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chososdiscordkitten · 3 months

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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

1K notes · View notes

nvuy · 5 days

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hands on — sunday

summary. sunday feels eyes on him from everywhere, yet he still seeks your gaze despite how much he loses himself in your eyes.

notes. wrowwww confit part 2 is here i DID post it on ao3 like 5 mins ago but i think ao3 died in my country for the 74th time this year soooorrrrr hello tumblr!!!!!!

i'd strongly suggest you read confiteor here (or on ao3) before reading this one, otherwise this entire fic just sounds like an acid trip.

warnings. mdni, 18+, gn reader but you have fem anatomy, long ass 12k post, mild degradation, little bit of horror themes if you squint?, alternative summary: sunday receives head and has an existential crisis, sunday literally loses his mind (in a sexy way), religious guilt, religious themes & symbolism, sunday needs therapy, you're a weirdo (in a sexy way), y'all get it on in a church.

The church had always been beautiful. A place of worship, fairness, mutual happiness. It’s partly the reason Sunday was always so enamoured with its pieces on the walls; Robin used to trace her hands over the paintings, and he was sure he could spot her fingerprints from when the paint was still drying.

Sunday had never felt so disgusted with himself.

The murals watched him, one thousand unblinking eyes following him as he walked down the aisle, with muted clicks from his shoes against the red carpet with gold trimming.

He was so angry.

He’d trudged home the night prior seething, and Robin had rested a hand on his shoulder and whispered to him until he gathered himself. He hated to present himself in such a way to her, and although she begged for him to shed a light on his problems, she was met with silence.

He was so angry at his traitorous hands when they wandered below the waistband of his pants. He’d been trying to sleep, tossing and turning for hours, desperate for some sort of distraction. He’d retrieved a glass of water, he’d stayed up to read, and nothing was helping. Nothing soothed the ache between his thighs; the thought in the back of his mind that you were in that same rut.

He felt awful feeling himself up again, this time alone, and he was so ashamed when he muffled his cries and came into his hand.

Vile.

There’s a statue in the church. One erected from only the most exquisite sculptors of the era, crafted meticulously over gruelling hours to perfect the shape of THEM. Xipe stands behind the pulpit, larger than anything in the church, and silent. THEIR arms remain still, outstretched and gestured towards the empty pews. THEIR eyes are not open, but there is a gentle smile carved onto a perfectly whimsical face.

It is a beautiful statue, sure, but Sunday would have preferred another God to watch over instead.

Perhaps it was for the best.

In the preparation of the morning service, Sunday was unusually quiet. Staff piled in silently, bidding their greetings, and even Robin—and, bless her gentle heart—was reticent, her lips pulled together into a thin line. The choir practised, and it was the only sounds he heard that morning.

The wine the church offered was of pure grapes. The chalice the sacramental wine rested in was golden with a thin stem and a wide base. A single golden spoon laid within the red.

It’s supposed to be blood. It feels dastardly eerie to offer a piece of THEM to those undeserving of such.

Instinctively, when his gaze met the statue’s, his gloved hand raised and clasped the golden charm at his chest tightly.

Sunday felt a tap on his shoulder.

“The congregation is prepared,” Robin said to him. She tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “As per usual.”

He hadn’t taken his eyes off of the statue. “Good.”

“And there are people coming in now,” she continued, nodding towards the door that led out to the lectern. “It’s almost eight.”

“Thank you.”

She stopped, eyeing him warily.

“There’s something bothering you,” she commented quietly. “You’ve been on edge since last night. Did something happen?”

Sunday finally turned to look her in the eye. His face remained expressionless, though his tone held a hint of warning. “I’m fine, Robin. Please. Don’t worry about me.”

“Brother–”

“Robin.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, though that smile he always pulled onto his lips when he was trying to deter her mind from him. His heart was pounding in his chest. “Please. Enough.”

Defeatedly, her shoulders sagged. She wanted to tell him, as she had so many times before—so many times—that she was there for him. She’s always been there for him.

Robin’s lips twitched into a soft, but crushed smile. “Okay.” She stared down at her shoes. They were slightly scuffed at the sides. “Okay, I… I’ll get the choir started.”

Sunday had turned back towards the statue with an approving, idle hum. His shoulders had stiffened as he watched THEM closely, fingers interlocked in front of his stomach. It was a nervous habit Robin recognised all too well.

His hand was bleeding around the golden charm now.

She said nothing.

ೃ༄

When Sunday sang prayers into the microphone with a bandaged hand beneath his gloves, he wondered if he was ever truly a good person. Was he… ever fit to see the Heavens once he passed? It was all down to the judgement of one final being; unbiased, unjudged, honest.

He always valued honesty.

“Grace be to thee, and to your kinship.” The sunlight was burning into the back of his halo. “And, weary sinners, hold your heads, as THEY will shine light down upon you, and forgive all of your transgressions.”

The chalice filled with wine sat idly on the table. There was an embroidered white table runner draped over the top to cover the chipped and old wood.

The pattern was eerily similar to the stockings you wore that night.

He dreamed of you.

How could he? To betray himself, The Family, his own flesh and blood. He felt repulsive, like swallowing strong liquor. His saliva was thick in his throat as he spoke, hands pulled tight around the edge of the pulpit, mere inches away from shedding the program that rested in the centre. The wood creaked beneath the pressure.

He remembered your voice as if you were truly whispering in your ear at that moment.

You’re haunting him. He hears your heels in the hallway at home; he can smell your perfume when he passes down the aisle every morning. The script in his hands has tears from how firm he’s been gripping the paper.

He had to remind himself he is good. He is good, and loved, and obedient, and his God is so benevolent and thoughtful to watch over someone as pathetically weak as he is. THEY will forgive him.

He knows, he told himself. He knows what he did all those nights ago.

Sunday felt unworthy to hold the golden chalice in his hands. The other staff had positioned themselves ready for the wine service. One had stopped to look strangely at the man. Sunday’s hands were trembling around the handles.

“Reverend Sunday?” one of the priests asked gently. “Are you alright?”

Briskly, he nodded his head once and pulled as much of a reassuring smile on his lips as he could. Then, he turned, careful not to spill the wine in the chalice and moved forward.

There was already a line forming down the aisle.

He is loved.

“Go…” He hoped his voice was steady. It should be, for he’s said these exact words everyday for almost a year now. “Eat your food with gladness.”

He is good.

The spoon shook in his hands as he offered it to one of the churchgoers.

The next person stepped up. The priest on the right grasped their chin gently with the red cloth. Sunday offered another spoonful of wine.

They were replaced with the next person.

He is loyal.

“…And drink your wine with a joyful heart.”

The next. And the next. And the next.

Routine. Stagnant, maddening, routine.

He glanced down to dip the spoon back into the wine again. The chalice was half full now, and the line was beginning to dwindle. He could see the end of it now.

He is faithful.

“…For THEY have already–”

His heart faltered when he looked up again.

The wine spilled from the spoon. He almost dropped the gold onto the floor.

The breath that escaped his lips was shaky.

It seemed that everyone in the church was transfixed with the smile you directed at the Head Reverend. Even the priests to his left and right had stopped.

The choir had paused. A quick glance to the right would reveal Robin with her lips slightly parted. The organ player had pressed the wrong key and had halted the singing.

When you shifted, he was reminded that you were not a perfect statue carved from the Gods hands. Not like the statue of Xipe that stood behind him. Your eyes flitted downwards, and he noticed your fists clenched at your sides. Discomfort pulled across your face like ink bleeding onto a canvas.

Perhaps it was the distasteful attire you’d chosen for the ceremony that had garnered the staring.

Maybe it was the unearthly beauty that sculpted your face, as if you were a being that had been picked from an inch of the Gods skin and blood, and brought to life on land, so full of love and saccharine bittersweetness.

He could taste it on his tongue.

Sunday quickly dipped the spoon back in the wine when one of the priests moved to hold the red cloth beneath your chin.

He swallowed. “–Have already approved of what you do.”

The spoon slipped between your parted lips.

The other priest wiped your mouth with the cloth. It was like velvet on your lips.

Hesitantly, out of time with the conductor, the church organ continued where the player had paused.

You pulled away from the cloth before the priest could remove his hand himself, and you offered one more warm smile—and sharp canines poked over your bottom lip—before you moved to let the next person replace you.

As you left, Sunday promptly ignored your hand that traced the leather of his belt beneath his coat.

His heart was racing beneath his chest, like a bird hitting its wings against the confines of its cage.

Heat clammered and sweltered up his neck. He ignored that, too.

ೃ༄

He can’t.

When Sunday stepped out of the confessional booth and locked the door with the key, he leaned against the door and shut his eyes tight.

He felt too big for his clothes. His skin doesn’t feel like it’s his. It’s hot. It’s just so hot and his skin felt as though it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper. His breathing was shaky and uneven.

He cannot bear to look at the images and murals plastered over the walls. If they had a choice, the unstaring eyes would, too, look away in shame. The statue is still.

Sometimes, he was convinced it moved when no one was looking.

Maybe that’s just paranoia. It all is, isn’t it? He’s always been scared of little things. Things with eyes, like dolls, and portraits, and people, and Gods. Not THEM. Never THEM—deep down, he did fear THEM. But he knows he is loved. Otherwise, he would have been abandoned.

