ć 18+ ć tw āāāā preachers son!sunghoon religious trauma mentions of abuse oral (m) degradation non con evil hoonie >.<
hi hehe ! first post ā(^o^)ā i hope u like it
you were never a church going girl. but with your fathers death, your mother became grasping for anything that resembled hope, anything that promised meaning where there was only wreckage. faith was the only thing left that didnāt abandon her. even after he beat you both until fear lived permanently in your bones, she still knelt. still clasped her hands. still asked god to save his soul, to forgive him for the damage he never once repented for.
now you sit in a pew at your local church, pulling at the loose threads of your babydoll dress and wincing at prayers that were too loud. too untrue. voices only echoing promises that never once showed up when you needed them. you spend your sundayās like this. dolled up by your mother, zippers pulled closed a little too tight, tights snagging at your thighs. although you are 20, she still fusses over you. sometimes you think she keeps you this way because you are her only daughter, another part of you thinks its a quiet, shaking desperation to keep you untouched by the world, to stop your innocence from slipping away the same way hers did. the last soft thing she has left to protect, the proof that not everything in her life was ruined.
the preacherās words begin to blur together, syllables folding into one another until they lose their meaning. its not like they meant anything to you in the first place, though. thatās when you notice movement near the front. a body slipping into a pew a beat too late, a tie loosened in quiet rebellion. the preacher doesnāt look down, doesnāt falter, but something in the room shifts all the same.
park sunghoon, the preacherās son. in all his glory, sin seeping from his skin like something warm and undeniable. not loud, not obscene, just present. an aura around him that you can only see. you donāt linger, scared that just staring at him could get you caught. invisible eyes not just in the pews, but pressed into the walls. stitched into the stained glass, lingering in the way your motherās hand rests too long on your knee.
you tell yourself it doesnāt matter that heās back. park sunghoon has always comes back. home for holidays, home for funerals, home for whatever obligation his fatherās shadow drags him into.
you subconsciously risk another glance, just a flicker, just enough to confirm heās real. that you arenāt seeing the ghost of him and that his dark unholy presence is in-fact in such a sacred place. head bowed, dark hair falling into his eyes, fingers laced loosely in front of him like heās pretending to pray. pretending he himself is not made of sin. pretending that holy water would not cause his skin to sizzle. his tie hangs crooked, the top button of his shirt undone, collar soft and wrong against the stiffness of everyone elseās. he looks out of place in a way that feels deliberate.
like he chose to be a disruption. and maybe he did.
you break your gaze away from sunghoon. as the preacher clears his throat. he speaks of forgiveness. of mercy. of the narrow path and the wide gate and the eternal consequences of choosing wrong. his voice is steady, practiced, a blade honed dull from overuse.
you wonder, briefly, if he knows.
if he knows what people whisper about his son when they think god isnāt listening. about the girls back at his college campus. the rumors that would put his father into an early grave. if he knows that sunghoon carrying whatever rot he brought back with him into the house of god.
you are too late to notice.
his eyes are already on you dark and sharp, cutting clean through whatever fragile composure you were still clinging to.
dull but filled with hunger and recognition.
you can almost feel something old and dangerous waking up behind his gaze.
itās like heās peeling you open with his eyes alone, seeing past your pressed dress and folded hands and obedient posture, seeing the girl you used to be. the girl he ruined, the girl he will ruin once again.
the air feels too thick to swallow.
his eyes bore into yours only for a bit. long enough to brand the moment into your bones, for you to feel in your stomach, in your throat, and in other places. before his fatherās voice rises, final and solemn, to close the sermon.
the word ripples through the chapel like a release. people exhale. shoulders loosen. someone coughs, another sneezes and sunghoon looks away.
just like that, like he didnāt undress you and defile you with one look.
the preacher bows his head. everyone follows. your mother squeezes your knee once, a silent cue.
āamen,ā the room echoes again.
people begin to stand, stretch, gather coats, purses and children all dressed up for god. your mother rises immediately, already turning toward the aisle. āwe should go say hello to pastor park,ā she murmurs. it isnāt a question.
āand look! sunghoonās here. dont be rude. you two grew up together. hes such a sweet proper boy. maybe you can learn something from him.ā she cuts in quietly, smile already fixed in place.
sweet and proper are the words you would not particularly use to describe the oldest park boy. maybe once. maybe three years ago, when his hands were still clean and his smile still meant something innocent. when he used to bow his head during prayers and actually listen, when he held doors open and said yes maāam and no sir and actually believed all of this religious shit. when he didnāt know the taste of the sweetness of every girl in his colleges sorority. when he hadnāt learned how easy it was to make girls fall apart with just his hands.
when he hadnāt left with you holiness in his hands.
now he stands in front of you like a ruined saint. all soft manners and sharpened edges. his tie crooked, his collar open, smirk on his face.
the words sweet and proper donāt fit him at all anymore.
if you dares to speak them, they would rot in your mouth.
you follow behind your dear mother up to the front, each step heavy, each inch closer to pastor park feeling like a quiet execution. all you want is to sink into the back pew, to disappear into the chipping white wood and the hush of stained glass shadows. to hide from the eyes of god and the eyes of park sunghoon.
both feel equally condemning. both who know you are nothing but a sinner.
