The smell of fresh flowers was sweet and almost sickly, budding on fields behind the church; adorning green hills with specks of carmine, violet, and white. Sugary redolence cut through the usual soft scent of morning's dew on Sundays, and signalled the arrival of springtime.

The season of growth was dearest to Father Oikawa, it reminded him of the day you were born, on an early spring morning such as this— light in his arms when he cradled you; gentle from the moment your tiny fist grabbed a hold of his finger.

Your mother insisted you grew up involved with the church, bringing you to him every evening for piano lessons. You were gentle even then; he remembers the white, frilled dress you wore to your first lesson, doll-like and meek in appearance. You were hesitant to press the keys, tiny fingers shaky and uncertain. Oikawa's hands clasped over yours, guiding you through the motions of playing your first piece of sheet music.

So dedicated you were; always practicing, always improving. You were so triumphant when you could finally play the piece all by yourself, you giggled and flashed him a small-toothed smile— then you played confidently with the choir, and he felt the tender love a father has for his child.

Why must God punish him in such a way? You would never be his daughter, you were the daughter of a businessman in the city; one who you would never meet. He couldn't bare to get closer, he couldn't bare to fill that role.

—But, Winter was the season of despair and loneliness, it killed all passion in him, killed all passion in his preaching; Father Oikawa merely followed in the footsteps of men much greater than he. Towards the end of that year he believed this small town wasn't enough to satisfy him; he wished to be in the city, to free himself from forced celibacy.

He called your mother and she rushed over the next morning with a letter in hand; a final "thank you", he supposed, but when he saw you stumbling behind, an unbearable warmth washed over his body. Your Mary Janes were unbuckled and your hair a mess, it was clear you had just woken up. Sniffling, your lip quivered.

He'd never forget the image— you, barley four foot two, pulling at your mother's pleated skirt, tears welling in those big, bright eyes. You choked through the sobs of experiencing the first instance of loss in your short, innocent life. It almost felt natural when he dropped to his knees with arms spread. You ran over, stuffing your face into the soft cotton of his scarf, weeping like any child would.

"P-Please don't... don't go, Father Oikawa"

—From that moment on, Oikawa knew God put him here to watch over you, to protect you. His home was here, in this small town, along these vast and open hills that bloomed in Spring, filling his lungs with a sickening sweetness. His home was by your side on the piano bench, singing choir songs in tune to your euphony. His home was in the first time you kissed him on the cheek; rising to your tippy-toes and delivering a timid peck that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

An angel's kiss, he thought; and yet, this gift from above felt like punishment.

Every waking moment he thought of you— you danced on fields in his mind, ran barefoot through grass with flowers tangled in your hair. It was only the two of you in this dream; Father Oikawa and his sweet girl. No one else mattered; you'd reach out to him here, bring him into your arms and vow to never leave. He'd do the same, he always would— and eventually your lips will meet, warm hands cupping the sides of his face as you crawl toward him and into his lap. Trees on the horizon began to distort, smearing like long strokes of paint and far out of sight. Your warmth wouldn't last more than a few seconds as this trance crumbled before him; replaced by the monotony of reality, a dotty-looking boy scurried back into the church and down the pews.

He carried a bouquet of field flowers wrapped in tissue, the same blooms of carmine, violet, and white that were abundant in this time of year. The boy tapped on your shoulder and presented them to you, a meek smile on his freckled face. You accepted his gift, bringing the bundle up to your nose for a moment, then returning the same nervous smile.

It was an interaction so innocent, so sinless in all it's adolescent awkwardness, that Oikawa couldn't help but feel revolted by it's implication. How something as pure as a bundle of wildflowers could have an underlying motive of lust and grime— How gifts that come unprovoked are given by those with ulterior motives.

Corruption lurks in the hearts of even the most Holy men; the most devout and trustworthy. Oikawa knew this well; he knew it from the day you were born, and he knows it now that his sin grows— potent like mold and mildew that lingers in the back of his darkened mind.

He knows from the moment your eyes lock, that you were his sin; sat in the third row, legs crossed and dainty, holding a makeshift bouquet of wild flowers.

