#Sin Desires Marie

[casualavocados]

Then we are on the same side. No, we are not. 

HIS DARK MATERIALS 3.08 | The Botanic Garden

[cabbagequeen323]

babes I'm listening to the silmarillion narrated by Andy Serkis and it's so good. it is feeding my soul

[mekatrio]

and also like how saeru's plan of sustained reincarnation kinda hinges itself entirely on seto is so crazy.. bc like if saeru killed the mkd but mary wasnt friends with them, what incentive would she have to reset time? and mary is only ever friends w the mkd bc seto brings her into the world where she can meet them. like its seto's kindness and courage that keeps this timeloop in motion and its like.... woah.

[shamballalin]

Ascended Master Mary Magdalene ~ The Gospel of Mary ~ Pearls of Wisdom

The Gospel of Mary (Magdalene) in The Nag Hammadi Scriptures, Codex BG8502,1, begins with The Nature of Sin and the Good (7,10-8,11). Peter is asking Jesus postresurrection, “… What is the sin of the world?” Jesus replied, “There is no such thing as sin, rather, you yourselves are what produce sin when you act in accordance with the nature of adultery, which is called ‘sin.’ For this reason, the…

[goldfades]

HAUNTED BY YOU──FATHER MAYHEW

part two!!!!!!!!

─ summary | father mayhew is being tormented by dreams of a worshiper at the church, who appears both angelic and temptingly sinful in his visions. as the dreams grow more intense, he begins to wonder if they’re a sign from above or a test of his faith. when you confront him, father mayhew must choose between maintaining his distance or giving in to the passion that’s been haunting him

─ pairing | father charlie mayhew x fem!reader

─ warnings | nsfw under the cut! mdni! wet dreams (strong start! i know!), description of self-pleasuring, oral (m!receiving), heavy degradation,hair-pulling, just overall rough sex, orgasm denial

─ ev's notes | like everyone and their damn mom, i've fell under nicholas's damn curse and i just had to come back to tumblr for this very self-indulgent fic. this is just porn with a lot plot LMAOOO. BUTTTTT my requests are open if you wanna send anything in! (please do btw i'm obsessed w nicholas LMAO)

ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!

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Father Charlie had always believed in the purity of dreams.

They were, in his mind, the unfiltered whispers of God—or at least, they had been. Lately, those whispers had been replaced by something far more sinful, and the dreams that used to bring him peace now left him gasping for air, tangled in sheets soaked with guilt and lust.

It started a few weeks ago, innocently enough.

You—a devout presence in the church, never missing a Sunday mass—had always caught his eye, but only in the way a shepherd might glance over his flock. He admired the way they knelt at the altar, the reverence in your bowed head, the delicate movements as you lit a candle in prayer. He told himself it was only admiration. But then the dreams began.

At first, they were fleeting images: your hands, fingers brushing over rosary beads, your doe eyes glancing up at him, lingering just a moment too long. He could dismiss them as nothing more than his mind playing tricks on him, the remnants of a long day.

But the dreams grew more vivid, more demanding. He saw you standing in the chapel late at night, a halo of moonlight casting a soft glow over your features, and when you turned to him, your gaze held something more than devotion. Something in between desperation and lust, something that was pure filth.

Charlie would wake in the dead of night, his chest tight with guilt and desire. He’d slip out of bed and kneel before the small wooden cross in his room, praying for guidance, praying for strength. But no matter how many Hail Marys he whispered into the darkness, the dreams persisted.

And now, they were getting worse.

Tonight, the dream came again, but this time, it was sharper—too real. You stood before him, just as you did every Sunday, but there was no congregation. Just the two of you, alone in the quiet sanctity of the church. He could hear your breathing, could feel the weight of your presence as they stepped closer, your fingers grazing over his. He swallowed hard, his throat tightening as they looked up at him with eyes that seemed to hold the weight of eternity.

"Father," you whispered, your voice soft but filled with something dangerous, something that made the blood in his veins run hot.

He wanted to look away, wanted to pull his hand back, but he couldn’t. Instead, he stood frozen, his heart pounding in his chest as you moved closer, so close now that he could feel the warmth of your breath on his skin. You reached up, their fingers brushing lightly across his cheek, and he felt a shudder pass through him—half desire, half longing.

"Why do you run from this?" you asked, your voice a low murmur that echoed in the stillness of the church. "Why do you run from me?"

He swallowed thickly, words catching in his throat as he tried to speak. "This isn’t… I can’t…"

But before he could finish, you pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him with a touch so gentle it felt like a caress. "You don’t have to speak," you whispered. "You already know the answer."

With that, you kissed him—soft at first, almost testing, as if waiting for him to push you away.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he felt himself melting into the kiss, his resolve crumbling as you deepened it, your hands sliding over his chest, pushing aside the fabric of his cassock. The feel of their touch was electric, every nerve in his body alive with sensation as they explored his skin, your fingers leaving trails of fire wherever they roamed.

"Please..." he heard himself whisper, though he wasn’t sure if he was begging them to stop or to continue. His breath was ragged, his heart pounding in his chest as desire overwhelmed him

Your lips traveled down his neck, leaving a path of heat in their wake, and Charlie groaned despite himself, his hands moving of their own accord to grasp your hips, pulling them closer. You pressed against him, and he could feel the softness of your body against his, the intoxicating scent of your familiar perfume filling his senses.

He knew this was wrong. He knew he should stop, should pull away and regain control of himself, but he couldn’t. His mind was clouded with lust, his body betraying him completely as your hands continued their exploration, your touch driving him to the brink of madness.

"Let go," you whispered, your breath hot against his skin as you slid a hand lower, your touch eliciting a sharp intake of breath from him. The pleasure was overwhelming, surging through him like a wave as you stroked him, you movements slow and deliberate, coaxing him closer and closer to the edge.

Charlie’s grip on the altar tightened as he felt himself losing control, his body trembling with the force of his desire. He wanted more, needed more, and you seemed all too willing to give it to him, your lips pressing against his once again as your hand moved faster, pushing him closer and closer to release.

When it came, it was like an explosion of heat and pleasure, washing over him in waves that left him gasping for breath. He clung to you, his body shuddering with the intensity of it all, his mind spinning in a haze of ecstasy and guilt.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

Charlie woke with a start, gasping for breath, his body tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. His heart raced, pounding violently in his chest as the remnants of the dream clung to him, vivid and inescapable. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to shake the images from his mind, but they lingered—soft touches, whispered words, the sensation of heat curling through him in ways it shouldn’t.

It had been more than a dream. It was more sinful, more explicit, and far too real. His skin still burned from where you had touched him, your hands roaming over his body with an intimacy that made his chest tighten with guilt. His throat was dry, aching, but not with thirst—no, with something far deeper and darker.

"God," he muttered, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Please..."

He shifted under the blankets, feeling the undeniable evidence of his arousal—a sickening reminder of what had transpired in the dream. Shame washed over him like a cold tide, dousing the warmth that had gripped him so fiercely only moments ago. He didn’t dare move, his entire being consumed by regret and disgust.

He couldn't believe he came from the mere thought of you. It was sickening—he felt like a teenager all over again. How could he have let this happen? How could his mind, his very body, betray him like this?

Your face flickered in his mind again—those eyes, filled with longing and desire, the way you had smiled at him, that wicked, knowing grin. It hadn’t been innocent, not in the least. You had touched him in ways he had never been touched in a while, ways he wasn’t supposed to experience again.

He threw back the covers, the cool air in the room hitting his overheated skin as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet hit the floor with a soft thud, and for a moment, he simply sat there, head in his hands, struggling to regain some semblance of control.

A priest wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He wasn’t supposed to be consumed by desire, least of all for someone so... unattainable. Someone who had come to him for guidance, for spiritual comfort, not for whatever this had been.

He stood, shaking, the cold of the room biting into him. He needed to calm himself, to pray, to wash away the evidence of his sin.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t forget the dream. Couldn’t forget the way it had felt—the warmth, the pleasure, the ache of it all.

Father Charlie whispered a desperate prayer under his breath as he padded to the bathroom. As the water ran cold over his skin, he prayed again for strength—for a release from this burden that had taken hold of him.

But deep down, the fear gnawed at him: what if this wasn’t the last time? What if he wasn't strong enough to resist?

He shivered at the thought.

──

Father Charlie stood by the doorway of the church hall, his gaze sweeping over the room. The sounds of children’s laughter and the murmur of conversations filled the air as parents and volunteers mingled. It was a typical event—one that should’ve had his attention focused on the joyful chaos before him

But his focus was elsewhere.

You sat at a table on the far side of the room, your attention seemingly on the children around you, but there was an unmistakable shift in the air between the two of you. His eyes kept being drawn back to you, despite his efforts to look elsewhere, to find something—anything—that might distract him from the growing heat in his chest and the tightness in his pants.

Then, you slipped the bright red lollipop between your lips, the movement slow, deliberate, and utterly intoxicating. It was a seemingly innocent gesture, one that any onlooker might dismiss, but Charlie saw it for what it was—a silent taunt, a temptation that you knew he couldn’t tear his gaze from.

His throat tightened as he watched you, your eyes flicking up to meet his, a playful glint dancing behind them. You held his gaze as you swirled the candy in your mouth, the exaggerated motion sending a jolt of excitement and heat straight through him. It was subtle enough to avoid drawing attention from anyone else, but the intent behind it was clear.

You were tempting him. And he knew it.

Charlie clenched his jaw, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the back of a nearby chair. He felt torn between his duty—his responsibility to maintain control, to be the figure of moral guidance he was supposed to be—and the way his body reacted to you, the way desire simmered just beneath his skin.

You smirked around the lollipop, letting it slip slowly from your mouth before you spoke to the child beside you, your voice light and innocent. But your eyes remained locked on his for a beat longer, the unspoken tension hanging in the air.

Father Charlie turned away quickly, trying to suppress the fire burning through him. He felt as though he were in a battle with himself—a war between the man he was and the desires that he struggled to keep buried. His mind raced with guilt, knowing that this tension—this attraction—was something he should never indulge.

But when he glanced back at you, and saw the way your plump lips wrapped around the candy once more, his breath caught in his throat. The world around him—the event, the children, the laughter—seemed to blur into the background as you continued to play this dangerous game.

Every gesture, every glance, felt like a carefully orchestrated tease, one that made it impossible for him to look away, even though he knew he should.

Charlie’s heart pounded in his chest, the temptation pulling at him stronger than it had ever been before. He couldn’t let this go on, he told himself. He needed to leave, to step away before he lost control entirely.

But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself to walk away, the sight of you sitting there, sucking on that lollipop with a mischievous glint in your eye, held him captive.

He let out a sigh, feeling his pants tighten once more. He glanced down, there was a noticeable bulge poking out.

With a sharp inhale, he tore his gaze away from you and pushed himself toward the nearest exit, keeping his movements as natural as he could manage. His skin burned with shame as he walked, the feeling of his pants tightening only making his predicament worse. He kept his head low, praying no one would stop him on his way out.

Or worse, see the issue at hand.

The corridor leading to the church bathrooms was mercifully empty, the laughter and conversations fading behind him as he moved quickly toward the door marked Men. His steps were hurried, and by the time he reached the bathroom, his breath was ragged.

Charlie shoved the door open and stepped inside, locking it behind him. He leaned against the sink, gripping the edges tightly as he tried to collect himself. His reflection in the mirror showed a man torn between the roles he was meant to fulfill and the raw human desire threatening to break through.

The bulge in his pants hadn’t lessened, and the sight of it brought another wave of heat crashing over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would block out the image of you, teasing and playful, with that lollipop in your mouth.

The temptation was too much, and he hated himself for it.

He couldn't think about you. He couldn't allow himself to dwell on the way your lips had moved, or the sly glint in your eyes, or the overwhelming desire that had burned in the pit of his stomach. He needed to focus. To rid himself of this unbearable need before it consumed him entirely.

With shaking hands, Charlie fumbled at his belt, a silent prayer escaping his lips, though he doubted any words of faith could cleanse the guilt twisting inside him now. He fought to keep his mind blank, but the image of you kept resurfacing—your teasing smile, your suggestive glances, the way your mouth had played with that lollipop as if you knew exactly what it was doing to him.

His breath hitched as he unzipped his pants, his mind waging a losing battle against his body's demands. This wasn’t what he wanted—not really—but the heat, the tension, the pressure… it was all too much. He felt helpless, lost in a battle he had no hope of winning.

He cursed under his breath as his hand moved over the fabric, the friction both a release and a deepening source of guilt. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to keep silent, though the shame only made his body more desperate for relief. It wasn’t just physical; it was emotional, a chaotic mix of guilt, desire, and the thrill of crossing a line he had vowed never to approach.

His thoughts flickered back to the church hall, imagining you sitting there, your eyes still locked on his, your lips still playing that dangerous game. But instead of the lollipop, it was his cock instead. You were looking up at him with those doe eyes, the ones he could never get enough of.

This was wrong—so terribly wrong—but in this moment, nothing else seemed to matter.

A strangled sigh escaped him as the tension inside built toward its inevitable conclusion. His movements became more frantic, his mind clouded with both desire and self-loathing. He fought to suppress the groan rising in his throat, his body betraying him as he sought the release he knew would come all too quickly.

But before he could cum, he heard a knock. His eyes snapped open, his body shaking. But his movements didn't falter.

"Taken!" He groaned out, rolling his eyes in annoyance.

"Father, it's me."

Charlie froze, his entire body going rigid at the sound of your voice. The very voice that had been the cause of his torment—the one that filled his thoughts during long, sleepless nights, and echoed in his mind during moments of prayer. Hearing it now, so close, made his stomach lurch with guilt and panic.

His hands were still trembling, his sticky arousal refusing to dissipate even as the cold wave of reality crashed down on him. He bit down on his lip, heart racing, his mind screaming at him to pull himself together. But the fact that you were standing just beyond the door, oblivious to the storm you'd stirred within him, made it impossible for him to think straight.

"Father?" your voice called again, this time with a soft, almost innocent lilt that twisted the knife deeper.

He swallowed hard, forcing his breathing to steady, though the heat in his chest hadn’t faded. His hand hovered over his zipper, shaking with the shame of what he had been doing just moments before. His body still ached with unresolved tension, but he pushed it down, trying to ignore the unbearable need that still pulsed through him.

"Yes?" His voice cracked as he finally spoke, hoarse and raw. He cleared his throat, trying to sound composed. "I... I’m a little busy at the moment."

There was a brief pause from the other side of the door, and he could almost imagine the look on your face—the innocent expression you always wore, one that belied the way you had been teasing him, testing him for weeks. You had to know what you were doing. There was no other explanation for it.

"Sorry, Father," you replied, your voice apologetic, but with that familiar hint of playfulness that made his pulse quicken. "I just... I wanted to talk to you. Is everything alright? You sounded a bit... off. You just ran off, and I was worried."

Worried? You knew damn well what you were doing.

His heart hammered in his chest. He wasn’t sure how to respond, especially when he could still feel the tightness in his pants, the shameful evidence of his struggle with temptation. He couldn’t let you see him like this. Not after what he had almost done. No, not almost—what he had done.

"I’m fine," he replied, the words rushing out too quickly. "Just—just give me a moment, please."

There was silence on the other side, and Father Charlie closed his eyes, cursing himself under his breath. He knew he needed to calm down, to suppress the lingering arousal that still throbbed through him, but it was nearly impossible with you standing just beyond the door, your voice echoing in his mind, a constant reminder of the desires he could no longer ignore.

"Okay, Father," you said after a long pause, your tone gentle, yet still laced with that underlying tease. "I’ll wait for you outside."

As soon as you spoke, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, his body slumping against the sink in a mixture of frustration and shame. He could still feel the tension coiled tightly in his core, but he had to ignore it now—had to push it down and find some semblance of control before he faced you.

Charlie adjusted his clothes quickly, forcing himself to focus on anything but the ache that still pulsed through him. He wiped the sweat from his brow, straightened his collar, and took a long, deep breath.

The door was still locked, but knowing you were just outside filled him with dread and anticipation in equal measure. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could withstand the temptation you had placed in front of him, but for now, he had to pretend. He had to keep up the façade of control, even as the cracks in his resolve grew deeper by the day

With one final glance in the mirror, Father Charlie steeled himself and turned the lock, pulling the door open to face the very source of his downfall.

And there you were, standing just a few feet away, your eyes wide and innocent—though he knew better than to believe it was all innocence. You were a temptation he could barely resist, and every interaction only pulled him further into the darkness he'd been desperately trying to avoid.

"Is everything alright, Father?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, that sweet, familiar smile on your lips. But your eyes—those teasing eyes—held a glimmer that set his heart racing once more.

"Y-yes," he stammered, his throat tight, doing everything in his power to keep his voice steady. "Everything’s fine."

But as you looked up at him, your gaze lingering just a moment too long, Father Charlie knew this battle was far from over.

Your eyes glanced down at his pants, his bulge evident. Your eyebrows rose as you blinked up at him, the same teasing smile on your plump lips. "You don't look fine, Father."

The way you said his title almost made his knees buckle. He couldn't handle it, not anymore. "What do you think?" He snapped.

Your teasing smile widened, clearly pleased by the crack in Father Charlie's composure. His words, harsh and unsteady, only seemed to encourage you. You took a small step closer, the space between you shrinking as the tension in the air thickened, palpable and dangerous.

"What do I think?" you repeated, your voice soft and sweet, but laced with a knowing edge that sent another jolt through him. "I think you’ve been struggling, Father. I can see it in your eyes… feel it in the way you look at me."

He clenched his jaw, fists balling at his sides. Every instinct screamed for him to shut this down, to end the conversation and walk away before he did something he could never take back. But the heat burning in his chest, the tightness in his pants, and the way you gazed up at him with those teasing, taunting eyes made it impossible for him to think clearly.

His breath hitched, his throat tightening as he tried to keep his voice level, to maintain the last threads of control he still had. "You... need to leave," he muttered through gritted teeth, though the command sounded more like a plea. He took a step back, trying to put distance between you, but his back hit the wall, trapping him in a corner.

You didn’t follow him, but your eyes stayed locked on his, your lips parting ever so slightly as you spoke again. "Do you want me to leave, Father?" you asked, your voice dripping with temptation, your tone making it clear you knew the answer before he could even speak.

He opened his mouth to respond, to say yes, to do what he knew was right, but the words wouldn’t come. His body betrayed him, still trembling with the aftermath of the temptation he had barely controlled just moments ago. The guilt twisted deeper in his chest, but with you standing there, so close, so dangerous, he couldn’t bring himself to push you away.

You took another small step forward, your eyes flicking down once more to the bulge straining against his pants. "You don’t look like you want me to go," you murmured, your voice low and intimate.

The way you said it, so confidently, so calmly, broke something inside him. His breathing quickened, the shame mixing with desire in a way that left him dizzy and unable to think straight. His hands itched to reach out, to grab you, to pull you closer, but he forced them to stay at his sides, his knuckles white from the effort of holding back.

"Fuck," he got out before he finally grabbed your wrist. "You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?"

You didn't respond, just stared back at him with a smirk. "What you mean—"

"Shh, shut up. Just shut up," Father Charlie got out as his grip on your wrist tighten. He looked around the empty corridors and pulled you into the bathroom, practically pushing you into it. He slammed the door behind him, locking it.

The slam of the door echoed through the small bathroom, the sound sharp and final. Father Charlie stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as he fought to keep a grip on himself. The small, dimly lit space felt suffocating, the walls closing in as the tension between you thickened, charged with unspoken desire.

You leaned back against the sink, your expression still playful, teasing, as if you held all the power in this twisted game. And maybe you did. You watched him, your smirk never fading, as his eyes darkened with lust, the lines between what was right and what he wanted blurring faster than he could stop them.

