summary. the bronze melodia is a position that requires weariness, empathy, and patience. unfortunately for sunday, he receives far more than he expects through the voice in the window.
notes. i’m ashamed. this is dedicated to the anon that held me at gunpoint and forced me to post this to tumblr. otherwise, you can read it here.
you can read part 2 here !
warnings. mdni. this is LONGGG it’s about 7k words. religious themes, religious guilt, explicit sexual content, very inappropriate use of a confessional, mild degradation but in a religious way, reader is AFAB i fear and uhh. indecent and guided mutual tug sessions, if you catch my drift.
“Next. Please, step forward.”
Sunday had heard it all before. Timid footsteps, hushed whispers, skin stretching as the person trembled and fidgeted. It was always confronting to sinners, to step close to his voice and absolve.
Nothing truly shocked him anymore. He’d fallen in a state of numbness, in taking this position. A Bronze Melodia, as it was called.
He’d heard murder confessions, perjury, disloyalty, misconduct, everything. He had to grow used to it; this was his job. To forgive, to press his fists into palms beyond the confessors' sight line, and pretend he was as all-forgiving as he appeared to be.
He had learned to hold his voice steady.
Sunday found himself absentmindedly fixing his sleeves, though they already sat perfectly on his wrists.
What he could never predict was whether the person behind the window was here to absolve, or to mock the Aeons. It was always a guessing game for him; perhaps that’s what kept him from straying too far from the path.
The position was tedious, though patience was a virtue of his. He liked to akin himself to an adaptable man, warping his words and honeying his rather monotonous tone to that of reassurance. A false promise of hope, if you will.
He was good at that. Humans were exceedingly predictable in most of their actions; he had learned as such and had tried to drill the knowledge and dangers of the species into his dear sister, too.
Humans were cruel. Robin had never believed him, even in the feats of his struggles as a child, how one of the wings below his ear was mercilessly snapped in an act of child’s play. Child curiosity, it was dubbed as, though to him, it felt more like hatred.
He remembered crying that night, with his right-wing bandaged by his caregiver, and Robin had to remain in his room and sing him to sleep.
Now, it was different.
Quiet shuffles of footsteps were heard. He could tell they were the last recipient remaining, for the muted idle chatter of attendants had faded, and the sun was beginning to set. Members of kinship and the like would return home and sin, and then enter the church begging for forgiveness tomorrow. A never-ending, boorish and lonely cycle.
How shy. He listened to apprehensive slow steps until he heard the click of sharp heels stop just short of the window.
“Come to me, my devotee. I have sought THEIR presence within us.” Sweet words, peppered with powdered sugar poured from his tongue. “Tell me… what ails you such?”
The quiet intake of a breath, sharp and hushed.
Curious, Sunday leaned against the interior wall, just barely closer.
When there was no answer, he added, “do not be afraid. I am here to forgive. I cannot judge you.”
Another harsh inhale.
And then, “I apologise, Reverend.”
“Not at all.” A small, gentle smile pulled onto his lips. You could not see him through the box, and he made sure to stay clear of the iron bars of the window, but he hoped you heard the warmth and comforting sweetness in his tone. “Are you new to the congregation? Your voice is unfamiliar.”
He heard the shuffling of clothes. A pause, and then a wilting, “yes– no, sir.” Another pause, longer than the last. “I have not visited the confessional, but I do sometimes attend service.”
Sunday hummed curiously. “And what has prompted your change of heart?”
He heard the tapping of nails against the exterior of the box, pensive and thoughtful. Rhythmic, like in time to a tune he couldn’t quite place his finger on.
The setting, orange glow of the sunlight, partially tinted a deep bloodied colour through the stained glass windows of the church, crept further through the bars of the confessional as it drew closer to the horizon. The light was warm on the lick of his fingertips that rested close to the frame.
The persistent tap, tap, tap sounded like an agitated display of impatience. Like a song of trepidation and dread, yet much too quick to be sorrowful. Excitement, perhaps?
Then, there was the hard swallow of a lump in their throat. He heard it through the wall.
“I fell in love with a man.”
Their voice, your voice, rang clear as if you were standing next to him without the muffle of the confessional in between his body and yours.
Sunday’s eyes flitted to the wall by his head as if he could see you through the wood.
He said nothing.
Speckles of dust caught in the setting orange sun from the stained glass windows.
“A beautiful man,” you continued softly. “Generous, kind, considerate…” Your voice tapered off like a votive candle flickering in the breeze.
Sunday remained quiet, choosing instead to focus on the soft beating of his heart in his ears, and the sound of your breathing.
There was another ruffle of clothes—a blazer perhaps? It sounded like stiffened cotton or something as luxurious as pure wool. He wondered if such a material could be purchased by someone so common. Wool was a fleeting thought; an easy purchase with the wave of a credit card.
There was a pregnant pause, as if you, too, did not know what to say.
“Is he a bad man?” Sunday inquired encouragingly, still soft and eloquent.
A hiss of an inhale.
“No, not at all.”
Still, nothing.
Sunday watched the wall for a moment, imagining a figure on the other side fidgeting nervously. He could hear the tussle of form-fitted clothes shifting back and forth as if the devotee had been unable to stand still.
“I offer my sincerest apologies,” he started gently. “But I fail to understand any wrongdoings in your confession.” He prompted his voice to remain even. Patience. All in due time. “If he is as truly good a man as you put it, then there is nothing I see to absolve.”
