Sweet Seals For You, Always
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cherry valley forever
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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almost home
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@m1lkymatcha
I bought a push up bra today because Iâm insecure about my small boobs. I tried them on at home and it actually made me feel worse about myself. I couldnât help but think about freeing it was to not wear a bra anywhere and people not noticing. I feel confident without a bra. Also yeah Iâm gonna make this about arcane because I cannot get vi out of my head. She would also be devastated if she found me in a push up bra. She would be a small boob enthusiast
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Vi would play around with her girlfriendâs bush when theyâre both lying down together.
I wanna be a magazine model for Vi to Jack off to. A softness in a rigid world â€ïž
I'd be dressing like this:
Definitely an HR Violation | Waterboy (Dispatch)
Read part two and part three here
CROSS-POSTED FROM AO3
WC: 10K
SUMMARY: A casual sleepover with the Phoenix girls ends up with you confessing your long hidden attraction to the local sweetheart, Waterboy. The following week, Blonde Blazer throws an office party for a month of successful dispatch.
Will you take that opportunity to finally make a move? Or will you make him chase after you?"
CONTENT: Alcohol consumption, Dom/sub undertones, Office sex, Shameless smut, Sexual inexperience, Orgasm edging, Office party, Service submission, Reader-insert has powers, Dominant Reader-insert, Teasing, Sleepovers
RATING: EXPLICIT
VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED!
ââââââââââââââ â âââââââââââââââ
not to state the obvious but Sevika has a bush
who tf doesnt see it?
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the lesbian urge to scissor with invisigal
18+ headcanon btw
Vi goes feral when y/n walks around in a shirt without wearing a bra and you can see her nipple poking out of it. Your words start to sound like white noise when sheâs staring at your boobs through your shirt. Her mind goes wild as she pretends to understand what youâre saying because sheâs too distracted.
Robert Robertson whimpering audio when?!
kiramman officer
đđđ
I placed this brick and now Iâm bricked
AI cannot replicate the out of pocket things arcane fans say about their favorite character.
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Sevika with a happy trail leading to the happy meal is canon for me idc
Vi x art student reader? Vi finds readerâs sketchbook and itâs full of drawings of Vi, full profile and little studies. Maybe she asks Vi to model for her and then they have sesbian lex in her studio?
Also maybe pathetic service top vi?
Anything for my princess
Wc: 1.5k
Warnings: Service top Vi, overstimulation, oral, biting (slightly), scissoring.
I busted all over my phone
content blasphemy, massive religious guilt, dry humping, dirty talk, vaginal sex, oral sex, internalized homophobia, part one
words: 4.1k
âSweet little lamb.
Itâs been almost two weeks.
Two weeks since you last stepped foot inside the church.
Two weeks since you touched the wooden pews, pressed your knees into the kneeler, bowed your head under the shadow of the crucifix.
Two weeks since Sevika fucked you in her bed and turned you into something you canât even name without your face going hot and your stomach twisting.
You used to think the worst sin youâd ever commit was touching yourself with her face and hands in your mind, under the covers, praying for forgiveness before you even caught your breath.
But this? This is a whole other level.
You didnât just do it.
You did it with her.
A woman.
Sevika, the most sinful woman you could have chosen.
And the worst part isnât even that you gave inâitâs that you loved it.
You loved every second of it.
You loved how rough she was, the way she handled you like she owned you, the way your voice broke into sobs for her.
You loved the way she slowed down after, like she knew how hard it was for you; the guilt and the shame through your tearsâpulling you close, touching your hair, kissing the side of your head like you were something precious instead of something sinful.
You didnât even cry when it was over. Not out of shame, not out of fear.
Because she didnât let you.
You stayed.
And you did it the next day. And the next. And the next.
And God help you, you went back every night you could, letting her fuck you hard and do things to you that you couldnât stop thinking about even if you wanted to.
Now your parents are back from their trip, and you donât have a choice. Sunday comes, and they expect you in the pew beside them like always.
You canât do it.
You canât walk in there with this on your body, this sin sunk deep into your skin, your mind, your blood. The ghost of her lips against yours, her calloused hands on your waist, your hips, bruising your soft skin.
You canât stand under the painted eyes of the saints knowing what Sevikaâs mouth felt like between your legs, knowing the sounds she pulled from you, knowing how good it was.
It feels impossible. Cruel.
You walk up the church steps anyway, because your motherâs hand is on your arm, your fatherâs already inside, and thereâs no excuse you can give that wonât draw questions.
And when you step through the doors, the air feels heavier than it ever has before.
The scent of incense and polished wood chokes you.
You donât look at the crucifix. You canât.
You can hear her.
Every time your gaze flickers upward, all you see is Sevika leaning over you, all you hear is your own voice saying her name like a prayer.
Your knees feel weak before you even sit.
Then you have to pray.
âTake it off.â
You bow your head when they do, fold your hands when they do, mouth the words youâve known since you were old enough to sit still on these pews.
âOur Father, who art in HeavenâŠâ
You try to follow the rhythm, the soft drone of voices all around you, the way your mother says every line with the same tone sheâs had all her life.
You try. You really try.
But the second your eyes close, the wrong images burn through.
âHold still.â Her voice, low and rough in your ear.
The weight of her body above yours, shadowing you from the light. Her hand forcing your knee apart when you instinctively try to close it.
ââŠthy kingdom come, thy will be doneâŠâ
You swallow hard, nails biting into the skin of your folded hands. It doesnât help.
âSevika, please⊠I want you inside me, pleaseâŠâ
Your chest is tight, your pulse loud in your ears. You have to stop it.
âFuck, look at you. Soaking my sheets. Is it for Him or all for me, baby ?â
Stop it.
Itâs like the whole church can see it, hear itâlike every bowed head in here is hiding eyes that are secretly turned toward you. Watching. Knowing.
ââŠon earth as it is in HeavenâŠâ
âYes, Sevikaâ yes, yes, yesââ you gasp as her grip on your thighs tighten, bruising your skin, pounding inside of you deeper, harder.
You squeeze your eyes shut, but itâs a mistake.
Your head fall back on the pillow. You close your eyes shut, hard, arch your back, feel the knot burning in your lower belly as you gasp, unable to control, only to feel.
âOh god, Sevika!â
ââŠforgive us our trespassesâŠâ
Your eyes snap open.
The words hit too hard. Too pointed.
Your hands shake in your lap. Forgive you? For this? You donât even know if you want it forgiven. You donât even know if you could stop if you tried.
You force your eyes to look straight ahead, anywhere but at the crucifix.
But it doesnât matterâyou can still feel it. That presence above you, that weight in the air like judgement.