"Father," you whispered, your voice lilting, almost mocking as it dripped with the weight of temptation. "We really shouldn't—"

"I told you to shut up," he growled, cutting you off. His voice was rough, raw with the conflict tearing him apart. But his body betrayed him, his hands trembling as he reached out, fingers wrapping around your arm with a grip that was both desperate and unsteady.

For weeks, he had tried to deny it—to push down the thoughts, the fantasies, the overwhelming pull of desire you had stirred within him. But now, standing here with you, the air thick with temptation, he felt like a man on the edge of a cliff, teetering between control and the abyss.

"Do you think this is a game?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous, though you could hear the tremor beneath it. He stepped closer, towering over you, his body radiating heat. "Do you think I don’t know what you’ve been doing? The looks, the way you talk to me, the way you… tease me?"

You met his gaze, unflinching, your smile widening. "Maybe it is a game," you said softly, tilting your head, eyes dancing with mischief. "But you’re the one who's playing along."

His grip tightened, his breath hitching as your words sank in. He hated how true they were. Every time he had looked at you, every moment his mind had wandered to the things he shouldn't have been thinking—he had been playing into this. And now, he was standing on the edge of a line he couldn’t afford to cross.

But he had already crossed it, hadn't he?

"Shut up," he whispered again, though this time his voice was weaker, the command laced with more desperation than authority. His free hand pressed against the wall beside you, his body leaning in closer, so close he could feel the heat radiating from your skin.

You tilted your chin up, eyes gleaming as you watched him struggle, as if you were daring him to let go of the last shreds of control he clung to. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted you to push him over the edge.

"Or what?" you whispered back, the challenge clear in your tone.

Father Charlie’s jaw clenched, his entire body tense as he wrestled with himself, his grip on you tightening. His breath was hot and ragged, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared down at you. For a moment, it seemed like he might pull back, that he might step away, regain the control that had been slipping through his fingers.

But then he kissed you.

It was sudden, rough, and filled with the weeks of pent-up desire he had been fighting so hard to contain. His lips crashed against yours, his hands pulling you closer, as if giving in to the temptation that had been haunting him was the only way to make the ache go away.

The kiss was hungry, desperate, and you could feel the conflict in every movement—how he both wanted this and hated himself for wanting it.

You moaned into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer. His hands slid up and down your back before suddenly finding your hair, pulling it back from the kiss.

"You're a whore," he gritted out as he gripped your hair impossibly rougher. "A whore in disguise, aren't you? You feign innocence but you're the most sinful in this Church."

Father Charlie's words were harsh, laced with anger and lust, but the grip in your hair sent a different message—desire and desperation. His brown eyes, dark and conflicted, bore into yours as he pulled you even closer, his breath hot against your skin. His control was slipping, unraveling faster with every second, and he knew it.

You smiled up at him, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. "If I'm sinful, Father, then what does that make you?" you asked softly, your voice teasing, daring him to continue.

He clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing at your words, a low growl escaping his throat as he yanked your head back, exposing your neck. "It makes me weak," he muttered, his lips ghosting over your skin. "Weak because of you. Because of the way you tempt me."

His mouth hovered just inches from your neck, his breath warm, his body pressed against yours, every movement charged with the weight of the forbidden. His hands, still tangled in your hair, trembled with a mixture of restraint and hunger.

"You're what’s wrong with me," he whispered, his voice hoarse, as if he were trying to convince himself of the words as much as he was trying to convince you. "You’ve dragged me down to your level. Made me forget everything I stand for. Everything I’m supposed to be."

But even as he spoke, his lips brushed your neck, leaving a trail of heated, fleeting kisses along your skin. His body moved on instinct, driven by the desire he could no longer deny.

Father Charlie's lips pressed harder against your neck, his breath ragged as his restraint dissolved. His words, filled with self-loathing, contradicted the urgency of his touch. Each kiss grew more desperate, more reckless, as if he were trying to bury the shame and guilt in the taste of your skin. His grip in your hair tightened, pulling you closer, and the tension between you ignited into something explosive, something neither of you could stop now.

His free hand roamed down your body, fingertips pressing into your waist, his touch both rough and reverent, like he was grappling with the weight of his own desire. Every brush of his hand, every kiss, was a betrayal of the man he had once been. But the way your body responded, the way you leaned into him, only fueled the fire burning inside him.

"God help me," he whispered against your collarbone, the words barely audible, as if he were speaking them to himself more than to you. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

You let out a soft moan, your hands tangling in his hair, encouraging him to continue, to give in completely. His resolve crumbled further with every sound you made, every movement of your body against his. The line between right and wrong, between control and surrender, had long since vanished.

Charlie pulled back for a moment, his eyes wild, filled with a mix of anger, lust, and confusion. His chest heaved as he looked at you, torn between pushing you away and pulling you even closer.

"I hate you for this," he rasped, though the heat in his eyes betrayed the truth. "But I can’t stop. I can’t stop wanting you."

You smiled, a knowing, satisfied smile, as your hand slid down his chest. "Then don’t stop," you whispered, your voice dripping with seduction, coaxing him deeper into the darkness.

That was all it took. With a frustrated growl, he crashed his lips against yours again, harder this time, as if punishing both of you for the sinful desire you had ignited. His hands roamed freely now, no longer held back by hesitation or fear. There was only the raw, uncontrollable need consuming him.

Whatever consequences lay ahead, whatever guilt or shame waited for him on the other side of this moment, Father Charlie couldn’t bring himself to care. Not anymore.

Charlie yanked your hair back again, then stared into your eyes. Without warning, he pushed you to your knees roughly. "How about you do something useful for once, huh?" He muttered breathlessly.

You blinked back up at him, your hands finding their place on his hips. You moved slow and deliberate, which angered Charlie more. Charlie’s eyes darkened as he looked down at you, his grip on your hair tightening, pulling at your scalp just enough to make you gasp. The frustration in his gaze was palpable—fueled by your deliberate slowness, by the way you reveled in the power you had over him.

“You think this is funny?” he growled, his breath ragged as he watched you, his fingers digging into your scalp. His frustration was obvious, but beneath that anger was a raw, unquenchable desire. He hated how much control you had over him, how easily you made him lose himself.

You smiled up at him, slow and teasing, your fingers trailing over his hips, letting him feel the barest touch of your hands. “Maybe it is,” you whispered, eyes gleaming with mischief, enjoying every second of his torment. "At least, to me it is."

You could feel the tension radiating from him, the barely contained hunger in his every movement. Slowly, teasingly, you ran your hands lower, grazing over the bulge straining against his pants, earning a sharp intake of breath from him.

Charlie’s hand tightened in your hair as a low growl escaped his throat. “You think you’re so fucking clever,” he rasped, his voice low and dangerous, his grip on you firm as he stared down with a mix of lust and anger. “But you’re going to regret this.”

Your smirk widened, and without breaking eye contact, you undid his belt, letting it fall to the floor with a soft clink. His breath hitched as you slowly unzipped his pants, the anticipation thick between you, hanging in the air like a loaded weapon.

“Prove it,” you challenged, your voice a soft murmur as you looked up at him, daring him to follow through on his words.

For a moment, Charlie stood there, his chest heaving, torn between the overwhelming desire that had consumed him and the guilt gnawing at the edges of his mind. But the pull of temptation was too strong—too powerful to resist any longer.

With a grunt of frustration, he grabbed the back of your neck, forcing you forward as he freed himself. “I don’t care what happens after this,” he growled, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with lust and anger. “Right now, you’re mine. And you're gonna do what I fucking tell you.”

You barely had time to respond before he pushed your mouth onto his cock, rough and demanding, his hand guiding you with a forceful grip. The suddenness of it made your breath catch, but you quickly adjusted, falling into a rhythm as he set the pace, his body trembling with the intensity of his need.

You wrapped your lips around him, moaning. His cock was dripping with pre-cum, and your saliva made it messier—but neither of you cared. The bathroom was filled with the sounds of his ragged breathing, punctuated by the occasional low moan as you worked him with sloppy, measured motions. His hips thrust forward, pushing deeper, his control rapidly slipping away as he surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure.

Your mouth was so warm and inviting, he couldn't stop. This was what heaven felt like, he swore—there was nothing better than this feeling, the feeling of your sinful mouth.

Charlie’s hand tightened in your hair, pulling you closer, his fingers digging into your scalp as he lost himself in the moment, all thoughts of guilt or consequences forgotten. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely more than a growl as his head fell back, eyes fluttering shut. “You… you’re such a fucking tease.”

He pushed you until you were gagging around his cock, much to his dismay. "Take it, whore. This is what you wanted, right? For me to use you?"

Your eyes were watering and your jaw felt like it was going to break, but his mean words egged you on. You hummed around him, a wicked smile curling at the edges of your lips as you kept gliding up and down his cock.

But just as he was on the edge, just as the tension in his body built to an unbearable peak, he suddenly yanked you off him, breathless and furious, eyes blazing as he stared down at you.

“Get up,” he commanded, his voice low and guttural, barely holding onto the last threads of control. “Turn around, whore.”

You barely had any time to react before he turned you around to face the mirror. He bent you over the sink as you let out a whimper, before his hands found your hair again and yanked it up.

"Look at you," he murmured as he forced you to look at yourself.

Your hair was a mess, your mascara running down your doe eyes and your sticky cheeks and chin. You caught your breath as you glanced back to meet his eyes through the mirror.

He bent you completely over the sink and landed a sharp slap on your behind. You let out a yelp, shutting your eyes at the stinging feeling. "Fuck,"

"What? Is it too much now, baby?" Charlie spoke, his voice dripping with mockery. His lips were curved into a smirk as he tutted. "This is what you wanted, right?"

He didn't give you time to respond before leading the tip of cock to your folds. You felt his heavy tip on your sloppy entrance, practically begging to get fucked. He hadn't even gotten the chance to touch you properly and you were already soaked.

He hummed at the warm feeling before pushing inside. He let out a huff of air, his head falling back in pure ecstasy. "Oh, yeah," was all he could get out. Your hands found the edge of the sink, gripping it tightly as you let out a desperate moan.

Charlie pushed himself all the way in, bottoming you out within a few quick seconds. He didn't even let you adjust to his size before he began slamming you into roughly, the edge of the sink burying into your stomach.

His thrusts were sharp and relentless, he wasn't letting up anytime soon. You felt like you were on a different planet, the feeling of his cock was dizzying as your eyes rolled back into your head.

"O-oh, fuck!" You cried out as your head fell forward.

Charlie gripped your hips even tighter as he groaned with each slam of his own hips, his head falling back. Your cunt tighten around his cock, and he felt your release coming. One of his hands reached up to grip your head roughly.

"Don't you dare cum, not yet," He got out breathlessly as you tried your best to nod. "Do not cum."

You squeezed, holding off your orgasm as you were told. You didn't know if you could—but you knew the consequences would be dire, Charlie wasn't playing around anymore.

A few harsh slams and he was cumming deep inside you, his moans echoing in the small bathroom. He rode out his high, his grip in your hair not easing one bit. "Fucking take it,"

You whimpered as you tried to hold off your orgasm, tears falling from your eyes as you gripped the sink. Without warning, he slipped out of you.

Your eyes opened and you turned around to face him. "Charlie—"

He cut you off swiftly as he pulled his pants up. "You don't deserve it,"

"Deserve it?" You practically cried out. "I just let you fuck me and you're not gonna let me cum?"

Father Charlie just shrugged. "Whores don't get to cum."

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[saintse]

tag dump.

—

[monstersighing]

MDNI, 18+, NSFW

AFAB Reader x priest

Content: Blasphemy, priest kink, penetrative sex, creampie, public sex, dirty talk.

Title: Confessional

+++

You go into the confessional box because the young priest fresh from the seminary is there.

You spill out every filthy thought and desire that you’ve had to him. What you think of when you masturbate, how often you do it, how the shame of confessing makes your cunt leak and face burn.

You tell the priest that when you opened your mouth to receive the host from his hand at communion you imagined him pushing his fingers in your mouth to suck on. How the dry host stuck to the roof of your mouth. That you wished it was his plump leaking cock you were tonguing instead.

His breathing gets louder, laboured. You hear a shifting sound of fabric. You can only see an indistinct shadow of the priest through the confessional screen, but he is bent forward, bowed over his lap now. His discomfort and desire fan yours. You clench your thighs around nothing. You tell him that even now, in the midst of your confession, you are imagining new sins you could commit with him: being bent over the altar as his cock slams in you, over and over, your desperate hands clenching the altar covering under you, crying out to God.

When he gives your three rosaries to say to atone, he speaks slowly, stutters. As you leave the confessional you hear a bitten off moan.

You kneel in front of a pew and begin to pray, but before you’re even finished with your first Hail Mary you push a hand down your waistband so you can rub at your clit.

You feel a presence from behind you and the priest is there. He pulls you to your feet, grasps your wrists and pushes your hands down flat onto the pew in front of you. When he grasps your jaw to draw your attention to the altar and the crucified Christ hanging above it, you moan.

“Start again,” he says. “Look at him and repent.” His body is pressed full length behind you. You can feel the hardness of his cock against your back.

You can only say “Please please please.” The priest is holding your face towards the altar, but your begging isn’t directed at God.

“We will do this, we will repent, and then we will both be clean,” the priest says. He grinds his cock slowly against your ass, “There is no way back from this, only through, I think. But we must temper your pleasure with pain, so you learn.” He paws against your tits and then pinches your nipples so pain sparks bright from them. When you cry out, he twists your nipples harder. The pain and the pleasure twist and become one. Your cunt throbs.

The priest pulls down your pants and leaves them trapped over your thighs. You feel him move back for a second, then hear the rasp of his zip. You feel him line up his cockhead with your hole, and then he fucks in with one hard push. Once inside he slams into you fast and desperate, and your legs shake. His fingers bite down hard on your hips. You can hear the slick sound your cunt makes with each plunging stroke of his cock and the slap of skin against skin. You drop your head to your hands and feel as his thrusts become staccato and he spurts inside you with a groan. You come a moment after, on the feeling of cum filling your hole and the priest fucking it deeper with one last grinding push inside you.

He leans forward and whispers against your ear, “Four rosaries now,” he says. “And I’ll see you for private confession in the vestry next week.”

[pinkgic]

after mass — charlie mayhew

cw. smut (mdni), religious themes and blasphemy, p in v, unprotected sex, choking, fem!reader

pairing. sweetgirl!reader x father mayhew

The key to Father Mayhew’s office turned, locking the door behind him. It was a regular Sunday ritual after every mass, as the parishioners slowly dispersed and headed home, comforted by the Father’s words.

And there you were, with your polished, modest look, arms folded behind your back, waiting for Father Mayhew to call you into his office. It was kind of odd that your parents never suspected anything. But then again, who would suspect him?

And who would ever suspect the golden child of the family? Please, with your doe eyes and warm smile, the worst sin anyone would think you could commit is being too kind to everyone.

Except your real sin was hidden inside those four walls of the Father’s office. When he approached you, brushing his knuckles across your cheek, it felt like his touch ignited the blush in your face.

"You were distracted during service," he said, his low voice carrying that almost imperceptible teasing note —one you’d only pick up on because you knew him so well by now. "What were you thinking about?"

His knuckles drifted from your cheek to your neck, the pads of his fingers feeling your throat, and you were sure he could feel you swallow like it would hide your guilty thoughts.

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" his eyes traced from your neck back to your gaze. "Were you thinking about this? About me?"

His free hand found your waist, thumb stroking the soft, pastel fabric of your dress. You nodded, because there was no point in lying when you had already confessed every dark, dirty secret to him. His thumb slid to the right side of your neck, while the rest of his fingers gripped the left side. "I thought so," he hummed.

It had all started simple, routine even. You’d come to the confessional, he’d give you your penance, and you’d thank him. But now, things were twisted.

The worst part? You liked it. Craved it. Looked forward to it.

"Turn around, angel," he said, his hand on your waist guiding you to follow his command. And of course, you did. You couldn’t deny him anything. His hand moved from your neck to the back of it, softly but firmly pushing you towards the desk, your chest pressing against the wood.

“There,” he hummed again in approval, and your breaths came in shallow bursts. Now your cheek was against the desk, and you couldn’t fully see what he would do next, only able to glimpse him out of the corner of your eye.

It was almost mocking, how a painting of the Virgin Mary hung on the white wall, watching, judging from her place as the Holy Mother of God.

Unsettling—was the word. You silently asked for her forgiveness, hoping she’d understand.

That the dark eyes of the priest, and the feel of his long fingers sliding down the back of your dress, bunching up the fabric, wasn’t an act of rebellion against your faith.

That you weren’t some church slut, dragging him into sin or corrupting his vow of celibacy on purpose.

It was more complicated than that. Twisted together.

Your soft whimper broke the deceptively peaceful silence when the cool air hit your bare skin, and his hand grabbed your ass with the intensity of a man. Not a man of God, not the man who preached things he didn’t follow.

Just a simple man with so many desires of the flesh.

His hands lingered on your thighs, spreading them just enough before his fingers hooked under the edge of your panties, delicately pulling them to the side.

Oh, God. This is all your fault. Charlie thinks. Because why would your pussy be so wet if he wasn’t meant to be doing this?

Your hands clenched into fists, frustrated you couldn’t see his face. He had to snap out of his own trance to spread your folds with his fingers, muttering “shit” under his breath. That sound pulled a moan from you.

“You look so perfect like this,” he murmured. His right hand spreading your wetness, while his left came up to cup your head, his fingers gently yet firmly caressing your hair. “Face down, waiting for me. You’ve been waiting all day, haven’t you?”

You nodded like a good girl. “Yes, Father,” Oh, the irony of calling him that while doing something so sinful. It amazed him.

“Yes, Father,” he repeated, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Your forehead pressed against the desk, cheeks burning with shame and desire as his hand came back to grab your ass. Damned big hands. You knew you'd see the mark of them next time you looked at yourself in the mirror.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Definitely not.

Before you could catch your breath, you heard the quiet rustle of his belt, the sound of fabric shifting, and then the warmth of his body pressing against you. His hips shifting, his semi-hard length pressed against your lower back.

You closed your eyes and sighed, your pussy already clenching around nothing. But that didn’t last long. He wrapped his hand around his cock, giving it a few strokes and sliding the tip through your wetness, pushing into you slowly, and pulling a soft moan from your lips, your brows furrowing in pleasure as his hand quickly covered your mouth. Leaning forward, his chest pressing into your back, he murmured, “Quiet, angel.”

He pushed in another inch, and he couldn’t tell what fascinated him more: the way your muffled moans vibrated against his hand, or the way your tight pussy squeezed around him.

You felt each inch stretch you further, making your fingers dig into the wood as a soft gasp slipped from your lips when he sank deeper, not stopping until he was fully inside.

“Look at you,” his breath hit your ear again, his chest flush against your back as he rocked his hips into you. “Taking me so well. Such a good girl.”

The first hard thrust made your eyes roll back. The way the head of his cock hit your g-spot—once, twice, three times. By now, you couldn’t hold back your moans, and he felt it, pressing his fingers tighter over your mouth.

"Ah— please," you mumbled against his hand. you didn’t even know what you were begging for. But he took it as ‘more,’ his skin slapping obscenely against yours, the desk rocking and the wood creaking—sinful and loud.

His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back onto him, his moans hot against your cheek as he takes what he wants like it’s his God-given right.

"You like this, huh?" he breathed, his pace relentless, each thrust harder than the last. Your pussy swallowing him whole.

You nod, your voice barely functioning, a soft, desperate moan slipping from your lips. “Ah, there she is.” he says.

He straightens up, pulling you with him, your head falling limply back against his shoulder as you’re forced to stand on your tiptoes for the thrusts. “Say it,” he murmurs, nibbling your ear, his hand sliding to the front to wrap around your neck. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You choke on your breath, your mind dizzy and foggy—adorable. “I’m yours,” you gasp out, barely able to get the words out. “I’m yours, Father.”