“It’s not him,” you tried. There was a drone in your tone, as if you were trying to defend yourself. “It’s who he is.”
“An unattainable man, I presume? Or, is he perhaps forbidden?” The pressure was light. He was not so much forcing or coaxing words from your throat, but to embolden you instead.
He heard you hum nervously in agreement. He thought it to be a reply to both of his questions.
“Is it his status?”
Another uncomfortable tussle of clothing.
“Yes, sir.” He heard you lean against the confessional through the strain of the wall. “He is a holy man.”
“Ah… a man of the church?”
“I cannot want what I cannot have,” you dwelled softly. “I know the answer is to let go, but it has been months, and I have grown worse.”
Sunday hummed. Quite the predicament indeed. Such a precious scenario, though. Somebody ordinary in love with the unordinary. So sweet, like fruit growing on a tree in a sacred garden.
The tragedy of unattainable romance was fleeting for the congregation. Even Robin, his dear sister, a truly devoted romantic at heart, could never commit herself to a person. To worship another, and to take eyes from Xipe, would be worth a painful, slow and torturous death unlike no other.
Grotesque and twisted, like the many priests before him, who had been slashed and severed for their transgressions.
To turn your back on The Family–
He willed the thoughts away.
“I do hear you. I pray for your struggles.” His gloves pressed to the window. “But, it is not unreasonable, nor a defiance of the Holy, to be in love with a man of the church.”
“That’s the thing. It’s beyond love, Reverend,” you said, hoarse and strained, like you’d raked a hand down your jugular. “It’s everything.”
The shift of clothes again. This time, a hand brushed against a zipper, though there was no tug at the clip. He listened attentively, like a song he’d never heard before.
The stretch of clothes around skin, the glimpse of an expensive leather shoe from the corner of his eye, and attire inappropriate for the church. Exposed legs, too much skin, a low neckline of a shirt. Patterned stockings following black embroidered flowers and thorny stems travelled up bare legs like serpents.
“I want to ruin him.”
There it was.
“I want it so he thinks no more of the Aeon he worships, and only of me.”
His lips only barely parted at what he was hearing. A startled quiet breath escaped him.
He heard the skin of your knuckles pull taught into fists. They tapped against the wood.
“But it’s wrong of me to think this way, so I humbly request your blessings, Reverend, even if I–” You paused. Sunday flinched when a hand pressed against the iron bars, dreadfully close to the feathered wings beneath his ears. “There’s something bad inside of me. I need your help.”
Never had he heard something like this. A sinner be so outwardly humble and honest in their speech; to admit that you were wrong. To admit that your behaviour was treacherous and ghastly.
And to pine after a man of worship and unbreaking devotion.
To defy the Lord. To fight teachings, to fight him and his words. A stubbornness like no other, and one so incredibly shameful and distasteful, and yet, you still carried a weight of guilt heavy on your chest.
Another shudder of a breath. Another pitiful, desperate noise. All to receive his good graces.
“I don’t ask for forgiveness anymore. I don’t think I even deserve your blessings, sire. I don’t think anybody does.” Maybe he would agree with you, and maybe he wouldn’t. Instead, he leaned against the wall and stared up towards the ceiling of the confessional. “I only ask to hear your voice.”
Sunday’s breath hitched at the suspicious sound of a zipper being tugged, roaming hands, far too purposeful in their placement. He didn’t wish to imagine where your fingers travelled.
Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut.
“If you have convinced yourself that nothing can be done, then why would you seek me?” he asked, a waver in his tone. His ear pressed to the wall again, cold against his warm skin. “…If you think you cannot be absolved, then I am unable to help you.”
“I want relief,” was all you said. You pressed against the confessional. “Blessed Reverend, I want you to relieve me.”
Sunday was at a loss for words. He was listening attentively again.
You did not ask for forgiveness, peaceful solitude, or punishment. He did not understand what you were referring to specifically, choosing instead to pull delicately at the tips of his gloves. They suddenly felt constricting, like they’d grown a size too small for his hands.
Usually, he’d refrain from mindless fiddling and fidgeting. Something was different now.
Something warm ran from the pit of his stomach up to his neck.
It was vile. Like a serpent’s tongue following the rigid bone of his spine towards the nape of his neck. Warm and forked, like a pitchfork wielded in the hands of the irreverent.
The slimy body of the snake would twist and coil around his neck, squeezing the delicate flesh, marring it, coercing more sweet honey from his tongue until you were writhing.
The localised swelling heat curling in his stomach burned hotter when your breathing faltered and strayed from its natural rhythm.
It faltered too immorally to be mistaken for a simple hitch, or an error in your presentation. It was not a reflection of apprehension, nor fear.
It was–
“Would you be honest with me?” Sunday asked gently. His trembling hands curled into fists, still pressed against the wall and out of view of the window. “I only ask one answer of you.”
“Of course.” Strained, weak, unsure. Another pathetic attempt of an even breath left your lips. The aroma of something rich and sweet wavered through the bars of the window. “Anything for you.”
How depraved. Indecent, perverse. Your tone was repulsive, and so incredibly honest.
He heard the sound of something slippery, like the swallowing of spit in your mouth, or perhaps something far far more obscene.
He was tempted to move closer, to bite at the hand that fed him.
Your devotion was corrupt, focused solely on the sound of his breathing from inside the confessional. You were not here for redemption.
The box grew warm with his shaken breaths.
