#plus something something power dynamics something something

[zstartrixxx]

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍, 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐄

ᶠᵃˡˢᵉ ᵖʳᵒᵖʰᵉᵗ/ᵖʳᶦᵉˢᵗꜝʳᵉᵐᵐᶦᶜᵏ ˣ ⁿᵘⁿꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐁𝐄 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒, 𝐄𝐌𝐌𝐀 𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐋𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔 𝐈. 𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 • 𝐈𝐈. 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐇 • 𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐑

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Restraint that breeds a cold sacrilege. When you least expect it—on the verge of celebrating the Resurrection of Christ the Savior—isolated with God in a frozen monastery, where the wind whispers in your ears and only your fertile imagination keeps your feet rooted to the ground, a special visitor dares to cross the threshold of this sacred soil. Remmick, dressed as a parish priest, knocks on the heavy doors of that wall blessed by a God who, for both of you, seems deaf. With a serpentine smile, an Edenic gaze, and words that both poison and seduce, the man turns this immaculate temple into his wicked abode. Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and finally... Easter Sunday. Three days Christ took to be resurrected now become the same three days Remmick needs to drag you into the profanation of your soul and the rotting of your faith. Kneel before this false prophet and beg twice for mercy, my angel. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: so, like i sayed in this post, this fanfic draws its deepest inspiration from two works i adore with my entire being: the realist/gothic novels the crime of father amaro (eça de queirós) and the monk (matthew gregory lewis). it also blends countless other influences with my own lived experiences as someone born and raised in the catholic church—which directly and profoundly shapes how i think and create. but know that this holds so much passion, affection, and just a little sleep deprivation and exhaustion. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +18 ADULT CONTENT. DEAD DROVE DO NOT EAT. angst, hurt/comfort, dark romance (???) somnophilia, dacryphilia, heresy, profanation, blasphemy & corruption, vampirism (bite, blood, final form), gore (explicit descriptions of injuries), monsterfuck, smut (oral!both | fingering | spit | penetration), religious fetishism (use of a rosary for sex), religious eroticism, forbidden and mutual desire, power dynamics & toxic relationships, catholicism, religious imagery, internal dialogues—lots of dialogues, slow burn (to the extreme); sin of the flesh and soul (plus more blasphemy); god syndrome/complex; remmick!sardonic, remmick!malicious, remmick!a bit needy (slightly, i think :), fem!reader, melancholic!reader (a classic of mine), curious!reader, active!reader (in whatever she wants). i think it’s all… lmk if i forget smt ;) 𝐖𝐂: 17.3k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

SPECIAL TAG: @001-side

𝖱𝖤𝖬𝖬𝖨𝖢𝖪 ���𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

“contention, cold sacrilege! colder still for giving in... mercy, mercy! kneel at the base of our conduit and pray, it's faceless grey plains choose blindness.” (monolith, emma ruth rundle & thou) | i recommend that you listen to this song when it is mentioned in the fanfic, but it is not necessary to listen to it, just to get more into the mood of the scene.

The wine dripped from the corner of your lips, trailing a deep purple-red stream down your chin. With your fingers, you wiped away the crimson liquid, bringing the wine-slicked tips to your lips so as not to waste a single drop. The stern look the Mother Superior gave you filled you with self-loathing—she had that special ability to judge you, to make you feel guilty for even the smallest unintended transgressions.

It had been instilled in you that waste was a sin, especially when it came to sacred nourishment that brought pleasure and energy—yet, at the same time, you were taught that too much pleasure in eating would lead to the sin of gluttony, something unacceptable for someone meant to live on sanctified fasts and renunciations of carnal desires. The Elder Sister collected the basket of bread rolls she had baked earlier, eyeing you with that bitter, long-faced stare, signaling that supper was over. You nodded, a rehearsed gesture of humility, rising swiftly to ask for the sisters’ blessing before leaving, making your way to your quarters with measured steps, hands clasped in false simplicity, eyes fixed on the stone floor. Even in vocal silence, your restless mind never stopped racing…

And to think your choice had been entirely different before crossing the drawbridge of that cold stone fortress… Oh, how you spent your long, lonely nights contemplating your melancholy, gray present, glancing back at a past splashed with blues and purples—a life both happy and unhappy—and trying, through the stained-glass mosaic of a saint in your window (vibrant blues, reds, yellows, and greens), to glimpse your future. When sunlight hit and cast those colors over you, still lying in bed, you imagined your future would be bright, full of life, warmth, comfort, and vitality.

But when the silver-blue moonlight, like the veil you sometimes wore over your navy-blue uniform, cast those same colors in darker, muted shades, you feared your future would be cold, inhuman, unnatural. Somehow. And even though you prayed every single day, hands pressed tightly together, your beloved rosary swinging between your body—so large you wore it like a belt, its heavy silver crucifix studded with flecks of ruby-red and sky-blue topaz dangling between your legs, its translucent ruby beads threaded between silver links—your fingers moving habitually from one crystal sphere to the next, you felt empty. A polished gemstone, beautiful yet misplaced, forced into a role that didn’t honor your worth—and so your prayers grew hollow, filled with nonsense for a God who probably wasn’t even listening.

If He had ever heard you, He clearly hadn’t liked what you asked for and instead turned you into His sad little joke.

A nun.

You—so full of beauty, talent, and love to give and receive. The only thing you truly enjoyed about being a Bride’s Christ was the doors it opened to knowledge: you learned to read and write, to cook with the finest ingredients, to sew, even to play the piano and violin—and, as a bonus, you met other girls who secretly shared your melancholy, trapped there by circumstance. But what else could you do? Defy those in authority? Speak against those who ruled over you? Those were the distant days of your past when your voice went unheard—and even now, in your mid-twenties, you still hesitated. The Mother Superior made sure to keep your sharp tongue locked behind your teeth, while the Elder Sister watched your every move with bulging eyes. Even with your feet on the ground, your head was always in the clouds, as if you could fly beyond the monastery’s walls—a mausoleum disguised as a sanctuary. And apparently, that was a sure path to damnation. It would attract evil spirits and ill omens, they whispered to you daily.

And so you lived a life of renunciation, modesty, and… well, a few small sins.

After all, if God was omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent—if He truly was watching your tedious little life in this godforsaken place where even Judas might have kicked off his boots under one of the massive trees where you sat and secretly ate stolen communion wafers, one after another—then He clearly wasn’t all that interested in your mediocrity. Especially not when you lied about aches and pains to skip obligations and stay in bed. And speaking of bed…

Your sacred sanctuary, where you were meant to focus on blessed rest, became the cradle of your vivid imagination on hot and cold nights alike. Your hands took on a life of their own, becoming someone else’s—someone you’d read about in forbidden library books—lips brushing your nipples, fingers threading through your hair, something thick and throbbing pressing between your legs. It was the moment when the entire world erupted from within you, a fleeting constellation, sweating out all those tiny sins and making you feel, for once, like you truly belonged in this world.

And on that night, the eve of Good Friday, curled in the silence of a nearly empty convent—just you and your small universe—watching moonlight pierce the stained glass, your hands too restless to resist, you gave in to temptation once more. Heat crawled up your spine as your dominant hand slipped beneath your cotton nightgown, seeking the center of all your pleasure—and all of Eve’s inherent sin—stroking over warm, soft skin, parting your folds to tease that magic pearl. You loved the comparison that women hid a luminous pearl between their thighs, one that, if touched just right, could blind anyone with its radiance.

No one had ever taught you how to pleasure yourself, but thank Heaven your curiosity and hunger were greater, and so you had learned.

And there you were—eyes shut tight, fingers frantic, breath ragged—chasing that carnal ecstasy. Your imagination flowed so easily into forbidden fantasies that suddenly, it wasn’t just you anymore. A man was there with you—handsome, charming, with a sweet gaze and a smile like no other. His rough hands moved over your body, his touch like a serpent coiling inside you, flooding you with pleasure, pleasure, nothing but overwhelming pleasure.

And so, you and God kept this secret between you.

The next day, all you had to do was pretend—for the sake of your audience—that your purity remained unshaken.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

Remmick knocked on the wooden door, once, twice, three times, until he was finally greeted by a grumpy man who looked him up and down:

"What do you want?"

"Friend, I just wanted to come in a bit and take shelter from this hellish cold and warm up... I'll pay!" His voice was polished, his gaze the most pleading among all the poor wretches, his appearance even more decadent: dressed and walking like a poor laborer, with frayed pants, worn suspenders, a thick, grimy linen shirt, dirty boots—all spoils from his last hunt. He wanted to look like a man of the countryside, someone who belonged to those regions, so he dressed and acted the part. The surly man eyed him up and down, doubting his words. It was late at night, a light drizzle wetting the man outside, who shoved a hand into his pants pocket, pulling out a small bag of coins that jingled heavily.

The man gave him another strange look—it wasn’t common for strangers to show up out of nowhere, knocking on the doors of a tavern and asking to enter. Normally, people just walked in like any other normal person would. But this stranger, with his angular face, dark topaz eyes, thin lips in a smile with prominent canine teeth, looking like a demonic elf with the face of a stray dog, made him doubt the madness of humanity.

Remmick cleared his throat:

"So, can I or can I not—" he made a gesture with his hand, pointing inside the bar: "—come in?" He raised his eyebrows. The other huffed, shrugged, leaving the door open, muttering:

"Come in, then. Just don’t cause any trouble, or I’ll kick you in the balls all the way to the next gutter."

"Yes, sir!" Remmick entered triumphantly, feeling the hot breath of beer and foul stench mixed with the stuffiness of a place where men fell at the feet of women sitting on their laps, eager to earn a coin or two for their services, hot blood pulsing between their sweaty, tired flesh—a mix of possibilities that enchanted him. He looked around, sensing certain distrustful glances at his slender figure—he was a man of average height, neither too tall nor too short, but fortunately, he had preserved the defined physique of his past human life. This was his new persona. A mere wandering peasant, harmless at first glance. He smiled tightly, lowered his head, and walked to the counter, where he gestured to the bartender:

"And you, sir? What’ll it be?"

"Red wine."

"Pay now. We don’t like freeloaders here," the man said, filling a battered cast-iron mug with lukewarm wine. Despite his diet being predominantly blood, Remmick had, over time, come to tolerate certain other liquids—red wine being one of them. He drank it both to reminisce about his long-lost humanity and to play a social role that could deceive others. He pulled three copper coins from the pockets of his borrowed pants, handing them to the bartender, receiving in return the nearly full mug of wine. His mouth watered, the bittersweet alcoholic scent filling his nostrils; he wished it were blood. He looked at the server in front of him, imagining what flavor he might have, when a conversation beside him caught his attention:

"...but it’s just that Father Gael has these crazy systems of his, says it’s safer to travel at night, and now that we’re just one night away from reaching the Benedictine Sisters' monastery, he insists on hurrying this step. Said that as soon as the moon is above our heads, we’ll mount the carriage and head to our destination."

"What a pain in the ass, that priest! He should’ve stayed in his own church..."

"I think so too—" Remmick turned his head discreetly to get a better look at the men chatting behind him, in a corner farther from the rest of the bar: one was tall and thin, wearing a large black cloak, with sunken eyes like someone who hadn’t slept in nights, drinking beer, while the other in front of him was dressed like a local craftsman; "—but without this job, I can’t support my family. And Father Gael is eager to arrive just on Good Friday, to settle these pending matters with the Sisters' monasteries..."

"What’s been going on, my friend?" The other man, who had been listening to the first, asked, fueling Remmick’s sudden interest, who, in turn, also wanted to know more, sipping his wine; the other shrugged, took a generous swig of beer, wiped his thin lips with the back of his right hand, while his left rummaged through his pockets for something, the rustling of fabric and jingling coins audible to the vampire’s sharp hearing:

"From what I’ve heard these past days of travel, the diocese is making some kind of deal with the imperial government to turn some of the more remote monasteries into boarding schools for troubled youth, the divergent types, and they need the approval of the evaluating Fathers and Mothers. That’s why I’ve been on the road for months with Father Gael, going up and down these remote areas in these far-off places... We left this monastery for last because it was a place of great emotional memory for the priest."

Remmick smiled, slowly turning back to face forward, his eyes gleaming with the thoughts swirling in his fertile, purely wicked mind. A special meeting with the Sisters on Easter? It sounded like an opportunity to surrender to his past.

He whistled to call the bartender:

"Hey, where’s the Benedictine Sisters' monastery?"

The bartender eyed him suspiciously, wiping a mug with a damp cloth:

"And why the interest? You looking to take vows?" he mocked, laughing. Remmick kept his expression neutral, holding back from letting his teeth accidentally protrude at that ugly face of his:

"Not that it’s any of your business, but—" he glanced again at the thin man, judging by the conversation, the carriage driver, who stood up and tossed some coins on the table: "—let’s say I have business with the Sisters."

"Hmm, whatever kind of business you have with them, even if I gave you the exact address, you’d hardly get in..." the man replied, taking Remmick’s empty mug and refilling it, provoking a confused expression from the vampire, who furrowed his brows and pursed his lips. The bartender grinned, explaining:

"This one’s on the house, for your courage to want to enter one of the most well-protected places against any man not wearing a cassock or carrying a letter addressed directly to the Mother from the Pope!" He handed him the mug, a smirk framing his face.

But Remmick had already thought of exactly that. He accepted the mug with a smug smile:

"That’s not a problem for me."

And it wouldn’t be. When the Devil wishes to enter somewhere, even if it’s the dwelling of God, he finds a way. And Remmick could already visualize the monastery’s doors wide open to him, as well as the baptism of blood and the prayers that would profane that place.

And that was already making him thirsty with anticipation.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

You woke up to knocks—no, more like violent banging—on your door. Rubbing your eyes, drowsy, you waited for the noise to stop so you could return to your sacred slumber, but instead of fading, the pounding grew louder, more irritating, piercing your head with sharp noises. You took a deep breath, opened your eyes to the warm, colored lights above you—outside, the sun’s rays announced the new day. Good Friday. Your heart warmed, for this was the best time of the year—when you and your sisters came together to prepare delicious feasts, held storytelling circles (even if biblical, you still cherished them immensely), and played in the hallways, free from the fixed duties of cloistered nuns in the middle of nowhere. You loved feeling minimally alive, and they almost always had visitors: men of God. Parish priests from distant lands, some handsome, most old and repulsive, who celebrated the Word and Easter Sunday with you.

You huffed, your thoughts interrupted by the Mother Superior’s grave voice:

"Wake up, girl! Wake up, for the priest will arrive soon, and we want everything in perfect condition to receive him!"

Silence. You were somewhat sulking under the covers, staring at the wooden door in front of you. The woman behind the door waited for your response, but when she got none, she scolded:

"Say something, girl, don’t be so rude!"

"I’m awake," you retorted, then added: "I’m already putting on my clothes, I’ll join you and the Elder Sister soon..."

"You won’t. I’ve told you. It’s madam. We’ll be waiting for you in the kitchen. Hurry, time waits for no one."

You rolled your eyes, silently repeating the words: 'you won’t, madam,' with some anger, staying exactly as you were: lying in bed. Suddenly, when you realized you were alone—the Mother Superior’s heavy footsteps always betrayed her presence, now fading down the hallway outside your room—you felt a sadness afflicting your flesh. You didn’t like feeling physical or emotional pain; either was a symptom of near-death to you. Pain caused anguish, a deep state of prostration and lack of spirit. You only liked the easy pleasures of the flesh, putting your mouth on something juicy and delicious, feeling those very carnal pleasures, and being in the heavens of dreams—and when the other sisters were one by one reassigned to other churches, convents, hospitals, or wherever else, leaving only you, the poor wretch among them all, the Elder Sister, and the Mother Superior, lately your days and nights had been an eternal balance between staying on that ledge of hopes, tiny pleasures, and silent laments.

And unfortunately, this would be the worst Easter for you.

With resentment, you woke up fully, got out of the warm bed, stepping onto the icy stone floor, clumsily removing your nightgown, grabbing your uniform: the loose black tunic. Your belt was your rosary, wrapped around your waist, tied tightly around your body, the end where the crucifix dangled swinging back and forth as you moved around the room, searching for your shoes. You found them under your bed, slipped on the leather shoes, and ignored the veil—at least you always avoided wearing them when no stranger who might covet you was around. You left the room, leaving behind the sorrow that weighed on your soul and the sins of the flesh committed under the moonlight.

All you had to do was close that door, and all your secrets would stay hidden in the intimacy of your room.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

"The arrival of this priest won’t be happy this time..." you began your lament while peeling garlic, feeling your fingers grow sticky with its viscosity, something you particularly disliked—much less the smell that clung to your fingers.

You received a condemning look from the Mother, but even so, you continued: "They always come when something truly happy and special is happening. But this time, it’ll just be to decree our end."

"Watch your tongue!" the Elder Sister cut you off sharply, stopping her potato-peeling for a moment: "You know better than anyone that this change is a necessary evil for all of us. Regardless of the occasion Father Gael arrives, we’ll welcome him with open arms and hearts."

"Yes, and you’ll have to keep that sharp tongue of yours inside that little mouth of yours—" the Mother commented, a malicious little smile playing on her dry lips as she seasoned a freshly slaughtered piece of lamb with red wine and fine herbs from the garden: "—or we’ll have to cut it out of your mouth."

You made a face, feeling frustration course through your body, rolling your eyes as the older women laughed behind your back.

It was always like this: they scolded you, made malicious comments, made you feel terrible about yourself, and then forced you to do something. Peeling garlic became a difficult, almost hateful task at that moment. In your heart, holding back tears of resentment that had built up in those last days, you hated that man who would come to bring bad news to your home.

To you. Into you.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

"This priest is taking too long... Did something happen to him? Worse yet, a storm is coming..."

"On Good Friday, no less!" the Mother replied to the Elder Sister, making the sign of the cross, while you stared at the flickering candlelight in front of you, feeling distant from everything, one hand supporting your face, the other playing with the flame; your fingers went back and forth, making the light waver with your movements. You were so engrossed that you jumped when you heard the loud, sonorous, and shrill ringing of the bell from the back, announcing someone at the gates. In a flash, the Elder Sister stood up, a smile stretching from ear to ear on her long face with big eyes, clasping her hands in front of her chest, stunned with sudden joy:

"He’s here! Father Gael has finally arrived!"

"Great things—" you murmured, making a disinterested gesture, turning back to the candle when the Mother said:

"You go welcome the Father. The Elder Sister and I will set the table."

"Me!?" you pointed at yourself, indignant, frowning. Behind the Mother, through the long, oval window where the sky was as dark blue as the sea, the clouds collided, and lightning split them apart. You could almost swear it was a divine sign. The Mother merely nodded, already grabbing the heavy, rough set of keys from her belt—she handed you a smaller ring with two master keys, rusty and heavy, shedding flakes and smelling metallic from age.

"Go before our special guest catches a cold in this rain."

Like a cursed mouth, the rain burst forth, loud and thick. You clenched the keys in your palm, relaxing your shoulders, a sign you would obey the Mother’s orders. Before leaving, you heard her shout after you: "And don’t forget your veil!"

You shrugged, ignoring her.

Father Gael was familiar, practically family.

And it wouldn’t be any martyrdom for you to hide from a man as charming as the young priest. It never was.

Your steps were slow; you felt you had all the time in the world to open that enormous front door, even if it meant getting drenched by the rain to reach the wall, holding the metal lamp that swayed in your hand. You were convinced it would be like the other times Father Gael had visited the monastery: you’d open one of the wooden doors, then the metal gate, welcome him with timid smiles, gesture for him to enter, smile, and wait for him to step inside in his large cassock, perhaps a hat on his head, holding his suitcase, adjusting his collar and clerical neckband. He’d thank you with sweet eyes, a shy smile, head bowed, enter, and you’d have a dinner full of sermons at the dining table.

And unlike what you told the other nuns, biting your tongue, this would be a happy Easter.

But everything changed when you turned the key to one side of the wooden door, swinging it open, raising the lamp to illuminate what was in front of you, only to find another man standing behind the metal gate. Your heart stopped, and as if God wanted you to see with your own two wide eyes, lightning split the sky, illuminating everything in a vibrant pale blue, and the rain grew heavier, lashing the ground, splashing onto you and the stranger. A powerful thunderclap—a muffled cry from Saint Peter—announced the man standing on the other side. He was drenched, his straight dark hair plastered to his forehead, an angular face smiling without teeth, just a press of thick lips, hiding something from you, clean-shaven, eyes the same dark blue as the sky piercing you as he waited on the other side of the iron bars. Illuminated by the flame of your lamp—at least that’s what you wanted to believe—his hands were clasped in front of his body, harmless, wearing the cassock like a black cloak, the white clerical collar around his neck. A suitcase rested at his feet.

Calm, even soaked by the rain.

You swallowed all your questions, already preparing to simply close the wooden door behind you and run back into the castle, when the man stepped forward and made himself heard—very clearly to your ears, a deep voice with a heavy accent penetrating you:

"My lady! Don’t be alarmed! It’s me! The priest who came for this Easter..."

"Who the hell are you?" Your voice came out sharp, your eyes immediately widening at the naturalness of the curse, seeking instant reprimand from the priest. But the so-called Father didn’t scowl; on the contrary, the man opened his mouth in a nasal laugh-smile, revealing uneven, almost sharp teeth:

"I understand your question, my dear, but I can explain everything!" He clasped his hands, smiling as amiably as possible: "Just let me in to take refuge from this deluge, and I’ll explain everything."

You raised an eyebrow between suspicion and curiosity. You looked behind him, trying to spot any silhouette of a carriage or even Gael;

"Are you alone?"

"Just me and God..." he replied complacently, hands still clasped: "...and you now."

He added, looking at you with a gaze you’d never been looked at with before. Something coursed through your body, a warmth that didn’t come from the lit candle in your lamp. A strange fervor tinged your cold, rain-splashed cheeks. Hot, you felt feverish even in the rain. With newfound courage, you stepped out from behind the door, revealing yourself fully to him, receiving from the other priest a lingering look that stripped your soul uncomfortably, for you didn’t want to be undressed that way. You barely remembered the modesty you lacked: the veil that would hide your hair, exposing your nature to the strange man.

You stopped a few meters away from the man, gathering words at the tip of your tongue, shining the lamp near his face:

"And by what name may I call you, Father?"

A glint passed through his eyes, red-ruby, making you shiver. Quickly, he wiped his chin and lips with his hand, drying what you assumed was rainwater:

"I am Father Remmick, my sweet Sister, and you, by what lovely name may I call you?"

Your lips curled into a self-satisfied smile, completely taken by the vanity of being courted that way. Remmick smiled, waiting for your answer, but before you could reveal your name, a question crossed your mind:

"And where is your carriage, Father? You’re not telling me you came all this way on foot."

You tilted your head, analyzing Remmick, who stepped closer to the gate:

"Let’s say I had a terrible accident further down and had to leave the coachman to take care of things while I climbed the hill before it got too late... But it seems even so, the weather turned, and this deluge started pouring... So, darling, may I come in?" he asked, raising both eyebrows in a pleading look. Wind blew between your faces, your hair flying back, Remmick closing his eyes for brief seconds, nostrils flaring, his chest rising and falling slowly. When he opened them, again that strange gleam in his gaze, almost opaque, which would’ve prompted another impertinent question if not for the Mother’s booming voice behind you:

"Let Father Gael go in—good heavens, who are you!?"

"You must be the Mother Superior—" Remmick changed his expression, making it polished, flashing his best smile at the woman eyeing him suspiciously, clasping his hands in supplication: "—as I was explaining to the dear Sister here, I am the priest who came in Monsignor Gael’s stead, who unfortunately couldn’t make it for this special occasion. I am Father Remmick, from another diocese not even from this region, but it’s with great honor that I come in the name of the Church and the State to settle pending matters and, well—" he looked at both of them, keeping his charming smile: "—if possible, spend Easter with you. I just ask that you let me in! Or I’ll turn into priest soup!"

You laughed, along with the man in front of you. But the Mother remained silent, observing him cautiously. Remmick seemed to remember something, bent down, and picked up the suitcase he carried, pulling out two letters, straightening and showing them to the Mother:

"Here! I have the diocese’s letter about the matters, and another signed by Gael himself about my coming in his place."

"Hand them to me," the Mother ordered. Remmick lowered the hand holding the papers, his voice more petulant:

"Only if you let me in. I’m freezing to death here, madam, and it wouldn’t be very Christian of me to die of some sudden illness."

You stifled a giggle while the Mother raised her eyebrows at the acidic reply. The Mother didn’t like it one bit, grumbling behind your back, but by hierarchical orders, it was up to her to accept his entry. She spat dryly:

"Open that gate and let him in, girl! God is in control of everything."

"Yes, madam," you replied obligingly, unlocking the other gate with a clank of the latch opening. Remmick remained still, watching you, waiting for your command. You cleared your throat and gestured with the hand holding the lamp for him to pass through the gate:

"Father... You may enter, and welcome!"

"Thank you, Sister!" He bowed his head, stepping one foot behind the other, smiling smugly at the Mother as he extended the letters, adding smoothly:

"Here you are, Mother! And surely, He is in control of everything!" He winked at her, smiling even wider.

To your eyes, he always seemed to hide something he wouldn’t say, not so soon, to you. Perhaps more comforting news that the diocese had decided to keep you there, or that in the end, you’d have the chance to choose your future... Or something worse. Your judgment of him was neutral, staying on the surface of cordial first impressions: polite smiles, welcoming gestures, soft voices, restrained glances... Especially since he was a man, a stranger—really, quite strange. Despite being handsome in his own way, still... Strange.

Remmick passed by you, walking side by side with the Mother, who had taken your lamp from your hands without ceremony, handing it to the man beside her, to open one of the letters, setting off ahead.

A cold air pierced you as you locked the iron gate, listening to their footsteps fade away. You looked beyond the bars of that gate where the rest of the world opened into a downpour of thick water, booming thunder, and occasional lightning illuminating the earth. Your heart filled with the smell of wet earth, rust, and something else that had entered with Father Remmick—metallic, dense, wet, somewhat sticky, and intrinsic to flesh, which pierced the soul. It was unnatural and almost bestial.

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"Father Remmick, please, say a prayer so we may dine in blessings this Good Friday!" the Elder Sister requested, looking with interest at the man seated across from her, still damp from the rain, droplets dripping from the corners of his hair, a cigarette between his lips. Remmick was searching for a match to light his cigarette—another human habit he’d inherited after centuries of socializing with the living—receiving a lit candle from her hands. He smiled in thanks, took a slow drag, and blew the gray smoke upward, nodding at the request; they were seated at the kitchen table, the wooden surface full of useless food for the vampire, who only had eyes for the three women, mentally listing which of those lambs he’d sacrifice first. For you, your mouth watered at so much abundance before you, eager to devour every dish in front of you, playing with the crystal beads of your rosary as you waited for the signal to eat.

Remmick took another drag of his cigarette, seated at the head of the table, watching you with a certain fascination while the Mother eyed him with latent distrust, leaning at the other end. The vampire disguised as a priest searched his memories for the sermons and general knowledge Father Gael had offered him before becoming his dinner the previous night, as well as the prayers taught by those who had stolen his father’s lands—he took a final drag, immersed in that awkward silence, stubbing out the cigarette on his plate, a useless gesture for him, filled his glass with wine, took a sip, and finally made himself heard, loud and clear, dramatic like a small-town priest:

"On this special night of Good Friday, may your God bring peace and salvation to your hearts, as well as reveal to each of you here the true path of happiness, mutual love, and also life. Through Christ, Our Lord, amen!" He made a quick sign of the cross with his index and middle fingers, looked at the sisters who stared at him and repeated the gesture, murmuring "amens."

They waited for him to serve himself:

"Help yourselves, Sisters! I’ll stick to the wine, as I’m fasting and—"

"But Father Remmick, fasts are usually absolute. Both liquids and solids..." you said. The Mother tapped your hand:

"I told you to keep that tongue in your mouth—"

"Oh, no, don’t scold her for that—" Remmick intervened, amused internally by it all, gesturing with his hands, looking deeply at you: "—and you’re right, my young one, fasts are absolute, but I’m human, and like anyone, I have my weaknesses. And I believe that in times of death and rebirth like these, our Christ wouldn’t mind such trivialities, hmm?" He winked at you, making you nod again. The Elder Sister giggled in agreement, while the Mother Superior kept her stern expression.

You tried not to stare too much at Remmick, who remained motionless in his posture, like an absolute and static king in that chair, eyes attentive to each of you, occasionally bringing the wine glass to his lips. Until inevitably, your curious eyes noticed a rather peculiar detail

"Remmick, why aren’t you breathing?"

"What do you mean, Sister?" Remmick asked you, relaxing his tense shoulders, sighing deeply; the other two glared at you, embarrassed, you tried to redeem yourself:

"I think it was just my imagination, you know..."

"It must’ve been—" he affirmed, leaning toward you, an indecipherable little smile on his lips: "—in the dark, sometimes we can’t see well what’s right in front of us."

You nodded, feeling a shiver crawl up your spine.

They returned to that sepulchral silence, the Mother watching you eat; the way you served yourself wine and drank, letting the liquid trickle from your mouth at times, so great was your thirst for the wine. Remmick was leaning back in his chair, hands crossed, eyes attentive to how you served yourself and chewed the rare meat, blood splattering your plate, wine sliding down your chin, grapes bursting between your teeth. A full plate, a beautiful appetite.

The Mother held your arm as you reached for another glass of wine, muttering through her teeth:

"You’re more than satisfied, my dear. Now clean up and go to bed, it’s getting late..."

"Well, I think it’s time for me to retire to my quarters as well," Remmick drew your attention to him, standing from the table in a leap, grabbing his suitcase from the side. He turned to the Mother: "Where will I rest?"

"Follow me," the Mother indicated sternly. Remmick nodded, glancing quickly at you.

"Excuse me," he gave a brief nod to the Elder Sister and passed by you, but stopped near you, one of his hands holding your shoulder, squeezing the soft flesh lightly:

"And for you, my beloved Sister, I wish you the best and most unforgettable dreams! May God bless and protect you. Sweet dreams."

His voice entered you and took residence in your soul.

You looked at the Elder Sister, who watched you both distance yourselves, eyeing you from head to toe and whispering:

"I’ll accompany them. Have a good night’s sleep."

She left, the footsteps of the three fading, leaving only you and your solitude in the middle of that cold kitchen.

