#priest!abby

[fakevalentine]

omgomg older priest!abby x church going reader bot

" trust in his mercy . "

click 2 chat !

[catfern]

𝓭𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓯𝓾𝓬𝓴 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼𝓽 𝓸𝓻 𝓭𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓯𝓾𝓬𝓴 𝓰𝓸𝓭?

𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓯𝓾𝓬𝓴 𝓰𝓸𝓭?

𝓸𝓱 𝔂𝓮𝓼

[tevanbuckley]

it’s actually hilarious they’re still getting cooked in the ig comments.

[love-laugh-daydreamarevolt]

I CAN'T BELIEVE TWO OF THIS FANDOMS MOST CRACK THEORIES (AFFECTIONATE) CAME TRUE IN THE SAME EPISODE I AM SCREAMING

[thosesillylittlegayghosts]

Finally able to watch 911 and WHAT THE FUCK THIS IS SO CHAOTIC

[084thoughts]

Buck now canonically fucked 4 people that appeared or was mentioned in the pilot of 911. Oh, and the hot priest was there.

[calicomarie11]

Ngl, kinda wish that we had a break after this episode because I’m going to need more than a week to process everything.

[skarkkk]

I have so many thoughts about this episode and I can't even put them in order, but anyway.

First,

Can we talk about how significant it is that Madney's relationship is as open and transparent as it is now compared to when they started? The fact that they want to have another child and that they've talked about their feelings, and that they've actually talked about Maddie's postpartum depression, they're an amazing couple, but it's also kind of terrifying. Everything in their romance needed chaos before the calm and a new child comes along, adopted or not? What could that lead to? Nothing permanently bad, since it's the last season, but still. There's a lot of exploration to be had, in terms of his fears and how they both have complicated relationships with siblings and family. Chim having Kevin, Albert (and I like to think, Ravi) and losing one of them, starting out chaotic with Albert and almost losing him. Maddie and her "I've got your back" relationship with Buck, plus those years when she was with Doug and he thought she was dead. Will this affect raising two kids or am I overthinking it?

Second,

The priest and Eddie. I confess that I shipped them for a moment during the juice scene. I found the part where Eddie thought the priest was hitting on him a bit funny, the whole "I'm straight - I'm celibate" thing, first because you're not straight Eddie (I hope), second because it really seemed like he was going to be hit on. I cried, for real, when he was talking to the priest and thinking he shouldn't be forgiven. "And you had parents who loved you?" No. Can we go over how Eddie's parents are overcompensating with Chris trying to keep him for the things they didn't do to Eddie? Like they supposed to be real parents? And how did Eddie seem to not even notice that? At least, in my opinion. The confession scene, him calling Buck his best friend. I wonder if the priest came all Bobby on Eddie. I wonder if he'll show up again and if so, why and for what? Acceptance of sexuality? Reassurance that real religion doesn't condemn homosexuality? Or reassurance that God wanted Eddie to be happy the way he is? Because I hope he ends the series happy, with or without Buddie.

Third,

Tommy being Abby's Tommy. This one is short, but I loved ABC for actually doing this, even though it led to what it did, even though it seemed inevitable what happened to them. Like, he got engaged to Abby, who is Buck's ex, and the relationship that made him a really better person, the relationship that made Tommy feel oppressed and then free. You could basically say that she shaped both of them into who they are so that they could find each other and end up like she ended up with them? Alone, single.

Fourth,

Their breakup. I loved that despite the gender difference, Buck continued to be the same in the sense of rushing things. 6 months and he invited him to move in with him. And everything went downhill from there. And don't get me wrong, I know this could lead to buddie, but can we focus on how this could have been better used? Like Tommy or not, but he was Buck's first guy, first kiss, first date, first crush, first time (?), everything that could have been more presented and shown to the audience. It fits the aesthetic of the show that they ended it that way and that this is technically Buck's most amicable breakup under a good relationship of his (except, probably, Alli or Abby) but still.

Fifth,

The basketball tickets. A small point, probably, but the plan was for them to go together. Think about how Tommy got basketball tickets and the only time Buck really went through with it was because of jealousy, and how he doesn't like it. So they broke up, and who do you think he's going to invite or give the tickets to? Eddie. So it's going to be a date, because I bet Buck is going to think about how if they hadn't broken up he'd be there with Tommy but no, he's there with Eddie and it's going to be like poker night but with something extra, even if it doesn't lead to buddy and more to post-breakup angst.

Sixth,

Appreciation to Josh because he's awesome. Ironic that he gave that advice and was sweet, but it didn't do any good because Tommy seems to be afraid of commitment to Buck or not as passionate about it.

