[NFSW] omg could you write something for the arcane ladies with an s/o who likes to be the one using the strap on ? like not necessarily being the dom, just using it on them.
Gods I love strap requests
Hope you enjoy <3
Included: Vi, Jinx, Caitlyn Kiramman, Mel Medarda, Sevika
Vi isn't a massive fan of any downstairs penetration with the strap, but that being said, she doesn't have a gag reflex.
While you may not be able to feel it, or maybe you can, depending on the strap's technological model, the look of her on her knees for you, or the vision of her under you while you fuck her throat.
It's a rare occurrence, but she knows what she's doing, and she loves drawing desperate noises from you.
If the strap is used, you use it 90% of the time. She doesn't like the way it feels or looks at herself. On you? It makes her mouth water
Jinx really enjoys laying on her stomach while you fuck her; she gets to lounge around and get the pleasure she wants while you desperately try and please her.
Either that or she'll have you wear it all day just so she can tease and just jump on you at a random time. Its a win and a loss because she could literally pop out of anywhere
She's a pillow princess in every sense of the word. Even if she's sitting on top of you, it doesn't matter; you will be doing all of the work thrusting up to meet her.
Typically in bed, she's not very loud, not because she's not having a good time but because she's just never been vocal. But when you're using the strap, she is a little more vocal to the extent of whimpering.
Not that you mind putting in more work. You appreciate that she trusts you enough.
I hope you're okay with being ridden in every way, shape, and form on every surface of her office, and anywhere she can get you alone.
Being touched so profoundly in such a professional setting just gets her going.
When you two are alone in a private room, she enjoys watching you put the strap on and telling you what to do. Going slowly through the night and feeling all of you
Sev... she's not a fan, as you would have guessed. She doesn't like being dominated, and she defiantly doesn't like being fucked.
The one and only time she let you try it on her is short, and both of you feel incredibly out of place during the whole ordeal.
(Or, one of the many, many times that Father Silco has committed direct-blasphemy in the privacy of a confessional, in his own place of worship.)
2,400 WC - Oneshot - AO3
Warnings: Priest!Silco, secret relationship, implied sex-work, fingering, P in V, breeding, slight use of ‘Daddy’, dirty-talk, mutual feelings/pining?
A confessional made in candlelight... nothing else in this mortal-coil had ever been so sinful. Except, perhaps, in the knowledge that this was not a confessional of transgressions, nor even of action, thoughts of impurity that would bring shame in the name of their Father.
This was a confessional of the flesh.
Flesh that is reddened, pinched by nails, and growing with bruises from his blessed hands - truly, every mark is a new mark against him, a new tally on his list of sins. A list that, thanks to you, is growing and growing.
However much the Father will pray for forgiveness at a later time, with clasped hands and commit to private penance for his transgressions, he cannot regret what happens in the moment. The moment where - forgive him - God amounts to nothing, and sin is only a matter of temporary, mortal shame.
May the afterlife have mercy on his damned soul, but when you gasp out his name so horribly, sinfully sweetly, Father Silco couldn't care less about the indignity, the shame.
Because when you breathe out his name, his title, it makes his future-stay in Hell all-the-more worth it.
"Father, oh, father...!"
"Shall I pray for you, dear girl? You seem, hm... quite incapable," He purred against the tip of your spine, his huff of laughter tickling the hairs at the base of your neck. You gasped - both from that sensation, and that of the pads of his long, calloused fingers, so used to coursing through pages of a Bible, exploring the soaked folds of center as you quiver in his grasp. "How will God hear you, if you don't speak his name?"
"H-his means nothing to me. Only you, only ever you, Father," You gasp, one hand reaching up from where you're held captive against his chest, spread wide in his lap, finding his face behind you. Cupping against the ruined-part of his face, Silco managed to bury his nose and mouth against your hair before the way he hums in approval, in bliss, becomes audible. "I only know your name, Father. It’s the only one I want to pray to, the only one I need-"
Based on how loud you cry-out, and writhe in his lap with a string of babbles that loosely resembles his name, Father Silco imagined you didn't need any kind of God, as you needed his fingers plunging straight into your soaked cunt just-so.
His other fingers come up to curl beneath your chin, trapping lips that part in a cry beneath his index and middle, so as not to have your moans of need echoing in the confessional-booth.
"How blasphemous," He says mildly, pumping his fingers within you with a growing tempo, in direct contrast with his slow-words. "Worshiping idols is bad enough, but to worship a fellow mortal? That irreverence could damn you, girl."