The murals are watching him.

The walls are warping the longer he stares. The halos behind the figures’ heads are fading. He feels his own doing the same. He is unworthy of it. It is more like a weight of lead, than a ring of light.

He’s still thinking of you.

It’s horrible. It’s wrong. His eyes sting, though he’s not sure if it is exhaustion, or if he will cry again. But he can’t cry. He had wept silently in his bed the night prior because he couldn’t sleep. And it’s hard to sleep when the house is silent, but there’s a distant clicking of your heels down the hallway outside of his room.

It does not stop, nor does it draw closer or further away. It is a rhythmic click click click, and it is suffocating. It’s even worse when he feels you breathe into his ear and urge his hand between his legs. He feels your hands trace over his shoulders to his chest from behind—and of course you’re behind, because if he were to turn around, he’d see something ugly.

He’d see nothing.

It’s all in his head.

But it feels real. How hot your breath is against his neck, how your lips follow the throbbing veins in his throat, how your fingers wrap around his wrist and guide his hand between his legs.

The feeling weighs on his chest like gold.

He draws close to pulling off his clothes when he is in bed. He fights his will, because it is you in his ear whispering that he is most beautiful in his rawest form. And he believes you, but the idea of ruining himself any further makes him feel sick.

And one night, with what he feels are your teeth buried in his throat, he sings that he loves you, and he grows cold.

He cannot sleep, and when he can sleep he dreams of you. And even as he lays wide awake in his bed, his hands wander, and he can feel your skin on his.

He can’t love you.

It’s not love. Love is warm, unfamiliar, and new, and he hears tales of how comfortable it is.

It’s wrong to feel this way.

He removed himself from the confessional. His legs felt weak when a hesitant breath left his lips.

“It’s like a weight… isn’t it?”

Sunday froze. He’d never felt so cold before. His spine snapped straight like it’s was crafted of metal, and something horrible hooked within his stomach, hard and aching, like he’d swallowed lead.

He heard you swallow.

He didn’t dare turn around, fingers trapped on the pages of printed hymns he was about to put away.

“It’s persistent.” He heard the telltale sign of your clothes moving. “You feel it, too.”

He was afraid of what he would see when he turned around.

He does. “I don’t know what you speak of.” He then turned, eyes glaring and face alight with anger. “If you know well, you will turn and leave. Don’t come back here.”

His shaky inhale gives himself away.

He isn’t sure if you’re real. For his sake, he hoped you weren’t.

Sunday held the key tight in his bandaged hand.

“You should feel guilty.”

His heart stopped. The teeth of the key were digging into the hole in his palm. The bandages strain against his flesh, and he bites his tongue before he can let out a bark of disdain at you.

Ungrateful.

He won’t voice it. He will say nothing. This is not his fault; it can’t be his fault.

And he still feels it is his fault. But this all happened because of you. And he’s been trapped inside his head for all these nights because of you. It’s all you.

“Should I?” he asked quietly. He watched your face twist. “Or should you?”

“Is it not your job to help people like me?” you tried. You felt blood rise up your neck and settle in your face. You weren’t sure whether it was because he was still the most beautiful man you’d ever seen, or if your frustration was climbing further and further towards your heart. “I thought you could help me.”

You had promised to fix him as well.

If anything, he felt even more broken than he had ever been.

Sunday breathed out shakily.

The bandages around his hand were beginning to dye a dark red like the wine he had fed you.

He swallowed hard. You saw his throat move.

“Fix this, Reverend. Fix me.”

His voice faltered when he whispered, “I cannot fix what is beyond repair. I cannot give you anything more than I already have.”

“Then take me.”

There was silence.

He felt his heart drop into his stomach.

Sunday glanced towards the door of the church and tried to control his breathing. “I can’t.” He shook his head slowly. He can’t bring himself to look into your eyes. “We can’t do this again. It will fix nothing. It will make everything worse.”

Your legs trembled. You felt your heart stop in your chest, and it hurt.

And you were so angry.

So, so angry. You wanted to spit in his face, or maybe you wanted to fall to your knees and kiss his shoes and beg for forgiveness.

Whatever you felt for this man, love, attachment, some sort of long winded delusion that he could be yours if you tried hard enough, surged inside of your head.

You wanted to touch him. You wanted to feel his skin on your hands, and you wanted to hear him again.

You swallowed your pride, and then you uttered, “please, sir.”

Sunday exhaled sharply through gritted teeth.

“Not only are your hands sullied with filth, but you are also disobedient.” He still cannot bring himself to look at you. He didn’t want to. He was afraid he’d succumb to your whims if he did. His hands were trembling, fingers weak and almost as if they would snap off from the knuckles. “I told you to never come back here.”

You almost looked offended.

“I don’t come here willingly–”

“I know what you are.”

Sunday’s fists clenched by his sides. The wings beneath his ears had stiffened, feathers bristling like cacti.

“I know what you do.”

You said nothing. If anything, your eyes were transfixed on the statue behind him.

“You find reverent men, and you ruin them.” He turned, then, but his eyes didn't meet yours. “Tell me: are you proud of yourself?”

“Never proud, sire,” you admitted. Then, you bowed your head. “Though I will say, I do hope you enjoyed yourself last night.”

He inhaled sharply, and the corners of his lips twitched upwards.

There, you dared to reach forward and trace your thumb along the bandages of his wounded hand.

And he let you.

He did not flinch away, nor did he tell you to leave again.

He simply stared down at your fingers as they smoothed along the expanse of the scratchy material along his palm. Your fingers slotted between his.

Sunday sighed, defeated.

Your hand was so warm. And despite the disgust and the swamp he felt bubbling in his guts, he felt as if he’d known you his entire life.

There was something so foreign in your skin, and yet he wanted nothing more than to melt into you like a burning flame upon a candlestick.

Sunday, at that moment, felt no shame in what he had done to himself that same night.

If anything, it pleased you, and that lit his skin on fire. A nice warmth buried itself in his stomach.

“How dare you come back here.” The whisper was without malice, though he wished it did hold some sort of bite. Instead, he sounded pathetic, and lost, and he felt only you could help him.

You don’t seem the slightest bit apologetic.

Instead, your lips stretch into a small smile.

“I blame you,” you said to him. Your lashes fluttered against his cheek. You didn't dare let your hand wander. Cautiously, you squeezed his fingers around yours, and silently prayed that he could let you indulge one last time.

He blamed himself, too.

His heart raced in his chest when your lips pressed to his. The poor muscle bashed helplessly against his ribs, like a small defenceless bird trying to free itself of its enclosure. Perhaps his heart knew better and attempted to leap from his throat.

You were gentle. So gentle he was convinced you were a different person; a different being to what he initially presumed you were. And it hurt. His chest hurt, like one thousand feathers weighed down upon his bones. Your lips were soft, and his own trembled against yours.

Sunday’s other hand was still curled by his side, shaking with the urge to touch the expanse of your skin, and to also remain glued to his thighs at the same time.

One of the wings beneath his ear tickled your jaw. The feathers trembled against your skin. You pressed deeper into hus mouth, so much so he almost startled back when your chest pressed against his.

Sunday could feel your heart clammer against his own, and he felt as though you couldn’t have been any closer to him.

A tick in time, a short moment of weakness, and one he’ll regret when he goes home and struggles to sleep again, but his hand abandons your grip. He tries his hardest to resist. He shouldn’t have ever let this happen again.

Your arms daringly swung around his neck, one hand holding his cheek gently to keep his lips on yours. You could feel his hesitation, but something wrong urged you forward; urged you to ruin him even further.

His hands rested on your hips. They did not move. They did not wander. They were frozen on your skin like ice.

You tasted of the wine he’d given you.

It was strange, sweet, and it made his face flush the same colour as the blood on his hand.

“Blessed Reverend,” you whispered against his lips. “How will you sleep tonight?”

Your nose brushed against his. His feathers rustled when your breath and the scent of wine curled around his cheek.

“I won’t,” he admitted. It’s quiet. You barely heard it. “I will toss and turn.”

You fluttered your lashes at his answer. He felt your lips stretch into a smile.

His heart frantically raced in his chest when your lips touched his again, and he stiffened when he stepped backwards with you and his back pressed against the pulpit.

The hand on his cheek traced down the throbbing veins of his neck, and he had half a mind to pull away from you. His own hands held firmer against your hips.

He was growing dizzy.

When he fluttered his eyes open, sick from the taste of wine on his lips, he saw one thousand eyes staring down at him.

On the walls, on the ceiling, from the stained glass windows. His heart hurt in his chest, the thudding so loud he could barely hear anything else as it echoed in his ears. The swarm of guilt, still, was not enough to tear him off of you.

The statue behind him, however, burned holes in the back of his head. He knew the sculpture was carved with its eyes shut, but he felt it he turned around, he’d notice the crack of a pupil beneath the stone eyelids.

Your hand was on his stomach now, thumb following the central curve of his belly down beneath his navel.

When your thumb hooked beneath his belt, his fingers wrapped around your wrist before you could dip any lower towards his thighs.

“Not here,” he pleaded softly against your lips.

