to confess, aren’t you, angel?”

The nickname made her eyes widen, but she nodded her head and replied: “Correct, Father. I just wanted it to be us two.”

Her boldness should disgust him, but it only made her more attractive in his eyes. She has to be the devil, he thought, and, once again, felt his pants getting tighter. Her eyes followed his every move, observing his reaction.

"Maybe you should confess, though." he said, keeping his attentive eyes on her. Y/N ran a hand through her black hair, her rings and bracelets glistening in the dim sunlight peeking through the window. "Tell me, angel, what's going on in that little head of yours?"

"I have sinned, Father." she confessed immediately, her lips curled into a little smile. She should feel ashamed. Disgusted by herself. Yet all she felt was excitement. She was obsessed with him, and now it was her chance to get him. Y/N wet her lips, her mind going blank at the sight of him, leaning against his desk, sitting here nonchalantly, his brown eyes following the movement of her tongue against her lip.

"I have been... pleasuring myself... and thinking about someone I shouldn't be thinking about. Not like that." Y/N's cheeks burned, but she continued, she needed to get this off her chest. She didn't dare looking at him, suddenly feeling ashamed. "I've been hooking up with some guys at parties, imagining it was him instead. Manhandling me. Claiming me. Marking me."

For the first time in a while, Father Charlie was in a loss of words. He shifted in his seat, leaning against the back of the chair, studying her pretty face. She looked so angelic, her tiny form making it hard for him to control himself. Of course she has been thinking about him. He felt excitement run through his veins at the images popping up in his head. Y/N, just in her pretty black lacy panties, her fingers inside of her puffy, leaking pussy, face twisted with pleasure. He swore he could almost hear her pretty moans as she came, "please, Father, I'm close" leaving her pouty pink lips.

Y/N thought she heard a little whisper coming out of his mouth, but she couldn't quite tell what he was saying. His eyes pierced into hers, as he got up from his seat and ringed around the desk. His steps were careful, predatory, as she kept his stare without flinching. Y/N pressed her back against the chair, her shirt lifting up just slightly, but he noticed. His face followed her chest, and his eyes' light up.

"Tell me more. Tell me everything you think about when you lay in your bed at night, pleasuring yourself at the thought of me."

She dared to look up at him, and she was taken aback by the sudden closeness. He was towering over her, his lip between his teeth, his left hand finding place on the arm of the chair she was sitting in.

She shuddered when Charlie's hot breath tickled her ear, but she didn't back off. His mouth was suddenly on her collarbone, licking her skin, humming to himself at the taste and smell of her. Y/N moaned quietly, and she tilted her head back, closing her eyes at the sudden pleasure.

His right hand found itself tangled in her long hair, and he pulled, making the small girl under him whine again. His other hand running over her pretty breasts, up to her collarbone, stopping on her neck. He squeezed the sides of it, and she closed her eyes, whimpering oh so prettily. His touch cautious, teasingly slow, as he breathed heavily, in awe at the sight in front of him. She was a mess and he barely touched her. Charlie chuckled, the low sound vibrating against the thick air surrounding them, and both of his hands left her body as he backed off, leaving her cold and desperate.

"You're such a little slut, you know that, angel? Teasing me with these short skirts of yours, staring at me during the masses, distracting me. You thought I wouldn't notice?" He tutted, leaning against the closest wall, his strong arms crossing on his chest. Her eyes followed him, and she got up, desperation visible in her every move. The degrading nickname echoed in her mind, the wetness between her legs getting unbearable.

"I wanted you to notice, Charlie", she used his first name, causing his whole body to shiver, as she took big step towards him, pinning him to the wall. She touched his muscular shoulders, her delicate fingers moving down his chest. "You can't imagine how long I've wanted this. I want to make you feel good, Father. Please, let me", she whispered, looking at him through her lashes, her lips dangerously close to his own. Charlie's eyes followed her mouth as she spoke, his dark irises sparkling with desire, as he felt completely dominated by the tiny girl in front of him. A strange feeling sparkled in his chest, but he didn't have time to think about it, as Y/N run her hand over the bulge in his pants.

The sudden intrusion on his pulsing member caused Charlie to moan, his head falling against the wall with a loud thud. Y/N's hand now stroking him through his dress pants, her breathing growing heavier by each passing second as she observed his reactions. Her mouth twitched into a satisfied smile, her thumb just barely running over his leaking tip, and he fucking whimpered.

She backed off just as he did minutes ago, still smiling from ear to ear, as his eyes met hers again. The next thing she felt was his lips on hers, as he devoured her, his hot tongue in her mouth almost immediately. The kiss was rough, both of them fighting for dominance, as she tugged at his hair, his greedy hands on her ass, pulling at the flesh, feeling of her soft skin almost too much for him. Charlie lifted one of Y/N's legs, holding it up on his hip, as he felt her much smaller body melting into his own. The moment their crotches met, and she grinded, a synchronised moan vibrating against the thick air surrounding them. Y/N pulled back from the kiss, catching her breath, but never pulling away from him completely.

His forehead pressed against hers, as he closed his eyes, breathing heavily. Her mouth found his again, but this time, it was softer, the feelings she had for him finally taking over her, as she kissed him as if her life depended on it. They moved slowly, without a single worry in the world, her hands on his chest, as his own found place on her lower back.

"Let me take you to my room", Father Charlie mumbled under his breath, eyes full of something she couldn't quite name.

Y/N nodded, and the next thing she knew was Charlie dragging her through the long corridor, his steps hurried. He shut the door to his room behind them loudly, and he kissed her again, his hands tugging at her black top, desperate to take the excess clothing off her body.

Charlie pushed her on the bed, and took a second to adore her bare tits. Her nipples already erect, reacting to the cold air in the room, and he couldn't stop himself from getting on top of her, leaving bruises all over her neck.

"No bra? You really planned all of this, didn't you? You are just a desperate little slut, begging to be fucked, aren't you, Y\N?" he whispered in her ear, leaving a big, wet kiss under it, and she moaned. She arched her back as his mouth closed around one of her nipples. Charlie swirled his tongue around the hard nub, and a hum left his mouth at the taste of her. He looked at her through his thick eyelashes, his innocent stare making Y/N grind on him again and again.

He moved to her other nipple, and she tugged at his dress shirt, silently begging him to take it off. He obliged, using one hand to undo the buttons, while his lips sucked on her pretty boob, never stopping his movements.

When his shirt fell to the floor, Y/N flipped Charlie over and sat down on his torso. He hissed when his back met the soft sheets, and for a second, his face grimaced in pain. She furrowed her brows, both of her hands on his hard chest, her hair on her face.

"What's wrong?" she immediately asked, her tits bouncing in front of his face as she moved downward to have a better look at him.

"Nothing you have to worry about, pretty girl". His soft hands touched her face, and she smiled at the compliment, taking a mental note to ask about that later.

"Let me take care of you", she said again, caressing his chest with her little hands, and she let their lips meet again.

Charlie melted into her touch, forgetting about the pain, his hand in her hair, as she kissed him slowly and passionately. Soon after the kiss turned messy, a dirty exchange of saliva, teeth crashing, tongues meeting in a nasty dance, as he lifted her skirt and started grinding his hard cock against her pretty, panties covered cunt.

She whimpered on top of him, back arching, but his lips never left hers. Her hands tugged at his hair, their lips separating. He could feel the wetness of her pussy against his hard on as she grinded against him, moving her hips in such way that had him breathless, his own member leaking with pre-cum.

She stopped her movements and immediately started to undo the button of his dress pants, and he moaned when she accidentally pressed her palm at his cock.

"Let me take care of you, Father", the blasphemous words leaving her mouth again, and all he could do was nod. His eyes pleading, and if it wasn't for the heat of the moment, he would be embarrassed of his own submission.

Y/N truly was the devil himself, he thought, as she took off his pants and boxers and laid down between his legs.

She licked her lips at the sight of him: she could already feel how big he was while grinding him, but seeing him, oh Lord, he was so big. He was definitely much above average. His slightly curved cock, tip leaking with precum, and the whole length contracted when she moved her lips closer.

"You have such a pretty cock, Charlie", she admitted wholeheartedly, her mouth watering, as he just stared at her, the praise making him even harder. She then took his cock in her hand and began slowly stroking his length, her thumb brushing against his angry red tip. Charlie's back arched as she finally touched him, his eyes closing at the contact.

"Oh... Oh, God", he whines, his mouth dropping open as she finally closed her mouth around him, struggling to take him in fully. She began bobbing her head on his tip slowly, and she hummed at the salty taste of his pre cum. "You're so big, Father", she moaned and then kitten licked at the underside of his cock, her tongue barely grazing over his tight balls.

All he could do was groan lowly, not a single thought in his head, as he thrusted his hips toward her face.

She began bobbing her head on him, his cock disappearing deeper and deeper into her mouth with each bob of her head. Charlie's hands found place in her silky, black hair, as he moved his hips, all of his self control leaving his body.

"Yes, angel. You're doing such a good job for me", she whined around his cock at the praise, her nails digging into his muscular thighs, as he thrusted into her mouth over and over again. "You have no idea how long I've thought about this, how many times I pumped my cock at the thought of you", his head fell back against the pillow as he murmured nonsense, his thrusts against her face getting more aggressive.

Y/N choked and gagged on his cock, only spurring him on more, and tears were streaming down her face, her makeup ruined, and her thighs clenched together at the sound of his pretty moans.

Charlie's cock twitched in her mouth, and she looked up at him, his own eyes already on her. His mouth was slightly opened, sweat covering his hard chest and forehead, the sight of his messy, soft hair making her moan around him.

"Cum down my throat, Father", she took her mouth of him only to whisper those words to him, her hand still pumping his twitching length, and in the moment he swore he could see stars, as his orgasm was getting closer and closer.

Then, as she put all of him in her mouth, and he was a lost man. His back arched as he pulled at her hair, her nose brushing against his soft, curly pubic hair as she deepthroated him through his orgasm.

Thick ropes of cum covered the back of her throat, and she gagged, slowly working her mouth over him until he collapsed on the bed, his chest heaving with deep breaths, whimpers leaving his pretty mouth. She swallowed all of his cum, the taste of him on her tongue making her shiver. His eyes never left his face, and he nodded in approval when she stuck her tongue out to show that she swallowed all of his cum. How could she not? In that moment she knew that she absolutely adored every part of him.

Charlie's still hard cock hit his stomach loudly as she got up from between his legs, and straddled him once again.

"You taste so good, Charlie", Y/N whispered, leaving kisses all over his neck and collarbones. His hands found her hips, as she pulled her panties to the side and grinded down on him. They both moaned at the contact, her wetness making it easy for her to grind down on his spit-covered length.

