lanie

kiss me, and i might drop dead! sixteen, any pronouns LIVIE AND CARPENTER!!

[babyboyhoneybee]

i've got real big

expectations!

lanie, sixteen

any :)

nonbinary + unlabeled

huge olivia rodrigo fan, livies pls moot me up!

ADNI :/

[ifyouhatemesoo-deactivated20251]

bouncing on it while he tells me all of his nerdy interests

[oneclickangel]

reblog if you're corny and insufferable

[tetitasdelimon]

top 5 horror movies

-having a job

-not having a job

-applying for jobs

-the job market

-the concept of working my whole life

[undeadd0g]

i'm a stupid mutt

[janeacular]

do u have a normal relationship with your mother or do you have to imagine yourself violently murdering her mid conversation in order to cope with her presence after everything she's done

[babyboyhoneybee]

one night i was bored in bef and stalked you on the internet

[angelwhispr]

[primafawnagirl]

Me asf as fuck

[1cupcakie]

girls when..

[vnllachxrry]

I love talking to myself he just gets me

[vixxxwrites]

Locker Room Rival Teammate X Male Reader

⚠️ 18+ for prolonged hate-fueled tension, verbal brutality, physical shoving, bruising kisses, grinding, full rough sex (anal), sweat, blood from a split lip, and zero post-nut tenderness. Enemies who finally snap. Explicit, angry, consensual, and messy. ⚠️

You’ve hated Jax Calder for exactly ninety-three days.

That’s how long it’s been since he walked into the gym like he already owned it: 6'4", inked-up arms, buzzcut sharp enough to cut glass, and a mouth that never learned the word “team.” Coach introduced him as the transfer shooting guard who’d “push us to the next level.” Translation: the asshole who was going to try to take your starting spot and your captaincy in the same semester.

Day one he looked you dead in the eye and said, loud enough for the whole squad to hear, “Hope the point guard here can actually keep up.”

You smiled, all teeth. “Hope the new guy learns how to pass before he gets benched.”

And that was it. War.

He undercut every play you drew up.

He laughed when you missed a free throw in practice.

He “accidentally” elbowed you in the mouth during a rebound drill hard enough to split your lip.

He started calling you “Princess” in front of the freshmen.

You started calling him “Solo” because he played like the other four guys on the court were scenery.

Every single practice became a personal duel. You set illegal screens on him. He boxed you out like he was trying to put you through the floor. Coach screamed himself hoarse telling you both to “cut the alpha bullshit.” You both pretended to listen and then went right back to trying to destroy each other.

Off the court it was worse.

He’d blast trap music in the weight room until you yanked his phone cord out of the wall.

You’d drink the last of the protein shake he left in the fridge and write “Princess was thirsty” on the empty jug with Sharpie.

He left a printed-out article about “overrated point guards” taped to your locker.

You replaced his mouthguard with one you’d chewed bubblegum into.

The team started taking bets on who would throw the first real punch.

But underneath the venom was something neither of you ever said out loud: the way your stomach flipped every time his body slammed into yours under the basket, the way his sweat smelled after suicides, the way you both found excuses to stay late—him shooting free throws, you running extra ladders—until the gym emptied and the lights dimmed to half-court.

Tonight the gym is a tomb.

You lost to State by twelve because Jax ignored your cut and took a contested three with twenty on the shot clock. Coach benched him for the last eight minutes and screamed at you for not “controlling your teammate.” As if anyone could control Jax Calder.

Everyone else is gone. You’re unlacing your shoes with shaking hands, still tasting blood from where your teeth cut the inside of your cheek, when his shadow falls over you.

“Nice leadership tonight, Princess,” he says, voice flat and poisonous. “Real captain material, letting the team hang you out to dry.”

You stand up slow. “You ignored the play. Again. That loss is on you.”

He steps closer, close enough you can see the small scar through his left eyebrow, the one you gave him two weeks ago on a “box-out.”

“Don’t put your weak-ass play-calling on me. Maybe if you could actually fucking finish at the rim I wouldn’t have to carry.”

“Carry?” You laugh, sharp. “You shot four for nineteen, Solo. The only thing you carried tonight was your own ego.”

His jaw flexes. “Keep talking.”

“Or what?” You shove him in the chest, hard. “You gonna cry to Coach again like last time?”

He shoves you back, palms slamming into your sternum, and suddenly you’re both moving—pushing, grabbing, slamming each other into lockers. Metal dents. A shoulder strap on your bag rips. Your forehead knocks his and the sting is bright, perfect.

Then it changes.

He’s got you pinned, forearm across your throat, breathing hard through his nose, and you can feel him—hard—against your thigh. You hate that your body answers instantly. Hate that he notices. Hate the way his pupils blow wide.

“You fucking piece of shit,” he rasps, and crashes his mouth into yours.

It’s not a kiss. It’s an attack.

Teeth scrape. Lips split. You taste blood and hate and three months of wanting to kill him or climb him, you’re no longer sure which. You bite his lower lip hard enough that he hisses and shoves a thigh between yours, grinding up viciously.

