𓆩cherub𓆪

Then his voice—low, composed, resonant through the screen like a prayer offered too close to the ear.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you whisper. Your throat tightens around the words. “It’s been… weeks. I’ve avoided coming.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then: “You’ve come now. That’s what matters.”

His voice is soft, but it doesn’t feel safe. It feels like cloth torn off a wound. It feels seen.

You close your eyes. The darkness behind your lids offers no comfort.

“I confess to envy,” you begin, each word dragged from the well of your stomach. “To pride. And… lust.”

You expect him to shift. To cough. To falter even slightly. But Geto doesn’t.

His voice stays smooth. Unmoved. “Lust is only a sin if you feed it,” he says. “Have you fed it?”

“I—” Your voice cracks. “I don’t know.”

You do know. But how can you say it?

You want to tell him that it’s his fault. That you can’t sit through sermons anymore because his voice makes your thighs press together. That the glimpse of his throat when he unbuttons his collar is a torment you hold onto like a sacrament. That the nights you dream of being touched, you wake up wet and breathless and crying his name into the dark.

You can’t say any of that.

So you press your forehead to the wooden slats and whisper instead, “I’ve thought.”

“And the thoughts?” he asks. “Are they of someone you know?”

Your breath hitches.

A drop of wax falls somewhere outside, hissing as it hits brass. The sound feels louder than it should. You clench your rosary tighter, pulse quickening as the beads bite into your palm.

“Yes,” you say. “Someone I see often.”

He doesn’t respond at first.

You can’t see him through the lattice, not clearly—only the impression of his face behind the screen, the shape of his profile haloed in gold candlelight. But you hear it. The subtle shift of fabric. The barest rustle, like the turn of a page. Or the roll of muscle beneath linen.

“You carry envy,” he says, finally. “Desire. Disobedience.”

Each word lands heavy. Like judgment. Or invitation.

“I think of him in ways I shouldn’t,” you whisper, trembling. “And I can’t stop.”

The silence afterward stretches too long. It curls in your belly like dread—or worse, hope.

You know what he looks like. You’ve seen him, though you’re never meant to linger. His cassock—black, always black, lined in deep wine-red along the sleeves. Tailored but not vain. His collar was crisp against the slope of his neck, pale against the warm undertone of his skin. His hair, sometimes tied back in a loose bun that rests at the base of his skull, sometimes down—falling in smooth waves past his shoulders like spilled ink over the holy texts. You’ve imagined both undone.

Suguru Geto isn’t beautiful in the way saints are carved. He’s beautiful in the way temptation is drawn—dark eyes, unreadable; lips that never smile unless he’s alone. You’ve seen it only once, through a cracked doorway, that faint curl of his mouth while lighting candles before morning prayer. You’ve never stopped thinking about it.

And now he sits inches from you, veiled by the confession screen, and you feel like your soul has been skinned open.

“Disobedience,” he repeats softly. “Explain.”

Your voice is faint, breathless. “I wanted to keep the sin. I didn’t want it absolved.”

This time he does shift.

You hear it—sharp, audible. He exhaled through his nose. The lean of his weight.

“Why?”

You tilt your head slightly. Press your forehead to the wood like you’re trying to disappear into it.

“Because it’s mine,” you whisper. “Because… he’s all I think about.”

Your shame is real. But so is the thrill that floods your body when you admit it. There’s no hiding anymore. He knows. You want him to know.

The breath he takes after that is different.

Not priestly. Not detached.

He doesn’t answer. Not right away.

And in the silence that blooms, you feel something happen between the two halves of the booth. Something small. Irreversible. A crack in the dam. A seam in the cloth. A pressure shift, like lightning about to strike.

Outside the confessional, the cathedral is quiet. Only the candlelight moves. Long, trembling shadows stretch across the marble floor, licking the feet of forgotten saints and stone angels. Rain hits the high stained glass windows in uneven rhythms, making the painted faces shimmer like they weep.

You don’t know what you expect him to say next.

But when he does speak, his voice is lower. Rougher.

“I see,” he says. And nothing else.

No penance. No prayer.

Only the sound of the screen between you, catching candlelight and quiet breath like it’s trying to hold the two of you apart.

But it won’t. Not for long.

Not when your sins feel like they were made for his hands.

Not when you realize—maybe he’s been avoiding the confessional too. Maybe you were never the only one dreaming.

And maybe that’s why he doesn’t send you away.

Maybe that’s why, when he finally rises and opens the booth, he tells you to stay after vespers. His eyes in the candlelight are darker than any mercy you’ve ever prayed for.

The rain had only grown heavier by the time the last candle was extinguished at the altar. Vespers had ended in silence, the congregation already gone, their sins scattered like dropped rosary beads across the pews. You remained still, kneeling beneath the shadow of Saint Dymphna, hands folded even as the silence threatened to crush you. You’d said your prayers with lips that trembled, but your thoughts never left him.

You felt his presence before you heard his voice. It always struck you that way. Like his soul stepped into a room before his body ever did.

“Stay a moment.”

The words had been spoken quietly, too close behind you. Not a command. Not a request. Just a quiet statement, as though he already knew you would obey.

You turned toward him slowly, fingers tightening around the looped beads in your palm. He stood in the aisle with the candlelight licking up the hem of his cassock, casting tall shadows on the walls behind him. His robe was slightly unfastened at the collar, revealing the base of his throat—the dip of bone beneath skin. His hair was tied back tonight, loose strands falling around his face, darker than the oil of anointed palms. He did not smile. He didn’t have to.

