ok but we can all agree that Tom is avoidant asf during intimacy and the only way heâll fuck you is doggy, back arched deep, with your face pushed into his pillow to muffle any sound you make. he even tells you to shut up, and if you donât, he literally just pulls out and waits until youâve calmed yourself, no matter how much you whine and beg for him to continue.
heâs also quiet. like, dead silent. the only noise you get to hear from him is when he is closeâa short, low groanâaccompanied by his faltering rhythm, thick, warm cum filling you deep.
aftercare is a word unspoken. after heâs done, he merely casts a cleansing spell on both of you and carelessly tosses your clothes, which you left abandoned on the floor, in your directionâa sign that your shared time is over and he wants you gone. ASAP. most of the time, without speaking another word, Tom is back to wherever he left off studying 15 minutes ago, before you knocked on his door after he sent you an owl ârequiring your assistance immediatelyâ.
he never asks directly for sexâsomeone could find that letter and taint his sacred reputation.
you curse him under your breath as you hastily put on your clothes and slam the door closed behind you, heading back to your own dorm with shaky legs, his cum dripping down your thighsâcuriously, the only evidence of your rendezvous his spell leaves behind every single time.
you swear to find a new guy who can both please you and also talk to you, no matter the thrill of being the girl Tom Marvolo Riddle choses to fuck in secret. the sex is good, the man is notâand you refuse to let him treat you this way any longer.
two days later, your owl delivers a new letter.
âresuming our unfinished project. my dorm in 10 minutes. urgent, donât be late.â
you huff, shaking your head.
he doesnât even sign his letters anymore.
nevertheless, you quickly put on your new set of lingerie and do your hair just the way he likes itâyou wouldnât dare being late, after all. ;)
I am raising funds for Yesmin, a 27 year old mother from Gaza and a victim of the ongoing genocide. Here are her own words:
Vetted by association Iâm ayoosha-stuff friends
Hello friends, I am Yasmin from northern Gaza Strip. I am 27 years old, a mother of two children, Sila and Youssef, and I have been married for more than 7 years.
I was studying Journalism and Media at the University College, and I had both a home and a job. But because of the war, I lost my home, my work, and everything I owned.
My familyâs house was also destroyed, and now we have nothing left except a worn-out tent whose torn walls cannot protect us from the heat of summer or the cold of winter.
My husband is injured. He was involved in a traffic accident while trying to get aid, and he is now disabled and unable to work.
My children have suffered from malnutrition due to the lack of food and proper nutrition.
That is why I am only asking for your help and support. I am here trying to save what is left of my childrenâs lives. They are between life and death.
Please, try to support us and donate whatever you can.
Blaise is a disciplinarian. Naturally imposing. Out of all the other boys, he is the only one who truly understands how to keep his girl in line.
Somewhere deep in his subconscious mind, he has an unspoken disdain for how freely his mother gave love and affection. It feeds his need for control, for dominance, for breaking you down into a girl thatâs softer, quieter and more obedient.
He has the meanest slap. The kind of slap that has you biting your cheek before impact to lessen the pain. Heat would bloom across your skin. And his rings would only make it linger and pulse.
He's very particular with how you present yourself. You are an extension of him. "Where's your other sock, hm?" He'd say, before a firm hand came down on your ass.
Once, you'd tried to roll up your skirt shorter, because the other girls in school did. Blaise was not at all pleased. "Do you want to be treated like a slut? Wear your skirt properly."
He slaps your mouth when you swear. He despises foul-mouthed girls with no manners. "You are a girl. Behave like one."
If youâve really pushed him, he burns you with a cigarette. He would press it along your inner thighs until you trembled. Unbeknownst to him, it was actually just making your cunt wet so you continue misbehaving.
He still uses it sparingly because he wants to keep his things pretty.
Pleasure is a reward. You have to earn it. You have to beg to suck his cock, to grind and make yourself come on his thigh.
You would whimper and beg and mewl. Kitten licks on his clothed bulge. Rubbing your cunt on his supple, expensive leather shoes. He would only look at you with that cold, handsomely stoic face. "Not good enough."
He would only take his cock out when you started crying and hiccuping. When you were reduced into nothing but a pathetic little brat.
His cock is proportionate to his height so you have to take him inch by inch. He'd keep steady pressure around your neck as he guides your mouth up and down his length. âDoucement. Comme çaâyes, thatâs better.â
Kisses are especially limited. Yes, kisses are reserved for excellent report cards, consistent good behaviour and perfect conduct.
On your bad days, however, heâs more lenient and pacifies you with his fingers inside your mouth. Letting his darling suck until she stops weeping.
He can make you come by simply striking your clit.
Blaise is definitely a sex after marriage type. He has a reverence for purity and is devoted to austere virtues. His cock must be the only one you'll ever take. Your cunt is his to shape, his to spill and keep his come in. And you will be grateful for it.
i agreeeee super heavily on caleb in particular âŠ
he already had to go to extreme lengths to convince you to let him fuck you without a condom. youâre both new at this â exploring this dynamic in a more romantic light. heâs lied before and you have to work up the courage to trust heâll pull out if needed. i imagine the first time he sinks in all hard, and raw, and pulsing itâs difficult for him to hold back, dragging his seedy tip along your welcoming walls that refuse to let him go. heâs probably dreamed about it too, filling you up with so much cum that it just pours out of you, covers your precious pussy in cream.
âare you close?â he gasps for air like itâs been stolen from him, peppering feather light kisses over your teary face. âcan we cum at the same time?â
and youâre probably nodding without realising, fucked out and high on fumes that smell just like him. just like sex. scratching stripes down calebâs broad back â just so completely gone and lost in him.
âdonât think i can pull out, pips,â he says, teeth gritted. ââm gonna cum inside. deep inside this perfect little hole. my perfect baby. soo close.â
âw-wait, caleb â o-ooh yes! iâm not â i havenât taken m-my pill yet!â your response is a stuttered snivel â babyish in nature that reminds him of why he loves you so much. even when you ball your fists against his sweaty chest, youâre not really trying to push him away. itâs the same as when you were children, youâd huff and puff at calebâ throw a tantrum for little things, expect him to fix it later on. if anything were to happen, caleb would fix it. âcaleb, you promised.â
except he isnât too keen on fixing anything this time. what will be, will be. fantasies from back then, from his time in the academy and time away from you run rampant at the forefront of his mind muddy his guilty conscience until heâs free. for only a second. if he cums inside you, he can keep you â line you up with seed and make it stick with every forceful punch of his hips into yours. you clench around the thickest part of him, at the base, like you want it too, keeping him trapped along your weeping walls.
if it sticks ⊠you stay.
you canât seem to pull caleb from the lustful lull of his guilty desires even when you bite and scratch at him â feverish with panic. itâs a pathetic cry for help, a desperate sob but itâs not like either of you could stop if you really wanted to. youâre addicted to the way he fills you, sweet words poured hotly into your mouth between kisses, brown hair tickling your neck because heâs chosen solace there.
and itâs not that the colonel doesnât care. not that he doesnât fear the worst. itâs just that he loves the risk, the idea of knocking you up so that no one else can have you. so that he can keep you on skyhaven for the rest of time and never have to worry about you slipping away like a faded memory. youâll belong wholly to caleb.
âc-caleb, you canât. you have to â gotta pull out!â you cry but you clamp down again. torn between to worlds with only him to decide.
âdonât think i can,â he whispers into your neck like itâs a secret. how badly he wants to ruin your life. âdonât wanna⊠have to. have to fill you up with all of me.â
worst part is he doesnât even apologise for cumming inside. the bed screams with him as his release shoots through him, rope after rope of opaque white smearing over your sex and rippling walls â that milk him without any resistance. instead, calebâs wet mouth trails whispers of thank you and i love you along your skin accompanied by the grin that lets the gratitude pass through.
heâs just grateful that youâre exactly the same as him. just as bad as him. closer to a sinner than you are to a saint.
end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesnât do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! â asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!
Loki gets so. pissed. When he sees the way you interact with Bucky.
He's stewing from across the living room, black pants legs crossed into a vice, and shoulders hunched with a grimace strong enough to make even Fury scamper by.
His view?
You, laughing your ass off as you introduce TikTok memes to Bucky. Bucky's trying to laugh along, but the confusion on his face from the absurdity of some of the videos is obvious.
Still, it's the way you're leaning into him as you clasp your hand over your mouth to contain your shrieks of laughter. The way Bucky is looking down at you with a crooked grin. Why can't he have you like that?
Oh, maybe that's because he's never tried. Sure, the two of you could be considered friends, but it was a tightwire bond. It was easy to piss you off, and Loki couldn't help but indulge in the way you would pinch at your temples and contort your face in annoyance at almost any words he spoke. He would dare even say you were more attractive when you were like that. Did you not also take pleasure in the fact that every time you left a lingering touch on him, maybe a pause for too long, or the few times you did outwit him, that it quite obviously left him flushed and arguably hard?
So why was he pea green with envy right now, when it wasn't even Bucky that was making you belly laugh like this? Well, why didn't you show him TikTok when he arrived at the tower? It made his skin crawl all the more so that both of you were totally oblivious to his aura that was practically radiating displeasure.
It's not like he can't leave the room.
He sat there for almost an hour, spectating you blabbering off to Bucky about the certain history of memes, leaving him even more clueless than when the two of you started this little charade. Barnes didn't deserve you. He deserved you. He would understand your stupid TikTok memes!
So, of course, when you rest your hand on Bucky's chest like you would him, eyes flickering momentarily to his lips as the stupid soldier gave you eyes like you hung the moon, telling him that it was pretty late, and you both had an early meeting tomorrow, Loki was hot on your trail to the elevator, deathly silent.
It was only when you were both inside and the door was closed that Loki spoke.
"Have I done something to anger you?"
His chilling silver tongue had turn to flames.
You cocked a brow, glancing at him. "Nothing more than usual."
That's it. Loki grunted in annoyance, jerking his hand. With it, the elevator came screeching to a stop, obviously done by the use of his magic.
"Do you think this is amusing? Is it child's play to you?" He asked, with every word he stepped closer until he was caging you in the corner of the stalled elevator.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" You coughed an awkward laugh, glancing around wildly for any sign of escape. He liked that fear in your eyes. It was so cute how they turned glassy in reaction, and your mascara accenting the droop of your lids.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about. The way you cuddle up so closely to that dimwit soldier, laughing and cooing at him right in front of me. You must take me a fool, and you yourself one if you think I'm going to put up with it."
"Oh, you're jealous?" You straightened your posture, mouth slightly agape. Loki Laufeyson. Jealous. Those two words meshed like oil and fire, but you had no idea just how far it stretched. "Is that it?"
But the vice grip your chin landed in between Loki's fingers left you stumbling, causing him to catch you by the hip with his free hand. He was almost bruising. "Careful with that mouth." He hissed, deathly close to your lips. He was just at the tipping point of his limit after months and months of dancing around one another.
"You don't fucking own me."
That was more than enough. Loki's lips were sent crashing into your own, brutal and cold with teeth clashing in an angry fight for your submission. You couldn't say you weren't enjoying it, nipping at his lip in protest and whining against his mouth. However, Loki was a pure stranger to letting up.
Instead, he had you arched against the wood panel of the elevator. His hand that was originally on your hip now slinked around to the small of your waist to press you into him. His hard-on was obviously against the side of your plush thigh, and you couldn't help but feel a dribble of slick begin to leak around your clothed folds.
"There it is. That's what I thought." He husked, kissing along the side of your jaw as his free hand sent goosebumps under your shirt, his entire body ice cold. You bit back a whimper, clamping so hard on your lip you feared it might bleed. This was a dog whistle to Loki, earning a smirk between the caverns of your collarbone. "Go on, make those pretty little noises. It's just us in here..."
You choked out your words, meeker than you intended. "They're-They're gonna see... They're gonna know-the elevator.." You were grasping for any word that came to your brain, eyes screwed shut tight to focus.
"Let them." He sighed, his mouth lingering down to your jeans as he toyed with the silver button that kept him from what he envisioned at night.
And when he pulled them down, panties and all, what a sight you were to behold. A gentle spider's web of a string pulled from the folds of your cunt to the fabric of your panties, earning a delicious sigh from the God below you. "That is just too good." He teased, bringing his face closer to your cunt to breathe over it.
The coolness in contrast with the heat of the elevator had your knees buckling, white knuckling onto the railing to either side of you. "Loki-" You whined out, forcing to steady yourself.
"Oh? What is it?" He had that cat's grin, just inches away from your already swollen bud as he fanned ice over her. "Too much already?"
You shook your head fervently, mouth parted to hiss out pitiful moans just from the proximity. "Please, pleas- Need you. Need you now."
Loki clicked his tongue, inky hair resting against your thigh. "Oh, I know you do." He purred, gently lolling his head back upright before allowing his tongue to encapsulate the entirety of you. A long, freezing stripe trailing all the way from the base of your cunt to the top where your clit buzzed uncontrollably.
You moaned. Loud. Loud enough for Loki to chuckle and make better work of his tongue, diving in and parting the sea of your wetness to slurp every bit of it up. It was a divine sight to behold. You, knees shaking so hard they were vibrating. Loki, taking the utmost pleasure in the lewd sounds that slipped out from between your cunt as he showed off one of his very best features.
Every inch of your body bristled in protest when Loki's tongue left you, but you were just short of protesting before Loki had you flipped around and gripping the railing for support, arched the opposite way where your breasts gained view of the tile floor below.
"I'll show you who owns you." His voice came low from behind you, the rustling of clothing reaching your ears. "That is, if I haven't already."
You could feel it so prominently as it teased the entrance of your pussy, cool to the touch and stretching even with just the head. You were sure he couldn't fit. You were positive you were about to make an absolute fool out of yourself.
Two inches in, and you were whimpering out with your head hung low to brace for further impact. It was such a delicious cocktail of pain and pleasure, mixing into one to have you arched up against the wall with Loki's hands ensuring you couldn't possibly run further away.
And that's when all hell broke loose. Instead of continuing to ease himself inside of you, he grasped you backwards, letting you fall onto his cock yourself, feeling how the edges of yourself swallowed him whole until the plush of his abdomen met against your ass. You were there. You were at the hilt. And you felt utterly, impossibly full. You would be left in the shape of him for the rest of your life.
He was agonizingly slow with his first stroke, as if he was testing how much you could handle of him before he threw his inhibitions to the wind and truly had his way with you. However, you, on the other hand, were experiencing pure nirvana.
Your swollen lips from the way he gnashed at you earlier cried out when Loki began thrusting into you. In and out of your already weeping cunt with both hands, creating purple and blue constellations of bruises along the border of your hips and your ass. It almost felt like he was bullying you the way he was pulling you back onto him every time you thought you couldn't possibly take anymore. Your climax was returning, and soon.
The coil in your abdomen heated and tightened, pressing to meet your clit the faster Loki traded places abusing your cervix and your g-spot, keeping you clawing at the pressed wood in front of you for any sort of solace.
"Loki- 'M close-" You managed to blabber out, right cheek now squished against the wall by Loki's hand pressing into the side of your head.
"You are?" Loki purred, suddenly slowing despite the way his cock angrily twitched inside of you for his own release. "I don't know if you deserve it or not."
You scoffed, your eyes rolling to the side to meet his own. "No please! I've been good!" You cried, struggling against his grip to back into his length. "I-I've been so, so good- Loki-"
"Prove it." Loki gritted, slamming you back down to the hilt of his cock. "Tell me who you belong to. Tell me who you only belong to."
You drawled out a pleasuring groan, pulling yourself off of him to allow the mean God to slam back into you with a curse. "I belong to you!"
"Louder~" He chimed, reveling in how pathetic you were acting. "Tell all about it, love. How much you've craved this. How much you don't belong to that rust bucket."
You cracked out a laugh in between your moans, banging against the wall in overstimulation. You would have bruises on more than just your ass by morning. "I belong to fucking- fuck- Loki Laufeyson! I don't want Bucky-ngh.. I want you! You own me!"
Loki sighed a laugh, almost lazily, as he resumed his torturous pace from before, allowing your climax to begin rebuilding for the third time in the past thirty minutes. This time, he was egging you on, cooing into your ear about how everyone in the tower could probably hear you, how shameful it was that he didn't do this sooner, how much he had you now.
And after little encouragement, you came unraveled right there in the elevator, cussing and whining and drawing the two together to become all the same. Loki grazing at your neck, chest pressed to your back to ride you through it with little mutters of praise until the vice clenching of your cunt slowed. Only then could you feel the heat between your walls where Loki had came himself.
Moments, perhaps minutes, might have passed before Loki pulled out of you in an agonizingly slow stroke. You took a moment to glance back, seeing the cocktail of both your releases coating him. He just smiled that usual smile when he always got what he wanted. The elevator shook, screeching in protest before reviving to life. Your eyes went bug, and Loki just shrugged. "Best pull those pants up."
And you did, shakily, might you add. It was hard for your knees not to totally buckle after you had been railed in a fawning position for who knows how long. You also couldn't help but notice that the elevator buttons only had Loki's floor lit now. You allowed it. Just for tonight.
