#sinner!reader

The Vox reveals & Alastor backgrounds were super neat. Wondering what will come out of their deals.

I feel bad for Angel dust for his boundaries to once again be ignored and he was now used and exploited by Charlie even when he was slightly crashing out cause she brought in Vox & Velvet who were enablers to his Abuser. And Shes over here pressuring him to try redeeming himself on camera for them. All for her own benefit of being right.

I did love in the end, when his sins were brought up into the light and Charlie once again tried to play babygurl and apologized, Angel dust called her ass out on it.

Because hes right.

There's only so many times you can say "sorry" Before your words & actions no longer means fucking shit.

And i think thats a good slap of reality she needed. I do hope This puts a good distance between her and Angel as she once again broke his trust.

I do hope He and Husk makes up tho. Its only cause of Charlie's impulses and stupid ideas that caused them to have tik for tat.

The confessional booth was dark, only the faint glow of a candle through the lattice separating you from him. His voice—deep, steady, holy—always unraveled you more than it should.

“Go on,” Father Barnes murmured, his hand making the sign of the cross on his chest. “Tell me what weighs heavy on your soul.”

You swallowed, fingers twisting in your lap. “It’s you, Father.”

Silence. A pause so sharp you thought your heart might stop. Then the rasp of breath.

“You… dream of me?”

Your cheeks burned, your thighs pressing together under your skirt. “Every night. I think about your hands—how they’d feel on me. I can’t stop. I know it’s wrong. I know I’m supposed to be ashamed, but—”

The wooden screen creaked. He leaned close, his voice a low growl, nothing like the sermons he gave on Sundays. “You tempt me with your confessions, little sinner. Do you know what you’re asking for?”

Your breath hitched. “To be cleansed.”

The door to your side of the booth opened. He was there, looming in black, collar snug against his throat. For a moment he just stared, like he was fighting every vow he’d ever taken. Then his hand cupped your jaw, thumb pressing your lower lip until it parted.

“Open.”

You obeyed. He slid two fingers inside, slow and deliberate, his eyes dark as sin. You moaned around the intrusion, heat flooding you, shame and arousal twined until you couldn’t tell them apart.

“Filthy little lamb,” he hissed, pulling his fingers free to trace them down your chest, lingering at the swell of your breasts. “You come to me begging absolution but all you want is to be ruined.”

“Yes, Father,” you gasped, arching toward him.

He smiled—wolfish, dangerous. Then he bent, mouth hot and hungry on your neck, teeth scraping skin like he wanted to mark you for the devil himself. His hands pushed up your skirt, fingers finding the slick proof of your sins.

“You’re soaked,” he growled, plunging two fingers inside you without mercy. “Dripping for your priest. Tell me, lamb—does that feel holy?”

You sobbed his name, clutching at his cassock. The rhythm was relentless, his thumb circling your clit until you were trembling, thighs clamping around his hand.

When he finally dragged himself free, his hardness straining against the black fabric, he pressed the head of his cock against your slick folds and murmured, “This is your penance. Take every inch of me and maybe—maybe—I’ll forgive you.”

And you did, crying out as he filled you, every thrust a prayer you’d never dare say aloud.

The old wood of the booth groaned with each thrust, the tiny confessional barely containing the sound of sin. His hand was braced against the wall, the other tight around your throat, holding you in place while he split you open on him.

“Look at you,” Bucky rasped, sweat beading along his temple, collar skewed but still clinging to his throat. “Spread and begging in the house of God. You want forgiveness? You’ll earn it on my cock.”

Your moans echoed in the tiny chamber, each one swallowed by his mouth when he kissed you—rough, punishing, like a starving man. His tongue tangled with yours, tasting every sinful whimper.

When he pulled back, he dragged you up onto his lap, settling on the hard wooden bench with you astride him. The cassock pooled around his thighs, his cock buried deep inside you. “Ride me, lamb. Show me how badly you want salvation.”

Your hands clutched at his shoulders as you moved, rocking against him, his girth stretching you so good it nearly broke you. Every grind of your hips made him groan low, his lips at your ear.

“You feel that? That’s what you’ve been praying for at night, isn’t it?” His teeth caught your earlobe, sharp enough to sting. “Tell me. Tell your priest what a filthy girl you are.”

“I—” your voice cracked, body shaking as his hand slid down to spank your ass, hard enough to echo.

“Say it.”

“I’m filthy,” you gasped, bouncing harder, lost in the rhythm. “I’m your sinner.”

