The word made your cheeks burn, but not entirely with shame. His voice made the word sound like a prayer and a curse in the same breath. You yanked your arm free, adjusting your skirt—the one he'd told you was too short this morning, the one you'd rolled up at the waistband the moment he'd turned his back.

"Whatever," you muttered. "Let's just get this over with."

Stepdad!Toji who ushered you toward the church steps, one large hand pressed against the small of your back. His touch felt possessive, warning. "This place has good reviews," he said, voice softening slightly. "They do charity work, provide shelter. Maybe some actual good influence will rub off on you."

The church rose before you, stone and stained glass catching the late afternoon light. Not one of those modern buildings with fluorescent lighting and folding chairs, but an old cathedral with arching windows and heavy wooden doors. A sign near the entrance advertised their community outreach programs—free meals on Tuesdays, homeless shelter on winter nights. All very noble, very pure.

You hated it already.

Inside, the air hung heavy with incense and history. Your heels clicked against the marble floor, echoing through the cavernous space. A few elderly women knelt in prayer, rosaries wound around their gnarled fingers. Candles flickered beneath the suffering face of Jesus, his crown of thorns casting jagged shadows across the altar.

You'd never been religious—the thought of some all-seeing deity watching your most private moments made your skin crawl—but there was something about the hush of the sanctuary that made you want to confess. Not out of contrition, but just to shock someone, to shatter the silence with your sins.

Stepdad!Toji who spoke briefly with a gray-haired nun, his voice respectfully low as he explained why you were there. The woman's eyes flicked to you, taking in your outfit, the defiant tilt of your chin. Her lips thinned, but she nodded and gestured toward a door at the far end of the church.

"Father Geto is available now for confession," she said. "He's very good with... troubled young people."

Toji's hand returned to your back, guiding you past rows of empty pews. "You go in alone," he said. "I'll wait out here. And I swear to God, if you try to leave without seeing this through—"

"I know, I know," you sighed. "You'll ground me forever, take away my car keys, blah blah blah."

Stepdad!Toji who leaned down, his mouth suddenly close to your ear. "No," he whispered, "I'll show everyone exactly what a slut you are for me and your brother." His breath was warm against your neck. "You think people whisper now? Just try me."

You swallowed hard, pulse quickening at the memory—at his threat. Before you could reply, the door at the end of the aisle swung open.

Priest!Geto who emerged like a vision from a fever dream, nothing like the old men in collars you'd expected.

Tall and lean, with hair so black it gleamed blue in the chapel light, falling past his shoulders in a silken curtain. His features were sharp, aristocratic, but his eyes—God, his eyes were deep and knowing, framed by lashes that had no right to be on a man of the cloth. He wore the traditional black shirt with white collar, but the fabric clung to his frame in a way that seemed almost sinful, hinting at a body honed by more than just prayer.

"Ah," he said, voice like dark honey. "You must be the young woman Sister Mei Mei mentioned." His gaze slid over you, not leering but assessing, as if he could already see every secret you'd ever kept. "Come in. The confessional awaits."

Stepdad!Toji who nodded at the priest, relief evident in his posture. "Thank you, Father. She needs... guidance."

"Don't we all?" Father Geto replied, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He extended a hand toward you, long fingers beckoning. "Shall we begin the process of absolution?"

You glanced back at Toji, who crossed his arms and planted himself firmly on a nearby pew. No escape there. With a sigh, you followed the priest, oddly aware of the swing of your hips, the length of your legs beneath your skirt. Father Geto held the door open, and as you passed him, his scent enveloped you—not the expected mustiness of an old church, but something earthy and warm, with notes of sandalwood and something darker beneath.

Priest!Geto who led you down a short corridor, past framed paintings of saints in various states of divine ecstasy. "First time at confession?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

You nodded, throat suddenly dry.

"Don't worry," he said, stopping before a heavy curtain. "The process is simple. You speak, I listen. Then I determine what penance might cleanse your soul." His eyes lingered on yours, and for a moment, you could have sworn they glinted with something far from holy. "Though I suspect we may need more than the standard prayers for your particular... situation."

Behind the curtain lay a small booth, divided by an ornate wooden screen. Father Geto directed you to one side, then disappeared briefly before settling into his own compartment. Through the latticed divider, you could make out his silhouette, head slightly bowed, waiting.

"Begin whenever you're ready," he said, voice intimate in the close space. "Tell me your sins, child. Hold nothing back."

You took a deep breath, surprised to find yourself trembling slightly. There was something about this place, this man, that made you want to spill everything—not for forgiveness, but for the thrill of shocking him, of seeing if those calm eyes could be made to widen with disbelief.

"Forgive me, Father," you started, the words falling from your lips like you'd been saying them all your life, "for I have sinned."

Priest!Geto who leaned closer to the confessional screen, his shadow falling across the latticed wood between you. "Begin with the most troubling sin," he suggested, voice dipping lower than seemed necessary. "The one that weighs heaviest on your conscience."

You shifted in your seat, thighs pressing together beneath your skirt. There was no point in holding back—that's what confession was for, wasn't it? To lay yourself bare before God and his servants. And something about Father Geto's voice made you want to shock him, to see if you could crack that serene facade.

"My stepfather," you began, the words tumbling out before you could reconsider. "I let him fuck me."

There was a beat of silence. You expected a gasp, perhaps a rebuke, but Father Geto merely hummed, a low sound of acknowledgment.

"Go on," he encouraged, and was it your imagination, or had his voice grown huskier?

"It started in the beginning of the month. He caught me trying to seduce him." The memory heated your skin, made your heart race. "He should have walked away, but he didn't. He watched until I begged him to fuck me, then he came inside and—" You swallowed. "And he told me if I was going to act like a slut, I might as well learn to be a good one."

Priest!Geto who made another sound, something between a hum and a sigh. "The sin of lust," he observed, but there was no condemnation in his tone. "And did you enjoy this instruction?"

Your cheeks burned hotter. "Yes," you admitted. "I liked how desperate he was for me. How he'd look at me across the dinner table with my step brother right there." The confession was like opening a floodgate. "And it wasn't just him. My stepbrother started noticing the way Toji looked at me. One night, he cornered me in the shower and slipped his fingers inside me while he kissed all the hickeys Toji left on me."

"You've been very... active," Father Geto noted, and you swore you heard amusement in his voice.

"There's more," you continued, surprising yourself with how eager you were to tell him everything. "We visited my cousin for Thanksgiving. He got pretty pissed off and I only wanted to soothe him. Things led to one another and he begged—" You hesitated only briefly. "To drink my piss. So I let him."

Priest!Geto who shifted in his seat, the wood creaking beneath him. "An unusual desire," he remarked. "Did satisfying his curiosity bring you pleasure?"

"Yes," you whispered. "The power of it. The way he looked up at me while he swallowed."

"What other men have you corrupted with your body?" There was something in his question that should have offended you, but instead, it sent a thrill down your spine.

"Toji's boss," you confessed. "While he was taking care of me. He bent me over in his car while Toji was out working. And my own boss at his office—I let him fuck me on his desk after during his meeting. He spanked me to teach me a lesson on professionalism."

You waited for disgust, for judgment, but Father Geto only let out a thoughtful sound.

"You've traveled far down the path of carnal sin," he observed. "Yet you speak without remorse."

"Should I be remorseful?" you asked, leaning closer to the screen, trying to make out his expression in the dim light. "Doesn't the Bible say God created our bodies? That we should be fruitful and multiply?"

Priest!Geto who laughed then, the sound rich and unexpectedly warm. "An interesting theological argument for fornication," he said. "Tell me, do you believe you need salvation?"

The question caught you off guard. "I don't know," you admitted. "Sometimes it feels like I'm searching for something I can't find. Like every new body, every new touch, might finally be enough." The honesty surprised you—you hadn't meant to reveal that much.

"Perhaps what you seek isn't in the flesh of strangers, but in submission to a higher power," Father Geto suggested, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Would you like me to help you find it?"

Your pulse quickened. "Yes," you said, the word more breath than sound.

"Good. Our conversation requires a more... intimate setting. Meet me in my office. Down the hall, last door on the left."

The booth suddenly felt too small, the air too thick with incense and unspoken promises. You slipped out, legs unsteady, and made your way down the corridor, past saints with eyes rolled back in ecstasy.

What the congregation didn't know—what you couldn't know—was that Suguru Geto was no true servant of God. His church was merely a facade, a convenient front for a criminal organization that preyed on the vulnerable, turning them into willing pawns in their operations. And you, with your eagerness to confess, your hunger for approval, were the perfect candidate for his particular brand of manipulation.

Priest!Geto who sat behind a heavy oak desk when you entered his office, his long fingers steepled before him. Away from the confessional, you could fully appreciate how the black fabric of his clerical shirt stretched across his chest, how his collar emphasized the elegant column of his throat. His hair fell like midnight around his shoulders, framing features too beautiful to belong to a man dedicated to celibacy.

"Close the door," he instructed, and you obeyed without question, the latch clicking into place with a finality that sent a shiver through you. "Your confessions suggest a soul in desperate need of cleansing."

His office was nothing like you'd expected—no sparse furnishings or religious texts, but plush rugs and velvet drapes, a leather couch against one wall, and shelves lined with bottles that looked more like expensive liquor than communion wine.

"Kneel," he said, rising from his desk and moving to stand before you. "Let me bless you."

Priest!Geto who watched with hooded eyes as you sank to your knees on the thick carpet, your skirt riding up your thighs. He towered over you, one hand reaching for a small silver vessel on his desk. "Close your eyes," he commanded. "This is a sacred moment."