The groan that rumbles through him is deep, almost animalistic, and his grip tightens around your neck as he slams into you one last time, sending you over the edge. Your legs tremble, and if he weren’t holding you up with those strong arms, you’re sure you’d have collapsed onto the floor by now.

A loud moan escapes your lips, free and unrestrained now that his hand isn’t covering your mouth. He can feel your juices spilling out, coating his cock as he pulses inside you, filling you to the brim. “Fuck, angel.”

He doesn’t pull out right away, staying there deep inside you, enjoying the warmth and hating that he had to wait a week to feel it again, one hand still gripping your neck, the other resting possessively on your hip.

When he finally moves, it’s slow, almost lazy, as he pulls out of you, adjusting your dress back down over your legs. You’re still dazed, your body warm and spent, but his hands are already smoothing over your back, like nothing sinful had just happened between you.

“You can keep it,” he says, pushing his fingers in to make sure not a single drop of his cum spills out. He fixes the fabric back against your core, giving it a little slap before patting your ass. “See you next Sunday.”

[bamgyw]

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ the third night ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

"i gave myself to satan, i should be a wrinkly old witch by now. my hair a tangle of venomous serpents, my skin green like a toad, black flames coursing through my veins." - belladonna of sadness.

cw: +18 so. blowjob (main event). long ass aftercare. hm. pet names. i suck at adding the tags. anyway. themes of misogyny and parental abuse. catholic guilt (expected). i always end up becoming desensitized from reading and checking it so many times, so it’s probably much filthier to the common of mortals than to me. and what else. no i think that's it. a/n: i am so sorry for shamelessly lying to you, i'm never promising a fixed update time every again. i can't help it, i do be a perfectionist. anyway. this part is long as fuck, sorry about that too. hope u like it. hehe. kisses. this is a part of a longer work ♡ go to the beginning here

desire is sin, and sin is death. that was the grim truth that had sunk into your mind. a persistent, gnawing thought ever since beomgyu closed the door behind him. it was your only rule, how could you had forgotten? how could you have been so stupid?

shame and mud had taken root in your body, their claws perforating their way through your soul and clutching every rosy thought, choking them all into submission. slut, nympho, mary magdalene, whore.

you were haunted by the memory of his touch, the warmth of his breath against your skin, the whisper of his words in your ear and the pain of knowing it was all wrong, sinful and forbidden. it was a sweet torture, a reminder of what you had lost and what you could never have again. not if you wanted this shame to go away.

if he had stayed, perhaps his warmth could have filled the void within you, congesting your body with butterflies and hydrangea blooms before the self-condemnation had a chance to seep in, oozing out your mouth, your ears, your cunt like a gooey toxin.

but he left, and you were alone. in that icy isolation, you came to realise that you would always be alone. letting him in had been as mindless as it had been short-lived.

he was your foolish indulgence, a desire fragile like a stained glass window that your daddy would shatter the moment he found out. just like he had with soobin.

so the morning after, you woke with tear-streaked cheeks, the dried remnants of your sorrow clinging to your skin.

your eyes opened faintly and with trouble with the first sun ray. they were swollen, your vision blurry from the hours of crying. your body ached from the tension, muscles stiff and sore from the night spent curled up in a pathetic ball.

you sighed deeply, the exhale carrying with it a fraction of your guilt and mortification, but not nearly enough to ease the tightness in your chest. you were physically clean, but you felt stained to your core.

like lady macbeth, desperate to wash the non-existent blood from her hands, you felt that anyone could detect the evidences of your crime. your missing rosary beads, the slightly reddened neck, the scent of him on you. if daddy barely even looked you in the eye, you were certain he would know.

the scant sleep you managed to get was haunted by nightmares—daddy's cheshire grin glowing phosphorescent in the darkness, while you cried out in beastly moans against beomgyu's neck.

it felt like an omen, a premonition that if this continued, you would inevitably be discovered. desire is sin, and sin is death.

the sensation of your bare cunt against the sheets did nothing to alleviate the flesh-eating sadism of your shame. you lay there, feeling exposed and vulnerable, the absence of your underwear only amplifying your discomfort.

a chill ran through you, mingling with the dampness that clung to your groin. the moisture on your body had felt nurturing the night before, a sign that your were alive, that you had the capability to love. but now it felt foreign and intrusive.

you reached down to touch your cunt, feeling the sticky residue from the previous night. disgust gnawed at you.

you had cried yourself to sleep without cleaning yourself up and now your soggy, sickening cum clung to you like a noxious reminder of your sin. like you were rotten inside, leaking with venom. you buried your face in the pillow and cried again, your sobs muffled.

without his voice, that sticky liquid was just snot; without him there, the memory of his touch disfigured into that of a nameless hand of the devil fucking into you, and yourself feasting on it like a wild beast.

you rushed to the bathroom, driven by urgency. you felt like you were going to throw up, but you only gagged, your stomach empty. "it's all in your head," your body seemed to say. "we're fine, you're fine." but you couldn't comprehend the language. for all your life, you had only ever listened to your mind.

your reflection distorted in the mirror, a stranger in your own eyes. you were always poised, you were always composed. but the blood injected in your eyes, strained from the crying made you look like a madwoman. breath came in gasps as you stared at yourself, eyes wide with desperation.

your hands trembled as you turned on the faucet, the cold metal biting into your skin. water rushed out violently, crashing over you. each drop felt sharp, like tiny knives against your flesh.

with a desperate breathing, heavy like the room was devoid of oxygen, you attacked your skin, nails digging deep as you scrubbed. the water turned red. desire is sin, and sin is death. desire is sin, and sin is death.

desire is sin and sin is death, but like baptism washed away the original sin, water could purify you again, sterilise your body. clean his being off of you. with each scrub, you fought to erase his touch, leaving raw skin in your wake.

when you were done washing up, you hid it all the best way you knew; under layers of clothes, thick and opaque, not a visible centimetre of skin outside your face.

you walked through your house, eyes glued to the floor, as if you had stumbled into a cathedral bare naked. the saints and apostles on their holy cards stared down at you, their gazes heavy with sorrow. they had watched you grow up from a good little girl into a tainted whore.

even saint sebastian, the christian apollo, offered no mercy. the blood-stained arrows pierced his flesh, and his blood-thirsty eyes pierced you whole. a faint smell of incense lingered in the air, the ghostly reminder of daddy's morning prayers.

but there was one last saint to face, the most hurting martyr of them all. as you reached the bottom of the staircase, soobin stood in the hall, leaning against the front door.

he wore that same charcoal grey sweater he always wore to college, forever unchanged, like a character from an animated sitcom. and, as always, he was there waiting to drive you to school. but that morning, you wondered if he could smell your fear.

“you slept in?” soobin asked, his tone flat.

“y-yeah,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible. “but i can skip breakfast. let’s just go.”

“you should eat something,” he insisted with a slight shrug. “you must be tired.”

your breath hitched, and a cold sweat formed at the back of your neck. “why do you say that?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“you never sleep in. you must’ve had a tough night,” he observed, his eyes searching yours for a moment before looking away.

“kind of, yeah.” you moved towards the kitchen, your steps hesitant. "i had nightmares. all night long."

he walked after you into the kitchen, silent and stealthy like a shadow. you grabbed a plain bagel from the counter, spreading a thin layer of cream cheese on it. your hands shook slightly, the knife slipping once, smearing the cream cheese unevenly.

he leaned against the opposite counter, watching you as you faced away from him, his hands casually shoved into his pockets. there was an unsettling calm about him, a relaxed stillness that would have been reassuring if it were anyone else, but not soobin. "beomgyu has trouble sleeping too," he said, his voice almost too soft, too casual.

you chewed your lip before turning to face him, trying to maintain a facade of calm. "and you do too. must be this house," you breathed out, your voice barely above a whisper.

you took a swift turn and walked out of the kitchen, your head held high. but your heart pounded against your chest like a drum. he knows. he knows. he knows. or maybe he doesn’t.

desire is sin, and sin is death. and now you had to wait, trapped in the uncertainty of not knowing whether your brother, cain, would betray you and get you killed. 

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

there was always a puddle of muddy dirt at the entrance of the school. even if it didn't rain, the ground was perpetually wet. a slick, treacherous mess that swallowed feet and soiled shoes.

you couldn't trust that ground. you couldn't trust the school. a slip-up and the back of your neck would lie cracked and open on the soil, thick blood mingling with dirt.

you stepped carefully, feeling the mud clinging to your soles. that was the revolting start to each day.

there was a sign on the entrance gate, rusty and weathered, that looked like it could give you tetanus just by looking at it. it had always made your skin crawl.

the words "sacred heart catholic university" were printed in bold letters and they seemed to be smirking. they knew they were lying. there was nothing sacred about that school, not one thing.

if you looked into the eyes of almost any professor, you would see something rotten staring back at you. it was not as wicked as it was pathetic. not grand enough for a flaming crown of hell, but rather petty and small like a worm or bloodsucking lice.

you walked through them every day; rheumy gazes and moist smirks. old men leering at bodies they couldn't touch. or they could. they had. no one was stopping them, anyway. not the dean, not the bishop, not god.

every morning began with a mandatory service, the only time when the girls' and boys' sections were allowed to gather together. you arrived in mass to the chapel, and once inside, the path divided: the male wing at the right hand of the father, the female wing to the less prestigious left. you and soobin always separated there, each heading to your respective sides.

but morning services had one small perk: mandatory as they were, there was no attendance list.

so when soobin disappeared from view, you'd slip out of the chapel. alone, you might have not dared, but you had partner in mischief, a friend. the person who had walked you hand in hand through an uncanny semblance of girlhood. yeh shuhua.

shuhua wasn’t exactly an intellectual, but she had a sharp street-smart intelligence. a keen sense of the world. she had thought a backup plan for getting caught skipping church.

"here's what we'll do," she'd say, dropping to her knees, hands clasped in prayer. "oh, dear professor," she mimicked in a whiny tone. "how can a shy girl like me pray with so many people around? my thoughts are only for god, and i must speak to him privately for comfort." she cried out, then flashed a bright grin. "the nuttier we sound, the more likely they'll believe it. remember when that girl said she could talk to the virgin mary and they brought in a vatican official to check? we just have to play innocent..."

like a faint summer breeze, shuhua was fresh and witty, and she never let that dammned school, nor its metaphysical threats, nor all the ordained priests walking around earth to turn her cold. 

she was pretty, too, a boy-candy type of beauty. with long black hair tinged with red highlights, cherry gloss-coated lips and porcelain-white skin. not a trace of catholicism tainting her youthful features.

shuhua made the world feel a little bit bigger. she always had news about celebrities you didn't know, their affairs and gossip, the pomp and glamour god rejected.

it was fun talking to her. she wasn't a remarkable friend, or what they call a soulmate. but she was there. 

until she met a boy.

lee heeseung, from the male section. only one year older than shuhua and you, but with the distorted notion of being older than the world itself and knowing more than anyone. 

it started with a few stolen glances during chapel services, innocent and demure, and escalated to shuhua going down on him in the non-functioning professor bathrooms during the easter vigil mass.

all proud and excited, shuhua had recounted every detail to you like she had just blowed jesus himself.

“you feel like choking… more so if he likes it rough. and they all do.” she said. you had never seen her act that sheepish, but there was a slutty glint of enjoyment in her eye that made it feel less out of character. “he pushed down on my head a lot, so i kept gagging,” she said. “it’s not like i loved it, but he liked it so much, my darling boy.”

you remained quiet, like you often did. it wasn’t the violence of the act what disturbed you, but the devotion in her eyes as she recounted her pain. maybe boys really were dangerous after all, slithery and deceiving.

they could get you to enjoy pleasing them even if it hurt in the flesh. they were gods, demanding piety, and fathers, exacting control.

heeseung and shuhua started using their time skipping service to be together. it wasn´t shuhua and you anymore. it was heeseung and shuhua, and the malleable puppet of your physical body. 

they had asked you to stay with them as a sort of chaperone to mitigate the risk of getting caught. but at some point, heeseung began to pity you—or perhaps he found it too awkward to grope shuhua with you just standing there. so, he started bringing a friend to keep you entertained. you would have preferred he hadn’t.

choi yeonjun had beautiful flowy hair, and a charming smile, and he lived in a big vast playground he owned, called the world. his confidence bordered on tyranny, and that made him untouchable.

a disgustingly rich boy he was; the kind of rich that gets you into heaven. his father was a man who owned lands and homes, therefore owning other men. another dictator, just another man playing god.

"he's into you, you know?" shuhua's voice rang out as you both strolled through the tall grass toward your usual meeting spot. "you should cut the prude act and give him a chance." she said.

the blades brushed against your ankles, tickling your skin as they swayed gently in the breeze. the further away from school, the freer. even the landscape knew that.

"he's not worth a chance," you replied, stone-cold.

shuhua shot you a disapproving look and said, "you're beyond help, honestly." pausing to apply a fresh layer of gloss to her lips, the shimmer catching the light. "it's choi yeonjun. they don't make 'em better than that."

"he's cruel. and he acts like god’s favourite," you retorted, your voice definitive. "i don't like that."

the grass crunched underfoot, the rhythm of your steps a steady thrum against the silence. ahead, two human shapes, tall and slender took form—the two boys, blurred smudges sharpening into clarity as you drew closer. 

the moment shuhua’s eyes landed on heeseung, she couldn't contain herself and broke into a sprint, her skirt flying up recklessly as her legs blurred in a skipping motion towards her darling boy. her arms clutched at his neck, desperate and clinging, while heeseung’s bold hand slipped beneath the fabric of her skirt to grasp flesh, squishing her ass like an anxiety toy.

even before dating heeseung, shuhua had always favored a smuttiness to her clothes. however, the style had transformed into a sort of charicature of a schoolgirl since they started seeing each other. there was some freudian notion to the flimsy short skirts paired with the nunnish argyle cardigans that drove heeseung insane. 

the black cotton of your tapered slacks felt suddenly itchy against your legs. hot, suffocating.

"ice princess," yeonjun's voice broke through your thoughts, sharp, clear, uninvited. he stood slightly apart from the others, his eyes fixed on you with the usual blend of mocking and blatantly checking you out. "let me carry your bag." 

"it's not heavy," you answered curtly. heeseung and shuhua remained oblivious to the exchange, lost in their own world where the lines between love and possession blurred.

“oh, come on,” yeonjun's grin widened with a mischievous glint like sunlight flickering across the shards of broken glass, alluring yet sharp enough to cut. "let me take care of my pretty girl." 

“i’m not your girl.” you clutched the strap of your bag tighter to your side. "and we’re not in high-school. i can carry my own stuff." you said before continuing to walk.

he snorted out a laugh, then followed after.

the usual hangout spot was just a collection of rocks aligned almost like a table, their jagged edges softened by the creeping moss that clung to them like a blanket. the air was cleaner there, untainted by the scent of trampled grass and stale corridors.

shuhua perched on those stony pews, her legs folding beneath her with ease. in her lap, heeseung found a cradle for his head, his hair spilling over her thighs like dark silk being tenderly spun by her fingertips.

you sat nearby, your knees drawn up tight to your chest, arms wrapped around them as if they could shield you from the cursed memory of the night you had spent with beomgyu from slipping out of you.

yeonjun hovered close, too close, as he usually did, his body heat radiating onto your skin in waves. at times, he'd lean back, propping himself on an arm just inches from you, his weight shifting the balance of your shared rock. 

his hand would reach —a bird of prey circling before the dive—to toy with a lock of your hair. you felt the sweep of his fingertips, not quite touching the scalp, a ghostly sensation that prickled your neck.

and most times, you just let him do it. it was a twisted ritual of near-touches, the most explicit thing you would ever allow him to do to you.

sometimes he would lean into your ear and whisper “you're a cockteasing slut, you know?”, with words meant to burn. they tingled in your ears down to your pussy. then came in a nervous gaze you tried to hide, the redenning cheeks, and yeonjun’s stupid smirk when he noticed it all.

the attention you got from yeonjun was addictive and tingly like crystal meth. his warmth was a tepid thing, a sun struggling through winter clouds. it wasn't real, it wasn't love. barely even affection. just an obsession-driven lust. but it was enough for you not to die of hypothermia, frozen by your own frigidity.

or at least it had been enough, before beomgyu.

there was no room for yeonjun in yourself, not anymore. he didn't feel warm. he didn't feel like anything. not when every cell in your body thrummed with the echo of beomgyu's name.

that day, you kept batting yeonjun’s hand away from your hair, denying the only bit of you that had belonged to him. but he always reached out again, insistent, stubborn as weeds in cracked pavement. 

"stop it," you told him under your breath, the whisper harsh against the backdrop of wet kissing sounds from the happy couple.

"what?" he asked with a shrug and a cocky pout. his feigned innocence was as thin as paper. "you have open ends…" he trailed off, fingers splitting an open-ended hair into two.

"i like them like that," you snapped, the words sharp. "just get away."

"playing hard to get?" he prodded, his grin all teeth and no humor.

"playing 'leave me alone,'" you shot back, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself.

a laugh bubbled up from shuhua's throat, rich and unbothered. she lounged like a cat in sunlight, her eyes half-lidded. "woah, feeling extra-prudish today, no?"

heeseung's gaze flickered with something akin to mischief. "she's probably scared because of the kim minjeong thing," he smirked.

"the kim minjeong thing?" you echoed. "what happened?"

heeseung stirred like a cat on shuhua’s lap with a shit-eating grin. 

"her daddy found out she had a boyfriend. got real mad." he explained. "the man dragged her to the dean's office gripped by her hair. she kept ugly crying, it was freaky." his eyes didn't waver; they held the morbid fascination of one watching a car crash. "the dad kept going on and on about the school not being able to keep girls in line, shouting like a madman. they ran a virginity test on her to settle it.”

a gasp caught in your throat, strangled, "w-what's a virginity test?"

heeseung's grin sliced through, cruel and sharp as a kitchen knife. "they stick cloth up your pussy, and if it comes out with blood, you're safe. if not, well, the executioner will choose the punishment, i guess.”

you felt your face flush, heat creeping into your cheeks. this type of intrusion, a cruel infringement disguised as safeguarding, was the kind of love that fathers, kings, and gods like to exert.

"it's a twisted thing," came in shuhua, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear with a delicate flick of her wrist. "don't you get even more puritanical because of it, sweetie. it has no scientific avail. if we were underage or something like that… that would be one thing, but– i don’t know. it's just barbaric..."

heeseung replied in a mock stern tone, making the lazy impression of a war general, "age doesn't change anything.” he said. “no sex before marriage."

your hands were sweating against the fabric of your pants as you stammered out, "c-couldn't they tell if you...like, touch yourself?"

yeonjun's predatory smirk widened as he leaned in closer. his response was a simple question; "why, babygirl, would that worry you?" he kept his eyes locked on yours, waiting for your armour to break.

"of course not," you muttered, forcing out the lie through your dry throat. "just curious." you continued, trying to sound nonchalant, "i mean, it could get someone in trouble for virtually nothing."

"virtually indeed.” heeseung snorted with a laugh. he picked at the grass beneath him. “it all depends on how you define virginity," he said with a casual shrug. "for the salivating creeps who take those tests seriously, fucking only means sticking something inside of something else. so i guess that if you've only fucked yourself by… you know…” he made a crude gesture with a shit-eating grin. “then you’re still pure as virgin mary.” 

“that doesn’t feel pure, either.” you said. you thought back to the previous night when beomgyu's fingers had teased your clit, and you couldn't help but feel a familiar twitch. you pushed the memory out of your mind, shaking your head as if trying to scare away a pesky bug.