You nodded.

You followed him without speaking, each footstep echoing too loudly against the stone floor, as if the very foundation of the church was eavesdropping. The hallway behind the chancel was narrow, lined with saints and dust-heavy tapestries. The sacristy door groaned open beneath his hand, revealing a room steeped in amber warmth and low-lit reverence.

The air inside was thick with candlewax, frankincense, and a faint, earthy scent—his scent, you realized, soaked into the linen, the prayer books, and the wooden cupboards. The only light came from the cluster of candles near the crucifix at the far end, their flames trembling as if the space itself knew it was about to become unholy.

He moved slowly, deliberately, as though there were no sin in silence.

He set aside a folded vestment and rolled his sleeves back—methodical, unbothered—revealing the lean lines of his forearms, the veins just visible under smooth skin. His cassock hung half-loose over his frame now, unfastened to his waist, revealing the simple black shirt beneath, soft and slightly creased like he’d worn it all day. He looked less like a priest and more like a man trying not to look at you too closely.

But he did.

He always did.

“Are you afraid of temptation?” He asked, his voice low but clearer now without the screen between you.

You swallowed hard. “I’m afraid of what it does to me.”

He moved closer, just enough that the hem of your habit brushed the toe of his boot.

“You mean the thoughts?” he murmured. “Or the wanting?”

Your mouth went dry. The rosary beads in your hand felt heavier, like stones instead of prayer.

He tilted his head, studying your silence the way one might read an unfamiliar language. “Temptation,” he said softly, “is not a sin. Not unless we indulge it.”

You looked away.

“I try not to,” you said, breath catching. “I really try. I fast. I pray. I beg for it to leave me. But it doesn’t.”

He didn’t move.

“And the thoughts?” He asked again, his tone edged in something that wasn’t quite curiosity and wasn’t quite concern. “What do they show you?”

You couldn’t answer. Not with words. Your lips parted, then closed again. You could feel the flush rise beneath your skin, your stomach tightening as guilt twisted inside you like thorns pressed to bare flesh.

He reached out—slow, reverent—and his fingers brushed lightly against your rosary. The gesture was so small, so quiet, yet it felt like your knees might give out beneath you.

“I’ve seen the way you grip it,” he said, his thumb ghosting over the beads. “During prayer. During Mass. Even when you think I’m not watching.”

You looked up at him sharply.

His gaze was steady. Calm. But his eyes were darker now, touched with something that no man of God should carry.

Your voice broke before the words even made it out.

“I touch myself,” you whispered. “At night. When I’m supposed to be sleeping. I cry… and I beg forgiveness before I’ve even finished.”

The admission left you trembling, tears welling before you could stop them.

His brows furrowed, not in disgust—but something heavier. His hand lifted to your cheek without thinking, his fingers rough but warm against your skin.

“Stop,” he murmured, thumb brushing the wetness at the corner of your eye. “Don’t cry.”

But you couldn’t stop. It wasn’t just shame—it was grief. Grief that your body had betrayed you, that you’d wanted something more than virtue. Grief that your thoughts weren’t innocent anymore.

“I hate myself for it,” you choked out. “And I do it again anyway.”

He didn’t speak. Instead, he cupped your face fully in his palm, fingers splayed beneath your jaw as his thumb continued its slow, gentle rhythm over your cheekbone. The way he held you was too tender for someone meant to absolve sin. There was no distance in it. No cold mercy.

“You’re not the only one,” he said.

It took you a moment to realize what he meant.

You blinked at him, breath caught between disbelief and hope. “What?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. Really looked.

And then he said, “There are nights I’ve stayed up until the sun rose. Trying to forget the way your lips move when you pray. Trying to stop imagining what your skin might feel like if I touched it.”

Your breath stuttered.

“I’ve seen you walk barefoot to the altar,” he continued, his voice now barely a whisper. “I’ve watched the hem of your robe sway around your ankles like smoke. And I’ve stood behind the pulpit with my heart in my throat, wondering what kind of man I’ve become.”

He stepped closer. His thumb traced the arch of your cheekbone, then down along your jaw, lingering near your mouth. Your lips parted again—this time not from shock. From need.

“But I’ve never touched you,” he murmured. “Even when I wanted to.”

You were shaking. You could feel your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his palm. The warmth of his hand. The scent of wax and rain and skin.

You didn’t mean to lean into it. But you did.

And still, he didn’t move.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t.

Instead, your gaze dropped to the golden crucifix hanging from his neck—the one that had always caught the light when he bowed his head in prayer. It rested against the black of his cassock now, just above where the buttons stopped. Just above where you wanted.

Your voice was barely audible.

“You’re my temptation.”

The silence that followed cracked something open between you.

And then he stepped forward—fully this time—until your chest brushed his, until the curve of your body met the warmth of his robes, and his hand slid from your cheek to your throat, not with pressure, but possession. His fingers cradled the base of your neck, gentle as prayer, as his other hand moved down to catch yours, still clutching the rosary.

He untangled your fingers slowly. Reverently. Let the beads fall between your hands, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Then let us face it,” he said. “Together.”

The candles flickered.

The air barely moved between you, thick with incense and guilt, humming with something ancient and forbidden. He stood too close now—his hand still against your cheek, the other wrapped lightly around your rosary, as though he could keep you from falling further if he just held on tight enough.

But it was his thumb that broke you.

