#priest!au

♱ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐫 in St. Agnes of the Sorrowful Heart was always cold; a damp, marrow-deep chill that seeped from the old Indiana limestone and settled in the bones. 

It was late, past Compline prayer; the convent silent, save for the groan of ancient pipes and the distant, lonely whistle of a freight train cutting through the Gary night. 

You had chosen this hour deliberately, slipping from the shared dormitory while the other Sisters slept, their soft breaths a chorus of innocence you could no longer claim you belonged to.

You needed confession. Things had gotten worse; past the petty gossip or moments of impatience with the children of the church that darkened your spirit and thoughts. 

You needed to expel the fever that had taken root in your soul, a corruption so vivid and seditious. You’d assumed Father Callaghan, one of your trusted Priests, old and half-deaf, would be taking the late penitent’s slot. 

His absolutions were swift, a mumbled passage, as if he could not be bothered.  He wouldn’t hear the tremor in your voice, wouldn’t parse the specifics of what you relayed to him. He’d just see a nun, a troubled and corrupt one in need of help, and dispense grace like a tired medic. A nun like the rest of them - but only, you were not…

The confessional was a dark oak box, smelling of beeswax, stale incense, and something else— starched cotton and sweat. 

You slid into the penitent’s side, the worn velvet kneeler biting into your shins through the rough wool of your habit. The grate between you and the priest’s side was a black lattice, a barrier meant to anonymize and to spiritualise the conversation. You could see only a deeper shadow within the wooded patterns.

You crossed yourself, the gesture automatic, hollow in effort. 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been… two weeks since my last confession.”

Your heart thrashed against your ribs. The silence on the other end was deafening; embarrassing to say the least. 

This was a disaster. A divine trap you’d set for yourself. The reaction wouldn’t be a welcome one, and there may just be a kick back; perhaps you’d be stripped of your status and kicked from the convent. 

And yet, you felt you had to break the silence, come clean, for the pressure of the secret, compounded, was a geyser demanding its sudden release. 

If you did not seek help - you’d act lewdly. This could not be. 

To flee the confession would also be an admission of something far worse. Facing this alone was not wise; you had to prove to your parents that you could follow through on their wishes for you. 

So, you began to fill the void Father Callaghan left between you; the words tumbling out in a desperate, whispered rush, directed at the shadow behind the grate.

“My sins… they are of impurity. Of thought. And… maybe action, should I not confess..” You swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet. “I have… entertained lustful thoughts. Repeatedly. Vividly. I have… touched myself, Father. To the point of… completion. While picturing… someone.”

Another silence. This one was different. Thick. Charged. You could hear, or perhaps imagine, the soft shift of fabric from the other side.

“These are grave matters,” Father Callaghan said, his voice carefully neutral, but the neutrality itself felt like a strained wire, it was not like him to be this strained. 

“To whom do these thoughts pertain?” The words seemed muffled behind the grate.

You closed your eyes. Here was the precipice. “A man of God, Father.”

A sharp, almost missable intake of breath. “A man… of this parish?”

“Yes.” The word was a breath, a surrender.

“You must name the nature of this… fixation. To understand the sin, one must confront it in its entirety, to understand the root of its evil.” His instruction was clerical, but the cadence was off, a beat too fast. It was so unlike Father Callaghan to give this advice. 

And so, under the guise of contrition, you painted the portrait of your damnation, but you started not with the lust, but with the light. 

You described him—the subject, the man of God, as a force of nature within the grey walls of St. Agnes. 

His laugh, which was far from a polite chuckle but instead a full-bodied, echoing thing that made the dusty vestments in the sacristy stir; it was enough to set your heart alight.

His way with the parish children, patient, invested and more so like a peer to them, than any other priest you had witnessed. He didn’t just supervise games; he invented them, his eyes large and innocent. 

You confessed to watching him…last Tuesday, trying to explain the physics of a seesaw to a group of wide-eyed six year olds by dramatically acting out the parts of the lever and the fulcrum, his cassock hitched up as he crouched, his hands animated, until he tumbled backwards into the woodchips, laughing uproariously while the children shrieked with delight. 

Despite your heart swelling with magic and pride for his work; your eyes were drawn to the way his cassock would tighten around his arms, or his shoulders as he lifted and played with the kids. 

“He has… a childlike joy, unabridged, unlike people I have met around the convent," you whispered to the shadow. 

“But it’s married to a sharpness. He’s a quick mind. He’ll quote Scripture one minute and then, in the next breath, be speaking with the kids about the latest magazines and the superstar’s gossip that lay within them. All with the same intense passion. It’s… dizzying. It makes everyone else seem half-asleep, his dedication knows no bounds.”

You spoke of the music, too. 

A month ago, you’d been dusting the seldom-used parlor for visiting priests, looking wilted and tired after study, prayer and then watching over 30 odd children. 

He’d paused in the doorway, his head tilted. “You look like you could use some company,” he’d said, and then vanished. You’d assumed he was playing a trick, but then he returned ten minutes later with a small, portable record player—where he’d found it, God only knew—and a vinyl LP in a plain white sleeve. 

“Gospel,” he’d announced, as if presenting a relic. “What I find myself gravitating to when I am losing motivation." 

He’d put it on “Lord Let Your Spirit Fall on Me" –, and the room had filled with the scratchy, aching sound and the soulful singing of Shirley Caesar. 

He hadn’t stayed very long with you; he helped clean in silence with a small smile on his face, but somehow it felt intimate. He had come to seek you out clearly, to find you and spend an extra minute or two. 

A week later, a cassette tape appeared in your assigned mailbox in the convent. On the label, in his precise script: For the Long Nights: A Mixtape. It was 8 different gospel songs; your heart had melted.

Your mind in the confessional didn’t just recall the gifts; it flooded with the man himself. The corrective penance your parents had prescribed was actually the beginnings of your downfall - they’d sealed you tight in the coffin that was sinking down into the dark, damp soil. 

You’d expected another dour, disapproving elder confronting you when you had first arrived at the convent, whipping you into shape, but instead, you found Father Michael in a sun-dappled office that looked like a scholar’s study crossed with a college dorm. 

Books were piled not just on shelves but on the floor, the windowsill, the second chair. Theological texts jostled with well-thumbed Disney picture books, and other contemporary authors. 

A small, cheap record player sat on a filing cabinet, a stack of LPs beside it; The Clash next to Mozart. Strange, beautiful trinkets—a fossil, crystals, a tiny, intricate metal bird -were scattered like offerings around his space. His desk was sprawled with miscellaneous papers, each scribbled on in thick sharpie.

He’d been leaning against his desk, a mug of tea steaming in his hand. 

What shocked you most about meeting him, is that he wasn’t in his cassock; just dressed in black trousers, a black shirt and a grey sweater over the top, the collar a stark white line at his throat. It sat tight there, showing off the veiny chords of his neck; the dusting of hair he’d missed shaving, stark and dark against his skin.

His skin was a gorgeous dark brown, his features sharp, yet slightly feminine. High cheekbones and full lips; his hair neatly gelled, holding back his thick hair. 

He’d looked up as you entered, and his face had broken into a warm, open smile that held no trace of judgment.

 “Ah, our infamous new novice Sister,” he’d said, his voice that same cello-string tenor. 

“Sit, please. And don’t look so terrified. I’m not here merely to correct you or scare you into becoming closer with God and your calling. My job, as I see it, is to inspire. To help things—and people—flourish, even in unlikely soil.”

You had grimaced at him; not able to marry the image of older Priests you’d met with this strapping young one. He was in charge of the whole convent and didn’t seem a day older than thirty. He was despicably hot; as if placed by Satan himself there in your life to tempt you, to lead you down the stray path that your parents so desperately hoped you wouldn’t wander down.

That was it. The realisation that he wasn’t going to be like the rest of them; that was the hook.

In a world of grey rules and whispered penances, he spoke of flourishing. He asked you about the books you missed from childhood, the music you liked. 

When you’d haltingly admitted you felt like a caged bird in this life that had been chosen for you, he’d nodded, without so much as pity, but in understanding. 

“If we liken this place to a cage, then you must know there is always an open door,” he’d said softly, moving himself to sit at his desk. “Sometimes we just forget how to open it.” 

He had grinned at you then, putting his mug on the desk and then folding his hands on his desk in front of him. “My door is always open for you Sister, seek me out when you are in need.”

And by the power of christ; you would seek him out. In your dreams, in your minds eye when you prayed, on the cold hard floor of the church. He would become your rebellion. 

Every stolen glance at him during Mass felt like a tiny act of defiance against the life of a nun. It made each day livable; passable, even. 

Sister Alessanda would ask what had got you all giddy afterward, and you’d have to say it was due to Father Michael’s preaching. And really - you could lie to them and say it was his sweet rhetoric, the way he spoke of God. It was colorful and less boring than how other Scripture was read. It made the old and new testament seem new and current. 

However, if you were in the front row, you were usually just ogling at him. His eyes would often flutter to yours and he’d supply a soft smile.

It was all so exciting - it made this punishment feel less abrasive and lonely. 

The memories continued to bubble to the peak of your mind, and well… you confessed it all. 

The Thursday evening music class for the parish kids was another weird interaction that left you feeling guilt.

You, as a novice, were assisting. He was at the old upright wooden piano, effortlessly playing snippets of Disney’s ‘Jungle Book’; its most famous song, “I Wa’na Be Like You,” making the kids laugh. His voice was incredible, even if he was half joking.

Then he’d segued into the opening of The Beatles’ “Something.” He’d sung the first line, and his voice had wrapped around the words with a tenderness that stole the air from the room. 

He’d caught your eye over the heads of the children as you were miming along. “Sister,” he grinned. All of the children and your other Sisters stared at you, as well as him.

“You know this one,” he’d said, a statement that felt like a shared secret. He’d shifted on the bench. “Come on over here with me. Let’s show the class harmony.”

You’d sat beside him, your hip a hair’s breadth from his. 

Up close, you could see the details that haunted you: the faint, uneven dusting of what you assumed to be vitiligo along his jawline, pale patches against his skin that disappeared into his hairline, a unique flaw that made him heartbreakingly real. 

The shadow of a beard, ruthlessly shaved but still suggesting the normalcy of man beneath the perfect priest. And… a bit of make-up on his collar - clearly to cover what he perceived as an imperfection. It was not.

His lips, as he concentrated on the keys, were surprisingly full and dark pink, slightly parted and wet. His fingers, long and slim, moved with a dexterous grace that was utterly mesmerising. 

He was unbelievably tantalizing; like the apple dangling from the tree in the garden of Eden. You wanted to take a bite so badly, but alas, it was forbidden. 

Your eyes shifted from his lips back to the keys, where you were playing the dainty high notes of the song, adding in very little to his expert playing on the main melody.

You sang, your voice trembling with nerves, and he leaned into the harmony, his shoulder pressing against yours. 

The warmth of him was welcome in the cold of the convent building, despite the blazing summer of Gary. You were squirming on the bench, a slow, unconscious shift born of a building, unbearable tension low in your belly.

The song ended beautifully and the children clapped loudly. 

There was no sign of him moving away at that point, until he spoke; 

“Your voice is magic,” he’d murmured, his eyes on your profile. He looked at you like he was seeing through all the pretense of your garments. The power of his gaze made you want to hide behind something, it was so… all consuming.

“I’ve known it since I first heard you in the choir. Sister, you must hone your gift and allow God to fully bestow this talent to you.” He cleared his throat, looking around to ensure the babble from the class was enough to cover what he said next. 

“I will help you hone this gift, so we can get you performing solo hymnals for the congregation. We will work together on this.” 

He gave you a breathtaking smile, one that showed his very white, straight teeth, and from this angle; you could see a small extra tooth on his bottom row of teeth. It was so intensely endearing, he was just… different from anyone you’d met before. 

“Your playing on the piano, however, is a mess. Here.” He’d reached over, his right hand enveloping your left on the keys. You’d almost forgot at this point that he was your senior… older, wiser and a man of God.

His palm was warm, his touch firm. “This is your anchor.” He guided your finger to middle C, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of your inner wrist.

The reaction was instantaneous and visceral. A sharp, electric jolt shot up your arm, straight to your core, and a tiny, choked gasp escaped you. You flinched. It was the first time you had been touched in what felt like years.

He froze. You felt his hand tense, his breath hitch. 

In his eyes, you saw a mirror of your own shocked, guilty recognition—a current far stronger than any of you could believe.

It was as if you’d both touched a live wire of mutual wanting or gotten some electric shock. Then, as if the contact had burned him, he wrenched his hand back and stood up so abruptly the piano bench shrieked against the linoleum.

“I—forgive me,” he stammered, his face draining of color as he turned toward the class. 

He couldn’t meet their eyes, shy all of a sudden. “I… I’m needed elsewhere. Excuse me.” And he’d practically fled the hall, leaving a roomful of confused children and a few raised eyebrows from the other sisters. 

You’d sat there, your wrist still tingling, humiliated and exhilarated. You were sure, then, that your corruption was contagious.

You told the shadow of Father Callaghan about the team outing to celebrate Moira’s promotion and well, all the wine consumed that evening. 

He’d cornered you by the forgotten pietà in a dim alcove, a glass of cheap red in his hand. His eyes were bright, his movements looser. He smelled of spices and the faint, clean scent of the convent’s detergent, clearly coming from his fluffy sweater. 

“Tell me,” he’d slurred, just a little, his gaze intense. 

“What were you running from? Before this? I can always tell. The ones running to God have a peace about them. The ones running from something… they have a fire in them. You seem like you are at war with yourself.” He’d leaned closer, his voice dropping. 

“Read Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling. Or… or Graham Greene’s The Power and the Glory. They’re about the mess of faith. The human cost. It might… help. It’s what I read when I lost my way a bit at the start of all of this” he gestured to himself, and to his tight collar.

“Or it might make it worse.” He’d given a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m being a terrible priest tonight.” 

Later, when everyone was leaving, he stood in front of you at the coat room. He’d blocked your exit with his tall, lean body. He was so close that you had to crane your neck to peer up at him, your heart thumping in your ears.

His eyes were dark, liquid. “You don’t understand the power you have, Sister,” he’d said, his words slightly slurred but his intent piercingly clear, “what you do to people, its–.” Before you could process it or hear the rest, Sister Bernadette had bustled between you, breaking the spell.

“He… notices things,” you confessed, your voice growing thready, returning to the present narrative for the shadow. 

“Small things. Sister Agnes gets migraines; he always has a cold cloth and a quiet word for her when she’s choir-mistressing, he even covers for her from time to time. But with me…” You swallowed. 

“With me, it’s different. It’s not pastoral care. It’s… attention. He’s seeking me out to make contact. If I’m struggling with a heavy tray in the refectory, his hand is there on my back and shoulder, to steady me before I’ve even registered the strain. If I’m translating a particularly dense passage of Latin for the bulletin, he’ll ‘happen’ to walk by and offer an alternative phrasing, his finger tapping the page, his shoulder brushing mine. He brings me books from his own shelves, leaving them on the narrow shelf by my bed in the dormitory. It isn’t even theological texts. It’s poetry. Novels. ‘For the soul behind the habit,’ the note on the first one said. He treats the other sisters with kindness. He treats me… like I’m a person he’s desperately trying to get to know.”

Then, you let Father Callaghan into the heat of your transgression. The memory of the lake picnic. The water fight with the children out in the gardens.

“I saw him, Father… this moment is when I damned myself to Hell,” you whispered, the shame molten in your throat. 

“His shirt… it was plastered to him. I could see every line, every contour. The collar was soaked through, tight against his throat.I imagined what it would feel like to unbutton and peel it away from his hot skin. To put my mouth there, on his pulse.” you let out a choked sound, the silence on the other end suffocating you.

“I went back to my dormitory that night and I… – well I, - I touched myself.” You forced the words out, explicit, laying them bare. No resolution would come if you held back the disgusting truth.

“I lay on my bed and I put my hand under my nightgown. I was already wet, just from the memory. I pictured his hands, those large, capable hands that hold the host… I pictured them on me. Hungry. I imagined him pushing my gown up, his calloused palms scraping over my thighs, his fingers digging into my hips. I thought of him seeing me, all of me, exposed and wanting him, and I wondered if that bright joy in his eyes would turn into something darker, possessive. I imagined him saying, ‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be looked at? To be known?’ And then I imagined him… punishing me. For my thoughts. his breath hot in my ear as he asked me to describe, in detail, every single fantasy I’d ever had about him. 

And I would. I would tell him everything, and he would listen, and then he would… he would take me. As his consequence. As my absolution. I came, Father, thinking of that. Thinking of him claiming me, ruining me, because I felt so far from God that only a fall this profound felt like a tether to the bible.”

You were crying now, silent tears tracking through the dust on your cheeks. “The worst part is… in these thoughts, he’s not angry. He’s sad. Disappointed. And that makes it worse. Because I want to please him, even in my sin. Especially in my sin.”

