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azureashes · 1 year ago

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Bless Me Father, For I Have Sinned Chapter Two: Screams and Sermons

18 + MDNI The next part of the Priest!Sukuna AU. Something's wrong with me. Someone stop me. TW: Voyeurism, Incels lusting after you, Religious Themes, Manipulation of Religious Ideals, Cult Themes, Domestic Violence, Family Wounds... and I think that's it. Chapter 1 I Chapter 2

"He could so easily find out who it was. So easily wreck his life, his reputation, his future… but wouldn’t it be so much more satisfying to have you do it? Instead of always turning away from the gun you carried, promising it was unloaded… What face would you make the first time you pulled the trigger? He wanted to know."

Darkness surrounded him, damp, palpable and ominous. His wrists were bound painfully behind his back, the zip ties digging brutally into his skin. He struggled to regulate his breathing, trying not to let the icy grip of panic close in on him, but it felt futile.

He was Ryomen Sukuna’s captive.

And anyone who knew the priest well enough to know that he was dangerous, rarely lived to warn others. No, they were caught and hidden away. Either they reappeared months or years later, suddenly enjoying unexpected wealth and success – or they were never heard from again.

With a pained groan, he tested the binds once more but it was fruitless. His arms were bent backwards around a large metal water pipe that went cold or burning hot as the church above turned the tap. His screams were never heard over the church service, over all the footsteps passing overhead and the hubbub of the congregation. Thirst and the strain of crying out for hours on end to no avail had robbed him of much of his voice in the days he had spent in this rank prison, and what little sound he could summon was muffled by the pungent rag that he had been gagged with.

Sukuna hadn’t been to see him for two days and that mere knowledge terrified him, upending and laying waste to what he thought he knew about the man. If he was useless to the priest it meant he had no chance of survival. He craned his neck to look up at the ceiling and thought he could make out distant strands of light through the cracks in the floorboards of the confessional. But it was hopeless, there was rarely anyone in the church after the service ended, as Sukuna preferred to use that time for his own business. Business that Sukuna hid away on the priest’s side of the small confessional chamber. Business that he had hoped to discover.

With a grimace, and tears pooling in his eyes, he resigned himself to his fate. He shouldn’t have been greedy. He should have listened when the team leader had told him to leave well enough alone. But the tip off that a local priest was actually running a secret criminal underground was too tempting. It could have made his career as a journalist – and now it would be the cause of his death.

He remembered slinking into that confessional, trying to ask subtle questions, drawing out his notebook in what he had hoped was a discreet manner. He remembered being asked what he wanted, what he truly wanted, and his mind had blanked. He didn’t remember what his answer had been, he only remembered that it had been a lie. A wish for a nonexistent child of his to regain health, a wish for a promotion, anything he had hoped would be believable.

But the silence that had followed was menacing.

“Ryuzaki,” the priest had spoken his true name in a gravelly voice that froze the marrow of his bones. “You waste my time.”

Before he could even wrap his mind around how the priest knew of his true identity, the floor had gone out from under him with a terrifying creak and a heart-stopping thud as the trapdoor crashed open. His stomach had lurched painfully and he had fallen ten feet, landing badly on his left leg that was undoubtedly broken.

He had hoped Sukuna would come to interrogate him, had hoped he would still be of some use that he could leverage to get out of here but after two days… he had no doubt the dark priest would leave him here to rot.

Tears burned in the corners of his eyes. His mother would say that he was not one for displays of emotion. That he had not even wept much as a child. But he cried now, in the dank, encroaching cold, on the unyielding concrete floor, in the face of certain death. Sobbing into his gag as he accepted his inevitable fate.

Suddenly, a voice broke the silence, echoing sweetly against the walls of the empty church.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned….”

Hope coursed through him with all the force of a round loosed from a shotgun, and the kickback left him reeling, shaken. Someone was there. Closer than ever. Someone who might hear him.

He whimpered, then cleared his throat. Please. Please! Hear me! But he could do no more than pull at his restraints and try to scream hoarsely through his gag. Something warm and wet dripped down his bound wrists – blood. He did not care. Struggling to scoot forward, closer to those faint lines of candlelight far overhead he raged against his binds like a beast. Screaming and groaning and gasping, hoping against hope that the young woman would hear him and summon the authorities.

He heard her gasp and hope crested for one impossible moment, until he heard Sukuna’s low, seductive murmurs, not at all like the threatening voice of intimidation he had dominated Ryuzaki with. Those low tones were followed by muffled moans, sharp intakes of breath, the wet sound of flesh slapping against flesh. The sweet cry of a woman on the cusp of ecstasy.

His cheeks burned in shame at being an unwilling voyeur to their coupling, even as outrage coursed through him that the damned priest would so abuse his position of power. Out of options, Ryuzaki slammed his head against the water pipe behind him. The clanging echo deafening to his own ears, he could only hope the girl would hear. He repeated the motion, again and again and again until blood trickled down his temples, until he felt dizzy and lightheaded, until he vomited against his gag.

Weak and weary, he hung loosely from his bonds, exhausted. Suddenly, he felt something splash against his forehead. A drop of water, then another. Almost like rain. He pulled back and watched the liquid drip, drip, drip into a small puddle right between his outstretched legs.

Muffled conversation sounded overhead. The scraping sound of the girl rising from the confessional. The smooth, sultry baritone of Sukuna wheedling yet another gullible woman around his finger, and then they were gone.

And he was alone, again, in the darkness.

—----------------------------------------------------

Who had closed the door?

You jolted upright in bed as the thought occurred to you. Sukuna – you tested the name on your tongue again, relishing the shape of it, the taste of it – had been with you throughout. There had been no one else in the church. You were sure of it. The door to the confessional had remained open – Sukuna’s build was far too large to fit the both of you and close the door. In your nervous state, you had cast repeated glances over his shoulder to be sure no one was there and you were sure there hadn’t been anyone…

But then, who had closed and locked the church door? You distinctly remembered Sukuna lifting the latch as he let you out, although the door had been ajar when you had entered the church. These perplexed thoughts plagued you all morning as you prepared to face the day and made your way towards the dining hall, taking your designated seat automatically. You bit down on the tip of your thumb as you contemplated what that had to mean. Was there someone else? Hiding in the shadows? Or…?

“Stop that!” your mother slapped your hand away from your mouth. “Nasty habit.”

You swallowed thickly and lowered your hand, surprised as you had scarcely noticed your mother’s presence in the room as she arranged an arrangement of tulips in a vase. “Right, sorry mom.” Even as your brain unhelpfully reminded you of someone else’s fingers that had explored your mouth rather thoroughly the night before. The taste of them, the shape of them, how good it had felt to gag on them.

You jumped suddenly to your feet, your face aflame as you realized you were quite unprepared to play it cool in front of your mother. “I’ll go help Linda in the kitchen,” you announced suddenly, hastening to make your escape. No one could know what had happened in that church, you reminded yourself as you slipped through the doorway to your family’s large estate kitchen, where Linda prepared breakfast along with two helpers.

Thinking about the encounter nonstop from the necessary distance of your family home had given you some much needed clarity. A priest had had no business taking such liberties with you. Why, if anyone learned of it, it would cost him his priesthood! Not to mention, you admonished yourself with a glance at your ring finger, you were engaged to be married and you took your promises seriously. No, that had to be the end of it. You would not meet the wayward priest again.

You could not quite explain what had come over you. The entire encounter had been so surreal. Like something out of a dream. And so, you were determined to consider it precisely that, nothing more than a dream, and move on with your life.

“Young miss, there’s no work to be had for you here,” Linda announced brusquely with the merest glance at you as she pulled fresh buns out of the oven. “You’d best get on back to the dining hall.”

“Please, Linda,” you breathed, still fighting back the warmth that had rushed to your cheeks. “I’m just trying to get away from my mother for a bit.”

The brown-haired housekeeper gave you another once over and tutted. “Fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into, miss. I’ll be hoping young master John is responsible for that glow in your eyes and naught else.”

“John?” you blinked at her, what did he have to do with anything?

Linda stared back, nonplussed, and gave a stern warning glare to the other servants in the kitchen before crossing over to you, wiping her hands on a dishcloth.

“Lord in heaven,” she exclaimed in a harsh whisper, gravely concerned as she took in your expression. “Where were you at all odd hours of the night, miss?!”

“What?” your throat felt thick with the lies you tried and failed to summon, and settled instead on the truth. “I was at church.”

“Oh, right, church…” sarcasm rolled off her tongue, and I was born to a mermaid in a bar off a cove of South Italy, I was.”

Your eyes went wide, “you were?”

Linda smacked you with the dishcloth, “Of course I weren’t, you fog-for-brains!”

“Oh,” you rubbed your arm, embarrassed. “Then why did you say that?”

Linda released a heavy sigh and took another long, worried look at you. “Listen here, young miss, I’ll say this once and once only.” Her eyes were brimming with love that she kept under careful lock and key. She had known you your whole life, raised you on her tea and cakes, and held you through countless fitful nights, where you clung to her, awash with tears and self-loathing.

“If you don't want to marry Mister Jonathan Engels, then for the love of all that is holy, have a word with your father, won’t you?”

All playfulness forgotten, your shoulders slumped and you stared at your feet.

“It’s all very well and good not to be fond of him, ye hear? But break it off proper-like and don’t go inviting other men into your broken heart while you’ve got enough of a mess on your platter, yeah?”

You hadn’t invited anyone in, per se, but that was far too difficult to explain to Linda. And if her perceptive eyes saw a “glow” on you then you would need to get yourself in check before you dared appear before your father.