“Then, pray tell…” His temple rested against the interior of the confessional, and something hot and vile stirred in his stomach, like fiery pits of devastation. Like claws from a being unforeseen by Aeons above. “Are your hands between your thighs?”
You let out a stuttered gasp.
Sunday closed his eyes and tried to control his shaken breathing. His perfectly fitted clothes suddenly felt too tight, too restricting, every crease and fold tattering and ruined heating skin.
He swallowed thickly, wings barely catching on the window of the confessional.
“I’m not–” Your hands abandoned their position and pressed to the window, the diagonal frames digging into your soft flesh. The pad of your longest finger shimmered in the setting sunlight. “–I’m wrong. There’s something wrong with me.”
His gloved nails dug into his thighs. The dove white trousers stretched with the pressure.
He could not see you fully, no, for if he could, he was afraid he’d throw the door open, drag you into his lap and satisfy that burning ache that ricocheted in his stomach.
“To think of you this way,” you continued meekly. “It’s disgusting and vile and I need you to help me.”
He had to agree with you, though his fingers pressed just shy of the borders of the window. He almost grabbed your hand and dragged his tongue up your finger.
He felt the same. Hot and sticky, clothes clinging to him like they’d been doused in glue. The feeling pressed into his burning skin like a fragrance of saffron and black peppers.
That seductively enticing aroma of your perfume that lingered through the gaps in the windows. Honey and dessert, and the salty smell of your sweat. He did not eat sweets anymore; that sweet tooth was long left to dust and decay, and yet his mouth watered.
He felt as though he was being tempted to bite into something that held dire consequences.
Desperate to relieve the burning below his skin, Sunday unbuttoned his blazer. “Do you wish to be absolved?”
“I–” He heard you shuffle. The telltale swish of cloth. The click of heels. You’d dressed up for him, even if he couldn’t see you, and you couldn’t see him. Even your painted nails he peered at; a dark navy blue, like the wings at his waist that stretched in relief when he freed them from the confines of his jacket. “I don’t deserve it.”
“So, why did you come?” he asked. The larger, navy blue wings were much too big for the small perimeter of the confessional, but anything was better than to feel as restricted as he was.
His gloved hands pressed to the window now.
He wanted to touch you.
God, no. He couldn’t think like this.
He wanted his fingerprints branded into your skin, to stain every inch of your flesh like cigarette burns, forever marring the perfection.
“To relieve myself.”
Sunday smiled, and it was pained. You heard it in his tone. “How honest.” His temple pressed onto the cool wooden box again, leaning as close as he could to your voice. “Aren’t you ashamed?”
His forehead pressed to the wood beside the window, out of view. The orange rays of the sun setting outside licked upon his fingertips that curled over the iron bars. The warmth felt cold.
“Very,” was all you said.
Sunday fought the urge to moan, pressing his teeth into his tongue and hissing at the pain.
This was wrong.
He couldn’t stop himself.
“Go on, then. One hand. Relieve yourself.”
He heard a muffled sigh of relief. Perhaps you, too, had pressed yourself against the exterior of the confessional. The only thing parting you from his body was a thin slide of wood.
A sacred sanctuary that you would reform from pure selfishness.
One of the hands on the window abandoned its firm grip around the frames, and he heard a quiet gasp.
It was quickly cut off.
“Let me hear you,” Sunday whispered through the window. A gloved hand raked down the side of the window, and his head knocked against the corner of the confessional. His halo suddenly felt like a crown of thorns, weighted and punishing.
He would indulge.
If you were here to ruin him, then he would indulge.
He heard a wet squelch that made him shiver. His other hand had absentmindedly crawled up his thigh, trembling to remain flat on the seat. The skin below his trousers was pulled taught and had grown sensitive.
You moaned, and it was so close to his ear that his spine snapped straight. His fingers brushed over his straining cock beneath his belt.
The awful, awful, yet so beautiful sounds that tore from your throat left him reeling for more. For his mind to fill in the blanks, squeezing his eyes shut tight until even the light from the window was shunned out of his eyelids.
“Slow your hand,” he whispered. “Enjoy yourself properly.”
The squelching slowed significantly after only a moment of hesitation. He heard you continuously pant like a helpless mutt, confused, perhaps frustrated, too.
The other hand still curled as tight as it could around the iron diagonal bars of the window shook with reckless abandon.
Debauch sin felt good. Like a drug. Like alcohol washing down his throat and filling his stomach. So, so good, like the slide of his hand up his shirt. His other hand, much less secure, fumbled with the golden buckle of his belt.
He wondered if you felt the same. “How will you sleep tonight?”
“I won’t,” you whispered hoarsely. He was sure your appearance was something to match the rasp of your voice. “I will toss and turn.”
As will he. He’ll lay on his side, tangled between freshly washed white sheets and feathered pillows, and touch himself. He knows it so. He feels the strain of his palm tracing along the hot skin, thumbing the beading slit while he thinks of your perfume.
His cock twitched in the confines of his pants when the heel of his palm knocked against his tip. So hot, and so difficult to breathe. This box was not made to entertain whores, nor himself.
Sunday managed to unbuckle his belt. The leather straps smack against the side of the box.
You’re so wet. He can hear you through the confessional, and a dreamy sigh escapes his nose.
“How many fingers are inside of you?” He couldn’t quite tell. His hands curled into fists.
“Just one, sire.”
