LOSING MY MIND OVER THIS - Tumblr Posts

Anyway- xyx with long hair 🧍‍♀️

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Carapacians but as bugs (1 out of so many parts)

WV - Seven spotted cockroach, PM - Cranefly/Poodle moth(due to becifcation), AR- Darkling beetle, Ms Paint - jewel beetle

the new rabbit ain’t the same as the old hole

also hiiiiii!! ^w^ this is @tricksterzoroark minty’s boyfriend coming to you live from his account :3

kind of obsessed with this security question option my doctors office has given me

*****

“Sins of the Father” by Waylon Payne

need reader to have a confession with priest!geto about how they feel guilty for touching themselves late alone at night and priest!geto helps them by just fucking their brains out as a “penance” for their sins.

yes, i’m okay in the head btw! (lie)

AU REVOIR, O HEAVEN !

wc: 12.2k

warnings: DARK CONTENT, SLOW BUILDUP, CORRUPTION, priest!geto, fem!reader, age gap (reader is in early 20s, geto in late 20s), long descriptive fic that goes in depth of christian lore, lots and lots of christian references / metaphors / analogies, comparison to Satan’s banishment and fall from heaven, religious themes used in inappropriate ways, questions of religion and life, multiple scenes of f! and m! masturbation, fingering, clit stimulation, virginity loss, both f! and m! receiving oral, cumshot, praise, degradation, spitting, sex in a religious place, p -> v sex, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink, multiple rounds, n*sfw under the cut

for a small town like yours, it was a no-brainer that everyone knew everyone; and everyone’s drama as well. from the baker’s daughter being a whore to the mayor of the town being sacked for purposes that have since been twisted by word of mouth. that was another thing: word got around fast, and it was particularly suffocating in a conservative town such as yours. people were not outright about the obvious choices they favoured, but there was the older generation who were not shy to turn down progressive ideas.

because of that, the previous priest was kicked out because of the misuse of funds from mass collection and offertory. it was one thing to see a bunch of notes missing from the sack and the money counter but it was another thing to see that money going into funding a new strip club that was opening in the next town over.

it was simply unheard of, and the parishioners basically gave him a free ride to that very strip club by excommunicating him from his own church. it was unbecoming of a priest, especially in such a small congregation that everyone made sure the new priest to transfer here was a God-honouring one.

you hope he was. you’ve always felt the obligated need to serve your god and your parents. always the good girl, following the Ten Commandments, saving yourself for marriage. it was the natural order of a christian, and you could only hope that you’d get even a fraction of the eternal life they preach about in mass. but lately you’ve been having some . . thoughts, and you pray that this new priest could help you immensely, even if you had to do a hundred Hail Mary’s at the pews.

it was peculiar, the first time it occurred to you. the area where your body separates into two and forms two legs — the centre of it all, the middle where Eve had it covered in statues and paintings with a leaf, the middle where you had only learned of it in anatomical drawings. you knew what the vagina, cervix and the ovaries were, but seeing the convergence of pink and maroon between your legs confused you, even scared you.

and the next was when you’d had a guy come up to you whilst doing up your university application, saying something along the lines of how cute you were, would you like to grab a drink some time? and you were left dumbfounded and unable to answer. you let your eyes travel over his features, of the exposed arms of his button up shirt and the thickness of his forearms, you let your eyes skim over his plump thighs before you’re asked “are you okay?”

“n . . no sorry, i already have a boyfriend.” you lie through your teeth and all the guy does is sigh before walking away — but now you’re left with a bigger problem . . why was the thing between your legs throbbing? you swear you can feel your panties getting wet as well, but you aren’t quite sure why.

that night you’re lying in bed with a lewd website shining right in your face, as you’ve laid here for about two hours already, going through in your head whether you really wanted to do this. your hands had been clean, untainted from the moment you were born, but you imagine going to university and knowing not a thing about sex and that makes your whole body burn in embarrassment.

you chicken out and fall asleep.

“honey! come down here, i want you to meet someone.” your mother calls out to you, running about like she usually does. she’s always overworking — caring for the newborn, cooking the meals, cleaning the place. why don’t you ask dad to help sometimes? / nonsense! he works so hard and deserves a break! i don’t mind. / but he just lazes around at home after work . .

you’re pleasantly surprised to find a long-haired man at your front door, clad in a thick and loose turtleneck sweater with a gentle smile on his face. that uncomfortable feeling returns to your core and you land a hand to your stomach to calm the churning that’s happening.

“hello, and you are?”

you’d never think you would see one of God’s angels on earth in actual flesh in front of you. you’re convinced God is looking over you and you think you might see heaven when that silky voice repeats himself again.

“hi, kind miss, are you alright?”

“h . . huh? oh! yeah, uhm— who are you?”

your mother smacks you on your shoulder and sidles up to your side, holding onto your arm a little tightly that it hurts just a bit.

“don’t be rude!” she whisper-shouts to you, “this is geto suguru, and—”

“and i’m the new priest for the church.”

that catches you off-guard. he’s the new priest that was just transferred over? he looks anything but a holy man of God, what with his long hair and gauges in his ears; if you didn’t know any better you would think he was the one paying for the strip club instead. he seems to read your mind.

“i know i look . . a bit of a delinquent, miss, but i promise you the word of God is what i strictly live by. i honour and praise him with all that i can.”

“ah, i’m sorry if you thought i thought that way, father.” you mumble, giving him an awkward smile that he misses because he’s too busy focusing on the way you say father. you’re prepared to close the door on him already; the pulsing sensation between your legs isn’t fading and your whole body feels like it burns in hell. you rub your thighs together for some sort of relief, nothing.

“that’s usually the response i get, so i thought i would preface it first.” a little laugh leaves geto’s lips and if it wasn’t for you holding on for dear life on the door, you definitely would’ve buckled under your knees. “no hard feelings.”

“he’s a charmer, ain’t he?” there’s another sheepish laugh from the pastor at that. “told me he’s been going around giving cakes to all the people as a way to thank them for letting him take over the church.” your heart melts at that — he looked so hot and had a heart of gold, too?

“what cake did you get us, father?” you blurt out and you have no time to take it back, but the preacher doesn’t seem to mind. you also don’t seem to mind that barrier of authority that was established ever since he‘s introduced himself as the new priest of the church. it felt . . friendlier, less intimidating than the previous. it was probably mostly due to him not wearing his cassock or collar, though.

“chocolate.” that one word possibly ignited every nerve in you. the smooth lilt in his voice paired with the slight smirk. it was detrimental. you were going to hell, you were condemned to eternal damnation.

“how’d you know i liked chocolate?”

he shrugs, “lucky guess.” wrong.

he had come around the day before already, but you were too distracted with work and pressured with a deadline that music drained out everything else — one look at your side profile and the hard-working first year university student was all it took for geto to return again today with another cake of your liking. oh! you’re such a sweet one for asking what flavour we like; frankly, my dear boy, my husband and i don’t really eat cake but her . . loves it for some reason. i wonder where she gets the sweet tooth from, honestly.

geto could only thank his saviour that your mother had promised not to tell you he already came around yesterday. and it looks like she didn’t.

“i should get going, miss . .”

“(y/n).”

geto simply nods his head, resisting the urge to call your name pretty and only manages a decent call to your mother. “mrs (l/n), i’m heading off, thank you for having me. (y/n).”

you return his smile, hesitantly, inching the door close with immense difficulty — you wanted to see him walk away with that imposing height of his, of the proper gait he carried himself with and the politeness in which he greets people of the town.

that night you locked yourself in your room, muttering out some dumb excuse of having to study for a test when in reality you were more interested in the feeling between your legs. it both excited and scared you when you first find a comfortable position on your bed, stalling for a good half ’n hour before the clinking cutlery of dinner happening downstairs had brought you to your senses. there were countless articles open in your safari tab, none of which helped your growing dilemma — a tear in the Red Sea between the sin of pleasure and the liberation of acting on it. you felt like Moses, treading in the centre, on the fence.

one last text made you yelp out loud.

[8:03 pm, read]: R u coming down 4 dinner?

it was your mother, as if she knew what was happening behind doors.

[8:03 pm, delivered]: nope, sorry mummy. need to study for this test, its important !

[8:05 pm, read]: Alright, alright. I left out a serving of what we cooked tonite. Heat up if u need to with the microwave O.K.? Don’t sleep so late!

you simply favourited her message, losing all motivation from before; until your mind crosses over dinner and goes straight to that chocolate cake, and then to the person who had brought it.

“Farewell happy fields / Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.”

“geto . . geto suguru.” the name feels foreign. it does sound like a countryside name but it felt like he had come from the city instead. “geto . .” you sigh, letting your hands tremble and move along your body. they brush over your chest, over your nipples and you recoil a little from the strange feeling. they harden under your touch as you continue to repeat his name.

each murmur of his name is a step farther from God, dipping your toes into the waters of hell as your fingers travel lower, lower, lower. you press a finger against your clit unknowingly, and you let out a loud moan; you immediately slap a hand over your mouth.

but the pleasure’s too much, and so you try again. one hand goes back to your nipples, squeezing your tits and playing with them while your fingers rub pathetic circles along your core.

“su . .” you gulp. “geto—”

you pant softly to yourself as you continue to rub your clit, messy, inexperienced circles in whatever shape or form. as long as it felt good to you, you were doing it. you made sure to keep your moans in as your hips bucked into your hands, back arching off the bed in needy movements. your hands were getting tired, clutching at the bedsheets.

long hair, built physique, crucifix on his neck. funny, you never noticed that before, but now you imagine it clearly, dangling over your face. you’re imagining geto fucking you, thrusting his cock into you as he groans out your name.

you’re at the end of your tether, feeling the deep plunge of your body in Satan’s lair the same time you cum for the first time in your life and your body shakes so violently. you flail around on your bed, bite into your shirt, anything to keep you quiet from the immense orgasm you had just felt. your pussy clenches around nothing and your hand aches so much it might fall off, but it just feel so damn good that you only have a minute’s rest before you’re rubbing at your clit again.

scooping up a little of your cum, you marvel at the clear liquid, sucking on your finger to try the thing that’s always drenched your panties. and soon you’re conjuring the image of the long-haired priest yet again, never really studying for that test you made up or even eating dinner — all you do is rest and come again, each time more wrecked than the last time.

you dreaded going to church the next morning.

it had slipped your mind that service was to continue once geto has gotten settled down in the rectory, a small outhouse at the back of the church that had been revamped. you’re not sure on how father geto was able to get it done up so fast but, you’re not one to question.

with the short walk to church, you regret not eating the night before, groaning softly at the discomfort of your growling stomach. what you were more worried of though, was what would happen to you once you stepped foot in the church. was your body going to go up in flames? were you going to get ridiculed by the townspeople? were you going to get called out by father geto in front of everyone?

