Kneel Pretty
Devils Night One-Shot Fan Fiction
Kai Mori (Father Kai) x Reader one-shot Devil’s Night Universe Genre: Dark Romance, Forbidden Romance, Smutty One-Shot, Religious Imagery, Tension-heavy, seductive, reverent and filthy. Warnings: Religious themes (priest kink), Power imbalance , light degradation/name calling, obsession dark romance themes. Summary/Blurb: Father Kai was meant to guide you toward salvation, but your confessions only ever made him fall further. Late-night visits to the church turn into something unholy when the girl who tempts him most steps into the booth with every intention of breaking him. And he lets her. Because this time, the sin feels a lot like worship.
nsfw content!
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The air in the church was thick with incense and silence.
It clung to the back of your throat, warm and heavy, as you stepped into the old confessional.
You weren’t religious. You never had been.
But every week, like clockwork, you came to him.
Father Kai.
He never called you by name.
Never touched you.
But his voice—low, velvety, laced with something that didn’t belong in a house of God—slid through the grate and made your thighs press together in guilt and want.
You knelt.
The candlelight flickered. And then you heard it: the familiar click of the door across from you.
He was here.
The quiet creak of leather gloves as he shifted. The faint scent of clove and spice.
Your heart stuttered.
“Forgive me, Father,” you breathed, head bowed.
“I’ve sinned again.”
A pause. Long enough to make your stomach twist.
Then his voice came—calm, cold, and cruelly patient.
“Then kneel pretty,” he said, “and tell me all about it.”
You shifted on your knees, the hard wood beneath you biting into skin, but you didn’t care. You never did.
Not when you knew he was on the other side of the screen.
The air between you sparked with static—his breath quiet, measured, too calm for what he had to know you were feeling.
“What is it this time?” he asked, voice smooth as velvet.
“Another man?”
A pause.
“A thought you shouldn’t have entertained?”
You exhaled, lips parted, your voice barely a whisper.
“No. Just one man.”
The silence crackled. You could practically feel his restraint.
“I see.”
You dared to shift again—just a little—thighs pressing together in a way you hoped he could hear. You knew it was wrong. That was the point.
You wanted him to feel it too.
“I wore the dress you hate,” you confessed.
“The one that rides up when I kneel.”
The edge in his breath told you everything.
“I’m not here to play with you,” he murmured, but his tone betrayed him—deep and frayed and strained.
You smiled, wicked and soft.
“You never are.”
Another long pause. This one felt like it stretched miles.
“You came here to be punished,” he said. Not a question—just a fact.
You bit your bottom lip and nodded even though he couldn’t see.
“Say it.”
“I came here to be punished, Father.”
He hummed low—almost pleased. It made your stomach flutter and twist with anticipation.
“I should make you pray,” he said.
“Out loud. On your knees. Until your throat is raw and you regret ever teasing me with that little f*cking dress.”
Your breath hitched. Your spine straightened.
“But I won’t,” he continued, voice laced with mercy dipped in sin.
“Because I like the way you break without me having to touch you.”
You clenched your fists, thighs aching, and whispered—
“Please.”
He chuckled, low and dangerous.
“I’ll tell you when it’s time to beg.”
The confessional creaked with every shift of your weight, the candlelight beyond the lattice flickering like it could sense something unholy about to take place.
You breathed in the scent of him—clove, musk, aged wood, and something sharper. You wondered if his hands were in fists. If he was gripping the edges of the bench to keep from doing what he really wanted.
“I touch myself when I think of you,” you said softly.
There was a pause so long you thought he might have walked out.
Then—
“Say that again.”
Your breath caught.
“I said… I touch myself when I think of you, Father.”
A low exhale. You felt it more than heard it.
“Where?”
The question was a growl—quiet, dangerous, fraying at the seams.
Your heart pounded. Your voice, barely a breath.
“My thighs. My chest. My…”
You hesitated, and he cut in.
“Say it.”
“My p*ssy,” you whispered.
The sound of leather shifting. A low, ragged inhale.
“You are testing me little one,” he muttered darkly. “You want to see what it takes to make me fall.”
And you did.
