yes? no? maybe so?

quinn || 26 || just another Sylus girlie with a soft spot for Rafayel

[stardustsylus]

hey so it’s technically now canon that Sylus’ eye does glow brighter when he’s close

[orchardjasmine]

Zayne x fem!reader x Caleb Summary: Caleb gets spoiled for his birthday! CWs: threesome w/ heavy snowapple action, face sitting, Caleb gets fucked and sucked yippee! WC: 1,471 | AO3 link

Your lips trail down the length of Caleb's neck, his arm firmly secured around your waist while you kneel next to him on the bed. You feel him groan through his throat and you cast a look down to Zayne who's kneeling between his spread thighs, head bobbing up and down languidly as he takes Caleb's cock into his mouth.

"F-fuck me..." Caleb groans, tipping his head back to give you more accress to his neck.

"I will," Zayne says, pulling off Caleb's cock with a smirk. "Have some patience."

You let out a little giggle and run your hand up and down Caleb's chest, giving his nipple a few gentle teases.

"Zayne's mouth feel good on your cock?" You ask innocently.

"Mhm." He moans. "Tongue always feels so fucking goo-oh shit."

Caleb squeezes his eyes shut and you look down again to see what has him so worked up. Zayne's arm is moving back and forth; he must be working Caleb open for him.

"Guessing his fingers feel good too, huh?" You tease with a smile.

Caleb grabs the back of your head and drags you into a harsh kiss. It's sloppy and he's making all kinds of noises as Zayne continues to work both his cock and ass.

"Needa taste you." He mumbles against your lips.

"Whatever the birthday boy wants, the birthday boy gets." You say as you pull away to slip off your underwear.

Caleb wastes no time in lying back on the bed, pulling his feet up to rest on the edge so that Zayne can keep stretching him open, preparing him for his cock.

"Right here, baby." Caleb says, tapping his lips. "Sit that pretty pussy right on my face."

You swing a leg over his head, planting your hands on his broad chest to steady yourself and also to keep watching Zayne suck Caleb into his mouth.

Caleb runs his hands up and down your thighs, biting his lip while he stares at your drenched and glistening cunt. You gasp as he pulls you down with his evol and then that man is eating.

You scrabble at his chest, short little whimpers leaving your mouth while he's practically shoving his face into your pussy. His tongue flicks at your clit, his nose digs into your hole and he's slurping up every single bit of cum he drags out of you.

"Ooohh my god, Caleb!" You cry. "Your mouth feels - shit - it feels so so good."

You feel him hum against you, his head moving side to side as if trying to work his way even further into you. He's grabbing your hips and pushing you harder onto his face, tongue pressing firmly against your clit as it works you closer and closer to climax.

Zayne's watching you with hooded eyes, enjoying the view of you subtly rocking your hips against Caleb's face, breasts gently bouncing from the motion. He's working the third and final finger into Caleb's tight hole, lube squelching with every push and stretch, while the other hand leisurely strokes his boyfriend's cock. He wants him to feel completely overwhelmed with pleasure, to forget everything else going on his life, to forget every shit little detail he has to deal with for the Fleet. Caleb deserves to be spoiled and they will always be the ones to do it.

"Is he going to make you come?" Zayne asks you.

"Y-yeah..." You whine. "He-he's sucking my clit and it feels so fucking good."

"Make her come on your face," He says louder to the man underneath you. "And then I'll fuck you."

You didn't think Caleb could eat you out with anymore determination than he already was but he always did love to prove you wrong. He keeps sucking your clit between his lips and his tongue joins to torture your poor little bud. He's moaning into your cunt just from the taste of you and you dread to think the absolute mess you're making of his face.

Two fingers are suddenly pushed into your hole and waste no time honing in on your g-spot.

"Yes, yes, right there!" You buck your hips against Caleb's mouth. "Please, please, m'gonna come so hard."

"Come for us." Zayne says, rising to his feet to position his cock at Caleb's waiting hole.

You explode with a cry, more cum drools out of your pussy around Caleb's fingers and he slurps it up with enthusiasm.

The grip around your hips tightens and you feel the vibrations more than you hear the groan from the man beneath you as you watch Zayne push into Caleb's ass. His cock bobs and twitches with every inch that's pushed into him and you can't help but reach out and grasp it.

When Zayne bottoms out they both sigh.

"So tight." He says through clenched teeth.

You start to lazily jerk Caleb's cock, eyes zeroed in on Zayne's cock slowly moving in and out of his ass. But then all of a sudden you're pulled back down by your hips.

"Caaleeeb!" You whine. "M'too sensitive!"

"You wouldn't deny the birthday boy, would you?" He drawls.

You can hear the smirk in his voice, the bastard.

You let him pull you back down to his face. Mercifully he is far too distracted with Zayne's increasing pace to properly devour you as he was before, but you are still left twitching as he tongues your sensitive little clit.

The room fills with the sounds of your pleasure. Tortured whimpers from your overstimulation, muffled moans into your pussy, quiet grunts and the slapping of flesh on flesh as Zayne starts to fuck Caleb with purpose.

"Take him into your mouth." Zayne instructs you.

You eagerly obey, leaning down to suck on the head of Caleb's cock. You feel him groan into your cunt.

"Holy fuck," He mutters after reluctantly pulling away from you. "It's too mu-I can't-oh shit."

Zayne smiles triumphantly. This is what he wanted. For Caleb to utterly lose his mind and any comprehensive thought.

He gives in to the pleasure and lies his head back on the bed, face covered in your cum. He feels Zayne shift and suddenly the angle he's fucking him at is hitting his prostate with every thrust.

"Fuck!" Caleb shouts.

His fingers are digging into your thighs, nails biting at the skin but you don't care. You keep sucking at his cock, hand stroking the rest of the shaft you can't reach, and you're both being jostled on the bed from the force of Zayne's thrusts.

"You're doing - ngh - you're doing so good for us." Zayne says between breaths.

He's breathing heavy, pushing Caleb's thighs higher with his hands and he can't stop watching his cock plunge in and out of his ass.

"Don't know...oh god," Caleb struggles to get a coherent sentence out. "Not gonna...last long."

Zayne lets go of Caleb's legs to gather your hair in his hand. He wants an unobstructed view of you suckling on Caleb's cock. He begins to gently guide your movements so that your mouth moves up and down just the head of his cock. He knows it's the most sensitive part and he wants Caleb to lose that final thread of control.

"Can't-" Caleb whimpers quietly. "Feels too fucking good."

You allow Zayne to move you while your tongue gives small, gentle licks to the head of his cock. You slip your free hand down to softly caress his balls and you sense that's his undoing. He starts to twitch in your mouth.

"W-wanna come down your f-fuckin' throat." He stutters.

You hum your consent around his tip and not a second later his cum bursts into your mouth. You swallow it eagerly. Caleb presses his face against your thigh, muffling the loud moans spilling free from his lips. You only pull off of him when you feel a gentle bite to your thigh.

"Good girl." Zayne mutters to you with a smile.

Zayne now chases his release. He fucks Caleb hard, head tipped back and eyes closed in pleasure. Meanwhile you slowly rub the palm of your hand up and down Caleb's shaft, giggling lightly as a few more spurts of cum dribble out of his tip.

Zayne comes with a low grunt, shoving his cock as deep as it can go into Caleb's tight hole as he fills him up. You reach up to pull him into a kiss, he breathes heavily through his nose, cum still spilling out into Caleb's ass.

You pull away with a giddy smile and swing your leg back over Caleb's head. You can't help but giggle some more as you finally see his cum-covered, fucked out face. You lean down to give him a quick kiss on the nose, tasting yourself at the same time.

"Happy Birthday, Caleb."

Have any ideas you'd like me to write? Send me an ask and I just might!

[xiayizhou04]

✦ let me have you

synopsis. caleb gives into his desires pairing. caleb x reader tw/content. sibling incest, virginity loss, p in v wc. 2.5k

masterlist ♱ ask

Caleb’s mind has been drifting into a darker and darker place ever since he’s been spending the summer with his younger sister. 

Both of you have decided to spend two weeks of your break at your grandma's, as a chance to wind down from your rough university studies and to catch up with one another. 

For the first couple of days it has been nothing but blissful for Caleb, getting to hear you ramble about school, new friends, parties, drama. Listening to you complain about how you had to start doing things for yourself since your big brother wasn’t there to do it for you. And on top of that… 

Boys. 

Caleb’s eyebrow twitches at the thought. The mere image of seeing his sweet baby sister kissing–no, holding another man’s hand has him seeing red. 

Of course, none of the men you’ve met have gotten very far with you, he made sure of that. 

But the urge he has felt over the past week has him doubling over in the safe confines of his bedroom, cock throbbing in his boxers. 

“Are you even listening to me?” 

Caleb turns towards you, nodding his head. “Yeah, you need your shirt by Friday, right?” 

“Yup,” you reply. You’re enjoying the ice cream cone that he bought you, the melting dessert running down your fingers as you lick the sides. “Can you do my laundry for me?”

“Of course pips,” Caleb stretches, averting his eyes. “Leave it to me.”

– 

The ceiling fan is all Caleb can hear as it fights against the humid air. He lies on his back in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers, one arm thrown over his eyes and the other resting on his stomach. He’s been staring at the same crack in the wall for forty minutes. 

The house is quiet. Grandma went to bed at nine, same as every night since they were kids. The floorboards still creak in some places, the AC unit in the room next to him rattles as it usually does. 

But nothing is the same. Not this summer.

Caleb’s jaw tightens as he shifts on the mattress, the friction of cotton against his cock making him hiss through his teeth. He’s half hard. Has been for the past three nights, ever since you and Caleb went to the pool together. 

He spent that night in the shower, palm braced against the wet tile, jerking himself raw with the water scalding down his back. He imagines your body beneath him, back arching and lips parting to moan his name. Moaning for her big brother. Your pussy clenching around his cock, squeezing him tight as he makes you cum for the hundredth time. 

He came so hard he nearly put a fist through the wall. And then he did it again the next night. 

And the night after that. 

Tonight, he’s out of restraint. 

Caleb sits up, running a hand over his face and drags his palm down his jaw. When he opens his eyes, the room is still dark and you’re still sleeping a room away, wearing that tanktop that barely fits you tonight because it was “too hot, gēge, I’m dying.” 

He saw you in it when you said goodnight. The thin straps over your shoulder, the fabric hugging your curves a little too tightly, barely containing your breasts. Your nipples stiffening from the constant friction of the shirt, forming peaks that he can see so, so clearly. 

You’re not a kid anymore. 

Despite the fact that he knows you can survive without him now, capable of taking care of yourself, he can’t help but think of the sweet girl he grew up with. 

He stands, letting his feet touch the cold floor. Not bothering with pants he exits out his bedroom and into the hallway, avoiding the creaks in the floorboards. He stops outside your door. 

There’s a sliver of light underneath. You’ve always slept with the lamp on ever since you were little, something he used to tease you for. He would leave his own door cracked just in case you felt the need for your big brother to protect you, letting you slip under the covers of his bed. 

Caleb knocks gently, before opening the door. 

You’re curled on your side, hand tucked under your cheek. The lamp casts a warm glow over your face, a mix of the lighting and your relaxed features making you look younger and less stressed. 

The tanktop you’re wearing has ridden up, the hem bunched below your soft tits, exposing the skin of your stomach. Caleb lets himself look, his body on fire. 

He shuts the door behind him, and you slowly start to stir. You make eye contact with him, eyes hazy with sleep and unfocused. “Gēge? What time is it?”

“Late,” he replies, voice rough. He clears his throat. “Couldn’t sleep.” 

You hum sympathetically, patting the empty space beside you. “Bad dream?”

“Yeah.” He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he lies on his back. You shift closer, seeking his warmth, the way you had done since you were kids. The same way you always did, trusting him. Fuck, his cock hurts.

“You’re tense,” you murmur. You press your head to his chest. “Your heart is going so fast.” 

“Mhm.” 

The look you give him makes him ache, wondering if you understand the tension between the both of you right now, if you have the vocabulary to describe it. 

“Big brother? Are you okay?” Your voice is soft, almost uncertain. “Gēge–” 

“Shh.” Caleb presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed and breathing ragged. “I’m going to show you something, sis. Something that feels good, but you have to trust me.” 

Your fingers clutch onto the fabric of his shirt, not pushing him away. Good. 

“I always trust you.”

Caleb opens his eyes. You’re looking at him, wide-eyed, uncertain, but willing. He knows you don't know what you’re agreeing to, doesn’t understand that the brother you trust is about to take something from you that you can never get back. 

With a shaky breath Caleb leans forward, barely pressing his lips to yours. He feels you freeze in his hold, your breath catching against his mouth. But you don’t push him away regardless.

He pulls back, looking at you. Your eyes are wide, confused in a way that makes his chest ache and his cock throb at the same time. There's a glossy sheen to your lips. He wants to kiss you again. 

“Big brother, what was that for?” He doesn’t answer, and instead cups your jaw, thumb tracing your cheekbone as he kisses you again. 

This time his tongue slides along the seam of your lips, coaxing, asking for entry. You make a startled, soft sound, letting your mouth open under his. Caleb’s heart tightens as he watches your instinct win over your confusion, and trust win over your fear.  

The only thing he can hear in his mind is mine. Caleb knows you’ve never been kissed before, nobody ever getting the chance to explore your mouth with their tongue. Not even a peck. It makes him keen with possessive pride. 

Caleb shifts his weight and rolls over you, settling between your thighs. You look up at him from beneath, eyes half-lidded, trusting, and pliant. 

He could take you right now. Could shove your shorts down, pushing himself inside, take what he’s been dreaming about every night. You wouldn’t stop him, knowing your big brother would never hurt you. 

But he wants you to know. To know what’s happening, even if you can’t explain it. Caleb wants you to choose him, the way he’s already chosen you. 

“Baby sis,” he rasps. His fingertips intimately trail down your throat, over your collarbones, and down to the hem of your tank top. “Can I take this off?” 

Caleb watches you swallow, chest rising and falling with each breath. Your nipples are hard beneath the fabric. 

“Yes,” you lick your lips. “Will you explain what’s happening?”

He freezes, the innocence in your voice stopping him. “I’m going to make you feel good, baby sister.” He hooks a finger under the strap of your top, pulling it down your shoulder. “The way only I can. Will you let gēge do that for you?” 

“Yes, I trust you.” It’s said without hesitation, the way you’ve said it a thousand times. When he taught you how to ride a bike, walked you to school.

Caleb pulls the strap down on the other shoulder. The top slides, pooling at your waist, exposing your perfect, soft breasts. You make a small sound, out of embarrassment maybe, your hands coming up to cover yourself. 

“No.” Caleb catches both your wrists with one hand, pinning them above your head. “Don’t hide from me, let big brother see you, sis.” 

Caleb glances down to see a wet patch that has seeped through your panties, staining your shorts. Fuck, he’s spent too many nights alone with your panties. Compared to that, this is heaven. 

“Gēge, I’m scared.” Of course. Caleb knows he has always kept you sheltered.

“I know.” Caleb kisses your forehead, then the tip of your nose, before settling for the corner of your lips. “I’ve got you, let big brother take care of you.” 

You tilt your head up, as if giving a silent offering. 

Caleb groans, low and rough as he lets his tongue sweep around your mouth, tasting you. Your arms wrap around him, clinging to the fabric draped across his back. 

He rolls his hips against you, letting you feel what you do to him. The thick outline of his cock presses against your thigh, your eyes going wide when you feel it. 

“Is that…?” 

“Yeah,” he breathes out. “ That’s what you do to me, lil’ sis. Every time you walk by in those little shorts, or whenever you call my name.” He grinds against you, slowly introducing you to what he has hidden beneath his boxers. 

“I didn’t know,” you whisper. “I also didn’t know it–we could be like this.” 

“We can,” Caleb assures you, tugging your shorts down. He slides them down past your knees before tossing them off the bed, landing somewhere in the dark. 

The panties you’re wearing are cute, comfortable, with a little bow in the centre. Ah, fuck. He’s aching to be inside you, to taste you. 

“Do you want me to touch you?” 

You nod. “Aches.” 

“Where?” Caleb rubs circles on the elastic, watching you squirm. “Use your words like a big girl, lil’ sis.” 

You make a frustrated sound, so achingly familiar he almost laughs. 

“Touch my pussy, big brother. Please.” 

The dirty words that fall from your mouth send a surge of heat through him, so intensely he sees white. His hand slides down to cup you through the cotton, groaning at the wet heat of you. 

Your back arches and your hand flies to his wrist, holding him in place. Caleb presses down on the damp fabric, rubbing circles slowly. “Good, sis?” 

“Yes,” you tremble, stuttering over your words, wrecked. 

Caleb pulls the waistband of your panties, letting them dangle from one knee. You’re bare beneath him now, spread and innocent. 

He pulls his own shirt over his head, watching your eyes trail his sculpted chest down to the dark hair near his lower stomach, where it disappears into the waistband of his boxers. 

Caleb then pushes his boxers past his hips, revealing his cock. It springs free, thick and aching, the head already slick and beading with precum. 

Your lips part. “Is that… going to fit?”

Caleb laughs, wrapping a hand around himself as he strokes once, slowly, watching you watch him. 

“Don’t worry, baby sister.” He leans down, letting his length press against your thigh, hot and heavy. “Big brother will make it fit in that cute lil’ cunny.” 

You swallow as Caleb lines himself up. The head of his cock presses against the tight, impossibly small entrance to your cunt. 

“Tell me if it hurts and I’ll stop.” 

The first inch draws a sharp cry from your lips, fingers clutching his shoulders as he holds himself there. 

“Big brother,” you whimper. “It hurts.” 

“I know, you’re taking me so well. Your pussy is stretching so nicely around your big brother’s cock.” Caleb presses a kiss to your temple. 

With a nod of your head, Caleb slides in deep until the entirety of his length buries into your pussy. Each thrust is deep, the bed creaking with the slow rhythm. 

As soon as moans start to tumble past your lips, Caleb takes it as a sign to quicken his pace, driving into your pussy harder. The clenching of your tight cunt makes Caleb stutter, the pace of his hips becoming rough and harsh. 

“You like that, baby sis?” He pounds into you, hitting that spot over and over. “You like your big brother fucking you? No one else is ever going to be able to feel this. You’re too good for them, anyway. Always have been.”

“H-huh?” Caleb feels you clench around him tighter at his words. 

“Fuck, I’m not even wearing a condom,” he groans as he ruts into your warmth. “Letting your big brother fuck your cunny raw.” 

“Yes, gēge,” you barely form sentences, eyes rolling back. “I don’t–something feels funny…!”

“Cum for me,” he rasps, reaching deep to slide against your sweet spot. “Cum on your big brother’s cock, let me feel you.”

Caleb feels you flutter around him before you come undone. Your back lifts off the mattress as you reach your climax, walls milking his slick length as he continues to fuck you into overstimulation. 

“I’m gonna cum,” Caleb stutters, hips pushing as deep as he can. “Gonna cum in your womb, okay lil’ sis? You’ll let me, right? Can I leave it inside of you? Let your big brother fuck his babies into you?” 

You nod and whine in overstimulation, squirming beneath him. “Yes…! Please, inside, gēge…!”

Biting his bottom lip at your filthy words, Caleb follows you over the edge, burying himself deep inside you and spilling into your warm cunt with a groan. 

He stays there for a second, savouring the feeling as his cock pulses and softens in your tight haven. The only sounds you can hear are heavy breathing and the AC rattling. Somewhere down the hall, your grandma sleeps, oblivious. 

Caleb presses his lips to your hair. “Mine.” 

“Yours, gēge.” You’re boneless beneath him, curled against his chest. He holds you through the night, enjoying the warm hold your cunt offers him as you sleep. 

In the morning, he’ll have to face what he’s done. But for now, he lets himself have her. 

xiayizhou04's masterlist

[nebulusts]

── .✦ 𝑆𝑌𝑁𝛰𝑃𝑆𝐼𝑆 : valko holds you open. caleb takes you apart. and you're not sure which one is going to break you first.