“what’s gotten you so worked up?” your father was walking behind and smoking, as always, not giving a shit about your mother and the newborn.

“nothing . . just, wondering if i got everything in my head for my test.” your mother coos, and your baby brother in the carrier thinks it’s because of him. he babbles into your mom’s shirt, giggling.

“you’ll do fine, honey,” the reassurance worried you only more. you were lying outright — you had no test, you weren’t even studying, you were busy—!

“i raised a smart girl, didn’t i?” you can only manage a smile, reaching the church within minutes. taking the chance to mutter a short prayer and a plea, you take a deep breath and that light from above Lucifer’s kingdom seem to call out to you again.

stepping into the simple but cozy church, you dip your hands in holy water. Father, Son, Holy Spirit along your forehead, chest and shoulders before you trail behind your mother, suggesting places for you to sit at the back. she only waved your hand away, pointing towards the front. we always sit at the front! why the sudden change? / nothing . . maybe thought we could switch it up a little.

the mass starts after a few minutes of waiting, and you have the luxury of wallowing in your self-pity and guilt for those few minutes, trying to get the very filthy imagery of father geto above you, father geto between your legs, father geto himself out of your head. you fail, it’s only amplified when the bell rings and the congregation stands up.

everyone waits in anticipation for the new priest in this small town, hoping he won’t disappoint them like the last one. but they already seem to be in good spirits as he makes the entrance down the very short church. two altar boys follow behind him in the procession, accompanied by an organist and a duo of choir singers, straining to have their voice heard over the loud instrument. he’s already made some friends, nodding to the excited kid who whispers and the shy girl who waves her hands at him. but while everyone feels anticipation in hopes of a good sermon, dread is only making your legs feel like lead, you feel lightheaded, dizzy even.

because whatever you had imagined last night was him in his sweater get-up, and it just now sinks in what a disgusting thing you were doing as you watch the rich purple of his chasuble sway alongside his stole — the very image of him in his priest robes (in Lent season too, not to mention) — meant to deter you from more thoughts, only fed your desires.

geto suguru made being a pastor look so natural, and attractive, that it was almost criminal.

“good morning, brothers and sisters, how are we all doing this morning?” there’s a few murmurs around, but geto doesn’t falter, instead pressing on with his very convincing, beautiful speech; as does he with the rest of the mass. he conducts himself with as much professionalism as he can, handling the Eucharist with proper hands, giving a sermon whilst giving you too many eyes, distributing Holy Communion with a gentle, accepting smile; your skin burnt when he handed you the body of Christ, a soft inaudible “amen” hanging off your lips.

father geto was all the talk after, some hanging around to catch a minute of geto’s time if they could and you were no different, purposely looping your arm through your mother’s and slowly down your pace.

“goin’ out for a smoke.” your father gruffly tells the three of you, two of which understands better. your newborn simply cuddles deeper into your mother’s breast, humming softly into the nap.

“’kay.” it was opportunistic, now, as your eyes flit around the place to find geto talking to two older ladies. he’s politely bent down to reach their heights better, chasuble now removed and simply in his alb, one patting his shoulder and the other giggling. you think you imagine it but his eyes dart over to you for a moment and then off to the other parishioners.

“how are you two lovely ladies doing?” you hear him before you see him and the voice startles you a little, jumping back from brushing your baby brother’s almost non-existent hair.

“fine.” it comes out kurt and abrupt and you burn when your mother nudges you like yesterday.

“think what she means is that we’re perfectly fine. how was your first mass?”

father geto looks around the church, recalls the altar boys, ingrains each church-goer into his head, “i hope the congregation likes me.”

“oh, nonsense! i’m sure they do,” your mother reassures. she was always good like that, putting others before her and making sure they see the best in themselves, “that was a very riveting sermon you delivered.”

“yeah—! yeah, i . . really enjoyed it, father geto.”

a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, “did you now?”

you nod, and he continues, “you enjoyed me telling you that sin was revolting?”

when he phrases it like that . . you swallow, “isn’t that what God’s whole schtick is?”

and that makes father geto laugh, because for such an innocent flower like you, you make it sound like you were forced to go to church and made to learn the basis of why God exists and now you just don’t know what to do with it. it’s common for people at their university age where they’re exposed to more views and mindsets, to question the religion you were born in and think about what it meant to be tied to a god you didn’t even really know existed, and when that happens, Christianity turns stagnant and boring.

“yes, pretty much, miss (y/n), but His schtick also involves forgiving anyone who has sinned against Him. after all, that’s what He died on the cross for.”

“y . . yeah, i know, father geto.”

you only realise now his purple chasuble matches his eyes, eyes that swirl with the colours of amethyst. they’re much brighter in the parish lighting, and they hold your stare much longer than yesterday. there’s the tugging feeling at your stomach again that goes right down to your centre and it throbs; your eyes flutter and blink to get you out of your head.

“good that you know . . of course, it’s not an invitation to sin. self-restraint and chastity still exists,” you hate how he puts an emphasis on the latter word, because he could be referring to anything, “but we need not be worried for our lives. we only need to pray and repent in prayer, and God will have mercy on us.”

but well, if God didn’t want you to sin, how then can he explain creating such an attractive person? if God valued his followers’ self control, why did he have to plant such lewd, inappropriate thoughts of his preacher in your head?

father geto could probably see your dilemma with how hard he was staring at you, and he only makes it worse by putting his larger hand on your left shoulder. it descends deeper to your upper arm and the skin there ignites—

“i hope you liked the chocolate cake.”

you manage a small smile, “haven’t had the chance to try it, sorry, father.”

“don’t apologise.” you forget your mother and baby brother is even beside you with how he talks to you. you’d love to be on his chest, hearing the deep rumbling of his voice or even have his hands be somewhere else but your arm. you don’t know how simply talking to you has got him doing everything in his power to restrain himself; not even a prayer from God could help.

“The mind is its own place, and in it self / Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.”

what you don’t know, either, that the hand on your shoulder was between his legs just last afternoon, trying so hard not to sneak under his cassock. he could barely keep his moans in, palming his bulge from above his robes at the mere thought of you. no touching means less sin, right? he comes to that pathetic conclusion easily, so all he does is bury himself in the outhouse after distributing his cakes, hips positioned over his pillow and he grinds.

the feeling for father geto was so archaic, been so long since he’s given up his life to God right after graduating university. all the carefree times that he’s experienced — drinking in dorms, going to parties, getting some nice quick fucks in between exams — were going to stop for good. but that doesn’t mean he stopped lusting.

lust. one of the seven deadly sins, a weak point for father geto’s journey as a pastor. it’s obvious now too that he hasn’t really left his older ways, bucking his hips into the fabric of his pillow. he thinks of you, your sweet little eyes and your cute outfit at home, he thinks of your face twisted into pleasure as he’s positioned between your legs.

father geto twitches, friction against the underside of his cock feeling so good after years and years of holding back — with a pretty face to think of, too. his hips ruts in short thrusts, desperate for that high and he chokes on a moan imagining your sweet voice begging to cum. and so does he, shooting such a large, hot load into his underwear that even his cassock is stained with his cum. but unlike you, he’s already thinking of his next round — if he’s doomed to die by lust, then might as well go all the way.

father geto spares a glance towards the door just to be safe before flipping over on his back, and pulls his robes above his lower half. the sight is dirty, underwear painted a darker colour and cum sticking to every part of the fabric. once he wraps a hand around his cock, geto is gone, pumping it so fast he might have gotten a burn along his length but it’s all rewarded by the second quick orgasm he reaches — spurting ribbons of cum all over his holy garments.

it’s why he didn’t have time to write a proper sermon for the morning mass. he was up all night, stroking himself — just, from the thought of you.

it was father geto’s turn to have uneven breaths as you asked if he was okay, hand on your shoulder shaking. but the visions of last night is overtaken quickly by his need to impress the other parishioners, and so he gives you a tense smile.

“enjoy the cake.” it sounded like an innuendo if you’ve ever heard one, but you mutter a soft thank you, before heading off back home with your family. that contact with your shoulder is all you can think of, giddy at the warmth of his hand and eyes.

“baby, could you open the door for me?” your mother calls out to you, hastily wiping her hands on her apron and abandoning the kitchen to tend to your crying baby brother.

“ok, mummy!” the doorbell’s been rung twice now, jogging a little to the door to prevent the person from waiting. you didn’t think to look through the peephole, a tight-knit (conservative) community made you trust anyone, opening the door to find father geto standing in front of you.

“o-oh. hi, father . .?”

he was dressed in his roman collar, a black shirt with a white strip around the neck and some black jeans. it wasn’t as casual as the first day, and it still held an ode to God even on a weekday.

“hi, (y/n).”

“ohhh! it’s father geto, come, come!” your mother bellows throughout the house, baby brother on her hip as she bounces him to get him to stop wailing. “are you hungry already?”

geto displays a meek smile, “a little, mrs (l/n), since you mentioned how big of a feast you were cooking.”

your mouth drops in recognition; was that why she was so preoccupied for the whole day? doing the maximum in the kitchen not just because it was for your father’s recent promotion at his job, but also for dinner with father geto.

“you’re having . . dinner with us.” it’s more of a statement to yourself than a question to the priest, but he still catches on and assists you by closing the door himself, and taking off his shoes. already, he looks part of the family, looking like a hard-working husband coming back from his job to you. instead, he’s answered the vocation of priesthood, and not matrimony.

