Kit

saintly

[kitliene]

sincerely yours.

ᯓ✦ Cory ⊹ west indian african ⊹ nineteen ⊹ lads puppeteer ⊹ any prns ⊹ mdni ⊹

Masterlist pending ── ˙ ̟

Do not translate, repost or otherwise modify my work. Do not use my work to create ai chatbots. All rights reserved © 2026 kitliene.

[humanjarvis]

gravity

synopsis: caleb makes you use his evol to ride him. that is all.

tags: smut, dom caleb, mean caleb, mean dom caleb, lowkey brat reader, p in v, riding, improper use of evol, unprotected sex, coming inside, somnophilia reference, he threatens to withhold his own orgasm, teasing, mocking, caleb makes you kiss him, sweat, implied marathon sex, impact play, Caleb the Interrupter 

pairing: caleb x fem reader

word count: 1.1k

“when you sink down, do it slowly. i want you to feel every inch of it.” 

“isn’t this too much?” whining, you make a desperate attempt to escape—to no avail, of course. that familiar feeling weighs down on your body almost instantly. “please? i’ll help you next time, i swear! today was just a one-time thing!”

“you begged me to help you clean up the house before your big book club meeting this weekend. i take off work, get here early, and as soon as we get started, what do you do?” glaring at you from below, he clears his throat and puts on a high-pitched voice. “caleb, i’m so sorry, but my friend’s car broke down. i need to drop them off at the store, then at work, but i’ll be back soon, i swear!” he squeaks with a dry chuckle. “yeah. if by ‘soon,’ you meant seven hours later.” 

“there was traffic! and i ended up just staying through their whole shift, because—”

“i’m not fallin’ for your little tricks today, so you can cut it out already.” he takes your chin between his thumb and index finger, firmly forcing you to meet his heated gaze. “our house is spotless because of me. my hard work. it’s time for you to return the favor.”

his hand engulfs yours, and the familiar warmth of resonance flows through you.

caleb gives, you take, just like usual. he lets his power becomes yours and smiles at the sight.

this time, his reasoning is far from selfless.

“don’t hurt yourself.”

it’s his command for you to start.

whimpering quietly, you sink down on his thick, hard length, breathing slowly while your body accommodates the stretch. 

by now, your core is more than used to him—his size, his girth, his occasional punishing pace—but now, you hold the reins. mastering the monster bullying the rawest parts of you? it’s almost as big an adjustment as your first time together.  

he watches you brazenly as you start your own rhythm, maneuvering yourself with timid, exploratory drags up and down. when you channel his evol, harnessing gravity to inch yourself up ever so slowly, you can feel his hot, tender skin slipping past your walls, promising never to leave you for very long. and each time that invisible force tugs you right back down? he grows a little bit bigger inside you. 

a sharp hit to your backside disrupts your unsure movements, the loud crack resounding through the otherwise quiet bedroom. “you think you'll get any leverage like that? hold onto me harder. push at my chest if you need to. i can barely feel you.” 

gritting your teeth at his wanton order, you bury your nails deeper into his skin. you tell yourself you don’t care if it hurts—he deserves it—but eye him with caution all the same. “i’m trying, caleb. you know i’m not used to this. i’m already getting tired. i’m not as strong as you.”

he tsks, knocking on your temple twice with his knuckles. “a fact hardly works as flattery.”

“i—”

“you say you’re sooo tired,” he drawls. “how? i’m doing all the work, just like always.” to prove his point, he flicks a hand in the air. your head tilts forward at his command, and he puppeteers you down for a heated kiss.

he pulls back once your air supply starts to wane, only to narrow his eyes as your skin smacks together once again. “i may get tired, letting you use me like this, but don’t think you can stop if i drift off for a sec. we’re in this for long haul. you can stop when…if…i say so.” 

“can you at least help me?” even with his support, your thighs still burn like hell. 

“if you’d helped me this afternoon, i’d be rewarding you right now. you’d be moaning my name even louder than normal.” 

“caleb, please,” you whine. “what else do you want me to do?”

“just keep going,” he says smugly. “i did allll the work earlier. i’m not doing a single thing ‘til you prove you can pull your own weight. right now, i’m just gonna sit back and enjoy my luxury view.” 

grumbling, you swipe at his neck but keep moving, gasping when the slight curve of him brushes just right against that special spot. 

“are you getting close?” he purrs. “good. go faster.”

faster? since his outright refusal to help you, you’ve made enough squelches and smacks to make an erotica author blush. lines of muscle and stores of fat ripple with every slam down on him. how are you supposed to go faster? 

“i can’t! this is as fast as i can— i can’t go any faster, caleb.” 

your cries fill his ears, and he leans in close to murmur in yours. “make me come, and i’ll let you stop. but unless you go faster, i’ll hold everything back. we’ll be here all night. i promise you that.”

you’re babbling now at the weight of his threat, spearing yourself up and down on his length too fast to even sneak words in between. each time you rise and fall in the air, all you can smell, all you can taste, is sex. you and him, him and you. both of you, together.

despite his bravado, his head falls forward on the hardest bounce yet, slumping against your sweat-slick shoulder. he doesn't hesitate to mouth at the damp skin, groaning as his thighs finally start to tremble beneath you.

“good,” he hisses. “so, so good.” an open-mouthed kiss sears your collarbone. “can you feel it? how close i am? you’ll feel all of it soon. don’t stop.”

“not gonna stop,” you slur, shaking your head frantically. “just hurry, please. i can’t hold on, i can’t, i—”

strong arms wrap around your back and yank you downward. fully seated on his spasming cock, you feel the heat first—then the unsteady bursts flowing inside you. 

each thick spurt flooding in, claiming all of you, plays its part in sending you over the edge. before his high loses momentum, your muscles clamp down on him, forcing all of what’s left into your deepest depths. 

gasping to catch your breath, you all but mewl into his keen ears. “there’s so much…so much…we need to wash the sheets before we go to be—”

big, warm hands squeeze the flesh of your thighs, hovering you threateningly above his still-soaked tip. that cruel, cunning smirk you’ve come to dread curves his full lips. “i said you could stop when you made me come,” he murmurs lowly. 

“i never said i’d be done with you.” 

[chaacoonnee]

at your service

“You rang the bell...the bell means you need me.” “I always need you, Zayne.” You guide his hand beneath your shirt, pressing his palm flat against your bare stomach, and the breath he lets out against your neck is almost a surrender in itself. “I think you need me, too.”

synopsis: butler!zayne is trained to anticipate your every need. what he hasn't been trained for is you—home alone, ringing the one bell he's never been able to ignore, asking for the one thing he's never been able to give.

wc: 8.8k | ao3

tags: butler!zayne, brat tamer!zayne, age gap, power imbalance, porn with plot, fluff + smut, comfort no hurt, spanking, edging, cunnilingus, hair pulling, vaginal sex, backshots, prone bone, size difference, aftercare

a/n: giving zayne one (1) barely legal fantasy……..as a treat……….

The first time you tried, you were sixteen.

It was the thick of summer, the kind of damp heat that turns the estate into a greenhouse. Your mother's garden party sprawled across the south lawn, and you’d hidden upstairs long enough to change into a sundress that was definitely too short and absolutely on purpose. 

You padded barefoot down the service stairs to the kitchen, where Zayne—the perfect butler, the one who runs the household, the one who never lets anything go wrong—was reviewing the evening's schedule. 

You perched yourself on the counter beside his clipboard, crossed your legs, and let the hem ride up.

“I need help with my zipper,” you said, turning to show him the back of the dress, which was zipped perfectly fine and you both knew it.

Zayne hadn't looked up from the schedule, hadn't so much as blinked. He simply reached over, tugged the zipper up the remaining quarter-inch it didn't need to travel, and said, “Will that be all?”

You stared at the back of his head, face burning, and vowed that one day you'd get him to break.

You tried again on your eighteenth birthday.

Your parents had thrown a party, the kind with floral arrangements and a champagne tower and three hundred people who knew your family's net worth better than they knew your name. You spent the evening smiling until your cheeks ached, accepting congratulations from strangers, and dancing with boys your mother hand selected who were perfectly nice and perfectly boring and perfectly wrong.

By midnight, you escaped to the kitchen—kicked your heels off, discarded your tiara on the counter, and sat on the floor with your back against the island eating leftover cake with your fingers.

Zayne had found you there. He'd taken in the scene—the dress pooling around you, the smudged mascara, the pink frosting on your thumb—and silently retrieved a fork before sitting down beside you.

He was still in his suit, still immaculate as ever, but he'd loosened his tie—and the sight of that one concession to comfort had made something hot pulse through you. You sat together in silence for a while, passing the cake back and forth. Then, because you were eighteen and a little drunk and very tired of pretending, you asked:

“Zayne. Do you think I'm pretty?”

He blinked, keeping his eyes shut for an extra heartbeat—processing the question, the context, the thousand reasons he should deflect.

“You've been drinking.”

“That's not what I asked.”

“The answer doesn't change based on your sobriety.”

“So there is an answer.”

He reached over and wiped a smear of frosting from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The gesture was gentle and natural, the kind of thing he'd done a hundred times when you were small. Except you weren't small anymore, and his thumb had lingered a second too long, and you ached to know if he’d still be gentle if he pressed it against your tongue.

“You should drink some water,” he'd said quietly. “And go to bed.”

“Come tuck me in, then.”

You'd meant it as a joke, but the words came out too soft and the look on his face told you that you'd gotten closer to something real than either of you was prepared for.

He didn’t give you a response. Just stood up, filled a glass with cold water, and set it on the floor beside you.

“Happy birthday, princess.”

You'd sat there alone in the kitchen as the door shut behind him, holding the cup with both hands, and hated yourself for pushing. Maybe hated yourself more for not pushing harder. You'd felt his thumb on your mouth for the rest of the night. For weeks after. 

Sometimes, if you closed your eyes, you could still feel it now.

Tonight, you’re twenty, and the house is trying to eat you alive.

You’re home from university for winter break, but the house is empty—your parents are out of the country, occupied by some charity board retreat that requires a week of their attention. The staff has all gone home for the holidays, leaving you alone in a house that was built for thirty. 

Alone except for Zayne.

Zayne stays. He always stays, because someone has to manage the property and someone has to manage you, and your parents have never trusted anyone else with either job.

The estate is settling into its bones, creaking and groaning like it’s alive and reminding you how small you are inside it. The hallways are too long, the ceilings are too high, and every shadow seems to have eyes looking directly at you.

You’re not scared.

You’re an adult. You have self-defense training and a home security system that could protect a small nation.

You're not scared.

The floorboards squeak directly above your bed, and you flinch so hard you nearly fall off the mattress.

Okay. Maybe you’re a little scared.

Your eyes find the bell on your nightstand.

It's small—worn with age, fitted with a wooden handle meant for hands of a much younger you. Your grandmother had gifted it after you'd had a nightmare and screamed the house down and said, Ring this whenever you need someone, darling. Someone will always come.

Someone always meant Zayne.

Your parents never really had the time, or the patience, or the interest in dealing with your whims. But Zayne…Zayne always did. He was paid to maintain order after all, and managing you was just another task—though it never felt like one. 

Not when he answered the call of your bell every time.

You'd rung it the night of the thunderstorm when you were eight, and he'd appeared within minutes with a flashlight and a copy of The Secret Garden and read to you until the storm passed. You'd rung it the night before your first day of secondary school, sick with anxiety, and he'd brought warm milk and sat with you while you listed every possible catastrophe and he assured you, very gently, that none of those things would happen and that if they did, he would personally intervene.

You rang it less and less as you grew older, saving it for the real emergencies—when your first boyfriend broke up with you by text, or the night before your final exams when you couldn't stop shaking. He always came. Never commented on the hour or the reason, just showed up at your door ready to handle whatever you needed handled.

You haven't rung it in over three years.

You pick it up, letting the cool brass warm in your palm. You turn it over once, feeling the weight of it, the history, the lifetime of someone always coming when you called.

You ring it.

The sound is small in the vast quiet of the house, barely louder than the wind outside your window. But you know he hears it. Zayne hears everything.

Two minutes pass before footsteps echo in the hallway, followed by a soft knock at your door.

“Come in,” you call.

He opens the door and stands in the frame, and the sight of him makes your mouth go dry.

After all this time living under the same roof, you've only ever seen him in his suit, his work clothes, or—once, memorably—a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up that had nearly killed you. But this is something else entirely. 

Grey sleep pants hang low on his hips, a white t-shirt stretching across his chest. His hair is tousled over his forehead, glasses sliding just slightly, jaw shadowed with the kind of stubble he'd never allow during working hours.

His eyes find the bell in your hand, and something in them softens.

“The house is making noises,” you explain.

He leans against the doorframe, taking in your oversized t-shirt, your bare legs, the way you’re sitting cross-legged at the center of your mattress on high alert. 

“It's an old house,” he says. “It makes noises.”

“Scary noises.”

“You're not a child anymore.”

“Age and fear are not mutually exclusive.” You return the bell to the nightstand with unnecessary care. “I read that somewhere.”

“You read that nowhere.”

“I might have,” you counter. “You don’t know my reading habits.”

“You're currently halfway through a fantasy romance novel you hide inside a copy of The Economist when I bring your breakfast.” He crosses his arms, which emphasizes the broadness of his chest in a way that should come with a warning. “I know your reading habits.”

“It’s romantasy, Zayne,” you correct drily, though your face heats. “And that's—invasive.”

“It's observational. You leave the dust jacket loose.” He steps into your room, letting the door close behind him. “What do you need?”

You. I need you. I've needed you since I was sixteen and you zipped a dress that didn't need zipping and I need you to come here now and hold me and never leave this room.

“Company,” you say instead. “Just—stay for a while. Please.”

“There's a guest room adjacent to—”

“Zayne.”

“—mine, which I can prepare in—”

“Zayne, come on. You used to read to me when I couldn't sleep.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “You were eight.”

“And you were a very good reader. I remember the voices you did for the characters.”

“I did not do voices.”

“You totally did voices. Mrs. Medlock had a Yorkshire accent.”

He tries to fight the corner of his mouth lifting and loses. “That's historically accurate.”

A branch scrapes against the window and you jolt, pulling your knees in tight to your chest, and you watch it happen in slow motion—the moment Zayne registers the current of anxiety beneath your bravado, the delicate weight of his propriety crumbling against the fact that you rang the bell, the bell that means I need you, the bell he's never once ignored.

He crosses to your bookshelf, scans it, and pulls out a slim paperback. 

“Persuasion?” you say, catching a glimpse of the cover.

He takes a seat on the edge of your bed, leaving a tortuously polite foot of distance between his hip and your knee. “It was on the shelf.”

“It’s a romance novel.”

“It's Austen. It's literature.”

“You just gave me a hard time for reading romance novels.”

“I gave you a hard time for hiding them.” He settles his glasses higher on his nose. “And this is a novel about patience. Restraint. Waiting for something even when it seems impossible. I thought you could use the lesson.”

You scoff in mock offense. “Was that a dig at me?”

“It was a recommendation.” He opens the book, then clears his throat. “Now stop talking.”

He reads.

You lie back against your pillow as his voice fills your bedroom like candlelight, settling into the spaces between the house’s creaking. When you were younger, his reading voice was a sedative, designed to pull you under. Now you're aware of every inflection, every pause, every place where his tongue shapes a word in a way that makes your thoughts drift to what else his mouth could be doing if he stopped being so goddamn careful.

After a few minutes, you start to shift. Not dramatically—just adjusting yourself in a way that happens to settle your body closer to his.

“You're not sleeping,” he says without taking his eyes off the page.

“I’m listening.”

“You're fidgeting.”

“I’m cold.”

“You’re not using a blanket.”

“A blanket isn't warm like a person.”

His gaze drags between you and the blanket you never bothered to use, eyes caught somewhere between mild disapproval and reluctant indulgence.

“Come closer,” you continue. “I’m requesting warmth. As a service.”

He lifts a brow. “You're requesting warmth.”

“From my butler. Who is paid to ensure my comfort.”

“I'm paid to manage the household.”

“Managing me is part of the household.”

“A fact I'm reminded of daily.”

Still, he moves closer an inch. Then another, when you give him a look that says it’s not enough. He eventually ends up beside you, back against the headboard, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body but not quite touching.

“Better?” he asks.

You let your head rest on his shoulder, the way you used to when you were small—except you weren't thinking about the way his shoulder felt under your cheek then, or the firmness of the muscle, or the way he smells like clean linen shadowed with something rich and heady and him that you’ve never been close enough to catch before.

“Getting there. Keep reading.”

He obeys, though the words have lost all meaning. All that matters is the vibration of the words from his body into yours, the way the sound fills the aching space behind your ribs with something tender and safe.

You let a few minutes pass, let him settle into the false security of the routine—you leaning on him, him reading, the benign pretense that this is just an act of service. Then you curl closer, tucking your legs up and angling your body until you're pressed along his side with your face against his chest and your hand resting on his abdomen.

His reading stops.

“Comfortable?” he asks without looking down.

“Almost.” You spread your fingers wider against his stomach, savoring the way the muscles there tense beneath your touch. “Your heartbeat is fast.”

“I was reading aloud. That's exertion.”

“Liar.”

“Cardiovascular response to sustained vocalization is well-documented.”

“Seriously?”

“There are several studies. I'll send you the citations in the morning.” He shuts the book and sets it on the nightstand, effectively abandoning the charade. He folds his glasses and places them neatly beside it, pinching the bridge of his nose with a long exhale. “Go to sleep.”

“Hold me first,” you insist, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and guiding it to your waist. “I said I was cold.”

His hand rests at your side, settling on top of your shirt with a minimal contact that technically fulfills the request while giving away not an ounce more.

“Zayne.”

“Mm?”

“If I asked you to hold a box, would you balance it on one finger?”

“If the box asked to be carried with unreasonable specifications, possibly.”

“I’m not a box.”

“No. A box would be far less difficult.”

His arm wraps around you, pulling you against him properly, and the sudden full-body contact is dizzying. He's warm everywhere—the solid plane of his chest against your cheek, his arm heavy around your waist, his thigh pressed along the length of yours. 

“There,” you murmur. “Was that so hard?”

“Yes,” he replies simply. “Now sleep."

“I’m not tired.”

“Then close your eyes and try.”

You shake your head against his shirt. “I can't sleep like this.”

“Like what?"

You shift, turning in his arms until your back presses against his chest. His body seems to adjust instinctively, turning with yours before his mind registers the implication—his arm resettling around your waist, chest flush against your spine, and you feel more than hear the sharp intake of breath he tries to hide when your bodies slot together.

“There.” You hum in approval. “Perfect.”

Zayne’s hand flattens against your stomach the smallest fraction, and the silence between you buzzes like a dare neither of you has the courage to break. The wind whips outside your window, but you don’t hear it, can’t focus on anything other than the way his thumb starts to move in a faint line, back and forth, tracing the hem of your shirt where its ridden up at your waist.

You’re barely breathing, afraid that any acknowledgment will make him stop, afraid that the touch you’ve been craving for so long will disappear before you even have the chance to feel it. His thumb runs over the hem again, and this time his fingertips dip beneath it—barely a touch, the rough pad of his finger against soft skin, and the sensation is so acute it makes your spine arch involuntarily.

He freezes, thumb stilling mid-stroke, as if suddenly remembering exactly who he is—and who he shouldn’t be right now. 

“Don't stop,” you whisper.

His forehead drops to your shoulder. “You rang the bell.”

“I rang the bell.”

“The bell means you need me.”

“I always need you, Zayne.” You guide his hand beneath your shirt, pressing his palm flat against your bare stomach, and the breath he lets out against your neck is almost a surrender in itself. “I think you need me, too.”

When his hand moves again, it isn’t the absentminded tracing from before. His palm slides across your stomach with intent now, exploring the naked skin beneath your top—up your ribs, down to the dip of your waist, to the space just above the waistband of your shorts.

A soft noise catches in your throat and his hand stills, as if deciding whether to reward or reprimand the sound.

“More?” he asks against your neck.

You nod. “More.”

His hand resumes, but he doesn't go further, continuing the same path—ribs, waist, hip—following it again and again, learning you by touch. And every time his fingers drift close to the waistband, your breath catches, and each time he retreats to safer ground without crossing the line.

“Zayne—” Your voice is thin with want. “That's not—you're teasing me.”

“I’m doing exactly what you asked,” he replies, casually enough to make you want to put a pillow over his face. “You asked me to touch you. I'm touching you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know what you said. If you want something else, you'll have to request it.” His thumb draws an infuriating circle around your navel. “I’m a butler, not a psychic.”

He's playing the game, you realize. Your game, your rules, following your every request to the letter, and the compliance is intoxicating. He owns the control, yet the way he bends just enough to match your desire feels like a form of surrender uniquely his. 

“Kiss me,” you try next.

“Where?”

You tilt your head to the side, certain he can see your pulse leaping where it shows. “My neck.”

He presses his lips there so gently it barely registers as contact, lingering for a moment before pulling back.

