ℳ.

You don’t come to church to be forgiven.

The church always smells faintly of wax and something older—polished wood, perhaps, or time itself. It clings to the air in a way that makes everything feel heavier than it should, like even your footsteps have to move with intention. You don’t mind it. If anything, you like the way it slows you down, forces a kind of attention to your body. The kind that causes people to speak in hushed tones once you pass through those doors.

They never speak quietly.

Not really.

But they pretend to.

Your heels click softly against the tiled floor despite your effort, a measured sound that echoes farther than you intend. There’s no one else here—at least not in the pews. It’s late enough that the sunlight has thinned into something muted, slipping through the stained glass in long, diluted streaks of color that brush across your skin. Reds. Golds. Something almost wine-dark that settles along the curve of your collarbone, just above the dip of your neckline.

You knew what you were doing when you chose this dress.

Modest enough to belong. Structured, high sleeves, the hem falling well below your knees. Respectable. But the fabric clings where it shouldn’t, tracing the line of your waist, your hips, the soft pull of your thighs when you walk. And the neckline—subtle, just low enough to suggest rather than reveal—rests like a quiet provocation at the center of your chest. The color is deep, somewhere between burgundy and rust, rich against your skin.

You pass a row of pews, fingers brushing lightly along the wood, and for a moment, you consider sitting.

You don’t.

You didn’t come here to sit.

The confessional stands off to the side, half-shadowed, its presence understated but unmistakable. You pause just short of it, tilting your head slightly as if listening for something. There’s no movement. No sound. But you know he’s there.

He always is at this hour.

It had taken you two visits to confirm it. Three to make it a habit.

By the fourth, you stopped pretending it was coincidence.

You step inside.

The door closes behind you with a soft, final click, sealing you into the dim, narrow space. The air is cooler here, tinged with something sharper—incense, maybe, or the faintest trace of smoke. You notice it immediately, though you say nothing about it. Not yet.

There’s a shift on the other side of the partition. Subtle. Controlled.

He knows it’s you.

Of course he does.

You settle onto the bench, smoothing your dress over your thighs more out of instinct than necessity, and let the silence stretch just long enough to feel intentional.

Then—

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

Your voice is soft, but not small. It carries, threading easily through the carved screen between you, deliberate in its clarity.

There’s a pause.

Not uncertainty. Not hesitation.

Recognition.

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

His voice is exactly as you remember—low, even, composed in a way that feels less like calm and more like discipline. Every word is measured, shaped carefully before it leaves him. It should feel distant.

It doesn’t.

“Not long,” you reply, tilting your head slightly though he can’t see it. “A few days.”

A beat.

“Then you are either very devout,” he says, “or very consistent in your sin.”

There’s something dry beneath it. Almost imperceptible.

It makes your lips curve.

“Can’t I be both?”

Silence again—but this time it shifts, something tightening subtly in the space between you.

“You’re here to confess,” he reminds you, tone unchanged. “Not to debate.”

You hum softly, as if considering the distinction.

“Right.”

Your fingers trace absent patterns along your knee, slow, idle movements that ground you in your body in a way that feels… deliberate. Everything about this feels deliberate.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” you begin.

There’s no immediate response, but you can feel his attention sharpen. It’s not something you hear—it’s something you sense, like the air itself has adjusted to hold more of him.

“And?” he prompts after a moment.

“And I don’t think I feel bad about it.”

A quiet exhale slips through the partition. Not quite a sigh. Not quite restraint.

“That, in itself, is not a sin,” he says. “What you do within that relationship might be.”

You smile, though he can’t see it.

“Oh,” you murmur. “Then I suppose I should be more specific.”

This time, the pause is shorter.

“Go on.”

You shift slightly on the bench, the fabric of your dress pulling just enough to remind you of how it fits—how it moves with you. The thought lingers as you speak.

“I let him touch me,” you say, voice even, unhurried. “More than once.”

The words settle between you, heavier than they should be.

“And did you resist?”

The question comes quickly. Too quickly to be careless.

You let a soft, almost amused breath leave you.

“No.”

A longer silence follows that.

You imagine him on the other side—back straight, expression controlled, hands still except for the smallest tension in his fingers. You imagine the way his jaw might tighten, the way he might look at nothing in particular just to keep himself anchored.

You’ve never seen him outside of this.

But you’ve thought about it.

“Do you intend to continue?” he asks finally.

There it is again—that precision. That effort to keep this contained within the bounds it’s supposed to exist in.

You lean slightly closer to the partition, lowering your voice just enough to soften it without losing clarity.

“Yes.”

It lands differently this time.

You know it does.

“Then you are not seeking absolution,” he says, and now there’s something beneath the words—faint, but present. “You are describing indulgence.”

“Maybe,” you allow.

Your fingers still.

“But I thought I should be honest.”

“Honesty requires remorse.”

“Does it?”

The question is gentle. Curious.

Dangerous.

Silence answers you again, but it’s not empty. It feels… full. Like something pressing just beneath the surface, contained only by effort.

You tilt your head slightly, gaze settling on the carved pattern of the screen.

“Do you always know when it’s me?” you ask, changing direction so smoothly it almost feels accidental.

That gets him.

The shift is immediate—not in sound, but in presence. In the way the air tightens, sharpens.

“This is not—”

“Because I think you do,” you continue softly, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Your voice changes. Just a little.”

It’s subtle. What you’re doing.

But not innocent.

Another pause.

Then—

“You shouldn’t come here without intention,” he says, quieter now. Not softer. Just… closer to something unguarded. “Confession is not a place for games.”

You smile again, slower this time.

“And what makes you think I’m playing?”

For the first time since you sat down, the silence stretches too long.

Not controlled.

Not deliberate.

Strained.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower. Not by much—but enough.

“If you have nothing further to confess,” he says, “then I will assign your penance.”

There’s distance in it now. Distance he’s trying to reestablish.

You let him have it.

For now.

“Alright,” you murmur, leaning back slightly, crossing one leg over the other. “Go ahead.”

There’s a faint shift—fabric, maybe. The smallest movement.

“Three prayers,” he says. “And a period of reflection. Consider whether you intend to continue in behavior you acknowledge as sinful.”

Your lips part slightly, but you don’t answer immediately. You let the words settle, turning them over in your mind like something worth examining.

Then—

“And if I do?”

You don’t mean to ask it.

Or maybe you do.

The response is immediate this time.

“Then you understand the consequences.”

The way he says it—

Not harsh.

Not condemning.

Certain.

It sends something slow and quiet down your spine.

You stand, smoothing your dress again, though there’s nothing to fix. For a moment, you consider saying something else. Pushing just a little further.

You don’t.

Not yet.

“Thank you, Father,” you say instead, voice composed, almost polite.

There’s no reply.

You step out of the confessional, the door closing behind you with that same soft finality. The church feels different now—quieter, but not in the same way as before. The air seems thicker, charged with something you can’t quite name but don’t need to.

As you walk toward the exit, your hand drifts briefly to your back, fingers brushing along the line of your spine where ink rests beneath fabric—deep red, curling, intricate. Hidden.

Contained.

For now.

Behind you, unseen, he doesn’t move for a long time.

──────────────

You don’t leave immediately.

Your hand finds the door, fingers curling around the handle with enough intention to make it feel real, like a decision already made. The evening air waits on the other side, dim and cool through the glass, promising distance from whatever it is that followed you out of the confessional—something quieter than tension, but heavier than curiosity.

You should go.

You don’t.

Because something feels unfinished.

It isn’t a sound that stops you, or movement—just a quiet, persistent awareness that settles low in your chest, the same way his presence had behind the partition. You linger a moment longer than necessary, your reflection faint in the glass, before your gaze drifts—pulled, not directed—toward the far end of the hall.

The side door is slightly open.

You don’t remember noticing it before.

Now you can’t ignore it.

The handle slips from your grasp without ceremony, your steps already shifting in that direction before you’ve fully decided to follow through. Your heels fall softer this time, more deliberate against the floor, your body moving with a kind of quiet certainty that feels less like hesitation and more like choice.

Cool air slips through the narrow opening as you push the door wider.

And with it—

Smoke.

You step outside.

