PurinPurin

The dance studio was supposed to be empty.

It was nearly midnight, the lights dimmed to their evening setting, and only one Bluetooth speaker remained alive, quietly humming through a mellow R&B playlist.

You weren’t even supposed to be there.

Suguru had texted you an hour earlier.

Come keep me company.

No explanation.

Just that.

You’d learned long ago that when Suguru asked for company, he didn’t really want conversation.

He just wanted you nearby.

⸻

You pushed open the heavy studio door.

It creaked softly.

He didn’t notice.

Standing in front of the mirror, dressed entirely in black, he repeated the last few counts of a routine over and over.

His movements were smooth—almost lazy—but impossibly precise.

Every turn looked effortless.

Every step perfectly timed.

His hair had come loose sometime during practice.

Dark strands clung to his forehead, brushing against sharp cheekbones before falling over one eye.

Sweat dampened the back of his neck.

You leaned against the doorway, completely content to watch.

“…You’ve been staring for three minutes.”

You jumped.

“You have eyes in the back of your head?”

“No.”

He looked at you through the mirror.

“I just know when you’re looking at me.”

A smile tugged at your lips.

“You look ridiculous.”

“Oh?”

“The dramatic hair.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He laughed quietly.

“You never do.”

⸻

After another run-through, he finally stopped.

His chest rose and fell steadily as he grabbed the towel slung over the barre.

Without thinking, you walked over.

“Hold still.”

“Hm?”

His brows lifted as your fingers brushed his temple.

You carefully tucked a few loose strands behind his ear.

“…They’re bothering me.”

His eyes never left yours.

“So that’s why?”

“…Yes.”

“You sure it isn’t because you wanted an excuse to touch me?”

Heat rushed to your face.

“…You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told.”

He didn’t move away.

Instead, he leaned ever so slightly into your hand.

Almost like a cat asking for more affection.

⸻

“You hungry?” you asked, hoping to save yourself.

“I could eat.”

“I brought kimbap.”

“You brought food?”

“I always bring food.”

“…You’re the best.”

His smile wasn’t big.

Suguru never smiled big.

But the corners of his mouth softened in that tiny, genuine way reserved only for people he trusted.

And somehow…

That smile always felt more intimate than anyone else’s laughter.

⸻

You both settled onto the polished wooden floor.

The city lights filtered through the windows behind you.

Neither of you spoke much.

You never had to.

Silence with Suguru wasn’t awkward.

It was comfortable.

Peaceful.

Every so often, he’d nudge your shoulder with his.

Or steal another piece of food from your container despite insisting he was “full.”

“You’ve had like eight.”

“I counted.”

“I danced for four hours.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I might faint.”

“You are so dramatic.”

“I know.”

⸻

When he finished eating, he reached for his phone.

The familiar camera click echoed through the studio.

You glanced over.

He’d taken a mirror selfie.

Hair messy.

Head tilted back slightly.

Black shirt clinging to his shoulders.

The exact kind of picture that would have social media collectively losing its mind.

“…Seriously?”

“What?”

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

He blinked innocently.

“I took a picture.”

“You took that picture.”

“I still don’t see the problem.”

“You look unfair.”

He looked down at the screen.

“Hm.”

Then back at you.

“You think I look handsome.”

“I think you’re fishing.”

“So yes.”

You groaned into your hands.

“You are impossible.”

⸻

He stood and offered you his hand.

“Dance.”

“I don’t know the choreography.”

“I wasn’t talking about choreography.”

“…Suguru.”

“Just one song.”

You hesitated.

“You know I suck.”

“You won’t if I’m leading.”

His voice was gentle.

Patient.

Never demanding.

Just hopeful.

With a sigh that fooled absolutely no one, you placed your hand in his.

His fingers curled around yours immediately.

Warm.

Calloused.

Safe.

The music changed.

A slower song filled the room.

His other hand rested carefully against your waist.

Not possessive.

Just enough to guide you.

“You trust me?”

“Always.”

The answer slipped out before you could stop it.

For the first time all night…

Suguru froze.

His eyes searched yours as though trying to figure out whether you’d realized what you’d admitted.

“…Always?”

You nodded.

“I don’t think I’ve ever not trusted you.”

Something softened in his expression.

Something so quiet you almost missed it.