“non-penetration sex is not pure, but it’s not patriarchal, either. so it doesn’t count.” shuhua said. 

yeonjun’s next comment different in political aspiration. he leaned into your ear, "don't you ever go needy like that, baby" he said, his eyes fixed on you with a confidence you wished you could scrape off with your fingernails. “if it aches down there i can kiss it better.” he said. heeseung chuckled complicitly with a hollowed laugh.

"zip it, the both of you." shuhua's voice sliced through their banter, sharp and clear. such fierceness for a girl drowning in a pastel pink sweater. "honey, that test is total bullshit. it just checks if your hymen is torn or not. it’s this little membrane up your pussy which men have historically used to shame girls. it can tear riding a bike or with a tampon or whatever. it's stupid."

you nodded, but you weren’t convinced. you didn't think daddy would believe it. if they ran that test on you and you didn't bleed, what would you tell him? that you rode a bike too hard? he would never buy that.

heeseung snorted out a grating laugh. "she says it’s stupid now, but i survived the first month we were together off of blowjobs. she was scared stiff of anything going up there because of that damn test."

shuhua leaned in close, hed breath a warm whisper against heeseung’s ear, "like you can complain, you love it when i go down on you." her hand trailed along the sharp line of his jaw, fingertips barely grazing his skin before coming to rest at the dip of his throat. 

heeseung's cocky smirk grew wider as he leaned back on his hands, the rocky ground beneath him serving as his makeshift throne. "you know," he drawled out, "there's something so fucking heavenly about having a girl on her knees for you. i dunno... you feel like a king."

a flicker of your lip gave away your true thoughts, an unintentional twitch. heeseung's language was coarse, but there was an odd poetry in the way he spoke this time.

you thought of beomgyu. beomgyu your king, beomgyu the only one you would ever want to crown like that. your lips around his dick, his low voice praising you. calling you his baby, his little angel.

slut, nympho, mary magdalene, whore. said shame.

a flush of heat crept up your cheeks, betraying the sudden surge of nerves that coursed through your body. "i...should get going," you blurted out, the words tumbling out in a rush. "service will be over soon," you added quickly, hoping to cut off any potential objections and make your escape before things became too awkward. 

grabbing your bag, you hurried away from the group, taking quick and hurried steps. but it wasn't long before yeonjun caught up with you.

"wait!" his voice shattered the tense silence, causing you to stop mid-stride and turn to face him. 

"what do you want?" you asked, tone curt.

"what do i have to do for you to stop giving me the cold shoulder?" he asked, his grin widening as he continued to close the distance between you.

your voice sliced through his hopes with practiced precision, a sharp edge honed by too many similar conversations. "nothing, really," you replied firmly. "but what you can do is stop deluding yourself into thinking that anything will ever happen between us.”

yeonjun's grin didn't falter, but something flickered in his gaze—a brief shadow of disappointment he quickly masked. he trailed behind you like a persistent breeze, impossible to shake off.

"don’t you think you overdid it today? the whole nun act?” he asked, the corners of his lips curling slightly. there was always malice behind his playfulness. "you can’t fool me, you know? girls who act all cold like you are always the filthiest.”

your muscles tensed. “is calling me a slut the best you've got?”

“come on, i know you're needy," yeonjun said confidently, taking a step closer to you. he reached for your hand, but you flinched it away before he could touch you. "you have to be… pretty girl like you, restraining yourself... i could make you feel so good. put that mouth of yours to good use.”

"seriously, will you ever cut it?" you spat out. "i don't want you. i don't care about you. just forget about me."

you saw his lips press, his nostrils flare. sick of him, you turned to walk away, but his voice cut through the air like a sharp blade.

"is there someone else?" he suddenly asked, and you could hear the hint of desperation in his voice.

you froze in your place. "w-what?"

"you always get all flushed and bothered when i say nasty shit to you." he said. "but you keep acting up today, like you don't need me anymore. are you seeing someone?"

"leave me alone, i never needed you." you said, shoving him hard in the chest. he stumbled back, surprise flickering in his eyes before it hardened into something darker.

"touchy, aren't we?" he regained his balance, his grin resembling shards of broken glass. "i liked you with the good little girl image, but it gets me so fucking hard when you say no to me like this, too."

you hissed, taking a step back. all you wanted was space, air, anything to cleanse yourself from the filth of his words. you turned around and left with quick, heavy steps.

yeonjun watched you go, satisfaction gleaming in his predatory gaze. "even if you don't tell me, i’ll find out!" he called after you, his voice carrying on the breeze, "and you're smart enough to know that secrets are only safe if everyone keeps their mouths shut."

you didn't look back.

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

helios ploughed the sky with his chariot and night fell everywhere in the house of god except in your room.

it was a deliberate postponement the night-time. a way of protecting the sanctity of your holy prison cell. your safe, warm, constraining prison cell.

you had stood under the shower for a second time that day before climbing into bed, letting the scalding water clatter softly against your face for what felt like hours. you lingered there, breathing in the steam, until your were sure you had washed away any residual trace of lust

you dried your hair with rough, almost angry strokes until it was dehydrated and feathery, and brushed it until the strands, dampened into thick locks, turned soft enough that you wouldn't dare allow anyone to tangle it again.

anyone. the devil. him.

the nightdress you had worn the night before, the one he had touched, lay discarded on the floor. a fleeting thought of burning it crossed your mind. maybe you would do it the next day. integral purification. eradicate the slightest trace of him.

you changed into a cotton short set, one childish enough to be laughable. cute little lilies over a pinkish backcloth. and to further on that naive illusion of shelter, you wrapped yourself into a black hoodie that had once belonged to soobin, its oversized warmth swallowing you whole as you sought to disappear within it.

the scent of almond soap and sanctifying shampoo lingered in the air as you sat on the bed with the lights still on. daddy went to sleep, soobin inserted himself inside his bed for yet another night of staring at the ceiling. the house of god fell silent. 

you hugged your legs, repeating to yourself that desire is sin, and sin is death as a nightly prayer. but when you finally turned off the light, the darkness only amplified the pounding of your heart. he would come. and you would have to ignore him.

maybe he had forgotten, even. maybe he had gotten bored of the toy and would just stand you up. that's what yeonjun would do if you ever gave him a chance. if the thread of unfulfilled yearning didn't tie him to you. or maybe it was that beomgyu hadn't really tried out the toy yet. barely even unwrapped it.

no. you had the gut-wrenching feeling that, for some god-awful reason, beomgyu cared about you. he had said he did, treated you like he did. if only he were more like yeonjun—more of a jerk, less needful and unhappy—maybe he would spare you the pain of sending him away. you weren't even sure you could.

in a desperate attempt to assert control over yourself, you had wedged a chair under the doorknob—a feeble barricade to separate you from your sin.

your door didn't lock from the inside, only from the outside. daddy had designed it that way, like a guardroom only he held the key to. the birdcage. the cushiony, secured birdcage you never should have corrupted.

that's how beomgyu had entered the previous night. the door had been open, a poetic invitation from fate. tonight, however, you closed it sealed and tight—poetically, physically, painfully.

but then he arrived. and he owned the magical key that was himself.

the first knock was faint as if the door could hurt. you remained still, every muscle tensed. a second knock followed, carrying a little more intent, a little more anxiety. panic coursed through your frozen veins. you wanted to hide in soobin's hoodie like a scared tortoise and never come out.

you squeezed your eyes shut, hoping that if you pressed your eyelids hard enough, you wouldn't want beomgyu so desperately. a hopeless wish to never had felt how your lips blazed against his, to erase him from your life entirely.

the doorknob rattled, the bolt clanking with an excruciating metallic sound and the safeguarding chair being the only thing keeping the door shut.

"please, leave," you whispered, your voice barely a breath. and maybe he heard. maybe a divine intervention carried your plea. he stopped.

silence stretched for agonizing minutes. your heart pounded in your ears, drowning out all other sounds. done. it wasn't that difficult. five minutes of agonising anxiety in exchange for a life of virtue. or so you thought.

you didn't even have time to cry his absence when his voice, haunting and mournful, pierced the quiet.

"remember, most gracious virgin mary," he began. he was praying. "that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection, implored your help, or sought your intercession, was left unaided."

you perched on the bed's edge, hypnotized. he was asking for asylum in your prison cell. for you to let him lock himself with you in your birdcage. like the previous night, and for all nights to come.

he went on. "inspired by this confidence, i fly unto you, virgin of virgins, my mother. to you do i come, before you i stand, sinful and sorrowful." he said.

with each word, you took a frightful step toward the door. he was loud enough for everyone on the floor to hear him. but what was the harm, right? just the prodigal son praying to the virgin.

"mother of the word incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in your mercy, hear and answer me." he said. "amen."

your body trembled. every fiber of your being wanted to resist, but you had to let him in; you were to be full of grace—the mother of mothers, praying for the sinners at the hour of death. your hand moved to the chair, quietly setting it aside. you opened the door, opened the gates of the promised land.

beomgyu sunk there, small, slumped against the door. he startled by its sudden opening. his eyes, rich brown like fertile earth, looked up at you—pleading and desperate. his youthful cheeks, soft like a girl's, and his blessed lips had shown you more love in one night than anyone ever had. you never saw the trident, the wicked grin, the feathered black wings of satan.

he turned and knelt, clumsily, like a mistreated convict begging for food, clutching the rosary beads you had given him in one shivering hand. "i thought—" he stammered out. "i thought you didn't want me anymore."

with a pained expression etched on your face, you motioned for him to be silent. beomgyu could see the lamentable dye that stained your features, but he couldn't decipher if you were inviting him in or pushing him away. a part of him didn't want to find out.

when he began to crawl towards you, you recoiled as if he was a disease. and that's how he felt at his core –like a pest that you couldn't get rid of. your heart ached at the thought. just last night, he held you close and whispered honey into your ears. but now you blamed him for your own sins and treated him like the devil.

you extended your hand and helped him up. in a subtle motion you closed the door behind him, trying not to make any noise. relief flooded his features as he leaned closer to your ear. "do you want me to leave?"

you kissed his cheek softly, like only you knew how, the touch of a feather. he shivered. "stay," you breathed against his skin.

you had fallen again. he had prayed himself into heaven.

the first step he took inside was bashful, but you should have guessed from the red-hot gleam in his pupils that a hurricane-stricken soul kiss was coming. no build-up, no easing you into it. just crimson cannibalism.

he took two heavy breaths. one. i missed her. two. i want her. and the third one he took against your skin after lunging at your mouth, breathing in the soaps and the shampoos and all your foolish efforts to plasticize yourself against him.

he pushed you against the wall with a force that made a loud thud, but he didn't care about the noise. he needed to close every gap, to melt your body into his. "i missed you so much," he gasped between kisses, his voice laced with desperation. "i've been thinking about you all day, about what i wanted to do to you... i couldn't take it anymore."

he devoured your lips, his hands roaming over your body as if trying to memorize every inch of you. "you're so good for me," he murmured against your skin, his words muffled by the heat of his breath. "so fucking good around me."

beomgyu's hands were like molten lava, burning trails on your skin as he pulled you closer, and you wanted nothing more than to let him do. to have him burn you down to cinders, to give your neck to him as an offering and let him blood-suck you dry.

but you remembered. desire is sin, and sin is death. it echoed annoyingly this time. like a nagging school teacher, an irksome jiminy cricket that spoke in your own voice.

you tried to push him away, gasping for air like a diver drowning under the weight of the ocean. "wait," you panted desperately, trying to catch your breath. "beomgyu, please– wait." you said. you poured a bucket of iced water over the volcano.

the lava solidified under the ice. "why? what is it?" his eyes grew wide, concerned.

"i don't want to feel like a whore again." your eyes dropped, avoiding his gaze. "like i'm– cattle.”

lava rock turned pathetically mushy. "did i... make you feel that way?"

you shook your head quickly, feeling guilty for even thinking it. "no, no. you were so good to me." you reassured, hands gripping onto his shirt. "but we– we barely know each other. why would you want me other than..."

"just for sex?” he finished your sentence with a battered expression. “is that what you think?” 

"what else, then?"

"no." he shook his head anxiously. "no, no. absolutely not. you're... you're like me. you understand. you get it. you feel good– in my soul. this is corny, i'm not good at– i... i just... this is the only way i know how to show it."

cute. you gently ran your fingers through his dark, tousled hair. he was fawn like everything nurturing, he was hazel all over. lush like freshly brewed coffee, mellow like a shot of baleys.

you let your hand trace from his hair to his chin, holding him closer. your noses met first, plumy. then the lips, just barely. they made a slight, dainty wet sound when they parted. "all the decisions i keep making because of you are so stupid. it’s embarrassing." you said. "i'm never like this."

"i'm..." the lava rock was now cotton, it was watercolour, it was baby powder. "sorry."

"where did you learn that prayer?" you asked, playing with his hair. he held you by your arms, trying his best to pretend that your lips didn't exist.

"i've been hanging around church," he confessed in a raspy whisper. "i never go inside, thoug. that would feel intrusive, i guess. i just hang around and listen to the services from the outside. i try to memorise the useful prayers," he said, "only that one stuck."

you raised an eyebrow, "the useful ones?"

"the ones that will get me what i want. isn’t that how praying works? and besides," he said with a sugary grin, holding the rosary beads up. he was sweet, so endearingly earnest. "you gave me this. i thought i should learn how to pray it properly."

"you weren't saying it correctly, though." you corrected him gently. "the first bead is supposed to be 'our father,' you were saying a memorare."

"who cares?" he shrugged, a teasing glint shining through. "it worked for me. it got me in here."

with a trembling hand, you reached out and grabbed the rosary hanging around his neck. your fingers closed around the cold metal, pulling it towards you. "take it off."

he clutched it tighter, his hand over yours, as if afraid to let go of it. "why?" 

"i don't like you with it," you said. "i like you out of god. you're the only thing i have that's not corrupted by it."

"but i'm trying to be a little better for you. purer, or whatever the hell you call it. so that you'll feel less guilty when we're together." he said. then his brows furrowed with ache. "you regret me, don't you? that's why you weren't letting me in." 

"it really hurt when you left," you admitted quietly. "all night long, i felt filthy and repulsive. like some..." you hesitated, embarrassed at your own words. "some wild animal in heat. but it goes away when you're here. it... it’s still there. but i forget about it. just a little."

a defiant look crossed his face. "then i'll never leave again."

"but you have to," you countered, letting go of his arms and turning way from him to walk toward the window. "or daddy will find out."

you heard beomgyu's footsteps approaching after you slowly, and you knew he was standing behind you now.

in haze and silk his hand found yours, which had been limp at your side. "but you like being close to me," he said softly, his arm wrapping around your waist, pressing your body against his. "and i like being close to you," he added, his nose tracing patterns along your neck. "you're warm."

"aren't you concerned at all? how can you not care about anything else?" you asked.

"because i'm crazy about you, you're my angel." he muttered as if it was obvious, his lips grazing your skin as he spoke. he buried his face deeper into your neck, breathing in your scent. "you smell so good."

"i just showered," you whispered, feeling yourself shivering under his touch. "it’s all i’ve done today, try to wash up."

"see?" he purred against your neck, with an amused smile that bordered on wicked. "you're a clean little angel. you have nothing to be ashamed of." he held you tight, arms forming a velvety belt around your waist. "i'm gonna be good for you tonight, take things slow. does that sound good?"

your nodded slightly, turning around to give him a soft kiss. though eager, there was uneasiness in your gaze, a loving intensity so hopeless it hurt.

he could take the hurt away, he was convinced. leave only the longing, the summery warmth and the tingling of the flesh. cupping your face with both hands he took your soft kiss and inflamed it into a fleshy bite, a mouthful of you. mine, mine, mine.

the room sweltered, wrapping you in a cloying embrace that thickened with the friction of the lips. with a deft movement he pulled away for a fleeting second, shrugging off his overshirt, the fabric fluttering to the ground like a lifeless body.

he saw your eyes widen, your muscles tense. the breath catching in your chest at the lost promise to take things slow. he lifted his palms like having been caught in the middle of a crime. "it’s– it’s hot in here," he murmured, trying to hush you. "just that."

you nodded. "yeah, yeah." you breathed out. stupid, wimpy, childish, prude, you thought to yourself. "i…" you started to unzip the hoodie, stripping away from your protective armor. "i probably don't look as good as yesterday," you said. "i'm sorry."

beomgyu exhaled a breathy chuckle, a laden smile tinged with affection. "what are you talking about?" he asked, shaking his head. "i look fucking gross in soobin’s old, borrowed clothes. these fit me like an elephant's skin, and you – you're… shit, you're so pretty – and you still apologize?"

he grasped your hand, tugged you towards him. he cherished and adored, and coated with his kisses and artisan lips the face of his angel. his little good girl who would sigh hummingbird whimpers against his lips as a warming, wordless praise.

he liked how you explored on him, too. how you seemed to prefer his upper lip and worked on it daintily, how you would pout when he pulled away, something he did just to indulge himself in the pleasure of staring at your lips get swollen and intumesced. how your eyes saddened, too, puppy-round and disquieted, silently asking if you had done something wrong.

gentle lips turned voracious, he couldn't help it. you were so tasty, so foamed textured, a favourite food.

letting his arm cradle you under your ass, he picked you up, weightless plush bear, your legs falling at both sides of his torso. you escaped a half-chuckled hum against his lips, a teenaged sound of cheeriness.

securely held like that, he walked you to the bed, where he let you fall softly, himself dropping after you. the weight of his body pressed you down against the plush duvet, but the suffocation felt good, the drowning in his oaky scent with no escape.

he focused on the fragility of your neck, silken, lovely swan’s arch. he pressed his unworthy mouth against it, nibbled at it, let his teeth sink in the skin, pushing the feeble line of pain and pleasure.

you shifted, rolling over together in a smooth, almost effortless motion. now, your were resting against his chest, his arms wrapped protectively around you. you could hear his heartbeat, steady and deep.

he watched you hovering above him. your hair fell around your face, a dark frame for your flushed cheeks and slightly parted lips. fucking beautiful. he lifted his head slightly and gave your a quick, animalistic kiss, almost like a snake bite.

his teeth caught your lower lip, holding it for a heartbeat longer, before letting it slip free. your back spasmed, punctuated by an acute shiver.

you let out a low, throaty whimper that resonated against his mouth. your lips pressed back against his with increased urgency, your fingers digging into his hair as you deepened the kiss.

"needy baby," he murmured softly, his voice a husky breath against your lips. "you still want me to take things slow?"

your hips began to move on their own, rubbing against him, driven by an instinctive rhythm. his nails bit into the tender flesh of your thighs as though trying to rip off the peel of a tangerine, to skin you out and envelop you himself instead.

but you both moved together, and his shirt lifted slightly, revealing a dark bruise on his stomach. at first, it was just a shadow, barely noticeable in the dim light. but as your movements shifted and the fabric of his shirt rose higher, the bruise came into full view.

your breath caught in your throat—a deep, ugly purplish hue marring his skin. the color at the center of the bruise was nearly black, a grisly shade that made the surrounding skin look almost rotten. the edges of the bruise were tinged with a sickly yellow-green, the mark of an injury struggling to heal.

"beomgyu..." you paused, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of the bruise, feeling the heat radiating from the inflamed skin. it was tender to the touch, and you could almost feel the pain he must have endured when he received it. "how did this happen?" you whispered, your voice a mix of worry and disbelief.

his eyes met yours, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. he seemed reluctant to answer, but the concern in your gaze softened his resolve.

"it’s nothing," he murmured, trying to dismiss it, but the tension in his voice betrayed him.

"nothing?" you echoed, your fingers still gently exploring the bruise. he winced at the touch. "your dad hurt you before you came here, didn't he? that's why you left home."

his hands moved to cover yours, stopping your gentle probing. "it’s just... it’s not as bad as it looks."