“Again,” you whisper.

He kisses the same spot equally soft, and you could scream from the tenderness of it, from how something so gentle can make you feel like you're burning alive.

“More.”

“More what?” His breath heats your skin as he speaks, and the almost-contact is worse than nothing. “Be specific.”

“Harder.” Your hand finds the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair, and the groan that it pulls from him is quiet and improper and makes your thighs press together. “Open your mouth.”

He presses his mouth more firmly against your neck and parts his lips slightly, just enough for his tongue to steal a taste of your skin.

“Anything else, princess?” He holds there, lips parted against the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, breathing you in like he needs this just as much as you do. “I’m at your service.”

The title drips with affection and irony and heat, twisted together like ribbons old and new. Princess. He's called you that since you were small, since you used to stomp your foot and demand things and he'd raise an eyebrow and say as you wish, princess. Except now his tongue is on your body and your ass is pressed where his cock strains against his pajama pants and the word means something it was never supposed to mean.

You turn in his arms until you're facing each other on the pillow, his hand still on your waist under your shirt. This close, you can see where the hazel-green of his eyes has gone dark with desire, where his lips shine wet from where he kissed your neck, where the muscle of his jaw tenses with something that looks like it hurts to hold back.

You bring your hand up to soothe it, the stubble there rough against your fingertips. He leans into the touch, a tiny tilt of his head that presses his cheek harder against your palm.

“I want you to kiss me,” you whisper, “here.” You touch your own lips.

He leans in slowly, mouth stopping just short of yours, hovering over your lips.

“Here?” he asks.

“Yes.”

The kiss is barely anything. A brush of lips, the softest pressure, there and gone before you can feel it. You chase his mouth as he pulls back, but he's already out of reach—settled against the pillow, calm on the surface, though the flush at the tips of his ears betrays him.

“That wasn’t a kiss,” you pout.

“It was, definitionally, a kiss.”

“It lasted half a second.”

“You didn't specify the duration.”

“Zayne.”

“Yes?"

“Kiss me longer.”

He leans in again, pressing his mouth to yours for—you count—exactly two seconds.

“Zayne.”

“That was measurably longer. I can go get a stopwatch if you'd like to formalize the parameters.”

You roll your eyes and swear you feel his wrist twitch at your side.

“I want you to kiss me like you can't help yourself. Like if you have to tear your mouth away from mine you'll lose your mind. I want the kiss I imagine when I’m alone in the bath and I close my eyes and pretend it’s your hands on my—” You stop to catch your breath, frustrated, heat rising to your face that’s part shame, part want, all desperate anticipation. “That kiss. Give me that one. Please.”

His hand slides from your waist to the back of your neck, cradling your head, angling you beneath him. His eyes move between yours and your mouth and back again, and the man who read you bedtime stories and carried you when you fell and tucked your blankets with precise corners is nowhere in this room. The man looking at your mouth right now is one who has been drowning for years and decided that here, now, tonight, he’s coming up for air.

“Hold still,” he says, and kisses you again.

This time he starts slow and stays slow, his lips moving against yours with a patience that burns, learning the shape of your mouth, the way you respond to pressure. His tongue traces your lower lip, not parting it, but outlining the edge, you whimper at the tease of it.

He swallows the sound, feeding it into his mouth like he means to keep it long past tonight, a secret possession for him and him alone. Finally—finally—his tongue slides against yours, deep and unhurried, filling your mouth until there’s nothing left but feeling.

The kiss goes on and on and on. Zayne is in no rush. He kisses you like he has all night, like time is a resource he intends to spend lavishly, like every stroke of his tongue against yours is an end in itself rather than a means to something else. And each time you try to speed up he gentles you, his hand on the back of your neck holding you in place, his mouth setting the pace, refusing to let anything take this moment away from him until he’s ready to release it.

Your hands slip underneath his shirt, pressing flat against his abdomen, and the muscles there flex at the contact. You trail both hands upward, following the ridges of his ribs until he huffs out a breath against your lips.

“Eager,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw.

“Impatient,” you correct, tugging the hem of his shirt up his chest. “And maybe a little eager.”

“A little, hm?” He catches both of your wrists, halting your exploration. “These are going above your head.”

“That seems unnecessarily restrictive.”

“It seems like the only way to keep you from getting ahead of yourself.” He guides your wrists to the pillow above your head, pinning you there with one hand. “Better. Now stay.”

He releases his hold to remove his shirt, and whatever bratty comment you had prepared dies in your throat the moment he tosses it to the floor in a move so unlike your butler you’d laugh under different circumstances. He works your top off next, pulling it up and over your arms, letting it join his on the ground. 

The cool air makes your skin prickle, and you fight the immediate urge to cover yourself—a reflex that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that you’re not generous in this department, never have been, and lying beneath him with your arms above your head and nothing to hide behind makes you feel completely, uselessly small.

“Don’t,” he says quietly.

“Don't what?"

“Whatever you're thinking right now. Stop.” His fingertips graze your collarbone, then lower,  trailing between your breasts. “You have no idea how many times I've thought about this body.”

“About my tragically average—”

“Finish that sentence and I'll make you wish you hadn’t.” His palm covers your breast easily, thumb brushing across your nipple. “These are perfect. And I don't say that about many things.”

“You say that about your silverware polish.”

“My silverware polish is also perfect. You're in excellent company.” He rolls your nipple between his fingers and your back arches off the mattress. “Responsive, too. Do that again.”

“I can't just do it on command—”

He rolls your nipple once more, firmer this time, and your body betrays you with an identical arch, with a sharp hiss of breath you can't hold in. Zayne watches it all unfold with an expression of deep, undeniable satisfaction.

“Interesting,” he says. “So it's pressure-dependent.”

“Are you taking notes?”

“I'm nothing if not thorough.” 

He lowers his mouth to your breast, and the first brush of his tongue is almost painful in its relief. He paints a lazy, wet path before closing his lips around your nipple and sucking hard, drawing out a humiliatingly loud gasp from you that echoes through the room.

“That—” he says before his mouth closes around you again, teasing his teeth around the peak “—is my new favorite sound.”

He moves to the other side, giving it the same attention—tongue and teeth and the occasional scrape of stubble that sends sparks straight down your spine. His free hand stays on the breast his mouth just left, rolling your tight nipple between his fingers, then trails down your stomach, fingers grazing along the top of your shorts before retreating. Again and again he teases, each time a little further, each time making you jerk your hips up, chasing contact he keeps pulling away.

“You're doing that on purpose,” you say.

“Doing what on purpose?” 

His fingers line the waistband again, dipping just below the elastic, and pull back. He blinks down at you, all wide-eyes and deceptive innocence, and you’re certain you’d be strangling him if your hands weren’t busy holding onto the pillowcase above your head for dear life.

“That. You keep almost touching me and then—“

“Patience—” He kisses the underside of your breast, your sternum, the dip of your navel. “—is a virtue.”

“Patience is for people who aren't this turned on.”

He pins your hip with one hand and you squirm harder, as if your body senses where he's headed and is vibrating with the need to get there faster, faster, faster.

“You never could hold still, could you?” You’re flipped onto your stomach so fast the room blurs.  He works your shorts down your legs, leaving you facedown in nothing but your underwear. “Not once in twenty years.”

His hand strikes the curve of your ass.

You gasp, not from pain, more from the shock of it. The thrill that Zayne—controlled, careful Zayne—just spanked you on top of the same pink sheets he used to tuck you into.

“That's for squirming,” he says.

He lowers and presses a kiss to the spot he just struck, then smooths it over with his palm.

“You always needed this part,” he mouths against your skin, where it tingles from the sting. “The injury was never the problem. You just wanted someone to make it better after.” He travels higher, kissing up to the small of your back. “Every scraped knee. Every bruise. Every splinter you could have pulled out yourself but brought to me instead.”

“You had better hands than the first aid kit.”

“I had hands you trusted.” His hand settles at the base of your spine, nearly spanning the width of your low back. “You'd come find me wherever I was in the house and hold out whatever was hurt. Then stand there as long as it took for me to pay attention, looking up at me like I could fix anything.”

“You could fix anything.”

His hand slides up your spine with a familiarity that prickles at the edges of your memory. You've felt this hand on your back before—this exact path, this exact pressure.

Zayne has, too.

“Do you remember,” he says, bracketing your hips with his knees, “when you had me put sunscreen on your back?”

He asks as if every detail isn’t burned into your being.

It was the summer before you left for university—the sun was too bright, the pool smelled of chlorine, and your hot girl summer playlist terrorized every corner of the estate. You lay on your stomach by the pool with your bikini top untied and your bottoms hardly covering anything, and called your butler over with a voice you'd practiced sounding careless in the shower a dozen times.

Zayne, I need sunscreen. I can't reach my back.

He'd knelt beside your chair and obliged. His hands had been cool from the shade inside, the sunscreen warm from the sun. The restraint in his palms as they moved across your bare skin should have been unsexy but wasn't, because you could feel the effort in it as his fingers slid down your spine, across your waist, along the sides of your body.

You missed a spot, you'd said, though he hadn't. Still, he'd gone back and covered the same ground slower.

My legs, too.

His hands had worked your thighs, slick with sunscreen, rubbing the lotion from the backs of your knees up to where your thighs met the barely-there bottoms, the two inches of swimsuit the only barrier between the wet heat pooling between your legs and your butler’s thorough hands.

“I remember,” you whisper.

He traces the path now—down your spine, your waist, to the flare of your hip. The same route, the same pressure, except there's no sunscreen and no pretense, just his hands on your body.

“You lay there for an hour after I went inside,” he says, moving his palms in the upward strokes he'd used that afternoon. “In those godforsaken bottoms that hardly qualified as clothing.”

“They qualified.”

“They qualified as a provocation.” His hands move to your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin. “And every time I moved away from them, you'd wiggle your hips and tell me I missed a spot.”

“You did miss spots.”

“I didn't miss a single spot. I take UV protection very seriously.” His knuckles graze your inner thighs, and your hips lift involuntarily. “You just wanted my hands closer to places they had no business being.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“No? So you don't remember what happened when I reached right about—” His hand stills at the crease of your thigh, fingers resting against the edge of your underwear. “—here?”

You press your face into the pillow because you remember exactly what happened.

“You spread these legs apart, just enough for my fingers to go somewhere they shouldn't have.” He follows the edge of your underwear with one fingertip, over the swell of your ass, down to the strip between your legs that does nothing to hide how desperate you are for his touch. “And I cleared my throat. And you said sorry, I'm just getting comfortable. And I said of course. And we both pretended nothing happened.”

“Something happened.”

“Something happened,” he agrees. “And you knew. You always knew. That's why you kept pushing me, isn’t it?”

He traces the same line again, the border between what’s covered and what isn’t. Though this time when he dips low, he stays there—hand cupping you fully through your underwear, the pressure of his palm against the soaked fabric at your pussy delicious and unbearable and enough to make you moan.

“Answer me.”

“Mm,” you manage. He rocks the heel of his palm in a slow circle, and your nails dig into the sheets. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

He grinds against you more firmly, pressing the damp cotton deeper between your folds. You try to press back, to reach for the friction you’ve been chasing all night, but he pulls his hand away.

“Yes,” you concede in a shaky exhale. “Yes, I knew, and I—I wanted to see what would happen if you didn't walk away. If you just—kept going.”

“Kept going where?”

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “You know where.”

“I have a long list of places I've wanted to put my hands on you.” From this angle, you’re able to watch as he fists his cock over his soft pants, the light grey fabric darkened with precum where the head of him leaks. “So you're going to have to clarify which one you were hoping for.”

“Past my bikini. Past the line you always—” Your breath catches as his fingers brush inside your underwear, skating the skin he's never touched. “—always stopped at.”

“Like this?” His fingers slide deeper, tracing along the edge of your slit as he strokes himself more firmly, still not quite touching you properly.

“Further.”

“Greedy.” He removes his hand entirely, and you wince at the loss. “And then what? If I hadn't walked away. If I'd let my hand keep going while you lay there in the sun pretending to be innocent. What did you want to happen next?”

“I wanted you to—”

Your thoughts are interrupted by a blunt pressure against your center from behind—not Zayne’s hand this time, but his cock. The tip nudges between your thighs over the soaked cotton, the warm weight settling against the outline of your needy cunt.

“Keep talking,” he says, voice nearly a groan. He stays motionless, the thick head of him pressing the fabric further into you, letting you feel exactly what he’s withholding. “You wanted me to what, princess?”

“I wanted—” You try to push back against him, and his hand blocks your hip. “I wanted you to stop thinking and just take what you wanted.”

“What I wanted.” He rocks forward slightly, a small movement that drags his leaking tip down the length of you, his precum mixing with your wet arousal as he slides toward your clit. “You were eighteen years old, lying outside on a pool chair, and you wanted me to put my hand into your bikini and touch you.”

“Yes.”

“In the middle of the afternoon. Where your parents could have walked out and seen.”

“As if they’d bother paying attention.” He smacks his cock against your underwear deliberately, and any attempt at keeping your voice casual shatters. “Besides, I didn't care.”

“No. You didn’t.” Your panties cling to every part of you, slick enough that he slides easily between your thighs. The friction is obscene—his cock hard and throbbing where you’re soft and needy, separated by nothing but a scrap of ruined underwear. “I had to care enough for both of us. And you made me pay for it with every little scheme you pulled to put my hands on you and watch me try to walk away.”

“And?” You dare through gritted teeth, smirking into the pillow. “Did it work?”

His hand at your hip guides the rhythm into something more punishing. His mouth finds the back of your neck, and the kiss he presses there is soft and completely at odds with the way his hips are bucking against yours. 

“I’m grinding my cock against your pretty little cunt in your childhood bed, sweetheart. What do you think?” 

He pulls away suddenly, and between the filthy words and loss of his weight you think you actually could cry. 

“These—” His fingers hook under the center strip of your underwear, knuckles gliding up and down between your swollen folds as he assesses. “—have been through enough tonight.”

“So ruin them the rest of the way.”

He tears the fabric with two hands, ripping them off you in one clean pull. His hands spread you open from behind, and the sound he makes at the sight of you—bare before him for the first time—goes straight to your core.

“Christ.” His thumbs trace the inside of your thighs, spreading you wider. “Look at you.”

He lowers his mouth to your low back and kisses his wa down, patient even now, following the path of your spine, nipping the curve of your ass, outlining the crease of your thigh with his tongue. You feel his breath against your center, warm and unsteady, then the lightest brush of his nose against your entrance as he breathes you in.

“Fuck, Zayne—”

“Language,” he chides, the word humming against you. His tongue drags a single, slow line through you from behind, and you both groan at the contact. “If you could follow instructions even once in your life, this would go much faster.”

“I don't want faster. I want more.“

“You'll get more. When I decide you've earned it.”

His tongue works in long strokes, tasting every inch of you he can reach from this angle, and when he finds a spot that makes your thighs tense under his palms, he stays there.

“You're—that’s—”

Your lack of composure only seems to spur him further. “Articulate as always.” 

He licks into you over and over again, and you feel yourself clench around nothing, feel your body begging for something to hold onto that he hasn't given you yet. The angle this way, his mouth against you from behind, is indirect and maddeningly intimate and never quite enough and always almost there.

“Zayne—I swear to god.”

“Swear all you want.” His tongue barely grazes you, keeping you suspended with a laziness that borders on cruel. “Begging looks good on you.”

He spreads you apart wider with both thumbs and builds you back up with wet, hungry strokes that don’t have a rhythm, that aren’t meant to serve a purpose other than to let him taste what he does to your body, what he’s been doing to it since long before he answered the bell tonight. Pleasure pools low in your belly, winding tighter and tighter, and you're right at the edge and—

He pulls away.

“No—” you whine. ”I was right there—Zayne, don’t—“

“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Not from this.”

“You can't just—”

“I can. And I did.” You hear him moving behind you, feeling the shift of weight against the mattress as he discards the last of his clothes. “The only place you’re going to come tonight is around my cock, and that’s not open for negotiation. I've waited too long for it to happen any other way.”

You feel the head of his cock press against you, this time bare against your slick skin. He doesn't enter yet, resting there with one hand on your hip, the other flat on the mattress beside your head.

“Last chance to ring the bell,” he murmurs. “Tell me to stop.”

“If you stop now I will scream.”

He pushes in.

It’s slow, so slow you feel the stretch of every inch building in a long, devastating ache that empties your lungs and fills you with him. He groans hot against the back of your neck, fingers digging into your hip, and when he bottoms out you both need time to breathe. You’ve never felt so complete as you do in this moment, so perfectly full, Zayne’s cock thick and heavy as it throbs inside you. Your walls flutter around him involuntarily, pulling him deeper inside.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

“Language,” you mutter, the tremble in your voice undermines any sense of authority.

“You're right. How unprofessional of me.” He pulls back in a slow drag against your walls that makes your mouth fall open—and pushes forward again. “I’ll submit a formal apology. After I’ve made you come so hard you can’t speak, let alone critique my vocabulary.”

He starts to move, the full length of him withdrawing and filling you whole, and when he finds the spot that makes your thighs shake he doesn't say a word. You're soaked—you feel it on your thighs, hear it in every wet slide of him inside you, and your face burns even as your body seeks his with every thrust.

“You get tighter every time I pull out,” he observes. “Like you're trying to keep me inside you.”

"Am not—"

“You are.” He grinds forward and you clench around him again—hard—and his breath comes out in a hiss. “And it's making it very difficult to think straight.”

You turn your head on the pillow, looking back at him over your shoulder, because you need to see his face, need to see what Zayne looks like right now, inside you and undone. With his jaw tense, eyes dark, sweat at his temples—he looks nothing like the butler who irons his shirts twice and arranges bookshelves alphabetically. He looks like a man who has wanted something for a very long time and is finally, finally taking it.

“Eyes on me,” he commands when he catches your gaze drifting away. “You started this. You're going to watch me finish it.”

You scrunch your nose and stick your tongue out at him. “Make me.”

His eyes narrow with a flash between amusement and danger, and he wraps your hair around his wrist and pulls—enough to keep your face turned toward him, your neck arched, your eyes locked on his while he drives into you from behind.

“There's your make me, princess,” he says low, hips bucking harder with the leverage. “Any other requests?”

“Several,” you manage between thrusts, “but at your age I’d hate to put too much strain on you.”

“In all the scenarios I’ve imagined.” He gathers your hair tighter, using the grip to tilt your head back, and his tongue traces the exposed line of your throat from your shoulder to the bone of your jaw. “Not once did stamina come up as a concern.”

“You've been dreaming about me?” You try to sound unaffected despite the fact that your voice is shaking and your knuckles are white in the sheets. “Should I be flattered?”

“You should be terrified. I've had a long time to plan,” he says against your neck. “Though in my head, you were slightly less mouthy.”

You clench around him deliberately, and his groan vibrates against your back. “And in mine, you were considerably less smug.”

Zayne sucks hard at the sensitive skin above your collarbone in response before releasing your hair, letting it fall down your back. He braces both arms on either side of your head, and the change in position lets him go harder and deeper, his hips driving you into the mattress with each thrust.

“You've spent your whole life making sure no one could take care of you the way I do. Making sure no one else fit. Ruining yourself for anyone who wasn't me.” His hand reaches beneath you, and the first touch to your swollen, aching clit makes your entire body tense. He circles with barely any pressure, in time to the grind of his hips, and the combined sensation is almost too much to bear. “So now I’m going to give you everything you’ve been asking for all this time. Take care of you the way I’ve always wanted to. And you’re going to be good for me and take it.”

Every edge he pulled you back from tonight, every almost, every year of wanting with nothing to show for it—all of it—collects into a single climax that tears through your body in waves. You clench around him so hard his hips stutter, and his mouth is at your ear the whole time—

That's it—that's my girl—you've been waiting so long for this, haven't you? So long. I know. I know. I've got you. Feel that? That's all for you. You earned this—you earned every bit of it—

—and his voice is the anchor you cling to while the rest of you drowns, his name the only word left in your mouth, your mind, your heart.

He slows, letting you breathe as your aftershocks tighten around him in involuntary pulses. And you wait for it—for his hips to drive forward one final time, for the heat of him to fill you from the inside the way you've always imagined it would.

He pulls out instead, and the sudden emptiness makes you frown, your hips pressing back against nothing, searching for him.

“Zayne—why did you—” You turn your head, and the confusion must be written across your face, because his gaze softens even as he strokes his cock, slick from you, in long pulls.

“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he says, and the two words form a promise that makes your heart flip—that there will be other nights, that this is the first and not the last, that he’s already planning the ones that come after. “Tonight I want to see it on your skin.”

He straightens behind you, settling both hands on your hips. His thumbs press into the dip of your lower back, pressing circles over the skin there.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the day you asked me to put my hands on you by that pool. And I've thought about it every day since.” His palms trace the canvas of your back a final time. “Marking you. Imagining how pretty you'd look with the evidence of what you do to me all over your body.”