You did as he asked, expecting to feel holy water sprinkled on your forehead. Instead, something hard and smooth pressed against the inside of your thigh—his shoe, you realized with a jolt of surprise and arousal. Expensive leather glided upward, pushing your skirt higher, until the polished toe brushed against the cotton of your panties.

"Be still," Father Geto murmured when you gasped and shifted. "This blessing requires your complete surrender."

Priest!Geto who flicked droplets of water onto your upturned face with one hand while his foot continued its slow exploration between your legs. Holy water rained on your face while sin bloomed between your legs. His shoe dragged along your slit through the thin fabric, the pressure deliberate and teasing. Your body responded traitorously, dampness spreading beneath his touch.

"Father, I—" you began, but he silenced you with a click of his tongue.

"No speaking during the blessing," he admonished, though there was a dark amusement in his tone. "Focus on receiving the divine gift I offer you."

His foot pressed more firmly against your center, and you couldn't help but rock against it, seeking more friction. A small, desperate sound escaped your throat.

"Yes," he whispered, "let the spirit move through you. Let it take control of your flesh."

Priest!Geto who continued this unholy benediction, watching your face flush with desire, your lips parting on silent pleas as you humped against his shoe like a desperate animal. "What a good, obedient little sinner you are," he praised, his voice thick with an emotion that had no place in a house of worship. "So eager for absolution, aren't you? So hungry to be cleansed."

And God help you, you were.

Priest!Geto who guided you to the plush leather couch against the wall, his hands firm but gentle on your shoulders. "For this next part of your cleansing, I need you in the proper position of supplication," he explained, his voice like velvet wrapped around steel. "On your knees, elbows on the cushion, head bowed in prayer."

You hesitated only briefly before complying, the leather cool against your forearms as you assumed the position—ass raised, back arched, completely vulnerable. "Perfect," he murmured, and you felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch sliding down your spine.

"This method has proven quite effective with my most dedicated parishioners," he continued, circling behind you. His footsteps were silent on the thick carpet, but you could sense his presence, the heat of him moving closer. "Close your eyes. Focus on your breathing. Let your thoughts turn to divine matters."

You tried to obey, but it was hard to focus on anything holy when your pulse hammered in your throat and between your legs. The position left you exposed, your skirt barely covering the curve of your ass, your thighs trembling slightly with the effort of maintaining the pose.

"Spread your knees wider," Priest!Geto instructed. "The body must be open to receive grace."

Priest!Geto who watched with undisguised hunger as you shifted your stance, thighs parting further. He hadn't bothered to remove your panties yet—the thin cotton barrier was part of the game, the last pretense of propriety before he claimed you completely.

"Begin your prayer," he commanded. "Out loud. Ask for forgiveness for your carnal sins."

"Father in heaven," you began shakily, feeling ridiculous and aroused in equal measure, "forgive me for my transgressions of the flesh. For the pleasure I've taken in—"

"Not to me," he interrupted with a soft laugh. "To the Almighty. I am merely the conduit for your salvation."

You swallowed hard and continued, the words falling from your lips in an awkward stream, half-remembered phrases from childhood Sunday school mixed with your own desperate improvisation. Behind you, you heard the rustle of fabric, felt the cushions dip as Father Geto knelt on the floor.

"During this prayer," he said, his breath warm against the back of your thigh, "you may experience sensations where your sin has taken root. This is normal—the divine power washing away your impurities. Do not be alarmed, and whatever you do, don't stop praying."

Priest!Geto who slipped between your spread knees, his broad shoulders forcing them wider still. His hands curled around your thighs, thumbs pressing into the sensitive flesh just below the curve of your ass. You felt him tugging your panties aside rather than removing them, the elastic digging into one cheek as he exposed your most intimate parts to his view.

"Our Father, who art in heaven—" you gasped, the words catching in your throat as something hot and wet brushed against your entrance. Not a finger, but softer, more agile. His tongue. Father Geto, a man of the cloth, was licking a slow, deliberate stripe from your clit to your opening.

"Keep praying," he reminded you, his voice muffled against your flesh. "This is merely the vessel of your purification."

You tried to continue, but coherent thought scattered like communion wafers as he dragged his tongue through your folds again, this time lingering at your clit, circling the sensitive bud with practiced precision. Your elbows threatened to buckle, your forehead pressing harder into the cushion as pleasure spiraled through your body.

"Hallowed be thy—oh God—thy name," you moaned, hips jerking involuntarily when he sucked your clit between his lips.

Priest!Geto who hummed against you, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure up your spine. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you in place as he devoured you with unholy enthusiasm. Each broad stroke of his tongue collected your arousal, and you heard him swallow, a sound so obscene in this context that fresh heat flooded between your legs.

"Thy kingdom come," you panted, abandoning any pretense of actual prayer, just reciting whatever words you could remember as he feasted on you. "Thy will be done—fuck!"

That last exclamation came as something hard and round rolled over your clit—not just his tongue, but something metallic. A piercing. The thought of this supposed holy man with a pierced tongue sent another jolt of arousal through you. He knew exactly how to use it, too, pressing the metal ball against your most sensitive spots, alternating between firm pressure and teasing flicks that had you rocking back against his face.

"Don't stop your devotions," Father Geto warned, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath cool against your wet flesh. "The more sincere your prayer, the more complete your cleansing."

You whimpered, trying to push back against his mouth, chasing the pleasure he'd briefly denied you. "On earth as it is in heaven," you rushed out, the words meaningless now, just sounds to earn back his tongue.

Priest!Geto who rewarded your compliance by spreading you wider with his thumbs and diving back in, his tongue stiffening to penetrate you. The piercing dragged along your inner walls as he thrust in and out, fucking you with his mouth while his nose nudged against your clit. Your thighs began to shake in earnest now, your prayer dissolving into broken moans and half-formed pleas.

"There's an evil spirit deep inside you," he murmured between licks, his voice thick with desire. "I can taste its corruption. So sweet, so decadent." He sealed his mouth over your clit again, sucking rhythmically, the metal ball of his piercing tapping against the sensitive bundle of nerves.

You were no longer praying, no longer pretending this was anything but what it was—a man using religion as an excuse to taste you, to make you come apart on his tongue. And yet, some part of you wondered if there wasn't something spiritual in this surrender, in the way your body sang beneath his ministrations, in the approaching transcendence of release.

"I feel it," Father Geto said, pulling back again, his chin shiny with your arousal. "The demon inside you is stirring, fighting against my purification." His voice dropped lower, nearly a growl. "It requires more direct intervention."

Priest!Geto who pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then nipped at the sensitive skin, making you jerk and cry out. "Don't worry," he soothed, his hand sliding up to replace his mouth, fingers circling your entrance teasingly. "This is all part of the ritual."

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, not daring to look back at him, afraid the sight of his beautiful face between your legs would push you over the edge too soon. The metal of his tongue piercing had left a phantom sensation, a cool hardness against your heat that had you aching for more, hips undulating shamelessly.

"Forgive us our trespasses," you whispered, not even sure why you were still playing along with his blasphemous game, except that it heightened everything—the shame, the pleasure, the surrender.

"Yes," he hissed, sounding pleased. "Beg for forgiveness while I taste your sin." And then his mouth was on you again, more demanding now, his tongue relentless as it flicked and swirled and thrust. The piercing added a dimension of sensation you'd never experienced before, the hard metal contrasting with the soft heat of his mouth until you were panting, trembling on the edge of something that felt dangerously close to revelation.

Priest!Geto who drank you up like you were communion wine, sacred and intoxicating. When you finally shattered, your orgasm crashing through you in waves that left you gasping and clawing at the leather cushions, he didn't stop—just moaned against your flesh and continued to lap at you, drawing out your pleasure until it bordered on pain, until you were quivering and begging, though whether for him to stop or continue, you couldn't say.

Priest!Geto who spoke against your trembling thigh, his breath cooling the wetness his mouth had left behind. "The corruption runs deeper than I thought," he said, voice rough with desire. "I can sense an evil entity clinging to your soul."

His fingers replaced his tongue, tracing the seam of your pussy with teasing lightness. "We must proceed with the next phase of the exorcism. Continue your prayers while I work to drive out this demon."

You nodded weakly, face still pressed against the leather cushions, body humming from the orgasm he'd just gifted you. This was madness—sacrilege of the highest order—but you couldn't bring yourself to stop him, not when his touch promised such sublime devastation.

"Our Father," you began again, voice catching as one long finger slipped inside you, curling upward to stroke against your inner walls. "Who art in—oh God—heaven."

"Not quite God," Father Geto corrected, amusement coloring his tone. "Though I've been told my touch can be divine." A second finger joined the first, stretching you deliciously, his thumb circling your still-sensitive clit. "Keep praying. The demon responds to devotion."

You tried to focus, to string together the words of a prayer you'd recited countless times in childhood, but your mind fragmented with each thrust of his fingers. He worked you expertly, finding spots inside you that sent electric jolts of pleasure up your spine. Your hips moved of their own accord, grinding back against his hand, seeking more.

"Hallowed be thy—fuck—thy name," you gasped, back arching deeper as he pressed firmly against your front wall.

Priest!Geto who added a third finger, the stretch burning in the most exquisite way. "Feel that?" he murmured. "The evil fighting back. We must drive it out with pleasure." His pace increased, fingers pumping into you with wet, obscene sounds that echoed in the quiet office. His free hand gripped your hip, holding you steady as he worked you toward another peak. "Don't stop praying. The words protect you from possession."

The absurdity of it all—kneeling in a priest's office, ass in the air, reciting mangled versions of the Lord's Prayer while being fingered to oblivion—should have broken the spell. Instead, it heightened everything, the forbidden nature of the act making each sensation sharper, more intense.

"Thy kingdom come," you panted, and then you were doing exactly that, cumming around his fingers with a cry muffled against the cushion, your body clenching and pulsing as he continued to stroke you through the aftershocks.