Seventh, Tommy and his relationship with Buck being superficial. I may have misunderstood, because besides English not being my first language there were no subtitles, but it seemed so easy how he let their relationship end because it was moving too fast and because "I'm your first guy, not your last" and how he didn't fight for it? It wasn't an obligation, but shouldn't you at least try to be with the one you like or love? I like Tommy, yes, and I like them together, and how cute they were and it was all healthy and patient and then it wasn't anymore? because Buck rushed and Tommy backed off and "are you breaking up with me? - yeah, I guess I am"

Eighth,

Eddie's happiness. I liked his mustache, but I liked the representation that by getting rid of it he would be able to look at himself in the mirror without looking away because it also means that he is starting to heal from the mistakes he has made. That scene of him dancing was so free, spontaneous and out of character compared to the trauma thing and how closed off he may seem, but no, he is just a single father full of trauma who deserves happiness and is starting to realize that again. I thought it was a great reference to Step Up and that shirt of his reminded me of the outfit he wore to Maddie's wedding. When I saw that scene, I just thought Buck was going to visit him about the breakup and I was right. The point is, I missed Eddie's smile and how he looked really good for the first time in a while. Because season three happened, then season four, and then season five came along and it was trauma after trauma and even with therapy there was something missing that I want to heal. He, with his son, the people he loves, his real family (his overprotective mom and dad from the team, his smart older sister, his sarcastic younger brother because in this scenario there is his best friend who is not a brother, because I see the romantic sense, but if he didn't exist he would be the youngest) and the happiness he deserves.

Nine, Mostly it's just a reminder of how Eddie was smiling, in his underwear and a dress shirt, dancing (and looking really hot Ryan) and then Buck shows up looking devastated and he just accepts the beer and leaves them to sit in silence on the couch and then the end. They are, before possible lovers, best friends, soulmates. Because the first person Buck goes to is him (and Maddie, obviously, we never forget her) and when Eddie doesn't know what to do he goes to Buck and how they both can't lie to each other. And how they trust each other and what greater example of a slow burn do we have than that (Destiel walked so Buddie could run)? That Eddie trusts his soul and life (Chris) with Buck more than anyone else and Buck knows it? You may not ship it, but you can't deny that they are soulmates.

Tenth,

The guy sneezed and his guts came out? Holy shit. The woman just had the guy's mother's ashes in her hands. I love It.

Eleventh,

We start with a recreation of the well scene where everything ended well (and I need to look for fanfics later with a scenario where Eddie has a flashback) and without any more trauma for the firefighters because we know those kids are going to need at least some therapy. So the preview for the next episode being a firefighter stuck on a ladder the same way Buck was? Is that a sign? Reliving the protagonists' traumas for some reason and getting over it. Either it's character development in some way I can't quite place or forcing them to acknowledge the times they almost lost each other, but then we need a lot more episodes with the times those idiot kids almost died. But seriously, that has to mean something, right?

Twelfth,

When and how will Chris return? And where are Ravi and May?

ABC, love you

[spooky-donut-ghost-house]

Okay so I sorta have this crazy theory but stick with me here

As we know Alexa has not made her return to WWE and it is still unknown if she's the 6th member of The Wyatt Sick 6

Now if she isn't I have a theory on who could possibly be the 6th member if it's not Alexa

As we know the storyline appears to be about family and grief Bo with Bray and Erick with Bray and Brodie they both lost brothers

Now who else came back roughly around the time The Wyatt Sick 6 stuff started happening who also lost brothers?

Braun Strowman

Much like Bo and Erick, Bray and Brodie were also Braun's brothers

So if Alexa doesn't come back and she's not the 6th member of The Wyatt Sick 6 Braun could possibly be the 6th member perhaps once this business with Chad is done and Braun is done with Damian and Gunther perhaps The Wyatt Sick 6 will turn to Braun as their next target and 6th member

[riptideripley]

As posted on my master list,my requests are now open for requests😇!

↓ People I write for/about ↓

Non Wrestling:

Vi(Arcane)

Abby(TLOU)

Ellie(TLOU)

Valeria Garza

Julien Baker

Billie Ellish

Wrestling:

Rhea Ripley

Roman Reigns

Damian Priest

Cody Rhodes

Jey Uso

Jimmy Uso

Zoey Stark

Charlotte Flair

Dominik Mysterio

Finn Balor

[devil-doll13]

I wonder if Abby would feel comforted or fearful of the priest considering he is an eldritch/demonic/celestial abomination (still working on it, lmao).

Would she keep her distance or be like "They're just like me fr."

I do feel that she harbours a certain uneasiness around priests due to past experiences (the exorcism…). Besides, random man she doesn’t know offering her sanctuary in cathedral in (I think) the bum-fuck middle of nowhere? No thankyouuu

Add to this, perhaps a strange sense of familiarity, the scent of the same otherworldly essence that she carries on herself… She’s more likely to treat him as a potential rival/enemy, far more genuinely dangerous to her than some regular stranger. Besides, Abigail’s probably at a point in her life where she is living like an animal; everything or anyone that could be a threat to her must go.

