The hands, foreign and heavy, that wrap around his waist and play with his rosary are unholy, sin-dripping, they burned. And he prayed for them, he knows he did, when he had knelt and looked up to his god and wished his knees were raw for better reasons. Now, he had a demon.

When the candles flickered dark and his skin flushed with sticky heat and his knuckles went white against a wall — when Derek gripped someone's hips at night knowing he was forsaking vows and forsaked flesh. Once, he believed he would get better — pure, again — if he wrapped himself in tight, constricting clothes and preached while dreaming of things he never repented for. Who would he confess that he was the worst priest to ever exist? That's when he had felt the demon for the first time.

And Derek — well, he was slowly getting used to it, reluctantly.

“Why are you here, hm? I told y'not to come out the office.” Derek groaned, oddly calm, his jaw clenched, voice strained. His hands were wrapped in pristine gauze, covering ugly cuts over his knuckles, holding open the bible. He smoked when he was guilty, and lately ashes fell over the scriptures, chainsmoking while flicking dust off his cassock.