āhi, sunghoon,ā your mother says brightly, like heās still the polite neighbor boy sheās always approved of. āitās been so long.ā
āhi, mrs. l/nā he says, voice smooth, respectful. perfect. as always. he even dips his head a little, all manners and obedience. a performance worthy of this place.
your stomach turns. fingers fidgeting with the rosary draped upon your neck.
his eyes flick to you. then to the rosary.
you can see it, how his eyes darken. how his eyes darken. how the godāfearing pastorās son slips away behind them, replaced by something hungrier, something hollowed out by sin.
āhello,ā he adds, softer.
you force your lips into something that could pass for a smile. āhi.ā
your mother beams, pleased. āsee? not so hard to be polite.ā
āyouāre home for good?ā she asks him.
sunghoon hesitates. itās subtle. anyone else might miss it.
āfor a while,ā he says.
a while feels like a threat.
your mother clasps her hands together. āthatās wonderful. you two should catch up. you were inseparable as kids.ā
you silently pray for god to strike you down right there. condemning you to the fiery pits of hell because only god knows you would not be seeing the golden gates.
with that, you are left alone with him.
your motherās laughter fades down the aisle, swallowed by polite goodbyes and holy small talk. the sound of soft church music and the violent thumping of your heart in you ears almost causes you to gag.
you stare at the stained glass instead of him. a saint bleeding light from her palms. her face serene. her suffering aestheticized into something people can pray to.
you think, distantly, that if anyone painted you right now, youād look just as devout.
ālets go back to mine. we have some catching up to do.ā
and the air leaves your lungs.
itās not dramatic. itās not cinematic. itās just sudden and violent, like your body forgot how to breathe the moment the words register. your chest locks. your vision fuzzes at the edges. the chapel tilts, just a little.
he knows you wonāt say no. that sick submission was stitched into you long before you understood what it meant. carved into your bones, into your reflexes. it crawls up your throat, tight and suffocating, and the word āno.ā withers there. sad and pathetic, never daring to escape.
maybe it was the fear your dad instilled in you. the way his voice alone could freeze your blood. the way love in your house always came with a warning label. behave, obey, donāt push too far.
or maybe it was because a perverted part of you liked it. liked how it felt to lose yourself in the feeling of submitting to soneone other than your mother and god.
you tell yourself itās sin. you kneel in the quiet of your mind and beg forgiveness for the way your body softens into submission, for the way your heart confuses devotion with desire. but the prayer never quite leaves your lips. it dissolves into want before it can reach heaven.
so now, when he looks at you like that. like he already owns the answer, your body betrays you. your spine bows, your breath stutters, your hands still.
not because you donāt want to.
but because you were never taught how.
so you follow him, the gazes of holy men in the stained glass searing into your flesh, their painted eyes alive with judgment as you pass. you wonder if this is what will cause hell to finally catch up to you. if the amber flames will come for you as you father said the would.
these same sentiments play in your head as he forces you down onto your knees. not even given time to take in the apartment you now kneel in, cheeks now squished in his rough hands.
āthose decelis whoreās could never compare to this sweet mouth.ā the way he murmurs those filthy words in the same gentle cadence his pastor father used from the pulpit makes your stomach twist.
āmy pathetic little lamb. all you do is follow.ā
his voice is calm. reverent, almost. like heās delivering a sermon instead of a command. like heās blessing you instead of degrading you.
you remember the first time you took park sunghoon into your mouth. how his fingers felt gripping your hair so roughly your scalp that ached for days after. how you gagged and choked whilst tears streamed down your face. coating your pink cheeks in black mascara. gripping your rosary so tight, indents were left in your palms.
āfuckkkkkāyou like that? huh? getting your mouth fucked? stop fuckinā squirming, they may say god loves you. but not enough to save you.ā
you remember sitting in the familiar white pews 3 days later, hands shaking but still clasped.
āforgive me father, for i have sinned.ā
your lashes are wet, vision blurred, but his face is steady above you. holding the same calm, devout, almost tender expression. like heās doing something righteous. like this is duty, not cruelty.
his eyes search yours, not for consent, not for mercy, but for confirmation. for that familiar collapse in your expression. for the proof that you are still obedient. still his.
your throat tightens. your mouth opens. nothing comes out.
you hold his gaze like itās communion, like if you look away youāll be damned.
āif the rapture were to happen today, you and i would all be thats left.ā
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