“You don’t have to imagine, Zayne. I’m right here.” You arch your back for him in shameless offering, and the sound he makes at the sight is low and wrecked and strips away any remaining possibility that either of you will ever recover from this night. “I’ve always been right here.”

“You're going to be the end of me,” he says through a ragged sigh. “You know that. You've always known that.”

“Promise?” you murmur, tilting your hips higher, giving him more of yourself.

His laugh is barely a sound, and his hand picks up speed, rougher now, knuckles brushing against your skin with each tight stroke. You watch his lips part, watch his brow furrow, watch the moment arrive on his face before you feel it on your skin—the warmth of his release spilling across the small of your back in pulses, painting your body with the proof that he was here, that this happened, that you belong to him in a way no amount of respectable distance will ever undo.

He stays like that for a while, breathing hard, looking at you looking at him. His expression softens into something so affectionate it makes your chest ache, and he leans down and presses a long, lingering kiss between your shoulder blades. 

“Promise.” His hand finds yours on the pillow, squeezing once before pressing a kiss between your shoulderblades and lifting himself off you. “Now don't move. Give me ten seconds.”

“Was that an order? Because I've been told I'm bad at those.”

He grabs his pants from the floor, sliding them up over his hips. “Nine seconds.” 

You hear the tap running, the drip of a towel being wrung out in the sink. He's back before you can count to four—warm cloth in one hand, cold glass of water in the other—and sits beside you on the bed.

He cleans you with a care that shouldn’t surprise you but makes tears prick behind your eyes anyway, following the path his mouth traveled earlier, rewarming the cloth twice because it cooled too fast and he noticed before you did. He wipes your thighs, the backs of your knees, places that don't need cleaning but get attention anyway. When he reaches the small of your back, he presses his lips against the clean skin there one final time before setting the cloth aside.

He helps you into fresh pajamas—a matching flannel set he selects from the second drawer of your dresser—lifting your arms, guiding them through the sleeves, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders and down your back. The gesture is so careful, so him, so entirely removed from everything his hands were doing ten minutes ago that a tear actually escapes down your cheek before you can catch it.

His thumb finds it, though, and wipes it away without comment, without concern, without making it into something you'd have to explain. He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders, tucking the edge beneath your chin the way he's done since you were small, and reaches for the glass on the nightstand.

“Drink,” he says, holding it to your lips.

“I’m fine—"

“Humor me.” The corner of his mouth lifts, barely. “I’ve been humoring you all night.”

He watches as you drink, gives a small nod of approval once he’s satisfied you’ve had enough, then sets the glass on the nightstand. He pulls on his t-shirt—you mourn the loss of his bare chest immediately—and slides under the covers beside you.

When you curl against him, his arms wrap around you like a reflex he's done fighting.

“I should resign,” he murmurs. 

“You should absolutely not resign.”

“This is a rather significant breach of professional boundaries.”

“I don't care about your professional boundaries. I care about you staying in this bed.”

He lifts his head to look at you in the lamplight. With his hair wrecked, glasses long gone, and an expression so open and unguarded, he looks…younger. Lighter. Like something heavy has been set down after years of carrying it.

“Stay,” you whisper. “Not as my butler. Not as my anything. Just stay.”

His arm tightens around your waist. You feel his heartbeat match yours, both rhythms slowing to something calm. His chin settles on the top of your head, and for a while neither of you speaks, but the silence is nothing like the one that scared you an hour ago.

“Mm,” you hum against his chest. “I always get what I want eventually.”

“You do.” His thumb traces a lazy circle on your shoulder. “It’s your single most irritating quality.”

“And yet you keep indulging me.”

“You are exceptionally difficult to say no to.”

“So stop trying.”

“I suppose that would simplify my schedule considerably.” He pulls you closer. “Free up the hours I currently spend on damage control and cold showers.”

“See? Efficient. You love efficiency.”

“I do love efficiency.” His mouth presses against your hair, and you feel him smile. “Though I suspect you're going to be far more work than you were before tonight. Not less.”

“Probably.”

“Almost certainly.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” His fingers find the spot behind your knee—the left one, the one he knows is ticklish—and you yelp, squirming against him, your laugh bright in the quiet room. He catches you before you can escape and pulls you back against his chest. “Now promise me you’ll ring the bell again tomorrow.”

“That depends. Will you read me more Austen?”

“If you behave.”

“And if I don’t?”

His teeth graze your earlobe, tongue teasing the sensitive skin just below. “Then I suppose I’ll have to resort to alternative methods of tiring you out.”

You give his chest a playful shove and he catches your hand, kissing each knuckle one by one. You melt closer, curling yourself tighter against his chest, letting the cadence of his breathing, the warmth of his arms, the undeniable sense of home pull you under.

The house continues its symphony through the night—wind whistling through the cracks, pipes bellowing deep in the walls, wood floors sighing under the weight of the night.

You sleep soundly through it all.

[kitliene]

[kitliene]

rafayel comes across as such a control freak despite the airheaded, drama queen front he has up.

currently, i think him and caleb might be on par when it comes to the lunacy theyre willing to devolve into where surveillance is concerned.

caleb is incredibly controlling, that's undeniable even though he tries to mask it, but its more about keeping mc close—cameras, trackers, anything he can use to find her and drag her back should she ever try and escape him.

rafayel, on the other hand, i dont think he fears losing her as much as he fears her forgetting him, so he makes sure to insert himself into every aspect of her life just incase. mc cant be anywhere in linkon without thinking of a memory they made somewhere or raf himself popping up unannounced.

[kitliene]

if zayne had a tongue piercing the whole "piercings cant be cold" discourse would have to account for him being a surprise variable bc i don't think he runs very warm at all

like it really would be cold metal dragging all over the sensitive skin of your neck and chest just so he can watch you squirm a bit from the vast temperature difference

[kitliene]

i have two (2) more drafts to post then ill start ribbing myself about finishing a master list

[kitliene]

mdni. caleb being caleb i think

"where ya off to honey ?"

the chipper tone and easy smile on your dear caleb's face was enough to lure you into a false sense of safety, your instincts completely bypassing the air of barely tempered irritation swirling around him like smoke as you make your way towards him, a lamb to the slaughter.

"told ya silly, today's Tara's birthday night out, dont tell me you forgot?"

caleb did not forget. he wishes you would have though, biting his tongue and plastering on another easygoing grin, even as his eyes rake over your outfit with ill concealed contempt. ill concealed, but concealed nonetheless, humming to himself as a hand settles lightly at your hip, thumb tracing the curve of your waist.

"..you look very pretty baby, can you gimme a spin ?"

poor stupid you, sincerely believing your sweet caleb really just wanted to admire you.

as it turns out, giving him a spin landed you on the bedroom floor, cheek pressed against his arm and your hips yanked high as Caleb grinds himself as deep as he can physically get, cockhead swabbing around unkindly in the sloppy depths of your cunt, barely pulling his hips back before rolling them forward again. the cute little number you'd donned is pushed up over your hips—stained with the wasted children of the lunatic hovering above you.

[kitliene]

i do not think sylus is a fumbling virgin but i don't think he learned through the hands on sleeping around approach before mc either.

i think sylus has an erotica collection. not cheap porn and not overly complicated medical textbooks with practical jargon, but a secret third thing.

it's the kind that you can vividly insert yourself into without feeling silly or out of depth, very tasteful. he probably spent the years apart reading and daydreaming about when he'd finally get to have his angel in his arms, perched in his lap or laid out under him the way he's read about.

mc thinks the natural attentiveness and prowess he shows where their sex life is concerned is from him being a whore until she stumbles across his collection and he just sort of shrugs and tells her it was good research.

[kitliene]

mdni. reflecting on the hotsprings banner again

you're feeling a bit faint. spots dancing around the edges of your vision as you watch sylus move around the kitchen, the muscles in his broad back rippling gently under his skin, just like the waves of that pool in the mountains he'd stolen you away to and that visual is no help to your deteriorating mental state.

it's not just the promise of strength barely concealed by his skin that has you all warm in the head, no, its the outline of where his whorish little number had shielded his skin from the sun.

sharp contours tracing down his chest, across his abdomen, over his back and down past the low slung band of his silky pajama bottoms, the lines noticeably lighter than the parts of him that had been exposed.

tl;dr let sylus tan

[kamislop]

private afterparty with gf!mina ashido 18+ MDNI!!!

“do you want to get back?”

it’s whispered against the shell of your ear, and you barely hear it over the sound of your own moan as mina’s thumb plays with your pebbled nipple over the fabric of your top.

“b-but it’s your birthday party, baby—” you gasp against her lips, before you’re cut off by her tongue tangling with yours. the corner you two slipped off to is dark enough for the others to not notice you, but you’re sure someone’s going to start looking soon.

“okay, then let me rephrase it,” she pulls back, half-lidded eyes staring right into yours. “i want to go back home. i want to go home and enjoy my pretty birthday gift without risking a fine for public indecency. does that sound better?”

you giggle, but eventually nod your head. “alright, let’s go.”

⋆ ★ ⋆

as if the night couldn’t have been any better, both you and mina are still the right amount of tipsy when the uber drops you off at her apartment.

between messy kisses and hands pawing impatiently to get each other’s clothes off, you find yourself in her bathroom, waiting for the tub to fill and watching scented bubbles fizz over the surface.

“thought you said you wanted to enjoy your birthday gift?” you tease, running your knuckle inside the waistband of her thong. “instead you’re running us a bath like it’s some sappy date.”

she turns to look at you, a sly grin dancing on her lips, leftover glitter catching on the overhead light. “oh, you don’t worry, i can do what i have in mind just fine in the tub,” she murmurs, nipping at your bottom lip.

and prove you wrong she did.

the sound of water sloshing wasn’t loud enough to cover up the whorish moans that mina was coaxing out of you. she sat with her back against the tub, nose buried under your jaw as you straddle her lap, legs tangled together strategically to rub your pussy against her.

“o-oh god, can’t—”

“yes you can,” she cuts you off, stern and breathy, grazing your throat with her teeth. “keep that pretty pussy open and keep going. don’t care if you cum, it’s my birthday, isn’t it? you wanna - hah - make me feel good too, no?”

“y-yes, yes, yes, wanna make you feel good!” you whine, your fingers underwater keeping your pussylips spread to make sure your clit kissed hers with every grind of your hips.

your head falls back, giving mina a clearer view of your chest. a hand comes up to grope one of your tits immediately, feeling the soapy, doughy fat around her digits. her other hand is busy guiding you, splayed over the globe of your ass— or, well, she’s trying to, but it’s hard when the friction is just right, heat coiling in her gut with your every rut.

“you’re— ngh, doing so well, baby…” she chokes on a moan, hand reaching lower until her middle finger teases your tight, puckered hole. you gasp at the sudden, barely-there intrusion, big puppy eyes staring into hers. “‘s this okay?” she checks in, pressing a small peck to your lips.

“please,” you nod desperately. she smiles, circling around the rim mindlessly, applying the slightest pressure when your pace falters as a small warning. your forehead falls against hers, tits squishing together, soapy skin squelching faintly at the contact.

you’re so close you think you’re going insane trying to hold it, stubbornly wanting to make mina cum first, but the shake of your thighs every time she teases your ass gives you away.

“you’re so cute,” she nudges your nose with hers. “trying to hold it in for me, s-so - ah - pretty, baby…”

a pitched whine spills from your lips when she finally slides her finger in, hips stuttering, pussy glued to hers. she mercifully helps by bucking up into you, but with the added pressure, you’re basically limp and useless.

“cum with me, baby, ‘m so close too,” mina coos, right before catching your lips in a hungry kiss. her finger pushes in deeper, and you’re unraveling at the seams. your twitchy movements push her over the edge as well, and you’re swallowing each other’s moans and cries as you cum together.

only after your spasms have subsided does she carefully pull out, wrapping both arms around your middle and tugging you into a warm hug, littering kisses over the side of your face. you nuzzle your face into the crook of her neck, sneezing when some water tickles your nose, making her giggle.

“you good?” mina asks after a few minutes, running her short, manicured nails over your spine. you reply with a weak “mhm”, lifting your head to kiss her cheek. “are you okay?”

“‘course i am!” she gives you a big smile. “best birthday ever if i get to spend it with you.”

┊┊a/n. thank you @yui-444 for making me think about soapy titties + a bit of input from my girlfriend :p thanks to everyone for the suggestions i'll definitely keep them in mind for more future works for my girl (and thanks to my betas you guys are my goats) IMPORTANT! I ADDED AN OPTION FOR MINA IN MY TAGLIST SO GO FILL THAT OUT IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED IN MORE FUTURE WORKS FOR HER!!

@ kamislop || masterlist ◦ Ko-fi ◦ requests ◦ taglist

┊┊🏷️: @tentypos, @simbaruto, @trilxogyyy, @27-awesome-ham-sandwiches, @nightmarenyxx, @vlinzoi, @updownandbatty, @levertons, @zmbkats, @lonelyfooryouonly, @abadbitchblogs, @hairiane-ari, @plutooowo, @mo072806, @xoxocelestial, @da1ntyli1ly, @mamashima, @v4mp1r3b4tzz, @love-d-luxe, @tokkushin, @amberr0ckz, @satorusane, @spookyeomgoose, @6x-x9, @bitchycoffeellama, @protectingpluto, @wannasleeppls, @skybluesskin, @miminist, @snore-3, @callsign-s0mbra, @deathscheduled, @moviecritc, @ie4ri

©kamislop 2026, do not copy, translate or upload my works without credit, do not use for AI training

[kitliene]

suggestive (ish). sloppy kisses from sylus

you, are not a fan of spit.

the viscous, stringy feel of it has always made you unbearably queasy, so one could imagine your disdain for the concept of swapping it.

6 months into your relationship, despite your qualms, you have no reservations where sylus is concerned.

kissing him is spiritual, all disgust at the prospect of saliva fading into latency as soon as his lips press against yours. big hands curling around your hips, hauling you closer with little effort while his plush mouth melds to yours.

sylus's tongue gleans the roof of your mouth and a shiver wracks through you, keening into his mouth until the ache in your lungs forces you to part, thin strings of saliva keeping you both connected in a way that has your thighs squeezing around his hips.

[rainrot4me]

Seven Minutes in Heaven - Eyeless Jack

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

────────────────────────────── so far so fake - pierce the veil

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: (No correlation to other parts, only prologue) The bottle lands on Jack.

✦ . Characters: Eyeless Jack x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Alcohol, monster x human, teeth, claws, themes of cannibalism, cunnilingus, spit, drool, dirty talk, biting, size difference, drunk sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, slight dub-con, semi-public sex, teasing, vaginal fingering

✦ . Words: 10.4k

✦ . Note: Got it out as quickly as I could, hope you enjoy! In my mind, Jack is a confident, talkative guy when he's drunk, so take that how you will, lol.

─────────────────────────────────────────────

As the bottle whipped around on the coffee table, you quickly realized you were neither drunk nor high enough to deal with the embarrassment you were about to face.

It wobbled, catching on an ashtray on the edge of the space, before it slowed from one face, to another, then—

Jack.

You would’ve thought a gaggle of crows had just found their way into the living room at the sound that erupted from the corner of the room.

Natalie and Toby lost it.

Natalie slapped the back of Jack’s head with a loud smack while Toby howled, kicking his leg higher over Jack’s thigh as if he needed the extra support to keep from falling over laughing. Jack didn’t look the least bit impressed. He sat there between them on the loveseat pushed into the corner, his absent sockets pointed blankly at the bottle, its tip completely motionless and aimed right at him.

You felt a pit form deep in your stomach.

Being locked in a closet with the resident cannibal suddenly felt a lot less like a fun party game and a lot more like a very bad idea.

People started whooping and cheering, especially Toby and Natalie, who were still losing their minds. Jack slowly stood up, shrugging both of them off like they weighed nothing. They tumbled dramatically into the arms of the loveseat, still cracking up and clutching their ribs as they reached for each other.

“Good luck, big guy,” Natalie wheezed, wiping tears from her good eye. “You’re gonna die in there.”

Toby pointed at you with one shaky hand, laughing so hard he could hardly sit up right. “Don’t let him eat you!”

You glanced around the room, hoping for even a scrap of mercy, but everyone else was either grimacing in sympathy or grinning like this was the funniest thing they’d seen all night. Jeff and Ben looked especially pleased with themselves.

Jack rounded the coffee table without so much as a word. His tall frame cast a long shadow over you as he came to a stop right in front, staring down with his blank gaze. The black voids of his eyes seemed to swallow the light from the lights overhead. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Until, “C’mon.”

You nodded quickly and pushed yourself up from the floor, legs a little unsteady. Jack turned without another word and started down the hallway. You followed a few steps behind him, fingers picking nervously at the hem of your shirt. The moment you left the living room, you heard Jeff yell over the noise, “Ben. Music.”

The music rushed in seconds later—loud, gritty rock blasting through the busted speakers twice as loud as before, the bass rattling the old floorboards under your feet.

The walk down the hall felt longer than it should have. Jack’s broad shoulders took up most of the space, his steps quiet and even like a cat. When he reached the closet door, he opened it and stepped aside.

You stopped a few feet away, looking up at him. The overhead light in the hallway cast strange shadows over his face, making the black eyesockets look even deeper.

Jack gave a nod toward the inside of the closet. One of his ears twitched against his head as he spoke, “After you.”

You swallowed, nodded back, and stepped past him. Reaching up, you tugged the pull chain. The bare bulb clicked on overhead with a hum, washing the small space in weak yellow light.

It was smaller than you remembered. Way smaller. The coats hanging on the rod ruffled against your shoulders as soon as you stepped in, and the stacks of old boxes and junk left barely enough room to stand.

Behind you, Jack had to duck. He placed one large hand on the top of the doorframe and bent down to fit through, his frame nearly filling the entire doorway before he stepped fully inside. The door pulled shut behind him.

The music outside dulled to a rumbling, muffled thump.

Now it was just the two of you.

The closet felt even tighter with Jack in it. He had to keep his head slightly lowered so it wouldn’t hit the hanging rod, his shoulders almost touching both walls. You stood with your side pressed against the coats and your back shoved against the wall, your heart beating fast as you looked up at him.

He was tall—always had been—but in the cramped little closet he seemed enormous. The light overhead cast a sickly yellow glow over him, highlighting every unsettling detail. His muted gray skin, almost ashen in places, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. Pointed ears poked up through messy dark hair, occasionally flicking and twitching once he straightened as much as the low ceiling would allow. You’d occasionally catch the gleam of his sharp teeth between his lips or the flash of his claws when he moved.

He looked… bigger in here. Like the walls had shrunk just to make him seem more imposing.

And then there were his eyes.

Or rather, the places where his eyes should have been. Nothing but deep, endless black voids stared back at you. In the dim light, they looked infinite—like if you leaned in too close, you might fall forever into that darkness and never get out. It was unnerving. And strangely hard to look away from. Like all the awe and horror of a black hole swallowing a planet.

He was dressed simply in baggy black sweatpants and an oversized blue shirt that still somehow looked tight across his broad shoulders and chest. You think he tried to dress as normally as possible to offset everything else that was jarring about him… or maybe this was just all that fit his size.

You swallowed, pressing your back a little more into the adjacent wall.

“…Are you comfortable?” You fished for something to talk about.

Jack grunted, “Mhm.”

That was it.

You racked your brain for something—anything—to say, your fingers twisting together nervously.

“So… uh, how’s your night been going?” you tried.

“Fun.”

You nodded awkwardly. “The party got pretty wild after that fight, huh?”

He gave a nod.

You waited. Nothing else came. You think you could die.

You tried once more, voice a little more chipper. “You, um… you like playing these kinds of parties usually, or…?”

“Sure.”

You let out a small, nervous laugh and looked down at your hands. Talking to Jack had never been easy, but this felt like pulling teeth. The seven minutes had barely started, and the silence already felt suffocating. Jack remained perfectly still, towering over you, content to simply exist while you slowly unraveled under the weight of this encounter.

“So… what have you—”

“Calm down,” Jack cut in.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He let out a chuckle, the sound surprisingly warm. “Your heartbeat. It’s pounding so loud it’s giving me a headache. It’s gonna explode if you keep that up.”

Your face burned. You pressed a hand to your chest without thinking, feeling the frantic thud against your palm. The embarrassment made it worse.

“I—I can’t just make it stop,” you sounded exasperated.

“Yes, you can,” Jack replied simply. “You’re just not trying.”

You rolled your eyes, letting out a short laugh. “Fuck off. Quit with the weird body shit.”

Jack tilted his head, looking at your sideways. Then, in a dry, surprisingly sarcastic tone, he said, “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize the doctor had to cut it with the ‘weird body shit.’ How many times have you come down to my room after a mission asking for painkillers again? Oh yeah… a lot.”

You stared at him, genuinely surprised. A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it.

“Wait… was that sarcasm? From you?”

Jack’s shoulders moved in a small shrug, the corners of his mouth pushing up just a bit.

“I have layers,” he said flatly.

“I didn’t know you could be funny.”