[catfern]

𝔡𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢

COMING TONIGHT 11PM GMT

[aphrvdisiac]

“The plea falls from your lips, fragile and desperate. “Absolve me of my sins,” you whisper, seeking not forgiveness, but her—only her.”

IM GAGGED. THIS HAD ME GAGGED. THE WRITING HAD ME GASPING AND GOBSMACKED BECAUSE WHATTT???? you’ve literally taken my breath away with this pls .

LADY OF MERCY

PAIRING: priest! abby x reader

CW: angst. religious guilt. internalized homophobia. suggestive(?

SUMMARY: you look for comfort in a sin Abby's there for you to forget.

AN: been in my drafts since september, wasn't meant to be published, was supposed to be a horny small scenario, turned out sad

DON'T BUY TLOU | PALESTINE MP PALESTINE LINKS | DAILY CLICK

TAGLIST | PERM: @twopeoplee @Kaimythically @greysontheidiot @levilvrr @sapphic-ovaries @girlkisser168 @bilsvlt @tlouloser @marsworlddd @1-800-fantasy @ellieswifee232 @prwttiestbunny @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @rob1nbuckl3ys @abbys-muscles @dinakisser @lott6i @imagoddess1 | ABBY: @imdrowningindispair @rkivedpages @aouiaa @grey-jedi12 @bruhhtsukjf @wastdstime @softlikesilk-chiffon @0court

The cathedral is hushed, a stark contrast to your first entrance. The world outside seems to have stilled, no birds or crickets dare disturb the sacred silence. Through the slender windows, perched high upon the cathedral’s walls, a faint, bluish light trickles down, casting ethereal shadows. It no longer glows with the warm orange, as it was when you last sought solace here, when your heart was heavy with unspeakable pain, when you had come in desperate search of solace—of something, anything, to cling to as your spirit threatened to break.

In this profound quiet, the only sound is the echo of Abby's sermons, her words filled with a fervent passion that stirs the souls of the faithful. Her voice is a beacon of light in this holy place, its very cadence soothing the hearts of those who gather in worship.

The congregation hangs on her every word, finding peace in the presence of this aura, a palpable warmth that wraps around with each graceful move, her every step a ritual, her voice harsh yet soothing, a balm for troubled souls.

She offers sanctuary—not just from the world, but from the weight of one’s own vows, from the burden of unspoken confessions. In her presence, the sacred space heightens every emotion, intensifies every thought, until the very air seems charged with divine energy. And you, like so many before you, had approached her in the confessional booth, trembling with the weight of your sins, searching not only for spiritual guidance but for a release from the turmoil within.

Abby had made a promise then—a vow to help you navigate the storm inside your heart. In her eyes, you saw a reflection of your own struggles, and in that moment, you knew she understood your pain.

With each stolen glance and fleeting touch, her teachings became more than spiritual lessons; they became the thread that bound your soul to hers. Days turned into weeks, and your secret meetings became more frequent, your connection deepening with every whispered word.

It was not sin that drove you to her, but a desperate need to purge the temptations that plagued your mind. She assured you that within every confession, there was salvation, within every sin, a path to redemption—and she would be there to guide you through each one, no matter the cost.

You sit in your designated pew, the one you had longed to touch when you first entered this sacred space months ago. Everyone knows that if you are not to be found, you must be here, in this place that has come to feel like your own.

You wait patiently, your eyes finding hers, watching her every move, though this time, no tears mar your face. As the voices of the congregation rise in unison, you join in, your voice mingling with theirs, but your heart is focused solely on her. They offer thanks to God, to the church, to whatever they hold dear—but you, you thank her alone.

Abby had once assured you that, in time, you would feel God’s presence, but try as you might, you could not. This was your final confession to her, the one you came here today to address.

But today’s prayers feel distant, blurred. Even her words, usually so grounding, only serve to deepen your unrest.

As the congregation disperses, people greet you warmly, recognizing the change in you. To them, you have become a living testament to Abby’s grace—a girl once lost in sin, unworthy of a second glance, now pure and forgiven, reborn in the light and drawn back from the brink by the guiding hand of Abigail Anderson herself.

Only when the cathedral is shrouded in silence, its sacred halls emptied of all but the faint whisper of past prayers, does Abby beckon you closer with a subtle gesture—an invitation to wander within the sanctified walls. Your footsteps, firm against the cold stone floor, echo in the vastness, a sound that belongs only to you and her in this solemn space.

"You seem troubled," Abby’s voice, soft yet tinged with the weight of concern, breaks the silence. It is less a question and more a gentle prod, urging you to unveil the turmoil within your soul.

"It’s you," you confess, the words heavy on your tongue. "I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t picture God." But Abby does not look at you, not yet. Her fingers move delicately over the pages of her Bible, each touch reverent and deliberate, drawing your eyes to follow her every motion.

