Art’s Such A Mess When He Jerks Off, Like He’s Ashamed But Can’t Stop Himself. He’s Curled Up

more ftm!art x reader if you can this awakened something inside of me

summary: it’s a rainy night, and all you want to do is take your time to worship your boyfriend, Art. in the safety of your shared intimacy, you help him fully go—trembling, messy and beautiful.

pairing: ftm!art donaldson x afab!girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 1k words. submissive art. praising. dirty-talk. messy makeout. fingering (art receiving).

taglist .ᐟ @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @magicalmiserybore, @destinedtobegigi, @fwaist, @idyllicdaydreams

Art’s hoodie is too big on you, but you don’t mind. You’re curled up in his lap on your bed, legs tangled, the TV flickering across his face — not that you’re watching it. His hands are warm under your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles. You shift to face him, brushing your nose along his jaw. He’s already flushed.

“You’re staring,” he mumbles, voice low and raspy, with that slight edge he gets when he’s trying not to get ahead of himself.

“Can’t help it,” you whisper back, eyes soft. “You’re hot like this. Blushing. Trying not to lose it.”

Art huffs out a breath — half a scoff, half a laugh — and looks down, but you catch his face in your hands. You kiss him slow. Open-mouthed. Your lips move like a question: Can I? And the way he breathes out against you says yes, yes, please.

The kiss deepens fast — messy, wet, tongues tangling with a kind of quiet hunger. You feel the tension in his thighs beneath you, feel his hand tightening on your hip. His hips twitch up before he catches himself. “You’re shaking,” you murmur against his lips.

“I’m not—” he cuts himself off with a sharp exhale as your hand sneaks under his hoodie, resting just beneath his scars; thumb brushing against his skin.. Art shivered at the touch.

“You are. It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.” You kiss the corner of his mouth, then down to his neck, sucking softly at his pulse. “Wanna make you feel good.”

Art swallows hard. “Y-you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say, slow and deliberate, watching the way his pupils dilate. “Let me take care of you tonight. You always take care of me.”

His breath hitches. That gets him. You know it does. You kiss him again, deeper this time, your hand sliding down to cup him between his legs — gentle, reassuring pressure. He whimpers into your mouth, hips twitching again. “There you go,” you coo. “Already so sensitive for me.”

His hoodie comes off easy. Yours follows. You take your time, making out like you’ve got nowhere else to be. Like you’re addicted to the taste of his tongue and the way he gasps when you tug his lip between your teeth.

When you slide your hand into his boxers, he tenses for a second — but you’re slow, patient. You touch him how he’s taught you he likes. Not rough. Just enough pressure to drive him a little crazy.

The moment your fingers touch him, he flinches — not from discomfort, just sensitivity. He’s already so wet. Your hand is instantly slick, and you groan softly into his mouth.

“Jesus, baby,” you whisper against his lips, dragging your middle finger through his folds, slow and steady. “You’re soaked for me.”

He whimpers, biting his lip. “I can’t help it—”

“I want you like this.” You kiss down the side of his neck. “It’s so fucking hot, Art. You feel so good already.” Your fingers part him gently, and your thumb brushes against his clit — just barely — enough to make his whole body jerk beneath you. He gasps, eyes fluttering shut.

“There it is,” you murmur, kissing the flushed skin of his chest. “You’re so sensitive tonight.”

Your fingers stroke over him again, this time more deliberately — back and forth, gathering slick, teasing his clit in slow circles. He arches up into your hand without even meaning to, and the sound he makes is barely human — a needy, breathless whine.

“Such pretty noises,” you breathe. “Let me hear more, baby.”

When you press a finger inside, he lets out a broken moan. He’s warm, tight, and fluttering around you — his thighs tense on either side of your hips. You keep your movements slow and deep, curling your finger upward until his back arches and his mouth drops open in shock.

“Oh—fuck—right there, right—”

“I’ve got you.” You kiss his ribs, his stomach. “You’re taking me so well. Look at you.”

You add a second finger slowly, watching his face the whole time. He gasps again, his nails digging into your shoulder, hips rolling helplessly into your palm. You curl your fingers just right, dragging them in and out at a steady rhythm, each stroke making him clench and shake.

Your thumb returns to his clit — this time with more pressure, circling in time with your thrusts. Art cries out, trying to muffle himself against your shoulder, but you pull back.

“No hiding,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He moans again, louder this time — hips bucking, thighs trembling. His eyes are glassy, lips wet, sweat beading at his temples. You speed up your pace just slightly, fingers sliding deeper, thumb tighter on his clit, and his whole body starts to stutter.

