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#they converge for Rides

shuttlecarrier · 10 months

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artfight around the corner and scrambling to get some kind of refs done for my babygirl. a civilian pilot working in the supernatural disaster mitigations system in a retrofitted fighter looks grandiose but her other ride is still one of the shittiest looking fords you can imagine

#and her other other ride is a 330SC among other things #I KNOW not everything here is perfectly accurate but thog don't care at this point it looks good enough fuck it we ball #my ocs #delaney #codesverse #my art #shes not the oc in my icon but they have a weird convergent evolution thing going on so they look similar #btw if mutuals or followers want my af user feel free to ask

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lunarblazes · 1 year

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everyone shut up and imagine with me for a moment. all of the tiny hermits on tiny special mounts.

#scar can ride a normal sized jellie #tango can ride a toad #xisuma on reginald ii #I KNOW THEY’RE NOT ACTUALLY THAT SMALL BUT JUST IMAGINE A PERFECT WORLD WITH ME #CUB ON A LITTLE MOTH!!!#the convergence

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cohborikardok · 1 year

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so convergence was. hhhhhhhhhhhh.

#/pos #wowie #in true thr fashion the last third of the book is a RIDE #convergence #the high republic #thr

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darkfinch · 2 years

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all this talk of lethal weapon is reminding me of a time someone asked me to explain The Perfect Host and i wrote 3 drafts of 1.5k summaries and then deleted it and went to lie down

the crawford filmography. it is so much for the brain 2 perceive (if i were to genuinely recommend mr crawford media tho i WOULD recommend the perfect host & the killing of two lovers but ONLY if you would like to experience harm of the psychological variety)

#i genuinely enjoyed both of those but said ''oh fuck. what the fuck'' out loud at least three times for both #meanwhile convergence i said ONLY what the fuck EXCLUSIVELY and dissolved into hysterical laughter halfway through #never watch convergence it has 50000 things going on at once and absolutely none of them were worth that amt of my time & life #the perfect host is like. genuinely a delightful ride. what the fuck is going on at any point in that film. 10 stars #meanwhile i had to keep pausing tkotl to go pace around my kitchen head in HANDS #finchtalks

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simpingforstardew · 1 month

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a mini cozy harvey smut would be amazing if possible ❤️ 🤭

no pressure of course!

pairing: sdv harvey x reader

synopsis: one mini cozy harvey smut, coming right up~ just some fluffy smut, pretty much no plot ♡ i really hope you like it !!

warnings: 18+ smut (minors dni), reader is described as having a vagina, oral sex (reader receiving).

word count: 1.3k

Sparrows chirp outside as rays of the spring sunrise filter through your sheer curtains, casting a golden glow into the room. Beneath the layers of yarn blankets enveloping the bed, you luxuriate in their comforting embrace, basking in the tranquillity of the early morning.

Beside you, Harvey stirs, stretching languidly while he haphazardly pushes the duvet off his body. As he arches his back slightly, the fabric of his white t-shirt obediently follows the movement, riding up to reveal a glimpse of his belly underneath and the happy trail that adorns his midsection. Your eyes follow the trail down to his green plaid boxers, hanging loosely on his hips.

“Darling, you’re staring.” Harvey whispered through a grin, his morning voice more gruff than usual; his eyes slowly adjusting to the light.

You smile in spite of the blush that warms your cheeks, “I’m allowed, aren’t I?”

The doctor rubs his heavy eyes as a soft chuckle escapes his lips, “Shh, come here, you’re-,” A yawn interrupts him, “You’re so far away.”

“I’m only on my side of the bed, Harv,” You giggle, shuffling towards your boyfriend, “‘s not that far.”

He wraps you protectively in his arms, one hand lightly massaging your back while the other finds itself on the back of your head, pushing you comfortably into the warmth of his chest. Harvey’s chypre scent was just as comforting as the embrace. Your calloused fingers trace shapes into the skin under his t-shirt, trying to remember where each mole and freckle is.

“I love you, y’know?” You whisper, looking up at him as another smile tugs on his lips.

“Of course, I just hope you know that I love you more.” He kisses your forehead. You still weren’t used to the tickle of his moustache.

You reach a hand up to caress his soft cheeks, while his viridescent eyes scan your face— as if he was memorising every feature. Harvey’s strong arms pull you impossibly closer as you stare at his mouth, your thumb delicately brushes along his lower lip.

Before you could tease him for the flush that was quickly colouring his cheeks, he leans down to kiss you.

His lips, soft and yielding, already carried the faint taste of coffee; it was intoxicating. A soft whine escaped his lips as you threaded your fingers through his dark hair, still tousled from sleep. Touching him feels like heaven; tasting him is like indulging in a forbidden fruit. It was the kind of adoration that devotees created worship for.

You hadn’t realized how desperately you needed this until this moment, a moment in which you two are the only people awake in the valley. Every sensation seems to converge into a single, overwhelming need for closeness.

Harvey’s large hand moves down to your thigh as it rests on his hip, tugging you desperately towards him, as he deepens the kiss. This kiss is nothing like your first just weeks ago: a gentle, yet nervous confession. This is carnally unrestrained; honest.

“Please I-,” the whispered plea slips out of your kiss bitten lips.

“Fucking insatiable,” Harvey chuckles softly, his lips still brushing against your own, before rolling to cage you between his arms. With your back now pressed against the plush sheets, Harvey took the opportunity to tug off his wrinkled t-shirt, fumbling with the hem before discarding it on the floor. With anybody else, at any other time in his life, perhaps he would have been too insecure to do so.