You knew Linda meant well, that she was only looking out for you. She couldn’t possibly know that you had tried to speak with your father. That you had voiced your concerns, your fears, your despair. But he had explained to you that John was your last chance at saving face within the family. That he was well-loved and accepted and would serve as the glue that would bind you to your loved ones as well. He belonged to a family of clockmakers that had expanded their business to all the reaches of the country, they were very well-off and your father’s bank had invested heavily in their business. Why not join hands more officially, they had thought. Children came and went, but business was forever.

When you had insisted you could not marry him, shakily standing your ground, you were rewarded with the back of your father’s hand. You never brought it up again.

“I was at church, Linda,” you repeated solemnly, taking care to school your expression into something carefully neutral. “I swear.”

“Well, alright then,” she conceded, giving you one long, last look before turning back to her work. “But think on what I said, aye? Now get you back to the dining hall, ye little distraction.”

You nodded, a small, fond smile on your lips as you watched her a moment longer and then returned to the dining hall where your mother waited, now perusing a small novel as she sat at her place at the table. You sat beside her, offering a polite nod as you took your seat, duly sobered by your close call with Linda.

“Goodness,” your mother scolded, reaching for the high, starched collar of your pale blue blouse. “It’s far too warm for such attire.”

Instantly panicked you caught her hand before she could pull down the thin fabric concealing the purple bruise on the side of your neck. The best poker face in the world would not be able to save you then.

“That’s quite alright, Mama!” your voice was slightly higher than you would have liked and you winced at the sound of it. Clearing your throat, you smoothed out your blouse and added softly, “I felt a bit of a chill this morning.”

Your mother looked at you as if you’d lost your mind, but you were saved from further conversation as kitchen servants in crisp white uniforms quietly brought out an extravagant breakfast on gleaming silver platters. The spread included freshly squeezed juices, artisanal breads and pastries with clotted cream and preserves, a vibrant fruit display, and an array of perfectly cooked eggs and breakfast meats. Fluffy pancakes and crisp waffles were offered alongside a lavish cheese and cold cuts board. A final cart rolled in with fine teas and freshly brewed coffee, all served in exquisite porcelain cups.

But the sight and scents of the food were lost on you, your stomach tying itself into knots as you waited for your father and your brothers to appear. You sat beside your mother, silently, watching the steam waft up into the air, until finally, footsteps sounded in the hallway, sharp leather heels clacking against checkered tile.

You rose to your feet as your father entered, your brother close on his heels. You offered a small nod and murmured good morning in greeting, but he scarcely took notice of you as he took his seat at the head of the table, one of your brothers on either side of him.

“Let us say grace,” he announced, his burly demeanor and brusque voice inviting instant obedience. You took hold of your mother’s hand, and she joined hands with your brother. Your left hand was empty. You stared at the lines of your palm as your father droned on, recalling what it had looked like when Sukuna’s black robes had been clutched in your fist, what the smooth fabric had felt like against your fingers.

You did not hear a word of your father’s prayer, reflexively adding on an “amen” when you felt your mother pull her hand away.

Now, your father looked at you as he cut through his bread, reaching for the meat as he eyed you warily. Your brothers instantly selected the same type of bread from the basket, the same cut of meat, imitating your father’s choices to the slightest detail. You did not notice your father’s sudden, unnerving attention, or how the table had gone very still as he watched you, engrossed as you were, staring at your own palm.

“Where were you last night?”

You jumped at the gruff sound of his voice, heavy with accusation, and your head whipped around to face him. “Oh, I…” the weight of judgment in his eyes made your mind scramble like static. “I was at church.”

You thanked God that it was the truth. You doubted you had it in you to stomach a lie and stick to it before his all-knowing gaze.

A moment’s weighty silence passed and then he questioned, “what church?”

“There’s an old building in the market square,” you answered, your words tumbling over each other like a babbling brook as you tried to fight back any feelings of guilt, sure your father would catch on immediately if you looked like you had anything to feel guilty about.

“So late at night?” he stared at you doubtfully, “What possible business could you have had there?”

“I went to confession,” you answered promptly. And was fucked to within an inch of my sanity by the hottest priest known to man, your brain added on unhelpfully.

Not finding fault with your story, but not quite satisfied with it either, your father scowled. “There was no need to go so far, or so late at night. The local church should have done you fine.”

“Yes, father,” you agreed, and butterflies fluttered fitfully in your stomach chasing the next words out of your mouth before you had even consciously decided on speaking them. “This church has been very helpful, father, in helping me understand…”

Your father cut you a sharp glance, warning you to weigh your next words carefully, and your brothers stared at you in anticipation as they chewed, open-mouthed, causing your mother to slap them on the shoulder. Anything that differed from the norm was met with contempt and suspicion, and you did your best to remain calm.

“Well,” you began, suddenly overwhelmed by the attention. “It’s just that you know, I sometimes struggle with… obedience…” the word felt heavy on your tongue, “and understanding why God has required us womenfolk to submit to the men in our lives.”

“To question the gospel is blasphemy,” your father snapped, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes, of course!” you agreed hastily, eager to put his mind to rest, “That is quite why I was glad to have found this church that is helping me put my doubts to rest. I think I would like to go there again this Sunday if that is alright with you?”

You weren’t sure what alien force had put the words on your tongue. Hadn’t you just determined not to see Sukuna again? Hadn’t you just decided that his behavior made him unworthy of the robes he wore? What of his vows of celibacy? Well, granted, he had only pleasured you during your encounter, his own clothing had remained largely undisturbed. Perhaps there was a loophole in his priestly vows?

Your father considered this, his eyes narrowed at you distrustfully as if he felt you were trying to manipulate him.

“What did they teach you there?” He wanted to know.

You fought back the warmth in your face as you skirted that dangerous line between truth and falsehood. You thought of Sukuna, the smell of him, the feeling of being surrounded by his muscular form, power almost rippling off of him. Of his confidence, his self-assurance, his easy, attentive manner.

“That God has blessed a man with power and leadership the likes of which he did not give to us women, to me. That in following him, I will be saved as well.” You could scarcely believe the words rolling readily off of your tongue. Words you would sooner have died than speak under other circumstances.

A man, you thought to yourself. One, specific man. With a shock of pink hair and sanguine irises.

Your father seemed satisfied and, leaning back, unfolded his newspaper, dismissing you. “Go there, then. See to it that you lend them ear.”

“Yes, father,” you agreed, your heart rioting in your chest as you realized that in only three short days, you would be seeing Sukuna again.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Where have you been?” Jonathan scowled at you, hazel eyes narrowed in suspicion.

You glanced up at him innocently, “Whatever do you mean?”

“Don’t give me that look, bitch,” he snarled, “I know everything.”

You shrugged and turned back to the ice cream sundae placed before you. “Well, if you know everything, then I’m sure you don’t need me to answer you.”

You were in the parlor of the Engels home and Johnathan’s parents were out of the house. He had dismissed the servants as well. It was you, him, and your ice cream that was melting almost as quickly as your sense of confidence.

An invitation had arrived from the Engels House earlier that day, and as all the servants were aware of it, your father would no doubt be informed as well. And there was no possible excuse that he would accept from you as to why you did not answer your fiancé when summoned.

And besides, you didn’t want to stir the pot now that Sunday was so close.

Jonathan crossed over to you in two short steps and glared down at you. “You are my fiancee, I will not bear this disrespect.”

You shrugged, licking leisurely at your spoon. “Then don’t. How is that any of my business?”

His response was so sudden, it would have been comical under other circumstances. Without warning, his hand struck out and connected with the side of your face with such force that the spoon in your hand went flying, clattering over the marble floor loudly. You watched it strike the wall at the opposite end of the room and frowned. So much for your ice cream.

You ignored the burning sting in your cheek, the bruise that would likely follow, and sighed, as if the slap was no more than an irritation and had caused you no pain at all. Straightening, you turned towards him once more. “Now, Jonathan,” you refused to let your voice tremble as you channeled your best imitation of your mother, “Was that truly necessary?”

He showed no remorse and closed in, “I called your house two nights ago. You weren’t in. Care to tell me where you were? Who you were spreading your legs for, whore?”

You held his gaze beneath furrowed brows, weighing your next words. “I was at church, with a priest, Jonathan. I went to confession to seek guidance on our many conflicts and penance for my wrongdoings. So, unless you think a man of the cloth would ask me to spread my legs, as you so delicately said, as an offering… Well then, there you have your answer.”

You rose from the high stool you had been seated on and smoothed out your skirts, preparing to make your exit. Jonathan blanched and it gave you immense satisfaction to see it. “I - I’m sorry,” he stammered. You weren’t fool enough to think he was sorry for what he had said to you, no, he was ashamed to have inadvertently insulted a priest.

You wanted to scoff at him. Sukuna would never.

He ran a hand through his hair, the fight going out of him. “Why didn’t you say that to begin with?” he frowned, “I was so worried. You know I’m only this way because I care about you.”

He reached out and cupped your cheek tenderly, it took everything you had not to recoil. Any conflict today would undoubtedly reach your father’s ears, Jonathan was always quick to tell tales about you and your father was always quick to believe him. So you gritted your teeth and allowed his touch.

Jonathan breathed your name as he sidled closer to you, his other hand also rising to cradle your face. “I have such great need of you, forgive me. Only, I cannot bear this separation. I want you to be mine, already.” His lips grazed your cheek and settled at your ear, “Let me hold you.”

Then his hands began to wander and you rolled your eyes, knowing he would not see. It’s not like he was looking at your face. You huffed, wondering if there was a way to extricate yourself from this situation before Jonathan got too excited. You wondered if your father knew that Jonathan had taken liberties with you. You wondered if he cared.

When his hands cupped your breasts through your blouse, a flash of recollection burst into your mind’s eye. A crooked smirk, bold, regal features, eyes the color of blood - an endless hunger burning within them. Hands like the warmth of the sun, solid and all-encompassing. Something white-hot burned through you. “Jonathan, stop!”

