coolcatreader

19 everything i want, wants me more 🏹🪽

[coolcatreader222]

salvation

sam golbach x reader fanfic… pls bear with me and accept my vision for just a second

wc: 4k

warning tags: uhhh blasphemy. a little crying. some blood. blades on skin. weird smut(?). lots of love!

religion was meant to be an escape, something comforting to look at when you couldn’t explain the hardships of life. you had prayed to Him many times before–during moments of sorrow or confusion, even frivolously just minutes before an exam. He was your refuge.

this, however, was different. this was sinister. this was blasphemous. 

“this feels wrong,” you mutter as you step into the church, stumbling slightly from the uneven footing and almost dropping the camera in your hands.

“why? ‘cause it’s dark?” colby chuckles as he follows behind you with the second camera in hand. “i literally can’t see anything.” 

“i’ve just never been to church under these conditions,” you give them both an awkward laugh. “it’s always felt…safer. lighter? more welcoming, i guess.” 

you glance around the space. the pews stretch on much longer than you’re used to; you only see them blend into the sea of darkness. the altar is barely visible from the entrance, yet you can make Him out almost immediately. He’s resting above the altar, observing the three of you all while His head bowed to the side. you lock eyes with the familiar figure and begin to mumble a short prayer, interrupted only when sam gently tugs at your sleeve, motioning for you to follow him.

you peel your eyes away from Him to meet his instead. he flashes you a smile before setting the bag full of equipment down one of the front pews. 

“i still can’t believe you agreed to do this investigation with us,” he voices, his hands busy with pulling out various spirit communication tools. “i thought this type of stuff was considered ‘sinful.’”

“not too much now,” you hear colby mumble, pointing the camera right at his face only to be playfully shoved away.

“it is a sin…for me, at least.”

“you’re sinning? just for us?”

you shoot him a glare and point the camera towards him the second you hear his mocking, condescending tone. 

“but still, i don’t think anything evil can reside in such a place,” you state matter-of-factly. “not when He’s watching over us.” you glance back up to the figure from before, now unable to make out His eyes–only the silhouette of His limp body hanging off the cross.

“just wait,” he scoffs as he pulls out a music box.

you turn on the LED light panel on the camera as you begin filming him, the latter explaining the use of the music box. he walks up to the altar and gently sets it down. only when he waves his hand in front of it does the eerie music flood the vacant space. when he pulls away, the tune dies down.

the investigation carries on and nothing happens, much like you had predicted. worship grounds like this are no different at night than they are in broad daylight. a little eerie but nothing to make you severely uneasy. 

you set the camera down before muttering, “i told you guys nothing would happen.” the smug look on your face is wiped clean off when you feel something tug the back end of your shirt. your heart sinking, you turn back, but nothing’s there. colby immediately goes up to film you, to get you to recount what exactly happened. 

“what’re you gonna do when you go home with an attachment?” sam quietly scoffs.

“attachment?” you echo, your eyes peeling away from colby to look over at him. “but it’s not like i upset any of the spirits, right?” you knew he was joking, that he was just trying to scare you, but the panic in your voice is evident now.

what were the rules among spirits? could they just attach themselves to anyone? why you? why not them, when they’ve been dealing with these sick and twisted investigations for years?

“ask Him, i don’t know.” he tilts his head toward Him, His limp body still hanging off the cross. His eyes are now looking at you, so full of disappointment. disappointed that you would mess with the occult in such a way.

the second you meet His solemn, sunken face, the shame crashing into you, the music box goes off. so much is going on, yet you reach for the camera, your shaky hands turning it on and recording the pair in front of you. it doesn’t happen again. there isn’t another moment where anything steps up to the music box. the three of you are met with silence, only disrupted by your uneven breathing.

“d’you guys think it’s gone..?” you mutter, your posture finally straightening up and hands more steady.

sam shrugs. colby shakes his head.