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Your entire body was frozen, your bare feet touching stone after stone beneath your soles, the wind whistling and entering through the enormous windows of the hallway stretching, dark, ahead of you, piercing like ghostly hands through your cotton nightgown.

Your lips were slightly parted; at any moment, your deepest secrets could escape them, coming straight from your core. Your arms stretched forward, supporting you with each step toward the only lit light in that gallery of walls—from the end of the hallway, where a door was ajar and noisy sounds of things falling could be heard, echoing through the sedimentary stones. With glazed eyes, dulled by the veil of sleepwalking, you saw everything as a distant, blurred dream; you stopped at the doorframe, glimpsing the collapsed body of the Mother Superior lying around a thick puddle of a red liquid, a strange kind of clotted wine spreading around her. She was in her sleeping attire—like yours, a thick white nightgown—stained with the same red; her head was tilted back, eyes open in an expression of horror, from her gaping lips, a scream of fear that would never leave her mouth.

Not in life.

You followed the slender silhouette of Father Remmick dropping the body to the floor, the flesh of the Mother’s jugular torn by a sharp bite that ripped out a chunk, a piece of her flesh. The puddle expanded gradually, dyeing the woman’s thick, gray hair red.

And everything was red, the smell of death enveloping you, and the icy wind piercing your soul.

The scent of death enveloped you, and the icy wind pierced your soul.

Remmick turned around. He wore a white tank top, black tailored pants, and shoes on his feet. Blood dripped from his mouth full of sharp, thorn-like teeth. He held something between them. His eyes were dark, glinting like blood pearls as they fixed on you. His nails were claws, stained with blood. He smiled, twisted and grotesque, like a bestial, bat-like humanoid, staring at you in ecstasy before spitting the piece of meat onto the ground. His voice was no longer the same—it was unnatural, as if another being had overlaid his human speech:

"My little angel, it’s time to rest!"

Your eyes widened. Suddenly, your body felt weightless, floating toward him. Remmick’s clawed hand stretched out to you. Your heart raced, and for a few seconds, your soul slipped free from your body. Face to face with the monster, you saw your reflection in his eyes—completely drenched in red. Blood.

Remmick cupped your face, his nails pricking your skin, his breath reeking of nauseating copper against your cheek, the tips of his claws sending shivers down your spine:

"Just sleep, my angel. Your time hasn’t come yet… Sleep well. And dream of me."

Everything was blood. Dark red. Cold and hot. In the blink of an eye, you plummeted into freefall. And then, everything became warm dreams—of a human, smiling Remmick reaching out to you under a beautiful, sunny sky. Your heart calmed, and all was peace.

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The morning dawned strangely. Through your window, gray mingled with amber as dark clouds drifted across the sun’s rays. You remembered nothing of your dreams, only the last moments before bed—Remmick’s words carved into your soul, the chill of your room, the heat of your body burning from wine and something deeper, something intimate, blooming inside you. It made you shed your heavy clothes, seeking relief in nakedness, sitting on your bed, yearning for something. Something your mind conjured before your eyes, yet you refused to see.

You needed a touch that would caress your soul.

You took a deep breath, your legs pressed together, feet on the cold floor, ears attuned to the symphony of rain. You lay back fully on the bed, hoping to hear someone at your door—knocking, asking to enter. And if that unexpected visitor came, by the gods, you’d let them in immediately. But nothing happened, and in a moment of lucidity, you thanked the heavens that it was just a fleeting thought, a restlessness against everything you’d learned to reject, a lethargic symptom of the wine. Another deep breath, hands against your breasts, hot skin against sweaty palms. Beneath your skin, you felt your heartbeat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The sound of your breath through your nose. Until everything calmed, and you felt steady enough to rise and slip on your nightgown.

Now properly dressed to leave your quarters, your hands lingered on your breasts, feeling your heartbeat as you tried to decipher the shadows in your room. Outside, Saint Peter had stopped sending rain—and wherever Father Remmick was, his words still echoed in your mind. Maybe that’s why you dreamed of him. Even if you couldn’t recall the dream itself, you carried the certainty that he had appeared to you.

Stepping out of your room, you noticed how truly odd that Easter Saturday morning was. Normally, the Mother Superior would knock on every door to announce the second day of Easter—yet there you were, dragging your own feet, the sound of your closed shoes echoing through the empty hallway. Your eyes darted to each door, once the rooms of your fellow sisters, wondering where in God’s name they all were. You even wondered, as you descended the spiral staircase to the ground floor, where Remmick was staying.

When you reached the kitchen, you saw steam rising from a kettle and the slender figure of the Eldest Sister with her back turned. You approached slowly, scanning the corners for any sign of the Mother Superior or the priest. Neither was there.

"Where is everyone, Sister?"

"My God, child! You scared me!" she exclaimed, dramatically clutching her chest, her eyes bulging as she looked you up and down. You raised an eyebrow. The Eldest Sister took a deep breath, adjusted her headscarf, and gave you a stern look before replying:

"The Mother Superior will be absent for a few hours… As for Father Remmick, he will join us once the sun sets…"

"How strange—" you muttered, making a face. "Why?"

"Not that it’s any of your concern, but—" the Eldest Sister turned back, kneading a lump of dough. "—from what Father Remmick told us yesterday—me and the Mother Superior—he prefers to remain secluded and fasting during Easter. He asked not to be disturbed and said he’d join us tonight for the celebrations."

"I see…" you whispered, running your fingers over flour-dusted utensils on the counter. The Eldest Sister continued her labor:

"He’s a man of great faith, locking himself away for hours without seeing sunlight. Great faith indeed."

"Or at the very least, he’s peculiar for avoiding sunlight… Where is he staying?" you asked, genuinely curious about the guest. 

The Eldest Sister huffed:

"Your curiosity will lead you astray one day, dear. But to shut you up: he didn’t want the usual guest quarters. He takes his Christian philosophies seriously, so we put him in the most isolated room—the one in the back, the lower level."

"Strange… That’s more like a dungeon than an actual floor."

"Well, now leave me be. We must prepare the finest meal for tonight."

"And what should I do?" you asked. The Eldest Sister sighed, stopped kneading, wiped her forehead with her forearm, and glanced at you over her shoulder:

"I don’t know, find something to do. Praying would be good—especially for God to grant you a little more restraint in your words."

You nodded slowly.

"Yes, ma’am."

You turned away, grabbing a stale piece of bread and a glass of milk for breakfast. The rest of the day was spent wandering the monastery halls, your hands trailing along the stone walls, pausing occasionally to admire a tapestry or the colossal bust of some ancient Mother Superior mounted on the rough-hewn rock. The eyes of illustrious priests seemed to follow you as you couldn’t stop thinking:

‘Strange Easter. Weird priest! He’s like one of those creatures I once read about… The Mother doesn’t even show up to say good morning. The Eldest Sister, as always, stupid toward me—when will I ever leave this place? I hate all of this. I hate all of them.’

When you looked out your window after a bath, your skin still damp and fresh with herbal soap and hot water, your hair dripping as you dried it with a cotton towel, the sun was already setting, casting red, blue, and green reflections against your skin. You smiled, and your heart swelled with a strange hope. You dressed, leaving your veil on the chair beside your bed.

You left your room almost eagerly, your steps quick, descending the stairs with a lantern in hand, your eyes alert, your ears straining for any unfamiliar voice.

"I come from lands far from here, Sister. I bring with me the promises made to my late father…"

Remmick was there, seated at the kitchen table, a flickering candle casting timid light before him as he pulled a cigarette from beneath his cassock, which draped over him like a black cape. His hair was damp, and a watery sheen on his skin suggested he’d just bathed.

When his eyes caught you approaching, his face broke into an almost sympathetic smile of sharp teeth:

"Little angel! We’ve been waiting for you!" He gestured for you to sit beside him, sliding the chair out with his foot. He remained still, watching you settle in. Once you did—between shyness and euphoria—he finally moved, pressing the cigarette tip to the candle’s flame. You noticed the Eldest Sister tense at your arrival, her gaze rigid. Still no sign of the Mother Superior.

"The Mother will arrive soon… She’s just preparing for this blessed night," Remmick said, spreading his arms, looking between you and the other nun with a mocking smile. A strange silence settled, all of you staring—mostly you and the Eldest Sister—while the air filled with the bittersweet scent of his tobacco. He cleared his throat, recapturing your attention:

"And you, dear Sister? What’s your story? I already know the Mother’s, and soon I’ll learn hers—" he glanced at the Eldest Sister, smirked, then fixed his gaze back on you, as if trying to read your soul. "What’s your story? Why are you here?"

You hesitated, looking down at the rosary coiled around your waist, seeking tactile comfort in your nervousness. It was hard to talk about yourself when no one had ever asked. You lifted your face to Remmick, finding his gaze strangely comforting. 

You glanced at the Eldest Sister, leaning back in her chair, before gathering your words:

"I’m from this region. Born and raised in a good family. My parents are laborers—my father a clothing artisan, my mother a spinner of the wool and cotton he uses. I have other siblings; two don’t even live here anymore. And well… I was promised to the convent while still in my mother’s womb, so for as long as I can remember, I’ve been part of the Church, and it of me, in some way… But here, I learned to read, write, play instruments—things I might never have had if I’d stayed with them…" You paused, searching for more to say. "I guess that’s it."

You waited for his reaction. Remmick studied you with a mix of deep interest and something like pity:

"Interesting story. It reminds me of mine… Being forced into something you don’t belong to—not how things should be. But thanks to your God, I found my salvation…" His voice grew distant as he side-eyed the Eldest Sister coughing violently.

"Something wrong, Sister?"

"No—cough!—I just—cough!—think I choked."

"Drink some wine. It’ll help," he said, offering her a cup. "Sometimes, we can’t keep our opinions to ourselves."

The Eldest Sister glared, formulating a retort to Remmick’s mocking tone. From the shadows, slow footsteps echoed until the Mother Superior appeared—erect and rigid, her veil gone, revealing long gray hair, her hands clasped over a heavy wooden cross hanging from a braided cord. She stopped at the far end of the table, her dark eyes meeting Remmick’s:

"Good evening, ladies… And sir."

"Good evening, Mother. Please, join us in this communion of food," Remmick said, staring deeply at her. You felt the atmosphere shift—something cold and heavy settling around you as the woman simply nodded politely and sat. The Eldest Sister finished her wine while you blurted out:

"Mother Superior, where were you all day!?"

"I was—" She hesitated, her eyes locked on Remmick. "—occupied with our transfer papers. So tomorrow, we may have a special Easter Sunday."

"Transfer? So we really are leaving…" Your voice was a thread between sudden sadness and anxiety. Then a cold hand covered yours—Remmick, looking at you with sweetness:

"Don’t worry, my angel. After tomorrow, everything will be different for you. For all three of you." He smiled—a closed-lipped, gentle smile, his fingers stroking your skin, his presence calming you.

The Eldest Sister scoffed, stirring her cup, staring at her full plate, then at the empty ones before Remmick and the Mother. She forced a smile:

"Aren’t you going to eat my food? And aren’t we having a special Easter vigil tonight?"

"Actually… I was thinking we could sit around a fire, sing beautiful songs that move us…" Remmick looked at you, tilting his head back slightly, revealing his row of sharp teeth. You shivered. He turned fully to you, his knee brushing yours under the table, sending a thrill through you. His cigarette was nearly burnt out on his plate, his right index finger between his lips:

"You just told me you play instruments, didn’t you?" He bit the tip of his finger, his irises flashing crimson for a split second.

You blinked, wanting to believe it was just the candlelight. Swallowing hard, you searched the others’ faces for support but found only blank stares. You looked back at Remmick, who grinned charmingly, making you whisper:

"Mhm... Violin and piano, mostly."

"Do we have either here?" he asked the Mother. "Ah, yes… I think I saw a piano somewhere. Would you play for me, dear?"

The mere thought of playing for him made your skin prickle. You stared, stunned, as his hand grazed yours over the table, his eyes piercing, empty of human warmth, as if he were peering into your soul, trying to claim your heart with the ice in his gaze.

"But Father, on Holy Saturday, we don’t usually—" the Eldest Sister began, breaking the moment. Remmick’s face darkened, a storm brewing in his thick brows, his voice cutting like a blade:

"But I do things my way, Sister."

He flashed her a tight smile, winked, then turned to the Mother. You noticed her pupils dilate slightly, her tongue flicking behind closed lips before she spoke, eerily calm:

"Sister, let Father Remmick guide our next actions. He is our shepherd, and we shall not want if we follow him."

"Then let us make music!" Remmick exclaimed, clapping his hands. He stood abruptly, adjusting his white collar, and offered you his hand:

"Would you do me the honor?"

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

You stared at the piano keys, searching for divine inspiration. The music room—another stone chamber—was draped in wool and cotton tapestries for warmth. A fireplace, which Remmick had lit effortlessly (just a match and a breath, and the wood roared to life). The piano, black and vinyl, stood as the centerpiece of the monastery’s music lessons, its bench upholstered in red velvet, positioned before the crackling fire. Remmick sat behind you, legs crossed, his gaze boring into your back while the other sisters sat side by side, waiting for you to begin.

Lost in sheet music you knew by heart, your fingers slid over the keys—sharp, unprepared, a screech that made the Eldest Sister wince and Remmick stifle a malicious chuckle. Too nervous to face your small audience, you didn’t dare look at them.

You could’ve just convinced them you couldn’t bear this humiliation—until someone sat beside you, a cold aura making the candle flames tremble. A warmth surged through you despite his sharp scent. Head bowed, all you saw were his hands—male, thick-fingered, short-nailed, pale, veins a sickly blue.

They looked like a corpse’s hands.

"My angel, perhaps we can try this one—" he whispered in your ear, his breath vinegary with wine. Then he began to play, his fingers flying, the chords funereal and macabre, evoking death, funerals, midnight ladies and chrysanthemums, full moons and blood, burnt candles, ochre and rotting flesh. Your heart clenched—he was playing Marcia Funebre, your favorite piece, with the same possessed fervor you felt when playing.

Your left hand joined his right, slowly at first, then in sync, the music swelling—high notes like imminent death, low ones like the Reaper stalking his prey, then back to the sharp, fighting against fate, angels guiding you to fields of flowers you’d never seen, a moonlit lake, welcoming smiles… But Death lurked, always, blood-red eyes devouring you in crimson and dark blue, shadows swallowing your captive soul. Sadness, melancholy, lonely cloudy days, despair—Oh God, why have You forsaken me?—then serenity again. Tears welled in your eyes, violent as the notes you played, your heart racing with each high tremble.

Serenity returned. Lingering. The last breaths of a life surrendering to Death’s veil—but was Death not the eternal sleep? The final darkness before rest? The return to nothingness? The music faded. The funeral march brought solace, the acceptance that if this was everyone’s end, why not embrace it? Like hugging a saint in the flesh, weeping your sorrows, begging for freedom from human pain.

Remmick had stopped playing, hypnotized by you—how you commanded the instrument with such passion. Soul. Something he lacked. His eyes widened, lips parted, a suffocating feeling in that cassock that wasn’t his—though it was all a lie. Dressed in deceit for the cruel pleasure of ancestral vengeance, he felt his unbeating heart—no longer human—stirred by your playing.

And for all his falseness, so were the notes he’d just played. Death no longer haunted him as it did mortals. You were the melancholic lows, fleeing death; he was the ominous depths, the danger in the shadows. Tragedy. Blood. Corruption. Yet in the end, he was the joy, the grand guest of the funeral march you now played for him. And Remmick consumed you, the piano’s vibrations piercing his undead flesh, ecstatic at this art that could reach him despite his damnation.

His scarlet beast-eyes traced your profile, lost in the death of your music. Your beauty, the tears making you saintly, the blood pulsing in your neck inviting a bite, your wine-and-warm-skin scent enchanting him. Thick drool slid from his jaw. 

His thoughts narrowed to desire, lust, boiling blood, crimson, flesh—The music crescendoed. 

He leaned closer, lips parting. You, entranced by your own playing, eyes closed, swaying, didn’t notice the monster beside you, drawn to your warmth. The final notes—tam-tan-tan, tan-tan-tan-tan-tan.

Dazed, you didn’t see the beast lurking, pressed against you, coveting your warm flesh.

Remmick jerked upright, wiping his mouth, glancing at the Eldest Sister’s sharp glare. You, still numb from the music, didn’t notice him beside you, clinging to your heat.

His fingers brushed your cheek, ghostly soft:

"You played beautifully, my angel. We made beautiful music together today…" You smiled between relief and tears, a sob escaping.

"Don’t cry," he murmured, drying your tear. His touch was so… unfamiliar. Present in flesh, yet strange, like icy porcelain against warm wool.

Your eyes traced his face—fine wrinkles, stubble along his jaw, a crooked smile of jagged teeth.

He was so close yet so far, aching in your heart, in some part of your soul that shouldn’t yearn for this.

His persistent touch, holding your face like a precious thing despite its chill against your burning skin, sent vibrations through you. And staring so close, tasting his bloodlust, you imagined him naked for a fleeting second—your mind merging the crucified Christ from your chapel’s altar with a naked Dionysus from a forbidden book. Divine human beauty, dangerously exposed, sacred sweat, honeyed saliva…

His nature was far more bestial.

He wanted to tell you—the good and the evil in him, to touch you freely, to liberate you from everything he’d seen in the Mother Superior’s memories. Smiling his broken smile, he whispered so only you could hear:

"You played beautifully today, my angel. You stirred a heart that hasn’t beaten in ages…"

"Stop, I wasn’t that good—" you feigned modesty, afraid the sisters would catch your act, staring shyly at the keys. His closeness was surreal—something even Father Gael had never given you. Remmick laughed at a thought only he knew.

The Eldest Sister interrupted, her grating voice shattering the moment:

"I think that’s enough for tonight. It’s late, and tomorrow is Easter Sunday. We should all rest."

Remmick grimaced, exhaling stale air from lungs that didn’t breathe humanly, turning to the sisters—the Mother, plastic as if brainwashed; the Eldest, judgmental, earning his pity. From the Mother’s memories, he knew her—bitter, resentful, everything that made his venom boil with disgust.

He glanced at you, poking at phantom notes.

"She’s right," he said, standing, lifting the golden candlestick. "But first, I’ll escort our young musician to her quarters." He offered his hand again. "Come, angel."

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

Your steps were slow, right then left, your shadows stretching on stone walls from the candlelight. His voice dripped like melted honey:

"Do you like living here, Sister?"

"Hmm," you fumbled for the right words, fear creeping into your lips and wide eyes, captured by Remmick’s gaze—under the light, his irises held a strange crimson glint. He added:

"You can be honest. I’m a fervent listener, and I only want the best for you."

You looked straight at him—golden and fiery in the candlelight, his sharp features carved by God’s hands, yet now more sinuous, his eye sockets darkened so only that eerie glow remained. His hair gleamed, his clerical collar pale against his throat, his lips full, parted in a smile of jagged pearls. No statue of Apollo could rival him. Your heart pounded, and something deeper ached.

Your mouth opened, confessing what you’d never say aloud:

"No. To be honest… It’s lonely here. Too cold, almost inhospitable. I miss human contact, warmth, town festivals… Things I had to leave behind."

"I understand, angel. I know that pain better than anyone—" He touched his chest. "—and I can save you. Free you from all this."

"H-how?" Your voice faltered as you stopped outside your door.

The air grew thick, buzzing in your ears, your blood hissing. Strange. Remmick turned fully to you, candlelight illuminating your fearful curiosity.

“Exactly what you heard, my dear. I can save you—show you how wondrous the world can be. Let you taste the bittersweet tang of grapes, the burning sweetness of honey, even the rancid bite of spoiled butter... and savor it all with delight. Pleasure. Without restraint..." His hand rose to your face, his voice shifting into something ethereal, as if speaking to an empty room with unsettling intimacy: "I am what you desire, my angel. I am the one who heard your call and came to you—"

"I never asked anyone to come," you snapped, pulling away. The man’s expression twisted into mock sorrow, eyebrows lifting. "I... I don’t need any salvation, Father Remmick."

"Not even from your God?" His tongue clicked, a near-demonic smirk playing at the edges of his lips, fangs glinting. You didn’t see them—you were too hypnotized by the priest’s burning gaze, fear and a strange, gnawing desire eating at the core of your being.

"Least of all Him. When I know my prayers will never be heard."

"Perhaps I’m the one who will listen." His whisper was a serpent’s promise.

Silence.

Only your ragged breath, your pounding heart, your thoughts spiraling as you tried to see the real Remmick in the dim light. Your head felt heavy yet empty, the air thin, the taste of your own blood sharp in your nose and throat. Remmick savored it too—sweet, blessed, holy crimson running through your veins, his beast-eyes full of lust and corruption.

You stepped back, reaching your door.

Fleeing temptation and fear seemed wisest.

Remmick followed, lifting the candlestick to expose his face—now devoid of bestial traces, fading with the light.

Your hand gripped the icy doorknob—warmer than his—twisting it sharply, ready to escape, when a cold hand seized your shoulder. Large. Heavy. A touch that sent tremors through you, making you turn, meeting his pleading gaze—so genuine, so light, it made you pause.

Something unspoken hung between you—something no nun should voice, much less feel. A tension years in the making, caged by morality and hypocrisy, desire vivid in your eyes, your untouched body’s secrets laid bare before him. In your eyes, he was your superior, the one you should revere, kiss his blessed hands, wash his feet with oils and dry them with your hair—not want like a vulgar woman wants a man. Not like Eve craving Eden’s apple or Lilith mounting Adam.

Remmick sensed it radiating from you—your flesh crying for something, and he, attuned to such things, felt it. He hadn’t come here for you, didn’t know you existed—but the moment he saw you, he knew. It was intense. Voracious. Vile. Carnal. Crimson lust, purple desire, white sin.

He wasn’t lying about saving you. At least, not in his reality—already envisioning the celestial union between a damned soul and a pure one. Ironic. Delicious to him, who’d been judged by such people.

Remmick licked his lips, his voice like angels singing:

"I didn’t mean to frighten you. I only wish you the sweetest dreams."

"Likewise… Father Remmick," you replied softly.

Waiting.

His hand the tether between you.

At your answer, he leaned in, his lips brushing yours. A kiss. Chaste, closed-mouthed, the oaky taste of wine on his breath flooding yours. Your eyes widened in surprise before fluttering shut, years of sleepless fantasies fulfilled in the simplest way. Your hands flew to his face, trying to hold him there.

But he pulled back, leaving you chasing his lips, craving more.

He didn’t offer the apple for biting—just a taste, a scrape of teeth against the skin, soft yet unyielding without that first bite. And that bite, he’d only give at the right time—when God was watching, to catch you in sin. Your sin.

Laughing darkly, Remmick stepped away, leaving only the ghost of his lips on yours, tingling with need. Like a shadow, he retreated into darkness, murmuring:

"Goodnight, angel. Tomorrow will be a special day."

He didn’t give you time to reply, to protest the rupture, his heavy footsteps fading, the candlelight following until he turned the corner. You shut your door behind you, half-desperate, every hormone alight, shivers wracking you like Remmick’s fingers on the piano. How you longed to be played.

You muffled a scream of euphoria and fear—fear that He had seen your sin. The rot already spoiling your apple.

But you didn’t care, tiptoeing to bed, sinking into the covers, still in your nun’s garb, replaying the feel of Remmick’s lips on yours.

Again. And again. And again.

Until sleep took you, his words blending with dreams of longer kisses and bolder hands.

"I can save you. Show you the world’s wonders, let you taste the sour grape, the burning honey, the rancid butter—all with delight. Pleasure. No restraints… I am what you want, my angel. I heard your call and came to you—perhaps I’m the one who will answer your prayers."

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

It all began with an icy hand slipping beneath your skirt, creeping like the serpent of Paradise along your skin, making your drowsy eyes blink beneath the weight of sleep that cradled you. You were dreaming, of course. Even if this one felt too vivid—even for you, who lived with your head in the clouds and your feet planted on the ground, caught between losing yourself in your fertile imagination and the austerity demanded in that claustrophobic space.

That touch continued to make its way beneath the fabric of your habit, a weight between your legs sinking into the mattress, those ghostly hands parting your thighs with delicate precision, tracing invisible paths along your burning skin until finally, finally, they were where it hurt the most. At your core, stroking your throbbing clit, drenched in your own wet excitement, making your hips roll in an indecent dance and your chest rise and fall slowly, gasping for air. Those same phantom hands slowly traveled between your folds, spreading them, exposing you completely to something… new.

The sensation was like someone’s lips kissing you.

Remmick’s lips sealing against your wet pussy, pressing tiny vibrations against your little bud while his tongue slid along your entrance—just enough to send a pang of pain through your untouched hole. Then he returned to kissing that sweet spot, flicking his tongue up and down, sending tremors that forced your hips to obey the firm grip on your thighs, grinding against the tongue and lips that devoured your flesh. Your body writhed, hands grasping at the air, eyes tightly shut as thin tears streaked down your cheeks, a weight pressing on your chest because you were sinning in your dreams. "God, oh my God, forgive me, but it feels so good… so good—yes, like that, yes… Oh, God!" You cried out in your dream—or were you moaning your obscene prayer aloud? You had never had a dream so realistic before.

That tongue tormented you, those lips kissed you with fervor, fingers tracing paths along your legs, and a chuckle seemed to pierce the barrier between the dream world and reality, making you think of the priest. That loud, slightly high-pitched laugh, amused, ending in deep tones. Overcome with sinful desire, you couldn’t hold back the strangled little moan that escaped as you came—hard, as if reaching heaven itself. He sucked you greedily, draining every last drop, his tongue vibrating against your clit, your pussy pulsing, hips clenching, thighs trembling—the ecstasy of the glorified seizing you, leaving you pale and trembling, eyes snapping open as you tried to process everything—only to see, with horror, something moving in the shadows before you. Flames flickered, the Devil’s eyes blinking lazily in the darkness, your bunched-up skirt exposing you to him.

You wanted to scream and cry, but a hand emerged from the shadows, piercing the pale curtain of moonlight—just enough to illuminate your waist—and reached your lips, a hoarse voice soothing you:

"Don’t scream, angel. That was just a taste of Paradise. Now sleep, sleep well."

You widened your eyes against the hand on your mouth, a strange taste seeping through your lips, a thick tear sliding down your right cheek—captured by the thumb of that hand.

Remmick.

The name formed on your lips.

And before you could even speak it, he vanished.

Your eyes grew heavy as if weighed down by deep sleep, your eyelids unable to resist, and once again, you were embraced by the blackness of night. Your body still trembling from pleasure, your legs spread open to nothing but the icy wind slipping through the cracks of the window and door.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

With a start, as if jolted by sudden fear, you woke with wide eyes, your heart in your throat and sweat soaking your body. You felt disgusting. That guilt, always at your side, consumed you for having such an… indecent dream. You could still feel those phantom lips, that serpentine tongue, those firm fingers against your body if you closed your eyes and focused.

But the last thing you wanted was to cling to fragments of your overactive mind.

The illusion of desire blinding you coldly. You slid to the edge of the bed, your feet still in those tight, uncomfortable shoes touching the floor. A wet sensation—no, soaked—lingered between your legs, beneath layers of rough fabric. Summoning what little courage you had, you lifted your dress, parting your thighs with morbid curiosity, only to find a mess between them—something you had never seen before. Sticky and crystalline, a truly pitiful disaster.

"Shame on me," you murmured, lifting your eyes to the window, where the dim light told you it was still the middle of the night. You took a deep breath, the cold air filling your lungs, drying the sweat on your forehead with trembling hands. You jumped out of bed, smoothed your dress, lit a lone candle, and grabbed it with shaky fingers before picking up your nightgown and a towel from the chair. You opened the door carefully—a hollow noise echoing through a desolate hallway, swallowed by the night’s abyss. The sound of wind whistling through the windows and distant wolf howls reached your ears.

You headed toward the bathroom, turning right into a corridor lined with portraits of past Sisters, thick tapestries, and plaster statues of Saints—whose dull painted eyes seemed to judge you even in the dark. You passed the Elder Sister’s closed door, terrified she might hear even the slightest noise. Thank Heaven, you made it through unscathed, slipping into the bathroom.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

The water enveloping you was freezing.

Yet real enough to make you forget, for a moment, that dream from earlier. But as you scrubbed the cotton cloth against your skin, you imagined it was his hands instead of fabric, his fingers the trickles of water running down your body, his tongue the waves lapping between your thighs—vibrations that left you entranced. You dropped the soapy cloth, letting it float around you. The bathroom was a rectangular room with a row of white ceramic tubs. The window was slightly ajar, letting the biting wind touch your wet skin, sending a shiver through you.

Your thoughts strangled you, loud as a symphony of off-key hymns, disturbing and grating. Desperate to silence them—the ugliness of your desires—you gripped the edges of the tub, took a deep breath, and submerged yourself in the water, letting it embrace you with a heavy hug. You opened your eyes beneath the translucent veil, feeling all your rage flow from your nerves, your anguish escape your flesh, your hatred boil your blood.

And then you screamed, swallowed by your own fury.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

As you walked back to your room, holding your dirty clothes in one hand and the half-melted candle in the other—its flame nearly spent—wearing your nightgown and untied shoes, you heard a constant whisper coming from the Elder Sister’s room. Frenzied words that caught your attention, pulling you toward them in a sudden impulse. You pressed your ear against the wood, catching fragments:

"...my Lord, if I trust in You, then... deliver me from all evil... keep the Beast away... who pursues me..."

Frowning, judging her in your soul, you turned away, the candle’s flame flickering as you walked down the hall.

You didn’t notice—your mind too lost in your own turmoil—but as you passed through the darkness, just before turning the corner toward your hallway, two incandescent red dots blinked. Suddenly, like smoke materializing softly, Remmick emerged from the shadows—but he did nothing to you. He merely watched you walk away, oblivious to the dangers lurking, smiling with the pleasure of one who enjoys causing harm.

He glanced to the side, where the Mother Superior opened the Elder Sister’s door, extending a hand to invite him inside.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

Easter Sunday.

That used to be your first thought upon waking on the third Sunday of April. But this time was different. In color, form, and meaning.

Father Remmick.

You woke with his name pulsing in your mind, frenzied, in scarlet lines like delicious wine spilling from his lips. Lips—just like Father Remmick’s in that wretched dream.