He swallowed hard.

“Where do you suggest we go?” you asked. He almost didn’t hear you. There was implication in your voice.

He hated how warm he grew in his chest, but he knew it was wrong. So wrong, and it’s horrible.

“You will not clamber into my bed tonight,” he whispered to you. That he knew for sure.

You shook your head slowly. “I want you to take me here.”

His stomach churned. It was as if he’d swallowed unjust liquor in one giant gulp. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think as he did. His mouth tried to form words, some type of rejection, or some form of a nicely worded insult, but nothing came out.

Instead, he stupidly gaped at you.

His eyes flitted up to the statue of Xipe. THEIR eyes remained closed, all six of them, and the expressions held still.

Sometimes, he was convinced the statue was alive.

Perhaps that was just paranoia.

He found it fitting to pull you towards the hall and down a flight of steps. He held onto you tight by your arms, afraid you’d disappear, as he once again, grew uncomfortable in his own skin and clothes.

Fitting to be furthest away from the sunlight.

As his fingers fumbled with the keys to the cellar, your hands wandered around his waist. and your warm lips pressed to the back of his wings. The feathers twitched and flinched.

Sunday’s breathing grew heavy as the door unlocked and creaked open.

The cellar was… just that. A cellar. There were an abundance of barrels laid down beneath the benches on either side of the room. They were most likely full of wine for the services. There wasn’t much out on display.

Fittingly so, it was dark, and there were no windows.

Your shoes clicked against the tiled floor.

It’s dark. So dark you can barely see him, but he keeps a firm grasp on your wrist as you step into the room. It’s not too cold, surprisingly. It does not smell of mould or abandonment; perhaps they take good care of this place.

You almost knocked into a table in the centre of the room. The glass sitting on top clattered and shook as you startled back into him.

“It is safer here,” Sunday whispered in your ear. You knew he locked the door. His hands squeezed your shoulders.

“I believe you,” you told him.

Sunday hummed at your words, and his lips brushed against the side of your neck. His breathing remained unsteady.

You turned around to feel blindly for his waist. It was probably best that it was dark down here. It was appropriate for the both of you, and so far away from the sky, and the leering eyes of the murals painted onto the walls.

His body is warm against yours.

He finds it in himself, wherever he hides himself away, to kiss you then. Maybe because it’s dark. You can just make out the outline of him, and whatever light creeps through the bottom of the door is enough.

“I came for you, sire,” you said. “Use me as you wish.”

Sunday’s lips bumped against your neck. “You cannot whisper depravity into my ears.”

“You brought me down here for a reason,” you answered him. Your fingers slid down his throat and you thumbed over the top button of his shirt. “I say what I want.”

“You are filthy.” And he kissed you again. Fury flared in his stomach like fire.

You freed the first two buttons of his shirt, and while you were busied following the smooth skin of his neck, he pushed off your coat.

You managed to pull the white blazer off of his shoulders, and though he couldn’t see it, he heard the heavy fabric crumple to the floor by his feet. He internally cringed; the wrinkles he would have to iron out would be too telling.

You hummed pleasantly as you drew him back against your lips.

The wings around his waist were a nice surprise. You hadn’t expected them to be any larger than your arm with the way he tucked them beneath his coat, but although the feathers were flattened from the material, they stretched out wide in relief.

He knew the blackened feathers were ugly and uneven and clipped to the very edge, but you didn’t seem to mind. In fact, your fingers flitted over the base gently, a soft caress of your hand that made the feathers bristle.

Your lips were so soft. Despite wandering hands, you were so gentle. It made his stomach churn, but his heart stammered in his chest.

The feathers rustled. You heard them. They reminded you of a pigeon shaking out its wings.

The table was just next to your hip.

You moved away from his lips for just a moment.

And then, you reached forward blindly and swiped the glass off of the table. Jars and glasses and bottles of wine smashed onto the tiles, and Sunday’s grip tightens on your hips.

“What are you doing?!” He asked with horror strewn about his face, though you couldn’t directly see it. It was very well and obvious in his voice. “Why would you–”

You silenced him with your fingers pressed to the cupid’s bow of his lips. “Lay on the table, Reverend.”

“Are you–”

“Lay down.” You guided his hips softly, cautious of the poor and frantically beating heart in his chest, until the bones bumped into the edge of the wood.

Sunday’s breathing shook with disdain. The table pressed against his back, and he could feel your hands sliding up his chest to push him backwards. The exposed skin of his chest met the slight chill of the air. Your thumb moved along the line of buttons before it raised again to push at his jugular until he was forced back onto the table.

Sunday trembled for a moment.

It almost hurt how quickly the guilt in his stomach vanished when you crawled up on the table next to him. His vision, although useless in the lowlights of the cellar, fogged over with heat and the thick air that filled his lungs.

His skin prickled when your lips grazed his neck.

This is wrong. So wrong, and–

His fists clenched by his sides when your lips drag down his chest, following the buttons on his shirt. The plastic was cool, and it collided with your teeth as you travelled lower and lower.

All the while, anxiety stirred in his stomach like some roaring beast. This was wrong, to be beneath you like this, where he’s not taking what he wants, where he’s not in control. This is wrong, wrong, wrong–

Where his shirt pulled untucked from his pants exposed a lining of skin and his stomach, and he felt teeth set into his flesh. The skin below his navel stirred a bright red, and his veins were set ablaze.

He stiffened, and his hand instinctively came forward to pull his skin free from your teeth.

He felt his eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness. So, so slowly.

Sunday inhaled, and his voice trembled, so he kept his lips shut.

You spoke, “don’t resist. Enjoy it.”

He felt the telltale tug of his belt, and the jingle of the buckle as it finally loosened. He sighed in relief from the feeling. Still, his hands curled even tighter by his sides. “How can I–”

Your fingers ventured beneath his unbuckled belt. You then firmly rubbed your thumb up and down and up down his side of his cock twitching in his pants and Sunday had half a mind to squirm on the table.

“Do I make you anxious?” He heard you giggle close to his ear, and your lips smoothed over the base of one of his wings.

He wanted to say you did, and you made him shake, and you made him dream about you, and you made him touch himself when he couldn’t sleep, and–

Nothing but a moan pulled from his lips when your hand finally freed his cock from his pants.

His chest heaved in disgust and pleasure and everything for that was your sullied and dirtied skin touching him. That was you, and those terrible shameful words that spilled from your tongue that made him shudder and caused his heart to quicken.

His face grew impossibly hotter than before.

You hooked your legs around his thigh, pressing your knee between his legs firm enough to still him. The dryness of your hand tugging the warmish pulled skin of his cock sent his mind into a haze.

The horrible rhythm of your hand against his was so good, and he wished he could just disappear right then and there.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he was so relieved there were no eyes watching him here. He was so relieved the cellar only had one door locked now. He made sure of it.

If you commanded him to take, then he would ensure you wouldn’t leave this very room until you’d given him everything you had to offer.

Heat sweltered between his legs, surging like flames licking up his skin.

He wanted to speak. He wanted to order; he wanted to bend you over the table and take what was his.

His ankles weakened when your fingers slipped over the head of his cock. Just at the thought of ruining you, a drop of cum squeezed from his slit, and your thumb smeared it all over him as best it could.

His stomach heaved, basically convulsed, as you stroked him firmer and firmer until his limbs grew weak and burned from squirming and wriggling beneath you. He gave up barely minutes after you’d started, and now he only found it in himself to moan and moan over and over again beneath your hand like some dog.

Wrong.

He felt your lips trail down his neck.

Oh. His hand rested behind your head and he tilted his head so your lips could drag against his flesh. It was awful. So, so awful his jaw clenched and his fingers twisted into your hair.

Your teeth pulled at the taught skin below his jaw.

“Don’t leave marks,” he breathed. He swallowed, and you followed the shape of his jugular with a graze of your teeth.

This is awful,

His stomach churned. He feared he’d throw up with shame.

Sunday was panting now, nails digging into your scalp. His teeth gritted and grinded behind his lips. He can’t do this. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t–

Sunday managed to sit up shakily.

“Put–” Another moan escaped his lips, followed by a trail of laughter at how ridiculous this was. “Put your mouth on me.”

“Is that what the High Priest wishes?” Your lips followed along the soft skin above his collarbone. “He wants his dick sucked by a ‘whore’ on the streets? Will that satisfy you, Reverend?”

Anger flared in his chest. His hand moved from behind your scalp to grasp your chin firmly. “You will do well to remember you are here to please me.”

And you would.

A dreamy sigh escaped your lips as he gripped your face hard enough to almost hurt. His nails dug into your cheek. “Of course, Reverend. Thank you.”

He let go of you.

As obscene as it was, his hand twisted into your hair again and pushed your face towards his lap.

This was only slightly better. How he could pull and tug you where he wanted. He was here to take; isn’t that what you said?

Still, it was obscene. Grotesque. Disgusting and muddied and it’s so, so hot down here. For a moment, he feared Hell, for maybe the world below the soil had risen to take him and you into the earth.

It would be what you both deserved.

He felt your tongue first. Awful thing, your tongue. If he’d had it his way, it would have been torn from your mouth the second you stepped into his church this morning.

