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baby-yongbok · 2 months ago

Text

Partition

Kim Seungmin x afab!Reader

⤷ Smut - dom!Seungmin x sub!Reader [MDNI]

⤷ WC - 1.4k

⤷ CW - public tension, car sex, possessiveness, power play, creampie, unprotected sex, fingering (f.rec)

Every spotlight has a shadow. You two just happen to fuck in it.

⤷ Partition by Beyonce + This Seungmin from the Chaumet event that lives in my mind rent free... yeah... anyway, enjoy! + reader is depicted as chubby/plus size and is a POC ♡ [i didn't proof read this one bit..haha]

⋆｡‧˚ʚ Masterlist ɞ˚‧｡��

The gala ended with a standing ovation. You smiled like you meant it, fingers wrapped around Seungmin’s arm like a perfect, polished accessory. His hand on your waist was steady, his jaw sharp under soft lighting, not a hair out of place.

You’d kissed cheeks, waved politely, complimented outfits you’d mentally berated. You played the part. Both of you did. Seungmin smiles, starts engaging conversations and listening with bright and perfect smiles.

And maybe that’s what gnaws at you most - how good he is at it. How he can charm the room and still ignore the way your thighs press together under the table. You wanted to ruin that mask, even if just a crack. You wanted to remind him - remind yourself - what happens when the curtain falls.

You can already feel the tension in his fingers where they rest on your waist - just the faintest tremble. Like he’s holding something back. Like if you press even slightly, he’ll crack down the middle and take you with him.

You test the theory.

Under the table - when the cameras weren’t looking - you let your fingers drift up the inside of his thigh, just enough to make his fork freeze mid-cut. Just enough to make him turn his head slowly toward you with a look that promised you’d regret it.

And now?

Now you were in the back of a black car, sealed away from the flashing lights trying to capture the slightest slip up. The city lights flashing across the tinted windows is all that witnesses you now as Seungmin presses the sleek black button next to him. The partition slides up with a smooth click, concealing you.

You left the venue five minutes ago, that’s five minutes of your mask as the prim and proper ‘it’ couple being tucked away, but Seungmin still hasn’t spoken.

Not until you reached for his tie, playful, half-drunk on boldness.

That’s when his hand caught your wrist.

Hard.

"You play too much, you know that?” he says, voice a low growl that sounded like it came from somewhere deep in his chest. “You love starting things that you can never finish.”

You barely have time to process the change in him before he’s tugging you into his lap, dress riding up your thighs, panties soaked and sticking. His hands are rough, not like the Seungmin the world knows - these aren't careful touches. They’re claims.

“Was that the plan? Get me worked up in front of everyone just so I’d lose it the second we were alone?” he mutters, lips brushing your ear as he pulls your hips flush to his.

“You didn’t lose it,” you breathe.

He chuckles. Dark. Dangerous. “No. But I will.”

He’s quick, your back hits the leather seat with a shift that has him hovering over your buzzing body. He doesn’t undress you - just shoves your dress higher and hooks your panties to the side. The cool air hits your soaked cunt and you keen. That makes him smile. The type of smile that means trouble.

“You’re soaked,” he says, almost amused. “You get off on being watched, baby?”

His fingers slide through your folds like he’d done it a thousand times, precise and merciless. You moan, try to reach for him - he doesn’t like that.

Seungmin grabs your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand, “Look in the mirror.”

“What?”

He nods at the small black mirror above the partition window. “That’s what I see when I look at you. That’s what they’d see, too, if I opened this window.”

You whimper.

“I said look.”

You obey.

And what you see is a version of yourself that only he awakens - makeup smudged, mouth open, thighs spread. Seungmin’s hand teasing where you drip for him while he whispers filth against your skin.

“You think you’re in control when you tease me,” his teeth graze your collarbone. “But look at you now. Dripping all over my hand just because I told you to.” He slips two fingers in, sinking them deep before curling them right where he knows it melts you.

“Where’s that bold attitude now, baby? Where’d my brave girl go?” He pumps his fingers deep, fast, hitting your sweet spot and then some until your panting, gasping - begging.

“Please,” You don’t even know what you’re asking for.

He pulls his fingers out. You almost sob.

“You want it?” he asked, voice suddenly cool again. “Then earn it.”

He unzips his pants, letting his cock spring free - long, flushed, leaking at the tip. And fuck, the look in his eyes - feral and focused. It makes you ache. He shifts, takes your hand, guiding you to hover over him and sink down without hesitation. You sink down slowly, the stretch making you tremble and whine.

“Fuck, yes,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Just like that, baby. Take it.”

His hands grip your waist, controlling the pace, the depth, you. When you try to speed up, he holds you still. When you try to slow down, he bucks up hard, making you cry out.

“You feel what I let you,” he pants, his voice broken with heavy breath. “You don’t get to come until I say.”

Your cunt drips, swallowing him whole and clenching with each and every ragged drag of his cock. Seungmin leans forward, his lips press against the exposed skin of your neck messily, it’s all tongue and teeth, nipping and soothing over and over.

“Is this what you wanted so badly?” his words break with pleasure and you answer with a moan, you’re sure the driver heard you. “Wanted to feel me in your fucking stomach? Fucking that pretty polite smile off your face.”

Your nails sink into his shoulders, holding you steady while your head spins with all he’s giving. Your breath feels thin, your crash building higher and higher low in your stomach until you feel it start to sway. Seungmin notices.

He snaps his hips up, making sure that you know what this is - punishment, a display of control, his control.

“Please, please,” this time you’re asking for release. Permission to shatter in his arms. “Seungmin, please.”

He pulls back, eyes on your and one of your hands moves up to his neck. One of his hands moves to cup your cheek, steering your lips to his in a kiss too tender for the moment you're wrapped in.

“Do it.” he mumbles, “I’ll do it with you, cum, baby.”

You tremble around him with a scream muffled against his shoulder, body quaking and cunt fluttering with a gush that’s matched with his flood. He spills into you with a low, guttural groan, burying his face in your neck, hips jerking through it. Then silence.

Only your ragged breaths. Your heartbeat in your ears. And then he feels the car stop, you’re at the next venue, the afterparty.

Seungmin doesn’t speak, just a kiss to your forehead while he pulls out, a gentle squeeze to your hip while he helps you pull your panties into place, keeping his load from leaking, for now. He straightens your dress and then he fixes himself - silent, controlled, masking slipping back into place, like you hadn’t just ridden him like a madwoman in the back of a moving car.

He adjusts his cuffs. Smooths back his hair. Then wipes your ruined lipstick off with his thumb.

“Smile when we get out,” he says casually. “Don’t let them know you just came all over my cock.”

And with that, the partition slides back down.

Seungmin gives the driver the green light.

And he sounds the part - perfect and composed. As if he hadn’t just ruined you behind the glass.

You step out first, heels steady despite the aftershocks still rippling through your thighs. Seungmin follows, hand on the small of your back like a man who owns everything he touches.

The crowd roars. The lights blind.

You smile like nothing happened.

Like he isn’t still inside you, seeping into the cotton of your panties.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow, deliberate. A warning masked as affection.

No one sees the way his touch lingers, like a silent reminder.

No one hears him murmur under his breath, lips not moving:

“Next time you tease me in public, I won’t wait for the car.”

And just like that, the cameras capture perfection.

Not the mess just beneath.

The perfect couple.

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moongirlcleo · 2 months ago

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Folded Hands

❤︎ tags and content: strip poker, light dom themes, rough sex, aftercare, table sex, f!reader, caleb x reader, not proofread ❤︎ author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @/cafekitsune Fic: @moongirlcleo

It starts with a bottle of wine and an innocent game of poker—just a quiet night on Skyhaven, something light to pass the time between missions and memories. But when the clothes begin to come off, the stakes rise higher than either of you planned.

For Caleb, restraint has always been second nature: in battle, in command, even in love. But when he sees you again—sitting before him, laughter on your lips and old longing in your eyes—he learns what it means to fold.

You don’t warn him that you’re coming.

You know his schedule by now—know the window when patrol shifts ease and the briefing rooms go quiet, when he might have a sliver of time to breathe without a headset pressed to his ear or someone barking his title down a comm line. It’s selfish, maybe, showing up unannounced, but something about Skyhaven’s artificial skyline and the faint hum of the platform beneath your boots feels too sterile without him.

You pass two levels of clearance before reaching his wing. The security personnel stationed outside glance at you but don’t question a thing—they know your face, probably know your name too. Caleb’s name gets you into places most people never dream of, and the thought settles strangely in your chest.

You pause outside his door, hand hovering near the chime for a beat longer than you mean to. Then, with a quiet breath, you press it.

The door slides open almost immediately, like he was already on the other side.

He doesn’t speak at first—just stands there in the entryway, jacket sleeves rolled to his elbows, dog tags peeking from beneath the collar of his half-buttoned shirt, hair still damp from a recent shower. There’s a moment of silence, but it isn’t awkward. If anything, it stretches soft and golden between you like the sun lingering just a little longer on the horizon.

Finally, his voice breaks it. “Pipsqueak. You came.”

You smile, tucking your hands into your jacket pockets. “I figured you might need someone to make sure you were still eating real food and not surviving off nutrient packs again.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Guilty as charged.”

You expect him to step aside, to usher you in like he always does, but instead he studies you for a second longer—eyes flicking briefly down your frame, as if double-checking you’re really there and not some illusion conjured by exhaustion or hope. Then he steps back, wordlessly holding the door open.