You caught his hands in your own and took a step back, breathing heavily. No, no, no. He could not do this again. Not after you had known warmth and pleasure. Not after you had been touched as if you were made of liquid gold. You could not let him have his way with you again.

Jonathan smirked as he noted your labored breathing, the rise and fall of your chest, and you registered dimly that he mistook your outrage for lustful passion. The absolute moron.

“No need to be so shy, baby,” he whispered, coming closer again. “It’s not like it’s our first time.”

You clenched your jaw, trying to refrain from hitting him.

“I fear I must disappoint you, for I…” your mind raced for something to stop him, anything. “I am on my terms,” you said finally, watching him carefully to judge his response.

He immediately stepped backwards, as if stung, struggling to disguise the plain disgust on his face. “Oh,” his eyes journeyed downwards towards your skirt and what lay hidden beneath. “Well, that is quite… God, you could have said something!”

“I did say something,” you grind out sweetly.

“You’d best go on home, then,” Jonathan whisked up his coat and made for the door, eager to let you out and you felt a rush of relief that your ruse had worked so well. You really were getting cleverer by the day.

Only a week ago, you would have been ashamed to deceive him this way. Him, your father, your mother, Linda… but now, you felt nothing of the sort. You had no time for a guilty conscience, because on Sunday, you would see Sukuna, and you had a feeling he would tell you that you had done well.

—-------------------------------------------------

When you stepped into the church on Sunday morning it was a far sight from what it had been earlier that week. The sun shone brilliantly on the imposing building, and you realized that the stone walls were not black but a very deep burnished, coppery red. All of the ominous chill that had surrounded the building seemed to have dissipated in the morning light and churchgoers bustled to and fro, greeting one another as they prepared to enter the building for the service.

You felt suddenly awkward and shy. You didn’t know anyone here, and the crowd outside of the church was full of smiling faces, they all seemed to be bold, confident individuals. People that seemed so sure of themselves, as if they had drunk of Sukuna’s own confidence, and – you noticed with a start as the crowd began to stream through the church doors – they were predominantly women.

You blinked in surprise, following the crowd as you made your way to an empty pew, trying to get as close to the front of the church as you could manage so that you could have a good view of Sukuna, and wondered what it had to mean that so many women chose to follow this particular priest, this particular church.

You settled into a seat two rows from the altar, and pulled your purse in close as other congregants settled in beside you. The dark grandeur of the church remained just as it had been on that fateful night, its twisted elegance both unsettling and mesmerizing. The mournful notes of organ music reverberated through the dimly lit space, filling the air with a haunting resonance.

The flickering candlelight danced across the macabre artwork and grimly beautiful carvings, casting shadows that seemed to come alive in the gloom. The scent of incense hung heavily, its acrid smoke curling through the air like spectral fingers – although this scent was not as intoxicating as the incense that had burned in the confessional.

The rituals unfolded while you were still occupied with your thoughts but the solemn entrance procession of the priest and altar servers startled you from your reverie. There he was, just as you remembered him. Tall, imposing, and devastatingly handsome. Always carrying himself with the air of one who knew the darkest secrets of the universe. He did not so much as glance at you as he made his way to the altar, the servers following close behind and you could not help but feel slighted.

The familiar rituals began with fervor, the recitation of the Penitential Act, the chilling "Kyrie" that echoed through the cavernous space. Each element seemed to heighten the unsettling atmosphere, as if wrought with unharnessed energy, amplifying your fascination. As the Mass progressed through its unsettling rhythm—strange hymns, unsettlingly beautiful readings —you found yourself drawn inexorably to the altar, where Sukuna’s bold features tempted your eyes again and again like a moth to flame. At length, he finally began the homily, and his voice carried over the congregation in a booming, deliberate baritone. You shivered at the sound of it. You found yourself leaning forward so as not to miss a word, this was the moment you had been waiting for. You were desperate to hear his views.

“Children,” he began smoothly, his face impassive – cold, almost. A sharp contrast to the wicked grin he wore when accosting you in the confessional. The address itself was odd as well, you thought, as most priests addressed the congregation as “brothers and sisters” suggesting an equality in the eyes of the faith.

“As we gather in this sacred space, let us unveil a truth that stirs beneath the surface of our faith—a truth both exhilarating and transformative. Within each of you,” his gaze swept over the congregation, the many women from different walks of life who had come to hear his words, but although your body tensed expectantly, his gaze passed over you as if you were not there. He continued, “Hidden within each member of my congregation lies a divine strength, simmering in wait. One not merely latent but alluringly potent, ready to reshape our world.

Reflect on the ancient stories we revere. Think of Jael, who boldly did what few others had done. What society might have frowned upon. But as she embraced the potential slumbering within her and cracked open Sisera’s skull, that act was more than courage; it was a declaration of divine authority. Her decisive action, emerging from the shadows, showcases the meaning of true power. And the blood on her hands made her holy.”

He extended his hands to both sides, almost in invitation as the sonorous tones of his voice washed over the congregation, weaving a spell over them.

“Did not Esther use her understated influence to alter the course of history, proving that profound impact often comes from those they considered negligible and weak?

But how did she come to that power? Through the use of her beauty, through the allure of her charms… the very ones you are asked to conceal?” The lilt in his voice, persuasive and almost sarcastic, as if mocking those that would seek to constrain you, sang in your ears like the sweetest church bells, promising liberation. It was exhilarating.

You recalled the familiar biblical tales, how Jael had murdered the last of an opposing army who had come seeking shelter at her tent. How Esther’s beauty had earned her a place in the king’s court, and how she had then used that influence to further the interests of her own people. But Sukuna’s takes on them shed a new, uncertain light on these well-known events. Twisting what you thought you knew of the commandments of your faith.

“These are not mere tales, rather, they reveal a seductive truth: your untapped potential has the power to turn this miserable world on its head.” There was something dark and menacing in his voice and it sent a shiver down your spine even as you craved more of it. “Why else would men seek to control you? Why else would they twist the tenets of your faith to keep you far from the divine force that slumbers within you?

But power is not simply handed to us.” He shook his head disparagingly, his keen eyes and hypnotic tones raising the fervor of the assembled. Although he spoke calmly and evenly, his sermon felt like a call to action, like a summons. “It must be claimed. Though it idles within your very flesh and blood, it demands courage to be unleashed. In order to grasp it, we must sacrifice the traditions and covenants that shackle us. We must cast off the constraints of what we think we know,”

His powerful voice filled the chamber and echoed back to your ears. It wasn’t just you, you realized. Every single woman present stared at him unblinkingly, as if on the edge of their seats, hanging on his every word.

“And it is my humble purpose, the vow that I make to you all, that I shall leave no depth of power unexplored, no energy untapped. I will bring every single one of you to the height of your own divine potential, unlocking the fullest extent of your power and authority.”

He pressed a dramatic hand to his chest, beneath which his heart beat steadily, meeting the eyes of his congregation solemnly.

“Let me awaken the truth of your own power within you. So that you may recognize that your worth is shaped not by external judgments and constraints but by the immense divine force flowing through you. Embrace this power with the understanding that it is formidable and unrestrained.

As you leave this sanctuary, carry with you the awareness of your divine authority and the knowledge that your path is guided by a higher hand. Embrace my guidance with the assurance that through unity and trust, you are empowered to fulfill a purpose that transcends the ordinary. That you are the custodians of the future, the inheritors of the world.

Amen.”

Resounding echoes of “amen” filled the church and you released a breath you hadn’t realized you had been holding. You had never felt so seen. So alive. So important.

In all of your years, all of your Sundays, you had heard sermon after sermon speaking to the men - and recalling the women present merely as an afterthought. When you were addressed directly it was to remind you of your duties in house and home, your obligation to obey first your fathers, then your husbands, then your sons.

You had never heard a sermon like Sukuna’s in all the years you had lived. His ideas were dangerous, they flew in the face of societal standards and practices, and they were exciting. Addicting.

It was only when the women around you began to rise that you recalled where you were and collected your bag, breathless. You turned towards Sukuna, wondering if you would get a chance to speak to him, but were dismayed to see that a crowd was already surrounding him, each of them eager to get a word in edgewise.

You lingered at the edge of the group, glancing at the watch on your wrist, wondering how long you could delay before you would be missed at home. You chanced another glance at Sukuna, but of course, he was not even looking in your direction.

You noticed that some other women lingered, as you did. They didn’t share that same starry-eyed look that you and some of the other congregants had. By the looks of them, they seemed to be highly successful in their individual fields. They had that unique way of carrying themselves. The solemn expressions of women who did not need to smile if they did not want to.

“Jessica,” you startled as Sukuna’s voice sounded just behind you, and the woman you had been observing, blonde and severe and beautiful, turned at the sound of it, as if this was what she had been waiting for. “A moment of your time.”

The words tinged the tips of your ears red. Sukuna asking for someone’s time didn’t always carry a hidden meaning, did it?

You watched him lead the blonde woman a short distance away, only to then discuss something of seeming importance in low, murmured tones. Maybe he was telling her how he wanted to get her alone in the confessional.

You slapped a hand over your own mouth in reproach at the unkind thought. He had been very gentlemanly and perfectly priestly and you had no right letting your jealousy…

“New here?” you looked up at the woman who had spoken. She wore her black hair short and a tattoo you could not quite recognize peeked out from under her sleeveless blouse. She smiled at you, not unkindly, and you returned the gesture.

“Is it obvious?”

“Painfully,” she laughed, “did you come here for Father Hotness or to ‘unleash your hidden power’?”

“I…” you weren’t quite sure. “I met him unexpectedly and he promised to help me with something. That’s why I’m here now.”