He brushed it over your lower lip—barely there, just a drag of warm skin against trembling flesh—and your mouth parted. You didn’t mean to kiss it. You just did. Soft. Slow. Like prayer. Your lips closed around the pad of his thumb, your breath caught, and the weight of the moment caved in on itself.

Geto froze.

You felt the stillness in him like the hush before thunder. His body went rigid, like he hadn’t expected you to take what he offered. Like the gravity of your mouth on his skin made the walls of the sacristy shift—made heaven hold its breath.

Then he leaned in, and everything shattered.

The kiss wasn’t rough. Not at first. It was deliberate. Slow and proper, like he had to memorize the shape of your mouth before letting himself drown in it. His lips were soft but firm, the pressure reverent, trembling slightly against yours. It wasn’t hunger—it was ache. Long-held, long-buried. His hand on your cheek tightened just a fraction, and you sighed into him, feeling it pour down your spine like warm wine. You kissed him back with everything you’d been holding in for weeks. Every whispered fantasy. Every wrong thought behind your eyes during Mass. You kissed him like it could save you or kill you, and neither would’ve mattered.

His hands moved with purpose, sliding down the length of your gown, the stiff black fabric yielding under his fingers as he cupped your breasts through it. You gasped against his mouth, your lips parting wide as the air left you in a shudder.

He didn’t flinch.

“Show me,” he whispered, voice rough, low, and nearly a groan. His thumbs pressed gently against your nipples through the fabric, rolling them until they tightened and throbbed. You whimpered.

“I’ll show you,” he said again, firmer this time, “if you show me.”

You opened your eyes slowly, breath shaky, and met his gaze. He looked unholy in the candlelight—hair falling loose around his face now, lips parted, pupils blown so wide you could barely see the brown. His cross still hung from his neck, catching the light as he breathed, swaying like a metronome between sin and surrender.

Your voice barely came out.

“Show me what, Father?”

That was when he moved.

With a hand on your shoulder, he turned you gently and guided you a step back—then down. The back of your knees hit the hardwood of a wide armchair tucked near the corner of the room, meant for rest, prayer, or maybe something gentler than this. You sank into it slowly, your body trembling as he stayed upright, still towering over you. His eyes never left yours, not even as he knelt.

His knees hit the stone floor. Quiet. Final. Like the drop of judgment itself.

He leaned forward, pushing the hem of your gown up past your knees, higher, exposing your thighs to the chill of the candlelit air. You shivered. He didn’t stop until the fabric bunched around your hips, black against bare skin, heavy and reverent. He leaned back slightly, settling between your legs, breath slow and ragged.

His voice was darker now, edged with a command he barely kept sheathed.

“Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me.”

You froze. But only for a heartbeat.

Your gaze flicked down—between his thighs. He was palming himself now, slow and deliberate, his hand moving over the bulge beneath his belt like he was teasing you with it. Your breath hitched, your lips parting as your thighs twitched slightly under his stare.

He leaned closer, one hand bracing against the arm of the chair, the other curling gently around your knee. His breath ghosted over your bare inner thighs, warm and humid.

You swallowed hard.

Your hand moved slowly—hesitant, trembling with guilt—as you slid it between your thighs. They parted almost unconsciously, the shame of it making your skin burn, but the hunger burning deeper.

Your fingers brushed over your folds, already soaked.

You let out a shaky breath as you circled once. Just once. The contact sent a jolt through you.

Geto hummed.

It was low. Approving. His mouth just inches from where you ached, eyes locked onto your face, then back down—watching. Listening.

The sound of it—wet and obscene—filled the room like it belonged in no chapel. You rubbed again, a little faster now, a gasp escaping you as you pressed into that aching bud.

“More,” he said, his voice like velvet fraying at the edges.

You nodded, breathless, unable to speak. Your fingers moved faster, slipping through your wetness, circling your clit harder, hips arching up in the chair despite yourself. The beads of your rosary dangled from your wrist, catching in your lap with every jerk of your body.

You moaned softly and bit your lip, then closed your eyes—only to open them again when you felt him.

One of his hands slid along the inside of your thigh, warm and grounding, his palm wide and rough as he held you open. The other dipped to his belt—unzipping it slowly. He pushed his cassock aside, enough to free himself, the soft metallic click of the zipper sounding filthy in this sacred place.

You didn’t dare look down.

You didn’t have to.

Because he was looking at you like he wanted to consume you. Your fingers dipped lower, feeling warm, wet, and soft. You gasped, and his gaze flicked up sharply, to watch your lips part, your chest rise and fall, and the way your fingers curled into yourself and dragged back out—slick and shivering.

He licked his lips. Licked his lips.

And whispered, “You’re beautiful like this.”

You whimpered.

“I dreamt of this,” he said. “Every night you came to morning mass with that innocent look in your eyes. Every time you knelt. Every time you said my name like it meant salvation.”

You moved faster. Rubbed your clit with a desperate rhythm now, your fingers soaked, your moans muffled by bitten lips and the thrum of his voice.

You didn’t care that the crucifix above the door watched.

You didn’t care that heaven could see.

Only that he was watching. Only that he was here.

The candlelight wavered like it was bearing witness to something it couldn’t comprehend—holy wax catching the edges of your face as you leaned back, thighs parted, breath broken in the quiet dark of the sacristy. Every time your fingers circled your clit, your hips jerked forward. Every time his eyes dragged down your body, they left something molten behind.