“Mine,” he growled, slamming up into you so deep you saw stars. “You don’t belong to God right now—you belong to me.”

Your climax hit sudden and brutal, your nails raking down his shoulders as your body seized around him. He held you there, buried to the hilt, groaning like he was the one being saved.

And then—he broke. His thrusts grew erratic, desperate. His forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “Fuck—gonna—” He didn’t finish the thought, just spilled inside you with a guttural groan, filling you so deep it left no question what he’d done.

Silence followed. Heavy. Sacred in its own way. He didn’t move, still inside you, still clutching you close. His chest heaved, his lips brushing your temple.

“God forgive me,” he whispered. But he didn’t let you go.

He should’ve left you there, trembling and wrecked in the booth. Should’ve pulled his robes back into order and begged for penance of his own. But instead, he dragged you out into the chapel, past the rows of pews, up the steps to the altar.

The cross loomed above, silent witness as Father Barnes lifted you onto the cloth-draped table where so many had knelt in reverence. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you shamelessly.

“Lay back,” he ordered, voice shredded by desire. “You’ll take your prayers from here tonight.”

Your back hit the altar, breath shuddering, and before you could even answer, his mouth was on you—tongue lapping greedily, beard scraping your soft flesh. He feasted like a man starved, like communion itself had been rewritten to taste of you.

“Say it,” he groaned between wet strokes, eyes flicking up to yours. “Pray for me while I ruin you.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair, body arching. “Hail Mary—full of grace—” The words broke into a moan as he sucked your clit, relentless. “The Lord is with thee—ah—”

He growled against you, devouring every broken syllable, dragging the prayer out of you with his tongue and fingers until you sobbed it, gasping through the rhythm of faith and filth.

“Blessed art thou among women,” he mocked against your cunt, voice thick with blasphemy. “And blessed is the fruit of your—fuck—sweet little body.”

You shattered again, crying out his name louder than the prayer, and he rose—chin wet, eyes wild. His cock was out again in seconds, heavy and red, pressing against your entrance.

“Finish it,” he demanded, pushing inside you in one punishing thrust that stole your breath. “Finish your Hail Mary while I split you open.”

Tears burned hot down your temples as you clung to him, the words spilling brokenly between cries of pleasure: “Holy Mary—Mother of God—pray for us sinners—now and at the hour of our death—”

Each line was punctuated by his thrusts, deeper, harder, until your body was a trembling prayer itself.

When you reached the final words, he lost control completely, slamming into you with abandon, groaning like a man damned. His release tore through him as you clenched around him, your own climax crashing down like a hymn sung too loud.

The church was silent again when it was over—save for your ragged breathing, the creak of the altar beneath your bodies. His forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he whispered, voice wrecked and reverent all at once. “And I’ll go to hell smiling.”

___/

It was supposed to be routine. Just another evening confession. But when you slid into the booth, heart hammering, you could feel it in the air—thicker, heavier. He didn’t even wait for your whisper this time. The little door creaked, and suddenly he was in your space, eyes burning, cassock hanging loose around him.

“You came back,” he murmured, almost a prayer in itself. “You should’ve stayed away.”

But his hands cupped your face like he couldn’t stop himself, thumbs brushing your lips. And when you kissed him, when you opened willingly, he groaned like a man finally surrendering to the devil he’d been running from.

This time, he didn’t bother with the pews. He led you straight to the altar again, but it wasn’t bare. A dozen candles burned, their wax dripping slow and thick. A rosary lay coiled neatly on the linen, waiting.

“On your knees,” he ordered softly.

You sank without hesitation, the hem of his cassock brushing your cheek as you looked up at him. His cock, already straining, filled your mouth the moment you parted your lips, heavy on your tongue. He kept the rosary in one hand, beads slipping through his fingers as his hips moved shallowly against your mouth.

“Say your prayers while you take me,” he demanded, voice ragged.

The beads brushed your face as you obeyed, muffled words slipping out around his length: “Hail Mary, full of grace—” He groaned, hand tightening in your hair.

When he pulled you off, slick running down your chin, he bent to lift you onto the altar again. This time, he looped the rosary around your wrists, binding them above your head as he slid into you with a brutal thrust.

“Holy Mary,” he hissed through gritted teeth, setting a punishing rhythm, “Mother of God—pray for us sinners.”

Your moans echoed with the prayer, body straining against the beads biting your skin. He bent low, mouth to your ear, each thrust punctuated with blasphemy.