“it looks like i am.” it’s such a sly comment, like he already knew the effect he had on everyone. this sucking up was just to get every church-goer to like him more, and it’s working.

geto is charming at the dinner table as he is at the parish, cracking jokes that make both your parents and you laugh, talking about his university life and telling a myriad of stories that he’s gone through.

“what did you major in in university, father?” it felt such a weird question, especially with an honorific attached to something that you were doing at the moment — it felt out of place that someone so close to your age was already pursuing a lifetime commitment of serving God.

“my studies focused mostly on philosophy and theology. i minored in linguistics.” there’s a chorus of ooh’s that echo throughout the table, cleaning up the last bit of food on his plate before he continued. “i’m currently going more in depth for latin, which is a stunning language, beyond those who say it’s dead and should stay dead.”

that only makes him hotter, and you cross your legs beside him, looking at him from the corner of your eye at you play with the last meatball on your plate. the sauce leaves a trail of red from the tomato, somehow mirroring the murder of your old self — or what you thought it was. it was more of a knife wound, a cowardly stab in the arm.

that dinner with father geto only deepened your sense of guilt.

it was the way the priest was quick to stand just as your mother does, offering to help with cleaning up the dinner table. even when she brushes him off, he insisted, answering for her when he only silently takes the plates to the back. all your mom does is shake her head with a smile, letting you help as well. your father just watches curiously, entertaining the baby with his canned alcohol.

“i’m embarrassed i can’t fight back against you well enough to stop ya from cleaning up at my own house,” your mother confesses, already having used her last breath to tell him to not help with the dishes as well. you scrub at a stain on geto’s plate over and over, a stubborn one at that until you finally are able to get it out. it still leaves a faint red glow, though.

“it’s nothing, really, mrs (l/n), i’m happy to help whenever.” father geto’s eyes rake over your figure as you clean alongside your mother, heel bouncing up and down; to non-existent music or in impatience he wasn’t sure.

she just takes the soapy plate from your hands with a laugh, “c’mon, it’s okay, my dear. go entertain father geto.”

it was the way his courtesy shined through when he doesn’t enter your room until he has gotten verbal confirmation from you, guiding him in with a uneasy hand as he looked around your quaint little space. it was filled with photos, some plants, tons of research papers and a messy table to match, but all he did was reassure you. you take note of his flowing hair and the laid back hairstyle he liked to don when it wasn’t for mass.

“how is university treating you?” you’re stuck on being completely honest and lying with every answer, but father geto has a face that makes it difficult to lie to.

“it’s . . alright, i guess,” you settle on your bed, crossing your legs and hoping he wouldn’t pick up any of your essays. thinking is manifesting, though, and his hands naturally go for the paper with the many red markings on the front page.

“Paradise Lost? by Milton?” ah. that paper. you shoot up from the sheets before he can read it, because frankly your thesis in that paper was weak and wasn’t well supported, but you still believed it deeply. you were just having a little bit of trouble straying from your reverence for God. you only manage to clutch the top of your paper, but geto is adamant on reading it, piqued by genuine curiosity.

“the retelling of Milton’s Paradise Lost humanises the experience of Satan’s (or Lucifer’s) fall from glory . .” he trails off, reading over your evidences and analysis. you feel like you’re being read like an open book, laid out bare for vultures to pick at and for God to enumerate your sins until you felt no shame.

with his head still tilted down, father geto has to look up through his lashes and bangs, seemingly making you cower more and more in your spot as the unsolicited advice for your essay dies down on his tongue. the size of his hands has you hypnotised, and he decides it’s against his own values to give feedback about a text he so childishly brushed off when he was in university, even if he had to read it to complete four years in the seminary. geto places a hand upon yours and the heat is dizzying; you can’t help but think if he was just normal person, instead, holding your hand like this.

it was the way he let you explain yourself a little better through your own words. it was a premature essay, anyway, made to test out your close reading and citation skills. but he found your interpretation of Milton’s poem to be much more insightful than he expected it to be — you think maybe, your understanding of the text grows the more you learn about your body, how you like to be pleasured; you feel like Lucifer.

“i . . don’t necessarily think you are born into evil. it’s multi-faceted and loaded, this question. God our Father would do anything but create evil willingly, it’s just unfortunate that the people that bring up their offspring contribute to the shaping of their identity and outcome.”

“then, how . .” your lips twist as you think of a way to word the question, “how would that justify evil existing? wouldn’t the fact that evil is developed somehow meant that God created evil in some shape or form, in the first place?”

father geto rushes to answer but—

“why did he have to create the serpent that tempted Eve in the first place? couldn’t he have just left them alone in Eden?”

“...there to dwell / In adamantine chains and penal fire / Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.”

you frown, not expecting the other to answer but instead just wallowing in your thoughts. you never thought the talk with father geto would turn into some philosophy lesson, but the more you chatted with him on the bed, the more the conversation seemed to steer that way.

your own faith wavers in the night, a quietness settling over the two of you like a cloak of stars. the mass of each star weighs heavily with your questions up in the air until you faintly hear his answer.

“i don’t . . know, miss (y/n).”

“ah! no no— sorry to dump everything on you, father geto,” you scratch the back of your head, “it was just passing thoughts. i’ve never thought to think of this before.”

it was morbid, it was macabre. it was like looking over and seeing a skeleton in your place instead of flesh and skin and yet each question after question ignites something in him that no one has excited before. he can already feel lust influencing the other six, pumping through his veins at a life void of God, void of religion, a free place to think of the omnipotence of a higher being that no one was sure really existed.

“it’s okay . . it’s natural to ask. it’s natural to inquire. God,” he nods like he was in a trance; the word feels weird on his tongue, “God would want this.”

that night you did anything but sin, clutching the essay between your hands and digging your knees into the floor with elbows on your bed until they ached and you prayed. you wished blessings on your family, you wished blessings on the parishioners, you wished blessings on father geto and you wished eternal damnation on yourself.

there’s a heavy pull on your heart when you go to sleep a few minutes after and the dream you have of your body turning to soot and burning with each feet into flames makes you crave salvation all the more — like all a bad dream, it will be fine as long as you pray, and pray, and pray.

but the flesh desires what the heart denies: the more you ‘hang’ with father geto (by God, he was perfectly okay with that word when you let it slip to your mother. he merely throws up a peace sign in a ‘cool’ way and then immediately cringes, but it makes you laugh), the more you find yourself attracted to his morals, to his ideals, to the natural way in which he exists. he could speak for hours on end, voice sounding like birdsong and a chilling breeze all at the same time.

his voice did wonders in your head, as well, coaxing you into betraying your own code; and you betray it easily. that phantasmic voice leaving you to remove your top and pinching your nipples as soft little moans leave your mouth. the imaginary sway of his crucifix above your face while you harshly abuse your clit and dip a finger into you for the first time. the feeling is so foreign and weird that you shamelessly think of the slight lilt of his voice helping you: “it’ll feel better soon, (y/n). c’mon, finger your pussy for father geto.”

father geto had a natural talent for talking and preaching. that downturn of tone like hitting a dead-end when he holds a point above your head (“but”) and then resolves it into perfect cadence like chords ending a phrase when he proposes a solution (“God will take care of everything”). he does it so much you think he’s rather convincing himself more than he’s convincing you, though.

“perhaps this parable that Jesus uses tells us rather to look within ourselves, to look within the vineyard that is us. the owner have done everything: kept the roots tied so it would not be trampled, making sure they get all the sunlight and water it needs, yet . .” he pauses a little, looking at the almost full parish now that he’s won over the hearts of your town. his eyes flit down to you at the second pew, shooting you a quick smile.

“and yet he yields sour grapes. we pray, we act civil and diplomatic, we are giving, but are you truly doing it for the glory of God? is that maybe why we only get the sour grapes — not satisfied with the ‘thank you’ after doing a favour or silence from God after praying daily?”

geto looks over the last bits of the scribbled sermon, a little more coherent than last week, but still done with thoughts of you. there’s multiple smudges of his words that he has to squint and stutter a bit, caused by the frantic cleaning of his cum upon the paper.

“we all . . naturally expect things back, but to be Christian, to be a follower of Christ, we would have to abandon all thoughts of that.” father geto’s mind wanders to last night as his eyes look for you again. “we would need to be generous, to be kind without needing anything in return.”

father geto integrates into the church easily, shown in how his sermons capture the hearts of many. albeit, they never really take in the true meanings of the preachings he gives, but it’s enough for geto if they nod and mutter amen like fools in mass; whatever they do out of it is out of his hands.

but along the many preachings he does, there is one subject he fears approaching: lust, the one thing that threatens the downfall of his vocation and yet he cannot get enough of it. each walk and meeting with you only heightens his desire, makes his cock throb beneath his robes. each sunday he wishes he could split his soul in half — one as the confessor and one as the confessing — and repent in the confessional box.

“today’s gospel from Mark, chapter 6 talks about lust, briefly.” there’s a shake in his voice, eyes now scrambling over the congregation to find you in a much more revealing top contrasting with the out-of-place cardigan you have on. he’s sure it was mrs (l/n) that had made you put that on before you left the house; the house where he’s memorised the placement of your shoe rack and how your door creaks when it’s opened too quickly. geto is so fucked.

geto clears his throat before continuing, seeing you adjust your body for a moment, “King Herod is tempted by his flesh when he sees one of Herodias’ daughters dancing, so much so that she tempts him to commit murder. a clear beheading, just from giving into her body, and when she asks of him, he delivers like a dog. this calls us to truly think of the desires that we possess. they need not be sexual,” soft whispers emerge, a taboo subject, “they can also be related to money, to power.”

“lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust,” geto is sweating by now. he pulls lightly on his collar when you press your arms together in retaliation and he has to look away from the way your tits perk up so perfectly.

you had to know what you were doing, surely. partially — you were feeling cold, but you stifle a smile when you realise how geto’s eyes linger a little longer on you, or rather your chest, before he coughs and continues,

“when we are driven so terribly by the feeling that we abandon all morals just to please this person, thing on earth is when we tread into dangerous territory. no earthly possession must make you feel this way,”

the irony settles in his bones after he says it and his dick twitches at the thought of having you under the podium right now, sticking his fat cock down your throat while you struggle to keep the gagging noises to a minimum.

