Chef!Geto HCs.

Chef!Geto HCs.

Pairing: Geto Suguru x Reader

Word count: 1.1 K

A/N: Chef!Geto my beloved [[dreamy sigh]] SFW, only the last one is a lil suggestive hehe. enjoy. pls reblog if you enjoyed <3 comments are appreciated uwu

Chef! Geto who studied culinary arts in Japan and France, is both master so cuisine and confectionery. He’s been in the professional culinary industry for a decade and he’s still young [29] compared to other well renowned chefs.

He only recently ventured into confectionary in the last 2 years and is still shy about his creations, to which only you have the pleasure of trying.

He owns a restaurant in Tokyo and manages the place, even cooks himself on some nights. Sometimes he’s in the kitchen 7 days a week and it’s just your luck if you get to taste a dish made by Geto himself.

And you know if you’re lucky because Geto always delivers his dishes personally to the table.

Everyone in the room pauses, swooning whenever he enters because he carries an air of grace and finesse around him.

His restaurant is always booked, there’s usually a 2-3 month waiting period because who wouldn’t want the chance to have The Geto Suguru prepare your meal personally.

Even so, his restaurant is always be busy because his food is to die for and he hires the best of the best to recreate his dishes.

Every single thing on the menu was created by Geto himself, so you know you’re in for a treat.

He’s also health conscious and always puts care into making his dishes.

His restaurant is always busy because the people love the food and him. His looks paired up with his talent honestly makes him irresistible.

He’s like celebrity chef.

Has his own Instagram account with 5 million followers and growing, though his account is managed by someone because Geto isn’t really into the whole social media hype.

Given his growing popularity, Geto is recognised worldwide. He has fans all over the world, who travel to Tokyo just to try his food.

He’s been thinking of opening another branch in Paris but he doesn’t want to live far away from home and you.

Also being the perfectionist he is, he can’t see himself dedicating equal amounts of time to both restaurants since he knows the demands of opening and managing a new place. Even though he has managers to make sure everything is smooth sailing he also likes to oversee everything personally.

He has been considering opening a small confectionary, and if you have a sweet tooth like his white-haired friend that may or may not have been his reason behind the idea.

WHEN HE COOKS FOR YOU:

You know they say a person looks attractive doing what they love? That’s absolutely true with Geto.

When he’s cooking for you at home, you have the pleasure of watching him work his magic up close but also take in the view that is him.

Cooking at the restaurant and at home is different. At home when he’s in the kitchen it becomes his domain and you happily give him his space to do his thing. But he loved having you sit at the table or on the counter while he cooks so he can have you be his taste tester. But mostly it’s because he enjoys your presence.

He always has smallest smile on his face or in his eyes, humming softly as he cooks.

His hair is pulled back into a bun with a few strands falling out, framing his face. [[dreamy sigh]]

Has the biggest apron collection you have ever seen and wears a new one everyday.

You know how some people collect magnets or key rings from every place they visit?

Well.... Geto collects aprons. And if the place you’re visiting doesn’t have any he’ll pout and write it as a recommendation and drop it on their suggestion box 😭

He has a questionable taste in aprons, for some reason he just loves the aprons with horrible designs or words printed, no matter now cringe they are. He says aprons should be fun, but still looks best in a classic black apron.

Yes he has an apron that says kiss the chef in big bold letters and always asks for kisses whenever he wears it- as if he needs to ask twice asdfghjkl

His favorite apron his a baby pink one that’s says “Hot stuff” which you bought for him as a joke. But it was one of your first gifts to him and he treasures it till this day.

In addition to wearing an apron, he ways has a white hand cloth thrown over his shoulder and idk what it is [[Its him, it’s Geto]] about this whole but he looks so hot.

Whenever he’s done preparing your meals he always sets his hair loose and ugh, does he look good doing it.

L’Oréal hair models are shaking in their boots.

And yes he does some parttime modelling. It’s always photoshoots for magazine articles related to his career.

As I said eariler, Geto is still shy about his confectionary skills [[even though he's mastered it to a tea, Humble King]] so whenever he presents you with dessert, a nervous laugh escapes his lips as he rubs the back of his neck ‘I hope you like it’.

He early waits for your response, watching you intently, taking in every reaction as you chew and swallow, and ngl, his stare can be a little intimidating sometimes without him intending so.

A simple “it’s good” has him breathing a sigh of relief and shooting you the cutest eye smile ever.

Whenever he’s experimenting with new dishes for the restaurant he always asks for you opinion first!

You’re his personal taste tester hehe.

As long as you like whatever he makes, it’s a success in his eyes <3

Yes he loves to cook, especially for you <3 it’s his love language 😭

Whenever you’re working till late or busy with an assignment or studying Geto will prepare for you midnight snacks that are both yummy and energy boosting.

Special dine-in date nights include Geto cooking, but he always has a theme for dinner. Some of his favourites include; Indian, Italian, Mediterranean, and Thai cuisine.

When you first started dating he said that his other always told him the way to someone’s heart is through their stomach and he laughs at himself, because he knows it’s so cliche but you don’t tell him that he can get away with it.

Always makes your favorite dishes, especially on days when you come home feeling like the world is caving in on you, Geto is there ready with a plate of your favorite food to soothe your soul. And being cuddled up in his arms helps too uwu

Loves surprising you with breakfast in bed on random days [[he’s an easily riser]]

For every birthday he bakes you a cute little cake 🥺💕 always writes a cute little message on top using icing.

Honestly being with Geto is a dream, especially if you’re not someone who enjoys cooking or is just lazy you’ve won the lottery asdfghjkl.

Given his experience as a chef, Geto has had the pleasure of tasting the best of the best, but his favorite meal will always be you <3

“do you think it will come out positive?” Satoru asks against your hair, his lips and cheek nuzzling at the strands.

“mm, hopefully” you murmur back. it has been quite a few days since you started trying for a baby with your husband, and even though you both were able healthy, the was still a lingering worry in the air, and Satoru knew, having his body between your legs and big, warm palm rubbing your back tenderly, easily brushing away your worries.

the clock ticks and the pregnancy tests are a strong presence in the room, at least four of them sit at the counter since he couldn’t decide for one, and also, just to make sure.

once the timer ends you both sigh, coming to grip the tests at the same time. Satoru’s head is low, presenting the four plastic strips, “pick one”

and you do, a random pink one that has two lines in it, “positive” Satoru’s breathing hitches. it’s now his turn to pick another, the same result greetings back.

his eyes look up at you with hope and adoration, the other two tests being one positive and one negative, and the white haired makes a mental note to not buy that brand again, sticking to the fact that you are in fact, pregnant.

“my love...” his voice is slightly shaky, cupping your cheeks to stare at those loving and slightly damp eyes of his, the ones that mirror yours as you give him a wide grin, “we’re having a baby”

satoru holding you in his arms, your face nuzzled into his neck, his chin rested atop your head, his fingers trace so softly on the length of your spine you barely register the touch — it feels like gentle air blowing on your skin. and he speaks to you with utmost tenderness too — each sentence begins or ends with “my dear, my life”, said so softly that his voice drops to a near whisper. like his entire being is trained to be delicate with you, with the way he holds you, with the way he talks to you

(this, right after he nearly brought you to tears from cumming multiple times on his tongue)

❝ die with a smile ❞. . . ⇢ satoru gojo

˗ˏˋ summary: satoru thinks back to the moment you asked him the hardest question ever

˗ˏˋ wc: 4.1k

˗ˏˋ contains: gn!reader x gojo, zombie apocalypse au, heavy angst w very little comfort, major character death, established relationship, descriptive violence/injuries, mentions of blood and amputation, satoru has a panic attack, suguru & shoko cameo

˗ˏˋ a/n: this one's a wild ride yall, pls refer to the main fic + the au masterlist for this one !! otherwise.... pls do enjoy and dont cry too much while reading it :'3

“satoru… i have a question for you.”

up until this point the room had been so silent, you weren’t even sure if satoru was still awake. you could feel him, though— with your head laying above his heart, his arms caging you in, you could feel how he breathes. the rise and fall of his chest is prominent enough to indicate to you that he’s still awake, albeit a little sleepy. you noted that every once in a while it slows, until he feels you stir— shifting an arm, or a leg, to get more comfortable. that usually wakes him up a little more, picks up the rate of his breathing a tad, just as your statement now did.

he doesn’t respond for a moment, but he hums softly, tilting his head down to look at your shoulder. his index finger traces shapes on it; he’s currently tracing a heart, though you can’t tell because he’s been at it for some time now. it feels more like a bunch of squiggles.

“what’s on your mind?” he murmurs eventually. the words trickle into your ears like honey drizzling; it’s so soothing, so relaxed. he’s so physically and mentally content in this moment, with you— it makes you nervously chew on your lower lip, knowing you’re possibly about to ruin it.

“would you, um…” you pause to swallow thickly, gathering your bearings before you continued. “if the situation ever arose, would you ever— like, if someone asked you…”

he can hear the reluctance in your voice, and the tracing of his finger over your shoulder slows to a stop. he lifts his head a little bit, searching for your eyes before finally meeting your worrisome gaze. he doesn’t say anything, but you don’t think he needs to; the gentle, grounding squeeze on your shoulder says enough.