“You’re my sinner,” he growled. “And this—” His hand pressed hard to your lower belly where he bottomed out inside you, making you cry out. “—this is the only kind of worship I’ll ever give again.”

You prayed louder, sobbing the words through pleasure that felt like punishment and reward all at once.

He came undone inside you again, spilling deep, his own voice breaking on the last line of your prayer: “Now and at the hour of our death—”

When he collapsed against you, still buried, still trembling, he kissed your bound hands like they were holy relics.

“I’ll burn for this,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “But I’ll burn with you.”

The church was packed, pews filled with the dutiful. You sat in the third row, hands folded sweetly in your lap, the light from the stained glass spilling across your face like a benediction. But you weren’t alone.

Your boyfriend’s arm was draped around your shoulders, casual, protective. He whispered something during the hymn that made you smile, and that smile nearly broke Father Barnes in two.

From the pulpit, he tried to keep his eyes on the Gospel, but his voice caught, thick with something more than scripture. Each verse tasted bitter when he saw your head dip against another man’s shoulder. His hands clenched the Bible tight enough his knuckles went white.

When the final hymn ended and the congregation spilled into the bright Sunday air, Bucky caught you before you could follow the others out. His hand was firm on your wrist, disguised as pastoral kindness to anyone watching.

“Stay a moment, child,” he murmured, his voice calm in a way that masked the storm inside. “I need a word with you.”

Your boyfriend gave a nod, respectful of the priest, and left you there. Bucky didn’t speak again until his office door shut behind you, the lock clicking into place. The air grew heavy, charged, the silence almost painful.

“You think I didn’t see?” His voice was low, dangerous. He stepped closer, cassock brushing against your knees as you sat in the chair by his desk. “You let him touch you. In God’s house.”

You swallowed, trying to find words. “He’s my boyfriend, Father, I—”

“No.” His hand slammed down on the desk, the sound making you flinch. His eyes burned, blue fire under shadow. “He cannot give you what you need. Not your body, not your soul. That’s my duty.”

He crouched in front of you, hands braced on your knees, forcing your gaze to his. “Do you hear me? You break it off with him. Today.”

“Father…” your voice trembled, heat flooding your cheeks. “That’s not your decision.”

“It is,” he growled, fingers sliding higher up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh until you gasped. “Because I’ve already claimed you, lamb. You confessed your sins to me, and I took them into myself. You’re mine now. Mine to guide. Mine to care for.”

His hand slipped under your skirt, brushing against the damp heat already soaking through your underwear. “Do you feel this? Tell me he does this to you. Tell me he makes you tremble in a church pew just by looking at you.”

You shook your head, breathless. “He doesn’t—”

Bucky’s smile was dark, triumphant. “That’s because he’s not meant for you. I am.”

And when he dragged you from the chair into his lap, robes parting, cock already hard against you, you knew the sermon wasn’t over.

He didn’t give you a warning—there never was one with him. One breath later he was kneeling again between your thighs, fingers parting you like a benediction, robe pushed up, rosary knocking softly against his wrist. The room smelled of old paper and candlewax, the hush of leaving parishioners still clinging to the walls, and his mouth was hot and urgent.

“Say my name,” he murmured, voice rough as a confession.

You obeyed—his name a prayer on your lips—because you’d spent too many nights whispering it into pillows, because the sound of him turned all your shame into worship. His tongue found the place where you ached, mapped it with slow, precise devotion. He tasted you like scripture, like something sacred he wasn’t supposed to touch, and everything inside you folded toward that heat.

His hands kept you open, soft and commanding, thumb tracing lazy circles over the place that made you dizzy. “Look at me,” he demanded, and when you did he swallowed you whole with his eyes: hungry, reverent, terrible.

You trembled, close, the world narrowing to the scrape of the desk, the bead of sweat at his temple, the impossible hush around his breathing. Just when your body was ready to give, when the first bright edge of release started to nudge you forward, he pulled back. The sudden absence was worse than the act itself—cold air on your wetness, silence where the hymn had been.

He rose with that terrible, sacred composure, eyes burning as if forged in some private hell. For a beat he simply watched you, like a man counting the measure of a soul. Then he leaned close, breath hot in your ear, and the words came out quiet but absolute.

“Leave him,” he said. “Leave him and marry me.”