It didn’t feel as awful as he knew it was when the wet muscle dragged along the head of his cock. The tip of your tongue nestled upon his slit, and it was so hot, and he almost lost his mind trying to remove what was left of his clothes on his person.

He did not.

Though it was dark, and he could see the outline of you clearly, he refused to let him feel more of your skin on his.

Your lips pressed a dainty kiss to the tip of his cock before they then wrapped around the head.

Hot. That’s what it was. Sweltering, sweaty, sickening humidity crawling up his neck, like one thousand bugs twitching and writhing upon his skin.

His stomach stuttered, and he felt your palms rest on his hips as you positioned yourself more comfortably to the side of him. You draped your stomach over his soft thigh to splay your hands over his torso.

Sunday raised his fingers to bite down on the side of his hand to silence himself. There was no coming back from this. Exiting the confessional yesterday with filthy hands already destroyed him, and now something sour was pooling at the back of his throat at the idea of unlocking the cellar door and leaving.

He couldn’t imagine how dishevelled and improper he looked.

His wings fluttered when your mouth lowered further on him, and one of your hands abandoned his stuttering hips to thumb along the sensitive skin beneath his cock.

You were consistent, licking up and down with your tongue in wet passes. It drove him mad. He preferred it that way, floating out of his mind, as your warm tongue covered the skin of his cock in your saliva.

You tasted salt as his slit dripped pathetically, but you kept your lips zipped at teasing him any further. You could hear him above you, a panting mess, breathing all slow and heavy, of whatever he was an hour ago with a tight and twitch grip in your hair, so much so his nails had embedded themselves into your scalp.

His hips stuttered forward when you pushed your mouth further down his cock.

You drooled around the skin, slicking his thighs with spit and his own cum, as you willed your breathing through your nose. Surprisingly, instead of what any vile man would do and move his hips forward and fuck the back of your throat without a care in the world of your ability to breathe, Sunday waited.

He waited patiently. Perhaps he was searching for signs of discomfort, or maybe he was adjusting to the heat of your mouth and your tongue stretching past your lips to run along the swollen veins of his cock, but either way he waited.

He was more or less hesitating.

He felt so disgusting and hot, but your mouth was so warm and his breathing shook more and more and the air felt trapped inside of his lungs.

It’s so hot.

Your tongue dragged up a swollen vein alongside his cock again and Sunday hissed, holding your hair tight as a warning. Watch yourself. He was afraid of how difficult it was to allow your mouth to do its own thing; how desperately he wanted to feel the back of your throat.

You would let him. You had promised him you’d let him take and take and take until there was nothing left of you.

The hand in your hair served more as a gentle encouragement than a forcing manoeuvre. He was swollen. He could feel himself bursting at the seams.

Instead, he searched for a distraction. “Come–” His breathing stuttered. “Come here.”

You pulled off of his cock.

You hummed curiously.

One of his hands was following the gentle curve of your spine, dipping lower and lower towards the back of your thighs. Instinctively, you moved closer towards him.

But still, you managed, “you don’t have to touch me, sire.”

“I want to hear you,” he whispered.

His hand snaked around your front and steadily undid the button at your waistband. The zipper followed next before his gloved fingers disappeared beneath your underwear and delved between your thighs.

He wouldn’t take the gloves off. He couldn’t.

The feeling of the scratchy cotton against your clit sends you into overdrive.

You part your thighs to allow his fingers to tease up and down your slit as you trace the underside of his cock with your tongue.

His hips remained still.

You felt he wanted to. How he desperately wanted to grab your face through how his hips tremored and twitched around your mouth. How he wanted so badly to bury his cock in your throat and feel you choke and splutter around him.

You moaned around him, and Sunday hissed again, this time lower, and it almost served as a warning. Your pleasure, for this moment, would come after his.

Still, you grinded down on his fingers as he rubbed your clit in quick and light circles. Your breathing stuttered, and he dared to guide your head just an inch lower around his cock.

His thighs began twitching.

“Oh…” It’s breathy and light and warm, what spilled from his mouth. His fingers pushed back what strands of hair had fallen in your face. “You–” Words didn’t escape his lips properly, and all that tore from his throat was a dreary and miserable whine.

You keened over his fingers. The cotton was good, though now his palm was soaked.

You whined stupidly when his hand abandoned your clit, before your muffled disappointment was replaced by a pleased hum when he pushed a finger inside of you. The glove slid in with embarrassing ease, and Sunday flushed at the feeling.

You squeezed around his finger, drawing him in further.

Your lips were growing desperate around his cock, tongue flitting out again and again to taste the cum that streamed from his slit.

“I–” Oh, God. The room was spinning. “I can’t–” His stomach heaved when your tongue grazed along the swollen vein before you drew backwards and licked harshly along his dripping slit. “I can’t–”

He dragged his cock forward into your mouth again and again. Not enough to touch the back of your throat with the tip, but enough to knock the air from your lungs with every push.

You learned quickly that Sunday preferred your mouth and tongue remain relatively still and open for him.

He preferred to control how he fucked into your throat, holding onto the back of your head as gently as he could—you dutifully ignored how his nails stabbed into your scalp.

It was easier for him now to take what he wanted.

You’re so wet. He could hear it, even if he hadn’t even bothered to strip you of your pants. It’s obscene, and his cock hardened even more at the sound.

His rhythm remained the same. He’s quick, much unused to the wet heat soaking around his cock, and more so worried about how the head rubs along your tongue.

But you’re so obedient like this. So pliant and warm with his hand between your legs teasing that gaping and soaking hole. And it’s so warm and hot and yes, yes, yes, come on–

“This is–”

Your eyes fluttered open to acknowledge him.

His thighs twitched around your head.

He let out a shaky gasp.

His hand loosened around your skull. You drew back only just and mused a simple, “take what you need.”

He needed you.

He smelt wine from how you’d smashed the bottles onto the floor. Sacred, important wine that you’d tossed aside like you’d thrown his blazer to the floor and the golden medallion on his breast.

It filled his senses, blurred what little he could see, and he slid his cock on the curved line of your tongue again and again and again and again and again.

Two fingers, soaked in your slick, abandoned in teasing your hole to ghost over your clit again.

You’re so good. So good to him. So hot and heavy. So pretty. And you sound beautiful. Your muffled groans were like music. Like the music he’d listen to in the privacy of his home.

He felt bliss. Heavenly bliss.

His stomach lurched at the debauchery. How awful you were, how you made him feel alive in his own skin.

And nobody had ever made him feel this way. And he loved it. Every second, even if his flesh warped and his organs twisted in loathing. For himself, for you, and those pretty lips wrapped around his cock.

His hand carded over your hair with care.

His fingers teased at your clit in horrible horrible circles that made your hips twitch towards his hand. You were grinding over his palm now in steady back and forth lines.

So good.

He couldn’t even think. Nothing but stupid moans pushed past his lips, and he was almost deep enough to reach the back of your throat. So, so close now.

Your tongue was so hot it almost hurt. The noises, and the dripping of your saliva down to his thighs, made his hips squirm beneath your hands. Filthy. It’s all dirty here.

He felt after this he’d have to scrub himself until his skin withered and only bone was left.

You hummed. You pulled off of him again. When he mumbled a string of disappointed gibberish with his eyes squeezed shut in frustration, you whispered, “are you close, Reverend?”

Heat crept up his thighs and down from his stomach.

You thumbed the swollen veins and cooed at his slicking cock. “Are you?”

“Finish this,” he whispered harshly. “Finish me.” He tugged on your hair gently, guiding you down toward his cock once more.

Excitement bubbled in your stomach.

Your tongue flattened against the head of his cock. Your spit slid down his skin as you buried him deep in your mouth. Maybe you pushed too far, because you gagged around the skin close to the base.

Your nose just barely grazed the supple flesh of his lower belly. Your hand wrapped firmly around what skin you couldn’t reach.

He’s delicious. He was so heavy in your mouth and warm and his cum smeared thickly over your throat.

Sunday’s hips rocked forward as deep as he could possibly bury himself. You take him in and suck. The wet slurps of your tongue make his skin burn hotter. He feared he’d faint, or melt, soon. Like a candle. Like the votive candles upstairs in the–

His mind kept trapping himself of the main hall upstairs, and the thousands of eyes peering down at him.

Drool and cum dyed your lips with a shimmer. You were growing more and more desperate and there was a concerning and lonely ache between your legs somewhere deep inside of you. Your lips sucked a tighter seal around his cock while you kept your tongue flat for him to slide his cock over it.

Sunday’s fingers tightened in your hair.

“You–!” He tried to tell you you were awful. This was wrong. This was disgusting, and vile, and you were just a wretched streetwalker tempting him for a thrill.

He said nothing. He couldn’t.

He stiffened up again, and his thighs locked around your head.

And then, his cock jerked in your throat, and he came.

A long and broken sob echoed in your ears.

You held his hips still as he squirmed and wriggled beneath you, salt coating your throat in streams as his chest and stomach heaved with his heavy quickened breaths.

His head was swamped with a haze, like a thick foggy mist clouding over his senses.

His skin almost melted off of the muscle in his body. He felt like the countless votive candles still burning on the floor above, with the statue of Xipe, and the hundreds of eyes painted on the walls– again. His mind reeled back again.