“do you need a moment?” sam asks.

you nod.

you hesitantly move to sit at one of the pews, your head still spinning. you dig into one of the equipment bags, shaky hands pulling out a handheld, wooden crucifix. you’re about to sink into your knees and mutter a quiet prayer when you spot it. it had been so dark earlier that you couldn’t quite make it out at first, but now? now it’s inviting you to step closer, begging for you to whisper everything to it.

you get up and walk down the nave, past the empty, lifeless pews and make your way toward it. you open the creaky door to the single-person confessional booth to make sure no one–or anything–is inside. you close the door and fall onto your knees, now face-to-face with the screen separating you from the inside. no cushion–just the cold, wooden floors pressed against your knees.

you rest the crucifix on your lap before clasping your hands together, your eyes now shut and muttering quiet words. everything else melts away. you, your words, and Him. 

you open your eyes, give your thanks, and look up only to find him staring down at you, his silhouette looming over you.

“you sure you okay? we can call this off if you’re not feeling well,” sam sighs, kneeling down to your level. 

you shake your head. “we’re already here. i don’t want you guys to scrap this video just ‘cause i’m scared.” your hands absentmindedly move to the crucifix on your lap–anything to keep them busy. 

“you’re literally shaking,” he comments, your name coming out in a tired breath. “come on.”

he reaches for your hand and helps you up from your knees. he opens the creaky door to the confessional booth, muttering something before gesturing you to go in. you hesitate. sure, you have seen the inside, but you have never actually stepped foot into one of these. you have only known them from the outside where you have whispered all your secrets into it. 

despite your unease, you take a step inside and sit down on the stiff, wooden chair. you look up at him–him towering over you–your eyes wide and searching for any comforting features on his face. you can only make out the slight glimmer in his eyes, everything else sunken and hollow. 

when he doesn’t say anything, you quietly ask, “what are you doing?”

he sinks down to one knee in front of you, his head tilted to the side as he stares up at you, his face suddenly softer than before. “tell me what you really want.”

you freeze, your legs instinctively squeezing shut. your hands, which once rested calmly on your lap, are now holding onto the side of the chair, nails digging into the rotten wood. the crucifix you once gripped onto lay on your lap. idle. lifeless.

“what?” you choke out.

“do you really wanna keep doing this?” 

a mixture of anticipation and fear settles into your lower stomach. the butterflies were out for blood today. 

“huh–?”

“the investigation,” he cuts you off, clarifying after seeing the obvious concern on your face. your furrowed eyebrows, your parted lips, your flushed cheeks–it was all too easy to mess with you. “...or whatever you’re thinking about,” he snickers.

“i’m already sinning. i don’t know what to do,” you admit, trying to shake off the feeling of the butterflies-turned-maggots eating you from the inside. his little comment at the end makes them double in amount, sending chills down your spine.

he looks around the tiny confessional booth and back to the empty nave. “we’re in a church. use it to your advantage.”

“i can try confessing,” you suggest. “i already prayed, but…” you trail off, shaking your head and giving him a tiny frown.

“yeah. yeah, whatever works for you.” he gets back up and steps out of the confined space, giving you enough wiggle room to get out. “want me to play priest?”

the request is innocent in nature–him asking solely because he worries. he didn’t have to offer, didn’t have to help out when it came to your coping mechanism. but he did. and he offered so kindly, his voice so soft and genuine.

you nod, your eyes lingering on his a bit longer than necessary before turning the corner of the confessional booth and sinking back down to your knees.

“do i start?” you ask, your voice hush as you speak into the screen dividing you both. 

no reply.

you hesitantly begin, “forgive me father, for i have sinned. it’s been, uhm, about a month since my last confession.”

you hear him let out a quiet scoff.

“i’ve been messing with the occult, recently. i’ve been contacting otherworldly entities, some even latching themselves onto me.”

there’s another pause.

“i’m sorry for this and all my other sins,” you mumble out, your words unsure as they call out. unsure if you should say more, or leave it at that.

you unclasp your hands and let them fall onto the floor. you lean into the screen slightly.

