Resident devotion @saint-adjacent - Tumblr Blog

I say this gently and I mean it entirely—

Ageless blogs will be blocked.

If your blog does not clearly state that you are over 18, I must ask—do not interact.

Not because I doubt you, per se, but because I refuse to guess. I do not entertain ambiguity, especially not here.

This space is curated. Intentionally so. And while I take great pleasure in indulgence, I take even greater pleasure in boundaries that hold.

If you belong here, you’ll know to say so.

yes-darling

Indulge me while I repeat myself: ageless blogs, do not interact. I assure you, my block button works beautifully—and I do so love to use it.

yes-darling

Reblogging because some of you just dont seem to understand. If you are 17 and below, DNI with my posts. I dont care if you’re going to turn 18 in a few days, in a week or in a year. simply DNI. Or you will be blocked.

v1olent-love

kneeling on the ground between the priest's legs as he looks down at you from the pew. he shoves his boot between your legs and makes you ride it to earn forgiveness, a rosary in one hand and a fistful of your hair in the other. send post.

-🩺

#there are easier ways to ruin your life than reverend coded men but apparently none interest me #the cathedral was never this warm #priest kink

Faith never touched me the way he did.

a-french-guardsman

i am normal and can be trusted around priests.

#by trusted i mean clinically observed perhaps restrained #the cassock stays ON actually no wait come back #me when the man of god has tired eyes and large hands #hierophilia

He asked if I believed in God, then took my answer on his knees.

He unclasped my hands from prayer and pinned them over my head

He said “this is a confession.”

I said “So make it loud.”

On forgiveness

He asked for forgiveness.

Not the way one usually does like with remorse or timing.

No, he said it the way some people say grace before a meal: more out of habit than humility. He said it when his hands were already well past the point of decency, when the room had long since given up pretending to be anything holy.

He said it again, slower this time. Measured. Like a man reading aloud from scripture he doesn’t quite believe in, but enjoys the sound of anyway.

I didn’t answer. Not because I didn’t hear, but because my throat was otherwise occupied—with breath, with his name.

He asked for forgiveness, but kept thrusting anyway.

Because what is forgiveness, really, if not another way of staying inside someone a little longer than you should?

And he did say my name. Eventually. Right there, pressed against my throat like a benediction.

And I—God forgive me—I took it.

All of it.

I have a chain now. Not a rosary. Just a chain. When I wear it, people look. The weight of it against my throat feels like penance. Or a leash. Some days I’m not sure which I want more.

He said “Amen” with my thighs around his ears

I let him inside me because the church had no room.

He braced one hand on scripture and the other at the base of his cock, as though both were tools for instruction: one for salvation, one for sin.

He whispered repent, I moaned louder.

He pulled his cock free—hard, flushed, angry with need.

“Kiss it,” he says. “Don’t suck. Just press your mouth to it. Like worship.”

saint-adjacent

If youre so sure He’s real, why do you grip my hips like Im the only thing that is?

He told me to repent.

Then held my hips steady while we sinned.

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