"God made you just for me", he hissed as she grounded down on him, his eyes full of adoration and awe, and she smiled, her brows furrowing because of the pressure on her puffy clit. "Are you an angel or the devil? Hmm?" his voice soft like butter when he flipped her over and surrounded her with his big arms, his tip just barely grazing over her entrance.

"I can be whatever you want me to be, Father", she replied breathlessly but wholeheartedly, chasing his cock with her leaking pussy, making a mess on his white sheets. Charlie smiled at her, and the next second she felt his fat tip finally stretching her out.

They both moaned in unison, and she clawed at his scarred back, and he groaned in pain and pure bliss.

"'S too big", she mumbled, her hair creating a halo around her head, and Charlie never stopped thrusting his length into her, his big hands holding her hips in place.

"I know you can take it, come on. You begged for it, so take it like the little good girl you are, can you, Y/N?" he taunted, his voice dangerously low as he felt her clench around him. She nodded and moaned as she felt him oh so deep. The pain and pleasure mixed, her vision blurred with tears of pure bliss as she whimpered.

"God, fuck me. Please, please, take me however you want, Father", she begged as her eyes rolled back, his own moan echoed through the thin walls. And that's when he buried himself in her to the hilt.

YN's back arched, tears blurring her vision, as he whimpered, his hand leaving her hip to find its place on her exposed neck.

He pressed on her neck, hard, cutting her airflow, fucking harder into her tight pussy, and she cried, and in that moment he thought that she was the most beautiful woman he's ever seen in his life.

"Daddy...."

He heard her whimper, her hands clawing at the ruined sheets, as she looked up at him, completely ruined just for him to see. He groaned at the vulgar nickname leaving her mouth, his thrusts getting deeper, stronger, as she screamed in pleasure.

"You're a nasty little girl, aren't you, Angel?" he asked and chuckled when he saw her attempting to respond. "See that?"

Charlie took his hand off her neck and she took a deep breath, his hand finding place in her hair next. He yanked Y/N's head up and made her look down, onto the place where they were connecting over and over again.

The visible bulge in her stomach made her eyes roll back into her head, the sight so vulgar that she felt herself getting nearer and nearer to her orgasm.

"I'm gonna breed you so deep, Angel. You won't ever be able to look at another man again. You're mine now. I'm gonna pump you nice and full of my cum and you're gonna take it like a good girl, aren't you?" he mumbled, his own end near, and she nodded her head, his hips flat against the back of her thighs.

"Please, I need it, Charlie. Make me cum", her voice barely a whisper, mascara smudged all over her cheeks, and Charlie kissed her with all the strength he had left, her hands around his neck as he held her hips in his hands.

His thrusts strong and sloppy as his whole body started to shake, her walls squeezing him tightly as she came with a loud moan of his name, and he followed immediately after.

He kept on thrusting into her, fucking her through his orgasm, their lips never separating as they came down from their highs together.

An hour later she was tangled in his sheets, his arm around her, thumb tracing little circles on her arm while they cuddled. YN's head on his chest, she was sleeping peacefully, but his mind was full of doubt and guilt. He knew he would have to punish himself for their sins. But she was worth it. He felt his chest tighten, and he placed a delicate kiss on her forehead.

When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of her sweet smile, and never before in his life has he slept so peacefully.

[ebodebo]

jack abbott + an angry, dramatic love confessional in the pouring rain = a happy me!

You stepped out of the restaurant, muttering, not even caring that the downpour was soaking your dress and ruining your styled hair.

You hear a faint call of your name; you don’t need to turn around to know it was Jack.

“Christ,” you hear him mutter behind you. “You’ll freeze out here.” You can hear his footsteps on the flooded sidewalk, approaching you quickly.

“I’ll manage just fine.” Your stride doesn’t stop at his words; it just speeds up, but despite this, he catches up within seconds.

He reaches for your arm to turn and face him. “Let me call a taxi,” he insists. “Please.”

You brush him off, continuing your movements. “I’d rather freeze than sit next to you for another minute.” You glance at him; he’s soaked, his hair sticking to his forehead as he walks next to you.

His jacket has long since been abandoned, leaving him in only a long white-sleeved shirt with slacks, accompanied by a tie hanging loosely from his neck. Due to the rain, his shirt looks see-through, showing off his strong body.

How the hell does this guy look hot even in the pouring rain?

“Baby, you’ll hurt your feet in those heels,” he says, trying to deter you. You pause momentarily before bending down, slipping each off easily and carrying them loosely at your fingertips.

He curses under his breath as you continue walking, the rain still pouring down on both of you. “Sweetheart, don’t do this,” he pleads, matching your pace. “I know you’re angry at me.”

You purse your lips stopping in your tracks, eyes darting to look at his. “You know, I feel like you don't even know me,” you accuse, pointing a finger at him. “I mean not really.”

“I know enough,” he reasons, searching your eyes and noting how your lashes have water droplets hanging from them even as you flutter them with annoyance.

Your eyebrows raise. “Really?” You flail your arms out, expressing your frustration. “Then you’d know I’m not angry at you; I’m annoyed.”

“Annoyed?” he echos your words confusion written on his face.

You roll your eyes, flailing your arms again. "Yes!"

“How was I supposed to know that?” His tone holds no condescension, just genuine confusion.

“By asking me!” you say, your voice louder than intended and filled with frustration.

His eyes narrow in thought. “Asking you?”

This fucking guy.

“Yes!” you huff, your shoulders slumping. “You know, Jack, that’s your problem,” you start, nodding. “You just assume things instead of asking.”

He stands there, mouth slightly open, chest heaving as water spilled from his lips and splashed onto the pavement.

You shake your head at his silence. “Just go back to the hospital, Jack,” you say, your voice sounding defeated. “Go take care of everyone else except yourself.” Your shoulders slump again as your eyes dart between his. “It’s what you do,” you say, pursing your lips. “It’s what you’ve always done.”

Your hair has gone flat from the water, and your skin glistens with a sheen that gives it a natural highlight. Your dress is soaked, clinging to every curve. He feels his mouth dry at the sight of you; he can’t imagine anything more heavenly than seeing you like this.

Without much thought, he reaches out, tucking a strand of wet hair behind your ear. "You look so beautiful," he says without a second thought, believing what he sees is divine.

Your eyes soften at his touch, but you turn your head aside, causing his hand to drop. “Don’t start that,” you mutter as you spin on your bare feet and continue walking.

He stands there tongue in cheek as you walk away from him, his heart sinking with each step you take away from. His chest beats fast, almost as fast as the rain hitting the pavement.

He had been used to letting things go.

Everyone was temporary.

That’s what he always thought.

But he couldn’t stomach the thought of not waking up with you, the warm sun hitting you at just the right angle to highlight the color of your eyes.

The thought of eating dinner alone, without your laughter being his only source of music, was a stale prospect.

“I love you,” you hear him shout from behind you.

You release a shallow breath turning slowly on your heels to face him.

“God, I love you so fucking much.” He’s standing there, hands at his side, sopping wet, and he looks like the man you fell in love with.

Your fingers gripped the straps of your heels tighter; your eyes hung heavy, brewing with tears.

“I’m not myself without you,” he shakes his head, voice full of sincerity. “You complete me,” he shrugs as if it were the most obvious thing ever.

You inhale deeply as he finally approaches you. “What would it take?” he asks, his voice desperate. “I’ll do anything, baby. Anything,”

“Jack…” you begin, but then you trail off, avoiding his gaze.

He grips your hands tightly. “I’ll get on my knees and proclaim my love for you to everyone on this entire God-damn strip if that’s what it takes,” his eyes search yours.

"You wouldn't—" you begin, challenging his claim.

He sinks to his knees in front of you, and your eyes widen as he grabs your hands, gently massaging them with his. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he begins, his voice loud enough to catch the attention of other pedestrians. “You’re in everything.” His eyes gaze deeply into yours, wide open despite the rain hitting his face. “In everything I touch, hear, and even fucking see, I always think of you,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s always been you.”

“Okay, okay,” you say, urging him to stand as more people start looking in your direction. “I believe you,” you breathe out as he gets on his feet.

“I meant every word. I love you so much,” he grabs your hands again, glancing down at the pavement before meeting your gaze. “I want this to work with you.”

You give him a half-smile. “Just kiss me, you old man,” you murmur, your hands pulling him down to kiss him deeply.

The rain splashes around you, the people nearby a distant thought. His lips feel like a warm summer’s day, full of comfort and gentle heat you can feel down to your toes.

Life can be unpredictable.

But this kiss makes the uncertainty feel worthwhile.

author’s note: i cannot stop writing little drabbles for this show, so if i fail my anatomy practical final tmr it’s tumblrs fault! divider by @saradika-graphics!

[dimesdimesdimess]

CONFESSION

Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader

Warnings: fingering, masturbation, dirty talk, swearing, innocent reader, lustful priest.

Readers Notes: Hello! This is my first time writing for this fandom. But it’s also been awhile since I’ve written anything. So the smut may not be great since I’m a little rusty. But if you enjoy it I may write another part. We’ll see. Enjoy! Possible spelling errors, not proof read.

part two

Every Thursday you made your way to the church for confession, confessing to the sins you committed for that week. Most of the time they are little things like swearing, or being a bit selfish and using the lord’s name in vain. Things that make Father Charlie laugh to himself because these weren’t really sinful to him and you were one of the few people that actually came every week. It always made him curious about you and liked when you came even if he didn’t feel it necessary. So every Thursday he listened, absolved you of your sins and made you say your hail marys. You always felt so much better after seeing Father Charlie. He wasn’t like some of the other priests, he was younger than them all, and had different ways about himself. You thought he was a bit strange at first and much too good looking to be a priest. You had to admit to yourself that sometimes you were coming to church just to see him. Much like the other women.. You heard whispers of the other women and the young girls talking about how handsome he was and every now and then one of them would try to flirt with him. He’d just smile at them as if he had no clue. 

You weren’t any different from these women. You also felt the urge to flirt with him, but he was a priest and that would be sinful. But that didn’t stop the thoughts that ran through your mind about him even outside of church. Sinful thoughts of him crossed your mind and you did your best to stop them even praying the thoughts away, but nothing worked. You couldn’t take the fact that God might send you to hell for having such thoughts. 

Thursday was rolling back around and one thing you thought could help and make you feel less of a sinful person was confession. Maybe if you confessed about the sin you’ve been committing that you’d be absolved and it would stop. But you couldn’t tell him the thoughts were about him, so you’d have to make up a story. As soon as you could you rushed over to the church and headed inside, there he was waiting by the confessional booth, he was expecting you. You lightly dip your fingers into the holy water and sign the cross before you quickly walk over to him.