“sam?” you call out. “why aren’t you saying anything?”

if anything, this “confession” only made your guilt increase. you let out a quiet sigh as you tilt your head up. it’s still dark; He’s still there. if anything, He’s looking down at you with even more disappointment than before. 

His gaze–the one that was usually so tender and warm–is now full of resentment. toward you. the maggots in your stomach increase tenfold, the guilt practically eating you alive through layers of skin and tissue. you tear your eyes away from Him, looking down at the wooden floors. you reach for the crucifix, holding it close to your chest, hoping that would be enough to hide your shame. it’s futile. 

you hear the door creak open followed by the feeling of his hand on your head. you slowly glance up before his hand moves to your jaw, gently forcing you to look up at him, to face him instead of Him.

“keep going. tell me everything.”

all you can do is stare up at him–all wide-eyed and unsure. you open your mouth to speak, to say something, but you’re both met with silence. he smiles down at you, so sweetly, so tenderly, before shoving his thumb past your parted lips. 

“c’mon…weren’t you just begging me to say something earlier? keep confessing.”

you shake your head, his thumb pushing down on your tongue and his index finger holding your jaw in place. he moves them, pulling his thumb out and replacing it by forcefully shoving his index and middle fingers into your warm mouth.

“i’m sorry,” you apologize, the words completely muffled as you gag on the foreign feeling. your eyes begin to water, and you whine as he shoves them farther, cringing at the feeling of his cold rings pressing into your tongue, occasionally grazing your teeth. 

“i’m sorry for–” you gag as he slides his fingers down your throat. “i’m sorry for sinning,” you sob, the tears streaming down your cheeks and falling onto the church floors. the same floors that have probably heard far worse confessions but have never been met with the sight of this.

for his own sick amusement, he shoves them deeper before pulling them out, wiping them clean on your own tear-stained face. 

“you’re disgusting. acting like this in a church,” he scoffs, gesturing for you to stand up.

you get up, your face now covered in a dried up mixture of your tears and saliva. 

he opens the rotting, chipping door to the confessional before guiding you inside. unlike the first time, he closes the door, the two of you nearly suffocating in the confined space. you instinctively take a seat on the chair, staring at him like he would cleanse you of all your sins if you did. 

“keep apologizing to Him. ask Him to wash away all your sins,” he coos, his hand caressing your puffy face. his other hand falls down to the crucifix still in your hands, gently prying it out of them.

“i’m so sorry,” you quietly beg, your eyes still stuck on him. your words so small, so pure. he smiles down at you, admiring you in ways he never had before. he grabs your face, cold fingers gripping you in place as he leans down over you.

“say it like you mean it. i know you do,” he hums. “c’mon, baby.” the hand gripping onto the crucifix comes up to your neck. he presses the nook of it against your throat, the pressure, his scent, his proximity, making you dizzy. the confined space seems to darken even further, your blood hot in your veins as you struggle to make anything out.

“please, cleanse me,” you manage to choke out.

he smiles, his sharp canines evident now more than ever. 

“open your mouth.”

you hesitate for a moment, looking at him with a hint of fear, before slowly, weakly parting your lips.

he applies more pressure to the crucifix, moving it so it angles your jaw up. without warning, he spits into your mouth, his warm, thick saliva hitting your tongue and seeping down your throat. 

“swallow it. let me cleanse you.” 

he leans in a second time, his sticky saliva landing right in between your eyebrows. his free hand comes up and glides it all over your tear-stained face, cleansing you. 

you let out a whine of protest. you try to wiggle away, to try to find a more comfortable position, but the constant pressure on your throat renders your attempts futile. 

“calm down, baby. i’ll give you what you want.” he offers you a kind smile. “just point to where you want me to cleanse you.”

he finally withdraws the crucifix from your throat. your uneven breathing falls back into rhythm with his own labored one. you glance down to see him handing you the crucifix. with shaky hands, you take it back.  

you bring it back up to your chest, instinctively pressing it against your beating heart.

