thank you @racistareversa for the beautiful art! 1st lady of Crash Out City, ❤︎ ⃕ democratically elected by izuku midoriya! 24! dark content ahead. minors dni.
synopsis: after getting pricked by a porcupine, valko is sentenced to the cone of shame for 7 days. the vet has one additional instruction: avoid skin-to-skin contact with you.
slowly, he descends into depravity.
tags: fluff, smut, comfort, established relationship, porn with plot, sexual tension, porcupine, valko goes to the vet, poorly researched veterinary procedure, valko implied to have previously been sprayed by a skunk, this dog eats chocolate, plot gets progressively hornier, clingy valko, switch valko, begging, facesitting, cunnilingus, face riding, cum eating, doggy position, spit kink, scent kink, licking, light predator prey, light wrestling, floor sex, male masturbation, voyeurism, biting, manhandling, unprotected penetrative sex, knotting, at least i tried knotting im not too involved with that so i dont know for certain, shirt sniffing, pillow sniffing, these are out of order, poorly proofread
pairing: valko x fem reader
word count: 5.4k
a/n: may you forever frolic in that big forest in the sky 🕊️
“Koko! Where are you? We’re going to be late!”
Your gut swirls with worry as you check your phone again. It’s been over an hour—is he still not back from his run?
Any longer, and your reserved seats for the newest horror movie would be stolen for sure. Not that you think he’d mind, though—he usually curled up into you before the second act even started.
Peering around the backyard, you scan the dense, verdant woods in all directions. He’d never dedicated himself to any particular trail, which meant that he could return from anywhere.
It also meant that he could be anywhere right now.
Fighting a losing battle with unease, you slide your phone into your back pocket and take a few timid steps toward the forest. No matter where he was, he’d come running if you got into trouble. You knew that for certain. How many times had he jumped defensively in front of you only for a bunny or a bird to be the perceived threat? Still, the unpredictability of nature gives you pause.
Just as you inch forward a few more steps, there’s a rustle at the treeline.
You can hear that Valko's hurt before you can see it. Those breathy, frustrated whines—you’d recognize them anywhere. But where is he? How is he injured?
A wall of green stares back at you, refusing to answer.
You’re jogging toward the trees now, throwing caution to the wind as you follow the sounds of his pain. Just before you cross into the forest, you finally spot your boyfriend’s massive figure, his wine red hair being the giveaway. He’s facing a pine tree, tail stiff and laid low, touching his head and wincing repeatedly.
As he registers your scent and whips around to face you, you understand why: at least 15 black-tipped, spindly death daggers sprout from his cheeks and nose.
“Valko?” You cover your mouth in shock, and he stumbles closer, falling forward against you.
“Hurts,” he grunts.
Like always, you struggle to support his large body. Even more so now that one wrong move could further impale him. “What happened?”
“Porcupines are supposed to be nocturnal,” he says, voice grim and shaky. “This one wasn’t.”
If you had an extra hand, you’d drag it down your forehead right now.
Skunks, raccoons, exceptionally angry squirrels—those had all happened before. A porcupine, though? That was new. Almost impressive.
“You just get into all sorts of trouble, don’t you.” Taking a step back, you brace your hands on his chest to examine him. “Let me have a look at you.”
The quills look like toothpicks dipped in black ink. And while a few of them seem to have barely penetrated his skin, the majority mark the porcupine’s decisive victory.
“Can you take them out?” he asks, staring down at you pleadingly. “If we hurry, we can still make the movie on time. I know I’m super late. I’m sorry.”
Twenty of nature’s finest knives in his face, and he’s worried about the movies?
“You obviously had a reason,” you murmur, cupping his less-affected left cheek in your hand. “I don’t know if I should, Koko. The tomato bath was one thing, but this… If I do it wrong, I’ll just make it worse.”
His response is simple: “I trust you.”
Cute. But not what you need right now.
Blowing out a breath, you stand up on your tiptoes and reach for one of the looser quills. Your fingers barely brush the tip of it when renewed anxiety shoots through you. “No, no. I can’t! I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You couldn’t if you tried.” He snorts, then winces at the pain.
“Tell that to the porcupine.” You narrow your eyes. “I think it missed the memo.”
His ears swivel in acknowledgment. He’s 0–2 in battles today.
“All right, change of plans,” you announce, clapping your hands and turning on your heel. “We can go to the movies another day. Right now, we need to go to the vet.”
“It’s not that serious,” he protests. “I’d do it myself if I just had a mirror. Let’s go back to the house, and—”
“I’ll get the car ready.” Your word is final.
His ears droop atop his head.
Ultimately, you had to ease him into the passenger’s seat so he didn’t accidentally nudge any of the quills. You debated just shoving him into the trunk so he’d have extra room, but figured extraction would be a difficult task in the clinic’s often-packed parking lot.
In the waiting room, you try to shield him as best you can from quizzical looks and a particularly curious cat, but he’s without a doubt the largest patient in the room. Likewise, once he’s called to the back, his sheer size makes the exam room furniture look like dollhouse accessories. The central table is nearly the length of his tail alone, and it creaks under his every movement. But you stand dutifully at his side, making sure he’s as comfortable as can be, given the circumstances.
The vet’s entrance is prompt as always—part of the reason why Valko prefers this clinic. The other is the giant fish tank in the waiting room that he gets to busy himself with. Today, he was in too much pain, but he typically holds intense staring contests with its oblivious inhabitants, bragging to you whenever he “wins.”
“Well, I typically ask, ‘What seems to be the problem?’,” Dr. Song jokes as she shakes both of your hands. “But today, I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Sighing, Valko scratches at his jeans. “I went out for a run, and I heard something grunting in a bush nearby. I thought it might’ve been a lost pup, so I went to check it out. Anyone would, right?” He looks to you for support.
Smiling softly, you rub a hand down his back. “Right.” Not in most circumstances, no!
Nodding gratefully, he continues. “As soon as I crouched down and saw it, it whipped its tail at me. Next thing I knew, it had stabbed me a million times.”
“Well.” Dr. Song sighs and pulls out a pair of tweezers. “You’re not the worst case I’ve seen. Sometimes, it’s the whole face—and neck.” She waves her hand forward, and Valko scoots toward her on the table. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”
You take a step back to give her some space, but she quickly shakes her head. “Oh no, you stay standing next to him. I might need you to hold him down.”
──────
Right when you wonder if Valko’s death grip will shatter every bone in your hand, Dr. Song holds up the final quill in triumph. “That’s nineteen quills total. Looks like Mr. Porcupine let you off easy.”
Valko kicks the air in desolation. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
“It will when you wake up tomorrow and you don’t have to wonder, ‘How did it even get my nostrils?’,” she retorts, heading to the door. “Now, let me just get your treatment, and you’ll be free to go.”
The second she steps into the hall, Valko turns to you and whimpers. “It hurts.”
Frowning in sympathy, you run your free hand through his hair. “How bad?”
“Really.”
You start to shush him and scratch the backs of his ears how he likes, but approaching footsteps force him to regain his composure. Still, when Dr. Song re-enters the room, he holds your hand a little tighter.
“All right,” she begins. “I’m going to disinfect and put ointment on the wounds, and…” She pulls out a familiar, conical object from behind her back.
Valko freezes as soon as he sees it. Your own mouth parts in shock.
Is that…?
No way.
“...to keep them from getting infected, either through scratching or contamination, I recommend you wear this recovery cone for a week. Just to be safe.”
When she waves the transparent cone through the air, Valko sputters in consternation. “You want to put me in jail?”
“Of course not. You’ve done nothing wrong. But to prevent further irritation, it’s best that for the next seven days, you only remove this from your neck when absolutely necessary. Also, you should avoid certain skin-to-skin activities that may aggravate the entry spots.”
You understand her implication, but Valko’s tail thrashes in unease. “What…what kind of activities?”
The doctor smiles down at him. “The usual. Scenting, kissing, anything further than that. Now! Raise your head for me so I can clean the punctures.”
Before he does, Valko gives you a look that needs no decoding: I think I’m gonna be sick.
Day 1
Your keys clatter on the kitchen counter as Valko trails inside behind you.
Knowing he’ll be glum about his current confinement, you try to get ahead of it, hoping you can offset the bad with so much good, he’ll forget about being in plastic prison.
“So, is there anything you want to do this evening? Watch a drama, make double chocolate chip cookies, play a video game? I could order in from your favorite steakhouse if you want. Or we could go for a walk?”
Despite your efforts, his lips stay curved downward. His ears barely twitch at the mention of his favorite things.
“Okay, what about—”
“I look dumb,” he mumbles suddenly, blinking at you through the cone. It surrounds his head like petals to a flower, stopping just above his nose. He looks like an upright bullhorn, or perhaps a frilled lizard, but you can’t tell him that.
“You look safe,” you say instead. “That’s what matters, yeah?”
“Not when I look dumb, too.” With a huff, he reaches behind his head, eager to free himself of Conecatraz. But before he can undo the clasp, you’re crossing your arms and tapping your foot, giving him a withering glare.
“You know you aren’t supposed to touch that. Put your hands down.”
“Make me.”
Oh, really? That’s how it is?
Scoffing, you cock your head at him, and the first signs of regret appear on his face. “‘Make’ you, huh? Should I call the vet and tell her what you’re up to? I’m sure she has advice for patients who break the rules. Like, maybe if you mess with your cone too much and stunt your healing progress, you’ll just have to wear it even longer to make up for it?” You start to turn, ready to stalk toward the house phone.
“No, wait!” Lurching forward, he tries to bend down to snuggle you in apology—a favorite habit of his. But you sidestep him quickly, clicking your tongue in admonishment.
As he loses his balance, he gives you a look of ultimate betrayal.
“Don’t pout at me. I'm doing this for you, okay? You heard the doctor. Where your face is concerned, skin-to-skin contact is off limits for now.”
As if he didn't hear you, he ducks toward you again, desperate to marry his cone to your shoulder. This time, you give his arm a healthy pinch, and he yelps in shock.
“No, Koko. It's for your own good.”
Frustration grows on his face, beginning to claw at your heart, too. He’s never had to limit contact with you like this. Even when you first met, he was stuck to you like a magnet.
Sighing, you try to bring him some comfort. “Here. Get on your knees.”
He follows the order without further prompting, sinking to his knees on the kitchen floor. Even like this, he’s still half your height.
“Come here.” Reaching through the cone’s opening, you pet the top of his head, running your fingers through his soft strands with care. When he leans into your touch, you trace his ears with light strokes and smile when he shudders. Gradually, the deep frown on his face shrinks to a mild line of displeasure.
He wraps his strong arms around your thighs in a stubborn thank-you, and you can't help but coo down at him. “You’re my big, strong wolf, aren’t you? It’ll be over before you know it. You can handle this, no problem.”
Day 3
Valko could not handle it, and there were many problems.
In fact, while he was bored out of his mind the night of Day 2, he pried open his laptop and drafted a list of complaints.
Eating has become an unpleasant experience. While he’s permitted to remove the cone at mealtimes, he must eat in a separate room so your scent doesn’t lure his unprotected self over. Worse, you will not enter the room until he’s refastened the cone around his neck. The humiliation of having to cone himself solely to win your presence is quickly becoming too much to bear.
You won’t let him go on errands with you, lest he get into something he shouldn't and aggravate his wounds. This makes him incredibly restless—especially when you come home smelling like other people and things, and there’s nothing he can do about it. This causes significant anxiety and emotional distress.
He usually sleeps with his tail curled around you and his face shoved deep into your skin. This earns him a constant stream of your scent. However, a wall of pillows now separates your sides of the bed. Even worse, he is not permitted to remove the cone for the night. This causes discomfort and loss of familiarity, which undermines the restorative purpose of sleep. He will be sending you any medical bills that arise due to his sleep deprivation.
Last, but perhaps most important: the cone obstructs his view of you, which he depends on for energy throughout the day. (You’re quick to deem this one questionable, because the cone is fully see through???)
A document of his grievances was taped to your blanket, just over your heart, this morning.
Clearly, he had a lot on his mind.
Now, you lie on the sofa watching TV, trying to cuddle with him as best you can. Your fingers are intertwined, and he’s sprawled awkwardly across your lap, face up and eyes begging. You try to ignore the incessant nonverbal pleading, rubbing circles into his skin with your thumb.
Sometimes, he turns his head into your belly—or maybe a little lower—and inhales as deeply as he can through the plastic. When you gasp and swat at him, suddenly scandalized, he only huffs and grumbles, bringing you closer. “Just let me have this.”
As the sun dips in the sky, he almost relaxes. He grows captivated by the nature show you’re watching, ears going into overdrive from all the birdsongs and animal calls. It’s the calmest he’s been in the last three days, you think—until the “woodland creatures” portion of the show begins.
His mortal enemy lies in wait within.
“It’s not as big as the one that did this to me,” he growls at the porcupine stumbling around on the screen. “He was a monster.”
“I’m sure he was,” you answer automatically. You’re used to this by now. “How else could he have taken you down?”
Valko grunts in agreement, then pauses the TV. “Can we do something else now?”
“Okay.” You squint at him warily. “Something like what?”
Slowly, as if you won’t be able to see him, he trails his hand down your side, gently squeezing at your hip.
“No,” you sigh, firmly returning his hand to him.
Tuning out his protests, you unpause the show. At that moment, a closeup of the porcupine’s snout fills the screen.
“Can you at least change the channel, then?” he mumbles.
Day 5
Since you’ve known him, Valko has never been one to give up. Driven and scrupulous, he approaches life with an outlook that’s both endearing and exhausting: if not now, maybe later.
It’s no surprise, then, when his attempts to hold and claim you like normal escalate to new heights.
One time, you catch him in the midst of the most primal desperation.
It’s not even noon yet, but here he is: laid out nude in the middle of your bed, head propped on his set of pillows while he clutches one of yours to his cone. With his instincts compromised and your scent already flooding his nose, he can’t yet tell that you’ve entered the room. And boy. If you thought he was shameless in public, Valko in private is a whole different animal.
His hand is all but glued to the heavy bulk between his legs, pumping and twisting like he’ll die if he doesn’t.
His thumb circles his tip as he works his rhythm, abs flexing with each ragged breath. Every soft, broken moan of your name is an axe to your resolve.
Before you do something you’ll regret, you try to back out of the bedroom and leave. But as soon as one foot is out the door, your shoulder hits the wall with a quiet thump.
You freeze instantly, your heart dropping to your feet.
There’s no point in hoping he didn’t hear. To Valko, no sound is ever quiet.
He jerks his head toward you immediately, steady pumps getting wilder the moment your eyes meet. “Fuck,” he pants, writhing desperately on the sheets. His massive thighs tremble with every movement, sending tiny shocks of heat to your core. “Fuck.”
“Valk—”
“Please help me. Please, it hurts so bad. I need you so bad, please, it’s been days.”