Father Charlie smiled. “Ah, there you are, Y/N. Right on time. 

You were out of breath because you literally ran over. You smiled nervously at him as you caught your breath, those sinful thoughts creeping into your mind as you stared up at him. “Hello father.” you murmured.

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Everything alright?” 

You nodded. “Mhm, just ready to give my weekly confession.” you mumbled. 

He chuckles softly. “Alright. Let’s get started.” he opens the door on his side of the booth and he steps inside. You nervously open the door to your side and step inside, sitting down as your hands sit in your lap and you nervously rubbing them together. There's a small light in the confession booth, it was just bright enough that it wasn’t completely pitch black. 

There was silence for a moment and then you started to speak softly. 

“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession.” you say softly. 

There’s another silence. You nervously rubbed your hands together, unsure of how to confess your sin. 

“Y/N?” Father Charlie says softly. 

You clear your throat. “Sorry, father.” you mumble. 

You sigh softly as you go down the list of your confesses, which was the usual, swearing and using the lord's name in vain. Which Father Charlie expected and made him a smile a bit to himself.

“Anything else, Y/N?” he asks. 

You let out another sigh. 

“Y-Yes.. I’ve.. I’ve been having some thoughts..” you murmur. 

Father Charlie’s interest now peeked. “What thoughts, my child?” he responds. 

“Um.. sinful.. Dirty thoughts…” You pause. “About a man..” you whisper. 

There’s practically a smirk on Father Charlie’s face. This was new for you and unexpected. Now he was more interested in this than ever. 

“What are these thoughts? Is this a man you know? Someone you’re seeing?” he questions. 

You shake your head. “No.. I’m not seeing him.. I just.. He’s just someone I know. Everyday I have the most impure thoughts about him.. And his body and things I’d like him to do to me. It’s terrible, father. Just terrible. I can’t seem to get these thoughts out of my mind. I tried to pray to make it stop. But they just won’t.. I don’t know what else to do, father.” 

Father Charlie sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as he listens to you and then his tongue runs over them as he clears his throat. Such an innocent woman like you having impure thoughts like this made him feel a way. He wanted to help. He wanted to help ease these feelings and thoughts you’ve been having in one way he knew how. 

“Well.. It’s perfectly normal to have such thoughts if you feel something for this man. Sinful, maybe. But normal. You can’t avoid sexual feelings. There is something I know that may help with this, Y/N.” he says. 

You glance over through the separator. “There is? What is it we can do? Prayer? Penance? I’ll do anything to make this stop.” you pleaded. 

He chuckles lowly. “No.. None of that. This is something that I’ve been wanting to speak about. Something to bring the church into the future. Embracing sexual desires instead of condemning them or thinking of them as sinful.” he says. 

You furrow your brow, not understanding what he’s getting at. “What do you mean? Isn’t it a sin to have these thoughts if you’re not married?” you respond. 

“No. It’s human nature, now would you like me to help you?” he says quite coldly. 

You would do anything to make this feeling go away and stop lusting after your priest. “Yes father, please help.” you respond.

Just the very sound of that does something to him and he could feel his pants becoming tight at the very thought of what he was going to make you do. 

“Now I must say, what we do in here is confidential as you know. So, I can’t tell anyone and I’ll need you to promise you won’t speak of this with anyone.” he says, peering over at you through the separator. 

He had a seriousness in his voice and you glance over at him. Your eyes meeting in the dimness of the booth, still curious about how he was going to help you. “I promise I won’t tell anyone, father. Honest.” you say, nodding. 

“Good.. Then we can begin, Y/N. You’ll need to obey my every word. This is to help you, that’s all.” he proceeds to say. 

“I understand, father.” you chime in. 

“Good. Now.. Why don’t you start off by spreading your legs..” he hums.

You look over at him. “Father?” you question. 

“I told you, this is to help you. Now spread your legs..” he says demandingly. 

You swallow hard and do as you're told. He is the priest after all.. A holy vessel. What he’s asking must be what God wants. You slowly spread your legs open. The fabric of your dress lies against your thighs as it rides up just slightly as your legs are spread. Father Charlie peeks over and smirks to himself. “Wider.” he demands. 

You spread your legs open even further and now your dress rides up even further along your thighs. Father Charlie pleased with your obedience. “Good girl..” he hums. Now slowly lift the skirt of your dress up just above your thighs.” he whispers. 

Your eyes widened with innocence. You couldn’t believe this was happening and that this is what God wanted. “Now Y/N.” he hisses. 

You quickly lifted the skirt of your dress up just as he wanted and now your thighs and panties were completely exposed. He leans over and looks between the separator, the very sight of your white cotton panties causing the tightness in his pants to become worse than before that his bulge begging to be set free from their confinement. He tries to adjust himself. “Good..” he whispers. 

“Now tell me about these sinful dirty thoughts of yours, Y/N. While you do it.. I want you to touch yourself the way you wanted to be touched in these thoughts of yours.” he whispers, running a hand along his clothed hard on. 

You hesitate. “But father.. I..” he cuts you off before you could get another word out. 

“In order for this to work you need to be obedient. You need to act on these sinful thoughts and do as I say. Now do as I ordered or you will never be rid of this.” he says sharply. 

“Yes father.” you respond in a soft voice. You let out a soft exhale as your hands run over your thighs. “T-This man.. All I want is for him to run his hands along my body.. Touching me.. Teasing me.. Just the very thought of it has an ungodly feeling coming from between my legs.” you whisper.

Father Charlie tries to hold back the low groan that escapes him as he hears your words and his hand is now rubbing against his hard on. “Tell me more.. D-Does this ungodly feeling make you.. You feel wet?” he mutters.

Your eyes widen once again and you nod. “Yes.. Yes.. It’s terrible.. My.. My panties get wet and sometimes sticky against me.. I throb with.. with so much desire for y-.. For this man.. I can’t stand it.” You began to let out soft noises as you picture the father running his hands along your thighs, his head in between them, kissing up to your soaked pussy. Your mind is running wild with the thought.

 Father Charlie’s eyes roll back in desire as you describe it and now he can’t bear it anymore and he slowly undoes his pants and slides his hand in them to pull his cock out. It’s throbbing and hard, precum already dripping from the tip, he spits into his hand and wraps it around his pulsing cock. “Keep going.. T-tell me more..” he hums as he slowly pumps his cock in his hand.

The pitch of his voice sounded a bit different now, but you didn’t think much of it because you were being consumed with your fantasy of him. You run your hand along your panties and you could already feel them being soaked through and it makes a whimper escape you. The entire time Father Charlie is peeking through the holes of the separator as he pleasures himself. “Take ‘em off.. and keep talking..” he mumbles. You don’t hesitate to do as he says and hook your fingers between the hem of your panties and you slowly slide your panties off, your arousal stained on your panties and you gulp slowly. “Oh.. god..” Father Charlie mutters to himself.

“I.. I picture this man with his head between my legs.. He’s wanting to help with the throbbing.. and he.. he…” you stutter over your words. 

“What? What?! What does he do next?” Father Charlie says with an excitement in his voice as his begins to stroke his cock faster, his eyes fixated on your pussy under the dim light.

“He.. He runs his tongue.. along my pussy.. He’s licking up the mess I made in my panties.. Slurping up every last drop.. “ You run two fingers along your swollen throbbing clit and now you let out a loud moan, praying no one else was in the church. Father Charlie’s head leans against the separator as he breathes heavy, watching as you play with yourself and he spits some more on his cock, pumping his hand harder and faster. You continue with your thoughts. “Then he wraps my thighs around his shoulders and he’s buried between my thighs.. His tongue flicking against my clit and then shoving it inside of my pussy.. He’s moaning because I’m so tight around his tongue..” You let out another moan and now your fingers were so wet from your pussy that you slowly slip them inside your tight cunt, you could feel yourself tighten around your fingers and now your back was pressed against the wall of the booth and you’ve brought your legs up against the pew as your legs were spread wide open, completely on display for the father as you moan.

“F.. Fuck…” Father Charlie groans, his cock dripping in precum as he works his hand along the shaft, licking his lips as he watches you fuck yourself. “That’s it.. Good girl... Let those sinful thoughts take over.. G-Give into  your desire..” he mutters between his groans. 

You nodded obediently at his words, completely taken with your own thoughts, completely unaware that he’s getting off to you. Your eyes are shut tight as you shove your fingers deeper into your soaking pussy, the wet sounds echoing within the booth, your breathing heavy and out of control and without even thinking between your moans you say his name. “Oh, father… Yes… Charlie..” you cry out. 

Father Charlie catches this and smirks to himself as his cock pumps in his hand, having revealed that he was the man in your sinful thoughts, this only further provokes his desire and need. Giving him many ideas of how he could use you. He realizes that you haven’t realized what you said. You couldn’t care in this moment as the desire within you was building and soon coming to the surface, a feeling you had never felt before. You felt like you were going to explode. “Father.. I.. A strange feeling is coming over.. over.. me.” You say with a shaky breath. 

“Let it… Let it take over, my child.. Let it out..” he moaned, he was not going to last a minute longer but he wanted to cum when you did.. He wanted to watch you orgasm. Your head is tilted against the wall and your legs trembling and soon your whole body and without realizing it your moans soon turn into loud cries of pleasure as you soon reach your orgasm, cum leaking out of your pussy and onto your fingers and the pew as your body convulses. “Fuck.. yes.. “ Father Charlie mumbles as he reaches his orgasm and he grunts and groans lowly as spurts of his warm cum shoot out of his cock onto the wall of the booth and some of it gets on his suit. “Christ..” he grumbles. 

You whimper softly as you slowly slip your fingers out of your dripping pussy and you’re trying to understand what just happened and what you just did in the church of all places. You look over at Father Charlie though the separator, his head rested against it and he looks sweaty and is breathing hard. His eyes look up at you and now you’re staring at each other for a moment and you could sense what he was doing, but didn’t want to admit that you knew. He clears his throat as he lifts his head up and quickly puts his cock away and buttons his pants back up. You feel so confused now and embarrassed. 

“H..How.. How do you feel now? Thoughts gone?” Father Charlie mutters, fixing his hair.

You swallow nervously as you sit up and push the skirt of your dress back down quickly. “I.. I guess.. My head doesn’t feel as bad. I can think straight again..” you answer. 

He smiles. “Good.. Told you.. Nothing wrong with giving into your desires, Y/N.”

You nod. “And you’re sure this is right? I don’t want to go to hell for doing this in a holy place..” you say nervously. 

Father Charlie laughs. “You’re not going to hell. God wanted you to do this and wanted me to guide you. I think you may need a lot of my help and this should be something I work with you on a weekly basis. We can do it more privately in my office.”