You can feel it the same way you feel Sevikaâs eyes when she looks at you too long; cutting right through you, stripping you bare.
And your skin burns under your dress.
Your thighs press tight together.
Your lips move with the prayer, but every word tastes like a lie.
Itâs a lie.
The moment the priest says the final words, youâre already halfway out of your seat.
The wood creaks under you, and itâs humiliating, the way your legs feelâweak, off-balance, like youâve been caught doing something wrong.
Because you have.
Because you keep doing it.
Because youâre almost getting used to it.
You keep your head down, pretending to follow the shuffle of people toward the doors, the sound of polite murmurs and shuffling shoes filling the vaulted air. Your heartâs still pounding in your chest, not from the prayer, not from Godâat least, not only from God.
The sunlight outside is too bright. It feels like it hits your skin harder than it should. Exposing you. Showing everything you donât want them to see.
You barely have time to take one deep breath before your parents are beside you.
âYou alright?â your mother asks, already reaching for your arm.
âYeah,â you lie, quick, small. âJust⊠feel a bit sick. Itâs nothing. Felt like that all morning.â
Your father gives you a short look, concerned but not overlyâheâs never been one to fuss in public. You take the opening before either of them can press.
âIâm just⊠gonna go for a walk. Air might help.â
They nod, tell you to be home before dinner. You promise, and youâre already moving before the words are even fully out of your mouth.
The air is warm, almost perfect. The kind of weather people pray for when they pray for good days.
It doesnât help. It makes everything worse, somehow.
Like the day itself is too clean for you to be walking through it with this inside you.
Every step feels like itâs carrying you further from the church but not far enough from whatâs in your head.
You can still hear her voice if you try. You can still feel her hands without even closing your eyes.
And God, you want to feel them again. You want her.
Not just want. Need.
You tell yourself youâre just walking. That itâs the same streets you always take. But the truth settles in your stomach before youâre even halfway there.
Youâre going to see her.
You have to see her.
And you could go to her.
The thought creeps in and refuses to leave.
You know exactly where sheâd be, bent over her bike, working at the garage, or leaning against the railing outside, cigarette between her fingers. You could cross the distance in minutes.
But you donât.
You canât.
Not because you donât want to. God, you do. But because you already know youâll see her tonight. Youâve been counting the hours without admitting it to yourself, tracking them the way you once tracked Sundays on the calendar.
The wait feels unbearable.
You tell yourself maybe thatâs fair. Maybe this is what you deserve.
A punishment.
For the way you canât stop thinking about her hands.
For the way you love how she says your name, like sheâs the only one allowed to.
For the way you let her touch you, make you, and never once said no.
Maybe itâs God making you sit in this. The ache of it, the way your chest tightens every time you think about how many hours are left.
You feel it in your stomach, heavy, sick. The same way you did in the pew this morning. But thereâs something else in it too, something you donât want to name.
Because deep downâburied under the shame and the guilt and the fearâyou like it.
You like knowing sheâs out there, somewhere, doing whatever sheâs doing, not knowing yet how badly youâre thinking of her.
You like that she will know tonight.
The thought is enough to make your steps falter, enough to make you press your lips together like you can keep it in that way.
You canât.
You donât want to look suspicious. You donât want trouble. You donât want her to be in trouble.
By the time the sun sets, your skin feels too tight for your body.
Dinner with your parents is a blur. Smiles where theyâre needed, nods at the right moments. You taste none of it. Youâre half certain you didnât swallow more than a few bites.
Every second drags.
Every clock in the house seems louder than usual.
When you finally step outside, the air is cooler, quieter. The kind of stillness that makes you feel like youâre the only one awake, the only one moving.
You walk fast. Not because youâre afraid of being caught, though maybe you should be, but because youâve been holding this in all day and the thought of one more minute without her feels unbearable.
You knock once. Twice.
The pause is long enough for you to hear your own pulse, for you to imagine her deciding not to open the door.
Then the latch turns.
She fills the frame. Broad shoulders, loose shirt, hair a little mussed from whatever sheâd been doing before you came. Her mouth tilts up just slightly, not a smirk, not yet. Just something that says sheâs been expecting you.
You step inside without a word.
She closes the door, the sound final, shutting the rest of the world out. And then youâre in her space, the faint smell of tobacco and oil clinging to her, and you canât help it, your hands find her.
Itâs almost helpless, the way your mouth meets hers.
All week, youâve been two women who nod politely in passing, who pretend thereâs nothing between them but the neighborly small talk your parents would approve of. Two women who had to wait until the sky turned black to touch each other.
And now, in the quiet, you can finally touch her.
Her lips part for you like sheâs been waiting too, her hands cupping your face, rough and warm.
She kisses you like sheâs drinking you in, slow at first, but it doesnât stay that way.
The hungerâs there, always, right under the surface.
When you break apart, just enough to breathe, you see the way sheâs looking at you. Like sheâs missed you more than sheâll say. It makes your chest ache and your stomach twist all at once.
You shouldnât want this.
You shouldnât have it.
But sheâs right here.
Her thumb brushes along your cheek. âMissed you,â she says, soft, like itâs not a sin to admit it.
You smile, small, guilty. âI missed you too.â
It feels dangerous, standing here like this, trading something so tender when what youâre about to do is anything but pure.
Maybe thatâs why you canât stop looking at her mouth.
Maybe thatâs why you kiss her again, deeper this time, until youâre in her bedroom.
Her bed creaks under your knees as you crawl up after her, the shadows pooling in the corners of the room, the faint light from the window cutting over her face.
She leans back on her elbows, watching you with that steady, heavy-lidded gaze that makes it hard to breathe and that lazy, smug smirk.
You donât know if youâre moving because you want to or because you need to. Both, probably.
The want is sharp, a deep ache under your ribs. The guilt is heavier still, pressing against your lungs, whispering all the ways this is wrong, the ways youâll burn for it.
But you love her.
And you want her.
And tonight, those are the same thing.
Your hands shake as you touch her.
You think of the crucifix on your wall, the one you couldnât look at earlier without feeling sick.
You think of the words you mouthed in church this morning, the vows of purity, the prayers for strength.
And how easily youâre breaking all of it now, in her room, on her bed.
She sits up, one hand cupping the back of your neck, and she kisses you slow.
Itâs almost cruel how soft she can be when she knows exactly how wrecked you already are.
Her mouth lingers on yours like sheâs savoring the taste of a sin sheâs in no hurry to finish committing.
You donât think twice and straddle her. Her hands slide down your back, warm through the fabric, and the feel of her palms there makes you shiver.
She tilts her head, looking up at you like youâre the only thing worth seeing in this world, and it hurts.