“no matter . .” a gulp, “how rewarding the aftermath must be.”

father geto knows you both are braving the edge of God’s merry kingdom. it is just a matter of who falls first.

“your place is in the kingdom of God, meant to fulfil eternal life with Jesus and the Lord which is what we all should be keeping in mind and working towards, ignoring all the distractions that will soon fade and die off.”

geto coughs again in the mic and breaths shakily, finally tearing his eyes away from you before he concludes the sermon and eases into the Offertory and Eucharist. he buries himself so deep in the procession in order to get you out of his mind, and it’s shown in the haste in which he carries the mass. it feels like he rushes so much that even the day outside follows too, because evening seems to arrive earlier than usual.

the sun sets outside, illuminating the altar. it taunts you like reminding you of the beauty of your faith; it deepens the need developing in your core.

“body of Christ.” you can faintly hear it being repeated over and over at the front, just a few steps away from your turn and you wish you weren’t standing behind your dad’s hulking figure so you could actually prepare yourself for father geto. you’re greeted with his cascading hair tied up into a bun and the cup containing Jesus’ body, gold and shining. you see your stretched reflection before your eyes snap back to the pastor in front and you will your hands not to hail routine.

instead, you stick out your tongue for the father to put the communion on and you take in the little panic of his hands and the choked sentence of body of Christ. his eyes drift down to your pink tongue, to the small twitch it does when he places the host on it and he cannot wait for you to get out of his sight, lest he be overtaken by the sin he particularly preached about just minutes ago.

“any test to study for tonight, darling?” your mother asks after dinner, meaning to ask after seeing you be so fidgety like you needed to be somewhere.

“uh . . no, not exactly, but i do have something i need to do.”

“oh! what is it, sweetie?” she doesn’t read your expressions, you mannerisms, so you were safe from that, but you willed your voice to not break. your body is on fire, you needed to quell your needs, now.

“just— i promised father geto i would meet him later for a confession, since he’s so busy, he could only propose a late timing,” no, you didn’t. either way, you give a reason, explain yourself before she can speculate, works every time.

“oh, okay . .” she trails off, seemingly unaffected, “just don’t get home too late, alright, darling?”

you nod even though she’s too focused on the dishes, pressing a hand to her back in thanks and she carries on, carefree, while you sprint to your room. lock the door, get your phone out.

“ . . ings turns into greed when we act on that initial lust . .” the words recorded just hours ago leave the phone speakers on a low volume, already lighting a flame in your pussy when your hand brushes over the microphone and he stops at the same time, “when we are terribly dri . .”

you sigh loudly when your hand starts to make its way down to your centre, rubbing slightly to the sound of his voice. your clit is just begging to be touched, begging for your inexperienced hands flicking your nub in every which way. impatient, your hands dip into your cunt and your jaw drops open at the intrusion of your fingers, just as your eyes widen and your imagination has never worked as well as it does now.

you can see geto’s amethyst eyes boring into yours, you can see his hips fucking into yours and yet it doesn’t give you the same kick as you think it would — you’re fucking yourself with your fingers even faster, circles on your clit increasing in speed and messiness and you smear your juices all around.

“father— father geto—” it was pathetic, the way you moaned for a man of God, but the feeling of your cunt clenching around what you wished was his dick was too good, the coil in your stomach still feeling rather uncomfortable but welcoming and you’re unravelling with a silent scream soon, back arching off the sheets.

“s . . suguru, f-fuck,” the swear word feels weird on your lips, as with his first name, but the trembling of your virgin body is so delicious that you just keep rubbing and rubbing, taking so long to come down from your high as your pants get heavier and heavier. and then his face starts to fade off, eyes turning into lilac air and you’re glancing towards the crumpled essay on your bed with guilt festering in your chest.

“ . . mptations of the flesh are childish, are temporary. they lead you to do foolish things that have no place in the kingdom of God. we may repent and put it past us but the memories that our tainted bodies possess, they remember the sinful things that you did.” the recording of father geto dies out as with his powerful conclusion, speaking so loudly into the mic that it screeches with feedback, you remember. you don’t even know where the guilt builds up from, in your torso and your heart, despite questioning the faith you were in for all your life.

if God did not want us to sin, why did he create temptations and ask us to pray for forgiveness?

you roll over and remove your fingers with a small whine, taking up your phone and opening up the contact with father geto hesitantly. it was meant to be a strictly professional exchange like the conversations he’d had with many other parishioners: updates on the church, changes in mass timings, but your chat was filled with questions from you and answers from him. you didn’t dare ask him anything out of the faith.

[9:37 pm, delivered]: uhm. father geto? are you there?

oh god, it’s you. the you who on the second walk around the town exchanged numbers with him because he found your thoughts so intriguing.

[9:39 pm, read]: Yes, Miss (Y/N). What is it?

you take a deep breath. better to ask for that confession, you couldn’t risk your mother asking about it tomorrow.

[9:40 pm, delivered]: is it alright to have

[9:41 pm, delivered]: can i come over to the church, for a bit

father geto straights up in the rectory, getting closer to the socket where his phone was charging and hovers over the screen. his hands are clammy when typing a response and he manages it in about three minutes.

[9:44 pm, read]: Of course, my dear. The doors of the church are open for the congregation at any time.

bidding goodbye to your mother, you stay on the lit path to the church and you’re bathing in anticipation, too excited to see father geto that you bump into a dark shadow. almost resembling a hard wall, hands emerge from its sides to clutch at your biceps.

“miss (y/n), what is it? what has gotten you up so late at night?” if he was still in university, he would’ve laughed at how he asked that question. hundreds of texts of u up? that mimic the nature of the question right now. 

“i was hoping . .” you ignore the tingly feeling of the way in which his hands leave goosebumps along your biceps and then to your forearms. finally, they clutch your hands between his, meant to be like a warm hug but instead is like fire, licking at your fingers and wrist like you’re at the stake. “i was hoping that i could, request you for a confession?”

the priest across you swallows with a nod, swiftly putting a hand across your back to lead you to the booth. you both could’ve done it perfectly fine in the pews, sitting across each other. “the confessional is where we will feel the strongest compulsion of Christ. come,” he answers your question before you can ask it, “take your place on the kneeler behind the curtains.”

father geto showers in the same sea of anticipation when he makes sure you’re okay before heading over to his side of the confessional. he’s imagined this scene over and over — you on the pew kneeler, breath warming the velvet curtains — he cannot help the bulge that forms.

the first words he speak behind the curtain shock you, voice sounding so close yet so muffled and distant.

“come, now, (y/n), make the Sign of the Cross with me.”

Father, Son and Holy Spirit

upon your head, chest and shoulders you do it, taking a deep breath before you start. “bless me, father, for i have sinned. it has been . . about five years since my last confession.”

geto nods, the soft carry of your voice in the late night having an effect on the priest. the hold he has on the crucifix of the rosary is so tight it makes an indent on his skin, the only thing on mortal flesh to keep him from falling.

“What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield.”

your thighs rub together, hot breath sending chills down your clutched hands and down your arm as you ponder over the things you’ve done — “i’ve . . lied to my mother at times, to my friends when they ask me where i’m from. i have stolen money for my own needs, n-not— that high of an amount but um . . still a fair amount.”

“what did you need to buy, sweetheart?”

the name surprises you, but you simply ignore it. “i wanted new clothes — was all the rave at uni when the girls wore miniskirts and little tops. unfortunately it didn’t suit me.”

geto swears under his breath when the image of you in such skimpy clothing infiltrate his thoughts. his curiosity overtakes him; overwhelmed with emotion, he never had the chance to see what you were wearing before he pulls back the curtains and hopes your eyes are closed and they are: pulled tight with quivering eyebrows. there, like a sinning Christian is you in a thin camisole, cleavage showing beneath your arms. he peers lower, gasps softly to himself when you’re wearing a skirt.

“father? father, what’s wrong?” you think you hear the swift swoosh and the rings of the miniature curtain clatter.

“n—nothing is wrong, miss (y/n). are there any other sins you want to confess?”

you swallow, “i . . i’ve wished misfortune on my father.”

not the sin he was hoping for but he wasn’t surprised; his head moves in understanding. he had seen your father — merely a ghost in the house and hardly contributing to fostering the family. it goes against what Mary and Joseph stands for as the Holy Family, but father geto has seen a lot of absent fathers and incompetency to truly be taken aback anymore.

“i’ve also . . i’m not sure whether to tell you this, father geto.”

your breaths were all you could hear in the silence of the church, an eerie quietness settling as if the critters and animals of the earth strived to listen to your ultimate sin, too. Beelzebub, Asmodeus, possibly even Lucifer himself clawed themselves up from hell to eavesdrop.

“of course you can, my dear.” the wind through the wooden confessional box sounds like the hisses of the three demons, like they have had holy water sprayed on them from the mere sounding of his voice; but they look hopefully for a server of Christ to fall exactly like they did.

“it’s, related to my body, father. i,” gulping, you continue with a prompt from the other, “i’ve had this growing need, like, one has when they’re hungry. they have the need to fill their stomachs. or— or a sudden pain you have to massage yourself through, like a cramp in the arm of sorts.”

“well . . is it your torso or your arm?”

“it’s . .” you spare a glance towards your centre under your very, very short skirt, the familiar pulsing of your clit turning more and more prominent. “it’s related to my pussy, father.”

you hear a choke from the other side, and then you realise your choice of words.

“ah— m-my bad! i meant my . . vagina, father geto.”

“no— no u-uhm, the previous term was fine. could you describe what you did? how far did you go so i c-can . . give you the appropriate penance?”

behind the curtains, geto have already started palming his bulge, massaging the ache in his length that still continues to grow and harden. the way you describe is so terribly innocent and unknowing, a deepening urge to corrupt you running through his veins.