You bite your lip so hard, you think you’ll draw blood. “You know I can’t.”
“I don’t care what the vet said,” he growls, fist finally coming to a stop. “I care about you.”
Clinging to resolve, you cross your arms and stay put. At that, he closes his eyes and breathes slow and deep through his nose.
“Just— Help me finish, please. You don’t have to touch anywhere near my face. That’s the rule, right?”
As that pleading stare pins you to the spot once more, you bite your lip in consideration. He’s flushed all over, and a thin sheen of sweat coats his whole body. He really does need your help, but can you risk it?
When his mask slips, letting the hungry glint in his eyes shine through, you know you can’t.
“I won’t touch you, Valko. But you can use this.” Swiftly, you tug your shirt over your head and toss it onto the bed. He catches it with ease, and behind the cone, his face contorts in bewilderment.
“Use it?”
“To finish,” you explain, folding your arms across your bra. “It’s the safest way I can help you right now.”
Gazing at you like you’re a deity reborn, he presses the fabric to his cone’s exterior, right outside his nose. As he inhales, a deep, guttural groan escapes him. “Thank you,” he pants. His hand returns to his reddened length, and he redoubles his earlier efforts.
Leaking arousal glistens on his skin, and you can hear how much easier it makes things for him. Covered in his own desire, he slides his hand up and down with no friction, creating lewd, wet sounds that echo through the room.
“Thank you, thank you— Fuck, thank you. I’ve done this like ten times already, and it’s taken me longer every go,” he admits shamelessly. “This is so much better. Not as good as you, but so much better. Thank you.”
He bucks his hips into his giant fist, and for a moment, you fear your shared bed might collapse under his ferocity. Once he starts licking the cone’s wall, as if he’ll be able to taste your shirt through the plastic, you almost want to avert your eyes and leave the two of them alone together.
You don’t have long to ponder it. Soon after, Valko comes quickly with a deep groan of your name, coating his skin in spills of white. As he convulses in pleasure, you approach his bedside to stroke his hair through the cone’s opening—just like you have for the last several days. Valko whines at your touch.
“Shh, baby. It’s okay,” you whisper. “Just two more days, yeah?”
His response is halfway between a growl and a grunt. Chuckling, you bend to kiss his damp, darkened hair. “Just two more days.”
Day 7
At 12 a.m., you wake to an empty bed. “Koko?”
There’s no response to your call. Groaning, you throw off the covers and stretch your tired limbs. Where did he run off to? It’s barely been two hours since you went to bed.
Hugging yourself to keep warm, you pad into the dark hallway. The home gym is clear, and he’s not in the kitchen sneaking chocolate. Where could he be?
It doesn’t take long to find out.
In the living room, Valko stands at the back door, gazing at the moon through the window.
He’s clad only in loose grey sweats. More notably, he’s missing his cone.
The only indication that he knows you’re there is a near imperceptible twitch of his ears. “It’s day seven, did you know that?” he rumbles.
Suddenly nervous, you shift on your feet. “I did.”
“So you also know what I’ve been missing the last seven days.” He turns to face you, eyes stormy and narrowed. “What I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. What I begged you to give me, but you refused. Acted like you were doing me a favor,” he spits out, lips curling into a snarl.
In the moonlight filtering through the window, his amber eyes are a new level of otherworldly. Pale, greyish-white slivers flicker across his chest, making his taut abs seem to ripple in front of you.
After seven days, he looks very, very grumpy.
You get the sense that you’re in trouble.
“Koko,” you start, stepping forward to placate him, “you know that’s not—”
“Don’t ‘Koko’ me,” he snaps. “That’s reserved for people I’m close with.”
Is he serious? “You know I’m closer to you than anyone.”
“Right now? After this week? I’m not so sure. But you will be.” His tail swishes behind him as he takes a menacing step toward you. “Come here,” he growls out.
“We can talk about this, but I’m not going to—”
“Three.”
“Okay, are you seriously threatening me with a countdown?”
“Two.”
“That’s my thing! You know, when you won’t let me get out of bed, or when you bite too hard, or—”
He doesn’t let you get to “one.”
When he bursts forward at superhuman speed, he doesn’t even give you the chance to run.
You’re in his arms in an instant, thrashing wildly as he tries to pull you both to the floor. “You’re heavy as fuck!” you bark at him. “Let me go!”
“No.” He overpowers you easily, lowering you to the carpet and quickly pinning you there. He only takes a moment to revel in your submission—your high squeaks and whimpers and feeble attempts to swat him off. Evidently, he has bigger plans for you.
While you wriggle beneath him, he deftly kicks off his sweats and quickly deals with your clothes. You’re wearing only a nightshirt—his, you notice all too late—and completely vulnerable to his impatience.
He rips a line straight down the middle, clumsily shrugging the worn fabric off you. While you’re too busy gawking to register his actions, he slides down your body, coming to a halt at your traitorously wet heat.
“Usually, at least a little bit of my scent lingers here,” he says, inhaling you deeply. “You’ve lost it after not taking me for so long. But we’ll fix it, won’t we?”
When you don’t respond, his eyes flash up at you. “Won’t we?”
“Y-Yeah,” you whisper, signing away your fate.
“Yeah, we will.” Surging forward, he places an open-mouthed kiss to your entrance, swirling his tongue into you without warning. His ensuing groan could start a national scandal.
“I’m gonna let you go, all right?” He nips your inner thigh. “Don’t try to run from me. I’ll catch you.”
He watches closely as he eases off of you, but there’s no need—you obey.
“Good girl,” he mocks, and you break his gaze with a huff.
Chuckling, he sweeps his hair back and lies down on the carpet, grabbing your arm and dragging you to him. “Sit on me.”
“…What?”
“My face. Sit on it.”
“…What?”
“Oh, I get it. Is this a ‘make me’ kind of thing? Well, if you insis—”
“No!” You hold your hands out in defense, grimacing when he grins at you. “You know we’ve never…done that before.”
He shrugs. “First time for everything. Hop on.”
You stay put, shaking your head with vigor no matter how hard your center pulses. “What if you can’t breathe?”
“Don’t need to.”
“I think you do, but okay.” Playing with your fingers, you search for another excuse. “What if I’m too heavy?”
Valko’s smile slips, and his top lip curls as he looks at you flatly. “Now you’re just insulting me.”
In retrospect, you should’ve known that one wouldn’t get you very far.
“Fine,” you concede shakily. Crawling toward him, you put your hands on either side of his massive body and sit down on him in a straddle. Gingerly, you scoot up, and up, and up, until your hips are right below his chin. His smirk widens all the way.
“Last chance to back out,” you offer helplessly. How would grilled porcupine taste?
“In your dreams.” In an instant, his arm shoots out behind you and guides you forward. You cry out the second your sensitive flesh meets his skin, nearly cursing from the foreign sensation.
For a moment, all he does is breathe you in. Lewd, deep inhales, trying to siphon the scent from your depths. “Missed this,” he murmurs, words slightly muffled. “Missed you. Fuck, you’re so good. You smell so good.”
You’re afraid to look down, but you don’t have to. You can hear his smile.
Instead, you look behind you, seeing that his thick, veiny length is flushed and leaking already. Your gulp echoes in your ears.
A soft press of his lips to your throbbing clit pulls you back to your senses. With another kiss, he positions the bud over his nose and your entrance over his mouth, so he’s sure to catch all your desire.
When he squeezes your hip, you know he’s asking for more. Gently, timidly, you rock against his face to appease him. Valko, though, ever observant when you’re involved, knows you’re withholding your full weight.
And he won’t have it.
Simultaneously, he delivers a sharp slap to your backside and nips your clit in warning. When you squeal out into the cool air, he soothes the sting with a searing lash of his tongue.
“I’m trying!” you cry. “Whenever we do this, I’m always the one on my back! I feel weird.”
Squeezing your hips, he lifts you up just enough to speak. “Tough.”
Then, he plops you right back down, the smack of skin on skin spreading a wildfire across your cheeks.
Eager to explore, he glides his tongue around your core, poking and prodding wherever he likes. When you arch away from the pleasure, too sensitive to stay still, he decides he’s had enough.
His tight grip on your hips is his first act of defiance. But when he starts bouncing you on his face, alternating between his mouth and nose, you’re more than ready to throw in the towel.
“Valko!” you whine. Up and down, down and up. Up and down again and again. How long has he wanted this?
A response would require a pause in his actions, so of course, he doesn’t provide one. Instead, he flattens his tongue against your clit and makes you grind your hips down onto him, like he’s nothing but an extension of you. “Valko!” you repeat, stars quickly clouding your vision.
All he offers is an unburdened grunt, clearly not planning on stopping anytime soon. And why would he, when there’s so much to lap up?
A mix of his saliva and your arousal pools between you, with sound effects previously unheard of filling the room. You’re so wet, at one point, you almost slide down his face to his forehead—but he hauls you back up with a laugh, the vibrations only exacerbating the issue. When you pull at his hair, shy and embarrassed, he merely sucks your clit into his mouth and releases it with a pop.
Captive to his relentless touch, it isn’t long before your muscles contract and release, sending more and more wetness gushing toward his waiting mouth.
Your mind is a haze as he licks you clean, making sure not to waste a single drop. You do register, though, how he inhales once again when he’s finished. “Smells like me again. That’s better.”
Thinking his wrath has exhausted itself, you feel your body deflate like a popped balloon. You’re more than ready to melt into the sheets and sleep off the worst of the aftermath.
“We should seal the deal, though. Just to be sure.”
Valko has other plans.
Before you can blink, he flips you over with force, driving your hands and knees into the carpet. When you yelp, he squeezes your backside in apology, only to slip his fingers down to your open slit. Once he confirms that you’re ready for him, he braces his hands on your hips and slides into you with ease.
Your startled gasp is his grand opportunity. As you cry out his name, he shoves his fingers into your open mouth, making you sputter and swallow around them. With his other hand, he clamps your jaw shut so you’re forced to bite him, your blunt teeth barely a threat against his skin.
All the while, he’s moaning and laughing, hips stuttering from his rapid thrusts. Each time his base slaps your backside, you feel him grow larger and larger, until you’re being speared on something you’re not sure you can take. But as your muscles contract around him once more, squeezing him with all that they have, you don’t think that matters anymore.
In tune with your own release, hot spurts shoot deep into your channel, followed by a searing, swollen pressure you don’t know if you’ll ever get used to. It’s at this point that the last of your strength crumbles. But when you start to slump into the floor, you find you can’t move too far—not without bringing Valko with you.
As you both catch your breath, locked together until the comedown, he slides his hand out of your mouth and slaps your cheek lightly, signaling for you to open your screwed-shut eyes. When you do, he sticks his drool-coated fingers into his own mouth, canines poking into his flesh as he swipes his tongue greedily.
All you can do is whine.
You don’t know when your bodies will loosen up enough for you to separate. All you know is that he’s got you here, right where he wants you, for a long, long, agonizingly long time.
──────
“Are you satisfied?” you deadpan as the beast finally tucks you into bed.
“For now.” You can hear his smirk as he flicks off the lights. Doesn’t make much of a difference, though.
It’s dawn.
“But you can check back with me in an hour. Maybe my answer will be different.”
“In an hour, I will be dead to the world and recovering from you,” you grumble. Suddenly, you purse your lips. “I’m gonna miss that cone, you know.”
Even in the dim morning light, you can see his brows furrow. “What?”
“You looked cute in it. Like a little puppy.” Reaching out, you grab his face and squish his cheeks between your fingers. “So cute.”
He scoffs and rolls his eyes, but his tail thumps the mattress. “Whatever. It did have its benefits, though. Tonight was so good, I wouldn’t mind a repeat.”
“You really think you can do that again? Seven whole days, no contact?”
“‘Course I do. It wasn’t that hard for me.”
Your eyes narrow into slits. “Not even you believe that.”
“Yeah. This was fun, though,” he says through a yawn. “We should do it again sometime. Goodnight.”
As he rolls over and tucks his tail around you, blanketing you in half his body weight, a nagging thought won’t leave your head.
Should you switch vets?
requested tags (you have been warned): @creator-freak, @hughugh20, @saineden, @driedrosesanddaffodils, @pjselee, @strawberrybananamin, @applefishiedragonluvin, @oolong-tea-leaf, @ceceoboro, @simpforsylus3, @akisashtray
🌴Synopsis: When you decide to take a vacation to an island resort with your husband, you think that this is the perfect opportunity to rekindle the lost spark and romance in your relationship. But when your hubby doesn’t exceed your expectations, or even attempt to fulfill them, you start to think that this was a horrible idea…until you meet the sexy celebrity married couple at the pool who are interested in getting to know you on a more personal level and showing you the wonderful vacation that your husband won’t…and can’t.
🌴Warnings: 18+ (MDNI); Reader is Black and Fem; Pro!KiriBaku (Late 20s-30s); Cheating/Infidelity; Baecation; Strangers to Lovers; Alcohol Use; Drunk Sëx (but still consensual); Threesome; Dual Blowjob; Dual Cunnilingus/Analingus; Anal Play; Gaping; Double Penetration; PIV; Anal Sex; Hubby Calls While Y'all Fucking teehee; Slutification; Cock Drunk!Reader; Pussy Drunk!Kiribaku; Creampie/Analpie; Aftercare; Dom!Kiribaku x sub!Reader; Reader Cums 3x
🌴Word Count: 12.9k
🌴Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!
🌴Writer's Note: I got this little idea after I came back from a cruise vacation & thought about getting dicked down the whole time lmaoo. This fic came out last summer & I wanted to revise it for the new summer era! I hope y'all enjoy it! <3 -love, Jazz
🌴Credits: Kiribaku Fan art credit goes to syrinide! Follow them on Twitter HERE! Dividers made by @feldiesgraphics & @dollywons!
You thought that experiencing sex on vacation would be a lot hotter.
You thought that smelling the sea breeze and hearing the call of seagulls would make for a sexy ambience to ignite that spark.
But lying beneath your panting, sweating husband as he ruts into you from behind doesn’t make even the least bit of your pussy twitch. While the foreplay started off good, it started during a moment where you were just chilling, reading a book, kind of hungry, and not in the mood for sex…but of course, your husband can’t read the room and is always thinking with his dick.
So when he proceeds to speed up and repeat that “oh, yeah, oh, yeah” mantra that he does when he gets close, you lie there on your tummy and let it happen, just letting him enjoy it.
You feel like you owe him this. After all, you did take him away from his job and responsibilities as a businessman for a seven-day trip at a resort along the Caribbean sea. Maybe lackluster sex isn’t too bad. Not like other things in your marriage.
And you are reminded of those things when you feel him pull out and spray his cum on your ass, stilling his hips and letting out a loud grunt as he grips your ass so tight that you wince with pain. When he finally lets out a sigh of relief, he stares down at you, a lazy smile on his face. “Did you cum?” he asks. You nod though you certainly didn’t. But you are the dutiful wife, moaning when you should and pumping up his ego.