“But father.. I don’t think..” he interrupts you, shaking his head.

“You need this.. Your thoughts are more sinful than I thought.” he says. 

You stay silent. This was all confusing to you, but you couldn’t lie, you did feel a whole lot better. Father Charlie begins to pray to absolve you of your sins. You bow your head and clasps your hands together, praying along with him before signing the cross. “Now go pray five hail marys and our father and I’ll see you next week in my office, Y/N.” he says before he gets up and heads out of the booth. You sit in your side of the booth, pondering what has just happened and then you realize in the heat of the moment what you had moaned out. His name. Was that the real reason why he wanted to continue this? Now the embarrassment really sunk in because now he would think you were just like the rest of the women in the church.. Lusting after him, which you were, but the last thing you wanted was for him to know that. But maybe that’s exactly what he wanted.. To be lusted after. 

Tagging: @nicholasachavez @smokeymountainboy @arianatheangel-girl @suraemoon @aliengoth3 @theycametoconquertheearth53 @suspiciousmindsxo

if you would like to be added to my taglist let me know!

[tabiito]

DEBÍ TIRAR MÁS FOTOS I — hard launching with the blue lock boys after a rumour includes: sae, karasu, rin + bonus: shidou note: i've tried to keep fcs ambigious but unfortunately i was to only find fem bodied ones, ima work and make the next part more gender neutral read part 2

Sae Itoshi, who reads the rumour and straight up announces your engagement

Sae squints over your shoulder as your lips part in disbelief over the brazen lies the gossip account has been posting. You feel his hot breath on your bare shoulder, stretching your arm further, knowing he's not wearing his reading glasses which he's left in the villa.

It's a lovely summer evening in Mallorca, miles away from Ibiza, and by some eerie circumstance the beach at your resort is empty, save for the two of you. Your day of sunbathing and reading had been pleasant, however, this preposterous rumour poked through your sanctuary of peace as a friend forwarded it to you.

This was one of many you'd had to endure in your three years of dating Sae (longer, if you'd count the long-distance pining), so it doesn't bother you as much. You know what you were getting into when you set your sights on a football prodigy as successful and good looking as Sae, though he hates how you placidly accept this news with a purse of your lips and a sigh.

He feels offence on your behalf as he spies the hotel staff setting up the candlelight dinner he plans on proposing to you at at the edge of the shore, the Cartier ring you've been eyeing for the longest time tucked into his bag.

Pressing a kiss to the juncture of skin between your neck and shoulder, he ignores the guilt that's creeping up his spine when he tells you to "pay the paparazzi no mind."

He can't help himself to slip his phone out and snap a picture of the scenery before him, you basking in the twilight in your bikini top, a copy of My Year of Rest and Relaxation over your eyes as the blazing Sun sinks into the sea.

The decision to keep your relationship private was a mutual one; in the initial stages Sae didn't want you to be harassed by his legions of loyal fans, and you didn't want Sae, known for his private image to be harangued by reporters when they should be focusing on his performance. You never really talked about reverting this decision, and as time with him flew by, you became an expert at dealing with the baggage that comes with being involved with a celebrity.

However, when Sae feels your incadescent smile against his lips, the band on your finger glinting in the moonlight, the images of the beginning of a shared life flashing at the back of his head, he thinks that you shouldn't have to deal with his baggage any longer; not when the two of you were starting a chapter together.

Later that night, inhaling the scent of the ocean and strawberry margaritas in your hair as you sleep peacefully in his arms, Sae hits "post."

Oliver Aiku, who needs to be defended by you, the only person who he's ever posted

"Ooh, you're getting clocked," you giggle, carding your free hand through his hair and swiping through your Twitter feed with the other. Cracking one emerald eye open, Oliver lets out a weary sigh.

"What now?", he grumbles. "If they've finally traced back all those Barou dating rumours to me just know I've included you in my will."

"'Included'? Am I not getting your entire estate, you stingy old man?", you tease, tugging at his roots. He groans in response, mimicking a ruffled cat who'd just been rudely interrupted from its afternoon nap.

"And no, apparently, your exes have grouped together to do a confessional on you in some tabloid," you chuckle, passing him his phone. You, better than anyone else, know Oliver's complicated romantic past, womanising behaviour and hookup culture fuelled coping tendencies while the two of you pined for each other from the sidelines for years, hoping to erase thoughts of the other by pursuing half-assed relationships.

Not that it worked particularly well, considering you're spending summer break in his apartment in Stockholm simulating level of domesticity you'd taken to a little scarily fast.

Reading out some of the downright malicious things his exes have said ("Really? You'd place sports bets based on their recommendations? No wonder you lost so much cash."), he hears the tinkle of your laughter through his sun-dappled room at some of these quotes, happy at how you were secure enough with him to dismiss these silly one liners as figments of his unscrupulous past.

The truth is that he's really been trying. You've always been too important to him to fuck things up with — the source of his exes' despair of always being "obsessed with texting someone else at late hours of the night", courtesy of different timezones, or being the only person he'd pick up drunk when you'd be in Tokyo. For once, he was nervous about a relationship, treating you with unexpected gentleness.

You've taken many of his firsts, he realises: first proper date he actually planned out, first time sending flowers at two and three month anniversaries, all that corny stuff he never saw himself doing.

He only supposes you take this first and last from him, too.

Swiping off Twitter, Oliver begins poring through your Photos to find a suitable snap from last night when you'd met his friends at the club. Settling on one where he's wearing cufflinks with the initials of your name, he accesses his Instagram from your phone (a safety measure), calmly adding one more post to his limited feed.

Rin Itoshi, who's honestly been itching to do this for a while now

"For fuck's sake," Rin grouses, sipping the water you just handed him. Drenched in sweat, jersey sticking to his back, he'd been grateful when you showed up to give him company as he trained, saying something about "studying anatomy" while pencilling in your sketchbook as he took shot after shot.

Instead, he's subjected to you quizzically raising an eyebrow in the direction of his over-enthusiastic physiotherapist who had a thing for announcing to the public whenever her and Rin were together.

Peeved at the sheer idiocy of the rumour, and irritated at her complete disrespect for Rin's boundaries, with his dislike of publicity well-documented, you were rightfully going to march over and give her a piece of your mind. It wasn't like you'd spend your afternoons in the bleachers of the Parc Des Princes to soak in the sweat, or that Rin would saunter over to you in every free minute to critique your latest doodle — since the day you'd preached at him in the Louvre, everyone from the coaching analysts to substitutes on PXG knew you were a couple.

Rin can practically feel the annoyance radiating off you in an aura unlike the ones that possessed footballers during heated matches. A little pleased with the jealousy something as petty as a gossip column elicited from you, he appreciatively hands you the bottle back and gives your hand a squeeze.

"I've got this."

Though he has to wrangle out the passwords for his social media accounts from his management since he rarely uses them, Rin makes it a point to carefully vet and select photos of you and him during his break. Though he looks comical in some, and downright unflattering in others, he couldn't give a damn less seeing the excitement in your eyes as you lean over the barrier, Airdropping photos to him.

After curating the perfect post, Rin calls for his physio, who practically skips along the grass to the bleachers, but blanches when she sees your unimpressed expression.

"Take a picture of us," he brusquely asks, shoving his phone into her hands, downturned in a sneer. Before she can react, he catches you completely off guard, crashing his lips against yours. Your eyes are shut, but you know him well enough to sense that he's smirking right now. He kisses you a lot longer than necessary for one shot, snaking his hand along your waist for good measure, practically pulling you over the blue barriers on your tiptoes.

You squeak when he lets go, licking his lips ever so slightly as the mortified PT squirms while handing him his phone. "Huh. So you are half-competent at something after all."

Tabito Karasu, who's three months in and knows you're the one

Karasu's a perfect gentleman. Even before you started dating, back in highschool, he'd be one of those quietly chivalric guys who'd hold doors open or jackets above your head if it rained. The kind of guy who'd snatch grocery bags out of your hand despite making a quip about "weak arms." Now, you think that he's a little too perfect.

Things that would be a dealbreaker in other relationships, such as both of your packed schedules, the invasiveness of the internet and the fact that time was not on your side most of the time almost spurred Karasu on to make an extra effort. Your research is going late into the night? He's there to pick you up. You're craving takeout after being absolutely decimated by a physics seminar? He's already wearing his baseball cap and sunglasses, one foot out of the door.

Truth be told, Karasu's a little over-awed by you and your brain He thinks he could spent hours immersed in your world as you ramble on about the paradoxes and theories you're learning, or the cutting-edge research you're contributing to. Though it makes him acutely aware that he has much to learn outside of football, you satiate his curiosity in ways that make him feel that he's the only person you've deigned worth talking to.

Otoya makes fun of him for how whipped he is, and though he hasn't had much experience prior to you other than people just throwing themselves at him, he knows this is more than a fleeting crush. So he goes the extra mile in every little thing, sparing no expense.

The day your finals were over he ringed in the celebrations with you in your dorm, blasting songs he was surprised you even knew the lyrics to. Scaring him with your ability to recite Future bar for bar with him on "Low Life", Karasu feels overcome with an urge hold onto you for dear life. The need to make it exclusively clear to everyone around him that you're the one for him becomes much clearer when a shopping trip turns to an absurd coincidence in the rumour mill, one that's got you all nervous in front of him.

He can't help but feel the dull stab of anger as you, clearly overwhelmed by the opinion of the Internet, spend the day upset. If it's one thing he dislikes, it's when things don't go his way. Instead of complaining about it, though, the words leave his mouth before he can even process what they mean, a rarity for someone like him.

"Come with me to the JFA dinner this weekend."

BONUS: Shidou Ryusei, who never even thought it was a secret

a/n yall im not freaky enough yet to write for shidou but i think the scenario is a really funny one in my head i had sm fun doing this though we got barou n isagi down for pt 2 who else?

[bigtedbear]

“ 𝐜𝗼𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫, 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐡, 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐫 “

𝐩𝐫𝗼𝗺𝐩𝐭: 𝐲𝐚𝐧! 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝗼𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝗼𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝗼𝐮’𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐢𝐭

content warnings: boss and employee, abuse of power (like that's the entire plot), yandere themes, nsfw content 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 𝟏𝟖+, male reader, amab reader, gay sex, anal penetration, anal fingering, head (character receiving), hickies, hook-ups, friends with benefits (fwb) turned feelings relationships, cock-blocking, situationships, possessive-obsessive behavior, stalking, sunday as your crazy girlfriend (who u don't know is your girlfriend yet !!)

heavy on the yandere themes this time around!

not a lot of smut I fear <//3

warnings that this may not be my best work, it took me a LOONNNG ass time to finish this so the quality, tone, etc. may vary

apologies in advance :')

“ new contact noted! caller sunday has been added to your phonebook! - love, 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑟 𝑡-19 “

“ new contact noted! caller aventurine has been added to your phonebook! - love, 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑟 𝑡-19 “

If anyone were to ask Sunday about the first time he met you, his answer would depend on the person.