The floor of your certainty dropped away. “What—” you managed, voice raw, half-laughing, half-pleading. “You’re a priest—”

“I am a priest who knows what you are to me,” he cut in, steady as a command. “It is my duty to care for you. To guide you. To wash you. Not only inside these walls.” His hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking the tremor there. “Marry me. Let me be the one to hold your vows—so I can keep you clean in the dark, the same way I’ve been doing in the light.”

You could feel the weight of the rosary at his wrist, the tiny crucifix like an accusation. He sounded impossible and devastating and unbearably sincere, like a sinner who’d decided to sanctify the sin by ownership. The proposition was insane—but then, so was everything between you.

“Marry you,” you repeated, tasting the words before they’d settled. Your body still buzzed with the aftershocks he’d teased out of you, and that ache at the center of you flamed with want. “To be… yours? Publicly? Secretly?”

“However you need,” he said, voice folding around the mercy of the promise. “Secretly, if you must. Or loudly, if you want me to claim you in front of God and man. But break him off. Give me the right to cleanse you without looking over my shoulder. Let me be the one who says your name and means it.”

A laugh bubbled up—broken, incredulous. “You want me to leave him… for you? For this?” You gestured, helpless, at the ink-smudged appointment book on his desk, at the collar at his throat, at the chapel windows where light still pooled like witness.

“Yes.” He sounded both brittle and ferocious. “I want you to be mine in every sense. I want the right to mark you as saved by my hands. To be the man who takes your sins and keeps them where they belong—on me.” His fingers tightened in your hair, gentle and not, anchoring you to the moment. “Answer me.”

You should have run. You should have fled the office, called your boyfriend, untied the rosary from some dusty place in your head and burned it. Instead the heat that had been poured into you—his ministrations, his lips, the way he’d made you pray as you came—pressed you into a single, reckless decision.

“You would… if I asked?” Your voice was a tremble gone brave. “Would you really do that? Marry me?”

“Yes.” The syllable was a blade of light. “I will."

He was asking more than a name on a registry. He was asking for the fracture of your life, the burning of safe things, the letting go of a hand that had once kept you from being alone. It was monstrous and impossibly tender. It was a vow tangled with lust.

“Then… prove it,” you said, breath hitching. “Prove I’m worth the sin.”

His grin was a dark benediction. He pressed his mouth to yours—hard, holy, claiming—and this time he didn’t pause. He moved with the surety of a man who had decided on damnation. He laid you back, let the rosary slide from his wrist and coil on the desk, and then he kissed the place inside you where warmth pooled, where your answer lived.

He buried himself deep, hands braced at the small of your back, and you rode the rawness of his need until the room blurred. Each thrust was a sermon; each cry, a confession. You said his name like a vow, and when you came it was all at once: the relinquishment of what you’d known, and the terrifying, sweet acceptance of what he offered. He followed, heavy and hot and utterly his, and when he collapsed over you afterward his breath was a shaky psalm.

“I’ll make arrangements,” he whispered, thumb drawing lazy, possessive lines over your clavicle. “I’ll make it right—for us. For you. For what we are.”

You let the truth of it settle in the smear of candlelight and sweat. Outside, the church bells wound down into the evening; inside, the two of you lay tangled, secrets braided with something that would be called many things by other tongues—sin, salvation, love. You didn’t know what the church would say, what the world would do, but when he threaded his fingers through yours, rosary forgotten on the desk, you felt—terrifyingly—safe.

____

The Refused Deal.

So Sinner Reader had already dealt with the Vees before he ever was keyed a room at the hotel by Verosika and was apart of the Hotel crew & Met Adam.

Its kinda why Verosika even states she needed somewhere safe for him to stay because she doesn't want anyone trying to trick him for his soul because he has a really good voice amd musical talent.

When Sinner Reader first arrived to hell, like all new hell souls....

He didn't have shit.

But he managed to find a busted up gutair being thrown out in a back alley somewhere and Pride and he ended up fixing it up. It wasn't hardly anything, to others a complete wait of time.

But to you?

It was everything.

It was a comfort.

You traveled around Pride city with nothing but the clothes on your back and that fixed busted up guitar. Stopping only when it hurt to move anymore on your hooves and you had a nice little spot that was well maybe 40% safe for the night. Instead of whining and complaining about the lack of things you had in your afterlife, You would comfort yourself by playing on that busted up gutair.

Putting your soul into your music allowing your own talents comfort yourself.

In those harder times, playing just made you feel good, and surprisingly every time you played a group of sinners or hellborn would for some reason form around you.

You didn't understand why at first.

But you were greatful to anyone who tossed a couple coins your way and what not.