"Did you pray?" Her gaze lifts abruptly, and your eyes instinctively meet hers, the connection sharp and undeniable. You shake your head, a hesitant motion that speaks of your internal struggle. "I couldn’t, but I tried," you admit, your voice laced with quiet desperation. She hums in acknowledgment, a sound both understanding and contemplative.

"May I know what—or who—has you so troubled?" she inquires, her tone inviting you to unburden your heart. It is then that you notice her braid, meticulously crafted as it was the first time you saw it. There is something about her hair that brings you solace, a symbol of her unwavering presence, each strand perfectly aligned, a reflection of the order she brings to the chaos within you.

Your feet move almost on their own, following Abby as she descends from the altar, her steps deliberate and purposeful, leading you to the nearest pew. With a graceful motion, she gestures to the very center of the seat, her hand inviting you to rest there. The Bible, now nestled in her lap, carries the weight of ancient wisdom, and her presence beside you feels like a fortress against the turmoil within.

“It’s still you,” you confess, the words escaping before you can stop them, heavy with unspoken fears.

Gently, Abby releases her grasp on the sacred book, placing it beside you with reverence. “Before we continue our meeting tonight,” she begins, her voice a soft murmur that seems to resonate with the very walls of the cathedral, “may I help you pray?”

Her question lingers in the air, a holy offering. You pause, taking in the serenity that surrounds you, the dim light casting long shadows that dance with a life of their own. With a slight nod, you give your consent, though your heart still flutters with uncertainty.

“Did you meditate?” she asks, her words catching you off guard as you prepare yourself for prayer. Her question is unexpected, but Abby reads the confusion in your eyes before you can voice it.

“Think of this as a guided meditation,” she continues, her tone gentle but firm, like a shepherd guiding a lost lamb. “You do not need to see God. The more you strain to find Him, the further you will feel from His embrace.”

“I will,” you murmur, the words a fragile promise as you settle into the position you’ve practiced day and night, seeking to still your mind and open your heart to whatever presence may hear your plea—be it God, if He truly exists.

“Sit upright,” she instructs, her voice carrying the calm authority that has always been your anchor. “Keep your back straight—just like that.” Her gaze meets yours, a blend of gentleness and unwavering resolve that soothes your trembling spirit. “Rest your hands in your lap or on the pew before you. Clasp them together if it brings you comfort, or let them rest open on your thighs.” As she speaks, her hands move with an elegant grace, demonstrating each position as if guiding you through a sacred ritual. You mimic her motions, albeit with a touch of hesitation, each movement drawing you deeper into the solemnity of the moment.

“It’s entirely your choice,” she reassures you, her tone as calming as a whisper of wind through the leaves, “but I suggest closing your eyes and simply breathing.” The suggestion, though simple, carries a weight that only her presence could lend it. Her fingers brush your forehead, a touch as light as a prayer, and you feel a warmth spread through you as your eyes close, yielding to her gentle guidance.

“To pray,” she begins, her voice a soft invocation, “start by addressing God with the reverence He deserves. Whether you say ‘Dear God,’ ‘Lord,’ or another name that resonates with you, is entirely personal.” Though your eyes are closed, you can still feel her presence, a warm light in the darkness of your doubt, and it brings a faint smile to your lips, a gesture she does not miss.

“Speak aloud only when in the presence of the congregation,” she advises, her words flowing like a sacred hymn. “It fosters unity and shared worship.” You fidget with the fabric of your clothing, your fingers tracing a quiet rhythm on your knees. “But for now,” she adds, sensing your inner turmoil, “a whisper will suffice.”

“Begin by offering thanks for the blessings in your life,” she suggests, her tone gentle but firm. The suggestion makes you bristle slightly; you have come here seeking solace from an absence of gratitude, not to recount it. But Abby, with her deep insight, seems to anticipate your resistance. “Perhaps, in your case, you could express gratitude for the opportunity of renewal, for the chance at a new beginning.”

“If there are wrongs you wish to confess, or forgiveness you seek, do so sincerely,” she continues, her voice soft and encouraging. Though you feel a reluctance to confess—doubting the power of such an act—her presence fills you with a sense of hope, a bridge between your skepticism and the glimmer of faith you yearn to grasp. “Reflect on the areas of your life where you seek divine guidance,” she advises.

Silently, your internal prayer begins to form, an unspoken plea for peace amidst the chaos of doubt. It feels as though Abby’s presence alone is guiding you, her words not merely instructions, but a lifeline to something greater.

“Consider your personal concerns, requests for guidance, or prayers for others,” she says, her tone both firm and compassionate. “Be specific and honest in your petition.” You ponder the notion of purity in prayer, questioning whether your thoughts are pure enough to be heard by the divine.

“Some people prefer to make the sign of the cross at this point. Are you familiar with it?” she inquires gently. You shake your head, a wave of fogginess sweeping over your mind. The faint scent of pine from her presence mingles with the soft cadence of her voice, enveloping you in a cocoon of tranquility. “Look at me,” Abby instructs, her gaze a beacon of comfort amidst the sacred space.

