trinity.

The sanctuary of the church is filled with a faint scent of polished wood and candle wax, a lingering sweetness that has clung to the pews for longer than you can remember. You find yourself in your usual seat, third from the back on the right side. Your Bible is neatly folded open on your lap. The organ sings through the final verse of a hymn, and voices rise in a chorus.

You don’t notice her right away. It’s only when the weight of the pew shifts beside you that you realize she’s there. A soft creak drowns out the song, and when you glance, it’s quick and instinctual. You nearly falter on the line you’re singing.

Billie. You atleast think that’s her name. The girl you’ve only seen in the hallways at school, with her slouched posture and blunt eyes that never linger where they’re supposed to. She’s leaning back now, her hoodie zipped halfway, rings flashing dimly as she slides her hands into the pockets. Her gaze isn’t on the cross, or the pastor’s raised arms. It’s on you.

“You sing pretty,” she whispers, her voice low enough that the other churchgoers behind you don’t hear it. Her mouth curves sideways, into a sly smirk.

Flustered and confused, you blink at her before looking back at your hymnal. Your voice wavers, but you continue singing.

When the hymn ends, everyone lowers into their seats. The pastor starts reading an excerpt from Psalms, his voice rich and echoing throughout the room. Billie leans in, her breath brushing the shell of your ear.

“Do you actually believe all this?” she murmurs.

You grip the edges of your Bible tighter. “Yes,” you whisper back, though it feels like breaking some kind of law to even speak during the reading.

Her chuckle is low and all in her throat. “Cute.“

Heat rises to your face. You keep your eyes fixed on the pastor and try to drown out her comment.

A few minutes later, during prayer, everyone bows their heads. You lower yours dutifully, eyelids pressed closed, and hands folded in your lap. Billie, however, doesn’t bow, and you can feel her gaze on you, burning into you.

“Praying for me, angel?” she asks under her breath. The word “angel” lingers, mocking and affectionate all at once.

Your throat goes tight and dry. “Please be quiet,” you murmur.

“Why? Are you worried ‘He’ can hear us?” Billie tilted her head back toward the vaulted ceiling, the painted figure of Christ gazing down.

You swallow hard, but the pastor’s cadence carries on, oblivious, as you wish you were right now. Billie stretches her legs out under the pew in front of her, lounging as if the church were a movie theater. Her knee bumps yours, deliberately.

When the congregation rises again for another hymn, she doesn’t reach for a book. She watches you instead, eyes lazy and focused while you fumble the page. Her voice slides in, soft and teasing. “You’re really serious about all this, huh?”

The hymn ends. You sit again, heart hammering in your chest. Billie finally looks forward, feigning her attention to the pastor, but every few minutes she leans close, a whisper cutting through the quiet air in the church.

“Doesn’t it get boring, all this kneeling and standing?”

“You’re always this obedient?”

“I bet you’ve never skipped a Sunday in your life.”

Each jab coils inside you, equal parts shame and some kind of fucked up thrill. Her presence makes the church feel smaller suddenly, and your faith more fragile somehow.

By the time the final hymn closes and the final words are spoken, you’re a little rattled. You gather your Bible to your chest, meaning to slip away quickly, and not attracting anymore attention. But Billie is already standing, waiting for you as you slide out of the pew.

Her shoulder brushes yours as she offers you her hand. “Walk with me,” she says, more of a demand than a request. You reluctantly nod and follow her, but you don’t take her hand.

Outside, the late sun hangs low, painting the church lawn gold. The chatter of everyone fades as they walk to their cars, some speaking with the pastor at the doors. Billie leads you toward the parking lot, her hands still in her hoodie pocket.

At the edge, parked a little apart from the rusted sedans and minivans, a sleek car gleams. Older yet expensive, like it doesn’t belong here anymore than she does.

Billie pauses by it, finally turning to face you fully. Her smirk softens just enough to look like an invitation.

“Come on, let’s go for a ride,” she says. “I want to show you something.”

You hesitate at the curb, clutching your Bible to your chest like it might anchor you. Billie doesn’t look impatient, if anything, she looks amused, leaning one hip against the car door, an eyebrow cocked up at you.

“Don’t be scared,” she says, unlocking the car with the key, opening it, before unlocking your side. “It’s just a ride. I don’t bite.” She pauses and smirks again. “Unless you ask.”

