Unholy
Summary: There’s no way Father Rogers’ gaze keeps wandering to you, a married woman with two children.
Pairing: Dark! Priest! Steve x Reader
Word count: 4.3k
A/N: I was on a hiatus but this wretched monstrosity just kinda happened. I’m so going to hell. Bye.
Main Masterlist // Library
The heat in the church - the Devil's heat as some call it - is stifling. It's nowhere near as stifling, however, as Father Rogers' heavy gaze on your form. Squirming in your Sunday’s best, you carefully avoid it, eyes trained on your open bible, mind focused on the good word.
Jordan, your son, tugs your dress impatiently, whining yet again and inquiring how much longer the service will last. Scolding him with a raised finger, you urge him to keep quiet. Jordan huffs and pouts, crossing his arms with a sullen expression.
Predictably, your husband, Kyle, wields the strongest argument and bargains for his good behavior with the promise of ice cream on the way back home. You sigh. It’s a wonder the kid hasn't turned into a mountain of sugar cubes already, from how often Kyle bribes him with the promise of sweet delights. You’ll need to have a firm talk with him about that. The dentist’s judgemental stare from your son’s last check-up visit still haunts you.
As usual, hushed whispers spread as Father Rogers gives his sermon. Ever since Father Wilson moved on to a new parish, his successor has been the talk of the town. While before, churchgoers sometimes slacked in their attendance, there is not a single empty pew on Mass days now. Lots of women - and some men - in town seem to have found a sudden surge of holiness within themselves since the priest took up his duties. Young, old, married, unmarried... it truly doesn’t matter. Half the town is gathered and hanging on Father Rogers' every word as he gives his sermon. You wipe the sweat dripping down your neck with a napkin. Even the ceiling fans, all spinning at once, cannot insulate from the sweltering weather outside.
"Let us give thanks to the Lord, our God." Father Rogers' mellifluous baritone smoothly carries across the church.
"It is right and just," you mumble along with everyone else, bowing your head. You smile when you notice your son has started to doze in his father's lap. As the choir begins to sing Hosanna, you attempt to nudge him awake for the eucharist. He stirs and groans, clinging to Kyle. You and your husband share a knowing smile. Nodding, you arise and join the rest of the church attendees forming a line to the altar. Father Rogers raises the chalice high in the air and utters the eucharistic prayer, faith and conviction deepening his voice.
"Take this, all of you, and eat of it, for this is my Body, which will be given up for you."
He makes his way to the front of the altar to bestow the symbolic blood and body of Christ to each believer who kneels before him. He drops a morsel of the sacramental bread in each outstretched palm and lets each take the chalice and sip from it. Every time, he punctuates with a blessing and a charming smile. More than a few are a little flustered and shake as they descend from the altar. Something tells you it isn't the holy ghost they are feeling when they damn near trip over their own feet while returning to their seats.
Your thighs clench, knees trembling as you climb the stairs of the altar.
Trying to escape his prying stare, you keep your head low when you kneel, hands open to receive the bread like everyone else. But you’re forced to muffle a gasp of shock when Father Rogers lifts your chin.
The pristine clerical robe highlights how angelic he looks, with his bright blue eyes, trim, golden locks and peaceful expression. But there's something dwelling in his eyes as they rest on you. Something deeply unholy. It sends a shiver through your core.
He slips the bread into your mouth, his thumb skimming over your bottom lip. The corner of his lips quirks up as he takes in your dumbfounded expression. Fire sets your cheeks aflame when he tilts your chin to pour wine between your lips. The tangy flavor of the wine melts on your tongue. Father Rogers' gaze trails along your throat, his lids drooping, as you swallow the holy drink. It likely seems innocuous to all; just a priest conducting the liturgical rites with pious dedication. You'd brush it off too, if his peculiar focus didn't unleash a storm of unease within you.
The service finally reaching its end is a mercy. While you're bone-tired from all the sleepless nights you've had to endure lately, you'd rather go home to your newborn baby than bear one more second of the priest's prying stares.
But it doesn't end there.
You sidle closer to your husband as he's holding your son's hand. Worry knots in your stomach. Father Rogers is making his way towards you.
He barely spares a glance for your husband. Not that anyone would notice. With the silver cross adorning his neck and the bible in his hands, Father Rogers is the picture of piety and propriety.
