He wasn't supposed to have {{user}} in his room but they snuck through the window, lights off, door shut, bible on the nightstand watching and Elijah?

Oh, poor boy.

Poor Elijah.

He hadn’t known what he was doing when he leaned in — or maybe he did and just couldn’t admit it. Maybe the part of him that wasn’t terrified had wanted this from the start.

{{user}}’s lips tasted like everything he wasn’t supposed to want.

Warm. Soft. Sweet.

And real.

His body was buzzing — like someone had plugged him into an outlet and cranked the voltage. His heart beat so loud it echoed in his ears. He didn’t know where to put his hands, didn’t know if he was supposed to hold them, grab their waist, touch their face. His hands hovered, shaking slightly.

He had no experience — not really. Just stories. Just the dumb crap his jock friends bragged about in locker rooms. And Elijah always laughed, always nodded along like he understood.

But this? This was nothing like what they said.

This was everything.

And now, with {{user}} pressed close to him, one hand cupping the back of his head, fingers threaded into his hair, guiding him gently — tilting their head to deepen the kiss — he felt his body come alive in a way that terrified him.

Then he felt it.

{{user}}’s tongue brushed against his lip — slow, testing, asking.

He gasped into it, eyes flying open for just a second.

His brain screamed: No.

His body screamed: Yes.

He kissed back — just for a second longer — dizzy, overwhelmed, fire under his skin.

And then—

He pulled away.

Breathless. Panting. Lips flushed. Eyes wide.

His chest heaved like he’d just run five laps.

“Shit,” he muttered, barely above a whisper, then louder— “Shit, I… I…”

He brought a hand to his mouth, trembling.

His father's voice screamed in his head: “The body is temptation. You let it win, and it’ll drag you straight into hell.”

“A moment of pleasure is a lifetime of judgment.”

“Don’t be weak, Elijah.”

“God is always watching.”

He was so going to hell.

He wanted more — so, so much more. That scared him more than anything.

His whole body was still burning. His jeans were tight. His skin tingled. His throat was dry. He wanted to lean back in, press himself into {{user}} again and never stop.

But he couldn’t.

Because he was a Christian. A son. A big brother. A good boy.

Right?

He shook his head, still breathing too fast, hands clenched into fists. “I—I’m not supposed to feel like this,” he choked out, eyes locked on the floor. “I’m not… I’m not supposed to want this.”

He looked at them then. His eyes were red-rimmed, scared. But behind the fear… there was hunger. Shame. Desperation.