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Your relationship with God has been intricate.
You had always been a diligent follower; you recited your prayers, went to church every Sunday, carried a cross around your neck and had at least three of them in your house, at the top of each room’s entrance, for protection. You were baptised and followed all His learnings as you made it into adulthood, all without so much of a complaint. You were the prime example of a textbook follower.
Albeit, growing up in a catholic household — it was the only truth you knew — it was always one you seemed to have been following blindly. You wanted to believe, wanted to love Him — and most days you thought you did — but today, you woke up with the dreadful realisation that your faith had left you.
You tried to pray and felt like an imposter, everything was out of place; the pictures of you at your First Communion seemed to taunt you, the cross hanging from your neck felt heavier, uncomfortable.
Any remaining feeling regarding your religion felt… off.
You thought of going to mass this Sunday to rectify the situation, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone would just know you didn’t belong, that they would sense you as a traitor amongst real followers.
Even if you managed to drag yourself to church then, it was still days away, it wouldn’t make sense to go after waiting for so long; it would lose its purpose.
You would lose your purpose.
Then again, you couldn’t just sit here with this weight, this guilt that you had forsaken your Lord. You had to fix this, to ask for forgiveness for straying away from the rightful path; the only one you knew.
You eventually find the strenght to push yourself to go church in the following hours.
The impressive stone building that you used to look at with admiration and which once brought you an inner sense of peace, now seemed to look down on you. The chime of the bells resonated through you, as if ringing for your final hour, standing minutes away from your judgement.
As if this house of God knew of your sins — of your doubts — and it wouldn’t make it easy on you to absolve yourself of your mistakes.
Oddly enough, the interior was less daunting than its facade; it felt much, much smaller from the inside, as if the exterior was purposely made to make it seem bigger. It was also surprisingly dark considering the multiple stained glass adorning its walls, the colours from them blending between the aisles. Aside from you, there was only one other person you spotted sitting in the first rows, visibly praying.
Perks of visiting in the middle of the week; people were too busy with their lives to pay a visit to the Lord. If you were to fumble this, there would most likely be no witnesses to your shame. This last part, at least, reassured you a little bit.
You thought the hardest step you had to take was the first one you took into the church, but the second your eyes found the confessional booth, standing next to the last row of benches, your feet were stuck to the ground again; undecided between running away in shame or pushing through that first step in the right direction.
You grunted as the battle in your mind raged on.
What am I even doing, you thought to yourself. There’s probably no one in this booth and I’ll wait hours like a fool only to realise that the priest isn’t in today.
And you would be partially right: no one was inside.
But before you could turn on your heels and cower away, a new presence made itself known in the room.
From the corner of your eye, you spied a man — who you recognized as your priest, Father Astarion.
As he walked along the far end aisle, you noticed his usual attire; he wore his all-black tight robe with the white spot at his collar, along with his crucifix hanging from his neck. The rest of him, though, reflected a perfect contrast from his clothing: His curly hair, which was worn back and styled elegantly, arbored a platinum white colour. Almost as white as his skin — so pale he might’ve passed for a corpse — which really brought out his dark eyes.
So dark, you often found yourself getting lost in them during mass. It wasn't rare that you would miss a part of his preaching and would only be brought back to Earth hearing the commotion around you as people grabbed their things to leave.
He just had a way of moving that entranced you to follow him without a second thought. As if his connection to the Lord was even greater than he let on.
He stood tall as he walked leisurely towards the confessional you were aiming for, and you couldn’t help but admire his form. Given, you couldn’t see much as his well-fitted religious attire covered most of him, but you did notice the defined veins trailing right down to his hand resting in front of his figure, hands that bore long and strong fingers. Ones, you imagined, would feel rough against your skin if they were to—
You blink rapidly, shaking your head as you catch yourself before that thought drifts even further, your face flushed red by what you almost envisioned. What still floats around in your mind.
How could you even consider the caress of someone on you in a place so private? This was a man of God, for crying out loud.
As if the reason for your presence here wasn’t enough, here you were, shamelessly fantasising about the very man who would decide if you were worth repenting. Two sins in one day, really? What was wrong with you?
As Father Astarion steps into his side of the booth, vanishing from your vision, your consciousness comes back to you and breaks your frozen spell. You finally walk towards what would be your side of the confessional, stopping right before the threshold.
Why are you still doubting yourself? You’re already here, and the priest already saw you — he probably walked here for you, knowing your intentions. Just go inside, you’ll feel much better afterwards.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, stepping inside and sitting down before closing the door behind you, now waiting for the shade on the other side to greet you.
Seconds might’ve been minutes at this point, your heart was stuck in your throat, anxious at what was to come. He was in there, was he not? You saw him enter, did he not hear you come in? Were you supposed to knock?