Strangers would receive a very basic, formal answer. You were assigned to lead the team in charge of his security.

Closer friends may get a different story, depending on how close they are, naturally.

The true story was a little bit embarrassing after all, caught staring a little too long at something you weren’t exactly supposed to see.

He was busy. He’d spent his morning darting to and from locations to make important meetings, be seen in all the right spots, shake hands with the right people, say all the right things. Consistent and careful cultivation of his reputation and his image seemed to be all he ever did with his time and that day was no different.

There was only one problem.

On the day that he first met you, his leads had run dry.

So instead of attending scheduled events, handling confessionals, or making sure he was on time to important meetings, he was left wandering the hotel Lobby on the off chance someone important might see him extending his consideration to Penacony’s regular visitors.

Despite how much the constant fawning grinded on his nerves, he reminded himself over and over again that it would all be worth it in the end. Still, no matter who was in the crowd, it blended together into a constant cacophony of “Mister Sunday, Mister Sunday, Mister Sunday!”.

“How kind you are, Mister Sunday!”

“It’s always such a joy to see you no matter the hour, Mister Sunday!”

“You’re such a gentleman, Mister Sunday!”

Realizing nobody of concern would be there to see him, he cut himself short. A polite smile here, a well-timed nod there, and a firm handshake with an older gentleman to tie a bow on the conversation, his mouth opened his mouth to say an all too familiar phrase.

“This has been delightful, but I’m afraid I’ll have to excuse myself.”

With the nearly synced chorus of farewells behind him, Sunday began his retreat to the VIP floor of the Reverie. His contemplation drowned out the pleasant, if not repetitive sound of the elevator music flooding the little cramped metal box. As the doors opened, though, he was abruptly knocked out of his thoughts by the sight that greeted him.

Almost immediately, his eyes locked on to an all too familiar looking iridescent glint from the corner of his vision.

A charmony dove.

Then he really focused on it.

No, not just one charmony dove.

It just looked like one from where he was standing. From where he was, next to the elevator, the flock of charmony doves gathered around this one sitting area on the opposite side of the floor was small enough to make his brain think it was just one charmony dove a lot closer to him.

He glanced around him, making sure no visitors would see, before extending his hand to shield his eyes from the harsh light of the chandelier above. He squinted, trying to make out what exactly caused all the birds to gather in the first place.

But his eyes failed him and he was left just as confused.

The wings on either side of his head fluttered slightly in indignation. With one of his hands still tucked behind his back, he ventured closer to the curious gathering of birds. The curved nature of the balcony meant it was still virtually impossible for him to ascertain what exactly he would find upon his arrival.

So imagine his shock when he saw a person in the center of the chaos.

Miraculously undisturbed by the hundreds of birds gathered around the table, even as they continued to sing and warble their signature tune, there was a man laying his head on the table.

Sleeping.

For a moment, Sunday stood at a safe distance, utterly dumbfounded. The next moment, he picked his jaw off the floor.

The charmony doves were more than happy to use the mystery man’s shoulders as a perch. Furthermore, the man was deep enough in his sleep that the brush of feathers and the sensation of little feet all over his arms and the nape of his neck went completely unnoticed.

He used his arms as a cushion for his head, cranium tilted to the side to make room for fresh air flow. Sunday’s eyes trailed just slightly lower, catching sight of a card in the man’s hand.

It was connected to a lanyard hanging off his neck, the ID clutched so tightly it bent with the curvature of his palm. Stranger still, the ID card was a work ID.

“Strange, isn't it? I didn't know what to think the first time I saw it either.”

Before Sunday could get a closer look, he was interrupted by an uncomfortably familiar voice. He jumped slightly, neck snapping to look at the source, “Gallagher.”

The man in question raised his hands defensively, shrugging nonchalantly. The charmony doves seemed to readjust themselves to suit the new rising tension in the air. Still, the sleeping man didn’t seem any more aware than before. “Relax, I'm not here for you.”

Sunday noted that Gallagher’s usually low voice was even dimmer than he remembered, not all that dissimilar to a whisper. Reflexively, he lowered his tone to follow suit, “I presume you're here for him then.”

“Yeah, he usually takes a nap on his lunch breaks,” the older man rumbled, “Hardly gets any sleep with his team leader running him around doing enough work for two people.”

Sunday raised a skeptical brow, “He does this often?”

Gallagher hummed, seemingly rummaging through his memory, “Every once in a while, when he gets assigned shifts near the VIP lounge.”

“The doves… do they gather every time he does this? Why hasn't anyone been made aware of this?”

The older bloodhound crossed his arms, “Didn't see the need to make a problem where there wasn't one. He’s not bothering anyone and he's off the clock.”

The head of the Oak Family frowned, brows pinching in bewilderment. “...I see.”

The two of them stood in silence for another moment before Gallagher looked down to his wrist to check his watch, “His lunch break is about to be over, he’ll wake up soon. You probably have somewhere to be, right?”

Sunday seemed to catch himself, blinking a couple times before nodding, “Ah- I- yes, I should've been on my way back to the Golden Hour.”

Gallagher gave a grunt in response, seemingly unimpressed.

The young halovian bowed his head, eyes darting back over to look at the man sleeping soundly once again.

Without thinking about it, his eyes lingered on the ID badge secured by the man's iron grip as he left. He registered only a few words before he pried eyes off of him for good.

‘NAME: [name] [surname]

Clearance: Entry Level Security’

Naturally, Sunday’s inner thoughts and desire for complete control over a situation didn't allow him to simply roll over and accept a natural phenomena within the Reverie without a(n un)healthy dose of worry. Using the new recruit’s name and his extensive ties within Penacony, he pried open the hypothetical crate housing the answer to his burning question with a proverbial crowbar.

A Penacony native, one that came from an average family. Not much was noted about them, his mother and father were seemingly normal civilians that worked hard at their day jobs and landed themselves squarely in the upper-middle class. His mother was the one with ties in the Bloodhound family, the one that vouched for his resume and got him hired in the first place.

But then came the question, why was he constantly surrounded by charmony doves?

The answer to that question was MUCH harder to obtain and, consequently, took weeks of dedicated snooping to figure out.

There simply wasn't an answer.

By all accounts, the man was never particularly fond of them, but they'd followed him around since he was a child. Sunday only managed to find out through the man’s educational records.

He'd gotten in trouble with teachers when he was younger because they suspected he'd been feeding them while their backs were turned, but they later rescinded any accusations upon closer observation. He'd actually taken to trying to scare the birds off, getting into even MORE trouble with his teachers.

It'd started off with him shooing them away by running at them and yelling with his arms raised above head trying to intimidate some kind of angry predator. When they inevitably came back, it escalated to him smacking the birds for landing on him. Eventually, when he hadn't gotten anywhere with that, he started throwing rocks at the doves whenever he'd see them around the schoolyard.

Admittedly, Sunday dug a lot further into it than he'd expected. Worse still, he'd turned up empty-handed.

It frustrated him, to leave it up to a simple “it just happens”, but if this had truly been happening since childhood and had no presumable pattern… what options was he left with?

Eventually, as he got higher and higher within the order of the Family, his list of responsibilities grew longer and longer. The matter found itself buried in thousands of memories of other trivial nonsense he didn't have the luxury of entertaining anymore.

He was too busy tending to confessionals, honing the powers of the harmony, meeting with influential figures of the Family, and finally, taking his place as the head of the Oak Family.

By the time he'd met with you again, he'd almost completely forgotten any and all the strange details surrounding the first time he’d seen you.

It was a bit of a low point in Sunday’s life. He and his sister had chosen two different paths in life. While he was the head of THE most influential faction in Penacony, Robin had always longed to spread harmony to as many people as possible. Even if it meant she had to leave her brother’s side, she began her career as a performer and was signed for an intergalactic tour.

She’d left the week before Sunday was informed there was an extreme staffing overhaul within the Oak family.

The most notable change came in security, citing instances that sensitive information had been leaked to other factions. They couldn't accuse any member of the group specifically, which meant they had to clear out any potential traitors on the outside before they could zero in on any evidence of internal betrayal.

He took the hiccup in stride, but inside he was more than frustrated. Sunday hated change and there were suddenly a lot of big changes happening at once.

Still, like a good soldier, he put on a brave face and cleared a minuscule slot of time to introduce himself to the new officer in charge of the Oak Family’s security staff.

Very honestly, Sunday’s foul circumstances meant he didn't truly make an effort to give the new guy a fair chance at landing in his good graces. The meeting room was a cramped, newly cleaned out office that had a scratched-up, scrappy looking table with flimsy folding chairs. He'd come from a meeting discussing things with people who gave him a headache and barely cleared out fifteen minutes before another meeting with people who got on his nerves.

No matter what happened, Sunday would continue to be in a sour mood.

At least, that was what he thought would happen.

Despite the mounting pile of unfortunate circumstances, you didn't seem to be swayed. You sat in the weak excuse of a chair with your hands folded on top of eachother on the table in front of you with a pleasantly neutral expression on your face.

When the door creaked open, you stood up, as was the etiquette in Penacony.

As the meeting began, a sense of uneasiness washed over the head of the Oak family. There was a tingling sense of apprehension at the back of his mind as he shut the door to the tiny broom closet of a meeting room.

The man was familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

Sunday’s inner dilemma only seemed to worsen when he caught the nearly imperceptible shift in the other’s eye. The man knew there was something off about his expression.

Despite that it didn't stop him from outstretching his hand to offer a greeting. “It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. I hope I won't disappoint.”

Short, concise, polite.

The Oak family head noted, eyes trailing down to the ID card hanging on the man’s lanyard.

‘NAME: [name] [surname]

Clearance: Oak Family Personnel’

The wings on either side of his face twitched with the sudden sense of recognition. Trying to remain as level-headed as possible, Sunday took your hand in his. He gave a firm shake. “I’m sure you won’t, you've been a member of the family for a while now.”

You nodded your head silently, going to take out a small folder. "There wasn't much time reserved for this meeting, but I wanted to still wanted to make a good impression. I brought a list of some of my past assignments, but a copy was already forwarded to your office."

A tingle ran down his spine the longer he made eye contact. There was a foreign feeling building up in the bottom of his gut, a feeling that made him apprehensive. "Yes, I'm afraid I'll have to take a look at these later, I have a meeting following shortly after this."