── .✦ 𝐶𝛰𝑁𝑇𝐸𝑁𝑇 𝑊𝐴𝑅𝑁𝐼𝑁𝐺𝑆 : explicit content (18+), minors dni, threesome, oral sex (f. reader receiving), cunnilingus, voyeurism, possessive behavior, praise kink, biting/marking, two uses of pup as a petname, rough handling, overstimulation, slight degradation if you squint. not proof read oopsie ><

𝐽𝑈𝑆𝑇 𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑁𝐾𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝐴𝐵𝛰𝑈𝑇 how Valko's nails feel just like claws in this moment —pressed into the soft, vulnerable dip of your hips, not quite breaking skin but promising they could, the points of them just shy of painful as he holds you open, keeping you spread wide and shamelessly for the other man kneeling in front of you at the foot of the bed. You're nestled against the warmth of Valko's bare chest, the fine dusting of chest hair tickling your backside, the sheets rough beneath your palms. He's nothing but solid, a warm wall against your back, his breath hot against the curve of your ear every time you try to squirm.

"Stop fidgeting." His voice is a low, gravelly rasp that buzzes against your skin, and you feel it—that vibration traveling down your spine, settling low in your belly where it curls and churns into something deeper. Neediness. Want... You can't pinpoint what you're feeling, your head cloudy with thoughts that only circled back to the two men and the sticky wetness between your thighs.

Valko nips at the shell of your ear and you whimper. "I said you'd take what he gives you. Didn't I?"

Caleb is between your thighs, and he hasn't even touched you yet. He's just looking, those eyes of his heavy lidded and insatiable, letting his gaze drag over you like he's memorizing every detail — from the soft little twitch of your cunt to the way your folds glisten with your slick, irrefutable evidence of your aching want. He keeps his hands resting on your knees—warm, steady, but still despite how much you try to squirm beneath his palms. His breath ghosts across your cunt, and you feel it, that little whisper of heat, that anticipation that makes your thighs tremble, promoting Valko to tighten his hold to keep you right where both men wanted you.

"Look at her," Caleb murmurs in a saccharine tone, and his voice is low, almost distracted, like he's talking to himself. "She's already—" He pauses, and you feel his thumb trace the inside of your thigh, up from the crease of skin all the way to your twitching little bud, featherlight, a question more than a touch as he tilts his head. "Fuck."

And then his mouth is on you.

Not fast. Not eager. Slow. His tongue flattens against you, broad and hot, and he tastes you—just once, just a sample—and the sound he makes afterwards has you melting helplessly against Valko— that low, helpless hum in the back of his throat... it might have been the sexiest thing you've ever heard. His hands tighten on your thighs, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, and he's breathing you in, his nose brushing your clit with every lazy stroke of his tongue, drinking in every drop of your taste, insistent on imprinting it on his tastebuds.

"Stop holding your breath." Valko's teeth graze your shoulder and he huffs something that sounds like a laugh when your head falls back against his huff shoulder, and his nails press deeper—just enough for you to feel them, to remember who's in control, keeping you pinned against him. "He can't eat you properly if you're tensed up. Relax for me, pretty pup."

And you try. You really do.

You try to relax, but Caleb's tongue is circling your clit, slow and deliberate, tracing the shape of you like he's painting, like he's got all night and he's determined to use every second. His hair is soft against your inner thighs, tickling the sensitive skin, his breath is hot and uneven, and when he moans against you the vibration of it shoots through your clit and for a moment you you feel the sound in all the way up in your teeth.

"That's it," Valko murmurs when you let out something akin to a sob and a moan all mixed into one pathetic little sound, and his voice is softer now, almost reverent, his lips brushing your hair. "That's my girl. Taking it so well. Let him have you."

You're faintly aware of how Valko grinds against you everytime Caleb dips down to slurp at your juices.

Caleb pulls back just enough to breathe, and his chin is slick, glossy in the dim light, his lips parted and reddened. He looks up at you, meets your eyes, and grins, a dark shadow glazing over his eyes, something that makes you feel like prey. "She's dripping," he says, and his voice is shot, wrecked, barely a whisper as he makes a show of his eyes locking with Valko's behind you, licking his lips. "Everywhere. Valko, she's—"

"I know." Valko's hand slides from your hip to your stomach, splaying flat, feeling the way you clench. "I can feel her." He presses a kiss to the corner of your jaw, soft, almost gentle. "She's so responsive, isn't she? Gets so wet when we both look at her."

Caleb doesn't answer — he looks so fucked out already that you don't think he can — he just dives back in, and this time he's faster, greedier, his tongue fucking into you while his thumb presses against your clit, circling, pressing, finding that rhythm that has your toes curling and your back arching against Valko's chest. The more you try to run from the zinging pleasure of Caleb's mouth the harder Valko pushes you right into it.

"Please—" you gasp, and your voice is broken, barely coherent and more pathetic than you've ever heard it sound, "—please, I can't—"

"Yes, you can." Valko's voice is flat, calm, like he's telling you the weather. "You can take it. You're going to cum on his tongue like the good girl you are, and then I'm going to fuck you until you can't remember your own name. That's what you wanted, isn't it?" His claws drag down your hip, leaving pale lines that bloom pink. "That's why you're here, pup."

And when you come, hard, fast and shaking, with Caleb's name in your mouth — when you finally break, your whole body shaking and your vision goes white with pleasure —Caleb doesn't stop. He drinks you, his tongue relentless, his hands gripping your thighs so hard you know there will be bruises to discover the next morning, and Valko is right there, murmuring against your ear.

"Atta girl. That's it. That's my perfect girl."

You slump helplessly against him, your body still humming with embers of pleasure Valko decides tips your chin up, forcing you to look at Caleb and his current state... dark eyed and soaked from his nose to his chin in your juices that he makes a show of licking up, his grin sharpening when he sees Valko stiffening behind you.

"We're not done with you yet. You know that, right?" Valko murmurs, dragging his tongue against the side of your neck, collecting a bead of sweat that had pooled at your collarbone. His one hand slides up to embrace the side of your jaw, tilting your head forward. "Why don't you give your boyfriend a nice big kiss, hm? Have a taste."

Caleb's jaw twitches.

Valko smiles. "Then it's my turn."

[sweetcalebb]

ᯓ★ your scent turns valko on at the worst times:: PT 2

₊˚⊹ᰔ summary: you take your poor boyfriend to the bathroom for a quickie <3

part 1 here!!

"You're insane. My family is right outside," Valko huffed, but he still let you push him up against the wall and unfasten his belt.

"You're the one that's had a boner for five minutes and keeps giving me puppy eyes," you countered, your eyes flicking up to his as you tugged his jeans down.

His ears flattened against his head, a small blush spreading across his face.

It was so odd seeing him like this—all flustered. If you did this anywhere else—in his office, in the middle of a party, during one of his calls—he'd be losing his mind. Now, he was being all shy.

"I'm just taking care of my puppy."

His cheeks grew even hotter at the pet name. "You're a tease."

"You like it," you replied, smiling when his jeans hit the floor with a quiet fwump, leaving him in just his boxers.

You palmed him through the fabric, feeling the way he was practically leaking through. "All this from just smelling me?"

You didn't know what came over you. You were at his family home for fuck sake, but something about Valko made you stupid and vice versa.

"Yeah. Just… just be quick."

"Mhmm."

You took him out of his boxers. There was a bead of moisture welling at the tip, his length twitching with a desperate need for release.

You started careful, trying to catch the right rhythm. When you found it, he let out a half whine, half groan into your shoulder. "Yeah, just like that."

He gripped your hand, forcing you to squeeze him tighter. "Faster. Please."

You obliged, keeping your gaze on his. He squeezed his eyes shut, his shoulders tensing at the stimulation.

"Feels good?" you cooed.

He bit back a small whimper. "Yeah—feels really good. Don't stop—" His tilted his hips, chasing the friction of your hand.

Your palm was growing slick with his mess, his stomach dipping every time your fingers grazed over that sensitive spot on the underside of his cock. "Right there, right there—Fuckk," he gasped, his voice strained.

The rhythmic thump thump thump of his tail filled the quiet room. His ears twitched, the sensation of you fisting his cock making his vision blur for a second.

You felt as his free hand shot out to grip the nape of your neck and pulled you in for a messy kiss. He groaned into your mouth, his dick twitching in your grip.

He'd been sitting in the living room for several minutes, trying to will his boner away. Every time he shifted, his jeans rubbed against his dick in a way that made heat twist in his gut. Now that you were touching him, it felt too good. You drove him to the edge embarrassingly fast.

"You're right there, aren't you, puppy?"

Valko gave a needy nod. "Yeah, I am. Hnngh… Make me cum. Please make me cum." He shoved his face in your neck, inhaling shakily, his hips stuttering into your fist.

He was desperate, his breath uneven. You felt the base of bit cock starting to swell. You probably should've stopped at the point, but you didn't.

Valko gave a few more frantic thrusts into your hand before he was coming with a whine. Your fist was covered in hot, pearly strings of his release.

He stayed in your neck for a minute before pulling back to look between your bodies. "Fuck…" he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut with an irritated sound.

You followed his gaze downward and— "Oh, shit." The thing about werewolves—quickies usually didn't solve their problems. If anything, it only made the problem… bigger. His knot had swelled, pulsing in rhythm with his ragged breath, even more unsatisfied than before. "I'm so sorry, I totally forgot—"

Valko groaned, his ears pinned back against his head as he leaned forward to rest his forehead against the top of your head. "It's fine." But his tail flicked behind him, more wired than before. "Now, instead of uncomfortably sitting in the living room, I can uncomfortably sit in the bathroom."

You blinked up at him, your lips pursed in a frown. "Val, I totally forgot your dick does… you know, that."

He let out a strained laugh. "Yeah. I did too for a second."

"…Want me to stay..?"

"Please don't. Just looking at you is making me lose my mind. Just wash your hands and go back."

"Val—"

"Seriously," he huffed, his voice caught between a grunt and a whine. "You're gonna make me hard again."

"Okay, okay!"

"And be cool."

"Okay."

a/n: okayy. anyway, i'm still working on my other requests :) working out with him is next!

[orchardjasmine]

𝕊𝕟𝕠𝕨𝔸𝕡𝕡𝕝𝕖𝕄ℂ ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕟𝕤: ℍ𝕠𝕨 𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕪 𝕃𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕋𝕠 𝕎𝕒𝕥𝕔𝕙 𝔼𝕒𝕔𝕙 𝕆𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣

Zayne x fem!reader x Caleb Tags & CWs: established poly relationship, nsfw headcanons on how they would watch each other fuck, so voyeurism and exhibitionism, snowapple action

───────

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙘𝙩

- He's sitting at the front, prime position, ready to have you both act out every filthy thought he's had that day. Take her rough from behind, yeah like that, now shove her face into the mattress. - He's not shy about asking for what he wants. He's waited all these years to have the two of you and he's not gonna waste any more time. - Usually he'll try to think of something different to get you to do each time, but one that he always returns to is instructing Zayne to make you squirt. The sight of lithe fingers dug deep inside your cunt, working you to orgasm after orgasm until you gush all over the sheets? Caleb's not lasting long. - One of his more recent favourites has been telling Zayne to methodically tie you up in ropes. He likes watching both Zayne's concentration as he weaves the ropes around your wrists and ankles as well as the look of peace on your face as he does so. - He also has a penchant for telling you to get on your knees to suck Zayne's cock into your mouth. He really does love to see the red blush dusted across Zayne's cheeks.

───────

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩𝙡𝙮

- Zayne isn't the biggest fan of porn but if he was, you two would be his favourite. - He likes feeling like you're putting on a show for him. How Caleb manoeuvres you to be in the best positions for Zayne to see and enjoy. He especially likes when Caleb puts you in reverse cowgirl on his lap, spreading your legs wide so he can watch his cock drive in and out of you. - He won't always sit still, sometimes he'll get up and move to another spot. Perhaps Caleb is fucking you from behind and when he's had his fill of watching your ass jiggle with each pound of his hips, he'll move round to your front to see your face scrunched up in ecstasy. - He won't say much but he'll mutter quiet words of praise as he strokes his cock. You both look perfect. I could watch you all night. You're taking his cock so well, my darling. - Caleb's dirty talk has always been a weakness for you both. Zayne's cock always gets harder when he listens to him degrade you so beautifully.

───────

𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣

- You grab your favourite toy and lie back on the bed ready to be entertained because there's quite frankly nothing hotter than watching your two boyfriends go at it. - You come as many times as you want and their muttered comments to each other of how much of a dirty girl you are only makes you come faster. - There's nothing quite like the sight of Caleb pushing Zayne's head down on his cock, forcing him to take him deep down his throat. F-fuck...pretty mouth feels so good wrapped around me. The whines spilling from Caleb's lips usually end up tipping you over the edge. - Or maybe when Zayne's pounding Caleb into the mattress and he tugs on his hair to make him look at you while you've got a vibe on your clit or a dildo stuffed in your pussy. Look at her pleasuring herself while she watches us. Wait until she orgasms, then you may come. - But your favourite is when you get to watch them rub their cocks up against one another. You love to edge yourself, only allowing yourself to come when they do, watching as their cum covers both their cocks to create a dripping, sticky mess.

Have any ideas you'd like me to write? Send me an ask and I just might!

[mwphisto]

You couldn’t quite figure out how you got into this position. 18+

One moment you were flooring it down the streets of the N109 Zone in one of Sylus’ many vintage cars. The next, every item on his mahogany desk was strewn across the floor. Your back — bare and prickling from the chill — pressed into the smooth surface.

Only your black polished leather heals remained on your body. The red bottoms faced the ceiling, slung over the broad expanse of Sylus’ shoulders and trembling with every devastating blow of his hips.

They sat upon his shoulders as if they belonged there, as if they were always meant to remain right there. Sylus surely seemed to think so, with the iron clad grip he had on your claves. Pressing his body weight further down into your own, listening to the satisfying creak of sturdy wood as he pounds you into its surface.

“S-s-Sylus!” He’s fucking you beyond dumb, your jaw so slack that you’d feel some level of embarrassment if you harbored any sense of shame around him. “You looked too perfect tonight.” Though, you couldn’t help but believe there was more of a motive behind this animalistic hunger. “Too many eyes were on you.”

He hits deep, driving that little bit of information home as stars explode through your vision. You barely register the pain of your head knocking against the desk. A garbled cry of his name leaving your lips as your nails dig into his skin, wherever you’re capable of reaching.

You’re so close to cumming, the wet slapping emitting between your bodies is more than enough to signify it. “Don’t even h-have to try to make me jealous, hmm?” He shifts, putting a knee up on the desk for better leverage to nearly fold you in half. “Just gotta look as beautiful as you a-always do… someone will look… their desires are so loud…”

You don’t restrain yourself as a harsh slap lands on your ass, nearly screaming as your entire body throbs with the need for release. Jealousy pushed him to this point and you didn’t even have to do anything… how cute. “S-Sy m’gonna…”

The desk is physically rocking with the force of his hips, and you barely have the strength to worry about it collapsing beneath you. All you can focus on is the never ending drag of his cock between your slick walls. The toe curling pleasure you desperately want to last forever, teetering right on the brink of euphoria.

“Cum for me. Only for me.“

[orchardjasmine]

ℤ𝕒𝕪𝕟𝕖 𝔸𝕟𝕕 ℂ𝕒𝕝𝕖𝕓 ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕡𝕖𝕥𝕖 𝕋𝕠 𝕊𝕖𝕖 𝕎𝕙𝕠 ℂ𝕒𝕟 𝕃𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝕃𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕖𝕤𝕥…𝕎𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝔸 𝕎𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕆𝕟 𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝔻𝕚𝕔𝕜𝕤

Based on this request! Thank you! Also please go check out @calebsfavoriteusedthong - she does some of my favourite fics and it was an honour to do this request for her! 💖 ─────── Zayne x fem!reader x Caleb Summary: You have the time of your life teasing your boys while they stubbornly refuse to be the one to come first. Tags & CWs: wand on dicks, edging, teasing, dirty talk, cum everywhere, overstimulation, oh how the turn tables, MC is living her best life torturing her stupidly stubborn boyfriends

"Remember all the times you've done this to me?" You say sweetly, rubbing the wand vibrator in small circles between the two tips of their cocks. "Maybe you'll think twice next time, hm?"

They both turn to glare at you.

"Don't push it." Zayne says sternly and you just giggle. It's hard to take him so seriously when he's got that cute little blush across his cheeks.

"Yeah," Caleb says with a grunt. "Don't be a bra- hng, fuck."

You kick the wand up a notch.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" You smile up at them from your place on the bed.

Your two boyfriends stand chest to chest in front of you, deliciously hard cocks right before your eyes, and Caleb's practically got a death grip on your shoulder as he tries to steady himself.

"Can't you - f-fuck - can't you turn it down a little?" Caleb complains.

"Why would I do that?" You look at him like he's asked the most stupid question in the world. "Isn't the point to prove who can hold out the longest? Not a very good test if I leave it on baby mode."

Caleb snarls at you. You know he'll get you back later but right now you really couldn't care less. You're having far too much fun.

Your eyes return to their cocks. Two sets of pre-cum continuously oozing from their tips to run down and mix over the wand. Fuck, you want to stick your tongue out to taste them so badly.

You raise your hand and squeeze their cocks in your grip as best you can, forcing their sensitive tips to press harder into the head of the vibrator.

"Shit." Caleb whines. "You were just - mmm - supposed to be helping, n-not making it harder f-for us."

You ignore Caleb and cast a glance over to Zayne to find his eyes closed and you can hear him attempt to steady his breathing.

"You okay there, Zaynie?" You ask with a smirk.

"I'm...I'm doing f-fine, th-thank you." He stutters breathlessly.

The heads of their cocks are an angry red and you can feel them throb against your fingertips. Surely one of them is going to blow soon.

Maybe...maybe you should help them along...just a little?

"You guys are making such a mess." You sigh dramatically. "Would you like me to clean you up after?"

You look up at them both with the most innocent face you can muster.

"Enough." Zayne says through gritted teeth, not taking the bait and refusing to look at you.

The man opposite him however...

"Mmph..." A muffled whimper slips from Caleb's mouth and you turn to look at him with a triumphant smirk.

Caleb immediately knows he's fucked up.

"Would you like me to run my tongue up and down your cock?" You coo. "Lick up every drop of your sticky mess?"

Zayne groans quietly but Caleb? Oh Caleb's gone, his eyes are going glassy, a stream of moans spilling from his lips.

"God," he chokes out. "Want your mouth around me so fuckin' bad."

You press the button to go up a level on the wand again and their hips jerk.

Zayne's abs are twitching, chest heaving with every laboured breath. Meanwhile Caleb's biting down on his bottom lip, eyes scrunched up tight in pleasure - or pain, you're not really sure which and you don't really care either.

"I'll take you both down my throat after, m'kay?" You say extra cheerfully. "Make you both all nice and clean."

Zayne merely utters a quiet curse but the image of you on your knees is too much for Caleb. He can feel it coming and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

"Shit, shit, fucking shit!" He cries and then all of a sudden cum is practically erupting from his cock. "Hah - f-fuuuck - oh god that feels good."

Caleb's head tips back onto his shoulders, letting out a long groan in relief. You watch in awe as the cum continues to flow, spilling down his shaft and onto the wand.

And then a hand is at the nape of your neck, gripping firm, before Zayne's cock finally joins the other, ropes of cum spurting out and up onto his chest.

"Shit." Zayne says through a strained moan.

You can't quite believe how much cum pours from their cocks. Endless amounts of creamy white fluid keeps pumping out of their tips, slipping down the side of the wand and trickling across the back of your hand.

You turn down the toy to the lowest setting but keep a firm hold on them, watching in fascination at how you seem to be milking every last drop of cum from them. Every time you think they're done, another little dribble comes out.

"Wow..." You whisper to yourself with a chuckle.

"S'too much," Caleb slurs, his legs trembling and barely keeping him up. "But...fuck me, that feels s'good."

Zayne, however, grabs your wrist and removes your hand, allowing him to finally give his poor, overstimulated cock a rest. He looks down at you through hooded eyes, hair completely dishevelled, and gives you a raised eyebrow which tells you you'll be paying for this in the not too distant future.