Because if you could choose, youâd love her somewhere pure, somewhere without the threat of damnation hanging over every breath.
But you donât get to choose.
You press your forehead to hers, your breaths mingling. âSevikaâŠâ you whisper, and itâs not a prayer.
Itâs not forgiveness.
Itâs just her name, like that alone can save you.
She nods, subtle but sure, and her hands grip your hips. âGo on,â she murmurs, and itâs half permission, half command.
And you do.
Because you canât stop.
You donât remember the first thing that comes off. Maybe itâs your dress, sliding up over your hips, her hands rough with urgency as she pushes the fabric higher.
Or maybe itâs her shirt, pulled off between kisses that have turned frantic, teeth catching, mouths dragging over each other like youâre starving.
Itâs the wildness of it, the raw pull, that makes your head spin.
Thereâs no careful unfolding, no holy patience. Just the desperate stripping away of anything between you.
You feel like youâre breaking every law written in heaven and earth, and maybe you are.
The thought should stop you.
It only makes you move faster.
Sevikaâs mouth is at your neck, breath hot against your skin.
She doesnât kiss here. She takes.
Lips sealing, teeth grazing, breath hot as she pants against your skin, her back near the headboard, marking you where no oneâs supposed to see. Your hands are in her hair, pulling her closer because if you let go, youâll collapse.
âLook at you,â she murmurs, voice low, thick with something that makes your stomach drop and your chest ache. âAll worked up for me?â
The friction is unbearable, too good, too much.
Youâd never let anyone talk to you like that before. Youâd have been horrified, mortified, if someone had even thought it about you.
But now, with her hands gripping your hips and her mouth hovering over yours, you nod, breathless. âYes⊠SevikaâGod, yes.â
You think about the pews in the church, about kneeling with clasped hands, about the eyes of the saints carved in wood.
Watching, always watching. And your thighs clench tighter around her.
Itâs not just want anymore.
itâs need, hot and unrelenting.
She grins like the devil, like sheâs just heard you swear in church. âSay it for me.â
You donât even think.
âI want you.â The words tumble out, shameless, shaking. âI want you so bad, Iââ You break off with a gasp as she drags you over her core again, harder this time.
Her palm lands on your ass, firm, keeping you there. âYou gonna fuck yourself on me like a good girl?â she growls against your ear, and you almost whimper at how raw it sounds.
âYes,â you choke out. âPlease.â
âPlease what?â
âPlease, let meâ let me come for you.â Your face burns, your whole body burning, but itâs not shame now.
Youâre both a mess now. Your breath hitching, her jaw tense as she loses herself in the curve of your throat.
âAtta girl,â she breathes, and then sheâs kissing you. Hungry, deep, stealing the air right out of your lungs.
You grind down like youâll die if you stop, the wet heat between your legs slick against her skin. Sheâs muttering filth between kisses.
How pretty you are like this, how down bad she is for you, how youâre never gonna think about anything else when youâre in that pew again.
Youâd once have bitten your tongue bloody before saying anything like it, but nowânow you want her to hear it.
âYou make me so wet,â you confess, voice breaking, âI canât stop thinking about you.â
âYeah? Even in church?â Sheâs smirking, but her grip on you is tight enough to bruise.
You nod, shameless. âEvery time.â
She groans like sheâs the one about to break, and her hands slide up your sides, over your breasts, teasing until youâre gasping into her mouth. âThen do it,â she says, guiding your hips faster.
âCome for us, baby. Let them hear you.â
You donât mean to. You try to hold it back, one last shred of control, but the pressure snaps, and youâre crying out against her shoulder, clutching her like sheâs the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.
She holds you through it, moving you until you can barely breathe, whispering, âThatâs it. So fucking pretty when you give in.â
And all you can think, over and over, is that this is the closest thing youâve ever felt to worship.
Your pulse is still skipping, erratic, when Sevika shifts under you, leaning back against the headboard, her thick thigh sliding out from between yours.
She studies you, her grin tilting into something sharper, but thereâs a heat in her eyes now that wasnât there a moment ago.
âYou look like youâre thinkinâ too much,â she says, lazy drawl cutting through your ragged breathing. âGonna fix that?â
It takes you a second to realize what she means, but once you do, the thought plants itself deep.
It feels dangerous in a new way, your shame curling tighter, hotter. But so does the want.
Sheâs sprawled here because you put her there. Sheâs looking at you like she knows youâd do anything for her.
And maybe you would.
You swallow. âI want to.â The words scrape on the way out. Youâve never said anything like it.
Her smirk widens, and she tips her head like sheâs weighing whether to make you beg.
âThen câmere.â
Itâs clumsy at first, not from lack of want but because touching her like this feels like crossing another line you can never uncross.
Her skin is warm under your palms, smooth where you slip your hands up her thighs. She spreads them for you without a word, the smallest flex of muscle that says sheâs still in control.
You glance up, hesitant, and find her already watching you, lips parted, jaw set. âDonât be shy now,â she murmurs. âIâm here. Youâve been dreaming about this long enough, havenât you?â
Your cheeks are hot, your pulse a drum in your ears, but you nod. âYes.â
When you lean in, the first brush of your mouth against her makes her groan, deep and low, her hand tangling in your hair. She doesnât push, just holds you there, letting you set the pace.
She knows you know how to do it. Because she showed you. She tasted you.
You taste her, your tongue against her wet folds, your lips on her clit.
And itâs dizzying. Your hands grip her thighs to steady yourself, nails biting into skin as you press closer.
She swears under her breath, her hips shifting, and the sound makes something spark in your chest.
âGood girl,â she rasps, and you feel her relax just slightly, like sheâs giving in despite herself.
Her other hand cups the back of your head now, guiding, but her movements are just a fraction off from her usual precision.
Itâs not calculated dominance anymore, itâs need.
You work her like youâve wanted to for months. Like she taught you. Every small sound she makes burning itself into you.
She breathes your name, low and rough, and you shiver.
When she comes, itâs with a sharp inhale and her fingers tightening almost painfully in your hair.
You ride it out for her, not stopping until she tugs you up, pulling you into her lap.
Sheâs breathing hard, but she still smirks, brushing her thumb over your swollen bottom lip.
âNot so innocent after all, church girl.â
You donât answer, too busy pressing your forehead to hers, soaking in the warmth of her body under yours. The quiet between you that feels like a secret only you get to keep.
Sevikaâs hand, the same one that just held you down, is cupping the back of your head now like youâre something fragile.
She kisses you slow, almost hesitant, as if sheâs memorizing the taste of her own pleasure on your lips.