Then came the guilt, bitter as bile, sharp as if a crown of thorns were tightening around your throat. You tried to forget everything that had happened in the last two days, seeking solace in that date so special to you, clutching the sheets between anxious hands, trying to erase the dream. That vile dream, now haunting the gaps of your fresh memory like monstrous claws dragging you closer to sin. ‘Oh heavens, how long must I endure these torments!?’ you thought, closing your eyes even tighter.

You expected the door to be slammed open by the Mother’s rough hands, but all you heard was absolute silence. Nothing. Nothing, just like your faith.

Fragile, empty faith. ‘You are so fragile,’ you could hear the Mother’s voice in the shadows of your mind, from one of those cloudy days when, during the recitation of the Song of Songs, you had let slip a malicious comment about one of the passages. ‘Your weakness stains your flesh, girl. May God have mercy on you.’

And all you knew was hatred in your heart, questioning—if He truly existed, why had He left you alone? Why had He blinded His eyes and silenced His divine mouth?

Your hands still clutched the sheets, eyes brimming with memories spilling over in waterfalls, sobs wracking your body on that mattress. All the magic of that Easter now felt like horror. Your mind then slid to the enigmatic features of Remmick hidden in shadows, a sensation of fear possessing you even as it drew you in. You saw yourself as if in a mirage—your feet guiding you to him, standing at the end of a dark hallway, extending a clawed hand, viscous blood dripping from his fingers, eyes burning like flames, inviting you to dance. The gates of Hell were his cannibal mouth full of twisted thorns, gaping wide.

"God, God, God... My... Remmick."

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

"The Mother is gone, the Elder Sister too... Remmick must be resting. What the hell am I going to do?" you muttered aloud to yourself—your reflection in a foggy mirror, trying to see beyond what was visible. You wanted to dive deep inside yourself, reach that soul everyone said was corrupted, seize it with your desire-filled hands and scream with all the blood and air in your lungs. But you remained still. Thoughtful.

You shrugged after a while, too bored to stare into the abyss.

You walked to the music room, sitting on a couch in the corner, eyes fixed on the piano that seemed to play the song from the night before. Slowly, your body slid to the side, a strange sleep taking hold of you—heavy, slow. Pleasant. As you closed your eyes, you slept the sleep of a thousand nights, almost as if in eternal rest.

"My angel, wake up."

A nearly angelic voice echoed in the distance, a hand touching your face, the rustle of fabric near you, the scent of herbal soap and lilies—Father Remmick. As you opened your eyes and took in the figure of the man in his cassock, clerical and dark-haired, smiling at you with hands clasped in front of his belly, a black-beaded rosary with a golden chain—the crucifix swinging near his legs looking much like Father Gael’s—your heart raced, and the indecent dream with him seized your memory once more.

Looking at him was torture because Remmick was now the embodiment of your desire. The priest was wide smiles and incandescent gazes directed at you:

"Come, supper awaits us!"

He extended a clean, friendly hand to you.

You took it like a lamb willingly led by its shepherd.

You walked in silence—pleasant, admittedly—to the dining room, where one table was overflowing with every kind of Easter feast. Your eyes lit up, and your stomach growled beneath your heavy habit, drawing the priest’s attention:

"Seems we have a hungry one here!"

"Forgive my lack of manners, Father! I’ve had no appetite since morning."

"Then let me be your appetite!" he said with a chuckle, gesturing to the abundance on the table: "Our dear Sisters prepared this lovely banquet especially for you, angel."

"And where are they?" You sat in the chair he pulled out for you, beside the head seat where Remmick sat, legs crossed beneath his cassock, hands folded, his oceanic blue eyes devouring you.

"They’re around... I asked them to leave us alone."

"Hmm—" you mumbled between a grape bursting between your teeth and a goblet of fresh wine: "—and what did you want to talk about that required all this? On Easter Sunday?" you asked, genuinely curious, trying with all your might to pretend that just looking at him didn’t send shivers of lust through your body.

Those lips that curled into warm smiles, that wet tongue sliding inside his mouth—an invitation to penetrate it with your own. The dream merged with the stolen kiss from last night, making the act of pretending even more exhausting. Remmick swung his suspended foot, the movement beneath his cassock catching your attention.

Your mistake—because your eyes immediately landed on a place you had never dared to look, except in drawings and paintings from books. A quick glance had outlined the thick, oval shape men kept hidden beneath fabric. You imagined what it would be like—large, wide, veined, the skin of the glans like the anatomy books you once traced with your fingers before the Elder Sister caught you with it between your thighs, hidden in a corner of the library—and your mouth watered. You breathed quickly, holding back profanities, raising your eyes to the man who had undoubtedly caught your lustful gaze.

Remmick whispered, hushed:

"Isn’t it obvious what my intentions are with you, my dear?"

"What intentions?" you retorted, widening your eyes at him.

Remmick tilted his head, delighted:

"Don’t you remember anything from last night?"

Your mind blanked, twisting painfully at the now-vivid memory of the stolen kiss and... well, the wicked dream. But you swallowed the bittersweet wine along with those images, your breathing growing heavy, something nauseating crawling through your body. Remmick laughed, shaking his shoulders, extending a hand to take the goblet you nervously lifted to your lips.

"Oh, my angel, don’t lie to me or play such perverse little games..." His voice was soft, his hand lowering the cup, moving it away from your mouth. He leaned closer like a serpent ready to strike, the apple in his hands as his eyes gleamed, offering you the Edenic sin: "...I know you enjoyed being kissed more than you’d ever admit..." He dragged his chair beside you, inhaling your scent, circling his head as he studied your static profile, eyes locked on the curve of your neck where a thin line of sweat trailed into your habit.

"Remmick!" you hissed between pain and surprise, feeling the tip of the knife you’d just picked up to cut bread prick your finger. Blood welled, and from the blood came saliva—the man simply took your wounded finger, pressing it to his teeth, sucking the blood as you gasped. Your eyes half-lidded in surrender, glimpsing the reddish glint in his irises. ‘God, what is wrong with me!?’ you lamented internally, exhaling that charged air vibrating from your lungs down to between your thighs as he sucked tenderly, the cerulean of a stormy sky enveloping you, his hand caressing yours while the other held your wrist, dominating you with gentleness.

You closed your eyes and thought of God.

Yes, you fought against that grotesque, twisted desire, against the feel of his soft flesh around your finger, wetting your skin, sucking your blood—and you thought of God. Summoning the last shred of courage, terrified of sinning completely, you yanked your arm back, recoiling as Remmick wiped the thick drool from his chin. Your voice was a thread between despair and fervor:

"Please, Father Remmick. Please."

He just stared at you. Smiling.

Smiling.

"Please, Father, please, stop."

The words tangled, tears choked you, you stood abruptly and ran. In the distance, you could hear him humming, wanting to reach you.

Wanting to claim you.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

That was the place you knew with the palm of your hands, the soles of your feet, and the strands of your hair. It was practically a part of your entire body, a sacred, incorruptible place.

The air was sharp against your face, painted by the edges of your tears. The plaster statues with hollow stares gazed at you—Our Ladies of Sorrow, Jesus Christ on His Altar, candles burning, and a stagnant air of sin and grace circulating through the chapel where you ministered your prayers. In better times, it was a space of celebration and jubilation for God—but today, precisely on the day His Holiness would resurrect, all you could feel was the funeral march of the emptiness consuming you, desire lurking and lacerating you, the voice of the man behind you.

Kneeling, staring at the twisted face of pain of that scourged, bloody, condemned Christ, you prayed. You prayed like one who once had no faith and then came to believe in salvation, prayed from the depths of your being, hands clasped, eyes burning, murmurs slipping through the cracks of your dry lips.

“Save me. Please, save me. Do not let me fall into temptation or falter, I do not wish for this. Have mercy on me, please! All I ask is this… Mercy, mercy!”

Heavy footsteps behind you, approaching. A hand touching your shoulder, once more.

The frigid air of a living corpse on your face. When you slowly turned, still on your knees, facing him, it was like burning in the passion of sacrilege. Remmick smiled, sitting beside you. You slowly moved toward him, sitting in silence beside him, feeling that cold hand against your face, enveloping you. Without words in that moment, he merely pierced you with fiery eyes, carefully kissing away a tear he sipped from your lips before kissing you with your own weeping. Returning it to you. Subtle, natural.

You gasped, held his face, willingly accepting that sinful offering before your God. It was just the meeting of lips, timid, brushing against each other in fear—your fear.

When your lips parted, a thin thread of saliva connecting them, Remmick whispered:

“There is nothing to fear, my sweet idyllic lamb. I am here.”

You raised your eyes to meet his celestial blue, only to find a beastly red. Immediately, your heart raced inside your chest, something ignited within you—that survival instinct mixed with pure horror. A scream was muffled by a pressing index finger against your lips as Remmick hissed, serpent in human tongue:

“Shhh, no, no! No need to be frightened, my love! This is me. And I only wish to embrace you as I am. There is nothing to fear.”

“No—what the hell are you!?” You stood, tried to pull away, but were swiftly trapped between his arms and the cramped space of the pew, cornered between the church’s wood and Remmick’s flesh, arching backward with the priest close to your face, eye-to-eye with the monster. He laughed at you: the crown of thorns in his smile.

“I am something beyond God. Perhaps I am His creature, or some misfortune of the Devil—whatever madness you’ve been force-fed about us…”

“Us who?”

“Those who came before me, those who live through my memories, my blood defiled by this curse, my angel… Something only I can offer you. And darling… You won’t regret tasting the sweetness of death on your lips.”

You shook your head, fighting something inside you—a primal fear of the fall. Lucifer turning against his Creator and plummeting for his betrayal and mistake. You gripped the wood behind you, nearly splitting in two as Remmick’s hands seized your shoulders.

“Oh, darling, you don’t know the atrocities I discovered once I bit into those indigestible women! So much lament, so much resentment, a dried-up well of pleasures, hatred for everything and everyone… A rage toward you, my sweet lamb, that made me wonder just how much you must despise all of this. How much you hate it here. And I was right, for a single drop of your blood revealed everything to me.” He closed his eyes with relish, laughing. “And how deliciously addictive you taste. It makes my mouth thirst for your blood. Immaculate.”

He pressed your face between his hands, his eyes like living infernos burning you, yet his voice was like divine honey melting on your lips. You wanted him with longing, with ardor and lust—just as you repelled him with defiance, terror, restraint. But all it would take was one word from Remmick, and you would be saved. And he knew it.

With care, the monster tempted you, ghostly lips brushing yours:

“I am truer than this God who does not hear you, for I am made of the flesh that touches you, and I can reveal to you the true Paradise hidden within yourself. Let me consume you like the blood of salvation, which will make you feel the ecstasy of glory that this God—whom you were taught to obey—could never allow you to experience.”

You stared at him intensely, your tears still wetting your face.

No longer with fear.

But with awe: this profane god burning before you, in the guise of a priest, revealing himself to be none other than the Devil—or whatever he was—uttering the sweet words that would lead you to your downfall.

Remmick continued, swaying his head side to side as if dancing:

“I feel you, my angel. Through your sacred blood, I saw your lies, your hunger, your morbid desire. You simply pretend to be someone you’re not, and it’s such a waste… Of all this beauty, life, and soul, so unique and…” He paused, dragged a thumb over your cheek where a solitary tear fell, his gaze transforming before you, shifting back to opaque blue, tender as if he had just been possessed by someone else: “...admired by the most beautiful roses in a garden. And your mouth like fine wine for my beloved, that flows smoothly, moving the lips of those who sleep. I am my beloved’s, and his desire is for me. Come, my beloved, let us go to the countryside, let us spend the night in the villages.¹”

They were Father Gael’s words, which had touched you deeply when he read the Song of Songs, between giggles and stolen glances. But you had never sealed your lips together, never exchanged wine between your tongues, and he had certainly never touched your breasts like clusters of grapes. Yet here was Remmick at your disposal, now tracing your waist as no one ever had, so close, breath like blood-wine, eyes scorching crimson, wanting to kiss and devour you, to taste the fields of Elysium on your lips and enter Eden between your legs.

‘Weak, how weak you are—’ you began to think as Remmick gripped your waist, waves of heat coursing through your body, your mind one step from surrender—‘but this feels so… human.’ Your inner voice slowly gave way, allowing you to fall.

Remmick cupped your face as if holding the Body of Christ between his fingers after celebrating the Word during Communion:

“Take this, all of you, and eat of it, for this is my body—” Then his lips crashed against yours, his tongue piercing you, flesh made alive inside you as you pulled him closer, opening your mouth so he could take your tongue, letting yourself be led by the man who uttered such sacrileges like the most beautiful poems of green fields from some bucolic dream of yours. The kiss was wet and profane, your breath ragged through your nostrils, guided by him, pressed even tighter between the pew and his body.

He then lifted you by your arms, wrapped around him, walking to the center of the pews, down the aisle that led the Brides of Christ to the Altar. There, he set you down, smiling victoriously, capturing your lips once more in a wet kiss, your tongues meeting softly as if that kiss were your destiny. Your heart pounded in your throat, your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer with a plea:

“Remmick!”

He pulled away, saliva mingling between you, his eyes once again blood-red:

“Today, as it is Easter Sunday, it is fitting for us to celebrate the glory of your Lord over death! So let us pray together.” His hand slid down your dominant arm, taking your sweaty, icy hand in his, placing it against the bulge between his legs. There, beneath the black cassock, beneath layers of fabric, you felt him hard. A rigidness that filled your palm and made you want to weep with desire, feeling your cunt grow wet and throb for him. Remmick licked his lips:

“Kneel before me, for we shall pray together, my little angel!” he uttered sordidly, his other hand pushing your head down to kneel there, at a distance from the Altar and the Christ who watched with rigid, dead eyes. You obeyed, your weak knees hitting the floor, looking up at him as if about to receive your holy host.

He caressed your face, fingers pressing your lower lip, his other hand slipping beneath the cassock, unbuckling a belt that jingled, unzipping and parting the robe to expose the cock that sprang free for you—wet and rigid, veins tracing from base to reddened tip, an invitation to kiss it with relish. Remmick guided you to his length, whispering:

“Open your mouth, Sister, to receive your sacred host.” He groaned roughly when your mouth embraced him, your tongue pressing against cold flesh, a deep taste of skin and lust, making you rise and fall with hoarse moans of pleasure, thrusting into your mouth, fucking you with his cock, gripping your hair with one hand, making you gag slightly, tears welling each time he hit deep, delighting in your wet, lewd noises as he vengefully eyed the image of that Redeemer.

You moaned longingly when he pulled away, raising your eyes like a merciful one in prayer. Remmick stroked your face, marred by drool and escaped tears, his cock hard, slick, dripping precum between him and your face.

“We’ve only just begun our celebration, darling. Stand up.”

He motioned with a commanding finger, making you rise on unsteady legs, gazing at him with adoration. Remmick looked you up and down, pausing at the rosary wrapped around your waist, taking it between his fingers. But as he brushed against the silver chain linking each crystalline bead, he hissed in pain. You glimpsed a wisp of smoke rising from his fingertips.

“Silver, hmm? This will be interesting—” He yanked the rosary from your waist, coiling it around his dominant hand: “—Take off your clothes and lay them on the floor. I don’t want you to feel the cold of these tiles.” He shrugged, watching you nod, drunk on his taste in your mouth and the desire surging in your body: “Only the ice of my cock splitting you open.”

You didn’t mind the crude language.

You smiled, in fact, feeling free as you undressed before him, baring your virginal nakedness like a sacrifice offered for slaughter. The frigid air made you shiver, but Remmick’s body enveloped you—the embrace of death—kissing your neck with the passion of a Christ who surrendered to the cross, pulling you down until you lay on your back atop your once-immaculate habit. You, naked before him. Remmick, still in his priestly cassock. From that angle, he radiated a bluish aura, smiling with diabolical pleasure, thick drool trailing from the corner of his lips to his chin, hair disheveled, the white clerical collar beneath his Adam’s apple ready to claim his Eve, his cock wet and exposed, your rosary coiled in his hand, the slightest contact with the silver causing faint burns and pain.

Remmick growled authoritatively:

“Pray for me.”

“Huh?” you asked, dazed, lost between his flaming eyes, blue soul, and the wetness between your legs. Remmick repeated, softer this time:

“Pray for me, angel. Don’t you say that condemned souls like mine need salvation? Then… Pray once more. Extend your hands.”

Obedient, you did as he asked, for he was your Shepherd, and all you needed was to follow.

You clasped your palms, extending them upward—toward him. He took them, winding the rosary around your wrists, binding you to him and to God. His fingers trailed bead by bead, silver upon silver, until the rosary’s end—the silver cross—which he gripped like claws forming at his nails. Remmick smiled his most wicked, sardonic smile. You kept your knees pressed together, hiding the valley of Lilith between them. The monster teased:

“Open those legs for me, darling.”

“What will you do…?” Your voice came out thin, a flicker of courage. Remmick clicked his tongue, his free hand squeezing your knee as he knelt between your legs, the cassock now covering his cock.

“Just open them and accept Jesus Christ inside you.”

You gasped and relented, spreading yourself, baring flesh and desire to him.

Remmick wet his lips, never breaking eye contact, guiding the silver between your legs. The cold metal against your burning clit made you shudder and writhe, steadied only by the vampire’s grip. The tip of the crucifix pricked you painfully, pleasurably, your body restless, craving more as he devoured every reaction—your parted lips, rough moans, languid gaze—while his finger, though burning from direct contact with the silver, pressed the cross against your clit. He laughed at the pathetic comparison—that he was exorcising your body, wielding the cross against your slit, the pearl that had only ever been touched by your own hands, commanding you with the rosary coiled around your wrists, growing ever thirstier for what you could offer—not just your dragged-out moans of virginal pleasure, not just your climax or your virginity—but the corruption of a soul, the rotting of Christian faith, the rupture that made Cain turn on Abel and Bathsheba betray her husband for King David. It was funny how those biblical tales echoed in his mind, still fresh from Father Gael, whom he had made sure to sink his teeth into. Gael's prayers threaded through in Remmick memories as he fucked you.

He gathered saliva in his mouth, bent down, and spat against your slit, slicking where he rubbed, watching you with servitude, his other hand keeping your leg spread as you felt something unfamiliar grow inside you—that precipice you had stared at earlier now staring back, your heart pounding alive, sweat beading on your forehead and spine, your fingers twitching restlessly, your eyes squeezed shut, gasping for air, arching until the crown of your head pressed against the floor, turning your now-open eyes toward the altar, seeing an upside-down Crucified Christ on the day of His Resurrection.

“Remmick! Remmick! Remmick!”

“You sound like Mary Magdalene, my Holy Angel—” Remmick laughed, fingers working your cunt, smearing his claws in your heavenly nectar, anointed with his own toxic saliva. Your eyes met his, restless: “—the Lord’s whore who wept at His feet. Crying for her dead Messiah… Ironic, no?”

A strangled whimper escaped your lips as the pulsations of orgasm overtook your body. Remmick brought his slick fingers to his mouth, sucking them lasciviously before leaning over you, covering your body with his, hovering above your head, whispering against your parted lips as you gasped for thin air:

“Feel the holy water on your lips.” He cupped your chin, tilting your head back, opening your mouth to spit into it.

His taste mixed with yours. Wine and blood. Cruelty and lies.

And it was so delicious because it was the sin your flesh craved. Smiling against his lips, you kissed him, met by his tongue caressing you slowly, almost patiently, contrasting with the entire scene. Remmick pressed his hard cock against you, breaking the wet kiss, looking down:

“Now it’s my turn to desecrate this beautiful Temple of God, hmm?” Almost purring, already pushing aside his cassock to grip his cock when your voice cut through, clear:

“Get naked.”

“Sister?” he asked, almost genuine curiosity in his tone, raising a brow. You mustered a mischievous smile:

“Please, Remmick. I want you naked, just like me.”

“Equal for equal…” He nodded. “Fair.”

First, he removed the clerical collar from his neck, discarding it like nothing—the stiff fabric that had choked him. He unbuttoned the cassock hastily, shedding the black robe to reveal that beneath, he wore only pants and shoes, exposing his bare torso—defined, pale as a petal of a Night-Blooming Jasmine, veined in blue and green. A putrid, marbled body, a sculpture of a pagan god before you. His cock stood rigid, even more beautiful adorned with dark hair, like his locks. He rose against that blue aura, now blazing red, his eyes aflame for you, his diabolical smile breaking into fangs.

Completely naked amid the candle flames, in the chapel’s icy air yet burning infernally, you desired him with your entire being. The air was so thin your chest heaved violently, your sweat warm, and between your legs, a scorching ache. Your eyes begged for him—he who had discarded the rosary to undress but now reclaimed it as he knelt before you again.

“You are like a God,” you murmured, strangled between ragged breaths, just as he aligned himself with you, the tip of his cock brushing your slit. Remmick exhaled a stagnant breath, covering you, his rigid torso against your soft breasts, releasing a needy moan—he, too, had thirsted for this. His hand guided his length to your entrance, locking eyes with you—a silent warning that the pact had been made, and there was no turning back—before burying himself in you, corrupting you, flooding you with his flesh, your sin, splitting you open with voluptuous ferocity. But there was no rush. No, quite the opposite—Remmick stayed still inside you, feeling you pulse and ache around him, the dagger finally piercing the Lamb of Sorrows’ heart—for that was what you were, like the Mater Dolorosa², your agony the monster’s joy, who tasted through the blood staining his fangs the seven swords embedded in your heart.

And then he began, slow and painful, whispering in your ear as he speared you with his length:

“The first pain came from those who promised you the world but abandoned you here.” 

You closed your eyes, feeling your heart burn as if he were truly driving the swords into you. He continued, another thrust: “The second pain came when you found yourself alone here… And the third—” He snapped his hips, driving into you twice, deep: “—this one, my love, pierced you like a rusted dagger, for it came when your menstruation arrived and they told you the blood leaving your body was impure…”

“Remmick… How do you—” You choked back the rest, wanting to cry. He stared at you, bloodshot eyes, drooling like a rabid animal, releasing the rosary’s grip on your wrists to slide his hands to your throat, squeezing as he delivered three more rhythmic thrusts—deep, pain and pleasure mingling, leaving you dazed with desire: “I know because I tasted your blood. And blood does not lie. The fourth—fifth—” He panted, restraining his own pleasure, your soft, tight walls squeezing him, almost pushing him out: “—and the sixth sword, all at once, when the only ones who stood by you in this cursed place left. Oh, my angel, how pitiful you are…” He held you as if to console you.

He paused.

He waited for something—and you gave it:

“And the seventh sword…?” You arched against him, seeking the blade that might finally kill you.

Remmick then raised your body, kneeling beneath your hips, lifting you open before him, gripping your thighs, the rosary coiled between you like chains, binding you to him. Still buried inside you, he looked at you with apathetic sympathy. His voice deepened, a bestial echo rising from within as his claws lengthened and his teeth grew more monstrous:

“It is my pain.”

You stared in confusion, but as he thrust once more—deep and hard—you understood. You gasped, your arms seeking support on the habit shielding you from the cold floor, but he was right—his body was cutting against yours. Yet so pleasurable. Moving in and out, drooling and bending to your breasts, where he captured a nipple, his tongue worshiping where flesh was softest, your sweet sweat making it tastier. Fucking into your wetness, virgin blood and slick, he dragged his tongue to your left breast—where your heart pounded. His throat tightened with hunger, lips sealing over your skin in a harsh, loud suck before sinking his fangs into the flesh.

Stabbed through the heart.

He, your greatest pain.

You moaned, rolled your eyes back, gripped his head as the vampire consumed you, drinking from the hot spring, filling his mouth with that sacred liquid. When he pulled away, leaving a stigmata, he murmured the final words of Communion:

“And Jesus said: take this, all of you, and drink from it, for this is the eternal blood of the new covenant. Our covenant.”

Your blood dripped from his mouth, the burning pain and relentless thrusts lifting you to a state of relief in death. You whispered a fragile “Amen.” But Remmick wasn’t satisfied. He stood, pulling you up by the rosary, forcing you to your knees, seeking your lips to kiss you hungrily, offering you his wine—from his lips, the sacred chalice, from his wine, the consummation of this personal Christ’s body. The bread becoming flesh, the wine becoming blood.

Your blood stained your skin in vivid streaks. On your knees, he turned you toward the Altar, toward He who watched in perpetual static permanence—He who did not hear you.

The monster’s hand cupped your face, keeping it fixed on the image. His other hand reclaimed you, winding the rosary around your wrists again, binding you to him. He began thrusting deeper, frenzied, licking your neck:

“What is your favorite prayer, my angel? The one you used to cry out when you were still God’s little lamb?”

“Hail Mary,” you murmured. The monster laughed, already knowing what you’d say—he just wanted to hear it from your lips, dirtied with your own blood. He scraped his fangs against your sensitive skin, feeling your jugular pulse:

“Then pray it, so we may finish our celebration, angel!”

A shiver ran down your spine, pleasure filling you more than the pain of corruption and the wound on your breast, as you began the prayer taught to you years ago:

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum (Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee).” Remmick pressed deeper into you, teasing your neck, feeling you tighten around his cock. “Benedicta tu in mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesu. (Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.)” Your voice rose shrill, high-pitched, eyes shutting as he bit your neck—the Final Supper, sating himself with your virginal blood—more than what now stained his cock, but the blood within, the most intimate. You ran out of air. 

Remmick whispered in his beastly voice: “Continue, I’ll help you…” leading the chorus as you followed:

“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, (Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners)” Thick tears mixed with your blood, diluted by the vampire’s venom, the prelude to your death embracing you alongside fatal ecstasy. Your voice came out in a sigh, then a long moan, as behind you, he growled the final words: “nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. (now and at the hour of our death.)” Your body arched, your eyes glimpsed the glory of Heaven, and that was the greatest moment of your life.

In unison, you and Remmick cried:

“Amen.”

Remmick came abundantly inside you, keeping you bound to him, releasing a bestial, guttural groan from the depths of his cursed being.

Then came your last words in life:

“I think Paradise is more beautiful here with you, Remmick… Paradise is here with you.”

“You’re right, my love. It is here with me. Your god.” He murmured as your body went limp and trembled in his arms, blood staining your skin, a look of blissful joy as you died the sweet death he promised.

And Remmick held you.

Your body stretched in his arms, fragile, welcoming the imminent death of the flesh, your spirit rejoicing in the Angels blowing trumpets above you—and the Demons crawling at your feet. Blood washing the skin tainted by bites, divine wetness soaking where the beastly bond was made. You, like a dead Jesus, the spear that pierced His heart now the bite of your Pietà—Remmick in an expression of condolence and pleasure, holding in his arms, stained with morbid wine, your body. The false prophet, the vampire-monster, raised his blazing eyes to the heavens, as if challenging that supposed God who condemned him to this burden—this venomous curse that now corroded and blessed your body. Baptism of a life. Resurrection of a damned soul; death of vile flesh.

Remmick smiled in delight, glorying in corruption for mere whim, in devastating those poor souls and claiming for himself a lamb tainted by that God who once brought him so much torment. The vampire, in his monstrous form, had elongated claws that enveloped you like dry branches impaling you, his eyes nothing but scarlet limbo, his fangs jagged and protruding past his lips, the holy blood corrupted by his venom.

Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, trailing a thick, flesh-red rivulet down his chin. With his fingers, he wiped the crimson liquid, bringing the wet tips to his lips so as not to waste a single drop. For you had been taught that waste was a sin—and now your sacred teachings lived inside him. 

Eternal.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: [a/n continuation...] by far one of the longest pieces i've written here for remmick (and maybe the only one, ksksksksk), i poured myself into this story because if there's anything i love, it's tales of love and profanity, hatred and human disbelief... mixed with the eroticism and bestiality of a vampire? EVEN BETTER!!! so yes, it was a laborious labor (forgive the redundancy, soskkssk)—writing, pausing for days, returning, rereading, rewriting sections, cutting others—like my scientific methodology professor once said ('bout write smting): "it's the work of an artisan." and obviously, there's the direct inspiration/basis from the song 'monolith', from that album that sparked the idea to create at least three fanfics inspired by my favorite songs from it, and the AMAZING mini-series 'lambs of god' (2019). IF YOU'VE READ THIS FAR, THANK YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY DAMNED UTERUS AND CORRUPTED HEART!!! seriously... writing this was SURREAL for me—insane yet so fucking delicious kssksksksk. i won't lie: the more depraved and drenched in catholic imagery (for reasons already screamed above sksksksk), the BETTER for me. hell, if so many men have written far worse things, who am i to hold back, right? now a heads-up: as mentioned, this is the second of three special fics inspired by emma and thou's god-tier album. but for the third installment... i'll need more time—like, a month-ish? until then, i'll be cooking up other fanfics about other jackie characters. see you in the next one, my loves. <3

"THE ECSTASY OF SAINT TERESA" created by GIAN LORENZO BERNINI. it depicts SAINT TERESA OF ÁVILA experiencing a mystical union with GOD, described as 'a spiritual pain that also brought physical pleasure'. (source: google). basically how i imagined the whole scene a few lines above, then finally, the PIETÀ (by far my fav sculpture ever :)

[h-monayy]

I think what I like so much about h-money is that there is no conceivable universe where they get together normally. In any other circumstance they’d never match up, but the character writing and situation they’re in makes it work. The way the two of them play off of each other is amazing and it feels like something that the fandom would ship but wouldn’t be canon. But it is. And i live for it.

[lolab4t]

pinned down - smut 18+

MINORS DNI

pairing: thunderbolt!bucky barnes x f!thunderbolt!younger!reader summary: daily sparring sessions with bucky always toe the line between playfulness and tension. but today, that tension snaps. when another round ends with you straddling him on the mat, it sets off a chain reaction of confessions, teasing, and desire too long buried. bucky finally stops holding back, and so do you. word count: 8.8k warning(s): 18+ explicit content warning, smut, mature themes, light swearing, some power dynamics, dry humping, unprotected p in v, semi-public setting, mention of thunderbolts*, age difference, reader is described with afab anatomy a/n: so bucky is officially my current fictional man of the month. like i was always a loki girly, but tumblr has converted me... anyways, i really hope you enjoy :) and if you do, please feel free to like, comment, or reblog! <3 also, requests are open!

killshot - magdalena bay

“again,” bucky grunted as he got to his feet, breathless but stubborn.

the two of you were in the thunderbolts training facility, doing your daily sparring. strength wise, you were both pretty much on the same level. but, for some reason, you always seemed to come out on top. literally. it was usually you pinning him down.

you rolled your eyes from where you stood across the mat. “you sure? that’s the third time i’ve had you on your back today.”

his lips twitched. “don’t flatter yourself.”