You wrench his practice jersey over his head, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave welts. He yanks yours off and slams you face-first into the lockers, the cold metal shocking against your cheek.

“Still think I can’t finish?” he whispers against your ear, already working your shorts down.

You shove back against him, elbow catching his ribs. “Prove it, then.”

There’s lube in his locker—he’s had it for weeks, the damn bastard—and he doesn’t bother with gentleness. Two slick fingers, a third, stretching you rough and fast while you brace one hand on the bench and curse him out. When he lines up and pushes in, it burns white-hot and perfect.

He sets a brutal pace immediately, hips snapping, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. Every thrust shoves you against the lockers, the clang of metal matching the slap of skin.

“Fucking take it,” he spat out. “This what you wanted every time you ran your mouth?”

You reach back, nails digging into his thigh, urging him deeper. “Harder, asshole. I’ve had worse from the training sled.”

He laughs—short, vicious—and gives you exactly that. The angle shifts, hits just right, and your smart mouth dissolves into a broken groan. He knows it, the bastard, and doubles down until your legs shake and your palms squeak against the metal.

You come first, clenching around him with a snarl that’s half his name, half a curse. He follows seconds later, buried deep, teeth sinking into your shoulder to muffle the sound.

For ten long seconds the only noise is both of you panting like you just ran suicides.

Then he pulls out, steps back, and the spell cracks.

He grabs his towel, wipes himself off like he’s erasing evidence. Doesn’t look at you.

“This never happened,” he says, voice flat again, already rebuilding the wall.

You lean against the lockers, shorts around your thighs, shoulder bleeding where he bit you. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want to ruin your perfect record of being a selfish prick.”

He pauses at the door, knuckles white on his bag strap. For one second you think he might say something real.

Then he’s gone.

The locker room smells like sweat, sex, and loathing.

Tomorrow you’ll both act like nothing changed.

You’ll still hate him.

He’ll still hate you.

But the war just moved to a different battlefield.

Disclaimer: 100% original characters. Pure fiction. Everyone is 21+.

Note : I wrote this two months ago wow.

[glorestarz]

enter— your naughty priest !!

status: edited (but not proofread)

synopsis: your explicit confessions lead to your pretty priest straying from god.

word count: 4k

cw: dead dove: do not eat. porn with no plot, AMAB reader, AMAB char, top!reader, bot!char, mean reader, reader is a pos, reader has a big dick, religious themes, non consensual/heavy dubious consent, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, corruption kink, first time anal sex, spit as lube, creampie, non consensual voyeurism, crying, no aftercare, manipulation, coercion, power imbalance, emotional blackmail, physical resitraint, gaslighting, forced submission.

note: i named dropped so many bible verses for this. everybody, raise your hand if you have religious trauma!! me, me!!

you kneel in the dark hush of the confessional, the carved lattice barely obscuring the priest’s silhouette.

this booth is meant for repentance, but you’ve transformed it into a sanctuary of unrepentant filth. what was once a place for absolution has become your personal stage, and the ritual is as precise as a liturgy. week after week—sometimes more than once—you return, each visit a brazen challenge to the sanctity of the space. your confessions grow more elaborate, more explicit, as if you’re determined to see how far you can drag the priest into your depravity. you imagine him on the other side, hands clenched, jaw tight, tormented by the images you paint with your words. he must wonder how you find the time or the stamina for so many encounters, but you never let him ask—never give him the satisfaction of breaking the script.

you murmur your sins—detailed, shameless, the words spilling from your lips like a challenge, each syllable a weapon meant to corrupt. you recount, in graphic detail, how you choose your prey: the lingering glances across crowded rooms, the predatory confidence in your stride as you lure men into shadowed corners. you tell him of the strangers you’ve ruined in public places—the alley behind the church, the restroom at the train station, the backseat of parked cars—describing the way your cock stretches and fills, how men are left wrecked and sobbing from the roughness of your hands and the sheer size of you. you describe the desperate sounds they make, the way their bodies feel, the marks you leave behind as proof of your conquest.

you describe hands wandering under tight jeans in a club’s shadowy corner, mouths choking and drooling around you in backseat trysts, men whimpering as you pin them against filthy restroom tiles and take your pleasure with no care for who might hear.

you recount how you press them down, how they beg and cry for your cum, how you finish inside and leave them dripping and ruined.

you go out of your way to tell him it’s all consensual to assuage any misconceptions he may have. to not scare him away. it hadn’t been the first time you’d be turned away because of your debauchery. but you like this one.

though, he says nothing. even as each confession is explicit, your tone taunting, as if daring the priest to react, and the knowledge that you’re soiling this sacred place.

on the other side, the priest’s breath catches. you can’t see his face, but you sense the tension, hear the faint tremor in his responses.

at first, he tried to keep his voice steady, his words formal and detached, clinging to the rituals of his office as a shield. but as the weeks pass and your visits become routine, the facade cracks. his silences stretch, his sentences falter, and sometimes he stumbles over the prayers—his voice rough, breath hitching in a way that sounds almost like a groan. once, you think you hear the faintest thump—the sound of his knee knocking the confessional wall as he shifts, restless and undone.