Itâs dizzying, the shift. The gruffness in her jaw is gone, the sharp edges smoothed over by something quiet and steady.
She leans back against the headboard and tugs you with her until youâre tucked into her side, your legs tangled, your cheek against her bare chest.
Her fingers run through your hair, lazy and soothing, nails barely scratching your scalp.
Every so often, she presses her lips to your temple, your hairline, your forehead. Like she canât stop herself.
You donât speak. You donât need to. Her eyes, when you dare to glance up, are soft in a way that makes your chest ache worse than any shame could.
Like she sees you, all of you, and doesnât flinch.
She strokes her thumb along your cheekbone, the pad warm and calloused. âYou okay?â she asks, voice low, careful.
You nod, throat tight.
You donât tell her youâve never felt more okay and more ruined at the same time. You donât tell her the way sheâs looking at you now is worse for your soul than anything sheâs done to your body tonight.
She exhales through her nose, almost a laugh, and tucks you closer until your ear is over her heart. The steady beat of it is hypnotic, grounding.
Her arm wraps around your waist like sheâs making sure you wonât slip away.
Itâs all wordless after that.
The gentle tracing of her fingertips over your spine, the way she adjusts the blanket over you both, the occasional brush of her lips to your hair.
Thereâs no rush, no demand, just her holding you like sheâs not planning to let go.
And you let yourself stay there, eyes closed, pretending for a few stolen minutes that itâs not a sin.
That itâs not something youâll have to repent for. Pretending this is love, pure and untainted.
Because when you look at each other, you donât need words.
Your eyes say it without needing to pretend.
@lonerslug @riotstemple29 @summ3rbummer
didnât read it to see any mistake my bad for that âĄ
contains blasphemy, vaginal fingering, religious reader, internalized homophobia, massive religious guilt, masturbation, virginity loss, name of god used during sex, merciless Sevika, sob during sex
words: 5.9k
âBefore you felt like a sin.
Youâre supposed to be praying.
Head bowed, hands folded, back straight like alwaysâlike Mama taught youâbut none of it is helping. The words blur together on your lips, the verses youâve known since childhood slipping out on autopilot, empty and weightless. Your fingers are tight around the little silver cross at your neck, like gripping it hard enough might cleanse your mind, reset your body, or burn the images out of your head.
But it doesnât. It never does.
Sheâs sitting there, again. Not in this church, of course. God forbid this girl ever step foot insideâbut in your head.
Behind your eyelids. Pressed up against your memory like she owns it.
Sevika.
That girl. That woman. Too tall, too broad, too much. Sheâs not even hereâhas probably never even been inside a church like thisâbut somehow, sheâs the loudest thing in your head. Black tank tops and cigarette smoke, deep voice and half-lidded stares that feel like they pin you in place without ever touching you.
And you want her to touch you.
God, thatâs the worst part.
Itâs not just the heat that crawls into your belly when you remember the way she laughed last week, low and rough, like she knew every secret you were trying to bury. Itâs not even just the way you imagine her hands. On your hips, under your dress, between your thighs, around your throat. Itâs the fact that you imagine it at all.
Youâve been talking more lately. Nothing serious. Just⊠small things. Casual, if you say it fast enough. Sheâll nod at you across the sidewalk now, call you girl with that low voice that rolls under your skin like heat. She looks at you like she knows what youâre thinking.
And worseâsheâs right.
You shift in your seat.
Youâre not supposed to think like this about her. About a woman.
Youâve heard the sermons. You know what this means. What it makes you. You think about that little booklet they passed around in youth groupââTemptations of the Flesh.â You remember how they talked about sin like it was a disease you could catch if you got too close. How they always used that soft voice when they mentioned girls like that.
You were never supposed to be one of them.
But you are. You must be. Because you canât stop picturing her pulling you into some dark alleyway and pressing you up against the wall, mouth hot on your neck, hand slipping under your dress while she growls something awful and filthy against your skin. You think about begging. Not for mercy. For more.
A rush of heat floods you so fast your breath hitches, shame curling like smoke through your chest. You shift in your seat, try to cross your legs tighter, like thatâll stop it. Like thatâll save you.
Youâre going to Hell.
And not just because you want someoneâs hands between your legs in the middle of Mass. No. Youâre going to Hell because the hands you want belong to her. A woman.
The air in the chapel is too still. Too heavy. You wonder if the old woman beside you can hear your heartbeat. Or if the priest can see straight through your skin to every filthy, sinful thought crawling through your body.
You clutch your necklace harder, as if it might scald you. Maybe it should. Make you bleed in your hand and make you regret it.
You need to go.
So the moment the priest gives the final blessing, you stand. Too fast.
You pretend itâs reverence, eagerness to leave your offering with the Lord, maybe. But you know the truth. You know exactly why your legs feel like cotton and your steps are uneven. The air between your thighs is warm and wrong. The fabric of your dress clings just slightly where it shouldnât. You shift again and hate the way it feels, the wet heat that makes you feel both sick and desperate all at once.
No one knows. No one can know.
They all rise in slow waves around youâpeaceful, serene, some even smiling like they were truly touched by something divine. You canât look at anyone. Not the priest. Not your neighbor. Not the grandmother who always compliments your dresses. If they saw inside you, theyâd scream.
Your glad your parents didnât make it today. Youâre glad you didnât have to face that with them sitting right next to you.
You walk faster than everyone else, head down, lips pressed shut. You donât say goodbye to the lady who always stands at the door to hand out leaflets. You donât linger. You barely breathe. The church doors swing open behind you and suddenly youâre outsideâcool breeze, soft wind, the perfect kind of Sunday sunlight brushing your shoulders.
And all of it feels so wrong.
The warmth of the day doesnât match the knot twisting in your gut. It doesnât match the sick, guilty heat pulsing between your legs in your underwear or the taste of her name stuck on the back of your tongue.
Sevika.
You mumble a curse under your breath, barely audible. You donât swear. Not usually. But youâre unraveling, seams fraying fast and ugly. Your house is only five minutes away. You think of cold water. A shower. Maybe prayer. Maybe sobbing into your hands until the ache leaves your chest. Until her face leaves your mind.
No, you need something else.
Your parents are at work. The house will be quiet. You just need to get there.
You just need to release it.
But thenâGod, noâsheâs there.
Across the street. At the edge of her driveway. Leather jacket tied around her waist, one knee bent to the pavement while she wipes oil off her fingers, something sharp clamped between her lips. A cigarette.
Your stomach drops. Your heart spikes.
She looks up. Sees you.
Sees you.
And smiles.
âHey, girl.â
Your breath catches.