"There," Father Geto said with satisfaction, slowly withdrawing his fingers. You whimpered at the loss, feeling suddenly empty. "The first layer of evil has been expelled. But I'm afraid the infestation runs much deeper than I initially thought."

You turned your head, trying to catch a glimpse of him over your shoulder, but he pressed a firm hand between your shoulder blades, keeping you in position.

"Face forward," he commanded. "For the next phase, I need special tools to complete the exorcism."

Priest!Geto who moved away briefly, and you heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of a zipper being lowered. Your pulse quickened, anticipation building as you realized what "special tools" likely meant. The leather couch creaked as he returned, positioning himself behind you once more.

"This method is reserved for only the most corrupted souls," he explained, his voice deeper now, almost hypnotic. "Those whose sins have penetrated to their very core." You felt his hands on your hips, adjusting your position slightly. Something hot and hard pressed against your entrance, much larger than his fingers had been. "Remember, don't look back. Keep your eyes closed and focus on the cleansing."

You wanted to look—God, how you wanted to see what was about to enter you—but there was something thrilling about the unknown, about surrendering completely to his guidance. You kept your face pressed against the cushion, breath coming in short, excited gasps.

"Now," Father Geto said, "as I purify you, I want you to count. Each increment represents a layer of sin being stripped away."

Before you could ask what he meant, you felt the broad head of his cock push against your entrance, stretching you wide. The initial penetration made you gasp, the thickness of him already more than you'd expected.

"One," he prompted, and you realized what he wanted.

"One," you repeated obediently, voice shaky as he pushed deeper. Something metallic and round dragged along your inner walls, and you jerked in surprise.

Priest!Geto who stilled his movements, allowing you to adjust. "Each mark on my instrument of salvation helps to scrape away the filth of your transgressions," he explained, and you understood then—piercings. His cock was pierced, not just at the tip but along the shaft. "Continue counting as I cleanse you."

He pressed forward again, another inch sliding in, bringing with it another hard ridge of metal. "Two," you gasped, the sensation unlike anything you'd felt before—the stretch of his girth combined with the firm pressure of the piercings stimulating nerves you didn't know existed.

"Good girl," he praised, one hand stroking down your spine. "You're taking your salvation so well."

Three. Four. Five. With each number, he fed you another inch, another metal barbell dragging along your sensitive flesh. By six, you were trembling, overwhelmed by fullness and the strange, exquisite friction of the piercings. By eight, you were babbling, prayers mixed with curses, your body on fire with pleasure.

"Nine," you choked out as he pushed deeper still, his cock reaching places inside you that had never been touched. "Ten." Your voice broke on the number, tears of overwhelmed pleasure springing to your eyes. "Eleven." The final count came as a sob as his hips met your ass, every inch of his pierced length buried inside you.

Priest!Geto who paused then, fully seated within you, his breathing heavy. "Eleven marks of atonement," he said, voice strained with the effort of holding still. "Do you feel them? Each one purifying your wicked soul."

You could only nod frantically, beyond words now, your body adjusting to the intrusion that felt both too much and exactly what you needed. The piercings—Jacob's ladder, your mind supplied from some long-ago conversation—pressed against your inner walls in ways that had your vision blurring, pleasure building impossibly despite your recent orgasms.

"Now for the final stage of your cleansing," Father Geto announced, his hands tightening on your hips. He withdrew slowly, each piercing dragging along your sensitive flesh in reverse, before thrusting back in with enough force to push you forward on the couch.

All pretense of religious ceremony fell away then. Father Geto fucked you with abandon, his pierced cock creating sensations that had you seeing stars. The metal barbells stimulated places inside you that sent shockwaves of pleasure through your entire body, each thrust hitting spots that made you cry out and claw at the leather beneath you.

"Look at you," he growled, dropping the priestly tone completely. "Taking my cock like you were made for it. Were you thinking of this when you came to confession? Did you hope to tempt me with your sins?"

You couldn't answer, could only moan as he hit a particularly sensitive spot. His rhythm was relentless now, the wet sounds of your joining filling the office along with the slap of skin on skin. One hand slid around to find your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts, the dual stimulation pushing you toward yet another peak.

Priest!Geto who bent over you, his chest pressing against your back, his hair falling forward to brush your shoulders. "You're no penitent," he whispered in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "You're a temptress sent to test my faith. And I've failed gloriously." His hips snapped faster, the angle changing to drive his pierced length against your front wall. "Cum for me again. Show me what a proper sinner you are."

The command, combined with a particularly well-aimed thrust that had one of his piercings rubbing directly against your g-spot, sent you careening over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you with such intensity that your vision whited out, your inner walls clamping down on his pierced length, muscles spasming wildly as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you.

Your release triggered his own. With a deep, guttural groan, Father Geto buried himself to the hilt and came, his cock pulsing inside you, filling you with warmth that felt both profane and sacred. His body shuddered against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants against your neck as he emptied himself deep within you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, joined together in the aftermath of what could only be described as unholy communion. Finally, Father Geto pressed a surprisingly tender kiss to your shoulder and slowly withdrew, each piercing creating aftershocks of pleasure as they dragged along your sensitive flesh one last time.

"Your exorcism is complete," he murmured, a hint of his earlier priestly persona returning, though undermined by the satisfied roughness of his voice. "The demon has been driven out—for now."

You collapsed fully onto the couch, turning your head at last to look at him. Father Geto stood beside you, tucking his impressive cock—indeed adorned with eleven barbells along the underside—back into his pants. His face was flushed, his hair disheveled, looking more like a debauched rock star than a man of the cloth. When he caught your gaze, his lips curved into a knowing smile.

"Of course," he added, zipping his pants, "evil has a way of returning to those who welcome it. You may need regular cleansings to keep your soul pure."

The offer was clear, and despite your exhaustion, a thrill of anticipation ran through you at the thought of returning to his "church" for more of his special brand of salvation.

Priest!Geto who helped you clean up afterward, his touch almost gentle as he wiped away the evidence of your "exorcism" with a soft cloth. "You should return next Sunday," he suggested, voice casual but eyes intense as they held yours. "For follow-up spiritual guidance."

You nodded, still floating in the hazy aftermath of multiple orgasms, your body humming with satisfaction and your mind reeling from the revelation that church could be this good. He straightened your skirt, smoothed your hair, and pressed a surprisingly chaste kiss to your forehead. "Go with God," he said, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "And remember our little secret."

You emerged from the private office on unsteady legs, feeling as though everyone who saw you would instantly know what you'd been doing. But the church was quiet now, only a few elderly parishioners lighting candles near the altar. Toji sat in the same pew where you'd left him, scrolling through his phone with a bored expression. When he looked up and saw you, his eyebrows rose slightly.

"That was... thorough," he remarked, taking in your flushed cheeks and bright eyes. "Did Father Geto get through to you?"

You bit back a hysterical laugh. "You could say that," you managed, your voice huskier than usual. "He really made me see the light."

Priest!Geto who appeared beside you then, back to his perfect priestly composure, not a hair out of place to suggest he'd just fucked you senseless on his office couch. "Mr. Fushiguro," he greeted your stepfather warmly, extending a hand. "Your daughter has made an excellent start on her path to redemption. We had a very... productive session."

Toji shook his hand, relief evident in his posture. "That's good to hear, Father. She can be stubborn when it comes to authority figures."

"On the contrary," Father Geto replied, his eyes flicking to you briefly. "I found her quite willing to submit to proper guidance. In fact, she's agreed to return for regular counseling."

You nodded enthusiastically. "I want to come every Sunday," you said, and had to press your lips together to suppress a giggle at the double entendre. "Maybe even during the week sometimes. For extra... prayer."

Toji looked between you and the priest, suspicion flickering across his features. "That's... a dramatic change of heart."

Priest!Geto who placed a paternal hand on your shoulder, his thumb brushing against the side of your neck in a way that sent shivers down your spine. "Sometimes the Lord works in mysterious ways," he said smoothly. "The right words at the right moment can transform even the most reluctant soul."

The drive home was surreal. Your body still tingled with the aftereffects of Geto's touch, the phantom sensation of his pierced cock stretching you open. Between your legs, you were tender and sticky, his cum slowly drying on your thighs beneath your skirt. You pressed them together, savoring the reminder of what had happened, the secret throbbing between them.

"You're quiet," Toji observed, glancing at you from the driver's seat. "Usually after I make you do something you hate, I can't get you to shut up about it."

You shrugged, gazing out the window at the passing scenery, seeing none of it. Your mind was filled with images of Father Geto—his dark eyes watching you from above his clerical collar, his long fingers spreading you open, the unholy pleasure of his pierced cock driving into you while you counted each blasphemous inch.

"Just thinking about what Father Geto said," you replied finally. "About redemption and stuff."

Toji snorted. "Well, whatever he said must have worked. Never thought I'd see the day you'd volunteer to go to church."

You smiled to yourself. If only he knew what kind of worship you'd been engaging in. "He has a way with words," you said. "Makes religion seem... exciting."

"You're... enthusiastic about church."

"People change, Toji. Isn't that the whole point of religion? Transformation?"

"Not overnight," he muttered. "And not when it comes to you and authority figures. What exactly happened in that confession booth?"

"That's between me and Father Geto," you replied primly, "And God, of course."

The suspicion on his face deepened. "I'm coming with you next time."

"Fine by me," you said with a shrug, though internally you were already formulating a plan to slip away for some "private counseling" with Father Geto. "Maybe you could use some spiritual guidance yourself."

You'd gone your whole life thinking religion was dull and pointless, but now you understood the appeal of worship—the submission, the ecstasy, the transcendent feeling of being filled with something greater than yourself.