You continued, your voice breaking. 

You told him about the ice in the cloister garden. You’d been rushing fresh produce to the kitchens, your mind a whirl of him the day before teaching you how to sing, and your foot had shot out from under you. The crack of your head against the frozen flagstone was a bright, shocking pain. You saw stars, and felt warm blood instantly matting your hair as you lay there.

He was there in mere seconds, having seen your fall from his office window. 

“Foolish girl,” he’d muttered, but his voice was thick with alarm, not scorn. He knelt in the slush, his cassock be damned, his hands cradling your head. 

“Let me see.” His fingers, trembling slightly, pushed back the heavy wool of your wimple, fumbled with the pins of your coif. They came loose. Your long, soft hair, perpetually bound, spilled out over his hands and onto the dirty ice.

He froze.

For a long second, he didn’t move. He just stared, his breath pluming in the air between you, his fingers tangled in the dark strands. His expression shifted from professional concern to something utterly stunned, raw. 

A muscle feathered in his jaw. He looked… overcome. As if he’d uncovered something sacred and forbidden. “Your…hair, its–” he started, his voice a rough whisper. He didn’t finish. 

He simply swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the tight collar, and his touch changed. The frightened assessment changed; a slow, almost delirious smoothing of your hair back from the wound, his thumb brushing your temple, softly, almost… lovingly. His gaze held yours, and in that grey Indiana light, you saw him stripped bare from his duty; a man utterly arrested by the sight of you. 

Then, as if catching himself, he blinked, and the mask slammed down. “You’ve cut it, pretty badly. We shall have to get you to the infirmary” he said briskly, his hands returning to a practical pressure on the wound. “Can you stand?” 

But the moment hung in the air, more intimate than any touch that followed in the infirmary.

The word vomit continued. 

“I feel… disconnected,” you whispered finally, your forehead now pressed against the cool wood of the grate. 

“From God, from my vows. This… lust. It feels more real to me than grace has in months. It pulls at me like a tide. I am adrift, Father. And I am so… so terribly sorry for burdening you.”

The silence that followed was absolute. It was the silence of a held breath, filled to the brim with the utmost tension. 

You could feel it radiating through the grate, a heat that contradicted the convent’s chill.

Then, a sound. The soft click of the latch on his side of the confessional.

Your head jerked up. The shadow behind the grate moved, resolved. The door on his side creaked open, a slice of dim amber light from a vigil candle slicing into the dark booth.

Footsteps, slow and deliberate, on the stone flags. They came around the front of the confessional. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drum of panic and a weird thrill. 

The heavy velvet curtain of your booth was wrenched aside.

Father Michael stood there, framed by the gothic arch of the confessional doorway. It had been him the whole time. Your face drained of all life very suddenly and you began to shake violently.

The faint light from the sanctuary behind him cast him in silhouette, a tall, broad-shouldered cutout against the gloom. 

He was out of his cassock, wearing only his black trousers and a black shirt with his collar. It was clinging to the lean muscle of his chest and arms; his hair was wild as if he’d put his hand through it stressed. 

His face was in shadow, but you could see the tight line of his jaw, the faint gleam of his eyes in the candlelight. The archway behind, framed him like a figure from Scripture, the irony of it carving itself into your mind.

He looked down at you, where you knelt, frozen, a supplicant at an altar you hadn’t intended. Your gaze then dropped, catching on the unbuckled belt of his trousers.

For a long moment, he just stared. The church was a cavern of shadows around you, the statues of saints watching with blank stone eyes. The only sounds were the distant wind and the ragged, too-loud sound of your own breathing.

“You…” he began, his usually animated tenor was raw, scraped thin. “You thought you were speaking to Father Callahan.”

You couldn’t speak, and only managed a faint, trembling nod.

A harsh, humorless sound escaped him. He took a step closer, and you had to crane your neck further to look up at him. The power dynamic had violently, irrevocably shifted. You were on your knees. He was standing over you. Sick, twisted and ever so primal.

“Every word,” he breathed, the words laced with a kind of furious wonder. “Every detail. My God.” He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture agitated, utterly unlike his usual composure. His blasphemy was deserved.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done–?” His voice broke. “To me?” He supplied again, exasperated.

You flinched. “Father, I—”

“Don’t,” he snarled, the word a low whip-crack. He dropped into a crouch suddenly, bringing his face level with yours. 

Up close, you could see the storm in his eyes— dark brown deep set eyes, flecked with gold and now dark with dilated pupils. 

You could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the pulse pounding in the very throat you’d fantasized about. 

The scent of him—starch, faint sweat, and that underlying warmth—enveloped you, intoxicating. 

“Don’t call me that. I fear that even just the use of that word will create more lustful delirium.  Not after what you just poured into my head. My head, which is supposed to be filled with Scripture, with prayer. Not… not filth.”

He was close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him. His breath fanned your cheek. 

“You’ve ripped the floodgates open,” he whispered, the anger mingling with a desperate, aching confession. 

“For months I have fought these thoughts. I knelt on this very stone until my knees bruised. I have fasted. I have scourged myself with discipline. I have looked at you across the refectory, across the moments our paths have intertwined and I have begged God to take the feeling from me. To make me a better vessel. A pure one.”

He leaned even closer, his voice dropping to a tortured rasp. 

“And now… you come here. In the dark. And you give me… images. Vivid, sinful, exquisite images. Of you watching me. Of you touching yourself, thinking of me...” His gaze dropped to your lips, then dragged slowly, burning, back up to your eyes. 

“How am I supposed to pray now? To run this convent honestly? How can I deny what I want when you have just painted it in the most lurid colors imaginable? You’ve made it real. Reciprocated.”

He stood up abruptly, turning away, his back tense. He fumbled carelessly with his belt buckle, his trousers straining around his groin.

“I am not built for this,” he said, more to the vaulted ceiling than to you. 

“I thought I was. I wanted to be devout. I wanted the clarity, the purpose.” He raked another hand through his hair.

“B-but I’m sick. Sick with the thought of you. Your skin, which I’ve only ever glimpsed. Your hair—God, when I saw it down, after your fall, it was like seeing a different person, a woman… I haven’t slept properly since. I lie awake and imagine how you’d look spread out on my bed in the rectory, the grey convent sheets against your skin, your hair fanned out, your eyes…”

He choked off the sentence, spinning back to face you. The defensive anger was back, a shield against the vulnerability. 

“This is your fault. Your confession. You brought the devil into this booth, and now he’s in me.”

The accusation was unfair, blasphemous, and it ignited a spark in you. You found your voice, small but steady. “I came for absolution, Father–”

“Absolution?” He barked the word. 

“There is no absolution for what you’ve made me feel! You think a few Hail Marys will scrub this from my mind? I will see you, on your knees on the floor of the convent, far from being in prayer. Every time I close my eyes... you'll be kneeling in front of me with my–” he clears his throat, in a moment of hesitation “dick in your mouth instead… I will hear your voice describing your own wetness, and I will feel my own—” He cut himself off again, rageful, his fists clenched at his sides. 

“You need to go. Now. Get out of my sight.”

He said it with force, but his eyes betrayed him. They were pleading, frantic.

“Go,” he growled again, when you didn’t move, still rooted to the kneeler by shock and a terrifying, magnetic pull. 

“Before I do something… something we’ll both regret. Something I will regret.”

The second warning held a different timbre. A promise. A threat. A hunger.

Slowly, muscles protesting, you began to rise. Your legs were weak, trembling. You kept your eyes on him, this young, beautiful, tormented man who was your priest, your downfall, your sin incarnate. 

You took a shaky step backward, toward the aisle, the vast, dark nave behind you.

You turned to leave.

A hand shot out, iron-strong, and wrapped around your upper arm, spinning you back. A gasp was torn from your lips, lost as his other hand cupped the back of your head, fingers tangling in the hair at your nape beneath your wimple. And then his mouth crashed down onto yours.

Devoid of tenderness, or even of passion, instead it was a collision of two supernovas in space, creating a black hole event. The feeling, all consuming. An outlet for all the pent-up fury, desire, and spiritual agony he had just spilled. 

His lips were hard, desperate, moving over yours with a frantic need, reciprocating all of the pain, sorrow and want you had just explained to him. 

The taste of him; wine, the faint bitterness of coffee, flooded your senses, overwhelming you. You made a sound, a muffled whimper against his mouth, a useless protest to keep both of your virtues, but it was no use. Your hands, of their own volition, came up to clutch at the front of his shirt, feeling the solid wall of his chest beneath.

He groaned, the vibration passing from his lips to yours, and the kiss deepened, turned hotter, wetter. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you met it with your own, the sin becoming tangible, a slick, heated dance. In his agony, he bit your lip, and now you tasted the bitter tang of metallic blood.

The hand on your arm slid down to your lower back, pressing you tightly against him. You could feel the hard, insistent ridge of his erection against your belly, even through the layers of your habit and his trousers. The evidence of his desire, so blunt and physical, sent a fresh, scalding wave of lust through you.

This was the transgression you’d fantasized about, but the reality was a thousand times more potent. It was the forbidden fruit, bitten, juice running down your chin. It was the fall from grace, and you were clutching him as you tumbled.

He broke the kiss as suddenly as he’d initiated it, tearing his mouth from yours with a ragged gasp. Both of you were breathing heavily, the sounds echoing loudly in the sacred space. Your lips felt swollen, bruised, already missing the pressure of his. His eyes were wild, horrified, and blazing with undiminished hunger. Your blood was smeared across his plump dark lips. He looked like a wild animal, caught in the headlights of your shared disaster. The sin.

He stared at you, at your kiss-reddened mouth, your wide eyes, your heaving chest. A profound shame seemed to crash over him, mingling with the unspent desire. He released you as if your skin had burned him, taking two stumbling steps back.

“Get out,” he said again, but the growl was gone. It was a hollow, broken command. He didn’t look at you again. He turned and strode away, his footsteps echoing sharply before being swallowed by the darkness near the sacristy door.

You were left alone in the nave, the taste of him on your lips, the ghost of his hands on your body, the cold of the church seeping back in to replace the heat he’d left behind. You touched your fingers to your mouth, trembling. There would be no sleep tonight. Only the replay of his words, his anger, and the devastating pressure of his kiss.

—

The summons came after Lauds. The note was plain, slipped into your hand by a postulant whose eyes held a knowing glint you didn’t care to decipher. Three words, in a script that was all sharp angles and repressed energy: My office. Now.

The walk to the rectory was a death march. The sky was the color of old slate, pressing down on the grim brick building, and the air smelled of impending rain and damp earth. 

You knew what this was. The reckoning. 

He had spent the night in horrified prayer and had emerged resolved. He would remove you. Send you to another convent, or worse, sever you from the parish entirely. You were a danger—to him, to his vocation, to the fragile order of things. Your confession hadn’t just damned you; it had been a lit match tossed into his own restraint. 

He would cut the fuse. You would be cast out, your vows in tatters, branded not just a lustful nun, but the ruin of a priest.

Your knock was as light as a feather.

“Enter.”

His voice was cold, stripped of all its usual warmth and animation. You pushed the heavy oak door open.

He sat behind the wide, polished desk, a fortress of dark wood. He was in full cassock and collar, every button fastened, every line severe. He looked exhausted, shadows like smudges of ash beneath his eyes, but his expression was closed, impassive as a church wall. He did not look up from the dense theological text open before him.

“Close the door.”

You did. The latch clicked with the finality of a coffin lid. You stood before the desk, hands folded, eyes downcast, awaiting sentence.

The silence was thick and choking. It was broken only by the slow, merciless tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the corner, measuring out the last moments of your life here.

Finally, with a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, he closed the book. He stared at his hands, steepled on the desktop.

“What you did last night,” he began, his voice low and carefully even, “in the confessional… it was inappropriate.”

Your head jerked up. That wasn’t the word you expected. 

He finally lifted his gaze. It was like being struck by a bolt of cold lightning. 

“A confession is for contrition. For the outline of a sin, so that absolution can be shaped around it. It is not….” He paused, his jaw working. 

“It is not a narrative. It is not meant to be graphic. Do you understand the difference?”

You could only stare, mute. 

“You painted a picture,” he continued, his voice dropping, growing tighter. “With such… vivid detail. You didn’t just confess an impure thought. You described everything. the physical sensations.” A muscle feathered in his jaw. 

“You described your own… self-violation… with a precision that was not necessary for repentance. It was evocative. It was descriptive.” He said the word like it was a curse. 

“That is not the purpose of the sacrament. You forced me, as your confessor, to… to visualise your sin. To participate in it, second-hand. That is a burden you should not have placed on me.”

The accusation was so unfair, so brilliantly twisted, that it stole the air from your lungs. He was blaming you for the content of your confession. A spark of defiance, hot and sudden, flared in your chest.

“I was confessing the truth, father.” you heard yourself say, your voice quieter than you intended, but steady. “The whole truth. Isn’t that what’s required? Or are we only to confess the parts of our sins that are… convenient?”

His eyes widened a fraction. He hadn’t expected you to speak so abruptly. The cold mask slipped, revealing a flash of something raw—anger, shock, admiration. He leaned back in his chair, as if physically pushed by your words.

“The whole truth,” he repeated slowly, “is a dangerous thing when it involves… imagery. When it becomes a shared experience between penitent and priest.” His hand, which had been steepled, drifted down to the desktop. His fingers tapped once, twice, a nervous rhythm. 

“What you shared wasn’t just a sin. It was a… a temptation. Delivered directly.”

“I didn’t know it was you,” you whispered, the defense weak even to your own ears.

“It doesn’t matter!” he snapped, the control breaking for a second. 

He stood up abruptly, turning his back to you, one hand raking through his hair. You saw his other hand—the one at his side—drift to the front of his cassock. He pressed the heel of his palm low against himself, a hard, frustrated press through the heavy wool, holding it there for a beat too long before snatching it away and clenching it into a fist at his side. 

The gesture was unconscious; a physical confession more honest than any of his words. He was still clearly turned on by you. 

When he turned back, his face was flushed. “Don’t you see? The content… it was a violation in itself. You painted a scene so real I can’t scrub it from my mind. It’s there. On a loop.”

He was breathing heavily now. He came around the desk, to lean back against its edge, putting a smaller distance between.He crossed his arms, a defensive posture, but his eyes were pinned on you, dark and stormy.

“My failure,” he said, the words ground out, “was in not stopping you. In listening and… picturing it. And then, of course, my subsequent… lapse… was a separate, profound sin. A betrayal of my office. For that, you have my apology.”

The apology was ash in the air. Meaningless. You both knew it.

“The appropriate course,” he continued, his voice attempting that flat control again and failing, “is distance. Permanent reassignment. For the well-being of both our souls.”

There it was. The sentence. But you also saw the pulse hammering in his throat, the faint tremor in his crossed arms.

“That is what I should do,” he said, staring at a point over your head. “What any sane man in my position must do.”

The silence this time was different. It was full of the things he wasn’t saying. The tick-tock of the clock was like a countdown.

“But.” He pushed off the desk, taking a single step toward you. You were still sitting, and he loomed, but the power wasn’t in his height now; it was in the desperate vulnerability cracking his voice. 

“You spoke of disconnection. From God. From grace.” He crouched suddenly, bringing his face level with yours. His eyes searched yours, pleading. “Do you know what that feels like? To hear a mirror of your own deepest hunger spoken aloud in the dark? To have your own secret corruption given a voice, and for that voice to be… beautiful?”

You were shaking. You couldn’t look away.

“We are already damned in the wanting,” he whispered, the words a hot, agonized confession. “The thought is the sin. The desire is the transgression. We carry it with us, and it poisons everything. It makes a mockery of our prayers.” He reached out, his hand hovering near your face, not touching, but you could feel the heat of it. 

“What if… what if we surrendered to it? Just once. Not in secret fantasy, but in truth. Let the fire burn itself out on the fuel of our bodies, until there is nothing left but ash and the clear, unambiguous memory of the sin.”

“Father, I must confess I never wanted this life… but wanting you… its the first real thing I’ve felt here. In my loneliness.”

He regarded you up through his eyelashes, still crouched down. “And I, share the same sentiment. I just became good at pretending, Sister. It was easier to run from intimacy that I struggled with; to vow it out entirely.” He looked away for a moment, deep in thought about his past life. 

“Y-you’ve had… relations before, Father?” you asked, shock in your hushed voice. 

“Yes. Once. It was a mistake that cost me dearly. I vowed it would be the last time I was taken advantage of in such a way.” he turned back to you and gently placed a palm on your covered thigh. 

“I swore to never let… intimacy hurt me ever again, so I sought out this line of work. However it was foolish; my desire and lust cannot be pushed down. I feel too deeply.” He was looking at you so closely now, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“I feel for you Sister, and I fear that if I do not… act now, I shall never see you again; if you do decide to leave the parish.”

“Father Michael, I have been longing for you ever since we met.”

His logic from before, about acting on this situation was a twisted theology, but it found fertile ground in your own desperate heart. The idea was horrifying. And it made a perfect, devastating sense.