The two of you stumbled into Loki's room, with Loki offering little aid to the obvious struggle you were encountering. Instead, he simply trailed over to one of his dressers, pulling out an abnormally human shirt and tossed it your direction.
You barely caught it, raising it up to notice it was a classic "I <3 NY" shirt. Over sized for you, tight fitting for him.
"It was what you call a housewarming gift.. From Stark." He explained, ensuring that you didn't get the idea that he went out of his way to buy something like that.
You chuckled. "You assume I'm spending the night?"
"I simply won't have it any other way." He replied, using his magic to change into his own lounge clothes around the time you were changing yourself. "I'm a villain, not a monster."
You rolled your eyes, crawling into bed with him. You had to admit, from all the early college flings and quick blinks of relationships, no one had ever fucked you like that. Would the entire tower know about it tomorrow? Probably. But right now that was not something for the moon above to concern itself with.
However, a certain someone already knew well in advance.
Your phone, which you had set on the nightstand, buzzed once to indicate a message. Loki was currently busying himself with a night time read. You pull it from the side of you, opening the text.
From: Barnes
"Did it work?"
12:37 a.m.
You snickered to yourself, busying your fingers with the keyboard.
"Like a charm. Couldn't've done it without you."
12:38 a.m.
You turned off your phone, setting it back in its place before turning over and making your home in the crook of Loki's free arm for the night. And the next, and for all the nights continuing on.
Description: Loki figures out what to do with your mouth after he spoon feeds you.
Tags: mentioned bondage, gagging, deep throat, oral (male receiving), dom!Loki, sub!reader, gn!reader, brief feeding, force feeding if you squint really hard, cum in mouth, cum swallowing
Word count: 931
A/N: never wrote anything for Loki before, but I didnât have a tv on my flight so why not try now? Also my first time writing something like this so proceed with caution?
You lurched forward as the spoon prodded the back of your throat. As you sputtered out the soft food with a rough cough, the Asgardian before you clicked his tongue in disappointment. âNow, was that really necessary?â He cooed in a low octave.
You wanted to narrow your eyes, but the situation you were in wasnât exactly ideal. Thick metal chains restrained your legs to the cold floor whilst your hands were held together with zip ties. You were utterly hopeless, and being at the mercy of Loki only furthered your predicament.
âYouâre cruel,â you whimpered, as he wiped the drool from your bottom lip with his thumb.
âNow, darling, I was just speeding up the process.â His accent reverberated against the empty walls of your cell. It didnât take a genius to know that Loki just loved having the chance to terrorize an Avenger.
He scooped up another spoonful of your food and held it up. âWould you like me to go slower?â
Obediently, you opened your mouth as the spoon came closer. Lokiâs eyes lingered on your lips as they wrapped around the metal, and suddenlyâwith a glint in themâhe pushed the spoon far into your throat.
You gagged as it triggered your reflex. Squeezing your eyes shut, you shook your head, wanting to pull awayâto get it out so you could breatheâbut Loki kept the spoon there, watching you writhe before him with a devilish smirk.
As the spoon left your mouth, the god spoke lowly. âWas that better?â
You stayed silent as you watched him set the spoon back into the bowl. He noticed your bitter expression and smirked again. âDonât look so upset,â his hand moved to grip your chin. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of your place. âI think I could get used to your obedience.â
Your gut flooded with worry. Coming from the god of mischief himself, it could only mean something bad was in store for you. âWhat are you planning?â You asked, apprehension evident in your voice.
Loki chuckled deeplyâevillyââall the ways I can use your pretty mouth, my dear.â His hand moved to brush a few astray strands of hair from your face. You pressed your lips together, dismay only increasing as he grinned.
He rose to his feet, and you looked up at him like the measly little mortal you were. Eyes wide, beneath him, right were he wanted you.
âSit up, darling. On your knees.â He snapped his fingers, and you hastily moved to appease him. The chains that were hooked to your feet rattled as they moved along the ground, but once you were on your knees, he let out a hum of approval.
With agonizing slowness, Loki unzipped his pants.
One of his hands grazed your skin, his fingers tracing your jaw before stopping at the back of your neck. It left behind a trail of unwanted cold. His other hand lowered to his pants, where he pulled out his cock.
You watched it with uneaseâit was slowly going erect with every pulse. Above, his green eyes gleamed down at you.
You knew what was coming.
He tugged you roughly towards him. You fellâface pressed against his leg, leaning helplessly against the god. You found yourself unable to raise yourself because of your restrained limbsâand Loki relished every moment of your suffering.
âOpen.â
You did what he asked.
He pressed the tip to your face. âOpen wider.â He slipped it in your mouth, letting out a sigh of approval. âGoodâŠâ
The Asgardianâs cock left little room in your mouth. He was eagerâgrowing harder with each pump. You squirmed, but it only made him hold you in place firmer.
âThere, nice and slow, just what you like.â He stroked the top of your head as he rhythmically moved his hips back and forth. âIs that nice, darling?â
Your voice came out in choked fragmentsâbroken imploresâeach time interrupted by his cock blocking your airway.
âHm? Did you say something?â
You glared at him, locking your eyes with his green ones. He grinned in response, âthis is awfully boring, donât you think?â He pushed you against him roughly, your mouth suddenly enveloping his full member. âLetâs pick up the pace.â
A sharp gag threatened to leave your mouth as you felt his tip touch the back of your throat. You let out a muffled whine of discomfort, squeezing your eyes shut as you took in his size. Brimming tears threatened to fall. Loki looked down at you with a pitying look, âaw,â he cooed, âdonât cry, darling.â
Although, he showed no signs of stopping at all. The pace continuedârelentless and sadistic. All the while you were roughhoused, blinking out a few tears from the force, Loki watched you with a delicious gleam in his eyesâloving every second of discomfort you felt.
He let out a pleasured hum, placing both his hands on the back of your head. âYes, yes, just like that,â he breathed raggedly, fully hard in your mouth. His fingers tangled into your hair as he pumped vigorously.
With a few more thrusts, Loki spilled his warm cum into your throat with a guttural moan. As his cock pulled out of your mouth, droplets of the fluid trickled down your chin.
He panted with satisfaction, his pleasure-stricken face quickly morphing into one of pride. âDoes it taste good?â He asked cockily, kneeling down to your level.
âNo.â
Loki gave you a disbelieving smirk, wiping the trail of cum off your chin and putting it in your mouth. âAnd yet you swallowed every last drop.â
Imagine if Loki found a way to stay inside of the TVA, like a CEO type ordeal. You were one of the few who decided to stay at the TVA once all the branches came to life. I mean, it's all you've ever known. Why leave? It caused you and Mobius to become closer, and that's when Mobius introduced you to Loki...
And it was like pouring gasoline on a campfire.
"I see why they made you Director of Strategics..." Loki first commented when you met, organizing one of your files by not only color, but alphabetical order. You were compared to the likes of Renslayer when it came to your skill and loyalty, but you didn't do it to curl around the Timekeeper's thumb, no... You literally did it simply for the love of the game.
And that's why Loki couldn't get enough of you.
It started out as innocent, really, with little teases and pinches on your side when he passed. Off-hand comments like "I don't think my boss should be talking to me that way," and "And I don't think my employee should be talking to me that way."
Then it evolved after a few glasses of wine in his office to closed-door kisses. Gentle whispers of the most devious things Loki could conjure up just to see you turn red in front of your peers. Only Mobius got the hint.
After months and months of tension, the pot finally boiled over one night after a tedious day of work. Your ass cheeks were indented into his desk, creasing your skirt as Loki's right hand held a tight grip against your nape, enveloping his own lips between yours.
You were breathless, he was flushed. His left hand molded you against his crotch to allow you to feel just what all you did to him. How you reduced the God of all Time to tremors of need.
"Up." He directed, lifting you by both thighs and sitting you fully onto his desk, shoving files and other stationery out of the way to make room.
"What happened to sending me home to get some well-earned rest?" You teased, breathless.
"Is that truly what you want?"
You sighed, shaking your head and craning your neck at just his tone. He dove headfirst, peppering small and large kisses alike all up from the shell of your ear to where your collarbone met your lapel. For a frost giant, he was burning alive.
"Don't worry though, I'll still make sure you have enough time to get some rest tonight." He smirked, wasting absolutely no time shucking you of your uniform, pulling that tight little skirt you mercilessly teased him in down to your ankles, diving right in between your thighs to lick all of you with no forewarning.
"Jesus Christ- Loki." You whined, gripping his hair. His tongue was freezing cold, an ice cube circling around your clit and into your cunt.
That didn't stop him, though. Nothing but your word would stop him right now in this moment. He needed you, and he needed all of you. He couldn't wait to make you cum. If you thought that his tongue was euphoric, wait until you felt his cock.
"Already worked up?" He whispered, unbuttoning his pants and sliding them just enough to free himself. "We just started."
You whimpered, grinding up against his tip that he dragged along your once freezing folds. His dick was much warmer, shocking your insides.
He was so damn thick, dragging himself in and out in slow strokes to get you acclimated inch by inch until his hips met your own. By that time, you were already a drunken mess, bucking with each thrust. You wouldn't call yourself the most patient person in the world, either.
"So desperate." Loki sighed, beginning a regular motion in and out, in and out, in and out, catching just a graze of your g-spot every time he bottomed out.
"Fucking hell, Loki-" You stammered, one hand splayed along the desk for balance and the other anchoring yourself to his shoulder. You were beginning to slide off the hardwood of the desk, so he took it upon himself to hold you by both ass cheeks. Now he controlled not only his thrusts, but yours as well.
You swore you were seeing stars, barely comprehending the words Loki was whispering to you hot against the shell of your ear.
"You were made for me, I swear it. Every time I'm around you, you drive me mad. Do you know how powerful you are? To drive the God of madness mad?" He growled, trailing down to meet your jugular with his teeth.
"Too much- I'm gonna cum-" You warned, breath choppy and fanning against his own. He just filled you so perfectly and hit every spot like he had done this a thousand times over.
Loki's pace quickened, brutal with his cockhead jutting right against your g-spot. "Cum then." He muttered, bringing one hand to position your jaw where you had no other choice but to look him in the eyes. "On one condition." He enunciated every word with the drag of his cock.
"Say my name."
"Loki."
He made a content hum, but shook his head. "Say my name." A warning, like you didn't do it right the first time.
"Loki." You whined, louder in pitch.
"Say my name!" He barked, jerking your jaw closer to his face.
"Loki!" You screamed out, squeezing your eyes shut as you finally let yourself cum. White climbed up your vision, face seizing into numbness with your mouth hanging open to strangle out pitiful excuses for moans, lost in your own euphoria.
Then, Loki came unraveled for the first time in a millenia. With you squeezing impossibly tight around him, he began to realize he was enthralled by just your presence and more. He genuinely couldn't get enough of you. Your voice. Your taste.
He needed more, and he couldn't wait.
"I'm so sorry-" Loki huffed, still rutting into you pathetically.
You managed to drag your head up, meeting him with dreary and fucked-out eyes. "For-for what, Loki?"
But before he could answer, he was jerking himself back in time, just before your initial orgasm. He wanted to feel you squeeze around him again, to cry out for him again, and with his newfound powers, he had all the time in the world to feel like for however long he wanted, and you would be none the wiser. As far as he was concerned, his powers only sent him back in time.
So he kept going.
He jutted back into you, allowing himself to become hard once more until he felt his peak building again. He was beginning to match the pitch of your moans, but you were becoming desperate. Even more desperate than he remembered the first time.
And then you came, and he followed shortly after, savoring the feeling of your walls strangling his cock to death. God, you were so warm, and he was so cold. You were made for each other.
Again.
Time was sent reeling backwards, pulling you and Loki just before your orgasms once more. It became a game. How close could he get to just before the moment you were cumming?
He was lost within his own euphoria, pressing his forehead to your chest as his cockhead pressed gentle kisses against your cervix. He had waited so long for this. He was patient with you. He allowed you to come to him. He allowed you to make the first move. He made sure you wanted him just as much as he wanted you. That's what made this all the more enthralling.
So he couldn't be satisfied with just one or two measly orgasms.
Again.
Again.
Again.
It must have been five rounds of you milking him dry, and it still wasn't enough. You turned him into an animal, grunting and growling against the heat of your neck as he unleashed yet another orgasm, totally lost in his own world of euphoria.
Until you finally snapped him from it.
"Loki!" You finally screeched, higher than the rest of your mantras, bursting into tears as you pressed your feeble hands against his abdomen. He jumped from his thoughts in response, the muddy and muffled sound around him clearing.
"Fucking-fuck, no more! No more- too much- way too much- Oh my God, I'm so sore-"
Loki's strokes slowed, the periwinkle hue of his irises glinting against the sweat of your body. "Too much?" He sighed, resting his member inside of you.
You were dripping with his cum, walls unbearably sore as cramps were already enveloping your abdomen from the abuse he unleashed on your cervix. This wasn't even to mention how bright red your clit was. Fuck walking tomorrow, you don't even know if you're going to wake up for the next twelve hours.
That's when the pieces of the puzzle slowly pulled together in his mind.
"Have you been feeling. every time you've cum?"
You crinkled your eyebrows in disbelief. "Yes! Oh my God, yes. Have you not heard me- heard me begging?"
Loki flushed, brushing a strand of sweaty raven hair from his eyes. Frankly, he hadn't been listening. He figured you were just saying what you said the first time you came. Did this mean that when he went back in time, anyone he touched went back with him?
"Stars, I... I didn't know." He stammered, at a total loss for words, watching the tears roll down your cheeks as your hands weakly found solace among his shoulders. You had to have orgasms almost six times now.
"I'm sorry."
He raised you up, pulling you flush against his chest before pulling out of you. You were flooded, dripping teardrops of his cum down your thighs to match the ones on your cheeks. "Let's get you cleaned up, little dove."
The arrogance, the wit, the cunning nature of Loki was drowned in the depths of his remorse for treating you so cruelly. Actions that made him realize deep down he was still a Loki. That would never change.
Yet, as he had done time and time again since staying at the TVA, he would amend his faults.
Loki used his abilities again, but not to send you reeling into yet another orgasm this time, but to transport you to his living quarters unnoticed. A warm basin of water and a washcloth were already at his bedside.
You were still trembling despite Loki's gentle touch, your legs jerking and twitching every time he soothed your core with the warm cloth. "Even now, I tend to forget how fragile you are." He whispered, brushing back strands of your hair. "You endured the stamina of a God, and that within itself is commendable, but never again, not without your word."
His heart hammered in his chest. You hadn't spoken since you begged him to stop. He was scared. Arguably, even more scared than when he faced the loom. He could go back in time, even before the two of you entered your office, and it would be nothing more than a measly strand of timeline lost to space forever, but that would be wrong. That would be immoral. All the things Loki wanted to be no more.
He would simply have to live with this mistake.
You raised your arm up, curling your hand around his bicep with a sigh. Your eyes swiveled towards him on the bedside, fluttering.
"Just next time- next time let me know."
Loki smiled, warm and fuzzy from your forgiveness.
Despite being his best employee, he would simply insist you take a sick day tomorrow.
warnings: smut (18+ minors do not interact), soft!dom!loki, sub!reader, fingering, slight degradation/humiliation kink, use of a mirror, eye contact, loki using magic on the reader, p in v
word count: 1.3k
a/n: i'm back and on my loki bullshit <3
⧠you can find my masterlist here!
"that's it, darling. keep your eyes open. just like that."
a pathetic whimper escaped past your lips, a single tear trailing down your flushed cheek.
you had lost track of time in this lewd positionâback pressed against loki's broad chest as you both sat on his bed, your legs hooked over his knees to expose your core.
his fingers trailed gently along your inner thigh, dipping closely towards your aching pussy before veering away to your knee.
long gone was your gown, discarded carelessly somewhere in the young prince's room. loki nearly ripped it off of you the second the doors shut behind him.
you hoped it hadn't been damaged too badly during loki's conquest. It was one of your favorite dresses for important occasions, and tonight had been one filled with celebration.
thor had valiantly defended vanaheim against the week-long maurader's siege. word of his bravery and deadly combat skills echoed throughout the nine realms, whispers of his subjugation spreading like wildfire.
there was no better way to celebrate his victory than with a feast thrown in his honor.
the halls of valaskjalf were alive with music and laughter, alcohol flowing endlessly like the rivers of Ăfingr. the atmosphere had been exulting and triumphantâalmost painfully so.
parties, especially those thrown by or for the golden prince, had never been your favorite. the air always hung heavy with perfume, sweat, and spilled mead, making it difficult to even breathe.
you'd intended to lock yourself away in your chambers with a stack of books, waiting for the night's festivities to pass.
but when your fatherâa close confidant and friend of odinâdemanded you attend "out of respect" and to "keep up appearances", your fate was sealed in stone.
you waltzed into the great hall, arm-in-arm with your father, a forced smile tugging at your lips. the expression only strained further as you took in the number of half-lucid guests.
you'd struck a compromise with your father: you would stay for the feast, do a quick round of greeting, congratulate thor, feign illness, and retreat to your cherished solitude.
simple. effective. respectful.
the greetings were exactly as mind-numbing as you'd expected; gossip from the chatty court ladies, aspiring soldiers bragging about their successes in training, pointed fingers and whispers of "Did you see what they're wearing tonight?"
horrendous.
you slipped toward a shadowed corner, pressing your back against a cool marble pillar. with a sigh, you massaged your cheek muscles that had become sore from forcing a grin.
your patience was running dangerously thin. you could no longer pretend to be interested in mindless hearsay or the mundane lives of sheltered nobles.
there were a few people you had failed to greet, but surely your father would understand.
after all, the last time you saw him, he was knee-deep in golden mead, drinking his body weight just to make the steward's stories seem bearable.
the sound of shattering glass made you jump.