And if that something happened to be eleven inches of pierced priest cock rather than the Holy Spirit? Well, you'd take your revelations however they came.

"What are you smiling about?" Toji asked, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"Just thinking about angels," you replied dreamily. "Big ones, with pierced cocks and wicked tongues."

"What?!"

Unwrap other gifts?

“And while we are tempted by the devil in more ways than one.” His smooth voice went on. “It’s the persistence, the strength, and the true power of the Lord’s light that keeps us on the divine path.”

Suguru takes a glance to his notes, a finger moving from one page to the next. “As Peter 5:10 states: And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to His eternal glory in Christ, will Himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you.”

It earns him a few hums in agreement and ‘Amens’ from the crowd. He takes a breath. “So know that the obstacles in your path now, the ones you pray to be vanquished, may be the key to your own glory. For your glory, is His.”

The crowd rumbles in cheers and claps. Suguru gives the room a smile. With a slow glance around the room, he takes in all their excited faces full of hope to hear the Holy word through him. It was these same old faces he had gotten used to seeing in the worn pews of the church. The same ones he’d run around with his best friend as a child when services were over. Everything remained as it was, as it was suppose to be.

So that’s why his breath unconsciously hitched when meeting your gaze.

Your eyes were new. He’s never seen them cry in the name of repentance, never seen them look at him like he was the Messiah himself. Not even now in the mists of a worshiping crowd. Your expression was poise, calm— orbs slender in observation.

You cut the staring short, looking ahead instead. It’s only then when he can hear the clapping back at full volume. Suguru blinks a few times to return, eyes going down to the timeline in his writings. “And with that, we’ll end today’s service with a prayer.”

The congregation bows their heads in unison. He catches how you were much slower in doing so. Keeping his eyes on you cautiously, he speaks a worthy word to his people. “O’ Might One, we thank you for allowing us to celebrate you on this day. Your spirit is poured out onto this place every Sunday morning and we could ask for nothing more...”

With the service finished, church goers socialize amongst one another. Greetings, catchings of last night’s game, news that the youngest born has ridden a bicycle for the first time. Suguru always had an ear to their happenings, not that he had much of a choice. As soon as his dress shoes hit the carpet floor, he’s instantly surrounded by a group of parishioners. As always, they wanted to make their priest happy and see him smile.

A older woman clasps his hand in hers, squeezing it with a pleasant expression. “An excellent sermon, as always Father Geto!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Kasaki-”

“Did I tell you about little Callie’s recital?”

He chuckles. “Yes, last week. She had practice then, correct?”

“Oh yes! It was a dress rehearsal, her big debut was this last Saturday. She was so adorable in her purple tutu! And she only picked that because she’s growing out of that pink phase, little thing. Oh! Let me grab my phone-”

A low quality video later, one handshake leaves for another. “Pastor! Did you see the new restaurant down the street that they’re building up?”

“No? I don’t think I have.”

“Oh yeah, I think it’ll be a new fusion place. Never knew that they had stuff like that!” A hearty laugh comes straight from the man’s belly and Suguru’s obliged to laugh as well.

“We’ll have to see if we can get the church together for its opening.”

“I’ll see if I can put a word in.”

“There you go, Pastor!”

And another. “Father, did you ever get the chance to look at my inquiries on raising funds for the elementary school?”

“The box tops, yes?”

“Mhm! When will you get started?”

“We can have something up by Wednesday.”

Another. “Father Geto! I just have to get your opinion on this recipe for the potluck-”

Another. “Give your parents a big hug for me won’t you! It’s been so long since I’ve seen them-”

And another. “And this is little Devon! He’ll be staying with me for the summer and he’s already enjoying the kids church service-”

Hands come and go within his grasp as he speaks with each one of them as they trail out. His father told him it was a way to build trust and community, and who was he to argue with the face of the church?

As he wishes one of the elderly women goodbye, Suguru keeps a watchful eye on her when she goes down the stairs. He turns back, starting a little when he’s met with your presence incoming. His body straightens up and you stand in front of him. “Father Geto?”

“That it is.”

Your hand extends in his direction. “Beautiful service. You have many who think the same.”

His eyes lower to your hand, glancing up to you when he takes it. The larger one warms your grasp. He lets out a soft breath. “I appreciate the flattery.”

You raise a brow at him. “Can’t be flattery, after all, your admirers would disagree too.”

Your words earn another exhale, this time with a faint laugh behind it. His slender eyes keep to yours, can’t finding himself to look away. Curiosity eats at him to ask. “If you don’t mind my asking, but are you new in town?”

“I am.” You answer politely. “My mother grew up here, wanted me to see her roots.”

“I’ll be the one to tell you that her roots were made in quite a small place.”

You chuckle softly. “Oh I’m quite aware. Still, it was one of the things she wanted us to do together before she passed.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

He watches you glance down at each other’s hands. Seeing that they’re still connected, the pastor pulls it away— hoping you wouldn’t notice how quick he did it. His eyes were lowered, so they had no choice but to follow upward. That meant scanning over your body and attire— a turtleneck dress and high boots with stockings. He straightens when his eyes reach your face. “And you are?”

You give him your full name, and he repeats it back to you. “It’s lovely.”

“Thank you.” You repeat.

Eventually, you head to the church doors. He follows behind as you were the last to leave. You turn back to give a final glance and him a final goodbye. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Father.”

“Likewise. I hope you to see your return to the church soon.”

“Perhaps.”

Your gazes never leave each other when he goes to shut the doors. The wooden beings echo with their closed status, knocking the air back into his lungs. His brows furrow. Why did he take notice to your clothing?

You dress nice, that’s all. The father shuts his eyes, shaking his head as he goes to tidy the pews.

Sunday mornings became an exercise in pretending you had better things to do than kneel in a dark box and whisper sins into a grate while a beautiful man with too many piercings told you exactly how bad you’d been.

The irony wasn’t lost on you that the only time you’d felt genuinely holy was when you were at your most profane.

Six months passed. Spring came with its pathetic insistence on renewal, and you’d almost convinced yourself that the whole thing had been a fever dream brought on by bad incense and too many candles. Almost.

Then your phone rang.

The number was unfamiliar, which normally would have given you pause. You had the self-preservation instincts of a moth that had seen a flame and thought, Well, that looks cozy.

You picked up on the first ring.

“Hello?” Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

A pause.

And then a sound.

Low, warm, the vocal equivalent of honey being poured over something that shouldn’t be sweetened. You knew that sound the way your body knew the exact temperature at which ice melts. You’d heard it in the confessional, whispering things that had nothing to do with absolution.

“Suguru,” you said, and his name in your mouth tasted like sin.

“Hello, little sinner.” His voice purred through the speakers. “I’ve been wondering where you’ve been hiding.”

Your throat went dry. “I haven’t been hiding. I’ve been... living my life.”

“Without confession?” The way he said it, you’d think you’d announced you were breathing without oxygen. “That’s not like you. You were so devoted. Every Sunday, like clockwork. You’d kneel there in that short skirt —”

“It wasn’t short.”

“It was when you knelt.” You could hear the smile in his voice. “The church misses you.”

“The church,” you repeated, and the word felt wrong in your mouth. “Or just you?”

He laughed then, “Can’t it be both? I’m an extension of the divine, after all. My desires are... ecclesiastically adjacent.”

You pressed the phone harder against your ear, as if proximity could bridge the gap between his mouth and your skin. The room around you suddenly seemed too small, too safe. You wanted danger. You wanted to be in a room with Geto Suguru and no exits. You wanted his hands, which had touched holy things, on the least holy parts of you. You wanted to be looked at the way he looked at you, like a perverse sin waiting to be baptized.

“The church keeps records, you know.” Geto’s voice shifted into something that wore disappointment like a costume.

You pressed yourself against the headboard of your bed, as if the wood could absorb some of the heat building under your skin. “Are you saying I’m going to hell for skipping mass?”

“I’m saying,” he replied, each word weighted, “that hell has a special section for pretty girls who only show up when they think they’ll get something out of it.”

You laughed, but it came out shaky. “I showed up for you. Not for the wafer, not for the wine. Just you.”

“And now you don’t show up at all.” A rustling sound through the speaker, fabric against fabric. You didn’t need to see him to know he’d shifted, settled deeper into whatever chair he was occupying. “That’s the part that concerns me. A soul adrift. A lamb separated from its... shepherd.”

“I told you,” you said, and your voice had gone soft. “I don’t want forgiveness from anyone else. It doesn’t... it doesn’t mean anything if it’s not you.”

Another rustle. Slower this time. Then a sound so low you almost missed it. The sound of a man who has decided that God is not watching, or has decided that he doesn’t mind if He is.

Your throat closed. “Suguru.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you—” You couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Am I what?” His voice was honey over gravel now, thick and rough at the edges. “Touching myself while discussing your spiritual well-being? Is that what you’re asking?”

The bluntness of it knocked the air from your lungs. You’d known that Geto Suguru was not a man who bothered with euphemisms, but hearing it stated so plainly while you sat alone in your bedroom made the world tilt slightly on its axis.

“Yes,” you said.

“Yes I am.”

You could hear it now. The subtle, wet sounds that no amount of careful breathing could disguise. The rhythm of it, slow and practiced.

“Suguru,” you said again, and this time it was a challenge. “What would your good girl do right now? The one who goes to church every Sunday and says all the right prayers?”

He groaned.

“My good girl,” he said, each word measured, “wouldn’t be on the phone with her priest while he’s—”

“Fucking his fist?” you supplied, and the vulgarity felt good in your mouth, like a secret you’d been keeping too long.