“One time,” he breathed, his eyes holding yours captive. “To know it. To have no more ghosts of ‘what if’ haunting us. And then, when it’s done… when the curiosity is dead, because it has been answered… then we could seek true forgiveness. We could go to our separate altars with hearts that are no longer curious, but informed. Perhaps… perhaps then we could finally understand the depth of the grace we’d need. Perhaps the sin itself could be the path to a clearer repentance.”

He was offering a pact. A mutual, deliberate fall as a precursor to a purer ascent. It was the most corrupt, and the most heartbreakingly logical, thing you had ever heard.

He stood up, turning away, his shoulders tense. “It’s a corruption of every vow,” he said to the bookshelves. “But is it a greater corruption than a lifetime of this… this festering? This slow poison that makes us hypocrites in our own skin?”

He turned back, and the last vestige of the stern priest was gone. He was just a man, terrified and hopeful, standing on the edge of an abyss. He held out his hand to you. It shook violently.

“I called you here to send you away initially,” he said, his voice raw. “That was the right path. The safe path. But I can’t.” The admission seemed to cost him everything. “God help me, I look at you and I don’t see a problem to be solved. I see the only honest answer to a question that’s been burning a hole in my soul for months.”

You looked from his trembling hand to his face, to the torment and the desperate hope warring in his eyes. The spark of defiance in you hadn’t died; it had changed, melding with a profound, terrifying understanding.

He was right. The wanting was the sin. It was already inside you, a constant, a presence that coloured every Hail Mary, every moment of supposed peace. It was a shadow on your soul. Could you ever truly seek absolution for this? Was it best to just leave after it?

Your own voice, when it came, was quiet but clear in the silent office.

“You’re right,” you said. The words felt like a key turning. “The thoughts… they’re a constant sin. They’re already there. We’re already carrying the weight of it.” You took a shaky breath, your eyes locked on his. “Maybe… maybe you have to experience the sin so you can truly let it go.”

A profound, shuddering relief washed over his features, followed immediately by a deeper, more profound terror. You had agreed. You had mirrored his corrupted logic. You were both reaching for it.

“We are so similar Sister, in our affinities. We are bound to find solace and maybe find resolution in each other. In our fantasy.” He got up from the desk and smoothed his long cassock.

He held out his hand, and it shook. "Not here, though" he said quietly. "Not with the door of my office standing between us and the rest of the convent.” He nodded toward the hall beyond, toward the private wing of the rectory that no Sister had cause to enter. 

"My rooms are through there. If we’re going to damn ourselves for this, I won't have it happen somewhere so easily interrupted." 

He pulled you up slowly, his hand warm and big in yours. His eyes were like a does, innocent, yet corrupt all the same. 

You let yourself follow him down the hall. He walked like he expected, at any moment, for you to change your mind, glancing back once at the threshold of the hallway as if giving you the chance. You weren’t going to. However your mind did drift to think about his seeking out Preisthood… why a soul so tortured by a woman would be driven to this… this place.

The door clicked shut. The sound echoed in the small, spare room, a final period on the sentence you’d begun in the confessional. 

You stood frozen just inside, the worn wooden floorboards cool under your stockinged feet. The reality of where you were—in his private room, the bed, the crucifix on the wall—crashed down with a weight that stole your breath. 

He didn’t move from the door. He leaned against it, his head bowed, his shoulders tense under the fabric of his cassock. 

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You could hear the distant, mournful cry of a train whistle from the tracks beyond the convent walls. A sound from the real world, a reminder.

Finally, he pushed off the door and turned to you. In the grey afternoon light filtering through the single window, he looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes like bruises. The charming, animated young priest was gone. In his place was a man, weary and wired, standing on the edge of a cliff.

“You can still leave,” he said, his voice quiet, stripped bare. “If you walk out that door right now, we never speak of this again. I’ll find a way to… to handle my own failing. You can keep your vows intact.”

It was an out. A last chance at redemption offered by the very agent of your temptation. The kindness in it, the sheer, devastating responsibility of it, made your chest hurt. 

You looked at him; the sharp line of his jaw, the mouth you’d dreamed of, the hands that had touched you so innocently before, and you knew you were already damned. The wanting was a root, grown too deep to tear out.

You shook your head, a tiny, helpless movement.

He closed his eyes for a second, a flicker of pain crossing his features. When he opened them, they were dark, resigned, and frighteningly tender. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay. C’mere.”

You took the few steps to the center of the room. He met you there, but didn’t touch you immediately. He just looked at you, his gaze sweeping over your face, your habit, as if memorizing the last moment before the fall.

“We go slow,” he said, his voice a low, steady murmur meant to calm the frantic beating of your own heart. “This is your first time. It should be… it should be good. It should feel good. That’s all I want. To show you that.”

His assumption that you were a virgin was… not shocking. Any young girl who walked through these hallowed halls had to be.

He reached up then, his hands going to your wimple. His fingers, so unfamiliar with ritual, found the pins slowly. He was hesitant, almost shy, the opposite of what you had fantasised about.

Each pin was removed with a soft snick, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet. He set them carefully on the dresser, lining them up in a neat row, as if maintaining order somewhere mattered. 

The stiff linen came away, then the coif. He placed them on the chair, smoothing the fabric with an absent touch.

Then it was just your hair, bound in its tight, daily knot. He reached for it, his hands surrounding the bun completely. For a long moment, he just held it, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed. You could see the pulse beating in his throat. This was it. The first real unveiling.

He found the pins. One, two, three… they joined the others. His movements were methodical, painfully slow. Then, with a soft, deliberate pull, he loosened the knot.

Your hair didn’t cascade dramatically. It unfurled slowly, a heavy, dark wave slipping over his wrists and down your back. It was longer than you remembered, a lifetime of growth kept secret. The release of the constant, familiar pressure of the tight pins was a profound, physical relief.

He made a sound—a soft, choked inhale, as if he’d been punched in the gut. He was utterly still, his hands suspended in the air, now empty of the bun but full of the memory of its shape. 

Then, slowly, he brought his hands down, letting the strands slide through his fingers. He watched, mesmerised, as they fell, catching the dull light. He reached out and touched it again, combing his fingers from your scalp all the way to the ends.

“Goodness,” he whispered, the word full of awe, not piety. 

He gathered a thick handful, brought it to his face, and pressed it against his cheek, his eyes closing. He inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling. “I knew,” he murmured into the dark strands. “I knew it would be like this. I dreamed it was like this.” He opened his eyes, looking at the hair fisted in his hand, then at your face. His expression was one of pure, unguarded wonder, mixed with a deep, aching sorrow. 

“It’s beautiful and I so wish you didn’t have to tuck it away.”

He spent what felt like an eternity just touching your hair. Wrapping it around his hands, weighing its heaviness, brushing it over your shoulders. He was worshiping it. And you let him, a strange, powerful feeling blooming in your chest. You had done this. You had reduced Father Michael to this state of trembling awe.

He undressed you with the same deliberate, slow care. The rough wool tunic was unbuttoned, and he helped you shrug it off, folding it with a distracted neatness. The scapular, the long underskirt. Each layer was removed with a solemn, heartbreaking tenderness. He was revealing you, and in doing so, revealing his own vulnerability. When you stood in just your simple, knee-length cotton shift, he paused.

His gaze traveled over you, the thin fabric clinging to the curves of your body. He looked at the shape of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips. His expression was one of deep, almost painful appreciation, like a man looking at a masterpiece he knows he must destroy.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick. “It’s a crime, what we hide under all that wool.”

He hooked his fingers in the hem of the shift. “Lift your arms for me.”

A fresh wave of hesitation washed over you. This was the final barrier. The last vestige of the Sister, the postulant. You hesitated, your arms trembling at your sides.

He saw it. He didn’t rush you. He just waited, his eyes soft, patient. “It’s just me,” he whispered. “Michael. And ‘m not gonna hurt you.”

The use of his own name, not his title, broke the spell. You lifted your arms. He drew the shift up and over your head, and let it fall to the floor.

You were naked before him. The air was cool, raising goosebumps on your skin. A violent shiver of self-consciousness seized you, and you instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, hunched slightly.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice firm but impossibly gentle. He reached out and gently pried your arms apart, holding your wrists, lowering them to your sides. 

“Don’t hide from me. Not after everything.” His hands slid up your arms to your shoulders, then down your sides, a warm, steadying touch. “Look at you. You’re… magnificent. Every part of you.”

He knelt then, right on the wooden floor in front of you. He was eye-level with your navel. 

His hands came to rest on your hips, his thumbs making slow, soothing circles on the skin. His gaze dropped, and he stared, openly, at the thatch of dark, neat curls between your thighs.

He didn’t touch at first. He just looked, his breath coming a little faster. Then he reached out, his fingertips trembling slightly, and just brushed through the soft hair. A soft sigh escaped him.

“So pretty,” he breathed, full of wonder. He combed his fingers through it more firmly, a gentle, petting motion. “So real. So you.” He looked up at you, his eyes serious. “This is a gift, you understand? This… all of this… is a gift. And I’m…” He shook his head, dropping his gaze again, a muscle working in his jaw. “I’m so selfish for taking it.”

He leaned in then, and pressed his lips to the soft skin just above your pubic bone. A kiss of gratitude, of farewell knowing that this was likely the only intimate moment you’d both share. 

He lingered there, his forehead resting against your lower belly, his warm breath washing over you. You could feel the fine tremors running through his body.

After a long moment, he rose. “My turn,” he said, and the shyness was back, mixed with a new tension.

He turned slightly away as he began to undress, a self-conscious gesture that made your heart twist. He removed his cassock, folding it with automatic habit. Then his clerical shirt. He pulled it over his head, his back to you.

When he turned around, you saw him fully. The vitiligo was even more striking up close. The large, beautiful patch of stark white skin swept from under his right arm, across his ribs, over his hip, and down his thigh, the border sharp and clean against his warmer and darker skin tone. It was a part of him, undeniable and beautiful.

He saw you looking. A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips, and he glanced away. 

“Not what you pictured when you thought of your sexy priest, huh?” he said quietly, a defensive edge in his voice.

You stepped closer without thinking. You reached out and laid your palm flat on the border where dark met light on his side. His skin was warm, the texture no different. He flinched, a tiny intake of breath, but didn’t pull away.

“No,” you whispered, your eyes meeting his. “You’re better. You’re real.”

The words seemed to disarm him completely. His eyes glistened for a second before he blinked rapidly. He captured your hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed your palm, a long, tender press. Then he pulled you against him, skin to skin, and kissed you. It was a deep, slow kiss, full of a gratitude and a yearning that stole the last of your hesitation.

He led you to the bed, laying you back on the grey blanket. He didn’t cover you immediately. He lay beside you, propped on an elbow, and just looked at you, his free hand tracing idle patterns on your stomach.

“We have all the time in the world,” he murmured. “My world stops here. Just for this. Let everything else melt away.”

He began to touch you in earnest. He started at your temples, massaging them gently. “You hold so much tension here,” he whispered. He then kissed your eyelids, the bridge of your nose, the corners of your mouth. He mapped your face with devotion.

He moved down your throat, sucking gently at the pulse point until you moaned. “You have no idea the power you have,” he said against your skin, his voice rough. “Just the sight of you, walking into a room. It undoes me.”

His mouth moved to your breasts. He took his time, worshiping each one. He licked and sucked and nibbled until you were arching off the bed, your fingers tangling in the sheets. His hand cupped the weight of your breast, his thumb brushing your peaked nipple. “So perfect,” he groaned. “So responsive. You were made for this. For pleasure,” he pressed his mouth down again on your nipple and suckled. “Isn’t it cruel that God created all these areas on the body that are so sensitive to tough; and then denies you of that, if your calling is to the congregation?” He looked up at you and tutted.

“I’m beginning to think God is the corrupt one and not us,”

He kissed down your sternum, over the quivering plane of your stomach. He nuzzled into the short hair on your pubic bone, inhaling deeply. “And this,” he whispered, his breath hot. “This drives me out of my mind. Knowing it’s under all that wool. And now knowing it’s only mine to see, in this moment.”

He settled between your legs. He kissed the inside of each thigh, his stubble a delicious scrape. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and warm. “This might feel like a lot. Just breathe. My only job today is to make you feel good.”

His first touch was the soft, flat press of his tongue, a slow, sweeping stroke that made you jolt and gasp. He soothed you with a hand on your belly. “Easy. I’ve got you.”

It was better than anything you’d ever imagined, or ANY feeling your own hand could give ou.

He began to eat you out with a dedicated intensity that was more intimate than anything you could have imagined.

His tongue explored every fold, every hidden contour, before finding your clit. He licked around it, circled it, then flicked over it with the very tip, his eyes closed in concentration. 

One of his hands slid under your ass, tilting your hips up. The other hand came up, and his thumb found your entrance, rubbing gently, then pressing inside, just to the first knuckle.

The stretch of his thumb, combined with the relentless, perfect rhythm of his tongue, sent pleasure shooting tight in your core. You were trembling, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. The anticipation of him taking you in such a forbidden way.

The power dynamic was intoxicating. Here you were, naked and spread open, and Father Michael was naked, on his stomach, on this small bed; his mouth between your legs, serving your pleasure with a desperate, devoted focus. The thought alone was enough to make your pleasure climb higher.

“That’s it,” he murmured against you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine. “Let it happen. Come for me. I want to taste it. I want to know I did this for you.”

His words, the raw, gentle command from his lips, broke you. Your climax rolled through you, a deep, shuddering wave that had you crying out, genuinely almost moved to tears by how much better it felt than whatever pleasure you could have given yourself. 

He gentled you through it, his mouth soft and persistent, until you were limp and oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.

“Please, Father, oh my–” you picked your head up to look at him between your legs, to store the memory in your head forever. He was perfect, cheeks tinged pink, his stubble, swollen lips and his hair, now messy and showing off the height of his afro that he hid constantly with gel.

He kissed his way up your body, his own breathing ragged. He gathered you into his arms, holding you close. You could feel his heart hammering against your cheek, feel the hard, thick length of him pressed against your hip. He was still fully dressed from the waist down, a last bastion of… something.

After long minutes of quiet, just his hands stroking your hair, your back, he shifted.

“Are you ready for me?” he asked, his voice thick with restraint.

You nodded against his chest, dazed.

He moved over you, bracing himself on his arms. The difference in his size, the weight of him hovering above you, was suddenly very real. He was all lean muscle and warm, contrast-painted skin. His face was serious, his eyes searching yours, full of a concern that made your throat tighten.

“This will hurt,” he said softly, a final, gentle warning. “Just at first. I’ll go so slow. You tell me to stop, and I stop. Promise me.”

“I promise,” you whispered.

He reached between you, his hand fumbling with the fastening of his trousers. He pushed them and his briefs down just enough to free himself. He was thick, fully erect, the skin flushed and smooth. The vitiligo has dropped below his waistband it seemed, splattering over his hip bone and stopping there. 

 A drop of moisture gleamed at the tip of his dick, your eyes fixated on it. He took himself in hand, his grip firm, and started moving it up and down. He made his own hands look small as he did it, his hips bucking whenever his hand made it back down to the base. 

“I was doing this in the confession booth, y’know?” he said, his eyes lazy with lust.

“Y-you were?” 

“Mhmmm, thinking of all the things you were saying made me delirious, I had to touch myself”

His eyes left yours once more and he glanced down at himself and then the angle at which you were laying. He pulled your legs, to bring your sopping wet cunt closer and then guided his dark pink head to your entrance. You were so slick with your arousal and his saliva that when he tried to push in, it slipped up, nudging your clit. It was so sensitive that you jolted.

He pressed forward, just an inch. “Sshit” he hissed.

There was a sharp, burning pressure as he finally pressed into you, a tearing sensation that was profoundly alien. 

You gasped, a sharp cry escaping you, your eyes squeezing shut against the sudden sting.

He froze immediately. “Breathe,” he whispered, his own breath coming in a controlled, shaky stream. He was trembling with the effort of holding still. “Just breathe through it. Look at me. Look at me, m’love.”

You forced your eyes open and the endearing name. His face was inches from yours at this new angle now, his brow furrowed in concern and pain—his own, from the strain of holding back from you. “M’not gonna hurt you,” he murmured. “It’s going to feel good. Breathe.”

You took a ragged breath and nodded. The burning was intense. He pushed forward another slow, inexorable inch. A tear escaped, tracking down your temple into your hair. The pain was bright, shocking but it felt like every nerve in your body was alive and on fire. It felt so good, so wrong, so right and so painful all at once.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He leaned down and kissed the tear away, his lips soft on your skin. “I know it hurts. Just a little more. Then I’ll make it better. I swear to you.”

With a final, careful push, he sank the rest of the way home, burying himself to the hilt inside you.