“if— if you—… if someone ever asked you to kill them before they turned… would you do it?”

satoru inhales slowly, chewing the inside of his cheek for a moment as he thinks of what to say. a part of him — a sick, intrusive part of his brain — immediately starts to ring alarm bells in his head. he pushes it all the way to the back of his mind, because— surely, you aren’t about to ask him if he would ever do such a thing to you, right? it’s preposterous that you’d even go so far to assume that this life you both live right now isn’t secure enough to guarantee your own safety until you both grow old. it’s absurd, even.

yet, he still finds himself avoiding the question; simply answering it with a question of his own. “would you?”

you can read satoru like a book. even with your head lifted off his chest, the palm you were laying over his heart can feel the way his heartbeat picked up. he knew what you were trying to ask and, for a reason you couldn’t quite place, he wasn’t willing to even entertain the thought of that ever being a possibility.

it’s not like you were particularly fond of the idea, either. it entails a heartbreaking scenario where either of you would have to make the toughest decision of your lives. to kill the person you love before they turn into something so deplorable, so lifeless— to be claimed by the one you live for, or be claimed by the undead. the answer had never been clearer, yet the choice was impossible to make. the unfortunate meeting between an unstoppable force and an immovable object.

the silence lingers between you two for a while longer before you finally break it once more, tearing your gaze away to glance across the room. in the corner, lay the dog you both rescued a long time ago— it’s been months, maybe a year by now. things have been good, they are good… they’re going to stay good.

but the fear of an uncertain future gnaws at your resolve day and night; so much so that you think, if not for the way satoru holds you so securely against his chest while he sleeps, you’d have a hard time getting any rest at all.

it’s due to this that you don’t just want an answer from him, you need it. you think of it like a safeguard; insurance against a future that, despite how much you try to delay it, may ultimately be completely inevitable.

“i would,” you mumbled, your voice as unsteady as your emotions feel. “if… if you asked me. i would do it, for you.”

satoru doesn’t need to ask why. he thinks the same of you; the thought of you ever becoming a zombie, a true monster in it’s own right— he can’t find the right words to truly encapsulate how terrible it makes him feel.

so if you were to ever die, god forbid— he doesn’t want you to go like that.

a warm hand cups your cheek, and satoru turns your head so that you’re facing him again. the cerulean of his eyes are glassy, and the way his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows tells you enough about the size of the lump he feels in his throat. his fingers press into your skin a little bit, making small indents in the plumpness of your cheek before he finally gives you his word.

“i told you this before, but i’ll say it again… there’s nothing, absolutely nothing i wouldn’t do for you.” his tone is firm, resolute. “everything i do, everything i will ever do… i will always put you and your needs first.”

you fidget a little bit as he finishes speaking, but then he’s sliding his hand to the back of your neck and gently tugging, urging you forward. he guides you to lay back down on his chest, and as he does so he presses a kiss to the crown of your head, letting it linger for a long moment before he pulls away.

his affirmation satiates your worries, for the time being. there’s no need to continue the conversation, because— what more can you say? you gave your answer, and he gave his. there’s no other reason to keep thinking about such a dark scenario.

and while satoru often tried to dismiss the intrusive thoughts he always had, he found himself thinking back to that very conversation when the potential scenario you had presented… ultimately became a reality for him.

he can’t think of a time in his life where he’d ever been crying harder than he is now; his brain felt like it was slamming into his cranium with every shake of his head. every time he tried to deny the situation at hand, to refuse to process the words leaving your lips, his head throbbed with a dull ache he may never be rid of.

“i— i can’t—” he hiccups, lifting his arm to furiously wipe at the tears spilling over his lash lines with the sleeve of his shirt. he’s on his knees, his trembling hands covered in blood— in your blood. he’s staring at the gaping wound in your side, the result of an unexpected altercation with a horde of zombies that went awry. he’s certain that suguru and shoko are somewhere behind him, but his sense of direction gets skewed when it feels like the world is spinning too fast for him to catch up.

“sator—” you croaked, trying to speak, but every word that left your lips was joined by a violent coughing fit. satoru let out another broken wail at the wet sound of your cough; he feels like he’s going to throw up.

“please…” he choked out, his voice cracking at the end of the word. “please— please don’t make me do this, i— i can’t do this to you, please. i need you.”

his begging was futile. he knew it was only a matter of time before you succumbed to your wounds, the infection spreading through your system until it reached your brain. by then you’d already be dead, and you’d become something so sinister satoru thinks he might actually pass out at just the mere thought.

“‘toru…” you heaved, blinking up at him through your own tears. your entire body was in pain, every nerve in your system lit up with the infection making its way through you. satoru was squeezing your hand so tightly it was the only part of your body that felt numb to everything, almost painless. “you have to… you— you promised.”

“i— i know, i— fuck, i didn’t think— fuckfuckfuck!” he curses as the gravity of the situation dawns on him all over again. his free hand tugs at his hair, staining the snowy white a crimson red color.

it all happened too fast— way too fast for any of them to truly process. upon getting attacked by a horde, satoru feels your little group of 4 start to split up within the night to tackle them. he felt your hand slip out of his grasp and that’s really when the panic started to settle in; it was all too familiar. the fear and the dejavú crawled up his throat, he found it so hard to just breathe.

suguru was the first one he heard screaming for help. on pure instinct satoru stopped his search for you through the bush of the trees and whipped his head around, running towards the source of the noise as fast as his feet could carry him. he found suguru surrounded by 4 zombies, maybe 5– it was too dark in the forest to tell. suguru’s gun was fresh out of ammo and he’d tripped on his feet, he was cornered.

satoru knew he had to act fast. if he heard suguru’s yells, that means the rest of the horde may very well have heard him too.

as he’s crossing the distance between him and the other man, that’s when he hears your voice. satoru’s heart jumps out of his throat then, seeing you reach suguru faster than he could. you helped suguru up off the ground and fended off the zombies nearest you, but the anxiety was still bubbling in satoru’s stomach, threatening to boil over.

for one, something was wrong with suguru… his gun had fallen to the ground and he was clutching his arm, a pained expression adorning his features as he stood behind you. you were defending yourself decently enough, but the zombies were moving too fast to fight them off all on your own.

satoru fumbles for the gun in his holster and he pulls it out, right as his view of you gets blocked by another incoming zombie. he’s still making his way over, all of this is only happening within a matter of a few seconds—

two shots ring out, and the undead bodies fall to the ground. satoru can see you now, still standing by suguru, still fighting with all your might. his vision is so zeroed in on you he doesn’t even register shoko appearing beside him, readying her own weapons to help satoru rescue the two of you.

by the time they reach you two, satoru feels it in his gut before you’ve even said anything. the look on your face, on suguru’s face— it’s not right. something is wrong.

and before satoru could even ask, suguru was falling to his knees.

“m— my arm, shit,” suguru cursed, and satoru physically felt the blood draining from his face. suguru had been scratched pretty badly, just above his elbow, and the infection was spreading through his arm quickly. satoru hears shoko splutter; she mutters something unintelligible, and then immediately moves to suguru’s side.

satoru spares a nervous glance at you, and the look on your own face does nothing to ease his nerves.

“it’s not too late.”

shoko’s voice comes in almost instantly. “we— we have to amputate,” and before anyone could protest it she’s already aligning her machete right above his shoulder bone, gripping the handle tight enough for her knuckles to turn white. “fuck, suguru— just, hold on… we can still save you…”

shoko’s moving fast. satoru’s response is a little delayed but he eventually threw himself down to press his entire body weight on suguru’s chest, holding his head to the side and rolling up suguru’s shirt. “here, bite down on this,” his voice is unsteady, but he places the cloth between suguru’s teeth and soothes the panic suguru is already feeling.

it all happened so fast. within a matter of minutes, satoru was split up from the rest of the group, running towards the sound of suguru’s cries, finding you with suguru— and now shoko was driving her machete through the bone of his shoulder with all the force she could muster.

the cry that left suguru’s lips was like nothing he’d ever heard before. if not for the way satoru had been holding him down, suguru’s violent thrashing would have made the cut a lot less cleaner than it actually was. shoko’s precise hit made it easy to tear the infected limb, all flesh and bone, clean off his body.

and as she’s removing her jacket to wrap around the gaping hole in suguru’s shoulder, applying as much pressure as she can to control the bleeding, satoru hears you behind him.

“s’toru…” your voice comes out shaky— and in an instant satoru is on his feet, turning around and running towards you just as you, too, fell to your knees.

“no…” he shakes his head, cradling you in his arms as he sets you down gently on the ground. “noooo, no, no, no, no, no…”

satoru’s hands go to your sides, holding you close to him, searching your face for answers, and that’s when he feels it— the wetness, oozing from your waist, all thick and warm. it’s your own blood.

somehow, while trying to save suguru, a zombie had gotten to you before satoru could. the deep, lengthy scratch marks on your abdomen were an indication of how late satoru was.

and now here he was, crying his heart out, kneeling at your side, replaying that damned conversation a million times in his head. he told you that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for you, but this? killing you with his own gun so that your body is not claimed by the infection currently taking over your system?

…how can anyone expect him to go through with this?

his sobs were ugly and they were so loud, shoko kept frantically looking around to see if there were anymore zombies in the area— all while she’s cradling a weak and barely conscious suguru to her own chest.

satoru thinks shoko calls his name then, but he can’t hear it past the throbbing in his head. this can’t be happening.

satoru sees your hand moving towards him, and his sobs die down for a moment. he blinks past the tears and he sees you reach towards his abdomen, trying to grab the gun in it’s holster—

“wait, wait…” he croaks, his voice wavering under the weight of his own emotions. by pure instinct, he wants to stop you; wants to angle his hips away from your grasp— but he feels completely frozen on the spot. he sees you pull out the gun and shakily place it in his free hand, and another wave of hot tears spill out of his eyes.

he shakes his head again. it starts off slow, and then he’s entirely frantic with the way he bends over your body, sobs wracking through him so harshly that it shakes him to his very core.

and then he feels your hand, it’s wet from your blood sweat and tears— but it’s so warm. you feel so warm, you always did. you cup his cheek, lifting his head enough to meet his tear-stained eyes.

another whimper breaks past his lips when you swipe your thumb over his cheekbone, probably smearing some of your blood on his face, but you’re honestly only trying to wipe away some of his tears. this thought crosses his mind very briefly, and he can’t help it then— a small, choked laugh bubbles out of his mouth.