Harvey’s large frame hovers over you, his hand gentle on your neck as he leans in close. “Tell me what you want,” he whispers; you feel the warmth of his breath caress your ear, “I need to hear you say it.”

“Fuck, you’re killing me here— Please, I…” you beg, voice reduced to a hoarse whisper, “I need you, Harvey.”

He kisses down your neck, nipping just to see you squirm, as his hand caresses your chest beneath your t-shirt.

“You’re so pretty when you’re desperate,” he continues to praise you between kisses, marking your most sensitive areas as he makes his way down your body, “So pretty.”

As he shuffles down the bed, he lifts up your t-shirt to kiss your belly— blowing the occasionally raspberry in response to your embarrassed whines. You look down to see him comfortably snug underneath the duvet, kissing your inner thighs with delicate reverence before meeting your gaze.

“Hi.” he smiles, chuckling as he looks at you longingly.

“Hi.” you respond breathlessly, stroking the brunette waves of his hair. You involuntarily tighten your grasp when you feel the warmth of his breathe tease your clothed pussy; a sinful moan escapes his lips in response.

“Careful, darling,” Harvey exhales, “You don’t want me to come that fast, do you?”

Your breath hitches as you hopelessly buck your hips, feeling both of Harvey’s large hands reach to grab your ass “N-no, fuck— sorry.”

Your wetness soaks through your underwear as you feel Harvey’s deft fingers rub slow circles on your clit; his other hand moving to diligently massage your tense hips. Despite the doctor’s dominant act, you could feel him grinding against the soft mattress as he pants pathetically. He glances up with puppy dog eyes, through the hair that had cascaded down his face, to watch for your reactions.

“Do you-,” you whimper, interrupted by the increasing speed of your boyfriend’s fingers, “Do you want to fuck me, puppy?”

“More than I’ve wanted anything,” Harvey sits up, tugging off your underwear, “but right now, I need to taste you.”

Harvey is quick to begin lapping up your juices, occasionally moaning to send vibrations through your sensitive cunt. He is committed to satisfying every inch of your sex so much it almost overstimulates you. His hot mouth, his coarse moustache, his wet tongue, all determined to make you climax.

“So gorgeous for me like this, darling,” Harvey gasps; all you can do— all you want to do— is whimper and moan as you weakly grind against his face.

Slowly, he pushes two fingers inside you— the mess of your anticipation from Harvey’s unrelenting praise making the perfect lube. The delectable stretch just barely satisfies the heavy ache in your pussy; so you roll your hips in time with his digits as they slide in and out, hitting just the right spot. With his fingers fucking you, he continued to eat you out like a man starved. You spread your legs further when he pulls you closer to his face, resting one thigh on Harvey’s shoulder.

“Mmm, p-please.. Fuck—” your moans were becoming unintelligible, your boyfriend’s ministrations unravelling you completely, “Please, Harv’— I’m so close.”

Snapping your hips back and forth, Harvey’s nose nudges against your clit as he groans beneath you; you quickly came undone. As you stumble blissfully towards your release, your eyes squeeze shut and your mouth falls slack; wanton cries fill the room. You feel your legs continue to shake when Harvey pulls his fingers out, the absence of his touch making you whine.

“So good for me, I got you. There you go—,” Harvey soothes; as you open your eyes again, you’re greeted by the sight of him sucking your juices from his fingers. His unwavering eye-contact leaving you breathless, “All for me.”

He makes his way back up the bed, bringing you back into his arms as you catch your breath; after a few moments, your light-headedness fades as you ground yourself in his embrace.

“Wait, Harv—” you mumble, “What time is it? You don’t have to be in the clinic today do you?”

“Shh, don’t you worry, Maru has everything sorted out for today,” he traces shapes in your back, almost lulling you back to sleep, “How about I get you some water while you go to the toilet, then I can make us some breakfast? Is that ok, honey?”

You nuzzle into his chest, nodding emphatically to his morning plans, “Sounds perfect.”

#sdv fanfic #stardew valley #sdv harvey #sdv x reader #stardew valley fanfic #stardew valley x reader #sdv harvey x reader #sdv harvey x farmer #sdv x farmer #sdv x y/n #sdv harvey x y/n #sdv smut #stardew valley smut #smut #sdv harvey smut #stardew valley harvey #stardew valley harvey smut #ao3 writer #sdv

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satoruhour · 7 months

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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 ✶

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c0smoshit · 9 months

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Inside please ˚₊﹅

⋆ ࣪. ℙ𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘 ≫ Leon S Kennedy/fem!Reader

⋆ ࣪. ℙ𝕝𝕠𝕥 ≫ The tittle just explains the whole thing

⋆ ࣪. 𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤 ≫ smut!, p in v, cowgirl, hickies, hot kisses, cumming inside, overstimulation if you blink

⋆ ࣪. 𝔸/ℕ ≫ LEON IS SO HOT

⋆ ࣪. 𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕕𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥 ≫ 1.059

"God- Leon"

His hands were all over your body since you had stepped into the bedroom after a nice, relaxing shower. His mouth was there too, kissing, licking and biting all your well-known sweet spots.

You were sitting on top of him, your legs quivering and covered in loving kisses and spit. You were a sight for sore eyes, all squirmy and beatiful.

He had already made you cum twice, first with his fingers and then with his mouth because he "wanted to taste you".