You wanted to see what Kai Mori looked like when he finally gave in.
“I want you to break your vows,” you said. “For me.”
He didn’t speak for a long time. Just the beat of your breath. The throb between your legs. The fire building.
Then—
The booth door creaked open. Heavy footsteps.
Your door snapped open.
And there he stood.
No mask. No collar. Just a man who’d spent too long pretending not to want what he did.
“You want to sin?” he asked, voice low and raw.
He stepped in, pulled the door shut behind him, and backed you against the wall of the booth. His eyes were black in the candlelight, jaw tight, breath ragged.
“Then kneel, pretty girl.”
You sank, heart hammering.
And when his fingers tangled in your hair, guiding your mouth where he’d been dreaming of it every night since you started coming here, he whispered it again—
“Only for me.”
The candlelight outside flickered like it knew—like it blessed what was happening behind the booth’s carved door.
You were already on your knees. You knew what you looked like from down there—eyes wide, lips parted, desperate.
Kai stood over you, quiet, composed… until he wasn’t.
“I’ve dreamed about this,” he muttered, his voice wrecked. “You on your knees in a church. Not praying. Just mine.”
He stroked a finger across your bottom lip, watching it drag and catch.
“Open.”
You did—obedient, aching.
He slid his thumb inside your mouth, pressing down on your tongue.
“Good girl,” he breathed, and you swore you saw his composure fracture right then and there.
“I should feel ashamed,” he muttered, “but all I can think about is how fucking perfect you look like this.”
You whimpered, and he pulled his thumb out slowly, then traced your cheek with the back of his hand.
“Such a pretty little thing,” he whispered. “Always testing me. Always looking at me like you want me to ruin you.”
Your breath hitched. “Maybe I do.”
His jaw clenched. His hand tangled in your hair.
“Then take what you asked for, little one.”
And he gave it to you—raw and reverent, slow at first, careful, like this was still sacred somehow. His hips rolled forward, controlled but needy, as your mouth welcomed him in—like a confession.
He didn’t stop talking. Whispering filth against your temple, praises laced with sin.
“You look so good like this.”
“Is this what you came here for, little one?”
“You taste like salvation. F*ck.”
You hollowed your cheeks, eyes locked on his—watching him fall from grace with every quiet moan he tried to bite back.
“Kai,” you gasped when he pulled you up, needing more, his restraint crumbling.
He backed you against the booth wall, one hand slipping up your thigh, fingers dragging through the mess between your legs.
“God won’t hear you here,” he murmured. “But I will.”
His mouth was on yours, tongue claiming, teeth scraping. His other hand cupped your jaw, holding you still.
“I’ll take your prayers now,” he said into your lips.
And he did—every gasp, every whimper, every desperate cry of please, more, yes, Father—like each one belonged to him.
Because they did.
The air in the confessional was thick with sweat and candle wax and him—his breath still uneven, lips swollen, collar askew.
You were curled against his chest now, tucked beneath his arm on the worn pew bench, your body still humming from what he’d done to you.
Kai’s fingers combed through your hair in lazy, reverent strokes, his other hand wrapped around your thigh like he wasn’t ready to let go. Like he never would be.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured, though his voice held no regret—just that soft, ruined rasp like you’d finally undone the last of his edges.
You tilted your head up, eyes finding his in the warm dark.
“But you did,” you whispered. “And I’d let you do it again.”
His jaw twitched, his mouth ghosting over your temple. He didn’t answer—not right away. Just pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips. Soft. Lingered. Possessive.
“You’re not a sin,” he said finally. “You’re a fucking test.”
You smiled, drunk on him, on the warmth, the quiet, the way he looked at you like you were the first thing he’d ever wanted for himself.
And then, even quieter—
“My little one.”
Your heart thudded. His hand squeezed your thigh just once before relaxing again.
“I can’t go back now,” he said into your hair. “Not after this.”
You shifted closer, fingers sliding beneath his shirt, palm flat over his heartbeat.
“Then don’t.”
The candles outside burned lower. The chapel beyond the booth stayed quiet. And in the shadows, wrapped up in his arms, you finally felt chosen.
Not saved.
But kept.
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