Satisfied, your hubby gives you a chaste kiss on the lips and rolls off of you, leaving you lying naked on the pristinely white sheets of your king-sized bed. You purposely ordered a suite for the two of you for this trip, complete with sofa bed, a vanity for your makeup, a mini-bar, and a balcony overlooking the beach. Perfect for a “baection” with your man to get your marriage back on track and spend time together…or so you thought.
Once again, reality smacks you in the face when he moves to the edge of the bed naked, showing off his toned body. He truly is a beautiful specimen, but if any woman got him in the bedroom now, they would dumb his ass before he could bust a nut.
The sex while you were dating was quite good, but now? He barely takes the time to make you cum. One could argue that it’s because of his demanding career, but you always take the time to make him “arrive” when you are intimate.
But him? Crickets. Not to mention no consideration for your pleasure, no care, and no spark. You can’t remember the last time he even attempted to make you cum!
And then…there is the worse part. You turn over on your side as he slides on his robe. “You’re not gonna cuddle?” you disappointedly ask. Your husband pulls a face like he doesn’t believe you’re serious. “You know I don’t cuddle after sex, Y/N. It’s nasty.”
You scowl at him. He didn’t used to be like this at all. He used to snuggle with you afterwards. Now after sex he is more concerned about cumming and then cleaning up, barely regarding you as his wife. “And cumming on my ass isn’t?” you ask, your tone snipped. He pauses from tying his robe and grimaces. “Well, I was gonna ask if you wanted to join me, but not with that attitude.”
You rise from your position and get under the covers, the cool sheets feeling like silk against your naked body. “I’m sorry, I just…we never cuddle anymore. I thought this trip would change that.”
Your husband only sighs as if you pouring your heart out to him is more of an inconvenience to his shower than not. “We can cuddle after my shower, Y/N. Don’t be so impatient.”
And then he is gone, disappearing into the bathroom and leaving you alone to feel hurt. And then that hurt stews into irritation. When you hear the water running, it steams just as your anger does.
You start to wonder what you did any of this for. Stressing over the best resorts and just to appease a husband who could care less about the waning romance in your marriage? Four years together, one year married, and all of it hanging on a thin thread because he refuses counseling, therapy, or to talk about your issues.
Your anger pushes you to rise from the prison of the bed, wipe your hubby’s spunk off your ass with some tissues, and get dressed in your brand new bikini. It is a vibrant yellow that makes your brown skin pop and makes your ass look absolutely delectable. It is among one of the pieces of sexy vacation outfits that you brought along for this vacation. After dressing, you begin packing your beach bag, barely turning around when you hear the shower shut off and footsteps approach.
“Hey, where ya goin’?” your husband asks as if he didn’t just reject you. You don’t turn around as you toss sun tan oil and a romance book in your bag. “I’m going to the pool,” you snippily reply. “Alone.”
Your husband is silent, watching you pack. “But I thought we were gonna cuddle.” You scoff, finally turning to face him dripping wet in his towel. “Well, we could’ve, but you wanted to shower first after fucking me when I told you about three times that I wasn’t in the mood.”
You watch his face change from confusion to irritation. Yet another fight and you’ve only been on this ship for a day! “So now I’m the bad guy now?” he scoffs. “You always do this, Y/N. You always wanna twist shit around on me when you don’t get your way!”
You tilt your head at him, glaring daggers. “When I don’t get my way?” you parrot, enraged.
You could smack him with the sunscreen you’re holding gripped in your hand. “All I did was ask for a fucking snuggle with my husband who only shows me affection when he’s got his dick in me.”
“That isn’t true!” he barks. You scoffingly laugh. “Oh, it’s not? I had to beg you to come on this vacation just to try to re-spark our romance…and you didn’t even wanna do that!”
You had been planning your introduction to the idea for months, praying that he would agree. He only agreed when you mentioned that you would pay for it and all he had to do was take off for the week. Thank God for your high-paying job and you saving up money for this trip.
Your husband stands before you now, fuming and fumbling for something to say. You continue to pack until completion and grab your wedges and key card before putting on your sunglasses. “I’ll be back up later,” you grumble. “Don’t wait up.” And you leave him standing in his towel, shutting the hotel door behind you before venturing off to the pool for a cool dip and a cool drink.
Your pool time to decompress proves to be a good plan. Deciding that the pool is too crowded for your liking, you head to the adults-only area complete with two bars, hot tubs, and ocean views galore. You go to the bar to order yourself a pretty and strong cocktail to take the last ten minutes out of your head.
As you sip on your drink with its pineapple and orange wedges on the glass, your phone rings in your bag. You fish it out, grinning as your friend’s name flashes across the screen. Thank God for the wi-fi package. “Heeeey, babes!” she shouts when you answer. Hearing her voice makes you homesick instantly. “Hey, babes,” you greet. “God, am I happy to hear from you.”
“I guess the plan isn’t going well,” she replies. “I was gonna ask how your trip is.”
You cross your legs on the stool, showing off your legs and skin glowing with sun tan oil for all to see. “Oh, I’m loving it, but not being in the same room with a man who won’t even cuddle me after fucking me.” You have admitted some things to your friend about your romance issues in your marriage, but not this.
“Daaamn, it’s like that?!” she gasps. “Girl, you should've been divorced that loser! I don’t know why you’re even bothering with this BS. You’ve only been married for a year!”
She’s been telling you this since you got married, reluctantly becoming your maid of honor despite her clear disdain for your fiancé. “But we’ve been together for four,” you remind her. “I can’t just walk away from that. When things are tough in a long term relationship, you try to work ‘em out!”
‘Until you can’t anymore,’ a little voice in your head remarks. ‘And maybe you’ve reached that limit.’ You wipe the thought away with another sip of your cocktail, your tastebuds exploding with the taste of rum and guava fruit.
“Yes, but why bother if you’re not happy?” your friend asks. “I mean, are you doing any of this because of you or him?”
You stop short, thinking about this. Is any of this for you anymore? What about your happiness? Your feelings? “This is for both of us,” you finally reply. “I can’t go on like this anymore. No touching, kissing, or romance…”
Lately, it’s been happening more since your husband’s promotion as you expressed to your friend months before. The dates have been dwindling, the connection is fading, and the sex is less than enjoyable. You aren’t happy, but you aren’t willing to give up either.
“How’s he been on the trip?” your friend asks. You use your straw to stir the ice around in your glass. “Just not paying much attention to me, drinking a lot…looking at other women.”
You wince as your friend begins to explode with rage. “EXCUSE ME?!” she bellows. “Oh, heeeell no! You’re gonna have to get even, girl. If he’s gonna do what he wants on this trip, so will you.”
“What does that mean?” you ask, not entirely sure you want to know the answer. She is happy to elaborate regardless: “It means finding the hottest guy there and getting some vacay dick, no strings attached.”
You nearly choke on the bit of pineapple wedge you bite into. “I can’t cheat on my husband!” you hiss into the phone. “What kinda girl do you think I am?!”
Your friend huffs in response. “Fine, then just flirt. Y/N, this is about your enjoyment too! You’re there for another six days, so why not make the most of it with an international stud?”
You can’t believe you're hearing this. You must have heatstroke. “You’re insane,” you scoff. “I can’t just pick some random guy and—“ You cut yourself off reaching across the bar for a napkin only for your hand to brush against someone else’s.
“Oh, sorry!” you gasp. “I wasn’t paying any….” Your words immediately die when you catch a glimpse of the red-hot stud sitting next to you at the bar. Literally, his long hair is red-hot, cascading down to his broad shoulders and chest exposed through the few unbuttoned buttons to his Hawaiian top. He is a big guy, at least six-foot something and all muscle as he sits in the stool next to you, bigger than you even while sitting down.
Your eyes trail down to his red trunks hanging loosely from his muscular thighs and calves right down to his big feet in his open-toe slides. Your eyes lecherously slide back up to his beefy arms, one of them inked with a sleeve, and the sharp, toothy smile he gives you.
“Don’t sweat it,” he replies, his crimson eyes kind, sparkling in the summer sun. “It’s my bad. I was actually gonna ask what drink that was.” You are so gobsmacked by this sexy stranger than you barely hear your friend screaming at you. “Y/N?!” she screeches. “Who is that?! Is he hot?!”
“Gottagocallyoulaterloveyabye,” you say in a rush before hanging up. The red-hot stranger continues to smile, making you sweat more than the hot rays above. “U-Uh, it’s called a Sex On The Beach.”
He laughs, the sound making your stomach curl. Even his laugh is sexy! “Interesting drink name,” he chuckles. “I heard they have a Cherry Popper and somethin’ called a Pink Pussy here too. Bakugou likes those.”
“Bakugou?” you question. He tuts, smacking himself on the forehead with a sheepish smile. “Oh, sorry; my husband.”
Your eyes glide down to the gold band on one of his thick ring fingers. Of course, he’s married. “Oh,” you sigh, wilting in disappointment…but why? You’re married! “I’ll have to try those ones. My husband ain’t a fan of cocktails like that; he calls them girly.”
You may as well let the stranger know that you’re married too. It’s only right…right? “Girly or not, they’re still hella good!” he laughs. “I know me and my man don’t care. I’m Kirishima, by the way.” He sticks one of his big, calloused, scarred hands out for a shake. You ignore the way your pulse jumps as your palm connects with his.
Kirishima? Where have you heard that name before? Suddenly, it clicks. “Wait, are you—“
“Red Riot?” he chuckles. “Just don’t blow my cover. I think the Hawaiian shirt is working.” You are shocked. You’ve never met a celebrity before, let alone a pro hero. You’re not used to seeing him without his gear either!
“It’s a pleasure, Red Riot,” you whisper, once again shaking his hand. It’s really just an excuse to feel his calloused palm gripped in yours again. “So you guys are here on a much-needed vacation?” you ask, sipping on your drink.
“Emphasis on ‘much-needed’,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Plus it’s our fifth year wedding anniversary and we wanted to celebrate. We’ve been together since our UA days.”
High school sweethearts?! You could melt right here on your stool. “That’s so sweet!” you coo, raising your glass to him. “Well, happy anniversary to the both of you.” The redheaded hunk smiles, blinding you. “Well, thank you…uh…”
“Y/N,” you introduce. “L/N.” The pro’s raises his sexy, pierced brow in interest. “Full government?” he chuckles. “Ejirou Kirishima then. My friends call me—“
“Oi, shitty hair!” someone barks from the lounge chairs. “What’s the hold up?! You went to get drinks five minutes ago!” You turn your head to the rough n’ gruff-sounding voice, nearly dropping your drink at the sight of the platinum blonde stud standing before you.
He is ALL man, just as his husband is: big, tall, all muscle, and all tattoos. In opposition to his husband, Dynamight has two sleeves plus a large dragon tattoo snaking around his left slave. Its tail trails up to his orange swim trunks that match the black skull tank top he wears.
Despite the Raybans covering his eyes, you can tell his eyes are as intense as his handsome face etched in seriousness is. The sun glows against his blonde undercut and the piercings glinting in his ears. His plump bottom lip and brow are pierced as well, definitely exposing you for your fetish.
The redhead turns to you with a smirk. “It’s Kiri, actually,” he whispers. He then rises to greet his husband, smiling extra big. “Sorry, babe; I got caught up talkin’ to my new friend here. Y/N, this is my husband Katsuki Bakugou.”
When Bakugou finally stops in front of you, you have to use every ounce of energy to appear normal while sitting with the two mountain-sized pros while they stand over you. Bakugou takes his shades off, putting them on his forehead. Those vermillion eyes are like lasers, intensified by Bakugou’s brooding look your way. His stare is hotter than the damn sun and you lose your cool.
“N-Nice to meet you,” you stammer. You stick your hand out for a shake. Bakugou stares at it for a brief moment before he takes it in his inked hand. “Likewise. You tryin’ to steal my husband from me?” His expression is so steely that you nearly miss the quirk at the corner of his mouth.
“He’s joking,” Kiri chuckles, nudging Bakugou in the arm. “Don’t scare the poor lady! I was just telling Y/N here that we’re on our anniversary trip.” Bakugou rolls his eyes but his cheeks are flushed pink. “Ya might as well tell it to everybody on this fuckin’ island.”
Kiri laughs, pressing a kiss to his husband’s cheek. “So are you here on your own anniversary trip?” the redhead curiously asks. You mentioned your hubby.”
“Oh, uh…” You freeze, thinking of something to answer with. “Maybe with friends?” Kiri adds. “Family? Or a solo traveler? Which would be cool too!”
“Jesus, shitty hair, what’s with the third degree?” Bakugou criticizes, glaring at his husband through his shades. The redhead goes red in the face, somehow making himself look sexier. “Sorry. I might’ve had too much before this.”
“I’m here with my husband,” you finally answer. “Nothing too special.” You take a sip of your drink to cool yourself down and give yourself some liquid courage. Discussing your marriage woes with strangers isn’t ideal for a starter convo for you, yet here you are. The couple look confused and quite perturbed at your statement. “What does that mean?” Bakugou asks, raising a pierced brow at you.
You shrug, feeling hot all over and the breeze from the ocean provides no comfort. You shouldn’t have talked. “Just that it’s not an anniversary trip or a honeymoon. It was my idea for a vacation.” You almost say that the entire trip came out of your pocket as well. “We’ve been together for four years, married for one.”
“Well, that’s somethin’ to celebrate!” Kiri exclaims, obviously trying to lighten things up. “And if you’re thinkin’ up fun trips like this, he should feel lucky to have you.” The genuine nature of his tone and the kindness in his eyes nearly make you fold. “You wouldn’t be the first to think that,” you bashfully reply, “but thank you.”
Kiri looks like he wants to say more but a tray of shot glasses wedged with lime and filled with clear liquid stops him short. “Shots on the house for the happy couple?” the bartender asks with a grin. When he motions to you with the tray, you realize with horror what he’s referring to. “O-Oh, we’re not—“
“Don’t be so coy, honey,” Kiri laughs, giving you a wink. “Thanks, sir! We’d love free shots!” He takes the tray from the bartender with no problem and gives him a thankful grin. You stare at him, wondering what in the world just happened and if you’re possibly hallucinating. Bakugou nudges your hip with his, smirking. “Don’t think nothin’ of it. You looked like you needed some tequila.”
He passes you a shot, the strong aroma nearly singeing your nostril hairs. An open invitation. After all, how often do you find yourself drinking with celebrities? Let alone pro heroes? And it is a vacation. “I guess I do,” you giggle, taking the shot from his thick fingers. You ignore the way your stomach flip flops as your fingertips brush his. “Cheers then!”