Sunday huffed, thumbing the button of his trousers around his waist. The claws in the pit of his stomach had returned, scratching and marring the inner walls and slicing through the bubbles of acid, desperate to be set free. It hurt.
He could imagine how you felt. He could imagine everything; the rhythmic sound of a single finger sliding in and out of the pretty wet hole between your legs. Pressing your body against the exterior of the box, desperate to feel the cold wood against your burning skin.
Your finger being hugged tight inside of you, pressing and dragging along sensitive nerves deep near your womb.
He was a mess.
Hair frazzled, halo dimming and fading when the light angled into the box just right, wings twitching, battling a game of whether he was to wrap them around himself or spread out as wide as they could.
You must’ve heard the zip of his fly undone, for you gasped, and your finger sped up accordingly. That same wet squishing of your poor poor limbs trying to accommodate how shameful you’d become.
His teeth caught on the tip of his glove and pulled the material off. The white cotton fell to the floor uselessly.
“You must be so lonely,” you said to him through the window. “So deprived.” He felt the fanning of warm breath against his ear. “I can fix that.”
Sunday, attentively listening with glowing cheeks, slowly freed his cock from his pants. A sigh slipped past his wet lips.
A different sound echoed from between your legs, and you groaned as close to his ear as you could.
“I want to hear you, Reverend.”
His hand dragged up his cock and he moaned. It was a shameful display of sincerity, and he wished he had bit his tongue again. Instead, he panted against the wood of the confessional, and muttered, “touch yourself.”
A wet noise that made his hips shift forward into his hand told him your finger had abandoned your insides, instead dragging up to play with that precious bundle of nerves.
He heard the stretch of skin, the shift of whatever clothes you had kept on yourself, and what you had thrown to the side. You were leaning against the box; your scent was stronger, that perfume and something sweeter, mixed with the salt and sweat of your skin.
He only hoped your thighs were as parted as his were. One of the sides of his knees knocked gently against the wall of the confessional.
So wrong. So shameful, so blasphemous, to do this, to please you and please himself to the thought of you, and then exit the church as if it had never happened. As if he wasn’t trapped fucking his palm like a mutt in heat, unable to control the panting and the incessant whispers of groans that escaped his lips.
Cum beaded at his slit, sticky and dribbling down to the base of his tip.
He wanted nothing more than to heave the door open, taste the slick that ran down your legs, and then bend you over the nearby podium and–
“So wet,” he murmured through the window. The only response you formed was a whimper. “So shameless. Do you feel guilty?”
“O-of course,” you tried. It was pathetic between the hot coiling in your stomach, like a deadly serpent curling around its prey and squeezing. “Do you?”
Sunday tried to imagine a hot tongue cleaning the mess of his cock, tracing the cum pooling at the base and flattening against his tip, angling just right to press into his slit flushed an angry scarlet, like wine and blood.
He could imagine ruining you for any other man. To slam his hips up against yours, to drag the head of his cock along those plush velvety insides until you were sobbing, struggling to accommodate him. He imagined you’d be perfect.
If only he could do all of those things without repercussions.
Tracing the swollen veins of his cock while you played with yourself with wet fingers was already too far. He could foresee punishment on his behalf and yours. Perhaps death, though neither of you deserved such luxury.
He did not answer.
Instead, he asked, “will you return?” His voice was shaky at best, and filthy at worst.
There was a hopeful twinge to his tone. He prayed you did not hear it.
You hesitated. There was a waver in your tone. “I shouldn’t.”
Your voice sent his mind reeling. He was thumbing at his slit while his thighs trembled. When his palm was coated in enough of his cum, he continued dragging his hand up and down the head of his cock.
He was growing dizzy. “But?”
“But I will.”
“This shouldn’t happen again,” Sunday heaved. His hand grew desperate, wetter, and the urge to pull the door of the confessional off its hinges and take you on the floor and away from the stained glass windows where the sun peered through was filling his senses. He yearned to know what you felt like squeezing around him. “You should not let this happen again.”
“I need you, Reverend,” you confessed. “If I am honest, my sins will be atoned for. As will yours.”
“You will not touch me tonight, and I will not touch you.” It was final. Without room for argument, though he sounded somewhat disappointed.
“But what about tomorrow night?”
Sunday breathed against the wood, tugging at his collar and rolling his hips into his hand. “If you return, I will punish you for it.”
“You tempt me, Reverend,” you said through a moan. “I will think of you tonight.” Your fingers had returned to your hole. He’d recognised the noise, somehow more obscene than it had been before.
His cock ached with hatred. How you would feel dripping down him like an unsatiated whore, trying so desperately to ask for his forgiveness, to try and seduce Godhood.
He hoped you felt empty. He hoped you hungered for his cock through the wall, breathing erratic and loud as his palm dragged along the length of hot skin over and over again.
Ecstasy filled his throat and every vein in his body. Goodness, the edge was glorious. He pilfered off the side for a moment before he stopped his hand.
His cock twitched in agony and he let out a groan that tapered off.
“Don’t you dare cum,” he snapped through the box.
You whined, but your hand obediently stilled
“I would imagine you’re filthy now.” He pressed his forehead to the cool wood. The surface heated up along with his skin almost instantly. It was so hot here. “Use your fingers again.”
“How many?”
So obedient. He almost purred at your behaviour. “Two.”
Oh, he spoiled you. That familiar sound again, so wet and warm and inviting, and you were moaning and shivering around your own hand. He could imagine slippery slick pooling along your palm now, lathering your fingers like a thin paste.