“i played with um— my breasts, first. i pulled up my top and felt around my nipples, but i got impatient and . .” geto hangs on to every word of yours, shifting to get his robes out of the way. it was just like the first night: his underwear stained with so much pre-cum it’s probably changed the colour of the garment. he peels it away and the lack of restraint leaves him sighing softly while you ramble on—

“i tried playing with that . . thing between my legs.” you recall the quick google search from that first night, “i played with my clit, father.”

geto stifles a groan into his hand just as he starts to stroke himself softly. “y . . yeah, and?”

“i tried to um . . fit my finger in. it was uncomfortable, at first,” you cannot ignore the pull of your core; your hand shimmies past the clasped hands and down to your skirt. you have no panties to swipe to the side: you came here without any. your finger rubs gently at the throbbing bundle of nerves, a soft whine leaving your lips before you remember you’re in the midst of a confession.

“but i . . i got it into my pussy soon enough. and then i put in another finger.” there was a more audible grunt from the other side, the confessional weirdly heating up immensely as you follow your confession: two fingers easily glide in from just how wet you were.

“when?” there’s a strain in father geto’s voice when he asks it, maybe because he was trying so hard to keep quiet. his jaw is locked as he pumps his cock slowly because his tip is leaking so much that even a simple movement would give him away.

“w-wha—?”

“w-when did you first start . . touching your pussy, (y/n)?” hearing a priest say such a lewd word makes you clench around your fingers.

“after you came to deliver t-that chocolate cake . . father geto.”

“f-fuck—” geto squeezes his eyes shut and it’s like he’s a university student again losing his virginity for the first time by the hands of some random chick pumping him. the implied confession has him stroking faster; it was after that trip he made to your house, it was after seeing you stand at the door like a good little girl, it was because of him, right? right?

you snap back the curtains and your mouth waters at the scene: father geto hunching over the little window that separates the two of you and his head hung low; his cassock gathers around his hips and his cock— good Lord, his cock was so big, clutched tightly between his left hand. his tip was weeping, an angry red as it continued to push out globs of pre.

“f-father!” geto doesn’t seem to care, giving you a drunk and nonchalant glance as he continues to stroke his shaft. he knows it’s wrong, doing this in the house of the Lord but it feels so fucking good. “y-you—”

you’re at a loss for words, pointing to his exposed bottom, but even though you’re speaking out against him, you can’t help but follow his hand as it moves up and down like a spell. his eyes are simply pleading, hips bucking up and you would think he was a parishioner instead. shaking in the presence of God, in the presence of you—

you stick your hand past the squeezy window, drawing his interest and before you know it you’re blindly bumping into his erection. there, he silently grabs your hand, guiding it to his shaft. he uncomfortably leans down to look at your face, eyebrows still furrowed but your tongue stuck out and his dick twitches in your hand.

“s-shit, baby . .” geto swears under his breath, and again when you pull on his dick to the window. uncomfortably his body lightly slams against the partition, a soft thud coming from the booth as his head collides with the wood, “(y/n) . .”

he can’t see you, but he can hear you. “may i, father geto?”

you don’t wait for his answer, gauging mainly from the heavy breaths coming from above you. they really do need to change the confessional, too, because you can clearly hear every word he mumbles out from the holes in the partition.

“shiiit—” when you kitten lick his tip, collection the pre-cum that continues to leave his tip, and it feels better than his Rite of Ordination and when he finally got to host his first mass. it’s better than that prophetic dream he has of God calling him to serve Him and the churches in the city with church-goers of boring faces and predictable stories.

here was a rural place, a place where he never expected such a pretty girl to practice the Christian faith, only to falter in the presence of a pastor. he’s gotten such a cute little slut to corrupt. you start to bob your head slowly, unsure of what to do apart from putting his cock on your mouth. your teeth grazes his skin a little and he hisses.

“no teeth. suck in your cheeks,” he cannot see you but he wishes he can, and he knows you listen to his advice when he feels only the smooth glide of your mouth and he wishes it was your pussy that you fingered.

“going deeper, darling,” geto grunts when he pushes his cock past your mouth and into your throat, the sweet gag you do making him dig his forehead deeper into the uneven wooden partition. he can hear your struggling sounds, the muffled moans with his cock down your cavern. but he cannot go any longer without seeing you and reluctantly he pushes you off, still holding your hand and you seem to catch his drift soon enough.

you’re as eager as him, bouncing off the kneeler and leaving your side of the booth, and you’re opening the door to his. the reality of the situation fully sinks in, geto standing there with his cock dripping with your saliva and your camisole pulled down under your tits.

“oh . . baby,” geto coaxes you into him, under a little spell of his when you trail in a light as a feather. you don’t resist his hands pushing you down to your knees, and just like earlier, you’re sticking your tongue out and the priest looks at you from under hooded lids.

“did you touch yourself to me, little girl?” it comes out stronger than intended but you seem to like it, even when your answers are cut off by him slapping his tip on your tongue. it’s so heavy, his cock, and thick too that you can help but suckle on it when you get the opportunity.

“ever since that day, father geto.” you look drunk, swirling your tongue around the tip and continuing to talk, “i . . i imagine you above me and sometimes i dangle my crucifix thinkin’ it’s yours.”

a small laugh escapes the priest. “did you now?” it’s reminiscent of the time where you praise his sermon. his laugh is cut off as you continue to suck him off, hands still confused. he helps you by bringing your hands to the places you can’t reach and you follow like second nature. “dirty fucking slut, aren’t you?”

“i promise i didn’t know anything before this . . father.” you look up at him through your lashes, big doe eyes proving every last bit of your innocence. aht, partially. you did watch a video of this chick blowing her boyfriend, cumming with your own fingers in your throat, wishing it was geto’s cock in your mouth instead.

but having a real cock in your mouth? it was divine, better than the body of Christ in melting on your tongue. your ministrations speed up, the obscene noises of you gurgling reverberating in the wooden box late at night. it would be even worse at the altar where it would echo everywhere.

“y—yeah, baby, that’s it, that’s it . .” his eyes are shut tight, intoxicated on the way your warm mouth feels. you whine into his shaft, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from how deep he was in you.

“mmf— mmph!” your moans sends vibrations up his body, interrupted when geto thrusts his hips into your mouth suddenly and your nose meets with his pubes, eyes rolling back from the muskiness of his body. it smells like incense and sweat, filling your senses as he keeps you right up to his hilt.

“ohh . . fuckfuck fuucck—!” the father pulls you off to let you breathe, pleasantly surprised when you start pumping him violently, tongue stuck out again. there’s a hint of light from the outside that highlights the pinkness of your tongue and he’s never wanted to cum this badly before.

“i’m cumming— baby, baby, i’m g’nna c-cum—” there’s a long, drawn out whine from father geto upon feeling the warmth of your hands stroking his cock so obediently, resting his tip on your tongue where you’d willingly drink his cum like wine. geto shoots his load into your mouth and is the loudest he’s ever been; he doesn’t care who hears him, he doesn’t care if he gets transferred out tomorrow, all he wants to think about is you on your knees and your nipples hardened from confessing to him. he’d like to bet that your pussy was drooling too, hips bucking into the soft skin of your hands.

some of his cum gets onto your face and on your lips, and geto almost cums again when you use his tip to smear his seed around your face, sucking lightly on his tip.

“dirty girl . .” he pulls on your biceps to bring you up, and your lips meet instantaneously like you were meant to be separated for eternity, doomed only to meet for one day a year. it’s messy and sloppy, drool drips from your sides of your mouths as your lips merge together.

“was that your first kiss, baby?” father geto can tell by how you don‘t know how to follow his lead, teeth clashing and breathing uneven.

“am i that obvious?” you frown, feeling self-conscious, but geto is quick to reassure you.

“father geto’s going to teach you everything you need to know, alright?” he brings you in with a finger to your chin, hovers over your lips like a tease.

he teaches you everything you want to know and more, like how the front of the church looks like and how cold the marble of the altar feels against your back as he eats you out and the sensations are all too much for you. he teaches you that using God’s name in vain is alright when it comes to moaning out how good he makes you feel and how your penance is whatever he makes it out to be he teaches you how you can take not one, not two, but three fingers up your pussy.

they’re so much thicker than your own, one hand pushing on your shaking thighs to keep them open while his three fingers move in and out of you. you’re leaking so much, your virgin cunt dripping like holy water down the white marble and onto the matching marble floor.

he teaches you his first name and he makes sure you say it.

“su—suguru . . god, r-right there—” he latches his mouth onto your clit, suckling and flicking his tongue impatiently because he just wants to see you cum. your legs stretch out to knock over a candelabra and the clatter of the metal against the ground is enough to wake up a whole village but you. don’t. care.

your hips grind onto his tongue, feeling the borderline painful stretch of his thick fingers in you but they reach all the right spots that you can’t find it in you to care.

“you taste so good—” geto spits onto your cunt and goes back to sucking on your clit, “pussy’s so fuckin’ sweet, holy fuck.” your noises come out of you non-stop as you bury your hands in his hair, finally knowing what you sound like in an unrestrictive space under the apse.

father geto teaches you how to take a cock up your cute, tight pussy, not bothering for a condom when basically all of your clothes have been discarded throughout the night. it’s almost midnight and your mother have fallen asleep on the couch, unaware her sweet, sweet daughter is losing her virginity in the place she was baptised, where she got her first communion.

the first push into your drenched cunt is painful, mushroom tip stretching you out slightly as you clutch tightly onto his forearm, brows knitted together at the girth of his cock.

“been wanting . . to fuck this pussy so bad, baby,” geto grunts it out, obsessed with how his length slowly disappears into you. he can feel each ridge of your gummy walls, hugging him so snugly that there’s several moans that leave his lips, “have you been— thinking ’bout this as much as i h-have?”

your jaw stretches beyond your limit when he eases himself inch by inch into you, thanking the hells below that your vision was finally coming true. above you there’s that same crucifix, sterling silver with amethyst stones embedded into the design, you remember, catching the light of the lone spotlight above the both of you. there’s a similar glint in father geto’s purple eyes.

“all the time, father—” you moan out, pulling him by his necklace to your lips that are more experienced now, each minute that passes is one more atom of your body turning black from the fire that licks at you from below the altar. you kiss the lips of your parish priest, whimpering slightly when his hips buck and you feel the stretch more clearly now.