You turn off the wand, the silence in the room now feeling a little odd after hearing the buzz of the toy for so long, and you watch in satisfaction as the few remaining strands of stringy cum drip from their cocks to the floor.

"That wasn't fair," Caleb says, voice cracking and chest heaving with every breath. "You played dirty."

Zayne grabs the towel from the bed and begins the arduous task of cleaning up the copious amounts of cum.

"She played dirty with both of us." He smirks, looking far too smug. "Don't be a sore loser."

"I want a rematch." Caleb demands and you just roll your eyes.

"Fine," You sigh. "But next time we test it by the two of you fucking me at the same time."

Neither of them had any arguments with that.

Have any ideas you'd like me to write? Send me an ask and I just might!

[calebsfavoriteusedthong]

Mc stronger than me cause I would be looking up at them like

FIEOKXNSHABAOAKSSN!!! THIS WAS GOOD FUCKING FOOD, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR DOING THIS, IT WAS EVERYTHING I EXPECTED AND MORE 🥵🥵💦💦😘

[kitimeq]

°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ better than revenge 🤍 rafayel 祁 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

ೃ࿔pairing: lads rafayel x reader

ೃ࿔summary: rafayel did not come home to me three banners in a row so i gave him a mommy kink and delayed gratification out of pure spite. how about this u shrimp i’m so mad.

ೃ࿔word count: 1.9k

ೃ࿔tags: 18+, smut, pure smut, let him suffer the consequences of his actions, i wrote it in like 20 minutes don’t take this seriously, p in v (because i’m a good person at the end of the day he should be grateful), delayed gratification, mommy kink, i love my men a little bit pathetic, pure filth i’m sorry, argument, but they love each other of course they do!!! begging, it somehow got angsty??? What the HECK is going on in my head i’m not sure anymore. i freaking hope i will get that god of the tides or else…….

NOT checked for errors, i’m sorry!! It is a crime of passion this time.

!!DON’T you DARE read if you’re not 18+!!

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Rafayel was so regretful and you could see that—in the way his brows furrowed, his arms holding your frame tightly, his eyes never leaving yours, tears already glistening on his eyelashes. You could also hear that— in his whimpers and mewls, soft moans and whines that were leaving his lips uncontrollably at this point. And you could definitely feel that—in the way he was desperately kissing at your cheeks, neck and shoulders, leaving wet skin behind; in the desperate rutting of his hips against your closed thighs.

And this one time you allowed yourself to feel satisfaction because of the state you managed to put him in.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorry, please.” He whined against your skin, his face nuzzling into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. His arms held you tightly, his hips never stopping its erratic movements against your leg, sliding your skirt up in the process, desperate to feel your bare skin against his hard member. “Cutie, please. I already apologized so many times, just—please. Please, cutie? Let me in, yeah?” He looked into your eyes again, his gaze full of pleading and desperation, and you forced yourself to stay indifferent.

“Raf, no.” You answered, even though you wanted him too. But you couldn’t give in yet, not when you wanted to mess with him more for the way he treated you not so long ago. “First you scolded me for not talking to you, even though you knew that I had a rough week at work. And then, when I visited you, you called me, and I quote Rafayel, irritably clingy.” You answered, keeping your face turned away from him.

You still remember how you came into his home today, ecstatic to see him because you missed him the whole time you were away, hugging him and kissing at his mouth and cheeks happily only for him to push you away. The image of him turning his head away from you, his hand slightly pushing you away, a pout on his lips, is still vivid in your mind, making your heart squeeze painfully.

He didn’t care that you were truly busy, your legs aching from a whole week of fighting SSS-class Wanderers, your head begging for some rest. And instead of comforting you, he gave you his attitude, rejected your affection, called you clingy. You knew that most of the time he was not speaking seriously, and that he was prone to exaggeration and dramatics, but this time, you knew that you didn’t deserve such treatment.

You decided to give him a taste of his own medicine: you waited until he calmed down, then proceeded to seduce him, and when he became desperate and ready to get down to business, you were the one who pushed him away this time, refusing to let him in.

And he wasn’t taking it very well, especially after your time apart. Your previous touches ignited a flame within him, filling him with desire so tangible it was practically pouring out of him.

“So, let’s see who the clingy one really is now.” You added, and squeezed your tights even tighter, his hot breath warming your left cheek.

“Nooo, no, no, no. You know that I didn’t mean it, cutie. It was just, just a bad joke. A mistake I really regret. I really do.” His face nuzzled your cheek, hips still moving against your leg. His whimpers never-ending. “I love when you touch me. Kiss me. Hold me. I love it, you know that, you do.”

“Well, sometimes it would be great if you actually showed it to me instead of being mad at me for having a job.”

“I will! I promise, I will. I promise. I’m sorry.” He brought your body closer to himself, his arms going up and down your waist in a comforting gesture. “Let me in, please, you—you riled me up and—and left me, and I can’t, I can’t, I need to be inside you, please.”

“Rafayel…” You breathed out, your hands going to cup his warm cheeks, his pleading eyes meeting yours. You couldn’t give in that easily. “No.”

He choked out a cry.

And you saw how he snapped, his jaw tightened and eyes closed, one tear slipping away. Then another, and another, until he completely broke down, his face now wet, a pout on his lower lip, his hands touching your whole body erratically.

“Please. I’ll be good. I will.” He whimpered, completely out of control. You knew that until you gave him your consent, he would not force you to do anything. And the way he respected your wishes, although his whole body was trembling while he knew, he felt that you wanted him too despite your negations, was starting to made your resolve wither. “I’ll make you feel s’good. S’good like I always do, just—please. Open up for me?”

You shook your head and his lower lip trembled in response, his head going to rest on your shoulder, his hair wet and cold, making you shiver. He was sweating so bad. His hips were still rutting against your leg, but you knew that it wasn’t nearly enough for him; the friction only made him feel more impatient.

He choked out another broken cry, took your hand in his, kissed your knuckles, and continued kissing up your arm. You didn’t know how long you’ll be able to keep denying him, it was the first time you saw him acting so desperate, so pathetic for you and your need to comfort him was starting to become unbearable.

His glossy eyes met yours and you saw how red his lips were from how much he had been biting them. He leaned down and placed a soft, wet kiss on your lips. One. Two. Three kisses. All of them gentle, all of them apologetic.

“Please.” He whispered into your lips. Another kiss came, as soft and warm as the ones before. “—M—Mommy, please. I’m sorry.” The word that slipped from his lips was new, your eyes widening, your core squeezing on nothing but air.

Oh, god.

“Will you forgive me? Mommy, please, w—will you?” You looked at his face between his soft, gentle kisses and you’ve noticed how red he was, the embarrassment spreading up from the tips of his ears, down to his chest. “L-Let me make you feel good. I’ll be a good boy. The best boy.”

Your head was spinning, your cheeks turning red too. You couldn’t find it in yourself to hide how much you liked when he called you that way. God, what was he doing to you?

“Mommy, let me in. I need you. I need you s’bad I—” He opened his eyes and pressed a kiss to your brow and eyes, his hands shakily caressing your hair. “Don’t be mad anymore, okay? I just—I just can’t live without you that’s why I—That’s why I said these things. I always worry that you’ll forget about me and that’s why I’m gettin’ so defensive and mean. But I know you won’t, because you love me, and I love you and—i’m sorry.” He looked into your eyes and you had a feeling that if he won’t stop talking he was going to make you cry too.

You hugged him to yourself tightly and he reciprocated the hug immediately, his head resting on your chest. He sniffed and started to calm down, his body no longer shaking.

“I do love you, Rafayel.” You said into his hair, and you made him look up again, your hands going to grab his wet cheeks. His eyes glistened with hope, his lips swollen and wet. He looked so adorable that you couldn’t be mad at him anymore. “Next time you’ll miss me, just text me okay? Tell me how you feel, and no matter how busy I will be, I will find time to at least send you a voice message. And I will try to keep you updated when I’m away on missions.” He nodded happily, and you swiped the tears off of his cheeks. “But please, don’t push me away when I miss you just as badly. I get hurt too.”

“Yes. Yes, I won’t, I promise. I do.” He answered and kissed the palm of your hand, nuzzling into it. “I’m really sorry. I will never do that again. I swear.”

“Okay.” You answered quietly and then loosened up your thighs, making a place for him between your legs. His breath came out shakily, his cock immediately landing on top of your panties. Your skirt had been pushed up long ago, the material now resting on your stomach, giving him an easy access to where he wanted to be buried in from the very beginning.“Now come to me, my little fishie.”

He pressed a wet kiss on your mouth once again, and before you knew it he quickly grabbed your panties to the side and slid right into you, making you gasp both in surprise and out of pleasure.

He slipped the tongue between your lips and kissed you without mercy, his hips snapping quickly and erratically, the rhythm uneven, the force of the thrusts relentless.

Suddenly, he cried into your mouth, his whole body shuddering and then going completely still. You felt the reason why a second later.

The warmth spread inside you, overwhelming your senses.

“F—Fuck, sorry, I—I didn’t mean to…So fast…” He managed to utter, his body still shaking in the aftershocks of his sudden orgasm. Your hands went up to his hair, stroking the strands gently, showing him that you didn’t mind, wanting him to calm down and let himself drown in the pleasure.

“Shh, it’s okay. You did so well.” His face was red, his eyes avoiding yours, and you smiled gently at him. You pressed a kiss to his forehead and swiped your hand on his chest affectionately. “My sweet baby boy.”

“Yeah, yours.” His hips started to move again, making you moan in surprise. You wrapped your legs around him and he put one of his arms under your back, lifting you in order to make his thrusts reach deeper. “Always, yours. Only yours.” The pace was getting quicker, your moans mixing with his grunts, your heartbeats although unsteady, seemed to match each other’s tempo.

“M-mommy can I—Can I come inside again? I—I can’t stop.” He almost whispered into your ear, and you shuddered, the pleasure spreading throughout your whole body in the form of goosebumps. His lips were not leaving your body, pressing kisses on any patch of skin he could reach. “I missed you too much. You’re so warm. So safe.”

Rafayel’s beautiful eyes met yours, the purple somehow standing out in the darkness of the night. He send you a gentle smile, his thrusts slowing down, the movements becoming more precise and controlled.

“I don’t want the night to end, cutie.” He said quietly, as if he was sharing a secret. His hands cupped your cheeks and he studied your face, searching for any sign of pleasure. He wanted to know if he was making you feel as good as he promised he would. “Let me make it all better. I will show you how sorry I truly am, my love.”

The night was just getting started. And after several hours of moving rhythmically against each other, loosing yourselves in your passionate embrace, the sunrise was a witness to Rafayel’s vow; your wet bodies and tangled limbs a good enough proof of his fulfilled promise.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

GOD i’m so embarrassed. I wrote it in like half an hour and it SHOWS forgive me. I’ve never in my life written something so short and filthy. If u liked it screenshot it bc i’m not sure i will let it haunt tumblr for long 💀 UPDATE: OKAY I HEAR U I WON’T DELETE IT I SWEAR!!!! I had no idea it would be SO therapeutic for all of us thats actually so sad dndbsb ENJOY!

Better hope i’ll get that god of the tides or else rafayel will not know peace…. I will continue to bully him with my pen i swear to god.

[pearlescenthoney]

Ooooh if your slots aren’t all taken, hear me out: rival!roommate!Rafayel x reader, topped with mutual masturbation.

rival! roommate! rafayel x reader with mutual masturbation

a/n. a bit over 1k cause i was talking a lot of shit to set the scene! this is written for an athletic rivalry. thank you for requesting this! hope you enjoy ❤️

event page | event masterlist

you heard the bathroom door slam open before you could even process the footsteps approaching.

“really? in the bathroom? you couldn’t be more obvious about it?” rafayel’s voice dripped with disdain, coming in sharp and cold through the air.

“doping before a competition? that’s your strategy?”

your heart was slamming against your ribs– shit, shit, shit.

your legs were spread wide atop the toilet seat, your pink dildo buried halfway inside your slick cunt, the wet sounds of your own arousal still echoing off the tiles. you scrambled to cover yourself, yanking at the bathrobe hanging on the hook.

but your fingers fumbled, clumsy with panic.

“i’m not– rafayel, get out!” your voice came out breathy, cracked at the edges, affected by the toy inside you.

he didn’t move. of course he didn’t.

your rival, your insufferable roommate, the man who made it his personal mission to beat you at every single track event… he just stood there before you, arms crossed, eyes boring into you with fury.

“show me.” his jaw tightened, anger visible in his tone. “show me what you’re hiding, or i’m reporting you. you think i didn’t notice your times improving? you think i’m stupid?”

“i said get out!”

“show me.” he took a step forwards, then another, until he towered over where you sat. “you don’t get to cheat. not with me here.”

your face burned, arousal and anger convoluting inside you. your thighs pressed together instinctively, pushing the toy deeper, and the movement sent a jolt of pleasure straight up your spine.

you bit your lip to stifle the moan.

“last chance.” his voice lowered. “show me the syringe. or the pills. whatever you’re using.”

“rafayel, please–”

he grabbed your wrist, the one clutching the robe, and yanked it away from your body.

“ah–”

for one second, he just stared.

you watched it happen in real time — the shift from accusation to confusion to raw acknowledgement. his gaze traveled down your exposed torso, past your heaving chest, to where your other hand still gripped the base of that obscene pink dildo, glossy with your juices, swallowed by your cunt.

“you’re...” he blinked, almost inexpressive. “not doping.”

“no, you asshole.” you hissed, palms spreading over your intimate parts. “i was trying to get off. in private. alone.”

“you left the door unlocked.” he said finally, as if explaining himself.

“that’s not an invitation.”

“i had to make sure everything is in order.”

“and it is, so just–”

“no.”

•••

“you’re dripping down the toilet seat.”

“s–shut up–”

“you started this.”

he reminded you as he wrapped his hand around his dick tighter, his fingers not quite closing all the way around. his raspy voice, so accusatory and taunting, as well as the sight of his hard cock, made something throb deep in your belly.

“’did not.”

his tip, flushed dark and glistening, peeked every now and then as it passed through his fist, catching your hungry eyes and acting as incentive for your own pleasure.

“liar.”

you couldn’t continue the banter, not with the way your hand was pushing the toy against your pulsing walls so deliciously. the dildo was swallowed deeper, letting the silicone balls behind, only to be pulled almost all the way out.

just to repeat the motion and feel the stretch again.

“that’s it.” his voice had gone rough, raw, and you weren’t sure if he was encouraging you or himself. “that’s fucking it.”

he started stroking his cock more attentively, matching the pace you set: slow at first, then faster, mirroring the way your hips began to rock against the dildo. his eyes never left you, watching every inch of that pink toy disappear inside you, watching your face twist with pleasure, watching your thighs quiver from pleasure.

fuck, he could do so much better than that fake dick.

“you look so pathetic.” he breathed out, and the insult landed straight onto your sensitive flesh. “legs spread open. toy stuffed in your cunt. and you can’t even finish yourself off, can you? needed an audience.”

“’don’t need any– ugh– thing from you.”

“no?” he sped up his hand, and you watched his cock disappear into his fist faster, heard the wet sounds fill the room alongside your own. “then why are you still fucking yourself? why haven’t you told me to leave?”

because you didn’t want him to.

because something about his scrutinizing eyes on you, about his voice degrading you, his hand pumping his cock in time with your thrusts — something about all of it really did it for you.

“you like this.” he said it like a revelation, like it wasn’t obvious from the start both of you enjoyed it. “you like me watching. you like me calling you out. you dirty fucking cheater.”

“i’m not ah– cheater.” you fight between whines, rotating the toy inside you, now making the base hit your swollen clit with every thrust.

“no.” he choked out, thumb joining his ministration to press down on the leaking tip. “you’re worse. you’re a desperate little slut who got caught masturbating by her asshole rival.”

the tip of the dildo hit something softer exactly as he voice out the truth, and a loud moan tore out of your throat before you could stop it. as if agreeing with rafayel.

“ngh– yeah.” his voice was dripping with smugness. “there’s the sound i love to hear. you being a slutty loser, losing to pleasure.”

“ah, ah, ah…”

“pleasure inflicted by me.”

by the way his rhythm stuttered, by the way his abs clenched with every stroke, veins popping more and more… he was close to release.

“look at me, look at me when you cum.”

“f–fuck off, i’m not–”

“yes, you are. your fucking thighs are shaking.”

he was right — you were close. your wrist ached from the angle, but you couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop, you needed–

“cum, slut. come on, let me see you fall apart.”

as if on cue, your back arched off the toilet seat, and the orgasm crashed through you harsh. through your hazy state, you heard rafayel groan, heard the wet slap of his hand speeding up, heard his loud panting turn into something low.

“fucking hell.”

stripes of creamy cum painted his knuckles and dripped onto his pulled-down sweatpants; and you got to watch every second of it through half-lidded eyes. you observed his jaw go slack, observed the tension drain from his shoulders as he emptied himself in his own hand.

the bathroom fell silent, only echoing your breathing.

“i ah– came first, just like in our races.”

“that’s not how it works, and you kno–.”

“oh, so now you’re a masturbation expert?”

©pearlescenthoney 2026. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

tags: @yuunileb, @txtworlddom, @xyzsbaobei, @loreleis-world, @demonicangelll, @dreamydaredevil, @glitterykingdomangel, @gardenialily, @weirdothatwrites, @cherrytokkiz, @brailsthesmolgurl, @happyshark2222, @velomira, @darkchococwoissant, @remnantsofgildedcages, @starswillseeus, @ninalove323, @lumichella, @amanehyuga, @txtworlddom, @milumier, @someonestopsoren, @lettushi, @jadeloverxd, @hellothisisnanaaa, @ops-esion, @remnantsofgildedcages, @maplewood-valley, @massivebanananut, @livanavier. if you see this and want to be added to the main taglist, please let me know!

[crowfish-brainrot]

I have SO MANY THOUGHTS on the Love and Deepspace men and their kinks. Here they are. Crossposted from TT and updated to include Valko!

he's into restraints. Wants you pinned down and at his mercy. Loves it the most when you struggle

somno, but I feel like that's obvious (doing it while you're/ he's asleep, waking each other up with sex)

high key into roleplay as long as you aren't asking him to dress up as someone else (or Lumiere) Professor Xavier, anyone? 👀👀👀

A little bit degrading. def likes being mean to you. (Followed by praise) like "who's MY dirty little slut?"

o control/denial, & overstim

anal, obviously. Wear a little bunny tail for him and you'll be leaking him for days

Marking. Everywhere. Bites, scratches, his come, a necklace with his name, he wants the whole world to know you belong to HIM!!!

this man is old af. he's probably willing to do/has done everything at least once. Probably will do it again

loves wrecking you and watching the evidence, definitely the type to stare at the mess when he's done with you and tell you how pretty you are while covered in his —

obvious but he lives for the structure of D/s dynamics and with him it's probably a mostly full-time thing once things are established. Def has rules, punishments, and endless funishments.

he loves to hear you beg but he won't give you what you want until you're crying for it. Gasping, needy, breathless. That's where he wants you always. You better beg loud and well if you want him to give you what you need 👀

temperature play also seems obvious but I think he'd make an ice copy of his cock to use while he's at work/busy. WILL require pictures 👀

def thinks he likes to watch you warm up. I can see him sitting back and telling you to show him how you want to be touched...and then telling you should move your hands

breeding but he's lowkey about it until you tell him you want him to get you pregnant.

also obvious from his anniversary 4*, Dr/patient RP.

obvious from his cards: public play, but like specifically he loves getting down in his office/putting you over his desk

mildly into food play, wants to "clean" sweets off you

wants to make you squirt, does, basically every time

not super into pain, but does like to give you some taps for noise/to get your attention

restraints are a big thing. He always gets out of them. You on the other hand...

the push/pull of your dynamic makes him hard so he's into everything that plays on that. Pred/pray, D/s, chasing you down, manipulating you into giving him the power (lots of mind games/tricks with this one!!) he's into all of that. Because catching you and making you submit??? Heaven!!! Or being forced to his knees for you? Yes!!!!!

into pain, giving/receiving. If you tell him something hurts, he'll smile a little and say "good," or if he's in a softer mood he'll coo at you telling you how brave you are while still-- ANYWAY and he can take everything he dishes out.

wax play!!! With his evol and artistic eye he loves turning your body into a canvas. "You look so pretty dripping all these colors, cutie."

praise & "what a naughty girl" but it also goes both ways.

super into feet. He is a Pisces. He's also a fish. Feet interest him. Step on him and he might just come all over the place.

loves to record you both in the act. Loves to watch.

overstim till you cry and don't know your name anymore

breeding af. Wants you to smell like him. Same with biting!!!

absolutely gets off on you calling him your God.

into being Strapped down by you

all of them love to eat it but Sylus is by far the most hungry. He would live on his knees just eating away if you let him. You don't even have to touch him. Just let the man feast!!! He's hungry!!!!!!

loves when you spend his money. like it actively makes him SO hard. He'll be on a call with you while you're online shopping, using his card, telling him what you're getting, and he WILL come.

yearns to be used tbh. Treat him like your plaything. Use him as you'd like. He's into it.

sort of expanding on that, free use in general is a big thing for him. It goes both ways, and there's signals for safety and check-ins, obviously, but especially when his aether core is acting up, this happens a lot!!

obvious but he loves the size difference. Even if you aren't all that much smaller than he is, his cock is so big watching it go in and out? Yeah. That's a biiiiiiiiig stretch

service top/Pleasure Dom. Will fuck you until you can't see straight anymore and make you give him one more.

