#the parish notices

[that-one-percy-jackson-fan]

Can we acknowledge that Adam knew. ADAM KNEW that Ronan liked him and his first thought was,

“Do y’all see this”

[thebirdandhersong]

Theological and sacramental convictions aside, I would like to go to a church with a community that notices and cares when I haven't been at church for a full month lol

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

HORNY PRIEST JOHN PRICE

breeding kink, sacrilege (?)

john joined the church after leaving the military, though he never spoke much about what led him there. some men left war and found peace in quiet towns, in family, in distance. john, meanwhile, found himself in the shadow of the cross, searching for something he couldn't name.

he knelt, prayed, studied scripture— not because he'd had a sudden divine vision, but because he’d needed something to tether himself to.

he's never been one to talk about faith in absolutes. the young priests, fresh out of seminary, speak with a certainty that makes him envious. they talk of god’s mercy like it’s a thing they’ve held in their hands, like they’ve never doubted it for a second.

john doesn’t have that luxury. his hands have held a rifle, pressed down on wounds, ended lives.

what right does he have to stand in the confessional and tell a man his sins are forgiven when his own are still heavy in his chest?

he doesn’t let it show. not when he stands before his congregation, not when he delivers the homily, and not even when he listens to the confessions of those who kneel before him.

the words come easy. “god is love. god is mercy.” he says them with the confidence of a man who believes them. perhaps if he says them enough, one day it'll drive home.

he's decently well-respected in his parish. john speaks in measured tones, and listens with the kind of patience that makes people trust him. he’s rarely if ever unkind, never raising his voice even when the children at sunday school test his patience or when the older priests debate doctrine with a stubbornness he doesn’t bother entertaining.

the congregation admires him for it.

he keeps a well-worn rosary in his pocket, fingers brushing over the beads when he’s deep in thought. it’s an old habit, one he never lost even when he stopped saying the prayers as often as he should. late at night, when he can’t sleep, he walks the empty church, the only light coming from the red glow of the tabernacle lamp.

he runs his fingers over the smooth wood of the pews, listens to the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots, and exhales smoke into the dim air. it feels like a kind of penance, staying here long after everyone else has gone, keeping watch over something he’s still not sure he belongs to.

the first time you meet, it’s in the courtyard after sunday mass.

you’re new to the church. new to the neighborhood. moved in just a month ago, so he’s heard. he hadn't taken much notice at first— he rarely does. parishioners come and go, faces blending into one another over time.

but then he sees you. all wide eyes and bright smiles, the late-morning sun catching the warmth in your hair, laugh spilling out like a song. you shake hands with mrs. calloway, nod attentively as she chatters on about her garden, and there’s something about the way you tilt your head, the way your lips part in quiet amusement, that makes something ugly and raw twist in his gut.

john shouldn’t be looking. he knows he shouldn’t be looking.

and yet.

you catch sight of him, and your smile brightens, something open and eager in your face as you step forward. “father price.”

your voice is softer than he expects. sweeter. a fact not good for his health.

he nods. “you’ve settled in well, i see.”

“i have. everyone’s been so kind.” your hands clasp in front of you, fingers tangling. “i wanted to introduce myself properly. i should have done it sooner, but-” you shake your head, sheepish. “i guess i was nervous.”

nervous? of who— him?

he watches the way you glance down, the way your teeth catch the plump of your lower lip, the slight shift of your weight from foot to foot, and something slow and molten pools in his stomach.

and then, unbidden—

i want to fuck her mouth.

the thought slams into him. his fingers curl, blunt nails pressing into his palm. john's throat tightens, heat crawling up the back of his neck, shame dragging its claws down his spine.

he schools his expression, keeps his voice level. “there’s nothing to be nervous about.” a beat. his gaze lingers on your lips a second too long. “i hope you find what you’re looking for here.”

your eyes meets his then. for a moment, he swears you see it. the crack in his composure, the way his restraint stretches thin around you like fraying rope.

but then you just smile again— so fucking gentle— and bid him a polite goodbye before slipping back into the crowd.

he exhales, tries to control his breathing, before turning on his heel and heading inside.

it doesn’t get better after that.

oh no. in fact, it only gets worse.

because you linger. you stay. you join the congregation, sit near the front every sunday, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your lips parted slightly in quiet reverence as you listen to the sermon. you bite your lip when you concentrate, tuck your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, shift in your seat just enough to make his mind wander places it has absolutely no right to go.

and it haunts him.

creeps into his thoughts when he thinks he's already run far away from it. slips into his head when he least expects it. a slow, insidious thing, winding around his ribs, sinking its teeth into the softest parts of him.

john finds himself getting lost in his imaginations more and more as the weeks pass by. it starts with something simple. something small.

you, in his kitchen.

the space is yours as much as it is his now— he hardly steps foot in it unless you usher him in, your hands on his arms, guiding him to sit, to rest. the scent of warm bread and roasted meat fills the house, seeping into the wooden beams, the stone walls. the windows are cracked open just enough to let the breeze in, carrying with it the scent of the fields, the distant bells of the church.

you hum as you work, a quiet little tune under your breath, flour dusting your fingers, smudging along the curve of your cheek. you’re barefoot, the hem of your dress skimming your ankles, your apron tied neatly at the back. domestic. wifely. His.

"you’re spoiling me, love."

you laugh, glancing over your shoulder at him where he sits at the table, his elbows braced against the wood, his chin resting on his hand. john hasn’t even touched the sermon notes laid out before him, hasn’t even opened the book he’d planned to read. no, his attention has been on you— watching you move, watching the light catch on your hair, watching the way you fit so perfectly in his home.

"you work too hard," you murmur, turning back to the stove. "someone has to take care of you."

the words sink into him, low and warm, wrapping around something deep in his chest.

you do take care of him.

you set a plate before him, still warm from your hands, and press a kiss to the top of his head, your lips soft against his hair.

you fold his robes neatly after they’ve dried in the sun, pressing your hands over the fabric like a prayer. you pluck a stray thread from his collar before mass, your fingers deft and careful, your brow furrowing in quiet concentration.

you brush his hair back from his forehead when he sits too long at his desk, rubbing slow circles at his temple, your fingers easing away the weight of his work.

and in the evenings, after the dishes have been washed and the fire burns low, you climb into his lap with a soft sigh, tucking yourself against his chest.

"long day?" you ask, your fingers smoothing over the front of his shirt.

"mm." john presses a kiss to your hair, lets his hands settle at your waist, palms warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress. "better now."

and it is better, with you here, with your warmth seeping into his, your breath brushing his throat.

he wants all of it. the soft, easy domesticity. the routine of waking to you curled beside him, of pressing sleepy kisses to your bare shoulder before dragging himself out of bed. of watching you move through his home with the comfort of a woman who belongs there.

and, god help him—

john wants to fuck you too.

until you leaked him, until his seed dripped down your thighs, making a mess of soft, perfect skin. wants to bend you over his desk, press your face into the worn wood, break you open on his cock until you sobbed for him, begged him to fill you. he’d grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

he wants to whisper filth into your ear, his breath hot— gonna fill you up, love. gonna fuck you so full of me you’ll be dripping for days. you want that, don’t you? want me to breed you like the needy little thing you are?

he wants to press his fingers into your mouth, make you suck them clean before shoving them between your legs, fucking them into the soft clutch of your pussy until you cried for him.

and when he finally sinks his swollen cock inside you— he’d make you feel it.

john wants to fuck you raw, grind his hips against yours, keep you pinned beneath his weight, stuffed full of his cock. he’d press a hand to your belly, feel himself inside you, make you watch as you take a cock too big for you.

and when he’d spill inside you he wouldn't stop. oh no— he’d fuck it deeper, press his fingers to your swollen clit, make you come with him, make your body take every last drop of his seed.

because he wouldn't just fill you. he’d breed you. over and over, until you couldn't keep yourself up, too boneless to thrust back into him, too full to take any more.

but he was a man of god.

and men of god did not shove their sweet, willing parishioners over their desks, did not drag their teeth down soft skin, did not slap needy little cunts until they were wet and dripping.

they did not fuck desperate little things in church pews, in quiet confessionals, did not fist their hands in soft hair and shove pretty mouths onto their cocks, did not whisper filth between gasped-out prayers.

they did not spend their nights with their heads buried between trembling thighs, devouring the taste of sin, holding squirming bodies still as they licked deep, sucked hard, forced sweet, innocent things to come against their tongues.

they did not rut into them like beasts, gripping soft wrists, pinning them down, owning them with every brutal thrust. they did not press their hands to swollen bellies, fill their women over and over until their bodies were wrecked, too full of come to take another drop.

men of god did not fuck.

but god forgive him, he would.

all those thoughts come to this moment, this night—

john finds himself alone under the dim glow of candlelight, sitting on the pews, head tilted to the cross.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, like penance for the filth curdling in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks, far too loud in the sacred silence, but he doesn’t stop.

can’t.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale feels like it scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, as though the very air is punishing him for the thoughts festering in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks softly in the quiet, a sound far too loud in the sanctity of this space.

the leather gives way, and his cassock feels suffocating now, the fabric too heavy against skin flushed with heat. his fingers slip lower, dragging the waistband of his pants down his hips with shaky, desperate movements until he’s free— finally free— from the painful confines of his underwear.

his cock springs forward, already hard in his hand, flushed dark at the tip, the skin tight and aching. a bead of precum glistens there, catching in the flicker of candlelight like something obscene in the house of god. he wraps his hand around the base, his grip firm but not enough to ease the pressure coiled in his gut. the heat of his palm sends a shudder rolling down his spine, breath hitching as his thumb swipes over the sensitive head, smearing the slick wetness down the length.

his cock is long, veins pulsing along the shaft, the kind of thick that demands attention. his foreskin still covers the swollen head, slick with the evidence of his own arousal, precum smearing against the soft skin of his lower stomach. he hisses through his teeth as he wraps his hand around the base, fingers barely closing around the girth, feeling the steady throb of blood pulsing beneath his grip.

his balls hang full and tight, pulled close with need, the skin sensitive to the faintest brush of fabric. every movement is torment, the soft rub of his cassock against his bare thighs sending a shudder through him, making his hips jerk forward, seeking relief.

he strokes himself slowly, dragging his foreskin back to expose the flushed, leaking head, then rolling it forward again, savoring the sensitivity. his thumb swipes through the slick wetness pooling at the tip, smearing it down the length, adding just enough glide to make his fist slip easier over his cock.

his grip tightens, dragging the pleasure out like a prayer he’s too ashamed to speak aloud. the church is silent around him, the air thick with the scent of burning wax and old stone, but all he can think about is you.

on your knees before him.

john sees it so clearly, feels it like it’s already happened. the way you’d sink down, your eyes looking up at him through thick lashes, expectant. your soft lips parted just enough for your tongue to wet them before stretching around his cock. the thought makes his stomach clench, his fingers twitching as he strokes himself tighter, his foreskin gliding over the swollen head before he pulls it back again.

you wouldn’t be able to take all of him at once. he knows that much. He’s too thick, too long— your jaw would ache just trying, your tongue pressing firm against the heavy weight of him, struggling to make space. the first inch would be easy, maybe even the second. but when he pushes deeper, when his tip nudges the back of your throat and you gag, just a little, he knows he’d lose whatever control he has left.

he swears he can see it— your fingers curling against his thighs, the little choked noise you’d make when he holds you there, when his cock throbs against your tongue. your throat would flutter, swallowing around him, trying to adjust to the stretch. and oh, god, the way your lips would look wrapped around him, swollen with abuse and slick with spit and precum. john nearly loses himself at the image alone.

his hips jerk forward into his own grip, chasing the fantasy, breath coming through the vaulted ceilings of the church. he’d guide you through it, hand buried in your hair, tilting your head just the way he likes. gentle, at first. Letting you set the pace. But then when you get too comfortable, when you start to tease, pulling back just to trail soft kisses along his length— he’d snap.

he’d pull you down, bury himself deep in the hot sleeve of your mouth until your throat clenched around him and you whimpered against his balls. his other hand would cup your jaw, feeling the bulge of himself pressing against your cheek, watching as tears bead at the corners of your eyes, shuddering from the effort of taking him.

he wonders if you’d try to pull away, fingers gripping his thighs in a silent plea. would you struggle? would you whine? would you let him break you like this?

john groans, his grip tightening almost painfully. he pumps himself faster now, the obscene slap of skin against skin filling the empty church. his balls are drawn tight, aching with the need to spill, and in his mind, he’s not coming into his own palm.

he’s coming down your throat.

you’d swallow, wouldn’t you? just for him. he can see it— his cum thick on your tongue, your lips parting to show him before you close your mouth and swallow it down. maybe a little would escape, dripping down your chin, and he’d swipe his thumb through it, pressing it back to your lips.

“messy thing,” he’d murmur. “but you took it so well.”

the thought sends him over the edge.

his hips stutter, cock jerking in his grip as his orgasm crashes over him, hot and sudden. cum spills over his knuckles, , dripping onto the cold stone beneath him. his breath comes in harsh, broken gasps, his thighs trembling as he rides out the aftershocks, his vision hazy with the force of his release.

and when it’s over— when he finally stills, his body spent, his mind heavy with guilt— he drags his gaze upward.

The cross looms above him, watching.

if this is damnation, he’ll sin again.

[daydreamkissesxo]

Father Charlie x reader | Sinner

Brief mentions of smut and pregnancy, completely self indulgent. 18+

You were a devoted Catholic, a regular attendee of the church with your equally devoted family.

Your family were blessed to have such an academically gifted and religiously dedicated daughter, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

You’d often been approached by the overbearing mothers of similar aged son’s at Sunday mass, all seeking your hand in marriage for their insufferable offspring.

Your family were modestly proud of the attention you’d gained, equally keen to find you a suitor, though your lack of interest was due to something far more perverted.

You’d became entranced by Father Charlie’s charm, he was the sole motive for your ultimate devotion to the church.

You craved his attention, his praise for your dedication leaving you utterly vulnerable each time you’d receive it.

You hadn’t been as subtle as you’d hoped, Father Charlie knew of your fondness for him which is why he chose to ignore the chatter amongst churchgoers of your possible marriage.

He’d often found it amusing to witness mothers attempt to pitch their son’s qualities while he had the knowledge of the sins they’d admitted to him through the confessional box.

He grew uncomfortable seeing how quickly you were hounded by persistent mothers seconds after mass had ended, often wanting to intervene but finding no believable excuse to.

Father Charlie was surprised to see that you’d booked an appointment through the parish office to meet with him during the week.

Half expecting you to be sat with your newly appointed suitor, yet he was pleased to see you sat alone.

“Miss Y/L/N?” He calls out softly as he enters his office, walking around his desk to sit opposite you.

You were dressed so modestly, your Bible placed on the desk in front of you, it was a heavenly sight.

Had he been able to marry you before he was ordained, you would have made the perfect preachers wife.

“Father, I’m sorry not to have waited until after Mass but I must speak with you.” You confess with urgency, your hands nervously trembling in your lap.

Father Charlie was rightfully concerned to see you so visibly upset, you’d always been so happy.

“Is there something wrong Y/N?” He asks, shifting closer to the edge of his seat before extending his hand out to take hold of yours.

Your linked hands rest on the bible placed in front of you, his thumb softly caressing the back of yours.

His touch was like electricity, your heart began to race as you grew increasingly nervous.

“Father, I..I have sinned.” You confess timidly, tears flooding your waterline and blurring your vision.

Father Charlie tried to refrain from physically reacting despite his confusion and growing curiosity, wanting to treat you no different to any other sinner willing to confess.

“What is it that you’ve done Y/N?” He attempted to sound sympathetic but he was anxious, worried that the constant pressing of a marriage had sent you flying off the rails.

“I..I’m worried you may look at me differently, father.” You sniffle, bringing your free hand up to your cheek to wipe away a stray tear.

He shook his head, dismissing your claim without even hearing your confession.

“I could never.”

You hesitantly looked up at him, his reassuring smile making your heart flutter.

“I..I’ve not been in my right mind lately, father. During my reproductive cycle, I have noticed a strong sexual desire that is incurable.” You lowered your head in shame for what you were about to confess, your hand trembling beneath his.

“I have..pleasured myself.”

He watched as you nervously averted your gaze, giving your hand a gentle reassuring squeeze.

“It’s not the end of the world Y/N. You’ll repent, and we’ll say no more about this.”

He stood up from his seat, walking around the desk to then sit on the edge of it beside you.

You became nervous once more, having him in such close proximity and practically towering over you.

“Your body has a natural desire to reproduce, it’s not entirely your fault you gave in to such an overwhelming urge.”

The thought of your highly fertile state left him completely aroused, knowing he could ruin your chances of marriage and claim you secretly simply by impregnating you.

He reached out to cup your cheek, forcibly turning your head to look up at him.

“Tell me, how did it feel?” He whispered, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You froze in response, worried that your honest answer may worsen your case.

“It..it felt really good, father.” You whispered timidly, your gaze nervously meeting his.

His hold on your cheek loosened, he extended his thumb before placing it against your bottom lip and very slowly dragging it down.

“Tell me what you did. Tell me what you were thinking.”

You knew this was not part of a standard confession yet you obliged regardless, your thighs tensing as heat pools in your underwear.

“I waited until everyone was asleep, and then I slipped my hand beneath my nightgown and took off my underwear.”

His breath was audibly heavier, his lips parting as he pictures the scene you’re describing.

“I inserted my fingers into myself, and I thought of you, father.” You whispered shamelessly, your own breath growing heavier.

“I do not want to get married, I only want you. I cannot live with the thought of another man touching me the way I wish you could.”

Your confession left him speechless and undeniably horny, his cassock thankfully hiding his now prominent bulge.

“You must repent.” He whispers, slipping his thumb past your lips and pressing it against your tongue to prevent you from any further confessions.

“You will not speak a word of this to anyone. I expect you to stay after mass so I can deal with you properly.”

He stands from his seated position on the desk, his hand falling from your cheek to your knee as his fingers scramble to slip beneath the fabric of your dress.

The sensation of your soft silk like skin beneath his fingertips caused the hairs to stand on the back of his neck.

He slowly glides his hand up your thigh, forcing his hand between your tightly clenched thighs and curling his middle and index finger to glide along the newly wet fabric of your underwear.

He bit at his lip harshly in restraint, fighting the urge to ravish you right there.

“You will not sit in your drenched underwear during mass, you will take these off and leave them in my drawer. Then you will join me in waiting for others to arrive.”

He reluctantly pulled his hand away as he stood up, stepping away from you to allow you to follow his instructions.

You submissively obeyed, reaching beneath the fabric of your dress for your underwear before hooking your thumbs into the lace waistband to pull them down your thighs and calf’s.

He watched as they drop to your ankles, the visible wet stain of your arousal made him shudder.

He forced himself to look away, leaving you to pick them up and place them where he’d requested.

He wasn’t sure how he would focus during mass knowing that you were to sit bare amongst your family, but the thought was delightful.

[chososdiscordkitten]

Kneel.

Synopsis: Priest!Nanami being completely and utterly tormented by nasty thoughts of reader (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Pairing: Nanami x Fem!Reader Content: pwp, plot before porn, catholicism, questioning faith, sooo much guilt, reader is 29, nanami is 34, reader kinda mysterious -.-

MDNI

Nanami’s life as a priest was busy- no time to be bored, nor time to yearn for more. Two or three funerals a month, mass every day- more than twice on Sundays. A handful of weddings a year, the many church groups he would oversee. His schedule was almost always fully booked.

His life was steady- a routine he followed every day. A life he was riding down happily. 

And when that peaceful life hit a bump, Nanami felt his life could be derailed entirely if he allowed it. 

‘I do it for my god.’

‘I do it for my parish.’

That’s what Nanami reminded himself of when your eyes would catch onto his. 

Preaching Sunday mass to the churchgoers- trying to direct his words to everyone. But whenever he did a scan of the room, his eyes stuck onto you for a brief moment.

Unable to shake the split-second thought of how you were the kind of woman he would have talked up in his 20s. He would shoo them aside before his expression could show what he was thinking. Placing his focus on preaching, instead of you.

You, who always sat at the very back of the church hall. And always with a questioning peak on your brow. 

But only you never stayed long enough after the service was over for him to properly introduce himself. Always walking out the minute the church-goers stood up to bid farewell to their neighbors. 