"too late for that…" you chuckled, backing into your stance. “c’mon, grandpa.”

that got him moving.

he hated when you called him that. grandpa? sure, he was over 100 years old, but he sure didn't feel or seem like it. plus, a lot of those years he didn't even remember.

he didn't want you to think of him as too old for you.

the two of you danced in circles, boots quiet against the padded floor. it wasn’t serious, just the usual, but there was always an edge when it came to you and bucky. teasing. testing. a little too much eye contact.

he lunged. you dodged. your leg hooked around his, and with a twist and a push, he hit the mat again with a thud.

you landed straddling his hips, pinning his shoulders with your hands, grinning down at him.

“fourth time,” you said smugly. “you getting rusty, barnes?”

he didn’t answer right away. just blinked up at you with that unreadable expression, metal fingers twitching at your sides like he was debating something.

then, without warning, he moved.

in a blur of motion, he twisted under you, caught you off balance, and the next thing you knew, you were the one flat on your back. his body hovered over yours, one knee braced between your legs, hands pinning your wrists to the mat.

your breath hitched. why was that so hot?

trying to compensate for the blush creeping onto your cheeks, you scoffed, “cheap shot.”

“all’s fair,” bucky replied, his voice low. you could tell he was partially lost in thought, like he was still debating something.

you shifted under him, pretending like your pulse wasn’t hammering in your throat. “you gonna make a move, or just hover like a weirdo?”

his grip on your wrists didn’t tighten, but his gaze did… sharp, focused, like he was searching for something in your face.

“i think i just did,” he said, letting out a dry, short laugh.

your breath hitched again.

you knew what he meant.

the words hung there for a beat too long.

his eyes were bracing for rejection, like he’d already decided he could handle it.

then, breaking the silence, he gave a small smirk, “you know, i usually just let you pin me.”

you laughed, short, breathless. "oh, so you're saying you don't even try?"

"maybe i just like the view when you're on top of me."

you stared up at him, feeling like your heart stopped beating.

then you swallowed, speaking in an unsure tone. "you being serious?"

"i'm not the messing-around type. you should know that by now."

"good," you smiled, "neither am i."

his smirk turned into a grin, “so… rematch?”

you hummed, “maybe. only if you’re playing for keeps.”

then your grin turned into a smirk, your eyes darkening. "or… we could do something else."

he snickered, the challenge in his eyes shifting into something deeper, more intense. he lowered his voice, just enough for you to barely hear him.

“something else, huh?”

you nodded slowly, heart racing, the heat between you suddenly more than just from exertion. his metal fingers brushed against your jaw, light as a feather but enough to make you catch your breath.

“tell me what you want,” he murmured, his voice husky, close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin.

you swallowed, eyes looking up into his almost innocently, words barely a whisper. “right here. right now.”

he chuckled low, a sound that sent shivers down your spine.

then, his lips were on yours. rough. passionate. heated.

he pulled your bodies up to a sitting position, you in his lap, straddling him.

your hands were all over each other. hungry.

“tell me if i’m moving too fast,” he murmured against your lips, voice thick with desire but a hint of hesitation.

you whispered against his mouth, “don’t stop.”

his lips curled into a slow smile before dipping down to kiss the sensitive skin along your neck. the roughness of his stubble mixed with the softness of his touch made your skin shiver.

you grounded your hips down on him, aiming for his growing bulge, causing him to let out a low grunt.

“i’m right here,” he murmured, voice low and whiny. “just tell me what you want.”

your hands explored the broad planes of his chest beneath his shirt, feeling the steady beat of his heart. your fingers curled into the fabric as you pressed closer, bouncing on his lap slowly.

"you, bucky. i want you."

he unraveled before you. his hands were on your hips, guiding your grinding to hit where he need you most just right. his face was in the crook of your neck. you could feel his quick breaths against your skin.

you whined, making yourself feel good against him. one of your hands snaked around the back his neck, moving up slowly to tangle your fingers in hair. the other moved down from his chest to his abs slowly, stopping right at his belt.

one hand remained on your hip, while the other had already unclasped your bra and pulled your shirt over your head.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and searching. “god, you're beautiful."

then his gaze softened ever so slightly, "we don’t have to rush.”

you shook your head, breathless but sure. “i don’t want to wait.”

his smirk deepened, “then let me show you how much i’ve been holding back,” he murmured, voice thick with need.

his lips found your jaw, trailing hot kisses down to your throat. you tipped your head back, giving him better access, grinding on him in a faster pace now. you tugged on his shirt, pulling it up slightly.

he chuckled as he moved his hand to pull his shirt the rest of the way over his head.

his lips went back to your neck, leaving a trail from your throat back up to your mouth, where he captured your lips in a kiss that was all tongue and heat and longing.

“fuck,” he breathed against your lips, “i’ve wanted this for so long.”

you smiled against his mouth, fingers trailing down his chest, feeling every muscle tense beneath your touch.

“then don’t hold back,” you whispered.

he grinned as his hands roamed lower, "i know you like having me on my back, but it's your turn, again."

his smirk widened as he eased you back onto the mat, hovering over you with that smug face.

“payback’s a bitch, huh?” he murmured, voice low and teasing as he brushed his lips along your jaw. “but don’t worry… i’ll make sure you enjoy every second of it.”

he slid your pants and panties down your legs, his mouth following the path of his hands, slow and deliberate, worshiping every inch of skin he revealed with eyes drinking you in like he’d never seen anything more beautiful. you were breathless under his gaze.

you tugged at his belt, fingers fumbling with need, and he let out a soft, breathless laugh, helping you shed the last of his clothes.

he captured your lips in another kiss, before pulling back to position himself in front of your entrance. "you sure about this? we can slow down."

you looked up at him, "i'm sure, bucky." your voice was confident and firm.

his jaw tensed at your words, like restraint was hanging by a thread.

“okay,” he breathed, voice husky and deep. “okay.”

he kissed you again, slower this time, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth. his hands smoothed down your sides, grounding you, and you couldn’t help the way your breath hitched as he finally pushed into you.

his movement was slow, deliberate, patient…

he smiled, soft, lopsided, nothing like the usual cocky smirk. just him.

his name fell from your lips in a whisper, and he caught it with another kiss, like he’d been waiting to hear it just like that.

bucky held you like you were something precious, like every inch of you mattered. and maybe, to him, it did.

your bodies moved in rhythm. his hands mapped your body with quiet touch, no rush, just the kind of intent that said this wasn’t just want, it was care. maybe even more.

the air between you was heavy, warm, laced with the sound of shared breaths and quiet murmurs of each other’s names.

it wasn't long before you both unraveled in each other's arms, your movements halting.

your bodies laid tangled in one another. bucky let out a quiet chuckle, pressing a kiss to your temple. “so… still think i’m getting rusty?”

you laughed, breathless and content. “nah. you’re just finally playing to win.”

he smirked, brushing sweaty strands from your face, his tone teasing but his gaze full of something much softer. “then i hope you’re ready to keep losing.”

and for once, you didn’t mind losing.

thanks so much for reading <3 requests are open

[biteofcherry]

Pit of Hell

dark Alpha!Ari Levinson x omega female reader

summary: You only wanted to go one level deeper into the circles of Inferno. Just one step to secure yourself a stable life. But you're unexpectedly thrown into the lowest level. The pit of hell itself. Where a beast awaits.

warnings: dark!Ari; A/B/O; secret society; semi-dystopian; heavy dub-con; coercion; entrapment; power imbalance; breeding kink; virginity kink; rough sex; dacryphilia; branding; light exhibitionism (forced); degradation; very light blood kink (in reference to virginal blood); oral (m receiving); forced deep throating; dirty talk; no knotting

word count: 7k

Author's Note: I gave you some options in the polls and the results were... meh? Lol, I mean I always love Alpha Ari and breeding is forever my on brand kink, but honestly it was just a little disappointing, because I already have alpha Ari with a breeding kink. So I had to come up with something new. Something interesting. And it steered me toward really dark waters 🫢 What you should be aware of, is that I made it a different kind of Alpha/Beta/Omega universe. I made it semi-dystopian, where the dynamics and physiological details usually associated with the omegaverse are extinct. Or are they...? 👀

As I was writing it, thoughts of making it into a series and introducing more dark Alphas appeared. So it's officially the first installment in the universe called Inferno. Aaand I may have already decided on who the other animals are and how depraved they will be 👀

Special shout out and thanks to @buckets-and-trees for dancing with me around the fire of secret society trope and to @stargazingfangirl18 for whoreheartedly supporting the most unhinged list of warnings

Ari Levinson Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Heart pattering, you looked at the glass case filled with rows of colorful cards. Most were gone already, but the one you waited for at the moment was still there. And was about to end up in your hand. 

Magenta. 

While colours used to be rather indifferent to you, being accepted into Inferno taught you to crave certain shades. Not for their pretty looks, but because each was a key.

Inferno was officially named a private club, but was in fact the only place Omegas were able to earn exorbitant sums of money. Well, not exorbitant if seen from the Alphas point of view, but considering how the crumbled society worked it was the best an Omega could make in the broken world. 

Different kinds of service were expected of Omegas at each level of the Inferno. The first circle of the so-called hell was for simple waitressing and it paid the lowest. If an Omega was accepted by the Inferno, they started at that level and had to prove themselves to be allowed into another floor. 

For the past eight months you rolled your hips in the third circle where Omegas were dancing on platforms and in cages, while the Alphas carried their business meetings, or leered at them without being allowed to touch. 

You were about to exchange your blue key card for the magenta one, descending into another level where the dances would be private, with some touching allowed. It meant the standard paycheck would be higher, plus the tips you might earn from any Alpha who asked for a dance from you. And those tips wouldn’t be in money only, but also certain passes or favors that were incredibly valuable in the cold, harsh world. 

Days of cushioned lives that Omegas led once upon a time were long forgotten. They sounded like fairytales when compared to the harsh reality of the past century. Omegas were at the bottom of the food chain now. Not even coveted as much by the Alphas as they used to be. Very few were swooped up and mated, most going through their lives scrambling to stay afloat and perhaps meet a nice, hardworking beta to form a relationship with. 

As you waited for Astoria (the woman who was possibly the most powerful Omega in the city, since she was the one managing Inferno and the Omegas working in it), your eyes scanned the colourful cards behind a reinforced glass case. 

Magenta was your goal from the very first time you were explained the rules of this place. For now, any colour assigned to deeper levers was too scary, because they meant less control over what happened to you. For example, the red that was appointed for the fifth level meant limited sexual acts. 

You didn’t want that. Even if the paycheck would make your life so much more comfortable. 

As much as you recoiled from the prospect of deeper circles of hell, you couldn’t help your gaze zeroing in on the single golden keycard. It was displayed in that glass cage at the very top, purposely making the lowest circle of hell appear as the highest advance. 

Neither the introduction to the club rules, nor the rumour mill among the Omegas gave away what happened on that level. 

Since from levels six to eight Omegas were giving their bodies for all sorts of sexual play, each more debauched and scary, you couldn’t even imagine what happened in the darkest pit. It was too terrifying to even think about. 

“It’s best you not consider earning it.” Astoria’s smooth, tinkling voice startled your attention away from the glass cage. 

The look she gave you wasn’t a reprimand, but rather a warning. From one Omega to another. 

While Astoria was a strict employer, a stickler for rules, she truly looked out for the Omegas. When you were developing a cold two months ago, she slipped you a package of meds which you wouldn’t be able to get yourself.

“Has anyone ever gotten it?” You asked, nodding toward the golden card. 

“No.” Astoria shook her head, then paused. “Though… There was an incident a year ago.”

“An incident?” You’ve been working at the Inferno for about a year and a half and you haven’t heard of any incident. They had to keep it secret, if there wasn’t even the briefest rumour about it.

“Someone stole it.” Astoria’s voice lowered into a hush. “Reckless girl was too curious for her own good. She wanted to see…”

Your stomach tightened in dread. The complete unknown was more terrifying than if you had an inkling on what could’ve happened to her down there. 

The golden card glimmered enticingly, undoubtedly luring many of the Omegas (especially those who already worked the lowest levels and their boundaries were partially blurred), but your interest in it disappeared immediately. 

“What happened to her?” You asked, nervously picking at the fringes of your white, short dress. 

Astoria opened her mouth, but before she could say anything another voice interrupted.

“She bore the consequences of her actions.”

It was a male voice. Deep, low and smooth in a way that felt like a thick drop of something sweet, like honey, slowly sliding down your body. It licked you with its timbre from your sternum to the valley below your belly button. 

As pleasant as it was, it also scared you with its dangerous potency.

Beside you, Astoria straightened like a string in a violin, her earlier open softness disappearing behind a well practiced mask of professionalism. And obedience, which you never saw in her posture at any other time. 

The man who walked in wasn’t only an Alpha. No, Astoria dealt with those without flinching. But there were Alphas and then there were Alphas. 

The true apex predators. 

There were very few of them, but they were rumored to be able to dominate other Alphas without much effort, as if they were meager Betas. 

“I’d say that her curiosity served Rogers well.” He added with a dark sort of amusement.

Your instincts shook in alarm. Any Alpha insinuating an Omega served them well was repulsive, but when it came from a predator like this one it evoked thoughts of complete ruin, of being forever broken. 

“Mr Levinson.” Astoria politely bowed her head. 

You knew you should drop your gaze down, too, but couldn’t help yourself but look at the Alpha that strode in. 

His big, beefy body was fitting for an Alpha of his power. Everything about him looked thick and imposing, even with the seemingly relaxed stance he presented. Golden rings glinted on his fingers as he combed them through his lush hair. As he swiped his hand over his beard, you saw a glimpse of a bleeding sun tattoo on the back of his hand, ink dripping onto his knuckles. 

When he moved forward, you tensed in fear, finally tilting your chin down and staring at the floor. 

Levinson. It finally ringed in your head with recognition. 

One of the four men owning the Inferno. 

Perhaps, it was more fitting to name them the four horsemen, considering they created this hell. 

“What’s in store for this sweet Snowdrop, Astoria?” Ari asked, circling your shivering form. 

You didn’t dare to ask if the unexpected petname came from your white dress, or because he deemed you so fragile and crushable. 

“She’s worked blue level for the past eight months.” Astoria’s voice was back to her unwavering, professional tone. Detached from any protectiveness or sympathy she might’ve felt for you. “She’s been promoted to magenta, supposed to start tonight.”

Levinson hummed behind you. Though he didn’t lean over, nor touched you, a jolt of unwanted caress slid down your spine. If that Alpha chose to really touch you, not only you wouldn’t be able to fight him off, but your body would give in at the snap of his fingers; that’s how powerful his Alpha aura was to your Omega hindbrain. 

Slowly, Ari circled you again. His gaze swiped over every inch of you, mapping out your curves, each dip and roll. 

When he tucked a finger beneath your chin a hot jolt started your heart into a frenzy. The merest touch, but it filled you with terror. He tilted your chin up, forcing your head to lift and give him a full, unobscured view of your face. 

“No.” He said unexpectedly, releasing you. 

Taking a step back, he turned to Astoria and declared: “She stays on the blue level.” 

Without waiting for any counterargument, he walked out of the office. He knew there would be no arguing. Astoria wouldn’t plead for you. Hell, you wouldn’t plead for yourself. 

Well, inside of you there was this fussy, outraged voice demanding you be given the opportunity, but you also knew that clashing with this Alpha would be like scratching at a wall. If he didn’t find you annoying to the point of breaking your neck, he’d be at least completely unbothered. Merciless. 

Heartless. 

Astoria muttered a quiet sorry, which you welcomed with a small, sad smile. Clutching your blue keycard in your hand, you returned to your former level, telling yourself it was at least something you knew well and felt comfortable with. Besides, you were still employed. That was a big win every day. 

By the time you returned to your home in the early morning hours, you felt calm and content. Yes, there was still the lingering disappointment at being denied promotion, but you anchored yourself to the stability you still had. 

As you walked into your apartment building, you reminded yourself it was the blue level at the Inferno that allowed you to move out of the shitty, very dangerous block you used to live in and into this place. Which still was on the poorer side, but at least the entrance doors were locked and the intendant living on the ground floor was a very sweet, protective Beta who looked out for his tenants. 

You paused, after walking into your small apartment and closing the door. Something felt slightly shifted, as if a streak of something not quite familiar lingered in the air. 

You gulped, clutching your keyes between your fingers as you moved further inside. 

Nothing was moved, not even an inch. There was no one lurking inside as you turned on the lights. Even a few tiny leaves that dropped from your fern were drying on the same spot on the floor. 

You shook your head, accepting that your exhaustion and the unexpected interaction with the most powerful Alpha have simply made you more jumpy. 

Besides, you told yourself as you started taking off your clothes, Jake - the Beta intendant - wouldn’t let anyone break in. He was a sweetheart, but he once kicked the ass of a piece of shit wet cat Alpha who came drunk to harass his ex-girlfriend.

Placated by self-reassurance, you continued your usual routine. Snack, shower, sleep. 

For the next few weeks your life continued the same. At some point you even stopped longingly thinking of the magenta level, though it still popped occasionally into your mind when your knee acted up and reminded you that a doctor’s appointment or physiotherapy would be wonderful, if you could afford it.

Nothing suggested your life was about to change. Not in a big way. 

Until the evening two guards intercepted you at the employees entrance to the Inferno to relay the request that you go into Astoria’s office. Which in itself wouldn’t be much alarming, if they didn’t insist you give them your blue keycard. 

Were you being fired?

With your heart in your throat, you stepped into the office. Into an empty office. Astoria wasn’t inside. However, there was an envelope on her desk propped against a vase with a single white flower, with your name written on the back of the stationary. 

Inside was a simple direction to get into the private elevator. 

Surely, you wouldn’t be given permission and code to that elevator, if she wanted to fire you. Inferno had three elevators to take participants to each level - one was for employees, you included, a second one for the patrons, and the third one was for Astoria and possibly the four owners. 

With trembling fingers, you hit the provided code on the lock and walked into the elevator. The door slid shut behind you silently. Ominous semi-darkness engulfed you. Inside, there were no buttons, no panel to control where the elevator went, no way to stop it, or open it yourself.

There was, however, another envelope with your name on it attached to the wall. 

When you opened it and looked inside, your knees nearly gave away. 

The golden keycard glinted at you.

That one mysterious card, which you learned two months ago was best to never be given. To never desire it. 

“Oh God!” You cried quietly, dropping it onto the floor and huddling in the corner of the small space. 

The elevator was still going down. It felt like being dragged to the literal pit of hell. 

When it finally stopped and the door slid open, you stayed plastered with your back to the elevator wall. Perhaps, if you pretended you weren’t there, if you didn’t step outside, you’d be taken back upstairs. 

But the elevator remained open. Soft, dimmed light of the bottom floor didn’t feel inviting at all. Not to you. 

Long minutes passed and nothing happened. The elevator didn’t close, but also no one barged in to drag you outside. Restlessness increased, pumped by your growing nervousness and fear. You were scared of the rage that could greet you the longer you stayed hidden. And you became more convinced that the elevator wouldn’t be your return to safety. 

Maybe that floor would provide you a different route of escape?

After all, each level had three elevator shafts - private, for guests, and for employees. 

Swallowing nervously, you tried to remember at what angle the other two elevators should be once you entered the floor. If you ran fast towards one of them, you could get yourself to the ground floor and run the fuck outside. 

Your steps were hesitant as you shuffled to the exit and took first glimpses inside the lowest level of the Inferno. What you saw made your heart drop.

It wasn’t a grand, wide space like it was with all the other levels. 

It was a round chamber, with marble floor, stone walls reaching high to an intricate ceiling from which dropped a huge iron chandelier. There was a large round table in the middle of the chamber. Four chairs stood at it like four points on a compass, directing north, south, east and west.

Each chair had a different crest carved on it. 

Lion. Wolf. Bull. Serpent.

No other elevator shafts were visible. Only a closed double door above which a sign ominously warned:

Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate.

Abandon all hope, you who enter.

Though you thought your own hope to have evaporated as the elevator descended, the last remnants of it died this very moment. As you stared at the chamber with no visible escape route and the famous words of final doom. 

“Don’t worry, Snowdrop. You won’t be pushed through that door.” 

Your head turned to the side, only now noticing the familiar, imposing silhouette of the Alpha. Ari Levinson was leaning against the wall right next to the elevator, with his arms crossed over his chest and his head tilted to the side as he watched you tether on the edge of the floor. 

“The darkness behind it is not in my tastes,” he explained casually, like he was talking about not being a fan of whiskey compared to red wine. 

“Wh- why am I here?” You asked, twisting your fingers in front of you and eyeing him warily. 

“I didn’t apply for the golden card!” You rushed to express.

“No one does.” Ari shrugged. “Or, well, those who apply don’t ever get it. Only one person before got it, as you know, but that was because she dared to steal it.”

“So why?” You feared hearing horrifying promises of spilled blood in slow, painful murder. 

“Because you lured the beast.” His eyes ignited with dark hunger and you felt the lick of it between your thighs. 

Ari moved and you took an instant step back, slamming your back against the edge of the elevator door frame. But he wasn't prowling your way. Instead, he lazily walked towards one of the chairs. 

The one with the lion crest.

He draped his forearms against the backrest of the chair, intertwining his inked fingers in a loose grip. That's when you noticed the golden glint of his rings, from which one presented a lion's head.

“Four beasts rule this world.” His words could be a fascinating tale, if he wasn't speaking the dark, ugly truth of what laid beneath your reality.

“In Inferno we provide the opportunity for some to sate their desires, but we don't participate. Meetings in this chamber aren't focused on our personal lust, but on deciding whose blood to spill and which power to snatch.”

“However-” he paused to lick his lips and you couldn't help but chase that micromovement. “Each of us has cravings that we know would demand satiating at one point. Hence the golden card. It was never going to be earned. It's decided individually by each of us when to play that card, because it's a game that won't be repeated.”

“Won't be repeated?” You echoed, trembling as the terrifying vision of death loomed over you.

“Meaning, my innocent Snowdrop, that once one of us gets someone down here they never return to their previous life.” 

Tears welled in your eyes, your breath choking on a sob. Your life wasn’t grand, but you still liked it. You wanted it to continue, despite the hardships you endured.

“It means you're mine now.” Ari's voice deepened into a hungry growl. “Your virginity is mine to take and your womb mine to fill with seed.”

His words tipped your world on its axis. A hot wave of shame that his crude words evoked dropped into ice cold dread as you realized the fate he spun for you.

He wasn't going to murder you. But he was about to break you and bind you to him forever. 

“No!” You shook your head, clenching your hands into fists. 

Ari wasn't bothered by your reaction, like he knew it didn’t matter because he'd get what he wanted anyway.

“If it's your poor attempt to lie to me about your innocent state, I'll remind you I have free access to your medical file.” He sent you a knowing look.

Inferno provided Omegas with an annual check up that included gynecological examination. It wasn't because they cared for Omegas, it was to provide clients with the best quality entertainment. If Omega's results turned out bad, they were dropped immediately and left to fend for themselves. 

“If you're fighting the inevitable,” a dangerous smirk curved his lips, “I could give you a good, scary chase and fight. But, honestly, that's not my taste.” 

Slowly, Ari straightened to his full height. He rolled his shoulders and clenched his fingers around the corners of the sturdy, carved chair.

“I want you to give yourself to me. You're going to splay yourself on that table and welcome my fat cock into your tight, virgin cunt.”

Another spike of heat unfurled in your belly and chest, shocking and scaring you more than the Alpha's words did. 

Was his Alpha power influencing you so much, or was there a part of you that wanted his brutal promise to become reality?

“You wanted to get onto magenta level because it pays better.” Ari pointed out. “It's also why a golden card is a mad dream for many. ‘Cause they imagine the paycheck and comfort it could provide for them and their families.”

“But there won't be a one time pay for this. No more paychecks anymore. Instead, you'll have all the care and comforts daily. You'll have that knee of yours checked. Regular physio. Stocked fridge, nice clothes, your sister and her Beta husband's molded apartment dried.”

“All of that for being my good Omega, taking my cock and bearing me children.” 

Your core filled with heat as your mind bent under the weight of filthy images. Trying to shake it away didn’t work. Your usual numbness to Alpha’s presence and your own basic instincts was frayed at the edges, crumbling the more time you stood there trapped with the Alpha. 

What he promised for the doom couldn’t be overlooked, either. If not for your own health, then for your sister. They had a baby who was constantly sick, because of the moldy walls and malfunctioning heat. Levinson had near limitless resources, so fixing someone’s apartment would for him be like spending pocket change.

Unrushed, he moved from behind the chair to stand next to the table. He tapped his fingertips against the painted wooden surface. 

And waited, watching you with all the patience in the world. 

“It’ll happen, Snowdrop.” He said it with no malice, but there was an unyielding force behind it. As calm and soft he appeared to treat you, his darkness wouldn’t recede. No mercy awaited.

“And yes, it will hurt your virgin pussy when I split it on my dick.” You didn’t take your eyes off his face, so you didn’t see how his cock twitched in his pants at the mere thought of breaking you. “But if you make me go there for you and take what I already declared mine, it will hurt more. So be a good Omega and come here.”

You never liked pain. All your struggles, while you dealt with them, never honed you into someone immune to suffering. No, you were still very human and fragile, and if there were ways to limit your pain, you were going to take it. 

So despite sniffling on another sob, you shuffled your feet forward. Tiny step after another. Ari didn’t rush you. Quite the opposite, watching you walk to him heightened his hunger. It was like a foreplay increasing his arousal close to the tipping point. 

“ ‘Atta girl,” he praised when your toes touched his boots. 

Then big, strong hands were gripping your hips and hoisting you onto the table. One gasp of surprise transformed into a yelp when Ari gripped the fabric of your dress and ripped it apart with his bare hands. Your bra followed. Then your underwear. 

You were bared to him completely. Breath quickened and body trembling as he towered over you. 

“Lie back.” Ari ordered.

Your heart pounded in your chest, echo of it resounded in your ears and fingertips, pulsing wilder and wilder. The table beneath you didn’t feel that bad, but it was the Alpha in front of you, devouring you with his gaze that promised bad things happening. 

Bad, scary things, yet still some deep, primitive part of you roused at the prospect. There was an ache low in your belly, making your pussy walls clench as you watched Ari loom over you. 

A jolt made your body spasm when his fingers brushed your naked skin. A tender brush over your knees teasing upwards, along your thighs, over your belly, across your breasts. He skimmed them down again and back up, rousing your body into response beyond your control. 

“Spread your legs.” He growled another command, landing a slap to your thigh when you didn’t comply immediately. 

It was so humiliating. Baring your most intimate part to a ruthless Alpha. 

“Such a pretty pussy,” he splayed his hands on the inside of your thighs and rubbed his thumbs along the outline of your folds. “It’s going to look even prettier hugging my dick.” 

He didn’t outright stimulate your folds or clit, just teased the nerves around. Then his palms smoother upwards, fingers spread wide over the curve of your belly.

“You’ll be so full of me. Grow round with our children.” 

As he looked at your naked body in dark victory and hunger, you trembled at the image of his face glowing in malicious triumph when he stared at your pregnant form. 

Reduced to the object of an Alpha’s wicked desire, yet some deeply hidden satisfaction, almost rusted like a forgotten, ancient treasure, stirred from the shadows. 

Through the past century the designations have crumbled from the once admirable and coveted. As the world turned cold, jaded and brutal, certain traits started disappearing. Like the DNA of the people itself had receded, instead of evolving. Though, perhaps, it was an evolution towards the harsh reality you now lived in. 

Legends of Alphas’ instinct to protect and provide seemed laughable, since you hadn’t met a single Alpha who would even be kind. There were no alluring scents, unless someone soaked themselves in perfume. Ruts and heats have devolved - which was praised as something that rooted out primal behaviors, but on the other hand seemed to turn everyone unresponsive. 

You didn’t need to worry about going into an unexpected heat, or having to splurge on suppressants, but you never felt desired. Nor felt a craving so deep it messed with your own mind.

However, as you laid spread on the table like a sacrifice for the lion, a lick of something heady and scorching hot stirred the latent Omega inside of you. 

As terrifying Ari’s plan for your future sounded, a part of you snuggled into that prospect as if it was a safe cushion in the most luxurious bed. 

“Suck.” Ari tapped your lips with two of his fingers.

Your mouth opened instantly and his digits slid in, pressing against your tongue. Your pupils widened when a shot of intense pleasure zapped through your body and hardened your nipples as Ari’s purred, pleased that you started sucking instinctively.

“Such a good Omega.” He praised. “Keep sucking. You better get them really wet, since it’s going to be the only prep that you get before I give you my cock.” 

With his whole frame being so massive, you could only imagine how proportionate his dick was going to be. It would be a struggle if you were dripping, but with just a brief preparation he was going to tear you. 

“Don’t worry, Snowdrop.” Ari chuckled darkly, slipping his fingers out of your mouth and pressing them against your clit. “I can’t wait to turn you into a soaked mess with my mouth and fingers, but for our first time I want those sweet whines and cries as you stretch painfully around every inch.” 

Circling your clit a few times, to heighten the first stirring of fire, Ari used his other hand to unbuckle his belt and lower the zipper in his pants. He thrust a single digit into your channel, groaning obscenely at the tight resistance. 

“You’re going to feel so fucking good.” He growled, pumping his finger in and out of your pussy a few times.

He withdrew much too soon. You were wet, but definitely not enough for that first slide of cock to be easy. Which Ari evidently loved. His grin was predatory when he pressed the head of his dick at your opening and you couldn’t suppress the sharp whimper at the first inch opening you wide. 

Bracing one hand on your hip, Ari reached his other arm to curl his ringed fingers around the front of your neck. 

Then he began sliding in. 

A firm, languid stroke; merciless against the physical resistance of your inner walls. 

You tensed as the pain increased. It was confusing, too, because you expected excruciating pain. Instead, it was a new kind of suffering that ignited overwhelming, heavy pleasure. Nothing similar to the light, bubbly pleasure you felt when touching yourself. No, this was powerful and scary, but made you crave more. 