The other woman blinked in surprise, “Well, that’s one I haven’t heard before. Although be warned, nothing gets you nothing. If he offered his help, he’ll be wanting something from you as well.”

“Yes,” you tried not to blush, “I know.”

“As long as you know what you’re getting yourself into,” the black-haired woman nodded.

“Are you,” you glanced over your shoulder where Sukuna was still engaged with the woman named Jessica, “a believer? I mean, in this church, in the things he says?”

“Would I be here otherwise?” Her blue eyes sought out Sukuna’s familiar form. “To think that the simple idea that we should not have to be ashamed simply for existing as women is that radical… the world really has gone to shit. But I love every damn word out of that man’s mouth, I won’t deny it.”

“Oh,” you shifted awkwardly on your feet. Was there no one else confused by how different these teachings were from everything you had been taught your whole life?

“Amelia,” the blonde woman had returned and nodded at the tattooed stranger. “It’s time to go.”

“Got it,” Amelia clapped a hand on Jessica’s shoulder and winked at you. “Take care, stranger. And don’t worry, he won’t bite… unless you let him.”

You stare after her in confusion as the two make their way to the exit, only noticing by your own elongated shadow that someone was standing close behind you. You whirled around in surprise to find Sukuna standing tall over you, an amused eyebrow raised at your expression.

A quick glance around the nave revealed that everyone else had gone, but you had been so engrossed in your conversation with Amelia you hadn’t noticed.

“You came.” A small smile graced his lovely features and it was suddenly worth everything you had risked to make it here. The fond expression was so at odds with the demeanor he had worn all morning that you almost believed it was just for you.

“I… yes,” you answered, distracted, as you took another look at your wristwatch. Your family would be nearly home already, if you lingered much longer, there would doubtless be trouble.

You glanced up at Sukuna, who seemed displeased by your distraction, and offered hasty excuses, “I’m so sorry, I really have to go. There’ll be trouble if I hang around too much longer.”

“Nonsense,” the dismissal was so confident that you briefly doubted your own words. Sukuna reached out for your elbow and began to lead you deeper into the church.

“N-no, I’m serious, you don’t know my father, if I’m late…”

He glanced down at you, those sanguine irises glowing ethereally in the candlelight, a simmering threat within them. “Would you like for me to know your father?” The question was spoken coolly, innocently, but you were suddenly afraid.

“No, that’s alright…”

“This won’t be long,” Sukuna assured you, and you nodded. There was no denying that you wanted his attention, that you had hoped for precisely such a private moment – only about an hour or so earlier.

As you approached the sacristy, which you were quite certain you weren’t allowed to enter, your eyes caught on the confessional just to your right. The site of your shame caused blood to rush to your face, thoroughly embarrassed. Your eyes caught on the hand holding your elbow, realizing that those very fingers had been inside you… and recalling precisely what they were capable of.

God have mercy… you sighed internally and struggled to put on a brave face. Sukuna’s smirk went completely over your head.

“Where are we going?” you asked suddenly.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” was the simple answer as Sukuna pushed open the door to the sacristy.

You tried not to be disappointed. Really, what had you been expecting? A repeat of five days ago? You were awful. Disgusting. Shameless.

“How did you like the sermon?”

The question broke you free from thoughts of self-loathing and you found yourself answering easily. “It was very interesting. Very different from what I’m used to.”

“Mm,” he agreed. “And how has ‘what you’re used to’ been serving you?”

You fell silent as he led you down a marble hallway, empty but intimate and cozy. Not as showy as the main area of the church was. As you walked, you contemplated his question, and admitted the answer – quietly to yourself, and aloud to him, “poorly.”

“Yes,” he hummed, guiding you with a nod down the hallway to your right. “Otherwise you would not have come to me, now would you?”

You glanced up at him. It was true that your anguish had driven you up the steps to his church, but more than the guidance and salvation he had promised you, simply knowing him felt rewarding enough. You might have liked to meet him outside of the church, as an ordinary person. If he were a simple salesman, or something of the like, if he liked you even a little, you might have given up on your engagement for him. Maybe the two of you could have stood up to your father together.

“I’m glad I met you, Father,” you confessed shyly. “Even outside of the context of the church.”

A dark chuckle left his lips as he finally slowed down. “What a naughty thing to say,” he turned you towards himself, cocking his head to the side as he considered you. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Any attempt at unaffectedness gone to the wind, your face burned a furious crimson as you blurted hasty denials, “Goodness, no! I would never!”

He stopped entirely then, turning towards you, stepping closer until you were backed into a wooden sacristy armoire. “Never?” he purred, delighted by your distress. He tutted as you stumbled backwards, nearly falling over the armoire. “You wound me.”

“But you,” you averted your gaze, suddenly shy and wanting to sink beneath the floorboards. You rose awkwardly to your elbows, unable to rise entirely as he hovered over you. “You’re a priest.”

Sukuna stepped closer, his right leg passing between both of yours, his knee brushed against your inner thigh, setting your lower lip trembling in anticipation. “And you’re engaged,” was the simple answer, his scarlet gaze dancing across the gem on your right hand, before wandering lazily back to your face to hold your gaze with an indecipherable expression. “Yet, here we are.”

“I…” you didn’t know what to say. “I didn’t mean…” You desperately wanted this, but at the same time, you knew it wasn't right. Your mind was a jumbled, confused mess. The things he said in his sermons, the expectations of your family, your own twisted desire for a man you couldn’t possibly have.

His hand found your face, cupping your chin, lifting your gaze back towards him. “I would seduce you,” he confessed on a low, husky whisper. “I would have you come undone, begging for me, moaning my name. I would have you relinquish every thought but the thought of what I can do to you.”

“I…” you built up the courage to finish your sentence. “I’m quite sure you’ve already done that.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” there was something demeaning about the epithet, something condescending in the malicious glint of his glowing eyes. “I haven’t even gotten started.”

“Lord Sukuna,” a halting voice called from down the hall. You were immediately brought back to the present and struggled to straighten yourself, but Sukuna refused to budge. Cold, lethal displeasure tainted his features as he glanced over his shoulder at the speaker. The shift from darkly seductive to deadly ire was so sudden that your breath caught in your throat. You wanted to draw his eyes back to you, to see if he would shift back to that hunger he liked to tease you with. Wanted to know if his tender seductions truly were meant for you alone.

At the other end of the hallway stood a man of medium build, with long black hair tied back in a ponytail. He shifted nervously as he stole sneaking glances at the two of you. His foot was wrapped in a cast up to the knee and his face was gaunt as if he had not eaten in several days.

“Ryuzaki,” Sukuna growled, a sound you had never heard before. One that had your heart skipping a beat. Whether in fear or delight, you could scarcely tell. “You were to wait until summoned.”

“I’m sorry, my lord, I thought…” Now the pitiful man glanced at you. One, two fleeting looks before his gaze was glued back to the floor. You could not help but pity him.

You pressed a hand to Sukuna’s chest, easing him off of you, grateful for the distraction. The priest had been weaving that dark spell over you again. The one that reduced you to putty in his hands, and you had promised yourself not to let it happen again. You weren’t going to sleep with a priest, for goodness’ sake! You were from a noble family, you were engaged to be married, and you had a sense of dignity!

Get it together, you crazy bitch, you censured yourself.

“Is this the person you wanted to introduce me to?” you asked, wriggling out of the cage of his arms.

Sukuna drew back, acknowledging that the moment was over, but there was a lurking hunger in his eyes, still, that gave you the distinct impression that he would collect later – with interest.

“Yes,” he waved a hand in a lazy introduction towards the slight man, “I would like for you to meet Ryuzaki.” Suddenly, his voice was all magnanimity again, bold and generous. His priests’ voice, you realized. The voice he used to bend people to his will. “Ryuzaki, this is the young woman you will be interviewing.” As an aside, he added, “Ryuzaki is an aspiring journalist, and he will be writing about our church. What better way for him to learn about our ways than through the eyes of our newest member?”

“Interview?” you paled, if your father caught you giving an interview… if your name were published somewhere, if anything you said consisted of ideas he did not approve of…

“Sukuna… I mean, Father, I’m not sure I’m the right person.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sukuna dismissed with a wave of his hand as he led you to the chamber where Ryuzaki had been waiting moments before. “You’ll be doing that sack of bones a favor as he’s struggling to get back on his feet.” There was something menacing about the way Sukuna had said that last sentence, but you couldn’t quite tell what it meant. “And you’ll be helping out the church as well, of course.”

Sukuna settled himself in an armchair, gesturing for you to take the loveseat opposite and crossed one knee over the other as he watched your dilemma play out on your face. He did not seem to notice or care what Ryuzaki did with himself. “But,” you worried your lower lip between your teeth, anxiety threatening to overwhelm you. “If my father…”

A glint of disapproval flashed in his dark eyes, as his eyelids lowered. He rested his chin on the knuckles of his right hand as he watched you fidget with the fabric of your skirt. “Ah, I see. You are your father’s possession then, are you?”

You balked, your eyes darting towards him to see if he meant what he had just said, “No, of course not, I just…”

“Then he owns your tongue, does he?”

Feeling frustrated, you straightened as you crossed your arms over your chest. “He certainly does not!”

“Who does, then?” Sukuna’s voice was dangerously light and unassuming.

At your confused silence, he leaned in closer to you, without a care that Ryuzaki was watching the exchange with wide, hungry eyes.

Sukuna cupped your cheek and drew a warm thumb over your lower lip. The simple touch brought you back to that cramped confessional, to the heights of ecstasy, the depths of desire.

You averted your gaze, pulling your mouth free from his touch. “No one does,” you insisted quietly, your heart beating wildly in your chest.

“That’s not quite right, is it?” Sukuna purred, digging his hand into your hair, taking a firm hold of your loose strands to tilt your head backwards, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Do I need to remind you?” he cocked his brow at you, waiting for you to deny the painfully obvious truth.