The moment you cross the threshold, the quiet hum of Skyhaven gives way to something softer—his space is dim, cozy, nothing like the sterile exterior of the station. A warm light glows from a small lamp near the couch, casting lazy shadows across the room. There’s a pot simmering somewhere beyond the partition, faintly spicy and comforting. And the faintest trace of your favorite scent lingers in the air—subtle, but unmistakable.

“Been working late?” you ask, shrugging off your jacket and draping it over the back of his chair.

“Always,” he says, closing the door behind you. “But… I’m glad you’re here.”

You glance toward the source of the smell, eyes flicking toward the kitchen. “You cooking?”

He nods, sheepish. “Trying to, anyway. Got roped into making a proper meal tonight. I may or may not have bribed someone on the logistics team for decent ingredients.”

You raise a brow, mock seriousness. “You bribed someone for dinner?”

“Only a little,” he says, lifting one hand in mock surrender. “I didn’t know you were coming, but there’s enough for two. Stay?”

You don’t even have to think about it. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches you for a moment longer, the faintest crease between his brows, like he’s still calibrating the reality of you standing in his space. Then something eases in him—shoulders relaxing, expression softening—and he gestures toward the small dining nook by the window.

“I’ll plate up,” he says. “Make yourself at home.”

And just like that, you’re back in orbit around him again, the two of you drawn together in quiet gravity, as if no time has passed at all.

Dinner is quieter than you expected, but not in a bad way. Caleb sets the table with military precision—two bowls of something simmered and savory, still steaming from the pot, a bottle of wine between you, half-full glasses catching the soft light like blood-red glass. You’re close enough to see the fine scar just under his jaw when he leans forward, but far enough that you still feel the distance he keeps around most people.

Except you’re not most people.

He waits until you’ve eaten a few bites before speaking, and when he does, his voice is softer than usual.

“So,” he says, watching you over the rim of his glass, “how’ve you been holding up?”

You shrug, rolling your shoulders as if it’ll shake off the weight of everything. “Same as always. Working, reporting, picking up intel where I can. Got clipped by a rogue Wanderer last week, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.”

His jaw tightens just slightly. You catch it even if he thinks you won’t. “You shouldn’t be dealing with that alone.”

You offer a small smile, lifting your glass to your lips. “I wasn’t alone. Zayne had my back. We made it out clean.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes dropping to his plate. When he speaks again, it’s low, almost like he’s talking more to himself than you. “I hate that you’re still in the middle of all that.”

You tilt your head. “You think I should be locked away in here with you?”

He looks up sharply, but there’s no bite to your words—just a trace of amusement, tempered with something softer.

“I think,” he says after a pause, “that I’d sleep better if I knew you were safe.”

You don’t answer right away. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but full—like a breath you’re both holding, unsure when to let it go.

Eventually, you break it with a quiet laugh. “God, this wine is strong.”

He glances toward your glass, brow lifted. “Already feeling it?”

“Maybe a little,” you admit, nudging your plate away. “But in a good way. I think I needed this.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression. You lean back in your chair, swirling the last of your wine lazily, and glance toward the side table where the deck of cards sits, half-hidden under a data tablet.

“Hey,” you say, catching his gaze, “still keep a deck around?”

His eyes flick toward the cards, then back to you. “Always.”

“Good.” You smirk, setting your glass down. “You up for a game of poker?”

He leans back, arms folding across his chest, that familiar amused glint in his eyes returning. “You’re tipsy.”

“Which means I’m just reckless enough to win,” you shoot back, giving him a mock-challenging look. “Unless you’re scared I’ll beat you again.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, already reaching for the deck. “You cheated last time.”

“Did not.”

“You stacked the deck when I blinked.”

“Prove it.”

He stands, pulling the cards free with a flick of his wrist, and walks slowly back toward the table. “You’re on, then. But I’m warning you... I play for keeps.”

You look up at him, heartbeat catching just a little at the way the warm light slides over the edge of his jaw, the faint smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“That so?” you murmur, voice soft with challenge. “Guess we’ll see what you’re willing to bet.”

And just like that, the room feels warmer. Not just from the wine. Not just from the way his eyes linger on you a second too long. But from something simmering beneath the surface—just waiting for one of you to fold.

<hr>

The cards move fluidly between Caleb’s fingers, shuffling in smooth, practiced motions, each flick of the deck precise in a way that feels entirely him—controlled, deliberate, like even this moment of downtime is something he needs to master. He sits across from you now, long legs stretched under the table, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fitted line of his jacket hugging his frame like it was made for him. There’s a slight crease between his brows as he cuts the deck, but it softens the moment he glances up and catches your gaze, a spark of amusement flickering there.

You lean into your hand, the curve of your mouth lazy. “You gonna deal, or just admire the cards all night?”

His gaze lingers on you, eyes half-lidded, voice low. “Thought I was admiring something else.”

Your stomach tightens, not because of the wine—but because of that voice, that look, and the way he says it like he means every word.

He starts to deal, and the first few rounds pass easily—banter traded, hands won and lost. You bluff; he calls it. He folds; you grin. There’s tension simmering under the surface now, subtle but growing with each glance, each casual brush of fingers on the table or leg beneath it. The room is too warm. Or maybe it's just him.

“So,” Caleb says, tapping his cards against the table, “what exactly are we playing for?”

You shrug, watching the way the light catches in his hair, casting faint gold at his temples. “Didn’t set terms.”

He hums, as if weighing options. “We could make this interesting.”

You arch a brow. “Interesting how?”

He lifts his glass for a slow sip, gaze unwavering. “Loser of each hand removes something.”

There’s a quiet beat—just a moment where the air stills and your breath stalls—but then you set your wine down, fingers brushing your cheek as you pretend to think.

“You’re serious?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Only if you are.”

You meet his eyes, steady. “Alright, Colonel. But you’re going to regret this.”

He grins, all confidence and something darker beneath it. “Can’t wait.”

The cards are dealt. You lose the next round, of course—whether by fate or the fact that your mind is no longer entirely on the game. With an exaggerated sigh, you slide your sweater off your shoulders and toss it over the arm of the couch behind you. You don’t look at him, not directly, but you feel his eyes track the movement like a predator watching the first sign of weakness.

The round after that, he folds way too early.

You tilt your head, not bothering to hide your smirk. “Really? You’re giving up that easy?”

“Maybe I just wanted to even the field,” he says, and this time, he unzips his jacket.

He peels it off in one slow, smooth motion, the fabric whispering over his skin as he drapes it over the back of his chair. The dark shirt beneath fits him too well—clinging to the curve of his shoulders, the line of his arms, like a second skin. You swallow a little too quietly.

The game continues, barely. Small losses, smaller victories. Neither of you’s really trying it seems. Your bracelet ends up on the table. His socks go next. It’s almost ridiculous, but neither of you laughs.

It’s your deal. You flick a card onto the table with the sort of flair only three glasses of wine can inspire. “Call it.”

Caleb leans forward, folding his arms against the table, his voice quieter now. “Don’t tell me you’re throwing this one too.”

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Who says I’m not just bad at poker?”

He tilts his head, studying you with a gaze that sees straight through your act. “You forget I grew up with you. I know when you’re pretending.”

You hold eye contact, the challenge clear, but so is the invitation. “Your turn.”

He looks at his cards, then at you. There’s a slow exhale, almost like he’s bracing for something—and then he lays them down.

A flush. A clear win. But he doesn’t smile.

“I had a choice,” he says softly. “And I’d rather lose to you.”

Then—without waiting—he reaches for the hem of his shirt.

This time, the motion isn’t quick. There’s no humor in it, no shrug. Just slow, deliberate movement as he drags the fabric up his torso, revealing inch by inch the toned expanse of his chest—cut with lean muscle, marked by faint scars, the synthetic gleam of his right shoulder catching faint light. His eyes don’t leave yours. If he’s giving you a show, it’s intentional. If he’s waiting to see how you’ll react—he’s watching closely.

The shirt hits the floor shortly after. And when the silence stretches, heavy and filled with a different kind of charge now. Caleb doesn’t reach for more wine. He just breathes slow and deep, bare and still, like the next move is yours to make.

<hr>

You should have folded.

The thought hits you a moment too late—right as Caleb places his hand down on the table with quiet finality, his cards a clean, easy win. He doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t need to. The way he looks at you, eyes steady and dark with quiet heat, is far more effective than any smirk or tease.

The silence that follows stretches, weighted and slow, and you feel it settle over your skin like the hum of something electric waiting to arc.

There’s no way out. You’ve lost the round. You take a breath, steadying your hand as you reach down to the hem of your shirt, feeling the faintest tremble in your fingertips—not from nerves, not exactly, but from the awareness that this moment has long since stopped being about poker. With careful fingers, you lift the shirt over your head and pull it free, the air cool against your skin as your bare shoulders meet the open room. You’re still in your bra, modest and simple, but under his gaze, it might as well be nothing at all.

You place the shirt beside your jacket with what you hope is casual ease, though you can feel your heartbeat stuttering just beneath your ribs. When you glance up, Caleb is watching you, unmoving, his expression unreadable—but the tension in his jaw, the way his gaze lingers, betrays him.

You clear your throat softly, needing something—anything—to cut through the moment.

“I, um… I need more wine,” you say, pushing up from your seat before he can respond.

You cross the room with too much purpose, your steps just a little too quick, the air against your skin feeling too sharp now, too exposed. Your fingers reach for the bottle, more for something to do than for any real need to drink. You’re not even sure if you meant to escape the moment, or if part of you just wanted to feel the cool glass in your hands before the warmth burning in your chest gets too much to hold.