The feeling of fullness was immense, overwhelming. The sharp pain was there, but beneath it was the shockingly hot sensation of being filled. He was inside you. Father Michael was inside you. The thought, blasphemous and thrilling, cut through the pain.

He let out a long, shaky groan, dropping his forehead to yours. His whole body was trembling. “Christ,” he breathed, the word a pained prayer. 

“You’re so… tight. So perfect. Just… give yourself a minute. Just get used to me.”

He didn’t move. He just stayed there, joined with you, letting your body stretch and accommodate him. He kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue soothing, distracting. Slowly, the sharpest edge of the pain began to blur, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache and that strange, full sensation.

Tentatively, he began to move. A slow, gentle rocking of his hips, a subtle retreat and advance. The way his dick curved up inside you was maddening, filling you up and hitting every good nerve.

It still hurt, but the hurt was now mingled with sparks of extreme pleasure.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice a rough whisper against your lips. “Just like that. It’ll start to feel good. I’ll make it feel good. I’ll take care of you.”

He kept the pace agonizingly slow, each shallow thrust going a little deeper, a little smoother as your body yielded to him. He watched your face intently, his own a mask of concentrated empathy. 

After what felt like an eternity, the pain receded like a tide, leaving behind a raw, open sensitivity that began to glow with a low, gathering warmth. 

A soft, surprised moan escaped you on one particularly deep rock of his hips.

He smiled then, a real, relieved smile that lit up his tired face. “There she is,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder. “There’s the pleasure.”

He began to move with more purpose, establishing a slow, deep, rolling rhythm. The bed began to creak softly beneath you. His thrusts were measured, each one aimed at fanning that new warmth into a flame. One of his hands slid under your lower back, arching you up to meet him. The next thrust hit a spot so deep and startlingly good that you cried out, a sound of pure shock.

“Yeah,” he grunted, his own control starting to slip. “Right there. I’ve got you.”

He fucked you like that for long, slow minutes, building the pleasure back from its ashes. You were climbing again, the tightening tension returning, deeper now, rooted in the very core of you where he moved. 

You were beneath him, being taken by him, being taught by him and it was better than any schoolgirl silly fantasy you’d had before. He was gentle and reassuring and everything this situation called for. 

The man whose homilies you’d listened to, whose guidance you’d sought, was now the source of this devastating, intimate friction.

“Father Michael,” you moaned, the title slipping out unbidden, wrapped in pleasure.

He stilled above you for a second, his eyes flying open to meet yours. A dark, hungry understanding flashed in them. A slow, wicked smile touched his swollen lips. “Say that again,” he breathed, his voice dropping an octave.

“Father Michael,” you whispered, the words a sin and a caress.

He groaned, a deep, ragged sound, and began to move again, his thrusts gaining a new, possessive force. 

“It turns you on, doesn’t it?” he panted, his breath hot on your ear. “Even just to say it. The title. The power. I should have seen you from a mile away. The first day you walked in, with those quiet eyes… I should have known you’d be trouble. The deepest kind of trouble.”

His words, acknowledging the very dynamic that was fueling your fire, sent a fresh, scalding wave of lust through you. You were wet for him, for your priest, in a way that felt like its own damnation.

“You’re just like me,” he thrusted again, exhaling, “So shy but so dirty.”

Suddenly, he caught both your wrists in one of his large hands. He pulled them up, above your head, and pinned them there to the mattress. The surrender was absolute. 

You were completely at his mercy, held down by his weight and his grip. He looked down at you, pinned and helpless beneath him, and the look in his eyes was fiercely possessive.

“Keep them there,” he ordered, his voice guttural. He used his new leverage to drive into you harder, deeper. The pace was still controlled, but it was relentless now. Each thrust was getting you closer. 

You were pinned, filled by your confessor, and utterly helpless.

He looked down at where your bodies joined, watching himself disappear into you, then back up at your face, your wrists trapped in his hand. “Mine,” he growled. “You’re mine, Sister. My good girl. Got you all to myself.”

The combination of his words, his dominance, and the perfect, grinding angle pushed you over another edge. This climax was sharper, more intense, a crashing wave that made you sob his name—his title, his name, a tangled litany—as your body clenched around his. 

It was better than every single bleary orgasm you’d given yourself in the past. You understood wholeheartedly now why this was so sought after by other non practicing women, and why their lives were led around this act. It was a shattering that your own fingers had only ever mimicked in lonely imitation.

He groaned, his rhythm faltering as he rode out the pulses of your orgasm, his own release clearly nearing.

When it subsided, he released your wrists, his hand coming down to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. He was breathing hard, sweat beading on his temples and upper lip. 

His hair was a glorious mess. The neat gel had completely surrendered. A short, dense, wiry Afro crowned his head, the tight, dark coils springing free with a life of their own. It made him look younger, wilder, utterly undone.

You reached up, sinking your fingers into it. The texture was incredible—dense, soft yet wiry, the coils wrapping around your fingers. He groaned at the touch, a sound of pure pleasure, and pressed his head into your hand.

“Your hair,” you breathed, twisting a curl around your finger.

He gave a shaky, breathless laugh. “It’s a mess,” But he nuzzled into your palm, even as he began to move inside you again, his thrusts regaining their deep, purposeful rhythm.

After a few more strokes, he pulled out, his body glistening. “On your side,” he rasped, his voice raw. He helped you turn, his movements gentle again. He curled behind you, pulling your top leg up toward your chest. He entered you again from this new angle, his arm hooking under your knee to hold it open. 

It was deep, incredibly intimate, his chest against your back, his mouth on your shoulder. He fucked you like this for a while, slow and deep, his free hand roaming over your breast, your stomach, down to where your bodies joined, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, firm circles.

“You can come again,” he murmured into your skin. To get to your ear, he yanked away your long hair and by the way he pulled it tight, so much so that it hurt but gave you pleasure. He noticed then and grabbed more of it in his hand and pulled.

“I know you can. One more for me. Let me feel you.”

And you did; hard. The feeling came in more sudden shocking waves, your pussy pulsating like it hadn’t before. It was unbelievable, how sensitive your body was to his touch. He was still plowing into you, both hands on either sides of your hips now, pushing himself into you over and over again. All you could hear was a string of “Yes, yes yes.”

He was close. You could feel it in the tension in his body as he pressed into your back, and in the ragged, open-mouthed breaths against your shoulder. He pulled out once more.

“Get on all fours,” he said, the command leaving no room for hesitation.

You obeyed, your body moving pliantly, sore and used. He moved behind you. One hand gripped the swell of your hip, his fingers digging in. The other hand plunged into the hair at the crown of your head, fisting a thick, unyielding handful. He didn’t pull to hurt you, but to possess you, to control the arch of your back. He pushed into you from behind in one deep, powerful stroke that punched the air from your lungs.

He panted, setting a hard, driving pace that had the bed slamming against the wall in a steady, brutal rhythm. He used the grip in your hair to pull you back onto every thrust. His other hand slid around your hip, his fingers finding your oversensitive clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Gonna come,” he gritted out, the words strained. “Need to see your face when I do.”

He pulled out abruptly. “Get on the floor. Kneel.”

You got out of bed, turned all shaky, and then knelt on the ground before him. He stood there, his body a breathtaking vision of sweat-sheened muscle and stark, beautiful skin. 

His trousers were around his thighs. His Afro was a wild and glorious sight, the curls damp with sweat. 

He fisted himself in his hand, his strokes fast and tight, his eyes burning into yours with a desperate, final intensity.

“Look up at me, Sister,” he demanded, his voice a hoarse scrape.

You looked up at him from your knees. The power dynamic had never been clearer. You were on your knees before your priest. Before Michael. 

He was standing over you, pleasuring himself, about to mark you. The thought was filthy, degrading, and it made a fresh, hot rush of desire pool in your spent core.

“This is what I will always see… when I close my eyes at the altar.” he said, the words a final undeniable benediction.

You stayed there. His fist moved faster. A low, guttural groan was torn from him, a sound of utter surrender and profound anguish.

He came.

It was a hot, pulsing rush that hit your chin, your lips, your cheeks. The first thick, pearlescent spurt landed directly on your parted lips. You flinched, the taste salty and bitter, but you held his gaze, refusing to look away. 

He kept stroking himself through it, his release painting your face in hot, wet stripes, dripping onto your neck, your collarbones, your trembling breasts. He watched it happen, his eyes wide and horrified and ecstatic, his face a mask of ruined bliss.

When it was over, he stood there, his body slack, his breath coming in great, heaving gasps that shook his frame. 

Slowly, as if moving through deep water, he sank to his knees on the floor, bringing himself to your level. He was trembling violently. He reached out, his hand coming under your chin. His thumb, gentle now, brushed through a streak of his come on your cheek, smearing it. He looked at you, at the vivid, degrading evidence of his loss of control painted across your face, at your eyes, wide and trusting and ruined, looking back at him from your knelt position.

All the fierce passion, the possessive heat, drained away, leaving a hollowed-out devastation that seemed to age him ten years in an instant. It all just looked like the aftermath of a personal catastrophe,

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully. His thumb stroked your chin once more, a tender, agonized gesture.

“Oh, Sister,” he whispered, his voice broken and terribly, terribly soft. “How am I ever going to forget this transgression?”

let me know if u liked it otherwise i fear i may never post again hahaha

tags;

“you shouldn’t be here.” his voice cracked on the last word.

“then tell me to leave.” you slowly spread your legs, letting your knees fall apart. “go on, Father. tell me.”

then he looked at you — at the bare skin of your thighs, at the curve of your chest where your shirt hung open. his adam’s apple bobbed. “we… we can’t. this is a sin. i've dedicated my life— ”

“you've dedicated your life to God.” you hooked your fingers under the hem of your skirt and pulled it a little higher. “and He gave you me. to test you. to see if you're strong enough to say no."

"i'm not," he whispered. "i'm not strong enough. I've been praying for you to stop coming. every night I pray, and then i see you walk in and i— i can't."

“then stop praying.” you lowered your hand and pulled your panties aside, watching his whole body go stiff. “come here, Father.”

he moved anyway, the complete opposite of everything he just said. he crossed the room in three slow steps and stopped at the edge of the table. frozing there, his fingers clenched so tight at his sides they turned white. up close, you saw the sweat on his forehead and the way his chest rose and fell beneath his cassock.

“please,” he breathed. “please don’t make me do this. i— i’ll hold extra masses. i’ll fast for a whole year. just— don’t make me—"

“make you do what?” you spread your legs a little wider, and his eyes dropped to the wet shine of your swollen pussy. “make you taste me? you want to, don't you? i can see it.”

he let out a broken, shaky moan, and his knees gave out. he dropped to the floor in front of the table, his hands shooting up to grip your trembling thighs with quiet reverence. “i can’t,” he whispered, even as his mouth moved closer to you. “i can’t… i can’t…”

then his lips touched you, and he was gone.

he buried himself between your thighs like a starving man. like he dreamed about this for years, and the real thing was even sweeter than every late-night fantasy he never let himself have, every night he rubbed himself against the sheets just to ease the ache. his tongue slid over you in one slow, wet stroke, and a muffled groan rumbled out of him — low and deep enough to make your whole body shake. his fingers dug into your thighs so hard they were going to leave bruises.

“nngh! oh— God—”

he moaned against you without pulling away, closing his lips around your clit and sucking gently. your hips lifted off the table, and he followed without thinking, pressing his face closer, his nose brushing against you while his tongue slipped deeper.

“mmnh…” he mumbled something against your skin, the words broken and barely clear. “oh God— oh God, forgive me! i can’t stop— i can’t…”

“tell me,” you gasped, threading your fingers through his hair. “tell me what you wanted to do to me. all those nights. tell me.”

he pulled back just enough to look up at you. his lips were swollen and wet, his chin glistened, and his eyes were dark with shame and hunger. “i can’t. i have to obey him. i have to follow the rules— ”

you rolled your hips against his face, making him let out another helpless moan. your voice soft and sweet. “but i want you to tell me. please, romi?” something inside him finally broke. he buried his face between your thighs again, talking through slow, wet strokes of his tongue.

“i wanted… i wanted to worship you. every night i saw you walk in wearing those little skirts… that top that let me see your— your beautiful breasts… i wanted to get on my knees and— ” he groaned, dragging his tongue over you before taking another shaky breath. “i wanted to taste you until you couldn’t think anymore. i wanted to bury my face in you and never come back up.”

“then do it,” you whispered, pushing his face even closer. “put your fingers inside me, Father.”

“i shouldn’t…” but his hand already moved. it shook as his fingers slipped inside you, and a broken, desperate cry escaped him. “oh— oh God!” he pushed them in deeper, adding a second finger, while his mouth found your clit again, sucking and licking as he slowly worked his fingers inside you.

“that’s it,” you moaned, arching into him. “just like that, sir.” he sobbed at the word. “don’t… don’t call me that. i’m not… i don’t deserve it…”

“yes, you do.” you tugged gently on his hair, making him press his face even closer. “you’re so good to me, father. making me feel— nngh! so good!”

“i shouldn’t,” he cried into you, but he never stopped. his nose pressed against you, rubbing your clit while he breathed you in, deep and desperate, like he wanted to remember your scent forever. “i shouldn’t… i shouldn’t… it’s a sin. i’m breaking every vow i ever made…”

“and you love it.” you rolled your hips against his face, and another helpless moan spilled from his lips as his tongue moved over you again. “you love tasting my pussy, don't you?”

“yes,” he moaned, almost crying. “yes— yes, i love it. i love you. i never wanted anything as much as i wanted you. i’d burn in hell for you. i’d…” his nose nudged against you, the tip pressing at your entrance, and another broken moan left him as he buried himself even deeper. his whole face — his chin, his mouth, even his forehead — was covered in your juices. he drowned in it, and he definitely didn’t want to be saved.

“mmnh… mmngh…” he sobbed, his tongue never stopped, his fingers curled inside you, and you felt yourself getting closer and closer, right to the edge… “just like that... aah— haa, sir!” you breathed.

he cried out — wild, desperate — and you felt his hips jerk. warmth spread through his pants as he came, but his mouth never left you. he kept licking, kept devouring you, never stopped even while his whole body shook.

“haah!! haah!” he panted against you, still eating you out, still drinking you in. “please… please… i need you to cum. i need to taste you. please please please—”

then you came. your whole body fell apart with a cry, but he didn’t stop. his tongue followed every shiver, his nose stayed pressed against your clit, and he breathed you in, moaning with every taste. “mmngh!—”

“yes yes! nngh! don’t stop!” you whispered, and he sobbed, shaking his head.

“i can't stop. i don't want to stop. i want more. i want all of you. i want to stay here forever— ”

one of his hands still fumbled at the front of his cassock, rubbing himself through the fabric as he cried, still buried between your thighs, still licking you. “please,” he begged. “please. i need you. i need this. i’d give up everything. just… just let me…”

you grabbed his hair again and pulled him back until he looked up at you. he looked ruined, completely undone, and beautiful. his lips were swollen and shiny, his chin was slick, and his eyes were full of shame and worship. “then keep going,” you told him. “and don’t you dare stop until i told you to.”

“yes,” he breathed, diving back down with a helpless moan, and he never stopped again. he knew he never could.

“bendígame, padre, porque he pecado.”

that soft, tender voice of yours always sends a shiver down his spine. the kind of shiver that travels down to his core, which tends to throb within seconds. that familiar tension in his throat develops and miguel tries to swallow it down, recomposing himself to listen for what wicked desires you carry in your mind. despite that miguel already knows what your desires are yet still leaves him a nervous wreck. the small capacity of the confession box didn’t ease the anticipation flowing through his veins. with his black attire and long sleeves, it only fuels the heat radiating throughout miguel’s entire body and producing more sweat trailing down his neck and face.

“i’ve been having… impure thoughts of a certain man.” you start softly, but there is a tinge of seduction that lingers in the back of your tongue that makes miguel inhale a deep breath.

“w-what—” he anxiously clears his throat, trying to contain himself while feeling on edge. “what kind of impure thoughts you’d have?”

that damn soft giggle from the other side of the confession box makes his core twitch underneath his trousers that miguel bit his lips to prevent a groan. damn you and those cute noises you make. how can such simple noise can make him fall apart?

“thoughts of… his big, calloused hands roaming all over my body.” you start slowly and you can hear the sharp breath miguel takes from the other side, cussing you to smile. “starting with my shoulders, slowly down to my breasts…” you hear a light groan this time. “my waist, hips, in between my legs.”

“mierda…” miguel groans softly, imagining your exact thoughts of his hands roaming over your body like he hasn’t done it a million times before.

“one of his hands slips underneath my skirt and slowly move towards my inner thighs…”

miguel’s hands flex at his sides as if their primal instincts were to touch you. flashbacks of those late nights spent in his chambers, you laid out so prettily on his bed, releasing a chorus of the most beautiful melody his ears have ever heard, your pedicured nails digging into his muscular back leavings red scratch marks on his sun-kissed skin, bodies connected as one moving in harmony, two souls uniting as one. those haunting memories worsens the throbbing in his core, begging to be released from its confinements and be wrapped in your slick warmth.