A sharp intake of breath. Then, lower, “She wouldn’t say that. She’d be polite. She’d ask for guidance. She’d tell me her sins in that sweet, shaking voice that makes me want to—”

“Want to what?”

Another groan, longer this time, and you could picture his head tilted back, the long line of his throat exposed, those piercings catching whatever light was in the room. “She makes me want to ruin her.”

Your hand had found its way between your legs without your conscious permission, and you didn’t stop it. The phone pressed hot against your ear, Geto’s breathing a counterpoint to the pulse between your thighs.

“I’ve been bad,” you whispered, and it wasn’t an act. “I’ve been so bad, Suguru. I think about you when I’m alone. I think about your mouth. Your hands. That thing you do with your—”

“Stop.” His voice cracked on the word. “If you keep talking like that, I’m going to cum, and I haven’t even gotten to the part where I tell you why I called.”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling. “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.” Another rustle, the sound of him adjusting, and when he spoke again his voice had that polished, priestly cadence that meant he was switching gears. “I think there’s something in your house.”

The abrupt shift made you blink. “What?”

“Something... unwholesome. A presence. I can sense these things.” He said it with absolute conviction. “That’s why you haven’t been coming to church. There’s a demonic influence keeping you away. Something dark. Something that feeds on innocence.”

You almost laughed. The only demonic influence in your house was the half-empty bottle of cheap vodka in the kitchen cabinet and the lingering resentment you felt toward your stepfather every time he left his shoes in the hallway.

“That’s ridiculous,” you said.

“Is it?” His voice dropped. “Then explain why, the moment I mention church, your voice changes. Why you tense up. Why you haven’t set foot in here since last year. Something’s keeping you there, little sinner. Something that doesn’t want you near me.”

The only thing stopping you from seeing the priest was your stepdad, rightfully.

“What are you suggesting?” you asked, though you already knew.

“A house visit.” The words came out smooth, practiced. “An exorcism, of sorts. I come to you. I assess the situation. I determine the nature of the... entity... that’s preventing your attendance.”

“And then what?”

A pause.

“Then,” Geto said, “I rectify it. Thoroughly. In the way only a man of God can.”

“When?” you asked.

“Tonight.” No hesitation. “I have a window. The church thinks I’m doing outreach.”

“Okay,” you said. “Tonight.”

“Good girl,” he replied.

You hung up the phone and stared at the ceiling, and wondered, not for the first time, what kind of person agrees to let their priest come over for an exorcism.

Geto Suguru had, in seminary, been taught that righteousness was a feeling you earned. No one had specified what you had to do to earn it, which he was finding, crouched behind a hydrangea bush at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday, left a great deal of room for interpretation.

Geto adjusted the camera in his lap, not the one he used for church events, God no, that would be sacrilegious, but the small, discreet one he had ordered online with a fake name and paid for in cash.

The footage was grainy but serviceable. He had seventeen hours of you moving through your house, unaware. He had you making breakfast in a t-shirt that rode up when you reached for the coffee. He had you watching TV with your legs curled under you. He had you, twice, touching yourself in the shower, the glass fogged but not enough.

Geto told himself it was pastoral care. Extended surveillance. The modern shepherd keeps watch over his flock, and if his flock happened to have excellent legs and a habit of biting your lower lip when you thought no one was looking, well, that was between Geto and God, and God had been conspicuously silent on the matter.

The stepfather was the problem. The large, surly man who occupied the back bedroom and who had, on three separate occasions, answered the door when Geto had rung the bell under the pretense of collecting for the church renovation fund. Each time, he'd looked at Geto with suspicion, and each time, Geto had smiled his most beatific smile and left without seeing you.

Not tonight.

Geto watched through the kitchen window as the stepfather poured himself a drink. Something amber. Something strong, judging by the way he didn't bother with ice. He carried it to the living room, settled into his chair, and turned on the television.

Perfect.

He'd been planning this for days. The pills were simple, prescription sedatives, acquired through a parishioner with insomnia and loose morals. Crushed. Dissolved. Carried in a small vial that looked, to anyone who might search his pockets, like holy water.

He waited until the man left the room to use the bathroom. Thirty seconds. That was all he needed.

Geto crossed the street like a man on official business. The back door was unlocked, you never locked it, another detail from his surveillance, and he was inside before his conscience could form a complete sentence.

The kitchen smelled like whatever you'd made for dinner. He found the man's glass on the counter, still half-full, and tipped the vial into it with the steady hand. A quick stir with his finger. Back out the door. Back across the street. Back behind the hydrangea, camera recording.

He didn't have to wait long.

Twenty minutes later, Toji was asleep in his bed, head tilted at an angle that would guarantee a stiff neck, mouth slightly open, the empty glass beside him like evidence he had no intention of leaving behind.

Geto gave it another ten minutes, just to be sure. The sedative was strong enough that a man his size would be out for at least three hours, possibly four. Long enough for what Geto had in mind.

He checked his reflection in the car window. Hair pulled back. Collar straight. The tattoos on his wrists hidden by his sleeves.

He looked, he thought, exactly like what he was supposed to be. A man of God paying a house call.

God, in this case, was whatever made your thighs look like sin.

He knocked on the front door. Three firm raps, the way he knocked on every door, the way that said I am here on official business and also I have been thinking about your mouth since December.

You opened the door within seconds, and the sight of you, hair slightly messy, wearing those shorts that did absolutely nothing for his concentration, eyes wide with lust, hit him with the force of a physical blow.

“Shh,” you said, before he could speak. You put a finger to your lips, and he stared at it longer than was strictly pastoral. “He's asleep. My stepdad. In his room. He had a rough night, I think. Just... be quiet, okay?”

Geto smiled. “I'll be quick,” he said, and the lie tasted sweet on his tongue.

He had no intention of being quick.

You stepped aside, and Geto crossed the threshold like a man returning home.

The door closed behind him. The lock clicked.

Geto just stood there, looking at you. Not saying anything. His gaze moved slowly, taking you in piece by piece, like he was trying to memorize every detail. It lingered just long enough to make your stomach tighten. Like he was weighing something up. Like he'd already made a decision and was simply deciding where to start.

Then his hand was in your hair, not pulling, just resting there. His fingers found a strand that had fallen across your cheek, and he tucked it behind your ear delicately.

“There you are,” he said, and his voice was so soft you almost didn’t recognize it. “I’ve been looking for you.”

You opened your mouth to say something clever, or at least coherent, but his thumb was on your lower lip, and then his mouth was replacing his thumb, and the kiss was nothing like you’d expected.

It was gentle.

He kissed your mouth, then your cheek, then the corner of your jaw, then the spot below your ear that made you make a sound you hadn't meant to. By the time he reached your collarbone, your hands were fisted in the fabric of his shirt and you were breathing like you’d run a mile.

“Suguru,” you managed, and his name came out wrecked.

His hand tightened in your hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that he could. He pulled your head back, exposing your throat to the dim light of the hallway. His eyes, when they met yours, had gone dark.

“Look at you,” he said, and his voice had that rough edge to it. “Desperate. Already. And I haven’t even started.”

Before you could respond, his hand was on your lower back, firm and insistent, pushing you forward until your palms hit the wall beside the front door. The plaster was cool against your skin, and his heat at your back made something low in your belly tighten.

“Arms out,” he said, and when you didn’t move fast enough, he took your wrists and placed them flat against the wall himself. “Spread your legs. Wider.”

You always did what he said, which was a character flaw you had no interest in correcting.

His hand slid under the hem of your shirt, tracing the line of your spine with a touch so light it might have been accidental if you didn’t know better. Then lower, to the waistband of your shorts, and his fingers hooked there, pulling down with no struggle.

The shorts hit your ankles. The cool air of the hallway hit your exposed skin, and you shivered, and Geto moaned.

“So wet,” he said, and his hand was between your legs now, fingers spreading you open, making your face burn. “Already so wet for me. After one kiss?”

His thumb traced your entrance and you felt yourself clench around nothing, your body betraying you. “Look at you twitch. There’s something in this room, little sinner. Something making you flutter like this.”

You pressed your forehead against the wall and tried to remember how to form sentences. “It’s not — it’s not a demon, Suguru, it’s just —”

“Just what? Lust? Desire? The natural response of a woman who hasn’t been properly attended to?” His voice had taken on that lecturing quality, the one he used in sermons “No. This is darker than that. This requires intervention.”

His intervention, as it turned out, involved his mouth.

You felt his breath first, hot against your exposed skin, and then his tongue, flat and wet and relentless, dragging from your entrance to your clit in one long, slow stroke that made your thighs shake.

You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper, because somewhere in the back of the house, your stepfather was sleeping, and the thought of him waking up to the sound of his stepdaughter being eaten out against the front door by a priest was not something you were equipped to handle.

But Geto wasn’t stopping.

His tongue was everywhere, circling your clit like it’s a competitive sport, then lower, dipping into your entrance, then lower still, and oh god, his tongue was on your ass.

You made a sound. A small, choked squeak that you hadn’t meant to make and couldn’t take back. Because his tongue wasn’t just on your ass. It was in your ass, and there was something metal there, something hard and cool against the sensitive ring of muscle.

His tongue piercing. It was inside you now, the metal bead rubbing against you from the inside with each movement of his tongue. The sensation was so foreign that your vision blurred.

“Fuck,” you whispered, and the profanity in your mouth felt like the only appropriate response to having a pierced tongue in your ass while your stepfather slept twenty feet away.

Geto hummed against you, the vibration traveled through your body like a live wire. His fingers, which had been teasing your entrance, pushed inside you. Two, then three. The dual sensation — his tongue in your ass, his fingers in your pussy, both moving in a rhythm that suggested he’d given this particular combination a great deal of thought — was too much. His tongue lapped at your asshole while his fingers curled inside you, slick and relentless. The double invasion was filthy and far too good to bear.

