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california dreamin’

priest gerard way x demon fem reader

authors note: hello my sweet little angels, today i’ve got the holiest fic i’ve ever written for yew all. an anon of mine gave out a req where you’re a demon who’s been following father way around his cathedral for a while now, enamored with him, poking and prodding while no one but him could see you, tempting him, making him question his faith, until of course, he snaps on you one night. anywho… happy easter sunday! get some holy water, because y’all sure as hell need it.

before you read: religious themes, supernatural shit, reader is a demon, bad nicknames, angst with no comfort (just lust), i feel bad for gerard, mentions of trauma/questioning faith, it’s not implied but you’re both switches, hate? sex? idk he’s a priest- you’re a demon so not a shocker, he uses holy water and a rosary for… things, choking, hair pulling, spanking, doggy style, missionary, grinding, unprotected sex, it’s just nasty shit… no fluff here, that’s all??? don’t kill me for the ending???

word count: 5,602

the first thing father way is aware of, even before the thin grey light of dawn filters through the rectory window, is you.

you’re a weight on the end of his bed, a presence that makes the air hum and crackle. he squeezes his eyes shut, a silent prayer for strength on his lips, but it’s useless.

“good morning, father,” you purr, your voice a silken caress that slides over his skin like a physical touch. you trail a single, phantom finger down the length of his arm, and he shudders, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “did you dream of me? i hope you did. i was thinking of you.”

he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and turning his back to you, a futile attempt at privacy. “you shouldn’t be here,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep and a desperation he can’t quite hide.

“oh, too bad,” you sing song, drifting closer. you watch as his large, pale hands clench the fabric of his sweatpants, the material stretching taut over his thick thighs. you lean in, your breath warm against the back of his neck. “you know, i’ve always wondered what’s under all these layers. is it as sinful as i imagine?”

he freezes, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “let me change in private,” he says, the words strained, as if pulled from him with great effort.

you let out a low, musical laugh, the sound echoing in the quiet room. “oh, alright. if you’re so shy.” you turn your back, but only when you hear the soft rustle of fabric as he switches his briefs, puts on his pants. you’re not cruel, just endlessly fascinated by his denial.

the tension is a living thing between you, a thick, charged current that makes the air feel heavy. he shrugs on his black long sleeve, his movements stiff and robotic. you turn back to him as he buttons it up, your gaze lingering on the column of his pretty throat, the way it bobs as he swallows hard.

“you’re fighting a losing battle, you know,” you say, your voice softer now, almost sympathetic. “all that passion, all that fire... you think god wants it wasted on prayer?”

he finally looks at you, really looks at you, and his eyes are dark, tormented pools. “it’s not wasted.”

“no?” you challenge, drifting closer until you’re standing directly in front of him. you reach out, your fingers hovering just over the frantic pulse of his neck. “then why does your heart beat so fast when i’m near? why do i feel it thrumming under my own flesh?” you lean in, your lips inches from his. “why are you so afraid of me, gerard?”

he doesn’t answer, but his breathing hitches, his gaze dropping to your mouth. the chemistry between you is so potent it’s almost suffocating, a thick, charged current that makes the air hum. he’s a man drowning, and you are the ocean.

“see?” you whisper, a triumphant smirk playing on your lips. “you can’t even deny it.”

with a sharp, jerky movement, he turns away from you. he walks to the small dresser, his reflection in the mirror a portrait of a man at war with himself. you follow, a silent shadow, and rest your chin on his shoulder, your form invisible to the world but a burning reality to him.

“look at you,” you murmur, your ruby eyes meeting his hazel ones in the glass. “all that conflict. all that... repression.” you trace the line of his jaw in the mirror. “it’s delicious.”

his hand trembles as he picks up the white collar. he tries to fasten it, but his fingers are clumsy, betraying his composure. you laugh, a low, wicked sound. “need some help with that, father?”

he slams the collar down on the dresser, the clatter of plastic against wood unnaturally loud in the silent room. “get out,” he grinds out, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “get out of my head.”

