cat enjoyer | ISTP | 25+
personal art and writing sideblog
writing contains dark themes;
expect noncon & toxic yaoi
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nice outfits & emotional distress
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art and writing sideblog 🌟 follow and reblog from @vampurr
Hi, welcome to my personal art and writing sideblog! While my drawing is cute, my writing is not. I write dark topics like stockholm syndrome, erotic horror, and whump
You may block #tw noncon #tw dubcon and #whump tags if that’s not your cup of tea. If that’s ❀ exactly your cup of tea ❀, then kindly check out my writing masterlist
Feel free to request specific prompts on my askbox and I will write it with my OCs. Have a lovely day and stay hydrated ✨ 🥛
🍓 WRITING MASTERLIST 🍊 ART 🍋 TAGGING 🥝 WORLDBUILDING 🫐
INTERESTS!
📚 Language learning, worldbuilding, Russian literature, WW II history
📖 Anime/manga (currently very into Golden Kamuy and Orb)
🎨 Drawing, collecting art prints & doujinshis
📺 DCU Peacemaker, B-list horror movies
💑 Hydra Trash Party, Thramsay, YuuO, Tsurumi's 7th Division harem
🎮 Mouthwashing, old school Digimon games
🎵 Rammstein, The Band Ghost, Sleep Token
FAVORITE TROPES!
transgressive themes like age gap, power imbalance, master/slave, manipulation, codependence, noncon, whumper/whumpee, slow burn stockholm syndrome, pet whump, conditioning, drugging, sickfic, lab whump, psychological horror, bittersweet endings, enemies with benefits, and found family who bang each other
┈─★ ON WHUMP I’m not here to police how people enjoy my work. If my writing scares you then I’m doing a good job. If you find my nsfwhump hot and want to compliment it, cool! ദ്ദി *´꒳`*)
┈─★ ON COMMUNITY We need community and connection more than ever. Do not hesitate to send an ask about anything; your day, your research subject, your prompts! It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance
┈─★ ON OC X CANON I have OC x canon/yumeshipping pairings with Thomas Andre (Solo Leveling), Dispater (DnD), and Crossbones (Marvel). Feel free to mute #SealOfConquest #FerrumSerpens and #calicross if you don't want to see them on your dash
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🫐 AO3: vodkasplash
Summary; A demon’s spirit is harder to break than his glass cage
⚠️ content advisory: demon whumpee, tiny whumpee, dehumanization, captivity, sunburn, confinement, threat of noncon, nonconsensual bathing, nonconsensual dressing up
Fandom: original work | WRITING MASTERLIST
notes: @whumpgiftswap gift for @willa-whumps
The sun beat down like a hammer on an anvil.
Leander cracked open one eye—then another, and another, until a dozen of the extra ones flickered into existence across his scarred skin. His head throbbed. His mouth tasted blood.
Right. The bite. The swearing. The very clear "fuck no" when Tearney had started getting handsy with his breeding bullshit.
Leander tried to shift and immediately regretted it. The jar was barely big enough for him to curl up in, let alone stretch his three ragged pairs of wings. One wing was already pinned awkwardly beneath him, the dark membranes crumpled against the curved glass.
His tail and fins were coiled tight around his legs. The black-armored claws of his hands scraped uselessly at the smooth walls.
"Fuck everything," he rasped. The air inside was thick, humid, and scorching. Sweat (or maybe it was just condensation from his smoky aura) beaded on his black-and-green tinged skin and rolled down the exposed bone of his jaw. His long pointed ears twitched at tiny creaks of the glass as it expanded in the heat. Everything hurt.
He remembered the fight. Tearney looming over him with that smug, "You're mine now, little demon. Might as well make yourself useful." Leander had laughed in his face first, sarcastic and feral.
Then he'd told Tearney exactly where he could shove his breeding plans, followed it up with several colorful suggestions involving angels and rusty pitchforks, and topped the whole performance off by sinking his jagged teeth into the human's wrist.
Tearney had not appreciated the feedback.