⸻

“You know,” he murmured, “I’ve been trying to ask you something.”

“Oh?”

“I just…”

He laughed under his breath.

“…I didn’t expect to get nervous.”

“You?”

“I know.”

“You? Nervous?”

“I have a reputation to maintain.”

You smiled.

“So what is it?”

His thumb slowly traced the back of your hand.

“I’ve been wondering…”

His voice had dropped almost to a whisper.

“…if all those looks you keep giving me mean what I hope they mean.”

Your heartbeat stumbled.

“I…”

“You always watch me dance.”

“…”

“You always fix my hair.”

“…”

“You always remember my favorite snacks.”

“…”

“And every time I look at you…”

He smiled.

“…you’re already looking at me.”

You couldn’t even deny it.

Because he was right.

Every word.

⸻

“I like you.”

There it was.

Simple.

Honest.

No grand speech.

No dramatic confession.

Just the truth.

“I’ve liked you for a long time.”

You laughed softly, mostly because your heart couldn’t seem to decide whether to race or stop entirely.

“…You’re late.”

His eyebrows rose.

“Late?”

“I’ve been in love with you for months.”

For once—

Suguru Geto looked completely speechless.

“…Months?”

You nodded.

“…Idiot.”

A laugh escaped him.

“So we’ve both just…”

“Yep.”

“…been dancing around it?”

“Pretty much.”

He shook his head, smiling wider than you’d ever seen.

“We’re hopeless.”

“We really are.”

⸻

He stepped closer.

Close enough that your foreheads touched.

His loose hair tickled your cheeks.

“You know…”

“Hm?”

“I think I finally have a reason to stay after practice.”

“You mean besides making me watch you take thirst traps in the mirror?”

“They’re artistic.”

“They’re criminal.”

“They got your attention.”

“They’ve had my attention for a very long time.”

He smiled so softly it almost hurt to look at.

Then, before either of you could overthink it, he closed the tiny distance between you.

The kiss was gentle.

Unhurried.

The kind that felt less like a beginning and more like finally coming home.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours again.

“…One more song?”

You smiled, lacing your fingers with his.

“As many as you want.”

Rafayel × Reader | Prompt: Too Close / Stillness

The night is hushed, the air between you both heavy with things unspoken. Rafayel’s heartbeat thrums softly beneath your palm, steady, hypnotic. His eyes—soft blue touched with tired warmth—search yours for a long moment before he finally speaks.

“Stay,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Just… stay here.”

You do. You don’t move when his arms close around you, when he exhales and rests his forehead against yours. The world narrows to the rhythm of shared breathing—one inhale, one exhale, perfectly aligned.

There’s no rush, no sound but the faint hum of his pulse. He holds you as if the smallest movement might break the quiet spell that’s wrapped itself around you both. His fingers trace slow circles against your back, almost absentminded, grounding you in the stillness.

“This,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, “is all I need.”

You feel the words rather than hear them—the truth of them sinking into your skin. It’s not about movement or noise or hunger. It’s the gravity between you, the heat under the calm, the way his restraint feels almost reverent.

The silence stretches, deep and steady, until even your thoughts start to fade. You can sense the tremor of his breath, the subtle tension in his body, the warmth that gathers between you. Every small shift feels amplified—too intimate, too much, yet impossibly tender.

Rafayel closes his eyes and whispers, almost to himself, “Don’t move yet.”

Sylus × Reader | Prompt: Mirror Play

The mirror catches everything—your pulse fluttering at your throat, the tremor in your fingers, the faint rise of color in your cheeks. Behind you, Sylus moves like smoke, silver hair brushing his jaw, eyes fixed on you through the glass.

“Keep your eyes open,” he says, voice low enough to vibrate through your chest. “I want you to see what I see.”

His hand finds your waist, steady and possessive, guiding you until your back rests against him. The warmth of him seeps through your skin, each slow breath syncing with yours. You can feel the tension in his body; the patience that’s one second from snapping.

“Do you know how hard it is,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your ear, “to stand here and not touch you the way I want?”

You can’t answer. The sound that leaves you isn’t quite a word—it’s too quiet, too broken. His reflection smirks, dark amusement flashing in his eyes.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Don’t hide it. Look at yourself.”