“i’m not in your head, gerard,” you murmur, leaning in closer, your lips brushing against his ear as you rub his chest in a soft, circular motion. “i’m in your soul. and it’s so much warmer here than they told you it would be, isn’t it?”

he spins around, his eyes wild, dark with a fury and a hunger that’s been simmering for months. he moves faster than you thought possible, his hand wrapping around your wrist.

his grip on you is a shock, a solid, burning weight that’s entirely real. for the first time, he can touch you, and the contact is electric, a jolt of pure sin that makes you gasp.

“you think this is a game?” he snarls, his face inches from yours, his eyes blazing with a terrifying mix of want and disgust. “you think you can just... haunt me? tempt me?”

you smirk, though your heart is hammering against your ribs. “isn’t it working?”

his grip tightens, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek with a possessive roughness that sends a shiver down your spine. “you have no idea what you’re playing with,” he whispers, his voice a dark, dangerous promise. “you have no idea what i want to do to you.”

the air crackles, the tension so thick you could choke on it. his eyes are locked on yours, his mouth so close you can feel the heat of his breath. for a heart stopping second, you think he’s going to kiss you, that he’s finally going to break. but then, a flicker of horror crosses his face, a dawning realization of what he’s about to do.

with a choked sound, a raw gasp of self loathing, he shoves you away. he stumbles back, his hand flying to his mouth as if he can physically take back the words he just spoke. he looks at you, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and desire, and then he just... spirals.

“no,” he gasps, shaking his head, his hands raking through his dark hair. “no, no, no. this is wrong. this is... this is a test.”

he turns away from you, his movements frantic, desperate. he snatches the white collar from the dresser, his fingers fumbling with it as he tries to fasten it around his neck. it’s a battle, a physical struggle against his own desires.

“get out,” he says again, his voice strained, cracking under the weight of his denial. “get out of my room. get out of my head, you demon.”

you just watch him, a slow, knowing smile spreading across your face. “you can’t get rid of me, father. i’m a part of you now.”

he lets out a frustrated, animalistic sound, a raw cry of anguish. he gives up on the collar, letting it fall to the floor. he turns, his eyes glassy, and then he just disappears. he storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him, the sound echoing in the sudden, deafening silence.

you’re left alone in the room, the air still thick with his scent and his desperation. you can hear his footsteps receding down the hall, his frantic, uneven pace. he’s running, but you know he won’t get far. he can’t.

he’s running straight back to you.

the rest of the day is a symphony of his suffering, and you are the conductor.

you feel no remorse- this is, after all, your purpose. his soul had been a beacon, a lighthouse of repressed sin calling to you from across the void. finding him attractive was just a bonus. feeding off his simmering desires for the past few months had been a delicious appetizer, but now, it was time for the main course.

the final test comes in the form of his afternoon catechism class. a dozen teenagers, bored and fidgety, are oblivious to the war being waged at the front of the room. you, however, make yourself comfortable on an empty desk in the front row, manifesting in a form that would make a saint weep.

you wear next to nothing, a mere wisp of shadow that clings to your curves, your bare legs crossed enticingly on the worn wood.

he’s trying to teach them the parable of the prodigal son, his voice strained. “and... and when the son saw his father from a... from a distance...” he stumbles, his eyes flicking to you.

you smirk, slowly dragging a hand down your stomach, over the phantom curve of your hip. “go on, father,” you murmur, your voice a low thrum only he can hear. “tell them about forgiveness. tell them how the father took his wayward son back into his... arms.”

he swallows hard, his knuckles white where he grips the podium. a bead of sweat trickles down his temple. one of the girls in the front row whispers to her friend, “what’s up with father way? he looks… sick.”

you laugh, a soft, wicked sound. “he’s not sick, darling. he’s just... full of the holy spirit. and other things.” you uncross your legs, letting them fall open just enough to make his breath hitch.

he clears his throat, his gaze fixed desperately on the bible before him. “the... the father said, ‘bring forth the best robe, and put it on him...’” his voice is a wrecked whisper.

you slide off the desk, moving with an unholy grace.

you walk towards him, your bare feet silent on the floor. the students see nothing, but gerard flinches with every step you take. you lean against the podium beside him, your shoulder brushing his arm. the contact is electric, and he shudders violently.