Still, tears welled in your eyes as Ari broke into you and rooted himself deeply. Your mouth opened on a helpless cry.

His gaze was hungrily focused on your face, delighted in the shimmer of your tears. But then, as he slowly withdrew, his eyes flicked down to where his cock was easing out of your pussy. 

“Fucking perfect.” He groaned in pleasure at the sight of dark pink smears - your virginal blood mixed with strings of your wetness.

“Your sweet cunt got a first taste of the cock that owns her now.” He pushed back in. “No one else will ever fuck it, or fill it. Only your Alpha.”

“Say it!” The hand on your throat tightened and he snapped his hips into you in a harsh thrust, causing your body to jerk.

“O-” you gasped, tears trickling from the corners of your eyes as pain and pleasure flared low in your belly- “Only you!” 

More tears flew with the next rough thrusts, but they began drying as sensations blurred into something intense and unrecognizable. Ari’s cock was splitting you with each slide, your pussy unable to adjust fully to his size, yet it was becoming addictive. A part of you hoped it would never end, chanting prayers for more torment. More pleasure. More dominance. 

For his cum.

Your pupils blew wide as your pussy clenched around Ari’s cock when that thought unexpectedly echoed in your head. 

“That’s it, Snowdrop.” Ari grunted, fucking you ruthlessly. “Show me how greedy that cunt is for my cock and seed.”

Ari’s sharp bark of laugh resounded at your pitiful whimper when you spasmed around his dick again. Shaking your head side to side (as much as Ari’s grip on your throat allowed), you scratched your fingers against the table. You shouldn’t be feeling like this! There should only be fear and disgust, not a warm fluttering of something soft and vulnerable beneath the primal arousal. 

Was Levinson’s Alpha power truly so apex that it drew out a response from a stagnant, latent particle of your Omega designation? 

On a particular rough thrust, Ari pressed against a spot that had stars bursting under your eyelids. Your body tensed and arched then suddenly the coil was snapping and you were coming with a hoarse cry. 

He fucked you through it, his pace never easing. The hand on your hip moved to splay low on your abdomen, thumb wedging between your folds to torment your clit. The zap of stimulation was borderline painful as you were still quivering in the remnants of climax and it brought more tears. It was too much!

You shook your head. Your fingertips barely reached Ari’s abdomen, your touch more of a caress to him then your attempted fight against the onslaught. 

“Fuck!” Ari groaned, moving his hand away from your clit. But only to use his hands to reposition your legs - placing both of your ankles on his shoulders as he bore more weight onto you.

His fat cock seemed to plunge even deeper and an unexpectedly lewd moan spilled out of your mouth. 

“Your pretty tears turn me on as much as your virgin blood staining my cock.” 

Ari swiped a streak off your temple before wedging his hand between your tightly pressed thighs, again aiming for your swollen clit. His low chuckle at your hitched cry when he started rubbing it anew transformed into grunts of pleasure when your pussy clenched around him so hard he could barely move. 

You thought he was unrestrained before, but your body’s reaction provoked the truly primal, unhinged side of the Alpha.

He snarled, teeth bared, as his hips snapped into you so hard you felt the jolt of it reverberate up your ribs. The table in the chamber was exceptionally sturdy, but it moved as the animal ravaged you. 

The growl he let out when he reached his own peak seemed to sink into your very bones, binding your cells to him on some incomprehensible level. 

And when the hot flood of cum filled you, a deepest, darkest particle in your brain ignited with a thousand lights. 

It was a new sensation. Not because you were a virgin who was never fucked and filled. As much as that filthy side had you embarrassingly turned on, that feeling regarded something else. As if there was a second entity beneath your skin and it was finally stirred awake. 

For over a century it was believed that designations have regressed so much there was nothing left of the former reactions, or even former physical traits like knots, yet you sensed (and feared) that somehow this Alpha has broken through the iceberg of latency and found the ruins of ancient civilization; stirring some curses to life. 

Your breath was ragged, each gulp intermixed with tiny gasps and whimpers as you felt Ari’s cock throb inside of you, spilling more and more. You never thought that a man could cum so much. It felt endless. And the longer it lasted the more it had your core tingling with need for more. 

Slowly, Ari eased your legs down. They hung limply over the edge of the table, bracketing Ari’s hips that were still pressed against you. Your arms dropped down, too. One onto the table, the other across your belly, a mere inch above where Ari’s hand was still resting on your lower abdomen. 

His hand on your throat loosened its grip. He swept his fingers through the remnants of the tears drying on your face, then down across your body.

“I stake claim.” Ari’s voice resounded firm and unyielding, sending a chill down your spine. 

His blue eyes were on you. His face slightly flushed, a vein in his neck protruding and pulsing from the pleasant strain. But his words sounded like they were directed at somebody else, not just at you.

Long seconds passed before you sensed the change in the air. A gentle current, as if a draft got in. You tensed, head turning to the side as you felt another presence in the chamber. 

Ari pressed his hand over your sternum and pushed you down when you made a move to get up. He pressed on your belly with his other hand, as well. Which not only served to keep you in place, but also reminded you that his softening dick was still inside you and his cum was overfilling your pussy. 

Your heart rate increased as you watched three silhouettes emerge from who the fuck knows where. Big, intimidating, undoubtedly Alphas. 

Probably the other three horsemen. Owners of hell itself. 

They were wearing dark silver masks. Each depicting an animal. Each matching the crests carved into the chairs at the table. A wolf. A bull. A serpent.

They took their places at the table and looked down at you. Then, as if you weren’t interesting, they lifted their heads to look at Ari. 

“What bond do you choose?” Asked the wolf. 

His voice was as cold as it was smooth; like a chill one might feel when walking into the woods late in the evening - comforted by it, but sensing impending danger creeping in to strike.  

“A brand,” came Ari’s swift reply. “My crest.”

They all gave their nods. Then the bull moved closer to where Ari stood between your spread legs. A flicker of blue flame from a lighter made you whimper in fear, but none of them reacted. The bull held the lighter in his tattooed hand, his wrist encompassed in a thick leather bracelet. Ari lifted one of his hands, closed it into a fist, and brought it to the flame.

They were heating up his ring with the lion’s head. 

His crest. 

“No,” a weak sound left your lips when you understood the intention. 

There was no fight left in you. Besides, you had no chances against Ari alone, much less against four Alphas. 

“Shh.” Ari cooed, keeping the hand on your chest in place and rocking his hips into you gently. “You’re already mine, Snowdrop. This will merely be a short sting. Just like your virgin cunt breaking on my cock.” 

His blue eyes returned to yours, holding your gaze as he pressed the hot ring to your abdomen. You cried out in pain as it seared your skin, burning a permanent brand on the belly that was marked from the inside with his seed. 

“Claim witnessed.” 

It was repeated three times, by three different voices, but it barely reached your consciousness as your mind fumbled with processing pain and sinking in unfamiliar contentment. 

Ari kept touching you, stroking your sides and your thighs softly as he continued to coo. There was an additional vibration to his tone every few shushing words, comforting in a way that had your body truly relaxing despite the terror it was just put through. 

Once you settled down, only looking up at Ari with tear-brimmed eyes, he leaned down. And kissed you. 

It wasn’t as soothing as the last few touches and sounds, but brand nearly as hot as the ring burned into your skin. 

He straightened, staring down at you as conqueror at the empire he just crushed and obtained. His gaze traveled down your body to where his mark scorched over your mound, then lower, to where your bodies were joined. 

Slowly, he pulled out and watched as your glistening pussy gaped and pulsed. A heartbeat later his cum trickled out. Dark hunger was still alight in his eyes. Perhaps, it would never leave. Not when it came to you and owning your body. 

You trembled, covering your face with your hands as you felt the mess leak out of you. You saw the sticky combination of your juices, his spend and your blood coating Ari’s cock, and couldn’t comprehend why that unnerving part of you was thrilled about the sight. It made no sense and warred with the appalled and terrified part of your brain. 

“Don’t worry, Snowdrop.” Ari sounded amused as he watched you. “I don’t mind the mess. I’ll fuck you so often and thorough that my seed takes no matter how much of my cum leaks out of your poor, little cunt.” 

He gripped your wrists and forced your hands away from your face, then placed them on his shoulders. He felt warm and secure under your trembling fingers. 

You hated how he anchored you while being the one to break you. 

Ari lifted you off the table and set you onto your feet to the floor. His hold remained on your waist for long enough moment that you didn’t topple down on your weakened legs. 

Yet, as soon as he was sure you wouldn’t drop down, he guided you onto your knees himself. Making you kneel in the sticky mess that dropped from between your thighs onto the marble floor. 

A hand slid into your hair, tangling it in a tight grip. He tilted your head back. 

“Clean your Alpha’s cock, Omega.” He ordered. “Open your pretty mouth and taste us.” 

You tried to keep your lips pressed, refusing to do something so lewd. There was a flash of displeasure at your defiance and you expected Ari to force your jaw open, or to pinch your nose closed so you had to gulp for breath. 

Perhaps he would do that, if your mouth didn’t open on its own volition when he tapped the head of his cock against your lips. Musky saltiness smeared on your bottom lip, somehow provoking an instant reaction beyond your control. It was that new part of you, unearthed by the brutal Alpha. 

She made you open eagerly, tonguing the underside of Ari’s thick cock as he pushed into your mouth. 

“Good girl, Snowdrop.” He praised, rubbing against your tongue in shallow thrusts. “Get it clean of all the mess you made. Do you like how your Alpha tastes?”

He wasn’t really waiting for your reply, but he enjoyed the garbled sound you made as you tried to deny it and he pushed deep in your throat, cutting off your denial. 

He held you there, staring down at you struggling and choking. He delighted in the tears reappearing in your eyes. 

“Swallow around it.” He was merciless. “Oh, I know it’s hard and scary, but be a good girl and swallow down my cock. Close that little throat around it, so I can come down it like I did your pussy.” 

Tears poured down your cheeks as you finally managed to swallow and it caused your throat to constrict so tight you nearly blacked out. 

Ari grunted loudly in pleasure. 

With his free hand he tugged one of your hands that was resting against his thigh and guided it under his cock. He made you cup his heavy balls, forced your fingers to tighten and massage them.

Spurts of thick, salty warmth trickled down your throat. You panicked, fearing you’re going to choke to death as you hurriedly gulped it down. 

“Fuuuuck.” Ari was watching you with his own lips parted and glistening with saliva. “I’d love to fuck your sweet mouth for hours, teach you how to suck and tongue, but having you just simply choke and cry on my cock might be my new favorite version of a blowjob.”

When he finally let you go, after making sure the very last spurt went down your throat, you were coughing and wheezing. Your hands clutched Ari’s thighs as you slumped forward, resting your head against his leg and breathing heavily. 

Naked, filthy and broken, you rested at his feet. Leaning into him like he was your lifeline. 

Ari caressed the top of your head then stepped away for a moment. You fell forward, bracing yourself on your hands on the marble floor. A few seconds later something very soft, very warm, and surprisingly heavy, was draped over your naked form. 

In your peripheral you saw a glimpse of white with streaks of silver. 

Ari covered you with it, then effortlessly picked you up into his arms. Defenseless, exhausted and confused, you simply sank into his embrace. Resting your cheek against his chest, you glanced at the softness wrapped around you. A white fur. 

Because you were his Snowdrop.  

[bunny-jpeg]

team principal

max verstappen - team principal au

cw: smut/pwp, driver!reader, team principal!max, age gap (20/45), power dynamic, (slight) bratty behavior, groping, driver's room sex, oral sex (max receives)

as requested by anon: Driver!reader asking team principal max verstappen for a custom line of all pink and feminine merch because the orange just “washes her out” so he does. And he goes ALL out, bright pink Verstappen Racing flare leggings, and baby tee’s with the MV logo plastered on the chest bc what she wants she gets.

like the fic? leave a comment! really like the fic? suggest your own! <3

being part of verstappen racing meant wearing their logo. it had been the logo that max verstappen himself raced with. the 'm' and the 'v' were known prior to the establishment of the f1 team. every team had their logo from ferrari's stallion to red bull's, well, bulls. even teams like hamilton motorsports had their logo.

the problem with max verstappen's merch wasn't the logo, it was how god awful ugly it was. you had a selection of some of the ugliest merch on the planet. why was it all orange?

you had been convinced that your team principal, your boss, only saw the world through orange hues. that was everything was a shade of orange so awful that it would make mclaren blush!

"this is ugly. this is ugly. this is somehow worse! this looks like a halloween collection rather than actual merch. mister verstappen you make more money than anyone i know, hire someone with design sense!" you shook the shirts in your hand.

you knew that almost every driver on the grid couldn't talk to their boss like that. but it was an poorly kept secret that max verstappen had a soft spot for you. he also fucked you two ways to sunday on a weekly, if not daily basis.

max chuckled and leaned back a little in his office chair, "brand integrity is important, schat. a recognizable brand is important to its value."

you made a face, "well, your brand looks like spirit halloween threw up all over the place." then put the items down forcefully. you put your hands on your hips, "and shouldn't brands take risks? try something new? all of you use the same colours, cuts and styles. it's boring!"

max asked, "then what do you have in mind? since you know so much about a brand. i've been doing this since i was seventeen. almost thirty years, schat. longer than you've known how to walk let alone drive." he raised his eyebrows, "since you know so much, dazzle me with your proposal."

max would let his precious driver bark like a yapping dog. but he knew how to keep you quiet. he watched you cower for a moment, realizing that you took it a step too far. max smiled with his face rested against his fist.

you swallowed, "maybe something a little more... feminine.. pink. something cute." you leaned forward at his desk a little, the shirt you wore was his and was a little big on you. your movements revealed the start of a hickey he left on your shoulder the night prior, "mister verstappen, you have the first female driver in a long time. we... could lean into that a little. make it cute!"

max leaned forward in his chair and rested his arms on his desk, "cute? verstappen racing is supposed to imposing. strength on the track, and you want pink." he chuckled a little, "the alternate logo besides the initials is a lion. lions aren't cute."

you looked at him, "what about that lion stuffed animal you got me? that's cute. i sleep with it every night." you then pouted a little, a look that always made max weak. you shrugged your shoulders a little as you had your hands behind your back. you swayed a little and suggested, "plus, i could model it as well."

max may have known how to shut you up, but you knew how to make the older man weak in the knees. he sighed and kept his gaze on you, his expression a little softer, "fine. we'll see what we can do, schat. maybe you're right about needing to do something a little different. but i hope you know, whatever item we end up with. you have to show off for me."

your pout dropped and was replaced with a smile. you leaned over the desk to be closer to him and kissed him on the mouth. you held his face and smiled against the kiss. when you eventually pulled away, max watched your turn around to skip out of his office. you said to him as you looked over your shoulder, "thank you, mister verstappen."

-

max verstappen had seen enough in his over forty years on this planet. he had seen many beautiful women over the years, but when he walked into your driver's room and saw you in the newest verstappen merch, he almost fell on his ass. he had seen the line of merch before it got into your hands, but to see you in them was another story.

you were in a pink skirt from home that was almost the exact colour of the baby pink of the baby tee that you were wearing. laid out on the couch of the room was the rest of the merch. the flare leggings, the bucket hat, the baseball cap, a form fitting tank top and even an oversized button up.

all in sickening baby pink.

so much for verstappen being predators on the track. not when you were sickeningly beautiful in the clothing. max held onto the door to the room for a moment to compose himself before he stepped in and shut the door loudly behind him.

"oh!" you perked up as you turned away from the mirror to look at your boss. you smiled at him, "hello, sir." seeing the logo of the team across your tits made his eyes go wide.

"hi." he said as he swallowed, "did they give you the wrong size?" he stepped forward and reached out for you, "and where did you get this skirt?"

you smiled, "oh! this is supposed to be my right size. that's just how the tee are!" he could see your curves and a bit of your stomach. you then added, "and the skirt is from home. i bought it for a matching outfit thing." you swayed your hips from side to side.

this was supposed to be your outfit for media day. something to show off the brand. max scratched the back of his neck and stepped forward. he placed his hands on your hips and gazed at you.

"you're not going out like this. no, no. there has to be something else to wear." he approved all of the items. he saw them from concept to final product. and now you were in the driver's room looking like a whore.

"what about it?" you pouted.

he pulled at the bottom of your shirt and you yelped as it was taken over your head. he made a small disappointed noise as he tossed the shirt to the side. he licked his lips at the sight of your breasts. this was beyond any code violation. if you two got caught. but it was better than you walking around the media section in that shirt.

"you look like you're selling sex rather than the brand! you look like a whore." he said as he held onto your hips. he could feel the leap in his chest at the sight of your breasts on full display for him. only for him.

"doesn't sex sell, mister verstappen?" you said as you pouted a little and you were pulled up against him. your hands on the front of his button up, with his logo on it. you spread your hand across his chest, he noticed that your nails were painted the same pretty pink as the merch. you held onto him as he took you by the ass to press up against him.

"not this kind of sex. this is an invitation for you to cause problems. what if that skirt flips up? what if your nipples poke through the shirt. what is the press got the wrong idea and thought you were a slut." he explained. he spoke like you were a bratty girl who needed to be scolded. to be taught the right way.

you pouted further, "i'm not a slut."

max pushed up your pink tennis skirt over your ass and grabbed handfuls of your ass. it made you yelp and max closed in the space between your lips. before he kissed he said, "i know you're not. but, when you dress like this, you look like one." then kissed you deeply.

his strong hands groped your ass as you felt his cock up against your middle. you shuddered at the feeling of it. you knew that max was quite big. you squirmed a little against him and kissed him deeper.

when he pulled away, he got you down on the couch roughly. you bounced a little and looked up at him. you stuck your chest out a little more and max looked down at you as he rubbed his cock through his slacks. for one of the top racers in the world, you sure looked beautiful below him.

"mister verstappen." you said before you were met with his cock in your face. you didn't say much else but rather wrapped your lips around his cock and let him hold the back of your head. you placed your hands on his strong thighs for support as you took his cock as deep as you could take it.

max shuddered at the feeling of you. you felt like a dream in his grasp. a beauty beyond all others. despite the age gap and the power dynamics, max knew that he could make you top of the grid. you'd be winning championships that would make other drivers jealous.

as you sucked his cock, max saw your future. world champion of formula one. pretty trophies in your apartment in monaco. he already had you in a multi-year contract and no clause to get out of it. first wear the verstappen racing logo then have the verstappen last name. only fitting for a champion after all.

a strong driver needs a strong last name. and as you looked up at him with that soft gaze of yours he panted a little heavier. all dolled up for him, in his merch. you were right about the need for cuter clothes, that orange washed you out. you looked cuter in the soft pinks.

"you look good like this." he said as he tapped your nose and you made a playful noise. too precious, too beautiful for him. he loved the sight of you seated with his cock in your mouth.

you continued to suck him off and max got both hands in your hair. he pressed you up against him a little tighter and let your throat clench around his cock. he remembered the first time you sputtered and coughed when he came in your mouth. but now you took it all like the champion he knew you were.

"you're going to do so well for the press." he said, "answer all their questions. be a good girl. you know you will be. just like you are now, taking me so beautifully." he patted your cheek lovingly before he pulled you further onto his cock once more.

he watched you shudder against him as you tried to take his entire length. you could almost feel his pubic hair against your nose as you whined against him. you whined a little bit from the back of your throat and continued to suck him off. you brought him pleasure that made the team principal see stars.

he cupped your face in those large hands for a moment, "you like that don't you? having me in your throat, you're so beautiful. i don't know if anyone told you about the bidding war to get you on my team." your eyes fluttered shut and he exhaled deeply, "had to play dirty."

you whimpered in response. you didn't know about the bidding war for you a year earlier. you knew that you had a few offers when you ended up in formula one.

those blue eyes looked down at you and max licked his lips. you could feel his gaze on you as he continued to rock up into your throat. he panted a little, he could feel his shirt cling to his toned back from the sweat. "not easy to get under hamilton's skin. but i got him to back off, the same with red bull. i only wanted the best and i got it. now she's sucking my cock and wearing my logo."

you whined a little bit and it was music to max's ears. you were his prize. your teammate was good too, but max didn't hear church bells when he was around. you were max's pet project, that he just simply happened to fuck often.

he'd make you a champion. team principals played favourites all the time, and max in a way was no better than them. at least max got something else out of it. those pretty soft lips around his cock. he held onto you tightly as he continued to thrust into your mouth.

you clung to him as you could feel the ache in your throat. you kept your eyes closed and you were wet between the thighs. max briefly got more aggressive with his thrusts before he finished in your mouth. you whimpered and swallowed it eagerly.

the salty taste in your mouth was familiar and you opened your eyes to look at your boss. when you pulled your mouth off of his cock. you kissed the tip and smiled at him a little.

if max had more time, he'd be making a full mess of you. but the press would want to see the star of the track soon enough. he rubbed his cock up against your lips and nose before he said, "i want you to wear the merch next time i fuck you. you're mine, got it?"

you nodded softly and said, "yes, mister verstappen. always."

when you did the interview, you still wore the outfit. despite protests from your boss. you were all smiles for the camera, but max lingered close by. just in case someone got the wrong idea. as if max's name and logo weren't plastered across your pretty tits. but, it did get the older man thinking as he watched from a short distance.

max's mind wandered to other ways to have you wear his logo. he wondered if collars and chokers were still popular with young women. he wondered if he could get you in something with a tag with his name on it. maybe it wouldn't be sold as merch for the public, but he wouldn't mind if his star driver wore it. <3

[randomtheidiot]

I personally will die on the shiny Sylveon hill, but great post OP.

I see your Ash would be a pikachu if he was a pokemon and raise you, Ash would be a shinx. No i will not elaborate.

[taurasiluvr]

SIZE KINKS WITH MY FAVORITES !

including . . . paige bueckers, diana taurasi, emily engstler & caitlin clark

how you can help palestine

 ⠀ ── ⠀warnings ;; nsfw under the cut, mdni. lesbian... sex, a lot of it lmao. fingering, praise, size kinks.

 ⠀ ── ⠀rylin's notes ;; requests are open for those who want to send them in :p also just wanted to add i tried making this as inclusive as possible, if you are plus-sized, let me know if this was good !! its never my intention to make anyone feel left out, my writing is for EVERYBODY (except men)

PAIGE BUECKERS (slight nsfw)

 ⠀ ── ⠀paige is taller than most people, standing at around 5"11'. all her previous partners were taller/around her height so once she'd began dating you, everything kind of shifted and she loved it. she likes to tease you about it a lot – and yes, she is the type to purposely put the mugs on the highest shelf so that you call her over – and with some convincing (she loves seeing you struggle on your tippy-toes, trying to reach), she'll come and help you.

however, not only does she love it – it turns her on exponentially. the way she could easily push you around and assert her dominance in small, playful ways became an undeniable part of your relationship. she adored the way you looked up at her with those wide eyes, the mixture of surprise and amusement whenever she effortlessly moved you out of the way or pinned you playfully against a wall.

paige found herself reveling in the power dynamic, her hands lingering on you a little longer, her touches a little more deliberate. the height difference allowed her to envelop you completely, to make you feel secure yet electrified by her presence. she loved how easily she could lift you, how her strength contrasted with your smaller frame, and how it made her feel in control yet deeply connected to you. every time you called for her help, whether it was to reach something or open a stubborn jar, she felt a thrill run through her. it was more than just the physical act; it was the way you relied on her, the way you trusted her to take care of you in those moments. that trust, that dependency, was intoxicating for paige.

she wouldn't call it a kink per say – more like an aspect of your relationship that added an extra layer of excitement and intimacy. she loved the way you looked at her when she teased you, the playful spark in your eyes that matched her own. it was a game you both played, one that kept the flame of your relationship burning bright. and while she wouldn't call it a kink (it for sure is), she couldn't deny how incredibly turned on she was by the way your dynamics played out.

“need some help, shorty?” she called out as she walked into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe with that familiar, mischievous smirk.

you sighed dramatically, “you know, you could just put things where i can reach them.”

“but where’s the fun in that?” she teased, stepping closer.

she pressed herself against your back, reaching up effortlessly to grab the bowl. you felt her breath on your neck, and a shiver ran through you. she lingered, her body warm and solid against yours, and you could sense her enjoying the moment. her arm brushed against your side as she placed the bowl in your hands, and she didn't pull away immediately. instead, she stayed close, her fingers lightly tracing the line of your shoulder.

“you're too cute when you struggle,” she whispered, her lips brushing against your ear.

you turned around to face her, your heart racing. the playful glint in her eyes had shifted to something deeper, more intense. she looked down at you, her height making you feel both vulnerable and cherished.

“it's not fair,” you said softly, but your voice lacked any real protest.

paige smiled, her hands coming to rest on your hips. she leaned down, her forehead touching yours, and you felt her warmth envelop you.

“that's too bad cus i really enjoy it,” she murmured, her lips dangerously close to yours. you scoffed, shaking your head dramatically as she laughed.

you could feel the heat between you both, a magnetic pull that had your pulse quickening. she loved having this slight edge over you, the way it made you look up to her – both literally and figuratively. unable to resist any longer, she closed the distance, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and fierce. you responded immediately as her arms wrapping around you, lifting you slightly off the ground, making you feel even smaller in her embrace. the kiss deepened, and you melted into her, your fingers tangling in her hair.

when she finally set you down, you were both breathless. paige's eyes were dark with desire, and she pressed her forehead against yours once more.

“you drive me crazy, you know that?” she whispered.

you smiled, your heart swelling with affection. “great. now, can we get back to making dinner? ’m starving.”

she laughed, a rich, joyful sound that made your heart soar. “only if you promise to keep needing my help with the high shelves.”

you nodded, a playful glint in your eye. “m’kay.”

DIANA TAURASI (nsfw)

 ⠀ ── ⠀she knew what she was getting herself into the moment she began dating you. unlike paige, she would (and has) admitted to having a shameless size kink. diana towers over almost everyone, being 6ft and all – but it really gets her going when it's you.

in bed, she never ever shys away from showing you not only how small you are compared to her – but how strong she is. diana's eyes gleam with anticipation as she playfully pins you down, her muscular frame effortlessly holding you in place. the contrast between her towering height and your smaller stature ignites a primal excitement in her. she loves the way you fit perfectly against her, the way she can envelop you with her body and make you feel both vulnerable and protected at the same time. diana takes immense pleasure in using her height and strength to her advantage, positioning you just where she wants you, lifting you effortlessly, and holding you in place with ease.

she's fiercely confident, and it shows in every movement. diana knows exactly how to play with the power dynamic, teasing you with her dominance while also ensuring you feel cherished. her touch is commanding, yet tender, and she enjoys exploring the boundaries of her strength and your responsiveness.

when she's not pinning you down, she enjoys playfully lifting you, carrying you around, or simply holding you close to her, making you feel small and cherished. diana's size and strength are constant reminders of her presence, and she loves the way you respond to her, the way you melt under her touch, the way your breath catches when she effortlessly moves you. and again, it turns her on in a way she can't even begin to explain.

diana's enjoyment of her size kink isn’t just physical; it's also deeply psychological. she loves the way you look at her with a mix of awe and desire, the way your body reacts to her dominance, the way you crave the unique dynamic you share. it's an intoxicating power play that she never tires of, of strength and submission that fuels her passion.

diana's eyes gleam with anticipation as she pins you down, her muscular frame effortlessly holding you in place. the contrast between her towering height and your smaller stature ignites a primal excitement in her.

“look at you,” she murmurs, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “so tiny beneath me.”

diana revels in this dynamic, the way you squirm under her dominance; it's a game she loves to play, and you're a willing participant.

she lifts you with ease, her hands gripping your waist as if you weigh nothing. you feel the heat of her breath against your skin as she whispers, “could hold you like this forever, princess.”

there's a possessive hunger in her eyes, a deep-seated desire to remind you of your place in her world. she seats you down on her lap as she spreads your legs, you could feel her breath fanning on your neck. she rubs your clothed pussy, earning a moan from your lips. her lips quirked up into an excited smirk as she watches your reaction.

“you like that, don’t you?” she teases, her voice low and husky. her fingers continue their relentless teasing, applying just the right amount of pressure to drive you wild. the friction, even through your clothes, sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

“such a good little thing for me,” she praises, her tone both affectionate and commanding. her free hand moves to your hip, holding you in place with a firm yet gentle grip. the intensity of her gaze never wavers, her eyes drinking in every expression that crosses your face.

she leans in closer, her lips brushing against your ear. “love how responsive you are,” she whispers, her breath hot against your skin. “every little sound you make, every shiver... it drives me crazy, baby.”

diana's hands grow bolder, one slipping under your shirt to caress your bare skin, the other continuing its tormenting touch. she revels in the way your body reacts to her, the way you arch into her touch, the soft gasps and moans that escape your lips.

“mine,” she murmurs possessively, her voice a mix of desire and adoration. “all mine.”

with each passing moment, the intensity between you builds, a potent mix of lust and intimacy that leaves you breathless. diana's dominance is unwavering, yet there's a tenderness in her touch that speaks volumes about her feelings for you.

her lips find yours in a searing kiss, full of passion and possessiveness. her hand moves faster, the pressure increasing, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. “wanna hear you, princess.” she demands softly, her voice a tantalizing whisper against your lips.

EMILY ENGSTLER (nsfw)

 ⠀ ── ⠀emily liked the fact she was much taller than you, but it wasn't until she finally slept with you when she realized how much it turned her on. in daily life, it was honestly just a plus for her – she loved holding your hips as she led you places, feeling the way you fit perfectly against her side.

she reveled in the little things, like reaching for items on high shelves for you or wrapping her long arm around your shoulders, pulling you close as you walked. it made her feel protective and strong, and she could see the appreciation in your eyes, the way you leaned into her touch. and like paige, she'd never call it a size kink even though... it for sure was.

but it was in the privacy of the bedroom where emily's height advantage truly came into play. the first time she had you beneath her, your smaller frame dwarfed by her own, she felt a surge of excitement that she hadn't anticipated. the sight of you looking up at her, wide-eyed and eager, was intoxicating – it got her wet beyond comprehension.

she loved the way you responded to her, the way you would shiver under her touch, your breath hitching as her hands explored your body. emily found herself becoming bolder, her confidence growing with each gasp and moan she elicited from you the more you guys fucked. she'd pin your wrists above your head, her grip firm but gentle, and savor the sight of you laid out beneath her, completely at her mercy.

emily's dominant side thrived on your willingness, your trust in her. she enjoyed the power play, the way she could effortlessly maneuver you into different positions, the way her strength made you feel both vulnerable and cherished. it was a thrilling dynamic, one that brought you both closer together.

outside the bedroom, her dominance was subtler but no less significant. she'd guide you with a hand on your lower back, steer you through crowds with ease, always keeping you close. the height difference was a constant reminder of the bond you shared, a dynamic that seeped into every aspect of your relationship.