Geto’s hand moved over his cock slowly, reverently, like he was still trying to believe it—trying to believe this was happening. That you were spread open for him, mouth slack and gasping as your fingers moved through your own wetness like you were possessed. His grip tightened. His palm dragged down the thick, flushed length of himself, the tip flushed a deep pink, already slick with precum that smeared across his knuckles.

He groaned, low in his chest.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, voice taut, cracking at the edges. “How many nights I’ve woken up soaked. Hand on my cock. Dreaming of you like this.”

Your breath hitched. You moaned his name—“Father…”—without thinking, without control, like it was the only word your mouth knew anymore.

His teeth gritted as he stroked himself harder.

“I’d see you walk past in silence, hands folded, eyes lowered like you weren’t the temptation of every goddamn prayer I choked through. I’d go to sleep with your face still in my mind and your voice in my ears, and I’d fuck my fist thinking about what kind of sounds I could pull from you.”

He stepped in closer as he spoke, one hand still wrapped tightly around his cock, the other reaching for you—sliding up your thigh with a slow, consuming drag. His palm was hot and firm, curling around the soft flesh there like he could mold it to memory.

Your fingers trembled on your clit. Your body twitched from the touch, the pressure of his heat so close to where you were dripping open and gasping. His breath came heavy as he leaned in, dragging his palm higher, over your belly, up between the soft swell of your breasts, until it found the delicate column of your throat.

He didn’t squeeze—not fully. Just enough to make you feel it. Just enough to still your breathing.

And then he kissed you.

This one wasn’t soft. It wasn’t reverent. It was needy. His mouth crushed into yours like he’d lost weeks of restraint in a single second, tongue sliding deep between your lips to taste the breath he’d just stolen. He moaned into your mouth, the weight of it vibrating through your spine, and your body responded with a jolt. You arched. You whimpered. Your fingers never stopped moving.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “Say my name again.”

You barely had the breath for it.

“Suguru.”

His cock throbbed in his hand.

His fingers dipped again, this time dragging against your rosary where it lay tangled around your wrist. He tugged it slowly, the chain slipping against your skin like sin given form. You whimpered again as he leaned down, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking.

“You pray to me when you touch yourself?”

You nodded.

“Good girl.”

Then his hand dipped lower.

Past the edge of your bunched-up gown. Past the waistband of your panties, damp and clinging. You gasped when his fingers found you—your hand still there, two fingers slick and working—his joining yours with a slow, unbearable pressure.

They were longer. Thicker. Calloused where yours were soft. His fingers circled your clit once, twice, then dipped lower, parting your folds with maddening patience until he found your entrance. He didn’t push in. Not yet. Just traced the shape of you, groaning softly at how wet you were. His cock jumped in his hand.

“You’re dripping for me,” he murmured, almost in awe. “You’re soaking your own fingers just thinking about how I look when I fuck myself to you.”

You could barely answer. Your head tilted back, mouth open in a wordless gasp, lashes fluttering as you rocked your hips into the rhythm you both made together. His fingers slid inside beside yours, stretching you with the added width, and you moaned so sharply it felt like it cracked something loose in your chest.

He kissed you again, more hungrily now—his hand never leaving the slow pump of his cock, precum now leaking freely from the tip, smeared in long, slick strokes over the girth of him. His body trembled when your cunt clenched around the pressure of both sets of fingers.

“Suguru,” you whimpered, again and again, hips stuttering.

His thumb found your clit and pressed—just enough. Just right.

You cried out. He swallowed the sound in another kiss, deeper than the last. Messier. More desperate.

“This is what I see in confession,” he whispered against your lips. “You, crying. Begging. Fingering yourself with your knees on the floor like a good little sinner who just wants to be fucked.”

You clenched again, the words driving your body into another wave of pleasure, hips grinding into his palm as he rubbed harder, deeper, faster. You could feel the edge coming—rising like smoke in your throat, choking and sweet.

And still, he pumped himself harder, cock thick and flushed in his fist, his hips jerking slightly with the rhythm of it.

“Come for me,” he growled. “Right here. On my fingers. Show me how ruined you really are.”

Your body seized under him—not violently, but utterly. As if the orgasm shattered something structural in you, some last brace of restraint. It didn’t just rush through your core—it crashed. It hit like an anointing turned to floodwater. Fingers inside, his and yours, tangled and deep, pressing precisely where they needed to—your clit crushed between his thumb and your own, his palm slick with you as your walls clenched and pulsed, milked, and dragged you under.

You sobbed. You couldn’t help it.

Not from pain. Not even from guilt. But from that unbearable release—raw, high, uncontrollable—hips bucking, thighs trembling, your mouth falling open to moan his name like a psalm that tasted like blood and wine.

“Suguru—” it broke on your tongue, limp and vulnerable.

He kept going through it, didn't rush, and didn’t falter. Pressed deep while your walls fluttered. Rubbed soft circles when your back arched. His lips ghosted yours again and again and again, too soft, too knowing—like he was trying to kiss away the part of you still clinging to heaven.

When your hips finally dropped back into the chair, your breath came in slow, glassy pants. Chest rising and falling beneath your ruined robes, your thighs still twitching faintly, eyes hazy with the afterglow of something neither holy nor profane enough to name. The rosary was still tangled in your fingers. Sticky. Tense. You’d never be able to pray with it again.

Geto leaned back on his heels, his own chest rising with a slow drag of air—the reverence of it struck you first. How he looked at you. How he looked after he’d made you come apart like that. Like you were still something sacred. Or like he was trying to memorize the ruin he caused before he touched it again.