“You can’t mean for me to say that it’s you,” you protest on a ragged whisper, nearing the edge of your senses at his proximity, at the hypnotism of his dark whispers. All the seduction of honeyed whiskey and twice the intoxication. “Not after your speech about power and authority.”

“Then deny it,” murmured Sukuna softly.

The words were perched on the tip of your tongue, emphatic denials and blustering outrage, but you could not bring yourself to voice them because deep down inside, you feared a part of you did belong to him, in a way you had never belonged to anyone before. As if fate had led you to this eerie church, to that dark confessional, to this twisted priest.

You paused, considering, feeling both precariously at a tipping point but also quite safe in his unyielding hold. “I can’t,” you confessed in a hushed whisper and the beginnings of a smirk curved at the corner of his lips. You reached out and steadied yourself with a hand on his knee. “But I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove to my family that I’m not the enemy. For me to make a public statement of any kind would negate all that I have worked for.”

His eyes lingered over your features a moment longer, discerning and calculating. He seemed not to hear what you had said. His thumb brushed over your left cheekbone and you fought the urge to close your eyes, to lean into the tender caress.

“What’s this?” he breathed, a note of displeasure in his voice you had never heard address you with.

You blinked, rudely awakened from the pleasant haze his touch had conjured over you, and realized that all of this touching must have cleared away some of the makeup on your face and that your ugly bruise from Jonathan’s slap must have begun peeking through. You drew back, alarmed and embarrassed, and sucked air into your lungs as if it would somehow clear Sukuna from your senses.

“It’s nothing,” you answered too quickly and lifted a hand to the sore area.

Silence lingered, painfully tense between you as you sat across from each other, your knees still touching.

“Very well then,” Sukuna nodded, a veil lowering over his usually expressive gaze as he leaned back. “You will forgive me for overstepping.”

You rubbed the back of your neck, suddenly awkward. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Lord Sukuna,” Ryuzaki said suddenly, Sukuna glanced coldly at him as if disappointed that he still existed, “perhaps I could…” he licked his lips and stared at you again. “Perhaps she can be reasoned with.”

You shook your head, “I can’t help you. The minute my words end up in print it will have irreversible consequences for me.”

“You wouldn’t be helping me,” Ryuzaki licked his lips again. “But Lord Sukuna is facing considerable pressure to have his church closed down. This article could make a difference in public sentiment.”

“Is this true?” you turned to Sukuna, concerned. His narrowed eyes were fixed on Ryuzaki contemplatively.

“You’re certainly aware that this church isn’t popular,” he shrugged finally.

You bit your lip again. “I do want to help… I just…”

“There is no need,” Sukuna dismissed easily. “There are plenty of congregants willing to make a statement. It doesn’t have to be you.”

“Oh,” you don’t know why you’re disappointed. “That’s good, then. I don’t know why I was under the impression it had to be me.”

“Yes, because of what you asked of me.” Sukuna waved his hand casually. “In order to gain what you have never had before, you must do what you have never done before. Power requires sacrifice,” Sukuna reminded you. “What are you willing to sacrifice?”

Your gaze fell to your feet as you were forced to recall that while you were willing to sacrifice a great deal for those you love, there was almost nothing that you were willing to sacrifice for your own happiness.

“Surely, a part of you must be curious to know,” Sukuna’s low voice cast its net again, spinning your mind in dizzying circles. “If you open your mouth and stop holding back…” He tilted his head to the side, his chin tucked between his thumb and forefinger contemplatively. “What kind of scream would come out, I wonder? How far would the echoes reach?”

You blinked at him, suddenly curious yourself. What would you say if you weren’t always having to watch your words? How would the world receive it? If you stood up, as yourself, and all eyes were on you… what would they see?

You glanced at Ryuzaki again who stared at you unblinkingly, before turning back to Sukuna, “Can I have some time to think about it?”

“Naturally,” Sukuna agreed amiably. “Take all the time you need.”

You nodded gratefully and as you did so, caught a glimpse of the wall clock to your right. You jolted in shock. “Oh, my God!” You were well over two hours late now, and anxiety and trepidation threatened to overwhelm you as you jumped to your feet.

“I’m so sorry, I really have to go!” You scrambled to collect your purse and awkwardly straightened out the cushions – somehow leaving them more haphazard than they had been before you touched them – and bolted for the door. As an afterthought, you glanced over your shoulder and called, “I’ll be back Sunday!” And then you were gone with all the suddenness of a tempest at sea, leaving behind an unsettling quiet.

Sukuna’s amiable expression lasted until you had disappeared out of the sacristy, then a frown marred his elegant features as he began to wonder if you were perhaps too timid to be of any use. No matter, he would bring you around eventually. He always did. You were not the usual type of woman he took into his employ. Not nearly rebellious enough, not nearly accomplished enough. But the look on your face when you had confessed that you were evil had sunk hooks into his mind, refusing to release him.

You were so desperate to prove that you were good, to prove that you were no monster, that he was overcome with a twisted desire to see just what kind of monster he could turn you into. You wore a bruise on your face as if it were the natural order… the man who had raised his hand to you would be lucky to have bones in his face at all when Sukuna was done with him.

He could so easily find out who it was. So easily wreck his life, his reputation, his future… but wouldn’t it be so much more satisfying to have you do it? Instead of always turning away from the gun you carried, promising it was unloaded… What face would you make the first time you pulled the trigger? He wanted to know.

His contemplations prevented him from paying notice to the quite insignificant Ryuzaki, who stared after you, nearly sick with desire and longing. He had recognized you immediately of course. The lovely lilt of your voice, the sweetness in it when you addressed him. It brought back memories of your gasps and moans in the confessional overhead. And you had been the one to get him out. Not long after you had left, Sukuna had arrived. Sure, he had crushed Ryuzaki’s leg under his foot, rolling it back and forth as a child might play with a log, listening to his screams as if they were the sweetest salvation, washing over him.

But then, he had offered Ryuzaki a deal. And the journalist was certain it was because of you. There was something about you that had led Sukuna to reconsider the fate he had chosen for Ryuzaki, though he did not know what.

His near death experience had made Ryuzaki understand that all that mattered in life was the pursuit of one ‘s desires, so as to be left with no regrets. The sight of you had awakened a terrible need within him. He was engulfed, still, in the scent of you that had wafted past him as you rushed out of the chamber, sweet and womanly, a light floral perfume. You were a perfect lady. Except that you were not. What perfect lady would allow a priest to toy with her virtue in a confessional? He knew the sounds you could make, he was sure he could drag them out of you as well. And although you wore that sweet and innocent scent in public, he knew what lay hidden beneath. He knew the heady musk of your release that had dripped down to meet him in his dark prison. Ah, but he craved it. He wanted to smell it again, taste it again.

For what he had wanted more than anything, as he had eventually confessed to Sukuna, was a woman to truly love him and stay beside him, and what he was now beginning to realize… was that he wanted you to be that woman.

After all, a woman who spread her legs for a priest would surely have no scruples about spreading them for him.

#sukuna x reader #dark #corruption kink #sukuna #writing #dead dove do not eat #fanfic

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azureashes · 1 year ago

Text

Bless Me Father, For I Have Sinned

MDNI 18 +

TW: Religious Trauma, Religious Themes, Heavy Fingering, Throat fingering, Priest!Sukuna, gullible Reader, religious manipulation, internalized misogyny, CULTS, oh and cheating! (I forgot about the cheating cuz dude doesn't even get an honorable mention)

This is probably going to be a multichap, as a lot of things have yet to be addressed in this first chapter. Also Sukuna is potentially TOO soft in this first chapter, but he's luring her in first so you know... something, something, honey, vinegar.

Inspired by THIS artwork and THIS playlist.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Rain pelted the glass window panes of the gray buildings with their colored awnings that blurred at the edges of your vision as you swept down the cobblestone street. Lights were blinking out on both sides of the road as the quaint little shops closed up for the night, leaving you increasingly shrouded in darkness.

Gasping for breath, you turned where you stood, taking in your surroundings with a mounting sense of despair. At the end of the road, your eyes caught on a proud building that towered above all others in the square.

A towering edifice of gothic elegance, the church stood with its grand arch soaring into a pointed dome, its dark stone facade gleaming in the rain. Round windows adorned with intricate lattice designs glowed with an ethereal light. Nearby, ivy and dark, lush foliage clung to the walls, and twisted trees framed the entrance, their leaves glistening with raindrops. An ancient oak door stood ajar, warm candlelight flickering from within, casting a golden glow that beckoned you inside, both inviting and ominous, as if whispering secrets of the human soul to those who dared to approach.

You swallowed thickly, craving the warmth you hoped to find within. Your feet moved as if compelled by some unnatural force, and before you could consciously make the decision, you found yourself stepping over the threshold of the ancient building. You stepped into the narthex, where maroon carpeting and gleaming mahogany furniture greeted her.

Catching your breath, you took in the long crimson aisle runner that ran along the length of the nave, leading up to the altar. The altar itself was dominated by a crucifix in such a deep shade of mahogany it seems to waver between red and black. In fact, most of the ornamentation of the sacred area reflected scenes of biblical tales so gruesome and violent that the excessive scenes of bloodshed left an almost pulsing, ethereal red dominating your vision.

There was the reredos, adorned with haunting imagery of saintly martyrdom. You recognized each of them with practiced ease. The central panel depicted Saint Agatha with her severed breasts on a platter, her serene face juxtaposed against the brutality of her martyrdom. To either side, scenes of Saint Lucy with her eyes on a plate and Saint Philomen, with arrows piercing her body and chains constricting her limbs.