Your gaze lifts back to the mirror. The image staring back looks nothing like the calm person you were minutes ago—your eyes heavy, mouth parted, breath shallow. His movements are slow, deliberate, keeping you right on the edge of something you can’t name.

He watches your reflection carefully, voice turning rough. “Every breath, every sound—mine.”

Your head tilts back against his shoulder. He hums a quiet, satisfied sound that sinks straight through you. “You see now?” he asks, tone dropping to a murmur. “That’s how you look when you finally stop pretending.”

The mirror catches the moment your resolve breaks—the shiver that runs through you, the way he holds you together with nothing but the weight of his presence.

When he finally speaks again, it’s almost gentle. “Good,” he says softly. “Now breathe.”

And you do, because the command leaves no space for anything else.

🎃 Kinktober Day 6 – Too Much

Caleb × Reader | Prompt: Size Kink (Too Big / Too Small / Doesn’t Fit)

Caleb’s presence always fills a room before he even speaks. Broad shoulders, sharp lines softened by the warmth in his eyes, the way he seems both dangerous and gentle all at once.

You’ve seen him fight—how easily his strength bends the world around him—and sometimes you forget that same power lives in the hands now resting so carefully on your hips. His touch is steady, restrained, like he’s afraid of breaking something precious.

“Tell me if I’m too much,” he murmurs. The words are quiet, almost shy, though his tone still carries that deep, velvety weight that makes your pulse skip.

You smile faintly. “You always think that.”

His lips twitch—half amusement, half guilt. “Because you’re so small,” he says softly, almost to himself. “And I never want to hurt you.”

Your fingers trail down his forearm, tracing the muscle beneath the fabric. “You won’t.”

But even as you say it, you can feel the tension in him—how every movement is calculated, deliberate. The sheer size of his hands against your frame makes you shiver. You can sense his control, the way he holds back a storm with every breath.

You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes. “Caleb.”

The way he looks at you then—like you’re something he’s not sure he deserves—steals your breath. “You don’t understand,” he says quietly. “When I hold you, it feels like the world might fall apart if I’m not careful.”

You step closer, press your forehead to his chest. “Then let it.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then his arms wrap around you, slowly, completely. You can feel every beat of his heart, every tremor of restraint. He exhales shakily, burying his face against your hair.

“I’m trying,” he whispers. “You have no idea how much.”

Xavier x Reader | Prompt: Biting / Marking

Xavier always carries himself like a man carved from marble—controlled, composed, untouchable. But right now, his cool restraint is splintering, and it’s all your fault.

The first time his mouth brushes your neck, it’s gentle. Testing. His breath fans over your skin, and you think that’s all it’ll be—a fleeting brush of warmth. But then his teeth graze your throat, and the sharp sound you make has him inhaling like he’s been starving.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice tight, “how badly I’ve wanted to do this.”

The words send a shiver racing down your spine. You barely manage a response before his lips press hard against your pulse, tongue soothing the sting where his teeth just were. He sucks, slow and deliberate, until you can already feel the bruise blooming.

“Xavier…” Your hands grip his shoulders, unsure whether to pull him closer or push him away.

He doesn’t stop. His mouth trails lower, down the line of your collarbone, nipping, biting, marking you as if each new bruise is a signature only he can write. Every sound you make pushes him deeper, his once-delicate touches turning hungry.

“Mine,” he says suddenly, almost against your skin, like he can’t keep the thought inside. His teeth sink into the soft curve of your shoulder, harder this time, making you gasp. He soothes it instantly with his tongue, then pulls back just far enough for you to see his flushed face, his stormy blue eyes glazed with need.

“I should apologize,” he whispers, thumb brushing the red mark he just left, “but I won’t. I want everyone to see these.”

His mouth descends again, tracing down your chest, your ribs, biting along the way like he’s mapping you in secret scars only he understands. The bruises burn, but it’s the devotion in his hunger that makes you melt—Xavier’s cold composure undone, all for you.

By the time he’s done, your body is a gallery of his restraint snapping, each mark a crown of violet and red. And when he looks at you, flushed and ruined, he doesn’t look like a prince anymore. He looks like a man who’s claimed you, utterly and completely.

(I totally forgot to post.. anything really. 😅 life got busy. Here’s 2 shorts.)