But before you can pour, you hear the quiet scrape of a chair behind you, the soft sound of his footsteps—slow, deliberate—drawing closer.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

His presence fills the space behind you like a shadow stretching in the light—close enough that you can feel the heat of him ghosting along your back, but still not touching, not yet.

“You sure you need more wine?” he asks, voice low, with just the barest hint of gravel at the edges.

Your fingers pause on the neck of the bottle. “I’m just... cooling off,” you murmur, trying to sound breezy, unaffected, though your voice is already tighter than you’d like.

There’s a beat of silence, and then he hums—not skeptical, exactly, but amused in a way that makes your skin prickle with awareness.

“That why you’re trembling?”

The words land too softly to be accusatory, but they knock the breath from you all the same. You close your eyes, just for a moment, and instantly regret it—because now every inch of him feels closer, like the air has folded in around you, and you’re standing in the center of a storm that’s just barely restrained.

You turn your head slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder, and you find him already watching you—his gaze pinned to yours like it’s holding you in place.

“I thought you said you play to win,” you manage, your voice low, barely more than a breath.

There’s something in his eyes now, something deeper—desire, yes, but also something rawer beneath it, something like vulnerability wrapped in steel. He lets his gaze drop, tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your lips, then lower, lingering at the bare skin of your shoulder before meeting your eyes again.

“Maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to lose,” he says softly, and there’s no teasing left in him now—just honesty, quiet and bare and thick with everything neither of you has said aloud.

You don’t speak. You don’t have to. Because then his hand lifts, slow and careful, and his fingers brush the side of your arm with a touch so light it barely registers as contact—just a whisper of skin against skin, a question asked without words.

You don’t pull away. And in that silence—warm, charged, breathless—the line you’ve both been toeing begins to blur, then fade entirely.

Caleb’s fingers linger at your arm, unmoving for a breath, and then they trail upward—slow and deliberate—sliding over the curve of your shoulder and up along your neck, his touch featherlight but sure. He’s watching you closely, as if waiting for hesitation, for a sign that you’ll step back.

But you don’t.

Your breath catches as his hand finds the edge of your jaw, thumb brushing just below your cheekbone, his palm warm and steady against your skin. And still, he waits—so close now you can feel his breath on your lips, but he doesn’t move that final inch until you do.

You lean into him, just barely, and that’s all it takes.

He closes the distance like gravity finally winning—no pretense, no gentleness, just years of wanting poured into the kiss as his mouth crashes into yours with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs.

It’s not soft. It’s not polite. It’s a question, a claim, a thousand unsaid things slammed into one desperate kiss. His hand tilts your jaw up, deepening the angle, and you meet him with just as much urgency, fingers digging in the bare line of muscle at his side, pulling him closer, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you don’t hold onto him. His other hand braces at your waist, grounding both of you as your bodies come flush, heat meeting heat with nothing left between but breath and skin.

You sigh into his mouth—soft, shaky—and he swallows the sound like it’s the only thing he’s needed since he came back from the dead. You can feel it in the way he kisses you: the hunger, yes, but also the grief, the guilt, the impossible devotion he’s been carrying like armor. His mouth moves with desperate precision, lips parting yours like he’s memorizing every second of this in case it gets torn away again. When you pull back for air, just barely, his forehead rests against yours, breath ragged, eyes fluttering shut like the moment is too much to hold.

“Tell me this is real,” he whispers, voice rough, thick with something cracked open and raw.

You nod, your fingers curling against the base of his spine. “It’s real.”

And then he kisses you again.

The second kiss is deeper, hungrier—less careful now, as if something inside him has cracked open and there’s no point in trying to put it back. Caleb’s hands slide down your back with firm, reverent pressure, like he’s relearning the shape of you by touch alone, his grip tightening when you arch into him.

Then—without a word—he pulls you back toward the table. With one swift motion, he sends the deck of cards, the half-empty wine glasses, everything scattering to the floor with a crash that makes your heart leap. The sound doesn’t faze him. If anything, it makes his breath deepen.

He looks at you, chest rising and falling with barely leashed control, his hands already sliding down to your hips, guiding you back until your thighs press against the table’s edge.

“I’ve been patient,” he says, voice hoarse and low, each word like gravel dragged across silk. “For years, I waited… I held back… but not anymore.”

You don’t speak—you can’t. Because the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only thing left in the universe that matters, steals every coherent thought from your mind.

He turns you with careful insistence, hands firm but reverent as he guides your body to face the table. You grip the edge, breath catching, the cold surface against your palms a stark contrast to the heat that radiates from him behind you.

When his hands return, they’re rougher now—claiming. He drags them slowly over your sides, then up your back, the tips of his fingers teasing the band of your bra. He bends down, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then another, slower, teeth grazing the skin just enough to make you gasp.

“You have no idea how many times I dreamed of this,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear as one hand slides around your waist, the other flattening over the small of your back. “Of you, right here—mine.”

The last word is a growl.

He presses against you, chest to your back, hips flush to yours, and you feel how hard he is already, the heat of it grinding just enough to make you whimper. His metal arm braces against the table beside yours—cold steel humming with quiet energy—and when you shift your hips back into him, he curses under his breath.

“That’s it,” he growls, one hand sliding between your thighs, forcing them to part. “Keep doing that and I won’t last.”

He dips his head again, this time kissing down your spine, slow and reverent, but each kiss feels like a brand—like he’s marking you one breath at a time. His hands return to your hips, and when he straightens, you feel the weight of his stare on your back like a spotlight.

“You don’t get to hide from me anymore,” he says, hands gripping your waist like you might vanish if he lets go. “You’re mine now. Say it.”

You bite your lip, breath ragged. “I’m yours.”

Your breath catches when you feel Caleb’s fingers slide into the waistband of your pants, his touch both reverent and possessive, and though his movements are deliberate, there’s no mistaking the weight behind them—he’s not teasing anymore; he’s unraveling, and he’s going to take you with him.

He leans in close, his mouth grazing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “Don’t move,” and the way he says it, low and threaded with rough restraint, leaves no room for disobedience, only heat curling low and fast through your core.

You brace your hands against the table as he begins to tug your pants down your hips, dragging the fabric with agonizing slowness, like every inch he reveals is something sacred, something he’s waited too long to see again. His knuckles brush your thighs, his breath warm against the back of your neck, and when your pants pool around your ankles, he lets out a quiet, nearly broken groan that vibrates straight through you.

It’s your panties he lingers on.

His fingers trace the waistband, sliding along your skin like he’s memorizing you by feel alone, and then, without warning, he curls his fist into the lace and tears it clean in one savage motion—just a sharp, decisive snap, and then nothing but cool air on bare skin and the hot, heavy sound of his breathing behind you.

“I’m not waiting anymore,” he says, almost like a confession, and the ruined fabric is discarded without care as his hands return to your hips, steadying you, grounding you, claiming you all over again.

His touch drifts lower, smoothing over the curve of your ass, then up the small of your back, the contact so firm and slow that it borders on worship, his thumb brushing along the dip of your spine like it belongs there. He leans down, lips pressing against your shoulder, trailing heat with every kiss as he works his way downward, pausing only to let his teeth graze lightly against your skin, the quiet sound of your gasp spurring him on.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice hoarse with the weight of everything he’s been holding back, “how many times I dreamed of this—of you, bent over in front of me, mine to touch, mine to take.”

The sound of his belt unfastening fills the silence like a drumbeat, followed by the low scrape of a zipper and the shuffle of clothing pushed hastily down his thighs, and then he’s behind you again, thick and hot and hard, the head of his cock sliding through your folds, coating himself in the slick evidence of how ready you are for him.

He doesn’t press in—not yet.

One hand anchors you by the hip, the other coasting along your front, splaying across your belly before drifting downward, parting your thighs further until you’re open for him, exposed and trembling beneath his touch.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” he murmurs, his voice cracking on the edge of a growl as he guides himself to your entrance, teasing the sensitive skin with slow, shallow strokes. “Thought I’d never get to fuck you like I always wanted.”

When he finally pushes in, he does it in one slow, brutal thrust, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs as your body stretches to take him, your hands clutching at the edge of the table for dear life. He doesn’t move right away—just stays buried inside you, fully sheathed, his hands tight on your waist as if he’s holding himself back from coming right then and there.

“Fuck,” he groans, low and guttural, his mouth pressed against your shoulder blade. “You feel like heaven.”

And then he begins to move.

Each thrust is hard and deep, perfectly paced to drive you wild, his hips slamming into yours with a rhythm that’s all hunger and dominance and years of frustration finally, finally, breaking loose. The table creaks beneath you, your legs spread wide, the sound of skin against skin echoing through the room with every punishing snap of his hips.

His hand slides up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades and urging you further down against the table, and when your cheek hits the cool surface, your breath escapes you in a soft, desperate moan.

“You were made for this,” he growls, his mouth near your ear, the heat of his voice sinking into your skin like a brand. “For me. This body, this sound—mine.”

You manage his name on a broken gasp, your voice shaking, your body already on the verge of losing itself entirely as he continues to thrust into you, each movement rougher, deeper, more desperate than the last.

His hand slides between your thighs again, this time to circle your clit with unrelenting pressure, the pads of his fingers slick and confident, and when you cry out, he doesn’t stop—he doubles down, whispering, “Come for me. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And gods, you do.

The orgasm crashes into you like a storm, seizing you from the inside out, your entire body tensing, walls clenching around him as pleasure tears through your spine and explodes behind your eyes. You sob his name, breathless and undone, and he holds you through it, his hand on your hip tightening, the rhythm of his thrusts faltering as he loses himself in the feel of you shattering around him.