The evening settles around you in muted blue, the sky caught between day and night, everything dimmed just enough to feel private. The air is cooler than inside, brushing against your skin, making you aware of the warmth you carried out with you.

He’s there.

Of course he is.

Leaning just to the side of the doorway, positioned carefully enough to remain unseen from inside, but not hidden. One shoulder rests against the brick wall, posture relaxed in a way that doesn’t quite align with the controlled stillness he carries everywhere else. A cigarette burns slowly between his fingers, the ember glowing faintly each time he inhales.

For a moment, you just look at him.

This is the first time you’ve seen him without distance softening him—no carved wood, no filtered voice, no barrier to turn him into something less tangible. The reality is… sharper. More precise. His collar is slightly undone, not careless, but not exact either. His sleeves are rolled once, exposing his forearms in a way that feels unintentional until you realize nothing about him is.

The cigarette doesn’t ruin the image.

It complicates it.

He doesn’t acknowledge you right away, though he must have heard the door. The quiet stretches just long enough to feel deliberate before his gaze shifts, settling on you without surprise.

“You’re still here.”

It’s not a question.

You take a few steps closer, slow, unhurried, your eyes moving over him in a way that mirrors what he’d done earlier—taking your time, not hiding it.

“So are you,” you reply, just as evenly.

Something in his expression tightens, almost imperceptibly. He lifts the cigarette, inhales, then exhales in a controlled stream that dissipates between you.

“This isn’t part of confession,” he says.

“No,” you agree, closing the distance by another step. “It’s not.”

You don’t stop there.

That’s the difference.

Your gaze drops briefly to his hand, to the cigarette, then lifts again, more direct now.

“I didn’t think you’d be the type,” you add, voice softer, but not gentler. “It doesn’t really fit.”

A pause.

Not long.

But noticeable.

“What doesn’t?” he asks.

You gesture faintly toward him, the movement small, but intentional.

“This.”

It’s vague on purpose.

His eyes narrow slightly—not irritation, not quite—but something more focused, more deliberate.

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

You hold his gaze, letting the silence stretch just enough to feel like pressure.

“You hear people confess things like that all day,” you say. “Lack of restraint. Indulgence. Bad habits.” Your eyes flick briefly to the cigarette again. “And then you walk out here and do the same thing.”

There it is.

Not playful.

Not entirely.

Something closer to accusation, wrapped in curiosity.

For the first time, his jaw tightens in a way that doesn’t quite smooth over immediately.

“It’s not the same,” he says.

“Sure.”

You step closer again—close enough now that the scent of smoke reaches you fully, curling into something sharper, something that doesn’t suit him nearly as well as it should.

“I just don’t think you believe it.”

That lands.

You see it.

Not in a dramatic reaction, but in the way he stills—completely, the kind of stillness that means something has hit closer than intended.

His gaze holds yours, sharper now.

“You’re making assumptions,” he says, quieter this time.

“Then correct me.”

You don’t give him room to redirect.

You don’t soften it.

The words sit between you, steady, expectant.

Another pause.

Longer this time.

“You’re not here for correction,” he says finally. “You’re here to provoke a response.”

It’s not a guess.

It’s a conclusion.

Your lips curve slightly—not wide, not obvious, but enough.

“And is it working?”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression then—brief, restrained, but real.

“Yes.”

The honesty is immediate.

Unfiltered.

It shouldn’t be.

That’s what makes it linger.

You take that in slowly, your attention sharpening in response, your posture shifting just enough to signal that you’re not done.

“Good,” you murmur, almost thoughtful.

Your gaze drops again, not to his face this time, but lower—taking in the loosened collar, the line of his throat, the way the fabric sits just slightly out of place.

“You don’t seem like someone who slips,” you continue, quieter now. “So I was wondering what this is.”

Your eyes lift back to his.

“A habit,” you add softly, “or a weakness.”

That does it.

Not visibly.

But something changes.

He exhales slowly, the last of the cigarette burning low between his fingers. When he drops it to the ground and crushes it beneath his shoe, the motion is more deliberate than it needs to be—controlled, but edged with something tighter than before.

“You should go home,” he says.

It sounds the same.

But it isn’t.

There’s strain under it now.

You don’t move.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly, studying him in a way that feels less like curiosity and more like assessment.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“Then what was it?”

A beat.

“A boundary.”

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, then let out a soft breath, something between a hum and a quiet acknowledgment.

“You’re not very good at those,” you say.

It’s not cruel.

It’s worse.

It’s accurate.

This time, the reaction is subtle but undeniable—the smallest shift in his posture, the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth before it smooths out again.

“Three prayers,” he says, redirecting cleanly, though it comes a fraction too late. “You were given a penance.”

“And you’re breaking yours.”

The words slip out easily.

Too easily.

Another pause.

“You don’t know what my penance is,” he replies.

You step just a little closer.

“I think I’m looking at it.”

That sits between you, heavier than anything you’ve said so far.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then—

“Will you be here tomorrow?” you ask.

No teasing.

No softness.

Just intention.

He holds your gaze, something quieter settling behind it now—not gone, not resolved, just… contained again with more effort than before.

“Yes.”

You nod once.

That’s all you need.

This time, when you turn, you follow through. Your steps are unhurried as you move back toward the door, your hand finding the handle with more certainty than before.

You pause just before stepping inside, glancing back over your shoulder.

He hasn’t moved.

Of course he hasn’t.

“Goodnight, Father.”

There’s a brief delay.

Then—

“Goodnight.”

Lower.

Tighter.

You don’t smile.

You don’t need to.

The door closes behind you.

And this time, you know exactly what you’ve done.

──────────────

You don’t announce yourself when you enter.

You never really have to anymore.

The church feels the same as before, but your awareness of it has changed in a way you don’t fully examine. The air is still cold, the wood still polished, the silence still structured—but now it doesn’t feel empty. It feels occupied, even when no one is visible, as if the space itself has started remembering patterns.

You move through it without hesitation and settle into the confessional with a familiarity that doesn’t feel earned so much as repeated. The door closes behind you with the same soft finality, and for a moment you sit without speaking, letting the quiet arrange itself properly before you disrupt it.

On the other side, there’s a shift.

Not surprise.

Just awareness sharpening into place.

“You’re early,” he says after a moment, voice even, controlled in the way it always is when he’s trying to make something feel procedural.

It isn’t a question.

You adjust slightly on the bench, smoothing your dress out of habit. The fabric catches at your thigh the way it always does—too intentional for a place like this, though you’ve stopped thinking about whether that matters. You notice instead how the light behaves in here; how it doesn’t reach all the way into the corners, how sound feels absorbed rather than reflected.

“I wasn’t keeping track,” you answer finally, not quite deflecting, not quite engaging.

There’s a pause on his side—brief, measured. You hear paper shift faintly, or maybe it’s just the smallest movement of him settling back into attention.

“You usually do,” he says.

It’s not pointed. Just observational.

Still, it lingers a little longer than it should.

You tilt your head slightly, though he can’t see it, your gaze drifting toward the carved wood between you as if you could read him through it the way you’ve started to read the rhythm of his voice.

“I usually have a reason,” you reply, and leave it there.

Silence follows, but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels like he’s waiting for you to expand, and you don’t.

Not immediately.

Instead, you let your attention drift back inward, retracing fragments of earlier moments without fully naming them. The way he had looked at you when you stepped outside last time. The way his voice had changed only slightly when the space wasn’t formal enough to demand perfection. The way he never fully interrupts you, even when he should.

“You didn’t do the prayers,” he says eventually.

This time, there’s less distance in it. Less structure.

It isn’t accusation. It’s awareness.

You hum softly under your breath, not quite agreement, not quite dismissal.

“I thought about them,” you say after a moment.

A pause.

“That wasn’t the instruction.”

“No,” you agree, “it wasn’t.”

The conversation should end there, or redirect. That’s what it would have done before. Instead, it doesn’t move. It holds, like neither of you is in a hurry to restore the shape of what this is supposed to be.

You shift slightly, crossing one leg over the other, the movement slow enough to be incidental. The fabric of your dress pulls at your thigh again, a quiet reminder of how carefully chosen nothing about you is, even when you pretend otherwise.