"you're so beautiful," she murmured, her voice low and husky. "love how perfectly you fit with me."

with a fluid motion, emily lifted you effortlessly, placing you on the bed. you gazed up at her, feeling a familiar thrill as she towered over you, her presence both commanding and comforting. she straddled your waist, her long legs framing your body, and leaned down to kiss you, her lips capturing yours in a slow, passionate kiss that left you breathless.

she pulled back slightly, her eyes dark with desire. "you like it when i take control?" she asked, her voice a seductive whisper.

"yes," you breathed, your response immediate and sincere.

a smile curved her red lips as she pinned your wrists above your head, her grip firm but not painful. the weight of her body pressed against yours, a delicious reminder of her strength and dominance. she leaned in, her breath hot against your ear. "good," she whispered. "cus i love it too."

CAITLIN CLARK (nsfw)

 ⠀ ── ⠀caitlin never missed an opportunity to show you how small you are compared to her. whether it was easily pushing to the side or or lifting you up as if you weighed nothing, she reveled in the stark difference between your statures. it was a reminder of her strength and dominance, and you couldn't help but feel a thrill every time she did it.

caitlin's dominance showed in countless little ways, she loved wrapping an arm around your waist, guiding you through crowds with an ease that made you feel safe and protected. her height allowed her to effortlessly reach things on high shelves for you, a simple act that never failed to bring a smile to her face. she enjoyed playfully teasing you about your size, her comments always laced with affection.

caitlin's physicality was a constant presence, whether she was picking you up for a quick kiss or pulling you into her lap while watching a movie. she thrived on the power dynamic, finding joy in the way you responded to her strength. your smaller frame seemed to increase her confidence, making her feel both powerful and nurturing.

her protective nature extended beyond physical gestures. caitlin was always looking out for you, her sharp eyes and quick reflexes ensuring you were never in harm's way. she took pride in being your rock, someone you could rely on no matter the situation. this sense of security and trust deepened your bond, reinforcing the unique dynamic that defined your relationship.

in more intimate moments, caitlin's dominance took on a deeper, more intense form. she loved exploring the contrast between your bodies, the way her hands could easily envelop yours, her arms strong and reassuring around you. she loved watching your reactions, the way your breath hitched and your body shivered under her touch.

she placed you gently on the bed, her hands lingering on your hips as she leaned down to kiss you. the kiss was soft at first, but it quickly deepened, her lips moving against yours with a hunger that made your heart race.

caitlin pulled back, her eyes dark with desire as she looked down at you. "you're so perfect like this," she murmured, her hands sliding up your sides. "so small and delicate."

you shivered under her touch, the weight of her gaze making you feel both vulnerable and incredibly turned on. caitlin's hands were firm yet gentle as she pinned your wrists above your head, her body pressing against yours. the sensation of her strength holding you in place sent a wave of excitement through you.

"you like it when i take control, sweet girl?" she asked, her voice low and husky.

"yes," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.

a satisfied smile spread across caitlin's face as she leaned down to kiss your neck, her lips leaving a trail of faint hickies in their wake. her hands roamed your body, exploring every curve and contour with a possessive hunger. she loved the way you responded to her touch, the way your body arched and trembled beneath her.

"so fucking pretty," she whispered against your skin, her voice full of adoration. "all for me."

her words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn't help but moan softly in response. caitlin hands moved to your hips, gripping them firmly as she positioned herself between your legs. her fingers teased your entrance, you were practically dripping and caitlin loved it.

"so wet and i haven't even touched you yet, baby." she mumbled as she looked down at you, her lips quirked into a smirk.

her finger slipped into your sopping cunt as your head fell back in pure ecstasy. she added another finger, then another and you swore you've never felt more full in your life despite it just being her fingers.

"let go for me," she urged, her voice a soothing command. "wanna hear you."

with each thrust, the sensations built within you, your moans growing louder as you neared the edge. caitlin's touch was everywhere, her presence overwhelming and comforting all at once. you clung to her, your body responding to her in a way that was almost instinctual.

when you finally reached your peak, you cried out her name, your body shuddering with release. caitlin held you close, her strong arms wrapping around you as you came down from your high. she kissed your forehead, her lips gentle and tender against your skin.

"my sweet girl," she whispered, her voice filled with genuine affection. "i love you so much."

if you enjoyed, any interaction is greatly appreciated!

with love, rylin 𝜗𝜚

[vinnyvamppp]

Hi!! Could I please get a smut fic of a plus size reader x Mark (invincible) however you want to do it!

Head Game

Note: THE TITLE IS SO CORNY LMFAOOO but ofc! did I wake up at 6 am to eagerly type this up before class, yes, yes I did. Enjoy!

Synopsis: He's been distant lately but he's willing to do anything to make it up to you... he couldn’t resist you, even if he tried.

Warnings: Dom/Sub Dynamics, Oral (Male receiving), Pussy Eating, Switch!Mark Grayson (I will die on this hill), Switch!Reader, Clitoral Stimulation, 69, Bodily Praise, Based on Comics (he loved chubby Atom Eve), Plot changes for convenience, Munch activities, Porn w a Plot, etc.

Mark Grayson x Plus Sized Reader (he just like me fr)

Word Count: 1,413

He was a beautiful disaster—a man undone by the weight of the world yet somehow still standing. Every fight, every failed relationship, and every argument built upon his shoulders as a burden. His personal issues ruined your moments alone, collapsing beside you on the rooftop where you once watched the sunrise in peaceful silence. You should’ve felt guilty—your fingers carving the sorrow on his face as he melted within your grasp.

In the quaint, sun-kissed streets of Mark’s neighborhood, you were left unoccupied in his room. He had made an excuse of needing to leave, a pang of disappointment lingering at the supposed “study session” you two were having.

Just where did he leave to? This was becoming a concern of yours—hearing as his friend, William, absentmindedly reeled on about his past relationships failing due to his absences. Surely, he was trying to help, but the banter did little to ease your worries than it did to cause laughter.

Unbeknownst to you, he soared through the sky like a bat out of hell—eager to return to you, to rest against the soft warmth of your body. He couldn’t care less about body rolls, he enjoyed the contrast between his hardened muscles and the plushness of your figure. Nights like those could be better than sex; his mind would claim innocence as he buried his growing erection into the blankets. His body revealed everything his mouth could barely mutter. Even now—your image, scent, and taste filled his mind. A sweet kiss could melt his problems, yes.

That was until he stumbled through his window to see you adorned in one of his spandex costumes.

Standing in front of the mirror, your fingers prodded at the material. It was snug, snapping to adjust to your body like a glove. Something about it was elegant and supple as it carved out the soft rolls of your skin, shaping you like the Greek Goddess Aphrodite. If you had known this sooner, maybe you would’ve sought a lab to grant you powers. Who were those geniuses he was constantly fighting? The Mauler Twins, right?

Hearing an abrupt crash, your head turned to meet the winded frame of your boyfriend.

“Mark… does this suit make my butt look bigger?” you asked, continuing to observe him. His surprise turned into a grin as he slowly approached you—his fingers pulling the mask from his face as messy tussles of hair fell into view. “No, no—it just makes it look… even better,” he replied, his eyes absorbing the sight in front of him. You smiled gingerly, rolling your eyes at his enthusiasm. “Really? Are you sure you’re not saying that to make me feel better—?”

The minute the words left your lips, he was already behind you, his fingers tapping against your hips. “I mean it! Seriously, I’m not in any rush for you to lose weight. You look great,” he admitted, clearly, he loved his women with curvature.

Planting a gentle kiss on your cheek, he gently spun you around as your lips met—a grin etching across his face. The kiss was soft and subtle, yet filled with tender affection. Your lips—warm and inviting—brushed against his, sending shivers down his spine. The gentle pressure caused the sweetest sigh to bubble from his throat. Like the horny, high-libido man you knew—a firm bulge caressed your thigh. The contact itself made him groan. Pulling you toward the bed, you two chuckled as you clumsily landed.

“I’ve thought about this all day… You have no idea,” he murmured, watching as you began to undress. “Well, Mark Grayson, you’ll have to make it up to me for being late,” you replied, both of your hands working to get him out of that tight contraption of a suit.

Once his costume was pried off, he didn't waste any time removing yours. The sight of you nearly made him short-circuit. “I wanna try something,” he interjected, flopping himself against the bed; he guided you to turn and straddle him. “Could… could you sit on my face?” he asked gingerly. “What…?” you asked, turning to face him, more surprised than anything. “I mean, not if you don’t want to—but I would really like it if you could. You’re so so sososo sexy to me—and this is my, uhm, attempt at making it up to you?” he rambled. You laughed. “Well, what are you waiting for?” you said rhetorically, only to feel a pair of strong hands yank you backward.

He usually handled you with such grace—not this time, not when your pussy was practically calling out to him. The fat of your ass and thighs smothered him; he groaned with gratification—the sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh as he leaned in. Breathing? He didn’t need to. Your weight? He couldn’t care less.

His first lick was slow and deliberate, starting at your entrance and trailing down to your clit. You gasped at the sensation, your hips bucking up to meet his mouth. He took his time, exploring every inch of your pussy with his tongue. He circled your clit, flicking it with the tip before sucking it between his lips. His hands slid up to grip your ass—pulling you tighter against his face as he feasted on you.

You moaned loudly, your hands fisting in the sheets, as he worked you over with his talented tongue. Just as you could feel yourself growing closer, his sounds grew nearly deafening. He sounded starved—greedy even—as your juices coated his lips. The wet smacks of him absolutely ravaging you between his own moans were plentiful.

Truly—your pleasure was also his, especially when you’d confidently declared you could handle his strength. He would bully you with his tongue. Staring just below you, you noticed beads of precum weeping from his tip. Without warning, your thumb swiped over the head, earning a strangled hiss from behind.

Pressing a gentle kiss around his tip, you engulfed him inside your mouth without caution, his cock already tapping against your uvula as it twitched. The amount of pre-cum was overwhelming, the lubrication allowing your mouth to glide with ease.

Just as you added the perfect amount of teeth into the mix—to caress the sensitive veins of his dick—his hips attempted to pull away as a measly whine echoed. Your hands held him in place. “Ss–shit…! Wait, wait,” he pleaded, not because he didn’t feel good, but because he was worried he’d cum too quickly.

“What the fffuuuuck? When did you get so good at this?” an absentminded rasp left him as he grunted. Your head continued to bob; when you tried to respond, the vibration made him jolt. “D-Dont do that!” he said, making you chuckle. That wasn’t nice.

This time, he didn't hold back. His tongue delved deep inside you, lapping up your juices as he tongue-fucked you hard and fast.

Your combined moans filled the room, growing louder and more desperate with each passing second. It felt like a competition of sorts—one you both would lose.

His toes curled slightly as he grew taut, the grip on you tightening as his body threatened to manhandle you—only stopping as the welcoming canal of your throat glided against him. Bringing two fingers to your cunt, his digits rapidly rubbed over the bundle of nerves, his tongue unrelenting as your mouth was filled to the hilt.

“Oooh… shit, mmph–.” It was sudden—your hips lifting as your orgasm approached. “Nononono, c-come back, princess,” he nearly sounded cocky as he chased after you. His hips bucked into your mouth as your hands massaged his balls and holy shit, he was getting dizzy.

That's when, in a moment of retaliation, his teeth gently scraped against your clit, causing an unfamiliar spark to snap within your core. You both cried in unison—you going limp as he recovered like it was nothing, his appearance frazzled.

"Did I do good?" he asked, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

You grinned up at him, your eyes sparkling with satisfaction. "You did more than good," you purred. "Now get up here and fuck me already."

He chuckled, his hardness pressing against your thigh as he positioned himself at your velvety entrance. "You’re gonna be the death of me."

Guys, should I do some more fics where the reader isn't human? y'know Grayson men looove their alien gfs.

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[mercy-burning]

Exposure

AKA: a gentle rewrite/edit of Part 1, plus the rest of the story.

Pairing: therapist!Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: After a year of self-inflicted social isolation, a rather intimate suggestion from your therapist turns your life on its head and opens up a whole new world of cliche, sexy possibilities... Category: SMUT (18+) Content: Themes and discussions of sexual trauma surrounding a painful sexual encounter, power dynamics, masturbation, dubious consent, voyeurism (unbeknownst to reader), Spencer is a perv, fingering, oral sex (fem. receiving), dry humping. Word Count: 9.6k (I had to cut her down, y'all, it was getting ridiculous and I'm sorry flsjdlksdk)

MASTERLIST

It is finally here. I have finally tackled the beast and finished Exposure the way the fanfic gods intended. I initially wanted this story to be what is is now and what you're about to read, but back when I wrote it the first time, I had ZERO self control and decided to just post what I had without finishing the rest, and I split the story into two parts... And then part two never saw the light of day. I have felt so bad ever since for abandoning the story and leaving you without a conclusion. I hope you'll forgive me and that it hasn't been too long for you to still care and read this now. And if you weren't around to read the original first part of Exposure, I hope you enjoy this brand new story that totally didn't exist before just now... ;)

———

ACT I: Homework

"And what about your sexual relationships?"

You freeze like a deer in headlights, unwilling to budge no matter how loudly his horn is blaring. Even as he asks again, your name a gentle coax on the surface of his tongue, you remain perfectly still.

"Did I strike a nerve?" he asks sweetly with a tilt of his head.

"U—Um... I..."

"It's important that you're up-front about these things with me... It's more than acceptable and valid if you don't feel like telling me everything right away. But if there's something wrong, I'd like to know. That way we can at least find somewhere to start. Does that sound alright?"

"Um... Y—Yeah, I guess so..."

He asks again, and you find it extremely difficult to look him in the eye.

Or to look at him in general.

You knew eventually you'd have to talk about your sex life, but in all honesty it had been forced deep into the back of your mind during the other sessions— You know, when you were laser-focused on literally anything else while trying not to think about how attractive you found your therapist and how fucked up that was.

Doctor Reid always makes sure to speak slow and concisely, which, when combined with its smooth tone and the way he looks at you with his pensive, hypnotizing eyes, tends to be absolutely fucking deadly. And his hands— the way they glide beautifully across the notepad he writes in, or how they flex and tap on his knee or on his chin from time to time, his focus trained solely on you...

He'd been dangerously distracting from the get-go, but now, on the topic of your sex life? You can't even entertain looking in his general direction.

So, with your eyes glued on your lap, you mindlessly count the number of tiny flowers printed on your skirt and answer the best you can. "I don't... I don't have frequent sexual relationships."

You wonder if he'll ask you to speak up, but he doesn't. Instead, he asks, "How frequent would you say they are?"

"Um... Well... I've only ever had sex once," you continue quietly, still training your eyes on your skirt.

"Are you... embarrassed about that?"

"No," you offer more firmly. Defensively.

He pauses. "That's good. There's no reason to be." And after you don't say anything in response, counting seven excruciatingly long seconds, you hear him continue. "How long ago was the encounter?"

You hesitate a little longer, but he doesn't push it. Eventually, intimidated by the silence, you sigh and quickly blurt, "About a year ago."

There's another pause, and you would assume he might be writing something down, but the room is too silent. Not even the soft scratch of pen to page dares to interrupt the tension you're feeling.

"And how did you find your experience?" he asks then, your eyes jumping to his face as if to make sure this is actually real and he's actually in front of you right now, asking you what you think you just heard. Your heart speeds up and your hands start to sweat.

"I—I'm sorry?"

He clears his throat, and yours contracts in a gulp. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"I... I don't... Why is that relevant?"

"You're coming to me once a week for counseling because you said you've found yourself shying away from other people, where a year ago you were a normal adult with normal interests in socializing and being around others. And you're unsure of what steps to take to get back to a normal routine. Correct?"

"Yes..."

"Every session so far, we've gone through your upbringing, your family life, school, friends, your first jobs... All up until now. Everything is perfectly fine, and yet we still can't seem to figure out why you've strayed from your habits. The only topic we haven't discussed is your sexual and romantic relationships."

You remain silent, eyes having dropped back down as he spoke, the flower pattern on your skirt suddenly becoming more like a dizzying optical illusion by the second.

Doctor Reid continues. "And judging your body language, I see that you haven't looked me in the eye once since I brought up sex. My guess is that something happened during your first time that—"

"Look, honestly I don't think that's relevant to my situation, I haven't had sex since then because I don't want to, it has nothing to do with this."

"It's okay if it does," Doctor Reid encourages. He is gentle as always, though if you hadn't known any better, you would think he sounds amused. "That's what I'm here for."

You glance up at him briefly, seeing a soft smile lighting the air between you. It briefly filters some of the embarrassment you're feeling, and with a sigh, you adjust in the chair and look off to the side.

"No. I didn't enjoy myself."

"Do... you want to tell me why you didn't enjoy yourself?"

You blink, feeling your chest tighten and your stomach churn at the memory. "It's stupid."

He calls your name gently, sympathetically... "I promise you it isn't... We don't have to discuss it now if you don't want to, but it's not stupid."

Thankfully he lets you mull it over in the silence for a while, giving you time to gather your emotions and thoughts. And eventually, without looking directly at him, you begin to open up.

"He hurt me... I—It wasn't... bad or anything, like he didn't do anything I didn't want to... I just... I—It hurt. Really bad. Like, I don't think I'd ever felt that kind of pain before."

"Did he, um... Go too hard? Do you think maybe that's why it hurt you?"

You let out the loudest breath of air, embarrassment and exasperation filling your lungs with every breath you take. "Yeah, that was part of it, but like... He was also kind of big, and it didn't feel good going in at all... And I know it's supposed to not feel great at first, and I thought it would get better, but... I—It just got worse, and worse, and I felt like I was getting torn apart from the inside out, I..."

Tears are steadily streaming down your face now, your throat incredibly tight and ears pounding as you try to find the strength to speak.

"I... I never want to do that again."

A box of tissues is dropped into your lap after you take the time to gather yourself a bit, and you mumble a small 'thank you' as you wipe your face. Doctor Reid is more than willing to let you take your time, and you couldn't be more thankful.

It's also great to know that it doesn't seem like he had been embarrassed for you or ready to laugh. In fact, his tone is still as smooth as ever, and incredibly warm as he speaks to you, aiming to help you work through this confidently and logically. It's an effort that comforts you more than you'd ever be able to express.

"Do you think that experience had an effect on the way you socialize somehow?"

"I... Maybe. Sure, I mean... I'm at that age where the people I hang out with all want to hook up, and if we're not trying to go home with someone, then we're not having a good time. It's... It's a lot of pressure, especially when I think about the fact that people like sex... I mean, like... That was awful, and people act like it's the end-all-be-all to enjoyment, I... I don't know..."

"Sure... You had a bad experience, and it's normal to retreat after experiencing that kind of pain... But it was only one time. You never know, maybe your partner just wasn't the right partner for you."

You shake your head intently. "No. No, that's not..."

There's a decent pause before Doctor Reid speaks again. "I want to ask you something... And this might be a bit personal, so I apologize if I push any boundaries..."

He waits for you to object, but you don't, silently giving him the go-ahead and wondering what else he could possibly ask you that hadn't already been beyond the boundaries of a deeply intimate and personal conversation.

"Have you ever masturbated before?"

Dear God, you suddenly feel like you have to throw up. "What?"

"Well, before you had sex... Did you ever... Explore what you like on your own?"

"Um... Y—Yeah, I guess so..."

"You guess so?"

You sigh, trying not to roll your eyes for fear of crying at any sudden movement. "Yes."

"Okay... In your exploration, did you ever try anything penetrative?"

"Do I actually have to answer that?"

"Of course you don't. If you're uncomfortable we can move on, but... I really do think this is going to help..."

You sigh again, then swallow hard as you look at his face once more, only to see him as he always has been— sincere and pensive and understanding. And then, as if that look is designed solely to pull information out of you, you can't help but continue.

"No... I've... only ever done clitoral stimulation."

"And what about after your first time? Have you masturbated since then?"

You pause, throat dry. The word comes out of you with resistance, its fear and indignity rising to the surface of your tongue like sandpaper. "No."

Then he pauses. And as you glance up at the clock to see your time is nearly up, you're pretty sure you know exactly what he's going to tell you, that sinking feeling returning to the pit of your stomach. Each breath feels like a stab to the chest.

Sure enough, he speaks and you close your eyes like shielding yourself from his words will prevent them from taking any meaning. You can hear the sympathy in them anyway, and you feel foolish for even attempting to hide.

"Before I see you next week, I suggest you try masturbating again. Maybe watch some pornography or read some erotica... Whatever you think will get you more comfortable with your body and your sexuality... And we'll see where you end up."

The whole situation is so ridiculous, you can't help but laugh, though there's not an ounce of humor lacing the sound. "Do you really think this is going to help me get over my... fear of sex, or whatever this is?"

He smiles softly at you, and despite the poor relationship you've been having with sex, it brings a low simmer to the pit of your stomach that scares more than excites you. "It's a good start."

It's a good start...

"It's a good start," you whispered when you got home that night, right before getting under the covers and letting your hand wander...

It worked, too.

You'd expected it to take way longer than a week to get back any sliver of libido. And it was definitely hard at first, but by the time your next session with Doctor Reid came around, you'd been masturbating regularly every day.

Though, it seems his instruction may have worked a little too well.

Once you were more comfortable with your own body again, you couldn't stop the images of his face as they danced in beautiful flashes behind your eyelids. Scenarios were acted out in your dreams, his presence melding with yours and replacing those you'd watched and read, and it created a new sense of anxiety once you realized that you'd have to see him again in a few days...

And now that you're here, only seconds away from the moment he'd walk through the door, your stomach twists and your heart leaps.

You almost think maybe running out the door is a good option, but then he's waltzing through it with that seasoned swiftness that only adds to his charm and intimidates you further.

"Good afternoon," he greets with a warm smile, taking the seat in front of you.

"Hi, Doctor."

"How was your week?"

You clear your throat, obviously not very good at hiding anything. "Fine."

"Just fine?"

"Yep."

He only waits for you to continue. You hate when he does that...

Because it works, getting you to talk every damn time. "Still not inclined to do anything out of my normal social routine, but I'm... better."

"How so?"

Feeling his gaze on you makes your heart lurch. "Um... I'm more... comfortable... with my body, I guess..."

"So you took my suggestion, then?"

You can only muster a nod, words dying in the back of your throat and evaporating into nothing. You're still not looking at him—not directly, anyway.

"You still seem... reserved."

"Well, I'm talking to my therapist about my masturbation habits..."

Thankfully he seems to understand, nodding with a small laugh that aims to lighten the mood and make you more comfortable around the whole situation. After all, it is only the start of your session this week, and a whole hour and a half of awkwardness wouldn't suffice.

Even still, what he says next doesn't ease your mind much at all.

"Do you mind elaborating a little?"

"I don't know how much more elaboration you need," you half-scoff, clearly defensive over your privacy— And with every right to be so, considering most of your thoughts had been about him.

"Well, let's start with how frequent you've been with it."

That you could do. "Um... about every day for the past week?" And right before I left the house...

"Good. How many times a day?"

"Once." Twice, sometimes three...

"Okay..." He writes things down, and then pauses before asking his next question. "Have you tried any new techniques?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I mean other than clitoral stimulation."

"No."

He must have sensed the unease in your punctuation, because he leans forward. "Let me be clear. My questions on the topic are thorough and perhaps a bit boundless, but I am not expecting you to be ready to have sex right away. You should always be allowed to go at your own pace, and I will always encourage you to do so, I hope you understand that."

"Right..." There's an awkward pause, but you want things to keep moving, so just to keep him talking, you clear your throat and continue, "So, um... What's the next step then?"

By the look in his eyes, you realize it had probably been the wrong question—and way—to ask. Even after just explaining that you could go at your own pace, the way you spoke to him could have easily been interpreted as a newfound confidence to push forward.

Currently, under his watchful gleaming eye, you find yourself feeling anything but confident. In the past week, unfortunately, that much hasn't changed. Especially after he tells you, "We're going to make sure you've actually been doing your homework. Come with me."

———

There's just something about you that Spencer can't seem to understand. It's something beautiful and alluring, and more than anything it's incredibly wrong. Because he surely shouldn't be taking you to a separate room in the building where they interview mental patients while others watch from behind one-way glass and take notes.

But here he is anyway, leading you into the room and trying desperately not to kiss or touch you in the meantime...

"W—What do you want me to do, exactly?" you ask in that timid way of yours. It's almost innocent, like you truly don't understand why he's brought you here rather than confirming your suspicions. And somehow that only makes him want you more.

"I would like for you to watch yourself masturbate in front of this mirror here." He opens the door and urges you inside as he follows. You survey the space as your hands fumble nervously, and he continues. "It's a form of exposure therapy. My hope is to get you not only to feel your pleasure, but to see it... The act of seeing yourself that way is a good effort to boost confidence and embrace sexuality. The room is soundproof, it's camera-free... Whatever you do in here will be completely private."

"I—Isn't this like... This... I..."

Spencer reaches out and touches your shoulder, and when you look at him like a lost puppy, he nearly caves. "I understand your reservations, and you are more than welcome to decline... But I really do think this will help you. You're completely safe here, it's important for you to know that."

He's speaking to you in that slow, collected way that always gets you to open up to him, and it proves itself useful once again when you finally nod and agree to do his assignment. He smiles tamely, though the images that grace his brain of what might transpire soon are anything but. The pit of his gut is a raging wildfire, and you, though deeply unaware just yet, are the fuel that feeds and flourishes it.

"What do I do when I'm done?" you ask.

He reaches into his pocket and gives you a pager. "You can page me with this. I'll be in my office, so by the time I get to you, you should have enough time to get yourself situated. Is that okay?"

"You're... Leaving me alone?"

The question almost knocks the wind out of him. To play it off though, he offers a small, breathy laugh. "Did you want me to watch?"

"That's not what I meant! I... I just mean... Anyone could..."

"Like I said, this room is completely safe and soundproof. I've booked it for your session today, so no one will be here to use it..." He thinks for a moment, suppressing a grin to the best of his ability when the words come tumbling out. "There is a room right next door if you'd prefer I stay closer though, just in case."

"Y—Yes, please..."

Spencer smiles and hands you the pager, trying not to linger too long when his knuckles brush the inside of your palm. "Okay. Page me when you're done, and I'll give you a few minutes to collect yourself. Okay?"

"Okay," you offer with a nod and a small smile. Your nerves have calmed, and maybe this helps Spencer feel better about what he's about to do, but regardless of his ulterior motives, he truly is glad you're making progress.

He leaves and shuts the door, locking it and making quick work of sliding into the small door next to it. After locking that one as well, he switches on the light and settles in, seeing that you've only just sat down on the small couch in the middle of the room.

You both lean back at about the same time, you into the couch cushions and Spencer in the spinning desk chair. It doesn't take but a single movement of your hand down to the button of your jeans to make him hard, and the sight has him even more determined to make you feel the same way about him that he does you.

It's set in stone the moment you slide the denim down your legs and spread them wide, right in front of him. He watches as you take a deep breath and rub yourself through your panties, little pieces of your hesitation crumbling away by the second, and he just knows he's going to fuck you properly.

When, he doesn't know. But it will happen, that much he's sure of.

In the meantime, he settles for fantasy. Spencer opens up his own pants and just loosens them enough to get his dick out, and all the while his eyes are trained solely on you.

He doesn't start moving his hand until you slide your panties down as well, fluttering your eyes closed the moment your finger makes contact with your bare clit. In that moment, Spencer is glad for the soundproofing, because if you'd actually heard the way he groaned out just then, he would have been doomed. He spits on his hand and starts to glide it softly over himself, matching the speed of your own as it languidly explores your body.

All he can think about is how beautiful you are... He should be thinking about how wrong this is, or how you probably don't feel the same attraction to him that he so obviously feels about you, and doing this is only making his crush worse...

But damn it, you're just so captivating, and he can't stop.

And he doesn't.

No, Spencer doesn't even give a second thought to sighing out your name and imagining you in front of him—closer than you are now—with your head tilted up and your pretty eyes batting up at him while he fucks your throat. He mindlessly whispers praises in between low whines as his speed and pressure increases, and he's so close to coming.

He can hold out, though. He can wait for you. He wants to wait for you. He wants to watch you come undone before he even thinks about getting there himself.

But of course, as they say, you don't always get what you want.

It's not like it's his fault, though. You're the one who's losing yourself in a fantasy, using his name on your lips as a plea to aid you in the most intimate form of pleasure...

"Doctor Reid," he can hear you whine as you squirm and bring yourself closer to bliss.

He can't help it, then. His name desperately falling off your tongue sets off the explosion that ripples through his insides. His hand falters, and he releases the most pathetic sound he's ever made right as he comes all over his hand. You're calling his name again, in broken chants getting higher and higher in pitch until you're incoherent, and he's just a sticky, flustered mess.

He sits there and watches you reach your climax, still gently stroking his cock with a lip between his teeth. Your eyes squeeze shut and your mouth hangs open, and your legs, while still wide, are wavering and tensing. His eyes travel down to your hand as it strokes and circles, and he wishes more than anything that it was his.

In fact, the thought gives him an idea for another session...

ACT II: Awakening

The amount of time you've spent the last month watching porn is extremely embarrassing. It's not even just to get off anymore, either, though the relief is nice. Still, the act itself doesn't embarrass you so much as where your mind goes when you do it. You're purposely watching videos where the men have slim builds and curly hair so you can squint and imagine who you really wish you were watching...

It's wrong and dangerous and probably illegal somehow, and still, it's a better place than you were in months ago... So you can't really complain, can you?

Yes, really, you can; You still have to see your therapist while regularly having sexual fantasies about him. Which would be fine if you didn't have to talk to him about your sexual habits every session...