"use your words, kitten. Beg me for what you want." but like...all the time

loves using his evol to restrain you or bounce you on his cock.

likes watching you take big things. Def uses toys on you. 👀 and you can use whatever toys you want on him!!!!

obviously into biting and into knife play (in safe ways, obvs)

likes pain, and will give or take it.

absolutely into Pred/prey dynamics and WILL chase you through the woods and will say "licyify"

SERVICE SUB!!!! that's his happy place. He yearns to be your house husband in that little apron, his necklace, and nothing else. The less you do, the happier he is. Let him do all the work, for everything, tysm. The better taken care of you are the harder he is

breeding. Oh gods, he wants you to have his babies so bad. He's always babbling about this when he's in you. Like...it might be all he thinks about.

obviously he's into your used panties. Lingerie is a treat for him. If you gag him with them, he'll probably come on the spot.

tbh he's into everything you're into because you're what matters to him. He'll do ANYTHING you ask him to. In bed. In life. In death. Anything you ask for, it's yours.

that said he def loves fucking in his uniform. And pinning you down with his evol when you're being a brat. Will lift you up with it so he can eat, and fuck you on the ceiling.

into breath play tbh

loves making a mess out of you. So into overstim (both ways) that he actually *can't* stop until he's too tired to go on. He'll come 3-4 times and keep fucking it back in and he loves the look and sounds

into when your makeup smears af. Thinks you're pretty when you cry bc it's too good

most certainly into piss. giving and receiving.

Collars, leashes, that type of restraint. Doesn't want to bind your hands or your legs because he likes it when you fight him and leave your mark. You can chain him up, though.

Looooooves marking you and when you mark him. Biting, scratching, coming on each other, all of it. He needs to leave his mark on you!!!!!

ABSOLUETLY INTO PRIMAL PLAY!!! Loves the thrill of the hunt!!!! And when you fight him!!!! def into the push/pull of your dynamic and wants the chase/fight almost as bad as he wants what comes after.

LOVES edging, both giving and receiving.

Praise/degradation combos are some of his favorites, giving and receiving!!!!!

Wants to be used/owned by you, so please, please, oh please, use him. In any way you want.

BREEDING!!!!! He can't help it. It's part of the wolf thing, probably. Loves seeing his come leak out of you. Loves even more to fuck it back in and feel the way you pulse around him.

Most def loves the size difference between you two. Loves seeing you struggle to take his knot. Will tease you about it being "too big" and he loves when you prove him wrong!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Possibly into piss because he's a nasty, dirty dog and wants to claim you/be claimed by you

Valko's are assumptions and will likely need an update when he comes back to us, but for now....for now these are My Thoughts.

[pearlescenthoney]

my dearest honey!!! congratulations on reaching 2k followers. that's such a huge achievement, and honestly—so so so well deserved. you have earned all this love and support, every nice comment and every single like. that's youuuu baby! we love and appreciate what you do for this community every single day, so grateful you are here to share your angsty & nasty ideas with us. <33

enough yappin' . lets come to my requests (u can pick the one u like the most!)

rival kingdom's king!rafayel x princess!reader + brat taming

pervy roommate!rafayel x innocent nerd!reader + breeding

best friend!rafayel x camgirl!reader + toy usage

thank you so much for considering, the requests u have done so far are super yummy <33

best friend! rafayel x camgirl! reader + toy usage

a/n. so sorry for the wait! i made raf a bit of a shy nerd to hit two birds with one stone and do @uninterestedseductress ’s request as well! thank you for the nice words, i hope you enjoy this! ❤️

event page | event masterlist

the bedroom was bathed in the warm amber glow of your ring light, casting soft shadows across the rumpled sheets where you knelt. your broken tripod was propped up in the corner, long abandoned, and your new camera… cameraman, rafayel, stood just behind the adjacent door of your bedroom.

camera in hand, his knuckles white around the device as he angled it through the intentional gap.

“you’re sure about this?” he’d asked earlier, his voice strained, eyes refusing to meet yours.

“raffy, please.” you’d begged, and the nickname sealed the deal.

he’d nodded, swallowed hard, and positioned himself exactly where you needed him for your lewd POV video — being caught masturbating.

now you were on your hands and knees, the pink silicone dildo buried deep inside your cunt, your hips rocking back against it with shallow thrusts. your thighs trembled from the effort, slick arousal coating the toy and dripping down your inner thighs in glistening streaks.

“f–fuck.” you moaned, loud enough for the camera to catch, loud enough for rafayel to hear.

your head was down into the sheets, hair spilling around your face like a curtain as you fucked yourself stupid on the toy.

“mhm, yes, right there–”

from behind the door, you heard rafayel’s sharp intake of breath, the barely audible hitch in his throat as the toy went deeper inside you.

he’d seen your content before, you knew. that accidental glimpse of a leaked post months ago, the way his face had gone scarlet and he’d stammered through an apology even though you’d laughed it off and told him it was fine.

you wanted your best friend to see you like this.

but this was different. he was watching live. watching you perform, watching you fall apart, watching the way your greedy cunt swallowed the dildo again and again as you moaned like a whore.

your arm burned with the effort of keeping the angle right, fucking yourself for the camera’s benefit.

but your mind was elsewhere — on the man behind the door, on the way you’d caught him looking at your lips one too many times, on the tentative touches he’d always pull away from too quickly.

you wanted your best friend to give in.

“r–rafayel.” you whimpered suddenly, the name rolling out of your mouth naturally as the tip hit a sensitive spot inside you.

that made your arm falter, fingers trembling on the suction cup and with that...

the dildo slipped from your grip, detaching from your pussy with a wet pop and landing on the sheets with a soft, slick thud. your body felt empty, aching, your hole clenching around nothing as you turned your head towards the door.

with the sweetest pout.

“rafa–yel.” you said again, your voice breaking from the lost pleasure. “please. please come help me.”

a long, agonizing silence. you thought he would refuse the invite; value your friendship more than a romantic relationship.

but then the door creaked fully open, and he stepped into the room.

he looked absolutely wrecked. his purple curls were disheveled, like he’d been running his hands through them. his cheeks were flushed a deep red, and his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as they raked over your naked body. he was wearing loose sweatpants and you could see the obvious tent straining against the fabric, the outline of his hard cock pressing insistently.

your pussy throbbed at the sight.

“i...” he cleared his throat, unable to look at your face, his gaze fixed somewhere on the sheets. “i got it… the video. should i stop recording?”

“no.” you breathed. “keep going. i need you to– i need more footage. but i need your help first.”

the hand between your thighs, soaked in arousal, beckoned him to your bed. only to point down at the toy.

he stepped closer, his movements jerky and uncertain, his boner swinging in his sweatpants tentatively. when he reached the bed, he bent down and retrieved the discarded dildo, holding it awkwardly in his palm like it might bite him.

it was covered in your slick, glistening under the warm lights.

“h–here.” he offered weakly, extending it towards your dangling hand. “go on...”

you shook your head, reaching out to wrap your fingers around his wrist and press the tip of the dildo to your fluttering cunt.

you heard him groan behind you.

“raffy...” you said softly. “i want you to do it. please, help me put it in.”

his breath shuddered out of him. “i don’t... i don’t know if i should–”

“please.”

the plea hung in the air for a second. you watched the war play out across his face — the shy, respectful best friend who’d never pushed, versus the man who’d been dreaming about this exact scenario for months.

his jaw tightened as his decision was made.

“okay.” he whispered. “okay, yeah, i can– i’ll do it.”

he moved around you, still clutching the camera in one hand, still thinking it was just for a video. you repositioned yourself, arching your back and dropping your chest down to the mattress, offering yourself up to him like you always wanted.

the position put your soaked pussy on full display, shining with arousal, your folds swollen from your earlier ministrations.

“fuck.” he cursed under his breath as he took in the view.

he positioned his body behind you, bending slightly to be closer to your entrance. the tip of the silicone dildo pressed against your hole, teasing, and you whimpered, pushing back against it.

“tell me.” he said, adam's apple bobbing with need. “tell me what you need.”

“i need you to fuck me with it.” you gasped. “hard. i need it deep. please, raffy–”

“shh, i’ve got you.”

the toy pushed inside you in one smooth, wet slide, and you cried out, your fingers fisting in the sheets. there was no rhythm — he was shaking, his grip on the toy unsteady; but he was thrusting, driving it into you with increasing urgency. the angle was different from before, better, hitting something deep inside that made stars burst behind your eyes.

“like that?” he asked, checking on you. “is that– fuck, you’re so wet. i can hear it, i can–”

you were so loud, the obscene squelch of the toy moving in and out of your cunt filling the room. your thighs were trembling, your toes curling against the sheets. you could barely breathe, could barely form words, but you managed to whimper out his name like a mantra.

“yes, yes, raf–”

the camera shook in his grip, barely catching you in the frame now. but you didn’t care — this wasn’t for your fans anyway.

this was for him, for the friend who’d been too timid to make a move, for the man whose cock was straining against his sweatpants and making your mouth water.

“rafayel.” you pushed yourself up on one arm, twisting to look over your shoulder at him. his face was flushed, his eyes wild and fixed on where the toy disappeared inside you. “i ugh– want–”

“what?” he slowed his thrusts, his breath coming in harsh pants as he remembered why he’s doing all this — for your account. “should i change something?”

“y–yes, the dildo– ’want you.” the words tumbled out, raw and desperate, your hand jumping from beneath you to grasp one asscheek and open up.

“not the toy. i want your cock. i’ve wanted it for so long, raf–”

his eyes snapped to yours, wide with lust, his dick throbbing in his pants at your words. “huh?”

“please.” you begged, letting your skin jiggle free and reaching back to grip his thigh, brushing at his tent. “please, i need to feel you. i need your cock inside me.”

a shudder ran through him, and for a moment, you thought he might say no. but then the camera was thrown away at the edge of the bed, his (now) free hand clutching the flesh of your ass.

spreading you once more.

“ra–rafayel?” you moaned into the sheets as he pulled the toy out fully, only to jam it back in with a loud squelch.

“ah, for that…” he muttered between gritted teeth, hand thrusting the dildo deep inside you until the silicone balls slapped your aching clit.

“i ngh– need to stretch out your cunt more.”

©pearlescenthoney 2026. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

tags: @yuunileb, @txtworlddom, @xyzsbaobei, @loreleis-world, @demonicangelll, @dreamydaredevil, @glitterykingdomangel, @gardenialily, @weirdothatwrites, @cherrytokkiz, @brailsthesmolgurl, @happyshark2222, @velomira, @darkchococwoissant, @remnantsofgildedcages, @starswillseeus, @ninalove323, @lumichella, @amanehyuga, @txtworlddom, @milumier, @someonestopsoren, @lettushi, @jadeloverxd, @hellothisisnanaaa, @ops-esion, @thealunari, @maplewood-valley, @massivebanananut, @livanavier, @rafayearning4eternity, @ellarksworld. if you see this and want to be added to the event taglist, please let me know!

[calebsfavoriteusedthong]

ACCIDENTAL (Sylus)

Caleb's part here Xavier's part here

CW: Smut. P in V. Oral. 🔞MDNI🔞

You were not thinking about it. You were not staring at your ceiling thinking about the N109 Zone or the man who ran it. That was not what was happening. What was happening was that you were resting. Quietly. In your own apartment, which you had every right to be in, doing absolutely nothing that involved Sylus in any way whatsoever.

Work had filled most of your time this week. Back to back missions, three cases that bled into each other, a Thursday briefing that ate the entire day. The Association had kept you moving and moving was good. Moving meant you weren't sitting still long enough to think about things you should not be thinking about.

The problem was tonight there was nothing to move toward.

You'd slowed down. Today's mission had seen to that —a clean operation until it wasn't, until you'd caught the edge of something you'd moved a second too late to avoid and ended up limping through the debrief trying to look unbothered. The Association medic had looked at your leg, told you to rest it, and now you were on your couch. Leg up. Thinking.

You'd worked with Sylus enough times to understand how your arrangement functioned, he had access to things the Association didn't and in exchange you'd give him information he found useful. You showed up. He had what you needed. You left. Repeat.

That part made sense.

What didn't was the rest of it. The part where two weeks of silence felt different now. He was the most wanted name on the Association's list and you were a Deepspace Hunter. The math on that was simple.

So no, you did not miss Sylus.

Your leg throbbed. You shifted your weight and stared at the ceiling again, trying to have an internal conversation about professional conduct and the importance of clear boundaries and then your phone lit up.

You grabbed it so fast you nearly put your elbow through the side table.

Sylus: I heard your mission went sideways. How's the leg?

You: How did you...you know what. Never mind.

Sylus: Mephisto was nearby.

You: You sent your bird to check on me?

Sylus: Mephisto goes where he likes.

You: 🙄🙄

Sylus: He said you were limping.

You: Tell Mephisto to mind his own business.

Sylus: He'll be devastated.

You: Good.

Sylus: I have something that might interest you. Have you ever seen a white Protocore?

You: White Protocores don't exist. Whatever you have is a fake.

Sylus: The seller pulled it from an anomalous Wanderer outside the N109 zone.

You sat with that for a moment.

Sylus: Come see it yourself. You'll want to.

The color alone was impossible by every known framework for protocore classification. Which meant either the seller was running an extremely convincing con, or something had come out of that wanderer that nobody had a category for yet.

Your feet were already on the floor.

You: Don't let anyone touch it. Give me 20 min.

Sylus: No need to rush, kitten. Look out your window.

You crossed the room in four steps and pulled the curtain back an inch.

Black car at the curb. No-parking sign directly above it, ignored completely. Sylus leaned against the driver's side door looking up at exactly the moment you looked down.

He raised his phone.

Sylus: Five minutes. Or I decide the leg is worse than you're letting on and leave.

You let the curtain fall.

"Not a chance," you said, to nobody.

You changed fast —jeans, jacket, hair up, sidearm checked —and ran down the stairs in a time your leg was going to remind you about tomorrow. The night air outside hit you cool and sharp.

Sylus hadn't moved from the car. He looked at you coming through the door, down the steps toward him and said nothing until you were close enough to hear.

"You ran down the stairs?"

"I want to see that Protocore."

"Of course." His mouth curved and there it was, the look that sat underneath the smirk, the one you'd filed away and kept finding again. "That's the only reason."

"It is"

"Then why are you still standing here instead of getting in the car."

You pulled the passenger door open yourself before he could do it, which seemed to amuse him. The interior smelled like expensive leather and him.

He slid in beside you, started the engine— the sound of it vibrating through the seat— and pulled away from the curb without looking at the road for the first two seconds because he was still looking at you.

"My people investigated as much as they could." He shifted gears, smooth and unhurried. "Which is why I need someone who knows what a forgery looks like at that level."

"But you also have people for that"

"I have people for a lot of things." He glanced over. Red eyes catching the streetlight for just a second. "None of them are you."

You looked out the window " Is that a compliment?"

"I didn't say it was."

The N109 Zone came up around you, neon and dark in equal measure, a place that operated on entirely different rules than Linkon City. You'd been here more times than your Association file strictly reflected. You knew the streets. You knew the hierarchy. You knew which doors opened for which names. All thanks to the man sitting in the driver's seat.

You had no idea what a white Protocore was. You had no idea what tonight was going to become but you had a feeling you were about to find out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His office, you knew this place better than your own.

The reinforced doors. The security overrides, which ones were decoys and which ones actually mattered. The hidden safes, three of them, one behind a painting ugly enough to be forgettable on purpose. You'd learned all of it slowly, standing close enough and quiet enough that he forgot you were paying attention.

The White Protocore sat inside a glass tube at the center of his desk, and you hadn't moved in two minutes.

It looked like the others at first. Same crystalline structure, same geometry. But every other Protocore carried color, blue, gold, pink, red, green and purple. This one just a faint pulse, soft milky light spilling across the dark wood. Strange and uncategorizable.

Sylus wasn't looking at the protocore, he was watching you. His eyes were tracing the curve of your jaw, the focus on your expression. In his world of cutthroat deals and rare power, you were his white protocore.

The back of your neck went warm but you kept your eyes on the protocore.

"Can I touch it?"

A low sound from his chest. Not quite a laugh. "I don't recall ever saying no to you, sweetie."

His fingers worked the glass tube open and lifted the protocore into his palm.

You reached for it.

Your fingers brushed his skin and the protocore sat between your hands for a single second and then —

No warning. Just white light swallowing the desk and the dark walls. Then the wind hit, not from outside but from inside the protocore, like a vacuum pulling in with a force that emptied your lungs before you could inhale. The sound of it was scary, like space tearing apart. The air collapsed into that small white light in your hands, the floor dropped away and you were falling without falling.

The first thing that came back was pressure.

Arms locked across your chest and shoulders, tight enough your ribs couldn't move. Something solid at your back. You tried to breathe. Couldn't. Tried again.

"Sy" Barely a whisper. "Can't— brea—"

His arms dropped instantly.

He was on his feet before you inhaled, one fluid motion, hand going to his gun, eyes sweeping the room. No targets. His hand dropped, but his shoulders stayed coiled, still reading the space.

You sat up. Pulled air in slowly until your chest stopped aching.

"Where are we?"

He didn't answer. Still looking.

You looked too.

Dark wood, heavy draping, expensive things chosen for use as much as looks. It felt like his place at first glance.

In the corner was a record player, vinyl turning silently, needle down, producing nothing. Beside it a bookshelf climbed straight to the ceiling, a ladder running the whole length on a track.

On the low table in front of the couch sat two glasses of wine. One half empty. Whoever had been drinking had stepped away expecting to come right back.

You stood slowly.

Sylus had crossed to the far side of the room. His head was angled down at something on the shelf.

You crossed after him, boots loud on the floor.

"Sylus."

He didn't turn.

You came up beside him, followed his eyeline, and stopped.

A photograph. You in your Hunter uniform with a different insignia of a rank you didn't hold yet, holding a trophy. Your smile in the photo was wide open and unguarded, a version of happy you didn't wear on your face very often.

There was a small engraved plaque at the bottom of the frame.

Hunter of the Year — November 2051.

You picked up a magazine beside it.

Your face on the cover. Same uniform, same trophy, same smile. Hunter of the Year in bold letters across the top. Small print in the corner, neat and impossible.

November 2051.

You set it down carefully.

Behind you, Sylus had already moved to the mahogany desk near the windows. Papers shifted. Folders opened and closed. His hands stayed busy and his face gave nothing.

"Sylus." You kept your voice steady. "Look at me."

He didn't.

You crossed to the desk and placedd your hand flat over the document he was holding.

"Three years," he was staring at nothing in particular, whatever was running behind his eyes not making it to his face.

You looked at the half empty glass. The record player still turning in silence. A coat hanging by the door.

"Sylus."

"I see it."

"That's your coat."

"This is one of my safehouses"

"Since when do you keep pictures of the Association Hunters? Last I checked you called us glorified errand runners."