On the other side, you hear him breathe once—controlled, faint. Not audible enough to be called a reaction, but enough to mark presence.

“You’re distracted,” he says.

Not judgment.

Not concern.

Just recognition.

You let the word settle before answering.

“I noticed something earlier,” you say instead.

That earns a pause. Shorter this time.

“What kind of something?” he asks.

It isn’t curiosity the way most people would ask it.

It’s contained attention.

You take your time before answering, gaze drifting downward briefly as if you’re recalling something incidental rather than important. The detail itself is small—almost not worth mentioning if it didn’t keep returning to you uninvited.

“The way you look at the room before you speak,” you say finally.

Another pause.

This one lasts longer.

When he responds, his voice is quieter than before.

“That’s not unusual.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

The correction is immediate, but not sharp.

There’s a shift on his side—subtle, restrained. Something adjusting in posture or thought, though you only have sound to measure it by.

You continue before the silence can settle too firmly.

“It changes,” you add. “Depending on who’s in it.”

That does something.

Not dramatic.

But real enough that the air feels slightly more focused afterward.

“You’re imagining patterns,” he says after a moment, but it lacks its earlier certainty.

You lean back slightly against the wood behind you, letting yourself sit into the space instead of pressing into it. Your voice stays even, unhurried.

“Maybe,” you allow. “Or maybe I’m noticing them.”

A pause.

This one holds longer.

When he speaks again, it’s slower.

“This is still a confession,” he says, but it doesn’t carry the same insistence it used to.

You don’t answer immediately.

Instead, your gaze drifts again toward the carved partition, the faint outline of it separating you from him in a way that feels less absolute than it did the first time you sat here.

“I know,” you say finally.

Not agreement.

Not correction.

Just acknowledgment.

That alone seems to shift something again, though neither of you name it.

On the other side, there’s a faint sound—paper shifting, or his hand adjusting something he doesn’t need to adjust. When he speaks again, it’s measured, but not entirely smooth.

“You still haven’t said what you came to confess.”

It’s a return to structure.

A way of reclaiming form.

You consider that for a moment, not rushing to fill it.

“I didn’t come with one,” you say eventually.

The silence that follows is immediate.

Not heavy.

But alert.

You continue before he can redirect it.

“I thought I did,” you add, softer now. “But I think I just wanted to sit somewhere and listen.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“To what?” he asks.

This time, the question feels less procedural than it should.

You glance down at your hands briefly, as if grounding yourself in something physical before answering.

“You,” you say.

A beat.

“Are you satisfied?” he asks.

The question is quiet.

Controlled.

But it doesn’t sit like authority anymore.

It sits like curiosity that’s trying not to become personal.

You don’t answer immediately.

Instead, you lean forward slightly, resting your forearms loosely against your thighs, posture relaxed in a way that makes the space feel closer than it is.

“No,” you say.

Silence follows that.

This time, neither of you rush to fill it.

Not immediately.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower.

“You still haven’t done the penance.”

It sounds less like instruction now.

More like something he’s holding onto.

You let a small breath leave you—not a sigh, not a response.

Just acknowledgment that lingers.

“I’ll do it,” you say finally.

A pause.

Then, after a moment—

“Eventually.”

That earns the quietest shift yet.

Not in sound.

In presence.

And for the first time since this began, he doesn’t correct you.

When you leave, the door closes the same way it always does.

But nothing about the space feels fully returned to what it was before you entered.

And on the other side, he stays still longer than necessary.

As if waiting for something that didn’t arrive in the expected form.

Or already did.

──────────────

The church feels unchanged when you arrive, but you don’t trust that impression anymore.

The light still pours through the stained glass in fractured bands across the stone floor, and the heavy air of the church settles in around you like a thick blanket. But now you notice it all differently. The stillness isn’t just a passive absence—it feels held in place. The weight of it has become intentional, as if someone, or something, is keeping the space suspended for the moment you step inside.

And as you walk toward the confessional, you realize that this too is no longer just a ritual for you. It's not just about expectation or sin or guilt—it’s become an event in itself. One you’ve entered fully, willingly, each time, and yet now, you wonder if the space you’ve always known still holds the same meaning.

You open the door to the confessional. The hinges creak slightly as you close it behind you, but this sound isn’t final. It’s only marking the transition between what was and what might be.

The silence doesn’t feel as oppressive today—it feels like a choice. Something deliberate.

Your fingers linger on the fabric of your dress, smoothing it down gently before resting in your lap. You don’t rush this motion anymore. You take your time, aware of every inch of fabric against your skin, the weight of your body settling into the seat.

On the other side, there’s no immediate movement. No sound.

That, too, is different now.

Then, his voice.

“You’re consistent.”

It feels like it’s been waiting there, just behind the silence, and now it moves through the space between you, shifting the air in its wake. It’s still measured, controlled, but it feels almost too aware of the space it occupies now.

You don’t respond right away. You don’t feel the need to.

You hum softly in acknowledgment instead, letting the faint sound fill the air, not as an answer but as a space for everything else to breathe.

“I usually am,” you reply, your tone calm, even.

Another pause follows. Shorter than it used to be.

And yet, it feels… more noticeable.

Normally, he would’ve continued, led the conversation, guided it back to its structure. But he doesn’t. Not this time.

Instead, you hear the softest rustle of paper, barely audible, as if he’s thinking better of something, or perhaps giving the moment more space than either of you expected.

“You don’t come with anything to confess anymore,” he says.

It’s not a judgment. It’s just an observation, delivered with the same careful restraint as his previous words. But beneath it, there’s a weight. A tone that suggests more than he’s saying.

You shift slightly, crossing your legs over each other in the seat, the motion slow enough to feel almost incidental, but the way your dress hugs your body as you do it seems louder than the movement itself. You don’t rush your answer. Not this time.

“I suppose I don’t,” you say after a beat, your voice low, calm, but there’s something in it—a small trace of uncertainty.

You expect him to redirect it, to return to the formula of confession.

But he doesn’t. Not right away.

His voice comes again, quieter this time. Almost too quiet, as if he’s weighing his next words.

“That’s not how this is supposed to work.”

It isn’t a statement of instruction—it feels more like a quiet realization. Something slipping away from the expected, out of his control.

You raise an eyebrow slightly, though he can’t see it. Instead, you lean back slightly in your seat, your posture relaxing just a little, like you’re no longer fighting against the space between you.

“It still works,” you say, a subtle challenge in your tone. “Just differently.”

Another pause.

And you realize that he’s not simply processing what you’re saying—he’s feeling it. As though every word you speak forces him to rethink the role he’s been playing here.

“I should be assigning penance,” he says eventually, his voice sounding like he’s reminding himself more than you.

You don’t respond immediately.

When you do, your voice softens, quieter than before. It isn’t the playful edge you sometimes take on—it’s almost resigned, but there’s something in the stillness that feels more honest than anything you’ve said before.

“Are you going to?”

You feel him draw in a breath. It’s faint, but it’s there, like he’s trying to pull himself back into his own rhythm.

A pause. Longer this time.

“Yes,” he says, but even that word seems to have lost some of its certainty.

You let out a soft breath, not quite a sigh, but an acknowledgment that something is happening. That the distance between you has grown thinner without either of you meaning to. Your fingers move slowly along the edge of your sleeve, tracing the fabric in a slow, deliberate motion, almost absent-minded.

“You’ve stopped correcting me,” you say after a moment, the words falling lightly into the air.

There’s no defensiveness in it. No challenge. Just recognition.

There’s a small shift on his side. A subtle intake of breath, perhaps. Or maybe it’s just his voice—lower this time, almost hesitant.

“I haven’t,” he says, but there’s a slight delay in his response that gives him away.

You let that hang in the air, your gaze flickering towards the partition, but not directly at it. There’s something about it now that feels less like a physical barrier and more like something that holds both of you back at once.

“You think too much when I speak,” you say after a moment, the words lighter than they would’ve been before.

He doesn’t respond immediately, but when he does, it’s like something in him has shifted, too. There’s no defense this time, just a soft, quiet admission.

“That’s not unusual,” he replies, but it lacks its usual certainty.

“It is with me,” you say.

The silence that follows is palpable.