Sweat dripped from his flesh like wax.

Sunday held a vice grip on your hair. His other hand between your legs had stilled for the moment, though he could feel you still grinding onto the soaked material of his glove.

“Good,” he mumbled. He was petting your hair. He swallowed hard to ignore the ache between his legs. “So good.” His words were slurred, and amidst the darkness, what he could see swirled into a muddied watercolour piece.

He was drawing in sharp inhales that whistled through his teeth while you cleaned him up. Your tongue traced the angry red flushes and patches along the sensitive skin, following every drop of cum that had fallen past your lips.

Sunday let go of your hair in favour of feeling his racing heart beneath his chest. It ached and thumped with need.

He was sensitive. He’d been wriggling the entire time, but now his hips couldn’t keep still, and he couldn’t stop himself from following your tongue with his cock.

His breathing stuttered loudly as he dragged the skin over your tongue. He wasn’t sure if he wanted you to open your mouth again, but at the same time, he was afraid he’d grow tremendously addicted, and you’d both remain there a lot longer than he would’ve wished.

So, he pulled away, as difficult as it was.

Guilt steamed in his stomach like a hot iron sliding over his belly and scorching his flesh.

He felt you swing over between his thighs as your mouth, sticky with cum and spit, abandoned his cock and trailed kisses up his torso.

Sunday’s free hand grabbed your chin when your lips bumped up against his jugular, pulling your mouth towards his.

He tasted himself on your tongue, but he avoided it as best he could. His hand between your legs pressed firmly against your clit, and your body twisted and grinded and squirmed on his gloved palm.

He almost felt bad.

Almost.

A string of bubbled gasps and whispers of worship escaped your lips, but they fell on his deaf ears. The smell of wine was stronger here with your heart pressed to his. His thumb teased your clit as best it could with how you moved against him, and his glove was soaked in your slick.

He was furious with himself, and yet he also found himself not caring as he did. Maybe it was you; maybe you were muddying his senses. Maybe he’d go home tonight and stab a blade through his chest and ruin the awful guilt-stricken beating muscle beneath his ribs.

For now, as you had wished him to, he’d indulge.

He’d take.

Your fingers tightened their grip when they flew to his shoulders. The linen of his loosened shirt crumpled and wrinkled beneath your hands. There was a strain behind his arms as you pulled harder on him, pleading beneath your breath.

“Was that enough for you, Reverend?” you whispered to him. Your lips were pressed against his. That same squelching sound between your legs, and Sunday could feel his cock hardening as it did the night prior.

He said nothing. The air was thick with the scent of his skin, and yours.

You felt the flutter of feathers brush along your cheek.

“I’m–”

Sunday swallowed when he felt your stomach jolt against him. “I know.”

“I want your devotion, Reverend,” you admitted. How debauched to whisper things like that against his lips. He knew you wrong, and yet his heart raced at the thought. At the idea of disobedience. “I need you.”

It was very well possible down here. No prying eyes, no other members of the church.

Just you, and him, in the mellow darkness, rocking against each other.

His fingers quickened and you almost cried.

He feared then, and now, that you did receive devotion.

Instead, to hide the burning shame in his stomach, which only grew between his legs, he rested his forehead against yours and sighed shakily. For a moment, there was the faint glow of his halo, and the distant sound of a bell toll. You just saw the outline of his hair.

Your fingers brushed past his wings blindly.

They passed through the ring of light behind his head. You felt nothing but warmth on the pads of your fingers.

“Go on,” he breathed. “Let go.”

And you did.

Your stomach pressed to his in a harsh arch and your nails raked upon and wrinkled the back of his dark shirt even further as you came.

Bliss and sugar clouded your head like fog.

His wings fluttered behind him in a panic when one of your hands hooked around the base of the clipped wing of the pair. You whispered his name like a prayer, and it hurt when he kissed you. It burned on his lips like flames, and he loved it.

Too much.

And yet not enough.

Sunday felt you weakly try to crawl on top of him, but he pushed on your shoulders gently until you rocked backwards. He held you up as best he could on shaky legs as you both rose from the table.

The wood was covered in sweat and condensation and heat, and Sunday couldn’t bring himself to tear his mouth off of you. Wine. Wine on your tongue like blood, and he couldn’t stop himself.

Heat burned in his chest, and his stomach, and it steamed to his head and rushed up his neck in bubbled waves.

He grabbed you by the collar of your crumpled shirt and pushed you against the table. He felt weak, his bones rattling beneath his skin and his blood boiling, and there was anger there, but also something else and it scared him.

Perhaps you picked up on it.

He heard you laugh, even as he forced your stomach further into the edge of the table.

“Blessed Reverend, did you fall in love?”

His blood ran cold.

He couldn’t possibly call it that. He knew it wasn’t true for you, either. The way you looked at him threatened more than love.

It can’t be love. He’s not allowed to love.

His heart frantically raced in his chest. His fingers trailed from the back of your collar to the small of your back, and he pushed and pushed until he had easily bent you over the expanse of the table.

He was panting. You could hear him somewhat close to your ear.

“No,” he answered, but he sounded unsure. “But you did, didn’t you?”

Another breathless laugh. You heard the jingle of his belt, and his gloved hands slid up the back of your thighs. He’d managed to wedge one of his legs between yours, but it didn’t nothing to quell your squirming.

His touch was soft. Too soft to the point it tickled your skin with feather-light strokes against your legs.

One of his hands wrapped around your front to feel blindly along your cheek. He grabbed your face tight, and he felt your heart thrum in your throat.

You felt him roughly tug off your pants and they fell to a pathetic heap on the floor. You kicked them away, and they fell into the pile close to his discard clothes.

“Spread your legs.”

You were panting, laughing, as he squeezed your spit covered chin in his gloved hand. The soft and soaked cotton was rough, pinching against your flesh. His breath was so hot down your neck.

You let out a droning whine.

He clicked his tongue, and the firm hand pushing you into the table pinched the back of your thigh. You cried out, and your leg twitched instinctively.

“I will not ask twice,” he whispered into your ear, lips hot on your skin.

Weak in the knees, and your stomach pressed hard and flat into the edge of the table, you shakily did as he said, hesitant with the warm hand that remained on the back of your thigh less he reel back and bruise it.

He did not.

He seemed pleased, though he did not voice it.

A gloved thumb exposed the sensitive skin between your legs, and you outwardly flinched forward on the table when his finger grazed over your sensitive hole.

Cold. It’s so cold, and he’s slowly drawing circles around your entrance.

You could feel yourself clenching, trying to entice him inside again.

His thumb pushed into your cunt, and you let out a hum. You almost squealed when the tip of his finger brushed against your walls.

“Is this not what you came here for?” Sunday asked. “To ruin yourself?”

“I’ve already ruined myself,” you said meekly. His thumb pushed deeper to his knuckle, and you mewled. “Thank you, Reverend.”

Ever the gracious Bronze Melodia, and despite your willingness to be pliant for him, he still asked for your wellbeing. To seek in your pleasure, because he knew no better.

“And have you found the relief you’ve sought?”

You didn’t want him to care, but there was a burning in your heart, because he did.

You let out a throaty hum. “Almost.”

You heard his teeth grind behind his lips, and his thumb abandoned your hole, smearing slick along your cunt. The soaked cotton caught on your clit and you moaned. “Filthy.”

He’s so angry. Heat flared in his chest.

You felt him burning, his thighs slick and trembling on the back of your legs.

Impatiently, you canted your hips back into him, and he gasped out of shock and a shameful delight when your slickened cunt dragged against his cock.

Your hips rocked against his again, skin sticking with sweat to his hip bones and he throbbed. His teeth gritted hard enough to almost crack his teeth.

His hand moved from your chin to press flat on your stomach.

It’s so hot. He could feel your skin radiating off of him. And it was overwhelming, like he’d been thrown into a sauna with no water for relief.

He wanted to fill you with cum.

It hurt to think. He shouldn’t think. All he should do is fuck you until there’s no other man out there for you but him.

And you can never have him.

So he can keep you here and watch you pine and chase after him, and he’ll deny you every time. And make you ache and suffer for what you’ve done to him.

But for now, the aching and twitching in his cock made his head spin every time he slid himself upon your slit. Back and forth and back and forth and–

It’s so hot.

He felt his mind twisting and melting beneath his skull.

Desperately, Sunday gripped the base of his cock and shakily guided the tip to your aching hole. His other hand abandoned the warmth of your stomach trapped against the table.

You mewled when he stretched your hole as wide as he could with splayed fingers. A dribble of slick escaped you, and he could feel you clenching already.

Your toes curled in your heels. One of your shoes comes off, and he feels the slide of the embroidered stockings against his leg.

Those same stockings with that pattern he saw in every single embroidered table runner in the church, and at home, and it made his skin crawl.

“You’ll let me enjoy myself, Reverend?” you whispered behind you.

Sunday pressed you further into the table and rocked his hips against yours. “You’ll lay here and take me.” His tip kissed the entrance of cunt. And then, with one hard exhale, he slowly canted his hips forward towards your thighs. “That’s what you wanted.”