Now Leander was trapped and cooked alive under the midday sun. No shade nor mercy. His immortal body could take a lot, but the heat pressed in on every scar from Hell.
His horns felt like they were boiling inside his skull. The soft lilac mess of his hair stuck to his forehead in sweaty clumps.
"Fucking... tech-nerd," Leander forced a humorless grin. "Hope your wrist rots off. Hope your dick falls off next. Bet it was small anyway."
A surge of fury burned through the haze of pain. He wasn’t going to just lie here and cook like some pathetic specimen.
Leander twisted as much as the cramped space allowed, drawing his arm back. With a snarl, he slammed his fist into the curved glass as hard as he could. The impact jolted up his arm and into his shoulder, sending agony through his burned skin. The jar didn’t even crack.
“Break, you piece of shit!”
He struck again. And again. Each punch grew more desperate. Tiny sparks of hellfire licked across his knuckles, but the glass simply absorbed the heat. His tail lashed violently, slamming its spiked fins against the bottom of the jar, but all it did was bruise his own coils.
He braced his back against one side and kicked with both clawed feet. The jar rocked before settling back. Not a single crack. Not a scratch. Whatever this thing was made of, it was far stronger than normal glass.
Leander's extra eyes stung with sweat. He threw his head forward, smashing one curved horn against the wall. A sharp crack of pain exploded behind his eyes, but the jar remained pristine.
"Fuck you, fucking glass!" He roared as he hammered at the glass with both fists in a frenzy. His wings spasmed. The smoky aura around him flared wildly.
Nothing worked.
Leander finally slumped back. His knuckles were split and bleeding.
"Son of a bitch..." he whispered hoarsely as he looked at the uncaring sky beyond the glass.
Then he summoned his flames. A weak spark flared in his palm but that was it. Smoke curled uselessly from his pores, trapped in the jar, making the air even thicker and harder to breathe. His enhanced senses were a curse now.
Leander bared his sharp teeth, "Nice try, you pathetic fucking tech-wannabe. Cage me like a goddamn bug? I'll piss on your grave one day."
Yet the heat pressed harder. The glass burned where it touched him. His wings trembled, membranes drying and cracking at the edges. His tail spasmed, fins wilting. Even his claws felt heavy. He shifted again, trying to find a cooler patch, but there was none. Just relentless heat.
"Should've bitten his dick off instead," he muttered. Sarcasm was his shield. Always had been. Pain could go fuck itself—he'd laugh at it until the end. "Bet it would've been easy. Tiny target."
Time blurred. The sun climbed mercilessly high. Leander's extra eyes squeezed shut one by one as the glare and heat overwhelmed them. His breathing grew shallow. The smoky aura around him thickened into a choking haze. Under normal circumstances it cloaked him, concealed his scent and made predators think twice.
But inside the jar, it had nowhere to go.
The black haze curled against the curved glass and folded back over itself, growing denser. Leander coughed. The smoke tasted acrid on his tongue, heavy with brimstone and burnt iron. His own aura pressed into his lungs.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me…”
He tried to suppress it. He clenched every muscle he could, forcing himself to stay still, to calm down, to stop the involuntary release. The effort only made his pulse race harder.
More smoke bled from his skin.
The inside of the jar became a murky black fog. Even his many eyes struggled to pierce it. The world shrank until there was only burning glass against his back, scorching air above him, and the suffocating cloud his own body refused to stop producing.
He hacked violently. His horns throbbed. Black spots danced across every eye he possessed. The defiant fire in his chest flickered lower and lower.
He slammed a clawed fist weakly against the glass. The world tilted. His vision swam. The heat won.
Leander's head lolled against the burning glass, teeth still bared in one last snarl. His wings went limp. His tail uncoiled weakly. One by one, the multitude of eyes closed.
He passed out in the sweltering jar.
***
Leander jolted awake with a strangled hiss. Sunburned skin screamed in protest. His eyes snapped open at once, pupils contracted to slits. He was no longer in the jar. Instead, he was cupped in Tearney’s large palm, half-submerged in a shallow bowl of water that felt freezing against his scorched body. The human’s fingers moved with deliberate care as he dabbed cloth over Leander's shoulders and wings.