“then what?” miguel’s practically a sweating, boiling mess with the burning urge to storm out of the confession box and take you to his bed once again.

“then, his thick long fingers slip inside me,” you slowly trance your hand over the hem of your black polka dot midi skirt. a smile graces your lips when you hear another groan. “teasing me while leaving sweet kisses over my face and neck.”

fuck… miguel’s gonna bust in his trousers inside the confession box if you keep talking like that.

“what other thoughts possess you?” the poor priest dares to ask, desperate to know more of your desires so he can fulfill them afterwards.

the tinge of huskiness in miguel’s tone causes a pleasant tingle down in your throbbing core, rubbing your thighs together for friction to ease the tension. but instead of answering his question, you lean towards the wall right beside him whispering.

“come seek answers personally then, father.”

his last ounce of self-resistance vanished.

the next thing you know, you’re being led to the altar by father o'hara, who has a light yet firm grip on your hand which is due to the unresolved sexual frustration thanks to yours truly. you adore the power have over him, a man devoted to god but worships you like you’re a goddess. not much angel since you’re committing the biggest sin, infidelity.

yes, you’ve been having an affair with the priest who is officiating your wedding in three weeks. it wasn’t meant to happen but the moment you saw those gorgeous scarlet orbs, your heart did something that your fiancé hasn’t accomplished before. which is a terrible thing to admit how the man you’re supposedly engaged to and been together for four years. frankie morales, a retired air force pilot with a troubled past of drug addiction but recovered over time. he is a sweet and respectful man, that is what made you fall in love with him. but encountering the priest who appears to claim the handsomeness of the devil forever altered your brain chemistry. awaken feelings you never truly experienced with frankie, to shamelessly admit.

the amount of guilt you feel for cheating on frankie has been consuming for a month but miguel’s cock strips those ugly feelings away. frankie is actually fantastic in bed, knows how to make you feel good, made your pleasure his main priority. there was never a time he didn’t make you come. whether it was his cock, mouth, or fingers, frankie always made you come undone. but with miguel… it’s different, unexplainably different. yes he is a bit thicker than your fiancé but that isn’t the only reason for the difference. the sweet, filthy words he would whisper into your ear while ravishing you in impeccable ways, making you tremble. how a man of god possesses a sinful tongue and make you see heaven by his own doing. maybe it’s because the relationship is forbidden, an affair. sleeping with the priest that everyone in town adores is definitely a taboo subject, nevertheless the one officiating your wedding.

no matter how hard you tried burning those sinful, explicit thoughts of father o'hara, you never succeeded and only conjured up more. tossing and turning in your bed as the handsome priest invades your dreams while your fiancé slept beside you. you gave into temptation when you visited father o'hara one night and discovered the shocking truth that he harbored the same feelings for you as well. that was when he bent you over the altar and took you from behind, making you see god himself. sex was never the same for you since because you knew no one, not even frankie, would ever compare to miguel.

miguel was no better than you. the moment he saw those gorgeous eyes and the face of an angel, he knew he was fucked. especially when you are the bride of the wedding he was asked to officiate. the endless nights of asking god forgiveness for having desires for a taken, soon-to-be-married, woman. the endless tugging on his aching cock while lying in bed with explicit images of you in his head. biting his lips to conceal the sinful moans and groans as his hand continued tugging on his manhood. then, suddenly spurt thick ropes of semen on the white bedsheets that miguel quickly cleans up afterwards before getting on knees at the edge of the bed begging forgiveness. he held so much self-loathing, even to present day, for claiming to be a man of god while committing to the role of the biggest sinner.

you, a woman of faith, and miguel, a man of god.

oh how perfect, like god intended.

a sinful grin graces your lips as miguel leads you to the same altar where you both committed the most heinous sins in the house of god. memories of those late nights flood your mind, bringing a tingling sensation down to your throbbing core. you expected to be bent over the altar but instead miguel hoists you onto the surface and immediately stands in between your already spread legs. his actions surprise you a bit but you know what his plans are for you and you can’t help but smile in anticipation.

“do you any the slightest idea of what you do to me?” he whispers into your ear, voice laced with a husky seduction mixed with irritation. calloused hands firmly planted on your hips, fingers fiddling with the fabric of your black polka dot midi skirt.

“oh i do, father.” you hear him inhale another sharp breath as you lean into his neck, planting a soft kiss underneath his jaw. “i turn you, a man of god, into the biggest sinner and you…” you decide to be bold and slowly run your tongue along his jawline, causing his grip on your hips to tighten. “love it.”

that was his last fucking straw.

a squeeze erupts from your throat when a firm hand on your stomach gently yet firmly pushes you at on your back against the surface of the altar. miguel quickly descended to his knees, calloused hands shoving your legs apart to swiftly yank your panties off, and place your legs over his bulky shoulders. you didn’t have a chance to utter a word other than a moan when you feel the familiar sensation of his lips suckling on your sensitive bundle of nerves. the back of your head hits the surface with a light thud as father o'hara ravishes you with his mouth.

“miguel!~” your sweet, angelic moans causes the man to groan against your pussy.

“me encanta cuando dices mi nombre.” miguel mutters while lapping at your weeping core, alternating between flicking his tongue at your sensitive clit and dipping it inside your pussy.

the intense pleasure miguel’s mouth was providing makes you tug harshly on those chocolate locks with both hands while rocking your hips against his tongue feverishly. “ay miguel, mas!”

as a man of his word, miguel complies with swirling his tongue over your precious pearl and dips two thick fingers into your needy cunt, eliciting a heavenly moan that makes his core twitch painfully. his free hand travels up to cup one breast and kneads the squishy fat through your pink blouse. the additional sensation makes you moan louder and arch your back against the hard surface, but you need him more. with one hand, you guide the hand on your breast underneath your blouse to grope your through your white lacy bra instead. miguel’s fingers drag over the lacy fabric before squeezing your tit, causing you to lean into his addictive touch while losing your mind to his mouth and fingers below.

while eating you like a man deprived of food, guilt clouds his mind. how dare you make him act like this, commit such heinous sins when he’s supposed to be a man devoted to god. how dare he succumb to your pleads and let your presence consume him whole, possessing him like a spirit. no matter how many times miguel has gotten on his knees to seek forgiveness, he always ends up on his knee eating out the most perfect pussy to exist instead. despite devoting his life to god, he is a man after all with intense needs and desires. how coincidental you appeared in his life when he began seeking passion. if you weren’t engaged or nevertheless taken by another man, miguel wouldn’t have felt the shame he does when he’s with you or thinks of you. if only you were single but god has tested him.

“does he make you feel this good, hm?” miguel hums against your sensitive folds, those scarlet orbs glancing up at your blissful face. “are his fingers long enough to reach that sweet spot inside, querida?” right on queue, his two fingers indeed find that exact spot and curled, eliciting a loud moan from you. “contéstame.” he gives your pussy a light tap.

“n-no! he doesn’t!” you groan frustratingly, brows furrowed in both pleasure and frustration.

another shameful truth. frankie’s fingers are less thicker and a bit shorter than miguel’s but he still managed to reach that sweet spot. however not as deep as miguel does, that’s the difference. basically, frankie can do it all but miguel does it better.

“ah, miguel!~ asi, asi!” you chant as his fingers continue pumping into you in a perfect pace that triggers the familiar warm tension in your core.

miguel complies to your wishes by increasing the pace of his fingers pumping into you and suckling on your sensitive clit simultaneously. that warm sensation in your lower belly coils quickly and your vision goes white, as if seeing the beautiful clouds of heaven. the moan you release echos throughout the church, a symphony of ecstasy that was much more beautiful than the church choir that miguel listens to at every mass. a symphony he would want to hear for the rest of his life. your sensitivity kicks in as miguel continues ravishing your overstimulated pussy, lapping all of your sweet nectar. softly whimpering at the overstimulation as your legs spasm around his head.

finally, he releases your sensitive cunt with a nasty pop and stands back up on his feet, standing in between your legs once again. looking up at him through fluttering lashes while catching your breath, you see his mouth and chin decorated in your cum. while your mind is still mushy from the mind-blowing orgasm he just gave you, you were tempted to wipe off your cum off his face and make him lick it off your finger. but miguel already wipes it off with the back of his hand, a move that he knows you love. he leans down to give you a sweet, loving kiss on the lips before whispering, tasting yourself.

his calloused hands travel down to your hips and turn you around so your back is against his chest. you get the memo and bend over the altar, a position you’ve been in many times on this exact spot. you feel one of his hands lifting up your skirt while the other undos his belt to finally release his aching cock. your own rest on the surface, preparing for the best fucking of your life. sliding your panties to the side, miguel doesn’t waste time sliding into your slick warmth, causing both of you to moan unison.

“ay chingado…” miguel curses in a whisper as his cock continues slipping through your folds until the tip reaches perfectly against your cervix. a groan falls from his lips when you clench around him.

when he doesn’t start moving, you let out an inpatient whine and move your hips a little as emphasis. “mueveté, miguel~”

“espera,” another groan interprets him mid-sentence, praying to god to not come undone right then and there without even fucking you first. “pinche madre… siempre mojada.”

“ya, miguel!”

so damn fucking bossy, but miguel would be a liar if he didn’t admit how much it turns him on.

by slowing moving his hips, miguel begins with slow thrusts, softly groaning at how dangerous yet perfectly you clean around him with each thrust. soft moans and whimpers fall from your lips as you throw your head back in pleasure, relishing the way miguel’s dick fills you up so perfectly. while taking you from behind, miguel looks up at the statue of la virgen de guadalupe as if she’s looking down at him and the sin he’s committing in front of the holy mother. waves of guilt and shame courses through his veins. how dare he commit such vile acts in front of the holy mother. please forgive him.

the overwhelming shame makes him look away and focus back on nicely fucking you. one of his hands keep a firm grip on your left hip while the other interlocks with your right hand above your head as miguel leans over you until his chest rests against your back. his moans and groans perfectly against your ear, pure music to you. it causes you to turn to capture his lips with yours in a kiss, which he accepts by reciprocating, while making love on the altar. it was going good until miguel abruptly pulls himself out of you, leaving you utterly confused.

“miguel, what— oh!”

he swiftly spins you around and lays you back down on the surface, back to your old position from earlier. you don’t get the chance to question his motives when his calloused hands find the buttons on your blouse and suddenly rips it wide open, sending the buttons flying everywhere and exposing that pretty white lacy bra to miguel’s hungry eyes. the sudden movement makes you gasp with a frown.

“chingado, miguel! that was my favorite blouse!”

you make an attempt to slap him on the chest but the action hardly phased him. those crimson orbs are too focused on the pretty white lace covering those delicate breasts underneath, begging for his attention.

miguel softly chuckles at your feisty attitude. “shhh, querida. i’ll buy you another one.”

his suggestion makes your eyes rolls. you expect him to start playing with your breasts but instead he rips off your bra in the middle just like your blouse, shredding off the lacy fabric off your body in an instant and making you gasp for a second time. his pupils dilate the moment miguel sees those beautiful mounds and perky nipples exposed in the cold air. his gaze linger on them a little moment longer before grabbing the gold bowl of holy water and slowly pour it over your tits. the warm, foreign sensation elicits another gasp from you before transforming into a moan when miguel gently rubs it over your tits, causing you to arch your chest into his touch. this is certainly a new thing but you ain’t complaining.

perhaps the devil possessed him in that moment because miguel isn’t sure what provoked him to do such a thing. but observing the way the water makes your skin glisten so beautifully under the light shining through the color stain glass. the sight evokes an intense, primal craving inside his chest that consumes him entirely. miguel doesn’t waste a second to bend down and lick the holy water from your breasts in a feverish manner, making you moan loudly and arch into his greedy mouth.

“miguel!~” you swiftly grip onto his hair, digging your fingers through those soft chocolate locks while endless moans fall from your lips.

miguel’s tongue runs over the swell of your breasts, collecting the water like a man deprived of thirst, before twirling it around your nipple. he alternates between both tits, preforming the same actions and providing them the attention they deserve. those pretty sounds of yours are his reward for pleasing you so well. miguel has never admitted to you before but he adores how sensitive you are, no matter how many times you’ve slept together. you completely come undone by his touch and his touch only. that fuels both his ego and shame, but the latter wins. once the water is completely licked off from your chest, miguel’s find your own and capture them in a passionate kiss, which you reciprocate.

“you should do that more often.” you admit softly against his lips, a grin tugging on your face.

that damn mischief glint on your eyes. it always makes miguel almost crumble to his knees and worship you for eternity, his own goddess.

“ven aquí.” miguel grumbles before pulling you towards him by the hips to press your crotch against his, making you gasp softly.

once he makes sure you were ready for him again, miguel reenters your slick cunt a bit smoother. this time, you’re on your back so he can finally see your angelic face properly while pounding you into oblivion. miguel’s thrusts begins slow but soon pick up speed until his thighs are slapping against the back of yours and his balls smacking your rear. such sinful sounds echoing through a place considered the house of god yet neither of you cared. the pleasure was consuming you too much both to not pay attention to the sins you and miguel are committing, taking control of you both.

“bésame.” you whine, looking up at your handsome lover through teary, fluttering eyes.

father o'hara had resisted many temptations before but can never with you. only you are his exception, but he is to blame for making you the exception.

so, he obliged by bending down and capture your lips in a passionate kiss while thrusting into you. the chorus of moans muffled by each other’s lips, swallowing them instead. you take the opportunity to comb your fingers through his hair as your lips remain locked together and your love-making progresses. miguel almost falters for a moment because you playing with his hair makes him dizzy, in a positive way. how addictively nice your nails feeling combing through his chocolate locks, making him putty in your grasp as always. only your touch can bring miguel down to his knees and melt like a puddle, his heartstrings being pulled by your delicate fingers. oh the power you have over him.

“puta madre.” miguel’s lips break away from yours as a groan slips out, throwing his head back when your walls flutter around him like a fucking vice.

“i-i’m close, miguel~”

yeah, he can feel it by how your pussy is literally choking the fucking life out of him. miguel can feel the tension in his balls preparing the load to give you, the essence of his forbidden love for you.

“damélo, preciosa.”

fuck, that really did it for you.

miguel slips a hand between you down to give a few rubs on your sensitive clit, eliciting a pretty mewl from you. those mahogany eyes admire your pretty, squirming form and angelic face contorted in pure ecstasy, miguel’s most favorite sight. with several more rubs to your precious pearl and his cock hitting your sweet spot, you cum with probably the loudest moan, almost like a fucking scream, and it echos throughout the church. mouth dropped open releasing the most beautiful melody miguel has heard and back arched off the surface of the altar.

“asi, preciosa~” miguel praises, admiring your blissful state like the angel you are.

his hips soon begin to stutter, groaning as miguel senses his high before cumming into the depths of your womb. spurting his forbidden love for you. it was more than usual, perhaps you really pushed miguel over the edge this time. you can feel the difference, feeling more full than usual but you aren’t complaining because you adore the sensation. you wish to be wrapped around him, figuratively and literally, all the time but unfortunately it’s not possible. once every ounce is drained from him, miguel carefully pulls himself out from your now extremely overwhelmed cunt, earning a soft whimper from you. pupils dilated at the sight of his cum leaking from your pussy, the creamy white essence dripping down onto the surface. a sight he never grows tired of and always replay in his mind.

but the sight also fuels the guilt and shame that has been consuming him for weeks. feeding that guilt demon inside him, eating away his heart in fragments in such a slow, painful manner. to see his own cum spilling from a taken, soon-to-be-married, woman whose husband trusted him to officiate the wedding, a good man and that twists something inside miguel. he has been sleeping with another man’s fiancée, bride, and soon-to-be wife. the guilt kills him slowly that’s so unbearable, miguel isn’t sure how long he can endure it any longer.

god, forgive him.