🎃 Kinktober Day 4 – Overwhelmed

Zayne × Reader | Prompt: Overstimulation (“one more time”)

The air inside his quarters hums with low light and heat. Zayne’s hands are warm against your back, the tips of his fingers moving with that measured precision you’ve come to know—like he’s trying to memorize you all over again. Every brush of his touch sends a pulse through you that leaves your chest tight and your breath short.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, his voice a soft rumble against your ear.

You nod, though the words feel distant. His presence alone is overwhelming—his energy, his scent, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat where your bodies meet. Each new touch is another wave, another surge of sensation, until your thoughts scatter completely.

He smiles faintly, sensing it. “Too much?”

You shake your head, but your answer is lost when he leans in closer, his breath catching the edge of your jaw. “One more,” he whispers, the phrase a promise and a test all at once.

It’s almost impossible to separate where you end and he begins—the sound of him breathing your name, the steady press of his heartbeat through his chest, the way his power hums faintly beneath his skin. It fills you, surrounds you, consumes you.

Your hands clutch at his shirt, needing something solid in all that intensity. “Zayne…”

He stills, forehead resting against yours. His eyes—those endless, stormy eyes—search your face, and for a moment he looks almost undone himself. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he whispers. “How hard it is to stop.”

He kisses you again—slow this time, reverent, grounding—and the world steadies. The energy between you settles into something softer, almost peaceful, like the quiet after thunder.

When he finally pulls back, your pulse is still racing, but the look in his eyes is gentle again. “Breathe,” he says quietly, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “I’ve got you.”

Sylus x Reader | Prompt: Lingerie

You hesitate in the doorway, fingers brushing the frame, heart pounding under the delicate lace pressing into your skin. The lingerie feels like sin itself—straps framing your curves, lace so sheer you can’t imagine leaving his gaze unscorched.

Sylus is already waiting. He sits in a low chair, crimson eyes fixed on you the moment you step in. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just studies you like he’s reading a secret you don’t even know you’re carrying.

Your breath stutters. “Say something.”

Finally, he leans back, silver hair catching the dim light, a slow smirk carving across his lips. “What exactly do you want me to say?” His voice is low, smooth as a blade’s edge. “That you look like you were made to be unwrapped?”

Heat pools in your stomach. You shift, the silk brushing your thighs, and his gaze drops—hungry, deliberate. When he stands, the weight of his presence makes the air heavier. Every step is unhurried, every movement controlled. He doesn’t need speed to intimidate; he is gravity itself, pulling you in.

“You wore this for me.” It isn’t a question. His gloved hand reaches out, catching the thin strap at your shoulder. He gives it a light tug, just enough for the lace to bite against your skin before letting it snap back into place.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.” His words are quiet, but his eyes burn like coals. His thumb brushes the top edge of your stockings, lingering, before he withdraws completely.

You let out a shaky breath. “Maybe I wanna see how long you can hold back.”

That earns you a sharp laugh—brief, humorless, dangerous. He cages you against the wall before you can retreat, his mouth so close to your ear his breath makes you shiver.

“Hold back?” His tone darkens, the promise in it unmistakable. “Darling, I don’t hold back. I decide when you break.”

His fingers trail down your side, grazing over the lace without granting relief. The restraint is maddening, every second stretched thin. He tilts your chin up, making you look at him, crimson eyes locking you in place.

“You’re not getting rid of this yet,” he murmurs. “I want to watch you beg in it first.”

And then, finally, his lips crash against yours—hungry, claiming—while his hands keep you trapped in silk and lace, exactly where he wants you.

Caleb x Reader | Prompt: Teasing & Denial

You knew Caleb wasn’t gonna make this easy. He never does.

He takes his time with everything—the way he talks, the way he moves, the way his violet eyes lock on you and don’t let go. He lives for watching you squirm, for dragging things out until you’re practically shaking just from the thought of his hands on you.

Right now, you’re sitting on the edge of his bed, trying not to look desperate while he stands across the room rolling up his sleeves. Slow. Deliberate. Like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Caleb…” you breathe out, your voice way too soft, too needy.

He finally glances at you, lips tugging into that cocky little half-smile. “What’s wrong? You that impatient already?”