“i know, i know,” you can’t help laughing with him, even through your own tears. “i’m getting my blood all over you, you look like such a mess.”

he laughs wetly again, his shaky smile only growing with yours. the hand still squeezing yours is lifted up to his face, and he presses his lips on the back of your hand for a long moment. he holds it there, closing his eyes when he feels that lump coming up his throat again, threatening to break the smile you alone brought to his face.

and after that, he kisses you. he grabs your face with both of his hands and kisses you with all his might, trying not to let another sob slip past his lips as he does so. he commits it to memory— the soft feeling of your trembling lips, the way you kiss him back. how you place your nimble hands over his, slotting your fingers in the spaces between his own.

he tries to remember this; to remember you. for everything you’ve ever done for him, every emotion you’ve ever made him feel and every smile you’ve shown him. he wants to remember you for the way you lived, not the way you died.

and though he can barely see through his own tears, he has to be the one to do it. with one final look, one final kiss, one final i love you—

he slowly stands, and aims. he uses both hands to steady the weapon; he can’t afford to miss. he inhales deeply, closes his eyes— and he pulls the trigger.

a loud shot rings out in his ears.

satoru can hear his heartbeat, beating stronger and faster than ever. it’s like the beat of a drum playing in his ears, over and over again, making him lose his sense of direction. it’s dizzying. he drops the gun in his hands when it starts to overwhelm him, frantic eyes blinking rapidly, completely avoiding you. he hears his heartbeat get louder as everything seems to fade to white around him, and then it’s all dark again…

there’s a voice, somewhere. echoing in the back of his head. it starts out small, far away. he’d assumed it to be shoko’s, somewhere behind him; but as it steadily grows, he thinks— it almost sounds like…

…

…

“…satoru!”

satoru jolts up in his bed with a gasp so loud it makes the dog across the room bark. he already feels the sweat breaking out through his shirt, his entire body shaking with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. he can’t see, why can’t he see anything?

“sa…., c…. ..down, …here. br..., …oru, breathe.”

the words spoken were fading in and out of his ears, and he has to blink several times before his vision finally comes into focus. never before has he ever woken up in such a state of panic, there was not a single time in his life where he’s felt so— so…

“satoru…” there it is again, that voice… he feels something cup his cheek, something warm and soft and grounding. the sensation introduces a familiar urge to close his eyes again, to lean into the touch so that his heart can go back to business as usual.

“there, there,” you cooed softly, swiping your thumb over his cheekbone as he finally started to come down from his panic. “you’re okay, satoru, it was just a bad dream…”

it took another minute or two for the quickened rate of his breathing to slow to a steady rhythm, and by the time his eyes fluttered back open, the exhaustion on his face was heartbreakingly prominent in the near-pitch darkness of your shared bedroom.

his eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark once more, but the moment they did he was met with a look of worry in your eyes— the very ones he catches himself getting lost in more often than not.

“did it… happen this time?” you asked carefully, chewing on your lower lip when you felt him briefly tense up beside you.

satoru’s nightmares weren’t anything new. he’d been having them on and off for the last couple of weeks, ever since the incident.

to be fair, almost everything about his nightmares were consistent with reality— the 4 of you were caught off guard by a horde. you had all split up when the sheer amount of the undead became too much for you all to handle. suguru got cornered and had to get his arm amputated right along his shoulder bone.

the only difference is that a zombie didn’t actually tear at your gut. it’d gotten damn close; you felt the light tug on your shirt in the heat of the moment, and the stain of decayed biological matter left behind on the tee was proof of that. but you were never injured, never infected. you were still alive.

you were here, sitting up in bed next to satoru, cradling his tear-stained face after waking him up from the umpteenth nightmare. the ones he’d had up until this point were all more-or-less the same. they followed the same events, but only ever got as far as you pulling the gun out of satoru’s holster before the nauseating amount of emotional distress ripped him out of his slumber. other times, you’d been the one to pull him out, feeling and hearing him toss and turn every other night with a deep furrow in his brows.

by asking him if it happened this time, you were asking if his nightmare had actually gotten far enough for his subconscious to simulate himself actually committing the act of taking your own life before the infection could.

he doesn’t answer for a moment, but the way his lower lip wobbled with the emotions starting to weigh on his heart again was enough of a confirmation.

“it— it was,” his voice sounds hoarse and so, so small. he’s no stranger to vulnerability when it comes to you, but right now he’s having a hard time putting into words just how utterly shattered his heart feels. “it felt so real, i don’t— i don’t know…”

satoru trails off, letting his gaze travel down your face, following the outline of your arm before finally spotting your free hand. he slides his hand over yours— carefully tracing his fingertips over your knuckles, mapping out a route he already memorized a long time ago.

he slips his fingers around the base of your palm and squeezes hard. in his anxious, exhausted state, he’s having trouble deciphering what’s reality. he just needed to make sure.

“‘toru,” you murmured softly, tilting your head when you picked up on his hesitation. you rubbed your thumb over his cheekbone again, gently guiding his face to tilt upwards. “sweetheart, look at me.”

not even a second later, he does. he meets your gaze again and you couldn’t help it, then— the corners of your lips twitched upwards, threatening to break out into a small smile of light amusement. you leaned forward, softly pressing your lips to his in the most gentle kiss you could muster. he kissed you back with a split second of desperation before it melted into a lazy little peck. he’s exhausted.

his eyes remain closed when you pulled back after a few seconds, only momentarily opening when you both began to lay back again. the second his head hit the pillow his arms were slinking around you, pulling you as close as physically possible to his chest. any other night it would’ve been mildly smothering, but not tonight.

tonight, you hugged him back just as tightly. tonight, he buried his face in your hair as he’d done so many times before, wrapping himself fully around your body and letting your scent lull him back to sleep. tonight, you whispered your love to him in a candied tone, hoping the words seared into his brain just long enough for his subconscious to base his dreams on an i love you instead of a goodbye. you whispered affirmations that you were still here, that you weren’t going anywhere, that nothing would ever separate you two.

that he still had you, and you him.

heh.. SIKE!!!!!! 🤣🤣🫵🏼 they all lived b*tch B)

˗ˏˋ taglist: @teddybeartoji @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat @ohimsummer @vampiricgf @kisstoru @forest-hashira @kentophilia @chocoramii @madaqueue @christianacj27 @air3922

need reader to have a confession with priest!geto about how they feel guilty for touching themselves late alone at night and priest!geto helps them by just fucking their brains out as a “penance” for their sins.

yes, i’m okay in the head btw! (lie)

AU REVOIR, O HEAVEN !

wc: 12.2k

warnings: DARK CONTENT, SLOW BUILDUP, CORRUPTION, priest!geto, fem!reader, age gap (reader is in early 20s, geto in late 20s), long descriptive fic that goes in depth of christian lore, lots and lots of christian references / metaphors / analogies, comparison to Satan’s banishment and fall from heaven, religious themes used in inappropriate ways, questions of religion and life, multiple scenes of f! and m! masturbation, fingering, clit stimulation, virginity loss, both f! and m! receiving oral, cumshot, praise, degradation, spitting, sex in a religious place, p -> v sex, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink, multiple rounds, n*sfw under the cut

for a small town like yours, it was a no-brainer that everyone knew everyone; and everyone’s drama as well. from the baker’s daughter being a whore to the mayor of the town being sacked for purposes that have since been twisted by word of mouth. that was another thing: word got around fast, and it was particularly suffocating in a conservative town such as yours. people were not outright about the obvious choices they favoured, but there was the older generation who were not shy to turn down progressive ideas.

because of that, the previous priest was kicked out because of the misuse of funds from mass collection and offertory. it was one thing to see a bunch of notes missing from the sack and the money counter but it was another thing to see that money going into funding a new strip club that was opening in the next town over.

it was simply unheard of, and the parishioners basically gave him a free ride to that very strip club by excommunicating him from his own church. it was unbecoming of a priest, especially in such a small congregation that everyone made sure the new priest to transfer here was a God-honouring one.

you hope he was. you’ve always felt the obligated need to serve your god and your parents. always the good girl, following the Ten Commandments, saving yourself for marriage. it was the natural order of a christian, and you could only hope that you’d get even a fraction of the eternal life they preach about in mass. but lately you’ve been having some . . thoughts, and you pray that this new priest could help you immensely, even if you had to do a hundred Hail Mary’s at the pews.

it was peculiar, the first time it occurred to you. the area where your body separates into two and forms two legs — the centre of it all, the middle where Eve had it covered in statues and paintings with a leaf, the middle where you had only learned of it in anatomical drawings. you knew what the vagina, cervix and the ovaries were, but seeing the convergence of pink and maroon between your legs confused you, even scared you.

and the next was when you’d had a guy come up to you whilst doing up your university application, saying something along the lines of how cute you were, would you like to grab a drink some time? and you were left dumbfounded and unable to answer. you let your eyes travel over his features, of the exposed arms of his button up shirt and the thickness of his forearms, you let your eyes skim over his plump thighs before you’re asked “are you okay?”

“n . . no sorry, i already have a boyfriend.” you lie through your teeth and all the guy does is sigh before walking away — but now you’re left with a bigger problem . . why was the thing between your legs throbbing? you swear you can feel your panties getting wet as well, but you aren’t quite sure why.

that night you’re lying in bed with a lewd website shining right in your face, as you’ve laid here for about two hours already, going through in your head whether you really wanted to do this. your hands had been clean, untainted from the moment you were born, but you imagine going to university and knowing not a thing about sex and that makes your whole body burn in embarrassment.

you chicken out and fall asleep.

“honey! come down here, i want you to meet someone.” your mother calls out to you, running about like she usually does. she’s always overworking — caring for the newborn, cooking the meals, cleaning the place. why don’t you ask dad to help sometimes? / nonsense! he works so hard and deserves a break! i don’t mind. / but he just lazes around at home after work . .

you’re pleasantly surprised to find a long-haired man at your front door, clad in a thick and loose turtleneck sweater with a gentle smile on his face. that uncomfortable feeling returns to your core and you land a hand to your stomach to calm the churning that’s happening.

“hello, and you are?”

you’d never think you would see one of God’s angels on earth in actual flesh in front of you. you’re convinced God is looking over you and you think you might see heaven when that silky voice repeats himself again.

“hi, kind miss, are you alright?”

“h . . huh? oh! yeah, uhm— who are you?”

your mother smacks you on your shoulder and sidles up to your side, holding onto your arm a little tightly that it hurts just a bit.