Bakugou’s eyes are full of mirth and interest. “To what?” he asks. You give him a secretive smile, placing a lime wedge in your mouth and sucking on it. You think the couple’s eyes flitting down to your mouth is just a trick of the sun. “To an unforgettable trip,” you respond.
Clink!
The three of you clink shots and down them in unison, laughing when Kiri coughs his lungs out. For the next fifteen minutes or so while Kiri orders cocktails for himself and Bakugou, you chat.
You learn about Musutafu, their home in Japan, is riddled with even more pro heroes than in the U.S.
You learn about Kiri’s love for spicy foods and Bakugou’s secret obsession with the manga series
‘A Sign of Affection’ that you both gush over. You tell them about your job and daily life; your likes and dislikes; your relationship with your husband.
You notice the way Kiri keeps a hand on Bakugou’s knee while sitting to stop him from bouncing it so much. Your eyes catch the way Bakugou’s fingers toy with the hair at the nape of Kiri’s neck. Little things like this make you envious. Not just of them, but of the fact that you can’t join in such PDA. Your husband would never hear of it.
By the time the convo comes to an end, you feel that buzz and rush of warmth from your drink and three tequila shots. And that recklessness that causes you to eye the couple’s crotches too much.
You should lay down before you do something you’ll regret. “You two should probably head back to your seats,” you tell the couple. “That family with the five kids looks awfully desperate for a chair.” You nod at the stressed-looking couple hollering at their kids to pick up their beach towels and stop fighting.
Bakugou grumbles something, already getting up to lay claim on their chairs. “Well, maybe we’ll see you around again,” Kiri says with a smile. “Me and Bakugou are thinkin’ of going to Club Paradise. You should bring your man along.” You blink in confusion before your brain, fuzzy from the tequila and the couples’ mixed cologne, realizes that he means the resort’s nightclub.
“Or just bring yourself,” Bakugou cuts in, not even caring how this suggestion sounds. “Sounds like your man is a wet blanket…no offense.” He shrugs passively though he doesn’t look like he’s that apologetic.
You’re sure the tipsy details you provided to them about your hubby doesn’t help: he doesn’t dance, he hates going out, and he’s all about work. “It’s fine,” you chuckle. “He might be interested, but we’ll see. I’ll give it some thought.”
“You should,” Kiri replies, unintentionally flexing as he stretches. You do your best to not stare. “A good drink and a dance always helps to…ease the tension.” Your ears perk at the way he says the last three words: seductive. Suggestive. A hot promise lying between the lines. If he meant it to come off this way, he succeeded because your body instantly responds.
“Especially with good company, I’m sure,” you say, shocking yourself by flirting back. Even more so with the way you stare straight at Kiri and Bakugou while you say it, memorizing their eye color for later. The two look like they want to say more to you, but they are interrupted by two pineapples being shoved at them.
“For Mr. Kirishima?” the bartender calls. Their drinks are done which means they are leaving now. You feel a pang of disappointment, but it ebbs somewhat when Kiri shoots you a smile. “See ya around, Y/N,” he says before walking off with his husband. As they leave, Bakugou turns back to look at you, his crimson eyes playing with you over the rim of his shades.
When you turn around to order a cool drink of water (because you desperately need it), your bikini bottoms feel sticky and you’re bothered. Extremely bothered. Especially when you sense that the couple is still eyeing you down from the back. Your nipples tingle beneath your bikini top and everything feels too stimulating. You haven’t had any guy make you feel this horny in years, let alone your husband!
Maybe you will take your friend’s advice tonight. There is no shame in flirting and having a little fun that doesn’t involve infidelity. Luckily for you, your husband has the same idea that the hot couple did: a night at Paradise.
When you go back upstairs for a shower and a nap, he peppers you in apologetic kisses. “I thought a lot about what you said earlier and I wanna make it up to you. Tonight will just be about you and me.” You believe him when he says this, trusting his word….until you actually get there.
After a shower, a nap, and some dinner at the buffet, you dress in your vacation clubbing finest: a short, backless dress that ties at the neck and some strapped gold heels with your white toes out. You leave your braids down, spray some fruity body mist on your skin, slather your body in shimmery oil, and you feel delicious as you stare at yourself in the mirror.
You wonder, briefly, if the sexy couple you met earlier will think so too. You’d be lying if you said you aren’t looking forward to seeing them tonight if they come. It’s the only thing worth staying for as you watch your drunk husband flirt with an Amazonian woman with the skin-tight dress, spray tan, and veneers right in your face. You can’t even enjoy the beautiful, tropical ambience or the music because of how irritated you are.
First, your husband decided to pre-game by ordering a whiskey with dinner. Now he’s here barely spending time with you when you look like a whole snack and disrespecting you?! He wouldn’t even be here if you didn’t pay for the trip!
The woman gives a raucous laugh at something he says, her teeth reminding you of a camel’s. “I can’t believe you live so close to me! What’s it like there? Are the guys as handsome as you?”
Your husband grins, sloppy and proud. You decide you’ve had enough and stroll up to them, putting a possessive hand on his shoulder. “Yes, they are,” you reply to the irritated woman. You whip your husband around to face you, fixing his collar. “Babe, why don’t we go get some drinks? There’s tons of cheap choices.”
At the mention of more booze, he nods and goes into his shorts for his wallet. Then he pats himself down. Then he checks his phone. “Shit, I left my card in the room,” he huffs. “Why don’t you get the drinks, babe? You’ve got your money, right?” You stare at him, your anger boiling like hot soup. “You left your credit card upstairs?” you hiss.
“But it was your idea to come here. Not mine.” Your husband begins to look around the room, concerned about other people but not you. “Listen, let’s not do this here, especially in public. Just get us some drinks and we can discuss this later.”
He gives you a look like he isn’t down with your “BS” tonight and you quickly storm off, heading to the bar. You could leave him standing here if you wanted to. Then he can be concerned with what other people think.
You are so angry that you nearly miss someone calling your name from the end of the bar. You look and your heart flips at the sight of the sexy couple that have been invading your thoughts since your first meeting at the pool.
Both are wearing Hawaiian shirts in differing ways (Kiri’s is slightly unbuttoned at the chest while Bakugou keeps his open to expose his white wife beater underneath) and shorts that don’t drag your attention to their dicks at all.
“Hey, you made it!” Kiri announces, looking overjoyed to see you. Bakugou sits on a stool, a smirk playing on his juicy-looking lips. “So she decided to show up. Where’s your husband at?”
He looks around the club glowing with pink and purple lights shaped like palm leaves.
“Oh, chatting away with new friends,” you passively reply, so glad that you sprayed yourself with your favorite body mist. “So nice to see you two again.” Bakugou shrugs, his eyes flitting across your form. “Well, we did say we’d be here.”
“Correction: I said we MIGHT show up,” Kiri states, earning an eye roll from his husband. “But now that you’re here, I’m glad we decided to come tonight. You look great.” His crimson eyes drink in your outfit and legs glowing with shimmery, gold oil, much to your satisfaction. “You two don’t look too bad yourselves,” you flirt, shooting them both a smile. “The Hawaiian print fits you.”
“Bakugou hates it,” Kiri whispers, making you giggle. He raises a brow at you, curious. “So your man sent you to get drinks? Or are you just that independent?”
You can tell he is trying to joke with you, but knows that your answer is the latter. “Both,” you sigh. “He’s a little occupied right now, but he wanted us to come here tonight. Something we could both do together.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. What a crock of shit. “And where’s he at now?” Bakugou wonders aloud, still looking around the room. Why he wants to meet your spouse so badly is beyond you. “He should be right…”
You turn, pointing an acrylic nail behind you at the spot where your husband was before…but he is gone. Your stomach drops and you begin to look around the club at unfamiliar faces. He couldn’t have…he wouldn’t…
Then you hear his ridiculous, drunk laugh and peer across the dance floor where he is sitting in a wicker chair with another woman with enough Botox in her face that her muscles don’t move. You feel your anger reach its breaking point. He left you. He left you.
“Hold my spot,” you growl to the couple, and then you’re storming off, titties and hair angrily bouncing as you do. Your eyes are set dead on your husband, ready to tear him a new one.
When you finally stop in front of him, it takes him a while to even register your presence. In the time you were at the bar, he has gotten even drunker, his collar askew and his eyes glassy. “There you are!” he exclaims.
You place a hand on your hip, glaring down at him. “And here you are, abandoning me and talking to a chick who isn’t your wife.”
The Botox woman’s face pales and she scowls at your man. “Your wife?” she scoffs. “You didn’t tell me you were married! Where’s your wedding band?!” Your eyes shoot down to his hand. Sure enough, it’s gone. He took it off.
“That was just so I wouldn’t lose it!” your husband quickly protests. He stands and puts his hands up as if calming a crazed animal. “Relax, babe. She’s just interested in a possible investment in my company.” You cut your eyes to the woman sipping her martini, looking like a kid caught in the cookie jar. “Oh, I’m sure she is,” you mutter. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
You turn and begin to walk off, but you hear your husband sigh, “Oh, here we go”. That enrages you even further. You storm off to a secluded area in the club, arms crossed and fuming. Your husband follows, looking aloof to your rage. “What’d I do now, Mommy?” he drunkenly asks.
You shove him, earning a few looks of interest and alarm. “Don’t talk to me like that!” you hiss. “How could you just abandon me like that in a place I’m unfamiliar with and with people that I don’t know?!”
Your husband glares at you, confused and irritated. “I didn’t abandon you! You were getting the drinks!”
But you barely listen to this half-assed argument, firing off like a firecracker. “That’s the other thing; you wanted to come here tonight and you left the room without your money. So now your wife has to pay for everything while you get drunk off of my dime and flirt with other women.”
You flash your hand at him where your diamond ring glistens. “And I didn’t leave my ring either!”
Your husband rolls his eyes, his face growing red. “I wasn’t flirting with—“
“Oh, save it!” you snap. “Or were you too trashed those other times too that you don’t even remember?” He pulls a face, looking at you as if you’re the crazy one. “What is this about, Y/N? Why are you being this way?”
You can feel tears pushing at your tear ducts, but you push them away; you refuse to cry in public. “I wanted to come on this trip for us to get closer,” you lament. “For us to build that romance again; that spark that we’re missing! And you’re not even trying even a little bit!”
And instead of showing you compassion and understanding, your husband continues to neglect and invalidate your feelings. “Listen…I don’t know what you want me to fucking do,” he tiredly sighs. “I can’t be the perfect man that you’re looking for, Y/N. He doesn’t exist.”
‘Clearly,’ you bitterly think. He has shown you that.
“I do everything for you and this is how you repay me,” he scoffs, still scowling. “Well, fine, if you feel that way, I’ll just leave you be.” He takes a step back and then turns around, walking towards the exit. Your eyes widen at him, gobsmacked. “Wait, you’re leaving?” you gasp. “You can’t be serious. You’re gonna leave me here alone?”
Then your husband turns around and you think he’s going to apologize; to tell you he is just joking…but then he motions his hands at you in a ‘shoo, shoo’ motion as if you are a mere, pesky fly. “Come upstairs when you’re done acting like a bitch to me,” he cooly says. And then he leaves you alone for good, standing in the club completely humiliated and heartbroken.
Luckily, someone comes to your rescue to save you from your heartbreak. They tap you on the shoulder and you turn to see Kiri standing there with a gigawatt smile on his handsome face. “Excuse me, miss; me and my husband saw you across the bar and really dug your vibe. Can we buy you a drink?”
He gives you a wink that somehow masks the heartbreak you’re feeling. “Just make sure it’s strong,” you joke back.
He begins to lead you back to the bar where Bakugou sits, sipping on a mai tai. “Did you find your husband?” Kiri asks, taking the mojito that Bakugou passes to him. “Where’s he at? I thought we were meeting him.”
You stare warily at the pros, biting back tears. “Uh…he wasn’t feeling too good and went upstairs,” you lie.
Bakugou sees right through it like it’s glass. He takes a final sip of his drink, draining the glass, and nearly slams it on the bar. “Y’know, you’re just as bad as this one when you lie,” he roughly says, nudging Kiri in the arm. “Eyes goin’ off to the side, a little pause like you’re thinkin’ of somethin’ on the spot…you’re not slick.”
You feel your body flush under the strobe lights. ‘Oh, no,’ you think, lamenting to yourself. ‘Now he’s gonna ask you why you lied, you dummy!’
But to your surprise, Bakugou leans one beefy, inked arm over the bar, waving down the bartender. “But if you’re truly hellbent on coverin’ your man’s back, we won’t push it. If anything, I respect it…can’t understand why the goofy left you here though.” He waves a hand again at the bartender, growing irritated at being ignored.
“Yeah,” Kiri agrees, standing behind Bakugou’s stool and rubbing his shoulders to calm him. He is so tall that he towers over you, somehow making you feel more safe than intimidated by his sheer size. “It’s kinda weird he would just leave without you, unless he had food poisoning or somethin’.”
Maybe it’s the hot wash of lights or the men accompanying you, but you feel the truth push at your throat. “He didn’t,” you admit. The couple immediately turn their attention to you. “I caught him talking to another woman, we had a fight, and then he left.”
Kiri blinks his crimson eyes at you. “He left you alone?” he asks in disbelief. “Here?”
You slowly nod, biting your lower lip to keep from crying in front of these two strangers. “He told me to come upstairs when I stopped being a bitch,” you add, cracking a wry smile at the two. “Can you believe this is my marriage?” You laugh it off, but the couple can tell that it is fake and icy.
“Shit, I already thought the guy was a loser; now, it’s a fact for sure,” Bakugou grumbles.
“Leaving your wife or girlfriend in the middle of a club is NOT manly,” Kiri growls, eyes flashing with anger. “Good thing we’re with you. We can keep you company as long as you’re here!”
Bakugou passes Kiri's mojito to you, coaxing you to sip. “And you can tell us more about this asshole you decided to marry.” He bangs on the bar, scaring a few people. “Yo, bartender! You’re about to lose your tip!”
You take a tiny sip of the mojito, your tastebuds exploding with the taste of mint, lime, and rum. Kiri pats the empty stool beside Bakugou and you sit, crossing one leg over the other, your dress riding up slightly on your thighs. Kiri sits on your left, sandwiching you between himself and his husband.
The bartender returns, sweating slightly and out of breath. “Apologies, Mr. Bakugou! Free rounds for the happy couple?” The couple turn to look at you, asking you in silence. “It’s free rounds, darlings,” you giggle, flipping your braids over one shoulder. “I’d be happy to share…and a rum punch too, please!”
Two rum punches and three tequila shots later, you are spilling your guts to the couple. The three of you sit in a secluded lounge area overlooking the beach, the silver moon glowing off of the waves softly crashing on the shore.
Most people are on the dance floor or at the bar, so you have privacy with the two hunks who sit across from you in lounge chairs. You sit on a small hammock held between two fake palm trees, talking on and on about your husband’s neglect and bummy, crummy ways.