“it’s okay to give in, gerard,” you whisper, your lips brushing his ear. “i know how bad you want it. i can feel it, you know. all that... pent up devotion.” your eyes drift down, and you let out a low, appreciative hum. “oh my, look at you. so eager in the house of the lord.”

his palms are flat against the podium now, his whole body rigid. sweat drips from his brow, landing on the open pages of his bible with a soft, wet sound. he’s fighting for his life, for his soul, and the strain is etched onto every line of his face. the bulge in his pants are undeniable, a testament to his losing battle.

“jus’ one touch,” you plead, your voice a seductive poison. “imagine it. my hands on you, right here, right now. while you preach about sin. wouldn’t that be the ultimate test of faith?”

he somehow powers through, his voice a monotone as he finishes the lesson, but his eyes are dark, lost. when the bell finally rings, the students practically flee the room, leaving him alone with you.

as soon as the heavy oak door clicks shut- the silence that follows is absolute. for a moment, he just stands there, a statue carved from anguish. then, with a sound like a snapping wire, he breaks.

he slumps against the podium, his body trembling violently, before sliding to the floor in a heap of black fabric and shattered faith.

you watch him, a detached observer of his undoing. with a flick of your immortal will, the lights in the classroom begin to dim, one by one, plunging the room into a soft, twilight gloom. it’s a silent mercy, a way to give him privacy for his breakdown.

he’s on his knees now, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles are bone white. “god,” he chokes out, the word a raw, ragged plea. “help me. spare me from evil...” he recites verses, his voice a broken, desperate whisper, but they’re just words, empty shells against the reality of your presence.

you sigh, a soft, exasperated sound, and place your hands on your hips. god, does he look gorgeous like this. so ruined, so utterly destroyed because of you. he’s not a man of god anymore- he’s just a boy, a weak, pathetic soul laid bare for you to take advantage of. he looks lost, not the priest he’s supposed to be, and the sight sends a dark thrill through you.

you crouch down in front of him, and for the first time in centuries, you feel a slight twinge in your immortal heart. it’s not pity, not exactly, but something... softer. you reach out, brushing a strand of his damp, dark hair from his forehead.

“it’s okay, gerard,” you coo, your voice a soft, soothing balm. “it’s okay that you’re already ruined. this is your fate.”

he flinches at your touch, his eyes fluttering open, wide with terror. before he can react, you move, easily straddling his lap. he gasps, his body freezing beneath you. you smirk, your bare clit throbbing as it accidentally presses against the hard length of his cock, still trapped in his pants. he stifles a moan, a choked, desperate sound.

“please,” he begs, his voice a broken whisper. “leave me alone.” he sobs harder, his body shaking with the force of his grief.

you just continue to feel him up, your hands roaming his chest, your lips trailing kisses along his jaw. you lave at his neck, your tongue tracing the frantic pulse point there. he whimpers, his fingers digging into the ground, praying so hard you can almost feel the energy radiating from him.

you pull back from his neck with a laugh. “what good does praying do?” you ask, your voice dripping with condescension. “nothing has changed.”

and then, you disappear.

you vanish from his lap, leaving only the cold air and the memory of your touch. he looks around in a panic, his eyes wide, his chest heaving. he touches his neck, his wet cheek, as if trying to prove to himself that you were real. for a horrifying second, he wonders if he imagined you, if he’s finally, truly lost his mind.

and you, watching from the shadows, smile.

he’s yours.

and you’ve only just begun.

the rest of the day is a delicious spectacle of his decay. you watch, unseen, as concerned parishioners approach him, their faces etched with worry. you watch him retreat to his office, the muffled sounds of his breakdown a sweet symphony to your ears.

but now, it’s nearly midnight, and he’s at the altar, right where the huge, looming crucifix hangs in the silent cathedral. he’s on his knees, praying so furiously you nearly roll your eyes.

you’re bored.

you circle him, a silent predator stalking its prey, your bare feet silent on the cold stone. he’s a mess, his clerical collar askew, his hair dishevelled. the rosary in his large palms is twisted, his knuckles white.