“there?”

his hand presses against yours, pushing the cross closer to your heart as he leans in, peppering kisses down your neck. one nip here, a sink of his teeth there. sharp canines bite into the crook of your neck, drawing the faintest amount of blood. his tongue laps it up before his careful hands move to strip you of your clothing. you’re left sitting on the cold, wooden chair, the rotten wood rasping against the soft skin of your thighs as his hands gingerly pull off your panties. the crucifix sits dead on your lap, offering you the slightest bit of decency from his uncharacteristically hungry eyes.

without a word, he reaches for it. he brings the cross up to your forehead, then your heart, then your left shoulder, then your right shoulder before bringing the tip up to your lips. you give it a few kitten licks, swirling your tongue around it, doing exactly what you think he wants. with a skillful hand, he gently pulls one of your knees apart, then the other. looking you dead in the eye–his gaze still glimmering despite the dim space–he flips the crucifix upside down, dragging the end of it past your heaving, bare chest, past the contours of your stomach, and down to the slick mess between your thighs. so slowly, so teasingly, he pushes it inside, letting out a guttural groan at the sight.

“that’s it, baby,” he coos, still shoving the cross farther into you. “so good for me. letting me cleanse you of all your sins,” he lets out a breathless laugh, fascinated by the sight of you so easily submitting to him, not even waiting for you to adjust to the foreign object before almost pulling it out only to force it back in. 

you buck your hips up, your entire body hot as your eyes helplessly fall down to the cross. your nails pitifully dig into the wood of the chair, trying so hard to stabilize yourself. it’s wrong, you want to argue, but your protests die out as you let out a soft mewl. He’ll never forgive me, but all you can do is merely whimper, your eyes fluttering shut as he thrusts the crucifix deeper, letting out lewd squelches–secrets this confessional booth had never heard prior. you can’t bring yourself to argue with the only man who’s ever made you feel this good. no intimate, late-night prayer to Him could ever top this. right now, he was your salvation. he was the one cleansing you of all your sins. he was the one making you let out such pathetic whines and watching you writhe helplessly. he was the one fucking you so good, so deep–all while He watched.

“sam– oh my God,” you whine, throwing your head back as he painfully draws out your heavenly release.

“that feel good? you want more?” he hums, still stuffing you even after the aftershocks of your climax force your eyes open. “tell me what you want.”

“it…” you breathe out, your hot, labored breaths nearly suffocating you. “it hurts–” you whimper, your mouth hanging open, so shamelessly, as he shoves the cross deeper, harder, rougher. 

“too– too much–” you try to wiggle away, but there’s nowhere for you to go. you shut your eyes once more, your body succumbing to the pain as your second climax is forced out of you.

squirming in your seat, he finally pulls the crucifix out. you hadn’t even realized you were crying until your gaze met his, the world around you blurry and fuzzy.

you stare up at him, eyes the size of the moon as he tosses the crucifix down on the ground, the cross snapping on impact. his hands slide up to pull off his shirt, the fabric now resting on the ground covering the now-broken cross, as if that would be enough to shield His watchful eyes. you were already dead to Him. 

he’s looming over you again, his lean body trapping you against your seat. lips parted, eyes wide–all you can do is stare at your savior. he digs into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a pocket knife. your eyes flicker down to it then back at him. he merely offers you a patient smile before flicking the blade open. he extends his left arm out, his right hand bringing the glistening blade up to his skin and making a shallow cut.