You hummed and slackened against the table.

Hot. He’s so hot inside of you as his twitching, creaming cock splits your hole wider. The veins run along the stretchy walls and slip further inside of you.

He throbbed when you felt his hips press against your ass.

Sunday was already panting, holding your hips in a tight grip that loosened as he bottomed out. You felt him bend over you, his stomach jolting against your back as he tried to hold you still.

He was squirming, wriggling like a fish caught on a hook. You were so warm, and you dripped and squeezed around him, and he couldn’t possibly pull himself any closer to you. He wanted your skin to fuse with his in a tangled mess of grotesquery. He wanted you to assimilate and merge beneath his skin.

This cannot be love.

Possession flared inside of his stomach.

He was trembling. His cock twitched with need inside of you, and you let out a moan.

“I’m–” He shakily exhaled against the nape of your neck. His face was burning with shame.

You could feel it on your skin. “I’m right here.”

He pressed inside of you deeper. Deeper, deeper, deeper. He wanted to press all the way to your womb and leave a permanent imprint of his cock that left you with an empty ache for as long as you lived. “This is wrong.”

You hummed in acknowledgement. “But you love it.”

And he does.

Sunday slowly pulled his hips away from your ass. So slowly, and he felt one of his traitorous awful hands reach blindly for yours to hold it. You squeezed his hand in response. He held on tight.

Then, he slammed back into you.

He grew breathless almost immediately, and the air was knocked from your lungs. Your hips smashed into the edge of the table.

The ache was good.

You murmured praise, and his cock grew impossibly harder as he reeled his hips back and filled you again.

He’ll take good care of you here. He knows as much. Your skin is so, so hot, and his cock is so warm and snug inside of you, and he felt his mind growing muddy all over again.

Sunday rocked his hips quicker, his knee almost knocking against the table by your hips.

So good.

His bottom lip quivered. One of his hands dragged up from your hip and slid up beneath your ruined shirt. He pressed you down against the table as flat as he could.

So wrong.

He’s wrong. You’re wrong. You’re both sick, and ungodly, and corrupt. And you both belong to each other. He belongs to you. As depraved as you are, he feels he is worse. He wants to drag you to his bed and satisfy himself again and again, but he knows he can’t.

So he takes you here, again and again and again.

His cock buried itself impossibly deeper with every imprint he left inside of you. His tip kissed as far against your walls as it could, and his hips tremored with every grind of his hips against your ass.

He felt like a dog. Like some pathetic mutt mounting its mate.

But that’s what he felt he was in that moment: pathetic, weak, and some mindless man with his brain in his cock.

The bones of your hips were aching, snapping back and forth into the edge of the table, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care for the fire surging in your veins.

Your body felt numb, like you’d been burned one thousand times over, and then had ice poured over you.

It’s awful, and yet you felt so alive.

Your hand was shaking in his when you murmured, “let go. Let me touch myself, sir.”

His cock squeezed against a particular spot inside of you, and you couldn’t see straight.

Your ears were ringing a tune you couldn’t place your finger on, and your clit throbbed with every brush of his cock against your walls.

In response, he held that hand he held still against your back. He silently allowed you the reprieve of his touch when your fingers curled around his thumb, and he did not pull away.

The scratch of his shirt against what parts of your spine peaked through your pulled shirt.

You shivered, even more so when his lips delicately lingered beneath your ear, and his hot breath fanned over your cheek.

This is wrong. It’s wrong how good he feels.

It’s wrong how you clenched around him, sucking him in impossibly deeper to the curl of your warmth around his cock.

He fucked into you again.

His tip was burning with need, and his stomach twisted and turned at the thought of it. Wrong, and filthy, and–

You let out another plea. “Le’ me touch myself, Reverend.” To hammer the nail in the coffin, you then murmured, “oh God.”

It’s the need that made him crack. It’s the idea of just how tight you could be if you were to cum all over him. How he could watch that gorgeous spine unfurl in front of him, how a melody would spill from your lips only for him to hear.

The sounds are disgusting, but somehow so invigorating. Wet and loud and so grotesque.

Sunday breathed out, and he sounded excited.

“You sought relief in me, you wretch.” he breathed into the nape of your neck. Sweat dyed his lips with salt. “Do it, then.”

When he removed his hand from your wrist, he felt your knees buckle. He pushed your hips further upwards into the table, for if you both fell any closer to the floor, away from the sky, he was sure he’d never wake from this horrible dream ever again.

Your hand slipped down your front towards your swollen clit.

His cock fucked into you harder, chasing the feeling of your cunt squeezing around the sensitive flesh, struggling to pull tighter. So filling. It’s so good. It’s so good it’s shameful, and he understood in that moment why sinners confess to him in the booth, go home and use their wives, and then repeat this endless cycle of debauchery.

As guilty as he felt, he sank his teeth into the exposed skin of your shoulder where your shirt fell.

You’re so beautiful like this.

Moaning and begging for more of him and covered in sweat.

His halo was glowing.

He swallowed the saliva building in his mouth when he pulled his teeth away from your skin. “You’re disgusting.” It’s weak, it’s pathetic, it doesn’t even sound like he believes it.

Because you’re not. You’re like an angel, laid flat on the table, offering your very being to him.

All you were missing was a halo—distantly, he knows you’d never receive one.

You let out a squeak of laughter, breathless. Your hand stirs between your legs. You manage to crane your neck and make eye contact with him. His halo lit up his pretty, flushed face in a shimmer of gold. “Are you close?”

His feathers fluttered at the question. His face grew brighter.

Your cunt squeezed around him again, and he let out a gasp at the tightness. “Very.” He was embarrassingly close, and all you’d done was squish him tight inside of you.

Your cunt squelched around his skin, and Sunday whimpered.

You squelched against his cock as he drove in further, desperately chasing that heat the coiled tighter and tighter in his guts.

He was afraid he would grow addicted to this. He was already growing addicted. He squeezed his eyes shut, and he gripped your hips tighter.

Sweat stained his neck, and heat trapped beneath his ruined shirt. He’d have to burn his clothes. Plead for a new uniform entirely, and perhaps for salvation.

If anyone found out about this.

His stomach turned.

His cock slipped out of you and he grunted. Sunday fumbled with himself trying to slot back into your twitching hole. “Stop wriggling.”

Your cunt trembled as he stretched past your walls again. Your fingers tremored over your sensitive clit. “Haha. Of course, sir.” Breathless, slurred, beautiful.

He could listen to you moan in his ear all day.

His skin stuck to yours like glue, sweat and slick soaking his thighs as he pushed into your guts as deep as he could.

As dangerous as the thought was, he wanted to fill your womb with his cum. His cock throbbed and throbbed and as he drew closer and closer to the edge, he fucked you harder and harder.

He felt the heel of your shoe slide up against his thigh soaked in sweat. It was exciting how you treated him like a prince, and also like the dirt you stepped in with these expensive shoes.

Sunday shivered behind you, his hands trailing over the curve of your ass up to the base of your spine. Pretty, pretty skin. So soft and dainty, and so warm and supple beneath his fingers.

He didn’t deserve to feel like this.

He buried his lips into the nape of your neck again, gently brushing kisses along your sweaty skin. His tongue pushed past his lips, and he tasted salt and the lingering scent of your perfume.

Sunday slammed his hips against your skin again. And again– and he felt he was losing his mind. His hands gripped your hips so tight you were excited to see the bruises he left on you in the morning.

You were moaning and moaning against the table.

One of your hands had balled into a fist and viciously smashed against the table. “Harder, priest. Make me yours.”

“You are mine,” he reminded you coldly in your ear. Still, his hips made a resounding smack against your ass.

Sunday moaned when he felt your walls twitch around him, so tight he felt as though his blood circulation was being cut. It made his head swim. He pawed at your back desperately.

So close.

You purred praises again as his cock head kissed that sweet spot inside of you, and your fingers drew sloppily around your clit. “Just like that, Reverend.”

Sunday’s halo almost blinded you with how bright it was glowing.

He wanted to mumble that he loved you. He wasn’t sure if it was the true, or if he was stumbling over his tongue with these disgusting falsities and delusions.

Like the delusions that played in his head of waking up next to you, crawling between your legs and tonguing at your cunt, pleading for relief while his cock stirred in his pants.

“Let me fill you,” he pleaded quietly. “Please.” His tongue was watering, and he wiped drool off of his lips with his shoulder.

He heard you sigh dreamily, cut off suddenly with another harsh thrust of his cock inside of you.

He was twitching.

So fucking close.

Come on.

Shame. Shame poured from every pore in his skin like pus.

“Of course, sire. I’m yours.”

In your final confession, Sunday’s chest heaved. His gloved fingers gripped your hips enough to still them entirely, staining the unmarred skin with dark bruises and blood.

His cock twitched deep inside you, his mind twisted, and he came.

He filled your womb, just like he wanted to, and he moaned so pathetically against your neck you cried out for him. His breath fanned over your sweaty skin as he trembled above you, hips smacking weakly against your ass as he emptied himself.

“God.” It spilled from his lips.

Blasphemous. Awful. He’ll never see the light of day the same again,

He clawed at your hips, pressing you down into the table.