“still at it?” you murmur, your voice a seductive whisper that seems to come from everywhere at once. “hoping for a miracle, father?”

he shudders but doesn’t stop praying, his lips moving frantically. you start again, your words a venomous poison in his ear. “i’m in your dreams, you know. when you close your eyes, it’s my mouth on you. my hands.”

you circle him again, your voice dropping lower, more intimate. “i know all about your past, gerard. all that... trauma. all that guilt that led you here. you thought hiding behind god would save you, but no one can save you.”

you kneel behind him, and he shivers as he feels your warmth, a stark contrast to the cold stone. you lay your arms on his shoulders, holding him in a mockery of a comforting embrace. you nip at his ear, and he lets out a choked whimper, his prayers faltering.

“so pretty,” you hum, your lips brushing his skin. “i’ve never ruined someone so gorgeous, so... pathetic.”

and that’s when it happens.

his whole body tenses, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat. his back arches, and his eyes squeeze shut as a wave of pleasure so intense it’s painful, crashes over him.

tears stream down his cheeks, a mixture of shame and ecstasy. you laugh, a low, wicked sound, and lie your cheek on his back, your fingers scratching lightly at his spine through his blazer. he nearly moans, the sound catching in his throat.

“you’re mine,” you whisper, your voice a triumphant hiss. “no matter how many prayers you give to a god that doesn’t exist.”

but then, there’s a switch. it’s so fast, so brutal, it takes your immortal breath away.

one moment, you’re in control, the predator toying with its prey. the next, you’re on your back, the cold stone knocking the air from your lungs.

he’s above you, his large hands pinning your wrists to the floor with a strength that feels impossible. the power he holds is insane, a terrifying, exhilarating force.

your own eyes widen, a flicker of genuine surprise and fear. you struggle, but his grip is like iron. he’s a different man, a terrifying, beautiful stranger. the fury in his hazel eyes is eclipsed by a raw, predatory hunger that makes your own immortal blood run hot.

he grinds his cock against you, the rough fabric of his pants a frustrating barrier against your bare, waiting pussy.

“look at you,” he sneers, his voice a low, filthy rasp that vibrates through your entire body. “all that power, all that temptation... and you’re just a desperate fuckin’ thing, aren’t you? drippin’ f’me on the floor of my church.”

you mewl, arching your hips up to meet his, egging him on. “that all you got, father? a little dry humping? i thought you were trying to teach me a lesson.”

his lips curl into a wicked grin.

with a speed that steals your breath, he snatches the rosary from the ground. his hands are sure, precise, as he loops the blessed beads around your wrists, pulling them tight.

you gasp, a sharp, hissing pain searing into your skin. you’re a creature of the unholy, and the sacred object burns, but the pain is exquisite, a perfect counterpoint to the throbbing need between your legs.

“is this better?” he hums, admiring his work. “a little restraint for the unrestrained.”

he spares no time. with a brutal, effortless strength, he flips you onto all fours, the cold stone shocking your system. the rosary bites into your wrists as you lean on your forearms, your bound hands trapped beneath you. he grabs your hips, pulling your ass up into the air, positioning you just how he wants you. he keeps muttering prayers, but the words are twisted, corrupted by his lust.

