Art knows it's sick, how you make him feel.

God only knows (God, he hopes God only knows) where his thoughts wander at the sight of you at the front of the pews. Always at the front, and he's convinced you do it on purpose. It can't be accidental—how you stretch the long, limber expanse of your legs, how you rest your Bible high up your lap, hiking up that babydoll skirt as you do so.

That delighted little smirk on your lips when Art stuttered during his preaching, simply at the way the sun caught the gloss of your lips when your tongue wrapped around a lollipop you certainly weren't allowed to have. How he'd almost choked on the 'Amen' when reciting the Lord's prayer, because you'd crossed your legs and your skirt had fluttered just so, and Art received a flash of something that almost made him bite his tongue off.

You're clearly doing this on purpose. He clasps his hand in a silent prayer for God to take you away from him. Though, you're always subtle enough that the assumptions he's making are downright dastardly. Maybe Art is the guilty one. Maybe, the devil is presenting you, a roadblock in his path to salvation. A test of faith.

He has a wife! A child! Art has never had a problem being the trophy husband, even if Tashi is always away on tour. You're just an innocent lamb, led astray. Art needs to— he needs to help you. Fix you. Fix himself. It sounds so compelling, so righteous in theory—and yet when he's faced with the sight of you after the service, plush lips curved and eyes sparkling with something he can't name—calling him "Father Donaldson!" in that voice of yours—he realises this particular temptation might need more than prayer to satiate.

The devil whispers in his ear, and it's telling him it wants you.

"You need to stop." Is the first thing he breathes when he sees you, smile tight. Hands digging into the heel of his palm. It's ushered, gruff, and restrained. The usual, clear-blue tranquility of his eyes are wild.