❛　𝒯ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝒲𝑒𝑒𝑘𝑠 ℒ𝑎𝘵𝑒𝑟　. . .　❜

it’s the night before your wedding day and miguel feels anxious about it. tomorrow will be the day your are no longer his and he not yours, you’ll forever be frankie’s love and that leaves a major strain on his fragile heart. miguel won’t have you anymore, keep his bed warm, have meaningful conversations and share secrets with you, just to have your warmth in the cold atmosphere of the church where he feels lonely all the time. all of that will vanished into thin air the moment he pronounces you and frankie as husband and wife at the same altar where he had taken you and reached true pleasure.

but the real reason miguel has been feeling anxious is because you haven’t visited him for the past three weeks, since the night in the confession box. your angelic presence hasn’t stepped through the wooden doors since and miguel grew worried. he tried calling you but you never answered and always went to voicemail. left text messages that were never read and answered. tried coaxing answers from family members and neighbors without being suspicious but no one could’ve provided proper answers, which only fueled his concern. if he truly could, miguel wouldn’t hesitate to haul ass to your apartment and check up on you himself. but that would put your forbidden relationship at risk and he couldn’t risk you. miguel wouldn’t care of losing his position as priest, you were, still are, his main priority.

the worry only worsened over time. no communication from you left him slightly losing him mind and begged god to ensure you were safe. every morning mass, miguel would mask his worries and proceed doing his tasks, but you continue lingering in his back while serving bread and wine to members. during the day, miguel was the faithful priest everyone knew. but at night, miguel was a concerned man for the woman he loved. yes, miguel fell in love with you, a shameful truth that he’s been trying to deny for a while but ultimately admitted it was true. no other woman had captured his heart and soul, whatever magic you possessed managed to do that. miguel was in love with a taken woman. a woman who he deeply cared for and worried for.

it was another late night, brief storm passing by, winds howling that cause the trees to shake. the warm lightening of the candles provide a sense a of comfort as miguel did some final touches in preparation for the wedding tomorrow, a day he’s been dreading for a while but even more now. the only hope still lingering in his fragile heart is the high possibility of seeing you after a period of silence. but he will see you in a wedding dress walking down the aisle to begin a chapter of your life with your husband. the thought makes miguel’s heart ache.

the creaking of the wooden front doors opening snaps miguel out of thought and turn around to find you, alive and well, entering the church. he swore he felt his heart soar in relief and mentally thanked god that you were okay. his feet are already carrying him directly towards you, walking down the aisle with concern illustrated on his sun-kissed face.

“what happened to you? i’ve been trying to reach you but you ignored my calls and messages…”

his words died down as miguel approaches closer until he is directly in front of you and notices the distress illustrated on your angelic face. the sight makes his brows furrowed in concern.

“¿qué paso?” miguel asks concerningly.

his eyes remain on you but yours refuse to do the same and instead look anywhere but him. like you’re afraid to make eye contact with him and that makes miguel more concerned and confused. but miguel doesn’t push you for an answer and remains patient to allow you to find your words without pressure. his eyes moved down at your outfit. a white coat concealing your clothes underneath and a pair of matching kitten heals. bits of your hair is damped due to the rain, giving him the impression that you walked your way here and tried to cover yourself with your coat presumably over your head since there was no hoddie attached. still beautiful as ever.

but then miguel also realizes this is the first time he’s seen you in three weeks. there are so many questions on the top of his tongue that he wishes to blurt out and release his worries but miguel knew that wasn’t the smartest decision. he takes note of your slightly shivering form and swiftly yet gently wraps an around you and guide you further into the church.

“tienes frío, ven.”

you let miguel guide you towards the candles for warmth. although you weren’t that cold, you do appreciate his kindness by flashing a small smile at him, which pulled his heartstrings.

he pulls up a chair. “siéntate.”

you shake your head. “no, it’s okay, thank you.”

his frown deepens a little. “preciosa, por favor—”

“i’m fine, miguel.” you softly cut him off.

a strange tension blossoms between you two. the kind of tension that hasn’t really been felt since the beginning of your affair, the moment you first met. but it felt more… tense, uneasy anticipation. miguel can sense it in his chest and he doesn’t like it because that means something happened. so, miguel decides to bite the fucking bullet.

“why did you disappear?”

there was no anger or frustration in his tone, but rather concern. genuine concern.

the question makes you wince, miguel noticed and grew more concern. he takes note of your body language, eyes scanning your form. arms wrapped around yourself as if you’re trying to provide yourself comfort. head lower a bit to avoid his gaze and tensed shoulders. a sad frown settled upon on your features and lips formed in a slight pout. the sight makes his heart ache and miguel wants nothing more than to comfort you and pull you into his arms.

for a split second, miguel’s mind conjured up a possible reason that frankie had did something to you or at least was responsible for the distress you entered in with. did he do something? did he hurt you? the deeper he thought, miguel’s blood began to boil in anger. he swears, regardless if he’s a priest, if that asshole hurt you in some way then miguel is going to commit the worse sin of all. a much worse sin than sleeping with a taken woman.

“did frankie do something? did he hurt you? i swear, ese pinche cabrón—”

“no!” you quickly reassure him, unfolding your arms to place your hands on top of his. looking up at him with wide eyes. “no, he don’t hurt me.” you watch his frown deepen. “i promise, i’m fine.”

well, that’s a lie but for a completely different reason.

frankie never, ever hurt you. that is a fact. he knew hurting women is absolutely wrong and believed men who do aren’t real men but rather pieces of shit.

“then, what?” miguel inquires.

a sad sigh escapes your lips as you turn away and miguel has half the mind to pull you back to him. you inhale a deep breath to prepare yourself to reveal the true reason you disappeared. exhaling that deep breath, you slowly turn to look back at him with a racing heart and anxiety flowing through your veins.

“i’m pregnant.”

suddenly, the whole world fucking stops.

everything just freezes. a large, unbearable silence stretches between you two.

miguel felt his heart suddenly dropped to his fucking stomach, his soul abandoned his body. his tall, bulking form utterly frozen in time. chestnut eyes blown wide, the color from his face drained in an instant, and unable to breathe. all the emotions completely abandoning him immediately.

“¿qué?…”

you feel your chest tightening and anxiety consuming your body at his horrid expression.

“i’m pregnant,” you confess again a bit louder but still soft, voice a bit shaky due to the anxiety invading your veins. “it’s yours, i haven’t slept with frankie since i’ve been with you…” you added.

miguel’s heart stopped beating for a moment, like blood stopped flowing through his veins in an instant. like frozen in time. it also causes his breathing to pause, as if he forgot how to. in that moment, everything became silent and blurry to him. standing there with tons of emotions throw at him like bombs and collapsing inside his head.

oh how could he be so foolish?

sleeping with you for various nights, it was only a matter of time before the consequences caught up. you often used protection to prevent this exact situation but that one night, the last time he saw you before disappearing, miguel made the mistake of discarding protection and spill into you raw. oh how foolish he was for not thinking properly and taking responsibility. the least miguel could’ve done was pull out but lust consumed his mind in that moment so of course no proper thought was there when he was fucking you on the altar. now you’re painted with his seed, a small fragment that will grow inside the warmth and safety of your womb, his heir.

a child, one that’ll possess several of his characteristics while living life with their mother and a man who isn’t their biological father.

the thought makes miguel’s heart ache immensely. one, for the mistake of sleeping with a taken woman. two, for getting that said woman pregnant with his illegitimate child. three, for that child to grow up with their mother and a man who isn’t their biological father. miguel felt overwhelmed with guilt, shame, and anger. not at anyone but himself.

this is god’s punishment for his sins. now, miguel has to suffer the consequences of his foolish actions.

his silence only fuels the anxiety consuming your mind and body. miguel’s reaction was expected since this is earth-shattering news. the lack of color on his face and pure silence are sufficient evidence.

“i don’t expect anything from you.” your choice of words makes his eyes snap up at yours with shock but you continue on. “i knew what i was doing spending time with you and it was only a matter of time until the consequences would show up. i’m taking responsibility for my part on this—”

“espera—” miguel cuts you off, stepping closer towards you with a expression mixed with concern and shock. “perdóname pero… are you…”

“sí…” you confess. “i’m keeping the baby.”

an uncomfortable tension rests on his throat and chest, making it difficult for miguel to breath. although he partakes in catholicism, miguel believes in women making choices for their bodies and health. he despises men who oppose abortion and women’s healthcare rights. no soul should order a woman what she should do with her body other than herself. you made the choice of keeping the baby and miguel respects that. although, it only fuels the fear that has been tearing him apart since you revealed the news.

miguel is unsure of how to respond in the moment and could only offer a silent nod. he wasn’t upset with your decision, no absolutely not. it was yours regardless and he respects it indefinitely. it’s the fear of having a child who originates from an affair and putting you in this position. the self-loathing has never reached its peak than ever before.

you take his lack of response as an answer and proceed to say, “like i said before, i don’t expect anything from you. i’ll just… figure something out with frankie, maybe make up a story or—”

“what you do mean you don’t expect anything from me?” miguel proceeds to step forward until he’s directly in front of you, towering you as you crane your neck up just to meet his concerned gaze. “i’d like to help since i…” he releases a heavy, disappointed sigh. “since i put you in this position.”

you shake your head. “no it’s okay, miguel. i don’t wanna jeopardize your position here. i just wanted to come here and let you know—”

“me vale. i put you in this, let me help you.”

“no, miguel.”

“¿por qué? es mi bebé, debería ayudarte—”

“¡miguel, por favor!”

your yelling echos through the walls of the church. miguel’s lips immediately close into a thin line, afraid of making you more frustrated if he chooses to speak. so, he instead shuts up with a worried look.

“you can’t, we can’t…” a very faint voice crack escapes mid-sentence, causing the same affect to miguel’s heart. “we can’t risk it.” the guilt was too much that you couldn’t look him in the eye any longer. “we can’t risk each other’s lives, at least not anymore with this…” you place a hand over your lower abdomen and miguel’s eyes follow, heart aching at the sight. “we can’t risk them.”

those thick eyebrows furrowed as miguel’s eyes linger on your belly where his unborn child rests comfortably barely developing inside.

his child.

that makes his mind dizzy.

“then what do you want me to do? not help you? take care of you?” besides the devastating news of having a secret affair child, miguel is more upset with your choice of insisting him to not help with this issue.

“yes because it’s not your responsibility.”

miguel’s mouth was agape in pure disbelief. “it is my responsibility. i put you in this—”

“enough, miguel!” you cut him off, sternly, and the man is shocked but remains quiet. “you’re not doing to do anything because none of this happened.”

miguel’s expression transforms from frustration into pure confusion and disbelief. jaw slacked, slump shoulders, eyes widen, corner of his lips turning downward, frowning. miguel couldn’t believe what you were saying. none of this never happened? these past weeks meant nothing to you? he meant nothing to you? you are gonna pretend it was all for nothing? pretend he was nothing? miguel can’t deny the ache in his heart to hear those hurtful words from you, the woman he has grown to love deeply.

it hurt miguel, creating a wound in his heart.

“none of this never happened? are you serious?” he can’t help but feel a bit more frustrated. “how can you pretend none of this ever happened and expect me to do nothing about it?!” the boiling frustration causes his voice to escalate, causing you to step back not out of fear but of annoyance.

“because tomorrow you’ll officiate my wedding, frankie and i will be married, and we go our separate ways without speaking to each other.”

miguel simply stares down at you with wide eyes of pure disbelief. how can you even pretend that everything will be fine while carrying one of the most difficult secrets? how can you ask if him to allow this to continue on as if nothing ever happened and all is fine? how can you ever think miguel would be okay with this inane decision? all of these questions are at the tip of tongue but nothing comes out his mouth.

“i’ll be married, have and raise this baby with my husband as a true family, that’s final.” you spoke firmly. “there’s nothing else we could do but go on without anyone getting hurt.”

miguel can’t believe what you’re saying.

‘without anyone getting hurt?’

he feels the hurt tearing apart his heart and miguel best believes you’re experiencing that pain too by making this extremely difficult decision.

no further words escape his lips because miguel isn’t sure of what else to say. the man is utterly speechless, drowning in pure disbelief by this new revelation. a revelation that is tearing him apart more than the devil or a demon could ever do.

how can miguel accept this?

leave you and his unborn child to live life without him? not be able to raise his child and guide them in this strange, chaotic world? not be there for you both if case either of you needs him? to have a child that will never know of their biological father?

the anxiety flowing through his veins increases as the thoughts consumed his mind. all overwhelming that miguel had to turn away for a moment to tame his heavy breathing and not faint. head lowered, hands on hips, chest heaving, eyes screwed shut to conceal the bits of tears gradually forming inside. this is the most difficult, painful decision he has to make in his life and miguel isn’t sure if he can live with it. this is indeed god’s way of punishment for committing vile sins and miguel has to live with that burden. a much worse punishment than making a deal with the devil.

you take miguel’s silence for his way of processing this life-altering information and you can’t blame him for his reaction. this decision is also painful for you. not only you’re pregnant with another man’s child but you have to give up the man you’ve grown to love to secure your unborn child’s future. yes, you’ve fallen for the handsome priest. not even the devil could’ve made you fall for him the way miguel did. how unfaithful of you to fall for another man while having a whole fiancé by your side and about to become your husband tomorrow. a consequence that you will have to pay for your sins. a painful one but you’ll do anything to protect your unborn child.

so, you decide to take a few cautious steps towards miguel, whose back is still facing you. “miguel…” you whisper to not startle him as you slowly approach until you’re a few inches away from him. unsure if you should’ve move closer. “i know it’s… the most difficult decision to make and i don’t blame you for being angry, especially at me for coming to you with this and choose an impossible decision.” you eyes glance down at one of miguel’s hands rested on his hip and felt tempted to reach out but you don’t.

miguel remains silent, still processing the information and emotions tumbling in his mind, but he can, as if, sense you behind him. he isn’t angry at you for coming to this conclusion, miguel can never be angry at you. it’s himself who he’s angry with for not being careful like he should’ve when the affair began, yet his mind was consumed with other priorities. his heart flutter when he feels your gentle fingers touching his, causing miguel to look over his bulky shoulder and see your angelic face beside him. the man almost crumbled onto his knees by the look of guilt illustrated on your beautiful face that miguel so desperately wanted to kiss away but resisted.

“i know a ‘sorry’ won’t make a difference but… please know that i’m feeling what you’re feeling.” a single tear escapes your right eye and slowly trails down your face until it’s gently wiped away by miguel’s finger, making your heart flutter. “i know i’m taking away an opportunity from you… i just—”

miguel gently cuts you off by placing his large, calloused hands on your shoulders. “i understand your decision, mi alma. i’m not angry, at you but myself for putting you in a position that comes with a difficult choice.” he spoke sincerely, those mahogany eyes are a reflection of that. “it’s just…” a heavy, disappointed sigh escapes his lips because the words suddenly disappear on the tip of his tongue.

silence blossoms between you and miguel. not necessarily uncomfortable but a bit painful. the beating of two broken hearts, shattered like red stained glass scattered across the floor. no amount of prayers or angels can rebuild both your damaged hearts from this sorrowful situation. you and miguel remain standing in each other’s arms, drowning yourselves in painful silence. his calloused hands remain on your shoulders, keeping you close to him in fear of you pulling away. having you close and in his arms is the only thing keeping him sane while navigating a life-altering moment, like you’re his anchor. the one maintaining his heartbeat from leaping out of his chest when miguel experiences anxiety. the one who causes all of his worries to vanish instantly the moment you’re in his presence.

but it seems miguel would lose all of that now.

your eyes glance past his towering form at the grandfather clock in the far corner and read that it’s past nine. it was time to return home before frankie gets off from work or suspicion will rise for why his fiancée is not home yet. much to miguel’s dismay, you slowly break away from his hold, eyes casted down at the floor but notice the way his hands try to reach out for you but retract themselves.

“it’s getting late, frankie will be home soon.” without a final glance at him, you begin walking away but you sense miguel right on your tail.

“wait—” the upset priest reaches out to stop you by gently grabbing your upper arm, causing you to stop and turn to face him with a surprised look. “the storm hasn’t passed yet, it’s not safe.”

“i heard the rain and wind calmed down, i’ll be fine. my car is parked right outside—”

“ni modo,” miguel shakes his head with a frown. “it’s cold and pouring, i don’t want you or the baby getting sick.” his own words surprise him by referring to his child as miguel’s eyes descended upon your belly, despite no bump yet. you seem to have the same reaction but he continues on. “you know you have a place here, at least until the storm passes—”

“no, miguel.” you’re the one to shake your head this, growing a bit agitated by his persistence. “i can’t stay here any longer than i have to. if i’m not back by the time frankie gets home, he’ll get suspicious and that is the last thing either of us want.”

“mi alma, por favor—”

“no, miguel!”

your yelling echoes throughout the church, bouncing off the holy walls, as you yank yourself off his hold and take a few steps back. miguel winces at your raised voice, like a child being reprimanded, and solely stares at you with a sorrowful expression.