Your throat tightens. You should say no, you should go back inside, you should be shaking the pastor’s hand at the door and thanking him for the sermon. But instead your hand finds the handle, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you slide into the passenger seat.

The worn leather is cool against your thighs, and the dash glows faintly as Billie starts the car, then engine purring softly. She backs out of the spot with one arm slung over your seat, her rings brushing the leather behind your head.

“You always look this nervous,” she says as she shifts into drive, “or is it just me?”

“I’m not nervous,” you murmur.

She laughs, low and throaty. “Liar.”

The church disappears in the rearview as she puts the car in drive. Billie rests one wrist on the wheel, casually. The other hand rests on the gear shift, rings glinting as the sunlight flashes through the trees.

“So,” she drawls, “do you really think He’s mad at you right now? For being in my car instead of, I don’t know, polishing chalices or whatever you do after church?”

You grip your Bible tighter in your lap. “It’s not like that at all.”

“Mm.” Billie hums, seemingly unconvinced. “Seems like it would be exactly like that.” She glances at you before turning back to the road. “You’ve got that guilty look anyways.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. The road starts to narrow, the pine trees begin to condense, the air cooling as you climb higher into the hills, the sun setting.

Billie whistles under her breath. “Bet you’ve never skipped curfew before, huh? You think your God will be disappointed in you?”

Your face burns, and she catches it, grinning sheepishly.

“God, you’re cute. You blush like it’s a sin.” She flicks her eyes up toward the darkening sky, then back at you. “What do you think He’s saying right now?”

“Stop,” you whisper, half pleading, half something else you cant quite name, and don’t want to name.

Billie leans back, her hand drumming against the wheel in rhythm with the quiet radio in the background. “You really believe He’s watching us right now, huh?”

You can’t answer, your cheeks flushing again at the thought. Your hands tighten until the leather Bible cover squeaks a little under the pads of your fingers.

The car reaches the top of the hill, then eases onto a pull-off overlooking the valley. The sun hangs low, dipping below the horizon. The trees rustle in the wind, the world suddenly quiet except for the engine’s soft purr.

Billie kills the ignition, and the silence deepens. She sits back, turning to you fully for the first time, her eyes catching in the fading light.

“Pretty view,” she says, her eyes remaining on you.

Your pulse hammers, guilt warring deep within you. You set your Bible down in your lap, suddenly too aware of it, too aware of how ridiculous it looks sitting between you and her. Billie notices and she tips her head, eyes glinting with a soft amusement.

“You’re gonna keep holding onto that thing like a shield?” she asks, her voice low and teasing. “Or are you gonna actually look at me?”

Your cheeks burn, but you set it down on the floor at your feet. Slowly, you turn to face her, and Billie’s grin softens, but still smug.

“There she is,” she murmurs.

Billie leans in closer, her arm draping over the back of your seat again. You can feel her breath on your cheek now, her eyes searching yours.

“Y’know, I’ve seen how you look at me at school, in the halls,” she says. “You think I wouldn’t notice?”

“I wasn’t—” The protest dies in your throat when she tilts her head, her body leaning over the center console, her lips a breath from yours.

“You were.” Her voice is smooth, almost like shes coaxing a confession out of you. “And it’s okay. I like it when you look at me.”

Your pulse roars in your ears, your hands slightly shaking in your lap. For a second, you sit frozen, stuck between fear and a strange sense of need before Billie closes the gap.

Her mouth is soft, her lips pressing against yours with a tenderness, giving you the choice to pull away. But you don’t, and you can’t. The guilt burns hot in your chest, but the need burns hotter.

Billie deepens the kiss, tilting her head, her hand sliding up to cup the side of your neck. Rings cool against your skin as her thumb strokes just under your jaw. When she pulls back, her lips hover, shining with your lip gloss.

“God, you taste sweet,” she whispers, tongue darting to wet her mouth. “You’ve ever kissed someone before?”

You pant softly, unable to find words, the unspoken silence is enough of an answer for her. She grins big, almost like she’s proud to be the first.

“Knew it,” she breathes, leaning in to kiss you again, but harder this time. The car fills with the sound of your shallow breaths, and the sound of your lips moving over hers hungrily. You feel yourself melting into her touch, leaning into the warmth of her hand at your neck.