Your eyes crinkled at the corners with an unspoken kindness that tickled the recesses of his ribcage, ghosting butterfly kisses off each bone with tender reverence.

"Of course, sir," your fingers gingerly tucked the manila folder back into the bag you'd brought with you, "I'll be following your lead, starting today."

When you made eye contact, there was something piercing and holistic about the way you looked at him. In the dreamscape, he was used to a more glazed over, passive look no matter who he was speaking to. It was a natural side effect of being in a paradise hidden beyond the gates of sleep.

His response lagged for a second, an awkward pause before he seemed to snap back to his senses.

When he'd looked into it at first, as stated earlier, he couldn't figure out why wherever you went, the charming doves wouldn't be far to follow. The longer he looked however, the more and more he understood.

In a world where everyone bowed to the authority of rest, you were the first person the head of the Oak Family had ever met with such a sharp gaze.

Bright, alert, attentive.

A nervous grin crept up his cheeks, Sunday himself nodding to avoid eye contact. Quietly, he mumbled,

"...I suppose you will."

‘Have you seen Mr. Sunday lately?’ 

‘No, is something the matter with him?’ 

‘Why, it seems to me that Mr. Sunday is growing pretty smitten with a certain someone…’ 

Rumors constantly flit around Dewlight Pavilion, family members whisper hushed musings behind pristine gloves at all times. It is rare, however, that Sunday is seriously brought up in the quiet giggles echoing the corridors. 

A young Pepeshi woman chortles, ‘You should see how much he's brightened up these last couple of weeks.’ 

A cleaner with tousled hair underneath his uniform cap hums, ‘I don't know Mr. Sunday well, but he seems to have gotten some kind of weight off his shoulders.’ 

One of the intelleron consultants chews on a thought, ‘I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something different about Mr. Sunday, more at ease.’ 

Even stranger, nobody seemed to follow up on those whispers to correct the record.  No members of the Oak Family shushing the loose-lipped gossip mongers usually meant something.  It could mean the gossip wasn't anything worth noting.  But when it came to the romantic status of one of the most sought-after bachelors in Penacony, really nothing was too small.

No, there was something else far more likely hidden in plain sight. 

The family wanted you to believe them.

Sunday wanted you to believe them. 

You swallow the urge to wring your hands nervously but it goes down feeling like the bile rising in the back of your throat.  Walking through Dewlight Pavilion never fails to make you feel like you’re going crazy.  

You hear your coworkers’ voices so clearly you could swear your life on it, but it’s like they have some magical sixth sense that lets them know the second before you’re going to look at them.  It’s like the second your eyes land on them, their lips are pressed into a thin line and the little group they were huddled in disperses to go back to work.  It’s like they’re taunting you.

The various workers depart to their station from the main hall, leaving a clear path for you to take up the stairs.  Each step makes you feel more nauseous than the last, the vintage lights and their golden visage spinning in your peripherals as you try to focus on the plush red carpet under your feet.  It’s soft, but it’s almost like you can’t feel it squished under the soles of your shoes. 

Your feet lead you, on autopilot, to the same office you were always summoned to just after the end of your shift.  There was a sudden surge of anxiety gripping your diaphragm, but you did your best to push it down.  Both hands reached to smooth the front of your uniform, shaking ever so slightly. 

That wouldn’t do.  

You took a deep breath in, clenching your hands into fists, the same breath escaping your nostrils as you let the same hands relax at your sides.  You ended up disappointed anyways, your fingers twitching as they wrapped around the handle to Sunday’s office.  Still, anymore stalling and you’d likely be late for your meeting. 

‘SQUEEEAK!’

Your eyes squeezed shut with a grimace, luckily still hidden by the large wooden door.  You inhaled sharply before wiping the expression off your face, pushing the squeaky door open enough to slip into the room. 

You didn’t need to look up to imagine the same pair of honey-toned eyes lifting from the stacks upon stacks of paperwork on his perfectly organized, polished wooden desk.  Even further, you didn’t need to look up to imagine him haphazardly pushing the stack of papers he’d been looking at to the side.  

“[name]?” 

You let the breath you’d been holding flow out through your nostrils, finally turning around to face him head on.  

Sunday, in all his pristine, well-kempt glory.  He set his pen down on the desk, a gloved hand loosely beckoning you forward.  He didn’t say anything, you didn’t either. The same red carpet covered the inside of his office, the same red carpet squished under your shoe as you walked closer to his desk.  

You didn’t miss the way his eyes followed you wherever you walked, certainly didn’t miss the way they lingered far too long for comfort. 

Opposite his desk, a chair with plush red cushions.  It felt far too fancy for someone as low on the totem pole as yourself, but you didn’t dare make any comment on it.  Making eye contact felt too direct, instead your gaze fell to your lap.   

“...Mr. Sunday,” you asked, attempting to rub your palms off on your slacks, “if you don’t mind me asking, what exactly is the purpose of this meeting?” 

He pursed his lips and you feared you’d said something to upset him. “Just Sunday is fine, no need to act like a stranger.” 

The halovian wings on either side of his head opened up before resituating themselves back on either side of his head, his small smile seemed to widen, but you weren’t sure if that was your mind playing tricks on you at this point, “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors that have been circulating lately.” 

Your pulse spiked.

“Ah, I-I suppose I have.” 

Your fists tightened into balls where they’d been resting on your thighs.  You could swear you picked up on some kind of twisted amusement dancing in his eyes, like he was toying with you.  

But it vanished just as quickly, his eyes growing downturned, as though embarrassed or understanding, “I understand it may be a tad bit awkward, talking about it I mean,” he rested his elbow on the cool wood, propping his chin up on an open palm, “but I wanted to hear your opinion on them.” 

“My…opinion?” 

He hummed, calm, as though he were asking for something as straight-forward as the color of the sky. 

You swallowed, dryly.  “Well, I can’t say I’m all that fond of them.” 

“Oh?” Even if he didn’t move all that much, his expression made him feel like he was leaning in on you, closing in.  “Do tell.” 

“It…” you paused again, looking for anything around the room except for Sunday to rest your eyes on, “It makes me feel as though my abilities are being brought into question.  People may assume I only got this job or keep this job because of some kind of feelings you harbor for me, but I earned my position just like everyone else.” 

He went to answer, but it seemed like all the feelings you’d been bottling up were surging past your lips like a tsunami you couldn’t hold back anymore.  “Rumors about a relationship aren’t good for your integrity and they aren’t good for ensuring I do my job without interference.”  Your expression got serious, brows settling into a firm line while your lips curved into a frown.  “For both our careers, I think it’d be better if there was a little bit more distance between us in the future.” 

“...”

Sunday was no longer smiling.

The silence was thick enough to suck the air out of the room, hanging in place like a misty fog.  Perhaps that was why it felt like you couldn’t breathe. 

The wings on either side of Sunday’s head made some kind of fluttering noise as he repositioned them once again, a little less elegantly than the first time.  

“I see.” 

The head of the Oak Family sat up abruptly, resting his other elbow on the table so he could interlace his fingers in front of the lower half of his face. “I wanted your input before I made any decisions handling the rumor mill.  It seems we’re largely on the same page.” 

‘Liar.’ 

It rang clearly in your head like a bell, but you obviously couldn’t say it to his face.  You chewed on the inside of your cheek, eyes flitting to the door before returning to your hands in your lap.  “I appreciate the concern, but I’m just a security officer.  I trust you to handle this how you see fit.” 

“...”

“...Am I free to go, sir?” 

Sunday appeared to be thinking.  

“I believe the best outcome will come from both of us staying on the same page,” he started laying his palms flat on the table, “but I understand that you’re probably eager to clock out for today.” 

“...”

His smile returned, jaw unnaturally clenched.

“I’d appreciate it if you stopped by tomorrow before clocking out again, just to go over the situation in a little bit more detail.” 

You were quiet.  Too quiet.  

You could feel his stare boring holes into you, even if you refused to make eye contact.

“...of course, Mr. Sunday.”

“Long week?”

You didn’t even raise your head from where you’d slumped over the bar counter.  In fact, you assumed the alluring voice calling from over your shoulder was talking to someone else.  The Soulglad was working its magic, smoothing out any disharmony that seemed to rise from your situation at work. 

It always sloshes around in your mouth cold, fizzy like soda but it goes down your throat like a sweet mug of hot chocolate, bubbling up warm at the bottom of your gut like some kind of warm internal hug.  The glass you’d been nursing was empty by now, though. 

Some people get angry, giggly, reckless when they’re drunk. Maybe you would’ve been one of those people, but today? You were too tired to be anything except sleepy.  Arms crossed on top of the counter, resting your face on your forearms, you were maybe two seconds away from falling into the most blissful slumber of your entire life.  

The slumber, however, was unceremoniously tugged just out of reach by the man situating himself on the bar stool right next to yours.

 I mean, it wasn’t his fault technically. He hadn’t gone out of his way to shake you to get your attention or anything.  It just so happened the creaking of the bar counter under his palms seemed to do the work for him.  That didn’t stop it from ruining your evening, though. 

You pried your head from your forearms  like you needed a proverbial crowbar to pick your neck up.  Your brows were angrily set lower on your face, lips curled with an extra dose of distaste.  There’s a dissatisfied rumble in the back of your throat while you correct your posture, sitting up straight.  Reluctantly, you rub the sleep out of your eyes with a swipe of your hand.  

Impishly, the man who’d called out to you earlier snickers before turning towards the working bartender.  His Soulglad order goes unheard in your little stupor.  You raise your arms towards the ceiling, attempting to get a satisfying crack in your back to no avail, instead slouching in your seat again so you could reach for the nearly forgotten empty cup you’d downed about half an hour ago.

You wait for the bartender to come back from fetching the pretty stranger’s drink, patiently, formerly angry features melting into a much calmer expression.  You massage your temple with your free hand, trying to ignore the incoming hangover you’ll be dealing with come tomorrow morning.  

Despite very obviously appearing to be drowning your problems in liquor, the man sitting next to you seems reluctant to leave you to your sorrows and spirits.  

“You don’t seem to be doing so hot, big guy.”

You tap your finger on the rim on your glass, ���Gee, what gave it away?” 

The first thing you notice about the man is his hair.  Compared to the rest of the crowd, it’s a jarringly soft, sandy blonde.  It’s the easiest thing to spot, especially since the alcohol is starting to blur your vision.  

“Oh, I don’t know,” he hums, leaning closer to you over the wooden counter.  “Why don’t you tell me?” 

The next thing you notice is his eyes.  The two of you lock gazes and it feels like you stop breathing for a second.  His iris was made up of electrifying hues of magenta and teal, lining his pupil in alternating rings.  