"another!" thor's voice boomed, briefly startling the orchestra into fumbling a few notes.
heart racing and nerves frayed, you took that as your cue to leave.
keeping close to the wall, you crept towards the exit, your figure slipping in and out of the shadows between pillars.
but just as you were a few mere steps away from freedom, a honeyed voice froze you on the spot.
"leaving without saying hello?"
damn. so close.
you whipped around and found yourself face-to-face with asgard's infamous ever-brooding prince.
loki.
the moment your eyes met his, his classic sullen mask slippedâjust for a heartbeat. a flicker of something dark and hungry passed over his sharp features, gone so quickly you almost believed you'd imagined it.
an off-putting smirk tugged at his lips as he focused on you. it made your stomach twist.
growing up in the palace, you had run into him many times before. passing encounters in council halls, court gatherings, feasts and parties where he'd barely acknowledge your presence save for the occasional knowing glance or polite greeting.
but this was different.
there was focus in his gaze with an intent that felt almost predatory.
you'd meant to offer a polite nod. perhaps even a murmured congratulations on his brother's victory, and to be on your way. but loki had other plans.
you cleared your throat and pressed your hand against your forehead to feign hurt. "i don't feel so well, your majesty. i fear i have a fever starting. i was going to return to my chambers and rest."
he clicked his tongue, furrowing his brows in concern that seemed painfully condescending. then he stepped forward, all fluid grace and coiled menace.
"allow me to take a look. i'd so loathe for you to abandon the night early from sickness."
you opened your mouth to protest, but his fingers were already wrapping around your wrist to gently tug your hand away and replace it with his.
it was oddly cold. it was tender. and gods, it was large.
your breath hitched as you met his eyes, though you tried to appear as unaffected as possible.
how scandalous this must look.
the crown prince mere centimeters away, your wrist caught in the soft grip of his slender fingers. there was no doubt that you two would be the next topic of gossip for the ladies of the court.
he removed his hand from your forehead and hummed. "you do seem a bit warm. perhaps the chambers aren't such a bad idea."
his grip slid down, slow and deliberate, until his palm swallowed your hand whole. it was a courtly gesture, one born of chivalry and a prince's concern for his subjects.
almost.
loki's index finger pressed hard against the pulse that hammered in your vein, seemingly counting every frantic beat.
"i shall escort you," he murmured, mockery hiding beneath the courtesy. "i wouldn't want you to faint in some dark corridor."
that's when you saw it out of the corner of your eyes: a flash of green light that danced at his fingertips.
it disappeared as quickly as it appeared, leaving your skin tingling and your body far too aware of every touch.
sneaky thing.
now, hours later, you were here.
completely naked and spread open on his lap like an offering, thighs trembling as his knees kept yours forced wide.
he had been teasing you for what seemed an eternity. no matter how much you whined or begged or forwent your dignity, he wouldn't touch you where you needed it the most. his fingers continued their feather-light touches against your heated skin, his arm wrapped around your waist to prevent you from squirming too much.
all the while, he had you looking at yourself in the golden mirror that sat at the edge of his bed.
it reflected your sin in all its wicked glory.
his knees suddenly flexed to spread you even wider.
the stretch burned, a delicious ache that made you gasp and shiver.
"look," he commanded, breath hot against your ear. "look at how beautiful you are."
your gaze snapped to the mirror. a blush of shame crept up your neck like vines.
there you were: flushed, trembling, and irrevocably his. your cunt glistened in the candlelight, swollen and empty.
and there he was, still fully clothed in black silk and leather. he was pristine and untouched while you lay bare and ruined in his lap.
the contrast burned hotter than any fire.
despite being ready and utterly desperate for him, he still refused to give in to desire. he seemed to enjoy torturing you in this wayâlike a cat toying with a bird before the kill.
you panted, breathless and in agony. "please, my prince. please, i need you."
he simply smiled in return, meeting your eyes in the mirror. his gaze was filled with nothing but cruelty and worship.
it was a predator's reverence; the same look a falcon gives a trembling dove just before the final stoop.
you sobbed and lolled your head to rest it against his shoulder, another tear slipping free. this time, however, loki leaned down to lick it off your skin.
the feeling of his tongue against your cheek made you tremble. it was degrading and toed the line between pleasure and disgust, but somehow felt so right.
"salt and shame," he murmured, pleased. "my favorite vintage. i could drink you forever."
he suddenly grabbed your chin and forced your eyes back to the mirror, pressing his cheek against yours.
his fingers ghosted against your swollen pussy lips before parting them to grant both of you a clear view of your dripping core. he inhaled sharply.
"gods, look at your poor cunt. look at how it clenches around nothing but my words."
you couldn't answer. you couldn't even think. all you could do was watch him admire your tortured pussy, his pupils dilated with animalistic lust.
his middle finger circled your entranceâonce, twice, thriceâbefore sinking inside to the knuckle.
your back arched.
a broken moan tore from your throat.
"eyes open," he hissed, teeth grazing your shoulder. "watch me ruin the sweet noblewoman your father intended to parade around."
another finger joined the first to stretch and scissor you open, no doubt preparing you to take his cock. the wet sounds were beyond obscene, somehow amplified by the mirror's cruel honesty.
your thighs shook harder; his knees only spread you wider.
a hand gently cupped your breast as though it were the most precious thing in the world. the way loki brushed his thumb back and forth over your stiff peak made you whimper pathetically.
thenâthere. his fingers curled in just right.
"there!" you mewled. "a-ah don't stop. please, please!"
you had to force your eyes open, even as stars burst behind them. you forced yourself to see the way his pale hand disappeared into you, your arousal practically dripping down his wrist.
"what would he think?" loki panted, slowing his thrusts so that you could feel every ridge and vein of his fingers. "what would he think of me, defiling his sweet, little, darling girl?"
his thumb pressed against your clit, and you yelped. he rubbed tight circles against the swollen nub as he continued to work you with his fingers.
you felt him grind his hardness against your plush bottom, the sight affecting him in ways beyond words. his breaths came out in rapid succession, and his fingers were becoming slightly sloppy.
yet he tried to remain composed, not daring to show the cracks in his composition.
he nipped your earlobe, then purred the final blow:
"that's it, pet. fall apart on your prince's hand like the good girl you are."
you came with a strangled scream, hips bucking wildly, gummy walls clamping around his fingers like a vice. he continued to work you through your orgasm, his thumb stroking your clit until you were oversensitive and begging for relief.
only then did he withdraw.
only then did he give you the comfort you so desperately neededâbut at a price, of course
he brought his glistening fingers to your lips.
"clean them," he ordered softly. "show your prince what obedience means to you."
you opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out, allowing him to place his fingers there. your lips quickly wrapped around them and you eagerly swirled your tongue against his knuckles, reveling in your own sweet nectar.
all the while the mirror watched.
and loki stared at you, entranced.
in the blink of an eye, a green cloud engulfed loki and took away his tunic, leaving him naked beneath you. no longer was his member trapped in a tight, leather prison.
with a low growl, he shifted and lifted you just enough to slide his thick, hot length between your folds.
"not done," he rasped and guided the head to your entrance. "not even close."
one slow push.
the mirror caught your final gasp as he claimed you entirely.
You blink as the small, rectangular device you had been anxiously scrolling is plucked effortlessly from your grasp. "Matter of fact, no laptop either."
Before you can even reach for it, Zayne is tucking the electronic under his arm and carrying it away from your shared bed.
"But..." it's a foolish, weak reply. The only one you can honestly think of with the vibrations running rampant through your veins.
You just felt so restless, and when you were restless? You got lost in the internet.
...in online shopping, in ridiculous videos, in opening and closing the same apps over and over in hopes of something new.
Usually you'd put yourself to bed before it got to the 5th app reopen or the first purchase made. But, tonight? You were beyond that point and still wide awake.
"But nothing. You need to put your mind elsewhere."
You watch him plug both devices in, far out of your reach, before turning back and making his way over to the bed. "You've barely spoken to me tonight, you've had your head glued to your screen. Bad day?" He sits on the edge of your side of the bed, eyeing you carefully. No judgment evident. "Not bad, just long. Tired, I guess?"
"Long but under-stimulating, perhaps?" Maybe that was the best way to describe it. Maybe that's why you had so much pent up energy despite being glued to the bed all night. "Why don't we try stimulating something else?"
You can't stop the way your eyebrows shoot upwards, a lazy grin inching up your face as you huff out a laugh. "Well, that's one way to ask for sex, Z." You honestly didn't think he was capable of rolling his eyes in such a manner.
"For the record, not what I was saying. But, I'm certainly not opposed."
Zayne had been certain there was a much more innocent approach to his intentions... honest! But right now, he really couldn't recall what they had been...
"Ooh! Zayne! Yes, yes, like that!"
The energy you had been storing up had certainly found its way out of you through trembling thighs and burning arms.
Your back aching as you dropping your hips down over, and over, and over again. Reverse cowgirl was the only method you could think of to burn off all this extra anxiety... and boy was it working.
"Zaaaayne!" Maybe working a little too good.
The pleasure building in your abdomen shot electricity all the way up your spine, turning your once too-wired brain into a puddle of useless mush.
Your thighs - burning from effort - were starting to slow down. And the large, warm hands that were groping the fat of your ass cheeks had begun to do a lot of the heavy lifting. "Good girl, you're doing so good. You feel so good..."
You cunt restricted at the praise, clamping down around every velvety inch of Zayne's cock as if physically thanking him. "Z-zayne please I can't keep going..." You wanted to sob, especially after he had just told you how good you were doing.
You expected some sort of discipline, maybe a smack on the ass, but you got something even worse. He pushed you off completely.
"W-wait I didn't mean- ooh fuck!" Stars explode across your vision as you tumble forward, struggling to push yourself up against the mattress and process how empty you feel before Zayne is pushing himself right back in to the hilt.
"You did so good for me, baby. Let me do the rest of the hard work." Doggy with Zayne was always a treat; your fingers immediately tightened in the sheets to brace yourself as he began pumping in and out of you with a vigor you couldn't dream of matching.
Every connection of his hips to your ass had your skin jiggling, the pleasure enough to make your eyes roll back as your orgasm teetered right on the edge.
Your back arched so perfectly that his cock dragged snuggly against your sweet spot with every brutal snap. "You're quivering, you're going to cum, aren't you?"
"Yesss! Fuck, Z. M'gonna cum, please let me cum!"
You're drooling into the sheets, tears blurring your vision as you feel his hand slither around your front and easily locate your clit.
"Cum for me, I'm not stopping you." He solidifies his words by rubbing tight, fast circles on your already swollen clit. Relishing in the way you muffle a scream into the sheets below you, cunt constricting deliciously as you orgasm.
It doesn't take much for him to follow suit, hips snapping against your ass before he's doubling over you. Warm body coming down over yours as his cock pulses, a deep groan vibrating the back of your neck as he sinks his teeth into your nape. Warm cum floods your cunt as Zayne struggles to keep himself from crushing you entirely.
"Maybe..." You manage to croak after seconds, or maybe minutes of silence "... you should take my phone more often. I think this is a far more effective way of getting rid of my anxiety..." You feel Zayne's chuckles more than hear them, smiling as he kisses the bite mark he had left behind on your neck.
"I think you might be right."
Can you tell I wrote this on a whim in 45 minutes because I missed Zayne and I'm tired and I can't stop scrolling my phone? Yes? Well, that's probably because it sucks. If it sucks be nice to me I'm so tired idek if this makes any sense... the story I mean not this rambling I know this rambling makes no sense - Soul
tom riddle presses his lips against your inner thigh, kissing the plush skin softly. he knows exactly what heâs doing to you and can feel the way you tremble beneath his mouth. he looks up at you with that knowing little smile.
"poor thing," he murmurs, "you're trembling already. it's alright, sweetheart. i know this is a lot for you."
you reach down and thread your fingers through his hair, tugging him closer. tom chuckles lowly, the vibration of it teasing your skin. "eager, aren't we? how sweet."
he slides your panties down as you lift your hips to help him. once they're off, he looks at your wet pussy and hums. "look at you, all nice and ready for me. you're doing so well already."
you spread your legs wider and pull his head down. tom lets you guide him, pressing his mouth against you. his tongue slides slowly over your slit, licking up your wetness.
"there we go," he breathes between long, deliberate licks. "such a good girl, letting me take care of you." he finds your clit and circles it with the tip of his tongue before drawing it between his lips, sucking gently.
a soft whimper slips from you as you roll your hips against his face, fingers tightening in his hair. tom squeezes your other hand, still laced with yours. "easy now, darling. i know it feels intense. you're being so brave for me."
he licks faster, sucking on your clit while you grind against his tongue. "that's it," voice warm against your soaked flesh. "look at you moving so nicely. my clever girl is learning so quickly."
your breaths come faster. you keep pushing against his mouth, chasing the feeling. tom holds your thigh open with his free hand and works you steadily.
âyouâre right there, arenât you?â he grumbles against you, "it's okay. you can let go. you've been so good for me."
you moan louder, hips moving quicker on his face. he sucks on your clit a little harder, tongue flicking just right until your thighs start to shake.
"come on, sweet girl," he coos. "let me feel it. you're doing perfectly."
you come hard, moaning his name, body trembling as you ride his face through it. tom keeps licking you gently until you start to calm down.
only then does he pull back, lips and chin glistening, and smiles up at you. "there we are. you were exquisite, darling." he moves up and pulls you into his chest, kissing your forehead. "i'm very proud of you."
note . for anyone who needs tom to be soft and mean at the same time. | m.list
thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback
He's been desperate for hours at this point. You've got him tied up to the headboard, wrists flexing in the silky ribbon or shiny chains you've got him in. His head is thrown back, pale skin covered in a sheen layer of sweat, green eyes wide and teary. His messy hair from tdw? Yeah imagine that, because he can't help but thrash his head side to side as you pump his cock at a torturously slow pace. Broken little bits of asgardian fall from his lips, jaw tight as you coo at him, commenting on how precious he looks under you, all desperate and pathetic. You'd think he's entirely above begging, but when you have him practically squirming underneath you like this you'll hear the prettiest pleas in that low, broken velvet voice.
"My love, this is cruelty."
"I've behaved, please, darling, be merciful."
By the time you sink down onto his stiff, pink cock, it's already dripping with precum. Your walls clench around the shaft and his entire body twitches at the sensation. You rake your fingers over his scalp, prompting a deep groan as you gather a fistful of hair, coaxing him into looking at you. His eyes are pathetic when they meet yours, glassy with overstimulation.
When you finally allow him to come it's with deep moans, back arching and head tossed back. Those tears have finally escaped down his temples, and you kiss them away gently, murmuring praises of how well he did, thanking him for being vulnerable with you.
He falls asleep in your arms that night. No untouchable front of mischief, no cold, relentless image. Just Loki; for once soft, at peace, and entirely yours.
synopsis: after getting pricked by a porcupine, valko is sentenced to the cone of shame for 7 days. the vet has one additional instruction: avoid skin-to-skin contact with you.
slowly, he descends into depravity.
tags: fluff, smut, comfort, established relationship, porn with plot, sexual tension, porcupine, valko goes to the vet, poorly researched veterinary procedure, valko implied to have previously been sprayed by a skunk, this dog eats chocolate, plot gets progressively hornier, clingy valko, switch valko, begging, facesitting, cunnilingus, face riding, cum eating, doggy position, spit kink, scent kink, licking, light predator prey, light wrestling, floor sex, male masturbation, voyeurism, biting, manhandling, unprotected penetrative sex, knotting, at least i tried knotting im not too involved with that so i dont know for certain, shirt sniffing, pillow sniffing, these are out of order, poorly proofread
pairing: valko x fem reader
word count: 5.4k
a/n: may you forever frolic in that big forest in the sky đïž
âKoko! Where are you? Weâre going to be late!â
Your gut swirls with worry as you check your phone again. Itâs been over an hourâis he still not back from his run?Â
Any longer, and your reserved seats for the newest horror movie would be stolen for sure. Not that you think heâd mind, thoughâhe usually curled up into you before the second act even started.Â
Peering around the backyard, you scan the dense, verdant woods in all directions. Heâd never dedicated himself to any particular trail, which meant that he could return from anywhere.Â
It also meant that he could be anywhere right now.Â
Fighting a losing battle with unease, you slide your phone into your back pocket and take a few timid steps toward the forest. No matter where he was, heâd come running if you got into trouble. You knew that for certain. How many times had he jumped defensively in front of you only for a bunny or a bird to be the perceived threat? Still, the unpredictability of nature gives you pause.Â
Just as you inch forward a few more steps, thereâs a rustle at the treeline.Â
You can hear that Valko's hurt before you can see it. Those breathy, frustrated whinesâyouâd recognize them anywhere. But where is he? How is he injured?Â
A wall of green stares back at you, refusing to answer.
