loveanddeepspice

love and deepspice

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Loveanddeepspice - Love And Deepspice

𝕋𝕖𝕞𝕡𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝔾𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕖

✞ synopsis: you've come back to the small town you grew up in for a visit. though your relationship with the catholic church and faith in general have been strained since you were younger, you find yourself drawn back to the church... or more specifically... the new priest... you aren't ready to share your secret sin with him... but you may not be able to help yourself.

✞ pairing: sylus x curvy fem!reader

✞ rating: 18+ (minors do not engage)

✞ cw: religion (catholicism), priest, lapsed faith, adultery, priest kink, suicidal mention, dead parent, sex, masturbation, drugs (marijuana), drinking (more will be added when/if they arise)

✞ disclaimer: this fiction explores a romantic relationship between a lapsed Catholic and an unconventional priest. it is not designed to be inflammatory or critical. catholic authors were asked to participate in the process. we hope you enjoy it, but we know that these topics can be sensitive, so please skip this fiction if it will in any way offend you.

✞ chapter: 1 / ?

✞ co-authors: redbriony, confuseddoughnut (they do not have tumblr)

✞ ao3 link: here Please respond to this post if you want to be added to the tag list for upates!

The crisp smell of autumn was something you missed about the small neighborhood you grew up in. Pieces of golden yellow, burnt orange, and honey-brown leaves scattered over the gray cobblestone walk, making it look like a beautiful quilt. The street felt warm as afternoon crept up to greet you after a whole morning of heavy grocery shopping and last-minute errands.

And…your dad needed to go to confession.

You didn't have an understanding relationship with religion. You felt tense as you stood in front of the church from your childhood, a relatively small building with arched windows that probably had more than one glass shard smashed by a local kid.

"How is Father Thomas anyway?" You found yourself asking. The memory of your mother on her deathbed flooded your head. Your mom had her problems, and she was stricken with her faith even in her dying moments. And when you had asked the priest if she could be saved, he had reassured you that she was already in the arms of God.

"Why is he taking her?" You had asked, feeling powerless and exhausted, hugging yourself tightly in an attempt to hold back all of the anxiety and sadness.

Father Thomas had given you, at the time, the most religious bull crap you've ever heard in your frustration. "God never condemns the innocent to suffer. Even if God seems to have turned His back on her...He was actually just loving her enough not to let her get away with it."

That didn't answer your question. It sounded like comfort. But how many people found peace after drunkenly crashing her car and injuring another man in the process?

You should've kept your mouth shut.

"Father Thomas left." Your father told you, yanking you out of your memories and into the chilling Fall breeze. "Father Sylus took over a year ago."

You frowned and took a deep breath, nodding. "Have fun, then. If you need anything, I'll be in the car."

"You coming in?" Your dad pushed his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker.

"No," You replied firmly. "I don't have anything to confess." You had plenty of secrets, none of which you ever intended to discuss, especially not with some out-of-touch priest whose homilies preached forgiveness even as he judged his parishioners - another Father Thomas clone. "Besides, what do you have to confess? Piss off the neighbors again?"

He ignored your sarcasm. "You can come if you want."

After your mother's death, it had become clear that all she ever had was religious guilt. And when you thought about it now, nothing made sense. What part of God's divine plan included drunk driving, death, divorce, depression, drugs, or illness?

But you couldn't ignore that pull, the way those ornate doors called to you from an insatiable hunger inside yourself. Like the secrets only whispered within the walls of the church. The whisper of your mother telling you just to suck it up and go in.

"Yeah, sure," you forced a smile. You could glimpse something you have missed in the structure before , maybe . For the past few years, you had been trying to spot miracles and tried to find an explanation as to why your mother had died before your eyes that wasn't backwashed with the usual sentiment.

When you walked through the doors, you paused. It was like time and life had stopped. This chapel gave off an eerily peaceful feeling. With thick wooden pillars reaching up and gently hugging the ceiling, you remembered what it felt like to truly be a child of God—just for a moment, anyway.