You stared for a moment too long to be considered natural, completely forgetting what he’d asked you in the first place.  You blinked, embarrassed, turning your attention to how empty your drink was.  You gave a heavy exhale through the nose before responding, “God, where would I even start?” 

“Well, take it from the top.” Finally, you take note of how expensive his clothing is.  As a Penacony native and one who works in tandem with the public sphere, you recognize the rings on his fingers from the high-end jewelers at Oti Mall the very second his rings clink on the wooden countertop. “I’m a really good listener when I want to be.” 

He’s leaning in closer, you can smell just the slightest hint of cologne from where he’s started resting his head on his hand.  

“Well,” You start, eyes tracing the fluff on his collar, “As flattered as I am, my lips are sealed.” 

He elongates the ‘Whaaaatt’ he lets out in response.  He sits up a little bit straighter.  It’s cute, reminds you of a bird fluffing up its feathers.  “I’m just trying to make some friends while I’m in town.  Saw you all by yourself and thought I might have found a kindred soul to talk to over a glass of wine.”

You huff, but you can’t help the smile that tugs at your own lips.  His playful attitude is infectious and you can’t help but fold when you’re this drunk and impressionable.  “We can talk, just not about my problems.  I save that for the second date at least.” 

The other man’s eyes light up with mischief, “Oh?”

The bartender finally returns with the mystery man’s wine glass.  He takes a look at the crimson in the glass, sizing it up before seemingly deciding it was satisfactory.  You, on the other hand, place another order for what you’d been pounding back earlier.  The younger bartender eyes you up and down for a moment, trying to figure out if you were drunk enough he should consider cutting you off for the night.  

Still, he disappears behind the counter again with your empty glass to get you another refill and you can focus your attention on the mystery man swishing his wine around in his glass.  He brings the glass just under his nose, seemingly surprised by what he smells. 

You raise a brow at him, crossing your arms over one another on top of the counter again.  “Did they stiff you?” 

He hums, “I can’t tell yet.”  He tips the glass back, taking just about the smallest sip you’ve ever seen anyone manage in a Penacony bar.   He lets the taste settle in his mouth, giving another noncommittal hum.  

You watch him in silence, hanging on his next word.  

Funnily enough, he doesn’t say anything next.  He holds the glass out to you.

You’re reminded of the alcohol muddying your senses when it takes you an extra second to realize he wants you to take the glass from him.  Dumbly, you blink at him, “Me?”  You jab a finger at your own chest, “You want me to taste test your wine?” 

He laughs, more breath than anything else, “Why not?” 

You purse your lips, “Well, I don’t know what you think I’ve been drinking, but the people I know don’t usually get buzzed on red wine.” 

He offers you the glass again, “Just try it, I want to know what you think of it.” 

You look at him funny, earning another laugh from him.  Tentatively, you wrap your fingers around the glass, just barely brushing your fingers with this mystery man.  “You’re strange, y’know.  Not a lot of people offer their drinks to total strangers.” 

You take a sip of his wine as he watches, seemingly captivated with the way your adam’s apple bobs when you swallow.

“Well,” he starts, taking the glass back just as the bartender on shift is returning with your own drink of choice, “We don’t have to be total strangers.” 

You take the glass from your coworker graciously, giving a curt nod to signal your gratitude.  But, unlike the last 3 times he’d gotten you the same drink, you don’t immediately take to gulping half of it down.  Instead, you’re staring back into the same magnetic eyes that you thought ruined your night earlier.  “Yeah? And what do you suggest we do?” 

He’s coy, hiding the bottom half of his face behind his wine, “We could start with names.” 

You didn’t think about it for long, already in too deep to act like you weren’t equally as enamored.  

“(name).” 

He sets his glass down on the table, seemingly uninterested in the contents at this point. 

 “Well, (name), you can call me Aventurine.”

As was customary in the land of festivities, the bar was once again alive with groups of friends, family, lovers, and strangers alike.  As was also customary, almost all of them nursed some kind of alcoholic beverage or Soul Glad while they conversed amongst themselves.  

A young woman with a tall wine glass would bat her eyes at a young fellow gripping a pint of beer like he needed it to breathe.  A group of older gentlemen seemed to have variants of the same drink, each just barely distinguishable from the drink next to it, belly-laughing about nonsense that made it obvious they were drunker than the bar staff should’ve allowed. 

That was the odd thing.  Normally, you’d be doing the same as everyone else.  The moment you clocked out of the most awkward, gruelingly uncomfortable work environment you’d ever been unfortunate enough to be subjected to, you’d just be another face throwing back a couple drinks to take off the edge before heading home to actually relax.  Today, despite the not-so-subtle lingering bar staff, you still hadn’t gotten yourself a drink just yet.  

You were waiting for someone.  

Well, you were maybe waiting for someone. 

 The two of you hadn’t agreed to meet up again after getting drunk off your asses the night prior, but you really hoped he would show up again. 

Absent-mindedly, you drummed your fingers on the top of the familiar wood with one hand, the other reaching into your pocket. It’d become a nervous habit.  Nobody really seemed to notice but the amount you would check the clock had drastically skyrocketed since you’d started working in the Dewlight Pavilion. 

Since you’d started working for Sunday.  

The moment you’d realized what you were doing, it was like a switch went off in your brain.  Your hand moved to tuck your phone back in your pocket, your inner monologue scolding you for getting so worked up over someone you’d only known for a few hours.

“...”

You sat in silence, both hands loosely gripping the edge of the counter top.  

You weren’t left by yourself for long, though.  In fact, literal seconds before you planned on flagging down a bartender to grab a drink, you were startled by a pair of gloved hands reaching out in front of your face to cover your eyes.  

The touch was delicate and the material of the gloves was familiar.  

Your breath caught in your throat.  

Your heart rate picked up, automatically on high alert.

“Guess who?” 

Immediately, your heart dropped back down to where it was supposed to be in your chest. 

“Aventurine?” 

The gloves pulled away from your face, no longer obscuring your vision.  You noted immediately that they were black, not white.  You were so caught off-guard by the gesture earlier you hadn’t even thought to check what color the gloves were.  

The aforementioned man, none the wiser to your inner dilemma, rested his hands on your shoulders with a smile.  “How’d you know?”

On auto-pilot, your posture relaxed, an exhale passing through your lips in relief.  You played it off as a joke, swiping a palm across the back of your forehead animatedly, “Well, I only know a couple people with those gloves and you’re the only person who wouldn’t be trying to kill me.” 

He snickered, once again sliding onto the bar stool right next to you.  “Really?  You have enemies?” 

You shrugged in response.  

He hummed, “Color me surprised.” 

You smiled back at him, genuinely this time.  “Live and learn, right?” 

Aventurine nodded, raising an arm to flag down the bartender.  “As much as I’d like a repeat of yesterday afternoon, I actually have somewhere to be today.” 

You raise an eyebrow, “Really? What have you got planned for your afternoon in the land of festivities?” 

He cracks a half-smile, “Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you.” 

You cock your head to the side, earning yourself an amused grin.  

He gazes off towards where the bartenders are running around like headless chickens, attempting to keep guests happy during the after-work rush.  “I rented out a huge roulette table for myself and a few big investors with the company I work for.”

You purse your lips, giving him a certain look he seemingly didn’t anticipate coming from you.  

He pushes your shoulder, “Hey, what’s that face for?  I’m plenty lucky!” 

You nod, incredulously,  “Uh-huh? Anything else you want to say?”  

He huffs, trying to hold a serious expression, but almost immediately he’s fighting an uphill battle.  “I’ve never lost a bet of any kind in my life.” 

You snort, “Whatever you say.” 

He crosses his arms, resting them on the bar counter, “I haven’t!” 

You can’t help the grin on your face nor the overconfident manner in which you doubt him.  You’d seen this kind of thing a million times before.  Tourists always like to play their luck gambling and it turns out, they don’t have much to play.  “Mhm.” 

Anything less than a smile is gone from his face at this point, “If you come to the roulette table with me, I’ll prove it to you.” 

While he’s looking straight at your side profile, you’re looking for a good moment to flag down one of the bartenders that’d seemingly forgotten the two of you existed at all.  “I don’t do gambling anymore.  I lost half a paycheck while I was drunk and I swore I would never do something that stupid ever again.” 

“You don’t need to be the one gambling,” he adds, almost a little too quickly.  “You can just sit back and watch.”  

You were already going to open your mouth to give him a maybe, but he cut you off before you could so much as make a sound.  “I’ll even cover your drinks for the night.”

You glance at the bar counter, seemingly weighing your options.  He interlocks his fingers, playing up the begging act before you swat his hands away with a chuckle, “Okay, okay! You’ve convinced me, you’re going to embarrass the both of us.” 

He silently cheers, hopping off the bar stool before motioning for you to follow him.  

Your jaw drops, “Now? We’re going now?” 

He nods,coffering a hand, “Well? The reservation starts in ten minutes and I plan on getting my money’s worth.” 

You chew on the inside of your cheek. 

You’re nervous.  

No, you should be nervous. 

You’ve talked to Aventurine for maybe 5 hours total if you’re being generous.  You shouldn’t be this eager to follow a random stranger, albeit  a handsome stranger, into some dark, shady roulette table room.  

But you are.  

You slip your hand into his, letting him lead you out of the VIP Lounge before you can consider turning down his offer. 

‘CRASH!’ 

The sound of the stapler clattering to the ground is deafening in the silence of Sunday’s office.  

With a swipe of his arm, the giant stack of paperwork he had yet to complete flew off the corner of his desk.  

‘THUMP!’ 

It falls in a giant heap to the ground, the recoil sending papers flying across the red carpet floor.  

He grabs the lamp that’d been in the office longer than he had by the base, yanking the cord out of the wall in the process. 

‘SMASH!’ 

The lightbulb shatters when it makes contact with the bookshelf he’d thrown it at.  All that’s left on his desk is the line of neatly organized pens in black and blue ink.  

Even then, that’s too much. 

With Herculean strength he didn’t know he possessed, he grabs his desk by its corners, flipping the entire thing over onto the floor.  

‘BANG!’ 

Sunday’s teeth are grit, grinding against one another hard enough his jaw aches.  His hands are shaking where they’re curled up into fists at his side.  His chest heaves, but not from the exertion.  

Something inside him burns. 

It rumbles, it aches, it hurts. 

His fingers itch for destruction of some kind, more destruction than tearing apart his office can give him.  He needs to see carnage, needs to cause some kind of catastrophe but his status means he can only do so much without jeopardizing his future prospects. 

The wings on either side of his face flutter indignantly. 

It’s getting harder and harder to breathe.  

His vision is starting to get spotty.  