It was a hellborn who had a struggling bar and diner who offered you a job to perform on one night a week. The cash wasn't much but it was something you eagerly accepted.

You had arrived there early, used the bathroom to clean up the best you could and waltz out of the their diners bathroom ready to preform when the owners wife flat out stopped you.

"You can't go up that stage looking thin as bone." She declared amd made you sit down at a booth and wait as the Imp woman went back fixed you up a plate and brought it back for you to eat.

"Gotta make sure you play good." She simply declared as you stared at the plate nearly drooling ears flapping and what shocked her was how brightly you smiled at her im genuine thanks.

"Thank you ma'am." You had declared before digging into your plate, and for some reason, she sat down and spent the tome it took you to clear your plate to talk with you.

You had been well mannered, Far more than anyone sinner shes seen, more than even those self posh ones that thought they were.

Nearly everything from you was 'Yes ma'am,' 'No ma'am' 'of course, ma'am'.

The kind of manners that only came from good raising and she had to tip her head at your Moma for that.

The other that suprised the two owners were how you asked to clean your own plate, and ended up doing the other dishes because you had time before you were to play, and you wanted to show your respects for the meal.

Then they both had watched you hit that stage and it was like watching you transform into something else, something new. Someone fully true to themselves.

And the crowd there and started coming in, felt it too. Your music was able to touch crowds and make them feel everything in a moment of a song.

Your music offered healing to ones soul.

Your first night at the diner playing had soon become you playing nearly every night, with or without pay from the owners simply because you liked to play and well the crowds did throw a coin your way time to time.

Soon the influx of folks coming to eat at the diner had overwhelmed the owners, the volume was simply too high for them and their small staff to handle. So when they sat down with you ome night feeding you a meal, you were stunned when they told you they wanted you to play less at their diner.

Yet it was the Imp woman who slide a envelope of your weeks pay with some extra and a note pad of other business they were closed too.

"You really got something in you." She said to you making you look at her with wide eyes and perked up ears.

"Something that no one down here as ever seen before, and kiddo you gotta get out there."

You had looked at the notepad, a list of hellborn ran businesses that wanted you to book nights with them to play. You had ended up hugging that woman before you left, promising her you would come back every so often so that she could see you okay and well.

There wasn't any doubts that you wouldn't keep that word.

"Stay good, honey."

You would rotate between those businesses, playing for them brought you a decent revenue to get you a small ran down apartment. But it was yours, and with a few more gigs you were able to buy you a second handed cheap set up from hellborn ran shops. As they were the ones to raise you up from the streets and the ones you silently swore loyalty towards. You started making your own music at home and uploading your songs on Helltube. Not to be confused with Voxtube.

It didn't take long before your account, You, had caught traction. You caught fans and followers, folks that wanted to hear you play and a few that sent a few bucks to your Hellmo.

With that money you got a brand new gutair, hanging up your starting one up on your ran down apartments wall. You got more focused on making your own songs and music, performing gigs as a side.

You had gotten traction.

Even some popularity.

You had gotten a name.

You had public affection and admiration.

A untapped resource of influence potential.

Something that caught Voxs attention and equally his wants to having you under him. Someone of your talents could reach a uncaptured category he and the Vees struggled to ahold.

So he had sent his offer, a deal in guise, chains hidden underneath polite formal words of a chance of promised dream. One you had read over and over, one that had enticed you and had you walking to the Vees tower for the offers invitation to a one on Three interview.

Yet

There was suspicion, After all if something seemed way to good to be true,

Well....Then theres a chance its horse shit.

You figured you go inside, hear them out, and then afterwards accept or decline or even ask for an extended time period to think everything over. What the Vees had offered seemed to be like a dream....even if it was over the top with how they promised how much you could cash in almost immediately.

But you never made it to that meeting.

Instead, om the way you heard a woman swearing, causing you to turn back and see a Succubus whose heel was stuck in a drainage grate and her leg was at such an odd angle if she moved it, you feared she might break her ankle.

You jad moved to her, unlike the crowd that moved around her with annoyed snarls and grumbles.

"Here miss, let me help." You jad offered kindly causing the woman to look at you a snarl on her own face as she had thought you were gonna pull something on her. But when she saw you get on your knees to actually gently help get her foot free from her heel and access that, yea, her heel was fucking gone....No way it was coming out. The snarl lost from her face.