His heart lurched when you squeezed around his sensitive, aching cock still buried deep into your cunt, drooling around the skin as you came again.

He felt slick dribble past the rim of your hole, sticking to the soft supple skin of his thighs as he kept himself snug inside of you.

Warm.

He exhaled shakily.

The praise you had whispered had gotten to his head. Heat swelled in his face, and Sunday swallowed thickly.

After a moment, you sighed, just as wobbly as he was, and raised a hand to pull his chin down just enough for you to crane your neck to the side and kiss his cheek.

You could feel his heart bashing against your back as his chest rested on your spine. Truthfully, you could’ve stayed this way with his slowly softening cock deep inside of you.

He pulled out slowly, almost unwillingly, and he heard you hiss lowly. His cock slipped from your cunt, and his slit was still aching as the remaining cum bubbled and dribbled down the side.

Sunday did nothing.

He removed his hands from your hips and you finally pushed yourself up from the table. He heard the creaking of your bones and a sigh of relief as you stretched your skin.

His heart was still racing. He felt nauseous.

His gloves were sticky and tacky, but he still refused to touch your properly.

He heard you shift, sitting up on the table and gliding a gentle, but firm hand up and down the stretch of his spine. His wings fluttered at the attention.

His halo was still glowing, just enough for you to see that he was masking his guilt and staring far too long at the wall of the cellar. After what seemed like hours, he fumbled to pull his pants back on at the very least and attempted to straighten his rumpled shirt.

In that time, he’d heard the clicking of your heels as you’d fussed to dress yourself as best you could without moving from the table.

Devotion.

Your hand was now soothingly rubbing his shoulder.

His knees buckled.

As he slowly lowered himself to the floor, he turned to face you and slotted himself in between your legs. This was devotion, right? His gloved hands slid up your thighs as you watched him curiously. His knees hit the floor first, and his lips trembled when he leaned forward, pried your thighs further apart, and kissed your clothed cunt until your hips twitched and you giggled.

You playfully shoved his head away with a push to his forehead.

Sunday rested his head against one of your thighs and continued to tremble. His face was still

coated in sweat.

When your hand gently reached down to pet his hair, he shakily smiled.

He’d find later after he finally pulled himself from the cellar and locked it, and trekked back up the stairs to the main hall, that the murals were not looking at him. The statue was still, just as silent as it had always been, with six eyes shut to the world with their unhearing ears and unspeaking mouths.

All that would watch silently was a bird. A small, deep purple nightingale that watched from afar.

For now he walked down the aisle after you silently, holding onto his coat and his white overthrow. The golden badge that usually rested on his breast weighed heavy in his hands like led.

He did not dare to gaze at the walls. He held onto the key for the front door as if it would disappear from his grasp.

It was cold outside, and the wind blew steadily as he shut the door behind him before securely locking it tight.

He heard your heels stop.

“Reverend?”

Sunday wanted to bark at you. What more could you possibly want from him? You’d taken everything, and now he knew he would go home like a ghost trekking a lonely path, fall into bed, and tremble all night as his fingers felt blindly for the waistband of his pants.

Instead, he only hummed. He kept his hand firm around the giant brass knobs of the church.

“Don’t fear Hell.”

The words did not assure him, but for that moment amidst the wind, Sunday listened.

He felt a hand rest on his shoulder, squeezing the sore muscles tight.

He stiffened at how warm your skin was. How he desperately, desperately wanted to feel your lips on his again.

He refrained.

Sunday barely turned his head to look at you.

“I will be there with you.” And that, you could promise.

Daringly, you pressed a chaste kiss to his hair before you let go of his shoulder, and left.

He only glanced away for a moment, but when he peered back down the street, you had disappeared, along with the faint clicking of your heels.

Sunday’s shoulder remained warm long after you had let go.

And that warmth remained present for every day that you did not return to him.

But, distantly, with every service that he swears he sees your face, or the pattern of your stockings in the embroidery, he knows the fleeting feeling of your warmth is enough.

#sunday x reader #sunday x you #hsr x reader #hsr x you #honkai star rail x reader #✦ ( after hours. )#✦ ( the macrocosmos. )

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kartoshinki · 2 years

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what am i going to do with all this knowledge about different streamings of early protestantism tho

#the oracle hath spoken #back on my bullshit #learning way too much about christian theology while knowing fuckall about actually like. being. christian.#so idk for sure about the sacraments but i know the difference between lutherans pietists baptists mystics and inspireds #i also know that for protestants christ is present in spirit during eucharist #meanwhile for catholics he's physically present and that IS his blood #and for the orthodox the priests do a neat little magic trick of turning wine into blood right there in the front behind that curtain #however how often eucharist is actually celebrated? no clue.

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semisgroupie · 1 year

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SINS OF THE FLESH

priest!nanami kento x fem. reader x priest!toji fushiguro

wc: 3.0k

warnings: sacrilegious, virginity loss, threesome (mmf), oral sex (m! and f!receiving), corruption kink, manipulation, blasphemy, lots of religious undertones, unprotected sex, creampie, Toji and nanami are so filthy here (it’s so sexy), reader is very naive and innocent (perfect prey), reciting of prayers during sexual acts, praise, slight manhandling

synopsis: it’s not a sin if you lose your virginity to two hot priests in a church right?

a/n: this is for my what’s done in the dark collab! and a lil belated birthday gift to myself!!

“Through him, with him, in him, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, all glory and honor is yours, almighty Father, forever and ever.”

A unified Amen filled the entire room then people stood to line up, waiting to receive the small wafer and a sip of the wine dubbed the blood of Christ. You helped the elderly man seated next to you stand then walked behind him to join the line. You looked around at the familiar faces and sighed happily to yourself before making eye contact with the two men wearing cassocks, Father Kento and Father Toji.

You have always been involved with the church, your earliest memories were filled with the church. So, it was only natural for you to start attending your local church when you moved. That was when you first met Father Kento, he greeted you with open arms and a warm smile. It was easy for you to adjust to the new environment and then about a few months later a new priest in training joined the church, Father Toji. It was interesting to see how the two men interacted with each other when they were seemingly polar opposites. But what you weren’t aware of was what the two men had in common.

An insatiable urge to corrupt an innocent parishioner and both men had their eyes on you.

You were the perfect church girl and they knew how to get you right in their bed and between them. They knew you were the type to save yourself until marriage but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t drift you away from your original, innocent plans. Especially if they convinced you that, that’s what God wanted for you.

Being priests they had the gift of gab. That only meant it wouldn’t take much to convince someone as trusting as you to do what they needed you to do.

Each man stood at either end of the table, Nanami held the chalice with the wine inside and Toji started giving out the wafers. Each person went one after another and received their own blessing and finally it was your turn. You stood in front of Father Nanami and he brought the chalice to your lips and you took a small sip before pulling back. “Thank you Father Kento.” He smiled and leaned in, “you know you haven’t been to confession in almost a month, after mass you’ll go with me and Father Toji, okay?”

You nodded at his words and offered him another smile before moving to Father Toji. You watched how he placed the sacramental bread in others hands so they can place it into their mouths but when it was your turn, he ignored your cupped hands and tapped the wafer against your lips. “Open up, you know the deal.” He let out a low chuckle as you opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out slightly. Fuck you looked perfect like that, so innocent, so malleable, he could just take you in front of all the other parishioners but he had to be patient. He placed the small wafer on your tongue and pulled his hand back, “thank you Father Toji.” He nodded and watched as you got up and walked back to your seat.

The mass continued and everything happened so quickly. Both men couldn’t keep their thoughts straight, for you have infiltrated them so easily.

“May almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” Toji lifted his hand to the crowd and moved it in the shape of a cross as Nanami started the ending of mass. Another unified Amen filled the room and Nanami finished with the concluding words, “The Mass is ended, go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

“Thanks be to God.” Everyone started getting up and thanked the two men for a wonderful mass while you stood behind. There was no real reason why you hadn’t gone to confession, there was nothing you had to confess. You hadn’t sinned, well maybe some things here and there but nothing that would warrant a confession. You moved your hands down to play with the hem of your dress as you consumed yourself in your thoughts.

Both men approached you and stood at either side of you while you continued to toy with your dress. Toji leaned down to your ear and placed a hand on your shoulder, “come now sweetheart. We’ll be doing things a little different today, you’ll be confession to both Father Kento and myself.” You jumped a little at the deep rumble of his voice and nodded at his words, too naive and trusting for your own good.

He held out his hand to you and you took it without hesitation. He continued to hold onto it while Nanami followed behind you both, itching to get his hands on you. The walk was filled with light small talk as the men led you to a more private area, their quarters.

You looked around the room and turned to look at them, slightly dumbfounded. “Why are we here? Don’t we normally do our confessions in the confessional booth?” God, you looked so cute. A slight pout on your lips as you looked up at the two men while your hands went back to the hem of your dress. Toji spoke first and placed a hand on your shoulder, “yes but it’s currently being fixed, so we just decided to take you here if that’s okay with you?”

You looked up at the raven haired male and nodded, your gaze drifting momentarily to his scar before meeting his eyes. “Good, now sit.” Nanami pulled out two chairs and put them back to back, he led you to sit down on one while Toji sat on the other. “What about you, Father Kento? Don’t you need a seat?”