“Ah—fuck—gonna come inside you,” he groans, every muscle in his body going taut as he drives into you one last time and stills, buried deep, spilling into you with a guttural moan that’s as much pain as it is relief. His chest presses flush to your back, arms wrapping around your waist like he’s anchoring himself there, like he can’t bear the thought of letting go.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The air is thick with heat, your bodies tangled, breath syncing in a slow, uneven rhythm that speaks more than either of you could right now.

He doesn’t say anything, but the way he holds you, the way his lips brush the side of your neck in a kiss so soft it almost breaks you, says everything he can’t.

The silence that follows is heavy. It’s the kind of quiet that settles deep into your bones, warm and full, like the world has finally stopped spinning long enough to let you catch your breath. Caleb doesn’t move for a long moment, his chest still pressed against your back, his arms wrapped around your waist like he’s anchoring you to the earth itself. His breath ghosts over your shoulder in slow, unsteady exhales, his body still trembling faintly against yours as the aftershocks roll through both of you.

Then, with a gentle murmur—your name spoken like a vow—he presses a kiss to the back of your neck and pulls out of you slowly, carefully, as though he’s afraid he might hurt you if he moves too fast. He catches your waist as you sway slightly, already reaching for you before you even realize you need the support.

“Easy,” he says, voice low and still rough at the edges, but his hands are impossibly gentle. “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him. You always have.

He helps you straighten, one arm still firmly around your middle as the other brushes a loose strand of hair from your face. When you glance up, your eyes meet his, and for the first time tonight, you see all of him—not just the soldier or the survivor, not the boy who left or the man who came back, but Caleb, who looks at you like you’re the one thing that kept him tethered while the rest of his world burned.

Without a word, he leans in and kisses your temple, slow and soft, before guiding you gently toward the bed in the corner of the room. The lights dim as you pass—probably movement-commanded, but it feels like the room itself is exhaling.

“Stay,” you murmur, already missing the warmth of his body as he helps you sit at the edge of the bed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says immediately, brushing his thumb over your thigh as if to reassure himself more than you. “Just getting something.”

He returns a moment later with a warm, damp cloth and a fresh towel, kneeling in front of you like you’re something precious, like tending to you is the most natural thing in the world.

Caleb’s silent as he cleans you—tender, focused, his touch slow and steady as he wipes between your thighs, along the insides of your legs, his hand cupping the back of your calf as he works. There’s nothing hurried or clinical in his movements; everything about the way he touches you now speaks of devotion, of reverence, like this is part of the ritual. Like this is sacred, too.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking up to meet yours as he dabs the cloth gently between your legs.

Your voice is small, but sure. “Better than okay.”

A soft smile tugs at his lips, and he presses another kiss—this time to your knee—before setting the cloth aside and wrapping the towel gently around your hips. He helps you ease back into bed, pulling the blankets up over your shoulders, and then, finally, finally, he slips in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight as his arms curl around your body and bring you close again.

You rest your head against his bare chest, listening to the slow, rhythmic thud of his heart as his hand drifts through your hair in lazy strokes, his other arm banded around your waist, holding you like you’re the last thing worth protecting in the universe.

“I missed you,” he says after a while, voice barely more than a breath. “Just—” his hand squeezes gently at your waist “— you. Everything about you.”

You tilt your head, fingers brushing lightly over the scar near his ribs. “You always had me. Even when you weren’t here.”

He doesn’t answer with words—just a long exhale, a kiss pressed to your forehead, and the way he holds you tighter like he’s finally allowing himself to believe it.

And in the quiet hum of Skyhaven, tangled in Caleb’s arms, with nothing between you but skin and truth, you feel more safe, more known, more his, than you ever have before.

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #lads smut #lnds smut #caleb x reader #caleb smut #xia yizhou #lads caleb #lnds caleb #moongirlcleo #mgc lads

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belovaballerina · 8 months ago

Text

Our Merge is Eternal

Grotequerie: Father Charlie Mayhew x fem!reader

Rating: Explicit (Minors DNI)

WC: 2k

Prompt: “Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?” -Cirice by Ghost for @sweetspicybingo (Lyrical Bingo Collection)

Warnings: Oral (f receiving), religious imagery, religious guilt, handjob, public sex, spanking, whipping, pain play, penance, verbal humiliation, manipulation, bondage and sacrilege

Summary: Penance can be a beautiful, wonderful release

“Bless me, Father, for have I sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession.”

It always started the same way: with you in the confessional booth, the screen blurring Father Mayhew’s face, and you squirming on your knees as your sins poured from your lips. It always ended the same way: blistering pain delivered with the palm of his hand, the sharp crack of leather or sturdy wood (penance), on your knees with his cock in your mouth as tears dripped down your cheeks (guidance) and curled in his lap as he wiped your tears away (forgiveness). He was careful, allowing only your mouth and hands to pleasure him, as he did the same with you, always avoiding fucking. The sin of fornication will not consume us, he had whispered against your wet thigh with his mouth coated in your juices.

“I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

Every two weeks, like clockwork. Repeat, Repeat, Repeat. It kept you going and gave you something to look forward to, even if something was twisted about it. You welcomed the dalliance, running headfirst into it and into the arms of Father Charlie Mayhew. Those brown eyes would be your undoing, but who better than to forgive you than a man of God?

The cycle came full circle once again as you entered the confessional, arousal pooling hot and thick between your thighs and causing you to press them together tightly to dull the ache. The partition whooshed open, and you began your confession. The vulgar words fell from your tongue as you admitted your sin of self-pleasure. You felt unnerved as you were met with silence. Perhaps this had run its course.

“I want you to meet me tonight in the church,” he whispered, his face obscured by the screen.

Your heart thrummed in your chest. You were used to it happening in his office after he had finished with confession. This was something new. A break in the usual routine. It thrilled you.

“Yes, Father, what time?” you asked, hands still folded before you.

“At midnight. I’ll see you then,” Charlie responded before slamming the partition close. You move your hand through the sign of the cross before hurrying away.

A storm rolled in that evening, making the air hot and heavy, and thick raindrops poured from the gray sky. Thunder cracked through the air as lightning lit up the dark sky with bright bursts. You shivered as you hurried through the heavy doors, rain soaking through your clothes and leaving your skin feeling clammy as you made your way into the chapel. You had attended midnight mass, but beautiful candles had illuminated the room, which remained eerily dark tonight. A loud clap of thunder made you jump, and a crack of lightning brought Father Mayhew into view.

He stood at the pulpit in his black cassock, his expression stern and a rope dangling from one hand. You swallowed, approaching him slowly, unsure of what would unfold this evening as hee stepped down to meet you.

“On your knees, sinful girl,” he instructed, and you obeyed without a second thought.

Instinctively, you lifted your wrists toward him, your palms pressed together. He guided your arms straight up into the air, sliding your shirt overhead, and your cheeks burned hot as your bare breasts were exposed. He tutted, giving one of your nipples a chastising pinch. You watched with wide eyes and bated breath as he looped the rope around your wrist, securing them with an elegant knot. His hand gripped your chin, thumb pressing to your lower lip before tracing around the outline of your mouth. Your stomach twisted as heat palpated deeper. He tugged you to your feet with a firm grip on your roped wrists before circling you.

“You come to me repeatedly, confessing the same sin,” he stated, his dark eyes boring into you.

Your mouth felt dry. “I fear I need guidance, Father. I simply find myself giving into temptation.”

He stood behind you, his hand slapping down firmly against your ass and making you stumble over your feet.

“And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell,” he hissed into your ear, his hand crashing down against your backside over and over. Pain blossomed across your skin.

“Matthew 5:30, Father,” you sniffled as he pulled your body flush against his. Your back against his chest, and you could feel it heaving with every breath he took.

“Good girl,” he purred, one warm hand pressing against your stomach, fingers dipping into the waistband of your loose-fitting black joggers, “Is that what I should do? Cut off your hands to keep them from wandering between your thighs, to keep your fingers from dipping into your greedy little cunt?”

You let out a garbled cry, unsure of how to respond as his hand plunged into your pants and underwear, his fingers immediately seeking your drenched pussy.

“I fear for your soul, child,” he whispered as his fingertips skimmed over your folds. Your lower lip trembled. His hand squeezed your right hip, a comforting touch that kept you grounded and assured you that you were safe. All you had to do was utter a simple word, and he would stop, letting you go about your evening. Either of you could end this sinful dalliance at a moment’s notice, but it just felt so good.

“Don’t let me go astray, Father. Teach me, guide me,” you moaned, caught up in the moment and willing to explore whatever he had planned.

“I will do just that. Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?” Guide me, Father, for I am but a lamb lost among the wolves.

He pulled his hand away before pushing you onto your knees and then onto your stomach before removing your shoes and tugging the clothing away from your lower half. Your face felt like it was on fire as you were exposed in such a sacred, holy area. Your eyes flickered to the statue of Mother Mary, feeling her judgment upon you. Have mercy on me, Mother.

His hands roamed over your naked skin, squeezing your prickled flesh before resting on the swell of your ass. Tears burned your eyes as his hand smacked down, over and over, searing his burning mark into your skin. You squirmed against the carpet, feeling the rug burn, irritating your stomach. You choked on your tears as they rolled hotly down your cheeks, chasing this feeling and murmuring prayers of repentance. O loving and gracious God, have mercy. Have pity upon me and take away the awful stain of my sin.