His own fingers found the flushed swollen tip of his cock again. It twitched in his palm. There was a greedy puddle of cum forming at the base of his cock now, and he quickly wiped drool from his lip.
Already frazzled from the orgasm he’d denied just mere minutes ago, your breathing grew louder and louder, though not alarming enough.
“Touch yourself again,” he rasped out. His halo was now a liability, too ironic. His wings were cramped against the interior walls, desperate to be let out. Wet fingers rubbed along his tip in rhythm with the sound of your own moving against yourself, drawing wet slippery rings around that adorable swollen bundle of nerves between your legs.
He hopes you struggle to cum tonight without his guidance. It’s a fleeting thought, but it makes his thighs lock and freeze against the seat.
He hopes you never find any satisfaction in another man. Wouldn’t that be a spectacle? A mindless bumbling whore stumbling after a High Priest, another Bronze Melodia.
You were murmuring his name now in a never ending chant of prayer.
Saliva caught in his throat as he breathed.
“Rub that pretty clit harder, will you?” Still in tune with your second hand that had finally pulled off of the bars to trace around the rim of your hole. He tried his best to keep up with the noise, eyes still wound shut.
You were hopeless. Struggling at the ministrations like a squirming worm caught on a hook. Your knuckles knocked against the confessional before your fingers slid into yourself.
This was heaven.
He knew it so, no matter how wrong it felt. It was a feeling, not the real thing; never the real thing. Not after tonight, but he could live with himself, if he ended up buried inside of you.
His tip bubbled and drooled at the thought of it.
You taught him self indulgence. And as sinful as it was, as wicked as it felt to buck his hips into his own palm, slick with need and sweat and dribbles of saliva that had fallen from his lips, he loved every pull of his skin.
Oh, it was awful. And it was so good. So treacherous, so disgustingly unholy, so blasphemous and insulting to do this in the very place he’d learned to be sacrificial and sanctified. Where he’d sit on the confessional with a heavy halo and a light heart and try to feel for the heathen on the other side of the window.
Spills of moans and moans left your lips, fingers working at that pace he had commanded of you. Your palms must have been soaked in your own slick now, the delicate flesh between your legs swollen and dark with blood.
He wanted to touch you.
It took everything at this point to keep the door shut. Like a woman being tempted by a serpent to bite into a forbidden fruit off of a large tree. He was sure you would have also indulged, had he offered you a slice of the fruit.
“I’m–” You couldn’t finish the sentence. The wood of the box groaned beneath the shared weight. “I need to–”
Oh. The scent was delicious. The hissing of a snake in his ears, the watchful eyes of a nightingale from somewhere far away, the taste of a sweet fruit running along his tongue.
He hoped you returned.
“Go on. Isn’t that what you came for?” He dared to say more, but instead bit down on his lip.
You bit down first on the fruit.
You came much more broken than he would have expected, and his hands paused around his cock to listen to that gorgeous melody. The drawn out whine came out more as a sob, fingers still drawing tight and hard circles around your clit as your hole clenched around weakened fingers.
Such a beautiful noise. You sounded as though you were struggling through wet heaves, filthy soaked fleshed between your thighs, skin tattered in sweat and bathed in the sunlight just barely peeking above the horizon from out of the window.
You whispered his name like a prayer. A pitiful drone, as if you’d become fully aware of your transgressions.
Wet fingers returned to the window.
His hot breath cooled the slick stuck to your skin, but Sunday kept his tongue pulled behind his teeth. Did you feel empty? Did you want more? Did you also want to pull open the door to the confessional and take him in the seat?
Your voice was weak. “Sire…”
Your tone rippled beneath his skin. His face was on fire. His hand sped up.
“How close are you?”
A whine ripped from his throat. “So close.”
He heard you breathe a hoarse laugh and his feathers raised behind his ears, and it was still one of the most ethereal tunes he’d ever had the honour to listen to.
His wrist grew tired, but he pressed on, thumbing at the overtly sensitive tip and his bubbling slit that wept in tandem. He watched your fingers against the window closely, imagining the heat of your flesh curled around his cock instead.
His cock twitched and twitched in his palm, and his hips raised off the seat for a moment.
Sunday heard you swallow. A hum rumbled in your throat, low and pretty.
He was sure you could hear how slick he was. It was humiliating how hard he’d grown just from the sound of you.
The wings below his ears were crushed against the wooden wall. The bones ached, but he ignored everything in favour of the sound of your breathing so close to his ear.
The sun had now drowned below the horizon.
“Cum, sir.” What a pretty plea. Your fingers tightened around the bars of the window. “Please.”
Sunday gasped, his own knuckles pulling back and knocking the other wall of the confessional as his hips twitched and twitched and he squirmed and his cock felt as though it was going to burst.
He came then, almost weeping as his teeth sunk into his sore knuckles. The sharp vertices of his halo felt weightless and warm, and his shirt felt just as constricting as it had before he’d come undone.
It was like fire oozing from him. Cum dribbled from his tip and painted his palms impossibly stickier than before. What fell from his hands pooled into a puddle on the seat and he grimaced.
An angry and raw garble escaped his throat at your words; who were you to do this to him? How could you do this to him—his cock twitched again, this time violently, as if aching for another round. His palm pressed heavy to his tip, still flushed that beautiful scarlet, and fattened with blood, experimentally giving it another drag along his palm.
Sunday’s hips jutted forward into his hand again. A discomforting chill ran up his spine and remained at the nape of his neck.