The boy whispers something in your ear and you look down at your feet in response, blushing slightly. A voice calls for him from outside the church and he leaves faster than he came; smiling at you from over his shoulder before waving goodbye. Fiddling with the napkin in your hands, a soft smile creeps across your lips. Father Oikawa clears his throat and you look up at him, doe-eyed. There was softness, a sense of familiarity when your eyes met; it had an air of innocence that would turn any starved man from celibacy— and soon, his twisted world felt whole again. You rose to your feet and walked over to him.

He led you to the piano, the bench seeming more like an abattoir; and you, like a lamb to the slaughter. His gaze was hungry, feverishly raking over your body when you sat down in front of him, soft head mere inches away from his chest.

Taking the bouquet from your hands, Father Oikawa leaned forward.

You were trapped in the maw of Lucifer himself.

"Play for me, (Y/N)"

He whispered those words, and like a wind-up doll you sprung into action. Pressing the first key, your fingers move modestly like drops of rain trickling down stained glass outside the church. He brings his attention back to the bundle of flowers, some petals wilting, turned brown.

— If you were to wilt like them, you would wilt before him and in his hands. It was an egregious need to watch you come undone, and to suffer the consequence of his depravity.

Far too long, far too many years.

You were on the brink of adulthood, you developed new, disgraceful, interests in boys who had nothing in their skulls.

He propped the dying flowers on the mantle.

He couldn't let it go on like this.

When you played the final note, your fingers eased on the keys, letting your trained body slouch back to a relaxed position.

Oikawa's hands reached up to rub circles into your shoulder blades; his praise always came with physical affirmation. Fingers would comb through your hair, kisses would be planted on your temple, all while he whispered words of praise. This time however, his fingers snaked up to your delicate neck and the urge to squeeze came with it.

He didn't ask for an encore.

"You've grown so much, haven't you?"

His hands slide to your shoulders, grazing over exposed skin and leaving goosebumps in their path. Tiny flecks of raised flesh left your hairs standing on end with each touch. There was an adrenaline that shot throughout your body, unfamiliar and frightening; a feeling that seemed to linger in the pit of your stomach.

As if mimicking a stone angel, you remained motionless.

"Like..."

Frozen in fear and in confusion, you watched as Father Oikawa's hands cup over your breasts, kneading gently.

"Here"

His voice is hushed against the shell of your ear, breath humid and unwanted on the back of your neck. He takes your puffy nipples between his fingers, pulling at the delicate skin. Your scent; it's all he can smell with his nose pressed against your jaw— saccharine and sickening, the stench of Springtime. His stomach churned and his fingers still, voice harsher than before.

"Turn around."

You comply, shivering at the sight of his upturned expression, looking down at you with contempt and with anger. In one swift motion, his hand cracks across your face, snapping with a force that makes your ears ring and vision haze. The open-handed slap left a reddened welt in its place, the sound still echoing down the pews as it did in your head. His face softened, sinking to his knees before you.

"W-Why...?"

Your voice was wobbly, unbroken yet fearful; your legs were trembling. He stared at them and felt the instantaneous wave of regret.

"I-I'm sorry..."

Drawing closer, Oikawa froze when he settled between your thighs, intimidated by the way your body had grown; filling out your Sunday dress with newfound ripeness, flesh that could be squeezed, kneaded, and devoured. You no longer possessed the body of a child, but of a growing woman.

"You've just...You've grown so much"

He mumbled those words again, the weariness of a man much older than him in his expression. Your brows knit in confusion as he crawls closer.

"It worries me sometimes-"

One day you would be wed, and each year that day comes closer. He would have to let it happen, he would have to bless the marriage and watch his little girl run into the arms of someone else; forever stuck as a nymph in his dream-like mind.

"Do you... like that boy?"

His fingers scrape along your thighs, leaving discoloured marks that rake down smooth skin.

"H-He is nice to me, Father–"

You hiccup.

"I like him because he treats me kindly"

Oikawa's nails dig into your flesh and you yelp, jerking against his palms.

"Nice? He doesn't have a single thought in his brain, (Y/N)! You have to listen to me, my child! That boy wants to hurt you!"