There was no romanticization of their scenes of martyrdom in the manner you were accustomed to. Their sacrifices were made apparent in graphic detail and their blood seemed to glow almost hauntingly. Saint Lucy’s eyeless face was turned towards the viewer, as were the other two saints, almost in judgment. Almost as if they were saying something. Reminding you of something.

With a shiver, you turned from the gruesome imagery towards the font of holy water. Swallowing thickly and struggling to regulate your breathing, you dipped your fingers into the water - shuddering inexplicably as you did so - and made the sign of the cross on yourself with a practiced hand.

Then you made your way down the aisle, your black, court heels muffled against the plush runner as you approached, your eyes taking in the black candelabras, the gory visions of Ezekiel depicted on the stained glass windows, the many candles glowing ethereally in impossibly tall candlesticks, many adorned with reliefs of further scenes of martyrdom, depicted once more in such graphic detail that you could not help but stare. You were taken aback that the many relics and artworks depicted mainly women. Female saints and martyrs. Women in worship. You were hard-pressed to find even one man depicted within the church, but could oddly find none.

In addition to the strange adornment, the ominous silence of the church set the hairs at the nape of your neck on end. It was not the usual, hallowed calm you were accustomed to, but the tense silence that followed a gunshot, or the suffocating stillness after the last gasp of death.

You considered turning around and walking right back out, but hesitated. You wanted something different. A new light shed on old beliefs. Some way out of the impossible cage you had been born into. You could not always run from things that varied from the norm that oppressed you.

With a grim expression, you made your way further into the church. Dim candlelight flickered at the edge of your vision and you made towards it, relieved to have found the confessional. It, too, was constructed of the deepest shade of ebony, and stood invitingly in a corner of the area, just before the sacristy beyond which priests prepared for services or otherwise spent their time.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the small chamber door that led to the penitent’s side of the confessional and stepped inside. The overpowering smell of incense surrounded you as soon as you let the door fall shut behind you. It smelled strongly of roses, with a sweetness that could make one sick, but beneath that floral scent, something acrid, almost sulfuric, burned your nostrils.

A kneeler awaited you in the center of the small space, covered with cushioned velvet just at the foot of the confessional grate. At two corners of the room you noted an odd gap between the wall and floor. Almost as if they weren’t quite connected. In fact, with every step you took, it seemed the floor moved ever so slightly with your weight. Was the confessional not set directly on the ground?

You frowned and admonished yourself for the way you had been judging the church ever since you had entered it. Who were you to judge over a house of God? What gave you the audacity, or the right?

Ashamed, you moved towards the confessional grate and interlocked your fingers, kneeling with humility and lowering your head as you struggled to sort out your thoughts. You were suddenly acutely aware of the rain dripping down your hair onto the confessional floor and down the back of your neck. The wafting incense made it hard to think straight, bringing deeply buried feelings dangerously close to the surface.

“Bless me father” you said, your voice demure - if not downright miserable - “for I have sinned.” You got the words out with difficulty, the pain in your heart overpowering you anew, as the warmth of the confessional started to become stifling, the rain on your skin feeling almost sticky.

“ Welcome , my child,” the answer was a smooth purr, deep and dark and sinfully enticing. You started in surprise. You had never known a priest to sound like that. “What brings you to me today?” The words that followed did nothing to relieve the unholy effect his dark baritone had had on you and you flushed, deeply ashamed.

Recentering yourself, you focused inward. On your pain, your torment, your sense of estrangement. “I’m struggling with…” what sin was it? What could describe your inability to fall into line? “...pride,” you finished finally.

“I feel guilty about wanting to be seen,” tears pooled unbidden in your eyes, you tried to blink them away but new ones replaced them faster than you could rid yourself of them. Taking a deep, shuddering breath you lowered your forehead against your clasped hands. The tears dripped slowly down the length of your nose, you were helpless to stop them. You took a deep, tormented breath and continued.

“I feel guilty about wanting to be loved and cherished.” You choked the words out on a low, hushed sob, “I feel guilty about…” but no more words would come as emotion overwhelmed you. Your family. Their expectations. Drowning beneath them. Always less than, less than, less than… Less than your brothers, less than your father, less than your fiancé. Why could you not be happy with less? Why could you not be like your mother, blank-faced and passive and content? Why did you want to be adulated and adored like your brother? Why were you only loved when you lowered your head, when you made yourself small, when you reduced yourself to nothing? Why could you not be happy that way?

You thought of your fiancé, of the bruises that ached, still, on your shoulder blade, on your arms, on your thighs…

Why could you not submit?

The incense was choking you, you couldn’t think, you couldn’t breathe. You sucked in one breath after another, but they did not seem to fill your lungs as image after image replayed in your mind. Your fiancé’s leer, your father’s frown of disapproval, your brother’s smirk… Your professor’s effusive disappointment as you dropped out of college, your boss’s concern as you quit your job… the blank face that looked back at you in the mirror every morning when you awoke.

Why had your obedience not brought your contentment?

You lost sense of your surroundings as you fought for breath, fought to get a handle on your tears. You fell from the kneeler with a clatter as you scrambled backwards, towards the wall as you clutched at your chest, wheezing, trying to get your lungs to take in air - or to expel it. You weren’t sure which they were supposed to be doing.

The small, cramped confessional seemed to be spinning around you as the incense only further dulled your senses. You were going to faint here. And it was going to end up in the news. And your family would be humiliated. And it would all be your fault.

Everything, everything, everything. You were to blame for all of it. Because you were cursed. You could only be good by fighting every natural instinct you had. By destroying yourself. It was the only way to prevent your existence from tainting your loved ones, from harming them, because you were…

The door to the confessional swung outward and your eyes caught on the man - no, the priest - beyond. He towered over you, his hulking figure filling out the small door frame until he flooded your vision. His body was powerful, well-muscled even through his robes, his eyes were piercing and perceptive, as if they saw right through you - to the very center of your core. He wore a shock of pink hair, black at the roots and there were deep shadows on his face, or were those black markings? You couldn’t tell. He was devastatingly handsome all the same, and seemed far too young to be a priest.

“ Well ,” again, that smooth baritone that made you feel so very small - but in a way that you found yourself liking. A way that made you feel almost safe. “You’re quite a sight.” There was amusement in his eyes as he beheld you, even in your predicament.

“Now, now…” his voice was distant, but oddly comforting. It had a hypnotic quality to it, a reassuring one. “Breathe.”

“Slowly now,” he admonished gently. And you did as he asked, sucking in one shuddering breath before releasing it shakily. Again. Again. Again. Slowly, sensation returned and your vision cleared along with your awareness that the handsome priest - whose handsome face matched his body in every way - had crossed over to your side of the confessional. It was little wonder, given the way you had nearly collapsed but it was embarrassing nonetheless.

You chanced another glance at him, but he continued to observe you silently. It took you a moment to realize that he was waiting for you to continue. To hear what you wished to say. And wanting to be heard was strange and foreign. Your tongue tied itself up in knots as he stood there, looking down on you. There was something different about him, something… if not divine, then certainly supernatural.

It was not at all the same, making your confession to his face, there was no longer the sense of anonymity that you liked to hide behind. But instead, a sense of connection and vulnerability that grounded you unexpectedly.

Reflecting on the pain that had driven you to this place, it all seemed to center on one singular axis. Your own inability to comply with the wishes of those who held the reins of your life in their hands. Although you knew that was what your faith asked of you, you found yourself rebelling and resenting your lot in life again and again. And every time, it invited conflict and pain into your world. Every time you ended up hurting those you cared for.

“Why can I not obey?” the tears streamed down your face. You had only ever wanted to be good. Only ever wanted to do good by those you cared for. Only ever wanted to be loved. “Why can I not submit? Why can’t I be good ?”

The strange priest lowered himself towards you, his wrists resting loosely on his knees as he sat back on his haunches. “Submitting is not so very hard,” he murmured, his voice casting its now-familiar spell on you. “I could teach you.”

There was a look in his eye that seemed to swallow you up, seemed to burn you alive. This priest knew something. Something that would help you make sense of everything. Maybe he could save you. Maybe he could help you learn to be at peace with yourself.

He reached out towards you and as his hand drew closer, you realized with a sudden jolt how inappropriate this encounter was. How wrong it was for him to join you on the penitent’s side in this intimate space that barely had room for one. How untoward it was for him to be reaching out to touch you.

But you had spent your whole life wishing someone would cross beyond your walls, spent all your years wanting to be touched and seen. And with the way he was looking at you, with the utmost confidence, with an overpowering self-assurance, you could not help but want the distance between you to shrink into nothingness.

“Submitting to someone,” he purred, his outstretched fingers grazing your cheek, sending a thrill through you. “Should come naturally. It shouldn’t have to be forced. Do you understand?”

You were beginning to. The way his voice washed over you, the way his gaze set you alight with the intoxication of being truly seen, you thought you could vaguely understand what he meant. You nodded, even as the sheen of tears in your eyes reflected the surrounding candlelight, even as your cheeks glistened with their wetness.

“There now,” his lips curved into a half-smile even as his eyes narrowed, but he did not remove his hand, continuing his gentle caress. “Isn’t that better?”

“I’m cursed,” you choked out in a hushed whisper. “I’m the evil one.”

A spark of something went through his scarlet eyes. As if he had been playing with you up until this point, the way you might play with a stray kitten on the street but now something had shifted. But he recovered, and the fingers that had been trekking lazily up along the side of your face moved to cup your cheek.

“Is that so?” there was something dark in his voice. Something curious. Something angry.

“I only bring them grief,” you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out the disinhibiting effects of the overpowering incense. Trying to stop yourself from leaning into his palm. Nuzzling it. Kissing it.