Viciously, he tore his hand away from his cock, staring at his sullied hand as if it had betrayed him. Maybe it had, you see, for he had no foresight his body would succumb to such temptations.
His body should not have succumbed. He should not have succumbed.
This was beyond his teachings; cardinal sin and disloyalty to Xipe, whom he praised every night with withering and wavering hands.
And now they were tainted.
“Just a taste, Reverend.”
Sunday’s spine stiffened as if a hot metal rod had replaced the bone.
His skin ached and his teeth vibrated with disgust. Sacrilege. That’s what it was. Vengeful and spiteful, much unlike sweetened delectable fruits off of a tree in the Garden of Eden. This should not have happened. You shouldn’t have ever come here.
He had an inkling of a feeling, as fleeting and dull as it was, that you did not feel guilty for your actions.
His teeth gritted, and his jaw ached in accordance.
Wretched thing.
Sunday, disgusted in his actions, ignoring the beads of sweat pooling down his neck like pearls, held out the degloved hand tainted in his cum through the gap in the window.
A tongue curled around his fingers, hot and heavy, and dragged up from the tip of his nails to his knuckles.
He resisted the urge to make a noise, instead catching his tongue in his teeth and biting down enough to draw blood.
His cock was swelling with blood again, tip flushed and leaking once more. He refused to touch himself again. He had already ruined the tranquillity of the church. He had already ruined you.
Sunday’s fingers twitched in your mouth before they dragged down your tongue.
When he was sure you were done, and his hand was covered in your spit, he grabbed your chin and drew you as close to the window as he could.
There, he managed to catch a glimpse of your face.
Sweaty, mangled, ruined, and so imperfect that his cheeks fill with blood at the sight of you. Your image is ruined by the light from the still burning votive candles from the completed service hours ago that shines behind you, branding the crown of your head like a halo.
Sunday assumed he looked worse.
“You will speak of this to no one,” he rasped. “Not ever.”
“No, sir,” you whispered. There was an impervious grin stretched into your lips. “It’ll be our little secret.”
“The second I hear wind that you’ve been sharing this night with those undeserving, I’ll rip your tongue from your filthy throat.”
You exhaled shakily. There were stars in your eyes.
Sunday’s eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line.
“Of course.”
He let go of your chin and tossed you as far as he could backwards through the window of the confessional. You teetered, wobbly in your position of kneeling, before you briskly stood up.
He couldn’t bear the sight of bare legs, so he looked away and shrunk down into the corner of the box, out of view of the sunlight, and the barred window.
Sunday did catch a glimpse of those expensive shoes. Too expensive, too fancy for a church setting. Your clothes were the same, too form fitting to be dubbed appropriate in such a sacred place.
How could you appease to THEM if you were dressed to seduce their messengers?
He said nothing, did nothing, silently wallowing in pitiful hatred as white hot pin pricks of one thousand needles formed behind his eyes. His wings curled around his waist.
He let out a breath that caught in his throat.
“Goodnight, Reverend,” was all you murmured to him.
Your fingers retreated from the window.
Sunday attentively listened to the sound of your footsteps. He hoped he could be forgiven for this. He watched the ceiling with disdain.
When he heard you leave, and the telltale slam of the door shutting behind you, he retracted his hand still coated in your saliva and thumbed at the tip of his cock.
Your spit slid so easily against him.
He shuddered, and then he moaned. It echoed along the walls.
Silently praying for forgiveness, and covering his eyes with his other hand in the process, he drowned once more in solitude.
summary. you’re the worst person ever, distract him from his work, beat him at chess, and yet doctor ratio still can’t seem to hate your presence as much as he lets on.
notes. “nvuy please update your fics” NO.
my favourite person ever informed me that when owlbert lists all of ratio’s degrees, chemistry is not one of them, so i thought that was funny. but anyway i always lowkey forget ratio exists but then he appears in game and i go Good Lord and then go about my day. that man’s arms do something to me.
warnings. suggestive content, one intense make out session, you’re a freak LMAO, ratio thinks you’re a freak too, this is lowkey crack, i wrote this tipsy, gn reader but you do wear lipgloss.
“Hi, Doctor.”
Veritas’ fingers slid against the screen like nails on a chalkboard. A headache was already starting to form behind his eyes, and he squeezed them shut for a moment before he unwillingly opened them again.
“Yes. Good evening to you.”
Keep the pleasantries. Don’t yell. Don’t throw a punch. Don’t slam another book on anyone else’s head.
You sat down in the seat beside him with a purple soda can in your hand. “Whatcha doin’?”
Veritas cleared his throat. “I’m working.” He glanced up at the top of his screen. “And, judging by the time, you should be working as well.”
You weren’t even listening, choosing instead to pick up a stray notebook that he’d left on the desk. The page was filled with scribble and stupid math symbols—actually, that was not scribble. That was just his handwriting.
Gross. You grimaced at the page before you turned it. The next page, and the next, creased and scarred with harsh pen markings, looked undoubtedly the same.
“Work is for losers,” was all you remarked. You obnoxiously sipped at your drink.
Ratio scoffed. “How you even landed a position working for Madame Herta is beyond me. You are clearly a liability.”
You snorted. “I got hired because I’m sexy and smart.” You were picking at your nails, painted a deep purple like his hair. “You’re only here because Miss Asta needed help. After her problem is solved, you can go back to moping about how you don’t have a chemistry degree.”