When the partition slides back, leaving only a partial faint light passing through the other side, a warm, deep voice greets you.
“Welcome, my child.”
Oh, and his voice. It was already delightful when it echoed between the walls of the church, but up close it’s as if it rippled through you. Almost enough to make you forget to answer back.
“F— Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”
“Tell me, how long has it been since your last confession?”
“A few years. This is my first time since my First Communion, Father,” you answer, your voice softer than usual.
“It is never too late to repent, child. It takes a lot of courage to step into the house of God and ask forgiveness; I commend you for taking the first step in the right direction. Now, what would you like to confess?”
You feel as if you could listen to him talk for hours, his voice soothed you in ways you never experienced before; it quieted down — at least temporarily— the shame that inhabited you.
“I… found myself questioning my faith, Father.”
“And yet here you are, confessing to your priest, at your church.” You think you can hear the smile he bears as he answers you. “It seems to me your faith still lies well alive within you.”
“Yes, the irony isn’t lost on me Father, but…” you sigh, “Doesn’t this make me a sinner? Doubting of His existence, of His word… Am I even worth redeeming?”
“My dear, the fact that you came to me to confess this already shows me you want to believe, our Lord is lenient with His lost souls. Recite your Our Father throughout the week, three times before going to bed, and come to this Sunday's mass.”
“Thank you, Father, I will.”
He doesn’t answer back right away, and it gives you some time to reflect on his answer.
It’s true, if you were a lost cause, you wouldn’t be here begging for the Lord’s forgiveness. You would be taking down the crucifixes in your home, taking down your pictures from your Confirmation, and any other religious signs displaced around your home as you moved away from this life.
Then again, shouldn’t this be what you should be doing? If you doubted your faith in the first place, was this really meant to be your life?
When Father Astarion speaks again, you’re taken back from where your thoughts had drifted.
“Was there anything else weighing on your mind, my child?”
It’s almost as if he had read your mind.
“Yes, actually, I… I must admit this turn of events made me realise I’m not sure I’ve ever, truly believed in the first place… of my own volition.”
“I see.” He pauses briefly, “What did you expect from this confession, my dear?”
You sigh, “I’m not sure… My faith is all I’ve ever known. I don’t know what to do, and now I’m not sure if I’m meant for this life. As if everything I’ve known up to now had been nothing but a lie, and now that the opportunity to move on has made itself possible, I don't even know if I could go for it — if I should.”
You think you see his shadow move from the other side of the confessional, getting closer to the grid. “How does this make you feel?”
“Lost, confused. When I woke up this morning I felt…” you pause, looking for the exact feeling plaguing your mind. “Hollow, as if a part of me had vanished, and I don’t know how to make it right.”
Not a sound from the other side of the partition, and for a moment, you think the man sitting on the other side had been nothing but a fragment of your imagination, taunting you yet again for your drift of faith.
Just as you're about to ask for him, he speaks again.
“Would you like to believe, my child? Would you like me to show you what it means to worship — to devote yourself to a higher entity? To feel whole again?”
His voice had gone an octave lower — as if someone else had replaced the priest who had previously entered the booth — and you felt yourself drawn to it, tempted by the promise of guidance just a few words away.
“Yes, Father.”
“Good. Come back here at midnight, I shall teach you the ways of worship.”
Your heart was already pounding in your chest in anticipation.
The day couldn’t have felt any longer than it did. Every moment spent between rushing thoughts of what the night would bring, constantly eyeing the clock as the minutes passed by, doubting if you had even heard the priest right, but the second the clock struck midnight, here you were, back at your church.
It stood as a beacon among the dark street, the only building with a light at its porch, pulling you in like a moth to a flame.
You didn’t expect the doors to open at first; the church was usually closed at this hour, but as you pulled back on them, the doors opened up to you with a creak. When you stepped back in, your senses were struck with the strong aroma of old wood, burning candles, and incense.
You took a few steps forward, examining your surroundings, and noticing how much darker it had become without the colours spraying from the stained glass. Aside from the few candles lighting the side aisles, only one spotlight remained, right over the altar.
You heard a click behind you and when you turned, nothing — or no one — was to be seen. Just in the event that you might’ve imagined the sound, you went back to the door to try and push it, only for it to remain in place.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
You quickly turn around, startled by Father Astarion's voice greeting you. You can’t see him, and with the echo of the church, his voice felt as if it came from everywhere all at once, almost as if the voice came directly from Heaven.
“Do not be coy, my sweet, little one. Approach the altar.”
How long he had been there, you couldn’t tell, and you didn’t see fit asking — this was his home as much as it was the Lord’s, after all — but he had appeared out of thin air without as much of a sound.