the penances he assigns grow lighter, his admonishments less convincing. it’s as if your confessions have begun to unravel something inside him, drawing out desires he can’t suppress.

more than once, you’ve heard the faint click of his rosary beads—less prayer, more a desperate anchor as he listens to you describe how you ruin men. the shame in his voice thickens with every session, a growing awareness that he is being dragged into the filth with you, helpless to stop the rot spreading through his soul. sometimes, the beads slip and clatter softly, betraying the tremor in his hands. you imagine his fingers working over the smooth stones, not in supplication but to steady himself—to keep from reaching beneath his robes and succumbing to the temptation you weave with every filthy word.

sometimes, you imagine him shifting in his seat, struggling not to touch himself as you speak, the boundaries of sacred and profane blurring with every confession, the booth itself becoming a gutter for your mutual degradation.

sometimes, on the other side of that screen, the priest’s thoughts grow wild and irreverent. he pictures the flush on your face, the sin on your lips, and wonders what it would feel like to fall from grace for you.

he finds himself longing for your visits, desperate to hear every sordid detail, every taunt. he knows he shouldn’t, but he clutches his rosary so hard his knuckles pale, silently begging forgiveness even as his mind wanders to images sacrilegious and hungry—your mouth, your hands, your body, the way you sound when you confess.

he imagines you forcing him to his knees, using him for your pleasure right there in the booth, the sacred space corrupted by your sin and his surrender. each prayer feels emptier, each longing more blasphemous.

his temptation grows unbearable. one evening, as you confess with that same brazen voice, he can no longer resist the pull of your stories.

hidden by the screen, the priest succumbs to his own desire, seeking release with a trembling hand as you speak. he bites his lip hard enough to taste blood, desperate to keep his breathing measured and not betray himself.

the rhythmic sound of your voice, the filth of your confessions—he strokes himself beneath his robes, slick and aching, stifling any moan that threatens to escape. his fingers curl tighter, hips jerking in tiny, desperate motions as shame and lust war inside his chest. the scent of incense clings to him, failing to mask the musk of his arousal.

his free hand clutches the rosary, knuckles white, the beads digging into his palm as he comes, silent and shaking, warmth spreading beneath his robes, shame flooding him before the heat has even faded.

disgust and guilt roil in his gut, the enormity of his sin crashing over him in the stillness that follows.

he is a man of god, undone by the very confessions he is meant to absolve. he tells himself it must end, that he will resist next time, but the memory of your voice—low, mocking, vivid with sin—never leaves him.

the urge to weep rises in his throat, but he swallows it down, terrified that even a stray sound might give him away. he tries to pray, tries to beg forgiveness, but every whispered ave feels like another lash on his soul.

the words of the our father catch in his throat, each syllable a reminder that he has betrayed both his flock and his faith. he pictures the crucifix above the altar, eyes closed in agony, and knows he is unworthy to meet that gaze.

each prayer, each sign of the cross, feels more sacrilegious than the last, a desecration of the rituals he once held sacred.

he remembers the words of scripture—"you shall not lie with a man as with a woman; it is abomination"—and cannot fathom how he, once so devoted, has become so hopelessly lost. he imagines the saints turning their faces away, the virgin’s eyes brimming with tears for the shepherd who has lost his way.

he feels as if every candle flickering before the tabernacle burns for his condemnation. he realizes he is defiling the very name he invokes for mercy, compounding blasphemy with each hollow plea. the more he seeks penance, the more poisoned his prayers feel—his mouth shaping words of contrition even as the taste of sin lingers, convinced that the heavens themselves recoil from him.

yet for all his shame, he finds himself craving your next confession, plagued by the certainty that he will fall again.

no matter how much he despises himself, no matter how earnestly he begs for strength or forgiveness, he knows he cannot help himself.

something inside him is broken, corrupted, and every time you kneel on the other side of the screen, he is helpless—powerless to resist, desperate for the ruin only you can bring.

all the while, he forces his tone to remain steady, giving you penance in words that barely tremble, maintaining the illusion of composure even as his body betrays his vows.

you never realize what happens on the other side, but he is left breathless and spent, the confessional now tainted with the evidence of his sacrilege.

he wonders what it would feel like to be ruined by you, to feel the burn and stretch of your cock, to sob and beg as you make him yours—his faith, his vows, his shame all meaningless in the face of your command.

tonight, as you finish, you let your fingers slowly trace the edge of the wooden lattice, lingering deliberately. you know he’s listening, transfixed, and you savor the power. the air thickens with something dangerous—something that has nothing to do with forgiveness.

it happens one night, when your confessions reach their filthiest crescendo and the priest’s responses grow strangled and breathless.

you pause, listening beyond the lattice, your senses sharpened by the charged silence. there—a muffled sound, a trembling exhale, the rustle of fabric not quite masked by the hush of the booth. the realization hits: you are not the only one confessing tonight.

without warning, you rise and push open the door to the priest’s side of the confessional.

he’s caught mid-motion, robes tangled, cheeks flushed with guilt and shame. his eyes widen, panic and humiliation warring with the desperate longing etched across his face.

you step closer, your presence filling the cramped space.