"Fucking of course! I Have to be somewhere and traffic so fucking full no way a ride is going to be possible!" She snapped, not at you, but her unfortunate situation as she leaned against a building keeping her foot up.

You didnt blame her about not wanting to walk barefooted....Hell was well....Full of shit that could easily stab or slice through a a soft foot. Its why you were so grateful to have hard and solid hooves.

"Where do you have to be?" You had asked the woman curiously making her look over you with her pink eyes.

"Over By Babylon street. The dick shaped building." She stated blankly and you had let out a laugh as you had infact know the building, you seen it on your first few months of roaming and traveling. Sliding your gutair case to the front of you you turned your back to her crouching slightly.

"Well i dont really have anywhere important sides some meeting at V tower i was iffy on going, But I can carry you over that way." You had told her.

Viroska had hesitated, it wasnt everyday a sinner offered help and well....You were a man. Yet for some reason, she felt safe enough to trust you as she climbed onto your back and you stood shifting her in a better position moving an arm behind you and under her to hid her ass that her too short of a skirt was revealing. Shifting your gutair case to the side of you, you began to walk towards the building she had to go.

"You play?" She asked, starting up casual conversation to keep the fact she had to be carried from being awkward.

"Oh yea a little bit, it keeps me out of trouble I think." You said lightly and it caused her to smile.

"Not if its getting you to go to V tower. That place is filled of trouble." Viroska had stated and when you asked why, she went into rants about it completely.

That by the time you got her to the building she was supposed to be, she didnt realized how quickly you managed to walk five blocks carrying her without a single complaint or any exception as you were good to wave bye and leave.

"Sounds like i missed a bullet." You had laughed as you got her balanced on her own weight in front of the building.

"Yeah...You really did....Just cause you stopped to help me.." Viroska spoke softly as she took in the direct cause that had saved your soul.

"Hey...Do You Really play that good?"

A question, The question.

The one that had you shrugging with a nod and a bright smile, one she saw that did not belong down here. The question that had you following her into the building, into her studio and playing as a back up.

The Question that had you staying with her and her crew, keeping your soul safe and far from the Vees.

And yeah.

You were, Really that good.

_____

You had told Adam that tale a few times, when nostalgia kinda hit you. He liked it, holding you on the studios love seat as you leaned back into him softly strumming on that old gutair you first started in hell with.

The one Viroska had fully refurbished and Repaired that hung up in the main studios walls woth your signature along it.

Just the both of you relaxing into each other, listening to you softly play for the both of you.

On the coffee table beside you was Adam's tablet, that was lowly dimmed as it was starting to shut off with another email, another invitation, another trap under a guise just for him, From the Vees. The hundredth one that been blowing up recently in Adams Inbox, and now again in yours. Because they knew if they could sink their claws into one of you, the other would follow. Yet unfortunately for the vees, it was just,

Another trap that will miss its catch.

"Well fuck the Vees.." Adam would whisper towards you making you lean your head backwards into him to catch his eyes a smile on your face as his lips pressed against your foreheads skin.

"Yea fuck the vees."

____________________

Not at all, Like us.

If any article had ever realsed from the Vee tower that ever tried to draw lines of comparison of Sinner!Readers & Adams relationship and Vox and Valentinos Relationship.

The two would absolutely be jaw slacked and then holler with laughter. Cause who ever wrote that article had to be super fucking stupid.

The fire of jokes and memes that would hit their socail pages, on Hellergram and Succker would go crazyyyy.

EXHeavensDickMaster;

'Which ever one of you fuckers who said we are like the Vees, Im coming to shit in your left shoe.'

'My bad for missing those gross fucks during the exterminations. Really fucked up there 😬.'

🤣 120k. 😮60k. 🤬80k. 💬50k

TheGreatestEverBeen:

'Look guys....Were not mad, but someone is definitely grounded.'

'But like....The Vees? Really? I thought we be more like that clown dude with the lust Sin than anything.....Do I need to start calling Adam Big Daddy on stage now? 😅😢'

🤣 200k. 😮80k. 🤬40k. 💬100k.

|_ Reblogged by EXHeavensDickMaster.

'Fuck Yea you do. Im so fucking down for that.'

'What about you freaky fucks think?'

🤣 500k. 😍200k. 🤬100k. 💬450k.

In all seriousness, No one is going to be taking that comparison seriously. if anything its going to become a old long running joke between them and their fans.

"Y'all remember when someone hated us so much they compared us to the absolute Horror shit show the Vees are?????? Wild times, Wild times. May there pillows be hot forever."