Even if he was held back by shaking hands- praising him for such a wonderful sermon. Nanami’s eyes still caught a glimpse of you that left the giant wooden doors of the church. Even more so, the clicking of heels against the tile- proud steps away from him as though you had completed your task.

Never did you stand for the sacramental wine nor the offering of the body of Christ. You only stayed in one of the pews at the very back and watched the line of merry people take them from his hands. A tilted head in curiosity with a small smile, as though you were poking fun at them in your mind. 

Day by day, sermon by sermon, you started inching towards him. One pew after the other. And when he finally noticed how close you had gotten, a mere 4 benches away from him. Nanami could see you up close now- the revealing collarbone that stood prominent with every inhale you took, the curve of your neck when you tilted it to the side. And every slight squint you would make as he spoke. 

Seeing you from a distance was one thing- being able to hide his catching gaze whenever he would address the flock. 

But now, he could see you even closer, his eyes catching onto how your lips would slightly purse. Almost in disbelief—when he would recite direct words from the Bible. Caused him to stutter over his words, excusing himself quickly before continuing. 

The part that made his mind reel was the congregation avoiding you. As though you weren’t even there. And Nanami knew this was impossible. A beautifully haunting churchgoer would’ve been swarmed by the single men of the church. 

But to you, they never mattered. Always swatting them away with one harsh look- at times, the aura you held was enough for them to steer clear. And the women of the flock didn’t find it very church-like that you did not greet them upon entry nor bid goodbye to your neighbors when the service was over. 

And the blatant isolation only made Nanami worry- knowing the church’s people can be judgemental at times. 

The Father blamed his priest nature for wanting to introduce himself. Knowing you had been attending for a few weeks now, and wanting to see if you were finding your way in the congregation.

Seven years wearing the white collar made Nanami think he had some sense when it came to acknowledging a troubled soul. However, the unfazed expression you would hold as he spoke and the slight look back at him when you would leave the church, left the man more troubled than you could ever be. 

At once, while he was speaking- preaching the words he carefully chose from the good book. Nanami’s eyes caught onto yours. Stuttering over his words as he watched you raise a brow and tilt your head, all with a vexing smile on your painted lips. 

As though you were taunting him for the stumbling, he saw it in the way you looked at him. Nanami felt your gaze on his skin as he spoke. Felt it burn into him with every word.

And when you finally lined up with the others during the eucharist. His jaw clenched, a sprinkle of nerves coating his hands as he watched glimpses of you through the line of people. Even lined up- you stood out. 

As you came closer to him with every person he gave the small wafer to, Nanami felt his heart start to pound. Never spoken to you- never even introduced himself. And his heart was racing. 

When you stood before him; Thick eyelashes and plump lips greeted him with a small smile. 

Blinking softly and looking up at him, parting your mouth and pressing the tip of your tongue to your bottom lip. Nanami inhaled, his hand lightly trembling as he held the little cookie. 

Looking into his eyes as he placed the weightless wafer to your bottom lip. His adam’s apple bobbing with a gulp, watching you pull the wafer into your mouth with a grin before leaving the line. 

The interaction wasn’t longer than a second- but it shook the Father to his core. Knowing that for the first time in the seven years of being in the priesthood, the first time since he was ordained– he had questioned his faith. 

For the rest of the mass, Nanami couldn’t shake the image of you from his mind. With every blink, he saw a flash of you, softly batting your eyelashes up at him with your lips parted. Even more so when he would scan the audience and see your face, a smirk on your expression, as though you were aware of the torment you had inflicted on the priest. 

Nanami didn’t know what brewed in his soul; he had no clue what called him to you. Why you were so tempting. 

That evening, when the large room was emptied. The Father prayed. He prayed and repented for the wisping thoughts that dared enter his mind. 

‘Let me help this woman,’ he prayed, ‘Let me help you find your way.’ as though he was speaking to you directly, unaware of what plagued you or why you ended up in the church's halls. 

Pleading with the ethereal being in the clouds to help him. To help him see why you were put before him. And what lesson you were meant to teach him. 

Even as he was preaching the words written in the Bible. He would pray in his mind- begging the Lord to rid him of the plaguing thoughts of you.

When he would kneel, close his eyes, hold his hands together against his lips and pray to his god; Nanami always expected some divine insight to race into his mind once he rose from his knees. He always hoped his god would tell him how to fix his issues. 

And so far, it had been a one-sided conversation. 

Tuesdays were spent sitting on the uncomfortable wooden confessional bench, hearing the same issues the regular churchgoers would come to confess. 

‘Anger, gluttony, greed.’

It was always the same—the same menial sins from the same people. Nanami often wondered if they had not tired from the repetitiveness. If they were not as exhausted as he was from listening to the problems they refused to fix. 

After the last regular left the booth, Nanami checked his watch. Noting there was only 20 minutes before 6pm. Part of him wanted to leave the booth then and there. Lock the doors of the church and continue his work in the office. 

But something told him to stay. 

Knowing he was right as he heard the heavy doors open, and the light clacking of heels hitting tile. Getting closer and closer as the Father awaited the curtain next to him to open. 

He cleared his throat as he heard someone ease onto the wooden bench. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” he spoke, hearing your voice whisper an ‘amen’ along with him. 

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” 

Nanami closed his eyes- almost in pain hearing your voice ring through his ears. 

Silk and smooth as he expected. “It has been 14 years since my last confession.” your tone conveying a small smile- the same grin you would have on your lips during mass. 

The man couldn’t speak- his cheeks ran with slight tingles as he heard you. 

“I’ve committed a handful of sins, Father. I don’t know where to start.” tilting your head to the side and awaiting the mans guidance. 

He inhaled, shaking off the feeling of thinking it was you behind the screen. “Of all of them, which seems to be the one that weighs on you most?” his tone was steady- stark contrast to his pained expression. 

“The one that plagues me most-” lightly humming, almost taunting him as you thought. “May I be honest?” you spoke- hearing quiet shifting beside you. 

“Of course. Please- be honest.” Nanami urged, eager to know why you were placed in his path. Why you. 

The grin that arose on your cheeks was one that shouldn’t have. “I have been lusting after a man I shouldn’t be.” You spoke with a light rasp in your tone. Proud shoulders, not daring to falter their posture. 

Nanami clenched his jaw. Pondering if he genuinely wanted to tread through these waters. 

“I have thought vile things while in his presence.” spoken just shy of a whisper- loud enough for him to hear. “I try tempting him.” 

It wasn’t your words- nor the sultry tone you took that bothered the Father. It was how callous they fell from your lips. How easily you admitted these sins and how unapologetic you sounded. 

Even if you had not physically done anything— the sins were only committed in your mind—your confession showed him you were on the steps to show some kind of penance. 

“Do you know the ‘Act of contrition’ prayer?” Nanami asked, hoping the words would bring him back to stable ground. 

“I do.” you spoke softly, awaiting his instructions. 

Gulping softly, “Kneel.” he commanded, his tone sending a direct spike of warmth down your spine. 

Slowly shifting onto the ground, placing your elbows onto the wooden seat, and interlocking your fingers together. “Pray.” the Father spoke in a curt breath, his tone all but begging you to. 

You closed your eyes. “My God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee,” softly reciting the prayer as the Father mouthed the words as you spoke them. 

Even as you recited the rest of the prayer- instead of helping, this only fed the rot growing in Nanami’s brain. Now, knowing you were aware enough of Catholicism and still thought of vile things, he refused to imagine.

And as he recited a prayer of absolution- he begged in his mind for you to pray for him as well.

Pray for him to find the strength to keep the box of carnal thoughts he locked away when he was anointed at bay. 

Even if the priest didn’t believe it, “God has freed you from your sins,” he said. “Go in peace.” knowing that, as it was on Sundays, you would go in peace, whereas Nanami would be left more troubled than when he started. 

And as he heard your voice whisper, ‘Thank you Father.’ before the clacking of heels descended onto the tiles. The thoughts inside that locked box dared to reawaken themselves. 

Thoughts he reserved only for his early twenties, no longer having the right to access them now. But you- you shoved the reservations aside. Made room for yourself in his mind- what plagued him most was how unsure he was if it really was you behind the wooden fence of the booth.

Nanami would be lying if he said he had never prayed as hard as he did once you left the confession box. Making sure to lock the church doors and light a candle. 

Standing at the center of the aisle, the statue of his god looking down at him with tears in his eyes. As though his god was disappointed in him.

Nanami fell to his knees, defeated and scared of what was planted into his brain. 

And as he started his prayer, the words sounded as though he was asking for mercy. Pleading with his god to forgive him, to rid him of you and the infiltrating things he pictured as you spoke. He begged for help on his hands and knees- even a light tear leaving his closed eye. 

Sunday’s morning mass came and went. Nerves filled his hands as he awaited the afternoon mass to start. 

Nanami awaited you- his eyes locking onto the door anytime it opened. He held off the mass as long as he could. And the realization that you were not showing up affected him more than it should have. 

And when afternoon mass started, he thought it might’ve been his fault. Had he assisted you better in your confession, maybe you would have shown up. 

Nanami made up a handful of excuses on your behalf, that you were sick- or just busy.

But none of them were true. None of the excuses Nanami made up satisfied him enough to still his mind. 

And as he was gathering his belongings from the lectern, the church empty and dim as he accumulated his thoughts. The sound of the large doors opening caused him to look up. 

The figure of you walking down the aisle in his direction, calf-length black dress and the same black heels that clacked against the tile. your cheeks lightly damp from the heavy rain that echoed through the halls.

Even dressed modestly- the sight of you still troubled the man. 

Nanami knew it was only you, him, and his god in that room now. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to use the congregation as an excuse to look away. 

He parted his lips to speak, only you spoke faster than he could- “Father, I was hoping we could talk.” a low tone- different from the one you used when you sat in the confessional. But speaking with the same ease that he heard the last time, it made him realize that ‘anonymous’ confession wasn’t anonymous anymore. Nanami was sure it was you now. 

And as though his prayers worked- your face looked almost remorseful. 

“Not as a confession.” you reiterated, causing the man to gulp lightly and try to gather his thoughts. “Just to talk.” 

Ending up sitting in his office- a small room at the very back of the church. Small windows being pelted with heavy raindrops.

Set up in the same way a principal’s office would be. Sitting across from him, desk separating you from the priest. 

Even if he sat in the chair that technically held the power- the aura that surrounded you made a chill run down his spine when he eased into his chair. 

“How are you finding the congregation?” he asked, words he had been thinking since he noticed your seclusion. And being able to ask you without worrying it wasn't you sitting beside him. 

Crossing your ankles and lightly easing onto the arm of the chair, you softly smiled, “The people are kind. I know I can sometimes come off standoffish; they still try.” 

Nanami felt a tension in his throat, as if he had taken an overly large bite of a meal he wasn’t ready for. “I had noticed you had not engaged with the others.”  

“Did you?” you asked- taking on that little upturn in your tone. Your low eyes watch the man before you gulp. The white collar became tight from the words that sounded all too tantalizing than they should have. 

“It made me worry.” he looked down at the calendar on his desk- full of black pen marks of that month’s activities. 

You lightly furrowed your eyebrows, “Worry?” 

“Worry that you weren’t finding your way in the church.” he reiterated, trying to shake away the nerves and make this as you asked. Just a talk. 

Nanami wanted to bring up your confession- he needed to know why you wanted to tempt a man. He wanted to know if you were speaking of him. 

“When I see you leave immediately after the service,” he continued, feeling the light searing your gaze onto his skin. 

“I never had the chance to properly introduce myself-” he spoke, flashing his eyes at you. 

“Do you introduce yourself to every new church member, Father?” You asked, words that almost made the man cough. 

“I try to.” he admitted. Even if every cell in his brain told him to lie- to say ‘Yes, I do.’ 

“I imagine it’s quite difficult- so many people.” you thrummed, softly turning your head to the side and looking at the walls. Decorated with old paintings that had been hung there long before Nanami had been anointed. 

His mind reeling with questions a priest shouldn't ask a member of his flock.

“I am.” you hummed, looking back at the man whose eyes widened slightly. Unsure if you had heard his thoughts or- “Finding my way in the church.” elaborating on his confusion. 

“Were you raised catholic?”

The little grin that rose on your cheeks should’ve told him everything, but it only caused more confusion for the man. “I was,” you mumbled, looking at the body language he held as he sat. 

Tense broad shoulders that made your thighs press together whenever your eyes caught them. A furrowed brow that would twitch when you started speaking. “Around 16 or so, I left the church.” 

“And what brought you back?” he spoke—clearer and without fault. He aimed his intentions at helping you instead of trying to aid his wandering conscious. 

Looking down to your hands, “When I moved back here- something told me to come see the church.” lightly shifting in the chair as you spoke, “Imagine my surprise when I saw a priest I wasn’t expecting, walk before the congregation.” 

He took those words as a negative- as though you were disappointed that he greeted you and not another priest. 

“Were you raised in the church?” you asked softly, watching his eyebrows pinch in the slightest. 

He took a light breath- “I was.” nodding softly and recalling the memories of his youth. There was a small silence- waiting for him to continue as he expected your voice to speak up. Knowing this was to counsel you- not the other way around. 

“Continue, Father, please.” watching his eyes squint and think on it. 

Lightly clenching his teeth, he said, “I went to an all-boys Catholic school.” He softly blinked, looking down at his hands.  

“So you always wanted to be a priest?” you asked, the question coming off more sarcastic than genuine. 

He scoffed with a small hearty laugh- clearing his throat and sitting up. “No- no, I didn’t want to join the priesthood until I was 23.” he elaborated, watching you softly nod. 

“What made you turn back to religion?” repeating the question he had asked you earlier, only with a more seductive tone.

‘Because of haunting women like you.’ was all he could think as you awaited his answer. 

“I wanted to help people—I want. To help,” he said, words he hoped you would hear and pick up on his urge to assist you. 

In your mind, a sneering comment flashing in red- 'You want to help?' almost like a challenge.

“When I came to confess earlier this week-” you brought it up. That’s what Nanami held onto in his mind. You brought it up. He didn’t. 

“I still felt plagued by what I spoke to you about, father.” looking at him with a sprinkle of feigned sincerity in your eyes. 

Only to the man before you- that false sincerity was seen as an urge to rid yourself of your sins. 

His face was still- unshowing any emotion that throbbed in his mind. And you took it as him not remembering. “I recited the prayer of contrition,” you spoke- some attempts to remind him. 

Only the Father knew precisely what you were referring to. “I remember.” he assured, softly nodding and allowing you to continue. 

“After- I felt even worse.” Bowing your head to hide the smile on your cheeks as you toyed with your hands. “They didn’t stop after I left- if anything,” the words spilled from your lips, causing goosebumps to rise on his skin from what you were insinuating. 

“They got worse- more filthy; once I left, Father.” your expression hidden from him- and your tone soft, hinting that this indeed plagued you. 

You sighed, “It was unbearable.” accentuating the word with a pained tone. Smiling to yourself, “I’m sure you know the feeling, Father- as though one light breeze would make you combust at that moment.” 

 “I couldn’t even bring myself to come-” Nanami’s hand dared to clench at your words, “-to Mass this morning; that’s how shameful I felt.”

Answering Nanami’s question without having to ask it- “I thought it would be less frowned upon if I stepped into the church after mass.” 

Nanami gulped at the insinuation- all too fearful of what you spoke of. “Have you prayed on this?” he asked, air threatening to choke his words. 

Looking up at him with pinched brows, lips parted ever so slightly. “I have never prayed so much in my life before this.” 

Your words conflicted with. If you were so godly and sure of Catholicism. Why do your eyes tell him another story? Why do your eyes glimmer with hints of intent- as though you were looking at prey?

“Why do you think these thoughts have yet to leave you?” he spoke- words he said as a priest but meant as a person. 

“I think a masochistic part of me urges me to continue returning to the cause.” Words that rung true in his ears- knowing that he was the same. That, he very much could have excused you- tell you he was busy or that he could not talk at that moment. 

But the same as you, Nanami allowed himself to allow you access to him. The excuse of closure and the urge to help, used to defend himself to the god above him. 

Spoken in a whisper, “Like an itch I can’t scratch.” the Father started contemplating how far it would be if he admitted to the same thing- how bad it would truly be, if he confessed that the very same thing had plagued him.

Nanami was about to part his lips to speak- but the little reminder on his phone rang beside him. Looking down and seeing it- a parish meeting. “Maybe we should continue this next week.” he spoke- almost relieved that he would be able to escort you from the room thick with tension. 

“Have I taken too much of your time, father?” you asked- voice churned with the slightest hint of false distress. 

Nanami inhaled- “Not at all.” with a smile, “I just have a parish meeting in a few minutes.” he excused. Pushing his chair back and standing. 

And as he walked you past the church’s pew benches- a few inches to your side. “How does next Sunday sound?” he spoke, a low tone laced with the tiniest hit of smugness.

Shoes clicking against the tile as he walked. And as you turned your head over to him, a mindless hand was placed on your back. The lightest touch guiding you towards the door. 

“Sunday is perfect, Father.” you mumbled, watching his hand open the large door and await you to step out. 

And as he watched you leave his church- he almost closed his eyes in relief. 

Thinking of the movement Nanami hadn’t made since his days in college- a little action he would use on the opposite gender. It flustered him more now than it ever did. 

Life as a priest didn’t require him to touch women- ever so often holding their hands in his as they spoke to him. A handshake, a side hug from the overly enthusiastic housewives after his services. 

But that touch- the feeling of your back pressed against his palm. It sent shocks of fear mixed with excitement down his spine. 

During the entire parish meeting; the Father’s mind was fogged. Unsure what he was getting into- or why he was so determined to walk head first into this. Even if it was you who caused him to contemplate his life in the priesthood. 

Nanami would help you find your way, even if it killed him trying to. Reminding himself of the words in his mind. 

‘I do it for my god.'

'I do it for my parish.’

-

PT 2

(a.n) ....hehe

[ahqkas]

♯ JUST LIKE MOVIES ; mattheo riddle

PAIRING! mattheo riddle x gn!reader

SYNOPSIS! mattheo riddle, half-naked and utterly captivating, was a vision that would be hard to forget (based on this req.!!)

WORD COUNT! 3.5k

WARNINGS / TAGS! pure fluff, kissing, pansy serves like always . lmk of more if missed !

NOTES! all credits to the pretty devider below belong to @v6que !

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

BEST FRIENDS COME AND GO but Pansy Parkinson wouldn't let her closest friends parish without a serious reason. Her loyalty to those she cared about was above the standard (if there any was) and so was the commitment to mark her presence in her friends' lives in a way they wouldn't forget. She was cunning and mean, but she meant well. Most of the time.

It was a regular evening in the Slytherin common room, the dim light from the enchanted green flames casting flickering shadows and a warm glow on the ancient stone walls. You were nestled comfortably on one of the plush, dark-green couches, a loved book balanced in your lap as you tried to focus on the chapter in front of you. Despite your best efforts, your eyes kept drifting away from the page, your thoughts straying to someone who wasn't in the room yet.

Mattheo Thomas Riddle had been occupying your restless thoughts far more than you cared to admit. You tried to brush it off (an impossible task), convincing yourself that it was simple because of how often you saw him. After all, with the both of you being in the same house and friend group it was impossible to not cross paths with him constantly. But deep down, your heart knew there was more to it than that.

The way his dark curls fell over his forehead when he was lost in thought, the way his eyes seemed to darken with an intensity that made your heart race, the way he was looking straight at you every time a small joke slipped past his lips — it was all becoming increasingly hard to ignore. Still, you did your best to keep your feelings hidden, especially around your curious friends. You didn't need anyone picking up on the fact that the nonchalant Mattheo Riddle had you utterly smitten and wrapped around his finger.

Your eyes flickered back to your book, trying to push thoughts of the boy out of your mind. ❛And one asks oneself where are one's dreams. And one shakes one's head and says how rapidly the years fly by! And again one asks oneself what has one done with one's years. Where have you buried your best days? Have you lived or not?❜ But it was to no use. Every little sound made your stomach twist in nerves, wondering if it was him finally entering the common room. You were too distracted to notice when Pansy Parkinson, your ever-observant best friend, slipped onto the couch beside you, wearing a sly grin on her pink lips.