“you don’t have to hide anymore, father,” you murmur, your voice edged with a teasing cruelty. you let your gaze roam over him—caught, exposed, trembling with need—and your mouth curls in a smirk.

“is this what you wanted all along? to be caught with your hand where only god should see?”

the priest’s protests spill out in desperate, trembling pleas—“please, wait, i—i shouldn’t—” but you ignore them, catching his wrists in your large hand and pinning them above his head.

your grip is unyielding, almost bruising, as you press him hard against the wooden wall. with a sneer, you snatch the rosary from where it dangles at his waist, winding the beads tightly around his wrists until they’re bound together, the cross pressing into his skin.

he tries to squirm free, panic flickering in his wide eyes, but you only tighten the rosary’s hold, enjoying the helpless arch of his body and the frantic flutter of his breath.

“be still, father,” you sneer, applying just enough pressure to remind him of your strength.

his struggles weaken as you shove his knees apart with your own, forcing his legs open despite his attempts to close them. you drag your hand down, rough and possessive, cupping him through his robes, feeling him shudder and sob as he realizes resistance is futile.

you manhandle him with deliberate, mean efficiency—yanking the fabric aside, the heavy robes rasping against your knuckles as you expose him to the chill air and your merciless gaze.

his cock springs free, flushed and leaking, the tip wet with precome as it bobs helplessly in the space between you. the cold air raises goosebumps along his thighs, and you watch his legs tremble, muscles quivering in anticipation and fear.

his pleas dissolve into ragged whimpers as you handle him, your hands not gentle but claiming, making it clear he has no say in what happens next. your palm is rough and hot against his skin, the contrast making him shudder as you grip his cock at the base, squeezing until he whimpers, then let your fingertips ghost up the shaft, smearing the slickness across sensitive skin.

you can feel the frantic thud of his pulse under your hand. he tries to twist away, but you pin him harder, forcing his legs wider, your thumb brushing over the head just to watch him shudder.

you relish every flinch and gasp, every time his hips jerk against your control, every desperate “please, no—” that melts into a helpless, broken moan.

when you guide him, it’s with a mocking patience, every instruction tinged with a hint of derision.

“relax, father. you’re not going to break—unless i want you to.” you make him hold eye contact as you press against him, and when he hesitates, you only smirk, letting your words cut through his shame.

“first time? don’t worry—i’ll make sure you feel every inch.”

with each touch, the priest yields, unable to resist the force of want he’s tried so long to deny.

the confessional becomes a stage for blasphemy—your hands bruising his hips, your voice sharp with mockery as you taunt him for how easily he’s corrupted.

"on your knees, father," you snarl, forcing him down until he’s trembling before you, the rosary beads tangled in his fingers as he clings to the last vestige of faith.

the sound of your spit, wet and obscene, as you slick your fingers, and at that moment, two long fingers abruptly entered the priest’s tightly closed lower hole.

his legs, which hadn't been shut hard enough to prevent it, were no match. forcing open an already shut entrance and plunging in up to the knuckles in one go, the sudden intrusion made him lift his head in shock at the dull pain.

you work him open with rough, relentless patience, ignoring his sobs and pleas, making sure he feels the stretch and burn as you press into him for the first time.

twirling the inserted finger drew out a high-pitched moan that didn't suit him. he was making sounds he couldn't have ever imagined, his face flushed again.

his body resists at first—tight, unyielding—but you force him to take you, delighting in the way his muscles clench desperately around your fingers. the priest’s back arches, his breath hitching between pained cries as you add another finger, stretching him mercilessly.

sweat beads along his hairline, his skin sticky and hot beneath your touch—eyes squeezed shut, lips bitten bloody in an effort to stifle his sobs.

tears drip from his chin, his cheeks streaked with wetness as shame and agony twist his features, each sob ragged and raw. he chokes on his own snot and spit as he cries, the sounds of his misery echoing in the cramped booth.

each time you force him wider, the filth of your act settles over everything—an invisible grime that no amount of prayer will ever wash away.

when you thrust deeper, his whimpers turn into hoarse, broken pleas, his whole body wracked with shudders as he tries to press back against the wall, desperate for escape. his cries climb in pitch, voice cracking from the strain, eyes red and swollen as new tears replace the old.

you savor the way his bound hands strain uselessly above his head, the rosary biting into his wrists, his body arching in helpless surrender, his thighs trembling with the effort to hold himself together, both of you irredeemably dirty, lost to the depravity you’ve forced upon him.

when his cries grow too loud, you clamp a hand firmly over his mouth, your palm covering his lips and muffling his desperate moans. his eyes go wide with panic—then squeeze shut as you push in deeper, your grip making it clear there’s no escape. you lean in until your lips brush his ear, your breath hot and cruel. "god is watching you," you whisper, voice venomous with mockery. "he sees you taking me—he knows how badly you want this. there’s no forgiveness coming for you, father. only sin. only me."