“is this what Isaac felt when Abraham tried to bind him for a sacrifice on Moriah? helpless, confused, betrayed?”

geto lets out a hum, sucking hickeys into your neck and you think it’s a million times better than questioning a God that never showed himself, who never really had the intentions of the people in mind, who created sin to watch the downfall of men while he enjoys his time in his kingdom.

if this was what was meant by losing yourself to your devils, you would gladly shake hands with Lucifer and hope the warmth of the fire in hell would be a hug warmer than any hug you’ve received by people of the Christian faith.

“well, baby, do you feel helpless?” thrust “confused,” thrust “and betrayed?” thrust

he punctures each word with a snap of his hips and the pain gives way to pleasure and soon he’s already lost in the comfort of your pussy, hips starting a pace easily that emphasises just how wet you are. the echoes of your weeping cunt and the lewd slapping of his balls into your ass is like the bell ringing during mass, loud, resonating, it shakes your whole body.

“mmfuck . . helpless, m-maybe,” you whine out, legs wrapping around his back, “confused, n-not— suguruuu, yesyesyes!”

you try again, “n-not really. betrayed . .”

you feel like a sacrifice, but it was willing, of a confession that has led to this lewd showing of just how much the temptations of the flesh were insanely undeniable. there’s a murmur of i don’t think i can last much longer into your ear, cock driving into your tight pussy so harshly you’re hoping the small altar doesn’t move.

“b-betrayed, i think—” you squeal when father geto angles his hips up and it kisses your cervix just nicely, sending multiple chills down your body. your moans penetrate the holy air, hair splayed out like a painting and geto knows this is better than any Eucharist he’s ever tasted.

you clench around his fat cock, and he twitches, switching to short, pathetic thrusts into your pussy and he cries out your name as he cums deep in you, giving you all of his seed deep in your womb. your breath catches in your throat at the feeling of your first load, the warmth already hooking you in and you pull so hard on his hair he has no choice but to follow your hand.

you let him handle you deep into the night, taking you off the altar and pushing you up against it, entering you again and you brace yourself against the marble.

“s-sorry, sweetheart, you were saying?” he also wants to apologise that he hadn’t made you cum just yet, but your pussy’s so fucking heavenly he just has to be in you again.

“i-i feel a little betrayed,“ you sag over the altar, back arching into his hold. father geto is fixated on the movement of your ass fucking back onto him, “that a priest would break his m-marriage to God for me.”

“i thought they were supposed to be men of God,” you barely manage to form sentences. geto’s laugh at that startles you, as with the hand grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling. payback. you love it, however, a sweet Christian girl turned into a slut, and the last bits of the thread unravels when father geto reaches around to rub your clit.

“’m gonna— cum, suguru—” you whine out, body turning to mush with how hard he rams into your pussy. by now there’s a ring of white around the base of his cock, your juices slowly starting to coat it, too and Lucifer succeeds at sin yet again.

you cannot blame Eve when the serpent is as beautiful and cunning as geto suguru, nor can you blame her when his thick cock just reaches so deep into you, tip kissing your sweet spots and his hand impatiently drawing messy circles on your bundle of nerves.

“that just makes it the best though, right?” geto breathlessly says, “a holy man fucking a virgin raw in a holy place where prayers are said.” your legs are spreading further and further, his sweaty body engulfs yours, you’re dizzy, “you’re too tempting, sweet girl. tempting enough for me to want to abandon priesthood just so i can be buried in this pussy for fucking eternity.”

and you cum, head and heart going a hundred miles per hour as your body trembles in his hold. “there we go, little slut, thereee we go . .” you can feel the chill of the sterling silver into your back and his smile before he orgasms a second time into your waiting pussy, a second, heavy load let go into your pussy. it’s so warm and filling, and you already want more, more, more.

lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust.

“aw,” father geto coos at your fucked out face, flipping you around to give you a sloppy kiss and forcing himself to his knees just to watch his cum drip out of you, “does she want more?”

“always, father.” you answer with a drunken smile, putting a leg on his shoulder. again, your finger hooks around his crucifix, and you drag the priest down deeper into hell, somewhere father geto would‘ve always ended up.

somewhere where he would renounce his priesthood and worship something, and someone: you.

“Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n.”

a/n: LOOOONG MAN WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS. also i put the author’s note at the bottom this time bc i wanted to format of the fic to look the best without my goofy words ruining it! hope you guys liked it :) / tagging @crysugu @omgeto @kazushawty @suguruplsr @hydrovillette @slttygeto @hyomagiri @jabamin

part two ✶

need trans girls visibly into forcefem put me in a skirt and call me too cute to be a boy, their girlcocks all tenting in their pleated miniskirts as they dress me when they decide they need a new slave, 2 girls casually frotting together (over each girl's skirt, of course) to relieve some of the pressure

hypnotizing me so every thrust of a girlcock in my hole or throat makes me forget more and more of my boy memories, trying to resist but them making it so pleasurable that I can't help but forget something, and slip out a moan, and then getting called a good girl

learning it's good to blank my head out as they fuck me, it's good to be mindless and let everything slip away, until all I can remember is being a good girl..? repeating words I don't really understand and watching as it makes their girlcocks pulse, not understanding, not comprehending, just happy to be a good girl..?

having icky boy thoughts and being hypnotized deep, so that every load of girlcum turns me into a mindless, obedient good girl..

2 girls spitroasting me and cumming deep inside me, thanking me for being their good girl as they empty their loads in me. feeling hesitant as the first girl begins to cum but craving the second..

another group of girls thank me for being a good girl as they slam their soft stomachs up against me, filling me up with more girlseed, smiling back up at them while they giggle

the last group of girls blanking me, riding their girlcocks with nothing in my brain as they whisper things to fill it up. feeling myself get close as they thrust hard, them promising me I'm allowed to cum as long as I get rid of every last boy thought, every last memory, totally empty..

they lean to kiss over me and cum deep, triggering me to cum too, triggering me to obliterate every last resistance to being a sweet, cute girl, every last objection to forgetting my boy life, to being a good girl, forever.

the trans girl that came in my mouth pulls out and asks me if I have ever been a boy, if I can ever remember being a boy. I answer honestly- "no." she giggles and calls me a good girl. everything feels right.

please don't leave detrans comments/tags on my post

Yes, these Muppets have taken Manhattan. The question now is can they HOLD it

check out my gay hedgehogs arts 🙈

ivory tower 18+ ASCENDED!ASTARION X AFAB!READER, 4.6K

Something deeply sordid, raw; ungodsly. There’ll be no Lathandrian blessing for your young, no gentle welcome into some family fayre on the outskirts of the city; but you want this.

woah boy! my first ascended astarion piece, so please be kind! dal is back babey! woooo! thank you to @bhaalism and @lipstickghoulie for dealing with me while writing this i love you both endlessly. wc: 4.6k cw: afab reader, female language used. breeding, mind-control, p in v, ascended astarion, public fingering, private banging, great times all round, as always if there are errors no there aren't, creampies, yippee

Baldur’s Gate doesn’t sleep. Not really.

She sometimes slows just enough to find some purchase amongst the muddle, though - tiptoes lazy through highsun in soft linens, the burgeoning swell of soap suds and sunny rosemary through wide open wooden shutters. Lingering - sweat-soaking worn leathers, the sore of the flex in the arch of your foot splayed over cobble. As if to grasp at the memory, your fingers stretch out from your side and on to the dark oak of the armrest, in a moment of sheer jubilance. Summer. The sun. Wide bright mornings. Hopeful and hot as a bated breath. 

The city ambles onward this evening, no different despite the inclement weather and the din of an early darkness. Half-lidded through dark streets as rain smatters the roofs with wet, glistening something dozy under the tall oil street lamps and swirls of ever-present heavy fog. Gurgling whilst each drain fills with water and swallows deep into the sewers. 

Scatters the hay, bears the slip; sings a slow drunken stutter of thunder-wind whiling at the windows into the small hours. There’s a comfort to be found in it. 

The harbour bell will go on to toll for every sail weary ship coming in from the fog; the crescent caress of the Gate’s waiting arms lit low with oily dots of amber. That even this late into the night the bands of trawlers on the dock work crates and barrels into cargo holds with worn hands and ruddy cheeks. The gulls and their scattering squawks. The flapping of their fat feathered wings up into the clouds. 

From where you sit in the Ivory Tower you can hardly see anything at all. Fog obscures the streets to a point, other than the light patches under the oil lanterns out on the ramparts. The window runs dripping wet with condensation. Pools under the pane. 

A hideaway of sorts within the manor. Newly reclaimed by Astarion in some deal with the quivering council in order to keep him sweet. Not that he has any armies of undead in his retainer to command as yet, but they don’t need to know that. There’s time. You’re still blessedly mortal and able.

Astarion. 

He should be skulking the halls somewhere below with that unnerving silent step he’s taken to using. Your cheeks grow warm, the blanket over your shoulders pulled closer into your chest as you allow your mind to run wild; the scald of bliss to your brain like that of some ironmonger’s poker, split straight to the core. 

Your love. Your lover. 

Amongst his many newfound desires and passions seemingly includes the impetus to redesign a centuries-old palace from scratch, and while you doubt he has the want nor willpower to take the project anywhere near to completion you’re more than happy to indulge him during this burst of creativity. A designer’s eye. Lavish yet not ostentatious, he tells you. Your own private wing of the palace, and one you’ll share together. He has no need for his own private chambers. You’re the only one he wants to be beside. You understand that at its essence, it isn’t even necessarily a want to design for creativity’s sake, it’s important to you both to have every memory of the residence’s former owner gone. Every threadbare tread of carpet, every scuff on the wall; every painting being demounted by workers downstairs and shipped to the auction house first thing in the morning. You can hear them if you still enough, heart still beating in your chest and the low chunter of layman gossip.

The version of him you knew before his ascension was so very scared. Beautiful, but wavering. You loved him of course; and you always will  - it was that version of him, the one lost in the wilderness that you fell for, and gods; you fell hard - frenetic and whiny, fleeting as light snow never to settle on the forest floor. Wild-eyed. 