Itâs not a special greeting. She calls every girl like thatâprobably. But the way she says it, all rough and smooth at once, makes something shiver down your spine. Makes your whole body feel known, somehow. Like she can smell it on you. The sweat. The guilt. The hunger.
Your cheeks burn instantly. You smile, but itâs not really a smile. Itâs something broken, crooked and weak. Your legs feel weird again. Like theyâre not yours. The muscles in your thighs still buzz from church, and youâre suddenly very aware of how damp your underwear is. You press your thighs together as subtly as you can and hope she canât tell. Hope no one can tell.
âHi,â you manage, soft and pitiful.
She leans back a little, resting one arm on her knee, like sheâs got all the time in the world. Like youâre what sheâs working on today.
You want to run. You want to kneel and beg forgiveness. You want her to touch you. You want her to never, ever know how badly you want that.
You take a shaky step toward your house.
And Sevika grins.
Like she already does.
But she doesnât. She canât.
âAhâI, umâIâm not feeling too good,â you blurt out, waving your hand like youâre brushing the air. âIâllâIâll see you later!â
It sounds too bright. Too rehearsed. The way your voice wobbles at the end makes your stomach twist.
Sevika doesnât say anything at first. Just watches you. Eyes half-lidded, fingers paused mid-wipe against the rag in her hand. That unreadable look on her faceâthe one that always makes you feel like youâre being measured and peeled open.
Then she nods once. Casual. Detached.
âYeah. Later.â
And just like that, she turns back to her bike, like she didnât just split your whole morning wide open with two words and a crooked smile.
You hurry home.
The short walk feels endless, and every step makes your heart beat faster. You canât tell if youâre relieved or devastated that she let you go so easily. That she didnât push. Didnât ask what was wrong. Didnât smirk at your red cheeks and say something awful.
Maybe she doesnât know. Maybe she does.
God.
Youâve been so obvious, havenât you?
Giggling too much. Smiling too long. Always looking when you think sheâs not watching. Except she is. And sheâs older, sharper, smarter. She has to know. Anyone else would know. Your face goes pink every time she so much as says your name. You stand like youâre waiting for a kiss. You stare like sheâs something holy.
You close the front door behind you and nearly collapse against it.
The house is still. Your parents wonât be home until late. You should drink water. You should pray again. You should do anythingâanythingâexcept the thing youâre thinking about.
But your legs move on their own. Youâre already going up the stairs, already in your room, already pulling the curtains shut until the light is gone and the world outside doesnât exist. You donât want to see the sun. You donât want to see your reflection. You donât want God to see you.
Because youâre going to do it.
Youâre going to sin, and not just in your head this time.
Your dress comes off in a rush. Shame coats your skin like sweat. You crawl under the covers, even though itâs too warm for blankets, and press your thighs together hard enough to shake.
But you donât use your hands.
You canât. Itâd be too easyâtoo indulgent.
Too much like giving in. Like choosing this. Choosing her.
And you donât want to⊠You canât want to. Not really. Not when you still taste the earlier prayers on your tongue. Not when your Bibleâs still on your nightstand. Not when your parents still think youâre a good girl. A godly girl.
So you bury your face in the pillow and grind down onto the cushion between your thighs.
Itâs not good. Not really. Not enough. Thatâs the point.
You press harder.
You imagine her hand on your back, pinning you down. Her mouth against your ear, laughing, breath warm and low as she tells you to keep going, even though itâs pathetic. Even though youâre soaked through your underwear and all you can do is rub yourself raw against a pillow like some sinful little animal.
You canât help it⊠you whimper.
It doesnât feel good enough to chase it. Not like it would if you slipped your fingers down and let yourself really do it. But you wonât. Youâre not allowed. You shouldnât even be doing this.
But it hurts. It aches in that ugly, disgusting, delicious way. Your body is humming with need and guilt and something darker you canât name. You squeeze your eyes shut, you feel your hole clench around nothing, and rock your hips again, more frantic this time, like if you go faster itâll stop being her in your head. But it wonât.
Itâs always here.
Sevika with her heavy-lidded stare. Sevika with her strong arms and oil-streaked fingers. Sevika grabbing your waist and pushing your dress up without even asking, telling you this what you wanted, right? while you cry and nod and spread your legs even more.
Your breath stutters. Your hips jerk. You moan into the mattress, ashamed at how loud it is, how needy.
You hate it.
You hate how you feel tears in your eyesânot just because itâs good, but because itâs awful. Because itâs filthy and humiliating and you want it so bad you canât breathe.
Youâre going to Hell.
But you keep going.
And you keep whispering her name like a prayer.
You told yourself this was punishment. That if it felt awful enough, if it rubbed you raw and left you empty, maybe it would countâmaybe it would hurt enough to scare the want out of your bones.
But you were wrong.
Because when it hits, you donât want it. But it feels good. So good it knocks the breath out of your lungs. Your hips stutter forward one last time, and then everything inside you clenches tight, heat crashing over you in a dizzy, shame-soaked wave.
You gasp.
Itâs sharp and helpless, punched from your throat like something ripped out of you. And it doesnât matter that you didnât even use your hands. Doesnât matter that you told yourself this wasnât really doing it.
Because it was. It is.
You came thinking about Sevika.
You liked it.
And now youâre lying on your side in the dark, thighs sticky, face pressed against your pillow with tears sliding hot and silent down your cheeks.
This is bad. Really bad. Youâre disgusting.
And the silence is unbearable.
Thereâs no noise but your own shallow breathing, the pounding of your heart, the distant chirp of birds outside your windowâlike the world has the audacity to keep going, to stay gentle, while you burn quietly from the inside out.
You can still feel it in your legs. The ghost of it. The pleasure. The sin. Her.
You curl in on yourself and drag the blanket over your head even though itâs too hot. Like maybe if youâre small enough, quiet enough, maybe you will disappear.
You whisper a prayer under your breath. But the words feel rotten in your mouth.
Because you donât regret what you did. You wish you did.
But you just regret how good it felt.
Itâs been days since that afternoon in the dark.
Days since you let it happen. Since you gave in, pressed yourself down into that poor cushion and whispered Sevikaâs name like it was sacred. Days since you came so hard you criedâand then cried harder when you realized how much you liked it.
You havenât touched yourself since.
You havenât even looked at that pillow. Itâs hidden now, jammed into the back of your closet like itâs the only thing to blame. But the guilt didnât stay behind with it. Itâs still in you, thick and constant, curled under your ribs like something you swallowed whole and never digested.
You keep thinking about how long itâs been. How you barely did that before. How you were always too scared, too unsure, too certain it meant something bad. It never really worked. Not with the things you were supposed to want. You used to try, once or twice a year maybe, like checking if your body was broken.