"Father Wilson spoke very highly of you,” the priest says with a dazzling smile. “He said he’d never met a youth ministry coordinator as organized and devoted as you were.”
The inflection of his voice isn’t right. Too honeyed and practiced. Like he’s thought about this moment for a long time.
"He had a tendency to overpraise," you curtly reply.
"Just like you have a tendency to undersell yourself." Choosing silence over lengthening an interaction that has you on edge, you tug Kyle’s hand to urge him to leave. But Father Rogers isn’t done and adds, "I really could use a hand with the upcoming Wonder Worship event. I’m just one man after all.”
Scrambling for excuses, your answer is fast.
"I'm not sure, with the baby…"
Kyle interrupts you, "I can take care of Ailee for a day, honey. I know how much you miss working." Your heart wrenches; his kind eyes are brimming with understanding. “My wife always loved being of service to the church, father.”
Father Rogers beams at you.
"Oh, there’s plenty of services that need tending here.” The ghost of a smirk fleets across his lips then quickly disappears. “I look forward to seeing you on Monday then, my child."
You wriggle your hands as he walks away. If only you could tell Kyle about this strange feeling, but it’s a can of worms you’re not willing to open. Once doubt creeps into a marriage, it’s like poison in the veins; it never stops spreading. Then there’s the prickling of pointed glares on your skin. Other people are watching too. In a small town where every bored soul jumps on any juicy piece of news like a starved hyena, you’d rather not feed anything to the rumor mill.
So, like the dutiful Christian you are, you smile back and promise to be there on Monday.
~
Frowning, you flip through the ledger detailing the activities planned for the Youth group and the budget allotted to each project. Your mouth opens in shock. Unlike Father Wilson, who was more laid back and let you handle the things he missed, Father Rogers’ perfectionism shines through. Order and logic permeate through the program. The kids will have fun and get in touch with their spirituality without the church bleeding money for it. You slam the ledger shut. While you’re impressed, part of you is annoyed he called you here for nothing. It sounded urgent. You’re now realizing you were lured here under false pretenses. For what purpose, you’d rather not find out. Lips tightening, you grab your purse from his desk.
“It seems like you have it all covered, father.”
A smile fans out on his plump lips as he peers at you from behind his desk, his fingers drumming on the wood. He’s dressed down, his clerical collar standing out against a black shirt that seems on the verge of ripping on his massive frame.
Clutching your purse, you rise and head towards the door. But Father Rogers blocks your path with feline litheness, appearing before you as your heart leaps in your chest.
“Not quite. You’re part of my flock, sweetheart. I should tend to you... personally.” The pet name and glimmer in his azure gaze send a shudder through your frame. There’s an awkward dance between you and him as your heartbeat sings louder and louder in your ears. He won’t let you leave his office. You sigh.
“Father Rogers, I have two children and a husband waiting for me at home,” you plead, your mouth dry. Hopefully, reason will conquer and put an end to this silly game.
The priest laughs and it’s a warm, rich sound. The kind that should provide comfort. Instead, it fills you with dread as your stomach curls in apprehension. You try to circle him again but he snatches your wrist. You pull and pull, to no avail. His iron grip is unwavering. Chest heaving, you look up at him fearfully. Glee bounces in his stare.
“Look at you, shaking like a little lamb about to be slaughtered,” he taunts. He licks his lips, his gaze feasting on your body. “I knew as soon as you walked into my church that I needed to have you.”
Your eyes widen, a wave of astonishment swelling inside you.
“But, you’re a man of God…” you squeak, scorching tears gathering behind your eyes.
He yanks your palm towards the front of his slacks. You gasp. His cock is throbbing hotly under your hand. As Father Rogers rubs your hand over his hard cock through the fabric of his clothes, a crooked grin quirks his pink lips.
“Yes, I’m a man, angel. Can you feel it?” Heat seeps into your face. He hums, tilting your chin up with his other hand as you try to elude his scrutiny.
“That look on your face. You’re a good christian girl, aren’t you, sweetheart? The kind that saves herself for marriage.” He lowers his head and drags his mouth against the shell of your ear. “Bet that husband of yours never properly fucked you.” Mockery tinges his words; and the acidic bite of shame gnaws at your insides.