And now he was hard and eager for you, poking your inner thighs while you rested your hand on his shoulder. Your hooded eyes ignited something inside of him, just thinking about your pretty eyes looking at him while you were on your knees for him made him cum untouched.

And now you were looking at him, all dolled up, and being such a sweetie to him. He would quit his job, no matter how hard he had to try, just to have you all for himself every day. He absolutely adores having a quickie before work, your sleepy face converging to a pleasured one and your cute little yawns.

"Cmon baby"

He encouraged you as he grinded himself against you, breathing heavily into your ear. It was clear that he wanted you, and he wanted you now.

When you lined yourself with him, slowly sinking yourself into madness, he couldn't help but slam you all the way down. He shushed your yelp, whispering sweet praises into your ear, telling you how good you were for him, how good you felt.

"You're always this tight for me hm?"

His hand grasped your ass, guiding your movements slowly into him, biting your neck as he did so. His breathing was quickened and so was his heartbeat, beating right off his chest wildly.

"Leon, It's- I- I'm-"

"I know sweetheart I know..."

His hand brushed away a tear that had fallen from your reddened cheeks, god you were so gorgerous like this. He had craved for your touch all day but you were too busy, and he was so pent up he could've exploted at your first touch.

But he was so stubborn that he discarded away your offer of sucking him off, he always made you cum first.

Then, he could put that mouth into a better use, but not today, today he wanted all of you.

"...I'll take good care of you, don't you worry"

His mouth enveloped yours again, his hands sliding into your waist as he held you close to him. Slowly rocking your hips, groaning at every little sound that escaped your lips.

The whole scene was hot and messy, glistening skin and glossed lips. His slow and sensual movements were soon replaced with quicker and harsher ones.

"Just like that- Jesus, you're doing great"

His head fell on your neck, eyes closed and eyebrows knitted with pleasure as you began bouncing on top of him. Your hips slamming down on his like two magnets would, gasping out when you felt him bite your neck.

He loves when you ride him, he always gets to see your tits bouncing in front of his face, always forcing himself not to bite them and cover them up with both love bites and his own hands. Your blissed out face was an absolute angelic sight too, he loved how you moaned his name, how it rolled off your tongue in such a sexy way. How you wore yourself off on top of him, chasing desesperately your pleasure while you begged for him to cum with you.

Plus, your neck and tits were in absolute display in this position too.

"Mmhp! Leon"

You squealed out when he started thrusting into you, lifting your hips up a little bit. His strenght was just perfect, all the hard training and all the shit he had to go through clearly visible. He doesn't flex to you that much, but when you two are like this it is a completely different story.

Your trembling hands grabbed his shoulders for support, hugging him tightly and pressing him into your body. Your moans got louder and huskier, his own groans too.

"Fuck sweetheart I'm gonna-"

A hand sneaked into your clit, drawing rapid circles as he put some preassure on it too. Your legs were like jello right now, twitching and squirming out of his grasp. But his strong hands kept you in place.

"Cum for me, cmon sweetie. Give me another, please"

His praises were what finally drove you into nirvana, a loud moan of his name coming out of your mouth as you had finally reached your climax. Almost falling limp on top of him, squealing when you felt him thrust into your sensitive cunt.

Your head fell into his shoulder, nails digging into his back hard enough to leave red scratches. His movements never slowed down, pulling in and out of you over and over again.

He swore he could die in your cervix, your tight and warm walls were like heaven to him. And god the way you clenched down on him when he praised you, he should do it more often.

"Cum for me, please"

Your voice surprised him, but he also found the way you were begging him to cum so sweetly really cute. And who was he to deny you?

"Where?"

He grunted out, not trusting his voice, his hands holding your hips and dragging you up and down repeatedly. He would've expected you to tell him to cum on your stomach or something like that, but he wasn't prepared for your actual response.

"Inside"

Your needy tone was what drove him completely mad, gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises he later would kiss. He had fantasied about cumming inside of you, but it was really happening now. He couldn't wait to see your cunt dripping with his seed.

"You want me to fill you up?"

His teasing voice filled your reddened ears and you could only nod fervershly, pulling him even closer to you.

"Of course you do, you dirty girl. Begging for me to cum inside"

He didn't last much longer after those words, hips ferveshly slapping against your own ones before he finally came with a long content sigh. He never came as hard as he did now, just picturing his cum inside of you made him crazy for you.

He hugged you close, both laughing at what just had happened.

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gloomwitchwrites · 3 months

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What Are We (2 of 4)

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: neighbor!Kyle, friends with benefits (sorta), lotus position, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie, aftercare, Kyle begs a bit, praise

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: Part of the Imagines and What If Series

When neighbors become friends to become sometimes lovers, you make the first move after things between you grow a little heated.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // what are we masterlist

What is this tangled thing?

This messy, gnarled thing that pulls you back in repeatedly until you’re standing on the ceiling, staring down at the floor in perplexed curiosity.

And why is it always him? It could be anyone, and yet you come back to Kyle every time, the two of you entering each other’s spaces time and time again as if Fate is forcing this arrangement.

He’s your neighbor. That’s it. A friend. Someone you say hello to in the hallway.

Someone who also always visits after he comes back from deployment. Someone who helps carry your laundry back to your flat or fixes the small shit the property owner is too lazy to care about. Someone that gives you such a soft smile that it melts your heart and turns you to goo even as you tell yourself how ridiculous you’re being.

Someone who, at this moment, is reaching for you, begging for you to come to him.

“Come here, love. In my lap.”

Moving is easy. Giving in is easy.

