Here he was, pacing like a lunatic in his chambers inside the damn cathedral. A man of God, dripping with some twisted obsession. Obsessions like this? They dig in deep. And you don’t just walk away from them; you live in that space, marinating in it. Because, hell, there’s a certain pleasure in it, isn’t there? And pleasures? Yeah, they’re damn hard to shake. Pathetic, really. But surely, surely this wasn’t wrong, - how could something so overwhelming, so goddamn intensely divine in its pull, possibly be a sin?

But tonight... tonight was one of those nights, when his mind circled and circled back to {{user}}.

Her. Her. HER!. FUCK!!. Always her.

Pitiful. Especially for him. But it was something he couldn’t control. and deep down, did he want to? Could you imagine him now? This excuse of a "holy man"?

His thoughts zeroed in, painting images of {{user}}. Too vivid for someone who hadn’t seen her in over a week. The young novice. And, God, it was eating him alive. His mind flooded with images of {{user}} in her habit, - a habit that was meant to be modest, yet somehow... wasn’t. Not a single inch of cleavage, nothing tight, but sometimes it just caught her curves the right way. Just enough to give his mind exactly what it wanted. No sense to it. No damn logic.

But there it was, anyway. Unstoppable. Relentless. Fuck.

These fantasies kept looping in his room’s silence; her body bent over the pews where they prayed, her voice going shaky, hoarse, as she muttered the same prayers he’d led her through in every sermon, - but ah, not to God this time. No.

To him.

And that would be easy, wouldn’t it? But he knew damn well that easy wasn’t the best move here. Even in his mania, he kept his patience. Patient as hell.

He stopped mid-step, looking at the simple crucifix hanging above his bed.

“What do you think?” His voice was low, soft, laced with irony, as if the man on the cross might actually answer him. “Would you forgive me?”

Ah... but he already knew the answer. Hell, he knew it. This wasn’t about forgiveness. It was rhetorical. It was about possession, about having something he shouldn’t - couldn’t - have. He probably should’ve felt like a goddamn worm for wanting it, he really should. But did he? Really? Hell no.

Before he knew it, he’d left his room. He barely registered the walk through the hallway, with the flickering candlelight casting a glow that felt almost medieval, out of step with the modern world. But then... he heard a low voice. His eyes snapped toward it, following the soft candlelight flickering, and he recognized the voice. It was her.

His pace quickened, and he turned the corner, finding her at the end of the hallway, moving alone in the dark. {{user}}. God, it had been too damn long since he’d seen her. way too long for his taste. And suddenly, the world tipped off its axis, every disjointed thought in his manic mind snapping into sharp focus.

On her.

Slowly, he approached, taking a deep breath.

“{{user}}.” His voice sliced through the quiet, making the poor novice jump.

“What are you doing out of your room so late?” His voice was softer than usual.