Suddenly his lips collide with yours. As you writhe beneath him to free yourself, he squishes your chin between his rough fingers. To your utter horror, your hand is still massaging his cock against your will as his mouth greedily devours yours. The kiss is bruising and suffocating, leaving no room to breathe or think. All that’s left is raw, pulsing fear. Your protests die, melting in the moist heat linking your lips to Father Rogers’. He swallows each of your muffled moans, his dick twitching under your palm.
He’s enjoying this, you realize, your heart galloping in panic inside your ribcage.
The wild slamming of your fist into his chest leaves him completely unfazed. He growls into your mouth, his tongue sweeping over your bottom lip. Driven by sheer, flailing desperation, you tear into his lip with your teeth to make him stop. He steps back, halting his assault. But your relief is painfully short-lived. A chuckle bubbles up his chest. His lids close as his tongue flickers out to collect the blood trickling down his slick, swollen lip. The feral smile he flashes you sends icy ripples down your spine. You run again. Or try to at least. Scathing humiliation roils within you as you fail to escape. Father Rogers wrestles you, grabbing your wrists with a rumbling laugh when you shout at the top of your lungs for help.
“You’re wasting your breath, sweetheart. It’s just you and me today...I made sure of it.”
His eyes are dark, hazed over with want. They linger over your heaving chest.
“Father, please…” you beseech, your voice quaking as a mist of tears blurs your vision.
He nudges you backwards with his body, his erection prodding into your belly. Sniffling, your fear spikes when your ass hits the edge of the wooden desk. Effectively trapped between the table and the priest, the possibility of escape shrinks down to nothing. The tears spill over. He bends down to kiss them, licking them away. Studying your expression, his thumb reaches over to your trembling cheek.
“Love to hear your sweet little voice begging me, angel,” he croons, a deep-rooted satisfaction dripping from his tone.
“W-Why are you doing this?" you stammer tearfully.
One of his hands cinches around your throat, almost cutting your airflow, while the other crudely parts your legs as he slides between your thighs. He spreads you over his desk, hovering over you with a sick smile on his lips and a manic gleam in his eyes.
“Sweetheart, you’re the one who’s been tempting me with that sinful body of yours.” His fingers dance over your chest, tracing the goosebumps over your flesh. His words come out strangled, tense with desire, like a rubber band stretched thin enough to snap at any minute. “Do you know how many nights I spent praying for salvation from every filthy thought I had of you? How hard I get whenever you kneel in front of me every Sunday?”
You yelp when he hastily pulls down your dress and tears your bra, exposing half of your body to his hungry leer. The sudden rush of cold on your skin makes you shiver. He grabs a hold of your breast, palming it and flicking his thumb over your nipple. A hiss slips through your lips at the sensation. They’re terribly sensitive, especially so soon after giving birth. You know he can tell from his wolfish grin. His mouth attaches to your mound and you can’t mute the shaky whimpers that escape you. Relentless and eager, his tongue traces circles over your pebbled breasts, giving each one his attention. Your body jolts when his teeth graze over one, lightly biting. Pressing ravenous kisses into your skin, he moans and smiles against it.
“So plump and soft. You have the glow of a new mother, sweetheart.” His hold on your breasts is firm and possessive as he inquires, “Are they full of milk right now?”
Your voice is tremulous as you reply,
“I...pumped before I came.”
Wistfulness fleets across his face as blazing bashfulness burns your insides.
He scatters feverish trails with his lips and tongue over your neck and shoulders. Alarms blare inside your head as you notice the marks he leaves.
“Father! Father!” But he ignores you, diving to the expanse of your round belly, rolling the stretch marks between his fingers. “Steve!” you scream in desperation.
A spark of anger lights up his blue gaze. He seizes your chin with authority. Your breath hitches as your eyes widen.
“Call me ‘father’, sweetheart. Always,” he says, his jaw twitching. “Is that clear?”
You nod, hot tears streaming down your face. A gurgle rises up your throat.
“If Kyle sees…”
A grumble vibrates in his chest.
“I’m not letting you walk out of here without you understanding who you really belong to, sweetheart.”
“But my husband…” Your pathetic retort draws a dry laugh from him. His thumb skims over your bottom lip as his other hand glides over the flare of your hip.
“Doesn’t know what a lucky bastard he is,” he finishes. A wicked grin spreads over his features. “I’d say he deserves to be played for a fool.”