“don’t be rude!” she whisper-shouts to you, “this is geto suguru, and—”

“and i’m the new priest for the church.”

that catches you off-guard. he’s the new priest that was just transferred over? he looks anything but a holy man of God, what with his long hair and gauges in his ears; if you didn’t know any better you would think he was the one paying for the strip club instead. he seems to read your mind.

“i know i look . . a bit of a delinquent, miss, but i promise you the word of God is what i strictly live by. i honour and praise him with all that i can.”

“ah, i’m sorry if you thought i thought that way, father.” you mumble, giving him an awkward smile that he misses because he’s too busy focusing on the way you say father. you’re prepared to close the door on him already; the pulsing sensation between your legs isn’t fading and your whole body feels like it burns in hell. you rub your thighs together for some sort of relief, nothing.

“that’s usually the response i get, so i thought i would preface it first.” a little laugh leaves geto’s lips and if it wasn’t for you holding on for dear life on the door, you definitely would’ve buckled under your knees. “no hard feelings.”

“he’s a charmer, ain’t he?” there’s another sheepish laugh from the pastor at that. “told me he’s been going around giving cakes to all the people as a way to thank them for letting him take over the church.” your heart melts at that — he looked so hot and had a heart of gold, too?

“what cake did you get us, father?” you blurt out and you have no time to take it back, but the preacher doesn’t seem to mind. you also don’t seem to mind that barrier of authority that was established ever since he‘s introduced himself as the new priest of the church. it felt . . friendlier, less intimidating than the previous. it was probably mostly due to him not wearing his cassock or collar, though.

“chocolate.” that one word possibly ignited every nerve in you. the smooth lilt in his voice paired with the slight smirk. it was detrimental. you were going to hell, you were condemned to eternal damnation.

“how’d you know i liked chocolate?”

he shrugs, “lucky guess.” wrong.

he had come around the day before already, but you were too distracted with work and pressured with a deadline that music drained out everything else — one look at your side profile and the hard-working first year university student was all it took for geto to return again today with another cake of your liking. oh! you’re such a sweet one for asking what flavour we like; frankly, my dear boy, my husband and i don’t really eat cake but her . . loves it for some reason. i wonder where she gets the sweet tooth from, honestly.

geto could only thank his saviour that your mother had promised not to tell you he already came around yesterday. and it looks like she didn’t.

“i should get going, miss . .”

“(y/n).”

geto simply nods his head, resisting the urge to call your name pretty and only manages a decent call to your mother. “mrs (l/n), i’m heading off, thank you for having me. (y/n).”

you return his smile, hesitantly, inching the door close with immense difficulty — you wanted to see him walk away with that imposing height of his, of the proper gait he carried himself with and the politeness in which he greets people of the town.

that night you locked yourself in your room, muttering out some dumb excuse of having to study for a test when in reality you were more interested in the feeling between your legs. it both excited and scared you when you first find a comfortable position on your bed, stalling for a good half ’n hour before the clinking cutlery of dinner happening downstairs had brought you to your senses. there were countless articles open in your safari tab, none of which helped your growing dilemma — a tear in the Red Sea between the sin of pleasure and the liberation of acting on it. you felt like Moses, treading in the centre, on the fence.

one last text made you yelp out loud.

[8:03 pm, read]: R u coming down 4 dinner?

it was your mother, as if she knew what was happening behind doors.

[8:03 pm, delivered]: nope, sorry mummy. need to study for this test, its important !

[8:05 pm, read]: Alright, alright. I left out a serving of what we cooked tonite. Heat up if u need to with the microwave O.K.? Don’t sleep so late!

you simply favourited her message, losing all motivation from before; until your mind crosses over dinner and goes straight to that chocolate cake, and then to the person who had brought it.

“Farewell happy fields / Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.”

“geto . . geto suguru.” the name feels foreign. it does sound like a countryside name but it felt like he had come from the city instead. “geto . .” you sigh, letting your hands tremble and move along your body. they brush over your chest, over your nipples and you recoil a little from the strange feeling. they harden under your touch as you continue to repeat his name.

each murmur of his name is a step farther from God, dipping your toes into the waters of hell as your fingers travel lower, lower, lower. you press a finger against your clit unknowingly, and you let out a loud moan; you immediately slap a hand over your mouth.

but the pleasure’s too much, and so you try again. one hand goes back to your nipples, squeezing your tits and playing with them while your fingers rub pathetic circles along your core.

“su . .” you gulp. “geto—”

you pant softly to yourself as you continue to rub your clit, messy, inexperienced circles in whatever shape or form. as long as it felt good to you, you were doing it. you made sure to keep your moans in as your hips bucked into your hands, back arching off the bed in needy movements. your hands were getting tired, clutching at the bedsheets.

long hair, built physique, crucifix on his neck. funny, you never noticed that before, but now you imagine it clearly, dangling over your face. you’re imagining geto fucking you, thrusting his cock into you as he groans out your name.

you’re at the end of your tether, feeling the deep plunge of your body in Satan’s lair the same time you cum for the first time in your life and your body shakes so violently. you flail around on your bed, bite into your shirt, anything to keep you quiet from the immense orgasm you had just felt. your pussy clenches around nothing and your hand aches so much it might fall off, but it just feel so damn good that you only have a minute’s rest before you’re rubbing at your clit again.

scooping up a little of your cum, you marvel at the clear liquid, sucking on your finger to try the thing that’s always drenched your panties. and soon you’re conjuring the image of the long-haired priest yet again, never really studying for that test you made up or even eating dinner — all you do is rest and come again, each time more wrecked than the last time.

you dreaded going to church the next morning.

it had slipped your mind that service was to continue once geto has gotten settled down in the rectory, a small outhouse at the back of the church that had been revamped. you’re not sure on how father geto was able to get it done up so fast but, you’re not one to question.

with the short walk to church, you regret not eating the night before, groaning softly at the discomfort of your growling stomach. what you were more worried of though, was what would happen to you once you stepped foot in the church. was your body going to go up in flames? were you going to get ridiculed by the townspeople? were you going to get called out by father geto in front of everyone?

“what’s gotten you so worked up?” your father was walking behind and smoking, as always, not giving a shit about your mother and the newborn.

“nothing . . just, wondering if i got everything in my head for my test.” your mother coos, and your baby brother in the carrier thinks it’s because of him. he babbles into your mom’s shirt, giggling.

“you’ll do fine, honey,” the reassurance worried you only more. you were lying outright — you had no test, you weren’t even studying, you were busy—!

“i raised a smart girl, didn’t i?” you can only manage a smile, reaching the church within minutes. taking the chance to mutter a short prayer and a plea, you take a deep breath and that light from above Lucifer’s kingdom seem to call out to you again.

stepping into the simple but cozy church, you dip your hands in holy water. Father, Son, Holy Spirit along your forehead, chest and shoulders before you trail behind your mother, suggesting places for you to sit at the back. she only waved your hand away, pointing towards the front. we always sit at the front! why the sudden change? / nothing . . maybe thought we could switch it up a little.

the mass starts after a few minutes of waiting, and you have the luxury of wallowing in your self-pity and guilt for those few minutes, trying to get the very filthy imagery of father geto above you, father geto between your legs, father geto himself out of your head. you fail, it’s only amplified when the bell rings and the congregation stands up.

everyone waits in anticipation for the new priest in this small town, hoping he won’t disappoint them like the last one. but they already seem to be in good spirits as he makes the entrance down the very short church. two altar boys follow behind him in the procession, accompanied by an organist and a duo of choir singers, straining to have their voice heard over the loud instrument. he’s already made some friends, nodding to the excited kid who whispers and the shy girl who waves her hands at him. but while everyone feels anticipation in hopes of a good sermon, dread is only making your legs feel like lead, you feel lightheaded, dizzy even.

because whatever you had imagined last night was him in his sweater get-up, and it just now sinks in what a disgusting thing you were doing as you watch the rich purple of his chasuble sway alongside his stole — the very image of him in his priest robes (in Lent season too, not to mention) — meant to deter you from more thoughts, only fed your desires.

geto suguru made being a pastor look so natural, and attractive, that it was almost criminal.

“good morning, brothers and sisters, how are we all doing this morning?” there’s a few murmurs around, but geto doesn’t falter, instead pressing on with his very convincing, beautiful speech; as does he with the rest of the mass. he conducts himself with as much professionalism as he can, handling the Eucharist with proper hands, giving a sermon whilst giving you too many eyes, distributing Holy Communion with a gentle, accepting smile; your skin burnt when he handed you the body of Christ, a soft inaudible “amen” hanging off your lips.

father geto was all the talk after, some hanging around to catch a minute of geto’s time if they could and you were no different, purposely looping your arm through your mother’s and slowly down your pace.

“goin’ out for a smoke.” your father gruffly tells the three of you, two of which understands better. your newborn simply cuddles deeper into your mother’s breast, humming softly into the nap.

“’kay.” it was opportunistic, now, as your eyes flit around the place to find geto talking to two older ladies. he’s politely bent down to reach their heights better, chasuble now removed and simply in his alb, one patting his shoulder and the other giggling. you think you imagine it but his eyes dart over to you for a moment and then off to the other parishioners.

“how are you two lovely ladies doing?” you hear him before you see him and the voice startles you a little, jumping back from brushing your baby brother’s almost non-existent hair.

“fine.” it comes out kurt and abrupt and you burn when your mother nudges you like yesterday.

“think what she means is that we’re perfectly fine. how was your first mass?”

father geto looks around the church, recalls the altar boys, ingrains each church-goer into his head, “i hope the congregation likes me.”

“oh, nonsense! i’m sure they do,” your mother reassures. she was always good like that, putting others before her and making sure they see the best in themselves, “that was a very riveting sermon you delivered.”

“yeah—! yeah, i . . really enjoyed it, father geto.”

a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, “did you now?”

you nod, and he continues, “you enjoyed me telling you that sin was revolting?”

when he phrases it like that . . you swallow, “isn’t that what God’s whole schtick is?”

and that makes father geto laugh, because for such an innocent flower like you, you make it sound like you were forced to go to church and made to learn the basis of why God exists and now you just don’t know what to do with it. it’s common for people at their university age where they’re exposed to more views and mindsets, to question the religion you were born in and think about what it meant to be tied to a god you didn’t even really know existed, and when that happens, Christianity turns stagnant and boring.