Youâre jogging toward the trees now, throwing caution to the wind as you follow the sounds of his pain. Just before you cross into the forest, you finally spot your boyfriendâs massive figure, his wine red hair being the giveaway. Heâs facing a pine tree, tail stiff and laid low, touching his head and wincing repeatedly.
As he registers your scent and whips around to face you, you understand why: at least 15 black-tipped, spindly death daggers sprout from his cheeks and nose.Â
âValko?â You cover your mouth in shock, and he stumbles closer, falling forward against you.
âHurts,â he grunts.Â
Like always, you struggle to support his large body. Even more so now that one wrong move could further impale him. âWhat happened?âÂ
âPorcupines are supposed to be nocturnal,â he says, voice grim and shaky. âThis one wasnât.âÂ
If you had an extra hand, youâd drag it down your forehead right now.Â
Skunks, raccoons, exceptionally angry squirrelsâthose had all happened before. A porcupine, though? That was new. Almost impressive.
âYou just get into all sorts of trouble, donât you.â Taking a step back, you brace your hands on his chest to examine him. âLet me have a look at you.âÂ
The quills look like toothpicks dipped in black ink. And while a few of them seem to have barely penetrated his skin, the majority mark the porcupineâs decisive victory.Â
âCan you take them out?â he asks, staring down at you pleadingly. âIf we hurry, we can still make the movie on time. I know Iâm super late. Iâm sorry.â
Twenty of natureâs finest knives in his face, and heâs worried about the movies?
âYou obviously had a reason,â you murmur, cupping his less-affected left cheek in your hand. âI donât know if I should, Koko. The tomato bath was one thing, but this⊠If I do it wrong, Iâll just make it worse.âÂ
His response is simple: âI trust you.âÂ
Cute. But not what you need right now.
Blowing out a breath, you stand up on your tiptoes and reach for one of the looser quills. Your fingers barely brush the tip of it when renewed anxiety shoots through you. âNo, no. I canât! I donât want to hurt you.âÂ
âYou couldnât if you tried.â He snorts, then winces at the pain.Â
âTell that to the porcupine.â You narrow your eyes. âI think it missed the memo.âÂ
His ears swivel in acknowledgment. Heâs 0â2 in battles today.Â
âAll right, change of plans,â you announce, clapping your hands and turning on your heel. âWe can go to the movies another day. Right now, we need to go to the vet.âÂ
âItâs not that serious,â he protests. âIâd do it myself if I just had a mirror. Letâs go back to the house, andââ
âIâll get the car ready.â Your word is final.Â
His ears droop atop his head.Â
Ultimately, you had to ease him into the passengerâs seat so he didnât accidentally nudge any of the quills. You debated just shoving him into the trunk so heâd have extra room, but figured extraction would be a difficult task in the clinicâs often-packed parking lot.Â
In the waiting room, you try to shield him as best you can from quizzical looks and a particularly curious cat, but heâs without a doubt the largest patient in the room. Likewise, once heâs called to the back, his sheer size makes the exam room furniture look like dollhouse accessories. The central table is nearly the length of his tail alone, and it creaks under his every movement. But you stand dutifully at his side, making sure heâs as comfortable as can be, given the circumstances.Â
The vetâs entrance is prompt as alwaysâpart of the reason why Valko prefers this clinic. The other is the giant fish tank in the waiting room that he gets to busy himself with. Today, he was in too much pain, but he typically holds intense staring contests with its oblivious inhabitants, bragging to you whenever he âwins.âÂ
âWell, I typically ask, âWhat seems to be the problem?â,â Dr. Song jokes as she shakes both of your hands. âBut today, I donât think thatâs necessary.âÂ
Sighing, Valko scratches at his jeans. âI went out for a run, and I heard something grunting in a bush nearby. I thought it mightâve been a lost pup, so I went to check it out. Anyone would, right?â He looks to you for support.Â
Smiling softly, you rub a hand down his back. âRight.â Not in most circumstances, no!
Nodding gratefully, he continues. âAs soon as I crouched down and saw it, it whipped its tail at me. Next thing I knew, it had stabbed me a million times.âÂ
âWell.â Dr. Song sighs and pulls out a pair of tweezers. âYouâre not the worst case Iâve seen. Sometimes, itâs the whole faceâand neck.â She waves her hand forward, and Valko scoots toward her on the table. âLetâs get to work, shall we?âÂ
You take a step back to give her some space, but she quickly shakes her head. âOh no, you stay standing next to him. I might need you to hold him down.âÂ
ââââââ
Right when you wonder if Valkoâs death grip will shatter every bone in your hand, Dr. Song holds up the final quill in triumph. âThatâs nineteen quills total. Looks like Mr. Porcupine let you off easy.âÂ
Valko kicks the air in desolation. âDoesnât feel like it.âÂ
âIt will when you wake up tomorrow and you donât have to wonder, âHow did it even get my nostrils?â,â she retorts, heading to the door. âNow, let me just get your treatment, and youâll be free to go.âÂ
The second she steps into the hall, Valko turns to you and whimpers. âIt hurts.âÂ
Frowning in sympathy, you run your free hand through his hair. âHow bad?â
âReally.âÂ
You start to shush him and scratch the backs of his ears how he likes, but approaching footsteps force him to regain his composure. Still, when Dr. Song re-enters the room, he holds your hand a little tighter.Â
âAll right,â she begins. âIâm going to disinfect and put ointment on the wounds, andâŠâ She pulls out a familiar, conical object from behind her back.Â
Valko freezes as soon as he sees it. Your own mouth parts in shock.Â
Is thatâŠ?Â
No way.Â
â...to keep them from getting infected, either through scratching or contamination, I recommend you wear this recovery cone for a week. Just to be safe.âÂ
When she waves the transparent cone through the air, Valko sputters in consternation. âYou want to put me in jail?â
âOf course not. Youâve done nothing wrong. But to prevent further irritation, itâs best that for the next seven days, you only remove this from your neck when absolutely necessary. Also, you should avoid certain skin-to-skin activities that may aggravate the entry spots.âÂ
You understand her implication, but Valkoâs tail thrashes in unease. âWhatâŠwhat kind of activities?âÂ
The doctor smiles down at him. âThe usual. Scenting, kissing, anything further than that. Now! Raise your head for me so I can clean the punctures.âÂ
Before he does, Valko gives you a look that needs no decoding: I think Iâm gonna be sick.Â
Day 1
Your keys clatter on the kitchen counter as Valko trails inside behind you.Â
Knowing heâll be glum about his current confinement, you try to get ahead of it, hoping you can offset the bad with so much good, heâll forget about being in plastic prison.
âSo, is there anything you want to do this evening? Watch a drama, make double chocolate chip cookies, play a video game? I could order in from your favorite steakhouse if you want. Or we could go for a walk?âÂ
Despite your efforts, his lips stay curved downward. His ears barely twitch at the mention of his favorite things.Â
âOkay, what aboutââ
âI look dumb,â he mumbles suddenly, blinking at you through the cone. It surrounds his head like petals to a flower, stopping just above his nose. He looks like an upright bullhorn, or perhaps a frilled lizard, but you canât tell him that.Â
âYou look safe,â you say instead. âThatâs what matters, yeah?â
âNot when I look dumb, too.â With a huff, he reaches behind his head, eager to free himself of Conecatraz. But before he can undo the clasp, youâre crossing your arms and tapping your foot, giving him a withering glare.Â
âYou know you arenât supposed to touch that. Put your hands down.â
âMake me.â
Oh, really? Thatâs how it is?
Scoffing, you cock your head at him, and the first signs of regret appear on his face. ââMakeâ you, huh? Should I call the vet and tell her what youâre up to? Iâm sure she has advice for patients who break the rules. Like, maybe if you mess with your cone too much and stunt your healing progress, youâll just have to wear it even longer to make up for it?â You start to turn, ready to stalk toward the house phone.Â
âNo, wait!â Lurching forward, he tries to bend down to snuggle you in apologyâa favorite habit of his. But you sidestep him quickly, clicking your tongue in admonishment.Â
As he loses his balance, he gives you a look of ultimate betrayal.
âDonât pout at me. I'm doing this for you, okay? You heard the doctor. Where your face is concerned, skin-to-skin contact is off limits for now.â
As if he didn't hear you, he ducks toward you again, desperate to marry his cone to your shoulder. This time, you give his arm a healthy pinch, and he yelps in shock.
âNo, Koko. It's for your own good.â
Frustration grows on his face, beginning to claw at your heart, too. Heâs never had to limit contact with you like this. Even when you first met, he was stuck to you like a magnet.Â
Sighing, you try to bring him some comfort. âHere. Get on your knees.âÂ
He follows the order without further prompting, sinking to his knees on the kitchen floor. Even like this, heâs still half your height.Â
âCome here.â Reaching through the coneâs opening, you pet the top of his head, running your fingers through his soft strands with care. When he leans into your touch, you trace his ears with light strokes and smile when he shudders. Gradually, the deep frown on his face shrinks to a mild line of displeasure.Â
He wraps his strong arms around your thighs in a stubborn thank-you, and you can't help but coo down at him. âYouâre my big, strong wolf, arenât you? Itâll be over before you know it. You can handle this, no problem.âÂ
Day 3
Valko could not handle it, and there were many problems.Â
In fact, while he was bored out of his mind the night of Day 2, he pried open his laptop and drafted a list of complaints.
Eating has become an unpleasant experience. While heâs permitted to remove the cone at mealtimes, he must eat in a separate room so your scent doesnât lure his unprotected self over. Worse, you will not enter the room until heâs refastened the cone around his neck. The humiliation of having to cone himself solely to win your presence is quickly becoming too much to bear.Â
You wonât let him go on errands with you, lest he get into something he shouldn't and aggravate his wounds. This makes him incredibly restlessâespecially when you come home smelling like other people and things, and thereâs nothing he can do about it. This causes significant anxiety and emotional distress.Â
He usually sleeps with his tail curled around you and his face shoved deep into your skin. This earns him a constant stream of your scent. However, a wall of pillows now separates your sides of the bed. Even worse, he is not permitted to remove the cone for the night. This causes discomfort and loss of familiarity, which undermines the restorative purpose of sleep. He will be sending you any medical bills that arise due to his sleep deprivation.Â
Last, but perhaps most important: the cone obstructs his view of you, which he depends on for energy throughout the day. (Youâre quick to deem this one questionable, because the cone is fully see through???)
A document of his grievances was taped to your blanket, just over your heart, this morning.Â
Clearly, he had a lot on his mind.Â
Now, you lie on the sofa watching TV, trying to cuddle with him as best you can. Your fingers are intertwined, and heâs sprawled awkwardly across your lap, face up and eyes begging. You try to ignore the incessant nonverbal pleading, rubbing circles into his skin with your thumb.Â
Sometimes, he turns his head into your bellyâor maybe a little lowerâand inhales as deeply as he can through the plastic. When you gasp and swat at him, suddenly scandalized, he only huffs and grumbles, bringing you closer. âJust let me have this.â
As the sun dips in the sky, he almost relaxes. He grows captivated by the nature show youâre watching, ears going into overdrive from all the birdsongs and animal calls. Itâs the calmest heâs been in the last three days, you thinkâuntil the âwoodland creaturesâ portion of the show begins.
His mortal enemy lies in wait within.
âItâs not as big as the one that did this to me,â he growls at the porcupine stumbling around on the screen. âHe was a monster.â
âIâm sure he was,â you answer automatically. Youâre used to this by now. âHow else could he have taken you down?â
Valko grunts in agreement, then pauses the TV. âCan we do something else now?â
âOkay.â You squint at him warily. âSomething like what?â
Slowly, as if you wonât be able to see him, he trails his hand down your side, gently squeezing at your hip.
âNo,â you sigh, firmly returning his hand to him.Â
Tuning out his protests, you unpause the show. At that moment, a closeup of the porcupineâs snout fills the screen.
âCan you at least change the channel, then?â he mumbles.
Day 5
Since youâve known him, Valko has never been one to give up. Driven and scrupulous, he approaches life with an outlook thatâs both endearing and exhausting: if not now, maybe later.
Itâs no surprise, then, when his attempts to hold and claim you like normal escalate to new heights.Â
One time, you catch him in the midst of the most primal desperation.Â
Itâs not even noon yet, but here he is: laid out nude in the middle of your bed, head propped on his set of pillows while he clutches one of yours to his cone. With his instincts compromised and your scent already flooding his nose, he canât yet tell that youâve entered the room. And boy. If you thought he was shameless in public, Valko in private is a whole different animal.
His hand is all but glued to the heavy bulk between his legs, pumping and twisting like heâll die if he doesnât.Â
His thumb circles his tip as he works his rhythm, abs flexing with each ragged breath. Every soft, broken moan of your name is an axe to your resolve.Â
Before you do something youâll regret, you try to back out of the bedroom and leave. But as soon as one foot is out the door, your shoulder hits the wall with a quiet thump.Â
You freeze instantly, your heart dropping to your feet.
Thereâs no point in hoping he didnât hear. To Valko, no sound is ever quiet.
He jerks his head toward you immediately, steady pumps getting wilder the moment your eyes meet. âFuck,â he pants, writhing desperately on the sheets. His massive thighs tremble with every movement, sending tiny shocks of heat to your core. âFuck.â
âValkââ
âPlease help me. Please, it hurts so bad. I need you so bad, please, itâs been days.â
You bite your lip so hard, you think youâll draw blood. âYou know I canât.â
âI donât care what the vet said,â he growls, fist finally coming to a stop. âI care about you.âÂ
Clinging to resolve, you cross your arms and stay put. At that, he closes his eyes and breathes slow and deep through his nose.
âJustâ Help me finish, please. You donât have to touch anywhere near my face. Thatâs the rule, right?â
As that pleading stare pins you to the spot once more, you bite your lip in consideration. Heâs flushed all over, and a thin sheen of sweat coats his whole body. He really does need your help, but can you risk it?
When his mask slips, letting the hungry glint in his eyes shine through, you know you canât.
âI wonât touch you, Valko. But you can use this.â Swiftly, you tug your shirt over your head and toss it onto the bed. He catches it with ease, and behind the cone, his face contorts in bewilderment.
âUse it?â
âTo finish,â you explain, folding your arms across your bra. âItâs the safest way I can help you right now.â
Gazing at you like youâre a deity reborn, he presses the fabric to his coneâs exterior, right outside his nose. As he inhales, a deep, guttural groan escapes him. âThank you,â he pants. His hand returns to his reddened length, and he redoubles his earlier efforts.Â
Leaking arousal glistens on his skin, and you can hear how much easier it makes things for him. Covered in his own desire, he slides his hand up and down with no friction, creating lewd, wet sounds that echo through the room.Â
âThank you, thank youâ Fuck, thank you. Iâve done this like ten times already, and itâs taken me longer every go,â he admits shamelessly. âThis is so much better. Not as good as you, but so much better. Thank you.âÂ
He bucks his hips into his giant fist, and for a moment, you fear your shared bed might collapse under his ferocity. Once he starts licking the coneâs wall, as if heâll be able to taste your shirt through the plastic, you almost want to avert your eyes and leave the two of them alone together.Â
You donât have long to ponder it. Soon after, Valko comes quickly with a deep groan of your name, coating his skin in spills of white. As he convulses in pleasure, you approach his bedside to stroke his hair through the coneâs openingâjust like you have for the last several days. Valko whines at your touch.Â
âShh, baby. Itâs okay,â you whisper. âJust two more days, yeah?â
His response is halfway between a growl and a grunt. Chuckling, you bend to kiss his damp, darkened hair. âJust two more days.âÂ
Day 7
At 12 a.m., you wake to an empty bed. âKoko?â
Thereâs no response to your call. Groaning, you throw off the covers and stretch your tired limbs. Where did he run off to? Itâs barely been two hours since you went to bed.
Hugging yourself to keep warm, you pad into the dark hallway. The home gym is clear, and heâs not in the kitchen sneaking chocolate. Where could he be?
It doesnât take long to find out.
In the living room, Valko stands at the back door, gazing at the moon through the window.Â
Heâs clad only in loose grey sweats. More notably, heâs missing his cone.Â
The only indication that he knows youâre there is a near imperceptible twitch of his ears. âItâs day seven, did you know that?â he rumbles.Â
Suddenly nervous, you shift on your feet. âI did.âÂ
âSo you also know what Iâve been missing the last seven days.â He turns to face you, eyes stormy and narrowed. âWhat I havenât been able to stop thinking about. What I begged you to give me, but you refused. Acted like you were doing me a favor,â he spits out, lips curling into a snarl.