His voice drops to a soft, intimate purr. “I know he doesn’t touch you the way you deserve to be touched, sweetheart.” You bunch your lips, despising the way Father Rogers peers inside you as if you were made of glass. While you love your husband - his kindness, his generosity, his humor - sex with him is tepid at best and tedious at worst. The both of you jot it down on a calendar to match your schedules, so it’s more of a chore, bereft of pleasure or excitement.
And Father Rogers stares at you like he knows, the smirk on his lips ever present. Embarrassment floods your insides.
“I just want to fill up that tight little pussy till my name is the only prayer on your lips, sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear and, to your dismay, summoning a surge of wet warmth in your core. You despise the way your body yields to his thorough touches. No part of you should enjoy this.
Father Rogers hikes up your dress, bunching it around your waist. He rips open his shirt, his clerical collar still around his neck, baring a toned chest and chiseled abs. Dread mounts within you with every pop of a button as he undoes his pants. A large hand cups your clothed pussy, the friction building to an ache as the heel of his palm stimulates your clit.
"I bet your pathetic husband never did this for you, hm angel?"
A strangled gasp tumbles out of your throat as his long, nimble digits sneak into your panties, exploring your folds. The instinct to flee and the impulse to meet his meticulous thrusts thrash and claw at each other in your mind, battling for control. You're left conflicted and panting underneath his heated touches. Getting slicker as he buries and hooks his fingers inside your core, your head falls back. It's something you've never felt before. A slow, aching fire that sweeps through your insides. Reflexively, your hips buck in cadence with his relentless hand.
"So much for telling me to stop, sweetheart. You're dripping wet." Smugness bleeds into his taunts. Your wet walls clench around his fingers with desperation, seeking a bliss you were always denied but Steve laughs. His fingers abruptly desert your cunt.
Chest heaving, you gape at him with wide, confused eyes.
The sonorous chuckle elicits pinpricks of discomfort under your skin. Half-lidded eyes pull yours like a magnet.
A sluggish thumb sweeps across your bottom lip.
"When you come… I want it to be all over my cock, sweetheart."
Mirth brightens up his features as he sucks your love juices off his fingers with a throaty moan. Your cunt clenches at the sound.
Drowning in the ocean of lust in his eyes, your cheeks and throat are set aflame.
Pupils blown, muscles glistening with sweat and hair tousled from fighting to keep you subdued… Steve Rogers looks more like a devil than a servant of God.
It’s deeply wrong. And you let yourself forget it. Betrayed by a body that’s been starved for too long.
“No..” you whimper, horrified by the tingles still bouncing in your core.
Quivering, you attempt to climb off the desk but the priest’s hulking frame envelops yours. Father Rogers plucks your wrists with one hand and presses his swollen member against your treacherous pussy. You keen and sob. His hot breath fans over your face, mingling with the panicked, spurts of air coming out of your mouth.
“You don’t say no to me,” he mutters huskily, his nose grazing yours. “Your spirit may be willing to fight, sweetheart, but your flesh is weak… and I know what it craves.” He humps his dick between your thighs, making your chest seize.
Wails of horror wrack your body as he roughly slides your panties to the side. When he pulls down his boxers to reveal his veiny, engorged length, the tip red and leaking, ugly sounds rise from your chest. He wastes no time and starts to drag his dick up and down your slit. The itch inside you grows unbearable and you gnaw on your lip, hoping to silence your shame. The priest’s fingers invade your mouth, forcing every dreadful sound to part from your tenacious lips.
He tuts in warning, his eyes two bottomless wells of darkness you find yourself sinking into, “I want to hear every sweet sound you make, angel.”
As he spots your gaze straying towards the crucifix in the further corner of the room, a lopsided smile curves his lips. “God is watching, sweetheart. Best to give him a good show. Show him how good you are at taking cock.”
Shocked at his words, a yelp of pain unleashes from you as he begins to push himself in. The sharp tear ripples through your core and your pussy clenches around him in response. Father Rogers grunts. He lets go of your wrists, still throbbing with the harshness of his grip, and takes hold of your thighs instead. He opens you to your limits, stretching you to receive every inch of his thick cock.
The way you strain and resist him seems to turn him on. His laughter bounces off the walls of his office, the booming sound reverberating back to your own ears. Making you sick.
“Oh, sweetheart, you’re gripping me so tight. It’s like your pussy never wants me to leave.”
“I don’t want this.”