And when he speaks again, it’s slower. Almost as if he’s considering his words carefully for the first time.

“Why?”

The question is simple. Too simple. But it’s not the structure of confession. It’s personal.

You pause, weighing his words, but instead of an immediate answer, you let the space stretch between you.

“Because you don’t condemn me when I expect you to,” you say softly. “And you notice things you shouldn’t.”

A beat passes. A pause that feels too long.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, like he’s finally finding the weight of what’s been happening between you.

“That isn’t what I meant for this to be.”

It’s not a correction.

It’s clarification.

You still for a moment.

It feels like there’s an answer waiting, but you let it hang.

And when you do speak again, it’s not about any of the things you expected to say.

“I don’t know,” you say softly. It’s the first time you’ve admitted confusion in this space, and it feels like it settles in you, heavy and real.

On the other side, there’s silence again.

You feel it more than hear it, the space between you suddenly holding everything you’ve said without rushing to dismiss it.

Then his voice, lower.

“Do I distract you?”

The question isn’t expected. It’s not confession. It’s not instruction. It’s not anything he’s supposed to say here.

It’s personal. Too personal.

You don’t answer immediately, your fingers absently brushing against the fabric of your dress. The silence wraps itself around you, thick with the weight of the question.

“Yes,” you say, softly.

The word is simple.

And yet, the air shifts, settling into a quiet place that neither of you has prepared for.

When he speaks again, his voice is slower, more controlled, like he’s holding something back now.

“You should leave after this.”

You don’t argue. You don’t correct him.

“I know,” you say.

And for the first time, you realize you don’t mean it in just one way.

The church is quieter now. The usual hum of voices fades as the congregation continues their movements, almost instinctual. You walk forward with purpose, but there is no hurry. You feel the weight of the moment pressing into your chest, and with each step, your heart beats just a little harder, a little faster. The people around you are fading into the background, their ritual mechanical, their gestures repetitive. This, however—this is different.

As you near the altar, you can feel the priest’s presence before you even see him clearly. He is waiting, as always, but there is something about him today that feels unsettled. His posture is too controlled, too still, like he’s been holding back from something. And you realize that you’re not just walking toward him anymore—you’re walking into something.

When you stand before him, the air thickens. The altar, usually a neutral ground for these rituals, now feels like a boundary, a line neither of you is willing to cross yet—at least not openly. His gaze catches yours, steady but searching. He doesn’t speak immediately, but you know he’s waiting.

He raises the Eucharist, the host delicate between his fingers, but instead of extending it toward you as the others have done, you remain still. You don’t extend your hands.

Instead, you meet his gaze unflinchingly, your lips parted just slightly. You don’t need to say anything for him to understand what you mean.

The silence between you stretches, taut and fragile. He doesn’t move immediately, his hand hovering over you, the bread barely above your lips. His breath catches, just for a moment, and you see the faintest hesitation. You don’t break the moment. You just wait.

Finally, he breathes in deeply, his voice softer than it’s ever been, but clear:

“The body of Christ.”

The words are expected, but the tone behind them feels different. Not just a statement of doctrine, but an invitation—one he’s not sure he’s ready to make. It’s still a ritual, still a response to the sacred, but the air between you is no longer just spiritual.

Your tongue flicks out slowly, meeting the bread. It’s delicate. Barely a touch, but the weight of the action is undeniable.

The contact is brief. His fingers brush against your lips as you take the Eucharist directly from him, your mouth closing softly around it. You don’t look away. Not once. Your gaze holds his, steady, the tension building like a charge between you. You feel the bread dissolve slowly in your mouth, but there’s something heavier than the taste of it.

The rest of the church continues its movements, but it feels like time has frozen here, between the two of you. The moment stretches longer than it should, the weight of the ritual not lost, but transformed by the act itself. His eyes don’t leave yours as you pull back, swallowing slowly.

There’s no immediate word from him, no correction or further command. He just watches you, and you feel it like a weight in the air.

You don’t say Amen.

And he doesn’t ask you to.

It is the silence that speaks now.

He doesn’t give the final blessing, doesn’t offer any further instruction. For a long moment, he stands there, fingers still outstretched, the Eucharist now gone, the air heavy with everything that passed in that exchange. You remain in place, your posture relaxed but the tension still humming in your chest, not daring to break it yet. His hand hovers for just a moment longer, as if waiting for something, anything, to happen next.

Finally, he lowers his hand, the host now gone, and speaks. His voice is quiet, almost like an afterthought.

“Go in peace.”

Without a word, you turn and walk away, feeling his gaze on your back, lingering as you move further from him.

You don’t look back.

──────────────

The room is as quiet as it usually is. The stone walls feel solid, unmoving, but the air is alive, buzzing with something unspoken between you and him. The service has ended, but there’s still a heavy stillness, a sense of time hanging slower than it should. And it’s you who lingers now, not him.

You didn’t plan on it, but you find yourself standing in the doorway, watching him as he moves through the cluttered desk in the back room. There’s a cigarette between his lips, the ember glowing faintly, casting a warm glow across his face. You’ve seen him in this light before. But today, it feels different. Maybe it’s the way his posture has shifted, or the slight tension in his shoulders as he sorts through papers, a faint trace of weariness beneath his usual dry exterior.

You hesitate for only a moment. Then, without thinking about it too much, you step inside.

The sound of your heels is almost deliberate, echoing against the stone floor as you move closer. There’s no rush in your steps—just the steady, deliberate pace of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.

He doesn’t look up right away, but you know he senses you. You’re close enough now that the silence between you isn’t empty anymore. The space feels smaller, charged.

Finally, after what feels like a beat too long, he lifts his gaze, meeting yours. The slight surprise in his eyes is enough to make you smile to yourself. He’d probably never admit it, but you know it: you’ve caught him off guard again.

“Back again?” His voice is dry, as if it’s the last thing he expected, but there’s something else in it this time—something less certain than usual.

You nod, taking a step closer, letting the space between you shrink. No hesitation. You’re not here to talk doctrine today.

“You could say I can’t stay away,” you murmur, your tone playfully teasing, like you’re sharing a secret with him no one else could know.

He quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he pulls the cigarette from his lips, giving it a lazy drag, the smoke curling up between you, hanging in the air like a shield.

It’s almost too easy. You’re too close now. The space between you isn’t a gap anymore; it’s just an unspoken invitation. And you don’t take the time to second-guess yourself.

With a soft step forward, you slide into the seat next to him, close enough that the side of your body brushes against his arm. There’s no apology, no acknowledgment. You don’t even look at him as you settle in—your presence felt rather than spoken.

For a moment, he doesn’t react. He just sits there, fingers drumming lightly against the table, watching you in that way he does—measuring, analyzing. He doesn’t move away.

It’s your turn to make the next move. You glance at the cigarette in his hand, the smoke trailing upwards in lazy spirals. Without saying anything, your hand slides toward his, fingers brushing against the pack of cigarettes that rests on the edge of the table. But you don’t reach for the pack.

Instead, you reach for the cigarette between his lips, your fingers barely grazing the corner of his mouth as you take it from him—intentionally slow, making sure to let your fingers brush against his lips just enough to feel the heat of them.

He doesn’t pull back. Not immediately. He watches you—his breath catching for the briefest second, but he doesn’t move.

You don’t look at him as you bring the cigarette to your own lips, still feeling the lingering warmth of where your skin touched his. The intimacy of it. The way the simple act of taking the cigarette felt like a challenge, like an unspoken power play that you both recognized but neither of you would admit.

When you exhale, the smoke dances between you both, swirling and shifting the air in a way that feels strangely intimate, like you’ve just crossed a threshold neither of you can uncross.

He’s still watching you. Not speaking, but observing. There’s no judgment, no condemnation, just curiosity.

You glance at him then, meeting his gaze directly. “You don’t mind, do you?”

The question isn’t really a question. It’s an invitation. A provocation.

He doesn’t answer right away, his fingers resting against the table, the cigarette dangling from the side of your mouth. He exhales a slow breath of smoke, his gaze never leaving yours.

“I didn’t think you were the type,” he says quietly, his voice holding that familiar edge of amusement, though it’s softened by something else—something you can’t quite place.