Jack hummed. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”

You shrug, picking at your fingers as you looked at the ground. “Maybe it’s because you’re always so quiet. People can get intimidated.”

“People are usually scared of me. Easier to stay quiet.”

The words were simple, matter-of-fact, but they landed with a strange weight in your chest that made you look back up at him.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said after a beat. It wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t entirely false either.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he chuckled.

You laughed despite yourself, the sound a little nervous but genuine. “Okay, maybe a little. But not… not like that. Not the way people usually are.”

He didn’t respond right away. The music outside pulsed dully through the walls, the bass vibrating faintly under your feet. Jack shifted his stance, trying to get a little more comfortable in the tiny space, and ended up closer to you than before. The warmth coming off him was noticeable.

“You’re shaking a bit,” he said quietly.

You hadn’t even noticed. You crossed your arms over your chest and tried to play it off. “It’s cold in here.” But that was a lie. If anything, it was just below sweltering.

“Semantics.” Jack hummed, clearly not believing you. But he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned one shoulder against the wall, giving you a little more room—or at least trying to.

It got quiet again.

For nearly a full minute, the only sounds were the muffled thump of music outside and the occasional creak of the old floorboards whenever one of you shifted. Your mind wandered to the living room—wondering what kind of shit was unfolding now, who was winning at whatever stupid game they’d moved on to, whether Toby and Natalie were still laughing their heads off about you and Jack being stuck in here together or if someone else had voiced their opinions on it.

Then Jack spoke very matter-of-factly. “See? There it goes.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your heart,” he said. “It’s calm now. You did it.”

You let out a small breath, almost laughing. “Ah… I didn’t really try to do it, though. It just… happened on its own.”

Jack huffed, he almost sounded amused. “Semantics.”

You rolled your eyes. “You can’t just say ‘semantics’ every time I make a point.”

“I can,” he replied, completely deadpan. “And I will.”

“Jack.”

“Semantics.”

“Jack.”

“Semantics.”

“This is very demeaning, y’know.”

“Semantics.”

You laughed at him. You were about to tease him again when Jack suddenly let out a chuckle—wait, a laugh? Not the short, dry sound he usually made with little amusement, but something warmer that bubbled up and out of his chest. His mouth curved into a wide, toothy grin, his sharp teeth gleaming like little pearls. His eyelids squeezed shut over his sockets as he laughed, and you found the sight so odd, like pulling a curtain over some void and trying to pretend it wasn’t there.

The sight caught you completely off guard. You’d never seen him smile like that—so open and genuine, almost boyish. It made something flutter oddly in your chest.

You laughed with him before you could stop yourself, surprised and delighted all at once. “What? What’s so funny?”

Jack just shook his head, still smiling big. “Nothing. You’re just… funny.”

You stared at him for a second, still processing the expression on his face. Then the question slipped out before you could think better of it.

“Jack… are you drunk?”

It was quiet again for a beat, until Jack let out a deep chuckle. The sound started delighted but quickly turned sheepish when you asked.

“No way,” you gawked, eyes wide.

Jack shrugged one broad shoulder. “Is it so obvious?”

You shook your head, still smiling. “No, it’s just… funny. This is probably the most I’ve ever heard you talk. And you’re being sarcastic? I thought, either that or you’re tripping.”

He laughed again and you couldn’t help but laugh with him, a little stunned. You’d never seen him like this.

“I barely even saw you drink tonight,” you added, tilting your head. “How did you manage that?”

Jack didn’t answer right away. Instead, that smile on his face shifted from one cheek to the other as he looked down at you. Something about the way he was watching you made your stomach flip with nerves again.

Then, without a word, he lifted his hands.

You watched, frozen, as his large gray hands curled under the hem of his baggy shirt. He slowly pulled it up, just high enough to expose his midsection. Your eyes widened.

God, he was built. Thick, solid muscle sat under muted gray skin, abs clearly defined and right above a deep v-line etched into his just-visible pelvis. A dark trail of hair disappeared down into the waistband of his sweatpants. You felt a little dizzy just looking at him.

But then your gaze caught on something much brighter.

Tucked neatly into the waistband of his sweatpants, wrapped all the way around his torso like some ridiculous colorful bandolier, were about two handfuls of little 99 brand alcohol shooters. Tiny bottles in every color—cherry red, lime green, coconut, orange, grape—all strapped against his skin, hidden right under his shirt.

You gawked at it.

Jack glanced down at himself, then back at you, still holding his shirt up. He must have noticed you staring at the colorful little bottles strapped around his waist, because he let out a low huff of a laugh and explained, “Toby and Nat ransacked a gas station right before the party started. They stole a whole bunch of these and hid them on me. Said it was the best way to keep them from getting passed around.”

You blinked, connecting the dots. “So that’s why you three have been glued together all night.

Jack gave a small nod. “They keep sneaking me into corners or bedrooms so nobody gets nosy and asks for any. Works pretty well.”

That also explained why Toby and Natalie had been so cuddly and hysterical—they were definitely beyond wasted by now.

“There were a lot more two hours ago,” Jack added, almost wistful.

Your eyes kept drifting between the little shooters and the hard planes of his torso, the contrast between the silly colorful bottles and his gray, muscled skin making your brain fizzle out a little.

Jack huffed. “Your heart’s loud again.”

You startled, pressing a hand to your chest like that would somehow quiet it. “Sorry. I’m trying.”

He reached down and plucked one of the shooters from his waistband—a bright cherry red one. The tiny bottle looked comically small in his large, clawed hand. He held it out toward you.

You waved him off. “I’ve had enough tonight, really.”

Jack’s mouth curved into a small, toothy smile. “As your doctor,” he said, deadpan, “it’s in your best interest that you drink this.”

You let out a surprised laugh. “As my doctor?”

A low growl rumbled in his chest, all gravely, and dark, and way more effective than it had any right to be. Every hair on your body stood on end.

“Drink it,” he said, quieter this time, but no less daunting.

You swallowed, took the little bottle from his hand, and twisted the cap off. It snapped open with a tiny clicks. You brought it to your lips and downed it in one go.

It burned.

God, it burned—like liquid fire sliding down your throat, sharp and sweet and way too strong. You winced, your eyes watering as the intense wave of alcohol hit your system. You hissed sharply as it went down, immediately tossing the empty shooter to the floor. “Jesus Christ, Jack—that tastes like rubbing alcohol.”

Jack laughed, then reached down and plucked a coconut-flavored one from his waistband, twisted the cap off, and downed it in one smooth motion. His pointed ears pressed back against his head as he swallowed, and then—to your viewing pleasure—three slick, dark tongues slipped out from between his sharp teeth. They curled around his lips, cleaning what he missed before disappearing again.

You stared, a little dazed.

The words left your mouth before your brain could convince yourself that you shouldn’t say anything.

“…Do things taste better with three tongues?”

Jack paused, considering the question like it was a serious inquiry. Then he shrugged one broad shoulder.

“It feels more intense,” he said plainly. “Like the taste is tripled. Overwhelms your senses more.”

Your heart skipped a beat in your chest.

Jack’s head tilted, his ears twitching a couple times. He must have heard it, because his gaze stayed fixed on you for a long second.

“…Can I taste yours?” he asked, just barely grumbling.

You blinked. “I already drank it all.”

Jack’s mouth curved into a wonky, toothy grin. The realization hit you just as the alcohol did.

Oh.

The buzz finally crashed over you in a warm, dizzy wave. Your heartbeat suddenly felt loud in your own ears, muffled like the music outside. You wondered if this was what Jack always heard when he was around people—that constant, frantic drumming. It made you wonder what else he could hear.

He shifted his weight onto the leg closest to you, leaning in until the space between you felt almost nonexistent. His shadow fell over you immediately like a stormcloud.

“You can taste mine too,” he purred.

You opened your mouth to say something—“Um—”—but your foot caught the edge of a box next to you. You stumbled, your balance completely gone.

Jack moved faster than you could see.

One strong arm hooked under your side and hauled you upright before you could even gasp, pulling you flush against his chest. Your hands instinctively grabbed onto his arms, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.

“Sorry—” you started, breathless.

Jack just grumbled. His hands settled heavy on your hips, holding you steady as he leaned down over you, his face hovering just above yours. The closeness made your heart stutter all over again.

You looked up at him, still gripping his arms. “I’m not a good kisser,” you whispered, pulling uselessly at straws to not make this seem awkward.

Jack’s response was immediate and blunt.

“Shut up,” he muttered. “Open your mouth.”

The command sent a shiver down your spine. You tilted your face up obediently, lips parting.

Jack leaned in closer. His own lips parted, and three slick, warm tongues slid out from between his sharp teeth. They brushed your lips first—tasting the area—before one of them pressed forward and licked into your lips and across your tongue.

Then he kissed you.

It was overwhelming.

The three tongues moved with a mind of their own, sliding against yours, curling around it, exploring every inch of  your mouth like they were starving for the taste of you. One licked along the roof of your mouth while another tangled with your tongue, the third teasing the space inbetween. The sensation was too much and not enough all at once, your hands moving up his arms to his shoulders to pull him closer.

A soft, surprised sound escaped you, muffled against his mouth. Jack answered with a low rumble in his chest, one hand sliding up your back to keep you pressed close while the other stayed firm on your hip.

He kissed like he did everything else—completely consuming.

You tasted coconut.

Jack pressed you back until your shoulder blades met the wall, one large hand planting beside your head while the other gripped your hip and pulled your lower body forward. The angle made your back arch slightly toward him. Then his hips rolled forward, and you felt the unmistakable, heavy shape of him pressing against your hip through his sweatpants.

You gasped sharply into his mouth and pushed weakly at his chest. “Sorry—” he slurred through a mouthful of you.

But Jack only tightened his grip on your hip and tugged you closer, grinding you against him with all the lack of resistance he had. His three tongues never stopped moving, overwhelming as they curled around yours and licked along the roof of your mouth, teasing the inside of your cheeks. You tried to kiss him back the best you could, but it was hard to keep up. Your breathing quickly turned shallow, little gasps and whimpers slipping out between the messy slide of tongues.

You’d never seen Jack like this.

He was usually so quiet, so reserved and mysterious. But right now he was surprisingly blunt, almost greedy with the things he was saying. This was probably the most you’d ever heard him talk, and you couldn’t get enough of it. The low growls, the occasional muttered curse, the way his voice dropped when he felt you react to him… it was doing dangerous things to your buzzed head.

You found yourself getting lost in those endless black voids where his eyes should be. The anxiety and embarrassment that had been clawing at your chest slowly melted away, like he was draining it out of you with every pass of his tongues and every roll of his hips.

Jack pulled back just enough to speak against your lips.

“Slow your breathing down,” he murmured, almost teasing you. One of his tongues slid across your bottom lip. “Still nervous?”

You let out a shaky breath, fingers curling tighter into his shirt.

“A little,” you admitted. Then, quieter, “Don’t stop.”

Jack made a deep, pleased sound in the back of his throat. His hand on your hip squeezed harder as he leaned back in, tongues sliding back into your mouth with renewed hunger. His hips pressed forward again, letting you feel just how hard he was against you. His lips eventually left yours, trailing slowly across your cheek, then down to your jaw. When they reached your neck, he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss there before dragging one of his tongues along your skin. The sensation made you shiver.

His hand left the wall and came up to the back of your head, his fingers threading into your hair as he firmly tilted your head to the side, giving himself more room. He licked wet, warm stripes up the side of your neck, then sucked just below your ear.

You gasped, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders. A nervous flutter shot through your chest as the reality of who he was hit you again.

“…Jack,” you breathed, half-joking but not entirely, “are you gonna eat me?”

He paused, his lips still pressed against your neck, before he begins chuckling against you.

“If you’ll let me,” he murmured against your skin, his breath causing goosebumps to rise across your shoulders. Your knees went weak instantly. A rush of heat flooded through you so fast it made you dizzy.

Jack must have felt it, because he straightened up, pulling back just enough to look down at you. One of his hands stayed on your hip, steadying you.

“You have no idea how brilliant your anatomy is,” he said plainly, as if he was just stating a fact. “I don’t mean to be crude… but your structure is perfect. I could map every inch of you with my eyes closed.”

You let out a startled laugh, your cheeks burning. The words were grotesque and strangely flattering at the same time.

“You can’t even see anyway,” you pointed out, still laughing a little. “Doesn’t that already mean you’re doing it with your eyes closed?”

“Kinda. It’s more like I’m looking through layers of thick film. Everything’s… foggy. I don’t understand it any better than you do. I stopped questioning how my body works a long time ago.”

You grinned, feeling bolder. “I don’t think you could actually do it without seeing. So what if you went to Yale, I’m still not that impressed with you.”

Jack’s hand lifted from the wall and reached above his head, his fingers finding the dangling pull chain of the overhead bulb.

You glanced up. “What are you doing?”

“So you know I’m not cheating,” he said simply.

He gave the chain a tug.

Click.

The light went out.

The closet plunged into near-total darkness, save for the thin sliver of hallway light bleeding in from under the door. For a second, your eyes struggled to adjust. And then you saw him.

In the dark, Jack was… horrifying.

The little light from beneath the door only barely outlined his silhouette, but it was enough. He looked like something that had crawled out of the woods at night—like something that you’d see in a horror movie. You understood his reputation, the stories you’ve heard from others about the things they witnessed the demon do, but you’d never faced the reality of it until now—never gotten a full picture of what he really was. His gray skin seemed to drink in what little light there was. The sharp points of his ears angled and swiveled to bumps and creaks all around. His claws curled at his sides, clenching the air as his shoulders slumped to account for the little space, his frame hanging over you. And those empty black sockets… they looked like holes punched straight through the sky. Bottomless. Ancient. You think they’d drop off like a cliff if you leaned any closer.

If you were anyone else, anywhere else—especially in the woods at night—you would’ve screamed and ran.

But you weren’t. Instead, you found yourself leaning closer.

Jack stepped in, pulling you against him with one arm around your waist. His mouth found your neck again, hot and wet as he kissed and licked along the flushed skin.

Then he began to map you. His fingers and lips moved carefully along your skin, until he pressed a kiss just beneath your ear.

“This is your Sternocleidomastoid,” he murmured against your skin, His clawed fingers traced the muscle on the other side of your neck, following the muscles shape. “Runs from here… to here.”

He dragged his mouth lower, his lips peppering your collarbone as his fingers followed.

“Clavicle,” he said, pressing lightly on the bone. “Deltoid…” His hand slid over your shoulder, squeezing the thick muscle there. “You hold so much tension right here.”

You shivered, little gasps and sighs as he massaged and traced areas. He had to maneuver you a bit, tugging you closer to his chest as he leaned down further. His fingers trailed down your side, his digits finding their way under your shirt until you felt them along your goosebumped skin. “External oblique…” His hand slid behind your back. “Latissimus dorsi…” Another kiss, lower this time, his teeth nipping as he moved. “You’re so well-built. Everything fits together so nicely.”

Jack’s hand slid down your arm until he caught your wrist. He lifted it and pressed a kiss to the thin skin on the inside, right where your pulse beat frantically.

“Right here,” he kissed it once more. “This vein runs straight to your heart.”

You thought it embarrassing how much you were shivering.

Then he moved his head lower, trailing his mouth down to your chest. He kissed you through your shirt, before slipping his hand from your back to your abdomen under your shirt. You felt shaky and exposed and way too vulnerable.

Jack’s claws curled and pressed in just a fraction at one specific point on your side, the sharp tips teetering on the idea of pressing further.

“This is your spleen,” he said with a little smile in his voice. “If I pressed any harder… I could puncture it. You’d bleed out quickly internally. It’d be so messy.”

He let the words settle in your head.

“Isn’t that interesting?” he whispered. “One little slip… and it could all be over.”

Anxiety twisted sharply in your stomach. But underneath it, something much darker and hotter stirred. Excitement. A sick, dizzy kind of thrill that made your thighs press together.

Jack noticed, because why-fucking-wouldn’t he? His claws dragged down your skin as his hand dipped lower, slipping toward the waistband of your pants. You grabbed his shoulders tightly.

“Wait—Jack, we don’t have much time,” you warned, looking to the door. “It’s gotta be almost seven minutes.”

He stopped for a second, only to chuckle to himself and lean back in, pushing a kiss against your jaw. Then, “I don’t think you really care,” he smiled. “Your body sure doesn’t.”

You whined as Jack’s hands roamed down your hips and around to your lower back, pulling you closer with a coaxing tug that said ‘I wasn’t really asking’. The heat of his palms bled through your clothes, making your skin prickle and scorch in spots.

“Shit,” you cursed under your breath, your nerves spiking to an all time high. “We can’t do this here—”

Jack just grinned at you. “It’s not me you’re gonna have to worry about getting us caught.”

You didn’t have time to ask what he meant.

His hands slid down and grabbed your ass, squeezing firmly. You squeaked, your hips jerking forward as you gripped the front of his shirt like a vice. Jack let out a satisfied noise and moved you exactly how he wanted—strong enough that you couldn’t have resisted even if you tried.

He spun you slightly, pressing your back more firmly against the wall as his fingers worked open the button and zipper of your jeans. The fabric gave way easily under his hands, the hem of your underwear peaking through the now-open folds. With one smooth tug, he shoved your jeans down your hips, letting them bunch around your thighs. The cool air hit your exposed skin and you shivered, trying to catch the breath that was so suddenly knocked out of you. Jack stood as straight as he could and examined his meal.

“Ah… fuck—just be fast, please,” you hissed.

Jack stood as tall as the low ceiling would allow, looking down at you by the bridge of his nose. And as if you couldn’t feel any smaller, he chuckled at you.

“You sure did give in quickly,” he hummed with satisfaction.

Embarrassment flooded your face. You squirmed against the wall, refusing to meet the place where his eyes should be. “Shut up and get on with it,” you grumbled, heat crawling up your neck.

Jack leaned in closer, planting one large hand on the wall beside your head. His other hand trailed down your side, then to your hip, before his fingertips drug over your stomach until they pressed firmly just above your pelvis. You tensed. Your hips tilted forward instinctively, fighting against the awkward bunch of your jeans still caught around your thighs.

His hand continued lower, stopping just above your clit, his palm hovering over the damp fabric of your panties. He leaned down until his mouth brushed your ear. “You’re in no place to get bossy right now,” he whispered, his breath tickling your ear.

Then he pressed one thick finger between your folds, right over your soaked panties. The fabric clung to you, and the moment his finger slid along your slit, it came away slick with your arousal. Jack kissed the edge of your jaw, peppering your skin, before pulling back just enough to look down between your bodies. A pleased sound escaped him.

“Well… this is a nice surprise,” and you could practically hear how pleased he was with himself.

You groaned in embarrassment and wrapped your arms tightly around his broad shoulders, burying your burning face into the side of his neck instead of letting him see you. His shirt smelled so strongly of his warm, crisp scent that it made you dizzy, but you’d rather hide from his taunting than pretend like it wasn’t turning you on something terrible. He could at least whisper it in your ear seductively, like a gentleman.

Jack’s finger continued rubbing exploratory circles over your clit, testing different pressures and angles to see how your body reacted. Every time he found a spot that made your hips roll or your breath punch out of you, he lingered there.

“You’re so sensitive,” he murmured, trying to sound plain, but the thrill in his voice gave away how much he was enjoying this. “Look at you… getting even wetter every time I touch you.”

“Shut up,” you whined, the words muffled against his shoulder.

“But I like it,” he hummed softly. “I like how your body tells me what you won’t.”

“Because you’d tease me,” you tried not to sound as pathetic as you felt.

Jack’s voice felt like somebody dragging a hot brand across your skin. “But you’d enjoy it, wouldn’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The words got stuck somewhere between your pride and the heat scorching low in your belly.

Jack made a hum of acknowledgement, like he’d expected exactly that. His finger slipped beneath the edge of your panties, tugging the damp fabric to the side and exposing you to the air. You gripped him tighter, fearing if you’d let go you’d fall off the earth somehow.

He teased you—because why-fucking-wouldn’t he—dragging the pad of his finger along your folds, then higher up your inner thigh, then back again. But all so slow. He was enjoying how you tried (and failed) to stay still and not look desperate, your hips following wherever you felt his warm digits.

You pinched his shoulder in frustration.

Jack pinched you back, right on your upper thigh, “Impatient.”

“We don’t have time,” you nearly growled.

“Alright, alright,” he cooed.

Just as Jack’s fingers started honing toward your entrance, right when you thought he was finally going to give you what you wanted, you heard it. Heavy footsteps thumping down the hallway toward the two of you.

Your eyes flew open. Panic shot through you like ice water being poured over your head. You shoved at his chest, stumbling frantically, “Jack— I told you—”

But he didn’t stop.

Jack straightened up slightly, looking down at you like he always fucking did. His face was unreadable, but the corner of his mouth pulled up like he was amused. You tried to push his hand away, but he simply pressed forward, two thick fingers now sliding through your soaked folds and teasing at your entrance again.