"Fuck!" Leander arched his back. The burns were everywhere: raw, blistering patches across his exposed jaw, down his arms, over the membranes of his wings. Even the scars from Hell felt freshly flayed. “Get your fucking hands off me, you sadistic prick!”
Tearney chuckled in response, "There he is. I was wondering if the sun had finally cooked that sharp tongue of yours." He continued the bath anyway, tracing the cloth along Leander’s tail, carefully avoiding the spines but pressing just enough on the sunburned fins to make the demon twitch. “You were out cold when I took you out of the jar.”
Leander tried to twist away but Tearney's fingers closed a little tighter. The water stung worse with every movement, washing away dried sweat and smoke but igniting burned nerves.
“Oh, still biting. Literally and figuratively...” He tilted Leander slightly to rinse the underside of one curling horn. “You know, most pets learn after one day in the sun. But you… you had to be dramatic. Refusing me. Cursing me. Biting me.” He tapped the fresh bandage on his wrist for emphasis. “I thought we could understand each other, Leander. Partners, even. But you chose this.”
“Partners?” Leander laughed. He coughed as another wave of stinging hit his sunburned chest. “Keep dreaming, tech-boy. I’m not your toy.”
Tearney hummed, clearly unbothered. He lifted Leander out of the water and onto a soft towel, patting him dry with agonizing care over the burns. Every touch hurt. Leander’s sensitive ears pinned back. His smoky aura flickered weakly.
“You’re going to be,” Tearney murmured. “Eventually.”
Tearney reached for a small glass jar on the workbench and unscrewed the lid. He dipped two fingers in, withdrawing a dollop of translucent, iridescent salve.
Leander tensed, expecting more agony. But as Tearney spread the ointment over the raw, blistered skin of his chest, the effect was immediate and cooling. The balm felt like its knitting his fried nerves back together.
Despite himself, Leander’s shoulders slumped a fraction of an inch. He exhaled in relief. The previous fight was nearly drained out of his limbs. He felt floaty. He hated it. Hated that he couldn't stop his eyes from drooping, or the way his tail gave a twitch of comfort before he forced it still.
Tearney noticed. He didn’t say a word, but there was a smug, knowing curve to his lips that made Leander’s skin crawl.
Leander quickly squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his breathing to remain even. Don't let him know, he hissed to himself. His claws dug into the towel beneath him. He’s just trying to drug you into submission.
The dressing came next.
Leander was too exhausted and pained to fight much as Tearney laid out tiny garments that suspiciously look like doll clothes. A ridiculous frilly shirt, tiny trousers, even a stupid little hat that Tearney perched between his horns. The human’s fingers lingered, adjusting the pieces.
Leander glared up at him through slitted yellow pupils, “I look like a fucking idiot. Burn me again if you want, but this? This is just embarrassing for you.”
Tearney stepped back to admire his work. He held Leander up in front of a mirror so the tiny demon could see himself—sunburned, wings drooping, and dressed like a porcelain doll.
“There. Much better.” Tearney’s thumb brushed gently over one pointed ear, making Leander flinch. “I hope you learned your lesson today, Leander. The sun can be cruel… but I can be much crueler if you keep refusing me. Be good next time.”
Leander met his gaze with pure defiance, "Fuck. You."
Tearney’s expression remained infuriatingly gentle. He placed Leander onto a plush, silk-lined pedestal and smoothed the tiny trousers one last time. "Save your strength," he murmured, dimming the lights. "You’re going to need it tomorrow."
Summary; Salvation is a lie. So is Reverend Quinn.
⚠️ content advisory: noncon, religious setting, priest whumpee, priest whumper, married whumpee, abuse of authority, gaslighting, victim blaming, dissociation, hurt no comfort
Fandom: original work | WRITING MASTERLIST
notes: This contains spoiler to the ending of A Dove in Gilded Cage but can be read as standalone. I just wanted to write priest whump set in the 90s
Victor never likes the archival room. Despite the church’s generous donors, the space remains a mess of overflowing files and precariously stacked boxes. The room is filled with dust and the unpleasant scent of old paper. It almost reminds him of the library from his high school.