Charlie’s body pressed ontop of yours, his teeth seeking out the soft curve of your throat. You felt the swell of his erection against your abused ass. His knee slipped between your legs, pressing against your dripping cunt.

“Even now, in the sanctity of the church, your penance doesn’t deter you from your sinful nature,” he hissed into your ear before sinking his teeth into your neck. Your eyes rolled back, relishing in the sweet pop of pain that throbs through your body, rutting against his knee.

All you could do was mewl pathetically in response as he rolled you onto your back and then cupped your face in his hands. He took in the sight of your tear-stained face and swollen lips, a small pang thrummed through his heart.

“How can I judge you so? You are no more sinful than I,” he whispered, stroking his thumbs over your tear tracks. His lips pressed against your trembling ones before undoing the ropes and pulling away from you.

You sniffled, struggling to catch your breath as you watched him stand and stretch out his arms before peeling his clothing away. The lightning bathed his skin in an eerie glow as you drank in the sight of his muscular body. It seemed wrong for a priest to be so beautiful and tempting. But God tests us in mysterious ways.

“You are so gracious in guiding me onto a righteous path. Let me help you,” you offered, extending your hand toward him.

His gaze softened, and you were lost in those warm brown eyes for a moment—endless pools of amber that you would gladly drown in. He sank to his knees, pressing his hand into yours before pulling your naked body against his.

“Would you?” he asked in earnest.

“Yes,” you smiled, stroking your fingers through his dark hair.

He kissed you again before handing you his knotted white cincture, pure as the driven snow.

“Turn around,” you instructed, smoothing your hand over his bare chest before getting used to the feel of the item in your hands. The darkness consumed you both, and you knew exactly what he was asking for.

He presented his bare back, laced with scars and a few open wounds that must have been placed earlier today. You traced your fingers over his skin, memorizing the layout of the marks and making a map of the area to lay the blows. It will be less intense than the leather cat o’nine tails, but it will suffice for now. You brought down the knotted rope against his skin, delighting in the grunt that he emitted. It doesn’t draw blood, but even in the dark light of the church, you can see the bruises blooming-mottled and purple.

You tossed the cincture aside, dropping to your knees behind him. Your lips ghosted over the marks, tongue pressing against a fresh one, throbbing against his skin and tasting the tang of blood. Charlie shivered under your touch as your hand slipped down his taut stomach to grasp his cock. You gently stroked and tugged on his rigid flesh as he arched against your hand as you danced him to the edge of a blessed release.

“Come for me, Father,” you purred into his ear, drunk on the dark power flowing through your veins.

He spilled into your palm, sticky and pearlescent, as the sweetess moan fell from his parted lips. His head lolled back, resting against the plush pillows of your breasts. He rested against you, gathering his strength, and your head spun as he lifted you into his arms, carrying you to the altar. He lowered you onto the draped table, and you squirmed as your bare, sore ass came in contact with the hard, unforgiving surface. Charlie looked almost devilish as he dropped between your thighs, splaying them wide for him before swiping his tongue over your quivering cunt.

“Recite the Act of Contrition,” he ordered before dipping his tongue inside you.

You gasped, threading your fingers through his hair and rocking against his mouth.

“Oh My God, I am sorry for my sins. In choosing to sin and failing to do good, I have sinned against you and your church.”

Charlie’s tongue pressed to your throbbing clit, tracing the delicate bud. It felt like wanton encouragement.

“I firmly intend, with the help of your Son, to make up for my sins.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair, needy whines spilling from your mouth as pressure built in your lower belly—unbearable heat, making you think of the hellfire burning your skin.

“And to love as I should. Amen.” The words fell, garbled, and strangled from your mouth before a loud moans bled through the hallowed alcove. An intense orgasm washed over you, the bands of pleasure snapping through your belly as Charlie’s warm mouth pleasured you.

“Amen,” he whispered against your warm, wet flesh before lifting his head. His mouth coated in your release, and his dark eyes seemed to glow. Sinners, both of you, fallible and susceptible to the temptations of the flesh. Tainted by the sin of lust.

Your eyes meet his, the realization that the two of you are forever intertwined in sin. Lost in the waves of immorality together.

The hot water scalded your skin as you stood under the pounding water pouring from the showerhead. You scrubbed at your skin, washing away the lingering transgressions clinging to your tainted flesh. The cycle repeats two weeks later.

#fic: grotesquerie #sweetspicylyrics #father charlie mayhew #father charlie mayhew x reader #nicholas chavez x reader #grotesquerie fic #father charlie x reader #father charlie #nicholas alexander chavez

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lovebugism · 1 year ago

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#20 from the jealousy, jealousy prompt list with steve pls 🫶🏼

steve doesn't realize he's in love with you until he gets a glimpse of you with someone else (fwb to lovers, fluff, 1.2k)

Steve Harrington spent the entire summer thinking he was the only one who thought your Scoops Ahoy uniform was way hotter than should be allowed.

The thigh-high socks. The short skirt. The pretty ascot tied around your neck. It was a diabolical concoction. And, yeah, sure, the sailor theme was an acquired taste, but Steve has always been a firm believer that you could wear anything and make him fall to his knees. He’d worship you like a goddess in a goddamn parka, he’s that far gone for you.

The only problem is he thought he was the only one.

He loved you so much that everything else just became white noise. There was never any room for anyone else to love you ‘cause he adored you the most. Or he thought so, at least — until a pretty boy with circle glasses and a chiseled jawline talked you up at the front counter. For ten fucking minutes straight.

He watches the stranger cross the threshold of Scoops, with a sundae in his hand and a dumb smile on his stupid face. “Who was the guy?” Steve blurts from the opened partition the second he’s gone. He folds his golden arms over the countertop, biceps threatening to burst from the navy sleeves of his uniform.

“A friend,” you answer casually as you sort change in the register.

His fluffy brows pinch then relax a moment later. He pouts at the vague response because he can’t handle not knowing. “Seems like you two are real close,” he lilts, trying hopelessly to play it cool.

“We are, actually,” you tell him. You drop the remaining quarters into their designated section and flash him a pretty look over your shoulder. “I’ve known him since I was a teenager— sophomore year, I think?”

Steve nods slowly, feigning interest. “Ah. High school sweethearts, then?”

You slide the opened register closed with your hip. It clunks shut behind you as you spin around to face him. You walk the short distance to the back counter, skirt swishing around your thighs as you go. Steve tries hard not to pull away when you lean in towards him, choosing to bask in your unwavering stare and intoxicating perfume instead.

“You should watch what you say, Harrington,” you caution lowly. “I’m gonna start to think you’re jealous.”

He scoffs. “I am not jealous.”

“No?”

“No! No way,” he answers, too quickly to be convincing. “We’re— We said we were gonna do the whole unlabelled thing, so… That’s what we’re doing.”

You nod once. “Great,” you hum with a tightlipped smile, spinning away once more.

The door to the breakroom squeaks open a moment later. Steve lingers in the entryway, shifting on his feet like a nervous child in a sailor’s uniform. Crossing his arms over his chest, he peers at you through his lashes.

“But it wouldn’t be, like, the worst thing in the world if I said I wanted to be the only one who, you know, looks into your eyes, and… holds your hands, and… hears you laugh…” he wonders lowly, scrunching the bridge of his nose. “Right?”

You don’t realize how big you’re smiling when you look back at him. “No,” you shrug, all cool despite your skipping heart. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

“Good,” Steve grins.

The small of your back digs into the counter’s edge when you turn to face him. You meet his pretty face with a sheepish one. “But it does go against everything we talked about it.”

The boy shrugs. “Well, then, screw it,” he blurts.

“What?”

“I take it back.”

You laugh before you mean to. The golden sound echoes through the empty store. “That quickly?”

“Hush,” he pouts.

“It took me talking to some guy — who might as well be a stranger to me now, by the way — to change your mind about wanting to date me?” you elaborate with narrowed eyes.

Steve cowers under your stare. “…Kinda. Yeah.”

“So, what?” you scoff. “We’re boyfriend-girlfriend now?”

“If you wanna be.”

You grin up at him while he approaches you, all slow like he’s stalking prey — only you don’t entirely mind being hunted. “Pretty soon, we’ll be playing house if we’re not careful,” you joke, smoothing your palms up his torso.

A crooked grin blossoms on his pink mouth at the thought. “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea, actually,” he mumbles lowly.

“Steve…” you huff.

He laughs and cradles your jaw between softly calloused palms. “What?” he hums as he ducks down to kiss you. Your lips lock in a fleeting kiss — an innocuous spearmint-strawberry-chapstick concoction.

You let him kiss you, but your pout never wavers. “You can’t just say something like that and expect me to move on,” you murmur.

“I like you?” he shrugs. “So what?”

“So what?” you parrot with a laugh. “We’re not kids anymore, you know? Relationships are pretty serious now, Steve.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

You meet his doe-eyed look with a sterner glare. “That’s the problem. That’s why we agreed to keep things lowkey. ‘Cause you can’t be serious about anything.”

“I can’t be serious about some things,” Steve insists with a boyish twist to his scruffy features. You arch your brow to egg him on. “Well, you, for starters— I haven’t even looked at anyone since I started seeing you, so… That’s gotta be a start, right?”

Your brows scrunch softly together. You don’t mean to look as shocked as you do, but you can’t help it. “You haven’t?”

“No,” he answers, chiseled features swirled like he’s tasted something sour. The thought never even crossed his mind despite distinctly keeping your relationship (or lack thereof, maybe) completely casual. “Have you?”