A sharp curl of his fingers, pressing sharp and fast like a strike against your inner-walls, has you quivering with a broken sob against his fingers. You reach desperately towards him, like someone indeed damned reaching towards the light, with your own fingers tightening on a grip on his hair-
Leverage, Silco realizes too late, as you jerk his head down in time with yours coming up, mouth pressing against his throat heaving-out a breath before you drag your tongue along the line between skin and clerical collar, "We're all damned, Father."
And God knows he is.
He is, but he can't find it within his conscious to care, not as he feels the scrap of your teeth against his skin with a gasp, the curl of his fingers pressing firmly against a spot that has your body go rigid in his grasp, as still as one of the grand-statues within the worshiping-hall.
Admittedly, Silco would not be ashamed to pray solely to the image you make now, this picture of ecstasy that deserves his worship.
When your body releases its marble-like tension, it does so with a loud, low moan spilling between your lips and his fingers. It leaks from you as your juices do, filled with murmurs of his name like devotions and a desperate canting of your hips as you chase after your orgasm, perhaps seeking another.
Lust, and gluttony. Two unforgivable sins, and one the Father punishes swiftly by smoothly removing his fingers, dragging the pads along your inner-walls just to feel you twitch, and hear your mournful whines.
"Scripture tells us that silence can help us avoid sinning," He murmured in warning as your head rolls back against his chest, a shuddering exhale escaping as you watch his dripping-fingers be raised towards his mouth. "Damned we may be, but are you truly prepared for the nine-circles, dear?"
Hoarsely you speak, though whether it's derived from the pleasure, or from the sight of him delicately lapping, quietly slurping the evidence of your ecstasy from his fingers, Silco is unsure. "Y… you know exactly what I'm prepared for, Father."
The way you're turned in his lap, facing him with eyes hazed, cheeks still dark with a pleasure flush, is nothing short of a practiced movement, one that's been done many, too many times prior. Equally, it's almost second-nature with how quickly the clergyman thumbs open his dark trousers as you loop your arms around his shoulders.
Both for security, and to keep from falling off of him - you're trembling, Silco realizes, and he slows.
"Something to confess, dearest?"
Another pant, this one partially mixed with laughter. Your forehead brushes against his when you lean in, inhaling before words flow out with a slow exhale that brushes against his lips, "Just… never thought someone would be willing to be damned for me. It’s flattering, in a way."
Flattery, in the form of a sin.
“How romantic,” He murmurs, both as a reply and as a voice to his thoughts, at how curious such a remark was, made curiouser with the timing. “You see the fall of the holy as something amourous?”
“What could be more so, Father?” A hand snakes up, fingers carting and curling though the softer-hairs at the base of his skull. “What’s more romantic than a holy’s fall?”
The Fall. Surely, the logical endpoint for anyone once held in the good-graces of the Graced, and an endpoint any other in his position would fear of, trembling just at the thought of.
But Silco trembles for another reason entirely, and that is how your warm breath ghosts across his face as you sigh-out his name, an action that spurs him to move and quickly, frantically unbutton his trousers.
If he’s predestined to fall, there might as well be a good reason for it. And what better reason is there, than to coax his name to spill out in a barely muffled cry behind his palm, as he’s soon rolling his hips to feel you clench around him. “This isn’t romantic… human-nature at it’s finest,” He breathes against you, watching your eyes falter and roll with a pointed jerk of his hips, hitting a spot deep inside your walls that leaves you rigid.
Sliding his palm from across your mouth, he slides the saliva-slicked surface across your cheek. Fingers that are practiced with fiddling rosaries, or flipping pages of scripture, curl into your hair in order to give it a rough tug, soon exposing the expanse of your neck to his tongue and teeth as he thrusts up harsher into you, choking off your pleasure only with more arousing pain.
“Shall I bless this union?” He growls into your skin, pulling back only an inch to drag the flat of his tongue along your racing jugular, the chill of the confessional and his low, curious tone, leaving you to shudder. “Blessings come in a singular form, from what I know… Shall I bless you with child?” His palm comes to lay flat on your lower abdomen, low enough for him to stretch a long thumb further-down, and leave you wheezing at the careful thumbing of your clit.
The thought isn’t just damning - it’s an idea that would remove him of his collar entirely. Disowned and disavowed by the church, should they ever know… but the secrecy of the sin is already so heinously pleasing, when the images of past-meeting roam in his mind during times of prayer.
Seeing the evidence of the secrecy, in plain view, in the eyes of mortals and God alike… Perhaps it was some form of complex. Perhaps it was blasphemy in its purest form, to flaunt his misconduct in such a way, but it matters not.