Dust motes drift lazily in the thin shafts of late-afternoon light. Victor stands on a low step stool, carefully sliding a heavy ledger back into its place on the top shelf. The leather binding is slightly greasy under his fingers.
Then he hears footsteps.
Victor freezes mid-motion, one hand still resting on the spine of the ledger. The tread is unhurried. The door creaks open behind him and the hinges whine in protest. Then, the smell of aftershave. Reverend Quinn, obviously. Only one man walked like that in this church.
Probably more paperwork, he thinks, clinging to the hope. Another committee assignment. Another sermon outline to review… or perhaps some matters regarding those bloodsuckers. He’s gotten good at telling himself that’s all it ever is.
“Yes, Quinn?” Victor asks without turning around. He keeps his voice pleasant; Victor has perfected it over the years. It’s very useful as he doesn’t believe Quinn just visits the archival room to fetch something.
The door clicks shut. Now it is only the two of them, sealed inside the room with its towers of yellowed records. Not exactly the best scenario.
After the whole fiasco he has pretended that everything was normal and that he and Quinn are ordinary colleagues. The betrayal still burns but Victor largely ignores it. Most days.
Reverend Quinn’s footsteps draw closer, slow and measured across the creaking floorboards. “You’ve always been such a promising boy, Victor.”
Paperwork, Victor tells himself again, desperately. Just more paperwork.
A heavy hand settles on Victor’s shoulder. The weight of it presses through the fabric of his cassock, warm and possessive. Victor’s stomach twists. A sour bloom of nausea rising in his throat. He can still remember those same hands guiding him during Christmas decorations at the shelter, but now they feel like chains.
He knows it all too well. The paperwork excuse shatters instantly. This was never about church business. It never is.
“What about it?” Victor reaches up, fingers closing around Quinn’s wrist, trying to lift the hand off. It doesn’t move. The older man’s grip only tightens, thumb pressing into the hollow beneath Victor’s collarbone.
“But I’ve been watching you struggle with temptation,” Quinn’s voice sounds warm and confiding.
Victor is aware of his own breathing now. The archival room suddenly feels smaller as the radiator hisses. He forces a thin smile, “We all struggle, Senior Pastor. Isn’t that what we preach?”
Quinn leans in closer, close enough that Victor could feel the warmth of his breath against the side of his neck.
Oh God please go, please go, leave me alone.
“Some temptations are more dangerous than others," Quinn continues.
Victor clenches his free hand, "I don’t know what you’re talking about."
Why now? The question screams inside his head. Why me? Quinn hadn’t touched him like this. Not since the early days after Victor’s ordination. There had been long stretches of professional distance, stern professionalism, almost normalcy. So why now? Why here?
“Liar,” Quinn murmurs, almost affectionately. His fingers flex, digging in. “You were always a terrible liar.”
Victor swallows. The taste of bile lingers at the back of his throat. He wants to spin around and shove Quinn away. He wants to scream into the dusty air. Instead, he remains perfectly still like a good sacrificial lamb.
"I'm not sure I follow..." Victor’s voice is weaker than he wants.
“I’ve watched you for years,” Quinn says quietly. “The way your eyes linger. The way you avoid me after.”
“That’s not true, Quinn.”
“Isn’t it?” Quinn asks. “You stay late when I stay late. You find excuses to be near me.” His voice lowers. “Do you think I haven’t noticed?”
Victor opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Those extra duties had meant nothing, but now Victor feels himself doubting his own memory.
Shit. His mind races. I could have left, he thinks. I should have made an excuse—said I was needed at home, that my wife was waiting, that the car wouldn't start. I should have turned my back and walked out that door the second I heard his footsteps. But he hadn't. He had stayed, and now that door looked like it was miles away.