And he would.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, soaked and glistening with your release, watching the way your thighs flexed weakly in protest. He looked at his hand—watched his own breath stutter—and then lifted those fingers to his mouth.

You watched him suck them clean.

Slow. Knuckle-deep. Eyes on you the entire time.

The sound was obscene in the quiet.

When he stood, it was silent—slow, fluid. The rise of him, the size of him. The black of his cassock hung loose now, parted enough to reveal the deep line of his trousers, unzipped and straining. His cock in his hand, thick and flushed and long, pulsing against his palm, still glistening from where he’d been stroking through your orgasm. It made your mouth go dry again. Made your thighs twitch open wider, as if instinct guided you toward a deeper sin.

He looked down at you, half-lidded, breath shallow, one hand running through his hair, tugging the loose tie free until the strands spilled around his face. Messy. Stunning. Unholy.

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“Open,” he said, thumb pressing against your lower lip.

You didn’t hesitate.

Lashes heavy, lips trembling, you opened for him—breath still catching in your throat, chest still rising in slow shockwaves. His thumb slipped into your mouth, dragging over your tongue, pressing down until you closed your lips around it, sucking softly with instinct, dizzy and slack. He groaned low in his throat.

And then—his hand moved.

The one wrapped around his cock.

He pumped himself slowly, thumb dragging over the tip, and you saw the flex of his stomach and the way his thighs tensed. His eyes didn’t leave your face. You barely had time to register the way his body jerked forward, the quiet gasp in his throat, before warmth spilled across your cheek.

Then your lips.

Then your chin.

Thick, hot ropes—warm as spilled oil, painting your mouth, your jaw, your veil. The heat of it made your eyes flutter and made your thighs squeeze together again, even with nothing between them. You whimpered against his thumb, moaned softly as he emptied himself onto you like an offering.

He breathed heavily, hand still on himself, hips still twitching faintly, and for a long moment, he just watched. Watched you sit there, covered in him, flushed and gasping, his release dripping down your face like candlewax on the altar.

You looked wrecked.

And you were.

You licked your lips. Reflexive. Wanting. Your eyes met his through the haze of it all, and something in him twitched again—a subtle, wicked smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “You look even prettier like this.”

You swallowed, the taste of him thick on your tongue. You didn’t look away.

He stepped back slowly, tucking himself away without breaking eye contact, his chest still rising as he ran a hand back through his hair again—slower this time. Controlled. His silhouette framed in candlelight, robes disheveled, collar loose, mouth wet from your kiss. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke again.

“Come back after vespers tomorrow.”

You blinked, lashes heavy, thighs still parted. Breath caught in your chest. The command—no, the invitation—sank straight through your bones.

“Yes, Father,” you whispered.

And he smiled. Just once. Just for you. Like he already knew you would. Like he already knew it wouldn’t be the last time your body became a prayer in his hands.

♱

The chapel was cavernous in its silence, echoing the soft scrape of the chair as he helped you rise, legs still trembling beneath your habit. The last of the candles flickered low—gold halos guttering, shadows stretched long across the polished stone. Outside, thunder murmured somewhere in the distance, distant and patient, like a warning that hadn’t yet reached its teeth.

Geto guided you down the center aisle without speaking.

His palm at your lower back was firm, steady—grounded. Like he was anchoring you in place, like if he didn’t keep touching you, you might vanish. The closer you came to the altar, the heavier your chest felt. Like something inside you already knew what was coming.

But you didn’t stop.

He turned, one hand smoothing over the white linen spread across the altar’s marble surface. His jaw tensed. You watched him hesitate, just for a breath, his gaze flicking toward the crucifix hanging above as though seeking permission—or daring it to strike him down.

It didn’t.

And then, slowly, with the silence cracked open between you, he turned back to you and lifted you onto the altar.

The stone was cool against your thighs, even through your gown. You lay back slowly, arms loose at your sides, breath coming shallow as you watched him step back and look at you. Not hungrily. Not greedily. With reverence.

Like you were a relic unearthed in a place he was never meant to touch.

His hands went to his cassock, shrugging it from his shoulders first. The black fabric slid down his arms, pooling at his feet like spilled ink. Beneath it, his body was lean and cut—dangerously human for a man who claimed to lead others away from sin. His shirt clung to him with the weight of heat and guilt, the sleeves rolled up from before, his forearms traced with veins like rivers under pale skin. His chest rose with each shallow breath, the slight sheen of sweat catching the candlelight along the ridge of his collarbone.

He looked at you like he was already repenting.

You sat up slightly, trembling fingers going to the buttons of your habit. You couldn’t meet his eyes at first—not as you peeled away the layers, undoing the cloth that had once made you feel holy. Not as you let it slide off your shoulders, down your arms, pooling behind you like ash. You whispered apologies under your breath—small, cracked things—meant for no one and everyone.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said. And then he was there again, closer.

His lips found your collarbone first, brushing the slope of it with a kiss that felt more like a confession than a touch. His hands smoothed over your waist, slow and grounding, sliding up your ribs to feel the fluttering panic under your skin.

He kissed your throat. Whispered something into it. Words you didn’t understand—maybe scripture, maybe not. Maybe just fragments of prayers he’d half-forgotten in the heat of your body beneath his hands. His mouth moved reverently. Desperately.