He strolls over, casual as ever, and crouches right in front of you. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, close enough that you wanna grab his shirt and drag him in—but you know better. Caleb doesn’t give you what you want unless he feels like it.

A gloved finger traces along your jaw, feather-light, then pulls back just as you lean into it. You almost whine at the loss, and he hears it.

“Patience,” he murmurs, voice low, smooth as sin. “Didn’t even touch you yet, and you’re already trembling.”

You swallow, lips parting. “I… I just want—”

His thumb brushes your mouth, pressing against your lower lip but never sliding in. His gaze flicks down, amused, sharp.

“You wanna taste me?” His tone drops, velvety and dangerous. His thumb lingers, then pulls away before you can answer. “Earn it.”

His hand drifts down, over your throat, across your collarbone, fingertips ghosting over your skin without ever settling. Every damn touch is a tease—close enough to drive you insane, never enough to satisfy.

“Please…” you whisper, too broken to hide how bad you need him.

That earns you a smirk, his eyes glowing deep violet in the dim light. “Better. But still not enough.”

Your thighs squeeze together, trying to ease the ache building between them, but Caleb notices. Of course he does. His hand lands heavy on your knee, thumb rubbing slow circles that make you shiver. He slides upward—higher, higher—then stops right before the place you need him most.

And then he pulls away.

“Fuck…” you gasp, half-groan, half-whine, your body begging even if your mouth won’t.

Caleb leans back just enough to look down at you, smug as ever. “You’ll wait,” he says, calm like it’s law. “Because when I finally touch you?” His eyes drop to your thighs, dark with promise. “You’re gonna come undone in seconds. And I’m not letting you waste it too soon.”

He drags the back of his fingers across your cheek, so tender it hurts, and then he’s gone again—leaving you trembling, burning, craving more than you can stand.

🌙 Kinktober 2025 – Masterlist

Day 1: Teasing & Denial (hands just out of reach, whispered promises)

Day 2: Lingerie (sheer, lace, silk—let them unwrap you)

Day 3: Biting / Marking (collarbones, thighs, everywhere)

Day 4: Overstimulation (pinned down, “one more time”)

Day 5: Mirror Play (watch yourself fall apart)

Day 6: Size Kink (too big, too small, doesn’t fit—you know 👀)

Day 7: Cockwarming (silent, still, too intimate)

Day 8: Bondage (ropes, ties, cuffs—artwork of restraint)

Day 9: Breeding Kink (slow, heavy, deliberate)

Day 10: Degradation (dirty words that make you blush)

Day 11: Praise (soft, reverent, addictive)

Day 12: Exhibitionism (half-open doors, windows, risky places)

Day 13: Somno / Sleepy Sex (half-dreaming, half-real)

Day 14: Edging (hours of patience, minutes of ruin)

Day 15: Choking (gentle or firm, control in his hands)

Day 16: Dirty Talk (voice in your ear, filth on his tongue)

Day 17: Authority / Power Play (CEO, knight, teacher, king—titles matter)

Day 18: Thigh Riding (grinding until you’re undone)

Day 19: Corruption Kink (breaking innocence, darkening purity)

Day 20: Free Use (he takes when he wants, you always melt)

Day 21: Rough Sex (hair pulling, bruises blooming)

Day 22: Soft Sex (slow strokes, forehead kisses, crying)

Day 23: Hand Fetish (rings, veins, control in his grip)

Day 24: Voyeurism (he watches, you know it)

Day 25: Aftercare (warm blankets, whispered “good girl/boy”)

Day 26: CNC / Dubcon (roleplay, fear → surrender)

Day 27: Knife Play (cold metal tracing hot skin)

Day 28: Spanking (over the knee, bent over, begging for more)

Day 29: Orgasm Control (remote toys, public danger)

Day 30: Dacryphilia (tears streaked, kissed away)

Day 31: Possession (collars, rings, “you’re mine”)

“Happy birthday, Zayne,” you whispered, your voice warm with the weight of years spent at his side.

He tilted his head, gaze lifting from the cake to you. His eyes—those familiar, storm-colored depths—softened in a way they rarely did for anyone else. “You still say it like it’s the first time,” he murmured, and though his tone was calm, you caught the quiet tremor beneath it.

You laughed gently, brushing at your eyes. “That’s because it still feels just as important as the first time.”