In the moonlight filtering through the window, his amber eyes are a new level of otherworldly. Pale, greyish-white slivers flicker across his chest, making his taut abs seem to ripple in front of you.Â
After seven days, he looks very, very grumpy.
You get the sense that youâre in trouble.Â
âKoko,â you start, stepping forward to placate him, âyou know thatâs notââ
âDonât âKokoâ me,â he snaps. âThatâs reserved for people Iâm close with.â
Is he serious? âYou know Iâm closer to you than anyone.â
âRight now? After this week? Iâm not so sure. But you will be.â His tail swishes behind him as he takes a menacing step toward you. âCome here,â he growls out.Â
âWe can talk about this, but Iâm not going toââ
âThree.â
âOkay, are you seriously threatening me with a countdown?â
âTwo.âÂ
âThatâs my thing! You know, when you wonât let me get out of bed, or when you bite too hard, orââ
He doesnât let you get to âone.â
When he bursts forward at superhuman speed, he doesnât even give you the chance to run.Â
Youâre in his arms in an instant, thrashing wildly as he tries to pull you both to the floor. âYouâre heavy as fuck!â you bark at him. âLet me go!â
âNo.â He overpowers you easily, lowering you to the carpet and quickly pinning you there. He only takes a moment to revel in your submissionâyour high squeaks and whimpers and feeble attempts to swat him off. Evidently, he has bigger plans for you.
While you wriggle beneath him, he deftly kicks off his sweats and quickly deals with your clothes. Youâre wearing only a nightshirtâhis, you notice all too lateâand completely vulnerable to his impatience.
He rips a line straight down the middle, clumsily shrugging the worn fabric off you. While youâre too busy gawking to register his actions, he slides down your body, coming to a halt at your traitorously wet heat.Â
âUsually, at least a little bit of my scent lingers here,â he says, inhaling you deeply. âYouâve lost it after not taking me for so long. But weâll fix it, wonât we?â
When you donât respond, his eyes flash up at you. âWonât we?â
âY-Yeah,â you whisper, signing away your fate.
âYeah, we will.â Surging forward, he places an open-mouthed kiss to your entrance, swirling his tongue into you without warning. His ensuing groan could start a national scandal.Â
âIâm gonna let you go, all right?â He nips your inner thigh. âDonât try to run from me. Iâll catch you.âÂ
He watches closely as he eases off of you, but thereâs no needâyou obey.Â
âGood girl,â he mocks, and you break his gaze with a huff.Â
Chuckling, he sweeps his hair back and lies down on the carpet, grabbing your arm and dragging you to him. âSit on me.â
ââŠWhat?â
âMy face. Sit on it.â
ââŠWhat?âÂ
âOh, I get it. Is this a âmake meâ kind of thing? Well, if you insisââ
âNo!â You hold your hands out in defense, grimacing when he grins at you. âYou know weâve neverâŠdone that before.â
He shrugs. âFirst time for everything. Hop on.â
You stay put, shaking your head with vigor no matter how hard your center pulses. âWhat if you canât breathe?â
âDonât need to.â
âI think you do, but okay.â Playing with your fingers, you search for another excuse. âWhat if Iâm too heavy?â
Valkoâs smile slips, and his top lip curls as he looks at you flatly. âNow youâre just insulting me.âÂ
In retrospect, you shouldâve known that one wouldnât get you very far.
âFine,â you concede shakily. Crawling toward him, you put your hands on either side of his massive body and sit down on him in a straddle. Gingerly, you scoot up, and up, and up, until your hips are right below his chin. His smirk widens all the way.Â
âLast chance to back out,â you offer helplessly. How would grilled porcupine taste?
âIn your dreams.â In an instant, his arm shoots out behind you and guides you forward. You cry out the second your sensitive flesh meets his skin, nearly cursing from the foreign sensation.Â
For a moment, all he does is breathe you in. Lewd, deep inhales, trying to siphon the scent from your depths. âMissed this,â he murmurs, words slightly muffled. âMissed you. Fuck, youâre so good. You smell so good.â
Youâre afraid to look down, but you donât have to. You can hear his smile.
Instead, you look behind you, seeing that his thick, veiny length is flushed and leaking already. Your gulp echoes in your ears.Â
A soft press of his lips to your throbbing clit pulls you back to your senses. With another kiss, he positions the bud over his nose and your entrance over his mouth, so heâs sure to catch all your desire.
When he squeezes your hip, you know heâs asking for more. Gently, timidly, you rock against his face to appease him. Valko, though, ever observant when youâre involved, knows youâre withholding your full weight.Â
And he wonât have it.Â
Simultaneously, he delivers a sharp slap to your backside and nips your clit in warning. When you squeal out into the cool air, he soothes the sting with a searing lash of his tongue.Â
âIâm trying!â you cry. âWhenever we do this, Iâm always the one on my back! I feel weird.â
Squeezing your hips, he lifts you up just enough to speak. âTough.â
Then, he plops you right back down, the smack of skin on skin spreading a wildfire across your cheeks.
Eager to explore, he glides his tongue around your core, poking and prodding wherever he likes. When you arch away from the pleasure, too sensitive to stay still, he decides heâs had enough.Â
His tight grip on your hips is his first act of defiance. But when he starts bouncing you on his face, alternating between his mouth and nose, youâre more than ready to throw in the towel.Â
âValko!â you whine. Up and down, down and up. Up and down again and again. How long has he wanted this?
A response would require a pause in his actions, so of course, he doesnât provide one. Instead, he flattens his tongue against your clit and makes you grind your hips down onto him, like heâs nothing but an extension of you. âValko!â you repeat, stars quickly clouding your vision.
All he offers is an unburdened grunt, clearly not planning on stopping anytime soon. And why would he, when thereâs so much to lap up?
A mix of his saliva and your arousal pools between you, with sound effects previously unheard of filling the room. Youâre so wet, at one point, you almost slide down his face to his foreheadâbut he hauls you back up with a laugh, the vibrations only exacerbating the issue. When you pull at his hair, shy and embarrassed, he merely sucks your clit into his mouth and releases it with a pop.Â
Captive to his relentless touch, it isnât long before your muscles contract and release, sending more and more wetness gushing toward his waiting mouth.Â
Your mind is a haze as he licks you clean, making sure not to waste a single drop. You do register, though, how he inhales once again when heâs finished. âSmells like me again. Thatâs better.â
Thinking his wrath has exhausted itself, you feel your body deflate like a popped balloon. Youâre more than ready to melt into the sheets and sleep off the worst of the aftermath.Â
âWe should seal the deal, though. Just to be sure.â
Valko has other plans.
Before you can blink, he flips you over with force, driving your hands and knees into the carpet. When you yelp, he squeezes your backside in apology, only to slip his fingers down to your open slit. Once he confirms that youâre ready for him, he braces his hands on your hips and slides into you with ease.Â
Your startled gasp is his grand opportunity. As you cry out his name, he shoves his fingers into your open mouth, making you sputter and swallow around them. With his other hand, he clamps your jaw shut so youâre forced to bite him, your blunt teeth barely a threat against his skin.Â
All the while, heâs moaning and laughing, hips stuttering from his rapid thrusts. Each time his base slaps your backside, you feel him grow larger and larger, until youâre being speared on something youâre not sure you can take. But as your muscles contract around him once more, squeezing him with all that they have, you donât think that matters anymore.
In tune with your own release, hot spurts shoot deep into your channel, followed by a searing, swollen pressure you donât know if youâll ever get used to. Itâs at this point that the last of your strength crumbles. But when you start to slump into the floor, you find you canât move too farânot without bringing Valko with you.Â
As you both catch your breath, locked together until the comedown, he slides his hand out of your mouth and slaps your cheek lightly, signaling for you to open your screwed-shut eyes. When you do, he sticks his drool-coated fingers into his own mouth, canines poking into his flesh as he swipes his tongue greedily.Â
All you can do is whine.
You donât know when your bodies will loosen up enough for you to separate. All you know is that heâs got you here, right where he wants you, for a long, long, agonizingly long time.Â
ââââââ
âAre you satisfied?â you deadpan as the beast finally tucks you into bed.Â
âFor now.â You can hear his smirk as he flicks off the lights. Doesnât make much of a difference, though.
Itâs dawn.Â
âBut you can check back with me in an hour. Maybe my answer will be different.â
âIn an hour, I will be dead to the world and recovering from you,â you grumble. Suddenly, you purse your lips. âIâm gonna miss that cone, you know.â
Even in the dim morning light, you can see his brows furrow. âWhat?âÂ
âYou looked cute in it. Like a little puppy.â Reaching out, you grab his face and squish his cheeks between your fingers. âSo cute.â
He scoffs and rolls his eyes, but his tail thumps the mattress. âWhatever. It did have its benefits, though. Tonight was so good, I wouldnât mind a repeat.â
âYou really think you can do that again? Seven whole days, no contact?â
ââCourse I do. It wasnât that hard for me.â
Your eyes narrow into slits. âNot even you believe that.âÂ
âYeah. This was fun, though,â he says through a yawn. âWe should do it again sometime. Goodnight.â
As he rolls over and tucks his tail around you, blanketing you in half his body weight, a nagging thought wonât leave your head.
Should you switch vets?Â
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â.đ ÌâSo⊠what position is your favorite, wolf boy?âÂ
Maybe youâve been pushing your luck a little too far tonight. Valko had warned you several times that if he came over, he had a few work things he needed to get done. You agreed, because regardless at least heâd be present and youâd get his company.Â
But⊠you didnât realise how tempting the wolf would look simply typing away on a laptop that seemed remarkably small compared to his long fingers. âIâve particularly enjoyed my time as chairman the most.â He mutters it half-heartedly, brows furrowing as he reads another line of text and back spaces on it.Â
You find yourself swallowing a groan, of course heâd be so absorbed in his work that heâd interpret your question that way. âNo, Val. Sânot what I meantâŠâ You suck on your bottom lip, debating if you should really push forward with your not so sweet agenda.Â
âI meantâŠâ you shift on the couch, pushing to your knees so you can bend down and press your lips to the side of his head. â...what sex position." Everything halts for a moment, and you have to hold your breath in order to not laugh when Valkoâs knees slam into the underside of your coffee table.
He had claimed the floor would be a better space to work but now⊠âHave you lost your mind?â Heâs whirling on you, staring up at where you perch yourself on the couch.Â
Itâs not out of anger, more or less itâs out of pure shock. He had been so locked in, nearly done, and there you go derailing his entire train of thought. âMaybe a little. I was just curious if the doggy liked it⊠doggy styleâŠ?â terrible, terrible jokeâŠÂ
Valko stares at you, unblinking for a moment, before a rosy hue spreads up his cheeks. âYouâre a devil.â Breathless, pupils slowly dilating as he stares at you. Finishing the project be damned, heâs higher up in power anyways. âWhy donât I show you my favorite?âÂ
âI canât!â This, by no means, is what you were picturing for Valkoâs favorite position.Â
Your head is nearly pushing through the pillow, spine curving upwards as your fingers dig deep into the roots of his hair. Youâve lost count of how many times heâs brought you over the edge with his tongue alone. âI canât, Va-ah!â Another orgasm, nearly painful, ripples through your lower half and up your spine.Â
Your thighs instinctively fight against his grip, attempting to snap shut around his head. As if it would somehow be enough to forcibly detach his mouth from your poor, overstimulated pussy. âPlease, Val, I canât take it!â Shoving hard, he finally eases up. Mouth parting from your cunt with a slick pop, a gingerly placed kiss following.Â
âYou asked me what my favorite position is.â Pushing up on his elbows, he stares down at the glistening mess he created between your thighs. âWas eating you out not an option?â His tongue licks across his fangs before darting out to poke at the reminisce of slick left on his lips. âN-no it wasnât.â You manage to stutter, body finally melting into the mattress as the exertion of so many orgasms catch up to you.Â
âYou just taste so good, and your smell is so strong down here.â A wave of heat floods you for a whole different reason, legs immediately moving to snap shut but Valko stops you. âYour pheromones, your natural scent? I can smell your arousal, I love the way you smell when youâre turned on. Itâs so strong right down hereâŠâ
Heâs trailing off as his nose twitches, eyes lazily zeroing in on your puffy cunt again. âI could suck on this pretty pussy all night, yâknow. Listen to you cry my name over and over, feel your body tremble while my tongue licks your clit, hmm?âÂ
âValko, pleaseâŠâ A slight crack in your voice, embarrassment and arousal swirling deep in your gut as you realize how quickly you had lost your upper hand from earlier. âEating me out is your favorite foreplay, whatâs your favorite sex position?" Your body ached, not from exhaustion, but from the renewed need to feel him inside of you.  Â
âMâhonestly not too sureâŠâ The confession has you sitting up on wobbly arms. Itâs your turn to look mildly incredulous. âYouâre not sure?â The wolf between your legs finally settles on his stomach, folding one arm under him and using the other to balance his head on his fist. He looks like heâs genuinely pondering the answer to a serious hypothetical, with swollen lips and bed-head thanks to your iron grip.Â
âI like when youâre on top⊠so maybe cowgirl?âÂ
Bounce on that wolf dih crazy style fr fr ... part 2? LMAO - Soul
priest caleb x virgin reader
virgin reader confesses her lustful thoughts to her kind and gentle priest, unaware of his own battle with temptation. 11k words.
read on ao3
You were a good girl.
Good girls werenât distracted during Sunday sermon. They sat still and attentive, obediently absorbing lessons to carry with them throughout their lives. Good girls were never distracted.
Especially not by their priest.
They werenât distracted by the hair curling around his neck in pretty little flicks of brown, or by the look in his gentle eyes when his gaze lingered on them in the second row of pews, or by the ways his long fingers firmly gripped the Holy Book as he held it highâfar out of reach of the average person.
For two whole years, you remind yourself of these things. You sit through Sunday mass every week without fail, hands folds neatly in your lap, and you ask for forgiveness on your knees beside your bed each night when you realise your focus had drifted from the Lord to His messenger.
It felt much like a test you were failing, over and over and over.
His fingers.
His fingers, above all else, were your undoing.
The Communion procession shuffles forward slowly, drawing you towards your ultimate weekly test. Behold him who takes away the sins of the world. You repeat the words to yourself as the line carries you closer to him. Behold him who takes away the sinsâŠ
âAmen,â the elderly woman in front of you mutters under her breath.
And then itâs your turn.
His eyes are gentle and kind, fixed on you as soon as you step forwardâunwaveringâeven as he reaches for the sacramental bread, a small perfectly circular wafer. This was the part that played over and over in your mind as you tossed and turned at night. This was what you asked forgiveness for, above all else. Your heart races in anticipation as his eyes flick to your lips.
You obey his silent request, parting your lips in preparation to accept his offering. He would place the delicate wafer on your tongue with practised ease, careful not to touch you. And then heâd hold the chalice of wine to your lipsâhelping you take a chaste sip. His eyes would never leave you, and your face would shamefully heat in response.
One small moment of intoxicating proximity.
Repeated, week after week; never changing.
His warm eyes fix on yours as the small wafer approaches your waiting tongue, and you savour the details of his faceâsurrendering to your habitual sinful indulgence.
Something is different.
You replayed this never-changing ritual in your mind for years. You knew all its minor details. You knew it intimately.
Something is different.
His bottom lip trembles slightly and then dropsâfalling away from his upper lip. And at the same moment you watch his mouth part, mirroring yours, something else new draws a tiny gasp from your lungs.
His warm finger touches your tongue.
Every week, for years, he repeated the motion of chastely placing the small disc on the tongues of the congregation.
Never before had he touched you. Not once.
âThe body of Christ,â he says, hushed, like this was normal.
His parted lips, a touch of his fingertip to your wet tongue, and then, to finalise your torment, he brushes your bottom lip in his retreat.
Itâs only the well-formed muscle memory that draws a quiet âAmenâ from your lips.
That night, after kneeling and begging forgiveness, you crawl under your covers and desperately will sleep to take youâto free you from your spiralling, sinful remembrance. You toss and turn. You stare at your ceiling. Eventually, you open a window and sip from a glass of water as the cool night air soothes your heated cheeks. And it would be that small sip that finally unravelled you, drawing your mind back to the moment he pressed the lip of the chalice to your lipsâthe lips heâd touched.
Your cotton nightgown bunches up around your waist as you roll onto your stomach and slip your hand between your legs. It was the way he guided youâthe look in his eyesâlike he might reach out and wipe away any wine that spilled down your chin if you were too eager. It was the way his pretty fingers wrapped around the cup. It was knowing their warmth. The way they felt on your skin. On your tongue.
He would guide you so gently, if he were here with you now. Youâd imagined it before: him watching over you as you traced your fingers through your slick. But never had you imagined him touching. Touching was forbidden. A step too far. He did not touch.
Until now.
A heavenly addition to your sensory experience of him.
Itâs what draws the sinful noises from you now: shameful whimpers and gasps as you picture his finger in place of yoursâdipping a little inside you.
How could this be such wicked depravity if his finger slipping past your lips could be part of a Holy Rite? Was there really such a difference between two parts of a body? What made the wet heat of your mouth so different from the wet heat between your legs?
