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slutforalastor · 15 days

Text

Confessional

Human Priest Alastor has a particularly committed parishioner with an unholy request. NOT APPROPRIATE FOR THOSE UNDER THE AGE OF 18. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Tags: SO MANY CHURCH REFERENCES, light voyeurism, temptation, bloodletting, church AU I guess if you wanna get technical, way too many big words for plotless smut

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

You kneel before a shadow, crossing yourself. You know the shadow's face, having spent countless Sundays smiling from your lips and weeping from between your legs during his service. You know that he can see you, perhaps even recognizes you. You're aware of the purpose of confessional, the supposed tenants guiding the practice, but you are not here to absolve yourself. You seek indulgence, not purification.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been eleven months since my last confession. These are my sins. I harbor impure thoughts, thoughts that I know have been given to me by the Lord. He is guiding us towards a union, perhaps to conceive, but for some holy purpose, regardless. There can be no other reason why you'd occupy my every waking thought, why my maiden's bed feels so cold and empty, as though incomplete without your body next to mine. Each and every night, I sin in that bed, allowing my own hand to guide me to an incomplete release. It never gives me any feeling of blessing, only of deeper desire to blaspheme. My soul is forever lost without your faithful shepherding, Father."

The shadow moves, clears its throat, no trace of emotion to be gleaned from his intonation.

"My dear child, you seem lost, confused. As a man I am flattered, perhaps even humbled, by this confession. But you must hold steady against these impure delusions, for God has placed me on a different path."

His rebuke only serves to hasten your desire. You feel yourself laden with honeyed need, leaking against the inside of your thighs through your underwear. You know he can see you kneeling, prostrating yourself before the judgment of your holy superior. Still on your knees, you lean back, hiking up the fabric of your skirt, pushing your hips up to present your ruined panties. "Holy Father, you are a servant of the Lord, are you not? Would you deny that one of your flock is in need? Would you leave them to temptation in solitude, with only their hands, the devil's playthings, for companionship?"

His voice betrays the first sign of will being tested. "This could just as easily be a test, a bit of trickery from the Devil himself."

"Who better to rid me of devilish desire than one who speaks on God's behalf? Who baptizes the young, unifies lovers, grants last rites to the condemned? Serve your Lord and banish this Devil from my loins, if you be pious, if you be merciful."

His voice is trembling now, thick with an intent you had hoped to provoke. You are intriguing him, winning him over. Summoning your courage, you draw your underwear down to your ankles, clumsily preening your sex the same way you have been whenever the heat between your legs burns like Hellfire. "See for yourself how the Lord makes me a conduit. Would you call this the will of the Devil? The need of a woman for a man?"

"I have taken an oath..." he stutters, choking on his own words.

"An oath to serve your parishioners... Would you bear witness to sin, knowing you can make it holy?" you bleat, the lamb on the altar, bound by ropes fastened to your soul. The Priest stands, and you can see his shadow making the mark of the cross, muttering a prayer to himself. Your self-defilement doesn't even slow, the low, wet sounds of hungry flesh accepting your phallic substitute the only sound in the confessional. In another moment, you hear the door opening, and your savior stands framed in the light of the jamb.

"Bless you, Father," you moan. He shuts the door, and in the dimness, you capture the full depth of his radiance. His brown hair drapes in front of his eyes, standing as a buffer between those nearly-black irises and the small circular frames that grace the bridge of his nose. A nervous sweat shimmers on his dark skin. His cassock is disheveled, his silver cross hung up on one of the higher buttons, collar greyed at the edges from sweat.

"We must make haste to rid you of this curse," he breathes, tugging at his collar. Thinking on its symbolism, he detaches it entirely, leaving it hanging on the doorknob. With rough strength, he brings you to the chair one could use to confess face-to-face, bringing your arousal level with him when he drops to his knees. He inhales, something within that bouquet seeming to pique his interest. "You reek of unholy desire."

"It has tormented me, Father."

"I can see now what you mean. It would be irresponsible to leave you in such a state. I shall grant you this mercy, my child. God will heal you through me."

With a slight tilt of his head, he partakes in your communion, his lips brushing over the outermost of your folds, murmuring a prayer against the electrified nerves. You can feel every syllable evoked against your body, sending ripples of heaven cascading through your system. You are certain that God's holy presence is being imparted from the teasing edges of his lips into your body. His tongue parts from between his pursed, muttering lips, lapping at the inside of your sex, searching for something buried deeper still. Your hands dare to caress his head, guiding him towards the spot he seeks. Charting into fresh territory, he stakes claim to it, his eager tongue seeking out places you've yet to even map yourself. Each press of it is a blessing, the burning ache in your flesh the doubtless throes of a demon being flayed from your soul.