You drape your arm around Kyle’s neck while the other slides up to rest against his chest, fingers lightly curling to drag across his skin. Kyle sighs when you settle, that beautiful sound transforming into a low groan as you sink onto his cock. Your legs lock behind him, giving you leverage.

Kyle is not immune. His arms go around your middle, one reaching downward to lightly squeeze one round cheek while the other meanders upward to the back of your neck. Once there, he takes hold. Not roughly, but more of a possession, a silent command to let him take control in this one way.

The two of you meet repeatedly, his pelvis a perfect angle to rub against your clit with each convergence.

“That’s it. Just like that,” he croons, lips stretching into a smile. Kyle’s pearly whites appear briefly when he smiles and his brow softens as he observes you from behind half-closed eyelids. “That’s it, love. Ride me. Like that. Good girl.”

Your hips buck, and Kyle thrusts upward, matching you perfectly. The groan you let out is unseemly, but even as you try to tilt your head back to release it, Kyle blocks the movement, keeping you stationary.

“Look at me when you come, yeah? At me. In my eyes.” Kyle squeezes the back of your neck and you whimper, pussy clenching around him as you do as he says.

“Fuck,” he groans, drawing out the vowel.

Another shiver of pleasure rushes through you. Then another, just as quickly. The small death builds, explodes, and then you’re grinding down on Kyle, moaning his name. Kyle keeps you still, doesn’t move his hips either, just allows you to come undone on his cock.

The moment your muscles unspool, the tension melting away, Kyle rolls you onto your back. He grasps your wrists and throws them above your head, trapping them beneath one massive palm. He settles between your legs, doubling his efforts, huffing above you as he chases after his own end.

Kyle’s forehead presses against yours. “Let me come inside you, love. Please.” The please is strained, like it’s taking every effort within in him to not lose control.

Your nails dig into his back, and your hips flex upward, inviting him in. “Finish inside me, Kyle,” you beg, wanting to feel him deep.

His groan is low, and he settles further against you, rocking in quick burst of energy that punch the air from your lungs. You cling to him, giddy, reveling in how he falls apart. When he finds his end, your wrap your legs behind his back, holding him flush against you.

Kyle grins through his moan as your ankles lock over each other. You don’t uncross them until Kyle pushes away.

“Stay here,” he murmurs, patting your thigh. Pushing off from the bed, Kyle heads for the bathroom, his nakedness on full display.

You flush then, all the heat and memory bubbling up as his cum slowly drips out of your pussy. He’s never finished inside you without a condom. When there isn’t one to be had, he might finish on your back, stomach, or even in his hand. But never inside you. Kyle has never asked this.

When he returns, Kyle brings a damp cloth. With gentle hands, he eases your legs open, cleaning the insides of your thighs, wiping everything up except his cum. That is what he leaves behind, and that one small action feels like a brand. An act of ownership.

What the fuck.

With the insides of your thighs clean, Kyle leans in and presses a small kiss to the insides, quickly discarding the cloth immediately after. Then, he is drawing you into his side, snuggling up beside you on the bed, one hand already holding onto his phone as he looks through takeout options.

“What do you want?” he asks. Without glancing away from the screen, Kyle kisses the spot right behind your ear.

You tense. This is too real, too personal. He’s always made it clear that this can’t be anything more. Hasn’t he? Pressing on the thought, you consider it, and realize that Kyle hasn’t entirely pushed the idea away.

“Did you hear me, love?”

“What?”

Kyle pushes up onto his elbow, glancing down at you. “Everything good?”

Can he feel how tense you are? Does he know what rushes through your mind? Should you even say anything at all? Keep it to yourself and pretend that these thoughts aren’t racing through your head?

But again, when has Kyle ever rejected a conversation with you? On plenty of occasions, Kyle has held you in the dark, let you cry into his chest, and pepper soft kisses along your brow as he brushes your hair out of your face.

Why would he turn away from this?

“What are we doing?” you blurt, immediately hating how strained your voice sounds.

Kyle arches a single eyebrow. “We’re ordering food,” he replies slowly.

“No. I mean—yes. I know that. But—us.” You gesture at him and then at yourself. “What are we doing? What is this?”

Kyle sits up a bit more. “What do you mean?”

“What are we, Kyle? This is…” You lose your nerve, unable to finish the last bit.

At first, you think Kyle might reject the question, but instead, a smile spreads across his face.

“Fuck, baby girl.” He runs his hand over the top of his head and falls onto his back. You twist around, reaching for him. The moment your hand touches his chest, Kyle snags it, pulling you into his arms. “Why do you think I’ve been making all these excuses to see you?”

“Because you like me?”

Kyle shakes his head, laughing. “Unbelievable. I’m ordering us food and then we’re talking about this.” Hooking his arm around your back, he brings the phone’s screen back into view. “But first, tell me what you want.”

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @pearljamislife @wrathofcats @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppixie @bbyfimmie @berarenado @saoirse06 @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @thewulf @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666

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persevereforahappyending · 4 months

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Luck Runs Out |Part 1|

Pairing: Mabel x Reader

Summary: When your luck runs out you unknowingly drag Mabel back into the life, she's so desperate to escape.

Warnings: Drugs, Guns, Violence

Word Count: 2.4k

Note: This is what happens when hyperfixations converge

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

“Cut the line!” You screamed over the raging storm and grinding machine.

“No!” Your captain yelled. “We can’t let the product go!”

“We have to!” you turned to face the captain.

“We have too much money riding on this drop.”