Through it all, the couple stay quiet, paying close attention to you. You appreciate their listening ears, feeling better just getting it all out.
“So we packed up and came on this vacay in the hopes of rekindling our romance,” you explain, nursing a glass of water that Bakugou ordered for you. “It was my idea and he went along with it, but…now I’m thinking that this was a total waste of time.” You place a hand on your head, mostly because it is spinning but also because you feel so stupid.
“For him?” Kiri says, sipping his second mojito. “I’d have to say yes; there is NO gettin’ through a guy like that, sweetheart. But a trip like this for yourself is never a waste! You come here to enjoy the pool, the excursions, and makin’ new friends like us.”
You laugh, finding his words adorable. “We’re friends?” you giggle, not realizing how this sounds: like you want to be more. “Well, I guess only friends would buy me drinks and listen to me trauma dump.”
Bakugou clucks his tongue, rolling his vermillion eyes. His eyes are so pretty…like rubies. “It’s not trauma dumping if we wanna hear it, silly girl.” Kiri nods, agreeing. “Bakugou’s right, sweetheart. We like you; plus, you’re the first girl we’ve met here that isn’t tryin’ to have a threesome with us.”
He doesn’t know how wrong he is. And if he keeps calling you ‘sweetheart’, who knows what will happen next. “I like you guys too,” you admit, flushing bashfully. “You make a cute couple; I’m almost jealous!”
Bakugou cracks a humored smile, sipping a piña colada now. “Well, don’t be. The bartenders already think we’re together.” His tongue glints with something–a piercing, you realize–as he toys with the straw in his glass.
Suddenly, a thought pops into your head that you have no business saying aloud: “Wouldn’t it be funny if we acted as a couple this whole trip just for the hell of it? Two sexy husbands and their pretty wife?” You begin to laugh a little too much, your cheeks hurting and tears pricking at your lashes coated in mascara.
When you stop, you realize that the couple aren’t laughing. They’re just staring dead at you. “Yeah,” Kiri deadpans. “Hilarious.”
Suddenly, the air feels tense and the magic from the alcohol is fading. You don’t feel sexy or confident anymore; just awkward. You take a couple sips of the water and place it on the “W-Well, it’s getting late and my husband is probably wondering where I am.”
“No, he’s not,” Bakugou argues. The finality in his tone stops you short, rendering you speechless. “Any dickhead who leaves his wife alone in a club isn’t thinkin’ ‘bout her well-being at all.” His gaze is intense and unwavering as he stares at you over his glass rim. “Sorry to break it to ya, babe.”
Babe? Sweetheart? What the fuck is going on here? ….And why are you so okay with it? You’re so wrapped up in decoding this situation when suddenly, the couple leave their post and come to sit with you in the hammock. Gently, they both climb in and sandwich you between them, their tree-trunk legs dangling off of the side with you.
“So why not spend the night with two guys who actually want your attention?” Bakugou asks, his lips just a little too close to your ear. You suddenly lose the ability to function like a human being. “W-What?” you stammer, turning to the blonde. “What do you–”
“You know what I mean,” he interjects. “Can you really sit here and act like you don’t want us too?” One of his hands lays on your knee, making your skin tingle.
“We’ve been watchin’ you for awhile now,” Kiri confesses, his hand brushing your fingertips. “It wasn’t our intention to ever do anything with another person on this trip, but when we saw you at the pool…” He pauses, taking a breath. “Shit, Y/N, our want for you was instant.” Your pussy gushes at his sinful confession, leaving your thighs trembling.
“And when we found out your bitch ass husband left you alone here?” Bakugou’s lips stretch into a smile, his eyes mischievous. “It was a wrap.” You can’t believe what you’re hearing. Out of anyone else in here, these two happily married men want you tonight?
“We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” Kiri gently says, taking your silence for discomfort. “If intimacy isn’t on the table for you, we can just stay here, share some drinks, and dance…or if you really feel uncomfortable, just tell us and we’ll leave you be. Your comfort matters to us, Y/N.”
This man barely knows you and he is showing you more consideration than your husband has in months. Bakugou’s lips brush against your ear, the smell of mint and rum on his tongue. “Either way, we wanna make your husband regret ever leaving you here alone tonight,” he murmurs. “So what’s it gonna be, little one?”
Little one. How did he know that name makes you wet?
You have never been hornier than you are right now sitting between these two studs. The tequila and rum you’ve consumed over the hour helps too. It helps you make the first move by turning towards Kiri, cupping his face in his hands, and pressing your lips to his. He makes a small noise of surprise before he melts into your kiss, his soft lips moving against yours. “Mmm,” he hums against your lips, the sound seducing you.
When you pull away, his crimson eyes are dazed and hooded. You then turn to Bakugou who watches with bated breath. “You get one too, Dynamight,” you giggle before your lips are crushed against his. Just like his hubby, Bakugou’s kiss causes sparks to ignite in the air and your arousal to switch to hyperdrive. The yearning you feel for these two is instantaneous and intense.
When you pull away, you take their hands in both of yours and interlace your fingers. “So I guess it’s your room then, boys?” you seductively ask, peering up at them through your lashes.
Somehow, moments later, you find yourself in between the two married pros on a big bed, stark naked and their big, hard, throbbing, pretty cocks stiff in your hands as you stroke them up and down, up and down. You keep your dress on, but your straps were tugged off by Bakugou to expose your tits while Kiri stripped off your heels, blushing as he told you how pretty your feet were.
You pay close attention to their luscious moans and responsive hums of pleasure as your hands, slick with your saliva, twist around the base as you scale them up to their bulbous tips dripping in pre all for you. You take a couple licks at the white pearls, smiling as their moans grow louder at the feeling of your tongue on them. They felt your tongue minutes before once they stripped, letting you indulge in every rippling muscle they had.
When they finally took off their pants, you were amazed. While both big and veiny, they have their differences too: Bakugou is smooth and curves upward while Kiri is thick, has a happy trail, and has a dick piercing. You gaped at both of them while the two softly chuckled, finding your reaction endearing.
“I’m guessin’ your man is lackin’ in this department?” Bakugou asked, his hand curling in your braids. Staring at the cock in your face, you silently nodded. Severely, your husband was lacking.
Tap-tap.
Bakugou tapped his tip slightly against your lips, his hooded eyes exploding with lust. “Well? You just gonna stare or take care of ‘em?” Kiri bit his lip and watched, silently urging you to do as you wanted to his dick.
You do just that, sliding Bakugou’s hard cock into your mouth while you continue to stroke Kiri, loving their eyes on you as you take the blonde deeper, hollowing your cheeks. You raise your eyes to him, watching his handsome face flush red as he watches you throat him, his hips slowly grinding to push himself deeper. “Ah, shit,” he sighs, his eyes sexily rolling back to show the whites and red tendrils of his eyeballs.
Kiri toothily grins at his husband fucking your mouth, still slowly fucking your hand. “Feelin’ good, Kats?” he chuckles. “Me too. She’s bein’ such a good girl, isn’t she?” He sticks two fingers under your chin to catch the drool that has begun to drip down from your lips and sucks your saliva off of them, staring straight at you as he does.
“Almost,” Bakugou replies, laughing to himself. “She needs to take this dick a little more.” So he speeds up, increasing his speed so the sounds of you gagging and your wet throat flexing around his cock are more intense and lively, causing him to groan.
“Open wide, baby,” he grunts. “Open that throat up for me.” You’re feeling good and used now as he begins to fuck your face, ruining your lip gloss and staining your cheeks with mascara.
“God, yes, baby!” he groans. “Deeper. Take me deeper.”
You don’t know how much deeper he can go. Your eyes sting with tears as you feel your throat protest against being filled, causing you to gag more. But you push through, breathing through your nostrils and letting the pro fuck your jaw off of its hinges, your spit dripping down to your tits from your chin.
“Don’t make her choke now, Kats,” Kiri says, though his cock throbs in your palm at the sight of you gagging on husband’s dick. “I still need my turn.” Bakugou huffs with irritation, but slides out, letting you suck in some air. “Fine; just don’t hog her. That’ll piss me off.”
Then it’s Kiri’s turn. He is thicker than Bakugou so when he slides into your mouth, you feel it. The wet walls to your throat stretch around him as he slides in deeper, causing you to open your throat as if you are preparing to yawn to accommodate him.
The redhead tilts his head back and moans to the ceiling, his big hand gripping the back of your head. “Oh, fuck!” he moans, pumping his hips forward and back, fucking your throat as if it were a toy.
You feel absolutely, positively used. You feel like the sluttiest woman who has ever walked the earth. And you love every second of it. Bakugou smiles sinfully as he watches you deepthroat Kiri, making his husband moan and whimper as your throat constricts and flexes around hum.
“I knew you’d be good at this, cutie,” he groans. He pulls you off of Kiri to look deep into his eyes. “You’re just our type too: pretty and eager.”
His lips crash against yours and his tongue slips into your mouth, never mind that you just sucked two cocks. He kisses you passionately and eagerly, relishing and swallowing the muffled moans you make. And then he’s taking Kiri’s cock and sliding it back into your mouth for you, using his hand to push you down on his husband’s shaft.
“And very small,” Kiri adds, chuckling through panted breath. “Small enough to pick up and put in any position you wanna get fucked in tonight.” He peers down at you through red slits for his eyes as you throat his cock, sucking and glucking as if it is your profession, spit and pre placing your lipgloss.
“Would you like that, baby?” he murmurs. You peer up at him through your lashes, feeling heat pool between your thighs. “Mmm-hmm,” you hum around his cock.
Bakugou snatches you away and replaces Kiri’s dick with his, fucking your mouth once more. Your eyes roll back as his cock slides against your throat, filling it, taking it for his own. “Oh, fuck, yes,” he groans, his fist full of your braids. “Take it, baby. You take it so fuckin’ good.”
His muscles tense as he pistons into your mouth as he would a fleshlight or Kiri’s ass, his balls full of cum and slapping slightly against your chin.
You feel Kiri’s big palm on your ass, stroking it over your dress. “You’re still wearin’ too much,” he growls, squeezing a handful of your ass. Bakugou watches with interest, loving how you look arching your back as you suck him dry. “Not a bad view,” he hums. “‘Specially from this angle.”
SMACK!
Your body flinches and you moan around the cock in your mouth as you feel a sting from Bakugou’s assault on your asscheeks. Kiri’s thick fingers curl under your chin, forcing you to stare up at his handsome, flushed face. “Look up at me, cutie pie. Show me those pretty eyes while you suck my husband’s fat dick.”
SMACK!
Bakugou smacks your ass hard again, definitely using some of his quirk because of the sharp zap you feel licking across your skin despite the fabric of your dress. “Arch that back a little more, babe,” he gently coos despite rudely fucking your throat. “I wanna see that pussy while you suck me off.”
He pulls the hem of your dress up to reveal the thong settled between your asscheeks..and currently being eaten up by your pussy, wet pussy. Kiri practically drools at the sight, grabbing your ass at the same time Bakugou does.
“A thong?” he tuts. “What a slut we’ve got, Kats.” Bakugou growls in agreement, palming the soft globes of your butt. “Betcha wore this hopin’ you’d get fucked by another man tonight,” he growls. “Or maybe by us.”
SMACK!
“Am I right?” he asks. You feel your asscheeks recoil against his palm, the zap of electricity from his sweaty palm making your senses fire up.
“Y-Yes!” you whimper out. Despite the pain, there is pleasure mixed in the stinging sensation, causing your clit to throb against the slick, sticky fabric of your thong stuck against your pussy lips.
SMACK!
This time, Kiri does it and he hits very hard. You wouldn’t be shocked if he left a handprint. “Sorry, little one,” he chuckles. “I just couldn’t resist you anymore.”
He continues to spank your ass, lighting fire across your cheeks and possibly using his quirk too to make his hand a lot rougher. Bakugou slips his cock out and feeds you Kiri’s instead, his dick throbbing and twitching as his husband roughly fucks your mouth this time around.
You feel his sneaky fingers wrap around the thin waistband of your thong, pulling it so it rubs against your needy slit. “Such a little minx,” he continues as he toys with your thong. “Wantin’ to get fucked by total strangers.”
SNAP!
He snaps the thin string back into place like a rubber band, making you jump from the slight sting as it hits your skin. “Shit, look at how wet she is!” Kiri groans. “It’s drippin’ all down these thighs.” He and Bakugou stare at the slick staining your inner thighs which you didn’t realize either. You’ve never been this wet before.
“All of this just for a couple of spanks on that ass and dick in your mouth?” Bakugou chuckles, thoughtfully stroking your asscheeks. “Yeah, we’re definitely not lettin’ you go back to that dickhead now.”
Kiri pulls his cock out of your wet mouth, causing a string of spit to connect from his tip to your bottom lip. “You’re stuck with us tonight, baby,” he says, his voice low and sultry. “And maybe for the next six days too.”
He lays you back on the bed, dangling your legs off of the edge as he and Bakugou kneel before you. Their eyes glint at you like twin moons, hot with lust. “Now let us show you what we do to pretty pussies like yours.”
Somehow, you find yourself on your back with the entire room spinning and swirling as the married couple proceed to share your pussy like it is their last meal on their vacation. Sometimes they share, both of their tongues and soft lips sucking, slurping, licking, and caressing every inch of your sensitive, sopping wet cunt. They alternate between each other too, both of them individually eating you out too.
Kiri is a whole munch, diving deep into the wet depths of your pussy, moaning about how good and sweet you taste. His crimson eyes lock dead on you, paying attention to the way you respond to his tongue flicks and swirls. Your husband has NEVER eaten you out like this: so eagerly and sloppily yet still considering your pleasure and what you need.
You writhe and squirm against Kiri’s mouth, gripping his red locks for dear life. “O-Oh, shit!” you moan. “Oh, fuck yes, yes, yes! That’s s-so, so good!”
The redhead hums in amusement, tearing the lips on his face away from your wet, puffy ones below with a wet pop! “Such a squirmer,” he cackles, his big hands squeezing the flesh where your thighs meet your ass.
Bakugou, who has begun to fist his leaking, hard cock, has his sights set dead on your pussy. “Hold her down. She’s not gonna do shit when I’m tongue fuckin’ that pussy.”
The blonde is a little rougher and more possessive than Kiri, but still eager to slurp up everything you give him. He holds one of your thighs, pressing one leg open while Kiri has the other, the both of them working together to ensure that you can’t move as Bakugou eats your pussy with abandon.
You cry and sob at his tongue lashings, the cold metal of his tongue piercing melting like ice cream against the soaking, hot walls of your pussy.
You feel another tongue caressing the other hole you have down below, the wetness of his spit slipping down your asscrack. “Mmm, fuck, Kiri,” you whine. The redhead grins against your asscheeks, one hand massaging the globes while he wiggles his tongue against your asshole.