"My dear, I'm beginning to wonder if I misjudged. Your taste is divine."

Your fingers dig into his thick locks, pressing him to persist even further, to reach past the purgatory of your desire. You feel his nose grinding against your most sensitive spot, something you have never had a name for, feeling every time he inhales and exhales, his mouth far too preoccupied with more concerning matters. You are fighting to keep your carnal affectations from becoming any louder than a whining wail you smother in the small of your throat, lest it be loosed completely unrestrained.

"You're doing well to keep your voice lowered," he praises you. "You are a true servant of your Lord."

"I-I am in his service," you affirm, your words snaring every time his tongue darts against your walls.

"Your dedication deserves to be rewarded," and he pushes himself as far as the limitations of flesh permit, lodging his lapping extremity so firmly within that you startle nearly upright, sharp nails that bite against the fabric of your clothes urging you back down. "He says 'be still and know that I am God.'"

You groan against the scripture being branded on your innards, a new sensation creeping across the tensed muscles of your legs. With a muffled moan, he is baptized in your release, and he offers a satisfied sound of approval. Your legs quake against the ceaseless undulating of his attentions, finally extricating himself when he's had his fill of you. He runs the long, thin thing that just concluded making a mess of your insides over his glistening grin, still slick from your consecration. Your focus drifts downward, to the crook that will shepherd you to salvation tenting the fabric of his soutane.

"Traces of habitation still remain, my child. We must take measures to save your spirit." He undoes the lower buttons of his robe, exposing himself to you, as he would have been in Eden. You can feel it against you, afire with purifying heat, sliding against your sopping entrance with anticipation. "Accept these rites."

"Bless me, Father," you whine, grinding yourself against him.

"Please, dear, call me Alastor." It's not permission; it's a demand. He waits, poised against you.

"Please give me your blessing, Alastor."

His lips curl into a grin, his canines so jagged and long that they're the first teeth you see. "God answers all prayers in good time." With a shove, he enters you, your teeth clenching, your breath shorting at the feeling of this union. He can't help but let a pleasured grunt leave his lips, and he catches your eyes as the last inch of him slips inside, brushing an errant strand of hair from your eyes. You feel cold, flushed at the overwhelming relief of finally being face-to-face with what you'd thought could only be in a fantasy. He gives a thrust, testing the waters, shaking your faith. You whimper against the force of it, still growing accustomed to the sensation of being taken. "Do you feel the sin drying up? The demonic need being purged?" Alastor wonders, driving himself into you with ever-increasing force, his restraint abandoned. "In its place will be holy admiration, a want to submit, as all of God's good creatures must possess."

"I will be a good creature," you promise.

"The best their ever was," Alastor croons, his jagged incisors hunting for the soft of your neck, carving runes against the submissive skin, seas of red pooling in the canyons. "Will your blood run black, as a demon's, or red, like the dust of the Earth? You have the allure of a succubus, but the taste of a virgin." His nails ribbon your collarbone, leaving oozing trails like spilled wine. He partakes of this communion with the same vigor as before, drinking it like an elixir. Your nervous hands grasp against his back, enfeebled fingers digging into the fabric of his clothing. Through all of this, his rutting has never slowed, increasing in desperation when he samples your blood. When he pulls away, you can see it trickling against his teeth, his tongue dragging over the surface to crudely clean them.

"I have dreamed of this, Alastor."

"Our lord works in mysterious ways," he assures you, clawed fingers still tracing thin rivulets across your skin. "I am nearly at my limit," he pants, burying himself against you. His thrusts finally slow, each push against you deliberate, purposeful. With his body laid against yours, his mouth is laid by your ear, and you can hear every facet of his breathing, every pant, moan, and inhale he makes broadcasting into your brain, the only sound you can hear. You are as close as he is, and you wrap yourself around him as he pumps into you one final time, his holy fire coating your insides, his assured breaths becoming high-pitched whines as he spasms against you, driving you to your own climax. It is nothing like what you've made yourself feel; it sends shockwaves through the taut fibers of your lower half, makes you cry out in uncontrollable lust, leaving your limbs clenched around Alastor as the last of his climax is left spilt within. You feel his chest heave with a deeply drawn breath, his sigh in your ear scattering chills across you. "Do you feel purified, dear?"

"I worry that I will have further need of your services, Alastor."

He pulls away from you, his smile sadistic yet sincere. "The clergy lives to serve, after all."

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senseichaos · 2 months

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I JUST HAD THIS THOUGHT HAD TO WRITE IT

IMAGINE

Priest kink with Alastor.

You'd come back to your hotel room one day, tired from the day with Charlie and wanting nothing more than to be with your darling boyfriend Alastor. The ache in your feet is immeasurable against the flooring as you place your hand against the door knob, wrenching it open to be met with Alastor on the other side.

