#reader going into confession booth mahbe

[pupyr0arz]

Thinking…serial killer reader x priest price. Am I cooking? Murder, religious/Christian themes cw

Divinity is something you find under the knife. It’s the last, brightest gleams in a man’s eyes as he bleeds his last breath, the moment of surrender beneath your fingers. The moment you and they are one, blood turned to ichor in your veins as they kiss your palms and leave for the holy gate. You dispense mercy in God’s vision, a heavy hand and mournful eye. In a world so rotten and sick, sons and daughters of Adam fall astray, crying silently for angels to lead them back to their flock. Pain is cleansing, and cleanliness is holiness. God’s janitor, you call yourself when you are feeling particularly egotistical.

You work quietly, as any agent of a higher power should. Demons outnumber you, staring back with jewel bright eyes and false promises, begging you to overstep. You find beauty in routine, cleaning yourself and disposing of any marks of sin. The police call you a hundred names, but never your own, and you take each paper as they come and fold them neatly into the trash.

you find joy, beauty in your work. It sends you higher than any satanic touch could give you, polishes you into a gleaming weapon wielded by holy beings. Yet, your favorite day is Sunday, the day of rest.

each Sunday, you walk to church. It’s the third closest to your home, you’d have an easier time to go to them but if you did things merely because they were easy you’d be dammed for your laziness. The two other churches are rot filled, disgusting vestiges that you’d burn down and watch cleanse the ground they were built on if it wouldn’t interrupt your duties. But the third, the third.

God, in His infinite wisdom, has laid his hands upon another in your time. You could nearly cry. You did when you found him, his voice, his eyes, his sermon…it felt as though you were in your workshop, on your knees with bloodied hands praying and being heard. Hope has blossomed within you at the mere sight of the priest, that other agents of God existed, that your war was one that could be one. Father Price, and wasn’t that a beautiful name? The price you paid to see him, that humanity paid to be absolved of their sins, the price the two of you would extract by pound and pound of flesh from demons.

You’ve seen him for a month and four days now, you’ve been counting. You wouldn’t dare approach him too quickly, too fervently, lest you be mistaken for some kind of trick. You could hardly believe the Father existed at all yourself, you wouldn’t blame him for doubting you, but it would unravel your plans. You had to move slowly, integrate yourself with his flock.

Wasn’t that a difficult ask. You weren’t blessed in the way Father Price was, with infinite patience and words sweeter than any sugar on Earth, no Heaven-kissed smile comes from your lips. You are shaped to the words of the oldest books, of wrath and hellfire, storm and lightning. The two of you are counterparts, damnation and salvation, and it makes you adore him all the more. But the hours spent sitting with the inane, idiotic sinners that stumble over themselves to dirty Father Price’s feet send your fingers twitching.