You smile a little, the corner of your lips lifting just slightly. “You don’t know much about me, do you?”

He doesn’t respond. There’s no need to. You’ve already said enough.

For a moment, the tension hangs thick in the air. Neither of you moves. You both stay in it, caught in that space where the physical closeness is just as heavy as the silence between you.

You lean back slightly, cigarette still between your lips. “You’re always so… restrained,” you comment softly, breaking the silence, though you’re not really asking for an answer. “It’s almost… a little boring.”

He shifts in his seat, his gaze flickering to your lips, the cigarette still perched there, and then to your eyes. For a second, it almost feels like you’ve pulled the rug out from under him—but then again, that was the point, wasn’t it?

The smoke curls lazily between the two of you, a thin veil that seems to thicken the air and pull everything else into sharper focus. He’s still watching you, the flickering light from the nearby candles dancing across his face, revealing the sharp angles of his features, the way his jaw tightens ever so slightly when his eyes linger on your lips.

You keep your gaze locked on his, never breaking the connection. You can feel his attention weighing heavily on you, his thoughts wrapped up in the way you’ve invaded his space, in the way you’re letting him feel this slow, deliberate tension.

There’s a quiet hum of expectation between you two now. And you can feel the exact moment it shifts, when the tension thickens into something almost tangible, as if it’s waiting for you to make the next move.

So, you do.

Without breaking eye contact, you shift. It’s subtle at first, just enough to adjust the angle of your body, the side of your dress pulling slightly with the movement. The shift is deliberate, just enough to make the fabric of your dress hug a little tighter, but it’s the small, intentional movement of your shoulder that catches the light.

For a fraction of a second, the edge of your tattoo is exposed—just a glimpse of reddish-brown ink at the side of your neck. The dragon’s tail starts just beneath the curve of your shoulder, a sinuous line winding gently down your neck, wrapping toward the back where the design grows more intricate and detailed. The tattoos’ scales trace the line of your skin, the red undertones catching the light, the warmth of it almost glowing in the soft candlelight.

It’s barely visible, a flash of ink that disappears as quickly as it appears, but it’s enough—just enough for him to notice. You don’t look at it. You don’t need to. You already know what you’ve done, the intimate vulnerability of letting him see just that sliver of ink, teasing the edges of something more.

You don’t rush. You let the moment sit there, heavy with the awareness of what you’ve just done. The cigarette is still between your fingers, smoke curling around your face, but you keep your gaze locked on his, knowing he’s looking at that spot now—at the exposed ink, the curve of your shoulder, the way your dress now sits just a little differently.

You breathe out a slow stream of smoke, and then, with a playful edge to your voice, you ask:

“Want a better look?”

It’s more of a command than a question, the unspoken challenge hanging between you. It’s the smallest provocation, an invitation without needing any words to back it up.

He doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes, still sharp, are fixed on the spot where the tattoo peeked out. For a moment, it feels like time has slowed just enough for you to feel the weight of the tension settling around you both.

Finally, he exhales, his eyes flicking back to your face, his gaze still intense.

“I didn’t know you had… that,” he says, his voice softer than usual, almost hesitant. The words seem to carry a weight—less surprise, more… curiosity.

You lean back slightly, still holding his gaze. The tension in the air between you both feels palpable, like neither of you is quite ready to move past this moment, not yet.

“Most people don’t,” you say softly, your smile just a little dangerous now. You lean in, close enough that the space between your lips and his is barely an inch, just enough to make the tension feel almost unbearable. “But now you do.”

You take a long drag from the cigarette, the embers glowing as you exhale, watching the smoke curl between you both.

There’s no need to say more. You both know what this is.

The room holds its breath.

There’s a flicker of something in Higuruma’s gaze—something unspoken but undeniable. The tension shifts, deepens. It’s no longer just about the teasing or the power play; there’s an electric charge that hums between you, thickening the air.

Your gaze doesn’t waver from his as you pull the cigarette from your lips, exhaling a steady stream of smoke. The curl of it lingers in the air, wrapping around you both, almost like it’s keeping you connected, even as the silence stretches, filling every inch of the room.

His voice, when it comes, is softer, hesitant but still firm, just enough to show how much this moment means.

“I’d like a better look.”

It’s not a question, not a demand either, just a quiet invitation. An acknowledgment of the shift that’s already begun.

You let the wordless invitation settle between you, watching him as he stands, as though the weight of it settles on him too. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t move, but you don’t need to hear more. You’re already well aware of the space you’ve created between you two—the way his self-control has begun to fray just at the edges.

Without breaking eye contact, you get off the desk, the slow, deliberate movement of your body fluid and graceful. You don’t rush. You move as though you’re the one in control of time, as though you know exactly how long the tension will need to stretch before something finally gives.

You stand, facing him, your hands slowly finding their place on the surface of the desk. Your fingers splay out across the wood, gripping just enough to feel grounded. The motion is purposeful, seductive, the fabric of your dress pulling tight across your back as you lean into it, arching your shoulders slightly—intentionally, but not overly obvious. The tattoo, the dragon, shifts with you, just enough to show its edge—just enough for him to see. But you don’t look at it. You don’t need to.

The room is charged with anticipation. There’s no more space for words.

Higuruma moves toward you, a long step, his presence near you more intense now, the tension thick enough to be felt in the way his fingers twitch at his sides. When he stands behind you, the air changes. It’s as though the room has compressed, and now there’s only him and you, nothing in between.

His fingers brush against the fabric of your dress, and it’s only then that you realize how much you’ve let yourself lean into this. Into him. Your breath catches, but you don’t let it show. Not now. Not yet.

Then, in one smooth motion, he reaches for the zipper at the back of your dress. The movement is slow, controlled. There’s something deliberate about it, like he’s giving you one last chance to pull away—one last chance for either of you to stop this.

But neither of you moves. The silence is full of tension, of the knowledge that once this moment passes, there’s no going back.

You bring the cigarette to your lips, the cherry glowing a vibrant, warning orange in the dim light. You take a slow, deep drag, letting the smoke pool in your lungs before releasing it in a thin, lazy stream that drifts toward his face. You can feel his gaze tracking the movement, his eyes dark and dilated, fixed on the path the smoke takes. The zipper reaches the small of your back, and the dress hangs precariously, held only by the tension of your posture and the curve of your hips.

You shift your weight, arching your back just enough to let the fabric slip further, fully exposing the intricate ink of the dragon winding across your shoulder. You turn your head, catching his reflection in the darkened window before meeting his eyes directly. The silence is absolute, save for the crackle of the embers. You hold his stare, your expression a mask of cool, calculated confidence.

"You're a little quiet back there," you murmur, the words low and vibrating with a playful, dangerous edge. You let the cigarette dangle loosely between your fingers, the smoke curling around your jawline. "Find what you were looking for?"

Higuruma’s throat works as he swallows, his jaw tightening until the muscles ripple beneath his skin. He doesn't pull away, though every instinct he possesses as a man of the cloth screams for him to retreat. Instead, he leans in, his lips hovering mere inches from the shell of your ear. "I find," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely masks the strain in his tone, "that you have a very talented way of making things... difficult."

You smirk at Higuruma's words, a wicked glint in your eye as you take another long drag from the cigarette. The embers flare brightly as you inhale deeply, your cheeks hollowing slightly. You can feel the tension radiating off Higuruma's body, his muscles coiled tight like a predator ready to pounce. Or perhaps, you think with a inward smirk, like a man teetering on the edge of temptation.

Turning your head, you catch his gaze, holding it captive with your own. Your hand comes up to the back of his neck, fingers curling around the nape, feeling the short, crisp hairs tickle your palm. Higuruma's breath hitches almost imperceptibly, but you don't miss the slight flare of his nostrils or the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard.

"Tense, are we?" you murmur, your lips curling into a teasing grin. "Here, let me help with that."

You don't pass him the cigarette. Instead, you lean in closer, your nose brushing against his jaw, your lips a hair's breadth from his. You feel the warmth of his breath mingling with your own, the scent of smoke and something darker, headier, that is uniquely him. Your fingers tighten in his hair, nails digging into his scalp as you tilt your head, your mouth falling open.