He kissed you again. This time your lips. Slow. Deep. Lingered on the taste of your mouth like it was wine stolen from a chalice.

And then his hands were at your thighs, spreading them open slowly, coaxing rather than forcing. His breath grew heavier as he knelt again, this time lower, his body sinking between your knees like he was bowing to the altar itself.

You couldn’t breathe.

His hands gripped your thighs as his mouth pressed kiss after kiss into your skin—your inner thighs, the soft space above your knee, and the curve where muscle met bone. His hands were large, fingers trailing up and down as he kissed, over and over, your skin heating beneath each reverent drag.

And then—lower.

You gasped when his mouth pressed against you through the damp cotton of your panties, his breath hot, his nose nudging into the center seam with a groan that made your stomach clench.

You felt him inhale against you.

You could feel the vibration of his moan—low and sinful—as he mouthed you over the fabric, sucking lightly, tongue pressing where your wetness had soaked through. Your fingers curled in the linen beneath you, your hips jerking upward instinctively, but his hands pinned you in place, firm on your thighs.

He didn't rush. He devoured. Even through the barrier, his mouth worked with obscene devotion. Like he wanted to feel your heartbeat against his tongue. Like he meant to make your thighs shake just from the way he tasted your want through your clothes.

His hands slid up, broad palms smoothing over your belly, up to your chest, dragging the beads of your rosary with them. He tugged it gently, then not-so-gently, using it to tilt your body toward him, to make your breath hitch as the chain bit against your throat.

Your fingers dove into his hair, clutching the loose dark strands, dragging him closer without meaning to. He groaned again, louder this time, the sound vibrating straight through your cunt. He ground his mouth into you, kissing, licking, and soaking your panties in spit and hunger.

He pulled them aside with one hand.

And then he really tasted you.

His mouth opened against your folds, tongue flat and firm as it dragged through your slick. He groaned into you, moaning like he’d been starved and you were the body of Christ itself.

You cried out, hips jerking upward as his tongue circled your clit, slow at first, then faster, lips closing around it to suck with a filthy wet sound that echoed off the chapel walls. His hands tightened on your thighs as you bucked again, fingers scratching helplessly down his scalp, your moans turning ragged.

He was lost in it. His tongue worked with practiced desperation—messy, open-mouthed, loud—licking through your folds, sliding up to flick your clit before dropping back down to suck, to tease, to devour.

His nose bumped your skin with every movement. His breath was hot and heavy. His moans were constant.

And through it all, you could hear his words—half-muttered between licks, mumbled praises turned to curses.

“So sweet,” he breathed. “So fucking soft. God, I could die like this.”

His tongue didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. He licked you like you were the last holy thing he’d ever taste, and he was determined to strip you of it. Again and again, he dragged his mouth over your folds, slow at first, then circling, then sucking hard—flicking your clit with the pointed edge of his tongue, groaning with every motion like he was drunk on the way your body twitched.

You were losing your mind.

Your hips jolted, but his hands stayed firm—one across your thigh, the other kneading your breast through the half-undone fabric of your robes. His thumb brushed your nipple as his mouth pulled another whimper from your lips, then a moan, then something louder. Filthier. Helpless.

And still he didn’t let you come.

He'd slow at the edge, just enough to keep you riding that breathless slope, just enough to drag it out and keep your thighs trembling.

“You hear that?” He murmured against your cunt, words pressed into the slick heat of you. “That’s your body praying. You’re begging without even speaking.”

You choked on a breath, fingers twisting in his hair, your back arched, your head falling back so hard it thudded against the altar.

“Father—” you gasped, and he groaned, mouth latching onto your clit again, tongue circling it like a penance.

He didn’t stop. He spoke into you.

“Hail Mary,” he muttered between kisses, “full of grace…”

His fingers slid over your breast again, thumb rubbing harder. His lips sucked around you, messy and hot and wet.

“The Lord is with thee.”

You moaned—screamed, almost. The blasphemy of it was like lightning under your skin. Your rosary bit into your fingers where it tangled, and your thighs pressed to his shoulders as he buried himself deeper, sloppier.

“Blessed art thou among women,” he growled, “and fuck—blessed is the fruit…”

You sobbed something that wasn’t a word. Your eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering, your body not your own anymore. You weren’t even sure if you were breathing—your chest rose and fell like something possessed, and still his mouth never left you.

“Suguru, please—”

“Come for me,” he whispered. “Do it. I want it.”

And you did.

You came with a cry that split the air, your hips jerking, thighs squeezing around his head as your body pulsed and shattered, heat pouring from you in wave after unbearable wave. He didn’t slow. He moaned into it. Mouth open, tongue dragging, drinking it in.

He licked up everything you gave him, mouth sealed to your cunt like it was communion. Like your pleasure was the blood of saints, and he was starving. You could feel his lips, his tongue, his nose—everywhere—greedy, fevered, unstoppable.

And when he finally lifted his head, slick on his lips, jaw tight, breath wrecked—

He looked holy.

The sound of the chapel was not silence.

It was the sound of your breath—still broken, still shaking. The sound of fabric shifting as he rose to his full height, his hands trailing up your thighs like they weren’t entirely his anymore. The sound of candlewax dripping to stone. Of thunder murmuring behind stained glass.

And the sound of him—Suguru—pulling the black of his shirt over his head and casting it aside with the same care he gave to robes on the altar. He stood above you now, bare to the waist, the flicker of the last candles crawling over the long lines of his body.