“Jack—” you whisper-yelled, thinking maybe he thought you were still playing around, “we’re going to get caught—”

The footsteps grew louder, right outside the door now. Voices and laughter followed. But Jack brought his free hand up to his mouth in a little “shhh” motion, his pointer finger pressing to his lips. Then, without missing a beat, he reached beside him with that same hand and cracked the closet door open just an inch, enough for his face and upper torso to be visible while the rest of you stayed hidden against the wall and him.

Natalie and Toby’s voices burst through immediately.

“J!” Natalie called, clearly still drunk and delighted if the swimminess of her voice was any idea. “Time’s uuuup.”

Toby was laughing so hard he could barely speak, although nothing was really happening at the moment to warrant all the hysterics. “Is the poor thing still—HA—alive?”

But even still, Jack didn’t stop.

The tip of one thick finger pushed against your entrance, and before you could make a move to stop him, it pushed slowly into your aching cunt, stretching you open as you stood there, trapped between the wall and his body. You slapped a hand over your mouth instantly, eyes wide with panic and overwhelming pleasure as he sank the finger deeper, curling it lazily against your walls.

“Yeah,” Jack answered them, his voice back to its monotonous tone. “Alive. Barely.”

You clapped your hand over your mouth as his finger pumped in and out slowly, slick sounds barely masked by the loud music still blasting from the living room and their talking. Your knees trembled. Jack shifted his weight, pressing you harder against the wall to keep you upright while he casually chatted with his friends. You could see him trying to hold back a smile.

You couldn’t see Nat and Toby, but you assumed they were cheesing and standing on their tip-toes to try and get a view over Jack’s shoulder. “You didn’t actually bite ‘em, did you?”

Jack’s thumb found your clit just as a second finger tried to push in to join the first, the large digits catching on your entrance. It took shifting your hips, but they both pushed in. You could feel yourself clenching around him, having to bite down on your own hand to stay quiet.

“Not yet,” Jack finally grinned, his sharp teeth peeking out just as he curled his knuckles and massaged the inner wall of your cunt. “You shouldn’t eat big meals all at once.”

Toby wheezed with laughter. “You’re so w-weird, man. Hurry up and come out, we’re gonna d-do another round soon.”

Jack shifted his arm closer to your pelvis, the palm of his hand finding a home snug against your clit as he rubbed, curling his fingers just enough inside you to make small noises fight to escape.

“We’ll be out in a second,” Jack grinned. “We’re chatting.” The word alone sounded weird coming from his mouth, and Natalie sure didn’t miss it.

Natalie let out a loud, obnoxious laugh and slapped the wall on the other side of your head, making you jump. Jack acted like it was him adjusting, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His fingers kept moving between your legs, massaging your soaked cunt as your slick dripped down over his knuckles. Your panties were absolutely ruined and you knew it.

He ignored her hysterics, turning his attention to Toby instead. “Hey. Remember those cases of beer you two stole? They’re still upstairs. Don’t forget them.”

It was like a starter pistol. Toby and Natalie immediately perked up.

“Oh shit, you’re r-right!” Toby shouted, already turning away. “We’re geniuses!”

Natalie cackled. “Jack, you’re a fucking genius. We’ll start another game! Take your time in there, you twoooo.”

Jack gave a small nod. “Start without us. We’ll be there soon.”

You heard their footsteps retreating down the hall, loud and clumsy with excitement, and maybe the sound of them shoving each other against the walls as they left. The second they were far enough away, Jack pulled the closet door shut, plunging you both back into near-darkness.

You immediately yanked your hand off your mouth.

“You asshole,” you hissed, smacking his chest. “I told you—I fucking told you—”

Jack just laughed, punctuating it as he curled his fingers deeper inside you. He bumped them, circling that perfect spot that made the words fizzle from your mouth.

“Did you hear that?” he leaned down next to your ear again. “They said we could take all the time we need.”

You gawked up at him, jaw dropping open in disbelief, but any protest died the moment he thrust his fingers harder, curling them just right until you felt a deep pressure in your gut. Your knees buckled. You tried to cover your mouth again, but the demon pulled your hand away.

“Jack—” you whimpered, pressing your head back against the wall to try and get some air.

He hummed in satisfaction, watching as he pumped his knuckles in and out, and in and out. “That’s what I thought,” he whispered, nipping at your earlobe.

Just when you were about to give in, when your nerves finally melted under the heat of his touch, Jack easily pulled his fingers out of you.

You gawked at him, all breathless and frustrated. “You’re such an asshole.”

He just kept grinning. “For somebody who keeps saying we shouldn’t be doing this… you sure do get upset when I stop giving you what you want.”

Your face burned with embarrassment. Before you could snap back at him, his hands moved to your jeans, still bunched around your thighs. He tugged them down with ease, and you helped him by shimmying and kicking them off when they caught around your sneakers. They landed in a heap somewhere beside you. Then his thumbs hooked into the waistband of your panties. He snapped the thin fabric against your hip, making you hiss, before dragging them down your legs. You started babbling nervously, words tumbling out without thought.

“Jack—wait, this is—this is bad—we’re gonna get caught, someone’s gonna come back and—oh my god—”

Either he didn’t hear you or he didn’t care. Your panties slid down your thighs and pooled at your ankles. You managed to kick one foot free, but the other stayed tangled as Jack placed one large hand on the inside of your thigh and pushed your legs further apart. You tried not to shiver—out of nervousness or excitement, you weren’t sure—but you gripped the bottom of your shirt like it could somehow hide you. You felt so unbearably exposed, just standing there half-naked like there weren’t people just feet away outside.

“You smell so fucking good,” he murmured. “So sweet.”

“Jack…”

“I’ve wanted to taste you for a long time,” he admitted. “Now I finally get to.”

Jack dropped to his knees in front of you.

The floorboards creaked under his weight, and you felt it in your bones—that heavy, solid presence suddenly lower, looking up at you from the most beautiful angle you think you’d ever seen. It was a terrifyingly beautiful sight. He was so tall that even on his knees he took up most of the space, his broad shoulders sitting at your waist-height. His large hands came up to grip your thighs, thumbs rubbing from your hips down toward your knees, coaxing your legs further apart. You felt like you could crawl up the wall from pure nervousness as he leaned in closer.

He started soft.

Warm lips pressed to your hip, then lower to your pelvis, peppering slow, open-mouthed kisses across every inch of soft skin he could reach. His breath was hot against you. When he finally settled fully between your thighs, his face hovered right in front of your cunt. You could feel him grinning—you could feel it.

You reached down with shaky hands, grabbing fistfuls of his messy hair to steady yourself. “Jack… please be easy,” you whispered.

He tilted his head up. “What are you so afraid of?” His lips brushed your inner thigh as he spoke, and you had to swallow your nerves.

“Your teeth…”

Jack pulled back just enough to show them off—the sharp, gleaming points smiling up at you. Then, just to be funny, he snapped his teeth together right in front of your cunt, the clack making you jump.

He chuckled. “You’re alright. I won’t hurt you.”

Before you could say anything else, Jack leaned in fully. He pressed a soft kiss just above your clit, his nose brushing against your skin. Then his mouth disappeared between your legs.

“I won’t hurt you a bit.”

The first touch of his tongue made you melt.

One thick, warm, wet tongue pushed slowly between your folds, dragging up through your slick heat and soaking in the taste. The feeling was overwhelming—hotter and more intense than you expected. He groaned at the first taste, the vibration rolling straight through your core as he licked again, like he was tasting something he’d been starving for.

Your grip tightened in his hair, a broken whimper slipping from your lips as your head fell back against the wall.

Jack’s hands slid around the backs of your thighs, gripping firmly as he angled your hips forward, opening you up even more for him. He pressed his face deeper between your legs and licked a broad stripe through your folds, dragging the flat of his warm tongue right over your clit.

It felt like a thick, wet tentacle sliding against you, like it had a mind of its own. His spit coated your cunt in a ridiculous amount, dripping down your thighs and making everything messy and obscene. For someone so stoic and quiet in his everyday, Jack was suddenly a mouthful of grunts and hungry groans against your skin. His pointed ears fluttered against the sides of his head with every lick, and his claws tugged and gripped against your thighs like he couldn’t pull you close enough.

You felt your resolve completely dissolve.

Your bones went soft, your legs relaxing as you started grinding against his tongue, chasing the pleasure with desperate rolls of your hips. Jack groaned deeply in response like he was approving the movements.

“Mhhm…” you whimpered, trying to curb your embarrassment to let him hear you. “Feels so good, Jack… feels really good—”

He made an appreciative sound and nudged the tip of his tongue against your entrance. It took some effort, but his fingers had done most of the hard work of stretching you, so your eyes rolled deliciously as his tongue breached your entrance and nudged its way inside your cunt. His tongue was longer and thicker than his fingers had been. It slid into your soaked heat with ease, warm and gummy from how wet you already were, reaching deeper than anything had before. You whined loudly, your hips jerking as he began to fuck you with it with thrusts that curled and stroked inside you.

Jack groaned as your hands gripped his messy hair, his eyelids slowly closing over those dark abysses you keep getting lost in.

But Jack was completely lost in you—eating you like a starving man, grunting and growling against your cunt while his claws dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you open for his mouth. Every time you clenched around his tongue he made a pleased noise and pushed even deeper than before.

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but the words died on your tongue the moment you felt it. A second tongue nudged insistently against your full entrance, probing and pushing alongside the first. It tried to slip in, but the angle was tight. You shifted your hips, trying to help, but Jack made an impatient growl and moved.

One of his large hands slid down the back of your thigh, hooked under your knee, and lifted it smoothly. He pushed your leg up and outward, spreading you open even wider before resting your knee over his shoulder. The new position left you imbalanced, and you had to halfway hold onto the wall and him for support.

But that was all the room he needed.

The second tongue nestled in alongside the first with a lewd plunge. You groaned loudly, your head falling to your shoulder as you felt too dazed to stand up straight. Two thick, warm tongues filled your cunt, pushing and pulling, curling and stroking against your walls in a messy, uncoordinated rhythm that somehow felt even better because of it.

“Fuck—Jack—” you whimpered, your voice breaking on every word.

He groaned in response, letting you know it felt good for him too. His claws dug into the soft flesh of your thigh as he held your leg in place beside his head. The sensation was insane. You felt so impossibly full, every inch of your cunt being claimed by him. Spit and your own wetness dripped down your thighs and his chin as his tongues worked deeper, twisting and exploring like they were trying to map every part of you from the inside.

You felt it before you could even process it—before you’d even had time to process the second one—a third tongue slipped from between his lips, sliding wetly between the other two. It nudged right up against your swollen clit, pressing and rubbing torturously well.

A violent shiver ripped through you. Your hands flew from his hair to his ears, your fingers curling around the pointed tips to get some semblance of stability.

Jack shuddered. His whole body jolted like he’d been shocked. His ears pinned flat against his head for a second before flicking wildly under your touch. The reaction was so sudden and strong that you both froze for half a heartbeat.

Then, cautiously, you started rubbing them.

Your thumbs stroked over the sensitive tips and along the soft lobes, gently feeling his cat-like ears. He tried his best to keep licking you, but kept getting caught on stiff moans.

“Jack…” you gasped. “Umm… Does that feel good?”

He nodded against you, jaw and chin bumping messily into your soaked folds. He was taking deep, loud breaths through his nose, exhaling against you. Then the most unexpected sound rumbled out of his chest.

A low, rumbling purr.

At first you thought it was just your own nerves buzzing in your head, but no—you could feel it. The vibration rolled through his chest and straight into your bones, all warm and constant, making your toes curl and your eyes flutter shut.

“Oh my god—” you moaned, your mouth falling open as the sensations intensified. It felt obscene, like his entire body was vibrating against your most sensitive places and melting your mind.

Jack was losing himself, too. His purring grew louder, deeper, as you kept stroking and rubbing his ears. His tongues moved with renewed hunger—two thrusting and curling inside you while the third flicked and sucked messily at your clit. It seemed as if he was wholly content on drowning himself in you. 

You were babbling now, open-mouthed and shameless. “Fuck—Jack, that feels—hah—oh god—I can’t—please—”

The pressure built fast—too fast. A sudden, overwhelming wave of bliss crashed over you, pulling a sharp gasp from your throat.

“Jack—Jack, I’m gonna cum,” you whimpered, scrambling to hold him tighter.

His eyelids fluttered open halfway, empty eyesockets staring up at you while you trembled. You got lost staring into them, your head spinning to a heap of mush as you felt pleasure running your veins. That look alone pushed you over the edge.

You came so miserably hard.

Your whole body seized up, thighs shaking violently around his head as pleasure ripped through you in crashing waves. You clenched desperately around his tongues, moaning loud and shamelessly as your orgasm flooded his mouth. Jack groaned at the beginning of the taste, your slick flooding his senses so quickly it made him just as delirious as you.

His tongues stiffened inside you, pressing and nudging firmly against your rapidly clenching walls, milking every last pulse of pleasure as he sucked greedily on your clit. His nose stayed crammed tight against you, his lips sealing around you as he swallowed again and again, drinking everything you so graciously were giving him.

You were loud at first—broken moans and desperate praises spilling from your lips without filter. But as the peak began to fade, it melted into soft, mewled whines and shaky groans. Your orgasm turned into a rippling, lingering current deep in your gut, sending aftershocks through your body that made your legs twitch and your hips jerk weakly against his face.

With some effort, Jack began to tug his tongues from your body one at a time, the thick muscles sliding out of you, and a mess of slick followed. Jack made sure to lick it all up, his tongues running through your folds once more, savoring every twitch and flutter like he couldn’t bear to pull away.

You gasped sharply, everything suddenly feeling way too oversensitive.

“Jack—wait, it’s too much,” your voice was hoarse. “Too sensitive—”

He made a reluctant sound but slowly retreated, his tongues slipping back into his mouth like it pained him to do so. He sat back on his knees, looking up at you. His chin and mouth were glistening with a messy mix of his spit and your slick, and those black voids stared at you with unmistakable longing.

The moment he pulled away, the leg you still had planted on the floor buckled. You slid down the wall with a surprised yelp, landing in a boneless heap in front of him. Your ankle was still hooked over his shoulder, leaving you sprawled and openly exposed across his lap.

Jack caught you instantly though, his strong hands bracing your waist so you didn’t hit the floor too hard. You panted quickly, your chest billowing up and down as you tried to catch your breath. It felt like your whole body was buzzing.

Before you could even try to sit up, Jack gripped the ankle resting on his shoulder and tugged upward. You were pulled further down until your ass rested on top of his knees, your shoulders braced against the baseboards behind you. You felt like you were folded in half. You tried to scramble upright, feeling awkward, but Jack was already catching your other leg—the one with your panties still dangling uselessly from the ankle—and lifted it smoothly onto his opposite shoulder.

“More,” he grumbled.

Your stomach flipped with panic.

“No, no, no—wait, I need a minute,” you babbled through deep breaths of air, throwing your hands up. “I can’t—you’re too much, I need to breathe—just for a second—”

But he wasn’t listening. His focus had narrowed completely. Those endless black sockets were fixed between your legs with single-minded hunger.

“I’m sorry,” was all the response you got.

“Jack—”

He handled you like you weighed nothing.

His hands gripped your hips firmly and pulled your lower half upward in one smooth motion. Your knees hooked over his broad shoulders as your head and shoulder blades slid and landed against the floor. Your body folded almost in half, completely upside down, your shirt riding up to expose your stomach and chest. His large arms wrapped around your torso, strong hands gripping the soft flesh of your sides, holding you securely in place so you couldn’t even squirm out of it if you wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured again, but there was no real remorse in it. If anything, he just sounded excited. “You just taste so fucking good… I need you to cum again. Just a little more. Then I’ll be done.”

Your head was already spinning from the rush of blood, so you had no fight in your body or your words. You gripped his arms tightly, trying to brace yourself.

“Let’s just go to my room,” you fussed, trying to get him to just take a second. “It’s way too cramped in here, we can’t—”

But every protest died on your tongue the instant you felt it.

A familiar sensation dragged up through your soaked folds in a broad, wet lick. Your legs fell open limply over his shoulders as a broken moan wailed from your throat. The new angle gave him the perfect access, angling you however he wanted.

“Oh god…”

Jack moaned as he licked again, savoring every inch of you like he couldn’t get enough. His arms tightened around your torso, pulling your hips up and against his hungry mouth.

“Fuck…” he rasped against your cunt. “Do you even know… mhnnn… how good you taste?”

Jack’s eyelids fluttered shut again, the black voids disappearing as he focused entirely on you.

Then you saw it—the absolute horror and fascination of his other two tongues slipping out from between his lips to join the one. They were sickly blue-black, glistening and drooling with spit, long and monstrously thick. They dangled for a moment before curling forward, licking up the insides of your thighs until they finally converged, forking together right at your entrance.

Through a mouthful of his own tongues, Jack mumbled against your cunt, “Jus’ hang on to me.”

You dug your nails into his forearms, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps as the three tips pressed against your pulsing entrance at once. Your hips jerked, thighs instinctively trying to clamp shut around his head, but Jack held you firmly in place. It took a little work—a slight shift of your hips, a change of the angle—but eventually, the three tongues wiggled their way inside you together.

The stretch was impossible.

You let out a keening moan as your walls were forced open wider than they’d ever been, the bulbous, wet muscles filling you as completely as they could reach. No inch of room was left untouched. The sensation of burning was so intensely good that your mind went fuzzy at the edges. Your body went limp and mushy in his hold, your legs shaking helplessly over his shoulders as he sank all three tongues as deep as they could go.

Jack groaned loudly into you, the sound vibrating through your core as he began to move them, greedy thrusts and curls that rubbed against every sensitive spot inside you at once. Spit and your own arousal dripped messily down your ass and stomach as he practically fucked you with them. 

You could barely think. All you could do was cling to his arms, your mouth open in a silent cry as he devoured you from the inside out, purring and growling enough to cause concern that he might actually be eating you.

And as if it couldn’t get any worse—or wonderfully better—Jack shifted one of his arms from your torso up to between your legs. His thumb found your throbbing clit and began rubbing slow circles over it, smearing your own wetness across the sensitive bud.

The shock of pleasure was devastating.

Your back arched hard off his lap, spine curving sharply as a silent cry tore through you. Your hands flew up above your head, palms slapping against the wall behind you for any kind of leverage. You tried to speak—tried to moan his name, to beg, to curse—but nothing came out. All the air had been punched out of your lungs. The only sounds your body could produce were the wet, filthy squelches of your cunt accommodating its intruder. You bucked your hips desperately, riding his face as much as your weak, trembling legs would allow. Every thrust of his tongues and stroke of his thumb sent white-hot sparks shooting up your spine. Your thighs shook violently over his shoulders, muscles twitching uncontrollably as you ground yourself against his mouth and tongue like you’d lost all semblance of control.

Jack’s purring grew louder, deeper, the constant rumble vibrating straight into your cunt and making your eyes roll back. He was completely lost in you, this newfound, insatiable hunger dampening his mind until all he could do was eat. You couldn’t even form words anymore. Couldn’t even think anymore.

You felt it building again—that familiar coil tightening deep in your core, winding tighter and tighter with every thrust of his tongues and stroke of his thumb.

“Ja… Ja—ck… Jaahh—” you tried to warn him, but your voice was just as useless as the rest of your body. Your hand slapped weakly at his arm, your fingers grappling desperately as panic rose.

But Jack didn’t stop. Of course he didn’t. If anything, he doubled down. Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes, spilling over and running down your flushed cheeks as the pleasure became almost too much. You managed one shaky, broken whimper of his name right before you felt it.

Little sharp pinpricks.

Your eyes flew open through the tears. Jack had pulled back just enough for you to see his face. His lips were pulled back in a growl, sharp teeth fully exposed and pressed right against your slick, sensitive folds. Not breaking skin, not hurting you, but just resting there, a deadly reminder of exactly what he was.

You almost found it shameful how quickly that ruined you.

Your eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering uselessly as your vision blurred. You saw his face, then the ceiling, then the back of your eyelids—and then white.

“I’m cumming—fuck, I’m cumming—” you blabbed, trying ridiculously hard to say nearly nothing. “Jack—I’m—oh god—”

This one slammed into you harder than the last.

Your whole body seized up, back arching violently as you came with a silent, open-mouthed cry. Your cunt clenched hard around his invading tongues, pulsing and gushing around them as wave after wave crashed through you. Tears streamed down your face pathetically.

Jack growled louder against you, the sound feral and satisfied as he drank down every drop you gave him. His tongues kept working you through it, thrusting and curling relentlessly gathering everything they could.

“Jaaaaack—” you mewled.

He finally pulled his tongues out of you with a wet pop sound, leaving you clenching around nothing. He was panting hard against your cunt, his breath hot and ragged as he licked slowly through your folds, then across your trembling thighs, cleaning every trace of your release like he couldn’t help himself.

Your legs slipped weakly from his shoulders, falling limply around his hips. For a long moment, the only sounds in the tiny closet were your shared heavy breathing and the distant thump of music as you tried to calm yourselves. Jack looked down at you, his face glistening with your slick. He stayed quiet, just watching you with those endless black sockets while you tried to remember how to breathe.