“it’s over, miguel.” you confess, as painful as it is and you can see the hurt in those mahogany eyes you’ve grown to adore. “there’s nothing we can do rather than just… move on.” a little voice crack at the end.

miguel can’t move on. how can you say that? perhaps the selfish side of him is consuming him in this moment but miguel truly doesn’t want to let you go because he loves you. falling in with a taken woman isn’t the most ideal thing to do but there is no denial of his affection for you in his heart. no other woman throughout his lifetime has ever made such an impact on him and made him feel those feelings the way you did. now, you’ve come to him to tell him you’re pregnant with his child and have to break your secret relationship the night before your wedding. how can he deal with this overwhelming information and have to make the most painful decision in his life? letting go the woman he loves to protect her and their unborn child. the guilt was torturing him.

you can see the wave of painful emotions illustrated on miguel’s face and it breaks your heart. you can’t bare it, yet you’re the cause. “i’m sorry, miguel…”

your words were so little yet painful that it would never repair his broken heart.

with a final heartbreaking glance at him, you slowly begin walking away. the soft clicking of your heels bounces of the walls as you head towards the front wooden doors. miguel’s watches you leave with sorrowful eyes, utterly heart broken. he wants nothing more to run up to you and beg you to stay with him, but ultimately he can’t and it only breaks him more. once you reach the front doors, you pause for a moment as if you wanted to say something else. miguel’s body freezes in anticipation, wondering if you’ve changed your mind and stay with him. but you don’t turn around or say anything, much to miguel’s dismay. instead, you open the door with a heavy, sad sigh and leave in silence. leaving the poor priest to drown himself in heartbreak alone.

the moment you walk out and wooden door closes behind you, the church reverts back to the coldness miguel always felt. especially when he is alone. the only time the church felt warm was with you. only your presence could warm up the cold, lonely atmosphere of church he’d spent days in. miguel was heavily convinced were you indeed an angel. he swore he saw a warm glow radiating around you, shining bright and ethereally like a star. he felt it the day he first met you and craved it ever since. it’s as if miguel can’t live without your warmth, how it provided him a sense of comfort. a smoothing feeling that he never wanted to let go.

but now he has to and makes his heart ache.

now miguel has to revert back to that usual cold and emptiness that became so familiar to him, a feeling he hates with a burning passion. it will never feel the same without you and your warmth. he even considers not even staying at the church anymore and he can’t bare the coldness and isolation like before, not before you. with you walking away from his life, the light has vanished and is replaced with an empty void, settling perfectly in his broken heart.

the lonely priest remains standing here with a broken heart, wanting to have the woman he loves to come back and have her in his arms. but only loneliness comes back and wraps around him a like painful hug, suffocating him as miguel struggles to accept his unfortunate fate. his own personal hell.

now he dreads for your wedding tomorrow.

dreadfulness invade his veins like a virus as father o'hara stands at the altar while your guests talk amongst themselves before the ceremony begins. hundreds of hushed voices travels throughout the church as they await your arrival. miguel recognizes your mother in the front row on the left side, sitting amongst your nina and tias. your siblings sit behind scattered with their own families as well as the rest of your relatives. one of the many things, or the main issue, that fuels the dreadfulness is the groom standing on miguel’s left. frankie seems to be a bit anxious by the way he constantly tugs on the collar of his dress shirt or fix his suit jacket. but the smile on his face is evidence that he is elastic about the happiest day of his life. miguel can’t help but feel envious of frankie, as selfish as it is. that man will have the honor of being married to you and spending the rest of his life with you. he will be gifted the honor of creating memories with you, not miguel and that stabs him directly in the fucking heart.

miguel isn’t sure if he can truly go through this wedding, arranging you to be married to another man. he almost decided to back out and assign another priest to preform the ceremony but miguel had to do his duty as priest. for once, he had to push aside his feelings and do what is needed to be done, regardless of how heartbroken he is. not only watching you marry another man is painful but also being pregnant with his child. miguel didn’t sleep well last night because of nightmares of you and your child living life without him consumed his mind. unfortunately, that nightmare is soon to come true and miguel is still not ready for it. in fact, the man is absolutely terrified to face the unfortunate reality.

a piano version of “here comes the bride” begins playing and causes miguel to snap out of those sad thoughts, placing his attention up ahead. the chitchatting immediately dies down and everyone turns in their seats facing the doors in the back eager for your arrival. the only one who feels the opposite is of course miguel. never has he felt so afraid in his 30 years of life. afraid to witness the woman he loves enter his church and walk down the aisle to married to a man that isn’t him and desperately wished so.

his anxiety spikes when the wooden doors open and sees you standing there with your father beside you. miguel’s jaw hangs slightly open in pure astonishment as you began walking down the aisle, drinking in your enthralling appearance. you look absolutely beautiful, mesmerizing in your wedding dress. the beautiful lace veil covering your angelic face. an angel descending from heaven and blessing everyone with your presence. the most precious angel. miguel swore he felt his heart leaping out his chest because your beauty is truly divine.

the priest was completely enthralled by your angelic beauty that he didn’t realize you were standing directly in front with of him. those gorgeous eyes that he admires so deeply looking up at him, two precious dazzling gems. miguel was so mesmerized by you that he almost forgot he was the priest for your wedding. thanks to the subtle glare you gave him, a look miguel is very familiar with, he finally recomposed himself and proceeds with the ceremony, much to miguel’s dismay.

while speaking throughout the ceremony, miguel is internally struggling to compose himself with the woman he loves standing there in a wedding dress that was not meant for him. that is a huge, gruesome stab to his already broken heart. he maintained his professionalism but deep down he was hurting. what hurts the most is watching you stare up at frankie with the same adoring look you once gave him from those late nights in miguel’s chambers. the little smile on those delicate lips that miguel misses so dearly and never wanted anything more than to feel them on his one last time. to feel the softness of them pressed against his rough, slightly chapped ones. but that possibility is forever gone.

but can you blame the man? the woman he loves stands right before him in a wedding dress and is destined to marry another man while his heart aches and yearns for a woman he can’t no longer have.

when it’s time for the rings, miguel actually looks away the moment frankie slips on the wedding ring on your ring, symbolizing your commitment to one person only. but it also symbolizes that you are no longer miguel’s and he not yours. another painful stab to the heart. miguel finally looks back once the rings were placed and he feels a ache in his chest at the sight of the pretty wing wrapped around your finger. it was getting real and he couldn’t accept it.

now, it was the moment he’s been dreading for…

miguel knew this was coming but he still couldn’t believe it was happening, you finally leaving him behind and fulfill a life with your husband. suddenly, his breathing becomes a bit difficult like something is compressing against his chest. his vision is a bit blurry and his heart rate increases, feeling the blood rushing through his veins. like the world is collapsing and he is losing control. miguel is a man of control but that ability is slipping through his fingers. for once, he can’t control his emotions because they’re controlling him. he’s losing you forever and miguel can’t grasp on that because he loves you. but he can’t love a married woman, god forbids it.

so, with a deep inhale he prepares to announce the final part of the ceremony. the part miguel has been dreading since the first night you stayed with him.

“by the power of god invested in me, i pronounce you husband and… wife.”

the gut-wrenching words left a bitter taste in his mouth and almost made him wince because this marked the beginning of the end. an end miguel has feared for so long and it unfortunately came true.

however, miguel can’t look away this time because he has to bare witness the signifying moment of yours and frankie’s marriage. his grip on the book tightens as he watches frankie gently guides you closer by the waist, an action miguel used to do frequently, and press his lips against yours, marking your first kiss as husband and wife. the sight makes his heart ache immensely. the audience cheers for you two while miguel was collapsing internally into a hell of heartbreak and torment. it worsens when you pull back from the kiss with a smile, beaming up at your husband. the same look you used to give miguel during those intimate moments together. the same smile that always made his knees weak. the same smile as the first thing he would see after waking up beside you in bed the morning after. the same smile that he won’t have the honor to see anymore.

as if it couldn’t get any worse, you don’t even look at him or sneak a glance anymore as you turn to face the cheering crowd. as if he doesn’t exist, which produces another stab to miguel’s heart. he just pronounced you married and you’re already ignoring him like you’ve forgotten his existence. it breaks his heart, making the pain more intense than it already was before. throughout the ceremony, you rarely acknowledged him with only a few glances but your eyes always remained off to the side or at frankie. but now more than ever, they will never land on him. it’s sufficient proof miguel has lost you completely.

it hurts even more as you and frankie descend from the stairs and walk down the aisle together as newlyweds, leaving miguel behind with a broken heart. he didn’t even follow you, only remain standing there with a hurt look in his eyes. watching you walk away to begin a new chapter of your life with your husband, all while carrying another man’s child in your womb. his own child, the one miguel will never get to meet and watch them grow. another man will take his place as their father and it kills him. not only did he lose you but also his unborn child, a family he will never get to have. that is the greatest consequence miguel will have to endure, the biggest yet hardest test god has given him. miguel knew this affair with you would eventually end with you getting married but it still hurt, even more with the baby.

those eyes filled with remorse watch you waltz through the aisle until you reach the large wooden doors. for a moment, you stop and miguel’s eyes widen just a smudge in hopes of you looking back at him one last time before you walk away from his completely. a spark of hope, a candle lit up. but that candle immediately burns out when you don’t turn to look back and instead continue walking through those wooden doors. miguel felt his heart drop, all the hope suddenly stripped from him and replaced with an everlasting sense of loneliness and hurt, as he watched you walk away from his life forever.

the guests follow you and frankie as you all exit the church, leaving behind the poor heartbroken priest at the altar. the same altar where he had you in his arms and display his affection for you. standing with pain his heart, miguel reminds standing there until the church was empty. the familiar lonely coldness that miguel hated returns, consuming the space of the church once again. all alone once again, a feeling he never despises so much because it all felt too familiar. now with you vanished from his life forever along with your unborn child, miguel has to succumb to that agonizing loneliness once again.

succumbed to his own personal hell.

　　𓍢 . ✉️ྀི　༘　　i drew the priest outfit over miguel on picsart because i wanted to lol and this fic is inspired from “altars” by charli xcx because that song slaps　!

You flurried round the corner, all eager smiles, flyaway hairs and dimples. Your eyes melted so softly upon each others' forms, both sighing with relief. Neither of you knew how the other stirred within.

"Ke--...Father Nanami. What a lovely surprise. You're not usually up so early."

Nanami Kento cut an imposing figure in his cassock and white collar. He was a big man, with mountainous shoulders, and long, broad hands. You remembered the heat that pooled in your belly, the first time he had rolled up his sleeves to help you to move supplies into the schoolhouse, his forearms so alluringly thick and corded. His size belied an easy grace, and the elegant quick-step of a busy, intelligent man.

"I found myself unable to sleep," Kento admitted, his head bowed and hands clasped as he stepped to you. He seemed paler than usual, as he continued, "I was thinking abo--...just, thinking." He finished weakly. His eyes drew so fleetingly to your fast little pulse, thrumming from your throat, down your cleavage. His mouth dried, a double-edged hunger climbing down his abdomen.

"...thinking?" You offered, slowly closing the distance between you. You ached to remove it completely, your respect for his holy vows the only thing that contained you. Kento cleared his throat, running one strong finger between his neck, and corseting black and white collar.

"...wondering. If you would be attending mass. Tonight. I have miss--...you have missed the past week, I believe."

Ah. Yes. There was rarely another time when the homes of the local residents were empty enough to allow for investigation. You had only a few more to ransack, to find your monster, and you could feel yourself closing in on it. You felt a heavy rock of regret in your belly, and you clasped one of Kento's cool, pale hands in your own. His cock twitched, to feel the burn of your flesh against his, in ways so much less intimate than what he had imagined, alone at night.

"I'm so sorry...not tonight," you frowned, and you hurried to reassure Kento as he visibly deflated, "But tomorrow, I promise you. I'll come. Truly." Kento's face, so angular and strong, softened down at you with the hint of a smile.

His hand raised up for a moment, hesitating, before cupping your cheek. You felt your heart skip a beat, the tips of his little and ring fingers ghosting over your pulse point, while his thumb swiped beneath your eye.

"...chalk," Kento whispered, seeing your pupils dilate under his inherent, dangerous magnetism. He wished nothing more than to lean down and taste you, clutched against him and whimpering in the schoolhouse. You heard thunder rumble in the distance, and smelled the petrichor of an oncoming storm.

"...I can't wait," Kento whispered, stepping back from you, with just one backwards glance before sweeping out under the wind and blotting clouds.

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Your hunt had amounted to nothing. Either, your monster was meticulously careful, or your suspicions were incorrect, and it did not reside on this island. There was just one more place you had not explored, and you resigned yourself that you may be heading home sooner than you thought.

And yet, you felt a rope behind your navel, a red string around your finger, holding you here. You decided to complete your final investigation at the home of the priest, who had become the lifeblood that ran inside you, at midnight. He generally stayed late at the church, completing administration. You would be undisturbed.

Armed, rogue-like, you blended with moonlit shadows until you reached the windows outside his bedroom. You peeked through the gaps in the wooden blinds, and were met with an image of Kento, erotic and resplendent, that seared itself into your brain for the rest of your days.

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Kento didn't need sleep, ever since his God had forsaken him. Yet still, he craved that sweet embrace, to take him away from the twisted torture of what he had become. His resolve to die this way, as some fallen angel, had been unexpectedly fractured by the will to live-- fractured by you.

Kento switched the shower off, the last droplets of water running down his back. His cassock and collar were discarded, all woven lies against the skin of a faithless hypocrite. Kento wrapped a towel loosely around his waist, stepped past the empty mirror, and out into his bedroom.

His gut churned to see his empty bed. It had been weeks since he had fed. Years since he had taken a woman for the last time, before taking his vows. Weeks, since you had begun to consume him, mind, body and soul.

Kento had been losing his faith before the change. He had grown further from God, as countless monsters died beneath his teeth. But it was thoughts of you, spread, penetrated and whimpering beneath him, that took Kento beyond redemption.

Kento shuddered at the aching greed within. He lay back on his bed, hair still damp and floppy, but desperate for sleep to grip him and pull him under. His cock, rapidly thickening and tenting beneath the towel, made him curse, one broad arm flung over his eyes, while the other tried to squeeze himself into submission.

Kento squirmed with guilt, his semi-erect cock gripped in his palm. He thought of you, your fingers dipping into your needy wet cunt, the vibrator on your clit doing nothing to relieve the ache in your soul. He thought of the way you had squirmed and begged, to your god, and to him, to be granted your release. He thought of the way you had sobbed as you came, curled round yourself, your fingers desperately trying to reach the sweet spot that would make your orgasm climb all the way into your belly.

He didn't need to imagine it, Kento thought blithely, his thumb now stroking slick pre-cum under his foreskin, and over the sweet swollen head of his cock. He didn't need to imagine it, because he had seen you, through the gap in your curtains in the dead of night. Watching you, a pale angel in the rain, hunting for the forgiveness of a body he couldn't allow himself to sully.

Kento's hand had begun to masturbate himself instinctually, to the thought of you crying out for him. For him, and he could do nothing but pretend he hadn't seen you fall apart, to the dream of him inside you.

Kento groaned, low and rumbling, his hand gripping tightly around his throbbing, heavy length, longer than his thick fist could cover. Dripping with pre-cum, Kento began to fuck into his own fist to lubricate himself. He moaned in time to the memory of you, writhing and mewling against your pillow.

Kento's other arm reached round above his head, and he sunk his sharp teeth into his pillow, licking at it, imitating how he would flick his tongue against your pert little clit with a ragged moan. He pictured you above him, riding his mouth and nose as the length of his cock fucked down your throat to the tune of sweet wet gags. Kento whispered filth into the dead of night, trying to rut himself to orgasm.

"--take it-- good girl...cum down your throat-- cum in my mouth...shit...fuck you through it soon, angel-- promise, I promise--...ahhhh, shit, SHIT--"

Kento cursed, spitting venom, his balls heavy and sore, his own hand so woefully inadequate. His canines had lengthened, his mouth twisted into a teeth-baring snarl, and he gripped his cock harder. Trailing his other fingers to his mouth, sucking on his fingertips with a shiver, Kento pierced them until he could taste the hot rush of blood, imagining it was you quenching his thirst--

At the window, completely unnoticed, you gripped the windowpane, weak-kneed. Your other hand clapped over your mouth. Kento lay naked on his bed, sprawled and ethereal under strips of moonlight, masturbating with gasps and groans that you only wished you could hear.

Those hands, that you had spent night after night, wishing were inside you. That cock, thicker and longer than you had pictured...and oh. The way he rutted into his fist with such devastating ferocity, left you jealous of his hand. Your mouth watered.

What would he do, if you knocked right now? If you offered yourself to him, spread bare and pleading? Would he forsake his vows for you? Would he turn his back to God, as he stroked his cockhead to orgasm between your wet folds, singing your praises, and spattering hot, thick cum over your clit--

You were drawn back out of your head as Kento convulsed, his anguished, sloppy moan breaking through the windows, shooting through you like a knife. You gasped, delighted by Kento's twitching pleasure.

Kento hit his orgasm with the turmoiled strength of a stormfront, breaking. His final image was of you, cradling his sore cock between your legs, humping him inside you while you whispered to him and he whined into your hair and got lost in the smell of you, god, the smell of you, he could smell you now--

Kento spasmed, crying out as cum spurted in heavy stripes up his abdomen, his orgasm threaded with a tinge of horror-- fuck, he could smell you, you were here nearby, he knew the smell of that skin and that blood and that cunt--

Kento sat up with a jolt and a snarl, still gasping, the power of the hunt crashing through him. His teeth bared, animalistic, he wrenched his window up, sticking his head out into the night.

The smell of you, quickly fading, was being carried away by the wind. And Nanami Kento was losing his mind.