“our father, who art in heaven... hallowed be thy name,” he grits out, his voice strained as he presses a hand to the small of your back, forcing your spine to dip, arching you even more. “thy kingdom come... thy will be done... on earth as it is in heaven, you filthy fuckin’ temptress.”

he spanks you, a sharp, stinging crack that echoes in the vast, empty cathedral. you cry out, a mix of pain and pleasure. “admit it,” he growls. “admit how bad y’want me. how you’ve been beggin’ for this since you first haunted my steps.”

you just moan, pushing back against him, lost in the sensation. he pulls his pants and briefs down in one swift motion, and his cock springs free, flushed, thick, and dribbling precome from the tip. you look back over your shoulder, your eyes widening at the sheer size of him.

but then he pulls out a small, crystal bottle from his pocket. holy water. a real, guttural terror grips you. “no,” you sob, shaking your head. “no, please, gerard, don’t.”

he just grins, a wicked, devastating curve of his lips. “need lube, don’t i?” he says, his voice a dark, mocking tease. he pours a small amount over his flushed cock, the liquid glistening in the dim, golden light. then, with deliberate cruelty, he drizzles it directly onto your folds.

you gasp, a sharp, broken sound. it burns. a searing, holy agony that makes you sob and writhe, but at the same time, your body betrays you, a wave of intense, shameful pleasure washing over you.

he hums in satisfaction, gliding his cock through your folds, the mix of his arousal and the burning water creating a slick, torturous friction. his flared tip catches on your puffy, sensitive clit, and you see stars. “fuckin’ look at that,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. “so ruined for me, yeah?”

you’re babbling now, a stream of incoherent pleas and curses. “please, please jus’- oh, fuck-”

he tuts, his hand fisting in your hair, yanking your head back until you’re looking up at the crucifix on the wall.

“please, what?” he snarls, his grip in your hair tightening, twisting your neck at an obscene angle. “beg for it, you fuckin’ bitch. beg me t’ruin you.”

“fuck me,” you sob, the words torn from your throat. “please, father- jus’ ruin me-”

he laughs, a sound like grinding stones, and sinks into you. it’s not a thrust- it’s an impalement. one brutal, deep stroke that splits you open, stealing the air from your lungs and filling you so completely, so viciously, you feel it in your teeth.

you’ve existed for a long time, but you’ve never been so utterly, so filthily claimed. he doesn’t wait for you to adjust. he just starts to fuck you, using your body like something cheap, disposable even.

the sound is obscene, a nasty, rhythmic slap of his heavy balls against your swollen clit, echoing through the sacred silence of the cathedral. it’s the sound of desecration, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

the rosary around your wrists glows with a faint, malevolent light, the blessed wood searing your skin, a constant, agonizing pleasure that has you drooling onto the stone floor.

he leans over you, his sweat dripping onto your back, his voice a low, guttural growl in your ear. “this is what you wanted, isn’t it? t’be split open on the floor of god’s house like a fuckin’ sacrifice? y’wanted t’see what a real man of faith can do?”

you’re a cock drunk mess, your body arching back to meet his brutal thrusts, desperate for more, for the pain, for the degradation. you can’t even form words, just a string of broken, breathy moans and whimpers.

he reaches for the holy water again, and you whimper, a genuine, primal fear cutting through your lust. “no, no- don’t, please...”

but he just hums, a terrifying, malicious sound. he pops the top and pours the burning liquid directly over his cock as he pounds into you. the sensation is immediate and overwhelming- a searing, holy agony that floods your cunt, melting into a mind blowing pleasure so intense it makes you sob. “fuck- please- no more,” your voice raw and broken.

“y’like that, don’t ya?” he rasps, his voice thick with exertion and a dark, triumphant pleasure. “y’like bein’ cleansed with my sin?” his tip hammers against your gspot, a deep, dizzying rhythm that makes your whole body convulse. “look at you, takin’ my cock so well. such a good girl f’me.”

you huff, a breathless, broken sound. “look at you,” you manage to gasp out between sobs of pleasure. “the great father way... on his knees for sin. you fucking love this shit- more than you love your nonexistent god.”

he yanks your head back so hard you see stars, the pain in your scalp a sharp, exquisite counterpoint to the pleasure in your core. “you never know when t’shut the fuck up-” he snarls, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. he slaps your ass, a sharp, stinging crack that leaves a burning handprint as he continues.