Though he isn't himself.

He's wearing a Priest outfit. A tight, black shirt that accentuates his broad chest with an iconic white collar. And then a pair of slightly too-tight dress trousers that cling against his hips in the most attractive way. You can't help but let your jaw drop, especially at the way he has his hands clasped together as he stares at you, unspeaking.

But your biggest question is, how the fuck did he know you were into that? You had never told him of this kink, nor had you even given him the slightest hint that you were. How does he do it? You wonder.

Your legs suddenly feel light and airy as you take a step forward, closing the door softly behind you as the air runs slower than molasses. The tension so think not even a knife could manage to cut through its heavy muscle. Taking another step, you place a hand against his chest, feeling the fabric of the shirt beneath your fingers as he stares with such a deep glance. Unreadable with his features.

"Alastor?" You ask, pulling your lip between your teeth.

He chuckles "That's father to you, my child,"

Your knees go weak, legs threatening to give out as goosebumps spread across your skin. Alastor sees this, taking the hand against his chest into his own large hand, dragging the other hand of his up your bare arm with a dark unmoving gaze. You gulp, intimidated and feeling small from it all.

"I read through that Diary of yours, what sins you've committed, my dear.."

Your blood runs cold and your throat clenches. Your diary. There is an entire entry about how hot you found priests, and well... A lot worse stuff, if you're honest. That would explain this, and the sins he speaks of. And even still at his deep voice you feel frightened, especially at the way his claws pinch at your skin.

"I do have to say, I don't know how I kept myself from reading it for so long, but even so I think you have to repent.."

You gulp down thick saliva in your throat, staring at him with large eyes.

"H-how, Father..?"

He chuckles, placing his hand against your cheek as he leans forward. You feel small, helpless. Even in such an intimate grasp you feel like your whole body is turning into mush, even at the slightest pry of his handsome hands.

"Get on your fucking knees,"

You don't think you've ever dropped down to your knees faster, at such a pace you most likely bruised them both. But you don't care. Instead you watch with an unwavering gaze as Alastor unbuckles his belt, lip set between your teeth in arousal. Your core pools with an aroused heat, drenching the thin panties beneath your skirt. You feel like by the end of this there will be a puddle from such arousal.

Alastor grasps the base of his cock, pulling his half-hard length from the confines of his pants, balls and all. You practically drool with desire, saliva gathering in your mouth as you bring your hands up. Though Alastor growls at this, jerking his cock in your face as his dark eyes pour into your own.

"No touching yet, my child. Do I make myself clear?"

"Y-yes father.."

"Good girl, now open for me, hm?"

You tremble, opening your jaw as wide as it can go to welcome his length.

Alastor digs his hand into your hair, tugging you forward until your lips are clasped around his tip. You whine, not expecting this to happen. Especially when he begins sinking his length into your throat.

And then without warning, Alastor shoves almost all of his length into your throat, leaving 2 inches out that he couldn't fit in without you choking. And even then you choke, crying out against his cock as he tugs painfully on your hair, watching tears spring in your eyes.

"Fucking repent. Take the rest of my cock in that filthy throat of yours or I'll make you." Alastor demand, pushing your head down until you have no choice but to let the rest of his cock dive into your throat. You choke, of course, tears falling down your cheeks and dripping against the floor below.

Then Alastor begins fucking that throat of yours, drawling his hips back in hypnotic movements at a harsh rate. Your nose continuously presses against the bed of his pubes, tickling you very slightly every time. You can't see anything, the only thing in view the red haze of pleasure that fills your vision whilst being used like this.

Alastor's tail twitches in pleasure, yet his brows are angry and his smile is condescending and forceful. He enjoys every second of fucking your filthy throat, dead set on making you think about every single thing you wrote in that diary of yours.

He'd revel in the way you cry out, eventually having to take your head off of his cock for a few moments to let you breathe before diving your head back onto it.

"The things you wrote about me in that diary were filthy. Just filthy. I hope you understand this will not be tolerated without consequences, little fawn." Alastor lowly mutters, making his words more powerful with the way he thrusts particularly hard, cock head hitting against the back of your throat.

You moan, sobbing onto his cock as his claws press against your scalp. And yet you don't care. You'd let father Alastor ruin you like this any day. Use your filthy sinful throat. Fuck your tight holes. Make you think about the things you dreamt. He'd make everything come true and yet also reprimand you for wanting them.

"Stupid girl, stupid stupid girl." He tuts, hips quivering as his high begins to take him over.

And before you know it, he's forcing your head onto his cock all the way, emptying his thick warm seed into your throat as if you're just a cum dump for his using.

"Tell father you want him in your dirty pussy now, hm?"

You beg him for it more than you've ever begged before.

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