໒꒰ྀི 𖦹 ˕ × ꒱ྀིა‎

“no— no touch. please.”

Jack retreats immediately, wrenching himself from you, no matter how it subverts his urge to try and console with his hands.

“No touch. I understand. Just breathe, angel — focus on that.”

His tone is so gentle, and you’re terrified, eyes tracing the floor as you take shivery breaths.

“Keep breathing slow. You got it. Hold for four seconds.” Jack attempts to guide you with the soft orders — he inhales, pauses, before exhaling. But there is no resolve, you can’t match him, and you’re still rapidly huffing, eyes shutting in frustration as your heart still hammers, and your palms perspire.

“doesn’t— s’not working.” His words won’t stick, the stress and sounds and stimulation of just your clothes — it’s too much. But Jack is still, and Jack is safe, even if the sound of his voice is grating, too.

“Okay. S’okay, kid. Tell me what will work for you. Name three things you see? Counting? I can shut up — sit quiet, if you need.” His voice is soft, hands in his lap, grounding himself with a hard press of his thumb to not pry you into his grip. He loves you, and he just wants to help.

“i— i see daddy.” You mumble, beginning to state the things you can catch sight of.

Your eyes flick up to him, in all his silver-haired and freckled glory, and he can’t bear to wipe the gentle smile on his face. “Yeah, angel? Keep looking at me, then. What else can you see? Two more things. Take your time.”

Two. Two whole more things. Your tongue is too leaden, your thoughts ponderously pinning it down. You whimper out, kicking your feet.

It’s equally crushing and cleaving at something inside him to not touch you, but he abnegates. “I know, baby. But you’re doing so well. No whining — Just tell me the first two things you see.”

“see— the rug. the floor.” You sigh strained, eyes shutting again after you speak. Your breaths are shallow, and you're squeezing your fingers into fists.

“Good job. Give me some more. What do you hear?”

“um… the tv.” The sound of it is nearly inaudible after the screen was muted, but the hum still slips through. Jack swallows before responding again.

"TV, yeah. What else? Just focus on the sounds, sweetheart.”

“daddy’s voice.” You whisper weakly, only able to listen to the rasp of his throat and how soft he keeps it for you.

“Yeah. You hear Daddy, baby. That’s right.” You can hear the beam in his tone, and it soothes you slightly. “And keep listening to Dad, okay? What do you smell?”

No, no, never mind. You can’t do this. You don’t want to talk anymore. It’s too heavy, and it’s too hard. You want to tear up the earth and try to hide beneath the loam. Long gone, lulled by soil and worms and silence, for all of eternity. The violent pulse of your heart is oppressive, and it snarls in your head as you shake it.

“no— no talking.. can’t.”

You can't see, but you know his smile has fallen. “Hey. That's alright. That’s fine. No more talking. Are — are you able to be held?”

Immediately, you shake your head. You know how arduous it is for him to refrain from touch. But no, you’re in agony, and despite craving his consoling nature, you know his touch will crumble you more.

“Okay. Listen to me — I’ll leave you alone, but I won’t be far. Just in the bedroom, when you need me.”

He pauses, listening to your shallow breathing, watching your body tremble with terror. Worry stirs in his gut, he can’t help it. He will take you into the ER if you can’t get your breaths to settle — it’s unspoken in the silence between you, but you both know a medical intervention will be solicited if you get more severe.

“Alright? Just— try and focus on breathing if you can, kid. It’ll pass.”

Another non-speaking response is entertained in a nod, before you hear his soft groan up from the couch. He’s subtle in his shifting — the sounds desecrate your eardrums until Jack slips on a pair of headphones over your head. It halts all noise, including the ones he makes while stepping away. You let out an inaudible sob, allowing yourself to still and sit with it all. And he was right, the panic slowly peels away — not by much, but enough that stimulation doesn’t seem as harrowing as speaking.

You’re not sure how much time has faded when you stumble off the cushions, toddling off to your shared room. Jack has his readers on, his prosthesis propped up by the nightstand. The incandescent lamp is dim, painting his face in an auburn glow as he gazes at pages, and attempting to read until you appear in the doorway. You’re still wearing the headphones, shivering and sweet with tacky cheeks. He frowns in that parental, perceptive expression, closing his book and outstretching his freckled biceps in his sleep shirt.