“you don’t get t’talk. you’re just a hole. a warm, wet hole for me t’fuck my sins into.” he mutters a prayer, the words a desperate, garbled mess. “in nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti...” the words are a joke, a pathetic attempt at piety while his body commits the ultimate sacrilege.

you try to bite back, to regain some semblance of control- but he cuts you off with a particularly deep thrust, his cock punching the air from your lungs. he coos mockingly, his tone a twisted mockery of comfort. “aw, am i bein’ too rough? can’t handle it anymore?”

you laugh, a wet, broken sound. “fuck you- your god must be so disappointed.” but your words just fall on deaf ears.

he keeps praying, but the words are a wrecked, desperate mess, a litany of sin and salvation all tangled together. “sanctus... dominus... deus... sabaoth...” but you can hear it. you can feel it in the way his rhythm falters, in the way his growls dissolve into high, breathy whimpers.

he’s close.

more slick, a mix of his precome and the burning holy water, dribbles down your inner thighs. you feel so fuzzy, so warm, so turned on you can barely think.

you keep whining, a constant, needy sound, fucking yourself back on his cock, meeting him thrust for depraved thrust. “that’s it,” you pant. “give it t’me- fill me up, you fucking sinner.”

he just laughs, degrading you further, his words a repetition of malice. “such a greedy fuckin’ demon... so desperate for cock- this is all you’re good for...”

but then, he abruptly pulls out, leaving you empty and aching, a sudden, hollow void where his punishing presence had just been.

a guttural whimper of pure loss tears from your throat before you can stop it. but then, with a strength that feels divine in its fury, a power that has no right to exist in a mortal man, he flips you onto your back. the world spins, the cold stone a violent shock against your spine.

he yanks the rosary from your bruised, bleeding wrists, the sudden release of pressure a stinging agony. before you can even process it, he’s pinning your arms down with his knees, his full weight a suffocating blanket. with a swift, practiced motion, he loops the burning beads around your neck.

you cry out, a choked, strangled sound as the sacred wood sears your skin. it’s a different kind of pain, sharper, more intimate, a direct assault on your immortal essence. he pulls it tight, just enough to cut off your air, to make your head swim with a dizzying, terrifying pleasure.

he knows exactly what this is doing to you, and it makes his cock twitch.

he mocks you, his voice a low, cruel purr that vibrates through your entire body. “poor thing, does it burn? does the instrument of your salvation feel like a noose around your pretty little neck?” his cock, an angry, furious red, bobs just inches from your face, weeping arousal. you salivate, your empty hole clenching desperately, aching to be filled again. “you’re jus’ so fuckin’ pathetic, so eager for your own damnation.”

he gives the rosary a sharp tug, making you gasp, as he lifts your legs, draping them over his shoulders with a practiced, possessive ease. the new angle opens you up completely, vulnerable and exposed, your dripping folds on display. he lines himself up and, with one brutal, seamless thrust, fucks his cock right back into you to the hilt.

the sensation is overwhelming. he’s deeper than before, a hot, thick fullness that hits the mouth of your womb with unerring, devastating accuracy. he tugs the rosary in time with his thrusts, a rhythmic, choking pressure that makes your vision smear, that blurs the line between agony and ecstasy.

the only reason it has such a profound effect on your immortal body is its sacred origin, a direct violation of your very being, a holy poison in your veins.

but he fucks you so good, so thoroughly, that you just sob, letting it happen, letting him use you, letting him ruin you. and then he starts to break. his whimpers become more frequent, his rhythm growing erratic. tears track down his beautiful face, carving clean paths through the sweat.

he’s still spewing prayers, but they’re a broken, desperate mess, a glimpse of his impending doom. “pater noster... qui es in caelis... sanctificetur... nomen tuum... forgive me... fornicating with this- this fuckin’ demon...”

and fuck, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever witnessed. how pathetic and ruined he is, crying as he buries himself inside you, using your body to seek a forgiveness he’ll never find.

your clit throbs, your hole clenching around him as you watch him fall apart. you mock him, your voice a breathless, whiny taunt. “look at you, crying like a little bitch. is this your penance? fucking a demon into the floor? is this how you get into heaven?”