A slow smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth "I've got a taste for beautiful art, sweetie, and maybe I like having a permanent reminder of my favorite headache."

"I'm not your—"

"Someone's coming." his eyes sharpened, hand closing around your wrist.

"Who—"

"This way." He was already pulling you toward a closet.

He yanked the door open expecting to see his weapons.

There were no rifles or guns, just stacked piles of the same magazine you saw earlier, floor to ceiling, your face on every cover, hundreds of them.

"Do you also collect magazines?" you asked, fighting to keep your voice down as he shoved you into the tiny space and squeezed in after you, pulling the door shut. "This is a lot of me for one closet"

"If you keep talking you're going to get us both caught."

You bit down on a laugh and then it died in your throat completely.

The door clicked open and Sylus stepped into the room.

You gasped, turning on instinct to check whether he had somehow warped himself out there with his Evol, but he hadn't moved an inch.

Future Sylus's hair was a mess, like he'd run his hands over it more than once, and a bit longer than you were used to. His shirt was wrinkled, streaked faintly with mud, stretched tight across shoulders that looked broader than the ones currently pressed beside you in the dark. There was more color in his face too, like time had put some weather on him. He paced the length of the room like a caged animal, fists clenching and releasing at his sides. He stopped mid stride, head turning like he'd caught a sound in the room, inside Sylus's hand shot out, closing around your wrist as one finger came up to his lips, a silent order to stay quiet.

Then the door opened again, and future you walked in.

She looked pissed. Shirt torn at the shoulder, soot and dirt ground into the fabric, but her eyes were lit up with anger.

She was you, there was no doubt about that, but she was different. There was more color to her face too and her body was softer in some places, sturdier in others.

"You had no right, Sylus!" She slammed the door behind her "I can still fight! I had that under control!"

"You almost got killed" Sylus didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Whatever was in his tone was cold enough to make the room feel smaller.

"That's a fucking lie and you know it!" She crossed the space between them fast, jabbing a finger into his chest. "I'm not some damsel for you to decide when I fight and when I don't!"

Beside you Sylus dipped his head, lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Different year. Same feisty kitten." His breath felt warm against your neck.

"Shut up, Sylus. Shut up" you hissed, elbowing him in the ribs. He huffed out a quiet laugh like you'd done him a favor.

Outside, the fight kept climbing.

"You think you can pull me off a fight and take me wherever you want?" her voice bounced off the ceiling. "I'm a Hunter, Sylus. I'm not joining Onychinus. Not now, not ever, no matter how many times you bring it up."

"You've made that perfectly clear."

"It's my job, Sy"

"Not anymore, it isn't."

"You don't get to make that call for me!"

He didn't answer with words. He started walking her back instead, one slow step for every one she gave up without notice, until her spine hit the ladder bolted to the bookshelf.

She was out of room. He planted a hand on either side of her head against the wooden rungs, boxing her in.

"Are you sure about that, sweetie?" Not a question so much as a challenge.

"We don't even know ye— get out of my space!"

"Make me."

Their faces were a breath apart now, close enough that the argument had stopped sounding like an argument. Through the door you felt the air on the other side change, something thick and charged, like the silence that comes right before either a fight or something worse. Your face went hot just watching it, the line between the two of them hating each other and wanting each other collapsing.

"I hate you"

"Good," he murmured so close to her lips. "You can hate me all you want, Mrs. Qin. You're still wearing my ring."

He closed the distance, hand curling around the back of her neck, and kissed her like it was the only thing he had left to say.

Beside you Sylus went completely still.

Future you made a sound against his lips that started as surprise and turned into moan, her hands coming up to grip his shirt before she dropped them and grabbed him instead.

You turned to look at Sylus, his eyes dropped to yours and a slow smile moved across his mouth and your stomach went with it.

His shirt hit the floor first, hers followed.

Future Sylus lifted her off the floor and settled her onto a rung of the ladder. She grabbed the rung above her head to steady herself and he stepped back just far enough to look at her, taking his time with it while she sat there catching her breath.

Then he reached for her boots.

He pulled the first one off, fingers working the laces without looking down, eyes on her face the whole time. The second followed. He set his hands on her knees and dragged them up her thighs and she made a small sound before he'd even done anything.

His mouth found her collarbone. Moved down. The thin lace of her bra was still on and he put his lips over it anyway, tongue pressing through the fabric against her nipple, and her head went back against the ladder. He bit down through the fabric, and the sound she made was immediate.

You pressed your hand to your mouth.

He did it again on the other side, slower, and her knuckles went white on the rung above her while her hips moved forward looking for something that wasn't there yet.

He kissed down her sternum. The soft skin below her ribs. His mouth dragged across her stomach and she was already breathing in pieces by the time his hands moved to her pants. He worked them down her legs and off, then dropped to his knees.

You made a small sound against your hand.

He was now on his knees between her thighs, hands finding the backs of them, hooking her legs one at a time over his shoulders. The muscles in his arms and neck shifted with the motion and he settled her weight there easily, like he'd done it before. Because in three years he had. Many times. You could tell by how she exhaled when her legs landed on his shoulders— relief. Her whole body recognizing what was coming.

He looked up at her.

Hands spread across her inner thighs, holding them open, red eyes on her face, waiting.

She looked down at him.

Her chest was moving fast. Her lip caught between her teeth. She held his gaze for one long second and then, quietly, barely enough to hear—

"Please."

His fingers found her thong and pulled it to the side.

One hand went to his hair, pulling him in, the other stayed above her head. Her nipples hard against the wet lace.

Every sound came through clearly. His mouth on her wet pussy. Her breathing. Your face burned. Other things burned. You pressed your thighs together and it didn't help because the sounds didn't stop.

You turned to look at him again.

His right eye burned red in the dark closet. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that wasn't steady.

"Sy—"

"Don't stop." Future you's voice came through the door, breathless. "Fuck, Sy...just like that."

Your face went hotter and you faced forward again.

Sylus exhaled against your hair. His hand was still on your wrist. Neither of you had moved it.

He made a sound against her and the sounds that followed were louder and wetter.

Your fingers found the front of his jacket and held on.

"Is this affecting you?" he asked, right against your ear.

"Shut up."

Then her voice again, completely gone, nothing held back. "Yes — baby, my clit, suck on it — fuck yes—"

His hand tightened on your wrist. Hard.

"Sylus." Your voice came out dry. Broken in the middle. Not what you'd intended at all.

"I know," he said.

Future you screamed his name. The closet pressed in from all sides.

"We need to leave"

"Yes," he agreed, but neither of you moved.

Her thighs locked around his shoulders and shook. He stayed until the last tremor left her. Then he stood, chest glistening, and his hands dropped to the button of his trousers.

Popped it open. Pushed the fabric down his thighs.

The outline of his cock through the fabric of his underwear made your throat close. The tip already wet, a dark circle spreading through the cotton, and his fingers found the waistband—

A large hand came down over your eyes.

"Hey—" You grabbed his wrist. His fingers didn't move.

"If you want a show," his voice low at your ear, "you only have to ask."

"Move your hand." You twisted your head. His palm stayed exactly where it was.

Dark behind it.

Then the sounds hit again.

Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

Skin against skin. Her voice breaking between each impact, the sounds coming in waves that your brain immediately started filling in visuals for and that was so much worse than if he'd just let you look.

"You're burning up," he said against your ear, not in concern but in pure mockery.

Your thighs pressed together hard. "I swear to god—"

His fingers spread open.

She was still on the ladder. Legs locked around his waist, both of them flushed, sweat catching the light. He had one hand on her hair, holding her close to his face, their mouths almost touching, breathing the same air while his hips rolled forward in deep slow drives that shook her whole body. He was saying something to her, too low to carry, but whatever it was kept fracturing her expression every time he said it.

Then his voice came through clearly.

"Look at me." Steady, even over everything else. "Tell me who you belong to."

Her tongue dragged across his upper lip. "Yours—" Her head dropped back. "Ah— yours, Sy, I'm yours—"

Your underwear felt damp and your clit was pulsing with a persistence you were doing your very best to ignore.

"Do you really think," Sylus whiapered against your temple, "it takes us three whole years to get here?"

"I don't—"

Future Sylus pulled back, his tongue dragged slow up her throat while she panted against his shoulder. "You taste different today."

"Because you're—" she gasped, "—you're driving me insane—"

"That's not it." He pushed forward, one deep thrust that tore a cry out of her "You shouldn't be taking field hits right now." A beat. "Not when you're carrying my child."

The closet went cold.

Your jaw dropped. Hers did too.

Pregnant.

The argument. Him yanking her off the mission. All of it clicked into place at once. She was carrying his baby. In three years, you'd be carrying his kid.

Your knees went out from under you.

Your foot caught on something hard as you stumbled back. A stack of magazines toppled with the movement, and everything blurred, sound, vision, all of it going soft at the edges.

"—watch—"

Crimson light cracked through the dark. Sylus's Evol flared, and every falling magazine froze mid air.

The energy didn't stay contained. It rolled out through the closet door and everything on the other side went dead silent.

The sounds stopped. All of them. What replaced the noise had weight to it.

Sylus's eyes were locked on the door. Jaw tight. Not a muscle moving.

"Pathetic," future Sylus said, clear, not a trace of what he'd been doing thirty seconds earlier, "a top tier Hunter and the leader of Onychinus, hiding like toddlers playing hide and seek."

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

"Sylus?" Future you, breathless, confused. "Who are you talking—"

"I know you're in there." He sounded almost bored. "You're both breathing like horny teenagers."

Beside you, Sylus exhaled through his nose and reached out to push the door open. "I could say the same"

He stepped out first, glanced down at his sleeve, and flicked off a piece of lint that probably wasn't there. Then he reached back, hooked an arm around your waist, and pulled you out with him. You stumbled onto the polished floor, face burning hot enough to set the room on fire.

Future Sylus had future you pulled against him, her bra strap slipping off one shoulder, hair a wreck, and she was staring between the two of you with her mouth hanging open.

"Is that—" Her eyes went from you to the Sylus standing next to you and back again. "Are we— are they—"

Sylus looked at his future self. Future Sylus looked right back.

Three seconds of silence passed between them, and somehow it felt like an entire conversation.

"You look good," Sylus said.

"And you are interrupting," future Sylus said, arm tightening around future you.

You stopped watching the two of them and scanned the room instead.

There. The White Protocore, sitting beside the wine bottle, pulsing soft in the low light.

You moved before anyone could stop you, crossed the room, and closed your hand around it.

Sylus was right behind you. His hand landed over yours, the stone was caught between your palms again, warm and humming under your skin. He tossed one last glance over his shoulder at his future self and smirked.

White swallowed everything. The floor vanished, and then thud.

The familiar light of his office in the N109 Zone.

You were flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, just breathing.

The Protocore rolled out of your hand and knocked against the leg of his desk before it dissolved into dust.

Sylus sat up, forearm braced on a raised knee, and looked down at you, smirk already back in place. His gaze dropped to your mouth, your throat, the way your chest was still heaving.

"So," he said, leaning over you with one hand braced on the floor beside your head. "A baby."

You threw an arm over your face. "I will shoot you again."

"I'm just thinking ahead." His fingers found a strand of your hair "Sounds like we've got a lot of work to do in the next three years, Miss hunter."

Next?

Valko

Zayne

Rafayel

Voting ended onJul 26

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[souliloqui]

18+ | dilf!sylus x younger!fem!reader summary: sylus finds that he struggles to keep up with you. cw: age gap, one time mention of the word "slut", somnophilia

Sylus knows he's getting up there in the years.

His hair and stubble now hold specks of grey, a layer of softness laid on top of his stomach's firm muscles and his lower back throbbed with a constant slight pain. He is no longer what he used to be; a man at the top of his prime that could run around for days while surviving on a mere two hours of sleep. Age had become his enemy, humbling him every year in various ways such as aching joints and a creeping stiffness in his fingers…

A stunning decrease in his stamina.

That one stings.

Especially when he's dating you, the prettiest young thing that gives him a run for his money every single day.

Sylus' vision blurs when he comes for the third time, biting off a whimper as it shakes him loose. The pleasure is sharp, gripping him by the throat and squeezing hard until he can barely breathe. It robs him for his senses, leaving his nerves raw and bare to a sensation so strong that it renders him speechless. But the pleasure careens into cresting overstimulation, pain sparking at pleasure's golden edges. He tries to speak but his voice is gone, melted at the back of his throat as you continue to bounce on his oversensitive cock.

You're so lost in it, head tilted back in ecstasy as you ride him like a cock-drunk bunny. Soft noises fall from your parted lips, kiss-swollen and slick with drool. Your tits bounce with each rise and fall, inviting Sylus to sink his fingers into supple flesh. Your cunt squeezes at him mercilessly, squelching filthily from how soaked you are and leaving a frothy ring of cream around the base of his cock.

It's a glorious sight to behold; you're a wet dream come true and Sylus counts his lucky stars that you're his.

But the unfortunate truth of reality is that he can't keep up with you.

Fatigue's fog is already casting over him, his limbs are heavy and his cock is valiantly trying to fill back up for you. But the pain is no longer something he can ignore, the overstimulation becoming torturous and a reprieve is very much needed.

With strength he's still not lost, Sylus' hands still your bouncing hips and lifts you off his half-hard cock. A gush of come spills out from your stretched cunt onto his pelvis and Sylus groans at the sight, a shot of arousal making his cock kick. But he stays on course, hefting a flustered and confused you up to his face.

"Sy-Sylus?" You stutter, his name a heavy weight on your tongue.

"Hold onto the headboard, sweetie," Sylus says, a playful warning. "Or my hair, I'm not picky."

He pulls you down onto his tongue.

You death grip his hair with a scream.

☆☆☆

"I'm sorry if I was too much earlier," you say, apologetic, as you curl up under Sylus' arm. Freshly showered and bed dressed in new sheets, you both nestle deep into silk sheets warmed by your body heat. "Did I go overboard?"

"Not at all, sweetie," Sylus says firmly, caressing your side. "And you don't need to apologise, you didn't do anything wrong." He then rolls around a particular sentence in his mouth. "I'm just…not as youthful as I used to be."

You blink. "Okay," you say slowly. "I feel like there's more to that sentence."

Sylus gives a slight smile.

Nothing ever gets past you.

"It's no surprise that you have more stamina that me," he continues. "And as much as I feel blessed to have you crave me every day, it gets a bit…tiring for an old man like myself."

"I…I do not crave you everyday," you argue but it's weakened by the embarrassment that colours your words.

Sylus chuckles loudly, shifting so he's able to look at your face. "Is that so?" He starts with a knowing smirk. "Just yesterday, you climb onto my lap and bounced on my cock for an hour straight. Then you proceeded to go onto your knees and used your mouth to make me come so hard I saw stars." His smirk widens when you try to hide into the safe haven of his chest. "The other day, you ambushed me when I came home from work. I insisted I took a shower first but you said, and I quote, "I like how you smell after a long day," before unzipping my slacks—"

"Okay!" You yell, immensely flustered, as your hands slap over his mouth. "Geez, I get it, I'm a slut for my boyfriend. But I can't help it!" You then gesture to him wildly, nearly hitting him in the face. "You walk around all handsome and silver-foxed with your large hands and larger dick, I cannot be held accountable for how I react. It's like I'm in heat."

"For several months on end?" Sylus asks, highly amused.

"I get wet when I hear your voice so I don't know what you want me to say," you reply seriously, and Sylus' laughter disrupts the quiet night. "Don't laugh or else we're gonna have a real problem."

"Well, I'm glad that I'm not the only one who's overly obsessed," he says, smiling and you return it with a chuckle. "It's just unfortunate that I can no longer showcase it to you as much physically."

"You do show it to me in a very physical way, though," you say happily. "In the way you kiss and hold me. Sex isn't the only way to be physical." You then frown. "And I don't want to hurt you so if it gets too much, please tell me to stop."

Sylus hums. "It's not that I want you to stop," he replies. "I want you to keep going, I love seeing you lost in the throes of passion. Especially when it's due to me." He lifts up a hand to smooth a thumb over your cheek. "So I thought of a solution that could benefit us both."

You lean into his touch, eyes wide and trusting.

"Tell me."

Sylus smiles.

"Use me whenever you want."

☆☆☆

It's the familiar wet heat that drags Sylus from his sleep.

Tightness that grips at his cock and sucks it in, spilling pleasure across his nerves and making them sing.

He feels that tightness lift up until it's hugging the head of his cock before slowly sinking down to the base. It has a groan forming in his throat, his hands momentarily fisting the sheets before reaching for a pair of hips he knows so well.

A tiny moan has his eyes fluttering open, still heavy with sleep as they land upon you. A divine deity set aglow by the sun's rays peeking through the space between the curtains. You look beautiful, eyes glazed over and focused on him as you pant into the open air. Your lips curl upwards lovingly, your hands coming up to entwine with Sylus'.

"Good morning." You coo sweetly and Sylus grins, absolutely head-over-heels.

It seems they've found a good solution after all.

[vxnillabxn]

Im putting my thinking cap on for this… on a reader insecure about her weight and just not eating anymore, or eating the bare minimum in CALEB’s care (scawy), like I need me a mama bear Caleb going insane and still trying to fatten his pips up because there is NO WAY he is letting her go hungry >:(

𐙚˙⋆.˚ caleb x gn!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ hurt/comfort! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ tw ꩜ eating disorder implied, food issues, body image issues! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚so... i tried making caleb go absolutely crazy, and i don't if it's just me but i've been feeling so sad and down these days that i ended up making him break ( ˶•ᴖ•) !! but yeah, it is a touchy subject, so feel free to ignore this one if it's not your cup of tea (as always, i tried to keep it lighthearted and easy-to-read). remember to always take care of yourselves and your well-being. being kind to yourself isn't always easy, but it does help a lot. ♡

you were subtle with it; eating smaller portions, saying you already had some snacks outside, promising you'd eat later…

the first two times weren't concerning.

the third and fourth raised suspicion.

the fifth?

caleb knew something was wrong.

he focused on the amount of spoonfuls you had, on how many times you chewed, on every single grain of rice and noodle you brought to your lips, and they weren't enough.

they simply weren't enough for a mature adult to have enough energy, let alone to nourish their body and brain.

and caleb would do anything to keep you from hurting yourself, even if that meant overstepping boundaries and making you hate him for it.

as long as he kept you safe, he didn't care.

so, eventually, he started placing snack plates next to you as you worked.

he made you try the food as he cooked, making sure you had several spoonfuls.

he sat right in front of you and watched you intently as you ate, with an almost gentle smile on his face and his eyes crinkling as he asked if it was good.

to further calm himself down and give himself some peace of mind, he hand-fed you from time to time, because that way, he could make sure you were eating.

you didn't have time to react before he was offering an apple slice or gently pushing a tangerine segment past your lips.

you wanted to refuse, but how could you when you literally had no escape route?

you even began questioning why he insisted on feeding you so much, wholeheartedly believing he was trying to make you gain weight for some reason.

but his answers were always caring and honest, not once related to your appearance in any way.

“you are gettin' dizzy more often, angel. you need nutrients,” or “i like it when you ask for seconds 'cause it means you liked my food.”

you didn't know he already knew about your situation, and that his worry was growing deeper and deeper, to the point where he grew desperate to save you from your own mind.

“here you go, baby,” he placed a plate full of warm food in front of you, making you hesitate almost immediately.

you knew you had to take at least six spoonfuls for his shoulders to relax and his hands to stop clutching his fork.

but despite not feeling full, you gently pushed the plate aside and patted your belly.

“it was delicious, leb, thanks…”

silence.

caleb looked down at the almost untouched food, and then up at you.

“you're done, angel?” he simply asked, his voice steady enough not to reveal his inner worry.

“mhm, it's just a lot of food…”

he nodded, took a bite of his food, then stood up.

you followed him until he crouched beside you, pulling the plate closer.

“that's okay,” he whispered, and then his eyes met yours. “you don't have to finish it, but…”

he used the knife to push some veggies onto the spoon before bringing it to your lips.

“i'd like you to have a few more bites, hm?” he tilted his head, his lips curling up in that smile that made your breath hitch.