Surrounded by the symbols of faith, Abby leans closer. Her fingers hover over your forehead, and you instinctively open your eyes to find her nearer than you expected. “This gesture symbolizes God the Father and is the first step of the sign,” she explains as her hand traces a delicate path down the center of your body, her fingers barely grazing your lips and chin before resting above your heart. “This represents God the Son, signifying the connection between the divine and humanity.”

Her touch, feather-light, continues to your left shoulder, resting there with gentle insistence. “This symbolizes the Holy Spirit, extending divine guidance from within.”

“And now, your right shoulder,” she instructs, her movements precise and fluid as she completes the sign of the cross. Her smile, a blend of tenderness and pride, illuminates her face, drawing your attention to the constellation of freckles on her cheeks. “This completes the cross, symbolizing the fullness of the Trinity and the direction of divine grace.”

With a soft, graceful motion, she guides your hand back to your side. “Conclude your prayer with an affirmation of faith, a reaffirmation of trust in the divine will. Many say ‘Amen,’ or ‘May it be Your will.’” Her demeanor remains as poised and comforting as ever, embodying both grace and strength as she leads you through spiritual communion once again.

The stained glass windows of the cathedral bathe the stillness in hues of quiet reverence, casting shadows that dance across the cold stone floor. The air feels heavy, thick with unspoken words and sacred promises, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as Abby shifts beside you. The wood beneath her creaks, a sound that reverberates through the silence, grounding you in this present moment, though your mind spirals elsewhere—toward a fear no prayer could ever soothe.

Your lips falter, struggling to utter the word 'Amen,' as your eyes open, desperate for an anchor to reality. The question you’ve carried for too long gnaws at your soul, compelling you to turn, your neck aching as your gaze finds her. "Abby?" you whisper, the word barely more than a breath, uncertain whether you should dare voice the thought that rises like a forbidden prayer.

Her eyes meet yours, calm but curious. “Yes?”

You hesitate, but the weight of your heart presses the words out. “If you weren’t a priest…” You swallow hard, feeling the gravity of the inquiry take hold. “Would you have fallen in love with me?”

For a moment, the world stills, the cathedral’s ancient silence deepening as if the very stones are waiting for her reply. Abby’s face tightens, a fleeting shadow flickering across her expression. Her fingers twitch in her lap, the only sign of the turmoil beneath the surface. She inhales slowly, her voice calm but fragile when she finally speaks. "God suffices me," she answers, each word tinged with a rawness that betrays her composed exterior.

Her eyes, however, tell a different story—a flicker of vulnerability, a glimpse into a world of feelings she cannot confess. The answer lands heavily on your chest, and though you anticipated it, the ache it leaves behind is undeniable. You exhale shakily, your fingers fidgeting in your lap as your thoughts unravel, pulling you deeper into the void of unspoken desires.

“Have you never longed to love, or be loved?” The question slips out before you can stop it, laced with the pain and confusion that has haunted you since the day you met her.

Abby’s posture stiffens, her gaze turning inward as if searching for a truth she cannot find. Her fingers trace the edges of her Bible, restless and seeking solace in its familiar weight. But no sermon can ease the tension between you. The silence that follows is thick, filled with everything that remains unsaid.

You rest your head in her lap, an act of surrender and silent plea, your heart laid bare before her. Abby’s hand, tentative but deliberate, finds its way to your hair, her fingers threading through it in a gesture that feels as intimate as it is forbidden. "We cannot," she whispers, her voice trembling, laced with the weight of emotions she dares not speak aloud. "This is... beyond us."

Yet even as she speaks, her touch lingers—her thumb brushing tenderly against your cheek. Her gaze meets yours, and in that fleeting exchange, there is a silent acknowledgment, a love neither of you can voice but both feel deeply. Kneeling before her, you feel both comforted and cursed by her nearness, the warmth of her hand a bittersweet reminder of everything you can never have.

Her hand cradles your face, her thumb tracing soft circles over your skin, her eyes heavy with the burden of her vows. There is a quiet sorrow in every movement—a resignation that cuts deeper than any spoken words. "We are bound to something greater," she whispers, her voice wavering, as though she is trying to convince herself as much as you.

But the tremor in her voice, the way her fingers graze the curve of your lips, tells you more than words ever could. The silence between you feels sacred, as though the cathedral itself is listening, waiting for your next confession.

The plea falls from your lips, fragile and desperate. “Absolve me of my sins,” you whisper, seeking not forgiveness, but her—only her.

Abby exhales slowly, her touch still tender but now laden with sorrow. “You seek absolution,” she murmurs, her voice thick with compassion and an unspoken ache. You lift your head, your eyes searching hers, though you already know the answer she cannot give. Her gaze softens, weighed down by her sacred vows and the love she feels but can never express.

Her fingers trace the lines of your lips, intimate and agonizing. "I cannot," she whispers, the strain in her voice unmistakable. “I cannot absolve what was never meant to be sin.”

