lilith

I WASN’T EVEN GONE FOR THAT LONG

-🫐

no worries, this is fairly tame! love this shit!! afab reader :)

herm’s got towels on standby already— his uncontrollable wetness calling for them— so he has no issues laying another layer down when you’re on your period! he’s actually the first to suggest getting intimate regardless of you menstruating once he found out orgasms can help with cramps and pain during his escapades researching how to help you while you were actively going through organ haemorrhaging. besides, he’s got more than enough water to make clean up easy! what’s a knights purpose if he’s scared of bloodying his sword, am i right?

he may not give you oral while you’re bleeding since there’s bacteria and bits of shed organ lining in your blood and he doesn’t want to get sick, but that doesn’t stop him from using his hands to get you off! he’s a very gentle lover when you’re bleeding; two fingers pumping slowly and deeply inside you as the thumb on his spare hand rubs your clit in soft circles, his voice whispering praises in your ear and calling you the most generous being in the universe for letting him touch you at your most vulnerable.

oh most defo! it’s like the cbat reddit guy all over again but instead of a beat that sounds like a squeaky door hinge, it’s the sounds of metal pipes hitting concrete ground.

now, industrial metal is intense and fast with their beats, often at around 120 bpm! herm’s thrusts are going to be a bit sloppy at first, and it reminds you of when you fucked him as an enthusiastic virgin who didn’t know what he was doing for the first time all over again, but once he gets into the tempo he ends up pounding his long cock into you in a pace that leaves your brain oozing out of you through your spunk. they’re fast, rough, and jerk your body forward if he’s not pinning you down hard enough into the mattress. you WILL be soaked and sore by the time he’s finished with you.

no worries anon! i lowkey made the meaning up without looking it up first lol. copying what i stated in a comment in a previous post;

stigmata, in catholicism, refer to open wounds in areas that correspond with christ’s crucifixion, so i imagine stigmata fucking would be making wounds in those areas (hands, wrists, near the heart, feet if you’re freaky enough) and fucking them with fingers or genitals. it’s like the bastard child of wound fucking and religious roleplay!

ooh!! yk i fw this!!

herm would try out anything that would make you happy, especially if it pertains to you dominating him one way or another. he leaves his bodily autonomy to you and you only— if you wanna bend him in half and turn him into a stupid bitch, by all means!

vv unholy thoughts!! this is my first time dipping my toes into religious trauma so please forgive me for any inaccuracy in this word vomit— i’m a non-theistic satanist whose only experience with catholicism is at family funerals. then again, it’s altar fucking. whoops!

a rosary of dried roses and glass dangles from his wrist, the crystal portrait of the virgin mary facing away from him. herm is far out of his element, standing in a place not of his worship and dressed in attire not familiar to his own beliefs, and yet the moonlight that peaks through the stained glass windows that curate christ’s image of the abandoned church basks over him as he himself was its fountain of holy water. in his clysmic kisses, you could believe he was.

before him, on the pure white sheet covering the altar’s table, lays your body dressed in nothing but a thin glaze of candlelight, a direct contrast to his modesty. burning wax in long cylinders of glass surround you at the edges of the table placed meticulously as to not be struck by water droplets falling from his slicked back ginger hair. he stares longingly at the display of your rawest form, taking his time to memorize a body he’s loved and touched many times before yet could never tire himself of.

he’s nervous— you can see it in the thick bead of holy water that runs down his temple. he’s a bit frightened by himself as he looms over you and even more frighted by the possibility of scaring you into your younger days when you’d collapse before the altar and beg god to spare you from his messenger’s cruelty disguised as his love.

but when he looks at your face for any sign of hesitance, he sees nothing but patience— trust even. for the first time in your life, you’re at ease at the altar. no longer are you gripping your hands in the prayer with desperation. no, you have your fingers intertwined at your chest with an almost dreamy expression painted on your face. the damp collar snug at his neck does not scare you. no longer does the priest have that power to hurt you, for the man that holds his cross will only preach your name. in his soddened touch lays promised safety.

your legs are spread enough to expose your weeping sex to the man before you, thighs far enough apart to give him room to stand between them. he lurches over you, gripping the rosary in his right hand a little tighter. the mother gives him no comfort; he finds all the serenity he needs in you. a silent prayer lays behind his hazy, colourless eyes— not one ever uttered in the bible itself, but one conjured from his trust and devotion to a mortal being. his spare hand hovers over your pulse point. he feels the temperature of your skin shift as your heart begins to race. he swallows.

“f-forgive me for this…”

shrouded in his image, you hope that god is watching as herm takes his hand from the air kissing your neck to undress his robes. you hope god is listening when herm whispers your praises in your ear as if you were the divine being meant to be worshiped all this time. you hope god can feel the sinful warmth radiating from your skin as herm conjoins your bodies with a slow push of his hips, his tight grip on the rosary that turns his knuckles a ghostly white, the waves of unchaste pleasure that echo throughout the church’s walls in moans of the man’s name.

either that, or it was meant to be a one off detail for the scene since you don’t actually see them wearing body cams nor is it ever brought up again. kinda confusing.

can you please PLEASE do one for our lovely wet boy about listening to metal (slipknot, nine inch nails, or Rammstein) while the reader gives him head or having sex? I beg on my hands and knees my good lord 😔🙏