“yes, pretty much, miss (y/n), but His schtick also involves forgiving anyone who has sinned against Him. after all, that’s what He died on the cross for.”

“y . . yeah, i know, father geto.”

you only realise now his purple chasuble matches his eyes, eyes that swirl with the colours of amethyst. they’re much brighter in the parish lighting, and they hold your stare much longer than yesterday. there’s the tugging feeling at your stomach again that goes right down to your centre and it throbs; your eyes flutter and blink to get you out of your head.

“good that you know . . of course, it’s not an invitation to sin. self-restraint and chastity still exists,” you hate how he puts an emphasis on the latter word, because he could be referring to anything, “but we need not be worried for our lives. we only need to pray and repent in prayer, and God will have mercy on us.”

but well, if God didn’t want you to sin, how then can he explain creating such an attractive person? if God valued his followers’ self control, why did he have to plant such lewd, inappropriate thoughts of his preacher in your head?

father geto could probably see your dilemma with how hard he was staring at you, and he only makes it worse by putting his larger hand on your left shoulder. it descends deeper to your upper arm and the skin there ignites—

“i hope you liked the chocolate cake.”

you manage a small smile, “haven’t had the chance to try it, sorry, father.”

“don’t apologise.” you forget your mother and baby brother is even beside you with how he talks to you. you’d love to be on his chest, hearing the deep rumbling of his voice or even have his hands be somewhere else but your arm. you don’t know how simply talking to you has got him doing everything in his power to restrain himself; not even a prayer from God could help.

“The mind is its own place, and in it self / Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.”

what you don’t know, either, that the hand on your shoulder was between his legs just last afternoon, trying so hard not to sneak under his cassock. he could barely keep his moans in, palming his bulge from above his robes at the mere thought of you. no touching means less sin, right? he comes to that pathetic conclusion easily, so all he does is bury himself in the outhouse after distributing his cakes, hips positioned over his pillow and he grinds.

the feeling for father geto was so archaic, been so long since he’s given up his life to God right after graduating university. all the carefree times that he’s experienced — drinking in dorms, going to parties, getting some nice quick fucks in between exams — were going to stop for good. but that doesn’t mean he stopped lusting.

lust. one of the seven deadly sins, a weak point for father geto’s journey as a pastor. it’s obvious now too that he hasn’t really left his older ways, bucking his hips into the fabric of his pillow. he thinks of you, your sweet little eyes and your cute outfit at home, he thinks of your face twisted into pleasure as he’s positioned between your legs.

father geto twitches, friction against the underside of his cock feeling so good after years and years of holding back — with a pretty face to think of, too. his hips ruts in short thrusts, desperate for that high and he chokes on a moan imagining your sweet voice begging to cum. and so does he, shooting such a large, hot load into his underwear that even his cassock is stained with his cum. but unlike you, he’s already thinking of his next round — if he’s doomed to die by lust, then might as well go all the way.

father geto spares a glance towards the door just to be safe before flipping over on his back, and pulls his robes above his lower half. the sight is dirty, underwear painted a darker colour and cum sticking to every part of the fabric. once he wraps a hand around his cock, geto is gone, pumping it so fast he might have gotten a burn along his length but it’s all rewarded by the second quick orgasm he reaches — spurting ribbons of cum all over his holy garments.

it’s why he didn’t have time to write a proper sermon for the morning mass. he was up all night, stroking himself — just, from the thought of you.

it was father geto’s turn to have uneven breaths as you asked if he was okay, hand on your shoulder shaking. but the visions of last night is overtaken quickly by his need to impress the other parishioners, and so he gives you a tense smile.

“enjoy the cake.” it sounded like an innuendo if you’ve ever heard one, but you mutter a soft thank you, before heading off back home with your family. that contact with your shoulder is all you can think of, giddy at the warmth of his hand and eyes.

“baby, could you open the door for me?” your mother calls out to you, hastily wiping her hands on her apron and abandoning the kitchen to tend to your crying baby brother.

“ok, mummy!” the doorbell’s been rung twice now, jogging a little to the door to prevent the person from waiting. you didn’t think to look through the peephole, a tight-knit (conservative) community made you trust anyone, opening the door to find father geto standing in front of you.

“o-oh. hi, father . .?”

he was dressed in his roman collar, a black shirt with a white strip around the neck and some black jeans. it wasn’t as casual as the first day, and it still held an ode to God even on a weekday.

“hi, (y/n).”

“ohhh! it’s father geto, come, come!” your mother bellows throughout the house, baby brother on her hip as she bounces him to get him to stop wailing. “are you hungry already?”

geto displays a meek smile, “a little, mrs (l/n), since you mentioned how big of a feast you were cooking.”

your mouth drops in recognition; was that why she was so preoccupied for the whole day? doing the maximum in the kitchen not just because it was for your father’s recent promotion at his job, but also for dinner with father geto.

“you’re having . . dinner with us.” it’s more of a statement to yourself than a question to the priest, but he still catches on and assists you by closing the door himself, and taking off his shoes. already, he looks part of the family, looking like a hard-working husband coming back from his job to you. instead, he’s answered the vocation of priesthood, and not matrimony.

“it looks like i am.” it’s such a sly comment, like he already knew the effect he had on everyone. this sucking up was just to get every church-goer to like him more, and it’s working.

geto is charming at the dinner table as he is at the parish, cracking jokes that make both your parents and you laugh, talking about his university life and telling a myriad of stories that he’s gone through.

“what did you major in in university, father?” it felt such a weird question, especially with an honorific attached to something that you were doing at the moment — it felt out of place that someone so close to your age was already pursuing a lifetime commitment of serving God.

“my studies focused mostly on philosophy and theology. i minored in linguistics.” there’s a chorus of ooh’s that echo throughout the table, cleaning up the last bit of food on his plate before he continued. “i’m currently going more in depth for latin, which is a stunning language, beyond those who say it’s dead and should stay dead.”

that only makes him hotter, and you cross your legs beside him, looking at him from the corner of your eye at you play with the last meatball on your plate. the sauce leaves a trail of red from the tomato, somehow mirroring the murder of your old self — or what you thought it was. it was more of a knife wound, a cowardly stab in the arm.

that dinner with father geto only deepened your sense of guilt.

it was the way the priest was quick to stand just as your mother does, offering to help with cleaning up the dinner table. even when she brushes him off, he insisted, answering for her when he only silently takes the plates to the back. all your mom does is shake her head with a smile, letting you help as well. your father just watches curiously, entertaining the baby with his canned alcohol.

“i’m embarrassed i can’t fight back against you well enough to stop ya from cleaning up at my own house,” your mother confesses, already having used her last breath to tell him to not help with the dishes as well. you scrub at a stain on geto’s plate over and over, a stubborn one at that until you finally are able to get it out. it still leaves a faint red glow, though.

“it’s nothing, really, mrs (l/n), i’m happy to help whenever.” father geto’s eyes rake over your figure as you clean alongside your mother, heel bouncing up and down; to non-existent music or in impatience he wasn’t sure.

she just takes the soapy plate from your hands with a laugh, “c’mon, it’s okay, my dear. go entertain father geto.”

it was the way his courtesy shined through when he doesn’t enter your room until he has gotten verbal confirmation from you, guiding him in with a uneasy hand as he looked around your quaint little space. it was filled with photos, some plants, tons of research papers and a messy table to match, but all he did was reassure you. you take note of his flowing hair and the laid back hairstyle he liked to don when it wasn’t for mass.

“how is university treating you?” you’re stuck on being completely honest and lying with every answer, but father geto has a face that makes it difficult to lie to.

“it’s . . alright, i guess,” you settle on your bed, crossing your legs and hoping he wouldn’t pick up any of your essays. thinking is manifesting, though, and his hands naturally go for the paper with the many red markings on the front page.

“Paradise Lost? by Milton?” ah. that paper. you shoot up from the sheets before he can read it, because frankly your thesis in that paper was weak and wasn’t well supported, but you still believed it deeply. you were just having a little bit of trouble straying from your reverence for God. you only manage to clutch the top of your paper, but geto is adamant on reading it, piqued by genuine curiosity.

“the retelling of Milton’s Paradise Lost humanises the experience of Satan’s (or Lucifer’s) fall from glory . .” he trails off, reading over your evidences and analysis. you feel like you’re being read like an open book, laid out bare for vultures to pick at and for God to enumerate your sins until you felt no shame.

with his head still tilted down, father geto has to look up through his lashes and bangs, seemingly making you cower more and more in your spot as the unsolicited advice for your essay dies down on his tongue. the size of his hands has you hypnotised, and he decides it’s against his own values to give feedback about a text he so childishly brushed off when he was in university, even if he had to read it to complete four years in the seminary. geto places a hand upon yours and the heat is dizzying; you can’t help but think if he was just normal person, instead, holding your hand like this.

it was the way he let you explain yourself a little better through your own words. it was a premature essay, anyway, made to test out your close reading and citation skills. but he found your interpretation of Milton’s poem to be much more insightful than he expected it to be — you think maybe, your understanding of the text grows the more you learn about your body, how you like to be pleasured; you feel like Lucifer.

“i . . don’t necessarily think you are born into evil. it’s multi-faceted and loaded, this question. God our Father would do anything but create evil willingly, it’s just unfortunate that the people that bring up their offspring contribute to the shaping of their identity and outcome.”

“then, how . .” your lips twist as you think of a way to word the question, “how would that justify evil existing? wouldn’t the fact that evil is developed somehow meant that God created evil in some shape or form, in the first place?”

father geto rushes to answer but—

“why did he have to create the serpent that tempted Eve in the first place? couldn’t he have just left them alone in Eden?”