When your breathing finally evened out a little, he asked softly, “Are you alright?”

You managed a small, shaky nod.

Jack carefully helped you sit up, guiding your back against the wall. “Can you stand?”

You tried shifting your weight, but your legs felt like jelly. You shook your head, embarrassed.

He let out a low chuckle. “It’s alright.”

Jack moved your legs gently off his lap so he could stand. He turned and rummaged through the hanging coats until he found one that looked soft and long enough. Without an explanation, he draped it over your mostly naked body, wrapping it around you like a blanket. Before you could even thank him, he leaned down and scooped you up into his arms. One arm hooked under your knees, the other supporting your back as he held you securely against his chest. He bent down just enough to snag your discarded jeans off the floor.

You clutched the coat tighter around yourself. “Jack, I can’t go out there like this…”

He chuckled again, the sound warm in his chest. “Toby and Nat have everyone occupied by now. No one’s gonna notice.” He pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head. “Besides… I think a nice bath in my room could do you some good.”

You hesitated for half a second, then nodded, too tired and floaty in the head to argue.

Jack cracked the closet door open, listening for a moment, his ears swiveling around. When the coast seemed clear, he slipped out with you cradled against him, your arms grabbing around his neck. You both moved quickly down the opposite end of the hall, away from the noise of the party. Laughter and shouting echoed from the living room as you snuck up the stairs like two stowaways.

He never let his grip loosen on you for a second.

Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ prologue

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2026, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[calebsfavoriteusedthong]

Quiet Claim

My two puppies 😝😝😝😝

Roommate Valko/ Boyfriend Caleb

#FreeValko

The scent of the apartment hit him before he even reached the door.

That was always how it worked. Valko would clear the front door, shift his bag on his shoulder, and without thinking—without even meaning to—his chest would expand, pulling in everything. The sharp bite of the laundry detergent you both used, the faint trace of the citrus dish soap from the morning’s coffee mugs. The ghost of whatever you'd cooked that morning. And underneath all of it, quiet and constant and unbearably familiar, the warm specific sweetness of you.

Two years of this. Two years and it still stopped him on his tracks every single time.

To anyone who shared a class with him, Valko was the guy with half rimmed glasses, soft sweaters, neckband headphones around his collar like he'd forgotten they were there, a battered copy of whatever textbook he was working through dog eared on his desk. He took meticulous notes in handwriting that was almost too neat.

He called his mother every Sunday without fail, usually from the kitchen while something was already on the stove. He brought back containers of homemade food after weekend visits home and left them in the fridge with little labeled lids because he knew you'd forget to eat otherwise.

He was, by every reasonable measure, a gentle giant with a soft spot for his family and an embarrassing weakness for old equipment manuals.

The wolf underneath all of that was another matter entirely.

He'd stopped trying to logic his way out of it somewhere around month six of your lease. The obsession had settled into him quietly, the way water finds the shape of whatever holds it—gradual, total, and by the time he noticed, already everywhere. He loved the way you laughed when he miscalculated a doorframe carrying furniture. He loved that you used his arm like a headrest when you were tired without seeming to notice you were doing it. He loved that you trusted him with the small, unglamorous parts of your life—the bad days, the grocery runs at midnight, the moments when you needed someone solid nearby without having to explain why.

He told himself it was just closeness. That it was natural, living with someone this long. That plenty of people felt this way about their roommates.

He was lying to himself and he knew it.

You never noticed the small things. That was the part that made it simultaneously easier and worse.

You didn't notice the way his jaw tightened every time you mentioned Caleb's name in passing. You didn't notice that when he draped his coat over your shoulders on cold nights, he always took a moment longer than necessary to settle it there, his hands resting briefly on your shoulders, his nose dipping almost imperceptibly toward your hair. You didn't notice the way his whole body oriented toward you when you moved through a room, like a plant turns toward a window without deciding to.

Two years of this and you'd noticed none of it.

Caleb, though. Caleb was a different kind of problem.

The name sat wrong in Valko's mouth every time he heard it. Your boyfriend. The pilot stationed out in Skyhaven, the one who'd existed in Valko's life as nothing more than a name and a reason you packed a bag every other weekend. You always went to him. A wave from the doorway, a small oveñnight bag, the shuttle to Skyhaven. Back by Sunday night, sometimes Monday morning if the transit ran slow.

Two years, and Valko had never once seen him. Fine. He could work with that.

What he couldn't work with was the scent. Or rather, the complete absence of it.

It defied every instinct he had. A man who kept a woman—who spent weekends with her, who held her hand and her body—should leave something behind. It was a biological fact, not a sentiment. Every time you came home from Skyhaven, Valko would brace for it. Would stand in the hallway with his teeth ground together preparing to smell another man all over you.

Every single time, there was nothing.

Just you. Clean and warm, like you'd spent the weekend alone in a hotel and not with someone who was supposed to love you. No territorial overlap. No claim. Nothing.

It didn't reassure him. It made him furious. A man who loved you would mark you without even trying—it would just happen, the natural consequence of closeness and time. The fact that it hadn't happened said something.

He doesn't know what he has.

Since Caleb clearly wasn't going to handle it, Valko had decided— without discussing it with anyone, including himself—to handle it instead.

It had started small. Sitting on your side of the couch when you were out because "the lamp was better over there". Leaning in your doorframe a beat longer than necessary. Gradually, the apartment had become his in ways that only his own nose could confirm. Your throw blanket carried him now. The pillow on the left side of your bed—your side—carried him. He'd lie across your mattress on the afternoons you were in seminar, shoulders rolling slow against the sheets, transferring the scent from the back of his neck and the inside of his wrists onto everything you'd touch when you slept.

He wanted to be the reason the room felt safe to you, even if you'd never know why.

The laundry had come later. He'd started folding yours without being asked because it was a practical thing to do, a completely normal roommate thing—and if his hands slowed over certain items, if he stood in the laundry room for longer than strictly necessary with warm shirts pressed to his face, that was between him and the four walls.

He wasn't proud of the drawer.

Your scent there was undiluted, something the rest of the apartment couldn't match—private, concentrated, intimate. The first time he'd opened it he'd been looking for your spare key. He'd stood there for a long time, glasses pushed up into his hair, one hand braced on your dresser, taking slow careful breaths and trying to remember what reasonable behavior felt like.

He'd gone back to his room. He'd thought about you.

He'd told himself it would clear his head.

It had not cleared his head.

Two days ago he stood in front of your closet with his heart going faster than he wanted to admit.

You'd been out getting groceries. His hand moved through your dirty clothes on autopilot, past the jeans, past the sweaters, until his fingers closed around silk.

Soft. Warm from being buried against other fabric. Almost nothing against the width of his palm.

He lifted them to his face before he'd fully decided to.

There was your scent, the core of it. He stood there breathing it in with his eyes closed and his chest heaving, and then, he searched. Every thread. Looking for any trace of another man underneath yours.

Nothing. Just you. Entirely unmarked you.

The growl that came out of him was low enough that only he could hear it.

Something about that absence sent a rush of heat down his spine that he wasn't prepared for. His back had found the closet wall.

He couldn't stop himself.

One hand kept the silk pressed to his face. The other worked fast around his cock, his jaw tight, breathing controlled through sheer habit. He'd imagined you beneath him, his weight pinning you into the mattress, his teeth finding the curve of your shoulder, his scent finally, permanently replacing the nothing that Caleb had left behind. When he came it was blinding and quiet, his head dropping back, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

He'd cleaned up carefully. Returned everything. Walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on like a normal person.

He was a patient man. He was methodical. He had excellent grades and he called his mother on Sundays and he was going to wait for the right moment. But the conclusion had already been reached, somewhere in the back of his skull where logic and instinct lived side by side.

He was going to take you. It was a matter of time. He was just waiting for the right moment to show you that a real man didn't leave his woman smelling like an empty room.

--------------------------

The July heat was suffocating. Valko had been inside an exam room for two hours and his brain felt wrung out like a dish cloth. His glasses had fogged twice on the walk from campus, he was looking forward to the AC. He was looking forward to you.

It was a Friday so he'd stopped at the bakery on the corner. Two cinnamon rolls, extra cream cheese frosting. He had them in a plastic bag hooked over two fingers.

He reached the door and stopped. His nose twitched.

The scent of the hallway was wrong. Not dangerous, just wrong.

Valko's brow creased. He put his glasses back on.

He unlocked the door slowly, the click of the mechanism very loud in the quiet hallway, and pushed it open.

The air inside hit him all at once.

He stopped moving. His hand stayed on the doorknob, grip tightening by degrees until the metal pressed hard into his palm, and he stood in the entryway and looked at his living room like a man trying to solve a problem he hadn't been told existed.

There was someone on the couch.

Long legs stretched toward the coffee table. Dark tactical jacket, sleeves pushed up, the kind of build that came from actual use rather than a gym.

And tucked against his side, head on his chest, hand flat against his collarbone—

You. Laughing at something he'd just said.

Caleb.

Valko's mind was still trying to catch up. His instincts weren't waiting.

The heat that moved through him was immediate, flooding from his chest out, his vision sharpening at the edges the way it did when something in him decided a situation required full attention. His breathing stayed controlled—barely, through discipline and nothing else—while every animal thing in him was screaming to move forward. To put himself between you and the man currently comfortable in a space he had no right to be comfortable in.

My couch. The thought was irrational and he knew it and it didn't help. My apartment. My—

As if feeling the shift in the room, Caleb's head turned.

His eyes found Valko's across the space with a directness that said he'd known someone was there before the door finished opening. Dark eyes, calm, taking in Valko's full height and the white knuckled grip on the doorframe.

He didn't look away.

Neither did Valko.

You sat up, something lighting in your face when you saw him. "You're home early." You smiled, easy and warm, completely unaware of the temperature of the room. "Valko, this is my boyfriend Caleb. Caleb, this is my roommate, Valko."

Caleb stood up and extended his hand. He was tall—nearly matching Valko’s height—but where Valko was built like an immovable wall of muscle, Caleb possessed the lethal, agile grace of a feline.

Valko crossed the room and took it.

"Good to meet you," Caleb said. Flat. Even.

And the bottom dropped out of everything he thought he understood.

The scent hit him the second their palms connected, not foreign, not the aggressive territorial brand of another man he'd been grinding his teeth against for two years. It was you—your exact scent, the one Valko had spent two years cataloguing down to its smallest note—but run through something else entirely. Deeper. Heavier. Amplified through the biology of a dominant male until it had become its own thing, something that pressed into Valko's lungs like a hand against his sternum and didn't let up.

Caleb smelled like you the way a home smelled like the people who lived in it.

Two people did not share the same biological signature. That was not how any of this worked. Unless—

His brain didn't finish the thought. His body had already moved on without him.

The heat he felt all over his body was not aggression. That was the part that made no sense, the part that his wolf had no framework for because this wasn't a territorial response. This wasn't the hot, focused anger he'd been bracing for every time he imagined finally meeting the man who had you. This was something strange and considerably more humiliating, a frequency he hadn't known he could receive, vibrating straight through the bones of his hand where Caleb's grip still held.

His cock hardened so fast his vision went momentarily white at the edges.

He couldn't stop it. Couldn't reason with it. Two years of wanting you, of your scent living in the back of his throat like something he'd swallowed and never fully digested—and now here was this man, wearing you like a second skin, your sweetness wound so completely through his scent that Valko couldn't separate the two. Couldn't find where you ended and Caleb began.

It was the most overwhelming thing he had ever experienced. His knees felt weak.

Caleb's grip tightened.

His eyes hadn't moved from Valko's face. Valko watched the shift happen—the smile staying but changing underneath, becoming something quieter and darker. He'd clocked the pupil dilation. He'd clocked all of it.

"Something wrong?" Caleb asked

Valko could not breathe. The apartment was saturated with your/his scent and his body was making decisions he hadn't authorized, and he was going to do something catastrophic if he stayed in this room for another ten seconds. He didn't know what but he didn't want to find out.

He pulled his hand back.

"I forgot—" His voice came out completely unrecognizable. He didn't look at you. Couldn't. "The lab. I left something. I have to—"

He was already at the door. He had no memory of crossing the room.

The hallway air hit him cold and he kept walking, down the stairs, out into the July heat that suddenly felt like nothing compared to what he'd just left behind.

Behind him, the apartment door clicked shut.

Inside Caleb was still smiling.

Perm tag: @thealunari @i-idk-i-guess @hopelesslala @pearlescenthoney @stillseiims @xavisastrophil @thelastpolarbear @groovyravenagain @nanaminsmuse @darkairenkagamine @lunahaswings @ks-collection @calebunny @aweebs @crimsonrubie @lemurian-girl @aiycnlyme @grecianotes @yourlocalcatscammer @thicckage @goddesssevenseas @silvernight-m

Also, thank you everyone. I love every single one of you.

[kitliene]

climbing ALL the fucking walls Caleb's such a Little Shit

[poisonf0rest]

Big Bad Wolf!

♱⋅── valko x reader

♱⋅── about: valko gets turned on when you beat him in play fighting, especially when you get a little rough? Yes or yes?

♱⋅── wc: 3.2k

♱⋅── warnings: mdni. smut, breeding kink, scent kink, knotting, mate mentioned, dry humping, sub!valko, puppy coded valko, size difference, we love big subby men

One hundred forty-three rounds later, and you’ve finally won.

Every bulging, sweaty muscle strains as you laugh on top of Valko for the final lunge, pinning him by his throat and waist into the mats below.

“Haha, and that’s victory for me!”

He grumbles in response, pouting although you see the ghost of a smile curl against his lips. “Ya right. You tripped me, dirty little minx.”

You coo at his adorable sulking, “Big bad wolf can't handle a little bit of dirty play?” Pressing your forearm harder, you watch something dark flicker in Valko’s eyes as his breath stutters. “Don’t you know your enemies will be ready to exploit your every weakness?”

The room is filled with both of your ragged breathing, sweat dripping between your tanged bodies, undoubtedly soaking through your bra and shorts. The air sticks to you, hot and sticky.

Valko takes a deep inhale, chest rising under your palm, before going unnaturally still. The stillness of a predator ready to jump.

You tense, anticipating him to wrestle you off and begin the next match, and yet it never comes.

No. Instead, you’re met with the unmistakable feeling of something growing harder, larger, pushing up against your clothed ass.

The flush on your face is no longer just from exhaustion.

“Did you- are you—”

Valko’s whine cuts you off, his eyes screwed shut as if in horrible pain. “Don’t. Please.”

He’s trembling. Every hulking muscle under you straining as his enormous palms come up to cup your thighs, nails digging in.

“I just,” Valko lets out another whine, pitched and desperate, his amber eyes snapping open and begging up at you no better than a puppy would. “Ah shit, you’re so perfect. Fight perfect, smell perfect,” one broad hand goes to your ass, squeezing hard enough to pull a startled yelp from you, the sound shooting through him like another strike. “Feel perfect.”

Fuck.

Something about losing to you, about the ache blooming through his body where your blows had landed, the solid weight of you pinning him effortlessly into the worn training mats… perhaps it should have bruised his pride or made him fired up.

Instead, it leaves Valko fucking dizzy.

Your scent surrounds him, swallowed with every inhale Valko takes, intoxicating and cloying on his tongue as though he could taste you already. It’s sweet and a little spicy, like cardamom or amber, filling his brain with static as his every instinct narrows down on you and your body. To lay claim. To take.

He doesn't mean to keep nuzzling into your sweat-slicked body. One breath isn't enough, then another isn't either, every deeper pull filling his head with a pleasant, humming need that leaves less and less room for coherent thought.

Acceptance.

Need.

Mate.

Despite your full weight still pinning him to the floor, Valko's hips buck sharply up into yours, nearly throwing you off him. But his hand tightens against your ass, forcing you down into the movement at the exact same time he grinds his still-growing erection right up into your clothed pussy.

You both moan at the mere contact.

More. He needs more.

His hips don’t stop moving, pushing up into you with quick little rabbit thrusts, Valko’s head thrown back in a deep, unashamed moan as he chases the friction. His jaw opens, nearly drooling, about to manhandle you into a better position to grind against when you lean back down.

And slap him right across the face.

Immediately, he freezes, blinking and shaking away the shock and arousal from his face. His cock jumps from between your thighs, though, and that’s all the confirmation you need as Valko looks back up at you with wide eyes.

“Behave, puppy.”

You place your hand around his neck, grinding your hips backward as you watch Valko’s eyes roll back.

“I won,” you remind him. “That means you listen to me.”

He nods with so much enthusiasm you almost worry about his neck.

“Yeah, yes. Of course. I can take it, please.” Anything, anything for you to keep touching him.

Your hips are flush against his, grinding up and down just like you would be if you were riding him. The thought alone has Valko moaning louder, completely uncaring if anyone heard, voice hoarse as you squeeze his throat tighter.

It’s teasing both of you to insanity, so close and not nearly close enough. Friction hot and pressing right up against your clit, but doing nothing to ease the growing ache between your thighs. It doesn't help that the outline of his dick is enough to grind on, wide enough to part your lips and feel strain against your clothed pussy. Fuck, imagining all that power, that size stretching inside you…

You’re no better than animals in heat, gasping and panting as your hips never stop moving, spine arching as his tip catches your clit. “Ahhh, good job, baby, making me feel so good. Good boy.”

Valko keens at the praise. “Thank you, thank you. I’m your good boy, I’ll be such a good boy.”

He’s drooling as he writhes beneath you, nails clawing into the floor with the restraint it takes not to flip you over and rip your shorts off before fucking until both of you pass out. Bite and mark you as his. Fill you with his seed until he’s shooting blanks, watch you drip with his cum, push his knot inside you and cum again and again and again—

You laugh. Poor thing doesn’t even realize he’s moaning all of this out loud.

“Shhh, I’ll let you, puppy.” Leaning down, you kiss him just to shut him up, licking into his open mouth. “I’ll let you breed me.”

“Fuuuck yes.”

Valko’s tongue shoves into your mouth, hot, invasive, lapping into the kiss. You let him, kissing with teeth and tongue, spit spilling down the side of his mouth as he takes more and more. He bullies himself closer, greedy for every scrap of attention, chasing each inch you’re willing to give and always reaching for one more.

“I’m sorry, feels so good, too good.” Valko groans, every thrust becoming more sloppy, and you can tell from how sloppy his kisses are and the unevenness of his thrusts that he’s already close.

You click your tongue as though reprimanding a spoiled pet before breaking the kiss, hand tightening around his throat.

Valko breaks away instantly with a sharp gasp, chest heaving. His eyes snap to yours, dazed and teary, as though being stopped is its own reward. “Sorry, m’sorry. Please keep kissing me, please, I’m sorry.” Another whimper. “You said you’d help me, ya? P-please baby, let me cum.”

“And let you stain my favorite gym shorts with your cum? I don’t think so, puppy,” you scold, teasing your fingers up his rough undercut.

His breath catches so abruptly his whole body gives a tiny, involuntary jolt, shoulders loosening beneath your hand as a slow shiver rolls down his spine at the mere touch. If his ears were manifested, they would be pulled back, his body chasing the sensation before his mind could catch up, leaning instinctively into your palm like some half-domesticated thing desperate for another touch.

Every instinct urges him to reclaim your mouth, to grind back into your clothed pussy, but he forces himself still. Because that’s what you’ve taught him to do.

What a good boy.

Lifting your hips, Valko sobs at the loss of your heat. Your free hand reaches down instead, shucking down his sweat-drenched shorts and boxers in one tug, his cock bouncing out from its confines.

It springs against Valko’s abdomen with a wet slap, every bulging, veiny inch a sensitive pink, tip swollen and leaking all over his pretty red happy trail.

Valko whines, bucking into the air, “Please-ohhh-please let me in you. I’ll make you feel s’good, I’ll be so good. Ah fuck, come on.”

Something, anything to release this unbearable pressure swelling up at the base of his dick.

So you slap him again, and this time the second the crack echoes across the room so does his moan. A fresh spurt of pre-cum stains his abs, so much leaking and spilling down his stomach, you’re damn near concerned.

“Shh, don’t be too loud, someone might hear how desperate you are, baby.” You kiss his forehead and strip.

First you peel off the sports bra, then kick down your shorts and panties, smiling at Valko’s star-struck expression before dropping back down completely bare onto his muscular thighs.

“Come here, puppy.”

He obeys immediately, sitting up faster than humanly possible and ramming his lips onto yours, hands fighting to cup your breasts before he thinks better of it and curls them against his sides into trembling fists.

You hum into the kiss, guiding his hands up to your skin, “Go on, you can touch me.”

Two massive arms engulf you. Valko’s already nuzzling into your bare chest, mouthing at the lines of sweat collected from your sports bra, hot tongue dragging against every inch of skin. There’s no rhythm, no logic, just sloppy licking between your breasts before sucking at your nipples, around and up until he’s at your collarbone, every sensation so overwhelming that you feel yourself soaking his thigh.