suddenly, footsteps echo in the nave beyond the confessional—a parishioner, perhaps, or another priest, pausing just outside, close enough that their voice drifts through the thin wooden slats. the priest goes rigid beneath you, panic stark in his eyes, his body frozen in terror at the thought of discovery. you keep him pinned, your hand still tight over his mouth, forcing him to choke on his own muffled sobs, naked and exposed, your cock buried deep inside him as the threat of witnesses lingers just beyond the thin wooden veil.

the confessional becomes a filthy altar, the air thick with the stench of sex and shame as you rut into him—each thrust a fresh blasphemy, each slap of flesh on flesh a perverse liturgy echoing through the sacred hush.

the priest’s humiliation is no longer private; every ragged, stifled gasp, every wet squelch and desperate whimper could betray him to the world outside. he can hear the faint, oblivious murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet, someone perhaps kneeling just yards away—unaware that their shepherd is being desecrated inches from where they pray for salvation.

you force his head back, letting his terrified eyes meet yours, your mouth curling into a cruel, knowing smirk.

“let them hear,” you whisper, voice a venomous caress.

he shakes his head vehemently.

the initial push is brutal—your cock forcing him open, a slow, punishing stretch that leaves him gasping and whimpering. you feel the tight ring of muscle straining to keep you out, the resistance sweet and fierce, until you finally bottom out and grind your hips against his ass, making sure he feels every last inch.

the shame is total, seeping into the wood, the air, the very marrow of his bones. he is left trembling, split open by your cock and by the knowledge that the line between holy and profane is gone forever his sin will be laid bare before his flock, that the confessional itself will become a shrine to his utter ruin.

you savor the way his helpless sobs vibrate against your hand. his muffled cries only spur you on, and you relish the way his body betrays him, arching into your touch despite his shame.

you whisper, “you don’t get to hide, father. every part of you belongs to me right now.” the weight of your dominance settles on him, heavy and inescapable, leaving him trembling and exposed—body and soul.

his body tenses, muscles clenching involuntarily around you as you thrust deeper, his rim fluttering with every thick inch that breaches him.

he is torn between pain and a humiliating, forbidden pleasure, his body shuddering as you hold him open and rock slowly, letting him feel the obscene fullness. he feels each violation as a fresh blasphemy, his body defiling all that he’s sworn to keep pure.

worse still, his traitorous flesh betrays him utterly—his cock hardens between his belly and the linen of his robes, leaking slick shame onto the sacred fabric.

each time you thrust, his body clings to you, the tight heat milking your cock with desperate, helpless contractions, as if trying to keep you inside. with every withdrawal, his hole grips you, stretched wide and glistening, only to be filled again with another hard, relentless thrust.

each thrust forces a ragged tremor through his frame, his back arching in a futile attempt to lessen the pressure, but his body only betrays him further—hips jerking, ass pushing back despite his pleas, his hole slick and raw from the unrelenting use.

his mind screams denial, but his body, flushed and trembling with involuntary arousal, welcomes every violation, every filthy touch, unable to refuse the pleasure blooming within the pain.

shame and self-disgust burn in him as acutely as the pain.

every nerve seems to scream that this is wrong, that he is desecrating the vows he took at the altar with every gasp and quiver.

"for the wages of sin is death" (romans 6:23), the verse reverberates in his mind with every humiliating moan. he tries to pray, words jumbling soundlessly on his tongue, but "if we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves" (1 john 1:8) stings him with every breath.

each thrust leaves him feeling filthier, more lost—his faith slipping away as he remembers, "let the wicked forsake his way" (isaiah 55:7), but he cannot let go. he is drowning in sin, every part of him slick with guilt, the thought of god’s eyes upon him making him shudder with a sick mix of horror and perverse excitement.

"be sure your sin will find you out" (numbers 32:23) echoes through his soul, sealing his sense of corruption.

the priest’s bound hands twist uselessly, rosary beads digging into his skin, the cross pressed hard against his wrists, leaving angry indentations.

his legs tremble violently, thighs slick with sweat and slicker fluids as he tries and fails to pull away, the sensation of your thick cock stretching him leaving him gasping for air, his chest heaving with every shallow, panicked breath.

his abdomen tightens, muscles fluttering with each desperate, involuntary gasp. you feel the heat radiating off his skin, the way his body clenches and quivers around you.

his cock, hard despite his shame, leaks against his belly, smearing the linen of his robes as you drive him closer to the edge of surrender, the fabric now damp and clinging to every twitch and shudder.

you feel every shudder, every tremor of resistance ebbing into reluctant surrender.

his hips jerk weakly, torn between the urge to escape and the shameful pleasure that’s beginning to override his terror.

your hands are unrelenting—one bruising his hip, the other splayed across his lower back, holding him in place as you grind in slow, punishing circles, forcing him to feel every inch as you fill him. the slick heat of his body clings to you, muscles fluttering helplessly around your cock, his skin fever-hot beneath your touch.