Itâs these spiralling thoughts, and the flood of tears that follow your cry of his name at your peak, that finally break you.
You were not a good girl.
You were damned.
And only confession could save you.
If you were brave, you wouldnât hesitate. Youâd march through the open church door at the first opportunity and take a place in the pews among a spattering of familiar faces, each waiting their turn to speak to him.
Instead, when weekly confessional hours do arrive, you sit on a small stone bench in the church graveyard and watch people filter in and out. You notice the little changes in them as they leave. Eyes that had been focused on the pavement instead look up into the trees. Their steps are lighter.
A mother who had first passed you hurriedly, tugging her small child behind her, leaves with him in her arms. She pauses and points out a little white rabbit at the edge of the churchyard, bouncing the toddler on her hip a little as she cherishes his reaction. And when the rabbit dips into the bushes, she continues her leisurely pace, engaging with the childâs chatter.
The weight of your burden seems to grow heavier the more you watch them all relieved of theirs. If you hadnât hesitated at the sight of the open door and rerouted to the small stone bench, you couldâve avoided this. Instead of watching them, you couldâve been sitting in the pews watching him. He wouldâve made the child laugh, settling him, so he could talk to his mother.
You loved watching the way they all reacted to him, adored him.
Thatâs what you should have done; what you should do now. But when you stand, instead of heading inside, you find yourself turning the way you cameâscurrying from the church grounds, no braver than a little white rabbit.
When Sunday comes, for the first time in years, you donât attend.
Itâs all the hesitation your body allows before you are nearly sick with anxiety. Wanting it over, you take up position on that same stone bench during confession hours, again. And like the week before, you wait. You watch as a spattering of congregants seeking opportunity for repentance come and go. An hour passes, beyond the departure of his final visitor. Again, youâd let the official hours come and go.
The sky turns a golden yellow as the sun dips behind the trees, and you wrap your small cardigan around yourself as the temperature dips with it.
And then a familiar, warm voice calls your name.
He stands in the stone arch of the old church's entryway, looking out at you. âYou must be cold,â he says in his gentle, patient way. âI thought you might be waiting to speak to me last. Some people prefer knowing thereâs no one waiting their turn.â
You take a small step forward, arms around yourself in a self-soothing hug. âI was,â you confess. âIâm sorry, Iââ
âItâs alright,â he says gently, mercifully cutting you off as a visible shiver takes hold of you. âCome inside, please.â
He stands in the entrance, turning his body to the side as you pass. Somehow, he feels largerâtallerâwhen youâre alone with him. Much like the empty church makes you feel small when its empty of its congregation. He towers over you.
âIt must be serious,â he says, his voice echoing slightly. The large wooden door closes as you linger in the aisle between pews. A closed door meant no more visitors. You were the last allowed entry. âSerious enough for you to prefer turning to ice rather than speak to me about it.â Heâs slightly teasing as he approachesâclearly trying to ease the tension that has you still wrapped around yourselfâcowering like a scared little lamb.
Itâs a warm, comforting sort of teasing. Familiar. Itâs his natural warmth that contributes to his busy visiting hours. Youâd never heard a bad word spoken against him.
It makes your guilt so much worse.
Shame wracks you, suddenly faced with the reality of confessing your wickedness to a man so good and kind. A man so rare. You had been all alone for so long. No family to guide you with unconditional care. He was a little spark of genuine warmth and care, irresistible to someone starved of it.
You couldnât imagine returning to Sunday mass every week after this, knowing that he might think back to this night every time his eyes landed on you in the pews.
Soft footfalls approach as you stare at the stone floor.
He speaks your name in a hushed, gentle command.He wants you to look at him. To face your shame.
And when you refuse, eyes stubbornly fixed to the floor, you must deal with the repercussions.
For the second time, he touches you.
His fingers rest under your chin as he lifts your head with a gentle pressure. Heâs warm. Warmer than heâd been last time. At least, thatâs how it seems as your chilled skin leaches the heat from his fingers. They linger, just for a moment, holding you in position as his eyes flick across your face.
Then theyâre gone.
âWould the booth make it easier?â he asks, hushed enough to avoid the echo.
There was no shame in hiding, you tell yourself. It was the only way youâd ever manage it. How could you ever tell him the truth with his eyes warming your skin?
He sees the answer in your eyes. And youâre grateful when he takes the lead without further question, letting you trail behind him to the small confessional booth in the corner of the empty church.
âIn the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen,â you begin. âBless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is⊠three months since my last confession.â Three months. The last time youâd convinced yourself to confess, only to find yourself listing off trivial everyday faults instead.
The sound of your breathing seems far too loud in the small wooden chamber. So much so that you take in shallower breaths in the silence that follows, self-conscious.
âAre you unwell?â he asks as the silence stretches, kindâlike he truly cared. When you hesitate, confused by the unexpected question, he adds, âYou were absent on Sunday. I assumed you mightâve been sick, but you look healthy. Nothing serious, then.â The last part isnât a question. He says it like heâs reassuring himself, like he really, truly cared.
Always so caring, of everyone. It makes it worse.
Your gut flips, anxiety rushing through you. You remember why youâd listed of a few trivial things and escaped in your last attempt. It was unbearable.
You couldnât do this again.
âItâs a kind of sickness,â you confess, relying on the echo of the box to carry your hushed words through the small hatched window in the divider between you.
Heâs quiet, letting you elaborate in your own time.
âIâve been distracted. I havenât heard your sermons. Not really.â You dig your fingernails into your thighs. âNot because they arenât interesting⊠or helpful. Itâs me. Iâm full ofââ One of your knees starts to bounce automatically. âMy head is full of⊠sickness. Sick thoughts. They wonât stop.â
You focus on his steady breathing in the lull between your confession and his answer, letting the even rhythm of it calm you until your leg stills.
âHas something happened?â he asks. âSomething is bothering you.â A pause. âSomeone?â
âSomeone,â the word leaves you on an exhale.
His next question leaves him faster than any of his previous responses. You havenât even managed to take in another breath. Itâs a falter in the calm rhythm you are used to, catching you off guard.
âWho?â
âIt⊠doesnât matter.â
It did matter. Youâd lied. One moment of impulse and youâd lied. If your distraction had been a man in the pews instead of the one standing at the pulpit, it would be a different matter entirely. Youâd have asked Caleb for advice years earlier.
Youâd have confessed your eyes had been drifting in the pews, distracted by temptation, instead of focused on him, as they should be. Thereâd be no confusing, twisted entanglement between his guidance and his unwilling involvement in your sin.
âGideon,â he says, disrupting your spiralling thoughts. âHeâs only been attending a few weeks. I havenât seen him approach you. Was it after service?â
Youâd never heard the name in your life. You hadnât even noticed a new face in the congregation.
If only you had. If only it was that simple.
When you fail to answer, mind whirring, he continues, âIs that why you werenât here Sunday?â The fabric of his pants brush across the wood in a way that signals his movement. His voice is a little clearer when he speaks next, closer. âHas he hurt you?â
âNo,â you answer, quickly. âNo, Iââ
âYouâll be honest with me,â he interrupts. âWonât you?â He sounds a little like a parent about to catch their child in a lie. Not quite stern, but the authority in his tone has you biting your lip.
âItâs not Gideon.â
âWho?â
âThatâs what makes it so wicked, Father. Iâve been so afraidââ Movement again, through the divider. It breaks your momentum. You fall into silence.
Like his face, you know his voice. Youâve studied it intently, every week, for years. All the warm, gentle kindness is missing when he interrupts you, âAfraid?â
You pick at the skin at the edge of your nail.
âOf you,â you finish.
Silence follows, except from your breath.
His, for the first time, is inaudible.
You should continue. You should take the silence as opportunity to confess the depths of your depravity. Your lips part, readyâ
âCommunion.â His voice fills the boxâfills your head.
He knew.
He mustâve seen it in your face. Of course he did. He was good and pure and righteous. He would have seen that lustful wickedness on your face each and every time.
Had he been waiting for you to confess it? Had he expected it from you each and every time you came to him, only to be disappointed when you failed to admit to your true sin?
Shame. Embarrassing, pitiful shame.
Your voice is shaky, emotion thinly veiled. âIâm sorry, Iââ
âNo.â He cuts you off quickly. âThis is my weakness. I should be asking your forgiveness.â A bump against the wood. Maybe his elbow. Your eyes lift to the small window separating you for the first time as you turn his words over, confused. âI took advantage of your innocence. I didnât think youâd notice. I was weak. If I knew youâd seeâfeel myâŠâ he trails off, sucks in a breath, then, âI shouldnât have touched you. Forgive me.â
Your heart races as you put together his meaning.
He was talking about his accidental touch of your tongue⊠and lip.
No, that wasnât right. He was confessing it was⊠intentional.
He was confessing.
Itâs like a sedative: the daze his words puts you in. Suddenly, instead of being hyper aware of your body, of your anxiety, you feel entirely outside of itâfloating outside of yourself. âI donât understand,â you mutter, disbelief stuttering your ability to process. He was good, and righteous, and loved, and kind, and virtuâ
âYou dontâ,â he starts. âYou donât understand?â
Heâd wanted to touch you? Why would heâ
âTalk to me,â he adds with a hint of urgency. âYou donât understand?â
âIt was on purpose?â
Heâs quiet. Then, âYou said you were afraid of me. If itâs not thatââ
âYou wanted to touch me?â you whisper, hardly hearing his questioning through your ongoing daze.
âYes,â he answers quickly. âI succumbed toââ He sighs. âI gave in.â
He had... lusted. Heâd lusted⊠for you. And even if it had been a one-off moment of weakness, unlike your own, his sin had reached out to brush yoursâŠ
Something releases inside of you. Confession rushes from your lips, unrestrained. âFather, bless me, for I have sinned. Iâve also given into lustful thoughts.â
Silence.
Then, âThese are your⊠sick thoughts? The sickness distracting you from sermon?â
You nod. âFor two years now.â
âTwoââ he cuts himself off abruptly. âDuring mass.â He shifts. âAnd when else?â
The marks in your thighs capture your attention again. You scratch at them. âAt night,â you confess, hushed. This⊠is where your sin diverged from his. Shame surrounds it still, heavy.
âYour indulgenceâŠâ he trails off.
âYes, Father?â
A bump against wood. âWhy were you absent this past Sunday?â
âIââ You tug the hem of your dress down over your knees. âI was afraid to see you.â
âBecause of Communion? Because Iââ
âNo.â You shake your head, despite knowing he couldnât see it. âI was ashamed.â
Heâs quiet.
It stretches.
Finally, âWe all have moments of weaknessââ
âBut it wasnât a moment,â you interject. âThereâs something wrong with me. Father, itâsâI canâtâMy Sundayâs arenât spent in worship of the Lord, theyâreââ spent in worship of you.
You drop your head into your hands, incapable of speaking the words aloud. Then, so quiet you arenât sure he can even hear you with your head bowed the way it is, âIâd never done it before you.â
When he doesnât respond, you raise your head. âIâve never thought about anyone but you. What is wrong with me? To lust for the first timeâto lust only for a man of God?â
You focus on his breathing in the silence, hoping to let it calm you like it had before. But itâs different now. Itâs uneven, heavier. It stirs your unease instead.
âThereâs nothing wrong with you,â he says, finally.
âButââ
âThere is nothing wrong with you,â he insists, firm, without room for argument. âYou are⊠perfection, sent to tempt me.â The wooden bench he sits on creaks with his movement.
âTell me why you wore that dress,â he adds, gentler.
You look down at the plain dress, hem resting at your knees where youâd tugged it down. Did you have a reason? You hadnât worn it in while, and the weather was just about to get too cold for you to wear it again for months. That was all.
At your hesitation, he continues, âYou wore that the first day I gave in. Apple red.â
ââŠgave in?â you question, a little wobble in your voice. You know what heâs implying, deep down. But itâs all too much. One thing after the other, shattering all you thought you knew.
And then, unaware of your imminent collapse, he deals the final blow.
âThe first time I wrapped my hand around myself and thought of the way looked up at me, all sweet and trusting. You look at me likeââ
Your small sob cuts him off, and you press your hands over your mouth, desperately trying to stifle the sounds escaping you without permission.
He stands, draws his curtain back, and exits his half off the booth. Your hands are still pressed over your mouth when he pulls the curtain in your little part of the box aside.
You look up at him with watery eyes, a towering dark shadow. And when he slowly enters and kneels in front of you, his large body fills your little section of booth. âAre you afraid?â he whispers. âDid I scare you?â
You shake your head, hands still clasped across your mouth.
You arenât breathing at all when he leans a little closer and gently guides your hands from your face into your lap instead. His thumbs brush over your knuckles in soothing caresses as he speaks again, âWhy are you crying?â
Months and months of inner turmoil spill from you in shaky half-sobs that you fail to hold back. You look into his eyesâgentle, familiar, warm. Heâs an angel filling your vision, dressed in blackâsin and salvation. His skin is hot where he touches you. And your eyes flutter closed when his hand lifts to your cheek, ghosting over your damp skinâlike he meant to wipe away your tears but wasnât sure he should.
With a slight tilt towards him, you close the distance.
His knuckles brush your skin, gently wiping at your tears. âIâm so proud of you for coming to speak to me,â he says, voice still lowered. âYouâre so good.â
You shake your head quickly, looking down.
He lifts your chin, guiding your focus back up to him. His eyes flick across your face. âWhy are you crying?â he asks again.
You suck in a shaky breath, âI donât know.â
âOverwhelmed?â
You nod, exhaling.
âMm,â he hums, taking your hand in his. âThatâs okay.â
Gently, he guides you from the box. He stands before you, closer than he stood in Communionâa wall of black fabric. You watch his chest rise and fall, rise and fall. Then you tilt your head back to look up at him.
âDeep breaths,â he soothes as your breathing evens out.
His thumb strokes across your knuckles again.
âIâm sorry,â you breathe into the space between you.
He shakes his head, and his palm lifts to your cheekâmaking proper contact this time. âDonât. Didnât I say you did good? Iâm proud of you,â he whispers.
âButââ
âWould I lie to you?â
You look up at him with glassy eyes. At your priest. Loved and trusted by all. Gentle and kind and good.
âThatâs it,â he breathes. âThatâs how you look at meâhow youâve always looked at me.â His fingers slip behind your ear and eventually curl around the back of your neck, holding you steady. âThought it was your love for the Lord. That I was a privileged conduit, sampling all that sweet love you carried around inside you.â
His fingers press into your skin. ââŠbut it was for me,â he finishes, breathy.
You whimper, tears forming again.
âShh,â he coos, breath tickling your lips as he lowers himself to meet you. His hands are all gentle again after that brief moment of pressure. One trails up your arm as the other cups the side of your head, thumb stroking across your temple. âPlease donât cry.â
âIt was wicked,â you whisper. âIâve been wicked.â
His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, rubbing back and forthâcomforting. His eyes drop to watch the way your cardigan slips off, folding down to expose the thin shoulder strap of your red dress. âNo, sweet girl,â he says, distracted. His eyes move across your upper chest before returning to meet your gaze. âYou were worshipping the Lord through me.â
His hair looks darker than youâd ever seen it before. The sun is gone now. Youâd never seen him by candlelight before. âI was?â you sniffle.
He drags your cardigan back up over your shoulder. âYouâre a virgin?â
You nod. Another sniffle.
âAnd youâve only touched yourself when you were thinking of me?â
He doesnât let you drop your head when you try, so you nodâeyes darting to the side in shame.
âWhat could be more sacred?â he breathes.
His lips ghost over yours before landing on your cheek in a feather-light kiss. You close your eyes, savouring his touch as he leaves a leisurely trail of them across your face. Tender kisses anointing your skin in patient reverence.
âA sweet..â Kiss. âInnocentâŠâ Kiss. âLittle lamb.â Kiss. âUsing her body to worship Him. You love Him through me. Thatâs all.â He returns to your mouth, holding your head steady as his warm lips slide across yoursâyour first kiss. âThrough my body,â he finishes, warm breath mixing with yours.
That made sense, your hazy mind offers. Itâs why it had consumed you all these years; why youâd never felt it for anyone but him.
Light, bubbly, warmth rises in your chest as the guilt lifts.
Caleb would not lie to you. It was an impossibility.
He watches the smile take over your face with a look youâve never seen on him before. Then his head drops to your neck, and heâs lifting you into his arms. He doesnât move. He just stands there, holding you to his bodyâbreathing in the scent of you. He groans something into your neck, a word you canât decipher. Then he withdraws.
âWould you let me guide you in worship?â he says, a little shaky with his uneven breathing.
âMm,â you hum, nodding. Whatever that means. It didnât matter. This was good. Everything was okay now. Youâre practically limp in his arms, releasing yourself to his will.
He takes a few step backwards, and then lowers himself into a pew. You sit in his lap, knees at either side of his thighsârelaxed as his strong arms hold you against him. âIâve resisted for so long,â he says, fingers tangling in your hair at the back of your head.