You came with a violence that surprised you, your body clamping around his fingers, your thighs shaking against his face. A sound built in your throat that you swallowed just in time, turning it into a muffled groan as you pressed into the wall.

For a moment, everything was white. Then the hallway came back into focus, and Geto was slowly withdrawing. His tongue first, with a wet sound that made your face burn hotter, then his fingers, sliding out of you.

You heard him stand. Heard him adjusting his clothes. Then his hand was in front of your face, fingers glistening with your release, and you stared at them.

“Look at that,” Geto said, sounding pleased and smug. “So much. For a demonic influence, it’s remarkably... productive.”

Before you could respond, he shook his hand, a quick, sharp flick of his wrist, and your juices flew off his fingers in a fine spray that landed on the front door, the wall, the small table where you kept your keys. He did it again, and again, each shake sending another arc of wetness across your hallway.

“Blessing the premises,” Geto explained, and his smile was evil.

Geto’s hand was in your hair again, fingers wrapped tight around the roots, and he was pulling. You had no choice but to follow the line of his arm as he walked backward down the hallway.

“Kitchen,” he said, and it wasn’t a request. “Now.”

You stumbled after him, one hand reaching back to grip his wrist to steady yourself, because your legs were still shaking. The kitchen lights were off, but the glow from the hallway cast everything in a dim, golden haze that made the whole scene feel like a dream you were having while awake.

Which, given the circumstances, wasn’t far from the truth.

He released your hair when you reached the center island, and for a moment you just stood there, breathing hard, listening for any sound from the back bedroom.

Nothing.

Just the soft hum of the refrigerator and the slightly faster hum of your own pulse in your ears.

Geto circled you slowly. His hand trailed along your hip, your waist, the curve of your ass. Then he was behind you, his chest pressed against your back, his mouth at your ear.

“The kitchen,” he murmured, and his breath was hot against your skin, “is where nourishment happens. Sustenance. The body’s daily bread.”

His hand slid between your legs from behind, fingers finding you still wet and sensitive from his mouth. You jerked against him with a gasp you barely caught.

“But you’re not being nourished, are you? You’re being... corrupted. Something in this room is turning sustenance into sin.”

His hand left you, and you heard the sound of a zipper being pulled down. His cock was against you, thick and hot. The piercings you couldn’t see but could certainly feel, dragged along your folds.

He was rubbing himself against you now, the head of his cock catching on your entrance with each stroke. He's just teasing, the piercings creating a sensation that was pleasure and torture.

Your hands gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white. You pressed your forehead against the cool granite and tried to remember how to breathe.

“Sugu…,” you managed. “Please.”

“Please what?” His hand wrapped around your hip, holding you steady as he continued that maddening, barely-there friction. “Use your words, little sinner. Confession requires specificity.”

You turned your head, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. He hadn't bothered to undress. Everything was still in place except for the cock pushed free from his open pants, as if even that couldn't be bothered with subtlety. The piercings caught the light every time he moved, and your eyes kept betraying you.

“Fuck me,” you said, and the words came out raw. “Please. Just — fuck me, Suguru, I can’t —”

You didn’t finish the sentence because he was pushing into you, finally. One smooth, relentless thrust that buried him to the hilt and knocked the air from your lungs. He was big, God he was big, and the piercings created a ridged texture inside you that your body was still learning how to process.

Geto didn’t give you time to adjust.

His hands were on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. He pulled out so slowly you could feel every ridge, every piercing dragging against your walls. And then he slammed back in with a force that drove you forward against the counter.

Your hands scrabbled for purchase. The fruit bowl was directly in your path. Your elbow caught the edge of it, and apples and oranges went rolling across the counter in a scatter.

One apple hit the floor with a dull thud. An orange followed. Geto didn’t pause. His rhythm was steady now, each thrust driving you harder against the granite, and your fingers clawed at the smooth surface, searching for something, anything to hold onto.

Then his hand was in your hair again, pulling your head back, and the angle changed. Your spine arched, your ass pressed against his hips, and he was deeper, so much deeper, the head of his cock hitting a spot inside you that made your vision blur at the edges.

“Up,” he said, and his free hand gripped your thigh, lifting your leg onto the counter beside the scattered fruit.

The new position opened you wider, let him slide in at an angle that had you seeing colors that weren’t on any spectrum. His hand in your hair kept pulling, kept your back arched, kept you exposed and helpless and so full of him you couldn’t remember your own name.

“Fuck,” you whispered, and it was the only word your brain could produce.

He pulled out at his own unhurried pace, making sure you felt every piercing before he finally slipped free.

You slumped against the counter, breathing hard, legs trembling, and heard Geto adjusting his clothes behind you. Then he stepped to the side and you heard it, the distinctive sound of a man shaking his dick.

You turned your head just in time to see Geto giving his cock a firm shake that sent a fine spray of your combined fluids across the kitchen island, the scattered fruit, the tile floor.

“Stop,” you gasped, between laughs. “Oh my god, stop, that’s — that’s not —”

“It’s our holy water,” Geto said, with absolute conviction. “The demons here are strong.”

He walked you down the hallway by your hair. Two fingers hooked at the root, the grip so practiced and unhurried that your body was ready follow and to be grateful for the direction.

The living room was dark except for the blue glow of the television, which someone had left on mute. The screen cycled through a nature documentary about penguins waddling across ice.

Geto guided you to the large window that faced the street. The curtains were half-drawn, which meant that from the waist up, anyone passing by would see nothing. From the waist down, it was a different story.

You realized this two seconds before Geto pressed you against the glass.

“Wait,” you said, your palms flat against the cool surface, breath fogging a small circle on the pane. “The window — people can —”

“Can they?” Geto’s voice was behind you, close, his chest against your back, his hands on your hips. “It’s eleven-thirty on a Tuesday. The only people out there are insomniacs and me, and I’m already here.”

He didn’t bother with preliminaries this time. One hand between your legs, fingers finding you wet and then he was pushing into you from behind, one smooth thrust that drove you harder against the glass.

The cold glass pressed against your breasts while his warmth stayed buried inside you. The contrast made your teeth ache. But it was the window that got to you. Anyone could see. Maybe no one was looking. Maybe someone was. Not knowing was half the thrill.

Geto set a pace that was faster than the kitchen, harder, his hips slamming against your ass with a rhythm that made the window frame rattle slightly in its casing. Each thrust drove you against the glass, and each impact sent a small, damp cloud of breath across the pane. You watched your own reflection blur and reappear with each movement, flushed, wild-eyed, fucked-out.

“Look,” Geto said, his voice rough against your ear, one hand reaching around to grip your throat. “Look outside.”

You did. The street was empty. Dark. Quiet. A single streetlamp cast a yellow circle on the asphalt, and in that circle, nothing moved.

Except, there, parked half a block down, a car.

You wouldn’t have looked at it once, if Geto hadn’t pointed it out.

Something cold settled in your stomach. A suspicion. A question you weren’t sure you wanted answered.

Geto didn’t give you time to pursue it. His hand left your throat, gripped your hip instead, and fucked you harder against the glass, his rhythm losing its precision, becoming something ragged and hungry that had you biting your lip to keep from crying out.

When he pulled out, it was abrupt. A sharp withdrawal that left you empty and aching, your forehead resting against the glass, your breath coming in short, ragged pants.

“Kneel,” Geto said.

You turned. His hand found your hair, always the hair, God, did the man have any other gripping options, and he guided you down until your knees hit the carpet.

“Pray,” he said.

You blinked up at him. “What?”

“Pray. You know how. You’ve done it every Sunday, right?” His thumb traced your lower lip. “Give me a Hail Mary. For our Father. Something with structure.”

You stared at him. Then, slowly, you folded your hands and began to mumble.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee...” Your voice was shaky, barely above a whisper, and the words felt strange in your mouth, like a language you’d learned in a dream. “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus...”

Geto’s hand was on the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, and his cock was inches from your face.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our —”

You didn’t get to finish because Geto’s cock was in your mouth, one thrust that buried him deep in your throat. The piercings created ridges against your tongue, against the roof of your mouth, against the back of your throat where the head pressed with an insistence that made your eyes water.

You made a muffled, desperate sound, and your hands came up to grip his thighs, not to push him away but to steady yourself. The world was tilting and the only fixed point was the cock in your mouth and the hand in your hair holding you there.

Geto didn’t give you time to adjust. His hips started moving short, sharp thrusts that drove him deeper each time. Saliva pooled, spilled, dripped down your chin and onto your chest. You could hear you own mouth being thoroughly used, the small, choked gasps between thrusts when he pulled back just enough to let you breathe.

You looked up. His head was thrown back, eyes closed, his free hand braced against the wall beside the window. Then he was pulling out, a sharp withdrawal that left you gasping and coughing, one hand pressed to your mouth as your throat convulsed around the absence of him.

The coughing was loud. Too loud. In the quiet of the house, with your stepfather sleeping down the hall, it echoed like a gunshot.

Geto’s hand clamped over your mouth, cutting off the sound mid-cough. His eyes, when they met yours, had a sharpness that hadn’t been there seconds ago.

“Quiet,” he hissed, and the word was urgent. “Do you want him to wake up? Do you want to explain why there’s a priest with his dick out in your living room at midnight?”

You shook your head beneath his hand, eyes wide, and the reality of the situation crashed into you.

Geto held your gaze for a long moment. Then his hand slid away from your mouth, down to your chin, tipping your face up to his with gentleness.

“I know how to be quieter,” he said.

You stared at him. “How?”

A slow smile spread across Geto's face, and it promised absolutely no mercy.

“Come with me,” he said, and his hand found your hair one more time as he pulled you to your feet. “I want to show you something.”