Pansy, always perceptive and mischievous, noticed the direction of your gaze. She had been scheming something ever since she realized the mutual pining between you and Mattheo, and tonight was the perfect opportunity.

"What are you staring at?"

You didn't realized you zoned out a bit and you've been staring at the entrance that led to the boys' dormitory rooms for a while now. You quickly looked down at your book, pretending to be engrossed in the words of literature. "Nothing. Just reading."

The girl next to you snorted at your obvious lie. "Right. And I'm excellent at Quidditch."

Shooting her a glare from the corner of your eyes, you still kept up with your excuses (which didn't seem to work but it was still better than running around telling the truth). "I'm just reading, Pans, really."

"Sure thing, if that's what you want me to believe. But I've seen the way you look at a certain someone."

Your poor stomach did a nervous flip at her words, and in the moment you wished it was for rather different reasons. You kept the expression on your face neutral but you were crumbling on the inside. How did she know? "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come on, it's obvious, even to a blind git like our Berkshire. You've got it bad for Riddle."

An instant heat rushed to your cheeks, aiding to your growing embarrassment, and you fumbled with your words, trying to come up with a denial that didn't sound ridiculous. "I — no, it's not like that."

"Right," the word was drawled by the dark haired witch who was clearly not buying it. "That's why you can't take your eyes off the door, hoping he'll walk in any second now. Face it, you've got it bad for him."

"Pansy, please, don't make this a thing."

"I'm not making this a thing," she held her hands up in a mock defense, the pale skin of her palms facing you. "But if you're going to sit there and pine over him without doing anything about it, someone's got to step in."

And that someone would gladly be Pansy Parkinson.

You shot her a warning look but the girl's bored mind was already made up. "What do you mean by that?"

A smirk tugged at the corner of her devilish lips as she got up from her seat, quietly slipping away without anyone noticing. Panic surged you as you realized what she was about to do. You stood up after her, set on following the girl you so dearly called your best friend, but it was too late.

She was already out of sight, heading straight for Mattheo's dormitory room. You stood frozen in place for a moment, heart pounding against your rib cage, unsure whether to run after her or pretend none of this ever happened. Before you could make a decision, Pansy reappeared with a smug look on her face — and in her grasp, she was holding one of Mattheo's shirts.

You stared at her in disbelief as she sauntered back over to the spot she claimed as hers on the couch, picking at the green and silver shirt with her slim fingers. "What are you up to?"

"Oh, nothing," she said innocently, her tone betraying her mischief. "Just thought I'd borrow a little something from Riddle. He won't mind, will he?" As if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"He's going to kill you."

The girl shrugged, completely unfazed. "He can try."

Just as you were about to protest further, you heard the door to the dormitory burst open, and then you saw Mattheo storming down the stairs like his life depended on it.

The air around you seemed to shift. The usual hum of chatter died down as all eyes turned toward him. Water droplets still clung to his skin, glistening in the dim, green-tinged light from the enchanted flames in the fireplace. His dark curls, damp from the shower, hung slightly over his forehead, giving him an almost rugged, untamed look.

His broad shoulders and chest were on full display, the muscles there defined and sculpted, showing the hard work he's done throughout the years of Quidditch. His skin, a shade somewhere between pale and lightly tanned, was smooth, with the occasional freckle or mole adding to his character. Every line and curve of his body was honed, from the subtle ripple of his abs to the V-line that disappeared tantalizingly beneath the towel wrapped low around his hips.

The towel itself was just barely doing its job, clinging precariously to him, revealing strong thighs. He moved with a certain grace, despite the situation, his confidence evident in every step. His dark eyes, framed by thick lashes, swept over the room, taking in the scene with a mix of amusement and challenge. Those eyes, usually so intense and guarded, now held a glint of playful irritation as they locked onto Pansy — and then softened when they found you.

His lips, slightly parted as if caught in mid-thought, were full and curved into a smirk that sent a wave of warmth through you. Even in this slightly ridiculous situation, Mattheo exuded an aura of dangerous charm. There was something about the contrast of his bare, vulnerable state and the raw power he embodied that made it impossible to look away.

Despite the fact that he was clad in nothing but a towel, he didn't seem the least bit self-conscious. If anything, he seemed entirely comfortable, like he knew exactly the effect he was having on everyone in the room — especially on you. As he approached, the air grew thick with unspoken tension, his presence overwhelming in the best way possible.

And then, as if just to make your heart race even more, he ran a hand through his damp curls, pushing them back from his forehead, giving you an even clearer view of those piercing eyes and the strong lines of his jaw. The sight was almost too much — Mattheo Riddle, half-naked and utterly captivating, was a vision that would be hard to forget.

"Give it back," he growled at the witch, but there was a playful edge to his voice.

The rest of your Slytherin boys in the common room immediately took notice of the situation, and a chorus of laughter erupted. You, on the other hand, felt your cheeks heat up, your gaze inadvertently wandering over Mattheo's exposed torso before quickly looking away, embarrassed.

"Come and get it, Riddle!" Pansy taunted, her grin widening as she stepped behind you, holding the shirt just out of Mattheo's reach.

Mattheo rolled his eyes, clearly used to Pansy's antics, but there was a flicker of something else in his gaze when he looked at you— something that made your heart skip a beat. He stepped closer, and the room seemed to quiet down as all eyes turned to the two of you.

"Pansy, seriously. Give me my shirt back," Mattheo said, his voice softer now, his eyes flickering between her, the shirt in her grasp, and you.

Pansy, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, finally tossed the clothing over to the Slytherin beater, but not before giving you a knowing wink. Mattheo caught it effortlessly, but instead of putting it on right away, he turned his attention back to you.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low, concern lacing his words.

You nodded, still feeling flustered. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He hesitated for a moment, then sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "Listen, I — there's something I've been meaning to tell you."

Your heart pounded in your chest. You had a feeling you knew where this was going, but you couldn't quite believe it.

"What is it?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

The boy glanced around the common room, noticing the curious stares from his friends. With a slight smirk, he leaned in closer, so only you could hear him. "Maybe we should talk somewhere a bit more private?"

Your breath hitched as you nodded, and the two of you slipped out of the common room to the stairs leading to the dormitories, leaving behind a very smug-looking Pansy and a bunch of amused Slytherin boys.

Mattheo motioned for you to follow him, and you trailed after him up the staircase that led to the dormitories. The common room was still buzzing behind you, but the further up you went, the quieter it became. You stopped halfway up the stairs, where the shadows were deeper, the flickering green light of the common room barely reaching this far. It was secluded enough to talk without the eyes of your peers on you, but there was still the chance that someone could come down at any moment — a chance that added an unspoken tension to the air.

The Slytherin leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his still-bare chest, the towel securely wrapped around his waist. His expression was softer now, the teasing smirk from earlier replaced with something more serious, yet still unreadable. You mirrored him, leaning against the opposite wall, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, though your heart was hammering in your chest.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you was heavy, filled with everything that had gone unsaid for so long. Mattheo's eyes were on you, dark and intense, as if he was weighing his words before speaking them. You were keenly aware of the proximity, the way the confined space of the staircase seemed to draw you closer together, despite the few feet that separated you.

"I'm going to guess Pansy did that on purpose," you finally said, trying to break the tension with a small smile.

Mattheo huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and rough. "She has a way of meddling when it suits her."

You nodded, the small talk serving as a brief reprieve from the weight of the moment. But you could feel the real conversation hovering just beneath the surface, waiting to break free. And it did, when Mattheo's gaze sharpened, his demeanor shifting slightly as he uncrossed his arms, taking a small step closer.

"You've been avoiding me," he said, his tone even, but there was an edge of something more — something almost vulnerable.

You blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of his statement. "I — well, I didn't think you'd notice."

He frowned slightly, his brow furrowing as if the idea was absurd. "Of course I noticed. How could I not?"

There was a sincerity in his voice that made your breath catch, and suddenly, you couldn't find it in yourself to meet his gaze. You looked down at the stone steps instead, tracing the cracks with your eyes as you tried to gather your thoughts. "It's just — well, with everything people say about you, about us . . . I didn't want to make things awkward."

Mattheo stepped closer again, now close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, the scent of soap and something distinctly him filling the small space between you. He lifted a hand, hesitating for a split second before gently tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His touch was light, but it sent a shiver down your spine.

"Awkward?" he repeated, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. "I think you're the only person who can make me feel anything but awkward."

Your breath hitched at the implication of his words, but you didn't pull away. His thumb brushed against your jaw, and his eyes were locked on yours, as if he was searching for something, some sign that you felt the same way. You didn't need to say anything; the look in your eyes must have been enough because Mattheo's expression softened, a quiet resolve settling over him.

"I didn't want to make things weird either," he admitted, his voice steady but laced with the same tension you were feeling. "But not saying anything has been driving me mad."

The vulnerability in his voice was unlike anything you'd heard from him before, and it made your heart clench. The boy who always seemed so sure of himself, who carried an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance, was standing before you, baring a side of himself that few got to see.

"And what exactly is it that you're not saying?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Mattheo's hand dropped from your chin, but instead of stepping back, he closed the distance between you, the barest of gaps left between your bodies. His hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in a way that felt natural, like they were always meant to fit together. He took a breath, and for a moment, you thought he might back out, but then his grip tightened, and his eyes bore into yours with a determination that sent your heart racing.

"That I like you, more than I should," he said, each word deliberate and measured, as if he was afraid of getting it wrong. "And it's been driving me insane because I've been trying to act like I don't, but I do. And I can't keep pretending otherwise."

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning, and for a long moment, all you could do was stare at him, the weight of his confession pressing down on you. But instead of feeling suffocated, you felt something else — a warmth that spread from where his hand held yours, blooming outwards until it filled your entire chest.

"I think I like you too," you whispered, the words slipping out before you could second-guess yourself.

The relief in Mattheo's eyes was immediate, and before you knew it, his other hand had moved to cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing gently against the apple of your cheek. The touch was so tender, so full of unspoken emotion, that it made your chest tighten.

And then, slowly, as if giving you every chance to pull away, Mattheo leaned in. His lips hovered inches from yours, the anticipation crackling in the air between you. You closed the gap, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was soft at first, tentative, as if testing the waters. But then something shifted, and the kiss deepened, turning desperate and hungry, as if all the tension that had built up between you over the past few weeks was pouring out in this single moment.

The world around you faded, the only thing that mattered was the feel of his lips on yours, the way his hand held your face as if he was afraid to let go. Your free hand moved to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm, grounding you in the reality of what was happening.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and dazed, Mattheo didn't move far. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as he caught his breath, his fingers still laced with yours.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

You couldn't help but smile, your own heart racing. "Me too."

You stayed like that for a moment longer, savoring the warmth of his presence, the way your hand fit perfectly in his. There was still so much left unsaid, so much you needed to talk about, but for now, you were content to just be here, with him, knowing that whatever happened next, you would face it together.

Just then, a faint creak echoed from the foot of the stairs, pulling you both out of your bubble. You instinctively stepped back, your eyes wide as you turned toward the sound, and Mattheo straightened up, though he didn't let go of your hand.

A first-year student, with wide, curious eyes, was standing at the bottom of the staircase, frozen in place. He looked like he was caught between curiosity and the urge to bolt back down to the safety of the common room. The young boy's gaze flicked between you and Mattheo, clearly unsure if he had interrupted something important — or perhaps he was simply trying to figure out what a shirtless Mattheo Riddle was doing on the stairs with his hand in yours.

You felt a flush creep up your cheeks, but before you could say anything, Mattheo let out a low chuckle. He looked over at you with a smirk that was both amused and reassuring, as if to say, Don't worry, I've got this.

"Hey, kid," Mattheo called out, his voice casual, though the edge of his smirk hinted at something more mischievous. "You lost?"

The boy blinked, his face reddening slightly as he shook his head, clearly flustered. "Uh, no . . . I was just . . . going to bed."

Mattheo nodded, his expression softening as he gestured towards the upper floors. "Well, don't let us stop you. But you might want to keep what you saw to yourself, yeah?"

The boy's eyes widened and with a quick nod, he scampered up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time as he disappeared into the dormitories.

Once he was out of sight, you turned back to Mattheo, who was watching you with an amused expression. The tension from earlier had melted away, replaced by a lightness that made you smile despite yourself.

"You're terrible," you whispered, though there was no heat behind the words.

Mattheo grinned, pulling you close again, his forehead brushing against yours. "I prefer the term 'irresistible,' actually."

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up from your chest. As you stood there on the stairs, the echoes of your laughter mingling with the distant sounds of the common room, you knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, you would face them together — starting with getting back to the common room before anyone else stumbled upon your little moment.

But for now, you were content to stay here just a little longer, savoring the feeling of being exactly where you were meant to be — by Mattheo's side.

[frostedfragments]

the angels are watching ✧.* zayne x reader ✧.* 4.1k words ✧.* strangers to lovers summary: father zayne becomes obsessed with you, the newest girl at church warnings!: priest!zayne mutual masturbation, inappropriate use of a confessional, inaccurate portrayals of catholicism note: i do not subscribe to any religion...if any of this is wrong or inaccurate, ignore and just have fun. this is kind of a slow burn, if you're looking for a long gratuitous smut scene, this ain't the one. i was more going for the tortured monologue of zayne pining as usual note2: blame fleabag for this one. it's 7:30 am i've not slept so if this is full of grammatical or spelling errors, pls dont be mean 2 me.

divider cred. @enchanthings-a

The moment you stepped into the church Zayne knew you were going to be a problem for him. For years he has prided himself on the love he has for his faith, and the enjoyment he gets presiding over the parish that welcomed him with open arms when he was nothing but an inexperienced novice stumbling around, unsure of himself. He has always put the church before everything, before any whim or temporary desire he has had, before the fleeting thoughts of more outside of his role as priest.

He’s never missed anything of his old life, none of the recreational habits he enjoyed in his youth, or the carnal moments he shared with women he didn’t know. He has never once wished for anything other than this.

Until you.

The first day you stepped into the church, flanked by your familiar and respectable parents - frequent parishioners who Zayne recognised as active community members. At first he didn’t really notice anything unusual save for the fact you were new, Zayne hadn’t seen you attend his service before, but he had new people joining the parish every week, it was hardly out of the ordinary. His eyes trailed over you once; the long lengths of your hair, the dark dress, a tattoo peeking out from the hem where it cut across your thigh.

He looked away then - he didn’t want to appear to be ogling. And he wasn’t, of course. He just hadn’t seen anyone so different, so vibrant in quite some time. And maybe he was a little curious about the ink on your skin.

The first time you approached him was with your parents after that first Sunday. They introduced you, though you remained silent, eyes watching him. The way the candles behind Zayne reflected in your eyes had him lost in thought for several seconds before he reached out his hand to you, introducing himself as he would anyone else, and yet the moment seemed to hang in slow motion, suspended in a bubble that only the two of you seemed aware of. It was so peculiar that Zayne had taken his hand away from your soft grip almost too quickly, an apology falling from his lips before he’d left you and your parents standing there bewildered.

He had shaken the hand of every parishioner in the church at one point or another, but your touch was the only one he couldn’t shake off. His hand clenched in the back office of the church, palm hot and tingling like he’d touched a live wire. He chose to put it behind him.

The next time you walked through the doors, your father wasn’t present, ill your mother had informed Zayne. You were still quiet, lost in thought as you stood behind your mother, eyes fathomless, deep and bewitching, and Zayne felt almost unsettled as you looked at him. He watched you watch him, his head nodding vaguely to whatever your mother was telling him, but he couldn’t look away from you. He felt adrift, unmoored from his usual state of indifference towards the beauty of women. Of course pretty girls came into the church all the time, but he had never felt like this. Never been compelled to look at someone, drink his fill like a man wandering in the desert and coming upon an oasis.

He’d almost sighed in relief when you walked out of the church after the service. Your eyes on him felt like a vice around his chest, his eyes darting over to where you sat in the pews. Your cheeks pink every time his gaze landed on you, and like a damned man, he wanted to feel the heat of your skin under his palms.

He had prayed that night, and the night after, asking God for some mercy from this distraction. Was this a test of his faith? A challenge sent from the Lord to ensure he does not wander? To make certain he does not give in to his urges? Never, in all the years since he became a man of the cloth has he felt tempted. But you are his biggest temptation, the biggest risk to his faith.

Today Zayne stands at the doors of the church as he does every Sunday. He feels it on his skin when you arrive, feels it like a rush of static against the surface of his body. The awareness of you creeps beneath his alb, settling in the space between the cloth and his bare skin, like a touch.

It feels like an embodiment of sin, and he wishes he could shake it off. His eyes briefly fly upward, his thoughts calling to God in hopes he can be rescued from this challenge now, before it wrecks him. He is interrupted by the nearness of you as you walk by him, alone today, your eyes flicking over his face, a soft smile on your lips and a nod of greeting before you’re gone, into the church.

The scent of honey lingers in the air in your absence, and Zayne licks his lips as if the taste of you rests there. He sighs a ragged breath before he re-enters the church - you are always one of the last to arrive, and one of the first to leave. At least soon, you will be gone, and he can relax for another week.

The service passes as it always does; Zayne’s skin feels like it’s on fire, his hands are clammy and clenching against the wood of the pulpit. He tries his hardest not to look your way, but his eyes always seem to stumble across the unfocused faces of the crowd who sit in the nave and land on you, as if you’re the only thing he can see clearly. You’re watching him, as you always are, though you look troubled today. A crease between the smooth skin of your forehead, eyes darting away from Zayne just as quickly as they find him again.

Zayne breaks eye contact first, as he always does.

People soon begin to file out of the doors to the church, and Zayne is blessed that only a couple people of the parish come over to speak to him, praising him as they often do on his words. He suddenly feels like a liar, preaching of purity with his position in the church, the eyes of God hot on the back of his neck even as his mind calls to you, bewitched and beholden to your attention. The final conversation with the last parishioner ends with a quick nod and a shaky smile, and Zayne rushes down the aisle behind them in a rush to close and bolt the doors so he may retire and dwell on his own lack of control.

He knows the moment the heavy door creaks and then thuds shut that he has made an error; he is not alone, he feels it in the way his skin prickles with goosebumps, despite the sunny spring day.

“Father?”

Your voice is like the caress of a hand against Zayne’s skin, and he almost buckles at the first sound of it. How can you sound like an angel whilst condemning him? His hands rest on the wood, and he is all at once unable to move, limbs shaking with fear? Restraint? Desire? All of it contradicts the other, and yet the storm within him refuses to cease.

When he does turn, it is to the sound of your voice once more, “I’m sorry to keep you. I - ah,” his eyes find you, standing beside the final pew of the nave, wringing your hands as you look over at him. Your eyes are full of something he cannot put a name to, though he feels a kinship to whatever it is. You appear lost. “I was wondering if you might hear my confession?”

The idea that you might have sins to confess has Zayne all at once breaking out in a sweat and wanting to laugh. He should be in the booth, confessing his own sin, his own filthy needs that seem to have risen from their long-buried grave in your presence. He cannot imagine you have a sin greater than his own, and yet you believe him the best person to hear it.

“Of course,” His throat is low, rough from the service as it always is. He hasn’t had time to drink anything yet, but he clears it once, “the booth is over here,”

You follow behind him, a few paces separating the two of you. He is thankful for the space, thankful for the time between the nave and the small booth close to the entrance. It gives him time to prepare himself for how you might sound, how your voice might carry through the dividers of the confessional. The idea of you speaking to him in a quiet, whispered tone, the two of you all alone in separate stalls of the dark booth has him suppressing a shiver.

He is a depraved man.

Pulling the curtain aside, he allows you to enter the stall for penitents. You brush past him, your hair carrying the same honeyed scent from earlier, and he releases the curtain with a sharp inhale, eager to get this over with.

He feels some relief once he is inside his side of the confessional, the thin layer of separation is welcome to his racing heart and wayward thoughts. He can just about gather himself after a few quiet moments, the soft sounds of your breathing the only thing Zayne can hear. He makes the sign of the cross, glancing through the divider to check if you are ready. He does not see you make the sign, and he frowns, speaking softly.

“Have you ever done this before, ___?”

A soft gasp, and then you speak, “I didn’t think you’d remember my name,”

Zayne’s lips quirk up at the edges. Oh, if only you knew the thoughts that had been synonymous with your name over the last month. “I take great care to remember the names of my parishioners,”

A bald-faced lie, and in the confessional, no less. But Zayne allows himself this sin - he can repent later.