“...there to dwell / In adamantine chains and penal fire / Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.”

you frown, not expecting the other to answer but instead just wallowing in your thoughts. you never thought the talk with father geto would turn into some philosophy lesson, but the more you chatted with him on the bed, the more the conversation seemed to steer that way.

your own faith wavers in the night, a quietness settling over the two of you like a cloak of stars. the mass of each star weighs heavily with your questions up in the air until you faintly hear his answer.

“i don’t . . know, miss (y/n).”

“ah! no no— sorry to dump everything on you, father geto,” you scratch the back of your head, “it was just passing thoughts. i’ve never thought to think of this before.”

it was morbid, it was macabre. it was like looking over and seeing a skeleton in your place instead of flesh and skin and yet each question after question ignites something in him that no one has excited before. he can already feel lust influencing the other six, pumping through his veins at a life void of God, void of religion, a free place to think of the omnipotence of a higher being that no one was sure really existed.

“it’s okay . . it’s natural to ask. it’s natural to inquire. God,” he nods like he was in a trance; the word feels weird on his tongue, “God would want this.”

that night you did anything but sin, clutching the essay between your hands and digging your knees into the floor with elbows on your bed until they ached and you prayed. you wished blessings on your family, you wished blessings on the parishioners, you wished blessings on father geto and you wished eternal damnation on yourself.

there’s a heavy pull on your heart when you go to sleep a few minutes after and the dream you have of your body turning to soot and burning with each feet into flames makes you crave salvation all the more — like all a bad dream, it will be fine as long as you pray, and pray, and pray.

but the flesh desires what the heart denies: the more you ‘hang’ with father geto (by God, he was perfectly okay with that word when you let it slip to your mother. he merely throws up a peace sign in a ‘cool’ way and then immediately cringes, but it makes you laugh), the more you find yourself attracted to his morals, to his ideals, to the natural way in which he exists. he could speak for hours on end, voice sounding like birdsong and a chilling breeze all at the same time.

his voice did wonders in your head, as well, coaxing you into betraying your own code; and you betray it easily. that phantasmic voice leaving you to remove your top and pinching your nipples as soft little moans leave your mouth. the imaginary sway of his crucifix above your face while you harshly abuse your clit and dip a finger into you for the first time. the feeling is so foreign and weird that you shamelessly think of the slight lilt of his voice helping you: “it’ll feel better soon, (y/n). c’mon, finger your pussy for father geto.”

father geto had a natural talent for talking and preaching. that downturn of tone like hitting a dead-end when he holds a point above your head (“but”) and then resolves it into perfect cadence like chords ending a phrase when he proposes a solution (“God will take care of everything”). he does it so much you think he’s rather convincing himself more than he’s convincing you, though.

“perhaps this parable that Jesus uses tells us rather to look within ourselves, to look within the vineyard that is us. the owner have done everything: kept the roots tied so it would not be trampled, making sure they get all the sunlight and water it needs, yet . .” he pauses a little, looking at the almost full parish now that he’s won over the hearts of your town. his eyes flit down to you at the second pew, shooting you a quick smile.

“and yet he yields sour grapes. we pray, we act civil and diplomatic, we are giving, but are you truly doing it for the glory of God? is that maybe why we only get the sour grapes — not satisfied with the ‘thank you’ after doing a favour or silence from God after praying daily?”

geto looks over the last bits of the scribbled sermon, a little more coherent than last week, but still done with thoughts of you. there’s multiple smudges of his words that he has to squint and stutter a bit, caused by the frantic cleaning of his cum upon the paper.

“we all . . naturally expect things back, but to be Christian, to be a follower of Christ, we would have to abandon all thoughts of that.” father geto’s mind wanders to last night as his eyes look for you again. “we would need to be generous, to be kind without needing anything in return.”

father geto integrates into the church easily, shown in how his sermons capture the hearts of many. albeit, they never really take in the true meanings of the preachings he gives, but it’s enough for geto if they nod and mutter amen like fools in mass; whatever they do out of it is out of his hands.

but along the many preachings he does, there is one subject he fears approaching: lust, the one thing that threatens the downfall of his vocation and yet he cannot get enough of it. each walk and meeting with you only heightens his desire, makes his cock throb beneath his robes. each sunday he wishes he could split his soul in half — one as the confessor and one as the confessing — and repent in the confessional box.

“today’s gospel from Mark, chapter 6 talks about lust, briefly.” there’s a shake in his voice, eyes now scrambling over the congregation to find you in a much more revealing top contrasting with the out-of-place cardigan you have on. he’s sure it was mrs (l/n) that had made you put that on before you left the house; the house where he’s memorised the placement of your shoe rack and how your door creaks when it’s opened too quickly. geto is so fucked.

geto clears his throat before continuing, seeing you adjust your body for a moment, “King Herod is tempted by his flesh when he sees one of Herodias’ daughters dancing, so much so that she tempts him to commit murder. a clear beheading, just from giving into her body, and when she asks of him, he delivers like a dog. this calls us to truly think of the desires that we possess. they need not be sexual,” soft whispers emerge, a taboo subject, “they can also be related to money, to power.”

“lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust,” geto is sweating by now. he pulls lightly on his collar when you press your arms together in retaliation and he has to look away from the way your tits perk up so perfectly.

you had to know what you were doing, surely. partially — you were feeling cold, but you stifle a smile when you realise how geto’s eyes linger a little longer on you, or rather your chest, before he coughs and continues,

“when we are driven so terribly by the feeling that we abandon all morals just to please this person, thing on earth is when we tread into dangerous territory. no earthly possession must make you feel this way,”

the irony settles in his bones after he says it and his dick twitches at the thought of having you under the podium right now, sticking his fat cock down your throat while you struggle to keep the gagging noises to a minimum.

“no matter . .” a gulp, “how rewarding the aftermath must be.”

father geto knows you both are braving the edge of God’s merry kingdom. it is just a matter of who falls first.

“your place is in the kingdom of God, meant to fulfil eternal life with Jesus and the Lord which is what we all should be keeping in mind and working towards, ignoring all the distractions that will soon fade and die off.”

geto coughs again in the mic and breaths shakily, finally tearing his eyes away from you before he concludes the sermon and eases into the Offertory and Eucharist. he buries himself so deep in the procession in order to get you out of his mind, and it’s shown in the haste in which he carries the mass. it feels like he rushes so much that even the day outside follows too, because evening seems to arrive earlier than usual.

the sun sets outside, illuminating the altar. it taunts you like reminding you of the beauty of your faith; it deepens the need developing in your core.

“body of Christ.” you can faintly hear it being repeated over and over at the front, just a few steps away from your turn and you wish you weren’t standing behind your dad’s hulking figure so you could actually prepare yourself for father geto. you’re greeted with his cascading hair tied up into a bun and the cup containing Jesus’ body, gold and shining. you see your stretched reflection before your eyes snap back to the pastor in front and you will your hands not to hail routine.

instead, you stick out your tongue for the father to put the communion on and you take in the little panic of his hands and the choked sentence of body of Christ. his eyes drift down to your pink tongue, to the small twitch it does when he places the host on it and he cannot wait for you to get out of his sight, lest he be overtaken by the sin he particularly preached about just minutes ago.

“any test to study for tonight, darling?” your mother asks after dinner, meaning to ask after seeing you be so fidgety like you needed to be somewhere.

“uh . . no, not exactly, but i do have something i need to do.”

“oh! what is it, sweetie?” she doesn’t read your expressions, you mannerisms, so you were safe from that, but you willed your voice to not break. your body is on fire, you needed to quell your needs, now.

“just— i promised father geto i would meet him later for a confession, since he’s so busy, he could only propose a late timing,” no, you didn’t. either way, you give a reason, explain yourself before she can speculate, works every time.

“oh, okay . .” she trails off, seemingly unaffected, “just don’t get home too late, alright, darling?”

you nod even though she’s too focused on the dishes, pressing a hand to her back in thanks and she carries on, carefree, while you sprint to your room. lock the door, get your phone out.

“ . . ings turns into greed when we act on that initial lust . .” the words recorded just hours ago leave the phone speakers on a low volume, already lighting a flame in your pussy when your hand brushes over the microphone and he stops at the same time, “when we are terribly dri . .”

you sigh loudly when your hand starts to make its way down to your centre, rubbing slightly to the sound of his voice. your clit is just begging to be touched, begging for your inexperienced hands flicking your nub in every which way. impatient, your hands dip into your cunt and your jaw drops open at the intrusion of your fingers, just as your eyes widen and your imagination has never worked as well as it does now.

you can see geto’s amethyst eyes boring into yours, you can see his hips fucking into yours and yet it doesn’t give you the same kick as you think it would — you’re fucking yourself with your fingers even faster, circles on your clit increasing in speed and messiness and you smear your juices all around.

“father— father geto—” it was pathetic, the way you moaned for a man of God, but the feeling of your cunt clenching around what you wished was his dick was too good, the coil in your stomach still feeling rather uncomfortable but welcoming and you’re unravelling with a silent scream soon, back arching off the sheets.

“s . . suguru, f-fuck,” the swear word feels weird on your lips, as with his first name, but the trembling of your virgin body is so delicious that you just keep rubbing and rubbing, taking so long to come down from your high as your pants get heavier and heavier. and then his face starts to fade off, eyes turning into lilac air and you’re glancing towards the crumpled essay on your bed with guilt festering in your chest.

“ . . mptations of the flesh are childish, are temporary. they lead you to do foolish things that have no place in the kingdom of God. we may repent and put it past us but the memories that our tainted bodies possess, they remember the sinful things that you did.” the recording of father geto dies out as with his powerful conclusion, speaking so loudly into the mic that it screeches with feedback, you remember. you don’t even know where the guilt builds up from, in your torso and your heart, despite questioning the faith you were in for all your life.

if God did not want us to sin, why did he create temptations and ask us to pray for forgiveness?

you roll over and remove your fingers with a small whine, taking up your phone and opening up the contact with father geto hesitantly. it was meant to be a strictly professional exchange like the conversations he’d had with many other parishioners: updates on the church, changes in mass timings, but your chat was filled with questions from you and answers from him. you didn’t dare ask him anything out of the faith.