OHOHOHOOO YEAH thank you so much!! picking nine inch nails for this one bc i love industrial metal— if y’all are looking for more industrial metal recommendations PLEASEEE HIT MY FUCKING LINE!!! I NEED TO SPREAD MY PLAYLISTS LIKE A PLAGUE!!!!

the sounds of wet suckles drowned in the metal playing from herm’s phone, every pass of your tongue a background vocal to what others would consider the sounds of industrial pipes falling on concrete like the refinery was collapsing in on itself. physical by nine inch nails concealed your shared noises to anyone passing by his bedroom, his sweet grandma downstairs knitting while watching a soap opera with her menagerie of cats. he didn’t want her to hear what you two were doing regardless of her weakened hearing; even the smallest chance of you two getting caught made his blood run cold.

so he opted to blast metal as he usually did in his idle time to drown out the noises of you giving him the best head of his life.

herm’s fingers intertwined with your locks, dampening your hair as he gazed down at you with an expression that begged you not to stop. red cheeks and half lidded eyes, hot water running down his body and drenching the edge of the mattress, his long cock throbbing over the flat of your tongue— he tried his hardest to keep his moans down, and turned up the volume to sneak in a broken whine of your name.

you closed your eyes, a deep breath filling your lungs with musky oxygen before you took as much of his cock in your mouth as possible. you could feel it stretch your throat, the tip of your nose kissing his curly bush as he gasped in shocked delight. watery precum eased the adjustment, but you remained cautious to not breathe any in. he slammed his other hand over his mouth, upper body collapsing back on his mattress unable to keep itself stable as you bobbed your head up and down with a quicker pace. your hands found his hips and stroked his pelvic bones in a condescending act of comfort, a low moan reverberating from your mouth all the way down his cock.

thak you so much anon! that’s my goal, i don’t judge whatever filthy shit ppl wanna indulge in with that wet noodle <3 that means a lot to me, thank you anon

YESSSS he needs the self esteem boost!!

the sight of waterboy physically deflating anytime he was insulted by his teammates made your heart ache. it’s been months since he’s joined the team; you knew he was strong and more than capable of making it as a hero— hell, more often than not you were left in awe after being sent on missions with him— the poor guy just lacked the confidence, and the rest of your team was eating him like vultures. you could see the hesitance in his eyes, hear the self doubt in the exhausted sighs after he’d fail a mission, feel the cold drop of blood pressure when you’d lace your hands with his at the end of a long shift. it hurt to see the love of your life like this, and you were determined to put an end to his self doubt.

it started small; kissing his soft lips and calling him your hero anytime he’d do something for you, showing off the merch you bought of him and his likeness with a sparkle of pride in those eyes he loved to gaze into so much, asking him to keep the suit on for just a little longer as you worshiped him in the candlelit nighttime. you made a grand show of being his biggest fan— “i’m so lucky to have you, my love. i can’t believe i get to be the waterboy’s s/o.” — and it would never fail to put a bashful yet beaming smile on his face.

escalation came quickly during the weekends when you were at your respective homes. you started sending media of yourself in a shirt in his suit’s colours, official merchandise of his likeness. nothing super risqué, just a few photos of you lifting the hem of the shirt to reveal that pair of underwear he really likes seeing you in or a video of your middle body in full view, shirt pulled up to your collarbones and lips tumbling his hero alias in desperate whispers as you touched yourself thinking about him.

oftentimes, he’d ask you if he could call you, if he could listen to your breathy moans plead for him in his ear, and when you’d answer the phone you’d be rewarded with his own whispers and the slick sounds of skin against skin in the background. he’d praise you so sweetly, his broken speech of moans and gasps poetic in a lustful sense that spilled how much he missed you.

“oh, waterboy,” you’d sigh in a needy tone, hands brushing over your more sensitive nerves, “i miss you. i wish you were here to save me right now… i miss how my hero holds and touches me…”

“c-can…” he’d swallow, “can you keep the… w-wear the shirt? while i…?”

“of course.”

and immediately he’d reassure you he’s on his way, hanging up the phone and practically running to your place at an inhuman speed.

despite civilian life being far behind you both, you suggested a certain roleplay scenario where he’d “save” you from whatever hostage situation you could conjure in the darkness of your bedroom and allow him to reap the rewards of a grateful civilian. he was more than happy to fulfill your request, the swoon on your tied up form coaxing a wave of pride washing down his body in warm water as he “rescued you.” he’d lay you down so gently on the bed, slowly undoing the knots until you were free enough to loop your fingers around the rims of his goggles and push them up to his hair, making sure to keep them on. the top half of his suit would lay around his waist as per your sweet requests to keep it on as you rode him into the mattress, moaning his name into the musky air like you'd die without him there to save you.

he has to take a moment to calm himself down in the morning one his body begins to associate his costume with your touch. he'd grumble to himself trying to shove his hard-on past the zipper and force the blood to return to the rest of his body. it rarely ever works, and he finds himself returning to the videos you've sent to him of you fucking yourself in his merch to rub out a quick one if you weren't available.

anytime his dispatcher or a teammate would call him by his hero alias, his first instinctual thought would be to think back on you calling it out, voice honeyed and breathless in the waves of his soddened touch. his wet suit was modest and covered the entirety of his body from the jawline down, but his blush never failed to rise to his cheeks anytime he'd get a glance at his own reflection while out and about. he knew what kind of bruises and scratch marks laid beneath the nylon material, reminders of your affections for him littering his peachy skin like teethed pollution.

LMAOOO yeah i love the postal franchise!! vv based for noticing