He turned toward the hallway. Toward the back of the house.

Toward your stepfather’s bedroom.

Geto’s hand found the doorknob. Turned it. Pushed.

The door swung open without a sound and the room beyond was dark except for the faint blue glow of a digital alarm clock. 11:47.

Your stepfather was on the bed. On his back. One arm flung above his head, the other at his side. His chest rose and fell in the deep, even rhythm of the chemically unconscious, and his mouth was slightly open\.

“We can’t,” you whispered. You don’t mean it, and Geto knows you don’t mean it, because his hand was already on your back, pushing you forward into the room.

“He can’t hear us,” Geto murmured, his mouth against your ear. “He can’t see us. He’s somewhere else entirely.” His hand slid down to your ass, fingers squeezing with a possessiveness that made your breath catch. “This room. This is where the corruption lives. I can feel it. Can’t you?”

You could feel many things. Corruption was somewhere on the list, probably, you did fuck you stepdad in his room countless times.

Geto didn’t wait for an answer. His hand was on your chest and you went down onto the bed beside your stepfather. The mattress dipped beneath your weight. Your stepfather didn’t stir. His breathing continued, steady and oblivious, and the sound of it made your skin prickle.

Then Geto was on you.

His mouth found yours first, hard and hungry, his tongue pushing past your lips. His hands were everywhere, under your shirt, pushing it up to expose your breasts to the cool air of the bedroom, between your legs, fingers finding you wet and ready, in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat to his teeth.

He bit you. Hard enough to make you gasp, and you pressed your hand over your mouth to muffle the sound, and your other hand, seeking anything to hold onto found your stepfather’s arm.

Your fingers closed around his wrist. The skin was warm. Solid. Unconscious. You held on like it was a lifeline, and maybe it was, because the alternative was to float away entirely into the madness of having a priest between your legs while your stepfather slept six inches to your left.

Geto’s mouth left your throat, traveled down your chest, your stomach, and then he was between your thighs. His hands hooked under your knees, pushing your legs apart until you were spread open to the dark room.

His tongue was flat and wet and relentless, dragging through your folds like he mastered pussy-eating as an art form in a previous life. The piercing bumped against your clit and made your hips jerk off the mattress. You bit down on your own hand to keep from making a sound that would wake the heavily sedated.

Geto hummed against you, the vibration traveled through your body. Your fingers tightened on your stepfather’s arm, and somewhere in the distant, rational part of your brain, a small voice was screaming that this was beyond wrong.

You came anyway. Hard. Your body clamping around nothing, your thighs shaking against Geto’s face, a sob building in your throat that you swallowed just in time, turning it into a muffled whimper that you pressed into the palm of your hand.

Geto didn’t stop. His mouth stayed on you, working you through it, his tongue circling your oversensitive clit with a determination that suggested he was just getting started. By the time the aftershocks had faded to a dull throb, you were already winding up again, slipping back into that haze where the only things that existed were his mouth and your hand on your stepfather’s arm.

Then his mouth was gone, and you felt something warm and wet hit your pussy. His spit, a thick glob of it landed on your clit, then his cock was there, pushing into you. It drove the air from your lungs in a sound you didn’t bother muffling because at this point, frankly, what was the point.

He fucked you hard. Harder than the kitchen, harder than the window, his hips slamming against your ass. Your hand was still on your stepfather’s arm, gripping hard enough that your knuckles ached, and each thrust drove you deeper into the mattress.

His hands were on your hips, lifting, pulling, and you were moving, up, over, your knees straddling your stepfather’s chest, your ass in the air, your face hovering above his unconscious one.

Geto pressed against you from behind, his cock finding its way back inside with ease. It’s like he’s done this before with other girls. The thought flickered then dissolved, because his hands were on your hips, pulling you onto him, and the headboard knocked softly against the wall.

Your hands braced on the mattress on either side of your stepfather’s head. Your face was directly above his, close enough that you could feel his breath on your chin, warm and even and unaware.

It pushed you higher, tighter, a coil winding in your belly that had nowhere to go but out. When it broke, Geto’s cock hit that spot inside you and his hand found your clit and his teeth sank into your shoulder.

Your body locked, hips arching off the bed, back bowing like a drawn bowstring before the first spasm hit. Then the dam gave way all at once, a hot, sudden flood between your legs. The mattress soaked through beneath you, your stepfather’s body catching the first warm spray before you even realized you were cumming. Your body clenched around Geto’s cock, your thighs shook against his hands.

And then, with a suddenness that made you gasp, you felt it. Geto lifted you, full-nelson, aiming your pussy at Toji’s face.

Your squirt hit your stepfather’s face in a fine spray.

The first arc landed across his closed eyelids, his nose, the slack curve of his mouth. The second followed, thicker, hitting his cheek and the pillow beneath his head. The third just pooled between your thighs and dripped slow drops that pattered onto his chest like rain on a statue.

You stared down at what you’d done. Your stepfather’s face, glistening in the dim blue light of the alarm clock, streaked with your squirt. His expression unchanged because unconscious men don’t change expressions, they just lie there and get cummed on by their stepdaughters while priests fuck them from behind. To be honest, you were sure Toji would’ve loved to see this if he was conscious, too.

“Fuck,” Geto breathed behind you. His hips stuttered against your ass, his rhythm becoming something jagged and hungry. “Look at him. Look at what you’re doing to him.”

You were looking. You couldn’t stop looking. “I’m —” you started, but you didn’t finish because Geto’s hand was on your hip, pulling you back onto him.

“Tell me,” Geto said, and his voice was tight, strained, the polished priest cadence crumbling into something raw. “Tell me what you are.”

You knew what he wanted. You’d known since the kitchen, since the window, since the moment his tongue had found your ass against the front door. He wanted the word. The specific, filthy word that turned you from a woman being fucked into a thing being used. The worst part was that you wanted to say it.

“A whore,” you whispered, and the word felt heavy in your mouth. “I’m a whore, Suguru. I’m your —”

He came before you could finish. You felt the hot pulse of him inside you, his cock jerking against your walls, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks that would last for days. He groaned, low and ragged. You felt every throb, every pulse, the warm spread of him filling you till fullness.

Your stepfather breathed beneath you. The clock ticked. Geto’s cock pulsed inside you one final time, and you felt a small, warm trickle escape around the base of him.

Geto pulled out slowly. So slowly you could feel every ridge, every piercing drag against your oversensitive flesh. When the head finally popped free, there was a wet, obscene sound of the warm rush of cum, no longer contained, spilling out of you in a thick stream that landed directly on your stepfather’s face.

It hit his closed eyelids first, then his nose, then pooled in the hollow of his throat before sliding downward, leaving a glistening trail across his skin. More followed. A steady drip from between your thighs, each drop landing with a soft pat that seemed, in the quiet room, impossibly loud.

You stared. Geto stared. Your stepfather continued sleeping.

“Well,” Geto said finally, and his voice was light. “That’s one way to bless a room.”

You're not used to giving yourself luxuries. Suguru gets his kicks out of pulling out the church's wines and cheeses when you come over, and makes a point to walk you through the beautiful inner courtyard of his church while you follow behind him, stony faced. He loves the confusion and guilt in your eyes, the way you flinch away from allowing yourself to become soft after an entire life of routine. You're famous in the kingdom for being the perfect balance of what a knight should be: a warrior poet, well read and noble; a strong and well trained fighter; and also someone humble like a dog, willing to throw their entire life away for their king's wars. In your confessions Suguru can't help but be enchanted by how you talk. He reads your poems, about the places you've seen and conquered in the name of an old man who's rotting away on his throne. He wants that for himself.

Suguru almost stalks you, appearing in dinners at the court and greeting you when he meets with your king and you're part of his entourage. These are strange times after all, and the crown needs to be protected. Suguru notices the way your grip is almost slack, when usually it's renowned for its steadiness. As your faith wavers you've seemed to lose interest in your work. He knows you no longer believe in your cause.

You come to mass more often and he hears you've even deigned to get yourself a proper bed, instead of sleeping on hay like a monk. You comment how it's been good on your back and Suguru trembles a bit. The lines around your mouth get deeper when you smile indulgently at him and call him "bishop" like one would indulge a child. He mentions a hot spring not far from the city and you confess you've been putting off the desire to go for a long time. Suguru convinces you to go and sighs to himself when he can't accompany you, or casually plan an overlapping trip to the same place. Not even the layers of cloth and metal you wear can fully mask your bulk, your calloused hands. He wants to see more.

As the kingdom falls into ruin you become apathetic. Suguru has been managing to shepherd you into the confession booth more often than not these days. You don't like the king anymore, you don't like how the once steady man is now plunging your home into chaos. It is not god's will, you say, and Suguru nods indulgently, following the wrinkles in your forehead and the silver flashes in your hair. You wear more armour now, as the cold and the war set in, slouching in the tiny wooden box that can barely fit your bulk. You refuse to put down your weapons, even in a house of god. Suguru knows you're arguing with most of your old friends, who are either fleeing or vying for the throne themselves. One of the king's bastard sons hovers on the eastern border. Suguru goes to the castle to watch you train, his cock stirring when you land brutal blows on a wooden training dummy with your longsword.

When Suguru mentions your skills later and laughs about feeling protected you thumb your knife and keep silent, looking up into the cathedral's pillars. You hum with something that might be assent, and he realises you treat him differently now. You're not indulging a kid, someone who rose through the ranks too fast and has a job he doesn't deserve. You're talking to him as an equal, and there's a weary flicker of warmth in your eyes when you call him "bishop". His stomach flips.