Zayne didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied you in that intent, quiet way of his, as if memorizing the way the light curved around your face. After two years, he still looked at you like that sometimes—like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, and he might wake up at any moment.

Finally, he exhaled, a sound heavy with unspoken truths. “Before you… birthdays were just another day. Something to forget. Something to endure. Now…” He paused, shaking his head faintly. His fingers brushed yours on the table, tentative, as if afraid of breaking the moment. “Now it feels like I’m allowed to exist. Like I’m not just surviving—I’m living.”

Your throat tightened, tears pricking your eyes. You reached for his hand, squeezing firmly, reminding him of all the times you’d held him before—through his doubts, his sleepless nights, the shadows that sometimes haunted him. “You’ve always deserved to live, Zayne. Always. I just… remind you of it.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick with memory and love. Then, Zayne leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours, the sparklers crackling out one by one behind him. His voice was low, almost breaking, but it carried a conviction that made your chest ache.

“My only wish is you. Always you.”

The candles dimmed, smoke curling in the air, leaving only the closeness of your breaths and the warmth of his hand clasped around yours. After two years, you didn’t need grand confessions—you could hear everything he felt in the way he held you, the way his heart steadied against yours.

And in that moment, you knew—no matter how many birthdays came and went—you would always be his wish, and he would always be yours.

Holy Orders

Priest!Gojo x Nun!Reader | NSFW | Heavy dialogue | Sacrilegious themes | 18+

૮꒰˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶꒱ა

You knelt at the altar like you always did after evening mass—head bowed, hands trembling with feigned guilt, lace veil fluttering softly over your shoulders.

He watched from the pulpit, robes dark and loose around his frame, silver cross hanging from his throat like a mockery.

“You’re late, Sister,” Gojo said, voice smooth as honey and sharp as a blade.

“I was hearing confession,” you answered meekly, eyes still cast down. “They needed… relief.”

A beat of silence. Then the heavy thud of his boots on the marble as he descended the steps. The air thickened with incense and something darker—lust soaked in sin, unrepentant.

“You mean to tell me,” he murmured, circling behind you, his hand settling on your shoulder with false piety, “you gave yourself to them again? Like the good little whore I trained you to be?”

You swallowed, shame curling low in your belly. But you didn’t deny it.

“They ask for forgiveness, Father,” you whispered. “And I gave it.”

His laugh was low, amused. Cruel.

“You gave them something, alright.”

Gojo stepped in front of you, lifted your chin with two fingers. His snowy hair framed his smug, beautiful face, and his blindfold sat low enough to let you glimpse the wicked sliver of blue behind it.

“How many today?” he asked, thumb brushing your lips. “Don’t lie.”

“…Three.”

He hissed through his teeth. “Tsk. Greedy little flock.” He crouched, eye-level now, thumb pushing between your lips slowly. “Did you let them come inside you?”

Your thighs clenched. Your lips closed around his thumb.

His grin widened.

“You filthy little thing. You love kneeling for them, don’t you? Whispering prayers while they fuck your mouth through the screen? Letting them believe it’s absolution when really—”

His voice dipped low, intimate. Dangerous.

“—you just love getting used.”

You moaned softly, grinding your thighs together.

“And yet,” he continued, rising to full height, voice booming now in the quiet of the cathedral, “you still crawl back to me. Don’t you, Sister?”

“Yes, Father,” you breathed, unable to look away from him.

He unbuckled his belt slowly. “Then come prove your loyalty.”

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Confessional Booth — One Hour Earlier

It had started like any other.

You’d slid into the confessional, veil in place, heart already racing. The velvet curtain rustled, and the first penitent spoke, voice shaky.

“I—I’ve sinned, Sister…”

You knew the voice. A young man, twenty-two, always trembling with guilt and desire.

“Tell me, my child,” you murmured, stroking the wooden divider with gloved fingers. “What weighs on your soul?”

“I think of your body when I touch myself. I can’t stop. I—I dream of you in the chapel, on your knees, taking me in your mouth…”

You inhaled softly, thighs already damp beneath the habit. “And do you wish to repent?”