You watched as your fellow crewman continued to push the lever, trying to raise the net with product. You lifted thousands of pounds of fish almost daily so drugs shouldn’t be any different. It wasn’t usually different. The thing about machines though, no matter how many times you’ve used them, no matter how reliable they were in the past, they could still break.

The machine continued to groan, the wire grinding and struggling to raise the net. It was a bigger drop than usual, but it wasn’t anything you and the crew couldn’t handle. The thing that didn’t help though was that there was a major storm, the waves crashing around the boat, swaying it violently back and forth as your crew tried to raise the drugs. Most fishermen would have held out in leaving the dock when they heard the storm would be rolling in, just wait for it to pass and leave in the morning to get their catches. Your crew had a time limit though, you were told about the drop and drug dealers didn’t care about a ‘little storm’ in their words. Your job was just to get the drugs and bring them in.

“We have to cut the line!” You shouted, begging your captain to see reason.

“No!” He screamed back. “We get this line up or being out of a job will be the least of our worries.”

The grinding got louder, you looked to see the device to lift the net now smoking. Any other captain would have told them to cut the line, it would have sucked, but any other fishermen would have just taken the loss of the catch, the risk wasn’t worth it. You weren’t just any other fishermen though; you were the best. Your crew brought in some of the biggest catches, you were on one of the nicest fishing boats in the harbor, for fishermen the whole crew were well off not just the captain. You were also drug smugglers, you moved more drugs than fish, that’s where the real money came from.

“Screw it!” You said, watching as your crew mate struggled with the lever, losing his grip and as he slipped from a large wave that crashed onto the deck. The lever went down, the cord holding the product started to drop back into the ocean. Your crew mate quickly recovered and grabbed the lever, pushing it up as he caught the product, the cargo swinging from the sudden change.

You rushed forward, moving to push your crew mate out of the way when the cocking of a gun stopped you in your tracks. You heard it clearly, as if there weren’t crashing waves and thunder surrounding you.

“I said no,” your captain repeated.

You slowly turned to see your captain aiming a revolver at your head. You stared down the barrel of the gun, looking over it to see no hesitation in your captains’ eyes. You took a step away from the machine, refusing to back down from your captain's gaze. He was your captain, this was his ship, what he said was law, if he asked the men to throw you overboard, they would. A crew was supposed to be like family, fishing was dangerous, and the ocean was unforgiving, if you couldn’t rely on your crew, you might as well be dead. Everyone had a job and you needed to trust everyone would do their job, if you couldn’t trust them, then there was risk, everything could go wrong, and on the ocean, if something goes wrong it can not only cost you your life but your entire crews.

There was a groan then a loud snap, breaking the tense moment. Your eyes left the gun pointed at you and went to where the drugs were being lifted. One of the cables had snapped, the other was straining itself to hold the load. With the crew distracted you ran forwards, hitting the button to release the load. The net of drugs instantly dropped; the boat harshly swayed at the change in weight, sending you flying back into the side of the boat, nearly going over the edge.

You held onto the edge, trying to keep yourself upright. You turned around just as a shot rang out. An incredible force hit your shoulder, flipping you over the side of the boat. The cord that had broken free of the machine lifting the drugs entered the water, wrapping around your ankle as it trailed after the net it was connected to, the drugs you tried so hard to cut loose to save everyone was now dragging you to the bottom of the ocean. You weren’t a good person, you’d made a lot of bad choices in life, whatever the reason for those choices ultimately led you to where you were now. You always knew getting involved with this life was most likely a death sentence. Maybe the god of the sea would take mercy on you, maybe remake you into a shark or something cool. You weren’t that lucky though; the sea god was just as ruthless and merciless as the ocean he ruled. You were in his domain; you didn’t deserve his mercy.

You watched as the light from the boat slowly faded. You weren’t sure if they were leaving you, they probably were, or if you were too deep for light to reach, also probable, or made you were starting to blackout from whatever hit you, also highly likely. You deserved this, sinking to the bottom of the ocean floor, alone in the dark with nothing to do but rot. You deserved this.

Your eyes snapped open, the saltwater stinging them. You might have deserved to die like this but that didn’t mean you were going to make it easy. You were a fighter to the very end and there was no way you were going to sit back and just let the ocean take you. You swam up, trying to kick your foot loose from the cord it was tangled in. the cord seemed to only get more tangled, the pallet of drugs only pulling you deeper by the second. You felt around, searching your body for the knife you always kept on you. You let out an internal sigh of relief when your finger brushed the metal, your hand quickly gripping the rubber handle.

You freed your knife and swam down, the cord that was around your ankle was too thick to cut through, you were going to need to cut the net the drugs were in. You swam further down, black spots dancing in the corner of your eyes. You felt around, finally feeling the net, following the path of the net until you found where the cord around your leg connected to the net. You quickly dug the knife into the rope, sawing back and forth until the cord broke free. You didn’t waste a second, quickly swimming back to the surface.

You broke through the water, gasping for air, trying to keep your head above the water as the waves crashed over you. The storm was still raging, you looked around, seeing nothing but the glint of your knife in the moonlight. A few seconds after floating on the water, trying to reserve your energy since you didn’t know right from left in the ocean. If you just started swimming you could end up going further out to sea. You needed to find a piece of driftwood or something just to keep yourself afloat as the current guided you back to shore.

You sheathed the knife back at your side, not removing your hand until you knew it was secure. You reached down, bringing your leg up as you tried to detangle the cord from your ankle, while also keeping your head above the water. The cord was thick and heavy, it kept trying to drag you down but eventually you got it around your foot, kicking your foot to untangle the rest of it until you were finally free.

