your fairy of shampoo

the preacher’s words begin to blur together, syllables folding into one another until they lose their meaning. its not like they meant anything to you in the first place, though. that’s when you notice movement near the front. a body slipping into a pew a beat too late, a tie loosened in quiet rebellion. the preacher doesn’t look down, doesn’t falter, but something in the room shifts all the same.

koga yudai, the preacher’s son. in all his glory, sin seeping from his skin like something warm and undeniable. not loud, not obscene, just present. an aura around him that you can only see. you don’t linger, scared that just staring at him could get you caught. invisible eyes not just in the pews, but pressed into the walls. stitched into the stained glass, lingering in the way your mother’s hand rests too long on your knee.

you tell yourself it doesn’t matter that he’s back. koga yudai has always come back. home for holidays, home for funerals, home for whatever obligation his father’s shadow drags him into.

you subconsciously risk another glance, just a flicker, just enough to confirm he’s real. that you aren’t seeing the ghost of him and that his dark unholy presence is in-fact in such a sacred place. head bowed, long brown hair falling into his eyes, fingers laced loosely in front of him like he’s pretending to pray. pretending he himself is not made of sin. pretending that holy water would not cause his skin to sizzle. his tie hangs crooked, the top button of his shirt undone, collar soft and wrong against the stiffness of everyone else’s. he looks out of place in a way that feels deliberate.

like he chose to be a disruption. and maybe he did.

you break your gaze away from yudai. as the preacher clears his throat. he speaks of forgiveness. of mercy. of the narrow path and the wide gate and the eternal consequences of choosing wrong. his voice is steady, practiced, a blade honed dull from overuse.

you wonder, briefly, if he knows.

if he knows what people whisper about his son when they think god isn’t listening. about the girls back at his college campus. the rumors that would put his father into an early grave. if he knows that yudai carrying whatever rot he brought back with him into the house of god

you are too late to notice.

his eyes are already on you dark and sharp, cutting clean through whatever fragile composure you were still clinging to.

dull but filled with hunger and recognition. a predator looking at his prey.

you can almost feel something old and dangerous waking up behind his gaze.

it’s like he’s peeling you open with his eyes alone, seeing past your pressed dress, folded hands and obedient posture, seeing the girl you used to be. the girl he ruined, the girl he will come to ruin once again.

your throat closes.

the air feels too thick to swallow.

his eyes bore into yours only for a bit. long enough to brand the moment into your bones, for you to feel in your stomach, in your throat, and in other places. before his father’s voice rises, final and solemn, to close the sermon.

“amen.”

the word ripples through the chapel like a release. people exhale. shoulders loosen. someone coughs, another sneezes and yudai looks away.

just like that, like he didn’t undress you and defile you with one look.

the preacher bows his head. everyone follows. your mother squeezes your knee once, a silent cue.

“amen,” the room echoes again.

people begin to stand, stretch, gather coats, purses and their children all dressed up for god. your mother rises immediately, already turning toward the aisle. “we should go say hello to pastor koga,” she murmurs. it isn’t a question.

your stomach drops.

“mom—”

“and look! yudai’s even here. dont be rude. you two grew up together. hes such a sweet proper boy. maybe you can learn something from him.” she cuts in quietly, smile already fixed in place.

sweet and proper are the words you would not particularly use to describe the oldest koga boy. maybe once. maybe three years ago, when his hands were still clean and his smile still meant something innocent. when he used to bow his head during prayers and actually listen, when he held doors open and said yes ma’am and no sir and actually believed all of this religious shit. when he didn’t know the taste of the sweetness of every girl in his colleges sorority. when he hadn’t learned how easy it was to make girls fall apart with just his hands.

when he hadn’t left with your holiness in his hands.

now he stands in front of you like a ruined saint. all soft manners and sharpened edges. his tie crooked, his collar open, smirk on his face.

the words sweet and proper don’t fit him at all anymore.

if you dares to speak them, they would rot in your mouth.

you follow behind your dear mother up to the front, each step heavy, each inch closer to pastor koga feeling like a quiet execution. all you want is to sink into the back pew, to disappear into the chipping white wood and the hush of stained glass shadows. to hide from the eyes of god and the eyes of koga yudai.

both feel equally condemning. both who know you are nothing but a sinner.

“hi, yudai,” your mother says brightly, like he’s still the polite neighbor boy she’s always approved of. “it’s been so long.”

“hi, mrs. l/n” he says, voice smooth, respectful. perfect. as always. he even dips his head a little, all manners and obedience. a performance worthy of this place.

your stomach turns. fingers fidgeting with the rosary draped upon your neck.

his eyes flick to you. then to the rosary.

you swear you hear him quietly snicker. just for a second.

you can see how his eyes darken, watching your fingers wrap around the pearls adorning your neck. how the god‑fearing pastor’s son slips away behind them, replaced by something hungrier, something hollowed out by sin.

“hello,” he adds, softer.

you force your lips into something that could pass for a smile. “hi.”

your mother beams, pleased. “see? not so hard to be polite.”

if she only knew.

“you’re home for good?” she asks him.

yudai hesitates, but its quick and it’s subtle. anyone else might miss it.