You watched his jaw visibly tighten. His teeth gnashed together, and you swore you could hear them grinding behind his lips.
“It is a work in progress,” was all he said.
“Yap, yap.” You made a talking gesture with your hands. “I’m the professional here. That’s why Miss Asta made me lead chemist.”
Such a shame your ego overshadowed such a pretty face.
“What do you want?” he asked, trying to return to his notebook.
“I want to play chess.”
“I’m busy.”
You blew a raspberry. You punched him playfully in the shoulder. You almost hurt your knuckles bopping his bicep. “You’re just scared you’ll lose.”
His glanced up so quickly you swore you heard his neck crack. He raised an eyebrow in a challenging gesture, as if daring you to repeat yourself.
You only stared at him expectantly.
“One game,” he rushed out, face reddening in frustration. The look he gave you could’ve killed, but you knew him better than that. His strangely jacked physique wasn’t built to maim, and if he wanted to smack you with his tablet, he would’ve done so already. “And if I win, you will leave me alone.”
“Mmm, okay.” You shrugged. “And if I win, I get a kiss.” You tapped your cheek twice.
Veritas reeled back. Then, taken aback, he spluttered, “that’s all?”
You took another sip of your drink.
Then, you blinked. “Yep.”
Ratio, too, reciprocated, blinking wildly as if he hadn’t even processed what had come out of your mouth.
You grinned at him, eyes crinkling below your lashes as he eyed you down like he was viewing a sample through a microscope.
Then, he sighed. “Fine.” He tapped away on his screen. One of his floating gadgets projected a holographic chessboard onto his desk. “I suppose somebody has to dull that ego of yours.”
You leaned back in your seat and waved him off lightly. “You can go first.”
The chessboard flipped, and the white pieces faced him.
*ೃ༄
“Hey, does this thing have speech detection?” You leaned closer to the board. “Knight to B4.”
As expected, the small porcelain knight upon the board moved forward into its newly assigned position.
Ratio scoffed, clearly irritated. His fingers tapped idly against the desk. “You are so frustratingly lazy. It’s a miracle you get your work done, and such a shame it impedes your potential brilliance.”
You only made another talking motion with your hands. As he thought long and hard about his next move, you yawned. He took everything so seriously.
No wonder he was so jacked. He was constantly tense. It probably counted as a workout.
“You think I’m brilliant?” you asked with a smile.
“I think you have selective hearing.” Finally, he moved one of his pieces forward. “But, yes. Miss Asta speaks highly of you.”
“Aww. I’ll give her a smooch later.” That was a relief to hear, actually. Sometimes you worried if she’d boot you out of your position because of your tardiness. It was good that she still wanted you working in the station, despite lagging behind on reports and important meetings.
When you glanced up from the board after telling a pawn to move forward one space, Ratio’s eyes caught yours before he briskly looked down at the hologram once more.
Ratio was trying to read the board. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Just what are you doing?”
“Winning.”
“You are not winning.”
“Sure I am.” You leaned back in the seat once more. “Checkmate.”
Veritas’ eyes snapped up to gawp at you.
“Excuse me?”
“Checkmate,” you repeated. “I know I’m distracting. I have that effect on loser nerds with big egos.”
Veritas was staring at the board again. He was trying to piece together your previous moves, as the holographic board began to play in reverse. He was no cheat, no, never, and you didn’t expect him to do it as you were watching either, but it was clear as day.
He lost.
Your tongue carded along the rim of the soda can. “L-O-L.”
“This doesn’t even make sense,” Veritas mumbled, fingers rubbing circles into his temples. “You didn’t even have a plausible strategy.”
“Yeah, I did.” You placed a defensive hand over your heart. “You just don’t know it, because I have such a great poker face.”
“Chess doesn’t warrant a poker face.”
“Well, then, if you’re not willing to know my genius strategy–”
“No.” Veritas glared at you. “You will tell me.”
“Sure. I’m more worried about my reward, though.”
The look he gave you made you howl with laughter. It was a twist of his lips into something unsavoury as if he’d just swallowed a shot of vinegar. His brows knitted together and those unfairly long dark lashes casted a jagged shadow over his cheeks.
The chess board disappeared with a small noise and the screen returned to normal.
You leaned forward, batting your own lashes at him.
Veritas, after displaying a shaky grimace on his lips, met you halfway and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to your cheek.
You looked offended when he pulled back.
You whined. “What was that?”
“Your reward,” he argued.
“You just brushed your lips on me. Do you kiss everyone like that?” You were quite literally sulking, more so to get on his nerves.
It was working.
You swore you noticed a vein twinge on his temple. “I don’t just kiss anyone, thank you. Especially not over a game of chess.”
“You’re not getting my genius strategy, then.”
“Fine.”
This time, when his lips went for your cheek again, you turned your head.
Veritas let out an embarrassing noise that you’d never forget.
When he tried to pull away, clearly flustered and radiating so hot you were convinced he’d combust right there in his chair, you locked a hand in his hair.
Flustered for a moment, he then returned your enthusiasm ten fold, large hands curling around your waist and keeping the excited jittering of your legs still.
“Somebody will see,” he mumbled against your lips quietly.
To address his concerns, you dipped down lower in your seat behind the wall of his desk. Anyone that was watching would look away if they knew what was good for them.
Pulling away from his lips proved difficult. You caught the taste of his evening coffee, as well as the scent of cashmeran, and something that smelled faintly of chestnut and the smoky smell of a nice warm fireplace.