“I can not contain myself. I can not be humble and obey. I can not be as they want me to be. As our faith requires me to be .” You shuddered at the admission, your internal torment causing your shoulders to hunch over as if you wished to cave in on yourself. “I have prayed every day, wept every night…”

You lift your tortured gaze, awash anew with fresh tears, to his contemplative crimson irises. Red? His eyes were red? Why had you not noticed before? Or was that merely the glow of the many candles reflecting all the red furnishings in the church?

You suck in a deep breath and despite yourself, you reach out to hold onto his wrist, as if begging him not to remove his hand. “Please…” you plead, your voice wavering, “Can you save me?”

It was wrong, you knew. For no one person could bring salvation. You would need to find it yourself, through prayer, through the scripture, through acts of penance… But he didn’t seem like a normal priest. You dared to hope.

His hand moved further back, his fingers digging into your wet hair, his hold curving around the back of your neck, lifting your gaze up higher as he kneeled between your legs, crushing the pleats on your long, gray skirt. His eyes skirted over you then and a fire flamed to life on your skin wherever those eyes lingered. On your white blouse buttoned up to the very top, the leather belt with a golden buckle that hugged your waist. The pearls at your ears, the thin chain around your neck. Your gleaming watch, your designer purse, the band on the fourth finger of your left hand.

“But of course I can,” his breath whispered over your lips as he spoke and a sense of almost crushing relief swept through you, making you shiver. He could save you? You could be saved? There was a way to find peace with your situation without abandoning your faith?

His thumb caressed your cheek, prompting you to open your eyes again and he continued, that dark voice sending low vibrations through you. You knew something was wrong about this scenario, knew that you should not be so close to him, knew that there was nothing priestly about this arrangement. But you could not bring yourself to care, for in mere minutes, he had given you more hope than you had had in decades.

He was different, but you needed different. You craved different.

“I can save you,” he repeated, drawing your thoughts back to the present moment. To his face lingering a breath above yours. “But I will need a token of your loyalty.”

“A token?”

Perhaps you should have known then, that priests did not operate with tokens. That they did not strike deals. That there was, in fact, a very different manner of creature that promised impossible things and demanded exorbitant payment.

But there was nothing you would not give in that moment. “What? What can I…” the incense in the chamber with you was heady, perhaps even intoxicating. The pink mist wafting between your faces made it impossible to consider what the right course of action was.

The priest glanced at your hand, resting on the floor beside you and you turned to look at it as well. “My ring…?” you stammered, and lifted your hand without a second thought to remove the ring. You could claim to have lost it, your family could easily afford another. Your fiancé would be angry, but it would not be worth breaking up with you over.

“Not the ring,” Sukuna dismissed with a click of his tongue. “Your request is quite unique, I’m sure you know. The manner of service you require is not something an ordinary priest could offer you, yes?”

Eyes wide, you nodded in understanding. Of course a ring could not pay for your salvation. “Then what…?”

The thumb that had been grazing over your cheek now moved towards your lips, brushing along the length of your lower lip once, twice, in slow, languorous motions as if feeling every groove and every inch of skin.

“Give me your time.” There was a sense of finality within the demand, a sense of foreboding. But it only served to heighten your delirious sense of hope. After all, a payment made brought you that much closer to the end you hoped to achieve, didn’t it?

“H- how much?” you wondered, not sure at all how you would be able to give him your time. Would he ask for years? The rest of your life? Would you wake up from a coma when he had taken the time he asked of you?

“Ten minutes,” was the cool answer, his eyes still wandering over you, taking in the sight of you like a project in the making.

“Ten minutes?” you repeated dumbly. Well, that was nothing. That was neither years, nor a lifetime, nor anything of consequence.

“Consider it a down payment,” he smiled at you again, that strange, self-assured smile that felt like a sticky trap you did not mind wandering into.

“Yes!” you replied breathlessly, not even waiting to think about it. Ten minutes of your life to be at peace, to be loved, to stop being the evil that brought anger and resentment wherever you went? You would have given him ten years if he had asked for them.

Somewhere in the distance, a thud sounded as the church doors slammed shut and locked themselves from within. A grin split the priest’s lips, revealing sharp canines. “Very well then,” he said smoothly, a self-satisfied expression on his features. “These next ten minutes,” the thumb that had been tracing your lips stiled suddenly, before moving between them and entering your mouth without warning. “Belong to me. ”

You choked on a gasp as his thumb idled past your teeth briefly and then pressed down on your tongue. Wide eyes flew towards his own, but his eyes were hooded, his face impassive as he observed you.

“Ten minutes,” he reminded you.

So that was what he had meant. Why had you thought he meant some sort of fairytale exchange of life forces and power? Why had you assumed your interaction had had some touch of the supernatural?

Perhaps you had better run. Maybe you had gotten yourself wrapped up in something way out of your depth.

“You will need to learn ,” he intoned, as his other hand moved towards your collar. “To obey.” The first button of your blouse popped open beneath his fingers, as ready and willing as you had been when swearing your time to him.

“To submit.”

Your own words came back to you, and with them, the sense of hysteria that had accompanied them. You despised the words. Obedience and submission. They filled you with a blinding rage, a murderous fury. And to hear them repeated back to you now reminded you of how impossible they were. How hateful.

As his left hand continued its journey down the front of your blouse, each button falling open at his touch with practiced ease, you blinked away tears and tried to swallow the saliva that was pooling in your mouth but found that you could not.

“Mm-mm-mm,” he shook his head, “that will not do.” He moved in closer, his thumb shifting in your mouth as he did so, almost massaging your tongue.

When his lips were right at your ear, he spoke again, “submission is the easiest thing, little one.”

You wanted to believe him, but conflicting emotions rioted in your stomach. Your fiancé, your angry family, your misery - and the hope that he could change everything. In exchange for these ten minutes.

His left hand cupped your breast and your eyes fell shut at the touch as a gasp escaped your throat. The sensation was intoxicating. Nerve endings sang with pleasure. His hands were so big and warm, his touch addictive. You found yourself arching your back despite yourself as you allowed the sea of sensation to sweep you away.

“I’m going to teach you something about submission, sweetheart,” there was that familiar, sinful voice in your ear. “And after these…” he paused as if glancing at a clock, “eight and a half minutes, you’re going to understand something about it that you didn’t before.” Then his teeth were on the curve of your ear nipping at them with surprising tenderness, his tongue following all the way down to your earlobe before his mouth ventured further, his teeth finding the vein that pulsed at the side of your neck. His tongue marked the length of it before his mouth closed in on it, teeth biting into your skin as he sucked at the soft and supple flesh.

What was he…? You couldn’t think. You didn’t want to.

His other hand had shifted to your right breast now, repeating its ministrations, sending shivers through your body. An index finger journeyed lazily between the two mounds, hooking into the front of your bra and tugging it down until your breasts sprang free. The sudden rush of cold air made your nipples perk up, as if begging his attention and he complied, first kneading your breasts with increased force, always pushing just an inch past what you were willing to accept at that moment. Enough to keep you on edge, not enough to make you push him away. He pinched your nipples and toyed with them until helpless mewls escaped your mouth, muffled by his thumb. You could feel him smile against your neck.

How much time was left? You didn’t know. You weren’t sure what you were hoping for… a swift end to this encounter or that time would somehow stretch out for you, extending this moment eternally.

He drew back slightly and you opened your eyes as if summoned by him.

“Open your mouth,” there was none of the coaxing tenderness he had shown you earlier. This was a command, unyielding and expectant.

You obeyed unthinkingly and watched as he cocked his head to the side, his gaze fixed on the inside of your mouth. It was so odd, and you felt terribly self-conscious, but you could not bring yourself to think too clearly while his other hand was still working its magic on you.

Instead of his thumb, he now inserted two fingers into your mouth. His left hand paused briefly, to smooth your blouse from your shoulders, and the touch of his hand running along your upper arm, though chaste, sent a shiver down your spine.

“Suck.” A simple, unmistakable order.

Your cheeks burned in humiliation, your mind clearing a bit now that his left hand had busied itself with your clothing. You wanted to say something, to push him off and pull on your clothing and storm out of the so-called church. But on the other hand… you wanted to know what would happen if you did as he asked. You wanted to know what was waiting for you at the end of this encounter.

You wanted his eyes to light up with approval when you pushed past your own inhibitions.

So you closed your lips around his thick fingers, and you sucked. They tasted of salt, of the incense that surrounded you, and they tasted of sin. You closed your eyes, relishing the taste of him, even as his fingers inched towards the back of your throat.

His left hand, meanwhile, meandered down the length of your leg reaching for the hem of your skirt, but you hardly took notice until it had slipped underneath it and smoothed its way up your inner thigh.

Then your eyes shot open in shock and dread. You gave him a pleading look but he only shook his head with a small smirk. “Ten minutes, we agreed.” Clicking his tongue as if disappointed, he added, “Or are you calling off our deal?”

Before you could answer his fingers inched further towards the back of your throat, and tears burned at the edges of your vision as you tried not to gag. He grinned down at you, positively relishing your conflicted expression and the satisfaction on his face made you forget all about your own discomfort. You licked at his fingers, sucking them in deeper, trying to prove to him how compliant you could be – and then his left hand found the juncture of your thighs.

A thick, lazy finger idled up your slit through your damp underwear and you shivered. Saliva spilled from the sides of your mouth as your jaw went slack at the sensation. Fuck ten minutes. You wanted everything.

As if hearing your thoughts, he pulled your panties to the side and buried his fingers into your hot, wet folds. Slicking up and down along your slit.

“My,” he chuckled, “isn’t this easy?”

You could only whimper in response, as the fingers of his right hand teased down your throat, backing off ever so slightly, only to plunge back down again. You gagged, despite yourself, and your body shivered in response. He allowed you to recover momentarily, only to then continue his ministrations undisturbed.