when you loosen your grip just enough for him to gasp a breath, he chokes on a sob, tears streaming down his cheeks as he pleads with his eyes for mercy that will never come, his lips trembling, lashes wet with embarrassment.

you continue. really, too good an opportunity to pass up.

you relish the tremors running through his body as you thrust harder, every sound from him smothered beneath your hand, every plea dying in his throat.

his body jolts with each impact, the sting of your hips meeting his ass echoing like a taboo drumbeat in the stifling booth.

your cock plunges in deep, relentless strokes—an act of desecration, battering past the last defenses of his body, splitting him open again and again, until his hole is stretched wide and quivering, a pulsing ring of shame around your length. the tight muscle that once resisted you now spasms and flutters, greedily swallowing every ruthless drive, slick with sweat and the proof of his own betrayal.

the confessional is thick with sacrilege: the air humid with the rank heat of rut, the scent of musk and penitence mingling in a fog of blasphemy.

each thrust is its own sermon—a sermon of ruin, of flesh pounding flesh, obscene and unholy. the wet squelch as you bottom out, the lewd percussion of your balls slapping against him, the ragged chorus of his muffled sobs and strangled whimpers: together, they compose a prayer of degradation.

his cock, trapped and throbbing between his belly and the battered wood, drools silvery streaks of shame, sticky and hot as it paints the sacred surface.

with every brutal thrust, you grind him harder into the confessional’s scarred edge, branding him with the memory of this night. his ass blooms red and violet beneath your hips, each bruise a flower of sin, blossoming where only grace should dwell.

each movement wrings another broken moan from his lips—a hymn to filth, sung in the key of agony and helpless want.

tears streak his cheeks as you use him, his shame and pleasure indistinguishable. every thrust echoing blasphemy, every whimper a profanation of the sacred.

when you finally spill inside, you don’t bother to pull out—just let the evidence of your subjugation seep out of him, staining the confessional floor. he ought to clean it up after you leave. you’ve turned this booth into a place of ruin, a monument to everything that should never happen here.

you leave him there—wrecked, sobbing, and marked by sin—his body and soul both thoroughly, irreversibly claimed. though the assault on his insides had stopped, he felt phantom thrusts deep inside. his hips jerked up and down a couple times before going limp.

the words "depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire" (matthew 25:41) ring in his ears, and "there is no peace, saith the lord, unto the wicked" (isaiah 48:22) settles like a curse over his trembling form.

he is left haunted by the knowledge that his corruption is complete, wondering if he will ever be clean again.

[servicpop]

knight’s duty knight au > vallen ( oc ) x bttm prince m reader

Vallen’s eyes were sharper than the sword he wielded, and his voice was as polished as his metallic armour.

‘The prince’s favorited’ they called him. And they weren’t wrong.

On a particularly warm spring evening, Vallen found you slumped against a window peering out to your garden. Your palm pushed against your cheek, and you sighed dramatically enough to draw his attention towards you. He found that amusing, leaning his forearm against his sheathed sword as he slowly approached you. Vallen stopped an inch before you, his eyes drawn to the vast garden before shifting his gaze to the pouty prince on his velvet chairs.

“What’s the matter?” He asks.

“It’s too sunny to go outside,” you huff; the sun had never been kind to your skin.

“But do you want to?”

You nod.

“Then I don’t see why not.” Vallen brings up his palm for you to take, smoothing a thumb over your knuckles as he gently leads you to the door connecting to the garden. His heavy armour rattles as he pushes the door open for you, bowing his head slightly as you walk out under the sun. Your eyes twitch and ache as the light practically blinds you, and you’re close to just turning around and walking back inside before something shades you from the harsh rays. Vallen had extended his arm out above your head, using his gold embroidered mantle as a makeshift parasol.

“Better, my prince?” He coos, his sleek armour glittering under the sun’s refraction. Vallen is quick to point out a bed of roses where one had bloomed before the rest. He curls his arm towards you, guiding you gently to draw your attention to the red flower.

You’re about to lean down, to pluck the rose from the garden before Vallen flicked his gloved hand against yours, stopping you from doing anything.

“You’ll get your pretty silk pants dirty if you bend,” he scolded, and where he had slapped your hand away, though incredibly gentle, Vallen smoothed his palm over your knuckles as if to soothe any lingering pains. He knelt down himself, harsh, jagged armour meeting the soil with a moist crunch as he pulled the flower out from the ground.

“Thank you,” you breathe out, taking the beautiful rose into your fingers, waving it under your nose to catch a sniff of its floral scent.

Vallen stood, his eyes narrowed down to the stem of the rose still earthy with dirt, “We should go back inside, I’ll handle the rose. You just focus on not having ladybugs crawling down your fingers” he flicked his finger at the small ladybug now making its way down your wrist, scoffing with a small smile as you jumped.

The rose settled inside a glass vase on your nightstand, sated with the amount of water Vallen had given it with.