“Oh,” You say, and Zayne can hear the smile in your voice, “that’s a lot of names to remember,”

“Well, I never claimed to remember the correct names,”

When you laugh, it is as if someone has managed to capture all the beauty of a spring day - the rain pattering against leaves, the melody of birdsong, the burble of a forest stream. His eyes close to it, like he is committing it to memory.

You’re quiet for a few moments before you speak again, “I’m afraid I don’t know how to begin,”

Your first confession, and Zayne gets to hear it.

“First, you make the sign of the cross,” He says, peeking through the divider where he can make out the blurry outline of your hand moving over your face. His lips curl into a grin, the sight of it pleasing to him, if only because he gets to walk you through it for the first time, “Then you say, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned’,”

You clear your throat, speaking soft, “Bless me, Father,” you pause, “for I have sinned,”

Zayne wants to convince himself that he doesn’t get a strange, dark sided satisfaction from hearing you address him as such, but he does. He cannot explain it - the taboo of it, perhaps. The wrongness of his affinity to you, the way in which you make him feel more than anyone ever has, and the fact it’s such a problem for a man in his position. Speaking of sinning while the leap in his chest and the heat low in his gut is the very embodiment of his own sin.

“Good,” He says, almost so quiet he wonders whether you heard him or not, but he notices the creak of the bench beneath you, the rustle of your clothing as you fidget, and he licks his lips. “Now, you say, “My last confession was…” and tell me when you last confessed,”

He hears you swallow in the heavy silence, the lack of sound so dense it’s almost too loud, overwhelming and broken only by the quiet breaths from the two of you. It’s as if you’re the only two people on earth.

“I have never confessed, Father,”

Zayne nods, despite the fact you cannot see him, “I understand. In that case, you can just begin,”

A deep inhale followed by the creaking of the bench is all that follows, and Zayne realises how much he awaits the words you’re about to give him. He is almost impatient with it, desperate for any little bit of you he can claim while staying devout. He cannot have you, cannot enjoy the feel of your skin or the taste of your breath on his lips, but he can have this.

You begin in stuttered words, a frustrated sigh filling the space before you finally get the words out, “I-I have been having some…impure thoughts,”

Zayne’s hands ball into fists, and he feels, not for the first time, like this is a true test. Perhaps you are his punishment; he has not been living purely enough, he has not been devout, he has strayed from his own teachings. He surely must have done something wrong to warrant such torture, such temptation, packaged in a woman so sweet and so beautiful. He cannot imagine a worse fate, and he doesn’t have to.

“I see,” The words are a grind to get out, his throat almost closing up, locked with a thirst he has never felt before. One that cannot be quenched with even the cleanest, freshest water. This is a need Zayne is only vaguely aware of, and it can only be satisfied with skin and sweat and teeth dragging on salted cheeks. A wet, hot drag of blood rushes to Zayne’s groin and his thighs jerk closed, as if someone might see his body reacting to barely the implication of you thinking about sex. Of you lusting after hands on your body.

He wants to fulfil that need for you so badly it aches.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea -” You begin, and Zayne panics. He knows it’s a terrible idea to hear you speak more, to have you truly confess all your darkest desires to him. It’s unholy, and it’s wrong, and it’s the worst kind of temptation. But he can’t help but succumb to it, just a little.

“You can continue,” He rubs his palms along his thighs, the heaviness of his clothing almost suffocating him. Not for the first time, he wants to curse these vestments, to pull them off his body. “I have heard many confessions, ___. Please, unburden yourself,”

Unburden yourself by burdening me with the thought of your bare body on mine.

There’s an edge to your voice when you speak again, almost breathless, perhaps with embarrassment of having your secrets revealed. Zayne can appreciate how confessions can be awkward, especially the first time. “I have…I am not someone who has followed the church for long. I -” you swallow, and Zayne hangs on every word, “I mean to say, I am not a virgin. I am…I’ve had sex before marriage,”

It’s not the first time this particular confession has been revealed to Zayne - times are different now, and even thoughts who are true to their faith cannot resist the heady pull of connection with another person. Zayne himself would be a hypocrite if he was to admonish anyone for that particular sin.

“You are not alone in that, ___,” Is all he says, though he hopes it can help you feel more comfortable, more at ease. He likes to hear you speak, even if the words that leave your lips feel like being held against a scorching fire.

“It’s not the thoughts,” You say, “I mean…it’s not that I have these thoughts, that’s not why I felt compelled to confess. It’s,” Zayne almost leans toward the divider in intrigue, “it’s who the thoughts are about, Father,”

The first feeling is jealousy, which is ridiculous. Zayne has no claim over who you dream about, or who you desire, but he feels greedy even in this one-sided infatuation.

“Who are these thoughts about? I am sure God understands,” God certainly won’t understand Zayne, nor will he forgive. But as he burns for you on the other side of the confessional, he wonders if perhaps Hell isn’t the best place for him. There he would be able to desire you all he wants.

It's sacrilegious to even think about it, and Zayne wants to slam his head into the wall. He has finally gone mad.

“I think about…” There’s a pause, and he can’t imagine what you might say. Who you might think about. Nothing prepares him for your answer, “I think about you, Father,”

There’s a very real, self-preserving part of Zayne that wonders if he might be dreaming. Some kind of TV-induced slumber he’s fallen into inside his apartment. A safe, controlled place where he can act out whatever fantasy he wants right now, with the information he now has, and there will be no consequences.

He knows that not to be true, though, and so he sits in the stall beside you, his cock already hard in his slacks, and attempts to pray. He does so silently, not wanting you to hear and get the wrong idea, but he cannot string a single thought together long enough to actually have any hopes of speaking with God. He cannot receive any guidance right now, and he fears that it will be his damnation.

“Father?” You speak, and Zayne realises in horror that he has not replied to you, “perhaps I should go. I’m sorry - this -”

“No,” He says, his voice as steady as it has ever been, and his heart restarts at the sound of you plopping back down onto the bench. He feels his stomach clench at your obedience, the twisted part of him wanting to see how far that obedience will take you. He winces at his own depraved thoughts. “This is your confession, ___. You can tell me, I am here to give you guidance. There is no judgement,”

His voice is as tight as a bowstring, and he knows you can hear it, knows that you are aware of his reaction by the way you inhale softly, sharply. “What…what should I say?”

Zayne is out of his depth, but he can’t resist the pull of his own carnal desires, can’t resist hearing what exactly you think about, “Tell me about the...thoughts,”

You shift again, and his mind flutters to the image of you in your dress, thighs shifting on the wooden seat. His cheeks flush, the heat burning. When you speak, your voice is shaky, breathless, and Zayne is hungry for any and all reaction, “I…I had a dream about you. The first time,” you pause, “I dreamt you were alone with me. That we kissed in the nave…that you pushed me against the wall,” you swallow, “you were…rough. Not how I imagined a priest would be, but it excited me. The wrongness of it all,”

It excites Zayne too, it always has. Ever since he first saw you, a part of him enjoyed the traitorous thoughts he would have of you. At first it was simply that you were pretty, a harmless observation, but then it changed, and it became about the way the dresses you wore to church clung to your body. The way your body might feel in his hands, the weight of your breasts, the softness of your hips. Soon he was imagining the hot, wet wrap of your cunt around his cock, the stretch of your rose-coloured lips around his length as he fucked your throat. His throat dries up as he recalls them all.

“Did it stop there?” He murmurs, the cracking of his voice giving him away, but it’s too late now. He wants you to know that everything you feel, he feels it too. Maybe even more, worse. “Did it stop at the kiss?”

He glances at the divider, and he swears he sees you bite your lip, even through the blurred screen, “No,”

“What did I do next, ___? In your dreams,”

He’s dragging his nails along his thighs to stop his hand from touching his erection. It’s hot, hard against his thigh, and he can feel it throb in time with his heartbeat.

“You touched me. You pulled up my dress and you put your fingers inside me,”

A harsh breath blows out through his nose, and Zayne feels the fraying edge of his control begin to break, his pulse thudding everywhere, blood rushing in his ears. He can hear you shifting, your body restless on the other side of the thin wall, and he almost groans. You are suffering, just like him, and he can’t have that.

“Are you turned on, ___?” He is looking through the divider now, and he can faintly make out your parted lips, your head leaning back against the wall, the slow roll of a nod, “Touch yourself. Do it exactly how I did in the dream,”

“But…” You sigh and then groan, and Zayne imagines that you have pulled up your dress, your fingers trailing against your underwear, “Father, God will -”

“God isn’t here right now. It’s just us, ___. Okay?”

“Okay,” The word breaks on a whine, and Zayne loses the battle, his hand flying under his alb to press against his cock. He grunts, cursing through his teeth, and you sigh, “Father, please…tell me what to do,”

His brows furrow, vision almost blurring as he fumbles with his belt buckle. If he closes his eyes, maybe he can pretend he isn’t desecrating the confessional in his own church. Perhaps if he doesn’t touch you, this doesn’t count. His hand fists his cock as soon as he pulls it free, his other hand fighting with the layers of cloth, tugging it to his waist, his abs tensing with each slow stroke.

“Are you wet?” He grunts, “Can you slide your fingers inside, just like I said?”

Your low moan is answer enough, the creaking of the bench beneath you his only indicator besides your laboured breaths that you’re in this with him. There’s a sharp gasp, and then Zayne hears the wet squelch of your cunt, and he clenches his jaw so tight it hurts.

“Good girl,” He sighs, his thumb brushing over the leaking head of his cock. He gazes down at his hand blearily, half drunk on pleasure, scattered thoughts rushing through his mind, too fast for him to keep a tight hold on. His hand speeds up, remnicent of all those times he’d fucked himself to the idea of you in the safety of his own shower. Only this time, he has your moans to help him along, right beside him on the other side of the wall.

The next few moments are alive with the sounds of his wet strokes, the pumping of your fingers and your collective sighs and whines of pleasure. Zayne briefly fights with the urge of pulling back the curtain, of going to your side of the confessional and seeing with his own eyes how you pleasure yourself. How you take care of your own desires, your own filthy needs, but he knows if he were to do that, everything would shatter around him. In here, in this booth, he can maintain some sense of control. Some rules have stayed unbroken, and he clings to that like a lifeline as you cry out.

“Father, I - I’m almost -”

“Come, ___. You’ve done so well -” His voice cracks, a moan breaking through the last word as he spills into his hand, his body obeying his own command along with you. He can hear you writhing on the bench, your hips moving enough for the bench to thud against the wall. Zayne thinks he has never heard something so beautiful, and so damning all at once.

The moments that follow are alight with the afterglow of pleasure, though all too soon reality sets in, and the silence is cut through by the sounds of rustling clothing, and the metallic screech of the curtain being pulled back. By the time Zayne has tidied himself up, he looks into your side of the booth to find you gone, and he feels both relieved and devastated in one harsh blow.

[hotchfiles]

↪ QUIS UT DEUS? ─ chapter one.

AN IN NOMINE PATRIS, ET FILII, ET SPIRITUS SANCTI INSTALLMENT

pairing: hotch x fem!consultant!reader. summary: murders committed using catholic symbology gets emily to convince hotch it's time to ask for an expert. luckily for you, you're the expert. content warnings: canon typical violence. religious themes. spoilers to season 4. mature themes. word count: 1.5K

    In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…

    “Amen.” If you weren’t paying attention and side eyeing him at that exact moment, you might’ve lost the way his lips moved following the ritual, no word actually leaving his mouth. 

    The black haired man didn’t look too comfortable, but didn’t look out of place either, he knew the cues, he spoke the words on automatic it seemed. It amused you to observe people’s behavior on holy grounds, that was part of the reason you asked to meet in silver spring.

    “Catholic, Mr. Hotchner?” Your question is met with a low scoff, the type only those with a bad bad history with the church gave you. “That much, huh?”

    “My parents were.” The answer is simple and you think it might stop at that, but he shakes his head and scoffs again. “I was an altar boy for years before I left for boarding school.” You nod. 

    “Ah. I've met some of you in my research.” Some of you. Church babies, altar boys. Spoon fed the bible from birth while watching everyone around sin. Sin becoming a term to reflect on what they hated. 

    “And you? Catholic?” 

    “Oh no. Never been.” You don’t explain much, aware Emily probably told him of your time in Rome, where the two of you met. “Your UnSub is though. Either devoted to Saint Michael or knows enough about his roles to look like one.” You note, being reminded of the pictures Emily sent you, big stab wounds, a small scale tipped to one side, the words Hebrews 9:22 written in blood. 

    Hotchner doesn’t reply, making a mental reminder of the new information, he looks around the place as you both leave the church and it hits him, Silver Spring’s St. Michael the Archangel parish, the church you chose as a meeting place. 

    He wouldn’t usually accept consultation for cases, especially from outsiders. And to be fair, the BAU doesn’t usually need any, Reid alone has more knowledge than anyone Hotch has ever met, and despite the humbleness he tends to show, Hotch himself can take care of the general book knowledge if Reid doesn’t step up to it. But he trusted Emily, and Emily spoke more highly of you than of anyone. Honestly, he was also trying to make amends after not having her back during the Matthew case they had not long before. 

    “She's in town giving lectures, it’s an asset we have easy access to, so why not use it?” Were her final and most convincing words before Hotch nodded in agreement, watching Emily make the call that led to the meeting. 

    He thinks now, as he’s driving both of you to Quantico, that maybe Emily should’ve been the one here, his attempts to strike conversation falling flat as you don’t even remember the last time you had to make small talk with someone, it felt awkward all of a sudden, as if you were on a date. 

    “I'm so sorry, I'm not too good with… People.” You blurt out after a long minute of silence, your neck suddenly warm from embarrassment. 

    Hotch side eyes you, brows lifted in confusion. You seemed much less confident in the car now than what you showed him of you minutes before back at the church. He figures you felt confident talking about your area of expertise and that he could relate to easily. “Did you notice anything else by the pictures Emily sent you?” 

    The switch of topic makes you sigh loudly in relief and you mentally thank him for brushing your silliness off. “He’s using different pieces of catholic dogma and putting it together, but most of the symbology eludes to Michael, the stabbing looks like a sword, the tipped scale indicates judgment, the verse he chose doesn’t cite Michael but talks about sins being forgiven by the shedding of blood… He’s the judge and executioner of his victims.” You try not to sound excited as you ramble on, it’s a terrible thing to witness, the pictures were grotesque and would’ve made you sick on a normal day, but the cherry picking of symbols the murderer seemed to make fascinated you. 

    “So you believe it’s a man?” 

    “Oh! I–I don’t know? I just assumed… Is that misogynistic?” You mumble the last part more to yourself, but it’s loud enough to make him chuckle and you look at him quickly to make sure it’s not mean spirited. 

    It’s definitely not. But it is amusing from a profiler perspective, he’s so used to defining serials’ genders by their crimes he hasn’t thought about misogyny being a factor to those assumptions in a long time. 

    “Brutality suggests male. But posing looks remorseful, theatrical…” His grip on the wheel tightens, two victims by now, feet crossed, arms wide open. 

    “If there were more allusions to the crucifixion, yeah, but I–” You take your phone out to look at the pictures once more, an attempt to seem less abstract in what you’re about to say. “No crown, no nails, this isn’t about Christ, it’s about punishment–I mean, I think.” You’re not usually self conscious about your knowledge but inferring characteristics and desires to someone by looking at a crime scene was not your specialty. 

    “To further point they were judged and executed…” Hotch nods, understanding where your line of thought is going and completing it immediately, not leaving you much time to doubt yourself. 

    “A very shameful execution.” 

    You both spend the short ride from Silver Springs to Quantico going over the symbology present, you tried to help here and there with the associations of what you saw to who could’ve done it, even though that was not what you were called in for. Strangely enough—for him at least, Hotch didn’t seem to mind your guesses, they were educated ones.

    And it was interesting to hear someone speak with such passion about religious aspects without any of the fundamentalism. It was definitely something he wasn’t used to.

    “Mi amore!” Are the first words you hear as you enter the famous bullpen from Emily’s texts, her arms surrounding you in a tight warm hug you haven’t felt in years—it hits you then how long has it been. You weren’t able to come and mourn Matthew with her, his parents weren’t fond of you either (Lord almighty, you didn’t even go to church with them!) and you were busy with your lectures.

    “Hey troublemaker, how’s it going?” Your question is muffled in the hug, your hands clasping together behind her back.

    The reunion doesn’t last long, curious eyes set on you two and a rather impatient Hotch leading the way to what you learned was the conference room.

    The briefing room. The round table. Emily told you about it when she first got into the BAU.

    You end up sitting between Emily and who you would bet was Spencer—there’s this sweet kid working with us, he’s super smart, annoyingly smart, but so sweet, he reminds of Matty when we were teens—the lanky boy was the only one with what seemed like naivety enough in his eyes to be the one Emily mentioned back then. 

    Aaron sat in front of you almost, serious, stern, very different from the few chuckles you got from him in the car. This was unit chief Hotchner, the subtle difference was fascinating.

    “Alright, as we know, DC is in trouble, second murder in three weeks.” blonde and gorgeous, you believed that was JJ, there had been no time for introductions, all you could do was try to remember the e-mails and few phone calls you shared with Emily the past years. “Richard Beckett, married, no kids, 27. He works for his father's car dealership.” 

    Pictures show up on the screen, showing the man when he was alive. It’s a punch to your gut, just minutes before you were fascinated by the way this real person was murdered. You’re glad you had a light breakfast by the way your stomach turns.

    “Monica Dawson, divorced, no kids, 53. She’s a counselor at a local school.” The woman continues speaking, with more pictures on the screen. And then pictures of their deaths, side by side. The fascination is completely extinguished then. “Both were stabbed countless times with a large blade. Left in abandoned warehouses posed in a cross position, a tipped scale on their side. Both naked. Both were heavily drugged.”

    “They didn’t have kids, is that a coincidence?” You hear Emily speak up and suddenly you can see all their brains working.

    “Could that be the linking between them? The victimology is all over the place.” Derek. Oh. You’ve heard of Derek. You’ve seen pictures of Derek. He needs no introduction. 

    “Reid, Morgan, go talk to the first victim’s widow. Rossi, JJ, Ms. Dawson’s ex-husband can give us insight on her life. Emily and us—” He gives you a look and you understand he means you, nodding in reply. “Will head to the DC police precinct.” The way Hotch gives orders is effortless, not only his job but his vocation. 

    Everyone listens and agrees quickly, moving and leaving the table, even Emily is fast on her feet, even though she won’t leave without you and him. You stay still, stiff, eyes glued to the screen.

    “Are you alright?” His voice is soft, laced with worry, genuine worry. You didn’t even notice he had stayed behind, but you nod again at Hotch, a question burning at the tip of your tongue.

    “Do you still believe in God, Mr. Hotchner?”

[definitelynotabirthblog]

A Church Birth

Word count: 2800

Summary: a homeless young woman gives birth in a church on a cold night with the help of a vicar

TW: mention of bowels opening in the context of childbirth. Otherwise a bog standard if inconvenient birth fic.

---------------

Reverend Thomas Callahan tipped the electric kettle and poured boiling water over his teabag. As he stirred the steaming, amber liquid, the metal teaspoon clinking on the side of ceramic mug, he gazed out of the window in the small kitchen attached to his church, St Barnabas. It was November 5th and winter had ushered itself in rather prematurely in Reverand Callahan's opinion. Just two weeks ago, the village had been enjoying the last lingering rays of an Indian summer. Yet today, though it was barely 5pm, the milky glow of the moon had crept over the village as dusk fell, casting pointed, angular shadows of gravestones over the churchyard. A cold breeze picked up dead yew leaves and made them pirouhette beneath the window pane. Grey clouds scudded across the bleak sky, warning of the imminent storm. The reverend poured milk into his tea and lifted the mug to his lips, watching the wind drive the thick flurries of snow diagonally. As he sipped, a particularly strong gust forced the back door of the church open with a bang. He sighed.

Cupping his mug in his hands for warmth, he made his way to the door. He used his entire body weight to force the door shut, twisting the lock after.

"Lord, keep us safe tonight," he murmured, clutching his tea. He stared at his alter, his thoughts swimming.