Exhaling slowly, you shotgun the smoke directly into Higuruma's open mouth, watching with hooded eyes as the wisps of gray curl past his lips and disappear between them. The action is intimate, a violation of his personal space, but not quite a kiss. Your mouths don't touch, but the implication hangs heavy in the air between you, a promise of something more.

"Feel better?" you ask, your voice a low, sultry purr. Your thumb strokes along the back of Higuruma's neck, a deliberate, almost absent-minded gesture that belies the intent behind it. "Or are things still... difficult?" The last word is spoken with a teasing lilt, a challenge thrown down between you like a gauntlet. The air between you shimmers with tension, the unspoken words hanging heavily as you await his response.

Higuruma's grip on your hips tightens, his fingers sinking into the flesh of your ass as he pushes you forward. The cool wood of the desk meets your elbows, your breasts pressing against the smooth surface as your back arches, pushing your rear up and back to meet his straining arousal. His hand slides up your spine, his palm pressing against the exposed skin, leaving a trail of tingling heat in its wake. Your breath hitches, anticipation coiling tight in your belly as his other hand grips the back of your neck, tilting your head to the side.

"Is this what you wanted?" Higuruma rasps, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble. "To have me lose control, to give in to this... this hunger you've been stoking for so long?" His lips brush against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point before soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue. You feel the heat of his breath, the weight of his body pressing down on you, pinning you in place.

His mouth blazes a trail down your throat, his lips hot and demanding against your skin. He sucks at your collarbone, his tongue delving into the hollow, the scrape of his teeth sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core. All the while, he keeps you bent over the desk, your body held taut and arched, your ass pressed back against the rigid line of his erection.

"You've been teasing me for weeks now," Higuruma growls, punctuating his words with a sharp squeeze to your rear. "Flirting and provoking, always pushing me to the brink." His hand slides down to your thigh, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. "And now, now you're going to take what you've been begging for."

He hikes your leg up, your knee bending to accommodate his hips as he grinds himself against you. The desk creaks beneath you, the sound mingling with the harsh rasp of your breathing and the low, guttural curses falling from Higuruma's lips. He's lost in a haze of lust, his control shattered by the sheer force of his desire for you. And you know, with a wicked little thrill, that you've only just begun to unravel the tightly wound priest, to expose the man of flesh and blood beneath the robes and collar.

Higuruma's grip on your thigh tightens, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks. For a moment, he grinds against you with wild abandon, lost in the haze of his own desire. But then, as suddenly as it began, he stills. His body goes rigid, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps against your neck.

"Stop," Higuruma commands, his voice strained. It's not a request, but a desperate plea torn from the depths of his soul. He releases your thigh, his hands coming up to grip your shoulders as he pulls you upright, turning you to face him.

His eyes are wild, the gray irises nearly swallowed by the black of his dilated pupils. A muscle ticks in his jaw, a telltale sign of the internal struggle raging within him. He's a man teetering on the edge of a precipice, desperately trying to cling to the remnants of his crumbling control.

"On your knees," Higuruma orders, his voice low and rough with barely restrained desire. "It's time you repented for your sins."

You hold his gaze, unflinching, a slow, sultry smile curving your lips despite the command. There's no hesitation in you—your confidence burns brighter under his dominance, turning it into fuel. Slowly, deliberately, you sink to your knees before him, the stone floor cool and unforgiving against your skin through the thin fabric of your half-unzipped dress. The hem pools around your thighs, the dragon tattoo peeking from your shoulder as you settle, knees parting just enough to emphasize the arch of your back. You look up at him innocently, wide-eyed and doe-like, but the spark in your stare is anything but pure—it's wicked, inviting, a silent dare wrapped in velvet.

Your hands rest lightly on his thighs, fingers tracing the fabric of his priestly robes with feather-light pressure, feeling the heat and tension coiled beneath. The cigarette dangles forgotten from your fingers now, ash crumbling to the floor. You tilt your head, maintaining that unbroken eye contact, your voice a husky whisper laced with teasing challenge. "Like this, Father? On my knees, begging for absolution?"

Higuruma towers over you, his jaw clenched, those gray eyes half-lidded but stormy with restrained hunger. His hand remains at the back of your neck, thumb stroking the pulse point there in a possessive rhythm. He doesn't break the stare, doesn't flinch from the power play you're still weaving even from below. "Words are cheap," he murmurs, his tone measured, that dry wit threading through like smoke. "Prove your repentance. Or are you all tease and no salvation?"

You lean in closer, lips parting as your breath ghosts over the front of his robes, eyes never leaving his. "Oh, I can repent," you purr, voice dripping with sexy assurance, "but only if you guide me, Father. Tell me exactly how sinful I am." The air thickens, charged with the shift—he's dominant now, yes, but your innocence is a weapon, confident and unyielding, pulling him deeper into the game.

Higuruma's fingers tighten in your hair as he guides your face closer to the straining bulge in his trousers. His touch is insistent, almost rough in its intensity, the grip on your locks bordering on painful. Yet, you don't pull away—no, you lean into it. Your heart pounds as he tugs you forward, the heat of his arousal searing you even through the fabric of his robes.

His other hand works at the fastenings of his pants, the button popping open with an audible click that seems to echo in the charged air between you. The zipper descends slowly, torturously, each tooth parting from its neighbor with agonizing slowness. You watch, transfixed and panting softly, as inch by inch he reveals the base of his cock, the thick root pulsing with barely restrained desire.

"Look at me," Higuruma commands, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sends vibrations through your very bones. "Keep your eyes on mine." His grip on your hair tightens fractionally, a silent warning, a demand for obedience.

You blink up at him, your gaze hazy but obedient, drinking in the raw, unbridled lust etched into every hard line of his face. Your tongue darts out to wet your lower lip, a subconscious gesture of anticipation that draws his eye like a magnet. Emboldened, you reach out with trembling fingers to help him, to speed the process, desperate to feel him, to taste him. But Higuruma has other plans.

He tuts, shaking his head slowly as he tugs your hair, forcing your head back. His cock springs free, the thick shaft slapping against your cheek, leaving a streak of heat in its wake. Before you can react, he's tapped the swollen head against your parted lips, the musky scent of his arousal flooding your senses, making your head swim.

"Open," he orders, the word a low, guttural command. His eyes bore into yours, stormy and intense, daring you to disobey. The air between you is electric, crackling with a tension that demands release. Your lips part further, breath escaping in a shuddering sigh as you surrender to his demand, ready and waiting for your penance.

Higuruma's grip on your hair tightens as he brings the swollen head of his cock to your lips, the thick shaft slapping against your cheek with a lewd sound. Your eyes widen, locking with his intense gaze as he taps the tip against your bottom lip, smearing the bead of precum that leaks from the slit. His other hand comes up to grip your chin, thumb and forefinger pinching your jaw to force your mouth open wider.

"Wider," he demands, his voice a low, authoritative growl. "Take it all in, temptress. Show me how sorry you are for leading me into sin." His hips flex forward, the thick length of him pushing past your lips, the head nestling on your tongue as he begins to feed you inch after inch of his throbbing cock.

Your eyes water as he pushes deeper, the musky scent and taste of him filling your senses. You look up at him, your gaze hazy but obedient, submitting to his dominance even as your tongue swirls around the sensitive head, lapping at the salty drops of precum that leak steadily now. Higuruma's breathing grows heavier, his chest heaving above you as he fights to maintain control, to hold back the urge to thrust forward and bury himself in the welcoming heat of your mouth.

"Fuck," he grits out, the word a prayer and a curse all in one. His fingers tighten in your hair, gripping the strands almost painfully as he fights the instinct to use your mouth for his pleasure. "You look so pretty like this, on your knees, choking on my cock. Is this what you wanted?" His hips rock forward slightly, pushing a little deeper, the thick shaft pulsing against your tongue. "To have me lose control, to fuck your pretty face until I paint your throat with my sin?" The crude words hang heavy in the air, a dark promise of the depravity to come if you keep pushing him to the edge of his restraint.