But this Astarion - the real Astarion, as far as he is concerned - has you completely and utterly enraptured each day you wake together, the same as ever, from the second your eyes open. Wrapped in those Daerlunian-import plush linens atop your gargantuan newly-installed four poster bed. Face of marble with those cattish dark lashes and eyes of carnelian crush. Enchants every room he walks into, as he always has. 

You don’t know he’s with you until a hand ghosts your shoulder, sinewy; with those deft pale fingers deep encroaching on your collarbone in his grasp. 

“I didn’t hear you, lover.”

“But I heard you.’

He circles round the velvet armchair, resplendent in his home finery. Not a crease to be seen. Voice soft, yet laced with a bristling concern.

‘Why do you insist on sitting up here?”

You err for a brief moment. 

“I can hear the rain on the roof, here. See some bustle when the fog clears. The city goes on.” You shake your head with a smile as he crouches beside you, nestling his head in the crook of your arm.

“But it’s cold. Dark. Come down - I can light the fire in our sitting room if you like?” 

“We have so many centuries yet to see together! What sense is there in not observing the world as it is now? Keeping record of the city as we saved it?”

His head lifts and his eyes meet yours, some churlish quirk of a brow in the low light.

“An archivist, now? Is that to be your profession alongside me? Whilst you raise our young?”

“If I wish it to be, yes.”

He laughs, a gentle low hum.

“Then an archivist you’ll be - the most renowned in all the lands. We’ll make it so.’ He stands once more and takes your hands from your lap, bringing them clasped to his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. 

‘I’ll begin planning on your archives - I presume you’ll want a library? Or something similar in your wing, maybe even an office. Who knows?”

Astarion looks to the room around you, the shapes covered with old canvas and the rickety floorboards underfoot. Cobwebs in the corner. There’s no grimace nor displeasure. He simply surveys as cool as still water. Objective.

“I’ll have some of the merchants relay their contacts come morning too. If you insist on expanding your territory up here then it must befit you.”

“Befit me?” You grin now. His hold on your hands remains secure.

“If you want me to say it, then I suppose I will. As many times as it takes to get it through that heavy skull of yours.’

His smile reaches his eyes as he circles back behind your chair, fingers splayed over your shoulders once more in a deep round kneading pattern.

‘There’s nothing you won’t have if you want for it. Nothing too good for you to covet, my solace; Saviour to the whole Sword Coast and every plain mite within its bounds.’

There’s a small pause as he bows to kiss the top of your head.

‘And I thank the stars every day that I can provide for you. That you saw the potential in me and lifted me higher, to such profane glory amongst the swill of common man. That my gold, my influence, and terror, and each lift of my blade is at your command and yours alone. That you stayed at my side.” 

He doesn’t like to mention the gods, hence the stars. Pointedly brings the grimace back into play, occasionally even furrows with the slightest twinge of anger brewing at his brow. The gods had no role to play in your shared victories. No divine intervention saved him from two hundred years of torment, from certain death after the crash of the nautiloid along that sun-soaked span of rocky beach;-

You did. You with your strange inclination toward the weak man he once was. The shell he lived in like a hermit crab on the shore, nothing more.

-

On bright days, you thank him for giving you time.

Time to live, time to breathe with full lungs. Time to allow you to burn your eyes in the beating sun with a silver pot of fresh coffee and whatever ridiculous spew the papers hold between the pages today. 

You know as you sit in comfortable silence that your time dwindles, and that your turning is inevitable. Your eternal wedded bliss is to be alongside him and will be as vivid in nature as all the colours of the astral plane, if he’s to be believed - and there’s no reason not to see his word as gospel. You can see each moment as crystalline as sea glass on sand. Forever with the man you love more than you’ve ever felt inclined to love anything. The bridal ceremony is but a drop in the vast ocean of your lives together. 

He thanks you too. Often alongside you with eyes closed in some dozy recline, forearm hanging lazily whilst he takes the sun on his skin like a blessing. A loose linen shirt akin to the one he wore back at camp at the start of your journey together, strings wide open, a blaze of blinding flesh at the corner of your eye each time he shifts.

The veranda on a clear day. Astarion has assured you he’ll never take this from you. He’ll never take anything that you don’t willingly give him with a clear heart - and why would you give him your ability to bask in the sun, like a street cat in days-warm dust? What purpose does that serve either of you, beyond making you a less useful weapon in his prized arsenal?

At one point, all you wanted was to talk to him - and it rings true even now. The want to be the bearer of all his tales. To learn about him, to be close to him; to hear him tear the world apart with that dulcet snarl, walking alongside each other on the barren dirt trails out in the wilderness. Hop-skipping to keep up with his quiet gait. Giving him back as good as you got. The glimmer of his hair in the sunlight, the way he’d sometimes just stop.

Close his eyes. Feel the heat. The gentle burn of highsun on tender flesh. A soft inhale.

That morning out in the clearing after your first night together. Arms outstretched in a welcome to the light. It had taken a few minutes for it to click as you’d silently watched on, why his sun salutation was so fond. So open.

It’s to be a long engagement with regard to your transformation whilst the manor undergoes renovations. Reason after reason as to why now isn’t the ideal time to commit you to eternity. You know why he wants to keep a hold on your precious mortality for the time being, of course; and that keeps you from the forever embrace of his Dark Kiss. It never changes. 

You’ll allow him to sire your children. You want him to. Crave it. Him.

Your very own lineage together, he whispers; frenzied by your ear as his fingers crawl the bare span of your thigh. He can breed you full like fate intended and you’ll have something - besides him - that’ll also last forever. Something of your own surpassing the death of all of your contemporaries. The Vampire Ascendant and The Saviour of Baldur’s Gate, flesh-on-flesh, skin smacking skin; his debauched groans and lewd whimpers as he buries himself inside you, your cooing breaths;-

You’ll wed normally too, for the interested eyes of the city. Some dull ceremony with the elites adorning all tables as gilded pieces might some decorative chess board, deceptive vows. Legally it makes things easier should anything befall either of you but the hassle almost makes the whole thing undesirable - gods, especially because he already treats you as some smitten newlywed might. Adores you. Follows you around the manor, stalking; like some wolf cub after its mother. Carries you to bed each evening and ploughs you senseless, until spit gathers in the corners of your wet, wanting mouth and you can’t see straight through grey-blear eyes.

He likes the idea of you taking his name by law. Melds with your own like it were meant to be, from the starter threads of whatever cosmic tapestry pulled you together, the marriage of your first name to his last, interwoven by a scholar’s hand in gold-shining delicate point.  

Ancunín. The House of.

Tapestries. Large, spanning the halls. The Sarsantyr's over in Waterdeep - they’ll be able to create what you’re picturing. 

A familiar gaze meets yours. It’s then that you realise you aren’t alone in your mind once more

“If you want tapestries, you only have to ask.” 

“In fairness - you didn’t give me a chance to.”

He hums, tilting his head a little in the sun’s glare.

“I’ll send for them. The Sarsantyr's, yes? Have them pack up all their little-’

He pulls a face and lifts his hands in some kind of puzzled shake.

‘Sewing bits? Textiles? I’ll send carriages. They can come and stay in the lower rooms. Create the masterpiece you envision.” Astarion sniggers a little at the thought of putting them in the old dormitory while you remain lost in thought.

“Okay. Check them through first though, yes? 

The real event - the wedding - will give you total ecstasy beyond your wildest preconception, you know this. Unfettered and euphoric. Books and books on the topic stacked clumsily beside your bed, reds and greens; the turning of a vampire bride in leather bound prose. You know what to expect in florid detail. You know to trust your lover, that the rabid creature you’ll become is only a temporary mental state precursing an eternity alongside him. 

And yet, you wonder about the children. They’ll be here by then. However many he decides is enough, naturally; assumedly under the care of some hired help whilst you engage in your thoroughly bastardised pastiche of a wedding ceremony. You laugh now. He’s still in your head, mulling over your thoughts as soon as you can think them. 

Will you miss them? Will they be your last thought before you pass away; Astarion unable to complete this ritual alone as he was unable to before? Will your death lead to his, leaving your dhampir offspring to ravage Baldur’s Gate unsupported by the windfall of knowing parents? There’s still no hesitation, though. You will bear his young. You want to. The consequences either way are vast and long-lasting, and you’d rather be at his side than facing his ire- 

“Love, what are these thoughts? What on earth is going on in that very pretty head of yours today?” His voice is a low drawl, pitying yet laced with affection. He sits straight in his chair whilst a hand lazily searches for yours atop the sun-warmed table; beyond the scope of the ramparts wall the low meander of city life continues on.

“Mulling things over.”

“You don’t need to do that, pet. Come now.’ He beckons you onto his lap and wraps his arms around your middle, hand searching for the soft pillow of your chest as your ass backs up to his abdomen.

‘You want me to make it better?” 

You nod gently, the sun catching your eye in a particularly bright beam and making you squint. 

“Please.”

“Poor thing. It’s okay.” As he coos; one hand finds the curve of soft flesh at your chest, holding the weight of your breast firmly as he starts lightly thumbing at the nipple through your nightshirt.

“There, now. Good girl.” Your head falls back onto his shoulder, a deep sigh as he lulls you into a new state of calm astride him. Birds sing overhead whilst you nuzzle his neck.

“I will miss this warm flesh of yours, you know. Terribly so.’ His other hand moves to your nightskirt, gently hitching the material bit-by-bit up your thighs until you sit exposed to the air. Nobody can see you from here - the faceless crowd little but colourful dots below; Astarion giving a small tense laugh as he feels your pulse quicken against him. 

He toys with your skirt, edging ever nearer your exposed cunt; and your eyes flutter closed. 

‘But the greater purpose… I just can’t let it go. Us. Our lives together. I sincerely doubt you want to wither away to age; to lose your extraordinary beauty-’

A gentle groan as he feels your warmth.

‘Do you, my most precious flower?” 

“Of- Of course I don’t. I want to be with you, as we are; forever.”