“That’s it. Just like that,” you whisper hot against his cheek. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

“I—fuck—yes, yes, I’m—”

“Come on, baby. Let me feel it. Let go.”

His orgasm crashes through him like a wave — thighs shaking, breath catching, hips grinding into your hand as he comes with a loud, raw moan. You don’t stop until he’s whimpering, twitching, so sensitive he’s pushing at your hand even as he rocks through the aftershocks.

You ease your fingers out gently, cupping him one last time as he pants beneath you, eyes glazed and lips parted. You kiss him slow and deep, one hand brushing the damp hair from his forehead.

You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his mouth — still messy and hungry, but softer now. “That was so good,” you whisper against his lips. “You’re so good for me.” Art blinks up at you, dazed and red-faced, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.

“Say it again,” he murmurs.

You grin. “You’re so fucking good for me.”

And you kiss him again until the room fades around you and all that’s left is the warmth between you, the slow drag of breath, the softness of afterglow.

i have literally NEVER felt this way about a man before ever

the way i want to fuck him but have him keep his crew socks on . . . they accentuate his legs so well ohhh god don't let me speak

why is it so quiet on here WHERE IS EVERYBODY

omg new theme is so so cute

tysm tal eekkk 🫶🫶🫶

new themeeeeee, love the rebrand ash ur username is beautiful

mel baby thank you so much!! 🤍

SANCTIFIED SINS.

summary: riff Lorton is a corrupted priest who drinks, curses, and harbors a dangerous lust for innocence. when a devout young nun brings him food, he seizes the opportunity to tempt and defile her, dragging her into sin with filthy words and skilled hands. what begins with guilt and resistance unravels into complete submission as the reader begs to be ruined in God’s sight.

pairing: corrupted priest!riff lorton x saintly nun!reader.

cw: +18. mdni. 1.3k words. dirty-talking, mention of God and religion (corruption of a nun, sacrilegious dirty talk), oral sex (riff receiving), fingering (reader receiving), dacryphilia, degradation, themes of manipulation, power imbalance, drooling, gagging.

taglist: @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @magicalmiserybore @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @idyllicdaydreams @sohighitscool @shahabaqsa0310

You told yourself it was just an errand.

One small task for Mother Agnes. Just bring the tray of tea and bread to Father Lorton’s quarters in the east wing. Simple, harmless. But your hands were already shaking, clutching the edge of the wooden tray, and your steps slowed the closer you came to his door.

Everyone knew what he was now.

You’d overheard the whispers. They said the priest was a drunk. A heretic. That he spoke blasphemy in the confessional and smoked cigarettes inside the confessional box. Sister Beatrice even swore she saw him pour whiskey into his chalice during Mass. You weren’t supposed to believe the rumors.

But deep down, shamefully, you did. Because the last time you heard his voice—a low, sinful rasp echoing in the nave—you felt something curl hot in your stomach.

So when you knocked quietly on the door, already praying under your breath, you flinched at the immediate reply.

“If that’s another fucking nun come to whine about my sermons,” the voice snarled, “turn your self-righteous ass around.”

Your fingers tightened on the tray. “I—I brought food, Father.” There was a pause. Then a quiet scoff, and the click of the lock sliding back. The door creaked open slowly.

Riff Lorton leaned in the frame like temptation personified. His clerical collar was slightly askew, two buttons undone to reveal the strong line of his chest. A cigarette burned between his fingers. His eyes were bloodshot, and the scent of tobacco, incense, and something darker clung to his skin.

Like a sin.

And yet—his mouth curled into a smirk the moment he saw you.

“Well, look at that,” he drawled. “A little lamb sent right to my fucking door.” You stepped in with hesitant reverence, lowering your gaze. He didn’t move aside much. You brushed against his arm, and his chuckle rumbled deep in his chest.

“I didn’t think they still made ‘em this sweet,” he added as you set the tray down. “Look at you. Eyes big as heaven. Knees probably sore from all that praying.”

You straightened. “Mother Agnes asked me to—”

“Oh, I know what she asked. Doesn’t mean I believe that’s why you came.” Your breath caught. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb. You’ve been staring at me since last Sunday mass. Thought I didn’t notice?”

He stepped toward you, slow and deliberate. “Bet you sit in your little cell at night thinking about me. Trying to scrub the sin off your skin, but it never quite comes clean, does it?”

Your lips parted in silent protest, but you didn’t move.

“Tell me, Sister,” he whispered, leaning close. “You ever get wet during evening prayers?”

Your heart thundered. “Father, I—”

“Ever thought about being on your knees for something other than confession?”

You gasped, scandalized, but the heat in your stomach told another story. His words hit you low, vibrating between your legs. And worse still, your eyes dropped—just for a second—to the shadow between his hips.