And then one night, dark and still, when you slink in through the side door and sit silent in the pews for hours, when Suguru stands at the altar and watches as you try to forget the nightmares that plague you, the front door groans open. Two knights burst through the tense silence and leave muddy footprints on the stone floor, their cries bouncing off every wall. Suguru is about to vault the altar, draw the knife he's not supposed to have- but you beat him to the punch and meet the men halfway.

It's impossible that someone can move that silent and swift, with only a few rustles of maille. You take both of them head on, drawing a short sword from your belt, not bothering to say a word. It only takes a few seconds, and two heavy thumps hitting the floor, before Suguru knows it's all over.

In the dim candlelight you kneel down and wipe your sword on one of the men's capes. As your form straightens up again and you come out of the shadows, into the moonlight of the altar, he notices some blood on your clothes. You pause a step below him, separated by the cold marble of the altar, solemn.

"I couldn't let them kill a servant of god. I couldn't let them kill... you." Your eyes give nothing away, indifferent to the minute spray of blood near your hip. Indifferent to how Suguru's cock stirs below his robes.

"I'm going to fix it all." It sounds like a promise, and all of a sudden your eyes won't leave his. "It's my job to protect this kingdom, and everything in it. I stood back for so long, because I was lost. But no more of that."

Suguru clicks a spoon to his glass to gather everyone’s attention. It was once simple click and heads turned without a second wasted. Children were hushed to soft murmurs and babbles, and all eyes were on him. Like they always were. And as always, he presented himself with a smile.

“There’s no doubt in my mind that the food we have here today isn’t like any other. Practically have a few five start chefs among us.” The crowd laughs heartily.

“The effort is seen and worth appreciating, especially with the succession of the bake sale!” Claps and cheers could be heard all around, including the father’s. They simmer down for him to continue. “It’s worth the celebration, so here we are, to bless and be blessed. Let us bow our heads.”

Small groups crowed around the food tables to get their pieces. As Suguru gives a nod of gratitude for Mr. Everest putting some on his place, he glances down to the array of foods. Each with their own signed cards of what was made and by who. His eyes glance over the varied names. His steps slow as they narrow in concentration, wanting to be sure he was seeing things correctly. A dark chocolate cake sat in front of him, with your name signed at the bottom. Did you come through here already? How come he didn’t see you?

He glances around, searching for your face in the crowd. When he came up empty-handed, the priest moves to allow the line to flow again.

The night went on as lively as ever, talking with each smiling patron after the next. He’d smile back, laugh with their jokes, but feel as though he was much farther from everyone than he really was. His words were half-hearted at best. Every now and then his glance takes him outward, looking to his surroundings. After the third or maybe fourth glance around, he eyes figure sitting on top of the hood of a car. A figure he’d recognize from his distracting thoughts.

“Are you alright, Pastor?”

He nods, blinking himself back into conversation with an older woman and her daughter. “Yes, my apologies.”

Those eyes wonder about again after the reassurance was made. Suguru knew the real answer to that question, and the one thing he could do to fix it.

The church parking lot only had about four street lights. You were under one of them, sitting atop your car, with a scent that he knew as clear as day. He shouldn’t approach you. If you looked like you wanted to be left alone, the result would have been just that. But his dress shoes keep their path, walking in your direction. Your head turns when you seemed to notice him approaching. Eyes glance at him up and down, he surely wasn’t mistaken on that. “Evening, Father.”

He greets you back with a mention of your name. Glancing away, he catches how you has a good view of everyone in the courtyard. Looking back, he asks. “Not one for these kinds of things?”

You blow out smoke to the side with a scrunch of your lips. “Not particularly.”

“May I ask why?”

Your smile feels like fingers crawling up his back. “Aren’t you off the clock, Father? No need to try and pull a confession.”

A warmth spreads on his cheeks, causing him to look away with an embarrassed chuckle. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-“

“I’m only teasing you.”

What you pull from your pocket causes Suguru’s mouth to dry. A pack of cigarettes with a slight dent at the top. You pop open the carton, pulling out a stick. You look to the pastor, who watches your hands until he catches your gaze on him. It’s like you’re getting even worse for him to ignore— trading one slight for another.

He nods his head in your direction and you give him the pack. He hears the flicker of a lighter as he puts a cigarette on the trim oh his mouth. It parts, about to ask you for the light, until he feels something grab his shirt. Suguru looks up to catch the end of your cigarette with yours. Your eyes focus on making sure his lights, while his eyes can’t seem to turn away from your face. Not when you were so, so close. His heart picks up in light patters, hoping— praying, it was masked in his breathing.

He could only find himself to relax just as you finished lighting. You pull your head back, hand holding your sitting firm up from behind. Suguru leans his weight against the car with his back to you, entirely quiet.

There he was swirling in a spiral of water that never seemed to end. Why did you do that? The lighter was right there. He was just on the brink of being swallowed whole in your proximity. If only you ate a bit more.

He pulls the cigarette from his lips with shaky hand, blowing smoke off to the side. The silence remained so, but surprisingly to him, his shoulders begin to slack. His exhales become heavier as they roll out every stress of just that week. All in the intimate quiet you two shared.

“I suppose this was a much needed break.” He speaks up behind another inhale. You let your cigarette hang off your mouth as you glance to him. “Even you need breaks from all that religious zeal, Father?”

You were teasing him, he caught on it this time. Suguru laughs quietly, letting smoke follow after. "Of course I need a break," He replied. "As the head of this community, I feel responsible for everyone's well-being. Sometimes it's difficult to look after so many people at once.”

You both took a drag from your cigarettes. Your eyes look to the sky, watching as your smoke dissipates. Once again, you felt yourself be honest on holy ground. “I can’t imagine having to listen to them. Trying to solve every problem they have with a book older than the earth itself.”

Suguru didn’t know if he was supposed to take offense or not. But you weren’t exactly wrong. He knew how the people in the congregation operate. “People don't realize how much they project onto these ancient scriptures," Geto replied, nodding his head in agreement. "They don't consider the context of when they were written and how it may apply to their own situation."

He took another deep drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke. You slight your head in agreement. "Some people love to rely on something outside of themselves to tell them how to feel and how to live, I suppose."

What was that that felt like a wound in his chest? Pride?

“You don’t exactly sound like a believer.” He huffs.

“Neither do you.”

Something twists in his stomach. The same feeling of having your hand caught in the cookie jar as a child. He lashed his head to you, you and your calm expression that gives him even more whiplash. You shrug, pulling the tobacco tab from your lips. “Promise,” You finger traces an X over your chest. “I won’t tell a soul.”

Suguru catches your witty smile. Another tease, at least he had hoped with the hard swallow down his throat. Still, you did manage to get an amused exhale out of him.

“I…” He begins, only for his eyes to fall to the ground. His words change. “I just see things a bit differently than some of them.”

“Well?”

The pastor takes a quick inhale. "I believe a priest should listen to the scripture and offer guidance where needed, but also try to instill their own values and morals into the teachings."

You arch your brow. “That just seems…normal.”

He took the cigarette from his mouth, holding it in one hand as he leaned his back against the car further. "Some members think that's a blasphemous way of looking at it," he added. "That I'm perverting their precious lessons."

He laughed, exhaling a puff of smoke.

"I say, what's so blasphemous about using your own brain?"

Your brows quirk together, turning your head to the lively scene ahead of you both. “I didn’t know there were some in your congregation that find you that way.”

"I've learned a lot about my own congregation," He explained. "The members who are devout to the scripture are very sensitive to my every action. Any perceived flaw is bound to become a rumor in these circles."

Suguru paused, taking another drag. "Thankfully, I've managed to build up a good reputation within this community."

He glances over at you, eyes doing a once over before speaking. “To which you seem all the more distant from.”

You scoff, a cloud of smoke harshly pushed onto the air. You take your eyes back to the lively scene. The children playing in the grass, the sun setting behind the fumes of a grill. Chatter and booming laughter. It all seemed perfectly cut out for a holiday card. “I’m doing all this for my mother.” You murmur. “And I know when I don’t belong somewhere.”

He looks back to the ground. Those words sounded like ones that were temporary. He hoped not but the idea of you being here permanently didn’t seem too right.

A nudge of his neatly dressed shoulder snaps him out of his thoughts. His head bounces up to look at you. You were already half way down your cigarette when you talk. “Speaking of…you should go back.”

Maybe those words were his saving grace. A holy light appearing in the confusing darkness, perhaps a blessed creature creating a path to redemption. A way for his thoughts to distance themselves from your consumption. Perhaps your words were a moment of actual divine intervention.

"I think I'll stay with you." He states, almost confidently. “I…enjoy your company.”

The ends of your lips quirk up. Your hand pats a spot next to you on the hood of the car. Suguru looks between before obliging. Once he gets himself situated, he sees the view that she has of the social event. The congregation was in bursts of small groups. There was one person however, going from one group to the next with a slight of urgency. That group looks between each other, one straying off to act like the first— questioning and questioning. Suguru only let out a sigh, not a doubt in his mind what they were looking for.

You notice, turning your head to look at him. Huffing, you throw your finished cigarette on the gravel. He reluctantly goes to stand, running a hand through his hair as your hand pulls another cigarette. You place it at your lips. “Seems that’s your-“

That evening air beginning to settle in seemed long forgotten. You’re frozen in place as you’re met with his cigarette lighting the end of yours. His hands were placed on either side of you on the sleek hood. Suguru stood still between your legs to ensure that it would light— that he wouldn’t throw up his own heart. He simply just— moved. Jumped at the opportunity when it was clear for him. His tab was much shorter than when yours in the beginning of your smoke session, making your faces all the more closer. He could feel your breath tickle his face, just as still as he was. His eyes slowly look up to yours, that have been staring at him this whole time. The look within them changes. One that makes his throat too dry to speak.

“Careful there, Eve.”

tags: @getousrep