Then he drags you to his mouth, messy in his indulgence. Heâs eager to please the Lord, your mind supplies, as his tongue dips between your lips to meet your own. You have no experience. You donât know what youâre doing. So you let him take you. Thereâs a moment, when you are limp in his armsâeyes closed, chin wet with droolâthat he dips his long fingers between your lips to play with your tongue. He takes it between his fingertips. Toys with it.
When your eyes flutter open, you find yourself transfixed by the expression on his face as he plays with you. His own lips are parted to accommodate his ragged breathing, and his eyes are hooded, locked on his fingers in your mouth.
Eventually, he lowers you onto your back across the pew and crawls over you. Itâs only now you notice his black shirt untucked from his pants. Then his mouth is on yours again, devouring you with a low groan. The wood is cool against your back, contrasting with the heat of him above youâwith the heat of his mouth. He tasted a little sweet, like the hard candies he kept at the entrance of the booth.
Heâd sucked on one while listening to confessions.
Heâd heard their sins, in all his virtuous kindness, and heâd let the sweet lolly melt in his hot mouth.
And now you were tasting it.
You were tasting your sweet priest.
His warm breath tickles your neck when he parts from you.
Then his fingers return. Slipping between your wet lips and into your mouth, he plays. In and out and around your tongue, he explores your mouth like it hid something he treasured. You take in as much of his face as the dim candlelit space allowed. Lost in worship, you hardly process his words when he finally speaks.
âBody of Christ,â he mumbles.
He holds your jaw, wet fingers against your cheek. And you lay limp beneath him, willing to receive, as he hovers over you and spits into your mouth.
You swallow without hesitation, indulging in the brand new expression painting his pretty face. Hunger and satisfaction combined.
He pets your hair with one long gentle stroke, adoration flooding his eyes as he gazes down upon you. Itâs a look that has your heart fluttering in your chest as your mind drifts further and further outside of your body and into the space above youâlight and free.
As his thumb brushes across your glistening lips, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake, a question flitters across your vacated mind. âIs this sex?â you mutter in a dreamy breathy sigh.
He stills.
You watch the muscles move in his face as his expression shifts. His brows tug together, then relax. His wet lips part, then close, then part again.
âItâs worship,â he answers. Your cardigan had fallen off both your shoulders at some point. He gently lifts the soft fabric back over your bare skin now, putting you back together. âWhen itâs with me, itâs worship.â
You release a shaky breath. âSo Iâll stillâIâll still be a virgin? After?â
His fingers trace over your collarbone, then wrap around your neck lightly. His voice is as gentle and warm as always when he answers, âOnly when itâs with me. No one else.â
âNo one else,â you sigh, blissful under his exalted guidance.
He nods with an approving hum, fingers slipping from your throat down to your chest. He traces down your body, making little patterns over the fabric of your dress as he goes.
âWhen I fill you with my cockâŠâ
He makes a pattern over your lower belly as he speaks.
ââŠand your untouched cunt clings to meâŠâ
His fingers brush at your thigh, where your hem bunches up. ââŠI might say some terrible, vulgar, things. Perverted depravityââ His fingertips dig into your skin. ââis only natural as such perfect worship is filtered through our imperfect human bodies.â
His warm breath tickles your thighs as he lifts your dress, exposing your cotton panties to the cool air, and to his eyes. He looks up at you through the brown hair that falls over his face. âNo matter what I say, remember this is worship. Okay?â
âOkay,â you sigh with a nod, entirely surrendered to him.
âGood girl,â he breathes, the warmth of it tickling you through the cotton. âAngel.â
His finger makes a single light stroke down the centre of the fabric, tickling your clit as he passes. Immediately, your body tenses as you attempt to curl in on yourself, overwhelmed by the newness of the feeling. Youâd expected it to feel like it did when youâd slipped your hands between your legs yourself.
It didnât.
He traps your thighs in the firm grip of his hands, preventing you from escaping him.
âIt tickles,â you confess, embarrassed.
âHere?â He brushes over the fabric again, and itâs only his firm grip on one thigh that prevents you clamping him between your legs.
His hands slip just under the dip of your lower back, and he tugs you down the bench a little, towards his mouth. Then, as you look up at the vast vaulted ceiling, he kisses the cotton. Itâs nothing more than a peck. And somehow, it feels closer to sin than anything prior. More than his tongue in your mouth, or his candy-flavoured spit.
But this wasnât sin.
Another gentle kiss, directly over your clit.
This was worship.
âFather?â
âMm?â he hums.
You canât see him, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
âShould I⊠kiss you too?â Your cardigan falls off one shoulder again. âI mean like you are. Worshipping your body is worshipping Him?â
He crawls up your body, filling your vision as he hovers over you again. His eyes fall to your exposed shoulder briefly. This time, he doesnât fix it. âWhere I kissed you?â he asks on a ragged breath.
Your eyes drop to his chest, and you fill in the rest of the path down to his belt in your mind. âBetween your legs,â you whisper.
His thumb swipes across your lower lip, then he strums it a littleâletting it bounce back as he watches its movement intently. âYou want to kiss my cock?â he asks, a little rumble in his voiceâdropping it lower than youâd heard it before.
Your eyes widen a little, still unused to his vulgar language.
âRemember what I told you,â he adds. âItâs natural, hm? To speak like this.â
You nod.
He lowers his face to your neck, and you look at the ceiling again and he inhales deeply, nose against your skin. Then, âSay it.â His lips tickle your neck as he speaks. âHow do you want to worship mâHim?â His chest presses into yours. âSay it.â
The ceiling is a void of darkness. His body separates you from it, warm and safe. You turn your head and breathe in the scent of his soft hair. âI want to kiss you⊠kiss your cock.â
You jolt a little beneath him as his teeth sink into your skin without warning. âGood girl,â he groans. âSo good. So proud of you.â A kiss where heâd bitten you⊠then another behind your ear⊠then your cheek⊠the corner of your mouth. âJust let me taste you a little first,â he whispers. âIâve wanted to taste you for so long.â
You expect him to take your mouth again.
But he disappears, back down your body, to his position between your thighs.
You close your eyes rather than stare up into the darkness again, focusing on the warmth of him between your legs⊠on the delicate way he plays with the little strip of cotton covering you. His fingers lift the edges just a little as his breath fills the space he occupiesâwarming your thighs and cunt alike. âNo one has seen it?â he asks as he toys with the fabric.
You shake your head and drop an arm across your head, over your closed eyes. âNo, Father.â
âNo one has touched it?â
âJust me,â you answer quietly, embarrassed, still.
His finger dips far enough under the fabric to sample the wetness beginning to leak from you. You should be ashamed, wracked with the guilt of sinful indulgence of the worst kind. Instead, a small high-pitched sound escapes you.
âAnd now me,â he says, low enough you almost miss it. âYouâll let me take these off, wonât you? Youâll let me see?â
âMm,â you squeak with a nod.
His fingers hook into the waistband. You expect him to take them off quickly, like removing a band-aid.
âThis is only for me,â he mutters as he lightly tugs at the fabric, inching the underwear down in a torturous lazy indulgence. âThis is worship.â
You nod. âAnyone else would be sinful.â
âMm. Thatâs right, angel. Thatâs good.â
Just before your twitching cunt is exposed to the room, he stops. You open your eyes and watch as he kneels beside the pew so he can guide your underwear down your legs and over your feet.
Then he stands.
He looks down at you.
And you watch as he brings the white cotton to his face and breathes in.
He turns and takes a few steps away. You watch him inhale again.
Then he shoves them into his pocket.
He stands there, with his back to you, lit by the candles at the entrance to the booth.
âFather?â you prompt after a long lingering silence.
His shoulders rise on a deep inhale, then he turns. He stands there, looking at you with his hands in his pockets, just far enough away that you canât make out his expression in the darkness.
Even when you sit up, he doesnât move.
You tug your dress down over your knees. âDid IâDid I do something wrong?â
He takes one step forward, the sole of his shoe squeaking over the stone tiles in his haste. But then he freezes again.
âNo,â he answers simply.
You tilt your head, trying to make out his expression. The dark empty church seems bigger now. Itâs dark corners seem darker. You resist turning around to check nothing is creeping from the dark while your back is turned. The cold starts to bite at you again. You miss him.
Itâs only when you wrap your arms around yourselfâmuch like you had when heâd found you on the benchâthat he seems to break from whatever invisible string held him back. He surges towards you and drops to his knees at your feet. âForgive me,â he pleads, wrapping his arms around you and pressing his forehead to your stomach.
Your red dress rides up to your thighs again. He takes the chance to invade the space between your thighs, gripping onto you like a lifeline.
âThis is wrong,â he says, head still bowed, pressed against you. âForgive me.â He grips the dress at your back in closed fists. âI gave in. Youâre too sweet. Iâve never strayed before. Forgiveââ
âI donât understand.â
ââme. Youâreââ
You shove at his shoulders.
Itâs enough to halt his speech, but it does nothing to loosen his hold on you.
âFather?â
He looks up at you. Tortured. Thatâs how youâd describe the twist of his pretty features now. âI told myself Iâd let myself have you once. That itâd be enough. That itâd fix it.â His fists flatten against your back. âBut it wonât ever be enough,â he breathes. It leaves him like a confession. But instead of it making him lighter, he sags. His hands slide down to your hips, then a little further. He plays with the puddle of fabric where your dress bunches up at the top of your thighs. âIâm sick,â he mutters, sounding defeated.
âBut itâs worship. Itâs okay.â
He looks up at you from between your legs, through the hair that falls over his eyesâmessier than youâve ever seen it before. âMm, itâs worship,â he says. âBut it has nothing to do with God.â
You look over to the altar, then to the crucifix on the wall behind it.
Then, you look back at the man kneeling at your feet.
âIt didnât feel like sin.â
His eyes drop to your lips, and then his fingers wrap around your thighs, just below your hem. âNo?â His hands warm your thighs where he touches you, squeezing and releasing you in a comforting rhythm. âIt did for me, angel. So much I nearly lost myself to it. It was so easy. Iâve spent so long resisting you and all it took was a little confession, and I nearly had yourââ
He swallows.
âIâm a bad man.â
You shake your head emphatically, quickly covering his hands with yours. âDonât say that. Please.â
He looks down at your hands covering his own, lingering there, even when he speaks. âYou should find a new church,â he says, entirely unmoving. âOr Iâll leave, if that makes it easier. I can leave.â
He sounds a little like heâs trying to convince himself at the end.
And when he shifts, attempting to pull himself to his feet, you panic. âNo!â you cry, wrapping your arms around his neck and dragging him back into you. You wrap your calves around him for good measure. âPlease donât leave me. Please? Iâll be good. I wonât bother you again. I swear I wonât bother you.â
He breathes heavily as you cling to him, forcing his head against you again.
Then, when the tension leaves his body, and youâre sure heâs not about the leap to his feet, you loosen your hold on him enough that he can look up at you. His hand lifts to your cheek. âYou are good,â he says. âYouâve always been so good, and youâve never bothered me. Never.â
âButââ
âIâll give in,â he interrupts. âIâll give in eventually. I want you soââ he sighs. âIâll give in.â
Your eyes flick to the altar again. Just briefly.
A door was opened now, one youâd kept locked and buried deep inside you. His tongue between your lips had been the key to unlock it, and the prospect of him pulling awayâof losing himâhad swung it wide open on its hinges.
Nothing mattered more to you.
No one. Not even God mattered more thanââCaleb,â you whisper.
His eyes dart to yours. Itâs the first time youâve called him by name. You hadnât meant to say it aloud.
âYes, sweetheart?â
He looks at you in a way that makes it immediately clear that youâd never truly seen his gentleness more. Not really. You suppose youâd seen part of it. Maybe a little sliver. But the way he looks at you now fills you with a desperation unlike anything youâve felt before. A desperation to cling to him. He looks at you like he could offer you everything.
You couldnât part from him now.
Not ever.
âHave you really thought of me before? In sin?â
He doesnât look away when he answers. âMany times.â
Even after having his spit dribbling down your chin, you struggle to comprehend the idea of him⊠touching himself. Especially thinking of you. Was the man before you now really the same pious one youâd idolised all these years?
âAnd you asked for forgiveness?â you ask softly. It was comforting to imagine someone like him kneeling beside his bed in prayer the same way you had.
His eyes drop now, shame crossing his face.
He grips the bench either side of you and slumps forward, until all you can see of him is the soft brown hair at the crown of his head. Then, âNo, I havenât. Not for this. Not from Him.â
His breath tickles your thighs as you battle your confusion. Itâd been a self-soothing search for comfort, not a genuine question. You hadnât considered he might say no.
âIâve never strayed before,â he says, head still lowered before you. âNot before you.â His arms move to your back again. He takes hold of your dress and tugs you forward until his head rests on your stomach. âYou are my greatest sin,â he confesses, sounded closer to distress than youâd ever heard him. âI donât understand it. Iâve sat as a helpless passenger as itâs wrapped itself around meâinside me.â He looks up, glassy eyes meeting yours. âYouâre inside me.â
Your lips are slightly parted in aweâin stupor.
You werenât alone in this feeling.
The doorâunlocked by his touchâfalls off itâs hinges entirely. You could never close it again.
With his glassy eyes still on you, you gently nudge your cardigan from your shoulders and let the warm fabric fall into a pile around your hips.
âWhat are you doing?â he asks, his eyes widening slightly.
âI feel it too,â you answer, hushed. âI want to be wrapped around you. I want to feel you inside me.â
He shakes his head, and you feel his body tense, like he might try and escape again.
Quickly, you wrap your arms around his neck and fall forward, falling onto him. He keeps his balance for a moment, but gravity wins. He lands on his back, and you manage to cradle his headâpreventing it making contact with the stone tile floor.
Heâs entirely still.
âCaleb?â you whisper with a little tilt of your head, resting comfortably on top of him.
A muscle in his jaw ticks. âPleaseââ He swallows. âPlease, sweetheart. You shouldnâtâwe canât do this.â
It only takes a little adjustment for you to brush you lips over his. âWhy?â you whisper.
His lips tickles yours as he speaks. âIâm sick,â he breathes. His hand glides up your back as he says it, until his fingers wrap around the back of your neck. âYou make me sick.â His grip is firm now, fingertips making little indentations in your skin. âIâm supposed to guide you, protect your sweet soul as you walk through this sick world, and instead, I look at you, and all I think about is plucking you and keeping you. Greed and depravity and lust andââ
A little whimper from you silences him.
His eyes flick across your face, studying, and then he takes your bottom lip between his teethâtugging just a little, then releasing you again. âI realised it when I couldnât find you in the pewsâwhen Gideon was absent too: itâs not just lust,â he continues, keeping his hold on you. âItâs anger, and violence, and jealousy. I feel it all.â
âFatherâŠâ you breathe into his mouth. âI donât want anyone else to see me, or touch me.â Gently, you cradle his warm cheek in your palm. âNo one but you.â
His nostrils flare slightly.
Then his hand drops from the back of your neck, leaving you entirely.
His eyes flick down your bodies, to where your thighs cradle his stomach. Then he turns his head to the side and closes his eyes, shaking it a little, like heâs trying to erase whatever thought his mind had conjured.
You sit up, straddling him. His stomach is firm beneath your palms and you shimmy down a little more, until youâre resting just above his belt.
His brows draw together as you roll your hips, bare pussy separated from his skin only by the cotton of his dark dress shirt. The friction of it feels a lot like your pillow had on nights youâd writhed against it and thought of him.
But you can feel his warmth, seeping through the fabric.
He must feels yours too.
It was your warmest place, after all.
His eyes open, and for a moment, he stares out into the darkness. Then, slowly, he turns his head and looks directly at youâwatching as you move against him. Watching as your lips part and you let a few little sounds of pleasure slip out.
His shirt nudges higher with your rhythmic movement.
He does nothing to fix it.
He doesnât move. Except for his eyes.
They move between your face and the red fabric covering your shame.
He knows his shirt is nudging higher.
He doesnât look away.
And when it finally creeps high enough to allow you to drag your slippery pussy over his warm stomach for the first time, his hands snap to your hips.
He holds you so tightly, you are forced to halt your movement entirely.
âStop it,â he scolds, stern.
You tilt your head. He says it like he hadnât been watching, waitingâas if he hadnât been anticipating the feel of your messy cunt against him.
âBut I needââ
He sits up suddenly, supporting you with a hand to your back as you slip into his lap. âWhat?â he demands. âWhat do you need? You came for confession. You needed to confess and be heard. Thatâs my purpose. Thatâs what I am to you.â
âAre you angry with me?â
He leans forward, holding you firmly against him. âWhy is your little flower all messy? Hm?âHis eyes drop between your eyes and your lips, over and over. âWhat kind of girl rubs her juicy little cunt all over the priest who was supposed to protect her perfect, pure, sweet soulâon the floor of His Holy Sanctuary?â
He bites at your lip before you can even process the lewdness of his words. âYour body is a temple of worship,â he continues, a hint of anger still darkening his voice in a way youâd never heard before. He presses you into him, forcing your breasts to compress against his chest.
You didnât need to wear a bra with this dress. It wrapped around you so perfectly that it supported you fine all on itâs own.