Yet her touch lingers, heavy with a love that transcends words—untouchable, private, and entirely yours. “Only seek the strength to bear it.”

[poughkeepsies]

this episode has everything. tommy forgetting buck hates basketball. tommy being abby's ex-fiance. tommy calling buck a himbo. eddie insisting he's straight. the hot priest definitely not being straight but being celibate. there's a pre glee world and post glee world. josh knows his queer history. buck lowkey calling tommy a queer elder to his face. tommy breaking up with buck cause he won't be his last. eddie love actually stan. eddie shaving his mustache. eddie fruit of the looms. couch.

[eddiegotout]

i cannot believe ANY of this shit oh my god. tickets to basketball for six month anniversary which buck hates. tommy telling him to bring eddie instead. tommy was engaged to abby. eddie is being hit on by a gay priest. interlude after interlude about divorce and grief and holding on too tight and being closeted. did i mention the hot priest is gay.

[k3n-dyll]

♱Sinful Deeds

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ; 18+, wlw, fem!reader, lots of religious themes, internalized homophobia, religious guilt, sex in a church, cheating, blasphemy, reader's husband is an ass, dom!Abby, sub!reader, inexperienced!reader (with women), oral(r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), spit, corruption (?)

𝐖𝐂 - 3k

𝐊𝐞𝐧'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ☆ Read the content warnings, if it's not your thing just scroll ♡ . Also can't lie, I rushed the end a little I'm sorry I need to clear my drafts.

Priest!Abby who worked hard all her life to get where she is. Under her father's encouragement, she's made a good name for herself within a small community in this town. Despite setbacks, of course. To be ordained a priest, and to be a young woman is to be criticized - she'd known that from the beginning. Many people consider her a fraud. Consider her a disgrace amongst the church. Initially, her ordination damn near started a riot in front of the very chapel she preaches in.

That, she figured, would be the worst of it. The defamatory statements and the nasty rumors spread about her character and her morals; many families that had originally attended the church back when her father ran it either reluctantly accepted her or left the congregation entirely.

She had her days, of course. Where the rude comments and the disrespect nearly got to her. Nearly caused her to drop any semblance of professionalism within her body and let herself get angry. But with her trust in God and her strength of faith - all of the bitterly uttered words about her, the vitriol thrown her way - it slid right off of her like water off of a ducks feathered back.

If you were to ever ask her, she'd say that her real problems began with you. The day you had walked into the chapel in the midst of her sermon which was - ironically enough - pertaining to marriage, and sat down with your husband in the very back pew so as not to disturb anyone with your tardiness. It's almost shameful how vividly she remembers the dress you'd worn that day; a pretty, pale yellow number that stopped just above your ankles. The color combined so beautifully with your skin and brought out your eyes even from her place up front, the pleats of the modest dress flowing around your legs with each quiet step you'd taken. She'd been so tempted to take her speech elsewhere to get a better look at you. Tempted to stray from her stance behind the pulpit just to stare at you up close.

Temptation. The issue you had brought with your presence alone. Abby couldn't blame you, of course, she'd been dealing with these urges since she was a teenager and well...she's not perfect by any means. She's had her fair share of one-night stands and flings - a much looser version of herself that she normally keeps well hidden from the members of her church.

She'd been damn near giddy when she finally got the chance to speak to you once the service was over, only to find herself disappointed again at the way your husband seemed to interject himself into any conversation she attempted to start with you.

"Hello..." She said, a small smile plastered on her lips. Despite the way she had trained herself to speak to every person in the church with a similar, if not the same amount of intrigue and attention, her eyes never once left you as she spoke. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting either of you before?" You nodded, offering a polite smile back to her, but before you could even open your mouth to say something, your husband had piped up, introducing himself first, and then you as his wife.

Over time, Abby began to notice that it's a quite common behavior for your husband - the man often using your learned timidity as an opportunity to speak over you at every turn. And he often gets his way.

She'd seen it before. In the church, it's a tale as old as time; a man on a power trip marries a young woman who's likely been taught how to be a good and 'proper' wife from the moment she was born - quiet, submissive, a pretty doll that he can have on his arm but never actually have to listen to.

Priest!Abby who, after giving her sermons, preaching to others about self-control, and willing themselves against sin - finds herself with her hand stuffed down her boxers late at night in her bed, thick fingers curled deep into her pussy, a small, pink bullet pulsating in the other against her clit, touching herself to the thought of you. You're so sweet, and quiet, and delicate... and breakable. The image of you beneath her naked, writhing and panting underneath her touch is so clear in her mind, the blonde practically whimpering as she cums at the thought of your pretty body being so overwhelmed with pleasure that you shake and twitch at the lightest brush of her fingers.

She figured she'd never have you. As much as she craved it, as much as she wanted to trail her hands along your bare curves, Abby knew well in her mind that you would stay loyal and dedicated to the man you married. Still, the day you come to her alone with the intent to confess, excitement wells up in in her at the potential opportunity.