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You could barely compose yourself, walking into Church the next evening. The night had crept in fast; another storm churning over the water, was pulling the moon in with it. You felt overburdened with...guilt? Desire? You could not hide it, you were sure.

You could not hide it, as Kento's rich voice embraced the pews. You could not hide it, as your voice trembled its way through hymns. Kento's stern, impassive face remained unreadable, as you took communion from him. You met each others' eyes, both thinking about the same thing; his finger grazed your tongue, and gazed upon your sweet face, open-mouthed and doe-eyed, kneeling before him.

And despite all this, it was each others' company you craved more than anything more carnal. You found excuses to stay, in the church, loitering as Kento bid the crowds a warm goodbye. As the last person left, finally alone, you turned to each other. You both held your breath.

After a few moments, yours released in a twinkling laugh, and a blush, that had Kento's chest clenching in possessive adoration.

"I...have neglected you, father," you offered, brushing your hair behind your ear. Kento huffed, at first, pinching the bridge of his nose, before laughing. A genuine laugh. Deep, velvety, and rich. You were putty in his hands, and he didn't even know.

"Alas...it is the life of the clergy. Our own needs, go...unmet." Kento grimaced, a forced half-smile. His hands clasped over his lap.

You felt the tinge of bitterness at the edge of his words. You swallowed, thickly. Your fate balanced on the edge of a knife.

"Not...not all of them, surely? You could...you could join me for dinner?" You couldn't miss how Kento's eyebrows raised fractionally, his pupils dilating. Kento felt a dangerous hunger.

"I...I'm not sure-- I shouldn't--"

"Of course, you're completely right--" you flapped, taking a step back, and Kento's hunger gripped you back with jealous need.

"...I shouldn't be long here. An hour, maybe? If...if you'll allow it." Kento could feel himself twist under the need to possess you, one way or another. Judging by the smell of you, you would be wet, supple under his lips.

"Perfect," you blurted, standing up on your tiptoes for one happy moment, "perfect. I'll cook. We can...we can talk. I can't wait."

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A brisk knock. You hurried to the door, biting your lip, briefly abandoning dinner on the stove.

"Father," you cried, damning yourself for sounding so excited, "you're here...I'm glad. I was afraid you wouldn't...anyway..."

You hurried back to the stove, leaving the door open. After a moment, you looked up, seeing Kento leaning against the doorframe, looking at with with something...unreadable, in his eyes. He simply stood, drinking you in as you cooked.

"...Father? What are you waiting out there for? Come in." Blinking, chuckling to himself, Kento stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him and gently placing a bottle of wine on the table.

"Please. Call me Kento. It seems...silly, if we're having dinner, and a night together." You felt heat blossom through you, at the accidental double-meaning behind Kento's words.

Dinner together was soft, intimate, the food and wine smoothing over an already glossy conversation. You were made malleable by the wine. You were intoxicated by him. Kento looked into you with such knowledge of you, that you were laid bare beneath his gaze.

Sat facing each other on the sofa, Kento had abandoned his white collar, the buttons of his cassock and white shirt undone to his chest. He rolled wine around his glass, his head leaning on one hand, smiling as you talked. The wine made you stupid, and you blurted out;

"Why? Why...did you join the church, Kento?" It was, in part, rhetorical. A cry of despair against the crime of Kento being made untouchable. His answer surprised you, and you found yourself shuffling closer as he talked.

"I ask myself that same question every day. Ever since..." Kento bit his tongue, thinking of the night he was turned, on a missionary trip abroad. Thinking about the day you walked into his parish, setting him aflame with unquenchable burning thirst. Kento cleared his throat, swirling his wine. He felt his primal magnetism drawing you to him like a moth to the flame, and he could not stop himself.

"...I have become...disillusioned, with the church. I am...torn," Kento admitted. Your knees were touching his now, and you leaned towards him with lovesick eyes. Kento felt the thrill of the hunt, feeling the sting of his teeth lengthening. His cock twitched as your breath passed over his cheek.

"...torn?" You felt a quiver of fear now, in the way Kento's eyes darkened, his hand slipping over to grip behind your knee, pulling you into his lap. He set aside his glass. It should have rung alarm bells. You were so drunk, but you had only had one glass of wine. Kento smelled so intoxicating. You were warm, floppy as he pulled you to straddle his lap, cupping your face with both hands.

"...torn," he whispered, his nose brushing yours. Kento's hunger overtook his panic for you, a victim to himself. Kento whispered against your lips, watching your eyes flutter closed, your head heavy and lilting to the side, exposing the pretty thrum of your throat to him.

"...torn," he continued, gliding his tongue up the pulse in your neck, feeling his cock jump against your clothed pussy, "...all because of you...if God has forsaken me, I hope he never wants me back. If only you would let me worship you, instead."

Kento's lips hovered over yours, barely quelling his urgent need to feed on you, until you whimpered his name. Kento snapped, and pulled you in by the back of the neck, crashing his lips to yours with the ragged groan of a starving man.

Your head swam with Kento, clutching his open collar and falling against him, allowing him to devour your mouth with bliss. You murmured against his lips, sloppy and licking, tasting the sweet allure of him, and his grip on the back of your neck grew crushing, his weight now bearing over you to press you back into the sofa, a sharp sting on your lip--

"Ow! I...ugh, sorry...I'm bleeding--"

As you moved to sit up, shocked back out of your reverie, Kento had pushed himself back to the other side of your sofa. One hand had clasped over his mouth. He trembled, and shook, white-knuckles clasping the sofa. You heard a sharp gasp, as if Kento was in pain.

With blood on your lip, you reached for him-- and stopped. Your eyes fixed on the switched-off television opposite you both. You stood, slowly, moving towards the hallway, and your bag, trying to control your terrified little heart.

"I'll just...get a cloth, for my li--"

As you pulled a blade from your bag, standing up to spin around, you were thrown back to the wall, your head cushioned by Kento's hand. You cried out, feeling him bracket you against the wall, his cassock now abandoned, his form seeming to grow and swell before you. Kento's face pressed to your neck, and you felt the hot throb of his growing cock against your belly.

You stood this way, both panting into each other, your knife pressed over Kento's heart, and his teeth pressed to your throat. Your heart broke, fragile beneath Kento's twisting form, and hungry mouth. You hiccuped, your hand and resolve faltering.

"...I never wanted...I wish it wasn't...why did it have to be you?" You sobbed, your arm starting to lower. Kento growled against you, already two feet taller, his enormous chest trapping you in against the wall. You felt the lights blotting out around you, as vast, black, velvety wings unfurled from Kento's back.

"...always...you always knew...just couldn't accept--" Kento gasped, his tongue darting out against your neck, ridged and trembling. His chest burst with pain to feel you sob beneath him.

"I can't do it," you cried, your knife hand lowering again, "just take what you want, because I can't-- I love you-- I'm not strong enough." Kento's teeth gritted, his face crumpling against the soft copper scent of your skin. His enormous hand gripped yours, raising the knife to press to his chest. You gasped and cried out, resisting his pull; a bead of blood sprung up around the tip, pressed to Kento's chest.

"From the moment you arrived," Kento growled, his teeth pressing gently over your pulse point, starving and needy, "...my life...everything I am, has been yours to take. I would know you, blind and deaf...and I would be honoured, for you to take my life as penance for my sins."

You gritted your teeth, completely releasing your grip on the blade. It clattered to the floor. You reached up to trail hands up Kento's enormous, powerful shoulders. Your fingertips grazed the soft base of his wings, and Kento shivered, shuddering into you. He felt a dribble of pre-cum soak his stretched, ripping boxers.

"Then I condemn you to live, Kento," you whispered, pulling his face up to yours. His pupils were dilated, bursting with lust, inky black in pools of crimson, "...and take me. However you want me."

Kento snarled at you again, pressing himself to you, pinning your arms above your head with one thick hand; "You have no idea what you're asking for," he hissed, "I will eat you alive." He felt you tremble, seeing the golden resolve in your eyes. You leaned forwards to his mouth, begging.

"Then eat me...or fuck me, like you fucked your hand to me."

Kento cursed, snapping, lifting you against him. You wrapped your legs around his hips, feeling Kento reach down to shred the clothes off himself, completely absorbed by the need to possess you, to love you.

Flung backwards onto the bed, you gasped at Kento's monstrous form. Eight feet tall, broad and exquisite, his great black wings folded and unfolded against his back. His aching cock dripped with pre-cum, so much bigger than when you had seen him cum into his own hand. His face, still undeniably Kento, stared into you, owning you. Heat pooled between your legs, as he grasped his cock in one great hand, groaning and shuddering.

You crept forwards, still drunk on him, and his nephilim glory. Kento's hand stuttered around his cock as you licked the tip.

"--fuck-- too big for you-- you can't--" Kento uttered a strangled moan, to feel your hot little mouth engulf his cockhead, your lips stretched wide, gulping him to the back of your throat, all hot little licks and sucks. Every fibre of his being needed to buck forwards into your mouth, and you felt two great hands tangle in your hair.

When your hands joined your mouth, stroking down his aching length, masturbating the parts of his cock your mouth could not reach, Kento rutted involuntarily. Moaning, begging and whining your name, his voice ran deep and ragged around his sharp canines.

"--darling, I-- shit I-- so good...so good for me...taking me s--so well, haaaaah...not-- can't last-- like this--"

You hummed around his cock, swallowing down a trickle of salty pre-cum, feeling the gentle pressure of his fingertips against your head. So aware of his size and strength, Kento handled you like a china doll, with the utmost love and affection. Kento moaned with abandon, his head thrown back, his great wings furling and unfurling with divine pleasure.

Swallowing around Kento's thick tip at the back of your throat, you felt his cock leaping in warning. Kento tried half-heartedly to pull you off him, whimpering and moaning with fractured cries of your name;

"--can't swallow-- s'too much-- ohhh fuck, my love-- c-cumming, I'm cumming-- fffuuuck yes, swallow-- all of it--"

You squeaked as his cock jolted and twitched in your mouth, Kento's balls clenched tight as he hunched around your mouth, pressing your head to him. Your mouth and throat flooded with Kento's bitter seed, cooler than that of a normal man, and you swallowed him down with pride. Kento's groans and breaths ran ragged, as you licked him clean.

Kento panted, glossy-eyed as he came down from his high, his cock still half-hard against his thigh. Crowding your body against the bed with his, his fingertips grazed the dress you wore, before ripping it from you with a bared-teeth growl. You felt your bra snapped in the middle, as if it were paper. Your breasts heaved, nipples peaked under Kento's ravenous attention.

Poking his tongue out to tease it over one hard nipple, you felt your clit throb to feel the otherworldly ridges and grooves running along his tongue's sides and tip. Whining as he sucked your pebbled nipple into his mouth, you shuddered to feel Kento's sharp teeth graze your sensitive peak. He savoured you, lathering your nipple against his tongue, until you felt you could cum from that alone.

His other hand rose to engulf your second breast, your nipple rolled so tenderly between two great fingers. You felt a trickle of arousal soak your underwear. Kento could smell it, and pressed his hand to your lower belly, feeling vaguely for the telltale swell of ovulation.

"...made a mistake, angel...letting me take you like this-- nothing of you left, by the time I'm done with you--mine-- all mine-- fuck--"

Trailing kisses down your belly, sniffing you and eager to fill you with his smell, his body thrummed for you. Kento threw your legs over his shoulders, ripping the sides of your underwear and tossing the scraps aside.

His eyes fixed on your pussy, slick and clenching. Kento shuddered, feeling his cock beginning to bound to life again. It flopped, heavy and twitching against his thigh, filling again in preparation to fill you. Kento felt a vague desire to ensnare you, trapping you inside his drunken intoxication, to fill you, and fill you, and fill you, until your belly swelled, oozing his thick, white seed.

"...Kento...please..." Your sweet begging pulled Kento out of himself. Despite his monstrous form, his face softened, his eyes fixed to yours as his tongue, long and ridged, stretched out of his mouth. You saw stars as it lathed insistently from side to side, spreading your folds, stroking back and forth over your aching, pearly clit.

Kento mumbled into your pussy, tasting you, his long tongue fucking into your cunt while his nose nuzzled your clit. Mewling, your hands flew down to sink into Kento's hair, and you felt your hands grasped and pinned against your belly. Kento knew, with a faint pang, that if your fingernails scratched against his sensitive scalp, he would surely spill his seed all over your floor.

Kento draped his other forearm over your belly and hips, pinning you down as you twisted beneath his attention. He lapped, sucked, and nipped at you with the softest bites to your clit, his tongue fucking in and out of you with inhuman dexterity.

You bucked your hips down the bed, eager to feel his tongue sink into your deepest parts, and Kento obliged with a wet moan. You felt his tongue lathe against your spongy spot, pinned down as he devoured you.

"--just there...harder please, please-- god I need your cock in me, please-- fuck me please-- please--"

You begged and pleaded your way to orgasm, your arousal seeping out around Kento's tongue as you came with a jolt and a cry, your thighs clamping around Kento's head, feet tickling against his sensitive wings. Kento continued to fuck his tongue in and out of you, lathering you with his spit, tasting your arousal, desperate to taste more of you.

You reached down, trying to pull Kento up your body. He almost laughed at your casual management of a true to life vampire, about to fuck you into the mattress. Kento allowed it, settling above you, his pupils narrowing at the insistent beat of your throat. Suddenly, and with a strangled growl, Kento knocked your head aside, his teeth grazing at your throat, and his monstrous cock throbbing at your entrance.

You trembled beneath him, heaving and gasping from your high. All of your resolve left you, beneath his tongue, and you uttered words you knew to be true;

"...I trust you, Kento."

Kento pressed into you, with teeth and cock and a husky moan. You felt a sharp pierce at your neck, his teeth just deep enough to feel the hot splash of your blood against his tongue. Kento almost finished then and there, his seed threatening to spatter into your folds and entrance, instead of in your belly, as he had promised himself. Kento drank you, his mouth clamped around your neck, one great hand cupping your head to the side while the other gripped your hip.

With a squeak and a protracted, broken moan of his name, you felt Kento's cock stretch through your wet velvety walls. You squirmed, trying to climb up the bed, feeling Kento growl around your throat and yank you back down.

Kento was enormous, by far the biggest cock you had ever taken, splitting you with a dull sting. Your fluttering hole soothed as Kento began to rut his length into you. His red, leaking tip bullied your cervix, bumping it up against your womb, with inches of him still outside of you.

You uttered strangled little moans, completely pinned beneath his hulking form, feeling him rut as much of his cock inside you as he could fit. With a shiver, Kento denied himself of any more blood at your throat. His tongue stroked your wounds, clotting the blood there, as he fucked gently into you.

Kento's wings caged you both in, and he stared down at where his cock tried to stretch your pussy out with dopey, lovesick eyes. A trickle of your blood ran down from the corner of his mouth, and he was struck with a sudden burst of pride for you. Kneeling back, Kento pushed your knees up to your chest, crushing over you in a mating press.

You writhed, as Kento managed to sink more of his cock into you, groaning which each stroke he watched enter and pull out of you. Your slick formed a translucent white ring most of the way down his cock length. Kento was eager to see it drip down his balls. He gasped down at your prone, fucked-out form, and gently began to press and roll the fatty flesh around your clit, making you buck up into him with pathetic little mewls.

"--fit it in--fit all of me in...if you cum again-- fuck you through it, baby...fuck you through it...fuck you through it..."

Kento repeated this like a mantra, every gradually strengthening thrust into you taking him deeper, your pussy stretched to its limits around his terrifying girth and length. Leaning over where you joined, Kento spat a smooth mouthful of spit, stroking it around his base, lubricating you both, before upping his pace and intensity again.

You cried out, head thrown back as you arched, feeling Kento so deeply that you clasped your belly. Kento planted one hand over yours, his fucks growing gradually more feral as he bared his teeth, determined to finally take what was his, after so many years of miserable self-denial.

"--mine make you mine make you mine--leave it behind...leave it all...for you...shit-- so tight, just--milk it out-- all my cum-- all yours, I swear..."

As you came, your pussy clenching and spasming, Kento finally bottomed out. His head flung back with a cry of success, slamming into you with abandon as he chased his high, desperate to see you filled with his cum. Cursing, and spitting, teeth bared and blacking out the room around you with his wings, Kento came with a roar, and you felt your pussy and belly flooded by him.

His cock jerked long, protracted twitches inside you, spurting thick bursts of cum, with nowhere to go but up, plugged by his enormous girth. You were pliable and dazed, taking it with the sweet relief of his love for you, his seed soothing your swollen inner walls like a balm.

Kento faltered above you, staggered and dazed. Keeping his cock stuffed inside you, manoeuvring himself onto his side, he swept one great wing beneath you, and one above you. You felt yourself cocooned, sleepy and full, reaching into hand up to tangle into Kento's hair. He pressed a lazy kiss to your palm.

"...you're a...terrible vampire hunter..." Kento slurred, fading out into soft snores, just seconds later.