You almost think about cancelling today, but despite the overwhelming amount of time spent thinking about sex and how much you actually want it, you figure that means this therapy is helping. Yourself a month ago would be absolutely petrified at the idea of watching some girl get railed on screen repeatedly, vivid flashbacks of your first and final experience of sex surely to barge in and render the porn and its purpose useless.

So, despite the potential awkwardness, you end up in his office right on time.

Doctor Reid is already there, standing next to a small fold-out bed in the middle of the room with the rest of the furniture moved out of the way. It almost looks like a completely different place.

"Oh, am... Did I get the wrong time?"

He calls your name brightly, turning to see you. "You're right on time, actually. Come on in. I want to talk about your next step... I assume you've been keeping up with your homework?"

You swear then that you must still be in your bedroom, watching porn on a loop, weary and orgasmed out, because you can instantly feel the setup here; It wouldn't be hard to put the pieces together. The cliche nature of it all makes you think you might just be blurring reality and fantasy, your legs weak as you make your way over to him.

"Yes, I have..." you confirm cautiously, though the back of your mind is already battling over whether or not to be excited or scared, or both, at the prospect of this 'next step'. Is it something you're really willing to do? Is it in the realm of comfortable possibility?

Doctor Reid smiles at you, and, Yes, you think finally, it is.

"Well, you've done really well lately, and I'm proud of you for taking this journey in rediscovering your sexuality. It isn't an easy feat after going through what you did, and your progress is something you should be very proud of."

Admittedly, the praise is nice. It's comforting. Genuine. You really have progressed in embracing your sexual desires, though the thought of trusting someone enough to respect your boundaries and understand your reservations to the act itself is nearly sickening.

Unless, of course, that person is your therapist. Then it's not so hard to imagine.

Your body warms at the implications, and suddenly you're nervous all over again, your eyes trying not to eye the bed in the middle of the room. Through a deep breath, you tell him, "Thank you. What's on the agenda today?"

The small laugh that escapes him has you weak in the knees again. "Eager, are we?"

Oh, there's no way he's not flirting...

Right?

You shrug and offer a smile. "You did renovate your office rather... drastically... Excuse a girl for being curious, Doctor."

"Touché," he replies. His syllables are slow and smooth, and when his eyes bare into yours, reality and fantasy have moved past the point of blurring— they've full-on collided, creating this new atmosphere of thick, palpable debauchery that promises to alter the course of your life forever.

You want to jump his bones now, before something changes your mind, but you can't move. The possibility of misreading the situation is far too humiliating to make any sudden movements or declarations of desire.

"Please, sit," Doctor Reid invites, and you calm a little. Your limbs are still on fire with each muscle that moves, until you're seated on the bed, looking up at him and trying not to give yourself away.

Just in case.

If he can tell what's going on in your brain, he doesn't let on. Still, there's something that lives in his gaze, something knowing and all-consuming that calms your nerves like a weighted blanket as his voice plunges you further into this fantastical reality you've created together.

"Like I said, it seems that you've been succeeding at rediscovering and maintaining a healthy sexual appetite. How does that make you feel?"

"Um... Really good, actually. I think I've come a long way, and it's all because of you."

It hadn't been intentional to phrase it that way, but as soon as the words leave your mouth and his lips quirk into a gentle smirk, you avert your gaze, clutching the edge of the bed. "I mean, your suggestions and your kindness have been extremely helpful..."

"That's what I'm here for," he says, amusement lacing his tone, but disappearing quickly as he continues. "Now, I know it's only been just over a month, and it's still absolutely imperative that you do this at your own pace. So if you find yourself feeling like you're not ready to move forward when I ask you this, you are not obligated to agree. Is that understood?"

Your heart is beating wildly within the confines of your chest, daring to and desperate for escape. "Yes, Doctor."

His tongue darts out over his bottom lip as the honorific trickles sweetly off of yours, and then he clears his throat, taking a step closer to you. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes." There isn't a single ounce of hesitation in the meaning of the word or the speed at which it leaves your mouth. It's not even a second thought.

"My hope for today's session is to get you to a place where you're comfortable with trying different techniques. And if you don't mind, I'd like to assist—to show you some new pleasure points and help you discover what you like. Is that something you're willing to do?"

You nod slowly, words feeling impossible, which brings a small smile to his face.

"Okay, a few rules. This is a very vulnerable thing. So you need to use your words. I'm not comfortable moving forward unless you explicitly say so, so I ask you again; Do you give me permission to help you experiment?"

"Yes."

Firm. Some might even say confident. The word rings sharply in the air for a few moments before Doctor Reid nods and responds quietly, "Good."

He walks over to you, slowly until his knees are barely touching yours. You feel yourself becoming a living current of electricity at the sheer closeness of him, never mind that he hasn't even touched you. You can only imagine what it will feel like when he does, the thought making you fight the urge to clamp your thighs together.

"Do I have your permission to touch you?"

Touch me how? you want to ask, but you realize it wouldn't matter; You'd let him touch you in any way he pleased. So instead, you tell him, "Please."

His eyes rake slowly over your figure then, possibly considering his next move, but then he simply nudges your knee with his leg, the most brief form of touch but still electrifying all the same. "Will you hold your right leg out for me?"

Not quite what you would have expected, but you do as he says, extending your leg as he rests his palm under your ankle.

"Are you familiar with erogenous zones?"

Your heart leaps. "Yes. I know the concept."

He considers this before slightly swiping his thumb along the side of your ankle. "Are you familiar with your erogenous zones?"

"I can't say I've ever thought about it, so... Probably not, no."

"Hmmm."

Honestly, you figure it wouldn't even matter where he touched you; The fact that he's taken an interest in your sexual desires and putting them to the test with an attentive, hands-on approach is more than enough to get you hot and bothered. The sheer presence of him alone makes your whole body pulse with writhing need.

Still, you let him explore, trying not to prove impatient. It's incredibly difficult when the denim of your jeans slowly becomes nothing more than a claustrophobic obstacle to his attention. Everywhere his fingers brush, heat radiates, but you know it could be stronger. You try your hardest to focus on his questions and less on the signals your body is sending you, violently and utterly whorish. You'd never been this way before, not even by yourself, and you're becoming less and less patient by the minute

Doctor Reid seems to notice this as his knuckles brush the inside of your palm, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Are you relaxed?" he asks quietly, keeping his head low but lifting his eyes to meet yours. Something about the sight stirs in your stomach.

"Yes."

"You don't sound very convinced."

You can't help but succumb to the bout of nervous laughter that's been dancing in its cage in the back of your throat the whole session. His fingers halt their gentle discovery of your body but remain rested in your palm, every nerve ending threatening to explode. "Well, I don't know if relaxed is really the right word, but... I'm... Good."

He hums pensively, pausing to tilt his head. "You've been responding rather enthusiastically to just about every touch..." If he's amused by this, you can't tell, but the words feel like a prideful observation regardless. "I suppose that means we can move this along..."

When his eyes meet yours again, you nearly whimper.

"May I kiss you?" he asks.

His knuckles start moving slowly against your palm, and your entire arm lights up with excitement at the contact, as does your heart. Suddenly the room feels cold yet hot at the same time, a deep chill crashing through your body like a tidal wave. Your nipples are painfully hard against the fabric of your bra, and you feel it in your bones.

You've never been so turned on in your life.

You nod, then stop yourself, remembering his rules. The word sounds utterly wanton as it gently squeaks past your lips, but it's the best you can do to give him permission short of reaching up and pulling him down to kiss him yourself.

"Please..."

He surprises you again by stepping forward and lifting your arm to his mouth. Sticky honey eyes trap you in their gaze as his lips replace his knuckles on the inside of your palm, soft and warm in every aspect. He takes his time, grazing his nose along your fingers and then your wrist as he drops the gentle pressure of a kiss along every centimeter of skin he explores. It's thorough and attentive and gentle, and you're mesmerized.

Eventually he's kissed his way up your whole arm, and it feels like you've been in this bed for hours, something slowly awakening inside you at his every touch. The excitement bubbling in your bloodstream starts to boil over when he reaches your collarbone, using his hand to slip under the strap of your tank top so he can kiss you there.

Responding to his touch has become second nature at this point, so your head leans away and gives him room to start kissing your neck, to which he does happily.

Where Doctor Reid's kisses had been kind and curious in their pursuit, they've now grown indulgent. His lips part, lavishing the skin at the side of your neck with a warm, wet caress that makes your toes curl and your fists clench. His hand comes up to drag the pad of his middle finger down your throat as his tongue darts out and laps at your skin, and you moan.

Your hips grind and your thighs clench, a disastrous wave of heat flooding through you, and he sucks gently on your skin for a second before sighing.

"There it is..."

You pout when he pulls away, but he strokes your hairline and doesn't go far. "How are you feeling?"

"Really good," you breathe through a nervous smile.

"Are you turned on?"

Obviously, you want to exclaim, but given his thorough and affirmative nature, it makes sense. You also force yourself to remember that he's your therapist and not a guy you've taken home for the night. He's a professional, despite how unprofessional in nature this particular situation is on paper; He's not going to move the process along based on an assumption, no matter how obvious your reactions might be.

"Very," you tell him confidently, a proud gleam in your eye as you look up at him. The twitch of his grin does more than excite you— it urges you. "You turn me on, Doctor Reid..."

"Is that so?"

"Mhmmm."

He leans and his breath is hot in your ear. His voice comes in low and seductive. Curious. Careful.

"Then I'd like you to show me. Will you touch yourself for me, love?"

The pet name makes you clench around nothing, and you whimper at the way it stings. At this point it's physically painful to keep lying there at his mercy without any sort of stimulation, so despite how embarrassing and desperate it might be, your hand is slipping under the band of your sweatpants with ease as you sigh out. "I'll do anything..."

The back of his knuckles tease your neck as you slowly circle your clit with your middle finger, and you don't have to do much wandering to gather your wetness either. Everything is warm and wet and ready for release, which doesn't go unnoticed by Doctor Reid.

"I can hear how wet you are," he muses brightly, his throat caught in a groan as his lips hover over your neck. "That's good."

"Uh-huh?" you whine out, his praises bringing you closer to nirvana.

"That's really good... Are you close already, baby?"

You can't help but moan at the name, a white-hot pool of pleasure filling up in your gut as his lips attach to your pulse-point. "Yes, Doctor..."

"Mmm," he hums into your skin, continuing to kiss you. His hand strokes your forehead as your own makes quick work of your clit. It won't be but a matter of seconds before you're coming undone. "How long can you go between orgasms? Do you know?"

"I... usually wait... ten minutes at least..."

Doctor Reid licks softly at your neck before he asks, "Have you used a vibrator or a toy?"

You laugh involuntarily, clenching your legs as your orgasm approaches and wishing you had your vibrator right now. You bought it after your third session. "A vibrator. A cheap one... But it works."

"Nothing wrong with that," he mumbles amusedly into your skin, trailing his kisses up to your jaw. It takes everything you have not to turn your head and take his lips with your own, just to taste his warmth as you come undone—to whimper and whine into his mouth with every wave of pleasure that crashes through you, and—

God, that's exactly what's happening...

Your body shudders blissfully as Spencer kisses you, and the moment doesn't even feel real. His mouth is gentle but coaxing, helping you through your orgasm with a sense of accomplishment, like his kisses are a reward. At least, it certainly feels that way. It doesn't help that when you finally come down, slowing your breathing and removing your hand from your pants, he rests his forehead to yours with a final gentle peck on the mouth and an affirming, "Very good, sweetheart."

You can't help but feel like he takes note of the way you flutter your eyes closed at the nickname; there's a pause in his movements before he returns to them, lightly trailing his knuckles over your neck until his touch disappears completely.

Even though you just came moments before, his next sentence nearly gives you a second wind, your eyes snapping open and your cunt throbbing with want.

"Has anyone ever eaten you out before?"

"No," you tell him truthfully, and he studies you with a look in his eyes that tells you he isn't surprised to hear the unfortunate news. Embarrassed suddenly at his pity, you try to shrug it off. "Men seem to be pretty notorious for being bad at it though, so I didn't hold it against him... My ex, I mean..." You huff a nervous laugh, seeing Doctor Reid stare at you blankly. "I figured it would save us both the trouble."

"There's nothing troubling about it," he mumbles, more to himself. But then he straightens and inhales, back to business as his gaze cements into yours once again. "Would you be willing to let me do it?"

Even more embarrassing than the fact that it hasn't been done before is the speed at which you respond, "Yes." The word is sharp and desperate, loud and true, and you swear you see Spencer's eyes glow. "Please..."

It's hard to tell what he's thinking exactly—ever the professional he is—but aside from lack of a smile or any other indicator of eagerness, his eyes give his emotions away on a grander scale. They're practically fucking you already as he saunters around the bed, their intensity settling deep in the pit of your stomach. Suddenly you're convinced you could come just by his stare alone.

"May I?" he questions, gently tugging at the ankle of your leggings.

"Yes."

"Lift your hips for me, sweetheart."

After a sentence like that, you aren't sure how you have the strength to do it, but you manage, hot flashes coursing through your entire body as his nimble fingers grip the waistband of your leggings and slide them over your hips, then your thighs. His skin is hot against yours, even with as little contact as there is; a simple brush of the knuckle over your knee might as well be a branding iron, claiming you as his own.

He doesn't even have to instruct you, your legs falling wide open once they're free from their fabric confines.

At this point you aren't even embarrassed anymore. You might even be proud of it— how badly you want him to touch you and taste you and show you just how good another person could make you feel. In an odd way it makes you feel important. Cared for.

Your cunt throbs at the intensity of all these emotions and feelings.

It doesn't help when Doctor Reid settles between your legs, making himself comfortable and looking up at you through his eyelashes. The sight is just as overwhelming as everything else.

"You're absolutely sure you want this?" he inquires softly, almost like a plea.

Your vocal cords feel like they're made of rope, the words climbing out of you with burning calluses and a determination to see it through to the end. You've never wanted anything so badly, and you tell him precisely that.

The confirmation seems to please him, a beautiful lilted sigh escaping him as his nose comes in contact with your underwear. It rests just above your clit, his breath hot against you.

His hands come up from under you then, gripping your thighs to keep you steady as he presses an open-mouthed kiss to your clothed cunt. The gentle pressure makes you moan and squirm, his fingers gripping your thighs even tighter, and you sigh his name.

He keeps going, taking his sweet time to explore what areas get reactions from you, though he's quick to learn that every touch, every kiss, every gentle probe of the tongue... all of it is slowly undoing you to the point of madness.

With a hooked finger pulling your panties aside, Doctor Reid sighs into your thigh.

"Are you ready for it, pretty girl?"

All you can manage is the most whiny, whorish "Uh-huh," to the air. It echoes brightly and rings in your ears long after the moment, time seeming to stop right as his tongue comes in contact with your dripping heat.

The sensation is hot and sharp, and never ending. After what seems like forever, the tip of his tongue finally comes up and swiftly flicks your clit before he repeats the entire motion, like a wave crashing over the shore, and that's when your body finally releases all its tension.

You hadn't even realized you were so tense. Your fingers release their grip on the thin sheet beneath you and your chest sighs of relief, and that's when you feel yourself finally start to breathe. Head spinning, the sensations happening below you are coming into sharp clarity.

Spencer's tongue is relentless, leaving no crevice untouched by pleasureful curiosity. But you barely even have time to wonder if he might be enjoying himself more than you are, because all thought at all completely disappears the very moment his lips gather around your clit, sucking softly as he groans.

"Ohhhh my god..."

You're unable to keep your hips from grinding into his mouth. Still, he persists, cycling between sucking and licking and kissing, and it takes everything you have not to reach down and thread your fingers through his hair.

"You taste so fucking good," he sighs, coming up for air for a second. Then he kisses you again and repeats himself. "You're so good..."

This time you do reach down for his head, brushing the stray strands away from his forehead as he looks up at you. He pauses his ministrations, and his tongue's absence is sorely missed in feeling but a pleasure to the eyes as he runs it over his bottom lip in a slow, almost predatory nature.

"I'm going to slowly add a finger, is that okay?"

The thought admittedly panics you, flashbacks of pain and disappointment and embarrassment barging in and nearly ruining the moment. But Spencer can tell, his head tilting into your thigh again until it makes contact. His hair tickles and sends a shiver over your limb as he uses his hands to rub gentle, reassuring circles into your skin.

"We don't have to. I can keep doing it just like this if you prefer. Whatever you want, sweetheart."

The words shoot straight to your core, which sparks the realization that your previous encounter with sex was nothing like this at all. Not only in situation, obviously, but in feeling as well. You were excited to do it the first time, sure, but the build-up was pretty much non-existent. And now here you've been, pining away at this man for weeks, reawakening your libido and engaging in the longest game of foreplay known to man.

You have this very moment to show for it, your entire body humming with want and your worries slowly melting away under Doctor Reid's careful yet eager exploration.

Where there had once been an absence of communication and genuine care, now rests a bright and blossoming excess of it, in every touch and every pull of his eyes. It burns through you like a shot of whiskey, growing in sizzling warmth as it reaches every limb.

It's this new, odd and exciting comfort that urges you to tell him, "It's okay. You can do it."

You expect him to sigh in relief, grateful for your permission, but if he feels it he doesn't show it. Gentle hands continue caressing the underside of your thighs and he looks up at you. "You're sure?"

"Yes. I want it. I want your fingers inside of me, please."

Between the desperate emphasis in your nodding and the way your eyes are practically begging him, you've sealed your fate, a soft gasp reaching your throat when his middle finger slides through your opening and sends a rush of excitement over every plane of your body.

He doesn't enter you, but simply glides, up and down, like he's trying to soothe you.

"Tell me if it's too much, okay?"

"O-kay..."

Your breath shakes on the last syllable, his fingertip slowly disappearing inside you. He takes his sweet time, one knuckle, then two, and then he's fully inside you, and it's not nearly as painful as the last time somebody had been there.

"Fuck, you're so warm..." His eyes search yours for a moment before he sighs and lowers his head. "So beautiful..." And then his mouth is on you again, his compliment muffled by the essence of your pleasure, and your head is thrown back in an instant.

As his finger kindly allows you to adjust to its residence, experimentally moving in and out, his tongue continues to lap at your clit, and both sensations together are a bit odd but not unwelcome. You're slowly getting used to the fullness, yet something in you aches for more...

Maybe it's in your sighs, or the way your hands claw at the sheets, or perhaps he simply just knows you that well, but either way, Spencer knows.

He adds another finger, slowly and without an ounce of resistance from your body, and when you sigh out this time, it's of relief. You smile through it, allowing yourself to revel in the feeling of something new and erotic and exciting. Every whimper that falls from your lips is prideful and maybe even a bit exaggerated, but it's entirely worth it if only for the encouragement it seems to give Doctor Reid to keep going.

After a while of letting you get used to the feeling, he pulls back and twists his palm up before he enters you again, slowly as he says, "You're taking them so well... I'm proud of you, love..."

His fingers are in as far as they can go, and then they curve up just right, and you gasp.

"That feel good?"

"Uh-huh..."

"Yeah?" he coos proudly, starting a rhythm with his fingers that has you crying out in unbelievable pleasure. You're quickly reaching a peak again, every sensation from the fullness of his fingers and the way they twist and curl inside you to the sounds he makes as he kisses and sucks at your clit sending you into overdrive.

Dizziness starts to swarm you and your body can't handle it. Rather than fight this tight, new feeling brewing at each stroke of his fingers, you embrace it with deep breaths and cries out into the air, and then it snaps inside you.

Doctor Reid manages to keep your legs open as he works you through it, though you're not sure how you haven't crushed him yet. Everything feels tight and sharp and blindingly good—it feels like something that would take an army to keep from closing in.

Still, he does it, holding you open and groaning his way through your orgasm. Your hands instinctively reach out to keep him there, clutching at his hair and holding on for dear life while you tremble and clench around him.

Galaxies dance vividly behind your eyelids for what feels like eons as the pleasure bursts through you like a display of shooting stars, until eventually it subsides and your body feels extremely tired.

"Mmm, see? No trouble at all." He removes his fingers and continues to lazily make out with your cunt through small aftershocks of overstimulation, and then he's gone.

He gives you a few moments to collect yourself before he asks, "How do you feel?"

"Tired," you sigh with a smile, relaxing back with your eyes closed. You feel like you could take a nap. "But good. Very good."

His momentary silence intrigues you, so you flutter your eyes open and see that the heat in them hasn't subsided. In fact, it burns through him brightly as he prowls up the bed and climbs over your body until you're face-to-face. Something hard and hot and familiar rests firmly against your thigh and you choke on a whimper.

"Have you ever tasted yourself before?" he inquires, his voice barely above a whisper.

You swallow and prepare yourself. "No."

"Would you like to?"

And then without a second thought, your hands bring his face down to yours, and you embrace the subtle tang of your pleasure on his lips. He groans into your mouth, low and warm as his hips rut into your thigh.

The action sends you into overdrive, and suddenly you want to ask if you can return the favor, but Doctor Reid seems to have other ideas.

A finger delicately makes its way past your lips, seamlessly replacing his tongue, and you open your eyes again, nearly falling apart at the sight of him. The man is wild, eyes desperate for release as you suck on his finger, and then he adds another.

You clean him of your essence, sensual and enthusiastic in your maneuvers in a newfound confidence that wouldn't even exist now if not for him. So you treat this act as a reward to him, an act of gratitude, regardless of whether or not this session is technically all about discovering your likes and dislikes. If anything, you've learned that you like pleasing him. And so—if the constant friction between his bulge and your thigh is any indication—you'd have to say that his goal for today's session has been achieved tenfold.

"God, you're perfect," he huffs as his movements stutter and his hips still. You moan around his fingers, gliding your tongue in the space between them, and when he finally comes, he's choking out your name.

His weight gradually comes down on top of you, his fingers sliding out of your mouth and resting on your chest as he finds his composure. And then he's kissing your neck and your jaw, and each hot caress of his mouth at your pulse point feels like a reward of its own, an intimate form of affection made specifically for you.

Your name sighing past his lips and into your skin is proof enough of that; the lust is still there, sure, but it's laced with something else. Something softer.

As the breathing between the two of you slows, you comb through his hair with your fingers and sigh. An odd, pleasant feeling swirls around in your gut.

"Thank you, Doctor Reid."

"Mmm, you're very welcome," he murmurs into your skin, still nestled into the crook of your neck.

"For everything," you clarify. "A month ago, doing something like that would have felt impossible to even imagine, but... You make me feel safe, and cared for. And more importantly, you don't make me feel like I should be ashamed. Like there isn't actually something wrong with me. I don't know how to thank you enough for that."

When he pulls away, you almost think you might have scared him off, but the look in his eyes is anything but fearful. In fact, they practically shine like a glimmering lively lake as they search your own.

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. You're beautiful, and bright, and curious... And as long as you remember that, and you hold onto it, you will be just fine—no matter where you go, or... who you go to."

You shake your head, that feeling in your gut growing exponentially and the words flying out before you can stop them. "I don't want to go to anyone else. I only want you."

The look in his eyes deepens, almost a little melancholic in their intensity, close enough to that fear you were worried about earlier to make your heart beat faster.

"You don't mean that," he says, and you want to cry. Hell, you might, if that feeling in your stomach is speaking for something.

"Like hell I don't," you counter, cradling his head in your hands. "You're the first person I've actually wanted to be around in so long, and... Maybe it's twisted, maybe it's not right, but if there is anyone that I need, it's you. I won't even be your patient anymore if that makes up for it, I just want to see you. I trust you. More than I would trust any stranger."

When your name exits his lips, this time it's a gentle warning. Authoritative. But still sweet. Maybe even a little disappointed. "The purpose of these more... interactive sessions was to get you comfortable with trusting people with your body as much as you do... Seeing me and no one else would, in the end, defeat that purpose."

All feeling in your bloodstream curdles and starts to wither away with rejection. Embarrassment fizzles behind your eyelids as you close them, forming into tears that you try and will away until you're out of his sight. "You don't... actually want me..."

He tenses at your exclamation, and sighs. "That is absolutely not what I said. Look at me."

"Then... what?"

Spencer remains professional, but there's something hiding behind his eyes that longs to get out, you can see that. You can feel it too, as prominently as you feel your heart beating in your chest.

"As your therapist, it is in both of our best interests that I recommend you to try a night out. You don't have to sleep with anyone or do anything you're uncomfortable with, obviously, but... Based on what we've accomplished today, it is my professional opinion that you're ready for the next step."

So you're kicking me out, you cry dramatically in your head, even though you know it isn't true. Still, there's something inside you that doesn't want to let go— that can't. This connection you have with him is something strong and beautiful, something valuable. Something profound. You're not going down without a fight, until he is kicking you out of his office.

Your fingers glide down the side of his face and your eyes sharpen, studying his face with lustful reverence.

"And what are your thoughts as a man... and not my therapist?"

While you'd intended it more as a plea, your words seem to challenge him. Gone is the liberal professionalism, replaced with a familiar sly desire that ignites your heart and fills you with hope.

"As a man... it's impossible even trying to deny you..."

The words excite and warm you all over. You hum, nudging your nose to his and thinking aloud. "Mmm. After my hour is up and the day is long over... Maybe I should wander back to the parking lot and let a man take me home... As my therapist, d'you think that would count as a night out?"

You're relentlessly teasing him now, but he seems  alright with it, laughing dryly above you as his hands clutch your shirt and his hips shift firmly into your thigh again. "Haven't you gotten bold," he muses lowly, his mouth inching closer to yours.

"What can I say... You're very good at your job, Doctor."

"Mmm, you make it easy, love."

His lips are on yours soon after that, and with each tick of the clock your kisses grow hungrier.

Nothing escalates, but for the next fifteen-or-so minutes, your body remains buzzing with the ever-present energy of him, the knowledge that his presence has altered the course of your life forever, and the hope that the feeling is mutual.

Though, if the way he holds you and kisses you means anything, there is nothing to worry about in the slightest.

You leave his office that day feeling lighter, and while you're a far cry from where you were when you started seeing Doctor Reid, you're certain that by tomorrow you'll be a completely different woman.

[deansbeer]

Okay but surprising and then fucking Dean in his iconic brown leather jacket over lingerie you bought and he haaaaaad to fuck you in the back of the impala and he refuses to let you take the jacket off during it bc he wants it to smell like sex but also it’s driving him insane

sex in the backseat of the impala >>> here u go baby !

⎯⎯ adult content | mdni eighteen plus. + disclaimer! if this does not sit right w u pls click tf away <3

♡ smut | f!reader | p in v | rough sex | swearing | power dynamics | dom!dean | impala sex | semi-public sex | possessiveness | light manhandling.

you knew exactly what you were doing when you bought the lingerie. something soft, something lace, something that would make dean lose his goddamn mind. but what you didn't expect was how much worse it would be when you paired it with his leather jacket.

he'd tossed it over your shoulders absentmindedly when the night air turned sharp, too busy finishing off his beer to really look at you. but after you had slowly removed your jeans and t-shirt off your body, then draped the leather jacket back over your shoulders, the dim glow of the motel lot catching the edges of your bare thighs, all thoughts of leaving for the room disappeared. you saw it the second it happened—his pupils blowing wide, jaw going slack just before it clenched tight.

"get in the backseat," he rasped, already reaching for the door.

you didn't argue.

now you're in the backseat, back pressed against the cool leather, legs spread around his hips as he pounds into you like he's got something to prove. his jacket is still wrapped around you, too big, too warm, the heavy scent of leather and whiskey and him surrounding you entirely.

you reach to push it off, but his hands snap to your wrists, pinning them above your head as he growls, "leave it."

"but—"

"need you in it," he mutters against your throat, grinding deep just to hear you whimper. "need it to smell like this—like you—so every time i put it on, i remember this. remember you."

your breath stutters, nails digging into his arms as he fucks into you harder, rougher, like he's trying to brand the memory into his skin.

"jesus, sweetheart," he groans, burying his face against your shoulder. "you're gonna ruin me."

it's a promise, not a warning.

[girlfromenglishclass]

I know it's been months and we're all done complaining about House of the Dragon, but it was just such a wasted opportunity to not follow the book canon of the Greens being beloved of the people.

Even if they still wanted to frame the show with Rhaenyra as our star and character to root for, framing Aegon as a full blown antagonist just doesn't have the same dynamic storytelling that GRRM creates. Aegon being an inept king is absolutely not the same thing as him being disliked. Inept political leaders become populists and demagogues all the time. Framing Aegon as someone without real leadership or intelligence BUT with magnanimity and charisma makes him a much more real threat. Rhaenyra would be the better monarch, but as a woman and as less charming, she fails to get the support of the people. It's topical.

If they followed through on the scene of Aegon holding court, clearly reveling in the fact that the people love him, it creates a more interesting character motivation. Aegon didn't even want to be King, so the war to keep him on the throne feels wildly futile, but Aegon fighting to keep the love he's always been desperate for, that's compelling.

Plus, Helaena as a beloved queen would have furthered the themes around gender that season one created. She's meek and pleasant and pretty, so people love her. Rhaenyra as fiery and lusty and powerful, so people hate her. It's topical, it's dynamic, and it actually says something about the perception of gender as a performance in which you are punished for not participating.

And this isn't me saying "wow the show needed more misogyny; they needed to be nicer to the pretty princess" I'm saying it's a show about misogyny, so like, do something with that.

[slut-for-slutty-fictional-men]

HII!! Can you please write something about George and the reader doing cute TikTok trends together 🥰💕

Couple's Content

Pairing: George Clarkey x Reader Genre: Fluff, TikTok shenanigans, established relationship Word Count: 750

masterlist

It starts, like most questionable ideas, with boredom and George scrolling TikTok at 11:47 p.m.

You’re both on the sofa, legs tangled, half-watching Shrek 2 and half-scrolling your respective For You pages when he nudges you with his foot.

“Let’s make couple TikToks,” he says.

You snort. “Since when are we that couple?”

“We’ve literally been dating for a year. People already assume we do.”

“And you wanna give them proof?”

He grins, that stupid charming grin that always wins. “We’d go viral, babe. Plus I look hot tonight.”

You roll your eyes but cave immediately.

He’s a 10 but…

The ring light is set up. George has changed into a hoodie that definitely used to be yours. You’re both perched on the edge of your bed, trying not to laugh between takes.

You begin: “He’s a 10 but he still calls trousers ‘slacks’ unironically.”

George gasps. “That was one time! And it was a bit!”

“Sure it was, George the Victorian chimney sweep.”