He was a young vicar and St Barnabas was his first parish, its village his first flock. More than half of local residents attended services on Sunday's - most out of obligation than devotion to the Lord, he had concluded - but few reached out to him for guidance and prayer between services. Privileged enough to be privately educated by wealthy parents, he was painfully aware of his naivety, and had hoped that being posted to a poorer, rural community would provide him with the experience needed to advise and councel. He had come to understand that he was regarded with a mixture of amusement, novelty and affection - but not respect. He had not earned those stripes yet.

Physically he supposed that he was handsome enough. He had a head of thick, mocha-coloured hair, olive eyes framed with perfectly symmetrical eyelashes and peach-coloured skin. His lips were soft and pink, his front teeth crooked, but he was blessed with a warm smile that made his eyes shine. At six foot one inch he was tall, healthy man, muscular without being ripped, with a small, stubborn podge of stomach fat. He hadn't been oblivious to the occasional attractive young women taking a second yearning glance at him when he had explored the local towns, but his cluelessness at navigating such situations prevented him from pursuing them. As he walked away, frustration simmering inside him, he would often feel the aching throb of an erection tenting in his trousers.

A rap at the front door stole his attention from his reverie. He set his mug down and strode along the pews, shoes squeaking in the otherwise silent building. The night had drawn in now. Who could possibly still need the sanctuary of his church?

Thomas opened the door and peered out. The flurries he had noticed in the kitchen were now falling at blizzard speed as an inch-thick layer blanketed the churchyard, the wall and the lane beyond. Pinpricks of orange light in houses across the snow-covered village green sparkled, but the temperature outside was now close to freezing. His breath was visible in thick white puffs as he took in the sight before him.

A young woman. Her face was so pale it looked translucent, with fearful blue eyes and teeth chattering in the icy air. Her knotted blond hair cascaded around her shoulders which were covered in a shapeless coat the exact colour of moss. She wore thin leggings on her legs and a dirty pair of boots which looked like that they had trekked through mud. Thomas recognised her - she had been loitering outside the church after the previous two Sunday services but had darted away the second he tried to approach her.

"Can I help you?" he enquired, first looking past her to check she was alone, and then looking directly into her scared eyes.

She nodded and tried to talk, but either due to the cold or nerves, she was unable to speak, her mouth forming the shape of a word but without sound.

"It's too cold to dither out here," he said, assessing the situation. "Would you like to come in? Then maybe I can help?"

She nodded. He opened the door wider and she bowed her head before scurrying past him like a frightened mouse.

When they were safely inside, Thomas turned and looked at the young lady. She was young, barely out of her teens, and very petite in stature. Her scruffy clothes had a musty smell and were torn in places as though had been living rough. The hollowness of her cheeks, her pale face and her wet hair gave her the look of a drowned person. As the warmth of the church hit her, any remaining stamina she had was lost as she staggered, fell against the wall and slipped towards the ground. Thomas caught her frail body in his arms by reflex and supported her the last few inches towards the floor. He knelt down beside her.

"What's your name?" he asked kindly.

"Willow," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Do you think you could stand up again, Willow? You can come and warm up and then maybe I can call someone for you."

Willow opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, her face contorted and she cried out in pain. Her hand instictively travelling to her abdomen which was protruding from her slender frame despite the oversized coat. Her tortured eyes locked onto his, pleading for help. Compassion flooded through him and he did not hesitate as he scooped her up, one arm supporting her skinny shoulders and the other under her knees. Breathing through his mouth as the smell of the motheaten coat wafted upwards towards his nostrils, he carried the sobbing girl down the aisle and into his office, gently lowering her on the sofa he normally reserved for comforting the bereaved. As her cries reduced to muffled whimpers, he sat down next to her and placed his left arm around her shoulders. Desperate for solace, she leant her body against him, and he found himself drawn into an awkward embrace with her, holding her close as he comforted her. Finally her breathing steadied.

"How can I help you, Willow?" His arm remained around her shoulders.

She looked up at him, frantically shaking her head, eyes begging him to understand.

"You're obviously scared and in pain... and not very well? Do you need to see a doctor?" he asked, concerned.

"I... I... maybe..." she said shakily, her head still pressed against his shoulder.

"Maybe?"

"I-I don't know..."

"Maybe if you told me what is wrong, I could help you decide if you need to see a doctor. But you just collapsed in my church. I think seeing a doctor would be a good plan." He looked at her unkempt appearance. "Where have you been staying?"

"Wherever I can."

"Wherever you can?"

She nodded.

"I'm very sorry to ask this but are you homeless?"

"Only for the last two months."

"Only? That's a very long time to be sleeping rough."

She shrugged.

"I'm in touch with a few local hostels. I could ring around and see if I can get you a bed for tonight."

"They won't take me."

"Why won't they?"

"Because... because..." She burst into fresh floods of tears. Within seconds, her cries turned into fresh bellows of pain as she rocked her hips back and forth. "Oh, please help me. It hurts, it HURTS!"

"Willow, please tell me-"

Another noise noise erupted from her, this time low and primal, not unlike a roar. Thomas watched as the pain seized her, calculating whether he should comfort her or call for help first. Her knuckles were white as she clenched the sofa, her agony clear in her eyes as she growled her way through whatever was causing her body such torment. Acknowledging that this was a medical emergency that he was unequipped to handle, he reached to his pocket for his phone. He sighed with exasperation as he saw he had no bars, the sigh turning into a panicked moan on noticing the red light on the router.

"I think I need to call for help," he decided, rubbing Willow's arm in an inadequete effort to offer reassurance. "But I have no signal and the WiFi is down. Probably because of the weather. It means I need to leave you but I'll be b-"

"NO! Please don't go!" she gasped, scrabbling for his hand. "Please, no! You can't leave me!"

As the pain ripped through her body, there was a audible pop, immediately followed by a squelch, as though someone had sat in a puddle of water. Willow immediately pulled her hand to her crotch, relief evident in her face as the pain began to ease once more. Thomas was very confused now. What was wrong with this lady, this scrawny, malnourished young thing sat in his office, who had collapsed in his church, was intermittently wracked with such intense pain it rendered her barely able to speak, seemingly had no one on this earth to help her and was allegedly homeless but not immediately requesting medical help?  He looked at her as she shut her eyes, taking whatever brief respite had come her way, the awkward curve of her abdomen distending under her coat. Suddenly he understood just what that audible pop and squelch of liquid was.

"Willow, are you pregnant?"

She gazed at him. "I know it's a sin vicar."

"Let's leave sin at the door for the moment. Is the baby coming?"

"I've been having bad pains all day and... and... I think something has just come out of me."

"I think it is just the fluid that cushions that baby. Do you understand why I'm going to have to leave you do get help?"

Another contraction reared itself before she could reply. Willow threw her head back, her face twisted as the spasms of her womb coasted across her body. The animalistic noises that erupted from her sounded more bovine than human. Thomas knew he needed to establish just how far away from delivering this child she was. As the contraction eased again, he took Willow's trembling hand in his.

"Willow, is the baby coming right now?" he asked, his eyes finding hers.

"It feels like something is coming out of me."

He sighed.

"Do you mind if I have a quick look at you... er, down below?" He blushed. "If the baby is coming now, I will have to catch it."

She hesitated and then nodded.

He knelt down on the floor and positioned himself so he was directly in front of her.

"Do you want to take you bottoms off for me?

Willow kicked off her dirty boots and then, in one slow awkward movement, slipped her leggings and drenched knickers over her skinny hips and past her knees. Thomas helped her pull them over her ankles and threw them on the sofa beside her. Instinctively, she opened her legs for him, showing her unshaved mons. She was positioned with her hips too far back to see anything more than the top half inch of her slit.

"Do you think you could shuffle forwards for me so you're perched towards the edge of the sofa?" he asked anxiously, gesturing for her to shuffle forwards.

She awkwardly scooted her bottom towards him and then reclined as best as she could.

"And maybe you could just lift your legs up for me?"

As she gripped the back of her thighs and pulled them towards her chest, finally exposing her pussy to him. Staring at the site displayed before him, his eyes took in her jewel-like clitoris nestled between her stubbled labia. Between them was her vaginal opening and peeking at him from underneath, her puckered rosebud. Unable to see anything that looked like a baby emerging, Thomas breathed a sigh of relief.

"Phew. Thankfully I can't see anything. So-"

Willow roared as a contraction hit, her breaths coming in shallow and ragged gasps. Her tender asshole bulged and her rectum emptied right there onto the edge of sofa. Her vulva bulged outwards as her labia started to separate. A dark, wet mass appeared just inside her vagina, fluid dribbling out from around it in rivulets onto Thomas's knees. Adrenalin surged through him as he realised there could be no leaving Willow to get help, as she was about to birth her baby right there into his arms. He looked around frantically for something clean to deliver the baby onto and quickly grabbed a couple of spare sweaters he had on top of his desk. As he eased one under Willow's buttocks, her breathing started to ease and the pain lessened once more.

"What do I do?" she trembled, panic welling over in her voice.

"I'm a vicar, Willow, not a midwife," he laughed nervously, looking up at her over her spasming belly.  "I think you need to keep doing what your body is telling you to do and I'll catch the baby when it comes."

"I need to push. I can't stop it."

"Then push, if that's what your body is telling you to do."

As though on cue, Willow started grunting her way through another contraction. Her pussy stretched more with each torturous push, until a dark, two inch portion of head was visible as the contraction peaked. When it eased off, the head slipped back inside, her inflamed lips closing over it. Willow threw her head back exhausted, but seconds later she was bellowing again as her baby appeared once more at her opening. Thomas wondered just how much stretching it could take as the now lemon-sized portion of head continued to be driven outwards. A memory of a film he saw came to him, where the birth attendant used gauze to support the woman as she pushed out the biggest part of her baby. He pressed the sweater he put under Willow against her perenium. She writhed and shrieked on the sofa as she neared a full crown, her legs flailing around Thomas's head.

"Oh, help me! Oh God in heaven!" she screamed, her panicked, frantic hand reaching between her legs for Thomas.

"Please, just breathe Willow," he said, pressing on her taint with one hand and taking her hand with his other. "The head's coming out now. I think this is the worst bit."

Willow panted, her swollen vulva circling her baby as she drove it out of her body. As the contraction peaked, the head teetered on the raw lips of her pussy before the pain eased again and her body pulled it back inside her canal. There it sat, just visible between her stinging labia.

"You were so close then," Thomas said, squeezing her hand. "One more push like that and I think the head will be out."

Gathering her strength again, Willow bore and pushed the infant out of her fatigued body once again. It popped out with a gushy splash, amniotic fluid and blood splattering the floor and pebbledashing her inner thighs. Thomas balanced the damp, slimy head in his hands, watching as the child's brow furrowed, its mouth opening in a silent cry. Gradually, it turned to Willow's thigh.

"The head's out. Push again."

With one last effort, a dribble of fluid and a groan, the wriggling baby tumbled into the world. Thomas caught its slippery body in his shaking hands and carefully lowered it onto his knee. A baby boy. He cried lustily, feeling the chilly air on his skin for the first time. Thomas wrapped the little boy in his sweater and looked up at Willow. Her entire body was shaking, her face shining with sweat.

"Willow... Willow, you've done it!" he gasped, gazing down at the newborn.

She gazed down at the vicar, whose eyes were meeting hers from between her legs and reached her arms out. As if he was handling the crown jewels, he carefully settled Willow's firstborn son on her breasts. Tears of relief and exhaustion leaked down her pretty pale face, her chest shaking with sobs as the baby was comforted by the warmth of her trembling body.

"Thank you," she whispered to Thomas, her lips brushing her baby's head.

"You did it all yourself, you wonderful girl," he replied, the emotion crackling in his voice. He gazed over at his desk and looked at the router, the green light shining. "And would you believe it, I can finally ring for help!"

[willowed-wisp]

RELATIONSHIP HEADCANONs [ johnny ‘soap’ mactavish ]

Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish x f!reader/you

SFW

- When you guys met, you thought he was an airhead, blue eyed meat head. Still is but he was also a deeply caring and affectionate person

- Probably met on his way back from the gym or in the gym- depends if you workout or not.

- Johnny isn’t the type to restrain his thoughts- immediately asked for you out and the rest is history.

- Now to the dating- he is 100% Rottweiler energy… a mix of golden retriever boyfriend that can flip his switch. He’ll protect you- no second thoughts.

- You meet his parents after a week of officially dating, his mum loves you and tells him to get on one knee then and there. Spoilers he’s already planned out the rest of your lives together… not in a creepy way.

- Back hugs are his thing, he’s like a backpack out and about. Just to let everyone know you’re his.

- Looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever known… the air he breathes. Deep blue eyes filled with adoration, you couldn’t put it into words. Only that your heart flutters whenever he’s looking your way.

- Makes stupid dad jokes, especially when hanging out with Ghost

- Ghost is definitely the best man at your wedding, whether he likes it or not.

- You’re well acquainted with the boys from 141. Price feels like a father figure, Gaz the relentless older brother and Ghost like a protective cat.

- Takes you to the local pub every time Aberdeen F.C. play and watch it at the bar. It’s amusing to see him a few pints in and saying, “Goal keeper, pfftt, I could keep be’er in primary school…”

- Let’s just say, you’d crack up and nearly drag him off the stool beside you.

- Not to mention when you buy him season tickets for Aberdeen… he’d be the loudest in the stadium if not for you. The look of pride when you repeat what he said in the pub… Christ, he was a lucky man.

- If you had told him you wanted him to retire from the military, he probably would have. He even spoke to you about it.

- You nearly slapped him in the face, calling him an ‘eejit’ (picking up Scottish slang). Thats probably when he knew he’d spend the rest of his life with you.

- It may have broken your heart when he was away, no way to contact you on covert missions. You didn’t even know where he was… but you couldn’t watch him lose himself, knowing that he was born to be in the SAS.

- You noticed a new tattoo on his hip, “why the hell is my name tattooed on your body?” And he would reply, “You’re my lady, enough said.”

- He pops the question somewhere lowkey like your house, just plops down on one knee with a ring in a box. You thought he’d fallen over and instantly told him to get up. So taken aback, you have a ring on your finger and Johnny’s arms around you.

- The wedding was a riot, his family are Roman Catholic raised and you were okay with the ceremony is the local Catholic parish.

- You can’t remember who walks you down the aisle, but at the end of it is Johnny MacTavish in a kilt with his family tartan. You didn’t focus on his military formals adorned with various badges, or that kilt. It was the tears in his sapphire eyes, with Price and Ghost behind him as well as his cousin, the one who inspired him to join the forces.

- The Scottish knew how to party… you danced the night away. Ghost was Johnny’s best man. His speech entailed how, “Johnny wouldn’t stop talkin’ abou’ Y/N. An’ meetin’ her I could see why, she winds your neck in, mate.”

NSFW under cut….

NSFW

- Johnny waited until you were ready to do anything. He’s a gentleman, unlike popular belief.

- But after he coaxed you into working out with him… watching him pump not only the weights but you… you were a gonna, you got back to your place and your lips were crushed against his own.

- Stripping his arms of the hoodie, revealing those thick, rippling arms and the tattoos. His look drove you insane, never been so wet in your life.

- He struggled to keep at your pace, wanting to amp it up because you’d been driving him insane since he met you. Johnny was at his wits end when he hiked you into his arms. So steady and unyielding, lips indenting lilac across the span of your neck before ravaging your lips.

- Hips bucking into your spread legs, straight to the middle. Where you needed him.

- That first time, no time was wasted and no foreplay required. You marvelled slightly at all of him. This was the first time seeing him topless let alone butt naked… he knew he struck the jackpot with you when he could barely fit the tip in.

- Clawing at his numerous scars and moaning effervescence. His name so sweetly rolled off your tongue- the only thing she could muster. And the soldier couldn’t help that drop dead gorgeous smile play on his lips, you shuddered beneath him on the couch you normally watched movies on.

- Maybe that’s when you knew he’d be the man you’d spend the rest of your life with.

- Sex feels like slow motion with Johnny MacTavish, something about his starlight kissed eyes makes time feel like it stopped. Even in a non-sexual sense, you swear you see the dust shine in sunbeams when sharing eye contact.

- Johnny loves watching you ride him, getting tired out because he’s not easy to break. Meeting your bounces, fingers scarring your hips as he thrusts into you.

- Don’t let this man catch you in one of his tight fit t-shirts, if you don’t wanna be around his cock in ten seconds flat.

- Yes, he’s that fast.

- The aftercare KING. Want hot chocolate and a Christmas on in the middle of July- he’ll do it.

- Need a stonking hot bubble bath, he’s getting the rubber ducky and carrying there bridal style. Washing your hair and your body.

- He just loves you and cannot get over how lucky he is to be such a beauty- inside and out

- If you want round two, three or four during the aftercare… he’s got stamina for days soooo it’s really your pick of Johnny special

————

masterlist

[ftmprinceling]

I wrote something so I hope you guys like it 🫣 it's not much but I can't stop imagining this scenario

// tw transphobia, christianity, fauxcest

You finally visit your small conservative hometown after so many years. Everyone still remembers you, still calls you by your deadname, misgendering you even though you look nothing like a girl anymore.

You meet up with your friends from high school, the people who were most supportive of your transition. They still try to call you by your preferred name and pronouns, but they sometimes slip, misgendering you as well.

They convince you to join them to a mass in church. You prefer never stepping foot into that church again, but you comply anyways.

Almost everyone in town is there, and during mass, you can't help but notice the priest looking at you frequently, smiling at you. You remember him. He was the one that convinced your parents how you've been led astray from God's path.

Next thing you know, he calls you up to the altar. Everyone turns to look at you. You want to run away, but you're too nervous to find out if there will be consequences to that.

One of your friends nudges you, insisting that you go. After a long moment of hesitation, you stand up and walk down the aisle.

The priest introduces you with your deadname, reminding everyone of who you used to be, the identity you've abandoned.

Panic rises as you listen, as you see the disappointed and angry faces that all watch you. You know you should run, but you're frozen with fear.

Then you hear him say that you must repent for your sins and be molded back into God's intended image for me. You feel him place his hand on your shoulder. His grip is firm, as if expecting you to flee at any given moment.

A few of the men of the parish rises, approaching you, surrounding you, then putting their hands on you. Your own father is among them too. You start to struggle, protest, tell them to not touch you. They tell you it's for your own good as they restrain you and carry you away to the basement of the church.

They strip you, pulling and tearing away every strip of fabric that hides your poisoned, feminine body. Some of the men that you've known for all of your childhood insult you for how much you've neglected it. They express disgust with how hairy you are, how much more muscular you've gotten. They say they're glad you haven't gotten surgery yet, groping your chest as they do.

They strap you down onto a table and bring in a bucket of water, shaving cream, and enough razors for everyone. They begin the process of shaving you, starting with your limbs and your face. You struggle, getting many nicks and cuts on your skin from moving too much.

Your father is the one chosen to shave your pubic area. You dare not move, afraid of the pain of being cut there. He's gentle as he shaves you down, leaving you completely bare for him and all to see. You start crying, feeling humiliated from this treatment.

Finally, they wipe you down, leaving you smooth save for a few red lines of blood. One of the men say that you're ready. Ready for what?

They unstrap you from the table and carry you back upstairs. You struggle again. Do they plan to show you completely naked to everyone? Your screams and sobs echo as they bring you back to the altar.

You notice that there's less people now. All the children have been taken home and the adults that have remained are the ones that wish to witness you.

The priest begins a new sermon, one about setting you on the right path to salvation, and that everyone here wishes for you to be saved.

[yaespook]

Indulgence.

✧ Room Content: Dom! Top! GN! Incubus! Reader x Sub! Switch! Priest! Kaveh x Sub! Bottom! Incubus! Alhaitham, reader has a cock, mostly focused on Kaveh, threesome, sacrilegious themes (Catholicism), worshipping and blasphemy, inexperienced virgin Kaveh, Kaveh has religious guilt regarding masturbating/sex, Kaveh wears a clerical collar, handjob (reader receiving), frotting (Alhaitham with Kaveh), vague incubus powers (entering dreams and binding tattoos). Leave a note if anything was missed out. ✧ Retrieved Notes: [The head of the fortune cat appears on the front desk.]

It started out quite innocently in Kaveh’s mind really.