His armour was discarded on the floor beside the door, lying useless now as his focus was on your body. Vallen trailed his fingers down your bare stomach, having a smile twitch his lips when you visibly shuddered and your chest heaved with each deep breath. He thought it was painfully cute. Vallen hadn’t opened your shirt fully, leaving the sheer fabric to pathetically cover the rest of your torso. He could still see the subtle swell of your chest and the pinkish blush covering your shoulder-down.

“Cold?” He purred, his hands slipping underneath both your trousers and your underwear to cleanly pull them off your legs. He guided the clothing down to your shins until they tangled at your ankles. “My prince,” he chuckled, glancing at the cherry-red head of your cock and the pearly bead accumulating at the slit, “Eager, are we? Your humble knight, undressing you, turns you on?” You hate his tone, his cunning smile and his intensely honeyed voice. And you especially hate how he knows you more than he should.

“That’s not true,” you bite back, but your words waver under his intense stare.

“Is that so?”

He leans over your body to lather his hands with lubricant, and then he prods his finger at the tight pucker of muscle as if to test its resistance. He pushes once, twice and the third one lets him slip right past. Vallen’s free hand grasps your weeping cock, his thumb rubbing at the underside of your already sensitive tip. He applied the lubricant directly onto your heated flesh, elicting a loud whine as you feel the cool substance coat your dick.

Vallen is quick to slot another finger into your tight hole the second he feels your tender walls relax enough to let him. He curls his fingers, poking at your insides to find your prostate—its quite easy when your whole body jerks and pre-cum cascades down the length of your cock when he digs his fingers into a specific area. He presses deep circles against that sweet spot while his other hand pumps your slicked girth.

“My lord,” he sighs, almost dramatically, “I can’t do anything without your permission.” He’s a sly bastard and he knows it, swiping his index finger along the very tip of your cockhead, smearing the creamy liquid that bubbles out of it. “Tell me to let you cum.”

The words are lodged in your throat, and you’re only able to muster out a few broken grunts. Your back arches with each teasing circle of Vallen’s fingers abusing your poor prostate, the bed creaked in retaliation to your writhing.

“Vallen—“ You choke out, and he responds with a small ‘hm?’

“I need to hear words, your majesty. Use your words.”

A moan spills from your lips as you grasp at the bed sheets, curling the satin fabric into your fists.

“Do your duty,” you grit out, “And make me cum.”

“As you wish, prince.” Vallen leans his head down, kissing at your stomach while his fist tightened its grip on your cock, feeling your pulse throb against his palm as he jerked up and down. His fingers pushed deep thrusts, creating a wet, obscene sound as lube mixed with your own pre. You feel the fluttering sensation of your stomach tightening into a thick knot, and the pressure of Vallen’s soft kisses pressing down into your pelvis makes that knot unravel.

Your vision blurs as ropes of white splatter across your stomach, catching on the side of Vallen’s lip as he chuckles against your trembling stomach.

He pulls away to swipe the corner of his mouth with a finger, darting his tongue out to have a taste of his prince.

“Sweet as ever, my lord.”

[vishalovell]

I feel like such a dog checking my notifications "oh you saw my post? did you like it? did it make you cry? feel seen? laugh? cum? did ya did ya did ya???" bro SHUT UP

[servicpop]

knight’s duty knight au > vallen ( oc ) x bttm prince m reader

Vallen’s eyes were sharper than the sword he wielded, and his voice was as polished as his metallic armour.

‘The prince’s favorited’ they called him. And they weren’t wrong.

On a particularly warm spring evening, Vallen found you slumped against a window peering out to your garden. Your palm pushed against your cheek, and you sighed dramatically enough to draw his attention towards you. He found that amusing, leaning his forearm against his sheathed sword as he slowly approached you. Vallen stopped an inch before you, his eyes drawn to the vast garden before shifting his gaze to the pouty prince on his velvet chairs.

“What’s the matter?” He asks.

“It’s too sunny to go outside,” you huff; the sun had never been kind to your skin.

“But do you want to?”

You nod.

“Then I don’t see why not.” Vallen brings up his palm for you to take, smoothing a thumb over your knuckles as he gently leads you to the door connecting to the garden. His heavy armour rattles as he pushes the door open for you, bowing his head slightly as you walk out under the sun. Your eyes twitch and ache as the light practically blinds you, and you’re close to just turning around and walking back inside before something shades you from the harsh rays. Vallen had extended his arm out above your head, using his gold embroidered mantle as a makeshift parasol.

“Better, my prince?” He coos, his sleek armour glittering under the sun’s refraction. Vallen is quick to point out a bed of roses where one had bloomed before the rest. He curls his arm towards you, guiding you gently to draw your attention to the red flower.

You’re about to lean down, to pluck the rose from the garden before Vallen flicked his gloved hand against yours, stopping you from doing anything.

“You’ll get your pretty silk pants dirty if you bend,” he scolded, and where he had slapped your hand away, though incredibly gentle, Vallen smoothed his palm over your knuckles as if to soothe any lingering pains. He knelt down himself, harsh, jagged armour meeting the soil with a moist crunch as he pulled the flower out from the ground.