"does it still hurt?" you asked, searching for his eyes, but he was steadfastly avoiding your gaze.

"no," he said through gritted teeth. "stop looking at it." he pulled down his shirt to cover the bruise with a violent tug.

you tilted your head, scrutinizing his lie and his sudden flare of irritability. it was uncharacteristic, a side of him you had heard of but never had seen yourself.

slowly, you reached out and pressed your fingers against the fabric of his shirt, right over the hidden bruise. your touch went from gentle to stinging as you pushed down, observing his reaction.

he bit his lip, a futile attempt to conceal his pain with a stubbornness bordering on childlike. when it really began to hurt him he finally winced, a sharp breath escaping him. "well, of course it fucking hurts if you press it," he snapped.

"sorry," you whispered softly.

you stayed in silence for a few seconds. you didn't know what to do, what to say, how to tell him that he shouldn't be embarrassed that his father was a sadistic brute. so in a movement as smooth as melting butter, you eased yourself onto his lap, your limbs wrapping around him with the languid grace of entwining vines.

you said nothing at first, just peppered his face with kisses, each one a delicate brush of your lips, grazing the tip of his nose, the corners of his mouth, and that upper lip you adored so much.

"what was that for?" he asked, still trying to perform crankiness with a tiny pout, but with a flustered red coloring his cheeks.

he yielded, his hands finding a natural place on your hips. with a tender smile, you murmured, “you've been going on and on about taking care of me, but look at you. you need care, too.”

“no, i don’t,” he retorted, his tone edging on petulant. “i can handle myself and take care of you while at it.”

“sure,” you reassured him with a soft giggle, your breath warm against his lips. “but let me take care of you for once.”

the kiss you gave him was a smiled out version of the wettened bites he liked to take out of your lips. a somehow tender ferocity, adoring. a violent hunger, soft like rose petals.

he liked lingering touches, gentle and exploratory. those that made him quivery and trembling. the kind that traced but not prodded, only brushed. and so you gave him that.

he liked wet kisses, deep and honeyed. kisses that felt like sinking your teeth into a ripe peach and letting its amber juice drip down your chin. and so you gave him that.

"i... still remember how good you made me feel yesterday." you whispered against his lips. he watched you in silence, pupils dilating at how bashful you were, how much adoration your eyes carried for his foul self. "i really tried to, but i couldn't stop thinking about it all day. about... you. i... i wouldn’t even know how to–" you stopped, words piling up in your throat. "how to give back."

your voice washed over him like holy water. a shiver run through him, the stirring whip of a stingray, from the nape of his neck down to his hardening dick. his eyes lit up with something animalistic, dark, even. there was a subtle change in the tilt of his head, an eager forward lean.

his hands were two starved beasts, roaming freely and gripping your body. you guided his touch, enjoying the tension changes in his muscles when he grasped the parts he liked best.

his fingers tightened firmly on your thigh, a strong ache of lust pulsing through his veiny forearms. he hesitated, eager for permission before moving his hands up to your ass. when you allowed it with a mild nod, his grip clenched tightly like iron.

he let his hands trail up, crawling under the shorts, beneath the underwear. the skin was tender, sweet marshmallow flesh. he kissed you violently, just for the sake of groaning into your mouth, to tell you how bad he liked you without the need for words.

pulling you closer, he grabbed firmly, causing your straddling legs to spread wider against him. then you felt it. him growing harder against you, his bulge pressing insistently between your legs, "b-beomgyu you're,"

"of course i am," he growled through gritted teeth, "shit– how could i not be?" his greedy lips traveled down from your neck, your throat, tour clavicles, leaving a trail of spit on your skin, icy against the air. 

"you were like this yesterday, too." you pressed your fingers against his tense jawline, feeling the strain in his muscles. “let me help you out, please, teach me how."

he hesitated. his baby princess was too pure to stain herself with his dirty self. he was just a ravenous dog, hungry, flushed and beastly turned on, but you were his little dove, his angel, you–

you took your shy hand down to his crotch.

you did so while looking him in the eye, firm but awfully nervous. trembling, experimental. you brushed against the throbbing bulge with your palm.

he drew his head back. holy mary mother of god, pray for us sinners. chewed on his lip. now and at the hour of our death. he was all in.

he put his hand over yours with the intention of teaching you, like you had asked for, but you stopped him. with a timid voice and a slight stutter, you requested, "m-mouth."

a hitched breath. then a heavy one. "you shouldn’t," he whispered huskily, “with those pretty angel lips…” 

you stirred on his lap, making him shudder with the slight brush of your covered pussy against his desperately hard self. "i have this friend from school," you began. "he’s not all that poetic, but today he said something… " you said, voice whispery. "said that having a girl on her knees for him made him feel like a king. i want to make you feel like that, too.” 

beomgyu's silence was charged, his gazy stormy. the heavenly image flashed before his eyes. his baby angel down on her knees for him. the blushing tint on her sinless cheeks. virginal hibiscus lips wrapped around his cock. all sweet, all fucking gorgeous.

he then said, "open your mouth for me,”

you did as he commanded. you parted your lips for a shy communion, reception of the body of christ. your tongue rested plump and glistening on your lower lip. pretty, pretty, pretty.

with one hand he held your chin. the other one he raised with his index and middle fingers extended, thumb holding the ring and little fingers down. he slid them inside your mouth, their sinewy length slipping past your lips, taste of salt, skin and wine.

he grunted when your plump lips closed around his fingers. gulped down his libido, his adam’s apple prominently bobbing up and down. soon enough —he told himself— be gentle.

guiding your head with a steady rhythm, he began to move his fingers in and out, the wetness of your tongue sloppy against them. "no teeth," he commanded. 

he entered a third finger in, stuffing your cheeks. the thrust got more forceful, his hand reaching deeper. you began to salivate, making a mess on his wet skin, unable to swallow.

you gagged when he pushed against your throat. then looked up at him, a glint of fear in your eyes.

“that choking feeling. it's gonna be like that.” he said in a sweet tone. “you think you can take it?”

you nodded eagerly, your voice coming out muffled in a throaty moan against his hand. it was a new feeling, but so sinfully delicious. a deep hot sweetness that got you helplessly soaked with its glowing tingle.

"use your tongue," he growled, his voice thick. you obeyed, letting it swirl around his skin. “such a good girl.” he said. your body quivered all over.

when he finally withdrew his hand, a glistening saliva trail draped down, connecting his fingers to your tongue. lewdy spiderweb of silver. without thinking, you leaned forward, pressing your lips to each gleaming digit.

then, as light as a floating bubble, you slid off the bed and guided him to sit at the edge. but instead of sitting, he stood up, looming over you. he was so tall, and for the first time, his height didn't feel protective but imposing, towering over you like a temple.

you gazed up at him with pleading eyes, silently for a kiss. he granted it to you. he could have been a giant, a monster, beastly like a wild bear, and he still would have brushed your hair behind your ear with all the softness in the world and leaned down to kiss you.

kneeling before him made you feel small, exposed, shrinking under his devouring gaze. but there was something thrilling in being so vulnerable to him.

your hands were shaking as you reached for the waistband of his pants. a ritualistic undressing of him, an unveiling of sacred flesh that you were terrified to ruin by being clumsy and uncoordinated.

his hand wrapped around your wrist. "are you sure about this?" he asked for the last time with a tender stroke at your head.

"yes," you whispered back, your voice barely audible over the thunderous beating of your heart. there was a shyness that coiled tightly around your spine, eating you alive, but there was also eagerness—the want to make him feel good.

you pulled down his pants, the big bulge in his underwear imposing, daunting. you pressed your lips tentatively against the taut fabric, the only thing you were certain you would do well, a slight whisper of a kiss that left behind a cold, wet spots.

the dampness seeped through the cotton, a chaste baptism of his aching cock. "pretty," he murmured above you, hand tracing your cheek.

a little more bolstered by his praise, your hands reached out and hooked into the elastic band, pulling it down with reverence. his cock was thick and pulsing, begging for your touch. rosy, gold-dusted. you gulped. this was him, purely in the flesh.

you leaned in, trailing soft kisses along its length and leaving small burning marks on his skin. his hand gripped your hair tight as he groaned. "you're gonna feel so good, shit."

with a hesitant exhale, you parted your lips, allowing the tip of his cock to brush against them. he tasted of musk and urgency. you struggled, trying to fit him all the way into your mouth. he was so big, so overwhelming for virgin stupid you. 

as soon as he felt your lips around him he winced and his hand gripped your hair, tugging sharply and sending a jolt of electric sensation down your spine. you felt a protectiveness in his touch, there was no force, only unreleased tension.

"you're so fucking beautiful like that,” beomgyu rasped, his voice thick. you leaked heplessly at his words. "be careful, alright, angel? stop whenever you need to." he said.

you pulled out for a second, just to answer to him. your lips closing at his tip, pouty. spit glistened all over his lenght like the glinting mix of melted ice and saliva on fruit flavored ice-cream. "don't hold back." you simply said.

beomgyu let out a grumbled groan as he watched take him in your mouth again, the plush walls of your cheeks hugging so beautifully around his cock.

slow and timid, you began the back and forth motion. the flow you managed was awkward at first, clumsy and arrhythmic. but with just a little silent steadying of his hand in your hair, you found the right pace.

“j-just like that, shit,” beomgyu groaned, his voice a low thrum that resonated through your ribcage.

the wetter you got, the more shame swirled like eddies in the depths. you knew she was waiting for you with her sinister glare, ready to and ambush and churn at your insides when beomgyu was gone.

but shame was titillating when your lower belly burned and your needy clit throbbed helplessly. shame leaked out in the form of arousal, pouring syroupy glitter. 

whenever you dared look up at him, you'd see the godlike vision of a strained, sweating beomgyu. his head was drawn back in pleasure and his adam’s apple bobbing up and down, escaping a profane mess of heavy breaths and lewd sounds.

his voice was so beautiful, too, you kept thinking. low and mellow, incese and wood. he sounded so good, with his raspy “ahs,” and roaring moans. you did everything in your power to keep him panting like that.

with every flick of your tongue and suckle of your lips, you could feel him twitch and tense. as you took him further into your mouth, his thick and veiny shaft hit the back of your throat. 

a surprining rush of excitement surged through you when i you gagged, tightening your core. that lewd retched sound of the choking turned into a cried out moan of pleasure.

you salivated against his cock, the mixture of his salty precum, your spit, and the tears that came out of your eyes from the asphyxiation making a mess that kept dripping down your chin. 

you took him deeper, revelling in your own gagged-out sputters. "y-you're taking me in so good," he praised between clenched teeth. “my baby, you sound so fucking perfect choking on me.” 

but then you noticed. the way he remained still, fighting every instinct to move. the exaggerated tension in his body from doing so. he was holding back. lacerating self-control.

you pulled out, finding no resistence from him. he immediately leaned down, loving concern in his eyes, but his breathing still heavy and messy, and asked "are you alright?" he asked, gently gripping your jaw.

and though he was trying just so hard to focus on your well-being, he mouthed out a strained “shit, baby angel...” in pure awe upon seeing you all covered in the mouth-watering mixture of glinting fluids.

"b-beomgyu," you gulped, voice broken. "don´t hold back. i... like the choking."

he bit his lip so hard he almost drew blood. "i don’t wanna hurt you," he said. a gentlemanly formality.

"i know.” you smiled faintly. “but i like the pain, i promise."

eyes round and doe-like, lips soaked in delightful filth, swollen and gleaming. a wet dream of a girl, you were. sweet dainty angel who just kept saying gut-wrenchingly hot words.

he traced one finger along your jawline, just one, all feathery. "you have no idea how perfect you are." he whispered. but his caress turned a firm grip on your jaw. big strong hand, poking fingers. he said, "you want it rough? then i’m gonna fuck your cute little mouth raw.”

he tightened his hadn't around your hair in a way that immediately let you know he wasn't grabbing you for guidance, no massages, no caresses. he wasn't playing anymore.

the first thrust back in was paced, but painfully deep. you let out a delighted whine around him, having craved the sensation of being filled by him again. then he lived up to his promise.

he pumped his cock into your mouth, thrusts steady and violent. that you liked the pain he took it religiously, believed it in heart and soul. and you revelled on it. sacrificial angel, dirty slut with needs.

but it was all you wanted from him, really. to pound his love into you, ruthlessly. to wreck you with his own hands and pick up the pieces after, kissing the scars. to carve in your skin a yearning so big and monstrous it could only be spiritualised in pain, only could be satisfied in flesh and blood.

his grip in your hair tightened into a makeshift ponytail as he urged you deeper, pushing you to the brink of what you could withstand. your eyes were so glassy you almost couldn’t see, holy lack of air that got your cunt trembling with want. 

a violent dance of pushing and pulling, giving and taking. with each thrust, you were the victim of his self-control slipping like sand through desperate fingers. his words became abstract, senseless, angel, and baby, and beautiful melted into one until all he could do was cry out.

never in a million years would you have been able to rationalise how you could've have gotten such harrowing pleasure, such a tear-jerking sense of utter love, from such a forceful act. but you felt it, everywhere in your body. in your whitening knuckles, in your sore scalp, in the ruthless thrusts that got you trembling, leaking, terminally ill in lust.

beomgyu got beautifully lightheaded. his every molecule trembled, his every nerve ending felt numb and petty compared the scorching beautiful fire there where your mouth brazed his cock, soon to explode.

"s-so fucking close." his body trembled with the strain, severing the bond of flesh and hunger. "h-hand– fuck, y-your hand." he struggled out.

he desperately fumbled for your hand, and when he found it, he guided it to the stem of his length, showing you how to stroke him, pushing him over his peak. you knew, you felt him tense up, get breathier, more desperate.

but he pulled out of your mouth. he grabbed onto your hair and pulled your head back roughly. neck strained, you let out a confused whimper. good little puppy.

that did it for him. he gave you one last awestruck look, and jerked himself off with your hand getting himself to cum all over your face with a shaky groan. 

warm liquid dripped down from his still-throbbing cock, landing on your quivering lips and streaming down to your cheeks.

he urged you to keep stroking him through his most sensitive, his whole body twitching and contracting under your touch. "ah, f-fuck. keep going like that, just a little more," he said.

he pushed through, your hand only a tool confined between his own hand and his cock. you were barely a puppet here, the symbolic means of lewdness, a kink.

you got to watch him attentively. his gorgeous hair shaking with him, his teeth almost peeling the skin on his bottom lip, the strained muscles of his neck. lusty frown, wax light skin, pearly sweat. your beautiful boy.

the oversensitivity caused his body to helplessly quiver and spasm all over, increasingly until it became too much and he doubled, finally letting go, his body folding in two. he let himself fall to his knees.

his eyes were glassy and rimmed with redness, his breath gradually steadying. he looked at you and whispered "fuck, look at that...", his eyebrows furrowed, as he reached up to wipe some of the cum off your cheek with his thumb.

the world went silent. tinnitus in your ears. breathe in. breathe out. breath not. shame arrived and choked you.

your bottom lip quivered. a round tear formed at the corner of your eye. shame gnawed at you with her ghostly voice of ice. slut, nympho, mary magdalene, whore.

beomgyu immediately helped you up, perching on the bed and sitting you on his lap. "what is it, baby?" he muttered against the shell of your ear, cradling you. "are you feeling guilty?" he asked.

your words tumbled out between sobs, raw and revealing. "it's the filthiest thing i've ever done." your gaze refused to meet his. "but i liked it so much, i'm so wet."

he reached out to cup your cheek, brushing away the tears with his thumb. "it's okay, you were such a perfect fucking girl, my baby. you did nothing wrong." he reassured you in a soothing tone. "let's get you cleaned up, alright?" 

you nodded softly. you still avoided his gaze, but your shame felt finite. he was there. you would be fine. 

he got up to get dressed, but he quickly returned to your side, not wanting to leave you alone even for a second. so invested in the caretaker roll he was, he insisted on carrying you to the bathroom himself.

“what are you doing? i’m fine.” you chuckled softly when he tried to pick you up, wiping away the tears that had fallen from your eyes, feeling their warmth against your fingertips. 

"i wanted to carry you," he replied with a pout.

he was determined, but you managed to convince him that it was better if you led the way. you were good at roaming around the house in the dark, a silent nightjar that could only get a semblance of freedom when everyone else was asleep. 

and so you exited your room in hushed silence, tiptoeing through the gloom, beomgyu’s hand securely wrapped in yours.

the coming light from your bedroom door cast eerie elongated shadows on the walls of the corridor. hazy and enthralled as you were with one another, you had forgotten to close the door, only leaving it ajar. big mistake. 

the bathroom was virginal with the scent of soap and piety—the place where absolution and sin mingled in the steam that rised from the heart of the house of god. 

beomgyu's eyes narrowed at the sight of the framed stamp of a female saint, perched on the sink. with a creeped out grimace, he plucked it from its spot and flipped it over, as if silencing an unwanted voice. the house was full of hidden eyes and he couldn't stand the feeling of constant surveillance.

you both settled onto the narrow edge of the porcelain tub, the coolness of the ceramic sending shivers down your back when it touched the fevered bare flesh of the back of your thighs. 

beomgyu fumbled for a towel, and with reverent hands, he turned on the faucet and laid it under the warm water flow until it soaked.

the water was a baptismal font, powerful enough to wash away almost any sin. but beomgyu wasn’t one to care about the religious symbolism. he just wanted to take care of you, gently wiping your face with each stroke, cleansing away the remnants of his cum.

"beomgyu," you whispered. the towel was warm against your face. it felt nice, hushed. 

“yeah?” he murmured, his voice barely audible as he focused on his task.

"…was i any good?" you tentatively asked, nervously looking down at your fingers.

with a mellow smile, he leaned in to give you a soft kiss before answering, "my baby angel. you did so well… so, so well" he said. "i’m sorry if i was too rough."

you shook your head slightly, unable to hide the smile that formed on your lips at his concern. "it's okay," you told him, your mouth curving into a bashful v shape.

as he pressed the towel against your neck, it felt like a wrung-out sponge. a few droplets of water managed to make their way into your shirt, sending a shiver down your spine. the dampness slowly crept through the fabric of your pajama shirt, the chilly embrace from a ghost hand.

"should we take this off?" he asked, not a trace of suggestion in his eyes, only care. “so you can wash well.” he added.

you hugged yourself self-consciously. "no... i-" you trailed off, voice barely above a whisper. “no.”

his gaze melted into yours, as if trying to ease your discomfort. "you shouldn't be uncomfortable with me," he insisted. "every little thing you do is pretty to me. you know that, right?"

he gave you a kiss that was simple and easy. not the blooming, lush cascades of perfumed lust you were used to, but steady and reassuring like soft moss. a tender formality of intimacy. a kind kiss, a kiss to trust him.

you slowly released your arms from their protective embrace, letting them hang limply at your sides, surrendering control to him.

"stand up for me," he demanded. and as you obeyed, he crouched down, his knees meeting the cold, unforgiving tiles. he reached out with steady hands to support you. "let me see just how soaked you are." 

a crimson blush spread across your cheeks. your fingers shyly reached out for the the elastic of your shorts, beomgyu’s hands intercepting them to gently pull down together.

your cotton shorts gone, all that was left to cover your pussy was an embarrassingly dampened pair of pinkish panties. the type that puritanical moms buy for their daughters at haberdashery stores - cheap, thin lace trimming the edges and a small embroidered rose at the center. 

the fabric felt cold against your exposed skin as the air grazed the darkened wet stain. embarrassing.but beomgyu's breath nearly caught in his throat as he laid eyes on the dainty cloth, delicate like wax flower, all soaked for him. 