“for a while,” he says, eyes flickering to you again. a sharp grin dances across his lips—one that the mothers would coo over and one that girls would blush at.

one that made your stomach twist and bile rest in the back of your throat.

a while feels like a threat.

your mother clasps her hands together. “that’s wonderful. you two should catch up. you were inseparable as kids.”

you silently pray for god to strike you down right there. condemning you to the fiery pits of hell because only god knows you would not be seeing the golden gates.

but no lightning comes. no divine intervention. just the soft echo of your mother’s laughter as she turns to greet another church auntie, her voice fading down the aisle in a trail of polite goodbyes and holy small talk. the sound of soft church music and the violent thumping of your heart in your ears almost causes you to gag.

and then you are left alone with him.

the chapel feels smaller, the air thicker. you stare at the stained glass instead of him. a saint bleeding light from her palms. her face serene. her suffering aestheticized into something people can pray to.

you stare at the stained glass instead of him. a saint bleeding light from her palms. her face serene. her suffering aestheticized into something people can pray to.

you think, distantly, that if anyone painted you right now, you’d look just as devout.

just as ruined.

your fingers still clench around the rosary like it might somehow protect you.

but you know it cannot as he steps closer. not enough to draw attention from anyone still lingering near the doors, but close enough that you can smell the faint trace of cologne.

“let’s go back to mine,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth, the same gentle tone he uses when he reads scripture aloud. “we have some catching up to do.”

and the air leaves your lungs, because you know what those words truly mean. this time its no longer under the guise of bible study, now laid bare in the open air—its mask slipped off completely.

the fangs of a predator no longer hiding behind

sunday smiles and hands folded for prayer, no longer cloaked in psalms and polished crosses.

it’s not dramatic. it’s not cinematic. it’s just sudden and violent, like your body forgot how to breathe the moment the words register. your chest locks. your vision fuzzes at the edges. the chapel tilts, just a little.

he knows you won’t say no. that sick submission was stitched into you long before you understood what it truly meant. carved into your bones, into your reflexes. it crawls up your throat, tight and suffocating, and the word “no.” withers there. sad and pathetic, never daring to escape. like a lamb with its throat already bared.

maybe it was the fear your dad instilled in you. the way his voice alone could freeze your blood. the way love in your house always came with a warning label. behave, obey, don’t push too far.

or maybe it was because a sick perverted part of you liked it. liked how it felt to lose yourself in the feeling of submitting to someone other than your mother and god.

you tell yourself it’s sin. you kneel in the quiet of your mind and beg forgiveness for the way your body softens into submission, for the way your heart confuses devotion with desire. but the prayer never quite leaves your lips. it dissolves into want before it can reach heaven.

so now, when he looks at you like that. like he already owns the answer, your body betrays you. your spine bows, your breath stutters, your hands still.

you don’t say no

you never do.

not because you don’t want to.

but because you were never taught how.

so you follow him, the gazes of holy men in the stained glass searing into your flesh, their painted eyes alive with judgment as you pass. you wonder if this is what will cause hell to finally catch up to you. if the amber flames will come for you as you father said the would.

these same sentiments play in your head as he forces you down onto your knees. not even given time to take in the apartment you now kneel in, cheeks now squished in his rough hands.

“those sorority whore’s could never compare to this sweet mouth.” the way he murmurs those filthy words in the same gentle cadence his pastor father used from the pulpit makes your stomach twist.

“my pathetic little lamb. all you do is follow.”

his voice is calm. reverent, almost. like he’s delivering a sermon instead of a command. like he’s blessing you instead of degrading you.

you remember the first time you took park sunghoon into your mouth. how his fingers felt gripping your hair so roughly your scalp that ached for days after. how you gagged and choked whilst tears streamed down your face. coating your pink cheeks in black mascara. gripping your rosary so tight, indents were left in your palms.

“fuuuckk—you like that? huh? getting your mouth fucked? stop fuckin’ squirming, you really think

god loves you. he may but not enough to save you.”

you remember sitting in the familiar white pews 3 days later, hands shaking but still clasped.

“forgive me father, for i have sinned.”

your lashes are wet, vision blurred, but his face is steady above you. holding the same calm, devout, almost tender expression. like he’s doing something righteous. like this is duty, not cruelty.

his eyes search yours, not for consent, and certainly not for mercy, but for confirmation. for that familiar collapse in your expression. for the proof that you are still obedient. still his.

your throat tightens. your mouth opens. nothing comes out.

you hold his gaze like it’s communion, like if you look away you’ll be damned.

and he smiles—a smile that says everything a sermon never will.

there you kneel, the delicate hem of your sunday best soaking up the dust and old sins from his apartment floor.

he sees the lamb who will never bite back.

his hand stays firm on the back of your head, guiding you with that same calm certainty he uses when he helps serve communion.

“good girl,” he murmurs, voice soft as a benediction, stepping closer until his shadow swallows you whole.

snd when he finally pulls you off just enough to speak, his voice is calm, almost loving: “tell me, little lamb… who do you pray to now?”

he owns the lamb, soon the altar, and will become a god feared more than the one nailed upon the cross.

your voice comes out hoarse, broken, barely above a whisper—the only answer you were ever taught to give.

“…you.”

he smiles again, wider this time, satisfied and victorious.

the predator no longer needs the mask.

the lamb no longer pretends she wants to run.

amen.

authors note: this was taken n revamped! it was previously a fic i uploaded on my now deleted old blog (babynodoubt)

( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡) its written pretty differently from my other stuff…i tend to write more poetically about things like this, thank you nicole dollanganger~