You whimper around Higuruma's thick shaft as he pushes deeper, your throat constricting reflexively. Drool escapes the seal of your stretched lips, dripping down your chin to splatter on your heaving breasts. The taste of him, musky and potent, fills your senses, making your head spin with a dizzying mix of shame and arousal. You choke and gag, tears springing to your eyes as he hits the back of your throat, but you don't pull away. Instead, you force yourself to breathe through your nose, inhaling the heady scent of his desire, letting it fill your lungs as he fills your mouth.

Higuruma's grip on your hair gentles slightly as he feels your throat convulse around him, your body's instinctive reaction to the intrusion. He pulls back, his cock slipping from your lips with a obscene pop, a string of saliva connecting the swollen head to your kiss-swollen mouth. With his other hand, he reaches out, his thumb brushing away the tears clinging to your lashes, the pad of his finger tracing the curve of your cheek in a fleeting, tender gesture.

"There now," he coos, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "Let them fall, let them cleanse you of your sins." He brings his thumb to your lips, pressing it past them, painting your tongue with the salt of your tears. "Thank me for it, temptress. Thank me for the absolution I grant you."

You obey, your voice a husky, muffled murmur around his thumb. "Thank you, Father," you manage, the words vibrating against the digit plugging your mouth. Your tongue swirls around it, lapping at the salt, savoring the flavor of your own penance even as it makes your mouth water for more of him.

Higuruma's eyes darken, his pupils blown wide with lust as he watches you, watches the way your throat bobs with each swallow, the way your tongue worships his skin. "Good girl," he praises, his voice rough with barely restrained desire.

He slaps the rigid shaft of his cock against your cheek, leaving a smear of precum on the soft skin. Before you can catch your breath, he's slammed back in, his cock driving deep, hitting the back of your throat and making you gag. He sets a brutal pace, fucking your face with quick, sharp thrusts, his heavy balls slapping against your chin with each pump of his hips.

"Fuck," he snarls, his head thrown back, the tendons in his neck straining. "I'm going to fill your mouth with my seed, mark you as mine, inside and out." His fingers tighten in your hair, gripping the strands almost painfully as he chases his pleasure, his body tensing, his thrusts growing erratic.

With a guttural groan, he buries himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he finds his release. You feel the hot, thick spurts of his cum hitting the back of your throat, coating your tongue, filling your mouth with the essence of his sin. He holds you in place, your nose pressed against his pelvis, forcing you to swallow around his spurting cock, to take every last drop of his penance.

As he pulls out, a thin strand of saliva and semen connects your lower lip to the tip of his softening shaft. He taps it against your mouth, smearing the mixture across your skin, marking you as a man's woman, a temptress tamed by a priest's lust. "Show me," he demands, his voice a low, authoritative rumble. His fingers reach out, pressing against your chin, tilting your face up to his. His thumb pushes into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, a silent command to open wide.

You tilt your head back further, parting your lips wide to display the pearly white pool of his release coating your tongue, the salty tang flooding your taste buds. Your eyes lock onto his, hazy with arousal, a soft whimper escaping as you hold the evidence of his pleasure for his inspection. The sight makes his cock twitch against your cheek, still semi-hard and glistening with your saliva.

"Perfect," Higuruma murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. He leans down, his free hand cupping your jaw tenderly, thumb stroking your lower lip. Without breaking eye contact, he hawks and spits directly into your open mouth, the warm glob mixing with his cum, a final act of dominance wrapped in intimacy. "Swallow."

The command sends a fresh wave of heat pooling between your thighs. You close your mouth, throat working visibly as you swallow every drop, the mingled essence sliding down your throat like liquid fire. A shiver races through you, your hands gripping his thighs tighter, nails digging into the fabric as you moan low and needy. "All gone, Father," you purr, voice husky and triumphant, licking your lips slowly for emphasis. "Your forgiveness tastes divine."

Higuruma's gaze darkens with renewed hunger, his thumb tracing the seam of your lips before pulling back. He straightens, chest heaving, but his hand lingers in your hair, petting you almost affectionately. "Such a good girl," he praises, the words a velvet caress. "You've taken your first step toward redemption." The air hums with unspoken promise, the tension far from sated, his arousal already stirring back to life under your heated stare.

Higuruma exhales a long, shaky breath, the sound vibrating in the small space between you. The sharp, authoritative edge in his voice has softened, replaced by a raw, grounded hunger that feels far more intimate than the role he was playing moments ago. He reaches out, his thumb catching a stray, glistening drop at the corner of your mouth, smearing it over your lower lip with a slow, possessive stroke. His eyes, once stormy with conflict, are now fixed on you with a terrifyingly clear focus.

"You're full of surprises," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that lacks the distance of the pulpit. He looks at you—really looks at you—stripping away the titles and the pretense. "I think you deserve a reward for that. For being so... dedicated to the cause." He gestures vaguely toward the heavy mahogany desk behind you, the one you were just bent over. "Get up there. On your back."

You don't miss the way his gaze lingers on the curve of your hips as you move. You climb onto the polished wood, the surface cool and unforgiving against your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from him. Your dress is a wreck, the zipper completely undone, the fabric bunching around your waist and exposing the pale expanse of your stomach and the dark, intricate lines of the dragon on your shoulder. You lie back, your hair splaying out across the desk like a dark halo, and you look down at him with a smirk that says you know exactly how much power you’ve just reclaimed.

Higuruma doesn't wait for an invitation. He drops to his knees between your parted legs, his movements heavy and deliberate. The sight of him—this man who usually carries himself with such rigid, legalistic precision—kneeling in the space between your thighs is a victory in itself. He rests his large hands on your knees, his grip firm but no longer trying to pin you down.

"Changing your tune, are we?" you tease, your voice returning to its confident, sultry purr. You reach down, your fingers brushing the hair back from his forehead, tracing the line of his furrowed brow. "I thought I was the one who needed saving. Now you're the one down on your knees."

He let out a short, dry huff of a laugh, his head tilting back just enough to meet your eyes. The candlelight catches the sweat on his skin, making him look human, reachable. "Maybe I'm just tired of talking about salvation," he says, his voice dropping an octave as he leans forward, his breath hot against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. "Maybe I'd rather just see how much more I can make you whimper."

He doesn't look away, his gray eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demands you watch him. He slides his hands up, his palms grazing the soft skin of your legs until he reaches the hem of your dress, slowly pushing the fabric higher. The air in the room is thick with the scent of incense and the musk of his recent release, but as he leans in closer, all you can smell is him—tobacco, old paper, and a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline.

Higuruma leans in close, his breath hot and heavy against your most intimate flesh. He bows his head, his forehead nearly touching the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he begins to pray, his voice a low, rumbling murmur. "For what I am about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful…" The words send a shiver racing up your spine, the reverent tone at odds with the wicked promise of his nearness. His hands slide higher, pushing your dress up to your hips, baring you completely to his hungry gaze.

"God, forgive me," he breathes, the words a prayer and a plea all in one. "For I am about to sin most profoundly." And with that, he leans in, his lips parting, and he kisses you. Not a chaste press of the mouth, but a open-mouthed, teasing caress that makes your hips jerk off the desk, seeking more. Higuruma chuckles, the sound a low, sinful rumble against your slick flesh.

"P-please," you whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair, trying to pull him closer. "Stop teasing me, you… you bastard." The last word comes out on a gasp as he parts your folds with the flat of his tongue, the slick muscle sliding through your dripping center with maddening slowness.

Higuruma just smirks, the curve of his lips pressing against your clit as he looks up at you, his eyes glinting with wicked amusement.

"But I thought you liked my brand of torment, my dear." Without waiting for a response, he seals his mouth over your pussy, his tongue delving deep, lapping at your essence like a man starved.

Higuruma’s hands slide up the backs of your thighs, pushing them wider apart as he settles more comfortably between your legs on the floor. The polished wood of the desk is cool beneath your back, but the heat radiating from his body quickly chases away any chill. He leans in slowly, his breath ghosting over your already slick folds, and the first drag of his tongue is deliberate, almost reverent. A low, hungry sound rumbles in his chest the moment he tastes you; his eyes flutter half-closed for only a second before they snap back up to your face, locking onto yours with unwavering intensity. He is visibly aroused by the act itself—his breathing grows heavier, his cheeks flushed, and the front of his open trousers tents again as he devours you like a man starved.