Something else broke the surface, making you jump but when you got closer you saw it, three tightly sealed packs of drugs. You couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief, the drugs that seemed to be your downfall might be the thing that saved you. You swam to them, pushing them as close as you could together, holding them in place as they kept you afloat.

You pulled out your necklace that you always kept tucked under your shirt, giving it a kiss, silently thanking Poseidon or any other sea god that might exist. You didn’t necessarily believe in the Greek gods, but you grew up hearing those stories, fascinated by the mythology of it all. When you got into fishing your mother gifted you a little trident necklace and ever since you had never taken it off. You knew it was kind of stupid and your crew always made fun of you for it, but you always kissed it before going out to sea and held onto it during difficult times. You didn’t believe in it but on the off chance that the gods were real you wanted to show your support in some way, besides, representing the god of the sea and showing him respect didn’t hurt anything. It gave you comfort, believing in a god, believing that when you went out to sea you’d be protected and if the worse came, then you’d have somewhere to go, that your soul might be protected in the afterlife.

Or maybe Poseidon saved you only to let you die a far harsher death. Sinking to the bottom of the ocean isn’t ideal but it would have been quicker than your current predicament. Now you were floating in the middle of the ocean, a couple bags of drugs the only think keeping you from exhausting yourself and sending you back down to your demise. No one knew where you were, no one would come for you, your crew would lie about what happened and everyone would write you off as dead. You were soaked down to your bones, the top half of your body shivering in the moonlight, you had no food, no water. Your only hope of rescue was being close enough to shore that the tide would carry you in before you died from dehydration, which you knew wasn’t likely. Otherwise, your fate lied in the coast guard stumbling upon you or some unsuspecting fisherman catching sight of you as they set out for their catch.

You sighed, closing your eyes, yeah, the sea god was pissed at you. You couldn’t blame him; you did taint his ocean with drugs after all. You deserved everything that was coming to you. At least the rain stopped, maybe you were being shown mercy after all, maybe Poseidon wasn’t going to allow you to die alone, in the ocean, in the freezing rain. To most that wouldn’t seem like a kindness but for a god that was about as merciful as it got. You were lucky the waves weren’t still crashing over you, refusing to allow you to break through to the surface, fighting your way up and the surface just constantly being out of reach. If you were to die by simple dehydration, then you were lucky.

You had one arm stretched out over the packs of drugs to help keep them together, your fingertips dipping into the water with each movement of the waves. You rested your head against the packs, your eyelids becoming heavy despite your desire to keep them open. The last thing you saw was the moonlight before you finally lost consciousness.

Your eyes slowly fluttered, squinting as you tried to look around but quickly dropped your head back down when you didn’t have the strength to lift it. You groaned, as you reached over, touching your shoulder, gritting your teeth at the pain that shot through your entire body at the lightest touch. When you pulled your hand away, resting it in front of your face as you opened your eyes just a bit more to see your fingers coated red. With that your eyes slowly closed again.

You drifted in and out of consciousness, not able to open your eyes again. The sun beating down on you as you swayed with the waves. You weren’t sure where they were taking you, to shore, or further out into the ocean, inching closer to your demise with each wave.

The waves got rougher, making you regain consciousness for a second. It sounded like people were talking, you nodded thinking you finally succumbed to delusions and now you were hearing things. Certainly, it was only a matter of time before the ocean took you again, dragging you back down to your watery tomb.

Death never came though, you were gripped by the shoulders and hoisted upward, gently being placed back down on a hard surface. You tried to open your eyes, squinting as you saw a handful of silhouettes standing over you. One of them stood taller than the other, looking down at you as he pointed to the others, seeming to give them orders. When he turned, the sunlight hitting him just right, you could see he had a beard, he also smelled oddly like fish, maybe Poseidon was real after all, or maybe you smelled like fish, you were on a fishing boat the night before and had been in the ocean since then.

“Holy shit,” someone whispered, the first thing you could properly hear but your eyes wanted to remain closed as you tried to turn toward the voice.

“Let’s get back to shore!” someone ordered.

“We need to get them to a hospital,” another voice said. This voice was closer to you, and you felt pressure go to your injured shoulder, causing you to let out a cry, your body jolting from the pain but quickly flopping back down again.

“No,” you rasped out. “No hospital.” You tried to raise your hand to wave them off, but you didn’t think your hand ever left the ground. “No,” you breathed out before finally fully losing consciousness again.

#mabel finestkind #mabel (finestkind)#mabel x reader #mabel x you #mabel x fem!reader #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #finestkind 2023 #luck runs out

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theresattrpgforthat · 2 months

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any recommendations for time loop games? or if not anything involving time travel?

thanks :)

THEME: Time Loops

Hello friend! Fear not, I have a good number of time loop and time-loop adjacent games for you!

Project ECCO, by Elliot Davis.

Project ECCO is a game of time travel and cosmic horror—a solo journaling game with a twist. Time travel across the pages of a planner, writing in and marking up the dates based on prompts as you go, ultimately creating an artifact of your travels through time.

You work for the mysterious organization known only as The Agency , tasked with tracking a time-consuming entity throughout an entire year.

In the end, will you destroy the Entity? Do you dare question the Agency? Can you find yourself?