"god, this is so fucking pretty," he breathed against your belly, his fingers trailing over the damp patch. he planted a soft kiss against your trembling sex, sending shivers down your spine. a twitchy chill ran through you.

he reached for the hem of it, eager to expose you further, but you stopped him. “not yet,” you breathed out. “please.”

his eyes widened like a puppy's and he looked up at you pleadingly. "to clean you up?" he asked.

but you shook your head. he stood up again, wrapping one arm around your waist and pulling you close. "i won't look," he promised. "won't see a thing. just like yesterday." he said.

“fine.” you said, giving in to his gentle touch.

he expertly slipped off your underwear with one hand, holding onto you with the other. you knew you were soaked, but hadn't become fully aware of how much until you were exposed to the cold and what had been warm arousal turned iced water.

you were nervous, but his hot breath and balmy kisses on your forehead eased some of your tension.

“now this,” he tugged at your pajama top, his fingers like curious spiders crawling over the soft fabric.

you flinched, jabbed his hand away. beomgyu's eyes showed worry and a hint of hurt from your lack of trust in him. still, he had a plan.

no words were exchanged; he guided you to step into the bathtub with him, closing any existing distance. firm yet gentle, he pressed you against the wall, the cool tiles imprinting their pattern on the naked skin of your ass.

as he twisted the handle, a sudden rush of water burst from the showerhead like a geyser. "we wash together, alright?"

the droplets rained down on you, pelting against your bodies. he threw his head back with a soft, painfully cute chuckle, watching the water fall like it was the first winter snow. 

his drenched clothes clunged to his body, but he payed no mind. he kept smiling like a little kid, kissing you with satisfied nibbles and smooches, cheerful like you had never seen him.

but the fun ended quickly. a shadow crossed his expression, filling you with immediate concern. he drew in a deep, somber breath, fingers hesitating at the hem of his shirt. with a tug, he pulled it over his head, baring his skin before letting it fall. you instinctively brought a hand to your mouth, suppressing a horrified gasp.

swollen bruises, bloated and purplish-black, oozed cruelty as they sprawled across his abdomen, his ribcage, his chest. once elegant and pretty collarbones hid marred under stains like dark, spreading ink blots.

his father had completely shattered him and then discarded his body like rancid fruit left to rot in the sun.

he pressed his lips together, avoiding your eyes. there was embarrassment all over his face, hidden under a bitter defiance. "don't look at me like that," he muttered.

"like what?" you asked, not sure how to respond.

"like you feel sorry for me," he said, clenching his teeth. "i'd rather you were just grossed out."

"i'm not pitying you, i..." your hand reached out, gently lifting his chin to meet your gaze. he resisted a bit, looking sullen. "this shouldn't have happened to you, this–" you began to say softly, brushing your fingertips over the bruised skin with a light touch. "you can't be ashamed of this. you have to be mad. outraged. you– promise me you won't go back to him."

"i've got nowhere else to go," he admitted quietly, his voice barely audible.

and you didn't know what to say, either. stay here was a stupid answer, unrealistic. you have me was even more stupid, as you didn't even have yourself. your existence together hanged on a fine thread. there was no better option, only prison cells and bloodthirsty gods.

"i–" you began to say, trying to arrange some, any, words in your head, but he stopped you.

"i don't want to think about it now, please," he said. "i'm happy when i'm with you because i forget about everything else. i like it that way."

he meant every word. he wasn't one to dwell on the future, he couldn't stand to throw away the counted minutes he had with you worrying. unlike soobin, he took pride in that.

he pressed a soothing kiss to your temple. "i'm going to clean you up now, okay?" he said softly. "and you'll go to bed feeling light and clean, no shame and burning in the flames of hell bullshit. you're gonna sleep so well and so peacefully without any of the wicked nonsense they've tried to brainwash you with."

a gentle smile from him, a thanking peck from you. the water cascaded on.

however, when beomgyu's hands reached for the top button of your pajama shirt, you couldn't help but flinch. a first fleeting thought told you it was uncalled for, but then it settled on you that letting him see your body was a stupidly obvious next step.

he had already shown you the body he was ashamed of, and now he was asking you to share in that vulnerability. "please," he said. "i showed you how shitty i look. i… really wanna see you.”

it was the desperation in his frown and the ominous presence of his bruises. with shaking hands, you undid the next button on your own.

the rest of the buttons you undid in gradual little steps, not daring to look him in the eye. he limited himself to watch with narrowed eyes and his heart in clenched in his fist.

the shirt fluttered opened, a central strip of your body in full view. collarbone, linea alba, belly button –all delicate and liturgical in the semi-darkness. but he didn't glance any lower. he promised he wouldn't.

he brought his hand to your waist, letting his thumb caress your ribcage. as he did, he drew the shirt away from your tit, displaying it for him. he shook his head, exhaled, "you're so fucking adorable."

with a delicate movement he gently flicked the other side of the shirt, your chest all to him. peaches and cream, lovely cottony candy. sweet, sweet, so sweet.

there was something so disarming about seeing you naked, too. a vulnerability in your eyes he couldn't resist.

your hands, trembling emissaries of modesty, moved instinctively to shield your breasts from his view. but beomgyu's touch halted their ascent; his fingers wrapped around your wrists, "don't hide from me," he whispered.

all he did next was to reverently lower himself and leave a kiss on the tender skin. the water was falling, and the effect he loved so much, that of his spit against your smooth waxen skin, was lost in the shower rain.

he left it there, diplomatically. he would come back tomorrow night. he would be back to touch you with all the calm of the universe, to experiment on your skin and discover the cause and effect of all the things he could dream of doing to you.

the next kiss returned to your lips. a voracious mouth-feeding on your flesh. sharp jaws strained and tensed for the pleasure of the plump hedonistic lips.

then came the washing, the cleansing, the radical eradication of your shame. he hugged your waist tight and loving, as if to save his own life, and took the almond soap without letting go of you for a moment.

it was the third time in that same day that the viscous liquid touched your skin. but this time it came from his hands, not yours. this time it was lukewarm, not icy and lonesome.

he scrubbed every corner of your body, and in every single place that was left cleansed he planted a chaste kiss. the rubbing of his hand against your groin might have been lascivious, it might have made angels and saints look away in shame and offense. but it felt not lewd, but kind. fatherly.

last came the rinsing of the soap, a removal of every last trace of foreign liquids –be it an industrial hygiene product, be it the worldly product of the body.– off came the guilt, too. the repentance and the shame, the homicidal shame.

under the water your soul was feathers, under the water the angel, the dove, the butterfly was light and untied.

once clean he hugged you in a towel like a baby, arms around your body, and caressed the damp hair that clung to your face. a light kiss on your hairline, a light kiss on your brow, a light kiss on your lashes.

"beomgyu," you talked under your breath, "i don't want you to leave."

a light kiss to your temple. “i really don’t wanna leave, either.” he said in helpless sincerity. then his eyes glinted playful. “but soobin misses me if i don't cuddle him to sleep. he’d get jealous." he smiled.

"he gets to sleep with you every night," you sulked in a pout that curled up at the corners of your mouth, "it’s not fair."

beomgyu chuckled against your skin, "i can wait for you to fall asleep, then i’ll go."

and the plan was perfect, and the world felt pink and glittery and like it existed for you and him and no one else. it wasn't your fault when you didn't notice. you were hazy fools in love, your minds too misty and cosy.

when he laid you on the bed in plumes and cottons and the sheets felt like clouds against your clean skin, neither him nor you noticed.

when you got in bed, him lying next to you and being physically unable to stop showering you with little kisses, neither him nor you noticed.

when he caressed your hair, your cheeks and the outline of your arm as he felt your breathing relax into deep sleep, your little heartbeat easing finally after a lifetime of guilt and agony, neither him nor you noticed.

not even when beomgyu reluctantly separated from you, planting one last kiss on your sleeping eyelids, "goodbye, my baby angel," and left the room without making a sound, not even then did he notice.

a fatal mistake.

not noticing that the door you had left ajar after leaving to the bathroom was wide open when you got back. that the overshirt beomgyu had tossed to the ground was nowhere to be seen. that someone else had been there.

a phosphorescent chesire grin. a stern boy in a charcoal gray sweater. or work of the holy spirit.

it was a faceless someone. but someone knew.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ next part.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ i took so long to update i am so sorry. ALSO. I INSERTED THE ETHEL CAIN LYRIC it fit so perfectly, i had to. there's a bts borrowed line, too. joon lyrical king. anyway. yeah.

[mysticxpizza]

sacrilege and blasphemy

summary: father charlie mayhew finds you praying in the church and decides to join you

warnings: he essentially chokes you with your rosary, oral (f!receiving), making out.

word count: 620

You sit kneeling, rosary clasped in your hands, looking up at the stained glass windows and Virgin Mary statues. The church devoid of all life except you, at least...

...that's what you thought.

"Can I join you?", a voice asks behind you.

You look around, seeing the priest standing with his arms behind his back.

"I don't mean to disturb you", he apologises, sincerely.

"No, you can join. It's no trouble", you smile, moving to let the handsome stranger kneel next to you.

Your heart beats faster as he joins you, a sense of temptation invading your body.

"Have you ever confessed before?" he asks, looking you up and down, a gleam of darkness in his eyes.

"No, I've never sinned before"

You swear you can hear him growl and see his jaw clench. He moves ever so closer, his lips next to your ear.

"No, impure thoughts?", he asks "No wanton desires, you wanted so desperately to act on?"

He kisses your neck and behind your ear, whilst moving his large hands over yours.

You moan, clenching your thighs and exposing more of your neck for him to kiss and bite. He begins to slowly unwrap the rosary from your hands, wrapping it around his fingers.

He cups his hand around your jaw, your rosary still in his hands. He probes your mouth with his tongue and you eagerly accept.

“I’ll give you something so sinful, so blasphemous you’ll be too scared to confess, I’ll make sure of it”, he says, breaking from your mouth.

He adorns the rosary over your head, before slowly twisting the beads whilst pushing you back to lay on the pew. You moan feeling the tightness overcome your neck. He moves his mouth down your neck, leaving open mouth kisses and small bites.

“So responsive”, he mutters, using his free hand to unbutton your top, exposing your tits. “No bra, in a church?”

“Yes, only for you, Father”, you say, as he moans in the valley of your tits. “My little whore, sitting in church, tell me what fantasy takes place in your head as you listen to my sermons.” he tightens the rosary around your neck, goading you into answering.

“Y-you sit me on the altar and you…”, you start, your thighs quivering as you imagine your fantasy.

“And?”, he asks, moving his free hand down and under your skirt

“You eat me out on it”

He groans, tracing his hands gently over your panties. You faintly moan as he teases your clit, yet as soon as you submit, he scoops you up by your thighs and carries you up to the sacred altar, placing you on the gold-adorned countertop.

He keeps one hand tight around the rosary whilst moving his head and the other hand down. Caressing your things, he ghosts kisses over your throbbing clit.

“So wet for me, such a good girl.”

He pulls your panties down to your knees and licks a stripe up your slit before sucking harshly on your clit. You arch your back, moving your hand to the top of his head. He sucks harder.

“F-father” you whimper as eats you like a man starved, deprived of pleasure.

He tightens the rosary, focusing your senses on his actions. The kitten licks he places on your clit, pools your stomach with warmth. The warmth expands through you, your breath begins to heave.

“F-father. I, I…”, you start, soon overcome with your orgasm. Waves of unbridled pleasure wash over you, yet the idea of the sins committed slowly fills your mind.

“Fuck, so good for me, my little angel” he growls, smacking your clit and loosening the rosary. “You wanna be my good little angel?”

“Yes, father.”

[khuzena]

Fable

Pairing: Sunday x gn!reader

cw: themes of religion, emotional turmoil, mental health struggles, sin and redemption.

Synopsis: In a world engulfed with sin, Sunday feels as if there's no difference between him and the lowly sinners he preaches to. A stark irony in his thoughts and the cross that lay heavy on his chest, a preacher of Aeon Xipe, yet a damned fool that longs for a sinner. He offers redemption as if it's cheap since it only asks faith as its payment. However, the sinner he longs for has no ounce of faith in their soul. In the end, he could only sing praises— if only attaining salvation was so easy.

A/N: GUESS WHO'S BACK (no one remembers me) but I'm here to deliver angst anyways bc fuck this shit. My writing is shitty so bear with me. :(((

“Repent, sinner.” Sunday whispered as he held your hand, “Repent.”

"Sunday— let go” you drawled, voice dripping with shame. You leaned against the wall, the smoke from your cigarette curling lazily through the dim air, mingling with the stale scent of cheap perfume and old upholstery. The brothel was alive with murmured laughter and low music, the worn-out couches and faded curtains casting long shadows in the flickering amber light. Your skin was drenched in sweat, your head riddled in shame as your clothes lay bare on the floor. You've just finished servicing a client yet Sunday's invaded unknown territory; to save you, maybe.

The priest’s eyes swept the room, narrowing as if each detail confirmed his worst suspicions. His mouth twisted in a thin line of disgust as he clutched his Bible close to his chest, as if bracing himself against the "unclean" aura around him. The expression in his eyes was soft, painful—a thousand sermons held back by a single withering look.

“Please,” he said, voice clipped. “You know this isn't the answer— it's never too late.”

“Just go,” you replied, frowning without your usual certain devil-may-care charm. You let sin consume you, as it's all you've ever known. “But you’re right, Father. It's never too late for others but I'm a lost cause.”

You trail off, the musky aroma of carnal desire in the room intoxicating his ‘pure’ soul, “You're gonna save me? With what, exactly? A sermon? A confession?”

“Redemption.” He said the word as if it could wash the room clean. “Even someone like you—someone who parades their sin as if it’s a crown—you could still be saved. Even now.”

You laughed, the sound echoing off the peeling walls, more haunting than humorous. “Saved? By what, exactly? A few Hail Marys and a scolding?” You looked him up and down, that faint amusement never leaving your eyes. “Maybe I’m not the one who needs saving. Ever thought of that?”

Sunday's face darkened, his fingers tracing the edge of his Bible like it was a weapon rather than a shield. “You speak of kindness, yet you live without a shred of humility or grace. Do you really think there’s peace in… in this?” He gestured around the room, lips curling in contempt. “All I see is emptiness masquerading as freedom.”

Your eyes narrowed, your smile fading. “Freedom?” You flicked the ash from your cigarette, watching it drift to the floor like grey snowflakes. “Tell me, Father, when was the last time you felt free?” You crawled to him as he sat on the stained sheets, so close he could feel the warmth of your breath, the faint scent of smoke and cheap perfume mixing with the cold edge of his cologne. “You clutch that Bible like it’s a cage, not a comfort. You come here, looking down on us from your self-righteous mountain, but you’re the one running. From what, exactly?”

He stiffened, the muscles in his jaw tightening as if you’d struck a nerve. “I serve the Lord,” he said, voice quivering with a mixture of conviction and something darker, something unsettled. “I bring light to places that have forgotten it. I offer hope to the lost.”

You smirked, unbothered. “Hope, is it? Funny, you seem more scared than hopeful. You think that because I don’t kneel and grovel that I must be empty, but I don’t need your god to tell me right from wrong. I may be a ‘sinner’ in your eyes, but I don’t preach peace and then threaten damnation. I help the lost here, too, in my own way—without the guilt. And without shame.”

For a moment, his composure slipped, a crack appearing in the stone-cold mask he wore. He looked at you—really looked at you—as if seeing past the lipstick and the smoke to something rawer, something he couldn’t name.

“Kindness without repentance is hollow,” he muttered, almost to himself, fingers ghosting over the cross around his neck. His eyes betray his actions, he can't admit that he loves a sinner like you.

“And blind faith without understanding is cruelty,” you shot back, your voice like a knife through the heavy air. “You think kindness is something you hand down from on high, something earned by prayers and purity. But look around, Father. These people don’t need sermons. They need food, a place to sleep—a little mercy, not lectures.”

He opened his mouth, as if to counter, but words seemed to fail him. Instead, his face twisted, half pity, half frustration. “I’ll… pray for you.”

A dry laugh escapes you, a hollow sound in the oppressive quiet. “Pray for yourself, Father. You’re the one who seems lost here.”

“I just want to save you,” He reiterates, his eyes gleaming with desperation, “Please, just repent. There's always a place for you in the church”

An airy scoff escapes your lips as you smack his hand away, “A place for me? A place for a sin laden person like me?”

A pregnant silence filled the room, he clutched the cross on his neck. There must be an answer, and if there isn't, he'll make you one. His free hand reaches into his pocket, you feel a beaded bracelet rest onto your wrist. It's heavy, so heavy.

“What are you doing to me?”

“I just want to save you,” his hands trembled in sync with the flickering candle light, “Just listen to me.”

“Stop, stop—” no matter how many times you plead him to stop acting so pathetic, he implores mercy for you. The sacred bracelet on your wrist is a testament to his love and his faith— one you could never share.

Sunday vowed himself to never step into the walls of pleasure as they're the home to lust, they're home to fools who seek salvation in sex. Yet, he's here. He's here to seek salvation for you. He brought Xipe’s presence into the home of the devil, in hopes to coerce you to the brighter side.

His presence in this brothel feels like an enigma, he doesn't belong here.

“I don't want you to rot in hell,” he trails off, kissing your knuckles, “I’ve never felt this before— Xipe owns my body, my soul.”

Why does his touch feel so addicting compared to the touches of far fairer men than him?

His wings droop onto his shoulders, your clothes on the floor reflecting on his shiny halo but he doesn't budge. He doesn't want to leave you here, he knows your heart is kind, yet your body's defiled— he’s determined that he'll cleanse you, he'll cleanse you of this sin.

He presses his lips again to your knuckles, “Why do you have to be so difficult?” He mutters to himself as his sacred tears paint your tainted skin.

Xipe may own every fibre of his being, but you've taken his very soul, you've stolen it with every scornful laugh, every unrepentant sin. THEY have save you, THEY need to save you—

However, when he stares back into the abyss in your eyes, he knows you're long forsaken by their blessings.

When you don't recite the verses escaping his lips, he realises you're a lost cause.

Please, Xipe. Please do something about them—

If that's not enough, he's brought jar filled with ash.

“That's enough Sunday—”

“It's not.”

His words sunk low as he turned more desperate than a man faced with death. For you to die and rot in hell is death in itself.

You should run away, you should push him away.

You should throw him back to the cathedral he preaches in.

But a part of you wants saving.

A part of you long to be in the same world he is, in body and soul and in every prayer recited.

But you can’t.

With trembling hands, Sunday brought his fingers to the jar of ash he'd clutched as if it held the very essence of Xipe himself. His touch was reverent, fingers dipping into the blackened dust as he leaned forward, his face a mask of fevered determination. His breath was ragged, each exhale brushing against your skin like a ghost's touch, hovering close as he traced the symbol of harmony on your forehead.

The ash was cold and heavy against your skin, spreading like a dark stain over the sweat still clinging to you from moments before. Sunday’s fingers shook as he sketched each line, each curve, his brows furrowing as if with each stroke he could carve Xipe’s mercy into your very soul. His lips moved soundlessly, chanting prayers, pleading with his god to see you—to reach you. His eyes glistened, holding a desperation so raw it felt as though he were laying his soul bare with every brush of his fingers.

"Please," he whispered, voice breaking as he drew the final stroke, his forehead pressed against yours, the rough ash between you a stark reminder of the worlds that kept you apart. "Please, let this save you." His eyes searched yours, wild with a hope he couldn’t contain, pleading with a faith that was beginning to crumble as he realized that even this sacred act, this final attempt to offer you salvation, might still leave you beyond his reach.

You're still a sinner through and through.

Sunday’s fingers lingered, almost frozen against your skin as he stared at the dark symbol he’d left, the weight of it so heavy it felt like it would pull you both under. His breaths came uneven, shallow, as he fought against the reality sinking in—that his desperate plea might not reach you, that this sacred symbol he’d etched might be nothing more than a stain.

