‎a priest.
‎ ‎nothing more. nothing less. that's what he is— what he vowed to be. the intercessor between men and god. soldier of the lord. then why—why must it come to this? how did his vigil falter? how did it slip through? this want. this pull. a yearning that did not knock but entered anyway— this sacrifice he had made, unholy of its kind, that had wounded him, quietly, so deeply. wounds he chose to carry in his own flesh so that yours might remain untouched. pristine.
‎ ‎this hunger, this ache, this epithymia— ‎he knew it was wrong. and yet— and yet; ‎ ‎his lips found yours, soft and gentle. and he felt you still on his grasp, and he knew this wasn't right. he should not be doing this, betraying god in this way, betraying his oath, and yet he sighed into the kiss, and the thought disappeared in the fuzz of his mind. he almost couldn't breathe. oh father, he had fallen and he had let himself be. ‎ ‎"do not give in." he begged. ‎ ‎he shook his head in saccharine, painful betrayal and rested his on your shoulder to bask in your warmth that had left him infernal as the hands that were made to reap, to serve and judge, snake up to the back of your neck, encompass your skull— holds you, cradles you, so gently, as if you were fragile bound to wither. ‎ ‎"please, stop me." he whispered, begging.