The idea lingers, and with your desperate, hoarse plea, to fuck you until you’re full, until you’re bred, it’s an idea put into motion with a firmer, harsher grip placed upon your hips, and a biting grip of nails to hold you as he thrusts into you.
Striking perfectly with reckless, damned-near ravaging strokes against that perfect spot inside of you, Father Silco fucks you with all the disregard any Godless man would give - like this was simple human nature, and not a transgression that would damn his very soul, certainly shaming you forever.
That is, if the piercing, barely-audible shrieks you give behind bitten-lips is any indication that you hold no such shame, not even in the smallest atomic amount within your body. Eyes rolling-back as you rock in time with his thrusts, pleasure overwhelming, blinding, as the intensity leaves you mindless and unknowing to all but your new-god in human form-
Hell will be worth it, oh yes.
The burning pits, eternal torture and timeless agony will be completely and utterly worth every second, if only the Father could see the way your mouth parts and a whine of his name - his name, not even his god-granted title of a clergyman - releases like the sound of a breathless divine in her most holy form, brought to the most sinful form imaginable.
At such a revered sound, Father Silco finds his own viewing of the sight rendered interrupted as his eyes squeeze shut and his head falls back against the seat. Filth spills from his tight-teeth in the waves of his climax, syllables forming your words in slow prayers of your name as your walls tighten around him, and his release fills you as a heavenly fog fills his mind… it’s enough to forget, for a moment.
Forget that he is not just a man, but a vessel of God’s great words. Forget that said-God is merciless, and there will come a day where vengeance against his transgressions - not just of this evening but the many, many others that come before it - will one-day come swift, spiteful and even Father Silco can admit, justified.
“Silco,” You murmur against his jugular, after having grown lax and close to him in the euphoria of his climax, your soft pants warm against his skin. Licking his dry-lips, he parts them for a moment in preparation of a rebuke, a stern reminder… and only ends up with a quiet chuckle, a rolling sound that leaves you to shudder.
“Father to you, dear… perhaps a title that will have more than one meaning shortly, Gods-willing,” He muses with a short roll of his hips, leading a sharp exhale to leave goosebumps over his skin. You echo his sentiment, more of a weakened taunt than a true prayer to the holy, before you ease yourself upright, staring down at him with heavy-lidded eyes and parted lips.
Lips that beg to be captured, and with a sudden, stern reach up to curl his fingers beneath your jaw, he does so with a quick collision of tongue and teeth.
A more perfect sin would be to stay here. To remain in this moment, still within you and seed inside, in the process of bruising lips and perhaps even beginning a second-round within this box meant for confessions. To perform a second confession of flesh - it’s a tempting thought, but the time of giving into temptation has passed, in time with the local tolling of bells.
“Pity,” He murmurs after releasing a bitten lip from his teeth, pulling back to observe the swollen flesh before his gaze travels up to yours. There’s a flicker of regret - no, disappointment in your eyes - but it’s coaxed away by his hand reappearing from the folds of his dark-robe, producing a small-leather pouch resting in the center of his palm.
“Go with my blessing, girl,” He murmurs, offering the barely-there tilt on his lips to compare against the grave, somber tone his profession demands. “In both moral, and physical sense.”
“You mean monetary sense,” You murmur, but take it nonetheless. The weight of your hourly-rate is heavy in your hand, not only with the respectable due a lady of your nightly-profession demands, but here's an enjoyment in her presence he’s not eager to lose.
A decent tip of a tithe to sweeten the deal of sinning, is more than enough to keep you returning.
And perhaps even more unholy, there’s another reason you return consistently and routinely to pleasure the holy-man with reckless abandon. The Father dared not to speculate - the one line he dare not cross, even as actions, words and thoughts prove his penchant for sacreligion, Silco dared not to truly desecrate his holy mind with the one, singular theory he had in regards to you. A forbidden line of thought, that voicing was impossible, and confronting was even more sinful than every action he had taken this evening, all that came before and all that will come after.
You, however, have no such restraints with pushing the limits of your transgressions with your reverence, and lean forward to kiss the Father of the church with reckless, impious abandon.
Most sinful of all, you kiss the priest almost lovingly, fingers coming up to curl into the soft, short hairs above the clergy collar that, for a single moment, Silco wants nothing more than to rip off the evidence of his holy-restraint from kissing you back in such a way.
“Pray for me, Father?” You murmur upon his lips, in way of a goodbye.
A request he is bound to comply with, though he doesn’t just pray for your already damned soul - he prays for his own, and most sacredly of all, that you would return to him in-time.
Neither of you deserve it.
But he prays, nonetheless.