His hand drifted to your cheek, thumb tracing the faint smudge of ash, as though hoping to rub it deeper, to make it part of you in some way that went beyond flesh and bone. His eyes were wet, glistening with the weight of unspoken prayers, with the terror of a man standing on the brink of faith and despair.

“I love you— I want you.”

“Then want me.”

‘Want me without fear’ - what you should've said.

He shakes his head, swallowing. “I can’t. To want you… to touch you? I’d lose everything.” Each word is a knife, cutting through the heavy air between you.

“Then why are you here?” you murmur, your voice laced with disbelief, the irony palpable in the dim light. A saint in sacred clothing before a madonna whore.

“Because you’re worth saving.” His eyes are fierce, but they tremble.

You laugh bitterly. “Even if I don’t want it?”

“It’s not just for you!” His grip tightens around your hands, desperation bleeding into his voice. “I need to believe… that you can be saved, that I can—” He falters, his eyes darkening. “What if I’m here because I’m as damned as you?”

“Then maybe you should let go of salvation.”

His wings flutter as sobs wreck his soul. Why can't THEY save you too? Why does he have to live with the idea that you'll rot— that he can't do anything about it?

And as he kneels before you, his lips brushing over your knuckles in a final, desperate kiss, he prays—more for himself than for you.

"I’ve seen hell, and it’s not the one you think," you murmur, voice low, yet biting. "It’s in the way you look at me—like I’m nothing but a sin."

A flash of pain crosses his face, mingling with the flicker of understanding that never quite settles. Anxiety tightens his grip on your hand as he absorbs your words, though he’ll never truly understand them. He opens his mouth, but only silence falls—a prayer unsaid, a salvation he’s not even sure he can give.

His gaze drops, lingering on the thin sheet covering you like a veil over desecration, and he looks away, ashamed yet bound.

He leans in, lips hovering just above yours—a kiss he tells himself is selfless.

“I'll pray for you."

I'll forgive you.

Note: BYE BER MONTHS HIT ME LIKE A TRUCK— I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED PROGRESS OF MY WIP FICS AND I WAS IN TEARS AND JS CRASHED OUT. IM BACK BC GIGI PEREZ JS MADE ME WRIT EGAIAN

special mention: @whyiseveryname-taken bro I'm still ariting abt that angst jing yuan fic btw if u still remember 😈

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡ 

[disgustingtwitches]

MDNI

Lay my burdens down aka 141 as Catholic priests

Johnny always felt guilty. Just a part of being Catholic he supposes. He remembers telling his mother about stealing a candy bar when he couldn't've been more than seven. She had him kneel on rice and recite the Hail Mary until supper was ready; it was noon when he started. He prayed until his voice was shaky and hoarse, eyes puffy from tears, knees bled and were beyond the point of pain. Sometimes now when he kneels, his knees still ache. A reminder that Absolution is paid in blood. The hassock he prays on creaks as another person settles next to him,

"Good morning, Brother MacTavish."

A soft voice greeted him.

"Good morning, Brother Garrick."

Johnny's hand grips his rosary tighter. Kyle props his arms up on the pew, his elbow touching Johnny's. They silently recite the Benedictus together, he stays next to Gaz even when he finishes his morning prayer.

The day goes by without incident, just some gardening while the priests tend to the community,

"So you are going to be a priest soon, that's exciting."

Kyle smiles while watering some tomatoes.

"Yes, I'm looking forward to it."

Johnny likes to keep conversations with Garrick short. Actually, he likes to keep conversations with all of the parish short. Desire runs rampant in his heart. He thought if he dedicated himself to God enough, these thoughts would quiet. That seemed to only make it worse. Being in such close quarters with these men have only made the thoughts much, much louder. There are nights he would hear soft moans coming from the next room, he knows it is Kyle and another party lost in ecstasy. He's not sure which of the two other men in the parish it was. He bit his lip, fucking his fist desperately. Groaning as low as possible when he hears Kyle finish, joining him shortly after. Guilt washes over him immediately after the act. Obsessively prays on his knees until they ache. Please please please, just make it go away. Some nights he even cries, frustrated and ashamed.

~

"Good morning, Brother MacTavish."

Johnny tensed up, squeezing his eyes tight, afraid to look up.

"Good morning, Father Riley."

He hears a grunt while the pew rocked, their bodies nearly touching when Simon finally settled in next to him. There were a few moments of hushed prayer between the both of them.

"When's the last time you've confessed, Johnny?"

Simon's voice is steady as ever, confident in himself as he is in the Lord.

"Too long Father. Much too long."

In all honesty, confession with either priest made him sweat. There were long pauses that made him uncomfortable. Words and tones always had an underlying tone that made him choke. The sound of clothes rustling on the other side that made his imagination run wild. A strong hand clasped at the back of Johnny's neck yanks him away from his train of thought, his eyes snapping open. He looks up to Simon, a towering figure doubly so now that he's standing in front of Johnny.

"C'mon."

Simon says, almost alluring. Johnny's skin prickles where Simon rubs his thumb against the nape of his neck. He stands up so quickly, he nearly knocks the hassock over. That earns a hum of approval from Father Riley,

"Good boy."

Johnny's clothes feel restricting and hot. The bench in the confessional booth too hard and uncomfortable. He crosses himself and starts,

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been... a month since my last confession."

He can hear Simon tut from the other side.

"I have..."

Johnny racks his brain, desperately trying to avoid speaking on his most obvious misdeed.

"I hold resentment in my heart for others that live...more freely than I do."

Simon hummed in acknowledgment, waiting for him to continue. Johnny's leg bounced nervously, shaking the booth slightly. It was a long moment before Simon spoke up again,

"You do know withholding a mortal sin in confession is a transgression against God himself, Brother MacTavish?"

Johnny's mouth dried up, his chest got tight. He nervously rubs the beads on his rosary,

"I have harbored hate-"

"Try again. Johnny."

Simon's voice is low and tense, a warning. Poor Johnny is shaking all over now, the wooden bench under him squeaking with each bounce.

"I've been indulging in the pleasures of the flesh, Father."

Johnny looks at the screen between him and Simon, wishing he could see his face, gauge his reaction. The sound of fabric shifting comes from the other side.

"Continue."

Father Riley replied curtly. Johnny stammered,

"I, wha-well,"

"Perissology is unbecoming of a priest, MacTavish. Excessive speech should be a sin in and of itself."

Of course Father Riley thought that. The man is laconic and enigmatic by his very nature, the complete opposite of Johnny's disposition. Johnny's mind was going a mile a minute, he wound his rosary so tightly around his fist, it would surely leave dents on his skin.

"I do not control my thoughts or imaginations. I am not chaste, I-"

His jaw locks up, the word refusing to leave his throat. Simon gives an admonitory grunt before Johnny continues,

"I stimulate myself."

"How often?"

Simon's response was quick, like he already had the question lined up for him.

"Every night."

"What do you think about?"

Johnny doesn't want to answer that. To even think of it is an affront to all he believes in. Father doesn't skip a beat,

"Johnny."

Johnny chews his lip, Father Riley was someone he held in very, very high regards. Looked up to him in a way that boarded blasphemy. If he wasn't already serving another God, he'd be at Simon's feet with no hesitation.

"Kyle...John...You..."

Each name came out slower than the last, he always thought confession as something that took a weight off his chest, but right now his heart is as the heaviest it's ever been.

"What about us?"

It was like Simon enjoyed making him suffer. It is only right, Johnny thought to himself, it's a part of his penance. In a sense, Johnny enjoyed suffering at Simon's hand, seemed like he was the only one to give him the proper punishment for his transgressions. Actually made him feel like he properly attoned for his sins.

"I think of touching them. You. This is all I can remember. I am sorry for these and all my sins"

Johnny doesn't fight with himself telling Simon everything he wants to know now. Father would get the truth out of him one way or another eventually. He was nearly omniscient in that way.

"Hm."

Was all he heard from the other side of the booth. It was silent aside from the occasional sound of breathing from either side of the confessional.

"Father?"

Johnny, as untouched as a priest nowadays could be, couldn't fathom the idea of Simon, the man that he held closer to his heart than God himself sometimes, doing something as blasphemous as fucking his fist in one of the most sacred places of this church to the thought of one of the Deacons he prays with every day.

"Penance. Right."

Simon clears his throat,

"I will guide you through prayer in my office."

"Office, Father Riley?"

"Father Price has to take confession in the next 5 minutes."

The office is nothing to write home about. A little stuffy thing with a wooden desk, two chairs in front of it and a larger, plush chair behind. It doubled as the library as well, the old books permeating that signature musky, almost floral scent. Johnny stood in front of the desk, crossing himself before bowing his head.

"Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body."

Simon recited, walking around him to get to his desk. There was a pause, an indication for Johnny to start praying,

"I beseech Thee, O Lord, to grant us the pardon of my sins,"

There was the sound of a drawer opening and some shuffling of papers. Simon opened another drawer,

"Continue."

"For Thee have tried to keep the purity of my body, and to Thee have I entrusted my soul,"

Johnny was almost tempted to look up from prayer to see what the small thud from Simon was.

"If you live according to the flesh you will die, but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live."

Simon said. Johnny furrowed his brows, keeping his head down,

"Yes, Father."

There was a click, the opening of a box. Then, the unmistakable jingle of what could only be chains.

"Head down, MacTavish."

Simon always knew what Johnny wanted to do next. Sometimes it felt like Simon knew him better than he knew himself. Slow, heavy steps approached him, they stopped right behind him. As Simon reached around him, he held his breath. A cold metal pressed against his neck, it made him jolt, his eyes snapping open.

"Relax."

Johnny straightened up, the metal dug into the tender flesh of his neck.

"A cilice. Originally made of horsehair, it has evolved to be more effective in the way of mortification."

A glorified prong collar. Simon clipped it closed, giving it a gentle tug that made him gasp,

"Proceed."

"Uh- I,"

"Johnny."

Simon growled, threatening to tighten the device.

"W-wherefore, preserve Thou Thy lamb, O good Shepherd,"

Johnny nearly blacked out when Simon pushed his back, making him prop himself up by his hands on the desk in front of him.

"Do not permit-"

His voice was barely above a whisper. Simon, slipped a finger under the back of the chain and tugged,

"Do you believe in God, MacTavish?"

"Of course, Father."

"Then pray like you do."

Between the spikes digging into his neck and blood rushing to his dick, Johnny was feeling faint,

"Do not permit the beast which seeketh to devour me,"

A moan was ripped right out of his throat when Simon, grabs his hip and grinds himself against Johnny. Tears welled up in Johnny's eyes while Simon pulled at the collar harder,

"To consume me,"

Struggling to get the words out. His knees nearly gave out when Simon reached around, undoing his pants, shoving a cold hand down to grip him tightly.

"To consume me,"

Johnny repeated. A calloused thumb worked his precome over his sensitive tip. He nearly whimpered when the large hand pulled away from his shaft. He did whimper when a foot pushed one of his to move to the side, opening his legs more. Behind him there was a spitting sound before a smack to his entrance made him dig his nails into the desk that supported his weight.

"And grant me to prevail over,"

An undignified moan came from Johnny and a hiss of a sharp breath came from Father Riley while his fat, drooling tip pushed into Johnny.

"Simo-"

"Keep going."

Another tug of the collar and the dam broke, rivers of Johnny's tears rushed down his blushing cheeks. His words warbled,

"The evil desires of my flesh."

A hum of approval came from behind him while Simon's hips met his. There was an approving pat on his hip,

"Good lad."

Johnny chewed his lip; it hurt, it was hell, it was agonizing. Then Simon rocked his hips.

"Fucking hell, Simon!"

Simon kisses his teeth disapprovingly, yanking the cilice to past the point of pain. The small metal spikes threatened to break skin. Johnny's back was now pressed up against Simon's chest. By the grace of God, or Father Riley, he started off with slow strokes, letting Johnny adjust to the size of him. There wasn't really a way to adjust to Simon's size though, especially for the inexperienced. There was only enough pleasure to push through the pain and ask for more. And Father Riley, the gracious man he is, gave him more. Gave him more until Johnny's spend shot up in thick ropes, staining his collared shirt. Gave him more until Johnny's voice was hoarse from repeating his name. Gave him more until Johnny had no more tears to cry. Gave him more until Simon's spend was running down his leg. Only then did Father Riley grant Johnny the relief to breathe again. While reciting the prayer of Absolution, Simon cleaned up the scene. Cilice undone and set back in its box. Boxers pulled up and slacks buttoned up. A sigh came from Father Riley when he stepped back to look at Johnny,

"Straight to the priory, can't let anyone see you like this."

Simon straightened out Johnny's collar and ran a hand through his hair, gripping it lightly to make him look up, planting a rough kiss on his trembling lips,

"Go in peace."

"Thanks be to God."

Johnny responded, not too sure which one he was thanking.

[postersofleon]

religious trauma with leon kennedy, dash of smut; no minors, afab.

- leon and you basically grew up together in the catholic church. unfortunately for the two of you, you grew up in a very obsessive and scary way of religion. basically it's religious ocd and intrusive thoughts.

- leon became a cop wanting to help people while you became a something equal to him. leon and you have a constant fear of god. you two are useless virgins who just want to please god.

- when the events of raccoon city happened, leon thought he betrayed god for not helping people, and he was having to suffer the nightmares for his sins. he was having night terrors of the devil. he was weeping and he had to call you.

- two traumatized religious people are praying for leon, for the arcangel michael to protect leon from the devil and the arcangel gabriel to heal his mind. oh, they are horrible in the sense of way.

- leon and you cuddle and leon feels safe.

- you temporarily live with him and go to church. something is happening between you two, it was pure angst of leon crying and you consoling him. he sees you as his angel and he hates himself.

- but you notice something different. it took time and you ask him, "during the... raccoon city tragedy, a woman kissed me." leon looked nervous to mention it. "i temporarily let my lust win." you looked shocked. "the mercenary?" leon...

- you press the cross on his forehead as you sat on his lap, "leon..." leon accept his scolding, his eyes closed and felt good. "Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among..."

- something snapped in leon, he adored this scolding, but he hated how he felt cock twitch. you pressed the cross closer to him. "you were in hell." you whispered softly. leon nodded his head, he couldn't agree more. tears poured in his eyes, he couldn't control himself. "help me."

- you pushed him to the couch, leon was panicking as tears appeared more and more. his mind was being desired by the devil laughing. "please, please," leon sobbed softly, "god help me."

- you muttered softly a prayer as you prayed over and over. leon wasn't even thinking about anything, his hand twitched. did god hate him? why did his cock ache? you tie his hands with his rosary, leon groaned weakly.

- you began to panic. his noises, his cries- they made your heart flutter.

- adam and eve. leon was eve and you were adam. leon had tasted the sin and now you were crawling. this was a new feeling. tears formed in your eyes.

leon's cock was the prettiest shade of pink you have ever seen. leon and you didn't know what to do, his arms were tied with the your rosary. his arms twitched, his biceps tensed up and so did his pecs. holy god, he looked beautiful as weeped. his cock was leaking his cum, tears over and over of his seed. sex isn't for pleasure, it's only for procreation yet why did you and him need it.

your cunt felt that unfamiliar feeling. god! oh, heavenly father you needed to feel it. your hand gently touched his tip and leon whined weakly. his cheeks were red, his eyes were closed. they were going to hell. you closed your own eyes as you took off your lower clothes.

your cunt was wet and needy. "leon..." your eyes opened, "i don't know..." leon's hips buckled a bit, you noticed how pretty his body was. his black shirt was up to his tummy, his well defined body made you so stupidly weak. his happy trail... his cum.

you gently grabbed his cock and pressed his tip around your folds. leon whined louder. his tip was collecting all of your wetness, but when it touched your clit it was your turn to groan. neither you or leon had ever even masturbated. it was sin yet why? why? "leon..." your mind was thinking of hell as his tip found your hole. your cunt clenched pathetically.

leon couldn't even control his hands, his dumb sinful hands were wrapped around your rosary so it was just you slowly going down. it burns! the details of his cock were slowly forming a spot inside of you. your whines became louder. slowly and painfully, you sat on his cock. your mind was rotted, leon had never imagined your cunt to feel so good. tears poors from your eyes. you two were scared of god, every detail of god watching you two, but you couldn't stop.

you carefully took off the rosary from his arms, "i'm-" you were stumbling with your words, "i'm sorry." leon understood. this was new. his hand was on your hip, he was scared ro touch you more despite his needy cock deep in you.

now what?

leon's hand gently moved your hip closer. leon was gasping weakly, he found the code to make this work even more. he felt his heart beating fast as his hips moved up and down. your soft walls of your cunt clenched pathetic. leon won't last long. his other hand grabbed the back of your neck as he gasped weakly. your tears poured from your eyes, you were scared of hell. there was a reason why god made sex feel so good.

your eyes closed, you were trying to connect with god. you needed to apologize to god for having sex with your best friend. leon planted kisses on your jaw and neck and you pressed closer to him to him and leon cummed. you groan weakly, feeling his seed deep in you, but something was bothering you. you were still needy. you didn't cum.

[her-satanic-wiles]

Welcome to my masterlist!

Commissions are closed!

All my fics, unless stated otherwise, are 18+. So please proceed with caution, and minors do not interact.

If it has a red DF, it means it's dark fiction, and you should heed the trigger warnings. I would actually recommend to people 21+.

If it has a blue S, it means the work is sapphic.

If it has a purple A, it means the work is achillean.

If it has a green GN, it means the reader is gender neutral.

If it has a pink PS, it means the reader is plus size.

No bound copies, translations, or other derivative works of these fics may be created or distributed without express permission from the author, for monetary gain or public use.

Major thank you to @da-rulah for beta reading all of these!

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Enjoy your stay!

Series

Coming soon...

One shots

Titfucking, (Kinktober 2023) PS “Earthly Delight” by @thew0man ART

Glory Hole, (Kinktober 2023) GN

Pregnancy, (Kinktober 2023)

Guess Who? PS

Caning (Kinktober 2024) GN

Series

Divine Desires [COMING SOON] PS

You grew up in the Catholic Church as the daughter of a very powerful Cardinal. However, in your early adulthood, the reigning Pope dies, and the title falls to your father. You learn, as the daughter of a Catholic official, that there are two sides to every story. This lesson is taught by your Satanic counterpart, who does his fair share of opening your eyes to the world around you.

One shots

Hate Sex, (Catholic!Reader) (Kinktober 2023) ⛧ Part 2

Public Sex, (Kinktober 2023) DF (21+)

Lupercalia

Bejewelled

Guess Who? PS

Series

Coming soon...

One shots

Collaring, (Kinktober 2023)

Medical Play, (Kinktober 2023) GN

Threesome or moresome, (+Era 3 Ghouls) (Kinktober 2023) DF (21+)

Thigh Fucking, (Kinktober 2023) PS

Double Penetration In Two Holes, (ft. Cardinal Copia) (Kinktober 2023) A GN

Teratophilia, (Kinktober 2023) DF (21+) PS

Guess Who? PS

Frottage (Kinktober 2024) GN

Series

Dawn Chorus ⛧ Masterlist DF (21+)

When you question the Almighty for a third time, you find yourself on the run and escaping a horde of wrathful angels ready to punish you for your insolence. Whose garden should you fall into than Cardinal Copia’s? And he has more nefarious plans for you.

Hellish Delights ⛧ Masterlist DF (21+)

After a ritual went wrong, you were left to deal with the consequences. Since that fateful night, your moral compass smashed to pieces and you began to feed into your deepest, darkest desires as you continue to come to terms with the traumatic night in question. With the help of two of the people closest to you, you take part in the ultimate sins of the flesh.