It was another early morning Sunday mass. The same old kind where it was mostly just grandparents attending, when the warm sunlight hasn’t quite fully peeked through the clouds yet. The lights in the church weren’t all on either because only the front few pews were occupied anyway, dousing the environment in a cold sort of blueish grey.

For Father Kaveh, the processes were all the same. The same parishioners, the same blue-greyness, the same prayers. It was always the same and it has always been for a while now.

But today was different. During his homily, he caught a glimpse of two unfamiliar faces sitting amongst the congregation in the wooden pews of the church. It’s hard not to notice such a charming presence intently listening in on the homily he had prepared in a crowd of churchgoers who looked half asleep.

(He would be lying if he said that the both of you weren't attractive too. Unfortunately, lying is definitely a sin. Hence, he simply admits it in his mind and files it away in a mental archive for… further reflection when he has the time. Ugh, it’d be better if that man next to you put down the book he was reading.) 

If he injected a little more pep into his homily after you piqued his interest, then no one but God has to know.

However, he's later promptly caught off guard when the two of you were the first ones to approach him after mass for a chat. Kaveh’s never one to turn down an opportunity to get to know and welcome new parishioners so of course he enthusiastically grasped at the chance to talk to the both of you.

Sparing a subtle glance up and down, he drinks in the sight before him. You were both dressed impeccably, not a single hair out of place, sinfully glamourous. But Kaveh knows better than to ogle so he tears his gaze away and instead focuses on making conversation instead.

“A blessed morning to the both of you! I don't think I've ever seen you two in the early morning congregation before, I am Father Kaveh, the priest of this parish.”

He extends a hand for a handshake, first towards you, which you grasp firmly. When you make contact with him, Kaveh is slightly taken aback at the heightened warmth of your touch on his skin. 

“Sorry, I’ve been told I run hotter than most, but it’s a pleasure to meet you, Father Kaveh,” your voice is smooth and pleasing to the ear, a shake snaking its way down his spine when you say your own name. Silently, he repeats your name in his mind, and he’s further charmed when you remark, “I’ve heard a lot about you, all good things, don’t worry, which is why Alhaitham and I came to see you.”

Kaveh’s head swivels to look over at the other, Alhaitham, and when he shakes his hand, he finds out that the both of you run rather hot. There’s a book held in his other hand, the one he was reading earlier during mass.

“Likewise, a pleasure to meet you,” Alhaitham says, levelling Kaveh with an unreadable stare, “We look forward to getting to know you more.”

At this, Kaveh beams, a cheery grin on his face, “As do I. If you ever need it, the mass timings are always in the weekly church bulletin, I hope to see the two of you more often.”

He excuses himself to chat with the other parishioners, bidding the two of you goodbye. However, even whilst talking to the others and hearing about their day-to-day troubles, and throughout the rest of the week, he finds his mind drifting back to the both of you. What makes you so memorable, so charming to him? Is it the way you carry yourself? Your voice? Or is it simply just, you?

He catches himself looking forward to the next mass where he might see you again, to spot your faces amidst the tired crowd, to converse again. And he does, every Sunday morning mass.

Kaveh sees you and Alhaitham sitting in the same pew every time you attend and it’s almost like clockwork whenever his eyes quickly dart over to the two of you when he’s addressing the congregation. And he firmly attests that you crack him a small smile when you catch him doing so, as if you knew he was going to glance over at that very second.

Over the weeks, he’s grown attached despite the warning bells scolding him not to at the back of his mind.

“Kaveh, get a hold of yourself, you’ve dedicated yourself to the church, this is no way to be thinking of your parishioners,” slapping his cheeks lightly, he tries to shake the thoughts of you out of his head but it seems like no matter what he does, you’ve managed to slither your way into his brain, where you now reside in 24/7.

Sighing, he says a prayer (one imploring for the strength to resist temptation) before he tucks himself into bed for a restful night.

Except, it’s anything but.

As soon as he succumbs to slumber, his eyes snap open at the sensation of a hand stroking through his hair. They adjust to the ceiling light in his room, strange, didn’t he turn them off before sleeping? 

Blearily looking up, he sees the twin troubles plaguing him. But there’s no way the two of you are here, you don’t know the church grounds that well and there should be no reason for you to know which room he stays in either. It’s all improbable and that’s how he figures out that this is just some sort of fucked up lucid dream. (A small buried part of him deflates at this knowledge for some reason.)

“Hey Father Kaveh, sorry we couldn’t wait until the next Sunday, so we’ve come to see you early,” your words snap him out of his thoughts. 

“Oh no, for you to infiltrate even my dreams, just how much am I thinking about the two of you?” Kaveh grumbles as his hand goes to rest over his eyes. He hears you chuckle before Alhaitham speaks next.

“So you think about us too?” The bed shifts and another hand joins in to roughly tussle his hair.

“Begrudgingly so, it’s as if you’ve consumed my every waking thought,” a weak sigh, “Maybe it’s a test from above, something meant to test me.”

“That’s rough, Father Kaveh, to be reduced to ‘something meant to test you’, after all these weeks,” you feign a watery tone, “Is that all you see us as?”

“No! Of course not!” He yells out, snapping to sit upright and grabbing your hands. As if he could ever see you as a burden to shoulder. You’ve been nothing but courteous and kind to him, a rare indulgence in his routine days and scheduled masses. Someone who actually consistently converses with him, asking about him, caring for him. 

The bed shifts again, Alhaitham and you moving to sit in closer next to him, and you ask, “That’s a relief, then what do you see us as?” 

Kaveh feels that familiar quiver snake its way down his spine, like all those weeks ago when it first started, the words caught in his throat as he scrambles to produce an appropriate yet truthful answer to your loaded question. 

“I… I can’t lie,” his voice is shaky, trying to navigate the chaos in his mind for the right thing to say. 

“It’s fine, you can tell us,” Alhaitham’s voice lulls.

Whatever. It’s a dream after all.

Kaveh sucks in a breath before blurting out, “My thoughts about the two of you have veered into more sinful territories-!”

A beat of silence passes and he buries his face into his hands, bright red all the way up to the tips of his ears.

“Such an honest priest we have here on our hands, anything else you want to confess, Father Kaveh?” Your tease makes him flush even more, intense embarrassment washing over him but it changes instantly when you turn his hand over and gently kiss the back of it.

Great, now his mind is making him dream of such situations?

His vision spins when he feels Alhaitham’s hands roam up his back, the heat permeating through his pyjamas as you lean in next to his ear, your breath on his exposed skin hot, hot, hot.

“I would give you your penance but it seems like we’ve run out of time, shame,” your tongue darts out to lick the shell of his ear and he shakes. You snap your fingers.

“Wake up.”

Kaveh snaps up, awake for real this time. The warm sunlight streams in through a window but he can’t find it in himself to enjoy such a wonderful morning when his mind is still reeling from such a depraved dream. He looks down. He’s hard.

No matter what he does, his usual morning prayers, an awfully cold shower, nothing helps to solve his problem. And he’s running out of time with the next scheduled mass coming up soon.

Biting his bottom lip, he experimentally presses his palm against his clothed cock, immediately rewarded with a rush of pleasure through his body. Repeating the action, he palms his erection, breath coming out in pants at the ramping buzz in him. 

“Hah… Forgive m-me Father, for I- ah! -have sinned,” Kaveh blubbers out pitifully between breaths, praying as he tries to tear his mind away from the sin of his act.

He’s never… touched himself in such a way before, and to discover how terrifyingly addictive the bliss that he’s been holding himself back from experiencing all this time is, he feels his resolve crack.

Hurriedly, he shimmies his pants and underwear down, just enough for him to wrap his hand around his cock, revelling in the newness of the sensation. He starts with a light tug, aided by the amount of precum from his earlier palming, and the direct friction goes to muddy his brain. He resorts to biting down on his finger to muffle his noises lest anyone comes down the corridor.

Thoughts of you and Alhaitham flood his brain, the way his hands crept up his back, your tongue on his skin. Unconsciously, his hand speeds up its pace, slick sounds and stifled lewd moans filling the room the more he thinks about the two of you, the fantasies growing more and more unrestrained.

What would you think if you found out this is how your church’s priest spends his time? Would you berate him? Or would you indulge him? Maybe you’d teach him how to masturbate, your hand covering his own as you guide him on how to stroke your dick while Alhaitham steals kisses from him.

He thinks of your voice whispering lowly into his ear, frighteningly realistic, “We want you, Kaveh.”

Head thrown back, he feels the pressure building up to a peak in him, muscles draw taut as a blinding white-hot pleasure shoots through him, and he cums for the first time in his life ever, the forbidden fruit that he’s denied himself up till now. 

Kaveh struggles to catch his breath after his high, desperately rutting into his hand to ride it out. After he does, he’s instantly filled with an indescribable guilt, rushing into the bathroom to wash off the evidence of his act, staring at his dishevelled appearance in the mirror. 

How could he think of you in such a way? (How could he not?)

The next time he approaches the both of you after mass, he makes sure to do it after most of the crowd has already gone off, leaving the three of you alone. Avoiding your gazes, he starts.

“Apologies to keep the two of you waiting… some of the others had a lot to chat about,” a forced laugh, “But it is in my best interest that I should stop interacting so much with you both.”

You give him a quizzical look and Alhaitham quirks an eyebrow at his words, making him quickly tack on some reassurance, “It’s not the fault of either of you, worry not. And it would be too much for me to get into-”

“Certainly not,” Alhaitham cuts him off, his voice alluring, “It’s fine, you can tell us.”

Unable to stomach the thought of his relationship with you souring and ending on a bad note, he swallows down his fear and invites the two of you to his quarters to come clean about everything.

So, how is it that he’s found himself in this position?

It started out already rather lewdly in your mind. 

Catching wind of a devout priest in town, loved by many, adored by most. Naturally, it was your job as an incubus to corrupt him. And they’ve assigned your lovely junior, Alhaitham, as your partner in sin.

The first meeting went well enough, charming Kaveh without the use of your powers, it seems as if he was as taken with you as you were with him. His lovely blond locks, his sweet voice, that downright sinful waist of his. How long would it take until he would snap and tumble into bed with the two of you so that you could defile him and show him the delectable paradise of ecstasy that he’s been abstaining from?

Over the weeks, you’ve teased Kaveh in the most minute of ways. Sly innuendos tossed in nonchalantly during conversations, lingering touches that you can see him secretly longing for. And perhaps you can’t say that Alhaitham and you aren’t unaffected by his charm too.

The impatience was driving the both of you wild, judging from how uncharacteristically antsy he’s been behaving. You’re no stranger to being intimate with him, indulging him when he gets particularly needy. And you can tell he’s pent up when he’s grinding on your thigh as he kisses you, so spoiled. 

When you break apart, cupping his cheek, you ask, “Think our priest is asleep yet? How about we pay him a little visit?” Snapping your fingers, you transport the two of you into Kaveh’s dream, where you plant the final seeds of temptation and guide him down the blissful path of damnation.

The dream ended way too fast for your liking but it all worked out in the end, since now you’re here, in Kaveh’s room with him seated in your lap facing you.

Kaveh’s mind is spinning, unable to comprehend how fast all this is moving. First, he invites the two of you in to talk everything over in a more private location. Then, everything comes spilling out, his thoughts about you, even the sensual dream. His eyes are pinned to his hands clenched into fists in his lap, in fear that your gazes might be one of disgust towards him. It’s all too much, he’s backed himself into something too raw and too vulnerable and he can’t help when tears well up in his eyes, falling onto his hands.

A quick glance over to Alhaitham, and you pull Kaveh into your lap, an act to console him. Gently moving his head onto your shoulder for him to cry into, you shush him.

“Oh Father Kaveh, please don’t feel so guilty, after all, isn’t it natural to be tempted?” Patting the back of his head, you watch as Alhaitham rises from his seat and moves Kaveh’s long hair aside to brush his lips along the exposed skin of his nape.

“If holding it all in is causing you so much distress,” Alhaitham plants a kiss on Kaveh’s neck, “Perhaps giving in is the answer.”

“...No, I can’t,” Kaveh weeps, yet there’s a hesitation in his voice, as if he’s not fully convinced that he should turn away from the pleasure that you two can bring him.

“No one has to know,” your hands cup the sides of his face and move him so that you can look into his eyes, the sincerity behind them startling him when you say, “We want you, Kaveh.”

The world seems to stop when you say those words, his heart soaring and in the split second, his resistance slips away. He abandons it all for you, for a longing reciprocated, for a tangible love, and he presses his lips onto yours.

He whines into the kiss when you take charge, your tongue swiping against his bottom lip and he gasps. When you enter his mouth, your saliva mixing with his, his breath hitches as his desire suddenly heightens tenfold. You can feel him getting hard in your lap, ever so slightly grinding down without even realising it.

“Will you let us take you apart? Allow us to worship and love you like you deserve? To open your eyes to the true salvation of human pleasure?” 

Kaveh’s drowning in your words, the blessing that the two of you are gracing him with, leaving him bare and naked in his longing.

“Please.”

Soon, you have the blond seated on the edge of his bed and stripped of all his clothing, except for his white clerical collar, which still lays clasped loosely around his neck.

“Look at you Father Kaveh, perhaps mankind was indeed made in God’s image,” you watch on from above him as Alhaitham laves a tongue over Kaveh’s clavicle, “If not, how else would you look so divine?”

He flushes crimson at your praise, bashful at how unaffected you are in this scenario. You move and sit next to him on the bed, unzipping your pants as he watches on with bated breath.

“From your mouth to God’s ear, Father Kaveh, your fantasies have been heard and they’ll be fulfilled today.”

Like him, you’re already hard, precum beading at your tip. Your hand goes to grab his, bringing it over and wrapping it around your shaft. Covering his hand with yours, you entertain his desires, cooing as you slowly start to move his hand, pumping your cock at a steady pace while you savour the sensation of his hand.

Kaveh’s eyes are glued to the sight of you guiding his hand up and down on your length, the warmth of your hand over his own. He’s enraptured until he feels fingers under his chin, tilting his head up and suddenly he’s locking lips with Alhaitham. When he realises that the two of you are actually recreating the scene from his imagination, his mind is left reeling. 

He moans into the kiss with Alhaitham when he feels you throb in his hand, more pre dribbling from your tip.

“You’re so good, Father Kaveh, always so kind, so understanding, hmm?” Your praise gets him so worked up, his hips uselessly rutting up against nothing but something settles onto his lap and presses against his own cock. Cracking his eyes open, he realises that Alhaitham has slotted himself into his space, and breaking away from the kiss so that Kaveh can breathe, he frots his erect hard-on against Kaveh’s.

“Maybe this way I’ll keep your attention on me too,” the grey haired male says, hands going to rest at Kaveh’s hip to steady himself as he ruts.

He can feel his legs shaking as that daunting pressure starts to build inside of him again like before. The pacing of his strokes under your hand begins to falter as he chases after his high, grinding more and more frantically against the man in his lap.

But just as he’s seconds away from reaching his orgasm, Alhaitham clambers out of Kaveh’s space, at the same time, you remove his hand from your body 

The sudden detachment brings him back down from his almost peak, his mind clearing up just enough for him to whine out, “Wh- What was that for?” 

“We’re saving the best for last, Father Kaveh,” you say as the two of you manhandle his pliant body into position.

Alhaitham’s beneath him, hands gripping the headboard as he lays on his back, facing upwards. Alternatively, Kaveh’s on all fours on the bed, hands and knees on either side of Alhaitham with you standing at the foot of his bed, hands firmly gripping onto his hips.

“Are you ready to take us into your heart, to accept us for all that we are,” and you all but purr his name, “Kaveh?”

“Yes. Yes, please,” he begs, desperation akin to a sinner’s prayer. 

“Such a lovely obedient lamb, truly the best one in the flock. I’d say you should finally get a reward for such excellent behaviour,” He gulps at your words, the praise you’re showering him in muddling his thoughts as he anticipates whatever the two of you have planned for him. 

Goosebumps rise on his skin when you trace a blunt nail up his spine. However, the breath is punched from his chest when he looks back down at Alhaitham, pointed horns crowning his head, emerging from his mop of grey hair. His head snaps to look at you over his shoulder where he sees a similar sight. Coiled horns like a ram’s adorn you, leathery unfurled wings, and a long slender tail that’s tipped with a heart at the end.

“My dearest lamb, I ask you once more. Do you take us into your being, to love us for what we are,” your voice takes on a sultry tone, dripping with sinful indulgence, “To let us defile you?”

His head bowed, he dutifully replies, “I offer all of myself up to you.”

And with this, you partake in the feast of him.

Coating your fingers in your thick aphrodisiacal spit, you rest one hand on his ass, spreading him apart as you prod at his rim.

“Relax for me, Father Kaveh, you’re in good hands and we’ll never lead you astray.” You hear him release the breath he’s holding and he untenses, allowing you to slip a finger into him.

“Ah-!” The sensation is unfamiliar but not unwelcome, the stretch gradually turning into a growing pleasure thanks to its aphrodisiac qualities, slowly getting used to the feeling of being filled as you prepare him to take you.

A finger loops through his clerical collar and pulls him down. Looks like Alhaitham’s had enough of being ignored. He kisses him like a man starved, teeth clacking noisily as he drinks in Kaveh’s moans.

Taking this opportunity to slip in another finger, your other hand goes to grip his waist, steadying him as he loses himself to the mounting delectation. Scissoring your fingers, it proves to be too much for the inexperienced Kaveh and his legs give out from beneath him, pressing him against Alhaitham’s body.

“Haitham, did you prep yourself beforehand?” He nods briskly at your question. Lowering yourself down so you’re bearing down on Kaveh, you lick the shell of his ear, (he shivers), and ask.

“Do you think Haitham can take you? He’s been waiting for you for so long, he’s even prepared himself for you.”

Between dazed blinks, Kaveh manages to process your words, nodding his head and muttering out a dumb, “Uh- Uh huh.” 

With this, Alhaitham lines his hole up with Kaveh’s drooling cock, and with you pushing down on his hips from above him, Kaveh’s head pushes past Alhaitham rim, a guttural growl leaving your junior’s lips at the sensation of Kaveh sinking into him with your guidance.

“M-Move please…!” Alhaitham groans out when Kaveh doesn’t seem to do anything when he bottoms out inside of him. The lewd heat that surrounds his length overloads his mind, bliss coursing through every vein in his body.

The erotic sight of your two sweethearts under you, the one who’s supposed to be the incubus pleading for sweet salvation from the once-pure, clueless lamb laying above him who’s finally had a taste of the forbidden fruit. Both of them dewy-eyed and left greedily wanting more. It’s easily all too tempting.

You remove your fingers from Kaveh with a wet shlick! before replacing it with your tip at his entrance. As you push into him, the pressure causes him to reach deeper into Alhaitham, resulting in a lascivious harmony of wanton moans in the room.

And when your tip brushes past his prostate for the first time, he can’t help but mewl, “O-Oh God!”

“Rude to call out someone else’s name when- ugh! -you have two incubi pleasuring you right here, Father Kaveh!” Punctuating this with a sharp thrust, you wring a drawn-out cry from Kaveh.

“S-Sorry! For- hng!! -forgive me!” Pitifully sobbing out, he rocks his hips clumsily back against yours, urging you to fully sheathe yourself in him. With his motions, Alhaitham finally gets the stimulation he’s yearned for, as Kaveh moves in time with your thrusts.

Your tail wraps itself around Kaveh’s thigh when you encircle your hands around his slim waist.

“I’ll fuck you so good that you’ll be worshipping me when I’m done with you.”

Pulling out until just your tip is left in him, you position your mouth at his shoulder and when you bite down on his pristine untainted skin, it’s the only warning he gets before you sink your length back into him, all the way down to the hilt.

You’ve left your mark on him, marred him, sullied him, defiled him for all of eternity in the eyes of the church. But Kaveh can’t find it in himself to care, too fucked out from the carnal pleasures he’s wrapped up in right now. The way you pound into him, the way Haitham’s walls squeeze down on him. Who is he to say that this isn’t heaven on earth? Who is he to say that this is damnation?

Perhaps he’s found his God in you.

“Hah! God, please! I’m close- ah! -so so close!” He’s delirious and Alhaitham swears he can almost see the hearts in Kaveh’s eyes.

“Calling me your god now, Father Kaveh?”