“M’sorry, can’t stop. Taste so sweet…” Valko’s licking another long strip up your neck before finding a spot that makes you whine, nipping and teething at it while his hands come up to pinch and roll your swollen nipples. You moan at the feeling of it all, hips rolling against his quads as he purposefully tenses the ridges of muscle underneath you, letting you grind against him.

Once again, the two of you are humping each other like dogs, except this time there’s no more clothing to get in the way.

Your bare cunt envelopes his throbbing cock, every movement heightened by loud, wet sounds of the two sliding together, pseudo fucking in a way that drives both of you insane. The taste and smell of you is overwhelming, Valko dipping his head to suck at your nipple while bucking up into you, abs flexing, drenched with sweat and your combined slick as his cock drags past your clit, pressing desperately right up against your cunt before slipping to your ass and coming right back again.

His frustration is becoming obvious. Low growls muffled into your chest as grinding turns to proper thrusting, tip ramming at your entrance just too thick to push in and your thighs too slippery to find purchase.

“Shit! it’s not– not fitting. Please, let me in.” He’s begging, drooling against your chest. ”Please sweetheart, please doll.”

You want it just as badly. So you tug on his hair, pulling Valko on top of you as you lie down, and slowly turning yourself around until your chest is pressed into the training mats beneath you.

Valko’s frozen like a predator just narrowed in on a prey.

Except that prey is you. Your teasing smile lured him in, and your bare, dripping cunt presented to him like heaven mere inches from his drooling face.

Arching your back deeper, you smile as you finally give him what he’s been dying for. “You’ve been such a good boy for me, Valko, ya? Wanna knot me?”

He’s barely breathing, golden eyes glowing slightly as they lock with yours, unblinking. “Yes.”

Then, he pounces.

In a blink, his six-foot-something body slams into yours, shoving your face into the floor, one arm effortlessly forcing your ass higher to meet his hips and the other pinning your back into a deep arch to accommodate the weight of his chest now pressed against your spine.

Completely mounted, your muscles scream from the stretch and pressure his body gives, his heavy cock still leaking violently from between your spread thighs, thrusting between them, a puddle of his pre-cum splattering down between you.

You laugh into the mats, right where you want to be as you goad him into taking all that he wants and more. “Go on then, puppy. Claim me, take me, make me yours—!”

You can’t even finish your teasing before Valko bullies himself inside you with one violent thrust. Hands dig grooves into your thighs, pawing at your ass, stomach, chest, all while pulling you backward into every powerful thrust.

Valko’s head drops with another unashamed moan, tongue lolling out to lick at your nape and spine, drooling with every tight flutter your walls squeeze around him. God, you’re gushing. He’s glued to the mess where your bodies meet, your ass bouncing with each thrust, taking him so perfectly he’s losing his mind.

“Ohhh you feel so good.” Pressing deeper, his hand snakes around to press against your lower stomach, feeling the outline of his dick as you scream into the floor. Valko groans, babbling into your ear as his hips snap faster. “I know pretty thing. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

He’s repeating it against your neck between licks and nibbles, still not letting up any of his force. You feel something unmistakable swell against the curves of your ass, knocking against your cunt and thick enough to hit your clit too, each slap making you sob from pleasure-pain.

“Gonna f-fuck my little mate full of my cum, then eat you out, then fuck you again—oh fuck. Love you and this perfect pussy,” Valko’s slurring his words, talkative as ever and loud enough for the entire training facility to hear him moan.

His thrusts turn deeper, unable to part with your heat, his knot grinding furiously against your clit as you feel your body begin to tremble. “She’s takin me so well, so tight. Mhmm I’ll fill her well, give her everything she wants, fuck her full-full of my knot.”

God, he needs to shut up or you’re going to cum.

“Shh,” you hush him before breaking into a moan. “Too loud, Valko. Someone could—ahh fuck—hear you!”

Oh, but he can’t! He can’t, not when he finally feels your pussy begin to cream around him with your impending orgasm, almost wet enough to take all of him and his knot! This is what you want too don’t you see? This is what his pretty little mate needs.

Valko can’t even comprehend what he’s saying anymore, just growling and moaning into your neck as he drops his arms to properly rub at your clit and tug at your sensitive nipples, biting down into the junction of your shoulder and neck as you squirt all over his thighs with a pitched scream.

“Good pup, good mate, keep cumming for me.” Valko licks at the pin-pricks of blood blooming from his bite, going right back to babbling into your ears as his thrusts turn rougher. “Ready to take me, have my knot, my cum, oooh youfeelsogood.”

In a last attempt to muffle your boyfriend's horny sobs, you squirm beneath him to grab your gym shorts and stuff Valko’s mouth with them, gagging him with the sweat-stained spandex. And he simply takes it, open mouth drooling all over your clothes as he gets drunk off the scent of your sweat and arousal stained into them.

You both gasp at the feeling of his knot finally pressing into your entrance, the swollen, heavy weight of it forcing you several more inches open before slipping back out. Again, and again.

Instinctively, you run away, like a bunny cornered by a wolf, writhing underneath him as Valko snarls, hands engulfing your hips entirely as he drags you back onto his cock, forcing you still with so little effort it's laughable. Nothing stops him from pressing in deeper and deeper, your poor cunt finally yielding to his knot, the burn making you drool into the floor as Valko moans into your makeshift gag.

It’s forever and only seconds, your orgasm-sensitive pussy drooling enough to help him slide in fully, greedily sucking up every extra inch he gives you until you both feel the pop! of his knot finally catching inside you. It presses every damn inch inside you so perfectly you cum again, wailing and trembling as your thighs begin to go limp.

No matter, Valko just holds you up anyway. It’s not like he could pull out of you now, even if he wanted to. Not until he filled you with his cum, at least.

You’re still shaking from the prolonged orgasm, and Valko lets the rest of your body fall to the floor, following you down until his body is smushed atop yours, pressing you both into a mean prone bone.

It just makes him feel bigger. Your head is spinning with all the sudden pressure, his fat tip kissing your cervix as he rocks back and forth, his knot still grinding into that squishy spot against your walls, the heat and weight of his chest pressing into your back, and of course, his muffled moans and rambles still going strong even through your panties.

“Cum, Valko.” You’re barely thinking straight either, already right at the edge again as Valko’s thrusts turn sloppy, his body shaking. “Fill me up, b-breed me. Become mine.”

He’s cumming.

Valko whimpers into your neck as his hips snap one last time into yours, grinding as you feel the warm gush of his release spurt violently inside you, filling and filling and filling you up. So much, too much. Too much that cum squirts out from even the tight plug of his knot, dripping down both of your thighs even as Valko whines at the waste.

He doesn’t seem to fully realize he’s done, still rolling his hips into yours, each one powerful enough to drag your bodies tangled along the floor.

“Nooo, Valko,” you whine, trapped under his weight and still inflated with his knot. “Valko, stop, sensitive! Too sensitive.”

Your hands helplessly shove and push backward at the enormous man lying on top of you, not even budging him as he continues to nuzzle himself into your sweat-slicked back.

Finally, you manage to yank your clothes out from his mouth, releasing him from the gag as he simply sighs in pleasure, licking and nipping at your ear before dragging his tongue in a long, messy line down your neck.

“You’re so heavy. Get. Off!” Each word is a shove, but Valko only laughs at the effort. He does take mercy on your poor abused body though, and grabbing your waist with one hand, rolls the two of you over. You now rest on his plush chest instead, both of you heaving as you lie still pumped full of his knot and cum.

“M’sorry, guest instinct just took over there, y’know? You’re not hurt, are you?”

“...You rabid dog.”

“Hehe, woof.”

[applefishing]

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 weren’t 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 weren’t 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 high—far 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 sins…

“Amen,” the elderly woman in front of you mutters under her breath.

And then it’s your turn.

His eyes are gentle and kind, fixed on you as soon as you step forward—unwavering—even 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 he’d hold the chalice of wine to your lips—helping 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 face—surrendering 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 drops—falling 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.

“The body of Christ,” 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.

It’s only the well-formed muscle memory that draws a quiet “Amen” from your lips.

That night, after kneeling and begging forgiveness, you crawl under your covers and desperately will sleep to take you—to 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 lips—the lips he’d 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 you—the look in his eyes—like 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. You’d 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.

It’s what draws the sinful noises from you now: shameful whimpers and gasps as you picture his finger in place of yours—dipping 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?

It’s 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 wouldn’t hesitate. You’d 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 child’s chatter.

The weight of your burden seems to grow heavier the more you watch them all relieved of theirs. If you hadn’t hesitated at the sight of the open door and rerouted to the small stone bench, you could’ve avoided this. Instead of watching them, you could’ve been sitting in the pews watching him. He would’ve 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.

That’s 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 came—scurrying from the church grounds, no braver than a little white rabbit.

When Sunday comes, for the first time in years, you don’t attend.

It’s 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, you’d 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. “You must be cold,” he says in his gentle, patient way. “I thought you might be waiting to speak to me last. Some people prefer knowing there’s no one waiting their turn.”

You take a small step forward, arms around yourself in a self-soothing hug. “I was,” you confess. “I’m sorry, I–”

“It’s alright,” he says gently, mercifully cutting you off as a visible shiver takes hold of you. “Come inside, please.”

He stands in the entrance, turning his body to the side as you pass. Somehow, he feels larger—taller—when you’re alone with him. Much like the empty church makes you feel small when its empty of its congregation. He towers over you.

“It must be serious,” 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. “Serious enough for you to prefer turning to ice rather than speak to me about it.” He’s slightly teasing as he approaches—clearly trying to ease the tension that has you still wrapped around yourself—cowering like a scared little lamb.

It’s a warm, comforting sort of teasing. Familiar. It’s his natural warmth that contributes to his busy visiting hours. You’d 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 couldn’t 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. He’s warm. Warmer than he’d been last time. At least, that’s 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 they’re gone.

“Would the booth make it easier?” he asks, hushed enough to avoid the echo.

There was no shame in hiding, you tell yourself. It was the only way you’d 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 you’re 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.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen,” you begin. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is… three months since my last confession.” Three months. The last time you’d 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.

“Are you unwell?” he asks as the silence stretches, kind—like he truly cared. When you hesitate, confused by the unexpected question, he adds, “You were absent on Sunday. I assumed you might’ve been sick, but you look healthy. Nothing serious, then.” The last part isn’t a question. He says it like he’s 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 you’d listed of a few trivial things and escaped in your last attempt. It was unbearable.

You couldn’t do this again.

“It’s a kind of sickness,” you confess, relying on the echo of the box to carry your hushed words through the small hatched window in the divider between you.

He’s quiet, letting you elaborate in your own time.

“I’ve been distracted. I haven’t heard your sermons. Not really.” You dig your fingernails into your thighs. “Not because they aren’t interesting… or helpful. It’s me. I’m full of—” One of your knees starts to bounce automatically. “My head is full of… sickness. Sick thoughts. They won’t stop.”

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.

“Has something happened?” he asks. “Something is bothering you.” A pause. “Someone?”

“Someone,” the word leaves you on an exhale.

His next question leaves him faster than any of his previous responses. You haven’t even managed to take in another breath. It’s a falter in the calm rhythm you are used to, catching you off guard.

“Who?”

“It… doesn’t matter.”

It did matter. You’d lied. One moment of impulse and you’d 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. You’d have asked Caleb for advice years earlier.

You’d have confessed your eyes had been drifting in the pews, distracted by temptation, instead of focused on him, as they should be. There’d be no confusing, twisted entanglement between his guidance and his unwilling involvement in your sin.

“Gideon,” he says, disrupting your spiralling thoughts. “He’s only been attending a few weeks. I haven’t seen him approach you. Was it after service?”

You’d never heard the name in your life. You hadn’t 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, “Is that why you weren’t here Sunday?” 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. “Has he hurt you?”

“No,” you answer, quickly. “No, I—”

“You’ll be honest with me,” he interrupts. “Won’t you?” 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.

“It’s not Gideon.”

“Who?”

“That’s what makes it so wicked, Father. I’ve been so afraid—” Movement again, through the divider. It breaks your momentum. You fall into silence.

Like his face, you know his voice. You’ve studied it intently, every week, for years. All the warm, gentle kindness is missing when he interrupts you, “Afraid?”

You pick at the skin at the edge of your nail.

“Of you,” 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, ready—

“Communion.” His voice fills the box—fills your head.

He knew.

He must’ve 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. “I’m sorry, I—”

“No.” He cuts you off quickly. “This is my weakness. I should be asking your forgiveness.” 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. “I took advantage of your innocence. I didn’t think you’d notice. I was weak. If I knew you’d see—feel my…” he trails off, sucks in a breath, then, “I shouldn’t have touched you. Forgive me.”

Your heart races as you put together his meaning.

He was talking about his accidental touch of your tongue… and lip.

No, that wasn’t right. He was confessing it was… intentional.

He was confessing.

It’s 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 it—floating outside of yourself. “I don’t understand,” you mutter, disbelief stuttering your ability to process. He was good, and righteous, and loved, and kind, and virtu—

“You dont—,” he starts. “You don’t understand?”

He’d wanted to touch you? Why would he—

“Talk to me,” he adds with a hint of urgency. “You don’t understand?”

“It was on purpose?”

He’s quiet. Then, “You said you were afraid of me. If it’s not that—”

“You wanted to touch me?” you whisper, hardly hearing his questioning through your ongoing daze.

“Yes,” he answers quickly. “I succumbed to—” He sighs. “I gave in.”

He had... lusted. He’d 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 yours…

Something releases inside of you. Confession rushes from your lips, unrestrained. “Father, bless me, for I have sinned. I’ve also given into lustful thoughts.”

Silence.

Then, “These are your… sick thoughts? The sickness distracting you from sermon?”

You nod. “For two years now.”

“Two—” he cuts himself off abruptly. “During mass.” He shifts. “And when else?”

The marks in your thighs capture your attention again. You scratch at them. “At night,” you confess, hushed. This… is where your sin diverged from his. Shame surrounds it still, heavy.

“Your indulgence…” he trails off.

“Yes, Father?”

A bump against wood. “Why were you absent this past Sunday?”

“I—” You tug the hem of your dress down over your knees. “I was afraid to see you.”

“Because of Communion? Because I—”

“No.” You shake your head, despite knowing he couldn’t see it. “I was ashamed.”

He’s quiet.

It stretches.

Finally, “We all have moments of weakness—”

“But it wasn’t a moment,” you interject. “There’s something wrong with me. Father, it’s—I can’t—My Sunday’s aren’t spent in worship of the Lord, they’re—” spent in worship of you.

You drop your head into your hands, incapable of speaking the words aloud. Then, so quiet you aren’t sure he can even hear you with your head bowed the way it is, “I’d never done it before you.”

When he doesn’t respond, you raise your head. “I’ve never thought about anyone but you. What is wrong with me? To lust for the first time—to lust only for a man of God?”

You focus on his breathing in the silence, hoping to let it calm you like it had before. But it’s different now. It’s uneven, heavier. It stirs your unease instead.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says, finally.

“But—”

“There is nothing wrong with you,” he insists, firm, without room for argument. “You are… perfection, sent to tempt me.” The wooden bench he sits on creaks with his movement.

“Tell me why you wore that dress,” he adds, gentler.

You look down at the plain dress, hem resting at your knees where you’d tugged it down. Did you have a reason? You hadn’t 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, “You wore that the first day I gave in. Apple red.”

“…gave in?” you question, a little wobble in your voice. You know what he’s implying, deep down. But it’s 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.

“The 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 like—”

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. “Are you afraid?” he whispers. “Did I scare you?”

You shake your head, hands still clasped across your mouth.

You aren’t 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, “Why are you crying?”

Months and months of inner turmoil spill from you in shaky half-sobs that you fail to hold back. You look into his eyes—gentle, familiar, warm. He’s an angel filling your vision, dressed in black—sin 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 skin—like he meant to wipe away your tears but wasn’t sure he should.

With a slight tilt towards him, you close the distance.

His knuckles brush your skin, gently wiping at your tears. “I’m so proud of you for coming to speak to me,” he says, voice still lowered. “You’re so good.”

You shake your head quickly, looking down.

He lifts your chin, guiding your focus back up to him. His eyes flick across your face. “Why are you crying?” he asks again.

You suck in a shaky breath, “I don’t know.”

“Overwhelmed?”

You nod, exhaling.

“Mm,” he hums, taking your hand in his. “That’s okay.”

Gently, he guides you from the box. He stands before you, closer than he stood in Communion—a 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.

“Deep breaths,” he soothes as your breathing evens out.

His thumb strokes across your knuckles again.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe into the space between you.

He shakes his head, and his palm lifts to your cheek—making proper contact this time. “Don’t. Didn’t I say you did good? I’m proud of you,” he whispers.

“But—”

“Would I lie to you?”

You look up at him with glassy eyes. At your priest. Loved and trusted by all. Gentle and kind and good.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s how you look at me—how you’ve always looked at me.” His fingers slip behind your ear and eventually curl around the back of your neck, holding you steady. “Thought it was your love for the Lord. That I was a privileged conduit, sampling all that sweet love you carried around inside you.”

His fingers press into your skin. “…but it was for me,” he finishes, breathy.

You whimper, tears forming again.

“Shh,” 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. “Please don’t cry.”

“It was wicked,” you whisper. “I’ve been wicked.”

His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, rubbing back and forth—comforting. His eyes drop to watch the way your cardigan slips off, folding down to expose the thin shoulder strap of your red dress. “No, sweet girl,” he says, distracted. His eyes move across your upper chest before returning to meet your gaze. “You were worshipping the Lord through me.”

His hair looks darker than you’d ever seen it before. The sun is gone now. You’d never seen him by candlelight before. “I was?” you sniffle.

He drags your cardigan back up over your shoulder. “You’re a virgin?”

You nod. Another sniffle.

“And you’ve only touched yourself when you were thinking of me?”

He doesn’t let you drop your head when you try, so you nod—eyes darting to the side in shame.

“What could be more sacred?” 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.

“A sweet..” Kiss. “Innocent…” Kiss. “Little lamb.” Kiss. “Using her body to worship Him. You love Him through me. That’s all.” He returns to your mouth, holding your head steady as his warm lips slide across yours—your first kiss. “Through my body,” he finishes, warm breath mixing with yours.

That made sense, your hazy mind offers. It’s why it had consumed you all these years; why you’d 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 you’ve never seen on him before. Then his head drops to your neck, and he’s lifting you into his arms. He doesn’t move. He just stands there, holding you to his body—breathing in the scent of you. He groans something into your neck, a word you can’t decipher. Then he withdraws.

“Would you let me guide you in worship?” he says, a little shaky with his uneven breathing.

“Mm,” you hum, nodding. Whatever that means. It didn’t matter. This was good. Everything was okay now. You’re 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 thighs—relaxed as his strong arms hold you against him. “I’ve resisted for so long,” he says, fingers tangling in your hair at the back of your head.

Then he drags you to his mouth, messy in his indulgence. He’s eager to please the Lord, your mind supplies, as his tongue dips between your lips to meet your own. You have no experience. You don’t know what you’re doing. So you let him take you. There’s a moment, when you are limp in his arms—eyes closed, chin wet with drool—that 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. It’s 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 you—with the heat of his mouth. He tasted a little sweet, like the hard candies he kept at the entrance of the booth.

He’d sucked on one while listening to confessions.

He’d heard their sins, in all his virtuous kindness, and he’d 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.

“Body of Christ,” 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. It’s 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 you—light and free.

As his thumb brushes across your glistening lips, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake, a question flitters across your vacated mind. “Is this sex?” 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.

“It’s worship,” 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. “When it’s with me, it’s worship.”

You release a shaky breath. “So I’ll still—I’ll still be a virgin? After?”

His fingers trace over your collarbone, then wrap around your neck lightly. His voice is as gentle and warm as always when he answers, “Only when it’s with me. No one else.”

“No one else,” 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.

“When I fill you with my cock…”

He makes a pattern over your lower belly as he speaks.

“…and your untouched cunt clings to me…”

His fingers brush at your thigh, where your hem bunches up. “…I might say some terrible, vulgar, things. Perverted depravity—” His fingertips dig into your skin. “—is only natural as such perfect worship is filtered through our imperfect human bodies.”

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. “No matter what I say, remember this is worship. Okay?”

“Okay,” you sigh with a nod, entirely surrendered to him.

“Good girl,” he breathes, the warmth of it tickling you through the cotton. “Angel.”

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. You’d expected it to feel like it did when you’d slipped your hands between your legs yourself.

It didn’t.

He traps your thighs in the firm grip of his hands, preventing you from escaping him.

“It tickles,” you confess, embarrassed.

“Here?” He brushes over the fabric again, and it’s 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. It’s 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 wasn’t sin.

Another gentle kiss, directly over your clit.

This was worship.

“Father?”

“Mm?” he hums.

You can’t see him, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Should I… kiss you too?” Your cardigan falls off one shoulder again. “I mean like you are. Worshipping your body is worshipping Him?”