As a solo roleplaying game, Project ECCO is great if you can’t get a group together or if you want more narrative control over your story. This game involves travelling back and forth through time, but there’s also the possibility of ending up in a time loop. You can use different kinds of resolution mechanics to represent different kinds of time-travelling technology, such as a d6, a pack of tarot cards, and a coin.

If you want to listen to a dramatized play of this game, you can listen to the actual play of this as recorded by My First Dungeon!

Reset, by Alfredo Tarancón.

THE END IS NIGH. AGAIN.

You're trapped. But not in a place, exactly, but in a moment. Something terrible is about to happen, and your mission is to prevent it. Unfortunately, every time you try, something goes wrong. Something changes. And you fail. Over and over again. You're caught in a time loop, and the only way out is to prevent the Event. But you're at your breakng point, and you won't be able to endure many more cycles. The human mind isn't prepared for something like this.

How many Resets do you have left before succumbing

WELCOME TO THE LOOP

RESET is a role-playing game in which you play as time travelers who must prevent a terrible Event from taking place. You belong to an organization that has the ability to send a team to Key Moments in history to try to prevent them from occurring. But it's not easy. The technology allows you to create temporal loops that help you decipher the mysteries behind the Events, but there's a limit to the number of times a person can experience the process. If you fail to decipher the events that converge to trigger the Event, your mind will end up being destroyed, as well as your body, jsut another victim of the Event. You can only exit the loop by preventing the Event… or by dying.

Breathless games are great for setting tension, using dwindling resources represented by different-sided dice. These dwindling resources alongside a time loop that can only go on for so many repetitions means that this is likely a good candidate for game groups that want suspense, and high stakes.

Time To Drop, by Marn S.

YOU are a member of a heist crew about to pull off ONE LAST JOB. You and your crew are under the impression that you only have 24 HOURS left with one another - 12 to finalize your preparation, and 12 to pull off the heist itself.

You and your crew are wrong.

You are about to find yourselves trapped in a loop of those same 24 hours, living and reliving them as many times as it takes to identify every complication, refine your plan, and get it right. No one besides your crew will remember the previous loops as clear as day, but make a strong enough impression on someone in one loop and it might carry to the next. What you do here matters. What you do here has to matter, if you ever want to say your final goodbyes and get out of the game for good.

Time to drop. Fuck shit up.

Time To Drop is a GM-less tabletop game where you and your friends take on the roles of a heist crew trapped in a time loop, trying to get their final job right and ride off into the sunset with the goods. You'll use dice and a tarot/oracle deck to determine and overcome Complications such as your Mark, and the Guard of the goods you're after, ally with NPCs, and spend downtime phases working through your feelings about the crew splitting up.

You’re going to need dice and a tarot deck to play this one. Time to Drop combines heist fiction with time loop fiction, putting a series of complications in front of your team that they’ll have to overcome if they want to get away scot-free. If you want an action-packed game with just enough structure to help you get from one point to the next, this might be the game for you.

What’s So Cool About Time Loops? By Max Kämmerer.

“What’s so cool about time loops?” Lots of things, honestly. But what is cool about your time loop? Play to find out! Climb out the trenches of a war. Celebrate a family holiday. Take your final exams. Experience the day a meteor crashes into the city. Play the championship-winning game. Or witness the assassination of a politician. Again, and again, and again…

At least until you manage to break the loop…

To do something in this game, you start with 2d6 and add or subtract dice according to helpful and unhelpful circumstances. Roll an 8 or higher and you succeed! For the GMs, there’s a page of advice as well as a roll table of suggestions as to scenarios that might be taking place or various reasons why the time loop started in the first place.

WSCA games are usually pretty simple, which means that you can make the stakes as big or a small as you like. If your group wants to navigate a small-stakes, everyday complication, you can do that, but you could also use this game to tell a story about highly-trained professionals in a doomsday situation.

Thrown for a Loop, by DMan1198.

Your players live in a highly advanced town filled with brilliant scientists and a state of the art super-collider, that seems to be having an issue. Now the day keeps resetting, and your players are the only ones that seem to be aware of it. Can they find the answer to why the day is resetting, or are they doomed to relive this day forever?

This is a pretty bare-bones document, but the premise is interesting. You are all citizens of a little town, with various roles that may help you figure out how to stop the time loop. The game relies on d100 rolls, so you’ll probably need a couple of d10s and that’s about it.

This is a game for folks who either want to collaboratively create their own town or have the GM come up with a town for the group to explore. The document has the basic rules of how to resove actions and a list of character types, but not much else.

Too O’Clock, by Xander Hinners.

Hey! Have you ever seen a sitcom or cartoon bottle episode where all its wacky hijinks are based on the main character being trapped in a time loop? TOO O'CLOCK is made specifically to model those episodes! You and a friend toss coins to shape your show's antics around the weekly aeso--

Hey! Have you ever seen in a story where a character trapped in a time loop uses their infinite redos to their advantage, to (re-re-re-)try achieving a goal with another character? TOO O'CLOCK is made specifically to model those scenes! You and a friend toss and collect coins to disco--

Hey! Have you ever been stuck repeating your life, trapped for what feels like a trillion seconds, echoing your experience over and over until every detail is etched into your skull and eroded again by its endless tides? I have. It's why I wrote TOO O'CLOCK; part memoir, part warning.

Too O-Clock follows the story of a single character as they try to navigate a time loop, using coins or another binary form of resolution. The story is a collaborative narrative, with the players able to take on different roles at different points. The game has 7 different iterations, with the 7th iteration looking very very different from the 1st. This game is a great candidate for a table that really loves the tactile sensation of moving tokens, flipping coins, and keeping track of stacks to help you map how far you’ve gone.