[9:37 pm, delivered]: uhm. father geto? are you there?

oh god, it’s you. the you who on the second walk around the town exchanged numbers with him because he found your thoughts so intriguing.

[9:39 pm, read]: Yes, Miss (Y/N). What is it?

you take a deep breath. better to ask for that confession, you couldn’t risk your mother asking about it tomorrow.

[9:40 pm, delivered]: is it alright to have

[9:41 pm, delivered]: can i come over to the church, for a bit

father geto straights up in the rectory, getting closer to the socket where his phone was charging and hovers over the screen. his hands are clammy when typing a response and he manages it in about three minutes.

[9:44 pm, read]: Of course, my dear. The doors of the church are open for the congregation at any time.

bidding goodbye to your mother, you stay on the lit path to the church and you’re bathing in anticipation, too excited to see father geto that you bump into a dark shadow. almost resembling a hard wall, hands emerge from its sides to clutch at your biceps.

“miss (y/n), what is it? what has gotten you up so late at night?” if he was still in university, he would’ve laughed at how he asked that question. hundreds of texts of u up? that mimic the nature of the question right now. 

“i was hoping . .” you ignore the tingly feeling of the way in which his hands leave goosebumps along your biceps and then to your forearms. finally, they clutch your hands between his, meant to be like a warm hug but instead is like fire, licking at your fingers and wrist like you’re at the stake. “i was hoping that i could, request you for a confession?”

the priest across you swallows with a nod, swiftly putting a hand across your back to lead you to the booth. you both could’ve done it perfectly fine in the pews, sitting across each other. “the confessional is where we will feel the strongest compulsion of Christ. come,” he answers your question before you can ask it, “take your place on the kneeler behind the curtains.”

father geto showers in the same sea of anticipation when he makes sure you’re okay before heading over to his side of the confessional. he’s imagined this scene over and over — you on the pew kneeler, breath warming the velvet curtains — he cannot help the bulge that forms.

the first words he speak behind the curtain shock you, voice sounding so close yet so muffled and distant.

“come, now, (y/n), make the Sign of the Cross with me.”

Father, Son and Holy Spirit

upon your head, chest and shoulders you do it, taking a deep breath before you start. “bless me, father, for i have sinned. it has been . . about five years since my last confession.”

geto nods, the soft carry of your voice in the late night having an effect on the priest. the hold he has on the crucifix of the rosary is so tight it makes an indent on his skin, the only thing on mortal flesh to keep him from falling.

“What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield.”

your thighs rub together, hot breath sending chills down your clutched hands and down your arm as you ponder over the things you’ve done — “i’ve . . lied to my mother at times, to my friends when they ask me where i’m from. i have stolen money for my own needs, n-not— that high of an amount but um . . still a fair amount.”

“what did you need to buy, sweetheart?”

the name surprises you, but you simply ignore it. “i wanted new clothes — was all the rave at uni when the girls wore miniskirts and little tops. unfortunately it didn’t suit me.”

geto swears under his breath when the image of you in such skimpy clothing infiltrate his thoughts. his curiosity overtakes him; overwhelmed with emotion, he never had the chance to see what you were wearing before he pulls back the curtains and hopes your eyes are closed and they are: pulled tight with quivering eyebrows. there, like a sinning Christian is you in a thin camisole, cleavage showing beneath your arms. he peers lower, gasps softly to himself when you’re wearing a skirt.

“father? father, what’s wrong?” you think you hear the swift swoosh and the rings of the miniature curtain clatter.

“n—nothing is wrong, miss (y/n). are there any other sins you want to confess?”

you swallow, “i . . i’ve wished misfortune on my father.”

not the sin he was hoping for but he wasn’t surprised; his head moves in understanding. he had seen your father — merely a ghost in the house and hardly contributing to fostering the family. it goes against what Mary and Joseph stands for as the Holy Family, but father geto has seen a lot of absent fathers and incompetency to truly be taken aback anymore.

“i’ve also . . i’m not sure whether to tell you this, father geto.”

your breaths were all you could hear in the silence of the church, an eerie quietness settling as if the critters and animals of the earth strived to listen to your ultimate sin, too. Beelzebub, Asmodeus, possibly even Lucifer himself clawed themselves up from hell to eavesdrop.

“of course you can, my dear.” the wind through the wooden confessional box sounds like the hisses of the three demons, like they have had holy water sprayed on them from the mere sounding of his voice; but they look hopefully for a server of Christ to fall exactly like they did.

“it’s, related to my body, father. i,” gulping, you continue with a prompt from the other, “i’ve had this growing need, like, one has when they’re hungry. they have the need to fill their stomachs. or— or a sudden pain you have to massage yourself through, like a cramp in the arm of sorts.”

“well . . is it your torso or your arm?”

“it’s . .” you spare a glance towards your centre under your very, very short skirt, the familiar pulsing of your clit turning more and more prominent. “it’s related to my pussy, father.”

you hear a choke from the other side, and then you realise your choice of words.

“ah— m-my bad! i meant my . . vagina, father geto.”

“no— no u-uhm, the previous term was fine. could you describe what you did? how far did you go so i c-can . . give you the appropriate penance?”

behind the curtains, geto have already started palming his bulge, massaging the ache in his length that still continues to grow and harden. the way you describe is so terribly innocent and unknowing, a deepening urge to corrupt you running through his veins.

“i played with um— my breasts, first. i pulled up my top and felt around my nipples, but i got impatient and . .” geto hangs on to every word of yours, shifting to get his robes out of the way. it was just like the first night: his underwear stained with so much pre-cum it’s probably changed the colour of the garment. he peels it away and the lack of restraint leaves him sighing softly while you ramble on—

“i tried playing with that . . thing between my legs.” you recall the quick google search from that first night, “i played with my clit, father.”

geto stifles a groan into his hand just as he starts to stroke himself softly. “y . . yeah, and?”

“i tried to um . . fit my finger in. it was uncomfortable, at first,” you cannot ignore the pull of your core; your hand shimmies past the clasped hands and down to your skirt. you have no panties to swipe to the side: you came here without any. your finger rubs gently at the throbbing bundle of nerves, a soft whine leaving your lips before you remember you’re in the midst of a confession.

“but i . . i got it into my pussy soon enough. and then i put in another finger.” there was a more audible grunt from the other side, the confessional weirdly heating up immensely as you follow your confession: two fingers easily glide in from just how wet you were.

“when?” there’s a strain in father geto’s voice when he asks it, maybe because he was trying so hard to keep quiet. his jaw is locked as he pumps his cock slowly because his tip is leaking so much that even a simple movement would give him away.

“w-wha—?”

“w-when did you first start . . touching your pussy, (y/n)?” hearing a priest say such a lewd word makes you clench around your fingers.

“after you came to deliver t-that chocolate cake . . father geto.”

“f-fuck—” geto squeezes his eyes shut and it’s like he’s a university student again losing his virginity for the first time by the hands of some random chick pumping him. the implied confession has him stroking faster; it was after that trip he made to your house, it was after seeing you stand at the door like a good little girl, it was because of him, right? right?

you snap back the curtains and your mouth waters at the scene: father geto hunching over the little window that separates the two of you and his head hung low; his cassock gathers around his hips and his cock— good Lord, his cock was so big, clutched tightly between his left hand. his tip was weeping, an angry red as it continued to push out globs of pre.

“f-father!” geto doesn’t seem to care, giving you a drunk and nonchalant glance as he continues to stroke his shaft. he knows it’s wrong, doing this in the house of the Lord but it feels so fucking good. “y-you—”

you’re at a loss for words, pointing to his exposed bottom, but even though you’re speaking out against him, you can’t help but follow his hand as it moves up and down like a spell. his eyes are simply pleading, hips bucking up and you would think he was a parishioner instead. shaking in the presence of God, in the presence of you—

you stick your hand past the squeezy window, drawing his interest and before you know it you’re blindly bumping into his erection. there, he silently grabs your hand, guiding it to his shaft. he uncomfortably leans down to look at your face, eyebrows still furrowed but your tongue stuck out and his dick twitches in your hand.

“s-shit, baby . .” geto swears under his breath, and again when you pull on his dick to the window. uncomfortably his body lightly slams against the partition, a soft thud coming from the booth as his head collides with the wood, “(y/n) . .”

he can’t see you, but he can hear you. “may i, father geto?”

you don’t wait for his answer, gauging mainly from the heavy breaths coming from above you. they really do need to change the confessional, too, because you can clearly hear every word he mumbles out from the holes in the partition.

“shiiit—” when you kitten lick his tip, collection the pre-cum that continues to leave his tip, and it feels better than his Rite of Ordination and when he finally got to host his first mass. it’s better than that prophetic dream he has of God calling him to serve Him and the churches in the city with church-goers of boring faces and predictable stories.

here was a rural place, a place where he never expected such a pretty girl to practice the Christian faith, only to falter in the presence of a pastor. he’s gotten such a cute little slut to corrupt. you start to bob your head slowly, unsure of what to do apart from putting his cock on your mouth. your teeth grazes his skin a little and he hisses.

“no teeth. suck in your cheeks,” he cannot see you but he wishes he can, and he knows you listen to his advice when he feels only the smooth glide of your mouth and he wishes it was your pussy that you fingered.

“going deeper, darling,” geto grunts when he pushes his cock past your mouth and into your throat, the sweet gag you do making him dig his forehead deeper into the uneven wooden partition. he can hear your struggling sounds, the muffled moans with his cock down your cavern. but he cannot go any longer without seeing you and reluctantly he pushes you off, still holding your hand and you seem to catch his drift soon enough.

you’re as eager as him, bouncing off the kneeler and leaving your side of the booth, and you’re opening the door to his. the reality of the situation fully sinks in, geto standing there with his cock dripping with your saliva and your camisole pulled down under your tits.

“oh . . baby,” geto coaxes you into him, under a little spell of his when you trail in a light as a feather. you don’t resist his hands pushing you down to your knees, and just like earlier, you’re sticking your tongue out and the priest looks at you from under hooded lids.