Your eyes fell on the apse hosting the Marian shrine, surrounded by candles, many already lit. You recall every candle you lit for your mother, first praying to let her be well, to let her set down the bottle. Then, you prayed harder as she lay in the hospital. You lit a piece of your soul afire with every wick.

And all of it amounted to nothing. Ashes only. Like your mother, sitting in an urn on top of the mantle of your childhood home.

Along the back wall trailed the line of bored parishioners waiting for their turn to confess. You take your spot at the back of the line with your father, settling into the familiar routines of the sacraments.

As the line moves, crawling slowly along the back wall of the nave, you scroll through your phone, or at least start to.

So much of this place reminds you of Father Thomas — the smell of incense, the sound of muffled coughs echoing off the vaulted ceiling, the tinkling sound of the baptismal font in the entryway.

But there is a presence here that feels nothing like Father Thomas.

Was it appropriate to compare the new priest to the old one?

This new person sat behind the wooden barrier, shrouded in darkness. Something about him arrested your attention. Your phone sits, ignored, in your hand.

You know he is the person who would wait for the words you speak in confession, without judgment, and to whom you had no obligation until the moment you would open your mouth.

"Forgive me Father , for I have sinned. It's been three years since my last confession," you spoke in a quiet, solemn tone. You didn't believe that much had changed since you moved away. Well, except for the one thing that happened - but there was no way you were going to tell him that.

Unbidden memories came to mind. Memories of steamy nights tucked away in hotels, illicit meetings that you knew were wrong because he belonged to someone else already, but you just couldn't resist…

No. You couldn't tell him about that. You were far too ashamed. No, you had to think of something else to say. Anything else to say.

Tilting your head towards the floor, you lowered your eyes, fighting back any self-loathing emotions in your mind. For a long time, you told yourself that life happened, and in the meantime, there were other things to experience besides faith.

You had almost forgotten how this all worked and what was supposed to happen next. You heard a shift, the sound of wood creaking.

"Tell me your sins." The voice of the new priest was soft and smooth, in a way that made the hairs on your arms stand. Father Thomas had never sounded like him, ever reminded anyone what they were supposed to do during confession. In the deep recesses of your mind, you felt there was something unsettlingly familiar about that tone, that cadence.

Closing your eyes, you tried to bring up literally anything else that could be considered a sin. "I - I told my dad he was an asshole this week."

Was there really nothing else you could tell him? It felt like a lost cause. He would most likely repeat some bible verse you already knew and admonish you for 'sinning' as much as you had while also claiming the salvation of heaven was all yours for the taking. But that was your burden to shoulder and not his.

"Why did you call him an asshole?"

"Sorry?" You weren't sure what was happening. Confession was a place of absolution, a place to listen, not encourage further action or rationale. At least that's how Father Thomas always -

"Why did you call your father an asshole?" The question was asked again, a little louder as if you hadn't heard it. The more you thought about the question, the less you could discern its intent. Was he looking for something you didn't know?

"Uh, he forgot to pick me up from the airport." You sighed, but the conversation didn't end there. When you paused, you heard him shift again. If you had to guess, he nodded in that kind of stiff way priests do. He probably did it every time you stopped talking, even when there wasn't any vocal confirmation or cue.

"How long did you wait?"

"Two hours." You quickly said, trying to imagine a face to match the voice, failing to identify even a bit of the man behind the screen. "I almost got hit by some guy's truck." Another pause made you think back to that moment at the airport when you had gotten so frustrated at your father on the phone. "When Dad finally showed up, he said the fees for the parking garage were too high and made me walk to his car."

Perhaps this Father Sylus was a lunatic, clearly used to the rich and holy roller types that confessed to him daily. Perhaps his interest in your story would wane. Instead of offering any indication that he cared, he only shifted again.

When he finally spoke again, his voice soothed any anger brewing. "The Lord teaches us that before we judge others, we should measure ourselves - Proverbs 28:13. 'Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy.' Three Hail Marys and 1 Our Father. And apologize to your father."

You found yourself unsure of how to respond before bowing your head again, "Thank you, Father."

Loveanddeepspice - Love And Deepspice

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