He counters: “She’s a 10 but she makes PowerPoint presentations of her birthday wishlists.”

You nod proudly. “Organization is sexy.”

He pauses. “She’s a 10 but she once fake-cried at a restaurant so we could get a free dessert.”

You grin. “And did we?”

“…yes.”

“Exactly.”

The video ends with you both wheezing, and you catch a look in his eyes that makes your stomach flip — soft and golden, like you’re the funniest, loveliest thing he’s ever seen.

Who’s Most Likely To?

You're lying side by side now, pointing at each other in time with the questions.

“Who’s most likely to cry during a movie?” You both point at him. He hides his face in mock shame.

“Who’s most likely to start an argument?” You point at yourself. George doesn’t deny it—just kisses your shoulder in truce.

“Who’s most likely to propose?” You both hesitate. Then slowly… point at him.

You glance over. His ears are pink. “You thinking about it already, Clarkey?”

“Gotta keep the brand strong,” he murmurs. “Power couple content, innit?”

You pretend to scoff but your cheeks are warm.

We Listen & We Don’t Judge

You kneel in front of each other. George clicks record:

“This is a safe space. We listen and we don’t judge.” “Okay…” “Go ahead.” “I save your voice notes. Like... all of them.”

You blink. “All?”

He rubs his neck. “Even the stupid ones. Especially the stupid ones.”

Your heart does a thing.

“We listen and we don’t judge.” “Okay…” “Go ahead.” “Sometimes I get distracted during arguments ‘cause you look really hot when you're mad.”

You snort. “George.”

“I’m serious. The glare, the pout, the little crease in your forehead—”

“You’re deranged.”

“You’re fit. Not my fault.”

“We listen and we don’t judge.” “Okay…” “Go ahead.” “I once used your fancy shampoo on the dog ‘cause he smelled like bin juice.”

You stare at him. “GEORGE. That bottle cost £18.”

“He smelled amazing though, to be fair.”

“We listen and we don’t judge.” “Okay…” “Go ahead.” “I once dropped your toothbrush behind the toilet. And just… rinsed it off.”

His jaw drops. “WHAT—”

“WE LISTEN AND WE DON’T JUDGE!!” you shout.

He’s chasing you around the flat within seconds, yelling, “I trusted you!”

It’s late by the time you’re done. Your phones are buzzing nonstop—comments pouring in, people obsessing over your dynamic. One top comment reads:

“This is what it looks like when your soulmate is also your best friend 😭🫶”

George reads it aloud with a dramatic sniff. “They get us.”

You smile and rest your head on his chest. His fingers trace slow circles on your back.

“You know,” he says softly, “I kinda love doing this stuff with you.”

“Even when I roast your fashion sense in front of millions?”

“Especially then.”

You look up at him. His eyes are gentle, a little sleepy, a little full.

“I love you,” you say, because you can’t not.

His smile grows like he’s been waiting. “I love you too.”

A pause.

“…did we record that?” you ask suddenly.

His eyes widen. You both scramble for the phone.

The last video is still recording. You both freeze in the frame, eyes wide, mid-panic—then burst out laughing.

George shrugs. “Guess the internet’s getting the soft launch and the hard launch.”

You press a kiss to his jaw. “Good. Let them see.”

TikTok Comments, 2 Hours Later:

“DID THEY JUST SAY I LOVE YOU ON CAMERA—??” “this is the healthiest relationship i’ve ever seen and i’m not okay about it.” “they better get married or i’ll sue.”

[witchywithwhiskey]

How about Bucky and “what are you going to do? punish me?”

Maybe we want something from our favorite super solider but can’t say the words and try to provoke him instead.

tempting fate in the park

pairing: father's business rival CEO!bucky barnes x female reader

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, fingering (f receiving), handjob, come play, come marking, public play, little bit of exhibitionism, dirty talk, light degradation, praise kink, pet names (darling), unspecified age gap, fluffy ending

word count: 4,000ish

a/n: i realized far too late that i didn't incorporate your premise at all, so sorry about that!!! also for everyone else, this is the fic where i was looking for a trope like 'dad's best friend'. i ended up going with 'dad's business rival' as a trope because it gave me a fun dynamic to play with!! hope y'all enjoy!! ♡♡

tempting fate in the park (part 1)

tempting fate on the terrace (part 2)

tempting fate in the CEO's office (part 3)

It was a beautiful spring afternoon and you were taking a slow, meandering stroll through Central Park, a sly smile on your face as you delighted in the knowledge that you had a secret. Beneath your flirty little sundress—the one you’d worn because the day was bright and warm and gorgeous—you were as bare as the day you were born. 

The hem of your dress fluttered around your thighs, the cool breeze wafting through the park teasing you with the prospect of flashing some unsuspecting stranger with a salacious view of your most intimate place. Just the thought of that news getting back to your powerful CEO father had your smirk deepening. After all, it was fun to tempt fate.

But then, your afternoon took a fascinating turn when you spotted a familiar face walking down the same path as you, going in the opposite direction: Mr. James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky to his friends. 

But you weren’t his friend, you were the daughter of his business rival. And it was a bitter rivalry. 

You’d heard your father rage about Bucky on a number of occasions—cursing out the younger CEO for stealing some business or other from him. You were certain it didn’t help that Bucky was at least 10 years younger than your father, making his slights cut all the more.

Still, that didn’t stop your father from inviting Bucky to all his charity events and galas, always pretending to make nice with the younger CEO before whispering cutting remarks behind his back. It all seemed so ridiculous to you, but you didn’t mind the moments you were able to chat with Bucky.

He was handsome, after all—and single, if the rumors amongst New York City’s elite were to be believed. Plus, Bucky had an impish sort of charm that appealed to you, and you often wondered if perhaps he might be the man of your dreams, if only he wasn’t your father’s business rival.

But your father was nowhere near Central Park on that warm spring afternoon, and as you strolled casually down the path, your eyes watched Bucky closely as he walked in your direction. You didn’t think he’d noticed you yet, so you took the moment to appreciate the older man’s attractiveness.

His brown hair was swept back from his handsome face and styled in such a way that begged to have someone sink their fingers into his soft locks—and you wanted desperately to be that person. Trailing your gaze down his broad and tall body, you couldn’t help but think that Bucky looked distinguished, even with his slightly scruffy beard, and polished in a gray t-shirt, dark jacket and dark slacks. 

Your eyes were only just wandering back to Bucky’s face when they snagged on his bright blue gaze. A devilish smirk curled Bucky’s soft lips and you knew you’d been caught gawking at the older man. Heat flamed in your cheeks—and other parts of your body—as Bucky approached you. But you refused to be embarrassed, so you lifted your chin and fixed a playful smile on your face, waiting for Bucky to come to you. 

He stopped a polite distance away and greeted you with a nod of his head, his blue eyes sparkling and the edges of his mouth curved in a smirk. You did your best not to appear flustered as you exchanged pleasantries, noting how Bucky kept his eyes fixed respectfully on your face. That is, until he didn’t.

When the conversation lulled, Bucky’s gaze drifted down your body, taking in the way your dress hugged your curves, the neckline dipping low on your chest and the hem riding high on your thigh. The soft cotton fabric was molded to your body in a way that you knew would be obscene if the cut of the dress wasn’t so sweetly innocent. Your body warmed in response to Bucky’s attention and you swayed closer to the older man. 

“That’s a pretty dress ya got on, darling,” Bucky rumbled, his voice going deliciously low, luring you in closer so you could hear him. 

Your feet shuffled forward of their own accord and you watched intently while he finished his perusal of your body with a lingering look at your plush thighs. When Bucky’s gaze finally lifted back to yours, his blue eyes were sparkling in the bright spring sunshine, and he had a pleased smile on his handsome face.

“Why don’t you give me a twirl,” Bucky suggested, some of that impish charm in his tone. “Let me see how pretty it looks from every angle.”

You were about to do as Bucky said, but then you remembered what was beneath your dress—or, rather, what wasn’t beneath it. Heat rose to your cheeks and your gaze darted around, taking in the sheer amount of people who were in Central Park in the middle of a weekday afternoon. There were a lot of strangers who’d be treated to a view of your pussy if you twirled for Bucky.

It was one thing to go for a walk while not wearing any panties beneath your dress. That was tempting fate and hoping the springtime breeze didn’t make a spectacle of your nakedness. But it was another thing entirely to actually, purposefully, flash the busy city park just to give your father’s business rival what he wanted. 

Steeling yourself, you returned your gaze to Bucky. “I don’t think that’s the best idea, Mr. Barnes,” you murmured in what you hoped was a playful conspiratorial voice. You lifted the corners of your mouth in a smirk that hopefully looked more mysterious than nervous, and hid how much your heart was racing.

Bucky seemed intrigued by your refusal and he shifted forward, his eyes dragging slowly down your body as if he was looking for the reason you’d said no. When he couldn’t find anything amiss, he lifted his gaze back to yours.

“What’s the matter, darling,” he asked in a warmly teasing voice. “You worried it might get back to your father that you flashed a peek of your panties in the park?” There was a challenge in his gaze, one you were all too happy to meet, even as your body heated with desire.

“Why, of course not, Mr. Barnes,” you murmured breathily, playing up the innocence in your voice, trying to make yourself sound more sultry. Leaning in, you pressed a hand to his broad chest and pretended you were confiding in him, your head tilting back to hold his gaze. “I’m worried I’d flash much more than my panties if I twirled around in my dress.”

You felt Bucky’s stiffen beneath your fingertips and delighted in the way you felt him suck in a sharp breath, sizzles of desire zinging through your body and making you feel like you’d swallowed a whole bottle of champagne. Bucky’s eyes darkened as they roved over your face, like he was trying to discern whether you were telling the truth.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying, darling?” he rumbled, his voice low, sending a deliciously dangerous shiver down your spine.

It was difficult to keep the innocent look on your face, but you managed, even if the corners of your mouth fluttered with the smirk you wanted to set loose. Instead of answering Bucky’s question, you cocked your head to the side, pretending you didn’t understand what he was asking. 

“Are you telling me you’re not wearing panties?” he asked, barely leashed emotion in his voice. It was deep and dark and you thought it might be anger, especially when he continued on in a voice that was as rough as gravel. “In the middle of a busy park, where anyone could look up your skirt—or touch you?” 

A snort left you before you could hold it back. You couldn’t help it, Bucky’s words sounded like a chastisement, which was silly because you were a grown woman and you knew the risks of going out without panties on. So you gave him the bratty response you felt his words deserved. 

“What are you going to do? Punish me?” you snarked, giving him a sweetly patronizing smile.

But it seemed you judged Bucky wrong because he only pressed closer to you, looming above you, a wicked smirk spreading across his face. 

“Darling, I’m not your daddy, I’m not gonna punish you,” he rumbled, holding your gaze captive while his fingers brushed against your though, trailing up under your skirt ever so slightly. He watched your chest heave as your breath hitched in your throat and slipped his hand between your legs, teasing the inside of your thighs beneath your skirt. “But you might have to worry about a public indecency charge given what I’m gonna do with you.”

“What’re you gonna do with me, Mr. Barnes?” you asked, unable to catch your breath for all the warmth and riotous sensation flooding your body.

Bucky gripped your chin with his other hand, holding you still so all you could do was stare into his sparkling blue eyes. “I’m gonna do whatever I damn well please, darling,” he said in a low, firm voice. Then he ducked down and pressed a hot kiss to your lips that felt like you were sealing a deal with the devil.

Before you could even hope to catch your breath, Bucky had wrapped one arm around your waist and the other around your upper arm, walking you further into the park, keeping his pace quick. Your feet stumbled along with him, and you wondered dazedly what exactly he was going to do with you.

It wasn’t long before Bucky had led you into one of the more wooded areas of the park, finding a path that was deserted before he looked both ways and tugged you into the trees. He pulled you deep enough into the foliage that you were obscured from view of anyone on the path, then turned to you with a look of greedy hunger on his handsome face. 

Pressing you up against a tree, Bucky’s mouth descended on yours and he set about devouring you. 

His lips were soft, but unyielding, and possessive in the way they plundered your mouth, his hands just as demanding, tugging down the front of your dress beneath your tits so they were pushed up in an offering to your father’s business rival. Bucky accepted them eagerly, groping your soft flesh and plucking at your nipples until you gasped loudly into his mouth.

“Shh, darling,” Bucky muttered with a teasing smirk, “you’re gonna have to be quieter than that.” His free hand wrapped around your throat and pinned you to the tree, a wordless threat in the loose way he held you, but didn’t choke you. Yet.

It made a delicious heat flare through your body, and again, you rose to the challenge in his words. Lifting your chin, you looked Bucky dead in the eye and murmured, “Make me, Mr. Barnes.”  

Bucky’s eyes darkened and his fingers squeezed a little tighter around your throat, digging into the sides and making your heart race as you hiccuped a gasp of desire. 

“You’re such a filthy girl, darling,” Bucky rumbled, pressing a kiss to the apple of your cheek before dragging his mouth to your ear. “Makes me so fucking hard.” His hips bucked against yours and you felt the truth of his words.

Trailing your fingers down Bucky’s chest, you teased along the hem of his pants, wanting desperately to take him into your hand, but you paused. Catching Bucky’s eye, you let him see the wordless question in your eyes. It was only when he nodded that you eagerly unbuttoned and unzipped his fly, reaching inside and wrapping your hand around Bucky’s cock. 

“So big,” you whispered wondrously, stroking his thick cock in your hand. You flicked your wrist, squeezing the tip and watched as Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut, the older man letting out a restrained groan at the feeling of you jerking him off. “Now who needs to be quiet, Mr. Barnes,” you teased, smirking up at him.

That had Bucky’s eyes snapping open and in the next breath his hand slipped between your legs, trailing up your thighs until his fingers brushed against your bare pussy. You were practically dripping for him, and you were certain he could feel it from the way his blue eyes darkened, pupils blowing wide with desire as he cursed.

“Fuck, you really aren’t wearing panties,” he bit out on a low groan, a little bit of surprise in his tone. Still, he seemed pleased by the revelation. His fingers dipped into your slit, his eyes watching your lips part in a soft moan while he teased your hole until your knees trembled beneath you. His expression shifted to one of affection, even as he rumbled, “You’re trouble, darling, d’you know that?”

Heat and pleasure swirled through your body so furiously, you were afraid you might collapse to your knees, even with Bucky’s hand wrapped around your throat and his other teasing your soaking wet folds, but you managed to shrug nonchalantly. “I’m only trouble if I get caught,” you replied blithely, giving Bucky a mischievous smile. 

He chuckled, the sound low and raspy and devolving into a groan when you stroked his cock harder, your fist gripping him firmly. He gave you a heated look, then pushed two fingers into your tight hole and choked you at the same moment. It was a good thing he did, because his hand cut off the loud moan that would’ve spilled from your lips at the delicious intrusion of his fingers.

“Let’s make sure we don’t get caught then, darling,” he rumbled, fucking you with his fingers, his palm slapping quietly against your clit as he set a fast, hard rhythm. Pleasure spun through your mind, so sharp and delicious it made you struggle to keep up with the older man, your fist working his cock at the same furious pace he set. 

All the while, Bucky held your gaze captive with his own, his eyes every so often drifting down to watch the way your chest heaved with panting breaths, your tits bouncing out of the confines of your dress, or the way your lips were parted as you tried to get enough oxygen to your lungs through his squeezing hand. 

You, too, watched your father’s business rival come undone right before your eyes. His handsome face was flushed, his cheeks pink above his beard, his blue eyes darkening even further, and his soft mouth twisting in a snarl of pleasure. When his hips began thrusting into your hand, you suspected he was close, which he confirmed with his heated question.

“Where d’you want me to come?” Bucky ground out through clenched teeth, his hand loosening around your neck to let you speak. But he didn’t stop pounding into your cunt with his fingers and it was difficult to think. You were halfway lost to pleasure, which was your only excuse for the answer that slipped from your mouth.  

“Come on my pussy, sir—please,” you begged, your voice husky and as quiet as you could manage with the way a pleasured cry was building in your chest. Rucking up your dress with your free hand, you stared into Bucky’s eyes as you murmured, “Mark me with your come.”

Bucky choked off the moan that threatened to fall from his lips, shoving his fingers deep in your cunt and pressing against a spot that had you seeing stars. Pleasure coiled tight in your core, but when he ground his palm against your clit, you were lost to him. 

Your entire being shattered apart as you came on his hand, your mouth dropping open and your body shaking from overwhelming sensation. Thankfully, Bucky choked you hard enough to silence the scream of pleasure that wanted to break free, the restriction of air making you feel the pleasure of your release more acutely.

It was only when darkness began to creep into the edges of your vision and the waves of your orgasm began to abate, that Bucky loosened his hold on you. His hand fell away from your throat entirely and he kissed you fiercely, his lips praising you wordlessly.

You were so distracted by his mouth that it took you a moment to realize his hand had dropped from your throat to wrap around yours. He was guided your fingers up and down his cock, helping you stroke him fast and firm.

Ending the kiss with a low gasp, Bucky pressed his forehead to yours and looked down between your bodies to where he was using your hand to jerk his cock, like your fist was his own personal fleshlight. The sight was so erotic, your pussy fluttered around Bucky’s fingers, which were still inside you. 

“Ya want me to come on your pussy, darling?” Bucky huffed, his chest heaving with heavy breaths even as he managed a teasing tone. “Want your daddy’s biggest business rival to mark your cunt with my seed, huh?”

“Yes, sir, please,” you begged in a breathy voice, wanting nothing more in that moment. You didn’t know where the desire came from, but you didn’t question it—only gave into it.

“Gonna make a mess of you, darling,” Bucky rumbled in warning, though his words only succeeded in turning you on again. Your pussy clenched around him again, making him huff a laugh even as he went on. “You’re gonna be dripping with my come for the rest of the afternoon.”

God help you, but you wanted it. You wanted to feel his come splash against your soft skin, you wanted the dirty, delicious knowledge that you were covered in his come beneath your dress while no one was the wiser. You wanted it so badly that you begged again, “Please, Mr. Barnes, please come on my pussy—I want it.” 

Bucky closed his eyes like he was in pain, like your words were his undoing, and then he captured your lips, using your mouth to muffle his sounds of pleasure as he came. You felt the warm ropes of Bucky’s come spray against your mound and lower belly, rolling down your body. You kissed Bucky back fiercely, swallowing down every grunt and groan he uttered while he unleashed himself. 

When he finally finished, he pulled away and you both looked down your body, watching where Bucky’s come caught in his hand cupping your pussy. He used his palm to rub his seed into your skin, making your cunt even messier than before. Both of you moaned at the sight, your body clenching tight a the debauchery of the moment.

“Fuck, darling, I can feel the way your pussy’s squeezing me,” Bucky muttered, looking up and catching your eye, giving you a charmingly devilish grin. “Makes me think you want me to dump my next load deep in your cunt.”

Your head fell back against the tree behind you and you let out a low, filthy moan of delight, making Bucky’s eyes darken again. But before either of you could say anything more—before you could beg your father’s business rival to come deep in your pussy—the sounds of people walking by on the park trail not too far from where you stood broke through your private moment. 

Realizing the precariousness of your situation, Bucky quickly, but gently, eased his hand from your pussy and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his fingers clean. You were too dazed from pleasure to move yet, but when he swiped it against your belly, cleaning his seed off your skin, you whimpered in disappointment. 

“Shh, darling, I just wanna get us out of the park without getting that public indecency charge,” Bucky murmured comfortingly, pressing a kiss to your temple that made you smile and stop your protests.

He pocketed the dirtied handkerchief and tucked his cock back into his pants, then helped you fix your dress. Easing you away from the tree, Bucky shed his jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders to hide the scratches and indents from the bark.

You leaned heavily into Bucky’s side as he walked you back through the park toward the entrance near which you’d first spotted him. It was only when Bucky guided you to the passenger door of a nice looking car that you found your voice again. 

“Where are we going, Mr. Barnes?” you asked, a little teasing tone in your voice. When you looked up into Bucky’s handsome face, you wore an impish smirk, hoping he wasn’t done with you yet.

Bucky pushed you gently back against the side of his car, his hands on your hips beneath his jacket and his body looming over yours. A shiver of delight raced down your spine and you reached up, carding your fingers through his soft brown hair like you’d wanted to when you first saw him. Bucky turned his head and kissed the inside of your wrist before pinning you with his intense gaze.

“I’m taking you back to my place, darling,” Bucky murmured softly, a smile on his lips that turned amused. “Did you think a little fooling around in the park was all I wanted?”

You squirmed in his arms, feeling young and insecure all of a sudden under the weight of the older man’s fierce stare. Dropping your gaze to his beard, you avoided his eye as you spoke. 

“I don’t know what you want, Mr. Barnes,” you confessed, realizing only after the words fell from your lips that you meant more than just what Bucky planned to do with you that day. Feelings rushed through your body, your heart pounding in your chest and you felt shy in front of Bucky for the first time. 

But he seemed to know exactly how to handle your sudden change of mood. Curling a finger under your chin, he tilted your face up to look at him. His blue eyes were sparkling with a warm affection that made you settle a little. 

“I want everything you’re willing to give me,” he rumbled in a gentle voice before ducking down and pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. When he broke the kiss, he didn’t pull back far, keeping his face close to yours. “And please, call me Jamie,” he murmured, a tenor of vulnerability in his tone that surprised you.

You smiled against his mouth, finding it easier to tease him again. “I thought all your friends called you Bucky,” you whispered, your body lighting up at his continued closeness. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and pressed your chest to his, enjoying the way your nipples dragged against his t-shirt.

Bucky chuckled and you could feel the sound reverberate in your chest, sending heat curling through your body. “Darling,” he said, his tone affectionately teasing. “You’re much more than a friend, wouldn’t you say?” 

At that, you managed a cheeky smile, leaning back to let him see your happy expression. “Yeah, I would,” you said, leaning in to kiss him again. That time, it was your turn to devour his mouth, enjoying the taste and feel of him as you made out against his car. 

When you finally pulled away, it was with a sigh of, “Jamie.” 

With a pleased smile on his face, Bucky helped you into his car, his hand immediately settling possessively on your thigh once he’d sat in the driver’s seat. You relaxed into the soft leather seat, unable to think of anything else except how content you were with the turn your spring afternoon had taken. 

Perhaps you’d been tempting fate by walking around the park without anything on under your dress. But it seemed fate had led you straight into the arms of Bucky, so you couldn’t feel even a little bit remorseful for your reckless behavior.

Especially not when Bucky squeezed your thigh and flashed you a charming smile that had you thinking your father’s business rival might just turn out to be the man of your dreams after all.

tempting fate in the park (part 1)

tempting fate on the terrace (part 2)

tempting fate in the CEO's office (part 3)

[screampied]

do you have any gojo fic recs? sfw and nsfw but nothing else really specific, just in general <3

sure 🎀. i’ll mention some of my fav gojo works i’ve read so farr

laundry day by @satoruhour one of the first gojo fics i’ve read here when i joined tumblr and selineeeee never disappoints. her roommate! gojo is so SCRUMPTIOUS i highly recommend. miss u girlie !!!

older bf gojo! series by @sttoru READ THIS SERIES NOOWWWW. it has both sfw & nsfw n the dynamic always has me swooning. i’d also rec karina’s angst satoru fics if you like angst bc her angst is immaculate and heart wrenching. perfect combo mmh 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

brigerton! gojo series by @fushitoru VERY VERY GOOD this entire series feels like the actual show but better n its so descriptive with lots of yummy angst, plot twists n more. aashi has lots of delicious yummy works, i’d also rec her clan head! gojo and spiderman! gojo bc it’s actual literature >>>

unmistakably yours by @tonycries thisf and i think her fic called ‘initiation!’ were the first tony fics i’ve ever read last year ANDWEEEROO. just ssssoo good, love a good best friends to lovers trope. the part with his powers was so cool n actually changed something in me. GOOD FUCKING SHIT. ur panties will disintegrate

streamer gojo! series by @osaemu this entire series is so cute n streamer gojo’s so 💗💖💞. first fic i’ve read was ‘yes i have a girlfriend, yes she’s real!’ AND ITS SO CUTE. this series has both sfw & nsfw including angst YUM. plus sab’s graphics like always are a total 10. the chats always kill me, especially the toji slander 😭😭.

digimon—but making u cum is my real hobby by @blkkizzat LMAOOOO THIS FIC IS EVERYTHING TO ME. otaku gojo is such a loser and the way kali wrote him, i need him BAD. i’ve never laughed and throbbed so much at the same time in a fic. kali nails gojo’s personality perfectly !!! there’s also a mlist too i believe. i come back to this fic like every month just YUM

wolf in sheep’s clothing by @starmapz this has it all !!!! fluff, angst, smut and it’s just WOW. satoru’s so lovable, and it genuinely felt like i was watching a movie. i’ve read this in one sitting and UUUUGH everything about this fic >>>>

dying for your love by @staryukis I NEVER KNEW I NEEDED ZOMBIE! AU GOJO IN MY LIFE. this fic literally shattered me, the dynamic is just so heartbreaking. it’s set in an apocalypse au! with lots of gut-wrenching angst so beware. soso good, i remember stumbling upon the masterlist and knewww it was gonna be a good read. also, logan’s follow up fic ‘die with a smile’ broke me into two I LOVE IT

[omagpies]

I was thinking of your Roleswap AU and at first I was confused over Capt. Anya just calling Curly, "Nurse." But then it embarrassingly just occurred to me "Oh duh she's just being professional." And it fits her given how canon!Anya insists on calling Curly "Captain" even though he keeps telling her that she can call him by his name. It's a nice way of tying their characters back to their canon counterparts and showing how Capt. Anya is different from Capt. Curly and how Nurse Curly is different from Nurse Anya.

All of that to say: I just imagined Nurse Curly, still having that "I want everyone to get along here :)" attitude (plus the crushing) once tries to tell Capt. Anya that she can call him Curly and immediately freaks out over potentially overstepping a boundary with his superior.

well spotted :) i talk about it here a bit already, but yeah the main point is that Anya is acutely aware of her position and the various power dynamics she has to partake in. as such, she is somewhat paranoid and prone to over-analysing interactions and trying to dissect them to figure out if any boundaries were overstepped in either direction.

so, hyperaware as she is, she can't not notice Something from Curly's side. when she alludes to it in some way, Curly freaks out (because the last thing he wants is to make her feel like he's pushing her into anything) and in his course-correction swerves all the way into inventing a girlfriend as sort of a shield for Anya, some proof that he isn't after her in any way. Anya, of course, knows that having girlfriends doesn't always stop people from doing what they want, but Curly is nice and kind and they're good friends and she really doesn't want to be afraid of him, so she does her best to take him at face value even when the math doesn't seem to math terribly well.

hey, turns out being a captain comes with cultivating blind spots for the sake of peace, huh :")

as for titles: in general the crew is on first name/nickname basis with each other. the exception is Anya, who is always(?) addressed as 'Captain' by Curly and Daisuke before the crash, and 50/50 name/title by Swansea and Jimmy when they want to make some kind of a point. she, in turn, tends to address everyone by name unless she is deliberately putting professional distance between herself and the other.

(roleswap au tag) (masterpost)

[rist-ix]

Redesigning Aisha's transformation because oh my god

PLEASE rainbow just let her wear green. Thoughts n comparison under cut

My thoughts on rainbow's compulsion to Make Aisha Blue is well known, so I’m not gonna repeat that rant here. But OH MY GOD, if you really HAVE to drill home that her powers are water-based, please at least commit to it. Don’t just paint her cyan and call it a day.

I think what bothers me the most about the outfit is that it feels really incoherent. We've got knee high boots, white socks that go just a couple inches higher than the boots, and then we get some kind of leotard??? With a half open skirt layer that ends well above her shorts, and doesn’t really do anything except flare out her silhouette a little I guess.

It's not a flowy, watery dress, it’s not a sporty look to kick ass in, the only thing really going on here is a couple thicker rim lines to divide the undefined blob of color that is her outfit. The boots look sturdy and kind of mundane, the socks are Just There, the leotard is very busy and undefined, like a 10-year-old's ballet costume.

I'm not really a character designer, but I hang around enough of them that I can kinda tell the patterns are not fulfilling much of a function, nor guiding the eye in a particularly clever way. Her hair feels kind of like an afterthought, just trailing behind her without much fanfare, which I find sad, given Aisha's original iconic wavy locks.

The wings, I’m ignoring. I can only take so much.

To throw in a positive note into my ranting: something the design does do well is center a lot of focus on the torso and head. Since the boots are uniform in color and very smooth, the high density of detail in the leotard and face draws more attention upwards, where all the gesturing and facial expressions are happening. Plus, while the outfit itself is a blob of samy colors, the brightness does make it contrast well with Aisha's skin, so at least the outlines of the outfit are clear and readable. They also make it melt into the background a bit, but that might just be a poor composition choice so im not blaming the character design.

No that ive gotten that out of my system: I'm not gonna pretend I am being any smarter with my redesign. A big weak point is doublessly that the eye is drawn downwards instead of up, and the top is kinda boring and plain. Texturing is not my strong suit.

Here's my thought process behind it:

Green.

Please. Please just give her her color back.

Green means she is still clearly visible, even in blue-toned water, and it contrasts nicely with her pink morphix particles. Green evokes calm ponds, lilypads, feathery algae and tropical lakes. Green is dynamic, fresh, durable, organic. With green as the main color, and pink as the tiny highlight, you have enough room in the color pallete to invest some nice, bright blues for her wings. Harmonic enough to the greens to seem connected, but different enough to pop.

The rest i didn't put a lot thought into, ill admit. I wanted to make her boots beefier in their silhuoette, and i think having these semi-transparent legwarmer looking things would add a nice bit of secondary motion to her step. Trailing after her a little bit, bouncing when she stomps her foot down, and so on and so on. Aisha is sporty, competitive and loves dancing, so I wanted something sleek enough that it wouldn't slow her down, and flowy enough that it would make for good follow-through animations.

The wings are where i put most of the water theme. Dragonfly-wing shaped, because again, PONDS!!! and slightly curved downward to look like cresting waves. Plus, the water coustics to serve as the dividers between those individual fragments in insect wings.

Is this a design that would fit into a winx club reboot? Probably not.

BUT! Is it a design that doesnt make me think of chorine-poisoned swimming pools? fuck yea