“open,” he instructs, his voice so gentle and kind.

ever the good disciple, you warily part your lips again. instead of getting baptized in his warm saliva, you’re met with the sweet, metallic taste of his blood. it slowly drips down and lands on your tongue. some drops land on your lips, giving you the pleasure of running your tongue over them to lap up every last drop of him.

his hot blood still sluggishly streaming down his forearm, he haphazardly throws the knife alongside the broken cross, his careful hands coming to undo his belt. you try to help him, to show him how badly you want him to finally purify you, but you’re glued to your seat. your body is hot and laggard, and all you can smell is the atypical sweet scent of sweat and metal and stale wood. you can’t see anything other than his lean silhouette and the way he unzips his jeans.

both of your clothes now scattered around the floor of the confessional booth, he takes a step closer to you. the blood, the darkness–his presence should feel animalistic, predatory–but with the way he was so passionately kissing you, hand wrapped gently around your throat as his cock rubbed against your clit–you needed him. he was the only being who had the power to purify you, to finally bathe you clean.

“please…” you whine, tilting your head to the side to give him access, silently pleading he'll leave more bite marks.

“mmh, please what?” he hums, his cock still teasing you.

“purify me,” you manage to finally form the words. “cleanse me of my sins. please.” you’re sobbing now, tears staining your rosy cheeks despite his delicate touch.

he bites down one last time on the side of your neck before pushing his cock into you, so kindly inviting himself in after your pitiful pleas. 

“harder,” you mewl, your body practically limp from finishing the last two times.

his hands slide down the sides of your torso, falling down to your thighs and hooking them under your knees. the blood that seeped out of his forearm now stains your body as he holds you, the heavy metallic smell of it effectively making you dizzy. he brings your legs up to wrap around his own torso, trying to give you exactly what you're begging so sweetly for. you’re so weak, your brain is so fucked-out that you barely find the strength to bring him closer.

your legs now wrapped around him, your own arms wrapped loosely around his neck while he rams into you, you feel his speed increase, his cock hitting all the right spots to make your eyes flutter shut. mouth hanging open and spewing out variations of his name, your hands fall down to his back, your nails digging into his skin as he trusts repeatedly, feverishly into you.

“take it, baby. let my cum purify you,” he groans before biting the side of your neck again, making sure you were thoroughly bruised. 

the obscene sound of his cock fucking you raw mixed with the sounds of your frequent pleas and whines makes him stop what he’s doing.

“no…” you whine, your eyes still closed, your head back, your body marked by him and barely holding on. your nails claw on his back, trying to get him to finish purifying you. 

he takes a moment to adjust himself, taking a moment to admire your helpless face before suddenly thrusting into you once again, pounding you into the seat of the confessional booth.  

his pace is ruthless. his hands are holding your thighs in place as he forces himself deeper.

“gonna cum, baby. you want it inside?” he snickers. he already knows the answer.

you frantically nod, using any energy that you have left in you to plead for it. “please…” 

the sweet sound of your whimpers and mewls, the sight of you so ruined by him, makes his steady, rough pace stutter. his grip on your thighs tightens as he lets out once last groan. 

warmth fills you up, and you finally peel your eyes open as he slows down, still fucking his cum into you.

“good job, baby,” he praises, his thrusts now kind and gentle. one of his hands moves to place your thigh back down, the other one still holding you tight. he pushes your messy hair out of your tear-stained face and presses a kiss onto your forehead. 

“thank you. for cleansing me,”  you breathe out, giving your savior your sincerest appreciation as he carefully pulls out of you. 

despite the dark, confined space, your dilated eyes look down to your now-purified body. your chest is still heaving, your right thigh is smeared with his blood, his cum is now spilling out of you and staining the wooden chair. and even though you couldn’t see it yourself, your face is covered in a mixture of your tears and both of your dried salvia.

your eyes warily fall to the floor to meet the gaze of the broken cross still laying underneath his shirt, and suddenly, He didn’t matter anymore. because he saved you. unlike Him, he was the one who showed you what it meant to be saved from sin. 

author's note: my first fanfic yay! been thinking a lot about the novel the monk and how religious topics are so sexy and taboo. also sam golbach is literally papa like im sooooo hungryyyyyy! anyway, hope u all enjoyed!

[coolcatreader222]

thinking about sitting in a confessional booth and confessing to sam golbach. anyone else?