Quinn’s hand slides slowly down Victor’s arm, deliberate and heavy. Dust motes swirl in the slanted light as the older man shifts closer, pressing his chest against Victor’s back. The radiator clanks, filling the silence.
“You’ve been at war with yourself for years. I can help you carry it.”
“What?” Victor sighs, hoping that Quinn will leave him alone.
“You don’t have to lie here,” Quinn whispers. “Not to me. Not to God.”
Victor’s breath catches when he feels Quinn’s other hand migrates lower, fingers brushing over the front of his cassock, searching. The intention is unmistakable.
“No...” The word barely leaves Victor’s mouth before Quinn’s fingers find the zipper of his trousers and tug it down.
Victor yelps, "Quinn, stop!"
But Quinn only hums. His breath is hot against Victor’s ear. “Shh. I know you’ve been watching me, Victor. During sermons. In the hallways. Those long looks when you think I don’t notice.” Quinn’s hand slips inside the open fly, “You always were such a hungry boy.”
As the hand slips inside, skin against skin, the sensation is visceral. Fuck. The internal spike of venom is hot enough to burn through the panic. He loathes when Quinn calls him boy. Quinn himself is barely ten years his senior, yet he says it with that dripping condescension. Patronizing bastard.
“That’s not true!” He twists, trying to pull away, but Quinn’s grip on his shoulder pins him in place with surprising strength. Panic claws up his throat. “I’m not—I’ve never, Stop!”
The air feels like jelly. He struggles to draw a breath that isn’t tainted by Quinn’s musk. Victor’s heart slams against his ribs so hard he feels dizzy.
The betrayal from years ago surges up again—the alley, the blood, the vampire—but this thing is worse in its own way. His body betrays him with a traitorous shiver as Quinn’s fingers continue their exploration–a different kind of rot.
This can’t be happening! He’s in his late twenties, for fuck’s sake—past his prime. This kind of thing only happened to the young and vulnerable; those lost boys and girls. Never him. Never someone like him.
Quinn chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against Victor’s back. “No one will believe you, Victor. If anything, they’ll say you’re the one starving for your senior pastor’s attention.” His voice drops to a velvety murmur, “The promising young reverend who keeps lingering near me. Who always volunteers for extra duties. Who looks at me with those desperate eyes… They’ll say you’re the one tempting me.”
The reality of the words sinks in. He pictures the church on a Sunday morning, the way the entire congregation practically beams whenever Quinn enters the room. He is the man who guides them through their most sacred milestones.
Quinn holds their hands during hospital vigils. He is the one whose sermons bring the youth group to rapt, inspired silence, and the one who blesses their marriages with a graceful smile. Quinn is the bedrock of their community; he is the man who can do no wrong.
Victor feels a hollow pit open in his chest. Of course they will believe Quinn. To the parish, Quinn is a saint, and Victor—if he dared to speak—would simply be the troubled, ungrateful subordinate accusing their beloved shepherd of the unthinkable.
Liar. It’s a lie. But—God, what if they do believe it? The room spins.
Victor’s vision blurs at the edges. Shame burns hot across his face and neck. He can feel the cool archival air on exposed skin, the humiliating contrast of Quinn’s warm hand. There’s a wet, rhythmic friction now, a sliding sound that makes Victor’s stomach churn. It’s the sound of his own undoing.
His mind screams at him to fight harder, to shove the man away, to run... anything. But his muscles stay locked, the same frozen terror from the night he first met the red-haired vampire.
“I said stop,” Victor whispers hoarsely, hating how small his voice sounds. “Please, Quinn…”
“You can call me Zeke when it’s just the two of us, Victor. Don’t you remember?”
“Quinn,” Victor hisses instead but Quinn doesn’t stop. His grip tightens, possessive and certain.
He feels the slick, wet warmth of Quinn’s palm. Despite the clawing need to escape, his body is failing him. He feels the pressure of blood rushing south. His own body is betrayed by a treacherous, mounting hardness. A bead of precum leaks from his tip, slicking Quinn’s fingers further. A ragged whimper tears from his throat.