“Yeah?” he teases. “You like gettin’ this ass eaten too?” You whimper as Bakugou sucks on your clit at the same time Kiri presses an open-mouthed kiss to your asshole. “Little slut,” he whispers before his tongue is rimming the tight hole of your ass.
Your eyes widen and your mouth falls slack. You have never had anyone eat your ass before, but this was something you discussed with the couple before coming in here. During the walk back to their room, you discussed all the things you want to try and enjoy in the bedroom, including the possibility of anal sex–something your husband wouldn’t dare to discuss.
“Hey,” Bakugou suddenly growls, nipping at your inner thigh with his teeth. “Don’t neglect me. I’m the one puttin’ in work down here too.”
SMACK!
You shriek, damn near cumming as his palm comes down on your clit, a zap of electricity making your toes curl and your thighs buckle. “I-I’m sorry!” you sob. “I won’t do it again, Daddy, I promise!”
His vermillion eyes glare at you as he smirks, cocky and proud. “Damn right, you won’t; not if you wanna cum…and you do wanna cum, don’t you, little one?” he murmurs before taking your clit into his mouth and gently sucking on the nub.
He and Kiri continue to slurp at your holes, their saliva dripping down your thighs and your asscrack, soaking you and making your holes even more lubricated. It helps for their tongues to dip in and fuck you, causing your moans to grow louder, so loud that you’re sure that the entire resort can hear you. You dig your hands in their hair and grip their scalps as you feel yourself peaking, your orgasm cresting so much that your back arches.
“Oh, my God, I’m gonna cum!” you wail out. “I’m gonna…I’m gonna fucking…!”
The two men lick faster, their tongues and lips encouraging you to spill your cum all over them. In a split second, you do and you nearly scream to the heavens as the pleasure engulfs you, washing you away on a wave. The couple moan and growl in appreciation as you spill your cream all over their tongues; they lick away, cleaning up every inch of you. The cum that spills down your asscrack, Kiri catches, feral grunts escaping him.
When you are finally twitching and whimpering, the two stop, their lips coated in your juices. You watch in awe as they begin to kiss in front of you, mashing their lips together in a sloppy kiss. You could cum again just by looking at them.
“Let’s give this hole a break now,” Kiri suggests, his smile mischievous and lustful. One finger rims your asshole, making you flinch at the sensitivity. “I think this one here needs some more playin’ with.”
He turns to Bakugou, puckering his lips at him. “Get the lube for us, won’t you, hubby?” he teases.
Minutes later, after Bakugou grabs a travel bottle of warming, edible lube from the nightstand, you are turned over and bent over the bed, your ass sticking in the air and gripping the sheets as one of Bakugou’s thick fingers gently probes your ass. “Oh!” you gasp, your eyes rolling behind your head. “Ah, fuck!”
“Does it hurt?” Bakugou asks. You whimper, shaking your head into the bed, but he thoughtfully strokes your ass, envoking a response from you. “Answer me, little one. Gotta know you’re okay.”
“N-No,” you squeak. “Just…a lot.” It is a foreign feeling that is different from Kiri’s tongue, but the lube and copious amounts of spit that Kiri provided earlier help a lot. Bakugou slips his finger in a little more, taking in the way your body talks to him. “Nice and slow, little one. Gotta make sure we don’t hurt you.”
Hurt isn’t even a word in your vocab at this point. Your pussy is gushing like it hasn’t before, slipping down your thighs as Bakugou slowly fucks your ass with his finger, opening you up more and more. “Fuck, you’re so tight here,” he grunts. “I’ve been watchin’ this ass all night. Just wanna fuck you here.”
SMACK!
He gives your ass a playful slap that has you singing and crooning like a songbird into the sheets stained in your makeup. “Stretch you out the way you need to be,” he murmurs with want, his cock throbbing and pulsing with need between his thighs. Kiri wraps a hand around his husband’s cock and slowly begins stroking him while he brings his lips over to your pussy.
“But don’t worry, cutie; we’ll fuck you here too. Can’t neglect her, now, can we?” He puckers his lips and spits on your pussy before slurping it back up, stimulating your kitty while Bakugou continues to fuck the puckered hole of your ass. “Fuck, look at you,” he rasps. “Little vixen is gettin’ wetter from this.”
Kiri hums in agreement, your cream and his spit sliding down his chin.
“All it takes is some fingers in your pretty little asshole, don’t it?” the blonde asks before he adds his tongue into the mix, licking around your hole as he continues to probe the tight hole with his finger.
“Oh, fuck!” you whimper. “Please! More!” Bakugou laughs, taken aback. “More?” he parrots, grinning. “What, you want these dicks now? Is that it? Are these fingers and tongues not enough for some slutty holes like yours?”
You can’t help it; his dirty words coax your body to move on its own and you toss yourself back into Bakugou’s finger, taking the digit fully in your ass. “That’s a good girl, little one,” Kiri murmurs, his tongue swirling around your clit. “Fuck yourself on Katsuki’s finger. Make yourself cum again.”
And you do. The stimulation and the warming lube are too much, making every part of your body sensitive to the touch. “H-Ha, o-oh, m-m-my G-God!” you stutter, your hips bucking like a bull’s. “I-I’m gonna cum again!”
“Oh, yeah?” Kiri laughs against your pussy. “Do it, cutie. Cum for us again. Make that pretty hole cum for us.” He and Bakugou continue to lick, grunting and moaning into your holes, pushing you further to the edge.
But instead of that warmth in your core, you feel a tickle in your bladder and you realize with horror what is happening. “Wait, you guys!” you shout in a warning. “Wait, I don’t think…I’m gonna pee! Stop!”
But they don’t and unfortunately for you, liquid squirts and spills wildly from your pussy and into Kiri’s mouth. He sputters in shock though he doesn’t pull away, slurping up every ounce of you.
“Shit, she squirted!” Bakugou gasps, laughing in disbelief at the scene. “I’m guessin’ her man never made her do that,” he cackles. He dives down and licks some up for himself, moaning in appreciation and satisfaction at your taste. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”
You don’t even know what ‘more’ looks like for you. You think squirting when you’ve never before just about takes the cake, but as the two men climb up on the bed with you, you know that this is not the case for them.
Kiri gently rubs your back, placing his palm at the middle of your spine as you huff and puff, exhausted. “Tuckered out, little baby?” he coos. Wordlessly, you shake your head. Despite your exhaustion, your need for their cocks is more. “No?” he chuckles. “Even after all that, you still want us?”
“Oh, baby, we’re gonna have some fun with you,” Bakugou groans. He hikes you up with ease, sitting you down in his lap, his hard cock throbbing against your tummy. “Tell us you want us to fuck you,” he demands, his eyes drilling hard into yours.
Your response is automatic, your want ignited. “I want you to fuck me,” you reply. “Want you both inside me. Need you both to fill me up and make each other cum.” You wrap a hand around both of them, earning wanton groans in response to your touch. “Please, Daddies?” you beg.
That plea and your doe-like, brown eyes peering up at them lead to you straddling Kiri’s lap while his thick cock slides against your slit, nudging your clit and making you slippery enough to slide down his shaft. The big, beefy redhead leans back against the headboard, his big hands massaging your ass while you straddle his thighs, grinding your pussy against the shaft of his throbbing dick. “You feel so good, Kiri,” you moan, gripping his shoulders.
The redhead jerkingly nods in agreement, biting his lip at the feeling. “You do too. Easy now, cutie. I’m bigger than your husband, so take all the time that you—“
Evidently, you already had enough time because you’re suddenly sliding your dripping pussy down on him. You both loudly moan at the explosive pleasure, your gummy walls tight and silky around his velvety, pulsing cock. “That was easy,” Bakugou chuckles. “Cock slut couldn’t wait to take you.” He is on his knees behind you, rutting his cock up against your asshole.
You feel tears prick your eyes, making them glassy and wet as you bring yourself up and down on Kiri’s thick cock, whimpers and sobs leaving your sticky lips. “Oh, fuck, Kiri!” you sob. “You’re so fucking big! You’re stretching me out so good!”
You can feel it–everytime you come down, you somehow feel yourself stretching more. Despite your husband’s nice penis, he could never make you feel this needy. This desperate to take more.
Bakugou presses a kiss to your shoulder, his pre-cum staining your asscheeks. “Slowly, baby. There’s no rush for this. I’m lettin’ you use my man, so be grateful.”
You bite your trembling lip, doing your best to go slow. “I-I am,” you whimper. “Thank you!” The blonde groans at your sweetness, his tip nudging your asshole.
Kiri watches your bouncing tits as you come up and down on his cock like a little bunny, his face flushed red and his eyes crimson slits. “Such a little sweetheart,” he groans. “And such a sweet little pussy too, f-f-fuck!” He grips your ass tighter, drawing you to him.
“Ride me, angel,” he begs, staring up at you. “Please bounce on my cock. Keep usin’ that dick like a toy, little one. Use me.”
You do as you’re told and begin bouncing a little faster on him, creating an orgasmic rhythm that takes you both to paradise. You dig your nails into Kiri’s shoulders, damn near breaking skin, but he doesn’t care. Not when your cunt is this good.
“Guess you ain’t the only slut here,” Bakugou chuckles. “Does she feel good, Eji?” The redhead whimpers in reply, his fangs digging into his bottom lip. “Words,” the blonde growls.
“Y-Yeah!” Kiri grunts out. “So good!” Bakugou hums in enjoyment and satisfaction, tucking his hand between you to rub Kiri’s heavy balls. “Then fuck her back. Don’t make her do all the work.” Kiri does as he is told, raising his hips to meet you as you come down, plunging his cock deeper inside of you.
As he does this, Bakugou’s tip passes the threshold of your ass a bit, making you gasp. “I’m gonna go in now, baby,” he warns. “Just relax. You feel nice and loose now. It’s fuckin’ gapin’ for me.” You can feel it, the walls of your ass nice and stretched, the cool air making you shiver.
“Fuck, that’s hot!” Kiri groans. “She’s stretched out here too.” And he’s right–you are so stretched open by his cock that he has no problem fucking you dumb, sliding you up and down, up and down, along his cock slick with your juices and his pre-cum.
“You ready, baby girl?” Bakugou whispers, his lips toying with your ear. “Just tap my thigh if you need me to stop. That goes for shitty hair too.” It takes a moment to find your words, but you do despite your head dizzy with pleasure. You turn to hook an arm around his head, pulling him closer. “Yes, sir,” you mewl.
“Just the tip,” he grunts before he slides the rest of the way in, pushing past the rim of your ass. He grunts in pleasure as a strange howl escapes you, making you feel like a totally different person. A stranger. A slut who likes getting fucked by two fat cocks in both of her holes.
“Oh, my God!” you wail, your head falling against Kiri’s chest. Bakugou slides the tip out an inch and goes back in, repeating this action for a couple of minutes, allowing your hole to grow familiar with his cock. “Easy; just fuck me back slowly. Take your time. Gotta make sure you can take all this dick.”
The two of them begin to fuck you in unison, Kiri slowing down to match Bakugou’s tempo and not overwhelm you. Their luscious moans and feral grunts fill the bedroom smelling of sex, lube, and mingled cologne and body mist, their sweet whispers of “you’re doin’ so good, little one” and “such a good fuckin’ slut for us” making your body tingle with need.
At some point, the slow fucking flies out the window and Kiri begins to rut up into you, his hips slamming up against yours. Bakugou chuckles, still rolling his hips slow and easy as he fucks your asshole. “So much for nice and slow. You’re fucking her like you wanna nut, shitty hair.”
“Can’t help it,” the redhead grunts. “She feels so perfect!” His balls, soaked in your juices, slap against your clit as he pounds up into you, grunting with each thrust. “Goddammit,” Bakugou hisses, “if you keep poundin’ her like that, you’ll make me wanna speed up too.” His balls stimulate you too, your needy button nearly exploding from the pleasure.
“Go ahead,” you beg. “Fuck me faster! Please!” The couple stare at you in astonishment, slightly pausing to regard you in shock. “Faster?” they ask in unison.
You nod, pressing your face into Kiri’s shoulder. You don’t want them to see your face–you know you look a hot ass mess. Bakugou gives your ass a smack, chuckling as he does. “You’ve got it, little one. Just don’t run from us.”
For the next blissful minutes–or hours?–, the couple fuck your holes in unison, their cocks frotting and rubbing against one another, making them moan, grunt, and whimper into your ear. You bounce pathetically on their dicks, forced to take all of it as you whimper and sob, tears threatening to drip down your cheeks stained with ruined mascara and foundation. You have never felt this good before.
Brrring! Brrrring!
Your eyes open, your vision blurry, and you look down at the nightstand where your purse is. “My phone!” you whine.
Kiri yanks your purse open and takes your phone out, looking at the caller ID. “Oh, it’s the man of the hour!” he jokes. He grins toothily at you, flashing you your phone screen. “Your husband’s calling, baby.”
‘Oh, shit,’ you think. What time even is it? How long have you been here? He must think you’ve been kidnapped or something!
“Answer it,” Bakugou grunts. “Put it on speaker.”
“W-Wait!” you protest, but it’s too late. Kiri answers the phone and continues to fuck you as he stares, his breath coming out in short pants. “Helloooo? Bakugou residence.”
You clap a hand over your mouth to muffle your pathetic, slutty moans as the two men fuck you stupid, Bakugou yanking on your braids while Kiri rubs your clit. “Who are you?” your husband demands. “Where’s Y/N? This is her number, isn’t it?”
Kiri smirks at you. “Oh, it is, but Y/N can’t come to the phone right now. She’s too busy gettin’ her brains fucked out—something you can’t and won’t do.”
Bakugou tears your hand off of your mouth, forcing those loud moans and whines to escape you, exposing the truth to your husband about his dirty little wife. “Y/N, answer me!” he shouts.
You do so, moaning Bakugou’s name as his cock fills your ass. Your husband grows enraged, screaming belligerently. “You bitch! How could you do this to me?! I’m your husband!”
Bakugou snatches the phone from Kiri, giving your husband a piece of his mind now. “Then you should’ve thought about that before actin’ like a damn loser,” he growls. “Now shut the fuck up and stop ruinin’ my fun with your wife. It ain’t our fault you’re gettin’ cucked.”
He then hangs up before your husband can reply and ruts into you faster alongside Kiri, their thrusts intense and merciful, making the bed shake beneath them. With their dick-alicious dicks and the saucy excitement of your husband hearing you get fucked, you can’t help but feel another orgasm coming on. “M’gonna cum again!” you whimper. “I’m so close!”
“Cum with me,” Kiri demands, his dick jackhammering into you as you frantically rub your clit. “Cum on that dick, little one. It’s all fucking yours!”