He shook his head and smiled at you, “Father Toji is the one you’re confessing to, I’m just here to make sure everything goes smoothly.” He sat down on the desk in front of you and nodded his head, “go on and start.”

You sucked in a small breath and started, “bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was two weeks ago. These are my sins, I have succumbed to a sin of the flesh.” Heat rose to your cheeks and burned through your whole body as the sin you committed left your lips in a soft tone to reach the ears of the two deviants you were in a room with before reaching God’s ears. Both men perked up and raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, please elaborate further on that. God cannot forgive you for your sin if you don’t explain it in its entirety.” You played with the hem of your dress more as Toji’s raspy voice reverberated throughout the room.

“I have touched myself in a sinful way, Father.” You kept your eyes down at your hands, if the world swallowed you whole in this moment you would be thankful. Toji turned his head to look at Nanami and nodded. Nanami stood up and took a few steps over to you and knelt down. He placed one of his hands on your knee while the other went on top of your fidgeting hands. “Darling, you can’t just stop in the middle of a confession. Do you mind if I help you?” You tore your gaze away from your dress and met his warm eyes, you nodded slowly and he smiled. He moved his hand from your hands and moved it to the other knee. You watched closely as he started pushing them apart and you instinctively tried to keep your legs closed. The issue is, he was much stronger than you so he easily overpowered you and kept your legs spread.

“Don’t you want God to forgive you for your sins? If you don’t let me do this then God can’t forgive you and you can’t truly repent.” Your eyes widened at his words and you shook your head, “no, Father Kento I want to be forgiven, I want to repent for my sins!” He had to bite back a smirk and Toji moved so he could watch over your shoulder, you felt his hot breath at your ear and you turned your head quickly to face him.

“Just trust us. We’re just doing what God wants us to do okay?” He cooed softly at you and you nodded, both men knew it would be easy to get you to submit to their will but this was just easier than they expected. Toji hooked two fingers under your chin and lifted your head up as he leaned in close, “have you ever kissed a man before?” Your cheeks burned as you peered into his eyes and you shook your head, “no, Father Toji.”

“Good girl.” With that he closed the remaining gap between you both and kissed you softly, you whimpered against his lips and gripped the arms of the chair you were sitting in tightly. His lips against yours felt like nothing you’ve imagined before and as he deepened the kiss you felt the same burning in your belly whenever you touched yourself.

Now that you were distracted, Nanami lifted up your dress so it scrunched up at your hips and let out a low groan at the sight of your panties, white to represent your innocence that was soon to be tainted by the two men you were with. He moved one hand up your thigh and started rubbing gentle circles on your clit over your panties. You instantly arched your back and gasped against Toji’s lips, “so reactive, little angel.” Nanami mumbled before pressing his thumb against the growing wet spot on your panties and then hooked two fingers under them and pulled them to the side.

Your pussy looked perfect, your swollen clit and your pretty virgin hole clenched around nothing. He adjusted his position and leaned in close, taking in a deep breath. Fuck, you even smelled sweet. He pressed gentle kisses along your lower lips and kissed your clit. You gripped the arms of the chair tighter and whined against Toji’s lips once Nanami took your pussy into his mouth. Toji broke the kiss and looked down at Nanami, chuckling at how disheveled you looked. Your kiss swollen lips were parted ever so slightly and your eyes drifted between the two men.

Toji disrobed and your eyes widened as you saw his muscles once he took his cassock and shirt off. They flexed and tensed with the most subtle movements and you couldn’t keep your eyes off of him. Then your eyes traveled down his body and saw his bulge, he seemed like he was about to burst through his pants. “Enjoying the view, sweetheart? Tell me, when you touch yourself do you think about me and Father Kento? Because I have a little confession for you,” he leaned in close to your ear while you moaned and whined due to Nanami’s tongue exploring your pussy like a man who hasn’t had a drink in days. “Father Kento and I have had filthy thoughts about you, thoughts that would make even the devil blush.” Your heart skipped a beat at his words, there’s no way they could be true, right?

These men are supposed to be the definition of holiness, they’re not supposed to succumb to sin. They’re held at a higher tier due to their devotion to faith, you look up to priests and the clergy as an example of how you’re supposed to live your life. But to know that they’re just as depraved as you are excites you.

You moved one hand down from the arm of the chair to Nanami’s hair and messed up the perfectly styled golden locks as he suckled on your clit. Your mouth fell agape as he continued his actions and Toji took advantage of the position you were in. He gripped your chin and turned your head so you could face him but this time he was completely undressed, revealing his throbbing cock. Your mind started racing but the big question that circled around in your haze filled mind was how would he be able to fit it inside your mouth? There was no way you could open your mouth that wide but you couldn’t dwell on the question for long. He moved one of his large hands behind your head and pushed you closer until the tip laid along your tongue. “You just need to suction your mouth like you’re sucking on one of those cherry lollipops you love to have right after mass and I’ll do the rest of the work.”

So you did exactly as he said, you wrapped your lips around the bulbous head and he started moving his hips, thrusting shallowly to let you adjust to his size but the way you were whimpering and moaning around his cock made it extremely difficult to go slow. Nanami moved one hand from your knee and brought it to your entrance, now coated in his saliva and your juices and slipped one finger inside you. The feeling was overwhelming, he pumped his finger slowly then started picking up the pace as he sucked on your clit harder. Just as he picked up the pace of his finger, Toji picked up the pace of his hips. Guttural and borderline animalistic groans left his scarred lips as he forced you to take his cock entirely down your throat. You gagged each time his balls touched your chin and tears freely spilled down your face but it just turned you on even more.

Nanami’s cock throbbed as he looked up at you, you were taking a cock that was entirely too big for you almost with ease and he just had to have you. He slipped a second finger inside you and started pumping them quickly, the squelching of your pussy almost felt too loud and your legs started shaking at the rough pace. Before you knew it, the coil inside your belly snapped and your pussy clenched around his fingers tightly as your orgasm washed over you. Toji pulled out of your mouth so you could catch your breath and Nanami pulled away from you. “Let’s bring her to the bed and put her on all fours.” Nanami spoke as he undressed and Toji scooped you up from the chair with ease and brought you to the cot in the room, he put you on your hands and knees and sat down in front of you, his cock still standing proud while the tip leaked even more precum.

Once Nanami was fully undressed he joined you two on the cot and moved behind you. He pressed his cock against your slit and dragged it through your folds to collect the mix of his spit and your juices on it. “Just take a deep breath, this will hurt but it’ll feel good very soon.” With that he lined up with your entrance and started slowly pushing in, “oh Christ, if this is what heaven feels like then I never want to leave.” He groaned and continued pushing in slowly, tears pricked at your eyes and you stretched your arms out to hold onto Toji’s thighs. “You poor thing,” Toji cooed and moved one hand to caress your cheek and wiped at your eyes, “you’re doing so good, just doing what the Lord needs of you.”

His hips slowly started to move faster and snapped against yours. Toji guided his cock back into your mouth and started thrusting up, both men using you. Nanami gripped your hips tighter and leaned down, “remember you still need to repent for your sins. So I need you to repeat after me, this is Corinthians 7:10.” He snapped his hips into yours while Toji buried his cock in the back of your throat. “Father, when I sin, help me to not dwell in a worldly sort of sorrow that would lead to my death” he smirked as you tried to repeat the prayer while Toji’s cock was still in your mouth. “Grant me godly sorrow and the ability to recognize it.” He gave you another moment to try to repeat his words before continuing, “May it result in repentance that leads to deliverance and leaves no regret. Amen.” You repeated the final words of the prayer and let out a muffled Amen around Toji’s cock and the raven haired male groaned.

Both men started to move in sync, each time Nanami bottomed out so did Toji. Everything they did was mind numbing and all you could do was moan and hold onto Toji’s thighs. You knew you wouldn’t be able to hold off your orgasm much longer, it was already quickly approaching. The way Nanami’s cock explored your walls was like his cock was made to be inside you. Nanami gripped your hips tighter and threw his head back as you clenched around his cock tighter. He angled his hips and hit that spongy spot inside, instantly making you cum. You let out a muffled cry around Toji’s cock as your orgasm took over you. Both men groaned and Nanami’s orgasm washed over him first, he pressed his hips firmly against yours as he coated your virgin walls with cum then Toji held your head down as he came deep down your throat.

You dug your nails into his thighs and he pulled you off once he was done. You panted and looked up at him as your tongue stuck out slightly, some remnants of his cum coated the pink muscle. You swallowed and Nanami slowly pulled out of you, allowing you to slump against the cot completely. “Thank you Father Toji, thank you Father Kento.” Your voice was raspy from the face fucking you received and both men pressed a kiss to your temple.

“You did very well but there is still more you need to do to be fully forgiven. What do you say about having confessions like these every week after mass and after Bible study?” Toji spoke and gently caressed your cheek while Nanami covered your body with a blanket. You looked up at both men with half lidded eyes and nodded, “if that’s what God wants from me then I’ll do it.”

Nanami and Toji sported the same smirk and nodded. “You’re the perfect child of God, now get some rest.” Nanami whispered and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

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