âPlease donât be angry,â you whisper. âIâIââ Tears swell in your eyes as you stutter, quickly breaching your lower lids and streaking down your cheeks.
As your vision blurs, your world tilts. Your back meets the hard floor gently, and the shape of him hovers above youâobscured by your tears. It all happens in one smooth motion.
And then, without another word, the sound of tearing fabric fills the empty church.
He tears the red fabric from your skin, split from the neckline down the centre of you.
Your chest rises and falls heavily in the stillness that follows.
Heâs a blurry figure above you. You havenât had time to blink away your tears.
His breathing is uneven and heavy, to match your own.
Then, as your vision starts to clear, he falls forward and wraps his warm lips around one of your nipples. Thereâs no build-up. He starts in a frenzyâa chaotic tandem of his wet swirling tongue interspersed with desperate feral suckling. It fills the echoing darkness with vulgar symphony.
It drags desperate whimpers from your lips. And when one of them sounds like a high, broken cry of his name, he surges into youâwrapping his arms around your back and tugging you a little off the floor and further into his mouth. He hums something around you, the muffled words vibrating around your nipples.
Your eyes lock on the crucifix behind him as he ravages your breasts, animalistic in his intensity. It felt like all-consuming reverence, adoration⊠worship.
It was worship.
Worship was good.
He was good.
You arenât even aware you are doing it when you start muttering. Itâs only when he detaches from you with gasping breaths and looks up into your eyes that you realise it.
What had you been saying?
Your nipples, wet with his spit, pebble tight in the frigid air.
âThank you,â you whisper.
That was it.
You had been thanking him.
He sucks in a long shaky breath. Then, with his eyes fixed on yours, his large, warm hand cups your breastâcovering it entirely. âThese were made to nurture new life,â he begins. Heâs all gentle, guiding authority figure now. This was how youâd always known him. He has the same cadence he used in the booth when he was offering up the Lordâs teachings. âTheyâre His perfect design.â He palms your breast, massaging it without hesitation or restraint. âDonât you think itâs rightââ He takes your other breast in hand and leans back a little so he can watch as he gropes you almost painfully. ââthat we honour and cherish His perfect creation?â
He swings a leg over you, never ceasing his rough kneading. âTake it off,â he instructs, rolling his hips towards you. âUndo the buckle.â
His belt is hidden under his loose shirt. You fumble a little with it, half-blind. He doesnât stop to help you. He plays with your breasts instead, looking down at you from above.
âThatâs it,â he coos in gentle encouragement as you slip the leather through the loops at his waistband.
Itâs only then that he lifts his hands from you.
He sits above you, one leg on either side of your bodyâholding his weight off you. And you watch as he unbuttons his shirt. The collar goes first. He tosses the white strip aside without looking at itâs landing place.
His pretty fingers work at the buttons.
He makes it about half-way.
Then he grips the fabric and tears. Buttons pop off and scatter across the stone around you.
And then heâs bare.
Muscle sculpts him like a living, breathing work of art. Heâsâ âBeautiful.â
His chest rises and falls heavily as he gazes down at you, head tilting a little as the word slips from your lips involuntarily.
âMm?â he hums, falling forward over you. âWhat was that?â
When you avoid his gaze, he grips your jaw in his palm. âTouch me,â he says, âas I touched you. Worship Him through me. We are created in His image.â
He takes your hand, falls back on his heels, and lift you to your feet as he stands.
You are bare, and he is half-bare. Somehow, he feels taller than he ever had before.
Then he places your palm on his chest, flat against his warm skin. âThis is my body,â he says, dark hair falling over his eyes. âDo you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from GodâŠâ He quotes the passage as he guides your hands across his torso. âSo we treasure it, and and honour Him through it.â
His stomach is firm under your palm, rising and falling shallowly as he guides you to the little trail of hair that disappearing down into his waistband. âLook at me,â he commands.
You obey, fingering brushing the hem of his underwear.
âIâm a bad man,â he says.
You shake your head, frowning. He was wrong. He wasnât bad, he was everything good and safe and warm.
He catches your chin just as it dip downwards; as your attention is drawn to the movement at his hips. He keeps your eyes fixed on his as he undoes his fly with one hand. âIâm a bad man,â he repeats. âI want to fuck you,â he breathes, a little ragged now. âPretty little virgin comes to her trusted priest asking for forgiveness and he lowers her to the cold floor, naked, and tells her he wants to shove his leaking cock deep inside her. Is that a bad man?â
You canât respond. Not with the way he grips you.
âHe tells her he wants her to kiss his throbbing cock. To worship him, like he was her god. He wants her to put him above all other gods, above her God. Heâs a jealous man, without exception.â Fabric hits the floor, and slowly, he guides your hand into the elastic of his underwear. âHe wants her on her knees, looking up at him with her sweet, devoted eyes, promising sheâll put no one else above him.â You gasp as he guides your fingers around him, hot and thick. âIs that a bad man?â
His other hand slides up your stomach to wrap around your breast, still wet from his spit.
âHe wants to fill his pretty little angel with his hot cum, until sheâs bred nice and full, and then when her pretty tits ache with sweet milkââ He squeezes at your breast as he speaks, over and over. ââhe wants to suck at her until it dribbles down his chin. Is that a bad man?â
He leans down and places a gentle kiss to your lips. âHe wants her to call him Father when heâs inside her,â he whispers. âHe wants her to cry as she sucks at his cock with her naughty little cunt because she knows itâs bad.â He squeezes your hand around his erection. âYou know itâs bad, donât you, angel?â
One shaky breath. Two. Then you nod.
He lips curve into a little smile, proud. âGood girl,â he whispers. Then he steps away from you, separating you from him.
You take a small step to follow.
âNo.â
You freeze, wobbling a little on your feet in your haste to obey.
âGo lay down on the steps and spread your legs.â
Your eyes flick to the stairs leading up the pulpit, then back to him.
You rock on your feet again, this time in hesitation.
The stone is cold on the soles of your feet. If you stood there long enough, they might go numb.
But the steps are covered in a dark, red carpet.
He takes a small step towards you. âDidnât you come here to confess? Hm? Show me. I need to see the part of you that aches for me.â
His eyes heat your skin as you slip past him and climb the steps. Thereâs only a few.
Heâs closer when you turn.
And heâs entirely bare.
He stands in the candlelight, just in front of the first pew, watching youâwaiting for your obedience. And as you lower yourself onto the steps, leaning back to prop yourself up on your elbows, his hand wraps around himself.
You can still feel the heat of him in your palm.
âSpread your legs,â he commands.
âMm,â you nod. âYes, Father.â Then you drop your knees, exposing your messy centre to his hungry eyes and the cold air. Heâs silent as your cunt clenches around nothing, wanting. He strokes over himself in gentle twists, base to tipâeyes locked on your offering.
âAre you going to ask me what I think?â He doesn't look up from between your legs as he speaks. âThatâs what you came here for, isnât? For help?â
You nod, readjusting yourself on your elbows a little.
He closes the distance between you and lowers himself onto his knees on the bottom step. âI can see it clenching,â he murmurs. âGreedy. Hm? Is it greedy, angel?â
Your lips quiver as you suck in a shaky breath.
âMm,â he hums. âTell me why you touch it. Help me understand.â
âI donât know,â you mutter with a shake of your head.
âYouâll tell me the truth,â he orders. Itâs not like earlier, in the boothâwhen he was still the man youâd thought youâd known these past two years. Heâs all stern authority now. Thereâs no doubt. You will tell him the truth.
âFelt empty,â you confess in a little whine and roll of your hips. âI felt so empty.â
He leans closer. âYeah? Poor little baby. A virgin with an achy little holeâŠâ His fingers wrap around your ankle. âEmpty,â he mutters. "So proud of you for coming to me,â he says as he strokes up your calf in a comforting caress. You struggle not to squeeze your thighs together, tortured by the lack of friction and the pulse of your cunt under his lingering gaze.
Then he lowers himself down between your legs. His finger strokes the skin just around where you want him most. âSweetheart,â he breathes. âYou need filling with the Holy Spirit. Youâre all empty, yeah? You came to me because you knew I could fix it? Because I can fill you?â
Heâs asking you a question, but heâs focused entirely on your twitching pussy as you flinch under this teasing touches. There is no logic to his questioning regardless. Heâs consumed by the lust you shareâslave to it.
âWho better to fill you than me?â he mutters as his fingertip dips into your hole. Itâs barely a prod, easing back again as soon as your soft entrance offers a little resistance.
âJust for youâŠâ you breathe.
âHm?â He looks up. âWhat was that?â
âOnly want you.â
He crawls over you slowly, forcing you to look into his eyes as he asks, âMe? Yeah? You came to your priest to fill your empty little pussy?â
âForgive me,â you whisper.
He brushes his knuckles from your temple down to your chin. âIâll help you, angel.â His lips brush over yours. âMy angelâŠâ
When he climbs off you and stands to his feet, a tiny part of your brain fires off in panicâafraid of him leaving you. But then his pretty fingers wrap around the thick length as it bobs above you. âIt needs anointing,â he says with a gravely darkness in his voice.
He towers above you, skin glowing golden as the candlelight bounces off him. The same strong fingers that gripped the Holy Book high above his head each Sunday glide over the length of him as he looks down upon you.
He takes one step backward, down the steps. âOn your knees,â he instructs. His aim becomes clear as he takes one step closer again, levelling himself at the perfect height for your mouth. âTell me,â he prompts. âWhere do you want to kiss me?â
On a shaky breath, you exhale, âYour cock, Father.â
You watch his closed fist stroke over his length, from the base to the tip. Thereâs a little shine there, at the end of it, leaking from the slit. âAlright, angel. Anoint my cock with your drool, hm?â He lets go of it, and you watching it bob a littleâheavy. Looking up at him for reassurance, you level yourself with the head and touch your lips to him tentatively. One gentle kiss. âThatâs it,â he coos. So you place another to his skin, right at the very tip. It bobs a little as he shifts his weight. Then you dip your tongue out, catching a little of the shine at the slit.
A bird calls in the night as it flies somewhere nearby.
His head drops back.
âThis is what you needed,â he sighs. âThis is what you came to me for. Isnât it?â
You nod with a hum as you take the tip of him between your lips, tongue working in clumsy little swirling flicksâconfidence building.
âGood girl,â he praises, looking down at you again. âOh, my good girl. Just play with it. Just like that. Sweet little kisses for Fatherâs cock. Oh, Fuck. Oh God,â he groans.
He slips from your lips as you startle a little, looking up at him. The vulgarity had become your new normal. But this was new.
âWhat is it, baby?â he coos, stroking your hair. âI shouldnât take the Lordâs name in vain. Iâm sorry.â He takes his cock in hand as he apologises, standing on the steps of the pulpit, in the empty church where he gives his sermon each Sunday.
No one else would ever see him like this. He was too good. He was loved and trusted and righteous. And his cock was wet with your spit.
When you stand to your feet at his guidance, he still towers over you from the step down.
âAre you gonna put it inside me now?â you question with a little tilt of your head.
He takes one step down and runs his fingers through his hair. For a brief moment, it almost looks like he comes back to himselfâto the version of him that almost left youâgood and virtuous. It fights to take over.
So you take one step towards him.
He takes a step down again, in return, away from you.
âIâm so empty, Father,â you whine, slipping your fingers down between your legs. âNeed you to fill me up again. Please.â
A further step down has him standing on the stone tiles.
So you lower yourself onto the steps again, leaning back and parting your thighs.
He stands there as you play with yourself, slipping your fingers through your slick until your clit is as sloppy as the fluttering entrance you leak from.
His heavy cock twitches as you watch each other. He doesnât touch it.
âPlease, Father,â you plead with a half-sob, on the edge of tears. âMy pussyâŠâ
He takes a small step towards you and pauses again.
âI know itâs bad,â you continue, somewhere between a sob and a whine. âItâs wicked. My naughty pussy wants to worship your cock, Father. Wanted it so long. I think about it during mass. I imagine you inside me. I come every week for you.â You dip your finger inside yourself, whimpering a little. âDonât you want me?â
His chest rises and falls heavily as he approaches. Heâs slow, like a predator stalking.
âSo bad,â he mutters as he lowers himself onto the steps between your legs.
He watches as you play with yourself, messy and clumsy.
âSent to tempt me,â he continues muttering as his fingers wrap around himself again. âThatâs what you are, arenât you? Are you from the Devil? Made to look like a perfect little angel? Is that it?â His hand strokes along his whole length, base to tip, over and over in a slight twisting action as he speaks. âYou were made for me, werenât you?â
It sounded right. Made for him. Youâd never wanted anyone else.
He lowers himself over you before you can answer.
âIâll never stop wanting you,â he warns. âItâll get worse and worse. I can feel it. This obsession.â
His forehead drops to yours. And with your eyes closed and his warmth over you, the slick tip of him slides over you for the first time. You want to kiss him, but he doesnât let you get close. Instead, he breathes into your mouth as his tip collects all the slick between your folds and spreads it in an obscene mess between your thighs. âThis belongs to me. Only I get to fill your greedy little pussy, yeah?â
His lips brush yours.
âNo one else touches it. No one else looks at it.â He prods at your virgin hole, indulging in the sweet spongy heat that presses back at him. âThis is worship,â he breathes. âYouâll suck me inside your sweet cunt, all needy and sweet and looking at me like you do in Communion. Youâll worship me. Above all else.â A chaste kiss. âThen Iâll flood you with cum, so youâre nice and full, yeah? Does that sound nice?â
âInside,â you plead as you squirm, trying to take him in as he slips over you again and again.
He breathes into your neck as he prods at you a little harder. âYou gotta let me inside. Can feel you sucking at me. Take me inside, sweet girl. Come on.â
He kisses your neck as you try to take him, letting your muscles go slack under him as he eases inside you over and over. âThere you go,â he mumbles. âFuck, thatâs it. Perfect fucking cunt. Mine.â
Itâs just the tip of him. It fills the ache beyond anything youâd managed with your fingers. His breath, his voice, his warmth, and his thick hot cock stretching your walls open.
Itâs enough to drag tears from you again.
He kisses them away as they wet your cheeks.
âYouâre inside. Inside me.â
His brows draw together as you squeeze at him, clenching rhythmically.
âThank you, Father,â you whisper.
He groans, and then he shifts, and impossibly, he fills you furtherâspearing apart your walls until it feels like you might look down and see the shape of him in your belly.
âWe shouldnâtââ he mutters. âForgive me.â His hips drag back, and then heâs pressing into you again. âForgive me.â He bites at your earlobe. âNaughty pussy. Naughty girl. Desperate for her priest to fill her with cock. Fuck. Fuck, you feel so good.â
âThis is sex,â you mewl.
He bites into you, feral, and the obscene slap of skin echoes from the pulpit steps as his hips slam into yours. âThis is sex,â he answers, breathless. âThis is what you wanted. You wanted to suck on my cock with your perfect little cunny. You wanted to be full of me, hm? This is what you wanted.â
âHeâll forgive us,â you whisper into his ear. âIâm made for you. He made me for you. How can it be wrong?â
âYeah?â he rasps, looking a little frenzied when he lifts his head to find your eyes. âYou made for me?â
âCanât you feel it?â you ask with a roll of your hips.
You watch his eyes flutter shut.âYeah. Yeah, sweetheart, I feel it. Wrap around me so perfect.â He grinds into you, indulging in the feeling of your walls rippling around him in desperate waves. âIâm keeping you. Youâre mine now. My pretty girl. Mine to fuck, and kissââ He licks at your jaw. ââand breed.â He drops his weight onto you, smothering you in his heat. âGonna keep you safe and warm. All mine.â
âDo you think Heâs watching?â you whisper in his ear.
He groans into your neck. âTell me who you were thinking of,â he orders, low and gravelly. âWhen you looked up at me during Communion. Tell me.â
âYou.â
He draws his hips back and begins fucking you just with his tip in shallow little rocking thrusts. âNo one else before me, hm?â he prods as you clench rhythmically around him, attempting to draw him back in. âYou worship me with this cunt. Only me.â
You nod desperately, emphatically. âOnly you.â
Pleased, he sinks back inside you with a low groan.
All your life youâd believed your body was a temple of the Lord; that you were filled with His Spirit; that you carried Him inside you always.
But youâd been empty. Youâd been so, so empty. Longing to fill the cold, hollowness inside you. Youâd desperately returned to this church week after week, believing the man at the pulpit was merely a messenger between you and your heavenly God. Believing your fixation was your failureâthat he was temptation, and only in submission to God could you be delivered from him.
But with his cum anointing your skin, and his large warm body sheltering you from the cold, you know the truth of it all: anything, or anyone, which worked to separate you from him, could be nothing but the greatest evil. He was your salvation. And nothing would come before him.
Your face is quickly wet with tears again as you roll against each other in the dark, empty churchâindulging in your mutual worship. His mouth adorns your neck in messy kisses as you mutter in his ear: praising him, worshiping him. You canât stop, desperate to release the intensity of your adoration upon him.
And when he cradles your cheek in his hand and gazes down at you from above, you see it in his eyes: love, devotion. âMy good girl,â he breathes.
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