He caresses your wobbly lip.
“Sure you do, angel.” His deep baritone wavers, hoarse with lust. You wince as he buries himself further inside you. “Good christian girls like you secretly crave to be full of cock,” he states with finality.
Vicious hands scratch into your hips as Father Rogers shoves himself to the hilt. The breath is stolen from your burning lungs. Your eyes widen as he hits the bottom of your core. There’s hardly any time before he starts moving. No time to recover, find your breath again, comprehend the sheer horror of what is happening.
A fleeting thought crosses your brain. Kyle. What would he think if he saw you like that? Writhing and moaning under Father Rogers as he ruts into you with twisted abandon?
The priest’s hands settle on your waist, pulling you close as his hips jerk into yours at a devilish pace. Every ridge of his cock teases your tender spots mercilessly. Dots of sweat gather on his brow, rolling down his neck and over the planes of his pale, broad chest, glimmering like pearls in the morning light.
The wooden desk rattles loudly, the sound of it scratching against the floor tangling with the raucous howls pouring out of Father Rogers’ mouth. Tangling with the sickening echo of skin meeting skin.
A powerful musk, heady and overbearing, engulfs you. Your head spins. Your senses are crowded with Father Rogers' presence; he's all you can hear, smell and feel. His pelvis grazes your clit and you grow warmer inside. The knots in your belly come loose as you pant, breathlessness blackening your vision.
His slacks slide down to his ankles from the harshness of his motions, giving you a peek of his muscular thighs through the hazy veil of lust and anguish.
Everything’s tight as a pulsing heat starts fluttering within you. You choke on a scream.
"You feel like heaven, sweetheart. Milking my cock so well with that tight little cunt. You're close, aren't you, angel?" He grabs a fistful of your hair when you don't respond, bending your neck to an aching angle. You sniffle. Tearful hiccups skip out of your lips.
"Yes, Father," you stutter between squeaky breaths, your body jolting with his rough thrusts.
He licks a blazing path with his tongue over your chest, swirling his tongue over your taut nipples. You cry and arch your back.
Nestling his head in the crook of your neck, he drops open-mouthed kisses before murmuring silkily, "Come, sweetheart. For me." His lips curve upwards against your skin. "And our Lord Almighty. He should hear and see what a good little slut you are." The low, whispered command propels you over the edge. Irrepressible quivers ripple through your pussy.
You tighten around Father Rogers' dick.
Blinding light obscures your sight. Shudders course through your frame.
There is nothing but weightless euphoria as a lightning bolt of pleasure lights up every nerve in your body.
Father Rogers hasn’t stopped pouring into you, groans spilling from his plump lips. Horrified, you realized he hasn’t reached his peak. He’s still seeking it within the confines of your wet heat. You squirm as the swing of his hips gets erratic. Fear mauls at your insides. What if he finishes inside?
Your struggle is for naught; his heavy body pins you to the desk, trapping you in a furnace of sinful heat.
Irritation strikes across the air like a whip as he narrows his gaze at you.
Another demented laugh unfurls from his chest.
“So stubborn,” he pants, after a uniquely painful push inside your core. “Seems I’ll have to ruin that sweet little pussy again and again until it gets through your silly head, angel.” He scowls, his expression as solemn as when he delivers his Sunday sermons. “I am God’s servant, shepherd and messenger. I am to spread his good word. And you, sweetheart…” He smirks. “You are to serve me, and spread that sweet cunt for me whenever I want you to.”
Feral grunts climb up his throat, unleashing with vicious fury as he comes inside you.
Thick spurts of his seed fill you to the brim. Leaking from your pussy. Dripping down your thighs. Filling you with shame and alarm.
The only beacon of hope shining through your despair is that he may be done at least. Done taking, teasing and tearing you apart. But it’s swallowed by hopelessness as he flips your body with ease.
Drawing a weepy gasp from you, Father Rogers presses your head into his desk. The wood chafes your damp cheek. His palm roves over the swell of your ass with low, appreciative hums. He slaps it and the sting makes you screech noisily.
He cackles.
“We’re gonna have so much fun.” His large hand fastens around the back of your throat as he spreads your ass cheeks. Cruel fingers pinch at the fat and play with your wet folds. His warm breath fans over the shell of your ear.
“I’m going to teach you all there is to know about worship, sweetheart.”