“No! I just… I thought that maybe you were, you know, keeping your options open or whatever.”

“So that means you’re not canoodling with Mister Jawline, right?” he jokes with a hopeful glint in his honeyed gaze.

You roll your eyes but decide to humor him anyway. “No, Steve,” you deadpan.

He grins, prettier than should be allowed. “Good.”

You squint up at him. “Which means you’re not canoodling with Miss Redhead-Nice-Boobs, who comes in every week just to talk to you. Right?”

Steve’s brows furrow. His dark eyes flit between both of yours as he tries to figure out who exactly you’re referring to. “Who?” he wonders with a cartoonish lilt to his voice.

You’re pout deepens ‘cause you don’t know what he’s playing at. Her name’s Cherry — which you think is pretty easy to remember, considering her fiery auburn curls and ruby red lipstick. She’s tall and lean and effortlessly beautiful. Too pretty to be jealous of. You can’t help but admire her.

So Steve’s confusion is equally dumbfounding.

“You do like me, don’t you?” you murmur with a suspicious squint.

He laughs. “Does that surprise you?”

“A little bit. Yeah.”

His nose scrunches. “Still wanna be boyfriend-girlfriend with me, though?”

You purse your lips to the side and pretend to ponder the question “Sure,” you shrug after a few moments, rising to the tips of your toes to smack a quick kiss to his mouth.

You greet a group of customers a second later, while Steve restocks the tubs of ice cream. Totally casual. Not at all lovesick.

Well… maybe a little.

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #stranger things imagine #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #st drabbles #stevie drabble

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envirotechs · 13 days ago

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naina9953 · 4 months ago

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Envirotech System Ltd Acoustic Metal Doors: Perfect for Studios, Offices & Factories

Acoustic metal doors are specifically designed to reduce noise transmission between spaces while providing durability and security. These doors are built with high-density core materials and specialized seals to ensure excellent soundproofing. They are widely used in industries, auditoriums, recording studios, factories, and commercial buildings where noise control is critical.

With their robust construction, acoustic metal doors offer enhanced insulation, fire resistance, and improved energy efficiency. They help create a controlled acoustic environment by preventing unwanted sound leakage, making them essential for workplaces that require focus and productivity. Available in various designs and sound ratings, these doors can be customized to meet different industrial and architectural needs.

Envirotech System Ltd is a trusted provider of premium-quality acoustic metal doors, offering innovative and effective noise control solutions. Our doors are crafted with precision engineering to deliver superior soundproofing performance while maintaining strength and durability. Whether for industrial, commercial, or residential applications, our acoustic metal doors ensure a quieter, more efficient environment.

#Acoustic Metal Door #Anechoic Chamber #acoustic panel #work pod #acoustic wall tiles #acoustic sliding folding partition

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spacetech7 · 5 months ago

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Office Modular Furniture PCMC, Pimpri Chinchwad

SpaceTech Interior Systems Pvt. Ltd. is your trusted partner for high-quality office modular furniture PCMC Pimpri Chinchwad. As a leading modular furniture supplier PCMC, we specialize in innovative designs that enhance workspace functionality and aesthetics.

Our customizable solutions are tailored to meet your specific needs, offering durability, style, and efficient space utilization. From sleek workstations to ergonomic chairs, we ensure top-notch craftsmanship and timely delivery.

Transform your office with SpaceTech Interior Systems Pvt. Ltd. — where functionality meets elegance!

Contact: 9923408770

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sadik165 · 4 months ago

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PVC Folding Door Manufacturers In Hyderabad For Modern Interiors

Regarding modern and space-saving door solutions, PVC folding doors have become a popular choice for homes and offices in Hyderabad. These doors are stylish, durable, and cost-effective, making them perfect for residential and commercial spaces. If you are searching for PVC folding door manufacturers in Hyderabad, you have come to the right place.

Why Choose PVC Folding Doors?

PVC folding doors offer several benefits that make them stand out from traditional wooden or metal doors:

Space-Saving Design: Ideal for small spaces, these doors fold neatly, allowing for better movement and utilization of space.

Durable and Long-Lasting: Made from high-quality PVC materials, these doors are resistant to moisture, termites, and wear and tear.

Easy Maintenance: Unlike wooden doors, PVC folding doors do not require frequent polishing or repairs.

Affordable and Stylish: Available in a variety of designs and colors to match your interior decor.

Best PVC Folding Door Manufacturers in Hyderabad

If you are looking for PVC folding door manufacturers in Hyderabad, Hanuman Screens is one of the most trusted names in the industry. They offer high-quality PVC folding doors that cater to various needs, from residential to commercial applications.

Why Choose Hanuman Screens?

Hanuman Screens has been a leading provider of PVC folding doors in Hyderabad for years. Here’s why they stand out:

High-Quality Products: They use durable and stylish PVC materials that last for years.

Customizable Options: You can choose from different sizes, colors, and designs to suit your requirements.

Affordable Pricing: Competitive rates without compromising on quality.

Excellent Customer Service: Their team ensures hassle-free installation and after-sales support.

Sliding Partition Doors in Hyderabad – A Perfect Solution for Modern Spaces

Apart from PVC folding doors, sliding partition doors in Hyderabad are also gaining popularity for their versatility and functionality. These doors are perfect for dividing spaces without permanent walls, making them ideal for offices, conference rooms, and even homes.

Benefits of Sliding Partition Doors:

Enhance Space Utilization: Easily separate or combine rooms as needed.

Modern and Elegant Look: Available in glass, wood, and PVC materials.

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If you need sliding partition doors in Hyderabad, Hanuman Screens offers excellent solutions tailored to your needs.

Polyester Mosquito Net Dealers in Hyderabad

In addition to doors, Hanuman Screens is also known for providing polyester mosquito nets. If you are searching for polyester mosquito net dealers in Hyderabad, Hanuman Screens offers:

Durable and High-Quality Nets

Customizable Sizes

Affordable Prices

These mosquito nets ensure protection from insects while allowing fresh air into your space.

Conclusion

When it comes to PVC Folding Door Manufacturers, Hanuman Screens stands out as the best option. They also offer high-quality sliding partition doors and are reputed polyester mosquito net dealers. For durable, stylish, and cost-effective solutions, Hanuman Screens is the right choice.

#sliding partition doors in hyderabad #polyester mosquito net dealers in hyderabad #pvc folding door manufacturers in hyderabad

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hari-100 · 11 months ago

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Modern Solutions for Modern Spaces: PVC Folding Doors by Hanuman Screens

Introduction

PVC folding doors have revolutionized interior design with their sleek, space saving features. As versatile additions to both residential and commercial spaces, they offer a modern alternative to traditional doors. Hanuman Screens, a leader in the industry, provides top notch PVC folding door services in Hyderabad tailored to meet diverse needs. If you’re looking for reliable PVC folding door manufacturers in Hyderabad, Hanuman Screens is your go to provider.

Types and Categories

Different Types of PVC Folding Doors

Single Panel: Ideal for smaller spaces, single-panel PVC folding doors offer a minimalist design.

Bi-Fold: Suitable for medium sized areas, bi fold doors combine elegance with functionality.

Multi-Fold: Perfect for larger spaces, multi fold doors maximize the open area while providing flexibility.

Customization Options

Hanuman Screens offers various customization options, including color choices, finishes, and sizes to match any decor. As leading PVC folding door suppliers in Hyderabad, they ensure you get exactly what you need.

Features and Benefits

Space Saving Design

PVC folding doors are designed to fold neatly, saving valuable space compared to traditional swinging doors. For anyone in Hyderabad looking for efficient space management, PVC folding sliding doors in hyderabad from Hanuman Screens are an ideal choice.

Versatility in Use

These doors are suitable for various settings, from living rooms and kitchens to offices and conference rooms. Our company is among the top PVC folding door dealers in Hyderabad, offering products that meet versatile needs.

Durability and Maintenance

PVC is known for its durability. These doors are resistant to moisture, making them perfect for areas like bathrooms and kitchens. They require minimal maintenance, ensuring long-term use. For those in Hyderabad, waterproof PVC partition folding doors in hyderabad are an excellent option.

Cost-Effectiveness

Compared to other materials, PVC folding doors are budget friendly without compromising quality. Hanuman Screens, as leading PVC folding door wholesalers in Hyderabad, offers competitive pricing.

Applications

Residential Uses

In homes, PVC folding doors can be used as room dividers, closet doors, or even as an alternative to sliding patio doors. If you need PVC partition folding doors suppliers in Hyderabad, Hanuman Screens provides solutions tailored for residential spaces.

Commercial Uses

Offices and retail spaces benefit from the stylish and functional design of PVC folding doors, which can be used to create private meeting areas or flexible retail spaces. As renowned PVC folding door service providers in Hyderabad, Our company has a proven track record in commercial applications.

Industrial Uses

In industrial settings, these doors provide practical solutions for space management and sectioning off work areas. Hanuman Screens, one of the best PVC partition sliding doors providers in Hyderabad, caters to industrial needs as well.

Step by Step Installation Guide

Measure and mark the space.

Assemble the door panels.

Install the top track and align the door panels.

Secure the panels and test the movement.

Hanuman Screens offers professional PVC folding door installation services in Hyderabad to ensure a seamless experience.

Common Installation Challenges and Solutions

Common issues include misaligned tracks and uneven folding. These can be resolved by adjusting the alignment and ensuring that all components are securely fastened.

Repair and Replacement Tips

For minor damages, PVC repair kits are available. For major issues, contacting professional services like Hanuman Screens is recommended.