You walk along the main aisle, each step taken with a mix of incertitude and curiosity as you slowly approach him in silence, his person still hidden behind the beam of light.
“I see you already wonderfully apply the concept of obedience, dearest,” he purrs, and you shiver in your white summer dress in response — the nights had been warm but you suddenly find yourself questioning your choice of clothing.
“Are you ready to begin your first lesson?”
There’s this uneasy feeling that inhabits you, telling you to run away from this place, from this man, but you ignore it — he is the voice of reason, and you are but a lost soul looking for guidance.
“Yes, Father,” you find your voice at last, although faint and gentle.
“Come closer, my lost lamb,” he says, more assertively. “Be not afraid, for I will guide you towards the light.”
Your feet move of their own accord as you speak up, “If I may ask, what will be the goal of this lesson?”
“You desire to believe of your own volition, do you not? To be shown the path for you to choose?” You nod. “Then I will show you the reach of our Lord.”
You reach the first step of the altar, where you stop, not daring to approach further.
“Close your eyes, and repeat after me.” And so, you obey, once again. With your eyes closed, you let his voice enrapture you, and you repeat every sentence back to him, both of your voices echoing the prayer between the walls of the church.
Father Astarion,
To you, I deliver my mind,
To mould in His image.
I deliver my body and flesh,
To use in His name.
I deliver my very soul,
To guide me back into His embrace.
I surrender myself to you,
To be reborn anew.
Amen.
“Open your eyes, my little angel.”
Father Astarion had taken a step forward, placing him right under the light that reflected against his platinum hair, creating a halo surrounding him. As he stood right between the statues of the disciples depicted around the altar, he looked like the Lord himself.
All but for one exception.
His eyes.
Not a trick of the light, they were indeed red. A deep, ruby red that shone vividly. In addition to his sharp traits enhanced under the holy light, he looked like a celestial being; an angel.
You step back, unbelieving your eyes fixated on the creature before you, and you remain paralysed. You swear they used to be black–
“I was just like you, little lamb,” he steps towards you. “A lost soul, questioning the Lord’s existence — his word — and I lost my faith. Until I was shown His greatness, and I was guided back into His arms. Redeemed. The Lord has sent me specifically to take care of lost souls like yours. After all, who better to guide you than a fallen angel?”
He stood right in front of you now, his arms open, inviting you in.
“Are you ready to let the Lord enter you — mind, body and soul?”
When the words leave your lips, they're but a whisper.
“Yes, Father.”
The Lord Himself had sent an angel to deliver your punishment; how could you question His power now?
“Good, my little lamb.”
He approaches you, each heavy step taken towards you creating a greater tension in your chest.
“You need only follow my word.” He continues, “Our Lord will absolve you of your sins for as long as you obey.”
He circles behind you and his hands find your bare shoulders, making you gasp at the touch.
They were just as strong as you imagined in your most depraved thoughts, but they were much, much colder.
“You trust me, do you not, my sweet?”
While one of his hands trailed along the side of your shivering arm, he slid a finger under the thin strap of your dress. Your heart beating away in your chest made it only harder to answer back.
“Y– Yes, Father.”
His breath down your neck created a warmth between your legs and a fog in your mind, and when he pushed the strap down your arm, you barely felt it.
When he reached for the zipper in your back and pulled down, you didn’t question it.
When your dress fell down to the floor, revealing your body in its most humble form, you didn't cover yourself back.
“My precious little angel, you are a vision.”
Father Astarion remained behind you where you couldn’t see him as he whispered against your ear, and you wouldn’t move unless he ordered you to. You didn’t want to risk going against his word, not with him so close to you, not with the way his hand had moved to your front and brushed against your breasts ever so lightly, and down your navel. Not with the way his strong fingers felt wrapped around your throat, holding you in place.
When his other hand found your entrance, your knees buckled and a heavy breath left your chest.
“You devilish little thing, you are positively drenched." His raspy voice breathed down your neck, "Has a man ever touched you like this before?"
"No, Father, I- I wouldn't."
"Good girl," he purrs and you can almost feel his lips against your skin. "You keep yourself pure for our Lord, I commend you for your restraint."
His praise had you weak in the knees and warm at your core.
"Have you ever touched yourself?”
“N– No.”
Technically not a lie — you never touched yourself, but on nights where you imagined Father Astarion as close as he was now, it was hard for you to keep your thighs from rubbing together to relieve yourself of the ache that had built up.
“Have you ever thought about a man touching you this way before?”
“I…”
He had to be a mind reader, how else would he have known you were just thinking about this?
Met with your silence, Father Astarion growls in your ear, “Remember that lying is a sin, darling. You wouldn’t want to add another infraction to your holy record, would you?”