When she pulls back again, it’s only far enough to murmur against your mouth: “You’re so good. So good for me. And you don’t even know it yet.”

Her praise makes your stomach flip, and makes your thighs press together involuntarily. Her eyes flick down, her grin widening, smug and admiring all at once.

“See?” she teases softly, brushing her nose against yours. “You want me so badly, huh, pretty girl?”

Her words hit deep, shame and arousal coursing through your lower body as you give her a small, shy nod.

She kisses you again, slower this time, as her hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you impossibly closer.

“My perfect angel.” she whispers into your mouth.

Billie’s lips move against yours, her hand dropping from your neck and trailing down. Her rings brush softly against the fabric of your dress as she slides her fingers lower, tracing your ribs and then your waist. The car suddenly feels hotter, the air thicker. Your hands still tremble softly in your lap, unsure of where to put them, gripping the hem of your dress innately.

“You’re shaking,” she murmurs against your mouth, and you realize you are, clenching your dress tighter.

Her hand pauses at the hem of your dress, pulling your hands off of the fabric, knuckles grazing your bare thigh. “White dress,” she whispers, voice dripping with mockery and awe. “Such a fitting color for you.”

Her fingers slip under, your breath catching in your throat as you gasp softly. The cool metal of her rings brush against your skin as her fingers trail upwards, teasing along the inside of your thigh, ghosting over your underwear.

“Lace panties, too?” Billie laughs quietly, mostly to herself. “You’re killing me angel, you know that?”

You can’t answer, your lips parting as you let a small, strangled sound escape past your lips.

Billie’s kisses trail down your jaw to your neck, her voice low and taunting, “Look at you, squirming already.”

Her hand finds the thin band of lace, hooking her fingers under it. She tugs gently, just enough to pull it aside. The cool air rushes over your soaked core, shame and heat tangling in your chest.

Billie exhales like she’s savoring the moment. “God, you’re wet already. Don’t tell me ‘He’ did that now.”

Her fingertip graze over you, her touch light and teasing, just like her words. Your hips buck up before you can stop yourself, and she chuckles. “Thought so. That’s all me.”

She traces your slick folds, circling your clit without much pressure, never giving you quite enough. Every time you whimper, she tilts her head, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You want it? Say it.”

Your voice cracks as you squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment. “Please.”

“Please what?” Her fingers dip just slightly lower, teasing your entrance.

“Please—touch me.”

Billie smiles against your lips, satisfied. “There’s my good girl.”

And then her finger finally slides inside. The shock of it makes your breath stutter, your head falling back against the seat. She moves slowly at first, letting your walls clench around every thrust.

“God, you’re tight,” she whispers reverently. “I’m the first, aren’t I?”

You nod helplessly, your flush spreading down your neck now.

She groans softly, adding another finger, stretching you as you open up for her. “Perfect angel, all mine.”

The words coil in your gut, hot and heavy. She starts to pump her fingers deeper and faster, her thumb brushing your sensitive bundle of nerves on your clit. Each thrust draws pathetic gasps from your lips as you press one hand against the window to steady yourself, the windows fogging.

Billie kisses you again, swallowing your cries, praising you in between each one. “So good… so sweet… such a good girl for me.”

Her pace builds, the wet sound of her fingers sliding in out of your tight heat filling the silence between your breathy moans. Your other hand clutches at her hoodie, nails digging in, trying to ground yourself, the pressure building inside you as you clench around her desperately.

Billie feels it, smirking against your cheek. “That’s it. Don’t hold back. Let go for me, sweet girl.”

Her words tip you right over the edge. Your orgasm tearing through you, shattering and stealing your breath from your lungs. You cry out into her mouth, back arching off the seat, thighs trembling as she continues her relentless thrusts of her fingers, working you through it.

After a moment, she slowly pull her fingers out, bringing them to her lips, licking them clean with a satisfied hum.

You slump back against the seat, dazed as your heart pounds wildly. The guilt and shame surges through your chest again, but deep down something else hums softly. You don’t name it, you can’t name it yet.

Billie watches you, eyes dark with lust but soft. She leans close, brushing a strand of hair from your flushed face.

“See?” she whispers, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight. “It’s not so much of a sin if it feels good.”

And something deep inside you knows she’s right.