he snaps right back, his voice a choked, ragged sob. “shut up- jus’ shut your fuckin’ mouth... you don’t- you don’t know what you’ve done t’me...” he tugs the rosary tighter, cutting off your air completely for a heart stopping second, his hips snapping forward, his cock hitting your cervix with a force that makes you mewl. “you wanted this- wanted to break me- well, here i am! i’m fuckin’ broken! y’happy now, you bitch? this what y’wanted t’see?”

something inside him finally shatters. it’s not a loud crack, but a quiet, catastrophic collapse. the last of his resistance dissolves, and he fully gives in.

his body goes limp against yours, his frantic, punishing rhythm melting into something deeper, more deliberate, more possessive. he’s not fighting anymore- he’s claiming.

you laugh, a breathless, ecstatic sound that dissolves into a moan as his cock drags against your walls. he keeps fucking into you, but now it’s different. it’s a surrender. he’s sobbing, his tears dripping onto your face, but the sounds he’s making are no longer just prayers. they’re a desperate, broken hum, a prayer from his childhood, muscle memory taking over as his mind splinters.

“saint michael the archangel, defend us in battle...” he chokes out, his voice a wrecked whisper. “be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil...” the words are a pathetic, ironic shield, a prayer to cast out demons while he’s buried balls deep inside one.

you hum, a low, soothing sound, and rake your nails down his sweat damp back. he melts into you further, his body shuddering at the contact. his grip on the rosary loosens, and the blessed beads fall from your neck, clattering onto the stone floor with a sound that’s both profane and final.

he’s free, and he’s chosen you.

he moans, a soft, pretty sound, and you look up at his blissed out, pussy drunk face. his damp dark hair is plastered across his forehead, his cheeks are flushed a feverish pink, and his hazel eyes are completely glazed over, lost in a haze of lust and despair.

his pink lips are puffy and parted, and a thin line of drool escapes, trickling down his chin. he’s still whimpering and whining, a pathetic, beautiful mess.

then, there’s a shift. he gets needy, desperate as he drops your legs from his shoulders, only to hook his arms under your thighs, folding you in half like a prayer book. you gasp as the new angle allows him to fuck into you even deeper, the head of his cock kissing that spot with every thrust. your arms lock around his neck, your fingers tangling in his damp hair, tugging and pulling as you whisper encouragements.

“it’s okay,” you coo, your voice a silken poison. “let go for me, gerard. this was your fate. it was always going to be you and me, yeah?”

he hums, the prayers dissolving into incoherent whimpers as he licks at your neck, his tongue tracing the raw, red skin where the rosary burned you. the mix of pain and pleasure is intoxicating, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. you smirk up at him, marvelling at how far gone he is.

“you know,” you murmur, your lips brushing his ear, “your soul is mine. the moment you die, you’re coming with me- gonna keep using you, jus’ like this, for all of eternity. you’re bound t’me now- bound to hell.”

he sobs more, but his hips snap forward, fucking you harder and faster, so turned on by the promise of his own damnation that he doesn’t even give a shit anymore.

he just wants you, only you.

with a final, brutal thrust, he spills into you, a hot, thick flood of his seed that fills you to the brim. you come around him, your walls clamping down on his cock, your own orgasm a blinding, soul shattering wave of pleasure. he fucks all of his load into you, and you take it, every last drop, a willing vessel for his sin.

he collapses on top of you, his full weight a comforting, suffocating blanket. but then you hear his crying, so hard that his whole body shakes, the reality of what he’s done crashing down on him.

you pet his hair, the cold floor biting into your skin, but you don’t mind.

you got him.

“shhh,” you whisper, shushing him sweetly as he whimpers, his cock still twitching inside you. he grinds into you slowly, almost in a trance, his body seeking more pleasure even as his mind breaks.

“you’re just a pathetic, sinful soul,” you murmur, your voice a final, loving condemnation. “and this is where you belong, father. buried inside me. forever.”

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