His fingers found your clitoris, tracing lazy circles around it, stoking a fire of sensation until you wanted to weep with need. Your hands reached out unthinkingly, to hold him, to feel him and they came to rest on his shoulders. Ten minutes, he had said. Surely, that time was almost up. He wasn’t going to leave you hanging, was he? You focused on his fingers again, on sucking on them the way he had told you to. If you did what he said, he would reward you, wouldn’t he?

Sure enough, as soon as you redoubled your efforts, he plunged the fingers of his left hand into your warm cavern. It was a tight fit. Your fiancé had only ever entered you the one time you wanted desperately to forget. But this was nothing like that. There was no painful friction, no panic. You were positively boneless. Pudding in his hands. He slipped in and out of you easily, as if your core welcomed him. As if he were quite at home. Even as his thick fingers stretched you out, you cherished the discomfort. The feeling of your walls stretching for him, accommodating him. His practiced fingers slid against your inner walls, exploring you thoroughly until they found a spongy patch of flesh that had you moaning against the fingers that were now knuckle deep in your throat.

He turned his head to the side, again, as if looking at a clock somewhere you couldn’t see. And in that brief moment, completely at the mercy of his hands, all pride and dignity forgotten - time stood still for one brief moment as you took in his side profile, illuminated by distant candlelight. His sharp nose, his bold jawline, his expressive, powerful eyes. And then the moment passed and his gaze returned to you, and again, you felt like a morsel in the jaws of a powerful predator. The sensation was positively thrilling.

All idleness and teasing forgotten, he doubled his pace. His fingers slamming in and out of you with something bordering on cruelty – or it would have bordered on cruelty, if it wasn’t making you see stars. You wanted to say something, to moan, to scream, but his right hand fucked your throat at an identical pace and you felt entirely like an animal spitroasted over a fire.

“There now,” he hummed, breathless, eyes gleaming at the sight of you so undone, “you’re almost there.”

Your body felt rattled with the force of his thrusts and you pulled up your knees without quite knowing why, wanting to feel him more deeply. Your eyes shut as the feeling he had been weaving over you intensified to the point of being painful. Something powerful was building up, ready to engulf you, ready to destroy you.

And you would so love to be destroyed by his hands.

“ Good girl ,” he murmured into your ear as you clung to his chest, positively delirious with pleasure. His voice, that voice , that you would likely never get used to, settled over you like the most wicked of magic. The two words swept over you like an unbreakable spell. You sucked in three quick breaths in succession, and then you came undone. Moaning against his hand, you trembled from head to toe as waves of pleasure crashed through you mercilessly. And even then he did not stop, still burying his fingers into you, only to pull them out and slam them back in, fucking you through your orgasm until it bordered on torture, until your walls clung to him as desperately as your fingers clung to his robes. Liquid gushed from you, dirtying your skirt and pooling on the confessional floor. Only then did he remove both of his hands and settled back to observe you, panting through your orgasm, spittle dribbling from your lips.

You fell back against the wall, your eyes fluttering closed as you fought for breath. Your hands hung limply at your sides, and one knee was still drawn to your chest as your other leg stretched out at an odd angle.

Your throat ached, but you missed the taste of him already. Your body sang with happiness, endorphins rushing through you. You had never felt so alive.

“Heh,” he eased back slightly, and ran a hand through his hair. The sight of him was intoxicating. The small smirk, the mischief in his eyes, the proud cheekbones. You couldn’t tell if he had used the hand that had been halfway down your throat or the other one, but by the looks of it, he didn’t care either way.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, willing yourself to regain some composure. On trembling hands, you pulled away from the wall and struggled to straighten out your appearance, avoiding his gaze. You tugged the hem of your skirt back down over your knees and winced as you felt the wetness between your thighs. Your fingers fluttered towards your blouse, fumbling in your haste to button yourself up again as shame washed over you. What had you done?

You glanced at the ring gleaming on your finger as your fingers flew over the buttons of your blouse. You needed to put this to rights. You needed to do something to dispel the awkwardness that lingered in the air.

You cleared your throat, chancing another glance at him as you smoothed your hair back behind your ears. Open amusement danced across his features at your discomfort and a blush burned across your cheeks.

“Right, well…” you glanced at the fluids that had gathered on the confessional floor and winced, reaching for your bag. “I’ll clean that up.”

“Leave it,” he dismissed lazily, and you abandoned your fruitless search for a tissue or a disinfectant wipe.

He squatted before you, still, an elbow resting on his knee, his chin resting on his knuckles as he watched you flounder in embarrassment.

“ What have we learned ?” was the question he posed. The tone of his voice, like a teacher speaking with a prized student, had you tripping over yourself, wanting to deliver the right answer even though you weren’t quite certain you had understood the question.

You paused, suddenly brought back to the heat of the moment that had passed between you. The ten minutes that had turned your world on its head.

“Learned…?”

I’m going to teach you something about submission, sweetheart… you’re going to understand something about it that you didn’t before…

You bit your lip, flushing even more deeply as you recalled his earlier words. What had you learned? There was no denying that you had submitted to him, been driven to obey him. Even going so far as to want to prove your obedience… You cringed. It was embarrassing.

But he did not seem to look down on you for it, even as he went on observing you amiably. Enjoying the expressions that flashed across your features as your mind rioted, dashing from one train of thought to another until they inevitably crashed.

Submitting to him hadn’t required conscious thought. It hadn’t required effort. It was the simplest thing, like a base instinct written into your DNA.

You glanced up at him again, his smirk widening as he saw the realization dawn on your face.

“It’s… not hard,” you admitted in a nervous whisper.

“Come again?” You couldn’t tell if he was teasing you or not. Teasing you seemed to be his default state.

You cleared your throat. “It wasn’t hard,” you repeated, louder this time.

“Not hard?” he tutted, “I think you can do better than that.”

You swallowed, glancing over his shoulder where still no one had appeared. Was there anyone else in this church at all? You thought about what the two of you had done, how loud you had been and embarrassment threatened to overwhelm you.

“It was easy,” you confessed finally. “It felt…” you closed your eyes, recalling the sensation, the moment you had chosen to put all thoughts aside and put your trust in him. “Natural,” you concluded finally, confused even as you said it.

“And why was that?” he prompted, not yet letting up.

You bit your lower lip, missing the way the priest’s eyes darted towards your mouth as you did so, and contemplated what could possibly have been different about this particular moment, that made it so easy to yield to this strange priest whereas giving even an inch to the men in your life felt like dragging a knife through your veins.

Now it was your turn to consider him, cocking your head to the side as you took him in. He was strong. Physically, mentally. Confident. Whatever happened, he looked like he could handle the fallout. From the moment you had met, he had given you his complete and utter attention. Listened to you. Taken your concerns seriously…

It was him. He was different.

You averted your gaze, then. Not knowing what to make of that information.

“I suppose it depends on the man.” By the time you realized you had spoken aloud, it was too late. Your face burned all the way up to your ears, utterly mortified.

“Hmm,” the priest hummed, finally rising to his full height and holding out a hand to help you to your feet as well. “Surely, our Lord and Savior would not require you to submit to and obey an unworthy man, wouldn’t you agree?”

Again, that seductive voice, saying things you had always longed to hear.

“But aren’t we meant to obey… the men in our lives?” Confusion furrowed your brow as you dusted off your skirt, neatly sidestepping the wet floor as he led you out of the confessional, the loose floorboards creaking under your weight as he did so.

“I think…” the crimson-eyed priest purred, sinful temptation in his voice, “if you were meant to obey them, then you would want to, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you have a natural inclination to obey the ones you were meant to obey?”

You froze, your gaze entranced by his proud lips as he spoke. You had never felt a natural inclination to follow anyone. Not until today.

“But I…” you lowered your gaze. You were going back to your family, to your fiancé. If anything, this realization only made things more difficult. You left your protest unspoken as he led you back the way you had come, down the nave and towards the church doors.

“Fret not,” he smiled, bringing the knuckles of your hand up to his lips and pressing a brief kiss to them. “I did agree to save you, didn’t I?”

You blinked, and then nodded slowly, daring to hope. He had said he would save you. This was only the beginning. Surely, by the time he was through with you, you would have no more doubts.

“Come to the service on Sunday,” he lifted the latch and opened the church door, revealing that the rain had stopped and gentle moonlight glistened on the wet pavestones.

“I go to church with my parents on Sundays,” your brow furrowed as you turned towards him, reluctant to leave his presence for reasons you could not explain, even to yourself. There was no possible way to explain to your parents why you were suddenly visiting a different church.

“So you do,” he agreed smoothly, as his hand found the small of your back. “But this Sunday, you’re coming here.”

There it was again. That inexplicable pull. The desire to do as he asked, the certainty that it would be worth it.

Your eyes sought his, wondering what lingered in their depths, even as a raised brow dared you to deny him. You should probably feel guilty about what had happened, but you could not summon the emotion. Nothing about it felt impure. He was helping you understand the tenets of your faith, wasn’t he? And you did feel like you understood things a little better now. Far from feeling guilty, all you felt was an overwhelming sense of relief, an intoxicating feeling of not being alone.

“I’ll be here,” you promised, although you did not quite know how you would manage it.

You turned towards the steps, not wanting to outstay your welcome, and floated down the three short steps to the main road, acutely aware of his eyes on you. You hesitated on the last step, and turned back towards him suddenly, where he stood shrouded in the shadows, limned in the light of the candles behind him.

“What’s your name… Father?” You added the proper address as an afterthought, almost having forgotten that he was a priest.

A small smirk curled at the corner of his lips, likely because of your late addition, and when he spoke, the name washed over you, settling in your heart like a key turning in a lock.

“Ryomen Sukuna.”

#Sukuna x Reader #jjk fanfic #reader x sukuna #writing #dark #church au

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