It wasnât.
It just never wanted the right things.
And now⊠now youâve confirmed it. In the worst, wettest, most humiliating way possible.
You donât want men. You want Sevika.
You want her with her stupid lopsided grin and her filthy hands and her voice. That voice that makes your stomach turn to mush even when sheâs just talking about.. things, like the time she got into a fight outside a bar and her old man chewed her out for it.
You tried to listen, but you couldnât. She noticed that and told you âguess Iâm boring now, uh?â with that terribly, sinful smirk of her. And you laughed it off. Tried to.
But now⊠itâs happening again.
You try to breathe normal.
Try to sit there like youâre fine. Like you didnât sin so hard you saw stars, then cried under a blanket in the dark like a freak. Like Sevika is not right there, too close, looking at you like she already knows exactly what you did and how it sounded when you did it.
You keep your hands folded in your lap, like youâre in church again. It feels stupid, but you donât know what else to do with them. Theyâll shake if you let them move.
Sevika shifts beside youâleans forward a little, elbow on her knee, chin tilted just enough to look at you fully.
âYouâve been actin weird lately,â she says, voice low. âYou sick or something?â
Your heart stops.
Not the you okay? kind of sick. Not even teasing. Her tone is lazy, curious, maybe even a little amusedâbut that look in her eyes? That unreadable grey that flicks over you like smoke? Itâs too sharp. Too focused. Like sheâs seeing through you, down to the ugly, dripping mess you are inside.
You try to laugh it off, but it dies in your throat.
âNo, IâIâm okay,â you say quietly, looking down at your own hands like they might have answers. âJust⊠a lot on my mind lately. Sorry.â
Itâs not a lie.
She hums, not convinced. Doesnât lean back, doesnât look away. Just watches you.
And then, like she canât help herselfâ
âLet me guess,â she says, smirking. Joking. âLittle miss church girl finally sinned.â
Your entire body goes cold.
You blink at her, stunned into silence. She grins wider, real slow. Like she was only joking at first, but your reaction just proved everything.
You donât say anything. Canât. Your lips part, but thereâs nothing behind them. Just heat and horror and that awful, hot-cheeked silence.
And Sevika knows.
God help you, she knows.
She leans back finally, satisfied, and exhales through her nose, chuckling under her breath.
âDamn,â she says. âDidnât think Iâd be right.â
You want the earth to open up and swallow you whole.
Because sheâs not judging you. Not even close. Her voice is light. Easy. Like this is funny to her. Like your entire breakdownâyour guilt and shame and ruined sense of selfâis just something she expected.
âRelax,â she says after a beat, shrugging one shoulder. âIâm not gonna tell your priest or anything.â
You donât laugh. You donât smile.
You just stare at your hands and try not to cry again.
And Sevika, she doesnât say anything right away.
Just watches you squirm, that smug smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth like sheâs enjoying this way too much. Her eyes are half-lidded, grey and dangerous, flicking down your body onceâquick, unreadableâbefore meeting your gaze again.
You wish she wouldnât look at you like that.
Like she knows.
âOkay,â she says, tone maddeningly casual, âso what was it?â
You blink. âW-What?â
âThe sin,â she says, leaning just a little closer again. âWhatâd you do, church girl? Steal something? Lie to your mama? Cheat on a test?â
Your cheeks go up in flames.
You shake your head too fast. âN-NoâI meanâitâs not like that, Iââ
She raises an eyebrow, dragging her teeth across her bottom lip like sheâs trying not to laugh. Like sheâs having too much fun.
âNot like that, huh,â she drawls. âSo⊠what was it like?â
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
You feel it all at onceâevery single thing youâve tried to bury since that dark afternoon. The sound you made when you came, muffled and pathetic. The heat between your legs. The way you whispered her name with shaking fingers and couldnât even stop yourself. How long you cried afterward.
And how even now, you still want her.
You canât help it. Your thighs squeeze together.
Her smirk widens. Itâs devastating.
âOh,â she says softly. Like a click. Like itâs falling into place. âThat kind of sin.â
You freeze.
âWanna tell me who made you do it?â she adds, voice low and warm and awful. âWho you were thinkinâ about?â
You want to die. Right here, right now.
Because you canât lie. Not convincingly. Not like this. Youâre already flushed and stiff and squirming in your seat. Youâve been too obvious for too long. And sheâs not stupid. Sheâs not religious, not guilt-ridden, not scared. This is nothing to her.
But to you? This is everything.
You look down at your hands, nails dug into your palms, and try to breathe through the heat rolling in your chest. It hurts. Itâs humiliating. You hate how close she is. You hate how your body lights up for her even now.
But you donât move.
You donât run.
Because being around herâbeing close, even like thisâis still better than not having her at all. Even if itâs killing you. Even if youâre drowning in it. Youâd rather suffer with her near than feel nothing at all.
So you shake your head slowly, voice barely a whisper.
âIâI donât want to say.â
Sevika hums again. Amused. Lazy. Deadly.
âMm,â she says, leaning back again like sheâs letting you go. âDidnât think youâd say my name out loud anyway.â
And thatâs when you know.
She knew the whole time.
Your heart skips a beat so hard it hurts.
Itâs not romantic. Itâs not poetic. Itâs physical. A sharp thud in your chest that makes your breath catch and your hands tremble.
You stare at her, wide-eyed, shame burning up your throat, panic rising so fast you feel like you might throw up right here, in front of her, in front of God.
âWhat do you mean?â you stammer, voice thin and cracked like glass.
Sevika looks way too pleased with herself. She doesnât move. Doesnât blink. Just smirksâreally smirks this time, head tilted slightly like sheâs admiring you. Like youâre funny. Or cute. Or just so, so easy to read.
âCâmon, church girl,â she says, voice warm and low, sweet like rot. âYouâre not as subtle as you think you are.â
Your breath stutters. You grip your skirt tight in both fists. You feel naked. Not physically, but worseâlike she can see what you did. Like she can still smell it on your skin. The heat. The sweat. The desperation.
âIâno, I wasnâtââ
âYou were,â she says simply, cutting you off. Still smiling. Still relaxed, like she has all the time in the world to watch you fall apart. âSâfine. I donât care.â
That makes it worse. So much worse.
Because you do care.
You care too much. You care that she knows. You care that sheâs not disgusted. That sheâs amused. That sheâs looking at you like she knew all along, like she saw you curled up in your bed whispering her name, and instead of recoiling, sheâs⊠entertained.
You donât know what to say.
You canât say anything.
Your throat is dry and your hands are wet and you think your knees might give out if you so much as try to breathe too deep.