“Yesss! Please, I’m s-so close, let me- hng! -finish, God, I beg of you!” Kaveh quivers under you as both him and Alhaitham approach their climax. Their breaths come out in ragged pants as you speed up your pace, also chasing your own peak.

“Then take all I give unto you, Kaveh,” you bury yourself as deep as possible as his walls clamp down on you, his head thrown back in ecstasy as the three of you cum together. The searing rapture rips through him as you fill him up, eyes wrenched shut with him seeing stars behind his eyelids. His lower abdomen feels hot as he cums into Alhaitham, whose eyes have rolled back into his sockets, breath hitching at his orgasm.

You complete it with short shallow thrusts, helping the both of them through the fading waves of pleasure, wringing out the last of their debauched noises. When you pull out of Kaveh, a raspy whine rips from him. Manoeuvring his spent body to lie on his back, you’re pleased to see that the session took, evident from the glowing fuchsia tattoo on his lower abdomen.

Pressing a kiss against it, Kaveh shakes at the increased stimulation. Curious, he peers down at it, ghosting his fingers over it as he watches the tattoo’s glow intensity slowly fade and settle into a faint pink outline.

“The three of us have been unified, we’re bound together now, my dearest lamb.”

Alhaitham lazily rolls over to leave a kiss on Kaveh’s cheek before you pull him in by his clerical collar for a chaste kiss on the edge of his lips.

And suddenly, his Sunday mornings don’t seem so dull anymore. 

[> You add a clerical collar to your collection.]

Thank you kindly for reading. Consider supporting on kofi if you enjoyed this or visit the other doors.

[honeyhotteoks]

i NEED your thoughts on priest!yunho like.... please, all my mind does is wonder about yunho using his power to bring a girl under his powerful spell... I NEED HIM BIBLICALLY

idk if you remember me but ✨anon is back !!!

oh my gosh hi ✨ anon!! i def remember you, i hope you've been well!

okay so priest!yunho is actually so dear to me i cannot even articulate it i have like sixteen different ideas and i honestly think at some point it will develop into a full fic however.............. further thoughts under the cut

priest!yunho x married!reader drabble; 1.7K words warnings: lots of angst, pining, and blasphemy, questionable use of a confessional, oral (f receiving)

note: okay so here's the thing about priest!yunho, and yunho in general, while i think he deeply has the capacity for very real dom/sub dynamics etc., when it comes to the idea of him being catholic or him being a priest in the fic, i think of him less bringing a girl under his spell and more being brought under a spell and tempted away by reader. certainly that's not an original idea, that's very fleabag-esque and i've mentioned that headcanon before, but i do think that would be very true to him. so given that...................

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──────────────── ♡ ─────────────── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Yunho is new to the parish, and he's still somewhat new to this. A young priest in his early thirties moving to a new place to fill the role of someone who was once a big fixture in the community there. He's admittedly a bit nervous, and he's trying his hardest to get this right. He's had a long and complicated past coming to the vocation, and he feels like he's finally found his path, so he wants to do things the right way.

But despite all of that...... there's you. And you're married of course, you come to church with your husband, but you smile up at him during services and ask after him in quiet moments whenever you volunteer, and there's just something about the way you move in the world that makes him want to follow. But he doesn't, because you're married and for all intents and purposes so is he.

That is until things start to change. You start to miss Sunday services more often and when you are there you seem withdrawn. Your husband no longer sits snugly beside you with an arm around you shoulders, instead you sit side by side with six inches between you. Space that seems to be growing week after week, and Yunho can't help but notice. He can't help but wonder what it is that's troubling you so and driving a wedge deeply into your marriage, and it's not his place and he shouldn't ask..... but he does.

As you leave service one day, he slips a note into your palm, pressing your hand tightly closed so no one can see it and with a pleading expression he bids you not to open it until you're alone. He doesn't know what's happening at home, he can't be sure, but he's worried and if you're unsafe the last thing he's going to do is be the cause of more pain in your life.

It's simple though - a phone number scrawled out hastily next to a note. If you ever need a friend, you have one in me.

It takes you weeks to call, but it feels finally like someone's thrown you a lifeline and you grab onto it with both hands.

It starts simply enough, truly innocent when he offers you coffee and a safe place to sit by his side in the chapel. He's an ear at first, just listening and nothing more. You confess to him how hard things have been at home, how your relationship has grown strained, more like two passive strangers than a committed husband and wife. You admit you've thought about divorce, and you know deep down your husband has been cheating on you. You've seen enough little signs and found enough evidence, and it used to hurt but now it just feels empty, and you've never said that out loud to another person except to him.

He listens and he holds your hand, and he gives you a safe place every few days to just be. And all the while he tries desperately to convince himself that the growing love he feels for you isn't romantic love at all, it isn't deep and intrinsic and as essential to him as breathing.... it's friendship. And all the while you tell yourself that the feelings you have for this man aren't real, they're a product of kind attention, validation and support you're not getting at home.

Things change when the visits turn from morning coffees to a shared glass of something stronger in the evenings. Things change when he casually admits that of course he feels attraction for people, priests aren't blind, but they've committed themselves to a different kind of life. Things change when he holds you close one night, your chest wracked with tears after a particularly nasty fight with your husband, seeking Yunho's warmth and his calm.

When you finally decide to do the unthinkable, really and truly divorce your husband, the day happens around you like a whirlwind. You serve him the papers, and he replies with the most hurtful thing he ever could - an accusation that you and the parish priest have become a little too friendly. People have seen you around town, around the church, early mornings and late nights, and all the little whispers of gossip have made it so that despite having done nothing but yearn for each other, everyone has all but confirmed an affair.

The words exchanged are cruel, and you find yourself stumbling into the confessional with more anger than you've ever felt in your life. and Yunho doesn't understand why you even want to use the booth at first, you've never expressed any real interest in the more traditional aspects of the church, but you're here and your begging him and all he can do is agree.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned," You manage through hazy tears, "I can't tell you how long it's been since my last confession, I don't know, I don't remember,"

"y/n," Yunho's voice is so soft, so tender, approaching you like someone might approach a wounded animal, "you don't have to do this,"

"Stop it, stop it!" Your fists tighten, nails pressing into your palms, "Don't be nice to me right now, I can't... I don't deserve that,"

"You always deserve kindness," He says through the slats and you hear him shift in his seat.

"Not today," You scrub a hand over your face, clearing away tracks of wet tears.

"Please," He shifts again, and you can picture him clearly, leaning towards you with that gentle expression you love so much, "talk to me, I'm here,"

"I've sinned," You clench your hands tighter, sticking to the script that was drilled into you in childhood.

"y/n," He murmurs.

"Father," You cut his words off, "you're not my friend, you're my priest. Are you going to take my confession or not?"

He's silent, so silent you fear for a moment that he's gone, and then you hear a heavy sigh, "I'm listening."

Your hands relax a little, your eyes going unfocused as you try to find the words. You came here in a blaze of anger but here, next to him, in front of him, hearing his breath through the wall, you don't know how to articulate all the feelings roiling deep in your chest.

Your soon to be ex-husband's words loop in your ears - You're a disgrace. You could have fucked anyone like a normal person, but him?

Words tumble from your lips, "I'm a liar,"

Yunho stays quiet.

"I've been lying to... everyone. To him, to my friends, myself, I've been lying to you," Your breath feels thready.

"About what?" He prompts you, "I'm listening,"

You push past it, heat filling your cheeks again, anger curling in your gut, "I've coveted,"

He hums softly, acknowledging your words.

"I left him," You take a sharp inhale, a tight sob caught in your throat.

"What?" You hear him shift again on the other side of the thin wood wall.

"I got an apartment, I found a lawyer, I figured it all out and I... I gave him the papers," You can feel the way your husband pushed you back into your chair, his tone harsh and cutting, the way he told you he'd take you for everything you were worth not the other way around.

Yunho's silent still.

"I tried to leave," You sob, "I tried to be the adult and end it easily, I tried to do the right thing, he's the one who's been cheating, he's been lying. He's been... he's not a good husband, and I... I just..."

"Shh, shh," He shushes softly through the wall, and you can practically feel the tension from him even with the wall between you as he tries to parse through your words, "breathe,"

"He knows about us," The words keep coming now, and you hear his little intake of breath but there's nothing more as you let it all come, "he knows I come here, everyone knows. Everyone. He said it's obvious, that I'm the one who's been cheating, that I... I broke our vows in the w-worst way, that it's an open secret. Everyone thinks I got b-bored, that I seduced you,"

Your heart is pounding in your ears, "And it's a rumor, it's just a rumor, but the thing is,"

You hear him shift again in the confessional next to you, the only sign he's still here.

"I do want you," You drop your head into your hands, "I've lied to you since the start, I wanted a friend, but I've wanted you too,"

"y/n," He's so quiet you almost miss it.

"And if everyone thinks what they think," You're dizzy, blood rushing in your ears, "then it's true, only I never, we never... I've ruined your life and mine and I've never even gotten to really touch you, and it's wrong, I know it's wrong, but you're all I think about. It's killing me, this is killing me, and I can't,"

The door to the confessional is suddenly open, your words dying on your lips as the equilibrium of the little room changes. He's on you in a second, dropping to his knees before you, gathering you close in his arms and his lips on yours like he's done it a thousand times before. He presses up into your space, your legs parting open as wide as the narrow walls allow to slot his body perfectly between your thighs.

You suck in a harsh breath against his lips, tears still caught in your throat, and Yunho shakes his head, his forehead leaning against yours as he breaks the kiss, "Shh," he eases you, "I've got you,"

A sick, hot thrill rolls through you, "Yunho," his name a whine on your lips.

"I'm here," He whispers it like a promise, like he's yours, not God's.

His hands push at your skirt, rucking it up higher on your hips and maneuvering your body until you're slipping forward on the confessional seat with your hips tilted up.

"My sweet girl," He groans against your lips, fingers tugging your panties roughly to the side so he can slip the pad of his thumb over your swollen clit.

It's unholy, it's debauched, it's everything you dreamt up in your deepest fantasies when you touched yourself in bed, but if your life in this little town is really over you need it to have at least been real. You need him to have been real, even once. Just once.

"God," He chokes against your mouth as his fingers sink inside you, finding your slit slick and body trembling, "oh, God,"

It sounds so different on his lips, and you stifle a moan into his neck when he hits a particularly sensitive place inside you.

"Shh," He hushes you again, pressing one more kiss to your lips before he drops lower between your thighs and hitches your legs up and over his shoulders.

His tongue finds your core and you see colors. He kisses your cunt with a desperate, hungry need and you know with perfect clarity that it wasn't all in your mind. He's wanted too, he's needed you too.

His hands are hot on your hips, your fingers knotted in his hair, and you let him consume you, completely and wholly.

You come hard on his tongue, biting down on your lip enough to draw blood to stay quiet, and you think that nothing in the world would ever feel this good if it wasn't sacred.

It couldn't.

[thesiltverses]

I'm replaying the silt verses, after a replay of eskew, both are just as good the second time round! I've enjoyed picking up little bits here and there, seeing the characters in new lights knowing where they end up, and appreciating the worldbuilding, it's a joy and a comfort!

What's the deal with the familial terms of address in the silt verses? Was it a deliberate part of the language of the world? I noticed it's not just in the faiths (brother Faulkner, sister Carpenter) - Dennis addresses Paige as daughter, Mercer and Gage use sister and sibling, and it seems like these familial terms are preferred over names and used more often than in our world.

Also, I've been thinking about whether Roak's miracles come from the trawlerman at all. I remember in his tape he views the white gull river as dead and lifeless, in contrast with the withermark and the transformed boat which are teeming with life and change. It feels like Carpenter's reaction to them is "you were never like this, my river", and maybe she's in denial or maybe it actually isn't her god. I wouldn't ask for a definitive confirmation or denial, death of the author and all that, but I'd love to hear your thoughts on it, both in and out of universe

Thank you!

Hey and thank you for listening!

The familial addresses are less worldbuilding, I think, and more about how characters use their familial relationships to pressure and manipulate one another (we know that Dennis was vocally supportive of Paige's transition but also leverages that support to get what he wants out of her, so referring to her as 'daughter' has weight to it; likewise, Mercer and Gage's whole toxic codependent deal is emphasised in how they refer to each other...I'm trying to remember if they're actually confirmed as blood siblings?) In the case of M&G, I think it's also just an efficient way to signal pronouns to the audience.

I think we could have been clearer about it, but Roake's worship is definitely intended as an open question about the nature of the Trawler-man - is this god more complex and multi-faceted than the Parish believes, or are there two different entities being worshipped in the same language? Equally, is the Trawler-man about drowning and death or teeming life, and how can it possibly be both at once beyond theological two-headed paradox?

[seyvia]

A Months journey from Spellbyndell, some time after the Dark lords defeat...

Regalia's champions, affectionately dubbed the 'Roses of Thorns,' are reveling at their campsite, filled with laughter and libations. Among them, the formidable knight Parish is seen playfully bantering with Captain Brom. "So, what’s your game plan when we return home, big guy?" Parish teases. "Honestly, no grand plans. I’ll be happy just to get everyone back safe and lend a hand wherever it’s needed," Brom replies. "Oh really? You know~ If you really wanted to help out, you’d rescue me from the dating scene!" she exclaims, bursting into laughter. "You're such a brute... don't you know anything about romance, Parish?" he asks, amused by her continued giggles. "Very well, I accept. Perhaps I can teach you a thing or two." he suggests. A grin remains on Parish's face as it quickly turns into a vibrant shade of red.

The focus shifts to Avi, prince Lumin's childhood friend, whose musings are interrupted by Sir Lorcan. "I've noticed a certain hero is missing. Why not go fetch him?" Lorcan suggests. "Nah, let him wallow; he’d just bring the mood down," Avi replies. "But he can't stay like that forever! You two are practically brothers! What good are you if you can't pull him out of his slump?" Lorcan insists, nudging Avi to rise. "I'm not taking responsibility for that! Being friends with the prince just gives me the right to kick his butt," Avi retorts. "Then maybe he needs a solid kick in the rear!" Lorcan exclaims, kicking Avi's chair out from under him, forcing him to rise to his feet. "Sigh~ What a pain," Avi mutters as he makes his way to Prince Lumin's tent.

Hay party pooper! your people are missing their hero! Avi remarks with sarcasm as he nears the entrance of the tent. "Really? Brooding in the buff, you are so dramatic! I should've been a bard, I would have made a fortune using you as my muse." Avi jests. "Whose dramatic? You haven't a musical bone in your body, you'd only make a fortune in debt. Besides I wasn't brooding." Retorts Lumin as he turns to face his friend.

Anyway, how's the research going? Avi inquires, lowering his voice to a more concerned tone. After a brief silence, Lumin finally speaks up.

"I've gone through every grimoire, every journal, and even the smallest scribble the dark Lord had in his possession, and none of them contain the curse he used on my mother therefore, I can't make a proper cure. " He pauses before adding, "However, we do know that the Imp believed the Springtide Scepter could heal him."

"... But he was wrong?" Avi asks. "Indeed," Lumin confirms. "The magic within the royal scepter, better known as the Springtide, could only make new things, like the rebirth of spring, which explains how he used it to conjure the creatures of decay. He was able to use it on himself, but it only contained the curse in him like a cocoon, slowly transforming him into something potentially far more dangerous than what we encountered, and that's why the scepter had to be shattered. To undo everything he had made with it."

"Right. So... what does this mean? If the scepter was useless to us all along and it couldn't have healed queen Aine, are we really back to square one?" Avi questions anxiously. "No no, not entirely." Lumin reassures him. "Ever since we left Spellbyndell, I've been researching mystical gems because of the dark lords interest in the Springtide, and only recently have I found something promising: Hematite! By applying Lunar magic to this stone, we can prevent the curse from taking my Mother's life prematurely. As long as I keep it charged and she wears it, she'll live on normally." "THAT'S GREAT! Where do we get some!?" Avi exclaims enthusiastically. "I'm not sure yet, but I have an idea." Admits Lumin.

"GUESS WHO'S GETTING MARRIED!" Suddenly shouts Parish from behind Avi startling him. "Think you can hitch me and Brom up tonight Lum?!" Parish asks with a charming smile.

"You and the—CAPTAIN?! When did this happen?!" Avi exclaims in bewilderment. Lumin, initially surprised, softens his voice into amusement and responds with, "I-uh... Unfortunately I can't officiate outside of Spellbyndell, Parish... Though I can sympathies with your eagerness; spring is an ideal time for weddings." Avi, in utter shock from what he's hearing interjects, "How are you so calm about this?! Parish! Dose Capt. even know about your plans?" Parish begins shaking her head up and down to imply a yes at Avi's question confidently.

Lumin looks over at his distressed friend, and with a pat on the back replies, "They've been flirting for months, and I even noticed—how did it go over your head? Besides Avi, It's the end of an era and a birth of anew.

"I expect multiple weddings will be held once we're finally home."

Before - Journey forth

[myfictionaldreams]

Day 31: Religious Play - Eddie Munson

Summary: You were unsure as to what you'd done to offend the new priest. What's worse is that your mom had invited him over for dinner, where you find him going through your bedside drawer, revealing all of your well-kept secrets.

Before reading: This is (obviously) going to refer significantly to religious practices. I, myself, am not Catholic, so any religious information in this fic is purely from Google and may be incorrect. Additionally, if religion is something that you would potentially find triggering, please do not read. You are in charge of your own media consumption, so read the tags/warnings carefully.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ readers only, smut, dubious content, bad family dynamics, manipulation, religious play, priest kink, sexual coercion, blackmail, mentions of public sexual activities, power play, the act of purifying, deepthroat, begging, non-consensual creampie, rough sex, degrading

masterlist 📚 

kinktober masterlist😈 

AO3 Link 

“Your mom has invited Father Munson over for dinner, by the way, so make sure you’re wearing your Sunday best”. Sitting up further from where you’d been lying on your bed, you turned towards your Dad in the doorway, frowning in confusion at his sentence, the beginnings of anxiety creeping into the centre of your chest.

“Fath-Father Munson? Why would she do that?” Internally cringing at your noticeable stutter, you stood abruptly from the bed, wiping your sweating palms down your jean legs.

“How should I know? You know what she’s like when she gets into these schemes and wanting to kiss the community’s arse. Just make sure you’re more dressed up than what you are now”. Before you could continue the conversation, your frustrated dad walked away, closing your door behind him.

Releasing a long, slow breath, you tried to take a minute not to panic. Your mom was definitely trying to scheme something like your dad mentioned; however, usually, it would be with the sheriff or someone from the council so that she could become friends and find out the latest gossip throughout Hawkins. This made it even more nerve-wracking that she was trying to do this with the priest with whom you had a strained relationship.

Rushing to your wardrobe, you tried to find the most suitable outfit you were saving for a church. A simple light blue dress that ended below the knees, matched with socks, but no point wearing shoes when you were staying in your home. Nervously, you began to dress and prepare for his arrival, hating that it had to be him, of all people.

There was something about him that had your heart beating so hard you were sure your rib cage would crack. The priest was still relatively new to the parish and had been a welcome sight. Considerably younger than the feeble, frail previous priest, Father Munson came to the church with new hope and enthusiasm. His sermons would easily capture the attention of the crowds, which in turn caused more people to attend than ever before.

A large portion of the crowd came to check out his handsome looks. There wasn’t just the age difference compared to the old priest; Father Munson seemed to be the complete opposite of every priest who had ever lived in Hawkins. Curly long hair that would occasionally be tied loosely at the base of his neck, roguish good looks to match the gorgeous caramel eyes that could lure you in with a simple gaze. There was no denying many people's attraction to him, especially yours. For many quiet moments alone, you had fantasised about the priest, even if this was considerably frowned upon as he had sworn his life to the church.

It didn’t help matters that he seemed to act differently with you. With blessing, his hands would linger on your skin, eyes blazing into yours during preaches. You weren’t sure what it was, but he treated you so much differently than others, which made you nervous to be with him, and now he was coming to your home.

A couple of hours later, you were ready for the ground to open up, and you fell into the depths of hell. Father Munson had arrived, wearing his usual dog collar and black jacket outfit that he seems to wear most days, his hair curling over his shoulders and down his back, the fringe naturally laying softly on his forehead. You greeted him with your usual smile and politeness, and there was no denying the glaze over his brown eyes as they wandered over your outfit and to your toes, linger there for a moment too long.