“did you touch yourself to me, little girl?” it comes out stronger than intended but you seem to like it, even when your answers are cut off by him slapping his tip on your tongue. it’s so heavy, his cock, and thick too that you can help but suckle on it when you get the opportunity.

“ever since that day, father geto.” you look drunk, swirling your tongue around the tip and continuing to talk, “i . . i imagine you above me and sometimes i dangle my crucifix thinkin’ it’s yours.”

a small laugh escapes the priest. “did you now?” it’s reminiscent of the time where you praise his sermon. his laugh is cut off as you continue to suck him off, hands still confused. he helps you by bringing your hands to the places you can’t reach and you follow like second nature. “dirty fucking slut, aren’t you?”

“i promise i didn’t know anything before this . . father.” you look up at him through your lashes, big doe eyes proving every last bit of your innocence. aht, partially. you did watch a video of this chick blowing her boyfriend, cumming with your own fingers in your throat, wishing it was geto’s cock in your mouth instead.

but having a real cock in your mouth? it was divine, better than the body of Christ in melting on your tongue. your ministrations speed up, the obscene noises of you gurgling reverberating in the wooden box late at night. it would be even worse at the altar where it would echo everywhere.

“y—yeah, baby, that’s it, that’s it . .” his eyes are shut tight, intoxicated on the way your warm mouth feels. you whine into his shaft, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from how deep he was in you.

“mmf— mmph!” your moans sends vibrations up his body, interrupted when geto thrusts his hips into your mouth suddenly and your nose meets with his pubes, eyes rolling back from the muskiness of his body. it smells like incense and sweat, filling your senses as he keeps you right up to his hilt.

“ohh . . fuckfuck fuucck—!” the father pulls you off to let you breathe, pleasantly surprised when you start pumping him violently, tongue stuck out again. there’s a hint of light from the outside that highlights the pinkness of your tongue and he’s never wanted to cum this badly before.

“i’m cumming— baby, baby, i’m g’nna c-cum—” there’s a long, drawn out whine from father geto upon feeling the warmth of your hands stroking his cock so obediently, resting his tip on your tongue where you’d willingly drink his cum like wine. geto shoots his load into your mouth and is the loudest he’s ever been; he doesn’t care who hears him, he doesn’t care if he gets transferred out tomorrow, all he wants to think about is you on your knees and your nipples hardened from confessing to him. he’d like to bet that your pussy was drooling too, hips bucking into the soft skin of your hands.

some of his cum gets onto your face and on your lips, and geto almost cums again when you use his tip to smear his seed around your face, sucking lightly on his tip.

“dirty girl . .” he pulls on your biceps to bring you up, and your lips meet instantaneously like you were meant to be separated for eternity, doomed only to meet for one day a year. it’s messy and sloppy, drool drips from your sides of your mouths as your lips merge together.

“was that your first kiss, baby?” father geto can tell by how you don‘t know how to follow his lead, teeth clashing and breathing uneven.

“am i that obvious?” you frown, feeling self-conscious, but geto is quick to reassure you.

“father geto’s going to teach you everything you need to know, alright?” he brings you in with a finger to your chin, hovers over your lips like a tease.

he teaches you everything you want to know and more, like how the front of the church looks like and how cold the marble of the altar feels against your back as he eats you out and the sensations are all too much for you. he teaches you that using God’s name in vain is alright when it comes to moaning out how good he makes you feel and how your penance is whatever he makes it out to be he teaches you how you can take not one, not two, but three fingers up your pussy.

they’re so much thicker than your own, one hand pushing on your shaking thighs to keep them open while his three fingers move in and out of you. you’re leaking so much, your virgin cunt dripping like holy water down the white marble and onto the matching marble floor.

he teaches you his first name and he makes sure you say it.

“su—suguru . . god, r-right there—” he latches his mouth onto your clit, suckling and flicking his tongue impatiently because he just wants to see you cum. your legs stretch out to knock over a candelabra and the clatter of the metal against the ground is enough to wake up a whole village but you. don’t. care.

your hips grind onto his tongue, feeling the borderline painful stretch of his thick fingers in you but they reach all the right spots that you can’t find it in you to care.

“you taste so good—” geto spits onto your cunt and goes back to sucking on your clit, “pussy’s so fuckin’ sweet, holy fuck.” your noises come out of you non-stop as you bury your hands in his hair, finally knowing what you sound like in an unrestrictive space under the apse.

father geto teaches you how to take a cock up your cute, tight pussy, not bothering for a condom when basically all of your clothes have been discarded throughout the night. it’s almost midnight and your mother have fallen asleep on the couch, unaware her sweet, sweet daughter is losing her virginity in the place she was baptised, where she got her first communion.

the first push into your drenched cunt is painful, mushroom tip stretching you out slightly as you clutch tightly onto his forearm, brows knitted together at the girth of his cock.

“been wanting . . to fuck this pussy so bad, baby,” geto grunts it out, obsessed with how his length slowly disappears into you. he can feel each ridge of your gummy walls, hugging him so snugly that there’s several moans that leave his lips, “have you been— thinking ’bout this as much as i h-have?”

your jaw stretches beyond your limit when he eases himself inch by inch into you, thanking the hells below that your vision was finally coming true. above you there’s that same crucifix, sterling silver with amethyst stones embedded into the design, you remember, catching the light of the lone spotlight above the both of you. there’s a similar glint in father geto’s purple eyes.

“all the time, father—” you moan out, pulling him by his necklace to your lips that are more experienced now, each minute that passes is one more atom of your body turning black from the fire that licks at you from below the altar. you kiss the lips of your parish priest, whimpering slightly when his hips buck and you feel the stretch more clearly now.

“is this what Isaac felt when Abraham tried to bind him for a sacrifice on Moriah? helpless, confused, betrayed?”

geto lets out a hum, sucking hickeys into your neck and you think it’s a million times better than questioning a God that never showed himself, who never really had the intentions of the people in mind, who created sin to watch the downfall of men while he enjoys his time in his kingdom.

if this was what was meant by losing yourself to your devils, you would gladly shake hands with Lucifer and hope the warmth of the fire in hell would be a hug warmer than any hug you’ve received by people of the Christian faith.

“well, baby, do you feel helpless?” thrust “confused,” thrust “and betrayed?” thrust

he punctures each word with a snap of his hips and the pain gives way to pleasure and soon he’s already lost in the comfort of your pussy, hips starting a pace easily that emphasises just how wet you are. the echoes of your weeping cunt and the lewd slapping of his balls into your ass is like the bell ringing during mass, loud, resonating, it shakes your whole body.

“mmfuck . . helpless, m-maybe,” you whine out, legs wrapping around his back, “confused, n-not— suguruuu, yesyesyes!”

you try again, “n-not really. betrayed . .”

you feel like a sacrifice, but it was willing, of a confession that has led to this lewd showing of just how much the temptations of the flesh were insanely undeniable. there’s a murmur of i don’t think i can last much longer into your ear, cock driving into your tight pussy so harshly you’re hoping the small altar doesn’t move.

“b-betrayed, i think—” you squeal when father geto angles his hips up and it kisses your cervix just nicely, sending multiple chills down your body. your moans penetrate the holy air, hair splayed out like a painting and geto knows this is better than any Eucharist he’s ever tasted.

you clench around his fat cock, and he twitches, switching to short, pathetic thrusts into your pussy and he cries out your name as he cums deep in you, giving you all of his seed deep in your womb. your breath catches in your throat at the feeling of your first load, the warmth already hooking you in and you pull so hard on his hair he has no choice but to follow your hand.

you let him handle you deep into the night, taking you off the altar and pushing you up against it, entering you again and you brace yourself against the marble.

“s-sorry, sweetheart, you were saying?” he also wants to apologise that he hadn’t made you cum just yet, but your pussy’s so fucking heavenly he just has to be in you again.

“i-i feel a little betrayed,“ you sag over the altar, back arching into his hold. father geto is fixated on the movement of your ass fucking back onto him, “that a priest would break his m-marriage to God for me.”

“i thought they were supposed to be men of God,” you barely manage to form sentences. geto’s laugh at that startles you, as with the hand grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling. payback. you love it, however, a sweet Christian girl turned into a slut, and the last bits of the thread unravels when father geto reaches around to rub your clit.

“’m gonna— cum, suguru—” you whine out, body turning to mush with how hard he rams into your pussy. by now there’s a ring of white around the base of his cock, your juices slowly starting to coat it, too and Lucifer succeeds at sin yet again.

you cannot blame Eve when the serpent is as beautiful and cunning as geto suguru, nor can you blame her when his thick cock just reaches so deep into you, tip kissing your sweet spots and his hand impatiently drawing messy circles on your bundle of nerves.

“that just makes it the best though, right?” geto breathlessly says, “a holy man fucking a virgin raw in a holy place where prayers are said.” your legs are spreading further and further, his sweaty body engulfs yours, you’re dizzy, “you’re too tempting, sweet girl. tempting enough for me to want to abandon priesthood just so i can be buried in this pussy for fucking eternity.”

and you cum, head and heart going a hundred miles per hour as your body trembles in his hold. “there we go, little slut, thereee we go . .” you can feel the chill of the sterling silver into your back and his smile before he orgasms a second time into your waiting pussy, a second, heavy load let go into your pussy. it’s so warm and filling, and you already want more, more, more.

lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust.

“aw,” father geto coos at your fucked out face, flipping you around to give you a sloppy kiss and forcing himself to his knees just to watch his cum drip out of you, “does she want more?”

“always, father.” you answer with a drunken smile, putting a leg on his shoulder. again, your finger hooks around his crucifix, and you drag the priest down deeper into hell, somewhere father geto would‘ve always ended up.

somewhere where he would renounce his priesthood and worship something, and someone: you.

“Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n.”

a/n: LOOOONG MAN WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS. also i put the author’s note at the bottom this time bc i wanted to format of the fic to look the best without my goofy words ruining it! hope you guys liked it :) / tagging @crysugu @omgeto @kazushawty @suguruplsr @hydrovillette @slttygeto @hyomagiri @jabamin

part two ✶

JJK S01E21 - GOJOU SATORU