“You smell nice,” you whispered. Your voice was slightly hoarse. “What’re you wearing?”
The grin you had stretched on your face said it all.
Veritas snarled against your lips. “A physics degree.”
His lips hit your teeth when you grinned. “Can’t taste better than a chemistry degree.”
“You are horrible.”
Your hand crept along the waistband of his pants, feeling along the ribbons and the sleek expensive material. It was like cotton, but somehow even softer against your fingers, as if the thread count was bordering on six-hundred.
He reeled back when he finally processed the feeling of your fingertips slipping below his clothes. “Watch yourself.”
“Blah, blah, blah.” He made no effort to remove your hands, so a finger then hooked beneath the border of the hole over his chest. “Come ‘ere, Doctor.”
The light in your eyes was almost as intimidating as when you pressed your lips back into his, this time firmer, as if you were trying to mould your skin to his.
His skin was surprisingly warm for how cold he behaved. His scent was addicting. Freshly printed books and a warm winter’s night.
It tore a low and pleasant groan from your throat.
Surprisingly, he did not push away when your lips slipped from his mouth and traced the line of his jaw.
Instead, he sighed defeatedly and angled his jaw for you. You hummed, clearly content.
“Enjoying yourself?” he mused.
“Mhm.” You wondered whether he’d let you suck a bruise beneath his ear. “You’re soft. For a man.”
Veritas scoffed at that. He would insist that you were softer, but he instead bit his tongue. Of course he was soft. He took care of his skin, and he didn’t waste his life away drinking that filth you called soda.
He usually hated that artificial grape flavour, but he supposed the taste of your lips helped quell the awful amount of sugar still resting on your tongue.
He stiffened beneath you. He hadn’t even realised you had crawled into his lap. “Are you leaving marks?”
“Yep.” Your lips had dipped down to the base of his neck to stain the thin stretch of skin there.
“Oh, you–!” His eyes squeezed shut when your teeth carded along his jugular in warning.
The poor man looked two seconds away from a heart attack. His pupils almost turned to slits. He couldn’t tell whether he wanted to push you away or draw you closer. It was a mix of heat and blur that made his vision swirl with colour.
He felt unreasonably dizzy. He was grateful he was still sitting at his desk, for he was sure his knees would have given out beneath him otherwise.
Your lips pulled back for a moment. Sticky. He could smell a tinge of kiwi fruit from the gloss smeared over your lips. He was sure it was lathered all over his jaw like thick paste. The remaining hour of his shift would be a mix of rushing the rest of his report, and trying to scrub your makeup from his face.
Part of him wanted the stains to stay there, as unprofessional the thought was.
His silent brooding while your thighs warmed his were interrupted by approaching heels. Black kitten heels, to be exact, with a dark pinkish plum soles. He recognised her footsteps from miles away.
His heart stopped.
“Um… Doctor Ratio? I’m just receiving word that– oh my stars!”
Too late.
Veritas sprang from his seat, shoving you back into your own chair, much to your chagrin. Your hand fell from beneath the material of his shirt.
The damage had already been done, however.
Poor Lead Astronomer Asta stood frozen, face red, holding a clipboard with way too many pink highlighted paragraphs on the paper.
Veritas awkwardly cleared his throat, and tried to wipe the sticky gloss off his lips. “The report will be with you in an hour.”
Asta merely blinked at him. Her cheeks were brighter than her hair.
Her eyes then flitted towards you. She looked like she had seen a ghost.
You waved. “Hey, queen.”
Then, she nodded once in a greeting, squeaked an, “okay, thanks,” to the doctor and then rushed away, still hot in the face.
You could see the uneven rise and fall of Veritas’ chest. You were sure his heart was racing beneath his skin; yours was exactly the same, maybe arguably even quicker.
“Terrific.” Veritas turned his head to ridicule you. Scary for a dude with lipgloss smeared all over his face. “You’ve traumatised the poor girl.”
He heard you sigh. “I was just getting started.” You slouched in your chair, defeated. You checked your watch, noticing the giant seven tick over. “I’m hungry.”
“Eat, then. It’s dinner time.” He sat back down in his chair after he was sure he’d cleaned his face of your makeup.
“I was having dinner.” You finished the last of your soda and tapped at the can absentmindedly with your nails. “And was just getting to dessert.”
“You have an awful tongue.” He waved you off with his hands, fed up. “Now, shoo. I’m busy.”
“You’re so boring. What do you do for fun? Read?” He opened his mouth to answer, but you stopped him before he could embarrass himself even further. “Don’t answer that.”
Veritas rolled his eyes.
Instead, he chose to ignore you and pull the data back up onto his screen. His handwriting is still the most horrific thing you’ve ever seen, but it’s almost fascinating watching him write like that.
It’s just a line that only he can understand. Like his own nerd language.
You found it sort of hot.
Your eyes darted over to the bathroom door. “Hey, Doctor… What about–”
His eyes flared, and his grip on his pen grew tighter. He almost split a hole into the paper. "We are not having a rendezvous in the bathroom, nor will I be coming home with you.”
"Aww."
"But, for what's its worth, I commend your bravery in asking such a bizarre thing."
Ooh, praise. Lovely. "Eh." You clicked your tongue and leaned forward to kiss the side of his hair. “Worth a try.”
When you pull away, he does not look up, but his cheeks are tinged a lovely pink.
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