His chest was sculpted, not overly muscular but lean and cut, shadows catching in the curve beneath his pectorals, in the fine definition of his abs. His skin was kissed with warmth, marred only by faint scars along one side—holy relics from a life lived before salvation. The golden cross still hung around his neck, swaying gently across the flat plane of his chest, catching between the lines of his collarbones like a blade never fully sheathed.

His hair had come mostly loose—dark strands falling around his face, sticking slightly to the sweat at his temples. His jaw was tight, his mouth parted just enough to betray the way he panted through clenched teeth. And his eyes—God, his eyes—looked ruined.

As if he'd spent every year of penance dreaming about this moment, and now he was standing in the flames of it.

His hands smoothed up your legs again, this time slowly. Possessive. He bent your knees carefully, reverently, folding your thighs up over his shoulders like he was placing something sacred into position. His palms dragged over the backs of your thighs, cupping them, spreading you open until you burned in the cool air of the cathedral.

And then—

His cock brushed against your entrance.

You weren’t prepared. Couldn’t have been. The heat of it, the sheer pressure—just the tip, sliding through your slick with aching patience. He groaned at the contact, his head tilting forward, dark hair curtaining his face for a moment as he held himself there, not pushing in yet. His breath hitched.

“You feel that?” he rasped. “That’s how much I want you. That’s how long I’ve wanted you.”

Your head fell back against the altar again as you gasped, your back arching instinctively, hips rolling forward, needing more. Your hands searched for something to hold—his arms, his wrists, anything. The stretch was just beginning, and already your body ached in the sweetest, sharpest way.

Then, slowly—agonizingly—he pushed in.

The thick head of him pressed past your folds, splitting you open in measured inches, and your lips parted in a soundless moan. You felt every pulse of him, every twitch of his hips as he pushed deeper, his body shaking slightly as your walls took him in. His grip on your thighs tightened, hard enough to bruise.

“So good,” he whispered, his voice fractured. “My angel.”

Your hips jolted at the praise, your breath catching in your throat as he bottomed out, seated fully inside you, the stretch unbearable and perfect. You could feel his cross dragging across your chest now, the cold kiss of gold against your heated skin. You moaned his name—half-cry, half-prayer.

He didn’t move at first. Just breathed.

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured, voice almost breaking. “God help me, I know I shouldn’t…”

And then he pulled back—slow, almost trembling—and thrust forward again.

Your body jerked on the altar, sliding an inch on the polished linen, your thighs trembling around his shoulders as he found a rhythm. His hands held you open, tight and firm, his fingers digging into your thighs as he fucked into you with growing desperation.

The sound of it echoed—wet, obscene, and rhythmic.

Each thrust forced a soft cry from your lips. Each roll of his hips sent sparks bursting behind your eyes. Your breath hitched. You couldn’t think—couldn’t do anything but feel.

“Suguru—” you moaned again, your voice cracking on his name.

His eyes flicked down to your face, chest heaving, and he leaned in, bending your legs tighter, folding you closer. He moved with purpose now, each thrust harder, faster, the full weight of his desire no longer restrained.

“I know we shouldn’t,” he growled, his breath hot against your cheek. “But I can’t stop.”

He moved like he was unraveling.

What began as a rhythm—controlled, deliberate, steady—had devolved into something else entirely. The slow stroke of his hips had given way to something desperate, his composure cracking with every wet slap of skin on skin, every moan that spilled from your lips. Your body shook beneath him, trembling under each thrust, the altar groaning softly as his weight forced it to shift on the stone.

You didn’t even realize you were chanting it at first. A whisper. A cry.

“Forgive me,” you said, again and again. The words were a broken breath against his throat, against the heavy gold cross swinging between your chests. “Forgive me. Forgive me…”

His grip tightened around your thighs as he drove deeper. Harder. His control was fraying with every pulse of your body around him, every ripple that clenched his cock like it wanted to keep him forever.

“I do,” he growled. “I do.”

He kissed you hard then—teeth, lips, breath. Not soft, not reverent. This kiss was messy, desperate, and a confession of its own. His mouth moved against yours like he needed your breath to survive it. And then he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours as he fucked you harder, the wet sound of it echoing against the stained glass.

Your back arched, one leg trembling where it hooked over his shoulder. He shifted his angle, one hand sliding beneath your ass to tilt your hips just so—until he was hitting that deep, unbearable place inside you that made your vision white out. You cried out again and again, and he was moaning now too, lost in it, his composure gone.

When he gripped the edge of the altar for leverage and thrust forward, it rattled.

The sound cracked through the air like a hymn breaking apart.

Your name left his mouth between gritted teeth—like a litany. Like a warning.

“I’m not gonna last,” he panted. “Not when you’re like this. Not when you’re so tight, so good—fuck.”

Your hands found his back, nails dragging down the sweat-slick curve of his spine as he pushed harder, the slap of his hips driving you higher and higher.

“I can’t stop,” he said again, voice shaking. “I should. But I won’t.”

You were crying again—soft, breathless sounds you couldn’t control. Not pain. Not regret. Just overwhelm. You were too full, too raw, too close. Your body clung to his with every thrust, slick and gasping, tears sliding down your cheeks as the guilt twisted into something indistinguishable from rapture.

“Forgive me,” you sobbed.

And he kissed your mouth, your throat, and your cheek.

“I do,” he whispered. “I do. I’ll forgive you every fucking time.”

He didn’t slow down.