Victor’s mind fractures. “I’m married,” he gasps. "Quinn, I have a wife. This is a sin. You're a priest, we're both priests. You can't—please, God, you can’t do this."
Quinn's laugh is fond, “Oh, Victor… still clinging to rules like a good little altar boy.” His grip on Victor’s shoulder becomes iron. With terrifying ease, the older man spins him around and shoves him backward.
Victor’s back slams into the wall between two tall shelves. The impact knocks the breath from his lungs. Old books rattle on the shelves above him, a fine rain of dust cascading down onto his hair and shoulders.
Quinn presses in immediately, body flushing against his, trapping him completely. The senior pastor is broader and heavier compared to him. Victor’s hands come up, palms pressing weakly against Quinn’s chest, but it’s a futile, desperate gesture—a dove beating its wings against a snake’s coils.
“Shh,” Quinn soothes him. “Look at you… still so pure on the outside. Wearing the collar. Married. Faithful. Yet here you are, trembling for me."
Quinn’s mouth descends on Victor’s neck. Hot, wet lips latch onto the sensitive skin just above the clerical collar. He sucks hard, greedy and possessive, tongue pressing firmly as he leaves a dark mark. The wet, obscene sound of suction fills Victor’s ears. A sharp sting blooms into throbbing heat, sending unwanted sparks down his spine.
Victor whimpers, head turning away, but there’s nowhere to go. “Stop… please, it’s wrong. We'll be damned. We are shepherds, Quinn… this is sacrilege!"
“Sacrilege?” Quinn breathes the word into the crook of his neck. “Or is it an offering?”
Quinn’s hands are already moving again, one pinning Victor’s hip to the wall while the other returns to the open zipper. He tugs Victor’s trousers and underwear down in one rough motion. Long fingers wrap around Victor’s length without hesitation, stroking with slow, deliberate reverence.
“Such a pretty blond,” Quinn breathes against the fresh hickey, voice thick with dark hunger. “All these years in the cloth… and still so sensitive. Does your wife know how easily you harden for your senior?" He sucks another mark lower on Victor’s throat, teeth grazing the edge of the white collar, while his hand continues its sinful tempo.
Victor’s knees buckle. Terror and unwanted heat twist together in his gut. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes as another wet pull on his neck sends a shameful jolt through his body.
“Please,” Victor sobs, though he isn’t sure if he’s begging for it to stop or begging for Quinn to finish the ruin. The world has shrunk to the weight of the collar at his throat and the hand on his pulse, and he is terrified to realize he has forgotten how to pray.
Quinn’s mouth leaves Victor’s neck. With surprising strength, he presses the younger pastor’s chest against the dusty shelves. Victor’s cheek scrapes against the edge of an old hymnal as his hips are yanked backward, ass exposed.
He is utterly, chillingly alone. The rest of the church is a world away while Quinn's presence is a physical weight.
"Quinn, last chance... Stop." Victor's voice cracks. The room is too full of clutter to allow his plea to travel anywhere but into Quinn’s hungry ears.
Quinn only shushes him again, almost lovingly. One broad hand holds Victor’s hip in place while the other slides between his cheeks. Victor feels the wet heat of Quinn’s fingers first—slick with the older man’s own saliva. The wet of spitting fills the quiet room as Quinn gathers more, letting it drip deliberately before pushing a finger inside Victor.
Victor's body tenses at the intrusive stretch. “No—please, not there—Ezekiel, stop!”
“There it is… you still remember my name when you’re like this.” He works the finger deeper, slow and thorough, curling it as more warm saliva joins the first. The squelching sounds are humiliatingly loud amidst God’s silence. “Your body is so honest, Victor. So full of carnal desire. Look how it opens for me. If you truly didn’t want this, you’d be fighting me, wouldn’t you?”
A new wave of nausea hits him. If Quinn is this bold—if he is willing to commit such a flagrant act of violation here, in the heart of the church—what had he done elsewhere? The thought blooms in Victor's mind: was he truly the only one? Had Quinn already broken others, perhaps leaving his mark on unsuspecting staff members, or even worse, the vulnerable parishioners who came to him for solace?
