What A Masterpiece - Blog Posts

i needed to make these because i frigging adore the way he complaints over vips’ reaction. 😂

Don’t forget… By Alice | Reiko

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.”

This gif will be the death of me. They’re English subtitles of the Chinese version.

shhh… the boy is sleeping.