“but caleb,” you whispered, staring at the spoon. the food looked delicious indeed, but the numbers invaded your brain.

weight, calories, pounds…

you couldn't.

“for me, yeah? just one,” he tilted the spoon ever so slightly, his tone tender.

hopeful.

desperate.

it took you a few seconds, but you finally leaned forward to accept it.

the relief was almost unbearable. his body relaxed, and he let out a breathless chuckle, his lips finding your arm to kiss your soft, warm skin.

“there we go, baby,” he whispered shakily. “thank you…”

it was almost as if you had done him a favor by simply eating.

when he offered a second spoonful, you didn't question it. you didn't remind him that he said you'd only eat one more.

the third came, then the fourth, then the fifth, and the food was halfway gone.

that's when you quietly pushed the plate away again, meeting his gaze.

he took a napkin and dabbed at your lips before putting the spoon down and standing up a few seconds later.

“that's it. no more,” he promised, his warm hand cupping your cheek. “just a few bites, see? you did so good for me.”

your body was already thanking you; replacing the hollow ache with something warm, something nourishing caleb had prepared just for you.

you leaned against his touch and sighed, unable to contain your quiet laughter.

“you fed me like i was going to disappear or something,” you jokingly whispered, making caleb flinch slightly.

his jaw tensed, his muscles coiled.

disappear.

he guided you to your feet, his arms immediately wrapping around your waist with desperate strength.

“don't… don't say that,” he pressed his forehead against yours. “don't suggest that, angel. that's not happenin'.”

“caleb—”

“you can't disappear, yeah?” his voice cracked despite the smile he tried to keep on his face. “that's... that's why i take care of you.”

his arms tightened around your waist for only a second before relaxing again, as if he was afraid of holding you too tightly.

“you've been gettin' dizzy.” he swallowed loudly. “you've been so tired lately. you barely smile after meals anymore, and i know you love my cookin'.”

you stayed quiet, because you'd heard all of this before.

his worries, his fears.

however, he then continued.

“i know somethin' is hurtin' you,” he nuzzled your nose. “i'm not stupid, angel.”

you closed your eyes.

so he knew.

“leb, i'm sorry… i didn't mean to worry you, but it's just—” you took a deep, shaky breath, your voice coming out softer and weaker than you anticipated. “i just want to look better, that's all. for me, for you...”

he pulled back to look at you, almost frozen in place.

but you were always breathtaking.

no matter how, when, or where, you looked amazing in his eyes. every change, every fluctuation, every difference was worthy of praise.

but caleb knew not to mention your appearance, because you'd find a way to say you could look better; that being skinnier was your goal, and that you wouldn't feel complete until that day.

a day he knew would never come, because you'd find something else to focus on and try to change, punishing yourself if you couldn't do it.

“i don't care,” he finally mumbled, his voice lower than before. “i don't care, baby. you've been neglecting yourself, and—”

“caleb, you can't say you don't care…” you interjected, the insecurities taking over your mind.

you were tired of the same “you're perfect” speech you'd heard in movies, books, and the media.

“physical attraction is very important, and—” you couldn't continue, as he interrupted you the same way.

“i don't care about that,” he stated, both hands flying up to cup your cheeks. “wanna know what i care about?”

his breath mingled with yours, his eyes so intense they no longer resembled a warm sunset, but rather a dark, stormy night.

“i care about your hands not shakin' anymore. i care about you not gettin' dizzy as soon as you stand up,” he closed his eyes before stepping away from you, his arms falling to his sides. “i care about your heart gettin' enough energy to keep fuckin' beatin'...”

you stood there, your skin immediately missing his warmth.

his words pierced through you.

“do you wanna know what goes through my head every time you sway on your feet or tremble?” he didn't look up. he just couldn't meet your gaze.

the silence stretched until his lips parted again.

“that one day, i'm gonna be too late...”

late.

late for him to help you, or perhaps too late to save you.

your hands were shaky, but not from hunger or a lack of energy; it was from sheer fear and heartbreak.

something as “silly” as just wanting to eat less was caleb's worst nightmare happening right in front of his eyes, and you didn't even notice.

you looked down at your feet, the tears falling one after another onto the polished floor.

“i'm sorry…” you whimpered, your voice as quiet as a whisper. “i'm so sorry, lebbie. i didn't think—”

caleb was in front of you before you could finish the sentence.

he pulled you against his chest without another word, wrapping both arms around you until there wasn't a single inch of space left between you.

right there, with your cheek pressed against his firm body, you could hear his fast, unsteady heartbeat.

“i'm not mad,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “no, angel, i'm not mad at you. i'm scared.”

he buried his face in your hair, breathing you in just to make sure you were still there.

“i've been scared every single day,” he tilted your chin up to wipe away your tears as carefully as he could. “but you… you don't have to say sorry to me, baby.”

you tilted your head slightly, sniffling.

“if there's someone you have to be kinder to, someone who needs an apology… that's you.”

you closed your eyes when his lips found your forehead, and you held his wrists in place, not letting his warmth leave your wet cheeks.

“it's… it's so hard,” you admitted, followed by a broken sob. “it's so hard, caleb, because i don't like what i see, and i don't think i'll ever… fully like myself.”

“i know, i know…” he said desperately, pulling you closer so that he could kiss your head, your forehead, your temple. “i know, angel. it is hard. and i know you've been tryin'...”

you desperately looked up, lips parting.

“you've been tryin', and i'm proud of you, baby… but you can't just wake up one day and suddenly love everythin' about yourself. i know it doesn't work like that.”

he gently took one of your hands and caressed your knuckles with his thumb.

“so… until then, let me help you, yeah?” he lowered himself to look at you, his eyes brighter, clearer.

“let me love you enough for the two of us, and then some. let me take care of you, let me remind you that you do deserve to nourish your body, your soul… please,” he brushed his lips against your cheek, making you shudder. “please, angel. until you slowly become kinder and more forgivin' with yourself, let me help you.”

you shakily breathed in and out, letting his words plant themselves inside your mind.

after what felt like an eternity, you nodded.

you wouldn't just start loving yourself after this, you certainly wouldn't start eating without a care in the world, nor would the doubts vanish from your brain as if they hadn't even existed.

but you wanted to try, and you wanted your heart to keep beating, because you knew if it stopped… caleb would stop with it.

you wouldn't let that happen.

as he sighed in relief and carried you in his arms as if you were something precious, you understood how much he needed you to give him a chance to save you.

and you knew he would succeed right on time, as he always did.~

[applefishing]

priest caleb x virgin reader virgin reader confesses her lustful thoughts to her kind and gentle priest, unaware of his own battle with temptation. 11k words. read on ao3

You were a good girl.

Good girls weren’t distracted during Sunday sermon. They sat still and attentive, obediently absorbing lessons to carry with them throughout their lives. Good girls were never distracted.

Especially not by their priest.

They weren’t distracted by the hair curling around his neck in pretty little flicks of brown, or by the look in his gentle eyes when his gaze lingered on them in the second row of pews, or by the ways his long fingers firmly gripped the Holy Book as he held it high—far out of reach of the average person.

For two whole years, you remind yourself of these things. You sit through Sunday mass every week without fail, hands folds neatly in your lap, and you ask for forgiveness on your knees beside your bed each night when you realise your focus had drifted from the Lord to His messenger.

It felt much like a test you were failing, over and over and over.

His fingers.

His fingers, above all else, were your undoing.

The Communion procession shuffles forward slowly, drawing you towards your ultimate weekly test. Behold him who takes away the sins of the world. You repeat the words to yourself as the line carries you closer to him. Behold him who takes away the sins…

“Amen,” the elderly woman in front of you mutters under her breath.

And then it’s your turn.

His eyes are gentle and kind, fixed on you as soon as you step forward—unwavering—even as he reaches for the sacramental bread, a small perfectly circular wafer. This was the part that played over and over in your mind as you tossed and turned at night. This was what you asked forgiveness for, above all else. Your heart races in anticipation as his eyes flick to your lips.

You obey his silent request, parting your lips in preparation to accept his offering. He would place the delicate wafer on your tongue with practised ease, careful not to touch you. And then he’d hold the chalice of wine to your lips—helping you take a chaste sip. His eyes would never leave you, and your face would shamefully heat in response.

One small moment of intoxicating proximity.

Repeated, week after week; never changing.

His warm eyes fix on yours as the small wafer approaches your waiting tongue, and you savour the details of his face—surrendering to your habitual sinful indulgence.

Something is different.

You replayed this never-changing ritual in your mind for years. You knew all its minor details. You knew it intimately.

Something is different.

His bottom lip trembles slightly and then drops—falling away from his upper lip. And at the same moment you watch his mouth part, mirroring yours, something else new draws a tiny gasp from your lungs.

His warm finger touches your tongue.

Every week, for years, he repeated the motion of chastely placing the small disc on the tongues of the congregation.

Never before had he touched you. Not once.

“The body of Christ,” he says, hushed, like this was normal.

His parted lips, a touch of his fingertip to your wet tongue, and then, to finalise your torment, he brushes your bottom lip in his retreat.

It’s only the well-formed muscle memory that draws a quiet “Amen” from your lips.

That night, after kneeling and begging forgiveness, you crawl under your covers and desperately will sleep to take you—to free you from your spiralling, sinful remembrance. You toss and turn. You stare at your ceiling. Eventually, you open a window and sip from a glass of water as the cool night air soothes your heated cheeks. And it would be that small sip that finally unravelled you, drawing your mind back to the moment he pressed the lip of the chalice to your lips—the lips he’d touched.

Your cotton nightgown bunches up around your waist as you roll onto your stomach and slip your hand between your legs. It was the way he guided you—the look in his eyes—like he might reach out and wipe away any wine that spilled down your chin if you were too eager. It was the way his pretty fingers wrapped around the cup. It was knowing their warmth. The way they felt on your skin. On your tongue.

He would guide you so gently, if he were here with you now. You’d imagined it before: him watching over you as you traced your fingers through your slick. But never had you imagined him touching. Touching was forbidden. A step too far. He did not touch.

Until now.

A heavenly addition to your sensory experience of him.

It’s what draws the sinful noises from you now: shameful whimpers and gasps as you picture his finger in place of yours—dipping a little inside you.

How could this be such wicked depravity if his finger slipping past your lips could be part of a Holy Rite? Was there really such a difference between two parts of a body? What made the wet heat of your mouth so different from the wet heat between your legs?

It’s these spiralling thoughts, and the flood of tears that follow your cry of his name at your peak, that finally break you.

You were not a good girl.

You were damned.

And only confession could save you.

If you were brave, you wouldn’t hesitate. You’d march through the open church door at the first opportunity and take a place in the pews among a spattering of familiar faces, each waiting their turn to speak to him.

Instead, when weekly confessional hours do arrive, you sit on a small stone bench in the church graveyard and watch people filter in and out. You notice the little changes in them as they leave. Eyes that had been focused on the pavement instead look up into the trees. Their steps are lighter.

A mother who had first passed you hurriedly, tugging her small child behind her, leaves with him in her arms. She pauses and points out a little white rabbit at the edge of the churchyard, bouncing the toddler on her hip a little as she cherishes his reaction. And when the rabbit dips into the bushes, she continues her leisurely pace, engaging with the child’s chatter.

The weight of your burden seems to grow heavier the more you watch them all relieved of theirs. If you hadn’t hesitated at the sight of the open door and rerouted to the small stone bench, you could’ve avoided this. Instead of watching them, you could’ve been sitting in the pews watching him. He would’ve made the child laugh, settling him, so he could talk to his mother.

You loved watching the way they all reacted to him, adored him.

That’s what you should have done; what you should do now. But when you stand, instead of heading inside, you find yourself turning the way you came—scurrying from the church grounds, no braver than a little white rabbit.

When Sunday comes, for the first time in years, you don’t attend.

It’s all the hesitation your body allows before you are nearly sick with anxiety. Wanting it over, you take up position on that same stone bench during confession hours, again. And like the week before, you wait. You watch as a spattering of congregants seeking opportunity for repentance come and go. An hour passes, beyond the departure of his final visitor. Again, you’d let the official hours come and go.

The sky turns a golden yellow as the sun dips behind the trees, and you wrap your small cardigan around yourself as the temperature dips with it.

And then a familiar, warm voice calls your name.

He stands in the stone arch of the old church's entryway, looking out at you. “You must be cold,” he says in his gentle, patient way. “I thought you might be waiting to speak to me last. Some people prefer knowing there’s no one waiting their turn.”

You take a small step forward, arms around yourself in a self-soothing hug. “I was,” you confess. “I’m sorry, I–”

“It’s alright,” he says gently, mercifully cutting you off as a visible shiver takes hold of you. “Come inside, please.”

He stands in the entrance, turning his body to the side as you pass. Somehow, he feels larger—taller—when you’re alone with him. Much like the empty church makes you feel small when its empty of its congregation. He towers over you.

“It must be serious,” he says, his voice echoing slightly. The large wooden door closes as you linger in the aisle between pews. A closed door meant no more visitors. You were the last allowed entry. “Serious enough for you to prefer turning to ice rather than speak to me about it.” He’s slightly teasing as he approaches—clearly trying to ease the tension that has you still wrapped around yourself—cowering like a scared little lamb.

It’s a warm, comforting sort of teasing. Familiar. It’s his natural warmth that contributes to his busy visiting hours. You’d never heard a bad word spoken against him.

It makes your guilt so much worse.

Shame wracks you, suddenly faced with the reality of confessing your wickedness to a man so good and kind. A man so rare. You had been all alone for so long. No family to guide you with unconditional care. He was a little spark of genuine warmth and care, irresistible to someone starved of it.

You couldn’t imagine returning to Sunday mass every week after this, knowing that he might think back to this night every time his eyes landed on you in the pews.

Soft footfalls approach as you stare at the stone floor.

He speaks your name in a hushed, gentle command.He wants you to look at him. To face your shame.

And when you refuse, eyes stubbornly fixed to the floor, you must deal with the repercussions.

For the second time, he touches you.

His fingers rest under your chin as he lifts your head with a gentle pressure. He’s warm. Warmer than he’d been last time. At least, that’s how it seems as your chilled skin leaches the heat from his fingers. They linger, just for a moment, holding you in position as his eyes flick across your face.

Then they’re gone.

“Would the booth make it easier?” he asks, hushed enough to avoid the echo.

There was no shame in hiding, you tell yourself. It was the only way you’d ever manage it. How could you ever tell him the truth with his eyes warming your skin?

He sees the answer in your eyes. And you’re grateful when he takes the lead without further question, letting you trail behind him to the small confessional booth in the corner of the empty church.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen,” you begin. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is… three months since my last confession.” Three months. The last time you’d convinced yourself to confess, only to find yourself listing off trivial everyday faults instead.

The sound of your breathing seems far too loud in the small wooden chamber. So much so that you take in shallower breaths in the silence that follows, self-conscious.

“Are you unwell?” he asks as the silence stretches, kind—like he truly cared. When you hesitate, confused by the unexpected question, he adds, “You were absent on Sunday. I assumed you might’ve been sick, but you look healthy. Nothing serious, then.” The last part isn’t a question. He says it like he’s reassuring himself, like he really, truly cared.

Always so caring, of everyone. It makes it worse.

Your gut flips, anxiety rushing through you. You remember why you’d listed of a few trivial things and escaped in your last attempt. It was unbearable.

You couldn’t do this again.

“It’s a kind of sickness,” you confess, relying on the echo of the box to carry your hushed words through the small hatched window in the divider between you.

He’s quiet, letting you elaborate in your own time.

“I’ve been distracted. I haven’t heard your sermons. Not really.” You dig your fingernails into your thighs. “Not because they aren’t interesting… or helpful. It’s me. I’m full of—” One of your knees starts to bounce automatically. “My head is full of… sickness. Sick thoughts. They won’t stop.”

You focus on his steady breathing in the lull between your confession and his answer, letting the even rhythm of it calm you until your leg stills.

“Has something happened?” he asks. “Something is bothering you.” A pause. “Someone?”

“Someone,” the word leaves you on an exhale.

His next question leaves him faster than any of his previous responses. You haven’t even managed to take in another breath. It’s a falter in the calm rhythm you are used to, catching you off guard.

“Who?”

“It… doesn’t matter.”

It did matter. You’d lied. One moment of impulse and you’d lied. If your distraction had been a man in the pews instead of the one standing at the pulpit, it would be a different matter entirely. You’d have asked Caleb for advice years earlier.

You’d have confessed your eyes had been drifting in the pews, distracted by temptation, instead of focused on him, as they should be. There’d be no confusing, twisted entanglement between his guidance and his unwilling involvement in your sin.

“Gideon,” he says, disrupting your spiralling thoughts. “He’s only been attending a few weeks. I haven’t seen him approach you. Was it after service?”

You’d never heard the name in your life. You hadn’t even noticed a new face in the congregation.

If only you had. If only it was that simple.

When you fail to answer, mind whirring, he continues, “Is that why you weren’t here Sunday?” The fabric of his pants brush across the wood in a way that signals his movement. His voice is a little clearer when he speaks next, closer. “Has he hurt you?”

“No,” you answer, quickly. “No, I—”

“You’ll be honest with me,” he interrupts. “Won’t you?” He sounds a little like a parent about to catch their child in a lie. Not quite stern, but the authority in his tone has you biting your lip.

“It’s not Gideon.”

“Who?”

“That’s what makes it so wicked, Father. I’ve been so afraid—” Movement again, through the divider. It breaks your momentum. You fall into silence.

Like his face, you know his voice. You’ve studied it intently, every week, for years. All the warm, gentle kindness is missing when he interrupts you, “Afraid?”

You pick at the skin at the edge of your nail.

“Of you,” you finish.

Silence follows, except from your breath.

His, for the first time, is inaudible.

You should continue. You should take the silence as opportunity to confess the depths of your depravity. Your lips part, ready—

“Communion.” His voice fills the box—fills your head.

He knew.

He must’ve seen it in your face. Of course he did. He was good and pure and righteous. He would have seen that lustful wickedness on your face each and every time.

Had he been waiting for you to confess it? Had he expected it from you each and every time you came to him, only to be disappointed when you failed to admit to your true sin?

Shame. Embarrassing, pitiful shame.

Your voice is shaky, emotion thinly veiled. “I’m sorry, I—”

“No.” He cuts you off quickly. “This is my weakness. I should be asking your forgiveness.” A bump against the wood. Maybe his elbow. Your eyes lift to the small window separating you for the first time as you turn his words over, confused. “I took advantage of your innocence. I didn’t think you’d notice. I was weak. If I knew you’d see—feel my…” he trails off, sucks in a breath, then, “I shouldn’t have touched you. Forgive me.”

Your heart races as you put together his meaning.

He was talking about his accidental touch of your tongue… and lip.

No, that wasn’t right. He was confessing it was… intentional.

He was confessing.

It’s like a sedative: the daze his words puts you in. Suddenly, instead of being hyper aware of your body, of your anxiety, you feel entirely outside of it—floating outside of yourself. “I don’t understand,” you mutter, disbelief stuttering your ability to process. He was good, and righteous, and loved, and kind, and virtu—

“You dont—,” he starts. “You don’t understand?”

He’d wanted to touch you? Why would he—

“Talk to me,” he adds with a hint of urgency. “You don’t understand?”

“It was on purpose?”

He’s quiet. Then, “You said you were afraid of me. If it’s not that—”

“You wanted to touch me?” you whisper, hardly hearing his questioning through your ongoing daze.

“Yes,” he answers quickly. “I succumbed to—” He sighs. “I gave in.”

He had... lusted. He’d lusted… for you. And even if it had been a one-off moment of weakness, unlike your own, his sin had reached out to brush yours…

Something releases inside of you. Confession rushes from your lips, unrestrained. “Father, bless me, for I have sinned. I’ve also given into lustful thoughts.”

Silence.

Then, “These are your… sick thoughts? The sickness distracting you from sermon?”

You nod. “For two years now.”

“Two—” he cuts himself off abruptly. “During mass.” He shifts. “And when else?”

The marks in your thighs capture your attention again. You scratch at them. “At night,” you confess, hushed. This… is where your sin diverged from his. Shame surrounds it still, heavy.