He has never raised his voice, not like this.

"Do you understand?"

He's breathing rapidly, dark brown eyes wide and serious; the grip on your thigh doesn't ease until you agree.

"...Y-Yes, Father"

You're still holding your rosy cheek, soothing the sting with the coolness of your palm, body trembling and eyes watery.

"(Y/N),"

Oikawa's hand moves toward your face and you flinch, his fingers tracing along the outside of your jaw.

"You love me don't you? Don't you trust me?"

His tone is much softer, words flowing with admiration were only amplified by the gentle smile on his face.

"I love you, Father... I-I'm just scared"

"I'll make you feel better,"

His mouth ghosts over yours.

"Promise"

Father Oikawa kisses you for the first time; kisses you on the mouth, where only husbands were allowed to. Your lips are plush against his, the breath he steals brings his parched soul back to water; to the delicate embrace he always dreamed of. You hum into his mouth, tugging at his collar when his tongue slips over yours.

He pulls away and takes in the sight of you. You were always the nymph in his mind, and yet you're just an innocent girl before him; looking up with a fawn-eyed expression, mouth wet with saliva.

He never wanted this to end.

Pushing the hem of your dress, he licked his lips. You were as pure snow, untouched, and protected by a layer of cotton. Oikawa pulled your panties down, stripping you of your last piece of innocence, taking you out of your wrapper. Your soft, doughy flesh now exposed for all to see.

The Devil pushed him further, whispered to him, and encouraged him to indulge in shameful perversion. His hands moved on their own, his tongue and mouth all the same. He savoured your taste and swirled you on his tongue like a piece of caramel. Sin trickled down his throat thick like honey, yet his hunger kept him suckling for more. You were so tender, juices so sweet, your cries were nothing but angelic symphonies. He'd relish in the taste, the feeling, the reality of feeding the demon deep within; melting your sugary coating, he swallows you whole.

Nothing could stop him now that his mouth was back on yours, fingers undoing the buckle of his belt. Grabbing your hand he wrapped your fist around his cock, pumping himself into your slack grip. You were whimpering, staring down at the sight between your bodies. It was firm and thick, he coated your palm in a strange fluid and made your eyes sting with tears. His cock bobbed as if it were a living thing, and you felt a strange tickling feeling in your tummy.

Father Oikawa leaned in, panting, voice sticky against your ear.

"Daddy's gonna put it inside... You think you can take it?"

His chuckle was breathless and his eyes were heavy, he smiled as if he were possessed, his pupils dilated and dark.

Pushing your body back against the grand piano, he spreads your legs. His cock wormed it's way into you, shoving past resisting tissue and resting deep inside. You choked on tears, the unfamiliar feeling was warm and heavy, it teared with force.

He told you it would bleed; the thought made you writhe and clamp around him. It was normal, he said, as blood, red like wine trickled down your thighs.

This is natural, he reiterated, teeth dragging along your shoulder.

Oikawa squeezed your hips, fingertips leaving blooms of purple and blue on the exposed skin, nibbling at your neck before releasing to growl low and deep. He placed lazy kisses along your jaw, his breaths heavy and strained as they fan across your neck.

"I-I'm gonna cum inside you, (Y/N)"

Your deflowered body filled with words and sensations you have never felt before, your rosy cheeks wet with tears as his pace quickened.

"A-and what if... what if I got you pregnant?"

He thought of you swollen with his child, skin glowing in health and in happiness; he'd take you far, far away to live the life he had always dreamed of.

Freedom. Release.

But, Oikawa was simply a man of God who chose to please the Devil in wicked selfishness, to corrupt the innocent and blindly faithful; to taint virgin flesh. He tore into you as if you were less than meat, nothing more than a body made to be broken. Pinned under his strength you whimpered and clawed as the man you'd known from birth drove himself further into your relenting cunt. The collapsing walls of gummy flesh that surrounded his cock throbbed and twitched, making him gasp out into the empty church. Pressing his forehead against yours, he shivered, tears of his own beginning to form as warm spurts of white seeped deep inside your virgin womb.

"Only daddy will love you when you're like this... Only daddy, (Y/N)"