“Then we’re going to need to make a concerted start on the only thing setting us back, are we not?” His fingers gently tap on the crux of your pubic bone, threateningly close to your clit. You feel the familiar seep of your slit leaking onto the bunched skirt fabric and you think of honey. Some kind of sweet glaze.

“Yes.”

As you sink further into him his fingers move down just a little to meet your clit; and in response to your delighted sighs he very lightly begins to stroke either side of the engorged flesh. There’s no urgency to his movement nor his demeanour; just a treacle-thick teasing grin as he turns his head to kiss your blazing cheek.

“Good.”

There’s something borderline celestial about the gentle way he touches you, coaxing more of your slick from you with every gentle jerk. He deftly motions ‘come hither’ with a soaking middle finger dipping lightly at your hole then brings your arousal up to wetten your clit once more.

“You want this, don’t you?” A finger slips down to your cunt, this time slipping and nestling deep inside as you feel yourself writhe on him. One arm scrambles around the back of his neck to support yourself while he begins to curl at your spongy spot, and the anchor of your arousal shifts free.

“I’ve been rifling through that glorious mind of yours these past few days and I see you now. You want comfort. To comfort. To seek shelter in those warm lights on the horizon, to know you aren’t alone in the late hours.”

You nod furiously, wincing, desperate to feel him deeper. Thicker. You need more, your fox-eyed paramour giving only the barest minimum he can do to watch you squirm.

“You, with my babe in arm;- oh the image alone does things to you, doesn’t it?”

It’s as if he’s creating the visions in your head as he speaks them, bringing them to the forefront of your mind in hushed coos and silent gasps. As if by magic, the only thing on your mind is a primal need for him to fuck you full. Nothing else, no mind for coffee nor completed manor renovations. 

You will be round. You will brim with life before he turns you, and you’ll take to his seed the minute he offers it to you. You’ll accommodate him like no other across Toril could hope to. You wonder if he has the power to decide how many, as he adds another finger to your unbridled torment. If he could choose to speed the process up with a celebration of twins, triplets. An heir and two spares. Maybe he’d wait instead until the first was born, just to ensure the viability of his bloodline. A test.

He’s doing this; you become starkly aware as he withdraws his fingers, spiderwebs of glistening drool clinging to your inner thigh as he brings them between his lips and suckles. He’s giving you these ideas of grandeur because he can. Because you are his. Because you wouldn’t want to belong to anyone else, to be tied to any other notion of whatever a fulfilling life is, if it weren’t one shared wholly by him. With him.

“Let me take you inside, sweet one. Let’s take care of you properly, shall we? Curb this fever, hm?”

Please, you think. Please take this burning hole in my womb and make it full with you. Extinguish the flame with your unholy spend and give me children. Give me oud and orchids and a life of warmth, however long we both may live.

“Use your words, my love. Tell me you want this.”

“I want this. Please.”

-

On the bed you now lie, the room cool and dark; balcony doors open wide with light-billowing curtains. Sweat consumes you as your thoughts run wild, the smell of your arousal, clammy hands and deep breaths in the low light. Astarion approaches like something from a dream, shirtless now; smirk plastered cheek-to-cheek as he leans over your trembling form with confidence - your lust-addled fingers reaching for his steady form like a ship to harbour. 

“You want to feel it, little dove? Feel how you set me alight?”

He pries your wrist from him with gentle urgency, taking your hand under his and skating both downwards; down the plane of his tight torso, slowing to a stop just above his pelvis.

“Tell me - do you want to feel it?”

A small smirk plays at the corner of your lips, but he doesn’t seem to notice - watching the way your hand twitches under his.

“Hm?”

His groan is guttural. Thick. He doesn’t even try to mask it, eyes wide as his hand shifts yours just a little further down and over the blistering burn of his heavy cock through loose linen trousers. A hazy sigh as he moans a small whimper at your touch.

“Please, Astarion. I beg you.”

It’s like his fingers are enchanted, the way they reduce you to this sodden mess. Unable to think unless guided delicately by his superior whim. 

“I need to bury myself inside you fully for this to take. I need your full attention, submission; your devotion to our lives together. Do I make myself clear?”

He’s giving you one final chance to withdraw. Your head clears for one sweet moment and you can do little else but stare at his bulge with heavy lids and your mouth agape.

“Crystal. I ache for you. Please, give this to me.”

You lift to meet him in a soft kiss, jaw slackened and cunt ablaze. Nothing else matters, no complications, nor possibilities of horribly mangled spawn from your womb as a result of your copulation. This scalding stupor that sends you insane won’t go away until he quenches it with his seed. 

Your response has satisfied him, if the way he stands sharpish and unties his trouser laces is anything to go by. The glassy head of his cock stands purple at his stomach, leaking wild at the slit and red-hot as your hand reaches blindly for him in your hunger.

He gently taps you away and back down onto the sheets. 

“Magic?” You hear yourself mumble, still amazed at how surely swollen he must feel with how sore he looks. Has to be. 

“Just me.”

There’s a tenderness in his eyes as he crawls back over you, legs instinctively parting and lifting at the knee to accommodate him. Something that compels him to hold your face in the hand that isn’t supporting his weight and just look at you, fondly; for what feels like an age.

Then he shifts once more to angle himself, decidedly spending no more time on preparation. The heat of his cock against your slit is unlike anything you’ve ever known, dizzying yet pleasurable; hard and yet still yielding, and as he thrusts a shallow dip into your core you swear you see angels overhead. Yes, you’re ready. You’ve never been more ready for anything than you are for the sheer ecstasy you know he’s about to give you, and he’s going to give you it in droves. Seismic tremors as he shifts a little and you adjust to him once again.

He nods. He hears you. 

Then, he snaps once more; and he’s lost.

Each glub of his cock meeting your spill as he ruts into you; the way you feel it running downward in long dribbles, with each and every mindless hump of his hips eking more honey from your cunt in spades. 

You hear the sounds of your shared carnal pleasure and it makes you clench around him in some kind of self-perpetuating cycle. Groans and whimpers and moans and hisses and the frequent egregious slaps to your thighs whilst he chases his high. 

He’s perfect like this. Halo of curls above you, voice silken as he calls you every pet name under the sun, his, always. Your legs ache already from being wound so tightly, interlocked around him, and you think of the prespill inside you already. How each fangy showman’s smile means he’s twitching at your cervix and leaking molten gold inside you with every thrust. 

It’s not until he nuzzles down to your neck that you remember to offer it, potentially for the last time on this mortal coil. 

“Are you asking?”

“Well, you didn’t offer.”

The immediate pang is one of violent nausea, subsiding quickly into a wooze coating the bottom of your stomach in black tar as he fucks upward. Unease. There’s something in his spit, you assume. Something that makes the gaping wounds a little more bearable, a little less raw as he kitten-licks the flesh between swallows. Ice courses your veins with adrenaline as it always does.

Astarion chokes down his first sip with an eager cough. The burgeoning panic wracking your limbs turns into a numbed haze as your lover feasts, big neat gulps whilst he clutches at your ribcage with fingers splayed deep and cock buried to the hilt, like a man starved. His hair tickles  at your jaw, the smell of something herbal. Slightly lemony. 

He splutters that he’s close and you feel yourself nearing your peak too.

There’s a profane desecration in what he’s doing, painting your walls in an attempt to get you pregnant. Something deeply sordid, raw; ungodsly. There’ll be no Lathandrian blessing for your young, no gentle welcome into some family fayre on the outskirts of the city. No villages to raise them, no cards nor flowers from friends or family; but you want this. 

You want him to taint you in his particular shade of crimson, visibly; so the realms know who made The Saviour of Baldur’s Gate come to heel. The man who compelled her through sheer love alone and to whom she gave everything. The indomitable force for whom you’ll die, only to resurrect forever as his.

Visions of your turning don’t scare you - all lightning and thunder, the cries of your dhamplings in some nursery down the towering halls of your palatial wing; and yet you’ll be safe in his caress. He wouldn’t let a single thing happen to you. He won’t. 

And as he cums; he calls your name.

Some rhythmic prayer over and over again; and with each kick of his cock he loses some of his bedroom charm and hurtles back to earth, humbly enraptured. More candid. His weary muscles tighten as yours threaten your own release around him.

“Cum for me, now. Milk me.” in a heavy whisper whilst he strokes the soft flesh of your cheek; and you do. You cum harder than you can remember ever before. Each wave of sheer pleasure some blackout tidal wave as you writhe, staccato in his arms. 

If you die during the ceremony, you’ll die happy. Should the younglings bite their way through your womb, it won’t matter.

You’re loved. He loves you, in soft kisses and gentle arms carried all the way to the waiting washtub. In the way he sponges your aching shoulders and brings a washcloth to your dazed face.

Baldur’s Gate doesn’t sleep, not really.

But tonight it will, in the patient, visceral bliss of calm before a summer storm.

this emerged in my head when I was trying to drive

I desperately need this drawn as a comic.

recently beat my third playthrough of mother 3 and i. i did the

human thundercracker with dove wings

OH MY GOSH AAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHGAHGSAJGSGJJKGAFS

ITS THE SCUGSHROOMS!!!!!

This is so perfect I love this its so amazing eeeeeeee!!!!

Today I had to clean a bunch of red thread fungi off my dogs... More than eight hours of work later I have this. ✨ inspiration ✨

Would type details but I'm actually shaking bc I'm so hungry... need food

Left to right, top to bottom row:

@mushroominaforest , @nebulius , @chaoticallycam , @drtrig , @confituredekaki , chaoticallycam , @magicylia

confituredekaki , @alexkittyandra , @t00nyah , @peacherweasel , magicylia , @saffronstoats , alexkittyandra

(more of a zigzag pattern, I tried lol)

@wherethelandfissures , @originalwinnerfanfish , @churrorat-art , magicylia , churrorat-art , @funkytrashsuperstructure , thunder-wolf64 , @satas-momento , @riverripplespeaks , @lemon-rocky , mushroominaforest , t00nyah

Slugcats put in this drawing were A: under the "scugshroom colony" tag, B: had fully colored refs

I tried to keep it accurate to sizing and character personality, so I hope this can bring the colony to life a bit more :3

fanart for toby foxs fanfiction