The realization that he might be merely one name on a long, hidden list of victims makes Victor’s stomach turn. The depths of Quinn’s atrocity suddenly feels much larger than just the two of them.
Victor’s hands claw uselessly at the shelves, knocking another book to the floor. Dust swirls around them like incense in some perverse ritual. "I don't want this!"
Another finger joins the first, scissoring roughly now, stretching him with far less patience. The burn intensifies into real pain, a tearing ache that makes Victor’s eyes water.
“Liar,” Quinn says with mock affection. “The flesh confesses what the mouth denies. You’ve been starving for me, haven't you? All these years pretending to be the perfect husband, the devout reverend… when all you really crave is this.”
Victor tries to push back, but his arms are trembling, his muscles feeling like water. Nobody is coming. He could scream until his throat bled, and the only reply would be the hiss of the radiator.
Quinn withdraws his fingers. Victor barely has time to drag in a shaking breath before he feels the blunt, heavy pressure of Quinn’s cock pressing against his entrance. The older man spits again—once, twice—coating himself generously, but it’s still not enough.
Then Quinn pushes in.
The stretch is agonizing. Victor’s mouth falls open in a silent cry as Quinn forces his way inside, inch by brutal inch. The burn is white-hot. His body resists, clenching tightly around the invasion, but Quinn doesn’t stop. He keeps pressing forward, savoring every tight inch until his hips are finally flush against Victor’s ass, buried to the hilt.
A low, satisfied groan rumbles from Quinn’s chest.
“Fuck… still so tight for me even if your hole is not a virgin anymore,” Quinn's voice is laced with lust. He stays buried deep for a long moment, one hand sliding up to grip the back of Victor’s neck, thumb stroking the edge of the white collar. “Does your wife know how insatiable her husband really is?"
This can’t be real. He had endured his master. He had survived everything. He had clawed his way into the cloth, built a life, taken vows, married a good woman who deserved better than this.
And yet here he is again. Ravaged by another monster wearing the cloth. A man of God.
Why? The thought loops brokenly in his head. I survived the devil only to be fucked by his priest?
His wife’s face flashes behind his eyes; her gentle smile, the way she kisses his collar every morning before he leaves for the church. She's probably at home right now, watching her favorite TV show, completely unaware that her husband was being used like a whore.
Fresh shame crashes over him, hotter and more poisonous than the pain. What would she think if she saw him like this? Bent over, cassock rucked up around his waist, collar still neatly in place while another priest claimed what should only belong to her?
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Victor doesn’t know if he’s apologizing to his wife, to God, or to the boy he used to be.
Victor sobs brokenly, forehead pressed hard against the dusty shelf, tears mixing with the grime on his face. The pain is overwhelming and the bruising ache makes his legs shake. The white clerical collar feels like it’s choking him now.
Quinn stays buried deep for a long, cruel moment, one hand sliding up to grip the back of Victor’s neck possessively, thumb stroking the edge of the collar almost tenderly.
Then he begins to move. Quinn’s hips snap forward in slow, deliberate, punishing thrusts. Every movement is calculated to bruise, to drag against the most sensitive places inside Victor.
Quinn’s free hand snakes around Victor’s front. His palm is slick and hot as he begins to stroke Victor’s length in time with the brutal thrusts. The friction is relentless, almost too much, forcing unwanted sparks of pleasure through the haze of pain.
A fleeting, terrifying thought flickers through Victor’s shattered mind: is this it? Is this the divine retribution he has always feared? The weight of his secret sins finally crushing him beneath the altar of his own undoing? Perhaps this is the punishment he deserves, the moment the universe finally demands payment for everything he took.
But even as the thought takes root, his logical mind recoils, fighting through the fog. No. Anger sparks through the agony. This is not God’s will. This is not justice. This is entirely Quinn’s fault.
“Look at you,” Quinn groans. “Crying and shaking like a virgin bride.. Don’t fight it, submission is holy, Victor."