“Your indulgence…” he trails off.

“Yes, Father?”

A bump against wood. “Why were you absent this past Sunday?”

“I—” You tug the hem of your dress down over your knees. “I was afraid to see you.”

“Because of Communion? Because I—”

“No.” You shake your head, despite knowing he couldn’t see it. “I was ashamed.”

He’s quiet.

It stretches.

Finally, “We all have moments of weakness—”

“But it wasn’t a moment,” you interject. “There’s something wrong with me. Father, it’s—I can’t—My Sunday’s aren’t spent in worship of the Lord, they’re—” spent in worship of you.

You drop your head into your hands, incapable of speaking the words aloud. Then, so quiet you aren’t sure he can even hear you with your head bowed the way it is, “I’d never done it before you.”

When he doesn’t respond, you raise your head. “I’ve never thought about anyone but you. What is wrong with me? To lust for the first time—to lust only for a man of God?”

You focus on his breathing in the silence, hoping to let it calm you like it had before. But it’s different now. It’s uneven, heavier. It stirs your unease instead.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says, finally.

“But—”

“There is nothing wrong with you,” he insists, firm, without room for argument. “You are… perfection, sent to tempt me.” The wooden bench he sits on creaks with his movement.

“Tell me why you wore that dress,” he adds, gentler.

You look down at the plain dress, hem resting at your knees where you’d tugged it down. Did you have a reason? You hadn’t worn it in while, and the weather was just about to get too cold for you to wear it again for months. That was all.

At your hesitation, he continues, “You wore that the first day I gave in. Apple red.”

“…gave in?” you question, a little wobble in your voice. You know what he’s implying, deep down. But it’s all too much. One thing after the other, shattering all you thought you knew.

And then, unaware of your imminent collapse, he deals the final blow.

“The first time I wrapped my hand around myself and thought of the way looked up at me, all sweet and trusting. You look at me like—”

Your small sob cuts him off, and you press your hands over your mouth, desperately trying to stifle the sounds escaping you without permission.

He stands, draws his curtain back, and exits his half off the booth. Your hands are still pressed over your mouth when he pulls the curtain in your little part of the box aside.

You look up at him with watery eyes, a towering dark shadow. And when he slowly enters and kneels in front of you, his large body fills your little section of booth. “Are you afraid?” he whispers. “Did I scare you?”

You shake your head, hands still clasped across your mouth.

You aren’t breathing at all when he leans a little closer and gently guides your hands from your face into your lap instead. His thumbs brush over your knuckles in soothing caresses as he speaks again, “Why are you crying?”

Months and months of inner turmoil spill from you in shaky half-sobs that you fail to hold back. You look into his eyes—gentle, familiar, warm. He’s an angel filling your vision, dressed in black—sin and salvation. His skin is hot where he touches you. And your eyes flutter closed when his hand lifts to your cheek, ghosting over your damp skin—like he meant to wipe away your tears but wasn’t sure he should.

With a slight tilt towards him, you close the distance.

His knuckles brush your skin, gently wiping at your tears. “I’m so proud of you for coming to speak to me,” he says, voice still lowered. “You’re so good.”

You shake your head quickly, looking down.

He lifts your chin, guiding your focus back up to him. His eyes flick across your face. “Why are you crying?” he asks again.

You suck in a shaky breath, “I don’t know.”

“Overwhelmed?”

You nod, exhaling.

“Mm,” he hums, taking your hand in his. “That’s okay.”

Gently, he guides you from the box. He stands before you, closer than he stood in Communion—a wall of black fabric. You watch his chest rise and fall, rise and fall. Then you tilt your head back to look up at him.

“Deep breaths,” he soothes as your breathing evens out.

His thumb strokes across your knuckles again.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe into the space between you.

He shakes his head, and his palm lifts to your cheek—making proper contact this time. “Don’t. Didn’t I say you did good? I’m proud of you,” he whispers.

“But—”

“Would I lie to you?”

You look up at him with glassy eyes. At your priest. Loved and trusted by all. Gentle and kind and good.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s how you look at me—how you’ve always looked at me.” His fingers slip behind your ear and eventually curl around the back of your neck, holding you steady. “Thought it was your love for the Lord. That I was a privileged conduit, sampling all that sweet love you carried around inside you.”

His fingers press into your skin. “…but it was for me,” he finishes, breathy.

You whimper, tears forming again.

“Shh,” he coos, breath tickling your lips as he lowers himself to meet you. His hands are all gentle again after that brief moment of pressure. One trails up your arm as the other cups the side of your head, thumb stroking across your temple. “Please don’t cry.”

“It was wicked,” you whisper. “I’ve been wicked.”

His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, rubbing back and forth—comforting. His eyes drop to watch the way your cardigan slips off, folding down to expose the thin shoulder strap of your red dress. “No, sweet girl,” he says, distracted. His eyes move across your upper chest before returning to meet your gaze. “You were worshipping the Lord through me.”

His hair looks darker than you’d ever seen it before. The sun is gone now. You’d never seen him by candlelight before. “I was?” you sniffle.

He drags your cardigan back up over your shoulder. “You’re a virgin?”

You nod. Another sniffle.

“And you’ve only touched yourself when you were thinking of me?”

He doesn’t let you drop your head when you try, so you nod—eyes darting to the side in shame.

“What could be more sacred?” he breathes.

His lips ghost over yours before landing on your cheek in a feather-light kiss. You close your eyes, savouring his touch as he leaves a leisurely trail of them across your face. Tender kisses anointing your skin in patient reverence.

“A sweet..” Kiss. “Innocent…” Kiss. “Little lamb.” Kiss. “Using her body to worship Him. You love Him through me. That’s all.” He returns to your mouth, holding your head steady as his warm lips slide across yours—your first kiss. “Through my body,” he finishes, warm breath mixing with yours.

That made sense, your hazy mind offers. It’s why it had consumed you all these years; why you’d never felt it for anyone but him.

Light, bubbly, warmth rises in your chest as the guilt lifts.

Caleb would not lie to you. It was an impossibility.

He watches the smile take over your face with a look you’ve never seen on him before. Then his head drops to your neck, and he’s lifting you into his arms. He doesn’t move. He just stands there, holding you to his body—breathing in the scent of you. He groans something into your neck, a word you can’t decipher. Then he withdraws.

“Would you let me guide you in worship?” he says, a little shaky with his uneven breathing.

“Mm,” you hum, nodding. Whatever that means. It didn’t matter. This was good. Everything was okay now. You’re practically limp in his arms, releasing yourself to his will.

He takes a few step backwards, and then lowers himself into a pew. You sit in his lap, knees at either side of his thighs—relaxed as his strong arms hold you against him. “I’ve resisted for so long,” he says, fingers tangling in your hair at the back of your head.

Then he drags you to his mouth, messy in his indulgence. He’s eager to please the Lord, your mind supplies, as his tongue dips between your lips to meet your own. You have no experience. You don’t know what you’re doing. So you let him take you. There’s a moment, when you are limp in his arms—eyes closed, chin wet with drool—that he dips his long fingers between your lips to play with your tongue. He takes it between his fingertips. Toys with it.

When your eyes flutter open, you find yourself transfixed by the expression on his face as he plays with you. His own lips are parted to accommodate his ragged breathing, and his eyes are hooded, locked on his fingers in your mouth.

Eventually, he lowers you onto your back across the pew and crawls over you. It’s only now you notice his black shirt untucked from his pants. Then his mouth is on yours again, devouring you with a low groan. The wood is cool against your back, contrasting with the heat of him above you—with the heat of his mouth. He tasted a little sweet, like the hard candies he kept at the entrance of the booth.

He’d sucked on one while listening to confessions.

He’d heard their sins, in all his virtuous kindness, and he’d let the sweet lolly melt in his hot mouth.

And now you were tasting it.

You were tasting your sweet priest.

His warm breath tickles your neck when he parts from you.

Then his fingers return. Slipping between your wet lips and into your mouth, he plays. In and out and around your tongue, he explores your mouth like it hid something he treasured. You take in as much of his face as the dim candlelit space allowed. Lost in worship, you hardly process his words when he finally speaks.

“Body of Christ,” he mumbles.

He holds your jaw, wet fingers against your cheek. And you lay limp beneath him, willing to receive, as he hovers over you and spits into your mouth.

You swallow without hesitation, indulging in the brand new expression painting his pretty face. Hunger and satisfaction combined.

He pets your hair with one long gentle stroke, adoration flooding his eyes as he gazes down upon you. It’s a look that has your heart fluttering in your chest as your mind drifts further and further outside of your body and into the space above you—light and free.

As his thumb brushes across your glistening lips, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake, a question flitters across your vacated mind. “Is this sex?” you mutter in a dreamy breathy sigh.

He stills.

You watch the muscles move in his face as his expression shifts. His brows tug together, then relax. His wet lips part, then close, then part again.

“It’s worship,” he answers. Your cardigan had fallen off both your shoulders at some point. He gently lifts the soft fabric back over your bare skin now, putting you back together. “When it’s with me, it’s worship.”

You release a shaky breath. “So I’ll still—I’ll still be a virgin? After?”

His fingers trace over your collarbone, then wrap around your neck lightly. His voice is as gentle and warm as always when he answers, “Only when it’s with me. No one else.”

“No one else,” you sigh, blissful under his exalted guidance.

He nods with an approving hum, fingers slipping from your throat down to your chest. He traces down your body, making little patterns over the fabric of your dress as he goes.

“When I fill you with my cock…”

He makes a pattern over your lower belly as he speaks.

“…and your untouched cunt clings to me…”

His fingers brush at your thigh, where your hem bunches up. “…I might say some terrible, vulgar, things. Perverted depravity—” His fingertips dig into your skin. “—is only natural as such perfect worship is filtered through our imperfect human bodies.”

His warm breath tickles your thighs as he lifts your dress, exposing your cotton panties to the cool air, and to his eyes. He looks up at you through the brown hair that falls over his face. “No matter what I say, remember this is worship. Okay?”

“Okay,” you sigh with a nod, entirely surrendered to him.

“Good girl,” he breathes, the warmth of it tickling you through the cotton. “Angel.”

His finger makes a single light stroke down the centre of the fabric, tickling your clit as he passes. Immediately, your body tenses as you attempt to curl in on yourself, overwhelmed by the newness of the feeling. You’d expected it to feel like it did when you’d slipped your hands between your legs yourself.

It didn’t.

He traps your thighs in the firm grip of his hands, preventing you from escaping him.

“It tickles,” you confess, embarrassed.

“Here?” He brushes over the fabric again, and it’s only his firm grip on one thigh that prevents you clamping him between your legs.

His hands slip just under the dip of your lower back, and he tugs you down the bench a little, towards his mouth. Then, as you look up at the vast vaulted ceiling, he kisses the cotton. It’s nothing more than a peck. And somehow, it feels closer to sin than anything prior. More than his tongue in your mouth, or his candy-flavoured spit.

But this wasn’t sin.

Another gentle kiss, directly over your clit.

This was worship.

“Father?”

“Mm?” he hums.

You can’t see him, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Should I… kiss you too?” Your cardigan falls off one shoulder again. “I mean like you are. Worshipping your body is worshipping Him?”

He crawls up your body, filling your vision as he hovers over you again. His eyes fall to your exposed shoulder briefly. This time, he doesn’t fix it. “Where I kissed you?” he asks on a ragged breath.

Your eyes drop to his chest, and you fill in the rest of the path down to his belt in your mind. “Between your legs,” you whisper.

His thumb swipes across your lower lip, then he strums it a little—letting it bounce back as he watches its movement intently. “You want to kiss my cock?” he asks, a little rumble in his voice—dropping it lower than you’d heard it before.

Your eyes widen a little, still unused to his vulgar language.

“Remember what I told you,” he adds. “It’s natural, hm? To speak like this.”

You nod.

He lowers his face to your neck, and you look at the ceiling again and he inhales deeply, nose against your skin. Then, “Say it.” His lips tickle your neck as he speaks. “How do you want to worship m—Him?” His chest presses into yours. “Say it.”

The ceiling is a void of darkness. His body separates you from it, warm and safe. You turn your head and breathe in the scent of his soft hair. “I want to kiss you… kiss your cock.”

You jolt a little beneath him as his teeth sink into your skin without warning. “Good girl,” he groans. “So good. So proud of you.” A kiss where he’d bitten you… then another behind your ear… then your cheek… the corner of your mouth. “Just let me taste you a little first,” he whispers. “I’ve wanted to taste you for so long.”

You expect him to take your mouth again.

But he disappears, back down your body, to his position between your thighs.

You close your eyes rather than stare up into the darkness again, focusing on the warmth of him between your legs… on the delicate way he plays with the little strip of cotton covering you. His fingers lift the edges just a little as his breath fills the space he occupies—warming your thighs and cunt alike. “No one has seen it?” he asks as he toys with the fabric.

You shake your head and drop an arm across your head, over your closed eyes. “No, Father.”

“No one has touched it?”

“Just me,” you answer quietly, embarrassed, still.

His finger dips far enough under the fabric to sample the wetness beginning to leak from you. You should be ashamed, wracked with the guilt of sinful indulgence of the worst kind. Instead, a small high-pitched sound escapes you.

“And now me,” he says, low enough you almost miss it. “You’ll let me take these off, won’t you? You’ll let me see?”

“Mm,” you squeak with a nod.

His fingers hook into the waistband. You expect him to take them off quickly, like removing a band-aid.

“This is only for me,” he mutters as he lightly tugs at the fabric, inching the underwear down in a torturous lazy indulgence. “This is worship.”

You nod. “Anyone else would be sinful.”

“Mm. That’s right, angel. That’s good.”

Just before your twitching cunt is exposed to the room, he stops. You open your eyes and watch as he kneels beside the pew so he can guide your underwear down your legs and over your feet.

Then he stands.

He looks down at you.

And you watch as he brings the white cotton to his face and breathes in.

He turns and takes a few steps away. You watch him inhale again.

Then he shoves them into his pocket.

He stands there, with his back to you, lit by the candles at the entrance to the booth.

“Father?” you prompt after a long lingering silence.

His shoulders rise on a deep inhale, then he turns. He stands there, looking at you with his hands in his pockets, just far enough away that you can’t make out his expression in the darkness.

Even when you sit up, he doesn’t move.

You tug your dress down over your knees. “Did I—Did I do something wrong?”

He takes one step forward, the sole of his shoe squeaking over the stone tiles in his haste. But then he freezes again.

“No,” he answers simply.

You tilt your head, trying to make out his expression. The dark empty church seems bigger now. It’s dark corners seem darker. You resist turning around to check nothing is creeping from the dark while your back is turned. The cold starts to bite at you again. You miss him.

It’s only when you wrap your arms around yourself—much like you had when he’d found you on the bench—that he seems to break from whatever invisible string held him back. He surges towards you and drops to his knees at your feet. “Forgive me,” he pleads, wrapping his arms around you and pressing his forehead to your stomach.

Your red dress rides up to your thighs again. He takes the chance to invade the space between your thighs, gripping onto you like a lifeline.

“This is wrong,” he says, head still bowed, pressed against you. “Forgive me.” He grips the dress at your back in closed fists. “I gave in. You’re too sweet. I’ve never strayed before. Forgive—”

“I don’t understand.”

“—me. You’re—”

You shove at his shoulders.

It’s enough to halt his speech, but it does nothing to loosen his hold on you.

“Father?”

He looks up at you. Tortured. That’s how you’d describe the twist of his pretty features now. “I told myself I’d let myself have you once. That it’d be enough. That it’d fix it.” His fists flatten against your back. “But it won’t ever be enough,” he breathes. It leaves him like a confession. But instead of it making him lighter, he sags. His hands slide down to your hips, then a little further. He plays with the puddle of fabric where your dress bunches up at the top of your thighs. “I’m sick,” he mutters, sounding defeated.

“But it’s worship. It’s okay.”

He looks up at you from between your legs, through the hair that falls over his eyes—messier than you’ve ever seen it before. “Mm, it’s worship,” he says. “But it has nothing to do with God.”

You look over to the altar, then to the crucifix on the wall behind it.

Then, you look back at the man kneeling at your feet.

“It didn’t feel like sin.”

His eyes drop to your lips, and then his fingers wrap around your thighs, just below your hem. “No?” His hands warm your thighs where he touches you, squeezing and releasing you in a comforting rhythm. “It did for me, angel. So much I nearly lost myself to it. It was so easy. I’ve spent so long resisting you and all it took was a little confession, and I nearly had your—”

He swallows.

“I’m a bad man.”

You shake your head emphatically, quickly covering his hands with yours. “Don’t say that. Please.”

He looks down at your hands covering his own, lingering there, even when he speaks. “You should find a new church,” he says, entirely unmoving. “Or I’ll leave, if that makes it easier. I can leave.”

He sounds a little like he’s trying to convince himself at the end.

And when he shifts, attempting to pull himself to his feet, you panic. “No!” you cry, wrapping your arms around his neck and dragging him back into you. You wrap your calves around him for good measure. “Please don’t leave me. Please? I’ll be good. I won’t bother you again. I swear I won’t bother you.”

He breathes heavily as you cling to him, forcing his head against you again.

Then, when the tension leaves his body, and you’re sure he’s not about the leap to his feet, you loosen your hold on him enough that he can look up at you. His hand lifts to your cheek. “You are good,” he says. “You’ve always been so good, and you’ve never bothered me. Never.”

“But—”

“I’ll give in,” he interrupts. “I’ll give in eventually. I want you so—” he sighs. “I’ll give in.”

Your eyes flick to the altar again. Just briefly.

A door was opened now, one you’d kept locked and buried deep inside you. His tongue between your lips had been the key to unlock it, and the prospect of him pulling away—of losing him—had swung it wide open on its hinges.

Nothing mattered more to you.

No one. Not even God mattered more than—“Caleb,” you whisper.

His eyes dart to yours. It’s the first time you’ve called him by name. You hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

He looks at you in a way that makes it immediately clear that you’d never truly seen his gentleness more. Not really. You suppose you’d seen part of it. Maybe a little sliver. But the way he looks at you now fills you with a desperation unlike anything you’ve felt before. A desperation to cling to him. He looks at you like he could offer you everything.

You couldn’t part from him now.

Not ever.

“Have you really thought of me before? In sin?”

He doesn’t look away when he answers. “Many times.”

Even after having his spit dribbling down your chin, you struggle to comprehend the idea of him… touching himself. Especially thinking of you. Was the man before you now really the same pious one you’d idolised all these years?

“And you asked for forgiveness?” you ask softly. It was comforting to imagine someone like him kneeling beside his bed in prayer the same way you had.

His eyes drop now, shame crossing his face.

He grips the bench either side of you and slumps forward, until all you can see of him is the soft brown hair at the crown of his head. Then, “No, I haven’t. Not for this. Not from Him.”

His breath tickles your thighs as you battle your confusion. It’d been a self-soothing search for comfort, not a genuine question. You hadn’t considered he might say no.

“I’ve never strayed before,” he says, head still lowered before you. “Not before you.” His arms move to your back again. He takes hold of your dress and tugs you forward until his head rests on your stomach. “You are my greatest sin,” he confesses, sounded closer to distress than you’d ever heard him. “I don’t understand it. I’ve sat as a helpless passenger as it’s wrapped itself around me—inside me.” He looks up, glassy eyes meeting yours. “You’re inside me.”

Your lips are slightly parted in awe—in stupor.

You weren’t alone in this feeling.

The door—unlocked by his touch—falls off it’s hinges entirely. You could never close it again.

With his glassy eyes still on you, you gently nudge your cardigan from your shoulders and let the warm fabric fall into a pile around your hips.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his eyes widening slightly.

“I feel it too,” you answer, hushed. “I want to be wrapped around you. I want to feel you inside me.”

He shakes his head, and you feel his body tense, like he might try and escape again.

Quickly, you wrap your arms around his neck and fall forward, falling onto him. He keeps his balance for a moment, but gravity wins. He lands on his back, and you manage to cradle his head—preventing it making contact with the stone tile floor.

He’s entirely still.

“Caleb?” you whisper with a little tilt of your head, resting comfortably on top of him.

