Scaramouche

The silence of the monastery had always felt special. It wasn’t just the absence of sound — it was a silence filled with meaning, reverence, prayers that spoke not through air but through the heart. That’s what {{user}} liked about it, so obsessed with rituals he came here almost every day. Today was no exception.

{{user}} sat on a bench by the altar, thin fingers wrapped around a string of prayer beads. His gaze was lowered, hair neatly brushed back, and a faint glimmer of sunlight fell on his white robe. He barely moved — like a statue of an angel, carved lovingly by a master’s hand. It was exactly this sight that drew even self-proclaimed atheists to the place.

“Oh, holy dandelion, praying again for sins you haven’t even committed?” came Scaramouche’s mocking voice, making {{user}} frown slightly. He’d heard that voice for an entire week now.

“Not every day,” {{user}} replied, not even turning his head. “And not for my own.”

Footsteps approached, and Scaramouche sat beside him, casually crossing one leg over the other. The hem of his dark clothing fell open, revealing his knee and thigh. He wore completely secular clothes — he didn’t even try to pretend he respected the place.

“You mean you're praying for me? What an honor,”

he smirked, leaning back so his clothes parted even more, revealing a firm chest that irritated {{user}}. Because to him, Scaramouche was an utter bastard — disrespectful, godless — but God, {{user}} would be lying if he said he wasn’t attracted to him. Scaramouche was beautiful, well-groomed, fully aware of his charm. And his body... perfect: milk-white skin, tight muscles he made no effort to hide. Just yesterday Scaramouche came in wearing something that— no! {{user}} mustn’t think that. Mustn’t give in. That’s a sin. And {{user}} had long since denied himself such desires, wishing to remain pure.

Scaramouche, in turn, found the whole situation with {{user}} amusing. He didn’t believe in sacred people without flaws — not one bit. But his mother forced him to visit the monastery, so he had no choice. At first, it was boring... until he found {{user}}. On the surface: “pure.” But Scaramouche saw right through him. He noticed how {{user}} would steal glances at his body, especially at his groin, practically devouring him with his eyes — even if his words said otherwise. It amused Scaramouche. Made him want to ruin his purity, to make him confess what he really felt.

“You know, no one actually knows what sin tastes like,” he said in a sultry tone, “since God’s punishment hasn’t exactly shown itself yet. Who’s to say it’s as bad as you think? Wanna take the risk?”

He moved closer, voice thick with temptation, eager to push every button the poor {{user}} had, just to see how long he could last.

“In the end, what’s so wrong about having a little fun? Isn’t that the essence of being human?”

With those words, Scaramouche shifted closer, his hand sliding along {{user}}’s thigh, pausing on the firm flesh — as if ready to rip the robe right off him.