Positive Feedback

Customers often praise the aesthetic appeal and functionality of PVC folding doors provided by Hanuman Screens, making them top-rated PVC folding door service providers in Hyderabad.

Comparison with Other Door Types

PVC Folding Doors vs. Wooden Doors

PVC doors are more resistant to moisture and require less maintenance compared to wooden doors.

PVC Folding Doors vs. Glass Doors

While glass doors offer a premium look, PVC folding doors provide better durability and are more cost effective.

PVC Folding Doors vs. Aluminum Doors

PVC folding doors offer better insulation properties and are generally more affordable than aluminum doors.

Trends in PVC Folding Doors

Current trends include the use of textured finishes and bold colors to make a statement in interior design.

Hanuman Screens stands out as the premier choice among PVC folding door manufacturers in Hyderabad, offering unparalleled service and quality. Whether you need PVC partition folding door manufacturers in Hyderabad or are looking for suppliers and dealers, Hanuman Screens has you covered.

Conclusion

PVC folding doors in Hyderabad provide a stylish, practical, and affordable solution for various spaces. With numerous customization options and professional installation services, these doors are an excellent choice for anyone looking to enhance their interior design.

For more information contact.www.hanumanscreens.com

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abbotjack · 16 days ago

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I am clawing at the ground dripping from the mouth at the idea of Charlie Reid fingering you in the back of a cop car

18+ / MDNI

You get in the back of the cruiser like it’s routine.

No hesitation. No words.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing you in the dark like a confession in a locked room. No partition open. No seatbelt. Just the sound of the leather under your thighs and the weight of whatever the hell this is pressing down.

Then—his footsteps.

Measured. Slow. Like he’s not surprised.

Charlie Reid gets in the back with you, coat still on, cuffs still at his hip like some twisted joke. He doesn’t say anything right away.

He just looks at you.

Then shuts the door.

For a beat, it’s quiet. Then—

“You’re late.”

You scoff. “We didn’t have a time.”

“We never do. You still show up.”

You lean back. Arms crossed. “You think I came for you?”

Charlie smiles like a knife unsheathing.

“No, sweetheart,” he says, voice dry. “I think you came because no one else talks to you like I do.”

Your stomach flips.

“I think you came,” he continues, “because you like feeling owned for a minute. Like somebody’s got their hands on your leash and you don’t have to pretend you’re in charge anymore.”

“Jesus Christ—”

He cuts you off, sliding closer. “Nah. Jesus walked away from women like you. I don’t.”

You hate that your breath catches.

His hand lifts, fingers brushing your jaw—like he’s testing how far you’ll let him go.

“You should get out of this car,” you whisper.

“You should stop thinking about my fingers between your legs every time Voight says ‘good work.’”

His voice drops. “But here we are.”

Your silence gives you away. You both feel it.

“So,” he says, leaning in. “Tell me the truth. How long have you been thinking about it? Since that first op we tanked on purpose? Since I said your name in that tone and you forgot what side you were on?”

You glare. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re soaked through your fucking panties.”

He doesn’t wait.

Charlie grabs your thigh, hard. Pushes your legs apart with one firm tug, and his hand is up your skirt before you can even think of stopping him.

You hiss—more reflex than protest—but he just laughs.

“Don’t act surprised,” he murmurs. “You didn’t come out here for my sparkling personality.”

Two fingers push past your underwear and slide into you like he owns the right. Like your body was made for this kind of violation.

“Fuck,” he mutters, low and real. “You’re fucking dripping.”

Your hips jerk. He presses his palm flat against you, fingers deep, thumb dragging up to circle your clit with calculated pressure.

“Not even a ‘hi, Charlie.’ Just legs open like a goddamn invitation.”

You dig your nails into the seat. “You think this means something to me?”

“I think your pussy says otherwise.”

His mouth curls, sharp and wicked, as he fucks you slow—just enough to keep you squirming, just enough to make you hate how badly your body wants it.

“Look at you,” he growls. “All that attitude in briefings, all that lip—you fold like nothing.”

“Fuck you.”

“You wish.”

He curls his fingers, hits that spot that makes you bite down hard on a moan, and smirks like it’s a win he’s already pocketed.

“Say it,” he demands.

“Say what?”

“That you like how I touch you.”

You grit your teeth. “Not a chance.”

“Then I’ll make you beg.”

He speeds up—thumb firm against your clit, fingers thrusting harder now, faster, making a slick, obscene sound you’re half ashamed of and half addicted to.

You’re already on edge. Already gone.

“You gonna come?” he taunts. “So easy, aren’t you? One crooked cop with the balls to treat you like you’ve been begging for—”

“Charlie—”

He moves his free hand, grabs your jaw, makes you look at him.

“Come on my fingers, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Be a good fucking girl for once in your life.”

You snap.

Your orgasm rips through you like heat off a fire escape—messy, sudden, clenching hard around his fingers with a cry you try and fail to swallow. Your whole body trembles, thighs locking, breath gone.

Charlie watches. Doesn’t flinch.

He keeps his fingers inside you, lets you ride it out, lets you gasp against the fogged window while he just… watches.

When you’re done, when you’re limp and raw and still twitching, he pulls his hand away. Slow. Wet.

Then sucks your release off his fingers—two, one at a time—like he’s collecting evidence.

“Still think you don’t like me?”

You glare. “I still think you’re scum.”

He chuckles. Wipes his hand on your skirt like he doesn’t care what it costs.

“Good,” he says. “Wouldn’t want to ruin you by making you think this was love.”

You stare at him, chest still rising and falling.

“Is this ever gonna stop?” you whisper.

He leans in close. Breath warm. Smile sharp.

“Not unless you arrest me,” he says. “And we both know you’re not ready to lose your favorite bad habit.”

#chicago pd fanfiction #chicago pd x reader #chicago pd imagine #charlie reid x reader #charlie reid fanfiction #smut

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paarksunghoon · 7 months ago

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https://x.com/venusyearwood/status/1854732444768858540?s=46&t=NrxIrEbb07Ubj-rzdh7oCg THIS WITH JAY — im thinking softdom!jay, lots and lots of flirting and being handsy and making out, reader is on jay’s lap he’s buried in her neck leaving marks and she’s starting to unbutton his shirt and unconsciously grinding her hips, he can’t take it anymore and drags her home and breeds her all night

oh you’re speaking my language…I pictured a cocktail bar for this

***

It’s not that anyone is really paying attention to either of you in this place anyway. Jay’s got a hold on your thigh while the rest of your friends chatter amongst themselves with enough alcohol in their systems to forget their surroundings and anything but the conversation at hand.

It’s the first time in a long time that he’s got you like this—away from the stress of life and the hustle of working hours. He knows far too well what it means to be preoccupied with things that don’t matter and seeing you in a little black dress and those high heels you love wearing so much makes him hold onto you that much tighter.

He’s got his thumb rubbing against the skin of your thigh the entire night but it does nothing to quell the building arousal you feel as you pulsate beside him. You don’t even know if Jay is doing it on purpose but it garners a reaction out of you, and you find that you’re barely able to hold onto the cocktail glass as you listen to your friends talk and chime in every once in a while. Jay’s touch is enough to get you to a sensation that feels an awful lot like being drunk even if you aren’t.

“Having fun?” Jay whispers in your ear. You love when he leans his head down to whisper in your ear. It makes you feel like you’re the only person he sees.

“Yeah. I really missed going to places like these.”

“You look beautiful too, baby.” Jay squeezes your thigh and hums. “That dress…you look phenomenal.”

The heat from his compliment and alcohol makes your cheeks flush. You stutter when you respond to him. “Thank you.” He laughs under his breath and squeezes your thigh, hand lodged between them as if to keep you sitting right next to him. Not that you’d want to be anywhere else anyway. You squeeze him with your thigh subconsciously when his warm breath ghosts the shell of your ear.

Jay seems to like that. He squeezes you back. “Are you doing okay, baby?”

You nod. “Mhm. Just fine.”

“Really? You seem a little tense.”

“N-No. Not tense. I’m fine.”

He squeezes your thigh again. “Needy little thing.” Jay pushes his hand up your legs until you spread them far enough to seem inconspicuous. The tips of his fingers touch you where you need him the most and he bites back a moan when he feels just how wet you are. “Knew it.”

“Jay! Our friends are right in front of us.”

He doesn’t stop sliding his fingers against your covered folds. “And? They’re too busy paying attention to each other.” You clamp your legs shut and Jay nods, scouring the room until he finds a secluded, dark area with a partition that separates from the main room.

Jay stands up and holds his hand out for you. His muscular arm is concealed by the button down he wears and yet his muscles almost stretch the fabric until it’s taught. Your own arms cling onto his as you follow him through the maze of people and when you look back to your friends, they haven’t noticed you two have gone missing.

The partition hides away a single drink tray on top of a metal table opposite of a wooden bench. It’s secluded enough for your satisfaction and Jay turns around once the two of you are out of sight and cups your jaw with his hands when he kisses you like you’re a delicate glass he doesn’t want to break. His lips are so soft and plump and the way he’s rubbing your cheeks with his thumb makes you feel something akin to being on cloud nine. It doesn’t help that he looks like the pinnacle of sex once he pulls away, eyes looking down at you through his long lashes as he paces himself.

He sits down on the bench and beckons you over his lap. You don’t particular care that your dress has ridden up your body and pools midway up your ass. His large hands come to grip you from behind as you make yourself comfortable on him.