Bakugou is close too judging by how his cock pulses in your ass and his fingers dig into the flesh of your buttcheeks. “Thaaat’s it,” he coos through gritted teeth. “That’s my girl lettin’ me fuck that drippin’ little hole.”
It doesn’t take long for all three of you to cum together, the couple’s thrusts stilling for a moment as they fill you to the brim with their spunk.
You moan loudly, so loud that it bounces off of the bedroom walls, as your holes clench around their cocks and your pussy spasms, spilling your honey all over Kiri’s thick, beautiful cock. Your eyelashes flutter and your muscles clench, your intense nut sending you through the stars and across the galaxy.
When the high fades and you go limp, the couple gently pry you off of their cocks and lay you down on your back. Like a rag doll, your body is limp and loose, allowing Bakugou to hook your legs up to expose your ass. “Stay there,” he grunts. “Stay right fuckin’ there. I wanna cum all over that ass.”
Kiri kneels over you, his semi-hard cock hanging in your face. “I’ve still got some for these pretty titties too. I want your bitch ass husband to smell us when you go back to your hotel room, cutie~”
The two fuck their cocks with their hands, sending spurts of cum all over your tits and ass. You gasp at the warm droplets coating your skin, already drying. Then the couple pull you up onto your knees, holding their cocks out for you. They are coated in cum, slick and juicy. “Clean us off, naughty girl,” Bakugou gruffly demands. “You caused it, so it’s your responsibility.”
You do as told, kitten-licking and slurping up the taste of your holes and their cum from their cocks, relishing the soft moans and hushed swears as you do. Once you finish, the two gently lay you on your back and lick you clean too, being extra gentle with your pussy and putting a soft pillow under your sore ass. Your entire body feels sore, but deliciously so.
The pros then lay side by side with you between them, Bakugou on your right while Kiri takes your left. The redhead snuggles into your backside, his hair tickling your face.
“You were amazing, sweetheart. You definitely made this trip unforgettable, that’s for sure!” He wraps his big arms around you, encasing you in a warm, sweaty embrace.
Exhaustion makes your brain foggy and you can barely focus on what he is saying to you. “Mmm-hmm,” you sleepily agree.
Bakugou tsks, wrapping an arm around your neck, allowing his arm to be your pillow. “Such a baby,” he huffs. “Close your eyes. Don’t fight it if ya need to sleep.”
In your blissed out, sleepy state, you ask the question, “So I can spend the night?”
The blonde once again tsks, scowling down at you. “What kinda stupid question is that? Why else would we be cuddlin’ your ass?” He presses a kiss to the crown of your forehead, making your skin flush with warmth.
Kiri chuckles behind you, becoming the big spoon as he squeezes you between himself and Bakugou, protecting you from the darkness and tomorrow. “That’s a yes. You could even stay the entire trip if you wanted to, cutie.”
He too kisses you, pressing one softly against your cheek. “And Musutafu’s only a plane ride away,” he adds. “Anything’s possible, baby.”
You sleepily smile into Bakugou’s chest, feeling his heart beat against your cheek. That all sounds so nice. The three of you? Together? They, your sexy boyfriends and you, their pretty little girlfriend? It sounds so perfect…
Yet so unpredictable. Tomorrow is only a sunrise away and the future is uncertain. You know eventually, you will have to go back to your hotel room and face your husband. Face your problems. Face the inevitable crash and burn of your marriage. You know that you will have to return home soon and figure things out from there.
Everything feels unsure right now, but one thing in your mind that remains as you fall off to sleep is for sure: you’re getting a divorce.
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.
a/n. because that "you shaved your bush" trend is on tiktok and how could i not think of the birthday boy bushleb himself losing his comfort bush
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It's ritual for Caleb to come home after a long day and just smother himself against you.
"Missed you, pips," he sighs against your neck, and you giggle as he flops down bed, lying on top of you. Nuzzling your skin for comfort, he slides lower down until his face is level with your thighs. The contact isn't always sexual, just that the feel of your soft skin after a long day is comforting.
"Did you do anything fun today?" He smiles up at you, hands absentmindedly slipping under your sleep shorts. You hum in thought, fingers running through his brown locks.
"I had a few missions I had to deal with. But I ended up finishing early."
"Mhm," Caleb's nose nudges your thigh softly. He caresses the curve of your stomach.
"So Tara and I also went out for dessert afterwards."
"That's fun." A blissful exhale escapes his lips as you comb through his hair just right. His fingers inch further down, inching to sink into the rough curls he knows are situated just-
"And I also-"
"You shaved your bush."
The line is so blunt yet laced with such a betrayed tone that you can't help but laugh.
"What?"
"Your bush. It's...gone."
"Yeah, I did shave it off in the shower earlier. Had to clean out the drain all by myself."
Caleb's eyes get all misty- this time not at the idea of you doing things by yourself, but the image of your poor bush hairs having to be wrenched out of a shower drain like they're not his greatest comfort.
"Why? Did I make you feel like you had to?" He demands, but it comes out in a more mopey, disappointed tone.
"No, of course not. I just got a bit irritated with the feeling. Wanted something smooth for a change."
"Oh, okay. You know, I love your body either way, pips, it's just...just..."
"Just what, Caleb?" Your tone softens. You look down to see him hide his face against your stomach, but it doesn't muffle the sniffle that's wrenched from him.
Waking Izuku up in the middle of the night cuz you're craving his cock and he just rolls his eyes at you before pounding you into the mattress
His thrusts are fast and hard, hes even being a little meann... Even though he just woke up cuz hes just so sleepy and irritated you woke him up for this
When you finally cum he just flops back down next to you, tucking you into his neck and falling back asleep, not even caring his dick is still rock hard
The next morning he apologies for being dismissive and mean, hes explaining how it was just so early and it was his first day off in so long so he wanted a good nights sleep.
You nod your head and smile with big doe eyes while everything goes through one ear and out the other cuz it just felt so good
As he speaks you're thinking of ways to rile him up like that again.
being chased by your fave in the woods… that rush of adrenaline, your heart in your throat, knowing he’s right behind you and knowing he’s going to fuck you so good once he catches you >>>>
SugarDaddy!Nanami first met SugarBaby!Reader during his lunch break and found her to be absolutely breathtaking. He noticed that she was sitting alone in the corner booth of the cafe.
SugarBaby!Reader’s outfit was simple, a light blue mini dress, made out of cotton and lace. The shoes resembled ballerina flats but as platform heels. Her hair was in a bun with two tendrils, edges perfectly laid. Each edge replicated the ocean waves.
SugarBaby!Reader could feel something or someone looking at her. She looks through her peripheral vision and sees him. To get a better picture, she slowly lifts her head. Once they made eye contact, both of them looked away quickly.
SugarDaddy!Nanami could feel the heat rising in his skin, he knew that his ears had to have some sort of pinkish tinge to them. Thankfully, it was his turn to order. He greets the cashier and places his order. He may have mentioned to the cashier that he was going to eat with you and to have the server to bring it to the corner booth.
SugarDaddy!Nanami makes his way over to you. Clearing his throat, he introduces himself to you. You smile at him and introduce yourself to him. You invited him to sit across from you and he takes the invitation, almost immediately.
From that day forward, it seems as though you two were inseparable. After sharing lunch with you, he gives you his business card. To his surprise, he heard from you later on that night. He entertains the texts for an hour before asking if it would be alright to call you. You didn’t mind, you wanted to continue the conversation. So, you decided to grant him the opportunity of having a phone call.
His voice is smooth like velvet, music to your ears really. The contrast between his voice and yours really felt exposed in the midnight air. The conversation seemed to flow effortlessly and both seemed to be interested in whatever the other was saying. Eventually, you both were actively trying to fight the sandman. With a promise to call you in the morning, you both hang up and go to sleep.
SugarBaby!Reader woke up the next day, feeling refreshed. She immediately made her way into her bathroom, turning on the light. Looking into the mirror, admiring her reflection just before officially starting her morning regimen. Pumping the Cetaphil into her hand, rubbing it all over her face. Leaving the soap suds on, she then starts to brush her teeth. After a few minutes, she has a clear face and is applying her vitamin C serum and the moisturizer.
*ring..ring..rrring*
SugarBaby!Reader practically runs back into her room to pick up her cell. Briefly looking at the caller id, a smile erupts onto her face. The screen read “Kento 💋”. As soon as she answered, she’s greeted with his raspy morning voice. The sound alone practically made her melt. “Good morning, beautiful. Did you sleep well?”, he asks softly. “Good morning, Ken. I slept well. Did you sleep well?”, you replied with a voice that was sweet like honey. “I slept well, beauty. I wanted to know what were your plans for the day?”, he replies. Smirking as you answer, “Oh, really?”. He chuckles, “Yes, beautiful. I want to see you again. Can you grant me that?”. You giggle, “I was just teasing you. Of course, I can grant your wish. You’re lucky that I’m not busy”.
You guys talk for an hour and a half, flirting and teasing each other while continuing to complete your morning regimens. You guys decided that Nanami would come and get you. After you guys hang up, you redo your edges and fix your hair. The hairstyle of choice for the day was some bangs with a messy bun, leaving some tendrils out in the back. You can’t wait for your hair appointment in a couple of days, you’re ready for your next style and a new color. Once you finished battling your hair, you got dressed. Your outfit consisted of a long, light grey maxi skirt with pockets and a fitted, cropped cami. Your accessories included a gold chain, your jade Buddha necklace, custom gold bamboo earrings with your nickname in them, gold bracelets (on both of your wrists) and a gold chain belt (on your waist) that had hearts all over it.
Your doorbell rang as you were spritzing on your perfume. You spray once last cloud before making your way downstairs to your front door. “Who is it?”, you asked. “It’s Ken”, the guest replied. You peek through the peephole to confirm that it’s really Kento and it is. After the confirmation, you unlock the door and open it for him. You both take in each other’s appearances. You look him up and down, admiring him. You were so focused on him, you didn’t realize he was doing the same thing to you. It wasn’t until you heard him calling your name that you flipped back into reality.
“Oops, sorry. Please come inside, Ken. I don’t know where my manners went”, you say as you open the door wider for him. “No worries. Did I come too early?”, he asked. “No, I was just finishing up. Please sit, I’ll be right back”, you say to him before making you way back upstairs to your room. You walk into your closet and grab your Brandon Blackwood as well as your wedge sandals. You make your way back down to the living room and see Ken look at your picture wall. “You look just like both of your parents.”, he comments as soon as he felt your presence. “Thank you, I get that a lot”, you beamed in response.
“Do you want something to drink?”, you asked him as you were putting your sandals on. “No, thank you. Whenever you’re ready, we can go out”, he responds while shuffling around in his pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke in the car?”, you asked as you gather your papers and lucky charms. He finally pulled out the item that he was looking for in his pocket and it was a joint. You chuckled and say, “Oh wow, I didn’t think you were serious when you said that you smoke too. You really don’t seem like the type”. He chuckled and responded, “I could say the same to you, darling”. “You wanna smoke in here or in your car?”, you ask. “We can do both. Let’s smoke here after our date”. “You already knew I’d want to spend more time with you?”, you ask with a smirk sneaking its way onto your face. “Lucky guess”, Ken respond with his own smirk making it’s way onto his face as well. Ken pulls you up from the couch once you closed your purse. You gasp and giggle while interlocking your fingers with his. Immediately, he squeezes your hand softly and strokes your hand with his thumb.
"I hate you, you know that?" you suddenly snap, the words leaving your lips like a sacred chant you dared never to utter - and yet, here you were.
As Caleb falls silent at your outburst, you begin to see his features soften into something pitiful; but before you let that get to you, you turn on your heel and leave.
He doesn't follow you like he should. Usually, he’d be hot on your trail to reel you back and teach you a lesson; to never talk back, never raise your voice at him.
But this time, he doesn't.
This time, you can’t even hear his breaths lingering behind you.
You don't want to think about him anymore.
Not a single second.
As you slam your door, you make an effort to lock it before getting into your bed.
You hate the way your heart patters, the way your head keeps egging you to remember the harsh words you lashed onto your lover only seconds ago. You can admit to yourself now, that they were dramatic - of course you didn't hate Caleb - how could you? He was the only person that ever mattered to you.
Silence.
You can’t hear him. Is he still standing there? Right where you said those awful words? Why wasn't he moving?
Minutes pass. Then, an hour.
Only then, do you hear the first knock on your door. Somehow, your anxiety reduced into a wash of relief.
You swallow the lump in your throat, anticipating another knock at your silence. You wanted to pretend you were asleep, but you know Caleb well, and he knows you even better.
“I know you’re not asleep” he mumbles behind the door.
He waits another moment before sighing.
You watch as the door handle twists, but it doesn't budge.
A deadly sound escapes Caleb's lips - a chuckle.
You find yourself biting the bottom of your lip, gripping at the sheets - this was inevitable. You knew you’d tick him off by locking your door, especially after an argument. It was one of the rules Caleb has set for the both of you since your shared childhood together - no locked doors, especially after arguments.
One loud bang, and he was inside; the small clinck of your now destroyed lock bounces on the floor as a reminder of your now disturbed peace.
As your eyes meet his, Caleb shakes his head in mock disappointment, “what did we say about locking doors, hm?”
You keep yourself composed; though, the sight of your shattered lock and partially broken door does not help, not one bit.
You watch as Caleb strides toward you, he doesn't look all that intimidating - usually, Caleb would have an almost predatory look on him after an argument like that. But tonight, he seemed all too expressionless.
Something felt off.
“So I'm getting the silent treatment too now, huh?” He suddenly speaks, the way he spoke was far too casual, it makes you wonder if he was ready to make up. Though you were stubborn, you certainly didn’t mind it if he did, so as long as he apologises first, of course.
You keep your eyes on his as he nears, expectant.
“It’s fine, I don't mind,” he sighs, before sitting at the edge of your bed, “I was just going to say goodnight anyways, that’s all.”
Your eye twitches involuntarily, and you find the words escaping before holding them back - so much for a silent treatment.
“That’s all?”
Caleb smiles at the way you so easily gave up the act. He tilts his head to the side, his eyes shining softly, “And that I love you”
“I love you too” you say in a breath, wanting to be closer, wanting to pull him in. Suddenly, nothing truly mattered anymore. Nothing ever mattered, except for Caleb.
But when you look into his eyes, you don’t see him anymore. It’s empty, his eyes. They usually light up when you say those words, but right now, Caleb wasn’t there.
Though he smiles at you once more, you feel your heart begin to race. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. And deep inside your heart, you know it’s all your fault.
Before Caleb can turn to leave, you clutch onto the back of his shirt.
“Whats wrong?” Caleb questions, quirking a brow upward as he allows himself to settle back down on your bed with your eager attempt to pull him down.
“We’re not making up?” You say, meeker than you intend - Caleb notices this, of course, but he doesn’t seem to tease you for it.
“Hm? Why would we?”