“Thank you,” you breathe out, taking the beautiful rose into your fingers, waving it under your nose to catch a sniff of its floral scent.

Vallen stood, his eyes narrowed down to the stem of the rose still earthy with dirt, “We should go back inside, I’ll handle the rose. You just focus on not having ladybugs crawling down your fingers” he flicked his finger at the small ladybug now making its way down your wrist, scoffing with a small smile as you jumped.

The rose settled inside a glass vase on your nightstand, sated with the amount of water Vallen had given it with.

His armour was discarded on the floor beside the door, lying useless now as his focus was on your body. Vallen trailed his fingers down your bare stomach, having a smile twitch his lips when you visibly shuddered and your chest heaved with each deep breath. He thought it was painfully cute. Vallen hadn’t opened your shirt fully, leaving the sheer fabric to pathetically cover the rest of your torso. He could still see the subtle swell of your chest and the pinkish blush covering your shoulder-down.

“Cold?” He purred, his hands slipping underneath both your trousers and your underwear to cleanly pull them off your legs. He guided the clothing down to your shins until they tangled at your ankles. “My prince,” he chuckled, glancing at the cherry-red head of your cock and the pearly bead accumulating at the slit, “Eager, are we? Your humble knight, undressing you, turns you on?” You hate his tone, his cunning smile and his intensely honeyed voice. And you especially hate how he knows you more than he should.

“That’s not true,” you bite back, but your words waver under his intense stare.

“Is that so?”

He leans over your body to lather his hands with lubricant, and then he prods his finger at the tight pucker of muscle as if to test its resistance. He pushes once, twice and the third one lets him slip right past. Vallen’s free hand grasps your weeping cock, his thumb rubbing at the underside of your already sensitive tip. He applied the lubricant directly onto your heated flesh, elicting a loud whine as you feel the cool substance coat your dick.

Vallen is quick to slot another finger into your tight hole the second he feels your tender walls relax enough to let him. He curls his fingers, poking at your insides to find your prostate—its quite easy when your whole body jerks and pre-cum cascades down the length of your cock when he digs his fingers into a specific area. He presses deep circles against that sweet spot while his other hand pumps your slicked girth.

“My lord,” he sighs, almost dramatically, “I can’t do anything without your permission.” He’s a sly bastard and he knows it, swiping his index finger along the very tip of your cockhead, smearing the creamy liquid that bubbles out of it. “Tell me to let you cum.”

The words are lodged in your throat, and you’re only able to muster out a few broken grunts. Your back arches with each teasing circle of Vallen’s fingers abusing your poor prostate, the bed creaked in retaliation to your writhing.

“Vallen—“ You choke out, and he responds with a small ‘hm?’

“I need to hear words, your majesty. Use your words.”

A moan spills from your lips as you grasp at the bed sheets, curling the satin fabric into your fists.

“Do your duty,” you grit out, “And make me cum.”

“As you wish, prince.” Vallen leans his head down, kissing at your stomach while his fist tightened its grip on your cock, feeling your pulse throb against his palm as he jerked up and down. His fingers pushed deep thrusts, creating a wet, obscene sound as lube mixed with your own pre. You feel the fluttering sensation of your stomach tightening into a thick knot, and the pressure of Vallen’s soft kisses pressing down into your pelvis makes that knot unravel.

Your vision blurs as ropes of white splatter across your stomach, catching on the side of Vallen’s lip as he chuckles against your trembling stomach.

He pulls away to swipe the corner of his mouth with a finger, darting his tongue out to have a taste of his prince.

“Sweet as ever, my lord.”

[thiswasgreatbut]

mr. kennedy riding you to unwind ✩‧₊˚

initially, you thought you’d heard leon wrong.

“i was considering having you top… think you could do that for me, pretty boy?” he’d whispered in your ear after a messy makeout on the bed.

“t-top? you mean like…?”

a chuckle. “i’ll ride you, beautiful.”

you couldn’t say no to him, anyway.

────✴︎─

you gripped his ass like a lifeline as he rocked on your lap with impossibly expert motions.

“oh, fuck— just like that, yeahhh…” you whined, guiding him with your hands. “where’d you learn to—nghh—ride dick like this, holy shit…”

his palms, sheen with sweat, supported himself on your heaving chest as he bounced up and down on your cock. you couldn’t even throw your head back; the sight of his (unnecessarily full) breasts moving with every thrust was too alluring to let go of.

you wouldn’t mind this becoming a habit.

“god, you’re so good—“ you could feel his precum dripping onto your abdomen, and the slight falter of his hips didn’t go past you. “let me cum, leon, please.”

“you wanna come inside me, baby?” he ground down onto your lap, harder now, taking both your breaths away. “gonna fill me up nice an’ good, yeah?”

“mmhmm, yeah, fuck, fuck me—!” he was so tight, how could he be so fucking tight? like he was squeezing you for all you were worth and more?

“m’working on it,” he groaned, fingers digging into your chest. even in a position like this, he didn’t lose his one-liners, it seems.

even if he was riding you like it was the last day of his goddamn life.