Saturday afternoons for Abby were generally the same, spending her time sitting on the other side of the partition in the small confession booth and listening to the perceived wrongdoings of those in her congregation. Most of the time she doesn't remember. She doesn't even put in the effort to recognize the voices of those she advises, as figuring out who committed what sin and who didn't isn't really what she's here for, but the moment she hears your voice - that soft, melodic tone of yours that she's fantasized about for weeks on end - she can't seem to help herself.

You aren't used to this kind of thing - it's never gotten this bad to the point where you feel you need to confess...but you can only run from your own mind so much. The silence is deafening as you settle yourself into the booth, and it only serves to make you more nervous. You can hear the subtle sound of Abby's breathing, the rhythmic thumping of your own heart pumping. Shakily, you sign the cross over your body, nipping at the very tip of your thumbnail before you speak.

"Forgive me...for I have sinned" you murmur. "This...this is my first confession."

You speak a lot more than you had originally intended, spilling your guts to the woman on the other side of the screen, the somewhat private setting making it easier for you to let go of everything you'd been suppressing. Abby's almost shocked to hear about your struggles with your urges. Your desires to be with someone that isn't your husband. With someone that isn't even a man in the first place. Years of training herself is the only thing that stops her from showing her irritation at the way you deem these things deeply immoral as well as, selfishly, her elation at the idea that she may have a chance.

Abby is silent for a moment after you finish speaking, letting herself sit with her thoughts, trying and failing not to allow her own greedy desires consume her mind though unbeknownst to her, her quiet only causes the pit of dread in your stomach to swell. It's when she clears her throat that you tense up even more, preparing yourself to be scolded, or worse, kicked out. You've seen it happen before - people shunned and shamed for so much as thinking of the same sex in that way.

"You aren't in any trouble child, calm down." She says finally and you realize you've been tapping your nails rhythmically against the wooden wall. Though she can't see you, you nod and stop, transferring the little assault to your thigh.

Abby knows full well that she should just wrap this up. She should give you something to do - tell you to say a prayer, to beg Christ for mercy on your soul in hopes that these 'immoral' thoughts stop weighing on you, but Abby of all people knows that it doesn't work that way. Not with this.

Before Abby can stop herself, she's already asked you up to her office, shocked by the lack of resistance to her request. Closing the door behind her, she stands, eyeing your frame as you take a seat in front of her desk. She can practically see the anxiety seeping through your pores - the constant tapping at your leg, the shifting in your spot. Without much thought, she walks over and places a hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently to calm you down.

"This isn't something I typically do." She starts. "I honestly probably shouldn't be doing this right now at all, but I do think we need to talk. No judgment, no barriers, okay?"

You nod but your body is still rigid, the warmth of her large palm on your shoulder is almost enough to send tingles through your body, guilt swarming in your gut at the unconscious reaction.

"I could just send you on your way. I could tell you to repent and beg and plead with God to make you better but..." Abby sighs, removing her hand from your shoulder to stand at her desk, leaning up against it to face you as she tries to think of ways to word what she wants to say. "...I don't want to lie to you."

"Lie to me?" You ask, dumbfounded, to which Abby just chuckles quietly. She knows what the Bible says is law to you, and to hear a priest refute that in any way is likely confusing.

"What I'm saying is: this isn't something that can be prayed away. No matter how badly you may want it to be, it simply isn't."

You shake your head at her words, finding it ridiculous. Or at least you want to, but deep down you know she's right. You've tried praying more than enough times to know that it will end in nothing changing. Still, you're stubborn.

"But my husband. I-I love him"

"Do you?"

"I-" The lie dies in the back of your throat. The fact that you can't bring yourself to answer confidently, or at all for that matter is all the confirmation Abby needs. A beat of silence passes before Abby says anything else, giving you time to sit in your lack of certainty before moving on.

"That's not to say I don't have a...solution in mind" As she speaks, she inches close until she's standing directly in front of you, forcing you to crane your neck to look up at her towering frame above your seated one. Your senses suddenly feel foggy, the scent of pine and musk filling your nose, your eyes unable to focus anywhere but on the stretched fabric outlining her biceps and torso. You could swear she wears a uniform that size just to show off. You blink a few times in a failed attempt to snap yourself out of it.

"I thought you said there was no way to fix it"

Abby's eyes darken, a soft chuckle escaping her at your words. "No. It can't be 'fixed', honey. Desires like that don't just go away... but they can be satiated. Temporarily at least." Gently, she catches your chin between her thumb and forefinger to keep you looking at her.

"I'm...I'm married, it wouldn't be right. I can't do that to him.." You start in half-hearted protest, the implication of her words clear. Your eyes shift to the side, though you make no move to pull away.