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 doesn’t fix it. “Where I kissed you?” 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. “Between your legs,” you whisper.

His thumb swipes across your lower lip, then he strums it a little—letting it bounce back as he watches its movement intently. “You want to kiss my cock?” he asks, a little rumble in his voice—dropping it lower than you’d heard it before.

Your eyes widen a little, still unused to his vulgar language.

“Remember what I told you,” he adds. “It’s natural, hm? To speak like this.”

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, “Say it.” His lips tickle your neck as he speaks. “How do you want to worship m—Him?” His chest presses into yours. “Say it.”

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. “I want to kiss you… kiss your cock.”

You jolt a little beneath him as his teeth sink into your skin without warning. “Good girl,” he groans. “So good. So proud of you.” A kiss where he’d bitten you… then another behind your ear… then your cheek… the corner of your mouth. “Just let me taste you a little first,” he whispers. “I’ve wanted to taste you for so long.”

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 occupies—warming your thighs and cunt alike. “No one has seen it?” he asks as he toys with the fabric.

You shake your head and drop an arm across your head, over your closed eyes. “No, Father.”

“No one has touched it?”

“Just me,” 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.

“And now me,” he says, low enough you almost miss it. “You’ll let me take these off, won’t you? You’ll let me see?”

“Mm,” you squeak with a nod.

His fingers hook into the waistband. You expect him to take them off quickly, like removing a band-aid.

“This is only for me,” he mutters as he lightly tugs at the fabric, inching the underwear down in a torturous lazy indulgence. “This is worship.”

You nod. “Anyone else would be sinful.”

“Mm. That’s right, angel. That’s good.”

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.

“Father?” 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 can’t make out his expression in the darkness.

Even when you sit up, he doesn’t move.

You tug your dress down over your knees. “Did I—Did I do something wrong?”

He takes one step forward, the sole of his shoe squeaking over the stone tiles in his haste. But then he freezes again.

“No,” he answers simply.

You tilt your head, trying to make out his expression. The dark empty church seems bigger now. It’s 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.

It’s only when you wrap your arms around yourself—much like you had when he’d found you on the bench—that he seems to break from whatever invisible string held him back. He surges towards you and drops to his knees at your feet. “Forgive me,” 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.

“This is wrong,” he says, head still bowed, pressed against you. “Forgive me.” He grips the dress at your back in closed fists. “I gave in. You’re too sweet. I’ve never strayed before. Forgive—”

“I don’t understand.”

“—me. You’re—”

You shove at his shoulders.

It’s enough to halt his speech, but it does nothing to loosen his hold on you.

“Father?”

He looks up at you. Tortured. That’s how you’d describe the twist of his pretty features now. “I told myself I’d let myself have you once. That it’d be enough. That it’d fix it.” His fists flatten against your back. “But it won’t ever be enough,” 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. “I’m sick,” he mutters, sounding defeated.

“But it’s worship. It’s okay.”

He looks up at you from between your legs, through the hair that falls over his eyes—messier than you’ve ever seen it before. “Mm, it’s worship,” he says. “But it has nothing to do with God.”

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.

“It didn’t feel like sin.”

His eyes drop to your lips, and then his fingers wrap around your thighs, just below your hem. “No?” His hands warm your thighs where he touches you, squeezing and releasing you in a comforting rhythm. “It did for me, angel. So much I nearly lost myself to it. It was so easy. I’ve spent so long resisting you and all it took was a little confession, and I nearly had your—”

He swallows.

“I’m a bad man.”

You shake your head emphatically, quickly covering his hands with yours. “Don’t say that. Please.”

He looks down at your hands covering his own, lingering there, even when he speaks. “You should find a new church,” he says, entirely unmoving. “Or I’ll leave, if that makes it easier. I can leave.”

He sounds a little like he’s trying to convince himself at the end.

And when he shifts, attempting to pull himself to his feet, you panic. “No!” you cry, wrapping your arms around his neck and dragging him back into you. You wrap your calves around him for good measure. “Please don’t leave me. Please? I’ll be good. I won’t bother you again. I swear I won’t bother you.”

He breathes heavily as you cling to him, forcing his head against you again.

Then, when the tension leaves his body, and you’re sure he’s 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. “You are good,” he says. “You’ve always been so good, and you’ve never bothered me. Never.”

“But—”

“I’ll give in,” he interrupts. “I’ll give in eventually. I want you so—” he sighs. “I’ll give in.”

Your eyes flick to the altar again. Just briefly.

A door was opened now, one you’d 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 away—of losing him—had swung it wide open on its hinges.

Nothing mattered more to you.

No one. Not even God mattered more than—“Caleb,” you whisper.

His eyes dart to yours. It’s the first time you’ve called him by name. You hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

He looks at you in a way that makes it immediately clear that you’d never truly seen his gentleness more. Not really. You suppose you’d seen part of it. Maybe a little sliver. But the way he looks at you now fills you with a desperation unlike anything you’ve felt before. A desperation to cling to him. He looks at you like he could offer you everything.

You couldn’t part from him now.

Not ever.

“Have you really thought of me before? In sin?”

He doesn’t look away when he answers. “Many times.”

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 you’d idolised all these years?

“And you asked for forgiveness?” 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, “No, I haven’t. Not for this. Not from Him.”

His breath tickles your thighs as you battle your confusion. It’d been a self-soothing search for comfort, not a genuine question. You hadn’t considered he might say no.

“I’ve never strayed before,” he says, head still lowered before you. “Not before you.” His arms move to your back again. He takes hold of your dress and tugs you forward until his head rests on your stomach. “You are my greatest sin,” he confesses, sounded closer to distress than you’d ever heard him. “I don’t understand it. I’ve sat as a helpless passenger as it’s wrapped itself around me—inside me.” He looks up, glassy eyes meeting yours. “You’re inside me.”

Your lips are slightly parted in awe—in stupor.

You weren’t alone in this feeling.

The door—unlocked by his touch—falls off it’s 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.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his eyes widening slightly.

“I feel it too,” you answer, hushed. “I want to be wrapped around you. I want to feel you inside me.”

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 head—preventing it making contact with the stone tile floor.

He’s entirely still.

“Caleb?” you whisper with a little tilt of your head, resting comfortably on top of him.

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Please—” He swallows. “Please, sweetheart. You shouldn’t—we can’t do this.”

It only takes a little adjustment for you to brush you lips over his. “Why?” you whisper.

His lips tickles yours as he speaks. “I’m sick,” he breathes. His hand glides up your back as he says it, until his fingers wrap around the back of your neck. “You make me sick.” His grip is firm now, fingertips making little indentations in your skin. “I’m 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 and—”

A little whimper from you silences him.

His eyes flick across your face, studying, and then he takes your bottom lip between his teeth—tugging just a little, then releasing you again. “I realised it when I couldn’t find you in the pews—when Gideon was absent too: it’s not just lust,” he continues, keeping his hold on you. “It’s anger, and violence, and jealousy. I feel it all.”

“Father…” you breathe into his mouth. “I don’t want anyone else to see me, or touch me.” Gently, you cradle his warm cheek in your palm. “No one but you.”

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 he’s 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 you’re 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 you’d 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 you—watching 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 doesn’t 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 doesn’t 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.

“Stop it,” he scolds, stern.

You tilt your head. He says it like he hadn’t been watching, waiting—as if he hadn’t been anticipating the feel of your messy cunt against him.

“But I need—”

He sits up suddenly, supporting you with a hand to your back as you slip into his lap. “What?” he demands. “What do you need? You came for confession. You needed to confess and be heard. That’s my purpose. That’s what I am to you.”

“Are you angry with me?”

He leans forward, holding you firmly against him. “Why is your little flower all messy? Hm?”His eyes drop between your eyes and your lips, over and over. “What kind of girl rubs her juicy little cunt all over the priest who was supposed to protect her perfect, pure, sweet soul—on the floor of His Holy Sanctuary?”

He bites at your lip before you can even process the lewdness of his words. “Your body is a temple of worship,” he continues, a hint of anger still darkening his voice in a way you’d never heard before. He presses you into him, forcing your breasts to compress against his chest.

You didn’t need to wear a bra with this dress. It wrapped around you so perfectly that it supported you fine all on it’s own.

“Please don’t be angry,” you whisper. “I—I—” 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 you—obscured 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.

He’s a blurry figure above you. You haven’t 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. There’s no build-up. He starts in a frenzy—a 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 you—wrapping 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 aren’t even aware you are doing it when you start muttering. It’s 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.

“Thank you,” 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 breast—covering it entirely. “These were made to nurture new life,” he begins. He’s all gentle, guiding authority figure now. This was how you’d always known him. He has the same cadence he used in the booth when he was offering up the Lord’s teachings. “They’re His perfect design.” He palms your breast, massaging it without hesitation or restraint. “Don’t you think it’s right—” He takes your other breast in hand and leans back a little so he can watch as he gropes you almost painfully. “—that we honour and cherish His perfect creation?”

He swings a leg over you, never ceasing his rough kneading. “Take it off,” he instructs, rolling his hips towards you. “Undo the buckle.”

His belt is hidden under his loose shirt. You fumble a little with it, half-blind. He doesn’t stop to help you. He plays with your breasts instead, looking down at you from above.

“That’s it,” he coos in gentle encouragement as you slip the leather through the loops at his waistband.

It’s only then that he lifts his hands from you.

He sits above you, one leg on either side of your body—holding 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 it’s 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 he’s bare.

Muscle sculpts him like a living, breathing work of art. He’s— “Beautiful.”

His chest rises and falls heavily as he gazes down at you, head tilting a little as the word slips from your lips involuntarily.

“Mm?” he hums, falling forward over you. “What was that?”

When you avoid his gaze, he grips your jaw in his palm. “Touch me,” he says, “as I touched you. Worship Him through me. We are created in His image.”

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. “This is my body,” he says, dark hair falling over his eyes. “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God…” He quotes the passage as he guides your hands across his torso. “So we treasure it, and and honour Him through it.”

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. “Look at me,” he commands.

You obey, fingering brushing the hem of his underwear.

“I’m a bad man,” he says.

You shake your head, frowning. He was wrong. He wasn’t 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. “I’m a bad man,” he repeats. “I want to fuck you,” he breathes, a little ragged now. “Pretty 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?”

You can’t respond. Not with the way he grips you.

“He 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. He’s a jealous man, without exception.” Fabric hits the floor, and slowly, he guides your hand into the elastic of his underwear. “He wants her on her knees, looking up at him with her sweet, devoted eyes, promising she’ll put no one else above him.” You gasp as he guides your fingers around him, hot and thick. “Is that a bad man?”

His other hand slides up your stomach to wrap around your breast, still wet from his spit.

“He wants to fill his pretty little angel with his hot cum, until she’s bred nice and full, and then when her pretty tits ache with sweet milk—” He squeezes at your breast as he speaks, over and over. “—he wants to suck at her until it dribbles down his chin. Is that a bad man?”

He leans down and places a gentle kiss to your lips. “He wants her to call him Father when he’s inside her,” he whispers. “He wants her to cry as she sucks at his cock with her naughty little cunt because she knows it’s bad.” He squeezes your hand around his erection. “You know it’s bad, don’t you, angel?”

One shaky breath. Two. Then you nod.

He lips curve into a little smile, proud. “Good girl,” he whispers. Then he steps away from you, separating you from him.

You take a small step to follow.

“No.”

You freeze, wobbling a little on your feet in your haste to obey.

“Go lay down on the steps and spread your legs.”

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. “Didn’t you come here to confess? Hm? Show me. I need to see the part of you that aches for me.”

His eyes heat your skin as you slip past him and climb the steps. There’s only a few.

He’s closer when you turn.

And he’s entirely bare.

He stands in the candlelight, just in front of the first pew, watching you—waiting 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.

“Spread your legs,” he commands.

“Mm,” you nod. “Yes, Father.” Then you drop your knees, exposing your messy centre to his hungry eyes and the cold air. He’s silent as your cunt clenches around nothing, wanting. He strokes over himself in gentle twists, base to tip—eyes locked on your offering.

“Are you going to ask me what I think?” He doesn't look up from between your legs as he speaks. “That’s what you came here for, isn’t? For help?”

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. “I can see it clenching,” he murmurs. “Greedy. Hm? Is it greedy, angel?”

Your lips quiver as you suck in a shaky breath.

“Mm,” he hums. “Tell me why you touch it. Help me understand.”

“I don’t know,” you mutter with a shake of your head.

“You’ll tell me the truth,” he orders. It’s not like earlier, in the booth—when he was still the man you’d thought you’d known these past two years. He’s all stern authority now. There’s no doubt. You will tell him the truth.

“Felt empty,” you confess in a little whine and roll of your hips. “I felt so empty.”

He leans closer. “Yeah? Poor little baby. A virgin with an achy little hole…” His fingers wrap around your ankle. “Empty,” he mutters. "So proud of you for coming to me,” 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. “Sweetheart,” he breathes. “You need filling with the Holy Spirit. You’re all empty, yeah? You came to me because you knew I could fix it? Because I can fill you?”

He’s asking you a question, but he’s focused entirely on your twitching pussy as you flinch under this teasing touches. There is no logic to his questioning regardless. He’s consumed by the lust you share—slave to it.

“Who better to fill you than me?” he mutters as his fingertip dips into your hole. It’s barely a prod, easing back again as soon as your soft entrance offers a little resistance.

“Just for you…” you breathe.

“Hm?” He looks up. “What was that?”

“Only want you.”

He crawls over you slowly, forcing you to look into his eyes as he asks, “Me? Yeah? You came to your priest to fill your empty little pussy?”

“Forgive me,” you whisper.

He brushes his knuckles from your temple down to your chin. “I’ll help you, angel.” His lips brush over yours. “My angel…”

When he climbs off you and stands to his feet, a tiny part of your brain fires off in panic—afraid of him leaving you. But then his pretty fingers wrap around the thick length as it bobs above you. “It needs anointing,” 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. “On your knees,” he instructs. His aim becomes clear as he takes one step closer again, levelling himself at the perfect height for your mouth. “Tell me,” he prompts. “Where do you want to kiss me?”

On a shaky breath, you exhale, “Your cock, Father.”

You watch his closed fist stroke over his length, from the base to the tip. There’s a little shine there, at the end of it, leaking from the slit. “Alright, angel. Anoint my cock with your drool, hm?” He lets go of it, and you watching it bob a little—heavy. Looking up at him for reassurance, you level yourself with the head and touch your lips to him tentatively. One gentle kiss. “That’s it,” 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.

“This is what you needed,” he sighs. “This is what you came to me for. Isn’t it?”

You nod with a hum as you take the tip of him between your lips, tongue working in clumsy little swirling flicks—confidence building.

“Good girl,” he praises, looking down at you again. “Oh, my good girl. Just play with it. Just like that. Sweet little kisses for Father’s cock. Oh, Fuck. Oh God,” 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.

“What is it, baby?” he coos, stroking your hair. “I shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain. I’m sorry.” 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.

“Are you gonna put it inside me now?” 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 himself—to the version of him that almost left you—good 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.

“I’m so empty, Father,” you whine, slipping your fingers down between your legs. “Need you to fill me up again. Please.”

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 doesn’t touch it.

“Please, Father,” you plead with a half-sob, on the edge of tears. “My pussy…”

He takes a small step towards you and pauses again.

“I know it’s bad,” you continue, somewhere between a sob and a whine. “It’s 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.” You dip your finger inside yourself, whimpering a little. “Don’t you want me?”

His chest rises and falls heavily as he approaches. He’s slow, like a predator stalking.

“So bad,” he mutters as he lowers himself onto the steps between your legs.

He watches as you play with yourself, messy and clumsy.

“Sent to tempt me,” he continues muttering as his fingers wrap around himself again. “That’s what you are, aren’t you? Are you from the Devil? Made to look like a perfect little angel? Is that it?” His hand strokes along his whole length, base to tip, over and over in a slight twisting action as he speaks. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

It sounded right. Made for him. You’d never wanted anyone else.

He lowers himself over you before you can answer.

“I’ll never stop wanting you,” he warns. “It’ll get worse and worse. I can feel it. This obsession.”

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 doesn’t 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. “This belongs to me. Only I get to fill your greedy little pussy, yeah?”

His lips brush yours.

“No one else touches it. No one else looks at it.” He prods at your virgin hole, indulging in the sweet spongy heat that presses back at him. “This is worship,” he breathes. “You’ll suck me inside your sweet cunt, all needy and sweet and looking at me like you do in Communion. You’ll worship me. Above all else.” A chaste kiss. “Then I’ll flood you with cum, so you’re nice and full, yeah? Does that sound nice?”

“Inside,” 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. “You gotta let me inside. Can feel you sucking at me. Take me inside, sweet girl. Come on.”

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. “There you go,” he mumbles. “Fuck, that’s it. Perfect fucking cunt. Mine.”

It’s just the tip of him. It fills the ache beyond anything you’d managed with your fingers. His breath, his voice, his warmth, and his thick hot cock stretching your walls open.

It’s enough to drag tears from you again.

He kisses them away as they wet your cheeks.

“You’re inside. Inside me.”

His brows draw together as you squeeze at him, clenching rhythmically.

“Thank you, Father,” you whisper.

He groans, and then he shifts, and impossibly, he fills you further—spearing apart your walls until it feels like you might look down and see the shape of him in your belly.

“We shouldn’t—” he mutters. “Forgive me.” His hips drag back, and then he’s pressing into you again. “Forgive me.” He bites at your earlobe. “Naughty pussy. Naughty girl. Desperate for her priest to fill her with cock. Fuck. Fuck, you feel so good.”

“This is sex,” you mewl.

He bites into you, feral, and the obscene slap of skin echoes from the pulpit steps as his hips slam into yours. “This is sex,” he answers, breathless. “This 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.”

“He’ll forgive us,” you whisper into his ear. “I’m made for you. He made me for you. How can it be wrong?”

“Yeah?” he rasps, looking a little frenzied when he lifts his head to find your eyes. “You made for me?”

“Can’t you feel it?” you ask with a roll of your hips.

You watch his eyes flutter shut.“Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart, I feel it. Wrap around me so perfect.” He grinds into you, indulging in the feeling of your walls rippling around him in desperate waves. “I’m keeping you. You’re mine now. My pretty girl. Mine to fuck, and kiss—” He licks at your jaw. “—and breed.” He drops his weight onto you, smothering you in his heat. “Gonna keep you safe and warm. All mine.”

“Do you think He’s watching?” you whisper in his ear.

He groans into your neck. “Tell me who you were thinking of,” he orders, low and gravelly. “When you looked up at me during Communion. Tell me.”

“You.”

He draws his hips back and begins fucking you just with his tip in shallow little rocking thrusts. “No one else before me, hm?” he prods as you clench rhythmically around him, attempting to draw him back in. “You worship me with this cunt. Only me.”

You nod desperately, emphatically. “Only you.”

Pleased, he sinks back inside you with a low groan.

All your life you’d believed your body was a temple of the Lord; that you were filled with His Spirit; that you carried Him inside you always.

But you’d been empty. You’d been so, so empty. Longing to fill the cold, hollowness inside you. You’d 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 failure—that 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 church—indulging in your mutual worship. His mouth adorns your neck in messy kisses as you mutter in his ear: praising him, worshiping him. You can’t 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. “My good girl,” he breathes.

[kitliene]

mdni | jealous xav drabble

you have really got to start either screaming like a lunatic when approached by other men, or running away. Nevermind the fact you're technically a public servant—being a hunter and all—and hollering when spoken to by a member of half linkon's public population will no doubt earn you a mandated psych eval.

xavier's got a fistful of your hair, angling your head back enough for him to see your pretty face, the same pretty face that landed you in this mess—laid out under your boyfriend as he satiates his own jealousy by making you cream on his cock.

"what is it," he queries softly, pulling at your hair in a manner that signifies he expects an answer he knows you can't give, "do you prefer me this way, my star?"

he watches you try and get the words out, eyes soft even as he continues to fuck his hips forward, carves himself a place high in your guts while watching you struggle to accommodate that much that fast, his permanently drowsy gaze fixed on the gooey strings of your slippery fluids stretching between his pelvis and the back of your thighs.

you've got whiplash trying to syncretize the contrast of his prevailing gentle demeanor while he's simultaneously stirring up your guts,

"jealous and irrational?"

"xav– fuck, please!"

[kitliene]

mdni | suggestive (?)

Caleb as the sheltering, protective, almost suffocating big brother is a fun facet of his character to explore, but i much prefer his more corrosive and selfish characteristics.

He wants you to stay pure, keep you unsoiled—his demure, darling little pipsqueak, untouched by the riffraff of the outside world. Curious and entirely reliant on him to guide you, trusting he won't lead you astray because you are the only good he has left.

On the other hand, I think he can't help himself. He's got a conflicting, perverse desire to be the one and only to defile you, get you addicted to the stretch of his fingers against the soft give of your entry and the warmth of his mouth sealing over your clit, swollen from the sudden onslaught of new, rampant sensation he's not particularly guilty about giving you.