Lost in Translation ⛧ Masterlist

As the newly appointed Cardinal Copia struggles with the weight of a looming prophecy, a resilient scholar challenges the narrative, uncovering a conspiracy that reaches beyond the walls of the Ministry. The emergence of a forbidden love ignites a rebellion against a power-hungry Sister, whose thirst for control threatens to reshape the very foundations of the Church. Will the revelation of those schemes lead to liberation or plunge the Ministry into chaos?

One shots

Pegging (Kinktober 2023) GN

Praise Kink, (Kinktober 2023) PS

Olfactophilia, (Kinktober 2023)

Double Penetration In Two Holes, (ft. Papa Emeritus III) (Kinktober 2023) A GN

Free Use, (Kinktober 2023)

Midnight Surveillance DF (21+)

Tulips and Daisies

Guess Who? PS

Piss Kink (Kinktober 2024)

Aphrodisiac (Kinktober 2024) PS

Series

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One shots

Dubcon, (Fan roleplay) (Kinktober 2023) DF (21+)

Orgasm Denial (Kinktober 2023)

Deepthroating & Face Sitting (Kinktober 2023) DF (21+)

Mary "Piss Boy" Goore PS

Era 3

Alpha

Series

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One shots

Threesome or moresome, (+Era 3 Ghouls & Terzo) (Kinktober 2023) DF (21+)

Gale

Series

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One shots

Threesome or moresome, (+Era 3 Ghouls & Terzo) (Kinktober 2023) DF (21+)

Moss

Series

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One shots

Threesome or moresome, (+Era 3 Ghouls & Terzo) (Kinktober 2023) DF (21+)

Omega

Series

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One shots

Threesome or moresome, (+Era 3 Ghouls & Terzo) (Kinktober 2023) DF (21+)

Stream

Series

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One shots

Threesome or moresome, (+Era 3 Ghouls & Terzo) (Kinktober 2023) DF (21+)

Eras 4 & 5

Aurora

Series

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One shots

Food Play (Kinktober 2023) S

Cirrus

Series

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One shots

Sensory Deprivation (Kinktober 2023) S

Object Penetration (Toys - Not Worn) (Kinktober 2024) S

Cumulus

Series

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One shots

Sex Toys (Kinktober 2023) S

Dewdrop

Series

Realm of Souls ⛧ Masterlist DF (21+) A

In the eerie moonlit forest, you are ensnared in a nightmarish game of hide and seek with the malevolent entity Dewdrop, whose demonic force has targeted you. The chilling objective is to survive until sunrise, seeking refuge in the Ministry’s cabin deep within the sinister woods. With the dawn as your only salvation, you must navigate the haunted forest, outwit the relentless demon, and reach safety before Dewdrop claims you as his prize. The race against time intensifies, making the night unforgiving as you strive to survive until sunrise in this twisted pursuit.

One shots

Stuck in Wall (Kinktober 2023) DF (21+)

Panic Attacks and Comfort (ft. Swiss) SFW.

Topping from the Bottom (Kinktober 2024) GN

Mountain

Series

Coming soon...

One shots

Size Kink (Kinktober 2023) GN

Magical Fleshlight (Kinktober 2024)

Phantom

Series

The Cardinal ⛧ Masterlist

You got a promotion, and a new promotion means a new uniform and your very own Ghoul-in-training! That Ghoul just so happens to be your closest friend, Phantom. However, your new uniform and position does something to Phantom that gets harder and harder to deny.

One shots

Coming soon...

Rain

Series

Coming soon...

One shots

Rimming (Kinktober 2023) GN

Fuck or Die (Kinktober 2024)

Swiss

Hellish Delights ⛧ Masterlist DF (21+)

After a ritual went wrong, you were left to deal with the consequences. Since that fateful night, your moral compass smashed to pieces and you began to feed into your deepest, darkest desires as you continue to come to terms with the traumatic night in question. With the help of two of the people closest to you, you take part in the ultimate sins of the flesh.

Coming soon...

One shots

Panties & Lingerie, (Kinktober 2023)

Breathplay, (Kinktober 2023)

Panic Attacks and Comfort (ft. Dewdrop) SFW.

Papa Emeritus Nihil

Series

Coming soon...

One shots

Breeding (Kinktober 2023) DF (21+)

Writing on the Body (Kinktober 2024)

Sister Imperator

Series

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One shots

Coming soon...

2023 2024

[pmamtraveller]

JULIUS LEBLANC STEWART - REDEMPTION, 1905

Stewart gained fame for his paintings that showcased the Belle Époque era in Paris, France, a time of flourishing arts due to prosperity and wealth. Stewart, an American citizen, lived abroad in Paris for his entire adult life. While Stewart usually depicted his friends in the upper circles of Parisian society, this artwork shows his desire to pursue artistic goals beyond just portraits.

In the painting, Stewart contrasts the woman in white, who has recently repented of her sins as a prostitute and is now virtuous, with Mary Magdalene and the rest of the crowd. The image of Jesus on the cross in the background and the title of this art piece suggest that her soul has been saved.

Her almost claw-like left hand tightly holds onto the table, which is scattered with the remnants of her previous lifestyle. The man on the right is making advances towards the woman in black, whose dress reflects her inner essence. In the background, a woman is openly smoking in a group of people of different genders.

There was an increasing trend of disapproval towards the decadence of the Belle Époque. The increasing wealth led to more relaxed moral standards. Despite being part of the group he was criticizing, Stewart later in his life utilized his art, like this painting, to address that same theme.

[lesbehonestsstuff]

Catholic guilt

Casey Novak has always been the good catholic girl. Always perfect, always trying to meet high expectations. But she doesn’t understand why she feels no interested in the boys who flirted with her, why her eyes instead linger on other girls.

Word count: 3061

Chapter 1/?

Casey Novak sat stiffly in her homeroom desk, her back aching as Sister Alma's lecture on purity droned on. The nun’s voice was a monotonous hum, filling the air with warnings of temptation, sin, and eternal damnation. Outside, the late afternoon sun poured through the tall windows, making the room feel oppressive, like the heat was pressing in from all sides.

Casey stared out the window, barely hearing the words anymore. Her mind was elsewhere—far from the rigid lessons of St. Mary’s and the suffocating expectations of her small-town life. Instead, her thoughts drifted toward something she knew was forbidden, something she had tried and failed to ignore for years.

Women.

Beautiful, untouchable, forbidden.

From as early as she could remember, she had tried to fit into the mold that was expected of her. But it was like something inside her was broken. Whenever the other girls whispered and giggled about boys between classes, Casey felt nothing but an aching emptiness. She pretended to care, nodding along when they mentioned the latest crush or some boy’s smile, but the hollow feeling never left. She didn’t understand why she didn’t feel the way she was supposed to. There was no desire, no excitement. Only confusion. She should have been interested in the boys who flirted with her or tried to catch her eye at school dances. But she wasn’t. She never was.

Instead, her eyes always lingered on the other girls—the way they moved, the curve of their lips, their soft laughter. She would feel a strange flutter in her stomach, her skin prickling with warmth when one of them smiled at her. At first, she didn’t understand. She thought it was just admiration, just a deep yearning to be like them. But as time went on, she knew it was more than that.

It wasn’t admiration. It was desire.

The guilt that followed these thoughts was unbearable, like a heavy stone pressing down on her chest. From as early as she could remember, Casey’s mother had emphasized one thing: the importance of maintaining their family’s image. The Novaks weren’t the wealthiest family in their small town, but they were respected.

Her father, an Air Force officer, was rarely home, and even when he was, he treated Casey like another duty, another task on his long list of responsibilities. His rare smiles were saved for medals and achievements—not her. She had learned to live with that, to accept the coldness. But it still hurt, in a way that left her feeling small and invisible.

Nonetheless her mother was still strict, controlling, and obsessed with appearances, constantly reminding Casey that she had to behave, dress, and think like a lady. That was the only way to secure a good future—find a husband, raise children, and uphold the family’s good name.

“You’re not trying hard enough, Casey,” her mother would say, her voice tight with frustration. “If you don’t learn how to present yourself properly, no man will want you. You want to be a good wife someday, don’t you? You want a respectable life? Then start acting like it.”

Casey didn’t want to disappoint her mother. But the feeling she got when she saw women—beautiful, confident women in magazines or on TV, or even the older girls at school would make her stomach flutter, her heart race, and her mind fill with images she didn’t know how to process. Women were supposed to be her role models, the ones she admired. She wasn’t supposed to want them.

She remembered the first time she had really felt it. She had been thirteen, sitting on the beach with her family during a summer vacation. Her mother had been dozing beside her in the sun, and Casey’s eyes had wandered, watching the people walking along the shore. Then, she had seen her. A woman in a bright red swimsuit, her skin bronzed from the sun, her body graceful and confident as she moved through the sand. Casey had felt something stir deep inside her, something that made her pulse quicken and her cheeks burn.

It had been a terrifying feeling, but also exhilarating. She couldn’t stop looking at the woman—at the way her body moved, the way her hair shimmered in the sunlight and her curves were highlighted by the tight swimsuit. Her mother’s voice had broken the spell, scolding her for staring, reminding her of modesty and virtue. "Stop gawking, Casey. It’s unladylike."

The guilt that followed had nearly crushed her. That night, she had prayed harder than she ever had before, begging God to take the feelings away, to make her normal.

But He never did.

As the years passed, Casey’s fascination with women only grew, along with the shame. She began secretly tearing out pages from magazines—the ones featuring actresses, models, and anyone else who made her stomach flutter with feelings she didn’t fully understand. One of those pages was from a piece they had done on Thelma and Louise. The sight of the two women on top of that car, jeans and t-shirts, carefree and defiant, had made something click inside her. They weren’t just beautiful. They were wild. Free. Everything Casey wasn’t but desperately wanted to be.

Her mother, of course, had condemned the movie the moment it was mentioned in church, branding it as "sinful, feminist propaganda." She had called it "disgusting" and said it was designed to "turn young girls away from the path of God." Her exact words still rang in Caseys ear “That movie’s disgusting. Trying to make girls like think they can run wild. And don’t even think they were going to fool us, it’s pure propaganda. Can’t believe they’d let women act like that on screen. A bunch of sinful nonsense if you ask me, trying to turn our daughters into... into queers. You stay away from stuff like that, Casey. It’ll lead you straight to hell."

Casey had sat at the dinner table that night, quietly eating her meal while her mother ranted, feeling her heart race. What if she knew?

Casey had learned to live with the guilt, to shove it down deep inside her, where no one could see it. But it was always there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting to rise again the next time she saw a pretty girl in the hallways.

At school the library became her safe space. The one place where she could be alone, where no one was watching her, where she didn’t have to pretend to be something she wasn’t. She spent hours there after school, claiming to be at Bible study or working on extra credit for her classes, to appease her mother. The truth was, she just needed to be away from her mother’s scrutinizing gaze and the unbearable pressure of being "the perfect daughter."

That day, she sat in her usual corner, far from the windows, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the floor. Her economics textbook lay open in front of her, but her mind was elsewhere. She opened the book slowly, letting the magazine pages come into view. The Thelma and Louise image slip out just enough for her to see it. Her heart sped up as she stared at the two women so beautiful and free.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps interrupted her thoughts, and before she could react, the book slipped from her hands, papers scattering across the floor. Casey’s heart leaped in panic as she saw the page from the magazine pages slide out, some landing face up. She scrambled to pick up her things, but before she could grab them, a hand reached down and picked it up.

Alex Cabot.

Casey’s breath caught in her throat.

Alex was a senior, tall and elegant, with blonde hair that seemed to glow under the library’s dim lighting. She had an air of sophistication and mystery about her that made her stand out among the other girls at St. Mary’s. Alex’s family was old money, the kind that carried power and influence. Her parents were rarely around, always off traveling or attending social events, leaving Alex to fend for herself. She seemed untouched by the gossip and drama that plagued the school, always maintaining a calm, composed demeanor.

Rumors swirled around her, though. Whispers in the hallways hinted that Alex had been sent to St. Mary’s after some sort of scandal—something involving another girl, though no one knew for sure. Casey had noticed Alex from the moment she set foot in the school. Everyone did. But while other girls admired or were jelous of Alex for her beauty and grace, Casey couldn’t help the way her stomach flipped whenever Alex was near. She was everything Casey was not—confident, self-assured, and untouchable.

Now, Alex was standing in front of her, holding the pages Casey had tried so hard to keep hidden.

“This is a great movie,” Alex said softly, her voice calm. She smiled, a warm, knowing smile, and glanced down at the image. “They’re beautiful, don’t you think?”

Casey’s face burned with embarrassment. Her heart pounded in her chest as she stared up at Alex, unsure of how to respond. The shame and fear from all those years under her mother’s judgment flooded her, mixing with something else, something she couldn’t quite name. Alex wasn’t mocking her. She wasn’t laughing. There was no disgust in her eyes, only understanding.

“I... I haven’t seen it,” Casey mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. “My mom said... it’s wrong.”

Alex raised an eyebrow, but her expression didn’t change. “Parents can be wrong,” she said gently, handing the pictures back to Casey. “They’re just scared of things they don’t understand.”

Casey’s fingers shook a little as she took the picture back, their hands brushing for a brief second. The touch sent a jolt through Casey, a warmth that spread through her, both thrilling and terrifying. She didn’t know why she had said anything, why she had even spoken at all. But Alex’s calm, nonjudgmental presence made her feel safe, like maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t wrong in her feelings.

Alex stood, smoothing her skirt and holding her hand out to help Casey up. “If you ever want to watch it, I have a copy,” she offered. “It’s worth it.”

Casey’s head was spinning. Why was Alex being so... nice? Why wasn’t she laughing or disgusted? She wanted to disappear, but at the same time, she didn’t want Alex to leave. There was something comforting in Alex’s presence, something that made her feel safe.

“Wait,” Casey blurted out before she could stop herself. “Do you... maybe want to study? We’re both in econ...”

Alex’s smile widened, a bright smile so beautiful it nearly melted Casey “Sure,” she said simply, pulling out a chair beside Casey. “Let’s study.”

Casey’s heart pounded in her chest. She didn’t know why she had asked, didn’t understand what had made her want to keep Alex here. But Alex seemed different than the rest of the girls, and Casey couldn’t keep her curiosity about this beautiful girl at bay.

That night, Casey stood under the shower, letting the scalding water wash over her. She scrubbed at her skin, as if she could cleanse herself of the guilt that clung to her. The memory of Alex’s smile, the warmth of her touch, her beauty, played over and over in her mind.

Her hands shook as she turned off the water. She could still feel the heat in her cheeks from earlier, the way her heart had raced when their fingers touched. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head like a cruel refrain: "You can't give into temptation Casey its sinful."

But Casey didn’t feel pure. She felt stained, marked by desires she couldn’t control, ones she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Pulling on her pajamas, she knelt beside her bed and clasped her hands together, taking a couple of deep breathsm trying to make sense of everything she was feeling.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

The words came out in a whisper, hollow and automatic. She had prayed this prayer countless times, begging for the feelings to go away. But tonight, as her hands clenched together in desperate prayer, all she could see was Alex. Alex’s smile, her understanding eyes, her voice saying, They’re beautiful, don’t you think? as if it wasn’t a sin at all to think so.

And for the first time, Casey wasn’t sure if she wanted to be forgiven at all.

Nonetheless Casey pressed her hands together harder, whispering her prayer with more urgency.

She didn’t dare admit it—not to herself, not in the silence of her room—but she knew that when Alex had looked at her, she had felt attraction like never before and it scared her.

The next day at school, Casey found herself walking the halls with her body tense and her head jumbled. She had been on edge since the moment she’d left her house that morning, her mother’s voice still in her ears, urging her to fix her hair, straighten her uniform, act like a “lady.”

She moved quickly down the hallway and then there was Alex.

As soon as she saw Alex in the hallway, her stomach flipped, the same fluttery feeling she had when she looked at the pictures in magazines. Alex was standing near her locker, her blonde hair falling effortlessly over her shoulders as she spoke to another girl from their economics class. She looked so at ease, so self-assured, like nothing in the world could touch her.

Casey didn’t know how to feel. She didn’t want to want Alex’s attention, but she did. And that was the problem.

Alex spotted her from across the hall, her blue eyes flicking toward Casey the easy smile returned to her lips, and she raised a hand in a casual wave.

Casey blushed instantly, her heart hammering in her chest. She tried to look away, but something in Alex’s gaze held her there, like an invisible tether between them.

She swallowed hard, pushing through the crowd of students and making her way to her locker, trying to ignore the way her hands fumbled with the lock.

“Hey,” Alex’s voice was soft and calm behind her. Casey didn’t even hear her approach until she was right there, standing beside her.

“Hey,” Casey mumbled, her cheeks burning as she shoved a textbook into her bag. She couldn’t meet Alex’s eyes, afraid she might just combust if she did.

“You alright?” Alex asked, leaning casually against the lockers, her eyes scanning Casey’s face.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Casey lied quickly, her voice higher-pitched than usual. She could feel Alex’s eyes on her, studying her in that quiet, thoughtful way she had, and it made her nervous, like Alex could see right through her.

Alex didn’t push. “I’ve been thinking about that econ class,” she said, changing the subject. “We could meet in the library again after school, if you’re free. I have some notes we could go over.”

Casey blinked, thrown off by Alex’s casual tone.

“Um, yeah. I guess I could do that,” Casey said, her voice shaky. Part of her wanted to run, to avoid Alex, to hide away in her guilt and shame, but another part of her—one she didn’t understand—wanted to be near Alex, to feel that warmth of being next to her again.

Alex smiled that same soft smile that made Casey’s heart skip a beat, and looked her up and down almost like she was cheking her out. “Great. See you after school.”

And just like that, she was gone, slipping back into the crowd of students, leaving Casey standing there, her chest tight with a mix of fear and excitement she didn’t know how to handle.

That afternoon, when Casey found herself sitting across from Alex in the library again, the air between them felt charged. They sat in the same spot as yesterday, their textbooks open between them, but Casey could barely focus on the pages.

Alex had that same calm presence about her, leaning back in her chair, her blue eyes occasionally glancing up from her notes to look at Casey. Every time Alex’s gaze landed on her, Casey felt her pulse quicken, her face warm under the weight of it.

“You’re pretty quiet today,” Alex said after a while, her voice gentle, like she was testing the waters. “Everything okay?”

Casey hesitated, unsure how to respond. She could feel the words piling up in her throat, the weight of all the things she couldn’t say. “Yeah, I just... didn’t sleep well,” she lied.

Alex tilted her head, as if she could tell Casey wasn’t being completely honest, but she didn’t push. “You know, I get that. Sometimes it’s hard to shut off all the noise in your head.”

Casey nodded, chewing her lip. The noise in her head never stopped—her mother’s lectures, her father’s stern orders, the whispers of guilt that kept swirling around inside her. And now, Alex’s face, Alex’s voice, was adding to the chaos.

“What kind of noise?” Casey found herself asking before she could stop herself.

Alex glanced down at her notes, her fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the table. “The kind that tells you who you’re supposed to be. What’s expected of you. But sometimes... it’s not who you actually are.

Casey’s stomach tightened. She knew exactly what Alex was talking about, but she didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t want to let herself go there. Not yet.

“But... what if who you are is wrong?” The words slipped out before Casey could stop them, barely more than a whisper.

Alex looked up at her, something soft and sad in her eyes. “I don’t think people are wrong for being who they are. I think other people make them feel that way.”

The air between them seemed to grow heavier, filled with unspoken things. Casey swallowed hard, trying to find her voice but swallowed it down.

Alex leaned forward slightly, her eyes locking onto Casey’s. “You’re allowed to be yourself, Casey. Even if it doesn’t fit into the box other people want you to stay in.”

Casey felt her throat tighten a the unspoken implication. She wanted to believe Alex, wanted to let go of the guilt that had been suffocating her for so long. But it wasn’t that simple. It couldn’t be. Right?