He laps at you with long, devoted strokes, his tongue flattening against your entrance before curling upward to circle your clit. Every time your face twists in pleasure—eyebrows knitting, lips parting on a gasp, eyes squeezing shut—he notices. His gaze never leaves you, drinking in every contortion of ecstasy like it fuels him. One of his hands leaves your thigh and slides up your body, palming your breast before his fingers find your nipple. He rolls the sensitive peak between thumb and forefinger, pinching lightly, then harder when your back arches off the desk.

His nose brushes deliberately against your swollen clit as he pushes his tongue inside you, the added pressure making your hips jerk. You cry out, fingers scrambling for purchase on the edge of the desk. “Fuck—Higuruma, it’s too much,” you whimper, voice cracking. He pulls back just enough to speak against your wet skin, voice rough but calm. “You can take it. You’ve been so good for me already.”

He teases you mercilessly. At one point he pulls his mouth away completely and delivers a sharp, open-handed slap directly to your clit. The sting blooms into white-hot pleasure that makes you sob. Another time he only slides one thick finger into your dripping heat, curling it slowly while his tongue flicks lazily at your entrance, never giving you enough friction. Later still, when you’re trembling and close, he pinches your clit between two fingers and holds the pressure there until you’re shaking.

Your head thrashes from side to side. “Please—oh god, please, I can’t—” The words tumble out in a desperate stream. “It’s too much, I’m gonna—fuck, Higuruma, please let me come. Can I come? Please?”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your pleading eyes, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal. His finger keeps moving inside you in slow, torturous strokes while his thumb hovers threateningly over your clit. “No,” he says simply, voice low and steady, though the hunger in his gaze betrays how much he’s enjoying this. “Not yet.”

You whine loudly, the sound turning into a frustrated sob as fresh tears prick at the corners of your eyes. Your hips roll helplessly against his face, chasing the pleasure he keeps just out of reach. “But I’ve been so good,” you beg, voice breaking on a whimper. “I’ve been so fucking good for you—please, Higuruma, I need it. I can’t hold it anymore. Please let me come.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead he leans back in, sucking your clit between his lips while his eyes stay locked on your flushed, desperate face. His free hand returns to your breast, tugging and rolling your nipple in time with the suction of his mouth. The wet, obscene sounds of his tongue and fingers fill the candlelit room, mixing with your broken moans and pleas. He is utterly devoted to your pleasure, yet completely in control of it—watching, waiting, and pushing you right to the razor’s edge without letting you fall.

Your thighs tremble around his shoulders. Every muscle in your body is strung tight, sweat beading on your skin as you fight the rising wave. “Higuruma…” you gasp, half-sobbing his name. The innocent look you gave him earlier has melted into raw, needy desperation, but your voice still carries that confident, sexy edge even while you beg. “I’ve been good… haven’t I? Please… just tell me I can come.”

The moment the words leave your lips—“I’ve been good… haven’t I? Please… just tell me I can come”—your body betrays you. The tight coil in your belly snaps without warning. Pleasure crashes over you in a sudden, violent wave, your walls clenching hard around his single finger as your clit throbs against his tongue. Your hips jerk up sharply, thighs trembling uncontrollably around his shoulders. A broken, breathy cry slips from your throat, not a scream but a soft, overwhelmed sob that echoes in the quiet room. Your eyes squeeze shut for a heartbeat before they fly open again, locking onto his gray gaze in panic and ecstasy.

Higuruma doesn’t stop.

His eyes narrow with dark intent the instant he feels you pulsing around him, the slick flood of your release coating his tongue and chin. Instead of pulling back, he doubles down. His mouth seals tighter around your oversensitive clit, sucking with renewed devotion while his tongue lashes relentlessly against the swollen bud. The single finger inside you curls harder, stroking that spongy spot with merciless precision, drawing out every last spasm. A low, aroused groan vibrates against your core—he is still painfully hard, visibly turned on by your disobedience and the way your body writhes beneath him.

You try to pull away, instincts screaming that it’s too much, too soon. Your hands fly down, palms pushing weakly at his shoulders, fingers scrabbling for purchase. “I can’t—” The words dissolve into a soft, hiccupping sob. But Higuruma is faster. His large hands snap up, wrapping firmly around both of your wrists. He pins them down against the cool mahogany desk on either side of your hips, his grip unyielding yet careful enough not to bruise. The restraint only heightens everything; you’re completely at his mercy now, unable to escape the relentless torture of his mouth.

He keeps going without pause. His nose brushes repeatedly against your throbbing clit as he licks broad, flat stripes through your folds, then returns to suckle the oversensitive nub with devastating focus. Every flick, every suck, every curl of that single finger sends sharp, electric aftershocks ripping through your already-spent body. Tears spill freely down your temples now, mixing with the sweat on your skin. Soft, broken whimpers and sobs are all you can manage—no loud screams, just quiet, overwhelmed cries that tremble in your chest.

“Fuck…” you gasp, voice small and watery. Your head thrashes weakly from side to side, hair sticking to your damp cheeks. “It’s too much… please…”

Higuruma lifts his gaze to yours again, never breaking eye contact. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with arousal and a hint of stern satisfaction at your punishment. He doesn’t speak, but the look says everything: you came without permission, and now you will feel every second of the consequences. His tongue circles your clit slowly, deliberately, dragging out the overstimulation until your legs shake violently. He releases one of your wrists only long enough to pinch your nipple again, rolling the peaked bud between his fingers in time with the suction on your clit, before reclaiming your wrist and pinning it back down.

“I’m sorry…” The apology slips out in a soft, tearful sob, your voice cracking. Your hips twitch helplessly, trying to twist away, but his shoulders and hands hold you firmly in place. “Please… I can’t… fuck, Higuruma…”

He hums against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core and pulling another choked whimper from your throat. His devotion is relentless—tongue, lips, and finger working in perfect, punishing harmony. He watches every contortion of your face: the way your brows furrow, the way your lips tremble and part on those quiet, desperate sounds, the fresh tears that slip from the corners of your eyes. The wet, obscene noises of his mouth devouring your overstimulated pussy fill the room, mingling with your soft sobs and broken pleas.

Another wave builds far too quickly, painful in its intensity. Your whole body trembles, muscles locking and releasing in erratic spasms. “Please…” you beg again, the word barely more than a whisper between soft cries. “I’m sorry… it’s too much…” Your voice is hoarse, thick with tears, but still carrying that underlying confidence even as you fall apart under his tongue. He doesn’t relent, doesn’t slow, only presses harder, determined to wring every last ounce of pleasure-pain from your disobedient orgasm until you’re a sobbing, whimpering mess on the desk beneath him.

The candlelight flickers across your sweat-slicked skin, highlighting the flush on your chest and the way your breasts heave with each ragged breath. Higuruma’s own breathing is heavy and uneven between your thighs, his arousal evident in the way his hips subtly rock against nothing, seeking friction. Yet his focus remains entirely on you—on your face, on your soft, overwhelmed sobs, on pushing you through the punishment you earned by coming without his permission.

You remain on the desk, chest heaving and legs trembling as you come down from the intense high. Higuruma looms over you, his gaze dark and satisfied. He gently cups your face, thumb brushing away lingering tears. "You disobeyed," he murmurs, a hint of amusement in his rough voice. "But you took your punishment well." Leaning in, he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then the corner of your mouth. "A proper reward is in order next time."

You manage a weak, breathless smirk, voice still shaky but confident. "Next time? You're already planning round two, Father?" Your fingers trace his jaw, feeling the slight stubble. Higuruma huffs a laugh, helping you sit up slowly. He tugs your dress into place, hands lingering on your skin. "Maybe I'm the one who needs repenting now," he says dryly, but his eyes hold rare warmth. Pulling you close, he strokes your back soothingly as you lean against his chest. "You drive me to distraction, you know that? All that teasing, that confidence…" He tilts your chin up, constant eye contact now feeling more like connection than dominance. "I couldn't stay away."

In the quiet room, filled with flickering candlelight and the scent of sin, you both sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Finally, Higuruma helps you down from the desk, arm wrapped securely around your waist as he guides you toward the door. He presses a last kiss to your temple.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he murmurs, voice low and intimate. "You look like sin incarnate right now… and I'm not complaining."