Every time he tried to swallow down the urge to tear apart anything and everything he could get his hands on, he just kept on seeing the pictures that’d sent him into such a fervor in the first place. 

Why?

Why? 

What was it about the IPC Stoneheart that caught your interest? 

What did he have to offer that Sunday didn’t? 

Originally, he tried to push down the burning feeling of competition.  

The first picture he’d been sent wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.  Aventurine cradled a glass of blood red wine in one hand, the other one was counting something off on his fingers.  You leaned in, resting your chin on one of your hands while taking a sip of your own drink.  

It was just a friendly outing between two strangers in a bar! 

But then it wasn’t just a friendly outing between two strangers in a bar, it turned into inviting you out on the town whenever you weren’t working.  

Every picture he was sent made Sunday feel like he was being jabbed with a hot poker.  The nagging voice at the back of his head went from being nothing more than occasional whispers to near constant chatter.  

Competition and jealousy boiled over, returning as steaming hot inadequacy and betrayal.  

The cameras around Penacony caught the two of you frequenting gambling dens, all smiles and coy banter behind the mountains of game chips Aventurine’s supernatural luck managed to rake in.  

The head of the Oak Family tried to come up with a reason why you’d choose to follow after Aventurine.  Maybe the family hadn’t been paying you enough, maybe you were only toying with Aventurine for his money.  If Sunday increased your pay, maybe you’d stop running around behind his back! 

But that would only explain the times you were pictured at the casino tables. 

What about all the times the two of you had wandered around the Moment of Scorchsand? 

Drinking, dancing, bar hopping?  Were those just an added on fling? Another way of cheating Aventurine out of his money?  

Or, or the moment of Stars?  

Did you need Aventurine’s money to have a good time at an amusement park?

Why did you pay for that date then? Why was that date your idea? 

Why did the cameras catch the two of you making out on the elevator ride up to Aventurine’s hotel room? 

The halovian clutched his head in both hands.

He needs the room to stop spinning, he needs those images out of his head. 

But he can’t seem to stop them, no matter how hard he tries.  The second he manages to push one down, another five images are burning themselves into his brain.  

Cruelly, the voice that’d been telling him to act on his suspicions sooner only seems to get louder and louder.  It laughs at him, ridicules him.  

Sunday cries out in pure anguish, sending a fist hurtling straight through the wall behind his desk.  

“FUCK!”

“Hngh… Oh-” 

Aventurine’s fingers curl in your hair, tugging your strands with enough force your scalp burns.  You groan, throat spasming around where you’d taken his cock down to the base.  The pleasant vibrations only send his head tipping back against the silk-cover pillows in a delayed moan, toes curling from where you’d thrown his legs over your shoulder.  

Your middle finger ghosts over his prostate a second time and his jaw drops.  Reflexively, he pulled your face closer to his pelvis leading you to choke.  You lave your tongue over one of the more prominent veins on the underside of his pretty pink shaft on your way up, kitten licking the tip as your chest heaves.  You take in a much deeper breath, pulling off of him completely in favor of grabbing the bottle of lube that’d you’d carelessly thrown aside earlier.  

His eyes are just a smidge glossed over when he picks his head up from the pillow, meeting your gaze with his lower lip jutted out in a pout.  “Mmm… I was so close, why’d you have to stop?” 

He’s a picture, blonde hair sticking to his forehead, teal button-up only half undone and hanging off his shoulders.  His collarbones and shoulders are littered with hickies in a plethora of colors, reminders of each time you’d found yourself in the same hotel room after a haze of a night spent drinking, gambling, and/or flirting.  

“It’s hard getting comfy with something down your throat, babe.” With the cap of the bottle already mostly screwed off, you make quick work of it with your teeth.  Pulling your middle finger out of his tight ass, you squirt a healthy dollop onto your middle and index fingers.  

His eyes drop to where your fingers are working him open, two fingers sinking in knuckle deep.  He whimpers when he hears the filthy squelch the lube makes when you start moving them back and forth.  His breath gets stuck in his lungs when he feels the pads of your fingers glide over his prostate again.  “Hurry up-” he bites his lip when he feels the warmth of your breath fan over his leaking tip, “Wanna feel you inside already.”

Your laugh is breathy as you start to scissor your fingers to make room for a third.  You blow cold air on his tip, relishing the way his knees try to lock up around your neck, the way his cute dick twitches.  He shoots you a half-hearted glare, pushing his hips further on your fingers to try and feel for that one spot that would send him to the stars above.  You’d hooked up with him enough to know exactly where it was in this position, angling your fingers to skillfully knead the little bump with startling accuracy.  

“Fuck- Yes, please, (name), right there!” 

His thighs seize up on either side of your head, eyes rolling into the back of his head.  One of the hands tangled in your hair finds itself covering his mouth, muffling his whines.  The hand still knotted up in your tresses tries to pull you closer, nonverbally pleading for more.  You slip in a third finger and he groans at the stretch,wiggling his hips even though you aren’t moving.

Your mouth is on his tip in an attempt to pacify him, licking over his slit as you pull your fingers out again.  He’s easily distracted and his hips are trying their best to thrust up from where they’re pinned on the mattress.  There’s another healthy slathering of lube on your fingers before you’re working him open again, taking as much of his pretty pink cock in your mouth without using your throat.  

His moans are getting higher and higher in pitch, grip getting tighter and tighter on your scalp.  He whimpers between them like he’s in pain, but the way his heels are digging into the small of your back, you know he isn’t actually hurting.   

“Ah~, (nickname), I’m gonna- I’m gonna cummmngh~”

Crystalline tears pool at the corners of his eyes, his back rising in the perfect arch the deeper you’re thrusting your fingers.  You pull off his dick with a smile, a line of saliva between your lips and the angry red tip serving a messy reminder.  You’re panting, both trying to catch your breath but also because you’re hardly containing your own excitement.  “Yeah? You’re gonna cum?” 

He nods his head quickly biting his lips, and Aeons, he sounds angelic when you prod around his insides looking for his prostate again.  “Mmhm… Ngh~” 

Your free hand wraps around the base of his dick with a smile, chuckling when his grip on your hair is just about tight enough he’s getting ready to pull out chunks of your follicles.  You’re stroking him up and down, nice and slow at the same pace you’re thrusting.  “You wanna cum?” 

He nods his head even harder this time, the tears pooling at the corners of his eyes starting to slide down his cheeks one by one.  

You stop stroking him, hand coming to a stop working his insides too, “I wanna hear you say it,” you press a lingering kiss on the top of his thigh, “Need to hear you say it f’me before you cum, darling.” 

He chokes on a frustrated sob, “I-I needa cum- please, baby, n-need it so bad-”

He’s too slow to bite his lip again, an uncharacteristically screamlike moan ripped from his throat the moment your hands started massaging his sweet spot again.  Despite already being arched, his back is pushing itself off the bed as he struggles to keep his voice down.  He’s chasing your hands, despite the fact they aren’t going anywhere. 

You start sucking a hickey into his inner thigh, watching the way his cock twitches and his legs jolt.  

“CUMminGgh! Oh, hoh- I’m cumMINg~” 

He keens, spasming and seizing up before he creams thick and heavy onto his chest with a labored sob.  His chest is moving so fast it looks like he’s hyperventilating and he’s scrambling to pry your mouth off his over sensitive inner thighs.  

You groan against his skin, immediately getting up from where you’re kneeling at the foot of the bed to crawl on top of him.  Despite just how intense he came, he’s more than eager to welcome you onto the bed with open arms.  His hands are immediately reaching for your shirt buttons, fumbling to get them undone with shaky hands.  You’re caging him in with one arm, the other reaching up to help him undo your button-up.  

He scowls at the last few–the ones he decided were taking too long–before he’s taking the fabric in both hands and popping the buttons off in one fell swoop.  You’re pleasantly surprised, even more so when his hand is reaching for your belt buckle all on his own.  

Usually, he enjoyed being pampered in bed, him taking the initiative was more than unexpected–pleasant, but unexpected. 

“What’s the rush?” You tease, letting your arm fall back into place holding you up, “I’m all yours, all night.” 

Aventurine whines, fingers catching on the clasp of the buckle, “That’s not soon enough, wanna feel you now.”

“Fuck…” The sight of him being so needy is turning you on to an embarrassing degree.  At this point, you’re guessing the front of your boxers are all but soaked through.  

The man underneath you isn’t the only one that’s impatient, it seems.  Moments later, your hand is reaching down to help him free you from the confines of your uniform slacks.  One of his hands reaches up to yank you down close enough to kiss him, clumsy and wanting. 

Your lips are about to connect, the night’s really heating up, and you couldn’t think of anything that could ruin the moment until- 

‘KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!’ 

The two of you freeze, eyes darting towards the door.  

You look back down at him, “Were you expecting anyone tonight?” 

“No.” Aventurine scowls, pursing his lips, “I told the front desk to say I wasn’t here tonight.” 

You frown, “Then, who-” 

‘KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!’ 

You get off the disheveled blonde, snatching his robe off the back of his closet door.  He takes it quickly, getting off the bed to cover himself.  

You’re trying to button-up what buttons remain on your shirt, redoing your belt buckle while you’re at it.  

Aventurine turns back to you, approaching the entrance to his luxury hotel suite as he shrugs the fluffy black robe, “Don’t think you’re getting away from me, we’re starting up again the second I’m-”

‘KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!’ 

He grits his teeth, “I’m on my way!” 

He ties the waistband into a knot, sliding on a pair of equally fluffy slippers by the bedroom door before disappearing from sight. 

You don’t think much of it, after all, you’d spent enough nights out with Aventurine to know he was someone important in a huge corporation.  It didn’t seem out of the question that something might’ve needed his immediate attention. 

In the mirror of the wardrobe next to the bed, you’re fixing your hair and counting the buttons missing from your uniform when the door opens. 

“Sunday! What a pleasant surprise.”

there's a note on the side of the phone booth, read it?

" happy gay month cuz u know u gay and stuff <3 "

guys there isn't that much smut don't be mad at me i have a heat fic and another fic about blowing out brant's back to write😔

ANYWAYS

If you guys haven't checked my pinned lately, I'd recommend giving it a read because it contains my plans for this account's future and all that good stuff <3

I really appreciate the people who stuck with me over like 5 months of prolonged absence, y'all are real ones and I wish I could kiss u all hot and romantical on the mouth

I'll admit this isn't my best work, especially since I've kind of fallen out of HSR and Genshin, but it's here for whoever wants to read it !

It's been wonderful getting to know all of you guys and I'm sincerely grateful for all the support you guys have shown for me and my little writing hobby :,)))))

divider credits:

@/im4yeons

@/saradika-graphics

@/enchanthings

@/cutestgrotto