“Pretty baby,” he whispers in your ear as he peppers kisses down the column of your neck. The sensation makes your toes curl and you clutch at his chest for support. “I missed you this week. Felt like an eternity.”

“I-I missed you too.” You breathe it out much like a quiet moan. “Missed your lips.”

“Yeah?” Jay licks up your juncture before sucking on your jawline where it meets your earlobe. “What else did you miss?”

Your hands spread all across his chest and the hard muscle underneath makes you much wetter than you already are. The gentle touch of your fingers against his buttons makes him look up at you from where he is on your neck. He’s already got a few buttons undone but you’re craving to see more of him and unbutton another.

“Missed your body…”

Jay spreads his legs wider when he starts to feel your hips rolling against his slacks. You move so slowly that he doesn’t think you register what you’re doing, but the way your fingers spread open his button down makes him think you want more than he’s offering right now.

“Oh yeah? What part of my body.”

“Mouth, fingers, cock…”

You don’t look at him when you say it. You stare at his semi-exposed chest and continue to grind up against him. He’s so hard in his pants that he involuntarily pushes his hips up against you.

“I can tell.” Jay brings his hand to brush your bottom lip with his thumb and cradles your cheek when you finally look at him. “You’re so cute when you get needy.”

You push your covered lap down on his. “I can’t help it. You look so good tonight and I’m having a hard time keeping my hands to myself.”

“You’re one to talk, baby.”

In an abrupt motion, Jay hoists you off of his body and pulls the hem of your dress down to appear decent and does his best to adjust his aching dick to look presentable. You whine beside him but Jay merely grips your ass as he silences to with a kiss.

“Be good for me, yeah?”

“But I need you.”

“I need you too, baby. Let me take you home. I’ll come inside you as many times as you want.”

#enhypen smut #jay smut #jongseong smut #enha smut #enhypen x reader #jay x reader #jongseong x reader #enhypen hard thoughts #enha hard hours #enhypen hard hours #enhypen imagines #jay #hard thought*#my writing*

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kuncitizen · 3 days ago

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Thots and prayers

Synopsis: You kneel at the confessional, desperate for salvation, trembling with guilt and lust. Reverend Father Getou offers no judgment, only indulgence. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the unholy ache between your thighs, welcome to your new form of worship.

Pairing: Geto Suguru x reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, priest kínk, confessional setting, religious imagery & heavy blasphemy, sacrilegious head, oral (male rec.), power play, dom!Getou, choking (rosary style), hair pulling, face-fucking, degradation + praise, crying, spitting, sacrament metaphors turned smutty, crying during orgásm, dubcon themes (priest authority), worship kínk, religious trauma undertones, slight exhibitionism, very intense power dynamics, atrocious levels of holy fuck, dripping with sin and incense, c*m as communion, unrepentant Getou, soul-crushingly filthy, no actual plot just unholy tension, you will not be absolved, Happy ending (kinda? emotionally? idk you're on your knees)

Word count: 1.3k

A/N: The cross is heavy but so is that dick

The confessional is dim and eerily quiet. Wood creaks under you as you kneel, air filled with incense and something else—something that clings to the back of your throat like shame.

You press trembling fingers to your chest, tracing the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

The partition window slides open with a quiet scrape, wood groaning softly as if in protest or anticipation.

“Bless me, Reverend Father, for I have sinned.”

Geto’s voice answers on the other side, calm and measured. “How long has it been since your last confession, child of Christ?”

You swallow. “A week. Maybe less, I'm not too sure.”

You hear the faint smile in his tone, even if you can’t see his face.

“And what burdens your soul so urgently?”

You hesitate. The words knot in your throat with humiliation. “It’s… It’s been difficult. I’ve been trying to pray, I really have. But the thoughts won’t leave.”

“You’ve come again,” he says, and his voice is close, impossibly close, as though the partition between you is nothing but a veil. “Kneeling like that. With your head bowed, your hands folded so sweetly in your lap.” There’s something indulgent in the way he says it, a priest speaking not to scold, but to savor. “Do you know what it looks like, little one? Do you have any idea how you appear when you come to me like this?”

You purse your lips together, the action almost painful, before speaking up again.

“I wake up in the night. Restless, hot, bothered and I think of…” Your voice drops, barely audible. “I think of bodies. Of what it would be like to have one against mine...”

The silence on the other side stretches again, but it isn't cold, it's contemplative. You imagine Geto leaning in slightly, fingertips pressed together.

“Temptation is the Devil’s oldest trick. He plants seeds in your thoughts and waits for them to rot you from the inside.”

His voice is softer now, gentler, like a hand on your shoulder. “But you’ve done well to bring it here. Speak, and be unburdened.”

You shift on your knees, wetness slowly seeping between your legs. The air feels heavier in your lungs.

“I please myself,” you whisper. “When I feel it building. I try to resist, I do, but I end up on my knees anyway, just not like... this. Not for God. And afterwards I cry, because I just feel so empty and ashamed.... Because I let my lust consume me.”

You hear the faint rustle of his robes shifting behind the partition. No other sound, just that, and the pounding of your heart, like it’s trying to escape your chest and climb into his hands.

“Child of God,” Geto murmurs, “you carry shame like a second skin. But if you come here seeking sanctification…”

“Then let me take it from you,”

The wooden grate clicks open. Your breath catches in your throat as a sliver of light spills through. Enough to catch the faint glint of his rings, gold and tarnished silver, engraved with tiny symbols you don’t recognize.

His fingers slide through the opening gradually, knuckles kissed by candlelight. The cuffs of his robe pull taut at his wrists, the soft black fabric whispering against wood.

“Let me purify your being.”

Geto's hands cup your face, warm and firm, brushing the stray strands of hair from your eyes, tracing the curve of your cheekbone with rough hands.

You tilt your head up, eyes glossy with unshed tears. You can’t see him clearly through the rail, but you feel the weight of his gaze, knowing and unyielding.

His hand tightens just slightly, as if to steady your trembling.

“This is no mere penance,” he croons. “It is a communion of flesh and spirit. Will you receive the Host I offer?”

You nod, barely, wordless and desperate.

“Very well, then.”

The wooden grate slides fully open, divider folding back with a quiet, final creak. The confessional no longer feels like two separate worlds but one dimly lit chamber charged with a secret electricity.

Geto steps through, crossing over to your side. The flickering candlelight catches the deep black, traditional Roman collar crisp against pale skin. His robe falls smoothly, the fabric pooling lightly at his ankles, just above polished black shoes. Around his neck hangs a beaded rosary with a silver crucifix.

His hands slide to your face again, steadying you as the other moves to his neck. The beads slip through his hands with a soft, rhythmic clack. He lets the strand fall gently, like a silent benediction, before looping it slowly around your neck, the cross resting heavy against your skin.

Geto tightens his grip just enough to tug the beads against your throat, a slow choke that makes your breath hitch sharply and pulse quicken.

Leaning in close, breath hot and ragged against your ear, he murmurs, “Open yourself, and let me absolve you.”

His eyes darken with intent as one hand slides down to the waistband of his pants. Fingers deft and sure, he undoes the clasp with a muted whisper of fabric and metal.

His cock springs out, pale and pretty with a pearly split tip. And it's huge. So big and girthy that for a moment you wonder if you could even fit it in your palm. The sides of your mouth froth at the mere thought of it.

You part your lips, trembling, as he presses himself to your mouth. The tip slides past your lips, warm and demanding. You take him in eagerly, mouth hot and wet, the taste sharp like consecrated wine.

Geto's hands thread through your hair, fisting it and holding you firm as he fucks your face. Low groans spill from his throat like worship.

“That’s it... the Lord will—”

His words catch, swallowed by a deep, guttural sound as he pushes himself deeper and deeper, your pretty little throat stretching to welcome him. The pressure of the beads around your neck and the fullness in your mouth blend into a pulse of sinful salvation.

You suck and swirl, tasting him fully—holy and profane in one breath—as his hips tilt forward with steady rhythm. The church walls seem to close in around you, sacred space pulsing with every grunt and stifled moan.

Your cunt throbs. Your cheeks are wet from the mixture tears and spit. Your fingers slip between your thighs before you know what you’re doing, sin layered on sin, shame so sweet it could only be divine.

“I can feel your mouth praying for me,” he pants. “Isn’t this what you wanted? What you needed? The Lord forgives you. I forgive you.”

You gag softly as he hits the back of your throat, but you don’t stop. He doesn’t let you. You look up through your lashes, drool spilling past your lips, fingers moving faster. You’re cumming before he does.

“More,” he gasps, voice heavy with need. “Let this be your penance.”

Geto's head tilts back slightly, jaw tensing as a breath escapes him. He shudders, the release flooding your mouth, hot and creamy ropes gradually painting near the inside of your mouth.

“Be a sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice hushed and hoarse, thumb tilting your chin up. “And swallow it for me.”

You swallow, your throat aching and still tightening around the rosary beads.

Geto looks down at you through his hooded gaze—still kneeling, spit and release coating your lips lewdly. His hand finds your jaw again, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. His eyes then flick down to your trembling hand, fingers slick, glistening with your own climax.

He catches your wrist, bringing it up slowly. His tongue laps the mess you made, savoring the taste of your sex with a groan deep enough to echo through the confessional walls.

When he’s had his fill, Geto pulls off with a wet pop, licking his lips. "Sweet little sinner,"

He lingers for a moment, eyes trailing over your wrecked form—your heaving chest, the tremble still in your thighs, the cross hanging heavy against your neck. Geto's breath is still uneven, but his voice is steady as he speaks,

“In this sacrament of flesh, you are reborn.”

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