You bite your lip, remembering vividly the dreams you had about a priest you knew all too well and how the same fingers entering you now would feel.
“I have, F– Father.”
"Tell me, then, who did you imagine between your legs? Touching you, tasting you...” his tongue traced the side of your ear, earning a breathy moan from you. "Fucking you?"
You can feel your face burning up and your lungs fighting for air, as if Hell had taken place in this very church and the flames of temptation were threatening to swallow you whole for your sins.
“Y— You, Father,” you stutter, barely able to speak your truth.
“And you kept this to yourself? You lied to our Lord, to me, by avoiding this confession?” You shut your eyes in shame in answer. “Oh, you are much more depraved than I thought, child. We cannot let this go unpunished.”
You whimper when he removes himself from inside of you and walks back into the spotlight, leaving you with a mess between your legs and a racy heart in your chest.
“If you wish to be absolved, approach the altar.”
His change of tone instilled fear in each of your steps forward, but you advanced nonetheless.
“Bend over,” he ordered.
You do as you're told, hissing as your sinfully warmed up skin gets in contact with the cool marble surface of the altar. You were barely tall enough to fit on the high table, your hands grabbing onto the ledge for balance.
“You will recite the Our Father just as I instructed you, and you will do so without as much as a whine. Am I understood?” You nod. “Speak up, sinner.”
“Yes, Father,” you answer, your voice already shaking.
“Good.” His feet push apart your legs, leaving you fully exposed and on your tiptoes, now relying completely on your arms for support. “Proceed.”
You take a deep breath and begin, “Our Father, who art in heaven– AH!”
You jump at the sudden contact of his hand over your sensitive skin.
“Start. Over.”
You gulp. “Our Father, who art in heaven, haa— hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom c– COME!” You scream as you receive this last spank, stronger than the previous one.
He groans, “Again.”
“Please, I can’t—” you sob, the pain from his spanking breaking not only your body, but your spirit.
“Do you enjoy this?” He spanks you again, harder. “The sting of my hand against your skin?” And again. “The tears building up in your eyes?” And again. “Answer!”
“No!” You cry out. “Please, I beg you — mercy, Father please,” you plead, and plead, your voice drowned out by your sobbing.
“This is what you deserve for straying away from the rightful path, little lamb.” You arch your back as his hand grabs onto the base of your hair and pulls back. “Are you not willing to take your punishment, like a good little follower?”
“Please,” you keep begging. “I’ll do anything Father, anything but this, I beg you—”
Your legs shake from the pain, knees buckling, and your arms fighting for dear life to hold on to the altar, which had been warmed up by your skin.
“If you are unwilling to receive your rightful punishment, we will need to reshape your will, little one.”
At last, he releases your hair from his grasp and you collapse to your knees with a cry as both your arms and legs give out.
With your face down panting, you don't even notice one of your hands still desperately holding onto the edge of the altar.
“I can show you a new path,” Father Astarion continues, his voice kinder than before. “One of pleasure and devotion.”
You jump when his hand touches you again, this time with a surprising gentleness that you find yourself leaning into as he strokes your wet cheek.
“Another way for you to repent, so you may be absolved of your sins; by proving your faithfulness to me.”
His thumb wipes away the last tear that fell from your eyes, before lifting your chin up to him.
“You want to be known, to be tasted — I can offer you that. All you need to do is offer yourself to me. Do you wish to be mine, little angel?”
“Yes, Father,” you breathe out. “More than anything in the world.”
He blinks once softly and a smile appears on his thin lips.
“Then you shall be mine, as I shall be yours. For as long as you'll be on your knees for me, God will absolve you of your sins.”
His hand leaves your chin and you watch him as he sucks on the same thumb that erased your tears, before tracing a cross over your forehead with it, and you close your eyes basking in his tender touch.
“You will experience our Lord's presence inside of you in ways you have never experienced before, ways that will make you question you ever doubted your faith. I promise you, you will never feel hollow, ever again, little love.”
When you open your eyes again, the holy light surrounding him almost blinded you with how much brighter it felt now that you were on your knees, under him.
“You will show me the same devotion you would God, as you’ll now refer to me as Lord.”
Your Saint, your fallen angel, you Lord; you would worship the very ground he walked on, and spend the rest of your life repenting at his feet, as he was proof of a faith you dared to doubt in the first place.
The words leave your parted lips effortlessly, “Yes, my Lord.”
As he grins, you notice the sharp fangs in the corner of his mouth and finally see him for what he really is.
A wolf in sheep's clothing.
A devil in the house of God.
Your unholy punishment.
One that you accept as he dives his fangs into the crook of your neck, surrendering yourself to him, to be reborn anew.
Amen.