Sevika leans back lazily on the bench again, eyes still locked on you, sharp and unreadable. Her legs spread slightly as she shifts, thigh flexing beneath her pants, one arm slung across the back of the bench like this is nothing. Like you are nothing but a sweet little game.
And then she stands.
Slow. Calm. Every movement fluid and unbothered.
Her eyes never leave yours.
âIf you ever change your mindâŠâ she says, low and smooth, just for you, âI wonât say no.â
And then she turns and walks away. And youâre stuck. Unmoving. Unable to do anything.
No goodbye, no lingering. Just leaves you sitting there, stunned, sweating, aching, humiliatedâand worst of allâŠ
Wanting her even more.
You donât go to Mass the next Sunday.
You sit on the edge of your bed in your nicest Sunday dress, shoes buckled, hair brushed, hands trembling in your lap. You try. You really do. You think, Maybe Iâll be late. Maybe just for the sermon. Maybe just the last half. Maybeâ
But you donât move. You canât.
Every time you try to stand, your chest tightens like somethingâs crushing you from the inside. Your lungs refuse to fill. Your stomach rolls. You feel like youâre going to sob. Not the soft, polite kindâthe ugly, raw kind. The kind that leaves your nose red and your throat hoarse and your soul scraped bare.
Because you know what you are now.
Because when you look at yourself in the mirror, dressed in your Sunday best, all you see is the girl who came moaning into her pillow for the first time in yearsâfor the first time like thatâwith Sevikaâs name on her lips.
You know your parents are already at church. You heard the front door close. Heard the engine fade down the road. You were supposed to be with them. You are.
But not today.
Today you walk a different path.
The street is quiet. Still. Every porch empty. Every window closed. All your neighbors are where youâre supposed to beâkneeling, singing, repenting.
But not you.
Youâre here.
At her door.
You hesitate, staring at the wood like it might judge you, like maybe God is the one whoâll open it. But Heâs not home. Not here.
You raise your hand, then knock.
Itâs probably the softest thing youâve ever done. But it feels like thunder in your ears.
Your heart pounds like a drum in your chest. Your fingers twitch at your sides. Your throat is dry. You think about running. You should run.
But you stay.
Even if you should be at the church. But youâre not.
Youâre here.
And then the door opens.
Sevika fills the frame, backlit by the soft glow of her living room. Loose tank top. Hair mussed like she just got out of bed. A half-dead cigarette tucked behind her ear. Her brows furrow for just a second when she sees you.
Then she smiles.
Not the mocking kind, this time. Not the slow, smug smirk she wears when sheâs toying with you.
This oneâs softer. Calmer. Still dangerousâbut curious.
âWell,â she says, eyes flicking over you slowly. âDidnât expect you at my door, church girl.â
You open your mouth, but your voice catches in your throat.
You look down, then back up.
Her eyes are on you. Not hungry. Not cruel. But steady.
Youâre not crying. Not yet. But you might.
Because again, again, youâre not where youâre supposed to be⊠Youâre not in a pew. Youâre not holding a hymnal. Youâre not whispering forgiveness into folded hands.
Sevika steps aside.
She doesnât rush. Doesnât say a word at your silence. Just holds the door open, one hand braced against the frame, head tilted like sheâs not surprised at all. Like she knew youâd come. Like sheâs been waiting.
And you⊠step inside.
You barely feel your feet move. The threshold slips beneath you in a blur. Her place smells like smoke and something warmâlike motor oil, black coffee, and her. The door closes behind you with a soft click.
Itâs quiet.
You donât belong here.
Not in this house. Not in this silence. Not standing like this in your neatly ironed Sunday dress, heels sinking slightly into her worn rug, hands twisting nervously in front of you.
You donât look at her.
But you feel her eyes. Every inch of you. Her gaze crawls down from your face to your collar, to the stiff neckline of your dress and the way the fabric hugs your hips. She doesnât hide it. She doesnât rush it. She takes her time.
And you just stand thereâstill. Head bowed. Eyes fixed on her coffee table. Every second stretches like an hour. Your cheeks burn. Your throat tightens. You shouldnât be here. You should beâ
âYouâre pretty in that dress.â
You flinch.
Itâs soft. Low. Said like a compliment, but it lands like a sin. Because you both know exactly what that dress is for. Where itâs supposed to be. What itâs meant to represent.
You wore it for Him.
And she says you look pretty in it.
You swallow hard, still not looking up. Your fingers twist tighter. The praise sticks in your chest like thorns.
She knows. Of course she does.
You feel her shift closerâjust a step. Not touching. Not crowding you. But there. Her presence is a weight. A shadow. A warmth. It seeps into your skin like guilt.
And you still donât look at her. You canât.
Because the worst part is.. you loved it too much. Hearing her tell you you look pretty in that dress.
But then she moves in front of youâslow, deliberate. Like sheâs giving you every chance to run. Like she knows you wonât.
You still donât look at her.
So she makes you. Rough fingers slip beneath your chin, not harsh but unyielding, tilting your head up until thereâs no escape. No pretext. No mercy.
Youâre forced to meet her eyes.
Grey. Steady. Watching every twitch in your expression like theyâre answers to questions you havenât asked out loud.
You want to look away. But you donât.
You canât.
âYou usually talk so much,â she murmurs, voice low, almost teasing. âHavenât said a word since you walked in.â
Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Your throat is thick. Your heart is beating so hard against your ribs it hurts.
Sevikaâs thumb brushes your jaw. Not soft, not sweetâcurious.
She tilts her head, studying you. Watching you.
And you swear she smiles, just a little. That⊠cruel, knowing curve of her mouth that makes your knees feel weak.
âHm,â she hums. âCanât decide if I should make you say it.â
Your breath catches.
âMake you tell me what you came here for,â she says, voice barely above a whisper now, leaning just close enough for her words to drag across your skin. âOr if I should be nice and help you go through this.â
Her smile sharpens. Her hand stays on your chin, holding you steady.
âBut you donât want nice, do you?â
Sheâs not asking.
You donât answer. Because you donât need to.
She already knows.
Then, your breath shudders out. You hadnât even noticed it when you came in.
But nowâitâs all you can see.
That wooden cross hanging above the doorframe.
Your shame returns like a flood. Crushing. Searing. You blink fast, heart in your throat, trying not to look, trying not to feel.
But Sevika sees it.
Of course she does.
Her grin widensâslow and terrible.
She leans in, mouth close to your ear now. âDonât look at that, baby,â she murmurs, voice thick with amusement. âDoesnât help, does it?â
You stiffen, thighs pressed too tightly together, head light with heat and fear and the sick, hollow ache of wanting her so bad it feels like dying.