You feel your stomach twist at the words, and you feel your breaths faint, “You've always said it's best to make up before falling asleep” you manage, feeling your throat clog up with the way he looks at you. As if you were a stranger of some sort, as if he saw right through you.
Where was he? Where was Caleb?
“Doesn't mean we should” he replies flatly, “you were about to sleep with your door locked, were you not? So you clearly didn't want to make up either”
Your shoulders slump even more, your voice a little too innocent for even Caleb to bear any longer, “You don't want to?”
He looks away, unable to face you, but he’s reeled back in when your palms cup onto his cheek, holding him there, right in front of you.
“Caleb-”
“I’m tired pips, I need sleep too y'know" he mumbles, looking down to your lips before looking back up to your gaze, “plus, you’ve been bad enough to me today. I think I deserve a break”
“No” you say, stubborn and childish as you are, but it manages to break a chuckle from him.
“No?” He muses as you sit up straighter.
He must already know you’re about to kiss him, since he moves an inch back when you lean in. Though you’re offended, you scrunch your eyebrows to scowl at him.
“I spoil you too much” he sighs, “you don’t get to kiss me after all of that”
As Caleb’s large hands wrap around yours, you begin to panic when he pulls your hold away from him.
“Please gege-”
Caleb seems to have some mercy for you when you plead like that, you understand that with the way he stills, the way his gaze softens just the slightest. He couldn't help it, and you knew it - when you addressed him like that, it felt like he could never say no.
His finger saunters across the bottom of your jaw, trailing a line over it before lingering against your lips.
You don’t look away from him, you can’t.
“Not this time, okay pips?”
When you feel his fingers press onto your bottom lip, you’re already commanded to take it in. It doesn’t matter anymore, this is a small luxury for what you did. You would take this, you would gladly take anything of what he gives to you.
“So spoilt…” he chuckles softly, prodding his finger in deeper, “perhaps I should’ve left your lock on, after all”
You hum as his two digits push in back and forth, relishing the feeling of his fingers on your tongue; your core aches with a type of pleasure you know you won’t be getting a release from - but you still enjoy it.
You hold onto his wrist when he tries to pull his fingers away, desperate for the small form of intimacy he’s given to stay beside him a little longer. But you know that you’ve already been far too greedy.
“That’s enough now, yeah?” He’s soft once more, easing you off. And though you’re dazed, you remember exactly what you needed to say before he leaves you tonight.
And since you’re already pathetic enough, you're no longer scared of voicing it out.
“What I said earlier-” you start, louder, ready to confront the situation you were avoiding. Caleb doesn’t move, and with the way he wasn’t looking at you anymore, you knew he knew exactly what you were talking about.
“It’s nothing i’m not aware of”
“What?”
The feeling again.
Washing over your previous pleasure, it eats away at you. You know it for certain now. It was all your fault. That empty look in his eyes. It was all your doing. The anxiety inside you hurls into something dangerous but you try to keep your mind steady to let Caleb know the truth.
“I don't hate you. I promise- I was just- I was just upset and it came out” you sputter out as quickly as you can before regaining your breaths, “I say it when I'm angry, you know it’s not true, don’t you?”
Caleb’s silence breaks your heart into fragments, his eyes look down before shaking his head and meeting your eyes once more. A gentle smile forms on his lips before he leans in to pat your head.
“You should get some sleep, goodnight pips”
You feel your hands shake as you reach out to him once more, but this time, you’re not fast enough. You find yourself clutching onto the mattress underneath in an attempt to find a warmth that isn’t his.
He’s already gone.
You didn’t know Caleb had those thoughts in his head. How could you possibly know? You thought he knew how much you adored him. How the possibility of you hating him could never occur, not even in a million lifetimes.
“Arent you a little too old to be creeping into my bed over nightmares?” Caleb sighs as he sits up from his bed, staring you down as you creep your way into his bed and under his sheets.
“Pips…” there was a hint of warning in his tone, but you don’t back down, “you have your own bed”
“Are you going to kick me out?” You challenge, only to hear him sharply inhale as you wrap your arms around his waist, snuggling up to his chest.
Caleb manages to relax a little as he falls back into his pillow, you feel it with the way his breaths have finally steadied in your embrace, “Of course not. It’s your home, do as you please”
“I’m sorry” you start, closing your eyes to rest against his chest, finding comfort in his warmth and the gentle thumping of his heart, “I promise you, with every fibre of my being, I don’t hate you. I never did, I never will”
“That’s reassuring” he replies, but you find yourself pushing up against his chest to take a better look at him. Caleb opens his eyes and raises his eyebrows at you, as if to question you, but you narrow your eyes onto him instead,
“You don't believe me still” you say in a huff, Caleb sighs.
“How can I” he mumbles softly, “you said it with such conviction… it just reinforced something I had already been feeling”
You swallow down, thick.
The guilt was washing over you like waves crashing onto you, over and over again, hard, heavy, painful.
Everything hurt.
But what hurt more was the way Caleb stared right at you, nervous to say another word, that you may break if he did.
Even when he was already the one who was broken.
“I love you Caleb, you know that, don’t you?” You say, softer - and though Caleb sits up to comfort you, you can’t help but feel like a monster when he doesn’t reply.
He can’t reply.
“Caleb?”
As your voice begins to shake and your eyes start to water, Caleb closes his eyes momentarily to let out a breath.
“I’m not upset anymore pips” he shakes his head, “let's go back to sleep now, okay? ”
Again and again. He won’t answer you. He certainly believes it, that you hate him, that you don’t truly love him. It was all your fault.
All your fault.
Unknowingly, you break out into an ugly sob, shocking even Caleb who pulls you into his chest immediately. You hate how you can’t reach him. You hate how he doesn’t listen. You hate how he doesn’t understand that he’s the only person you care about.
“Please stop crying pips...” he groans, rocking you back and forth, just like he always did when you would cry in his arms, “I still love you, I’ll always love you”
“But you don't believe that I love you” your voice cracks again, pushing back to look at him once more - waiting, begging for an answer, but he doesn’t give you it.
Wiping away at your tears, you instinctively lean in to kiss him before pulling back at the very last moment, remembering only moments ago that he didn't want to. You apologise softly and wipe away at your tears again, stabilising your breaths and sinking back down to the sheets.
All the while, Caleb watches you, his fingers tangling in your hair as the other taps a familiar rhythm on your back.
He pulls you close, so close you feel his eyelashes on yours, even his nose brushes up against yours. You manage to scoot back to give him an appropriate amount of space, but you feel him pull you in instead.
Out of nowhere, his lips are on yours; soft, tender - but the moment ends as quickly as it starts. You look to him, shocked and dazed, almost questioning why he gave you something he withheld only moments ago.
Though you should be happier having finally gotten a small token of his affection for the cruel words you’ve lashed onto him, you can’t help but feel even worse.
“Happy?” Caleb gives you his best smile, charming, relaxed - but you know better. A small breath leaves his lips as he kisses the tip of your nose, then your forehead. You don't have any more fight in you to plead your case. So you settle beside him, pulling yourself close against his chest.
“I’m sorry gege”
“I know, it’s okay"
chuu's note: I called this damage control bc he kissed mc as damage control hahaha. but then i realised they're both just doing damage control. I highkey want to make a pt2 where mc is being manipulative instead though cos I feel bad for making mc go through ts...
Soooo, as I saw you wrote abt Deku x reader, I got an ideaaa. What abt a prohero!Izuku x Idol!Fem!reader (mostly inspired by Daniela from Katseye bc she’s the main dancer of her group and maybeeeee she could be latina too but really she’s just foreign in general) who’s in an established relationship with Izuku and have been with him for several months before she made it publicly. Ofc, this attracts the attention of the wrong fans which have the type of para social “relationships” so one of them plots to kill her in a rage of jealousy. Reader’s quirk is really up to you and, uuuuh, yah, that would be all! Just an idea if you’ll like to pick it up!
ooooomigosh ur writing is so cool and pretty! i was wondering if you could writing something, anything really, about mohawk mark and that suuuuuper annoying mimicking trait of his. i feel like he’d mock yn’s whines and moans right back to her, loud and scarily accurate. or even holding it against her in general? like “oh that’s not what you were saying last night-” yk?
MOAN LIKE A BITCH!
❛❛He want a quickie, let him lick me, then I started gaspin'!❜❜
Synopsis: Mark loves teasing you, especially with how loud you get when he has you bent over.
Pairing: Mohawk Mark x Chubby! Reader
Warnings: Heavy teasing, female reader, vaginal sex, slight edging, overstimulation, mdom, mean dom, fsub, some degradation, minor praise, public sex (they're in a washroom, so it technically applies), fingering, dumbfication, cock drunk.
AN: I 100% agree anon, he'd be so annoying to fuck. An absolute meanie. But like still hot while doing it??? I think I have an issue. Also THANK YOU FOR 100 FOLLOWERS!
Word Count: 1.1k
Mark made it a point to rub in just how much he pleased you. Prick gets off by how embarrassed you get when he dicks you down. Especially how loud you'd get.
That's why he has you bent over a stingy washroom sink. Skirt bunched at your waist, tits pressed firmly against the cool porcelain.
Panties pushed aside—perfect view of your drenched folds glistening under the low light. The faint sound of music drifting in the background, party long forgotten.
His hot breath grazed your ears, his hand trailing down the curve of your spine. Feather light touch sent a shiver down your spine.
“Must have been fantasizing about this, hmm? I mean, you didn't even wear shorts!” His hand stopped at your fat cunt, he gave it a tentative tap. Spreading your slick folds, admiring your pussy.
You shivered, lips clamped shut. He continued, collecting your essence on his fingers, rubbing along your puffy folds. “C'mon, not even a little whimper. I know you love it when I play with this pussy,” he huffed.
A wicked grin spread on his lips, his body hunched over yours, smearing sloppy kisses down the juncture of your neck.
Hot breath fanning your skin makes your breath hitch. His index finger swiped over your aching clit causing you to gasp.
“I know you can give more than that,” his fingers toyed with your sensitive clit, your lips wobbled, your restrain snapping like twigs.
You moaned, you already knew you were done for. He mimicked it, almost perfectly, “That's how it's supposed to be. Moaning like a bitch for me.”
Two fingers probed your quivering hole, sliding in with ease. “So wet, and I've barely touched you.” The intrusion was tantalizing.
His movements were slow. Agonizingly slow. You could feel your resolve fizzling out, you rolled your hips against his hand. The delicious feeling of thick fingers pumping into you sent a jolt of pleasure down your spine.
Your breath staggered, soft moans tumbled from your lips. “Aw, is the slut enjoying my fingers? Gripping em’ tight,” he cooed, angling them higher to curl at your g-spot.
You jolted, whining at the added stimulation. “I asked you a question. You're a big girl, aren't ya? Use your words.” fingers bumping at your sweet spot, making your legs tremble.
“I love it… Love your fingers, Mark. M’fuck,” you slurred, feeling heat crawl up your cheeks as the little pride you had left withered away.
“I love it, love your fingers, Mark. Of course you do, I’m the best.” his finger picked up their pace, fast and overwhelmingly good.
Broken moans fell from your lips like a waterfall, Mark only huffed with pride. The familiar knot in your stomach tightened, walls clamping down on his fingers.
“Mark, I'm gonna cum…please!” He quickly withdrew his fingers with a wet plop. You groan, looking over your shoulder, lips pursed in a scowl. “I was close!”
Mark cocked his head to the side, a lazy grin on his lips. “So impatient, you’ll cum, eventually” Harshly slapping your ass, he unbuckled his pants, fabric pooling at his ankles.
“I mean, I’m curious to see how long you’ll last.” Tip of his cock aligned itself against your slick hole. “Y'know, like a fun little experiment.” He mused, pushing in.
You gasped, you could've cummed right there from the delicious stretch of his thick cock. An angry red tip is already reaching the deepest part of you.
“See? Won't it be better to cum on my dick sweetcheeks?” he cooed, rough palms slide over the expense of your ass. Rolling his hips in slow thrusts.
Your mind reeled, hands gripping the delicate porcelain beneath you. “Yes, God yes.”
“Already breathless and I haven't even fucked you silly.” drawing his hips back for a particularly harsh thrust making you gasp.
He continued, each swift roll of his hips grew rougher. Until the echo of skin slapping and breathy moans bounced off the walls.
“Isn't this better, baby?” Mark's grip around your hips was bruising, his smile taunting.
Your thoughts practically melted with each languid stroke of his cock. He only snorted, “C'mon, tell me my dicks better. I know you can do it f'me, baby.”
His words flew over your head. Not even attempting to register his words. The clawing feeling of your orgasm approaching.
Your silence drew him to pause mid thrust. Sudden loss made your fogged mind clear
“No! Please, just keep going!” You whined, hips grinding against his, a feeble attempt to get any friction.
“Please, just keep going. Then answer my question. My dicks better ain't it?”He cackled, pinching your ass cheek.
“Yes! Your dicks, ahh, amazing,” you squeaked. The torturous start and stop was evermore irritating.
His pace was brutal, damn near knocking the air from your lungs. Your grip on reality slipped from your fingers, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. The familiar knot of release forming in your abdomen, only to quickly dissipate.
You whimpered at another ruined orgasm. “Please, Mark. Wanna cum…please let me cum!” You babbled. Hands clawing at the porcelain beneath you, the cool touch only ebbing your frustration further.
His fingers swiped at your clit in fast circles “You really wanna cum?
“Yes! F-fuck yes….gotta c-cum.”
“Then cum.”
Your legs buckled, vision splotchy as your orgasm crashed into you, a high pitched cry of ecstasy.
Mark didn't stutter, even as your pussy clamped down, gripping him like a vice. “Look at that, did my slut enjoy herself?”
You nodded your head haphazardly, “yes, yeah…so much…m'fuck.” Even as the waves of your orgasm subsided, his frantic movements continued.
Your hips jerked away, pleasure becoming overwhelming. “No! Shit, ngh, too much! Mark…too much!”
“You wanted to cum, didn't you baby? So cum again f'me.” He cooed. Your second orgasm hit you like a train, you withered beneath him.
It went on, you've lost track of how many orgasms he's given you. Relentless abuse of your poor cunt muddled your mind further.
“C'mon slut. Just one more for aah, me. Can't you do that?” you moaned meekly, pussy clamping down weakly against his pistoning cock.
“There we go, cream on my cock one last time, hah. Shit…just one more, m'so close.” Mark babbled, his resolve teetering as his cock twitched.
He grumbled, thick spurts of cum painting your walls. “Fuck, your pussy milking me dry, sweetheart.” You groaned, both your releases smeared against your thick thighs.
Your legs crumbled beneath you, Mark held you up with ease, “C'mon, you've had multiple orgasms and I only had one. Seems a little unfair, huh?” Littering sloppy open mouth kisses along your soft jaw.
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