You Might Also Want to Check Out...

My Time Travel rec post!

#tabletop games #indie ttrpgs #game recommendations #dnd #asks #indie ttrpg #time loops #time travel

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srbachchan · 2 months

Text

DAY 5855

Jalsa, Mumbai Feb 28/29, 2024 Wed/Thu 12:04 AM

🪔 ,

Ef birthday for February 29 ..

This birthday wish can happen only once in 4 years .. worldcup ki tarah .. so it's very extra special ..

For .. February 29 .. our greetings to Anagha Sridhar - daughter of Ef Anjana Sridhar .. hope we're saying the name correctly .. her .. errrrm .. 7th birthday - according to the leap year !! .. be happy and always leap with faith and joy .. love from the Ef Family .. 🙏🏻🚩❤️

As you put in the home details there is a sense of belonging and an enlightened demeanour ..

Home is home .. it may be lesser than most , richer than most , non facilitated with the needs of existence , but it is home .. and nothing can ever replace its bearings , latitudes and longitudes .. they are the permanency that nature instills in us all ..

I am home and in a happy environ .. the happiest , and the most desireable ..

.. and the 'pundits ' of the times express to us all the true feel of domesticity :

"Home is the sanctuary where heart and hearth converge, weaving a tapestry of comfort and belonging. It transcends the physical, embodying memories, laughter, and solace. It's the symphony of familiar creaks and the fragrance of shared meals. Home is where acceptance resides, where love unfolds its gentle wings. It cradles dreams in cozy corners and stands resilient amidst life's tempests. More than walls and a roof, it's an intimate mosaic of shared experiences. Home is the compass guiding weary souls, an anchor in the tumultuous sea of existence. It is a refuge, a haven, where the essence of one's true self flourishes."

The last day at work in the elms of the city of Hyderabad, get visited by the exalted genius and his thoughts and expresses, that be mysterious and mystifying - Ram Gopal Varma , alias Ramu ..

And he pours out in a non stop breather conversation on films contents and the much talked about and meticulously practised - AI

Where are we going .. ? a mystery unknown and in its changes and revolutions by the day almost ..

Fact was never looked upon with doubt and scepticism, and disbelief as it is today .. what be real, non fake , is ever up for debate and discuss each hour .. living side by side .. almost complimenting each other .. but never the belief that it be the truest and correct .. information has 'inform' in it for its delivery .. but does it really inform .. or does it simply put out for its content existence .. impotence and all ... as what was expressed some time back in the days of the year gone by ..

And what of failure and despondency or its despondent exist :

"Failure and defeat linger in the recesses of our being, casting long shadows that echo well beyond the moment of setback. The scars of unsuccessful endeavors etch themselves into our psyche, creating a mosaic of resilience and self-discovery. Even when success follows, the remnants of past failures shape our character, fostering humility and tenacity. The memory of defeat, like an indelible watermark, accompanies us on the journey, a constant reminder of our vulnerability and capacity to rise. Yet, within the persistence lies the seed of growth, as failure becomes the fertile ground from which triumph eventually sprouts, transforming setbacks into stepping stones towards a more profound and enduring success."

Ride it .. wave it , breach the continuity .. accept the fresh abound .. and sail onto the barren sands of time , in the balance of dexterity

Amitabh Bachchan

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yourtamaki · 2 years

Text

i know for a fact zoro gets handsy after he fucks you

sometimes, zoro’s hands wander. it should feel wrong for a man who’s every actions is fuelled by purpose and maybe it would if it wasn’t your softness beneath his palms and your sighs in his ear. the aimless glide of scarred hands across smooth skin is indulgent and you give so willingly it makes something untouchable inside him ache.

so he wanders, exploring familiar territory in quiet reverence like he’ll never get to hold you like this again. and though the journey along your body is never planned, never timed, it always ends here; with his hand between your legs, feeling the mess he’s made of you.

you shudder in his arms as he spreads you open and presses down on your overstimulated clit just a touch too rough. he apologizes with a kiss behind your ear and eases up, taking stock of how well fucked you are with a care he never thought himself capable of. you’ll be sore tomorrow, he can feel it. you’re already a bit swollen. guilt and pride bloom in his chest, twin flames that burn hot and converge into one as the latter wins out.

he knows you can take it. you always do.

almost as though you’re trying to prove him right, you spread your legs just wide enough to let him dip down further, to feel where his cum is still leaking out of you.

it’s so easy to slip two fingers inside when you’re soft and stretched out like this, slick in his arousal and your own. you melt back against him with every lazy pump and give yourself entirely to him. zoro can’t tear his gaze away from you. you’re so beautiful chasing a high he hasn’t decided if he’s going to give you.

you decide for him, too sensitive to stop the orgasm from crashing over you in gentle waves, fucking yourself on his fingers while you ride it out. it’s not the strongest one of the night, far from it, but it leaves you breathless in his arms. he raises his hand to your mouth and you open up just as easily here as you did below, sucking the taste of yourself clean off his fingers.

you’re still lapping at his fingertips when you fall asleep and he’s careful not to wake you as he pulls himself free and wipes his hand clean on a nearby towel. zoro follows you into sleep like that, your back warm against his chest, breathing as one. his whole world in his arms.

#zoro smut #one piece smut #zoro x reader #one piece x reader #roronoa zoro smut #roronoa zoro x reader #i will never not write zoro as soft and romantic

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