You shuffle over, and Jack slinks you into his lap. His touch settles in gentle, vestigial caresses — it’s velveteen on your skin, accompanied by the plush, cotton-stuffed soundproof over your ears.

“There you go. Good girl — Missed my baby,” He sighs, but you can’t hear him. You only feel the vibrations in his chest as he voices his love. You’ll share your adoration later — for now, his aroma imbues. You smell him, the scent of his sweat and bergamot shampoo. Woodsy and salted and warm. And finally, you feel safe. And only then does the suffocation entirely seep away, and the stammering in your chest begins to slow to a surrender.

“you’re serious?” his voice is low, rough with disbelief.

you sink to your knees between his legs, the hem of your modest sundress brushing the dusty floor. your hands slide up his thighs, bold in a way that surprises even you.

“i want to save you, sam,” you whisper, fingers working his belt open with surprising steadiness. “and maybe… this is how god sent me to do it.”

his breath catches hard when you pull him out, already half-hard and thickening in your palm. he’s big. thicker than you imagined during those restless nights when you touched yourself whispering his name like a sin.

“fuck—sweetheart…” sam’s hand hovers near your cheek, unsure. “you don’t have to—”

you lean forward and take him into your mouth before he can finish the sentence.

the groan that tears out of him is filthy, echoing off the wooden walls of the confessional like a cursed soul crying out. it’s loud. too loud for this holy place.

the sound shoots straight between your legs.

you suck him deeper, tongue sliding along the underside, cheeks hollowing. sam’s head falls back against the wooden panel with a dull thud. “jesus christ,” he hisses, then immediately lets out a breathless laugh. “shit—sorry.”

you pull off just enough to murmur, “it’s okay. you can say his name.” your voice is soft, almost sweet, completely at odds with the way you’re licking a slow stripe up the length of him. “i like hearing you lose control.”

then you sink down again, taking him further until he bumps the back of your throat. your eyes water but you don’t stop, relaxing your jaw and swallowing around him. sam’s hips jerk, a broken moan spilling from his lips. his hand finally settles in your hair.

“you’re—fuck, you’re really doing this,” he breathes, awe thick in his voice. “in here. on your knees for me like a good little—”

you hum around him and his words cut off into another low, wrecked sound. the confessional feels too small, too warm. every wet suck, every quiet gag, every tiny moan you can’t hold back fills the sacred space.

sam’s thighs tense under your palms. he’s trying so hard to stay quiet now, but he can’t. not when you take him so deep your nose brushes the dark hair at his base and swallow again.

that’s it—good girl,” he whispers, voice strained and reverent. his fingers tighten gently in your hair, guiding you just a little faster. “just like that. you’re taking me so well… fuck, look at you.”

you glance up at him through wet lashes. his eyes are blown dark, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast. the sight of sweet, shy christian you with your mouth full of him seems to break something in his brain.

you pull back just enough to whisper, voice hoarse, “after this… i’ll pray for both of us.” then you dive back down, sucking harder, faster, one hand stroking what you can’t fit in your mouth.

sam’s moans grow louder, rougher, bouncing off the confessional walls like sacrilege. his hips start rocking gently, fucking your mouth with careful restraint even as his control frays. “i’m—shit, i’m close,” he warns, voice cracking.

you don’t pull away. you take him deeper, humming encouragement, eyes locked on his. sam comes with a choked groan that sounds almost pained, hips stuttering as he spills down your throat. you swallow every drop, gentle and obedient, until he’s trembling and oversensitive.

when you finally sit back on your heels, lips swollen and shiny, you fold your hands neatly in your lap like you’re back in sunday school.

sam stares down at you, chest heaving, looking thoroughly ruined and completely in awe. “you’re…” he lets out a shaky laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “you’re not what i expected from bible study.”

you smile softly, a little shy again now that the heat is fading, even as his taste still lingers on your tongue. “god works in mysterious ways,” you murmur, voice sweet and honest.

then you lean forward, pressing one last gentle kiss to the head of his softening cock before tucking him back into his jeans with careful fingers.

“now,” you say, standing up and smoothing down your dress like nothing happened, “kneel with me. we should probably pray for forgiveness.”

sam looks up at you, stunned, flushed, and already half-hard again. but he doesn’t argue. he just slides off the bench and drops to his knees beside you, shoulder brushing yours in the cramped space, the faint scent of candle wax and sex hanging heavy in the air. the candles keep burning, flickering like they know exactly what kind of salvation just took place.