Not even as your thighs locked around him. Not even as your body clenched again, tighter, impossibly tighter. You shook under him, keening his name, eyes rolling back as another climax ripped through you—this one worse than the last, deeper, stretched thin like your soul might tear free of your body.

Your body rocked beneath him with every thrust, your knees spread wide across the altar, your hands gripping the cloth until your knuckles went white. The linen bunched beneath your fingers, damp with sweat and tears and whatever was left of your restraint.

Geto was feral now—no composure, no title, no robes, just him, chest pressed to your back, hips slamming into yours with bruising force. His breath came in hot, uneven bursts against your shoulder, and every time he bottomed out inside you, you cried out, the force of it punching moans out of your throat.

“F-fuck,” he groaned, voice barely a voice anymore. “You feel—ngh—you feel like salvation. Like I was meant to sin like this.”

You keened at his words, at the stretch of him, at the way your body welcomed him with each desperate thrust. You were soaked. Slick. Your thighs trembled violently under him, your whole body shaking as he took you apart again, this time with abandon.

“Say it,” he hissed against your skin, hand slipping around to your throat, holding—not choking—but containing. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, helpless.

“Again.”

“I’m yours, Father—yours—”

He snarled into your hair, his grip on your waist tightening as his pace grew brutal and punishing. The altar rocked under you, its legs groaning against the stone floor. The crucifix above blurred in your vision as your cheek pressed flat to the cloth, your lips wet with spit, and your body split wide and open to him.

You couldn’t even think anymore. You were gone.

And then—he thrust deep and stayed there, pressed hard against your hips, his whole body tensed.

“Fuck—” he gasped. “I’m—I’m coming—”

You felt it. The thick twitch of him, buried inside, the pulse as he groaned loud and raw and real, hips jerking once, twice, as he spilled deep within you. Hot and overwhelming. You could feel him coat your walls, flood you, his body shuddering violently as he held you down, forehead pressed to your back.

It was a ruin.

It was a revelation.

He stayed inside you for a long time, catching his breath, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he was trying to keep you both from falling into hell. Or maybe just hold onto this one moment before everything came crashing down.

When he finally moved, it was slow—trembling hands lifting your body upright, guiding you back into him so your spine met his chest. His release leaked down your thighs, and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

He kissed your shoulder. Your neck. The side of your mouth.

And whispered something so soft it might’ve been a prayer. Or a vow. Or a sin he hadn’t learned the name for yet.

You didn’t ask.

And when he pulled you into his lap, burying his face in your hair, holding you like a man who had nothing left but you—you just let him. The candles burned low around you. The rain outside had finally stopped.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Swollen with everything left unsaid—your breathing, still uneven; the soft hiss of candle wax cooling; the echo of your pulse still thudding in your ears. Your body trembled in his lap, boneless and overwhelmed, his chest pressed to your back, heart still racing beneath skin that clung damp and warm to yours.

Neither of you moved for a long moment.

You could feel the aftermath of him leaking from you—his release sliding between your thighs, a slow warmth you couldn’t hide from, couldn’t close your legs against. But he didn’t shy from it. He held you still. And when his breath finally slowed, when his heartbeat found something close to rhythm again, he kissed your temple and reached for the cloth draped over the side of the altar.

He didn’t speak as he cleaned you.

The linen was soft and faintly perfumed with incense, and he touched you with care—not hurried, not rough. He moved like a man tending a wound or washing a relic: reverent. Silent. When he pressed the cloth between your thighs, you twitched, a sharp intake of breath escaping you from the soreness. He paused, thumb smoothing over your hip in apology, then continued slower—gathering what spilled from you, the mess of your sin and his, and wiping it gently away.

Your eyes were closed. You didn’t dare look at him.

But he looked at you.Seeing the way your chest rises and falls. Fingers still cling to the ruined cloth beneath you, trembling. Guilt settles back into your bones like cooling ash—slow, suffocating, inevitable.

When he finished, he folded the cloth in half and set it aside like something sacred.

Then he touched your face.

Not possessive. Not hungry. Just… tender. His thumb traced the edge of your mouth, then upward to your cheek, where your lashes fluttered. You leaned into it without thinking, and he murmured something in a voice that barely belonged to him anymore.

“Benedicat te Dominus et custodiat te…”

You swallowed. Your throat ached.

“May the Lord bless you and keep you.”

His hand drifted to your jaw, tilting your face to his.

“May He make His face shine upon you…”

He paused.

His eyes searched yours. He looked like he was about to fall apart.

Then, barely audible:

“…and forgive you for what we’ve done.”

The words didn’t sound like scripture. They didn’t sound like mercy.

They sounded like a vow.

A promise wrapped in the soft hush of candlelight and the ache of a body that had tasted sin and still craved it. You stared at him, breath held, throat burning, as he leaned in and pressed his lips to your forehead—one last kiss, warm and final.

You felt marked. Claimed.

When you slid down from the altar, your legs trembled, and he caught your elbow to steady you. You didn’t look at him when you stepped back into your shoes or when you slipped the veil back over your hair, half-askew, as if modesty still mattered.

But when you turned to the door, he spoke again—soft, sure, and already resigned:

“I’ll leave the confessional open for you.”

You nodded once, quietly.

And walked barefoot down the aisle, robes clinging to your skin, the taste of him still in your mouth, and his blessing echoing in your chest like a chain you’d chosen to wear.

Behind you, the priest remained at the altar.

Still praying for your soul.

And his.