âCâmon,â Sevika says, pulling away just enough to make you miss the warmth of her breath. âWe should move to my room.â
You blink, confused. Her room?
And thenâ
She nods to the front door. âWouldnât want one of your dadâs church buddies to walk by and see you getting wrecked instead of praying, right?â
Your mouth drops open.
You choke on your breath. Your whole body flares with heat. You look at her like sheâs spoken the devilâs name out loudâand maybe she has.
Because Sevikaâs father is at church.
Probably sitting three rows behind your parents. Probably asking where you are. Probably praying for the neighborhood while youâre here, in his house, in his daughterâs hands.
You should run. You should repent.
Instead, you follow her.
Down the narrow hallway. Past her fatherâs shut door. Into her room.
The door shuts behind you with a soft click and it sounds final.
Like judgment. Like a door you wonât come back out of the same.
Sevika doesnât turn right away.
She takes her time, dragging her fingers through her hair like she hasnât noticed the tension in your spine or the way your breath trembles out of you in a guilty whisper. Taking off her cigarette from her ear, putting it down on her desk.
But then you say her name.
âSevika.â
It breaks out of you like a plea. Like begging.
Like a sinner calling out mid-prayer, not to Godâbut to the thing tempting you away from Him.
Sevika turns.
And just like that, the air between you snaps.
Her eyes drag over youâface flushed, hands limp at your sides, shoulders tense like youâre holding up the weight of your own want. And maybe you are.
And Sevikaâs already moving.
She crosses the space in a few easy steps. Like itâs natural, like itâs inevitable, and tilts her head down to meet your mouth with hers.
And then, everything stops.
Because her lips are on yours. Warm. Demanding. Firm with the kind of hunger youâve only ever dreamed aboutâand even then, not like this.
Your knees almost give out.
She kisses you like sheâs claiming you. Like sheâs known this would happen. Like her mouth was made to take yours apart.
And you, you let her.
With a choked little sound in your throat, you fall into her like youâve needed this for years.
Because you feel like you have. Because her kiss feels more like a release than forgiveness ever has. And Sevika, hands now curled around your hips like she owns them, pulls you closer. Your chest crashes into hers.
And suddenly thereâs no more shame. No church. No cross.
Only her.
Your back hits the edge of her bed with a soft thud you barely registerâbecause Sevikaâs mouth is still on yours, her tongue dragging heat through you like youâve already confessed everything. Like she already knew.
She did.
She doesnât stop to ask. Doesnât give you time to think. Her hands are already on your waist, heavy and rough, dragging your body where she wants it like youâre nothing but a toy sheâs waited too long to unwrap.
You gasp when her knee slides between your legs.
She pushes you down. Your back hits the mattress, and the ceiling swims in your visionâcrooked posters, peeling paint, and God above, thereâs another cross on her wall.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
You shouldnât be here. You shouldnât want this. You shouldnât have come.
But now Sevikaâs hand is already sliding up your thigh. Hot and steady and thick, calloused from work and far too confident. Like in your dreams, your sinful fantasy. She pushes your dress up without hesitation, like sheâs done this a hundred times, like she knows where youâre wet without needing to look.
âBeen thinkinâ about this, havenât you,â she mutters, eyes locked on you, voice low and dark with a grin that splits you open.
You whimper.
Because yes. Yes. For months.
And now her hand is under the dressâbetween your thighs, cupping over your panties, and her palm presses right where it hurts most. You jerk, a broken gasp falling from your lips.
Sevika just chuckles. âGod,â she murmurs with a crooked smile, dragging the word like itâs dirty, âyou really are soaked for me.â
Your whole body burns.
You try to twist awayânot to stop her, but because your brain canât hold all of this at once. The shame. The heat. Her.
Her fingers curl around the waistband of your underwear.
And Sevika doesnât give you time to think.
The second your panties are off, sheâs between your legs, thick fingers parting you like you belong to herâand you do, you do, because your hips arch up like theyâre begging for her without your permission.
She groans low in her throat. âShit. Youâre fuckinâ dripping.â
You sob. The sound is high and sharp and breaks in your chest like a cracked bell.
Because sheâs not teasing you. Sheâs not working you up.
Sheâs already inside.
Two fingers, thick and merciless, sinking into you without warningâand your body clenches, thighs snapping around her wrist as your back arches off the mattress.
âStill so tight,â she grits out, her free hand gripping your thigh and shoving it back down, spreading you open for her. âAll that praying, all that guiltâthought itâd keep me outta here?â
She pumps her fingers harder. Deeper.
You cry out.
The bed creaks under you. Your body jerks with every thrust. The sounds you make arenât words anymoreâtheyâre pleading, panting, humiliating little gasps that echo off her walls like hymns turned blasphemy.
Sheâs not gentle.
Sheâs not soft.
Sheâs mean.
She fucks you like sheâs angry you waited this long. Like sheâs wanted this just as badâand now that she has it, sheâs going to ruin you with it.
âDonât look away,â she growls when your eyes start to roll. âYou came here for this. So fuckinâ take it.â
You try. You really try.
But your legs are shaking, your fingers are clawing at the sheets, and your hips wonât stop rocking against her hand, chasing the fire thatâs burning through you. Itâs too much. Too hot. Too deep.
You sob her name.
Once. Twice.
âSevikaââ
âYeah, thatâs right.â Her grin is all teeth now, sweat beading at her temple, her palm slick with how badly you wanted this. âCry for me, church girl.â
And you do.
You cry. You choke on your own moans. You clamp down around her hand with a gasp so sharp it nearly hurts.
And when you comeâitâs loud. Shuddering. Devastating.
You wail through it. Eyes shut tight, mouth open, thighs trembling. Her fingers donât slow. She fucks you through every second of it, hand dragging wet noises from your ruined body while you writhe under her.
By the time she pulls her hand away, youâre soaked, flushed, and limp on her sheets. A mess. A sinner.
And Sevikaâsmirking, breath heavy, licking your slick off her fingersâleans over you with a voice like smoke and sin:
âTell me youâre gonna pray for forgiveness after that.â
It was supposed to be a drabble⊠sorry.
some things are better eaten rawđ
yum.
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if not strap on harness why strap on harness shaped
I screamed with and without the S when I saw this design btw
IDC IF ITS A STRAP!!! I SAID NUT IN ME.
IDC IF ITS A STRAP!!! I SAID NUT IN ME.
IDC IF ITS A STRAP!!! I SAID NUT IN ME.
IDC IF ITS A STRAP!!! I SAID NUT IN ME.
IDC IF ITS A STRAP!!! I SAID NUT IN ME.