“Yes… please…”

You didn’t make him wait. You opened the secret slot Gojo had added behind the screen—his idea, his twisted brilliance—and leaned forward, tongue already wet, inviting.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Back to the Present — Gojo’s Chambers

He had you bent over the altar table now, your habit hiked up, the lace of your holy garments tangled around your hips. You moaned as his cock slid into you from behind, thick, unrelenting, brutal in its rhythm.

“You think they can make you feel this full?” Gojo growled, gripping your waist hard. “You think those trembling little sheep know how to fuck you like this?”

You whimpered, tears pricking your eyes. “No, Father—just you—only you—”

“That’s right,” he groaned, fucking into you harder, each thrust slamming you against the altar’s edge. “You’re mine. My sacred little cumdump. Say it.”

“I’m yours—fuck—I’m yours, Father, only yours!”

He pulled out suddenly, turned you over like a doll. Your knees dangled off the edge, legs spread wide, soaked and twitching.

“Open that mouth, nun.”

You obeyed instantly, and he fisted his cock, jerking it with furious pace as he hovered over you, panting.

“You take my confessions too,” he rasped, eyes dark with possession. “Let me confess, Sister—I want to see you dripping, ruined, filled with holy spirit.”

You barely had time to moan before he came—hot, thick ropes of it spilling across your lips, your tongue, your cheeks, your veil. He painted you with it.

“Good girl,” he said, chest heaving. “So devout.”

You swallowed what you could, licking the rest off your lips with a dazed smile. He watched you—hungry, amused.

“You’ll hear more confessions tomorrow,” he said, brushing hair from your face. “But tonight…”

His mouth curved into a grin, filthy and divine.

“…tonight, I absolve you.”

Gojo’s fingers brushed the mess from your lips, dragging his cum down your chin like oil on a sacrificial lamb.

He watched you—so filthy and glowing in your disgrace, lace veil crooked, cheeks flushed, thighs still trembling open.

“But absolution,” he said, voice low and almost reverent, “doesn’t come free.”

You blinked up at him, chest rising and falling. “What must I do, Father?”

He stepped between your legs again, towering over you in that damn black cassock, the collar pristine even as his cock twitched against his thigh—still hard, still hungry.

“You confessed to letting three of them fuck you.” His hand wrapped gently—mockingly—around your throat, thumb pressing just under your chin. “So I’m going to remind you why they’ll never touch you the way I do.”

You swallowed hard. His grip didn’t tighten. Not yet.

“And when I’m done,” he whispered, “you’ll beg to be ruined again. You’ll pray for it.”

He shoved two fingers into your mouth. Wet, forceful. You gagged slightly, eyes fluttering, thighs shifting restlessly.

“You like when I make you choke,” he chuckled, watching you suck obediently, spit leaking down his wrist. “That’s what good girls do, hm?”

He pulled his fingers free, and your lips chased them like you were starved.

“On your knees. Crawl for it.”

You dropped instantly, lace pooling around you, the marble cold beneath your palms as you crawled toward his chair in the private chambers—a throne more than a seat, dark oak and velvet, built for judgment and indulgence.

He sat back, legs spread, cock already back in his hand, thick and flushed and glistening from earlier.

“You want your absolution, Sister?” he asked, stroking himself slowly. “Then take your penance.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You crawled between his legs, kissed the head of his cock like it was consecrated, tongue swirling around it as your hands gripped his thighs.

He groaned, low and pleased, fingers weaving into your hair.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “On your knees for your priest. Not even pretending to be holy anymore.”

Your lips sealed around him and you took him deep—deeper—until your nose pressed against the fabric of his robe, until you couldn’t breathe.

And he held you there.

“Feel that?” he hissed. “That’s what you’re made for. Not prayers. Not purity. This.”

You moaned around him, throat working, eyes wet as he used your mouth like a confessional booth. He rocked his hips slowly, fucking into your face while muttering praise and filth like a twisted litany.

“God, yes—just like that. You were made for this. My little sacrilegious slut. Come on, take your Father’s blessing.”

He let you up for air, and you gasped, spit connecting your lips to his cock.

“I should make you confess every time,” he said darkly. “Every cock you take, every drop of cum you swallow that isn’t mine… I want to hear it.”

You whimpered, rubbing your thighs together.

He grinned.

“Turn around.”

You obeyed again, draped over the velvet arm of his chair, ass up, face down, mouth open and waiting.