Victor can only moan brokenly, trapped between the pain tearing through him and the shame burning hotter than anything else. The collar digs into his throat with every thrust.
The shelves creak under his weight. He tries to hold onto something—anything—but the agony and shame are too loud.
The room fades. The brutal stretch, the wet slap of skin, Quinn’s degrading words… they all blur into a distant haze. Victor floats somewhere outside his own body, watching from above as if this is happening to someone else. A broken priest in a cassock, collar askew, getting fucked raw against a wall.
This isn’t the real Quinn, he thinks numbly. The real Quinn was kind. The one who helped me decorate the shelter at Christmas. The one who praised my shaky paper stars and smiled at the sick children. That Quinn would never…
He clings to that memory like a lifeline. He remembers the warm and gentle reverend who once felt like hope. Not this monster wearing his skin.
Quinn says something but Victor doesn’t quite catch it. Victor doesn’t answer either. He can’t. The pain is still there, a sharp throbbing roar in the background, but it feels distant now. Like it belongs to the other Victor.
Time floats. Victor drifts deeper, wishing desperately for the kind Quinn from years ago. He doesn’t register the change when Quinn’s rhythm grows erratic. He doesn’t feel the way Quinn’s cock swells inside him.
He only feels the relentless, punishing friction, his own hand limp and forgotten while Quinn’s keeps stroking him with a predatory speed. The stimulation reaches a feverish high.
Even as his mind hovers in that numb, dissociative fog, his nerves scream. With a strangled, broken sound, Victor comes hard while he is still miles away from himself. He spills over his own stomach, his legs buckling as the pleasure turns to an aching emptiness.
He barely has time to register his own climax before Quinn slams in deep one final time. The sudden, invasive flood of heat shocks Victor back into his body. Thick pulses of cum fill him, spilling deep into the space he never wanted to give. Quinn groans long and low against his neck, his hips grinding down, marking Victor from the inside.
“There… my sweet boy,” Quinn whispers tenderly, still buried to the hilt, twitching with aftershocks. Victor’s breath stutters.
Tears burn his eyes as the full horror crashes back in. The pain, the shame, the sticky warmth leaking down his thighs—it’s all real. And the kind Quinn he had been clinging to in his mind was never real at all.
The dumbass was out camping with his friends and returned with uninvited guests nesting in his hair and clothes. And probably in his soul too. What the actual fuck.
Victor, half-dead from exhaustion, had considered asking Graham how it happened. Briefly. But the how was irrelevant. The fact was that Graham now stood in the doorway scratching his neck like a diseased mutt.
Victor’s eyes burned with fatigue. The midnight sun glared through the blinds, bleaching the room in that dreamy perpetual golden light.
"You dog," Victor said flatly before narrowing his eyes.
Something jumped from Graham’s sleeve to the floor. Victor stared at it, blinking hard to keep his vision from blurring.
“Oh,” Graham said, eyes as vacant as ever.
Oh?
Fucking oh?
“Did you know,” Victor attempted to breathe normally, “that fleas can survive for months without feeding?”
Graham shifted his backpack off one shoulder, "No". More little spots jumped onto the hardwood.
Before Victor could snap, the doctor emerged from the hallway. He took one look at Graham then slowly looked at Victor. Victor just knew the doctor was trying his best to remain calm. He himself was too tired to even pretend.
“Strip. Boil everything. Shower with industrial soap,” The doctor ordered.
Graham looked scandalized, “Industrial?”
Yet he didn't press on. Graham shuffled toward the bathroom, leaving behind dirt and what Victor was increasingly sure was a Spruce Beetle.
The doctor watched the trail.
From behind the bathroom door came Graham’s voice, “…Do fleas drown?”
Victor shouted back, “Find out yourself!”
“…What if one gets in my ass?”
The doctor went back to his room but not before muttering, "Help your—him." Victor closed his eyes.
For one beautiful second, he considered arson.
Hii, quick fic to get me back into writing <3 I've been wanting to write something featuring The Family for ages