"He isn't a factor right now. My focus is you" The pad of her thumb lightly grazes against your lower lip. "Look, I won't push you. If that's not something you want to do, I understand, but really, how long do you think you can keep pretending, hm ? How long until you break?"

Your eyes flutter as she leans closer, the sensation of her warm breath on your skin sending shivers through your spine.

"I've been so...good at pretending..." Your voice is little more than a whisper, melting into her touch despite the alarms going off in your mind. You push it back. "I don't think I can do it anymore..."

"Oh, baby I know..."

It's only a split second between the words leaving her mouth and her lips pressing against yours, her strong palms cupping your cheeks. Though her hands are rough to the touch her hold on you is gentle. Reverent, even. Her fingers ghosting along your skin as if you're a precious jewel she's afraid to shatter. It's slow, yet overwhelming - her kisses tracing a path from your lips to your neck, from neck to collarbone. You feel her begin to massage your thighs, kneading them over the fabric of your dress before getting impatient and slipping them just underneath it.

You should be disgusted with yourself. Disgusted with her. With this. But the ungodly, hungry way at which she kisses and nips at your flesh only brings on an excitement within you that feels almost wild. Like something that had been leashed and caged within you was finally let free. You should pray. But instead of clasping together your hands begin to weave into Abby's hair, gripping and tugging at it to keep her close. The priestess whines at the sensation and you swear her knees buckle. That or her will is hanging by an invisible thread because she sinks to her knees in front of you.

"Let me taste you.." She breathes out, her gaze shifting from your face to your thighs, her hands still rubbing at them, slowly inching the skirt of your dress up further.

You think to hesitate but your body may as well be on autopilot, the mere thought of having her head between them enough to slowly pry your legs open without much coaxing. It'd be embarrassing if Abby didn't seem just as desperate as you.

Her hand slips between your thighs the second they're apart, a thick finger trailing along your slit just over your panties, the wet spot that's formed there amusing to her.

"See what I do to you?" She asks, a small, cocky smirk playing at her lips. "He could never get you like this, we both know it"

All you can do is give a pathetic nod and an even more pitiful whine as Abby teases you, her face inching closer until she's nosing your clothed clit, vivid blues unblinking as she takes in your reaction.

"Please, Abby..." You plea needily, voice cracking despite your attempts to sound stable.

She's merciful to you, wasting no time or words in pushing your panties to the side, parting her lips to allow her mouth to water freely, the coolness of her saliva sliding along your slit sending a jolt of electricity through your senses. Her fingers are first, the blonde collecting the slick mixture of spit and arousal to coat the two of the digits and carefully pushing them inside before she flicks her tongue teasingly against your clit.

Maybe you should feel guilt for this - unashamedly allowing a member of the clergy of all people, to defile you in such a way in a holy place. Throwing your head back, clasping your hands against the armrests of your seat, moaning and whining obnoxiously under the corruption of her tongue. Maybe you would feel guilty. If only it didn't feel so fucking good.

A loving deity would not deprive you of this feeling, at least that's how you justify it in your head as you cry out for more, eyes screwed shut as previously suppressed vulgarities spill past your lips.

"Abby, fuck, just like that - please!" Your cries are loud, tone little less than whorish in nature. "F-feels so fucking good, oh God"

Abby chuckles against you at that, but she doesn't speak. While the irony of you calling out for God amuses her somewhat, she can't tease. She can barely bring herself to pull away from you, her mouth and chin covered, glistening with your wetness, fingers ruthlessly sloshing in and out of your fluttering walls. You're like a drug to her in this moment. Something to be desired. Worshipped.

She finds her free hand stuffed down her slacks, her own core throbbing with need as she admires the pornographic image of your body writhing before her. The low vibrations that come from Abby's muffled moans only send you that much closer to the edge. Only that much closer to the release your body has practically been begging for and yet could never receive at the hands of your husband.

When your thighs clamp against her head, her jaw worn and slightly pained, she doesn't let up even a little bit, lapping at you with her tongue as if watching you unravel was critical to her existence. It just might be with how intently she stares up at you, not letting a drop of your cum escape her mouth as you finally let go, fingers still slipping in and out of you in languid motions. Abby's completely disregarded her own need in place of your own, her hand stilled in her boxers, something she only realizes when you begin to calm down.

"You didn't-" You start to question her, pushing golden strands away from her freckled face with your hand when you notice.

"It's okay, baby" She interrupts, her words coming as a pleased murmur. "This wasn't about me"

You shake your head a little, but before you can protest she's pulled you toward her, her pink puffed lips catching your own in a messy kiss, strings of saliva and cum breaking between your mouths with each breath taken. You let it happen for a while. It's oddly...comfortable. A sense of warmth calming your body in a way it hasn't in a long time before this.

As if on cue, a loud, grating tune breaks the illusion. The sound of a phone ringing. Your phone.

The 4 missed calls from your husband stare reality back into you both and utter dread sends that all too familiar chill through your bones once again.

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