Thankfully, your mother swooped in and began to pester the priest, asking how his day was and over-complimenting to the point your dad was cringing from across the room. Luckily for him, your mom was the home cook and needed to return to the kitchen to prepare the rest of dinner so he could excuse himself, saying he would help her. You knew he wouldn't, and unluckily for you, that meant you were stuck in the living room with just you, the priest and the deafening silence.

“Is this you?” his deep voice had you jumping and gripping your chest as you turned to look at what he was referring to. To your displeasure, he was inspecting the family pictures on the wall, precisely the picture frame that showed you as a child, sitting on a park bench with a cheesy grin.

“Yes, I was five and-” You were beginning to explain the origin of the picture, but he swiftly cut you off, clearly using the picture just as an opener to start his teasing and torment.

“What happened to her?”

“What do you mean, father?” your voice remained neutral, but everything inside of you knew he was baiting you into something.

“This sweet girl in the picture, so innocent and loving. What happened to her? What happened to you? To become the way you are now”. Those soft brown eyes then turn back to you, but you’re quickly looking away to stare at your socks, feeling uneasy under the intensity of his words.

This was always what he would ask and refer to—talking as if you were some impure, degenerate human being when you were anything but that. Well, that was somewhat of a lie. To everyone in Hawkins, you were the loving daughter with plenty of friends, achieved good grades whilst at school and now working in the library to earn a living.  They did not need to know about your activities when out of town, specifically going to watch the rock concerts where alcohol was freely passed between fans, which lowered the inhibitions of the drinkers.

Yes, you’d been promiscuous with a few fellow rockers, but you always made sure to pray for your sins the following night, blaming the intoxication for your actions. However, no one knew of this version of your life as you made sure to drive to a town far enough away that no one you knew could accidentally see you leaving a venue or a motel in the morning.

Looking back up to the priest, you tried to appear confused, “I don’t know what you mean, father? The girl you see in those photos is standing in this very room. Nothing has changed except my age”.

“Hmm, I’m not too sure about that. Nevertheless, I will continue to ask for forgiveness for your sins on your behalf. Otherwise, there would be no hope for someone like you”, he casually remarked with a simple wave of his hand over his shoulder, displaying the collection of silver rings that adorned his fingers.

“Thank you for praying for me, Father, but I don’t believe I need your assistance with-” you began to retaliate, but your parents returning to the room had your mouth slamming shut.

“Dinner’s ready! If you’d like to come through, Father”, your Mom beamed with pride, directing the holy man to the other room where she seated him opposite your chair.

Thankfully, your mom could talk for all of Hawkins and speak at Father Munson rather than allow him to talk. You could keep your head ducked low and push the food around your plate until your parents asked you to tidy the dirty dishes in the kitchen. Even after this, you were forced to listen to the three of them talk about the church and how tainted Hawkins had become in recent years, needing a strong religious figure to lead them to the light.

“Are you sure there isn’t anything we could offer you to drink, Father?” your Mom requested for the fifth time as her glass had been drained of wine again.

The priest shook his head, the curls bouncing around his emotionless face, “No, thank you, ma’am. But, I would appreciate it if you could point me in the direction of your toilet if you wouldn’t mind”.

“Oh, of course! It’s just at the top of the stairs and the second door on the right”.

You watched him stand, straighten his jacket, and walk up the stairs, which were in your eye line. However, once at the top of the stairs, he looked back down at you, the beginnings of a smirk on his lips as he turned left instead of right, which incidentally led him straight towards your bedroom.

Standing so quickly that it caused both of your parents to startle in their seats, you quickly stammered an excuse to run up the stairs, “I think I forgot to close my window! I’ll be back in a moment”.

Your parents grumbled insults under their breath towards your rudeness. Still, you ignored them entirely, climbing the stairs two at a time to race towards your bedroom and hoping to God that the priest had made a simple mistake and just needed clarification of the direction of the bathroom.

As you arrived on the landing, you stared towards your now-closed bedroom door, which had once been open. Opening it with as much urgency as you could muster, you found, to your horror that the priest had entered your safe space and was currently rifling through the secret belongings of your bedside drawer that you swore had been locked before.

“What are you doing?! Those are my private belongings-!” you began, trying to whisper but remaining firm with your questioning as your hands trembled at your side as you knew just the sort of things that were hidden in the bedside draw.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked, sounding as casual as ever but didn’t match the fierce anger swirling in those usually welcoming chestnut-coloured eyes. Your heart momentarily stopped beating in your chest as he held up a small silver device that could be mistaken for lipstick but was undoubtedly anything but something used for cosmetics.

“It’s my lipstick, and I really don’t appreciate you going through my stuff, Father. If we may return to the dinner-” You tried to sound as calm and confident as possible, but once more, he interrupted your attempts to move him out of your bedroom.

“You and I both know that this is not a lipstick. Do you know how to use it properly?” Your entire body burned with embarrassment as your shoulders rolled back, and you held your head high, deciding you wouldn’t answer his question, but his response only made you want to melt into the floor more. “Clearly not by the lack of an answer. Clearly you are being tempted by Satan with some of these behaviours, and ah- it seems your taste in music seems to justify this sort of behaviour”.

Dropping the bullet vibrator back into the draw, the priest lifted a cassette tape of your favourite band, Metallica. You knew of the judgemental and anti-faith stereotypes that came with liking rock and metal music, and yet, you couldn’t help but love the music, having used it as an escape for years. A secret escape at that, having kept it hidden from your parents all these years, which is also why you travelled so far to the concerts to truly be yourself where no one you knew could find you.

“Have you listened to their latest album? Track two is something special”, Father Munson remarked whilst replacing the cassette in its hiding spot. Your mouth was wide with unspoken questions, wanting to splurge out as a thousand thoughts alarmed through your mind.

“You… you listen to Metallica?” you asked in absolute disbelief.

The priest closed the draw slowly, turning to face you ultimately, his eyes lingering on the blue socks on your feet. “What I do outside of the church is none of your concern. But, what you do is mine, especially when I have your parents are so worried about the dark, satanic goings-on that are promoted by this sort of music. I can easily fend off the demon whispering through the lyrics, but you? No, someone like you can be so easily manipulated and tempted by the devil”.

You hadn’t noticed just how close he was until the tips of his shiny leather shoes were touching the tips of your toes. Instinctively, you take a significant step backwards, which, in turn, he follows and steps forward. It’s like a teasing dance until you lose as your back collides with your bedroom wall, and he's leaning his hand against the wall beside your head.

“The devil is not tempting me, and I don’t know why you seem so insistent that I am. I come to church every week, I pray nearly every day, what more do you want from me?” As you speak, you realise just how captivated by his eyes you are, and even though you want to look away, you hold the gaze.

“I want you to believe the things you are saying. I, for one, believe you have already been lured by the demonic forces that can so easily tempt sweet little souls like yours. You need purifying. Need the light to return to your soul or risk being damned forever”. As he spoke, you couldn’t help but glance between his lips and eyes, something he, too, noticed as his thumb and forefinger roughly grabbed the tip of your chin, forcing your face up so you were looking up at the ceiling.

You were sure he would be able to hear your heartbeat with how violently it was pounding in your chest as his face dipped so close to your ear that his hair stroked the soft skin of your cheek. “Want to know why I know the depths of evil have already tainted you? Imagine my surprise as I’m watching one of my favourite bands, and who do I see in the middle of the crowd? I see the innocent librarian, wearing next to nothing and some random man’s tongue in her mouth and fingers in her underwear. Does that ring any bells for you, Sweetheart?”

It did. It had been several months ago, and you were considerably drunk and speaking to this stranger for hours whilst waiting in queue for the concert. You were never one for public indecency, but you were going to blame the alcohol for the fact that he’d fingered you in the middle of the crowd, and after the show, you returned with him to his motel for more erotic adventures.

You felt sick to your stomach and had no idea what to say. Of course, you could deny it, but it seemed a useless task if this had been what was fueling his pestering for all of these months. Furthermore, all you could think about were your parents downstairs and just how much you were at the mercy of the priest in front of you.

“Not so quick to retort now, are you, angel?”

“Please, don’t tell my parents. They hate me enough without knowing this side of my life”. It was hard to plead for something so desperately when you were still left staring at the ceiling, entirely at the mercy of the priest pressed up against you.

There was a moment of pause where images and scenarios of all the potential repercussions flashed through your mind. Your parents kick you out, are a thorough shouting at, and probably lose your jobs due to the rumours and whispers that would spread throughout Hawkins. With no job and nowhere to live, you’ll be on the streets with no food or water and your entire world crumbling around you.

Before any further begging could be done, the grip on your chin was released, and the priest was stepping away from you. More specifically, he was stepping away from your door and towards the stairs that led directly to your parents.

“Stop!” you whispered urgently, trying to grab onto his arm to pull him back, but he was already halfway down the stairs and in the eye-line of your parents, who stopped their conversation to greet their guests with fake smiles.

You nearly slipped on the bottom step as you ran down behind the long-haired priest, trying to think of a way to interrupt whatever he had to say, but your mind was utterly blank of thoughts.

Instead,d you had to stand in horror as you watched his mouth open, “I’m sorry to cut this night short, but I’ve realised that I need to rush back to the church. I had thought the groundsman had been working today to lock the building, but it’s just occurred to me that he’s on holiday, so I must get back to lock up. Unfortunately, the church is quite big so it will take me a bit of time, and your lovely daughter here has offered to help me; I hope you don’t mind. I will drive her safely home once the church is safely locked”.

“Oh? Now… you have to leave now?” your mom questioned uncertainly, glancing between her freshly iced cake left uneaten in the middle of the dinner table.

“What my wife means is that, of course, that is no issue at all. I’m glad my daughter has decided to be helpful in some way. You’re welcome back here any time, Father”, your dad explained, giving a pointed look to his wife before standing and shaking Father Munson’s hand.

This was how you ended up in the passenger seat of the man’s van, your fingers gripping the edge of the seat in desperation. You weren’t sure what was worse. Knowing he didn’t tell your parents now and could at any point in the future or that you were now alone with him with a blatant lie about the church needing locking.

One small part of your internal monologue was jumping for joy, attempting to take in every unique detail you hadn’t noticed before from the man. The van smelled of cigarette smoke, a habit he must have kept secret as you were reasonably sure he wasn’t supposed to indulge in habits such as this to remain a good role model for the community. Surprisingly, he also had a Judas Priest tape playing quietly, his ringed fingers tapping with the rhythm of the guitar. This was only surprising as he wasn’t even attempting to hide his love for the metal band, which gave you one bargaining chip if he ever decided to blackmail you with informing your parents.

“Thank you for not telling my parents. I was worried for a second that you were going too”.

Father Munson glanced over at where you were still clutching to your seat as if it were your lifeline. Even though you weren’t facing him directly, out of the corner of your eyeline, you watched his eyes drop to the bare skin of your shins.

“Who says I won’t be telling them? I just thought it would be easier to be in a holier place, in private, where we could both pray for your sins… extensively”. 

This did nothing to ease your anxiety and embarrassment. Was he expecting you to kneel at the front of the church and beg god to forgive you for the seedy acts you’d done in secret?

Thankfully, the drive was swift enough that you couldn’t dwell on these thoughts. The surrounding area of the church was coated in darkness as the moon was covered by low-lying clouds, which gave the site an even more haunted feeling than usual. Due to this, you regretfully had to stay close to the priest, rushing to get to the double doors of the silent church.

Once inside, you remained at his elbow as he began to turn on the few lights hanging on the wall, illuminating the rows of pews and alter.

“What would you do to be forgiven by God? By me?” You blink, unsure if he was referring to himself as a god or just as the one to allow forgiveness to be given on behalf of the church.

“I’d do anything”.

“Then kneel before the cross, and we will start with the body of Christ��. 

Every Sunday, you completed the action asked. To kneel in front of the cross hanging above the altar as the Priest placed a wafer of bread onto your tongue, followed by a sip of wine. However, doing it now with only Father Munson to witness it felt demeaning. Furthermore, the priest didn’t help with how he placed the wafer onto the flat of your tongue, his thumb pressing firmly so that saliva filled your mouth at the pressure. Next came the wine, which he tilted your head back by pushing your chin so you were staring at the ceiling.

Your mouth was open as he tipped the watered-down wine in, except a single drop slipped past your lips, dribbling down your chin, only to be captured by his thumb and pressed back onto your mouth, where you obediently sucked it clean. You nearly choked on the liquid as the realisation as to what you’d done, and your body unforgivingly began to warm, not from embarrassment but a desire pooling deep within your centre.

Averting your eyes to stare at the floor, you continued to him say the Lord's prayer, which you recounted under your breath, attempting to steer your thoughts away from the damping of your underwear.

“Amen”, his strong voice resonated around the empty church as you repeated the words with a dip of your head. “I don’t think it’s enough just to have the blood and body of Christ inside of you. The actions you have been a part of across the country, the dark music you listen to, I think you need more thorough purifying”.

“Please, Father. I’ll do anything”, you insist whilst remaining on your knees and looking up at him with wide eyes. Even though you were still frightened of the repercussions, your body responded treacherously. “I want you to purify me from my demons, Father”.

The handsome face standing above you tilted, his eyes shadowed now behind his long hair. “When people look at me, they see me as the spokesperson for God and the practices of this church. I am a symbol of everything holy. Some would say that there is nothing more pure than me, leading the way for others to become accepted by God”.

You weren’t sure if it was your hopes and the disconcerting pulse between your legs, but you could have sworn there was an undertone to his words. Carefully, you picked your following words, “If it is you, Father, that I need to rid of these demonic entities, then I will gladly proceed with whatever you deem is necessary”.

“These erotic acts that you have been divulging in, forgetting your faith and allowing the words of the devil to stain your body. The only way to flush these demons out is by replacing them with pure ones, by a holy being. If you want to make God happy and earn his forgiveness, you must earn these rewards. Do you understand what it is that I am saying to you?”

You swallow the thick glob of saliva, continuing to hold his eye contact, ignoring the uncomfortable ache in your knees. As you nodded in understanding, you verbalised, “Yes, Father, I understand”.

Without missing a second, he ordered sternly, “Undo my belt”.

Your fingers lifted to his black leather belt and began to unbuckle it, not wanting to overthink the actions you were doing, even though the bulge in front of you made it evident of his intentions. He held the power of your life and religion in his hands; if he wanted you to pray until the early morning hours, you would. Of course, you knew the manipulation, blackmail and coercion he was currently holding above your head was wrong in every sense of the word. Still, the broken part of you that enjoyed being fingered in the middle of a busy crowd was more than ready to please the priest in any way he deemed necessary.

With his belt now unbuckled and opened, you waited patiently for your following instructions. “Let’s start with ensuring your mouth is purified and cleaned of sins first. What do you think, Sweetheart?”

“Yes, Father”, you replied whilst fixing your stare on his crotch. Carefully, you nimby unbutton and pull down the zipper to his slacks, opening the gap. Reaching inside his stripped boxers, you were able to wrap your fingers around his hard length, surprised to find him thicker than you’d anticipated. Releasing his length from the confines of his clothes, you admired the firmness of the shaft and the way it throbbed as you squeezed him gently.

“Please cleanse me, Father”, you whisper up at him before licking the deep maroon tip of his cock. The priest didn’t so much as sigh at the touch, but the length did harden slightly as you began to leave open-mouth kisses up and down the shaft. 

“Enough. Open your mouth, stick your tongue out”. You did as instructed, sitting back on your heels to await his next move, but it seemed he had other ideas as he placed one hand on the back of your head, and the other supported his cock at the base. Stepping forward, he directed his cock into your mouth, sliding it against your tongue until he was hitting the back of your throat.

You were only just able to suck in a deep breath before he was pushing further in, your eyes filling with tears at the stimulation that was too much, but you wanted to impress him, so you attempted to relax the muscles of your throat. Finally, this earned you a satisfied grunt as the priest watched his dick disappear into your mouth.

Father Munson then proceeded to fuck your throat with the pressure from his hand on the back of your head, keeping you in place and entirely at his mercy. Saliva was soon dripping down your chin, but the sloppiness of it all only made him more frantic and harder with his thrusts. You weren’t able to take his entire length before you were gagging and pushing on his thighs to allow you a moment to breathe through your nose.

Suddenly, he was yanking back your head, pulling himself entirely out of your mouth, “I don’t think it would be as beneficial to allow the purification to happen down your throat. Come here”. With his hands now held out for you to hold, you did so tightly, grasping the rings and allowing them to cool the heated skin of your palm.

Your legs struggled to hold up any of your weight from being on your knees for such a long time, so the priest had to carry you over to the alter practically and have you lying face first over the table. Sighing at the contact and now having to worry about keeping yourself upright anymore, you looked over your shoulder to Father Munson, who was admiring the back of your legs.

Wishing for the wait to be over, needing the fire in your belly to be eased in some way, you wiggled your hips invitingly. “Please, Father Munson, I need you to help me. I want to be cleaned by God’s touch”.

You could have sworn that the man growled under his breath as he lifted your skirt. The apples of your cheeks warmed as he didn’t even pull down your underwear completely; he simply moved it to the side. You could only gasp at the coolness of the air touching your soaked pussy.

A subtle kick to the insides of your feet had you widening your stance so the priest could move in closer between your legs. You watched over your shoulder as he dipped his height slightly, and then you could feel the firmness of his length pressing against your folds, swiping up and down, trying to find its home and then nudging into your hole.

You raised onto your tip toes as the pressure intensified, your hole stretching enough that a dull ache formed in the gummy walls. Your eyes closed as well, thoughts zoning onto the cock now penetrating your body. He was entirely overwhelming, yet you never wanted that sensation to end, as scandalous and against the rules as this was.

“Good girl, let me in, that’s it”, he praised, watching your pussy take inch after inch of his cock. You whimpered at the praise and intrusion, and when you reached behind to try and keep him from entering anymore as you needed a moment to adjust, he grabbed onto your hand and held it to your lower back and thrust in the remainder of the way.

“God!” you shouted out with spite.

Father Munson chuckled, his hand squeezing yours, “That’s exactly right. God. He’s here to ensure you’re thoroughly cleansed, Sweetheart”.

Your entire body shivered as he began to ease out, your cunt shrinking back to its original size before stretching once more as he thrust in. It seemed the priest wouldn’t wait, needing to do his work thoroughly and deeply.

His thrusts had your body rocking back and forth on the stone altar. The obscenity of your cries echoing around the silent church only made this entire situation feel more intense for you. What’s worse is that when you finally opened your eyes, you were forced to gaze up at the statue of Jesus on the cross, watching the entire scene unfold.

“That’s right, they’re all watching. Making sure all the demons have escaped your body. That you now truly belong to the church. No song or man will ever lure you to the devil. Only God and I have permission to have your soul and body. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Father”, you cried out around the deep moans of pleasure. Even though you were trembling, it was like nothing you’d ever experienced. Other than the watered-down wine, there wasn’t a drop of alcohol in your system. It felt incredibly taboo to be fucking the priest in the middle of his church, and yet, there you were, begging him not to stop.

The cock that continued to pound into your cunt expertly stroked every beautiful spot that had you verging on the edge of an orgasm. Tingles deep in your belly and running down your thighs to the tips of your toes. You were so close that you were almost unaware that the priest was near to his orgasm. Almost. You had nearly fallen so far into the fantasy that you’d momentarily forgotten what his main goal was. To penetrate you with his pure seed to rid your body of the demons.

“Wait, you can’t cum inside of me”, you urgently say, looking over your shoulder towards the man who now had wildly unkept hair and a blush rosing the skin of his neck that you could see.

“How did you expect to have God’s forgiveness if you can’t have my pure seed soaking you from the inside?” You were too far gone to care about the repercussions as you came with violent squeezes of your pussy around his cock. The tightness with which you squeezed him only helped to milk him for every single drop of cum that came flooding into the deepness of your cunt.

Still reeling over the high that was easing through your system, you were only half aware of the priest grunting the Lord's pray as his thrusts came to a stop. A heavy hand on your hip kept you pressed against the stone altar as he pulled out and replaced your panties into the correct position.

“You must keep this inside of you tonight for the full potential of the Lord's work to unravel. Understand, Sweetheart?”

“Yes, Father”.