He laughed, quiet and cruel. “There it is.”

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he sat back in the old wooden chair by the fireplace and spread his legs wide, one hand already palming himself through his slacks.

“Get over here,” he said, voice like a commandment. “Kneel. Put that holy mouth to better use.”

You hesitated, a storm of fear and arousal whirling inside you. But something stronger than shame pulled you forward—something sick and sacred and starved. Your knees met the stone floor with a soft thud.

You looked up at him. His cock was already half-hard, straining under the fabric. When he unzipped himself and pulled it free, your breath caught in your throat. It was thick. Veined. The head glistened, flushed and eager.

“You ever seen a cock before, Sister?” he mocked, stroking himself lazily. “Bet all those years you spent clutching your rosary, not once did you think you’d end up on your knees for this.”

Your voice trembled. “I… I haven’t…”

He smirked. “That’s alright. I’ll teach you. Open that pretty mouth.”

You obeyed.

He guided himself to your lips and dragged the tip across them, smearing precum across your lower lip like an anointing. “Look how good you look with my cock on your tongue,” he groaned. “God, you were made for this.”

Your lips parted wider, letting him in.

The stretch was immediate, overwhelming. You choked as he pushed deeper, tears springing to your eyes.

“That’s it,” he rasped, fisting your veil in one hand, his other gripping the armrest. “Let those holy tears fall. Cry for your fucking priest.” Your throat spasmed as he rocked his hips, shallow thrusts, feeding you more each time. Your hands clung to his thighs, desperate and shaking.

“You ever sucked on a crucifix, sweetheart?” he taunted, breath hitching. “Bet it wouldn’t make you this wet.”

Drool spilled from your lips as he fucked your mouth. The taste of him—salty, raw, blasphemous—coated your tongue. You felt like you were drowning in sin. Your tears mixed with spit, soaking your chin. He growled low in his chest. “You think God’s watching right now?”

You moaned.

“Think He’s up there weeping ‘cause His perfect little nun’s choking on a filthy, cursing priest’s cock?”

You moaned louder, eyes fluttering. He was right. Some deep, twisted part of you wanted Him to watch. To see you broken like this. Riff hissed through his teeth, pulling back until only the tip rested on your tongue. “Say it.”

You blinked up at him, lips swollen and glossy.

“Say you want me to ruin you.”

Your voice was wrecked. “I want you to ruin me, Father.”

That was his undoing.

He tugged his cock from your mouth and gripped the base tightly, panting hard. His chest heaved with every breath, sweat dotting his collarbone. “Get up,” he ordered, eyes dark.

You stood on shaky legs, mouth still slick with spit. He turned you, gently, until your back met the wall. Then he lifted your shift slowly, reverently, until your thighs were bare and your soaked panties exposed.

“Holy fucking hell,” he murmured. “You’re dripping. You’re soaked.”

You whimpered, thighs pressing together with the embarrassment and humiliation you felt at that moment. But nothing lowered this flame inside your stomach.

“You praying while you soak through your panties like this?” he sneered, fingers trailing over the fabric. “Asking God for forgiveness while your cunt begs to be touched?”

You sobbed.

“Say it.”

“I—yes. I think about it. I can’t stop thinking about it. About you.”

That was all he needed.

His fingers pushed aside your underwear and slid through the mess of your arousal, slow and deliberate. You gasped, grabbing his shoulders. He slipped one thick finger inside, then two. You nearly buckled.

“Oh, you’re tight,” he groaned. “Tighter than a fucking confession booth.” He fucked you with his fingers, curling them expertly, thumb rubbing over your clit in sinful little circles. The heat coiled fast in your belly.

“Say you want to be corrupted,” he growled.

“I do. Please, Father—”

“Say you want to be defiled.”

Your head fell back against the wall. “Defile me.”

“Louder.”

“Defile me, Father!”

Your orgasm hit like revelation.

You shook with it, sobbing into his shoulder as your cunt pulsed around his fingers. He held you through it, fingers never stopping until you collapsed against him, panting, limp. When he withdrew his hand, he licked his fingers clean.

“Tastes like a fucking miracle. A true child of God, aren’t you?”

You could barely speak. Your legs trembled. Then Riff took your chin in one hand and kissed you—deep, brutal, unholy. You could taste yourself on his tongue. And still, your heart raced for more.

“You gonna confess all this later?” he whispered against your lips.

Your voice was hoarse. “Only if you hear it.” He laughed—soft, breathless, wild. His hands curled around your waist.

“Sweetheart, I am your confession now.”

so uhm... you're welcome??

i miss my boyfriend (mike faist)