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Please—” He swallows. “Please, sweetheart. You shouldn’t—we can’t do this.”

It only takes a little adjustment for you to brush you lips over his. “Why?” you whisper.

His lips tickles yours as he speaks. “I’m sick,” he breathes. His hand glides up your back as he says it, until his fingers wrap around the back of your neck. “You make me sick.” His grip is firm now, fingertips making little indentations in your skin. “I’m supposed to guide you, protect your sweet soul as you walk through this sick world, and instead, I look at you, and all I think about is plucking you and keeping you. Greed and depravity and lust and—”

A little whimper from you silences him.

His eyes flick across your face, studying, and then he takes your bottom lip between his teeth—tugging just a little, then releasing you again. “I realised it when I couldn’t find you in the pews—when Gideon was absent too: it’s not just lust,” he continues, keeping his hold on you. “It’s anger, and violence, and jealousy. I feel it all.”

“Father…” you breathe into his mouth. “I don’t want anyone else to see me, or touch me.” Gently, you cradle his warm cheek in your palm. “No one but you.”

His nostrils flare slightly.

Then his hand drops from the back of your neck, leaving you entirely.

His eyes flick down your bodies, to where your thighs cradle his stomach. Then he turns his head to the side and closes his eyes, shaking it a little, like he’s trying to erase whatever thought his mind had conjured.

You sit up, straddling him. His stomach is firm beneath your palms and you shimmy down a little more, until you’re resting just above his belt.

His brows draw together as you roll your hips, bare pussy separated from his skin only by the cotton of his dark dress shirt. The friction of it feels a lot like your pillow had on nights you’d writhed against it and thought of him.

But you can feel his warmth, seeping through the fabric.

He must feels yours too.

It was your warmest place, after all.

His eyes open, and for a moment, he stares out into the darkness. Then, slowly, he turns his head and looks directly at you—watching as you move against him. Watching as your lips part and you let a few little sounds of pleasure slip out.

His shirt nudges higher with your rhythmic movement.

He does nothing to fix it.

He doesn’t move. Except for his eyes.

They move between your face and the red fabric covering your shame.

He knows his shirt is nudging higher.

He doesn’t look away.

And when it finally creeps high enough to allow you to drag your slippery pussy over his warm stomach for the first time, his hands snap to your hips.

He holds you so tightly, you are forced to halt your movement entirely.

“Stop it,” he scolds, stern.

You tilt your head. He says it like he hadn’t been watching, waiting—as if he hadn’t been anticipating the feel of your messy cunt against him.

“But I need—”

He sits up suddenly, supporting you with a hand to your back as you slip into his lap. “What?” he demands. “What do you need? You came for confession. You needed to confess and be heard. That’s my purpose. That’s what I am to you.”

“Are you angry with me?”

He leans forward, holding you firmly against him. “Why is your little flower all messy? Hm?”His eyes drop between your eyes and your lips, over and over. “What kind of girl rubs her juicy little cunt all over the priest who was supposed to protect her perfect, pure, sweet soul—on the floor of His Holy Sanctuary?”

He bites at your lip before you can even process the lewdness of his words. “Your body is a temple of worship,” he continues, a hint of anger still darkening his voice in a way you’d never heard before. He presses you into him, forcing your breasts to compress against his chest.

You didn’t need to wear a bra with this dress. It wrapped around you so perfectly that it supported you fine all on it’s own.

“Please don’t be angry,” you whisper. “I—I—” Tears swell in your eyes as you stutter, quickly breaching your lower lids and streaking down your cheeks.

As your vision blurs, your world tilts. Your back meets the hard floor gently, and the shape of him hovers above you—obscured by your tears. It all happens in one smooth motion.

And then, without another word, the sound of tearing fabric fills the empty church.

He tears the red fabric from your skin, split from the neckline down the centre of you.

Your chest rises and falls heavily in the stillness that follows.

He’s a blurry figure above you. You haven’t had time to blink away your tears.

His breathing is uneven and heavy, to match your own.

Then, as your vision starts to clear, he falls forward and wraps his warm lips around one of your nipples. There’s no build-up. He starts in a frenzy—a chaotic tandem of his wet swirling tongue interspersed with desperate feral suckling. It fills the echoing darkness with vulgar symphony.

It drags desperate whimpers from your lips. And when one of them sounds like a high, broken cry of his name, he surges into you—wrapping his arms around your back and tugging you a little off the floor and further into his mouth. He hums something around you, the muffled words vibrating around your nipples.

Your eyes lock on the crucifix behind him as he ravages your breasts, animalistic in his intensity. It felt like all-consuming reverence, adoration… worship.

It was worship.

Worship was good.

He was good.

You aren’t even aware you are doing it when you start muttering. It’s only when he detaches from you with gasping breaths and looks up into your eyes that you realise it.

What had you been saying?

Your nipples, wet with his spit, pebble tight in the frigid air.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

That was it.

You had been thanking him.

He sucks in a long shaky breath. Then, with his eyes fixed on yours, his large, warm hand cups your breast—covering it entirely. “These were made to nurture new life,” he begins. He’s all gentle, guiding authority figure now. This was how you’d always known him. He has the same cadence he used in the booth when he was offering up the Lord’s teachings. “They’re His perfect design.” He palms your breast, massaging it without hesitation or restraint. “Don’t you think it’s right—” He takes your other breast in hand and leans back a little so he can watch as he gropes you almost painfully. “—that we honour and cherish His perfect creation?”

He swings a leg over you, never ceasing his rough kneading. “Take it off,” he instructs, rolling his hips towards you. “Undo the buckle.”

His belt is hidden under his loose shirt. You fumble a little with it, half-blind. He doesn’t stop to help you. He plays with your breasts instead, looking down at you from above.

“That’s it,” he coos in gentle encouragement as you slip the leather through the loops at his waistband.

It’s only then that he lifts his hands from you.

He sits above you, one leg on either side of your body—holding his weight off you. And you watch as he unbuttons his shirt. The collar goes first. He tosses the white strip aside without looking at it’s landing place.

His pretty fingers work at the buttons.

He makes it about half-way.

Then he grips the fabric and tears. Buttons pop off and scatter across the stone around you.

And then he’s bare.

Muscle sculpts him like a living, breathing work of art. He’s— “Beautiful.”

His chest rises and falls heavily as he gazes down at you, head tilting a little as the word slips from your lips involuntarily.

“Mm?” he hums, falling forward over you. “What was that?”

When you avoid his gaze, he grips your jaw in his palm. “Touch me,” he says, “as I touched you. Worship Him through me. We are created in His image.”

He takes your hand, falls back on his heels, and lift you to your feet as he stands.

You are bare, and he is half-bare. Somehow, he feels taller than he ever had before.

Then he places your palm on his chest, flat against his warm skin. “This is my body,” he says, dark hair falling over his eyes. “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God…” He quotes the passage as he guides your hands across his torso. “So we treasure it, and and honour Him through it.”

His stomach is firm under your palm, rising and falling shallowly as he guides you to the little trail of hair that disappearing down into his waistband. “Look at me,” he commands.

You obey, fingering brushing the hem of his underwear.

“I’m a bad man,” he says.

You shake your head, frowning. He was wrong. He wasn’t bad, he was everything good and safe and warm.

He catches your chin just as it dip downwards; as your attention is drawn to the movement at his hips. He keeps your eyes fixed on his as he undoes his fly with one hand. “I’m a bad man,” he repeats. “I want to fuck you,” he breathes, a little ragged now. “Pretty little virgin comes to her trusted priest asking for forgiveness and he lowers her to the cold floor, naked, and tells her he wants to shove his leaking cock deep inside her. Is that a bad man?”

You can’t respond. Not with the way he grips you.

“He tells her he wants her to kiss his throbbing cock. To worship him, like he was her god. He wants her to put him above all other gods, above her God. He’s a jealous man, without exception.” Fabric hits the floor, and slowly, he guides your hand into the elastic of his underwear. “He wants her on her knees, looking up at him with her sweet, devoted eyes, promising she’ll put no one else above him.” You gasp as he guides your fingers around him, hot and thick. “Is that a bad man?”

His other hand slides up your stomach to wrap around your breast, still wet from his spit.

“He wants to fill his pretty little angel with his hot cum, until she’s bred nice and full, and then when her pretty tits ache with sweet milk—” He squeezes at your breast as he speaks, over and over. “—he wants to suck at her until it dribbles down his chin. Is that a bad man?”

He leans down and places a gentle kiss to your lips. “He wants her to call him Father when he’s inside her,” he whispers. “He wants her to cry as she sucks at his cock with her naughty little cunt because she knows it’s bad.” He squeezes your hand around his erection. “You know it’s bad, don’t you, angel?”

One shaky breath. Two. Then you nod.

He lips curve into a little smile, proud. “Good girl,” he whispers. Then he steps away from you, separating you from him.

You take a small step to follow.

“No.”

You freeze, wobbling a little on your feet in your haste to obey.

“Go lay down on the steps and spread your legs.”

Your eyes flick to the stairs leading up the pulpit, then back to him.

You rock on your feet again, this time in hesitation.

The stone is cold on the soles of your feet. If you stood there long enough, they might go numb.

But the steps are covered in a dark, red carpet.

He takes a small step towards you. “Didn’t you come here to confess? Hm? Show me. I need to see the part of you that aches for me.”

His eyes heat your skin as you slip past him and climb the steps. There’s only a few.

He’s closer when you turn.

And he’s entirely bare.

He stands in the candlelight, just in front of the first pew, watching you—waiting for your obedience. And as you lower yourself onto the steps, leaning back to prop yourself up on your elbows, his hand wraps around himself.

You can still feel the heat of him in your palm.

“Spread your legs,” he commands.

“Mm,” you nod. “Yes, Father.” Then you drop your knees, exposing your messy centre to his hungry eyes and the cold air. He’s silent as your cunt clenches around nothing, wanting. He strokes over himself in gentle twists, base to tip—eyes locked on your offering.

“Are you going to ask me what I think?” He doesn't look up from between your legs as he speaks. “That’s what you came here for, isn’t? For help?”

You nod, readjusting yourself on your elbows a little.

He closes the distance between you and lowers himself onto his knees on the bottom step. “I can see it clenching,” he murmurs. “Greedy. Hm? Is it greedy, angel?”

Your lips quiver as you suck in a shaky breath.

“Mm,” he hums. “Tell me why you touch it. Help me understand.”

“I don’t know,” you mutter with a shake of your head.

“You’ll tell me the truth,” he orders. It’s not like earlier, in the booth—when he was still the man you’d thought you’d known these past two years. He’s all stern authority now. There’s no doubt. You will tell him the truth.

“Felt empty,” you confess in a little whine and roll of your hips. “I felt so empty.”

He leans closer. “Yeah? Poor little baby. A virgin with an achy little hole…” His fingers wrap around your ankle. “Empty,” he mutters. "So proud of you for coming to me,” he says as he strokes up your calf in a comforting caress. You struggle not to squeeze your thighs together, tortured by the lack of friction and the pulse of your cunt under his lingering gaze.

Then he lowers himself down between your legs. His finger strokes the skin just around where you want him most. “Sweetheart,” he breathes. “You need filling with the Holy Spirit. You’re all empty, yeah? You came to me because you knew I could fix it? Because I can fill you?”

He’s asking you a question, but he’s focused entirely on your twitching pussy as you flinch under this teasing touches. There is no logic to his questioning regardless. He’s consumed by the lust you share—slave to it.

“Who better to fill you than me?” he mutters as his fingertip dips into your hole. It’s barely a prod, easing back again as soon as your soft entrance offers a little resistance.

“Just for you…” you breathe.

“Hm?” He looks up. “What was that?”

“Only want you.”

He crawls over you slowly, forcing you to look into his eyes as he asks, “Me? Yeah? You came to your priest to fill your empty little pussy?”

“Forgive me,” you whisper.

He brushes his knuckles from your temple down to your chin. “I’ll help you, angel.” His lips brush over yours. “My angel…”

When he climbs off you and stands to his feet, a tiny part of your brain fires off in panic—afraid of him leaving you. But then his pretty fingers wrap around the thick length as it bobs above you. “It needs anointing,” he says with a gravely darkness in his voice.

He towers above you, skin glowing golden as the candlelight bounces off him. The same strong fingers that gripped the Holy Book high above his head each Sunday glide over the length of him as he looks down upon you.

He takes one step backward, down the steps. “On your knees,” he instructs. His aim becomes clear as he takes one step closer again, levelling himself at the perfect height for your mouth. “Tell me,” he prompts. “Where do you want to kiss me?”

On a shaky breath, you exhale, “Your cock, Father.”

You watch his closed fist stroke over his length, from the base to the tip. There’s a little shine there, at the end of it, leaking from the slit. “Alright, angel. Anoint my cock with your drool, hm?” He lets go of it, and you watching it bob a little—heavy. Looking up at him for reassurance, you level yourself with the head and touch your lips to him tentatively. One gentle kiss. “That’s it,” he coos. So you place another to his skin, right at the very tip. It bobs a little as he shifts his weight. Then you dip your tongue out, catching a little of the shine at the slit.

A bird calls in the night as it flies somewhere nearby.

His head drops back.

“This is what you needed,” he sighs. “This is what you came to me for. Isn’t it?”

You nod with a hum as you take the tip of him between your lips, tongue working in clumsy little swirling flicks—confidence building.

“Good girl,” he praises, looking down at you again. “Oh, my good girl. Just play with it. Just like that. Sweet little kisses for Father’s cock. Oh, Fuck. Oh God,” he groans.

He slips from your lips as you startle a little, looking up at him. The vulgarity had become your new normal. But this was new.

“What is it, baby?” he coos, stroking your hair. “I shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain. I’m sorry.” He takes his cock in hand as he apologises, standing on the steps of the pulpit, in the empty church where he gives his sermon each Sunday.

No one else would ever see him like this. He was too good. He was loved and trusted and righteous. And his cock was wet with your spit.

When you stand to your feet at his guidance, he still towers over you from the step down.

“Are you gonna put it inside me now?” you question with a little tilt of your head.

He takes one step down and runs his fingers through his hair. For a brief moment, it almost looks like he comes back to himself—to the version of him that almost left you—good and virtuous. It fights to take over.

So you take one step towards him.

He takes a step down again, in return, away from you.

“I’m so empty, Father,” you whine, slipping your fingers down between your legs. “Need you to fill me up again. Please.”

A further step down has him standing on the stone tiles.

So you lower yourself onto the steps again, leaning back and parting your thighs.

He stands there as you play with yourself, slipping your fingers through your slick until your clit is as sloppy as the fluttering entrance you leak from.

His heavy cock twitches as you watch each other. He doesn’t touch it.

“Please, Father,” you plead with a half-sob, on the edge of tears. “My pussy…”

He takes a small step towards you and pauses again.

“I know it’s bad,” you continue, somewhere between a sob and a whine. “It’s wicked. My naughty pussy wants to worship your cock, Father. Wanted it so long. I think about it during mass. I imagine you inside me. I come every week for you.” You dip your finger inside yourself, whimpering a little. “Don’t you want me?”

His chest rises and falls heavily as he approaches. He’s slow, like a predator stalking.

“So bad,” he mutters as he lowers himself onto the steps between your legs.

He watches as you play with yourself, messy and clumsy.

“Sent to tempt me,” he continues muttering as his fingers wrap around himself again. “That’s what you are, aren’t you? Are you from the Devil? Made to look like a perfect little angel? Is that it?” His hand strokes along his whole length, base to tip, over and over in a slight twisting action as he speaks. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

It sounded right. Made for him. You’d never wanted anyone else.

He lowers himself over you before you can answer.

“I’ll never stop wanting you,” he warns. “It’ll get worse and worse. I can feel it. This obsession.”

His forehead drops to yours. And with your eyes closed and his warmth over you, the slick tip of him slides over you for the first time. You want to kiss him, but he doesn’t let you get close. Instead, he breathes into your mouth as his tip collects all the slick between your folds and spreads it in an obscene mess between your thighs. “This belongs to me. Only I get to fill your greedy little pussy, yeah?”

His lips brush yours.

“No one else touches it. No one else looks at it.” He prods at your virgin hole, indulging in the sweet spongy heat that presses back at him. “This is worship,” he breathes. “You’ll suck me inside your sweet cunt, all needy and sweet and looking at me like you do in Communion. You’ll worship me. Above all else.” A chaste kiss. “Then I’ll flood you with cum, so you’re nice and full, yeah? Does that sound nice?”

“Inside,” you plead as you squirm, trying to take him in as he slips over you again and again.

He breathes into your neck as he prods at you a little harder. “You gotta let me inside. Can feel you sucking at me. Take me inside, sweet girl. Come on.”

He kisses your neck as you try to take him, letting your muscles go slack under him as he eases inside you over and over. “There you go,” he mumbles. “Fuck, that’s it. Perfect fucking cunt. Mine.”

It’s just the tip of him. It fills the ache beyond anything you’d managed with your fingers. His breath, his voice, his warmth, and his thick hot cock stretching your walls open.

It’s enough to drag tears from you again.

He kisses them away as they wet your cheeks.

“You’re inside. Inside me.”

His brows draw together as you squeeze at him, clenching rhythmically.

“Thank you, Father,” you whisper.

He groans, and then he shifts, and impossibly, he fills you further—spearing apart your walls until it feels like you might look down and see the shape of him in your belly.

“We shouldn’t—” he mutters. “Forgive me.” His hips drag back, and then he’s pressing into you again. “Forgive me.” He bites at your earlobe. “Naughty pussy. Naughty girl. Desperate for her priest to fill her with cock. Fuck. Fuck, you feel so good.”

“This is sex,” you mewl.

He bites into you, feral, and the obscene slap of skin echoes from the pulpit steps as his hips slam into yours. “This is sex,” he answers, breathless. “This is what you wanted. You wanted to suck on my cock with your perfect little cunny. You wanted to be full of me, hm? This is what you wanted.”

“He’ll forgive us,” you whisper into his ear. “I’m made for you. He made me for you. How can it be wrong?”

“Yeah?” he rasps, looking a little frenzied when he lifts his head to find your eyes. “You made for me?”

“Can’t you feel it?” you ask with a roll of your hips.

You watch his eyes flutter shut.“Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart, I feel it. Wrap around me so perfect.” He grinds into you, indulging in the feeling of your walls rippling around him in desperate waves. “I’m keeping you. You’re mine now. My pretty girl. Mine to fuck, and kiss—” He licks at your jaw. “—and breed.” He drops his weight onto you, smothering you in his heat. “Gonna keep you safe and warm. All mine.”

“Do you think He’s watching?” you whisper in his ear.

He groans into your neck. “Tell me who you were thinking of,” he orders, low and gravelly. “When you looked up at me during Communion. Tell me.”

“You.”

He draws his hips back and begins fucking you just with his tip in shallow little rocking thrusts. “No one else before me, hm?” he prods as you clench rhythmically around him, attempting to draw him back in. “You worship me with this cunt. Only me.”

You nod desperately, emphatically. “Only you.”

Pleased, he sinks back inside you with a low groan.

All your life you’d believed your body was a temple of the Lord; that you were filled with His Spirit; that you carried Him inside you always.

But you’d been empty. You’d been so, so empty. Longing to fill the cold, hollowness inside you. You’d desperately returned to this church week after week, believing the man at the pulpit was merely a messenger between you and your heavenly God. Believing your fixation was your failure—that he was temptation, and only in submission to God could you be delivered from him.

But with his cum anointing your skin, and his large warm body sheltering you from the cold, you know the truth of it all: anything, or anyone, which worked to separate you from him, could be nothing but the greatest evil. He was your salvation. And nothing would come before him.

Your face is quickly wet with tears again as you roll against each other in the dark, empty church—indulging in your mutual worship. His mouth adorns your neck in messy kisses as you mutter in his ear: praising him, worshiping him. You can’t stop, desperate to release the intensity of your adoration upon him.

And when he cradles your cheek in his hand and gazes down at you from above, you see it in his eyes: love, devotion. “My good girl,” he breathes.

[evolvinglittlebird]

Rafayel: Looks like a cinnamon roll, could actually kill you Valko: Looks like he can kill you, is actually a cinnamon roll