Gojo ran his palm down your back, slow and possessive. “I’m going to fuck the sin out of you.”

And he did.

He didn’t go gentle—he shoved into you in one brutal thrust, the slick sound obscene in the candlelit chamber. You cried out, body jolting forward, hands scrambling for purchase on the armrest.

“That’s it,” he growled, thrusting again. “That’s what you needed, huh? Not forgiveness. Not peace. Just your priest splitting you open, stuffing you full.”

Your hips rocked back against him, desperate for more. “Please—more—Father—”

“Say you’re sorry,” he growled. “For letting them come in your pussy.”

You gasped. “I’m sorry!”

“Say you’ll never do it again.”

“I—I won’t—”

He slammed into you harder. “Liar.”

You sobbed a moan, the pleasure cruel and consuming. Your legs shook, your moans high and cracked.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours—I’m yours—Father, please—”

“You’ll only take my cock.”

“Yes—yes, only yours—”

He grunted, leaning over you now, voice hot at your ear. “You think God’s watching right now?”

You nodded frantically, breathless.

“Then give Him a fucking show.”

He reached around and rubbed your clit, fast and tight, while his cock rammed deeper—his hips slapping against your ass, balls heavy and tight against your soaked folds.

You shattered.

Your whole body locked up, orgasm tearing through you like punishment and redemption in one violent wave.

And Gojo didn’t stop.

He fucked you through it—through the spasms, through the cries—until he came inside you with a growl, pulling you tight against him as he emptied everything into you.

You both stayed there, panting, drenched in sweat and sin.

Finally, he pulled out, watching his cum spill slowly from your ruined hole.

“Amen,” he murmured, brushing your trembling thighs apart to see it better. “You’re forgiven.”

You could barely speak, your face sticky with spit, your body wrecked and pulsing.

But you whispered it anyway.

“Amen.”

On Your Knees, Pretty Thing

The motel room is dim. The curtains barely shield the flickering neon signs outside, casting dull red and blue streaks across the bedspread. You’re not even sure how you ended up here with Toji, but you know exactly why you stayed.

He’s already half-dressed, shirt shrugged off his shoulders, black pants undone, waistband riding dangerously low. That cocky smirk is on his lips again—lazy, taunting—because he knows you’re staring.

“You gonna sit there lookin’ like a fuckin’ meal,” he drawls, “or are you gonna do somethin’ about this?”

You sink to your knees before he can finish the sentence.

His belt clinks when you tug it free, and the way his breath hitches makes your core tighten. He’s already thick, half-hard, and growing fast beneath your fingers. You look up at him through your lashes—intentionally innocent, your tongue dragging across your bottom lip as you stroke him, slow and teasing.

Toji groans, low in his throat. “Don’t fuckin’ tease.”

But you do. You press a kiss to the swollen head of his cock, tongue circling lazily, tasting precum and power. One of his hands threads into your hair, not tugging yet, just resting heavy. Waiting.

“You like it when I look up at you like this?” you murmur against him, your lips dragging along the length. “When I take my time?”

He grunts—“Yeah. But I like it better when you choke on it.”

That’s all the warning you get before he guides your head forward, sliding his cock past your lips. He groans, deep and satisfied when your throat flutters around him, a sharp contrast to how his muscles flex as he holds you there for a second—just enough to make your eyes water.

“Fuck, that mouth…” His hips twitch. “You were made for this.”

You suck him deeper, spit trailing from your lips to your chin, the sloppy sounds echoing in the quiet room. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark, chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding back. Your hands grip his thighs for leverage as you bob your head faster, tongue working under the weight of him.

He pulls your hair harder.

Your throat tightens around him, gagging slightly, and he moans. Loud. Head tilted back now, abs tensing. “Just like that. You gonna let me use your mouth, sweetheart? Huh?”

You hum around him, nails digging into his skin, and the vibration makes him swear viciously. He fucks into your mouth harder, sloppier, balls slapping against your chin with each thrust.

You’re drooling, mascara running—but you don’t stop. Not until he snarls your name, hips stuttering, then spilling down your throat with a guttural growl.

You swallow everything.

Toji looks down at you, sweat on his brow, still panting. He drags you up roughly by the chin, smearing spit and cum across your lips with his thumb.