In this Series
FALLEN: PART 1 | PRIEST a series by RM Greta | KNEEL by Morgan A.Drake

All works can be read independently, but we suggest getting to Kneel and Priest before reading Fallen, as this matches the author vision for the narrative.

Fallen [Part 2]

[Read PART 1 First]

His hands loosen on my throat, choking becomes holding. Violence sliding into something his mind won’t name yet.

This is the pattern. Rage transforming into need, denial crumbling into hunger. Embodiment makes excellent bait. Flesh offering what his god never could: touch, warmth, acceptance of want.

Cold burns where stone presses through clothing. The last of December’s wind cutting across the rooftops, carrying the scent of snow that hasn’t fallen yet. The priest’s breath mists white between us—rapid, ragged, visible proof of his panic and something deeper he won’t acknowledge.

Yet.

But his weight settles differently on top of me now. Hips pressing down with purpose, not rage. I hear the scrape of his knees against rough stone, feel the way his body seeks heat despite everything he believes about what I am.

My hands move to frame his face. His skin is warm despite the cold, flushed where shame and arousal war. His pulse hammers against my palms. Fast. Desperate. Alive in ways that fascinate this vessel’s mind.

I study his mouth. The way his lips shape denials even as his body presses closer. The small movements: tongue darting out to wet chapped skin, teeth worrying his lower lip until I taste the copper scent of blood on winter air.

But deeper than the body’s observations, I watch his certainty beginning to fracture. His soul starting to crack.

“Tell me what you wanted to do to her,” I say. Voice soft. Inevitable as the imminent dawn. “Every unholy thought. Every fantasy you tried to pray away. Confess to something already damned, and it becomes meaningless. Words said to me don’t reach heaven. They’re already fallen.”

He makes a sound, half sob, half moan. His breath catches, disappears. The cold makes him shake. Or perhaps it’s not the cold at all.

“I wanted...” His voice breaks. He swallows. I watch his throat work, watch him gather fragments of courage. “I wanted to touch her face. Like this.”

His thumb traces my cheekbone and the gentleness of it after all that violence makes something shift in this chest. His fingers are cold against my skin. Trembling.

“I see you,” I tell him. Welcoming. Opening to him like a wound that wants to bleed. “I want all of it. Keep going.”

The confession spills out. Haltingly at first. Each word catching in his throat like it might choke him.

“I wanted to...” He stops. Swallows. “God forgive me. Her mouth. I thought about her mouth.”

His head drops forward. Closer. His forehead nearly touching mine now. I feel the heat radiating off his flushed face despite December wind. The stiff white collar of his office digs into his throat as he bends forward, chocking him as he moves closer to confession.

“What did you imagine that mouth doing?” I ask.

A broken sound escapes him. His body sags closer still. Chest pressed to mine now, his lips a breath away from my throat. When he speaks again, the words pant hot against my skin. Confession breathed directly into flesh.

And I begin to drink. Not the words themselves. Those are just vehicle. What spills out underneath—shame, desire, years of suppressed hunger. The soul developing its first fractures. This is what feeds me. The body I inhabit responds: warming slightly, flesh registering the beginning of satiation.

“Kissing me. Tasting me. Opening for me.” Each phrase comes faster, more desperate. “I wanted to hear her sounds. The small gasps. The way her breathing would change when I...”

He breaks off with a choked gasp. His mouth actually touches my neck now. Not kissing, just there. Pressed against pulse point, while he struggles. I feel every tremor run through him. Every catch in his breathing. Every shudder of shame and want tangled together.

What I taste goes deeper than flesh can reach. His soul opening. Spilling into me.

“Every night, again and again, you touched yourself thinking of her,” I murmur against his ear. My hands slide up his back, holding him close.

His whole body jerks at that. Like something inside was grabbed. A broken sound escapes him, muffled against my throat.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Yes. I did. I would... I’d imagine her beneath me. The weight of her. How she’d feel. Soft and warm and...”

Another choked sound. His lips soft against my skin as he speaks, each confession a touch. Hot breath painting my throat.

“I’d think about her throat. Kissing it. Marking it. Hearing her make sounds no one else has heard. The way she’d fidget in the front pew during my sermons...” His voice cracks. “Rubbing her thighs together, looking up at me with eyes that said she knew. She knew exactly what I was thinking about in the pulpit. And I’d... I’d touch her, everywhere, until she begged...”

The confession tastes like honey and ash. I drink deeper. The vessel’s temperature rises another degree—warming from within as the feeding intensifies.

“What would she beg for?” I prompt. Feeling his words vibrate through flesh yes, but tasting something underneath. His identity splintering. “Tell me.”

“For more.” His voice cracks completely. “For me to not stop. For me to... God, I wanted to taste her. Use my tongue on her until she forgot her own name. Until the only word she could say was mine.”

I feel him harden against me as he speaks. My own body responds—not to his grinding but to this. This soul fragmenting. This certainty crumbling. The vessel I inhabit grows warmer still, flushed with such sustenance.

“What else did you imagine at night when you were alone in your bed, hard and aching?”

A wail catches in his throat. His teeth graze my neck. Not biting, but almost, almost.

“Her hands on me. Everywhere. My chest, my back, wrapping around...” He can’t say it. Makes another desperate sound instead. “I’d imagine coming inside her. Feeling her tighten around me. The sounds she’d make. How she’d look at me after, like I’d ruined her for anyone else.”

Each confession makes him press closer, and closer. His whole body molding to mine now. Hips grinding down with purpose. His face buried in the crook of my neck, words and sounds and prayers all mixing together in hot panting breaths against my skin.

I am being fed. His soul crumbles and splinters, and I am drinking every drop. The vessel’s temperature climbs still—now heated from the feast.

“And every night” I say, my hands moving in slow circles on his back. “Every night you denied yourself.”

“Yes.” Barely audible. “No. I’d pray first. Beg God to take the thoughts away. Then I’d... I’d touch myself thinking of her anyway. Hating myself. Coming anyway. Every single night.”

I feel wetness that isn’t tears against my neck. His tongue tentative. Like he’s trying to consume absolution through my skin.

“Where you wanted to put your mouth on her,” I say. “Every place you imagined tasting. Tell me.”

“Every—where.” The word breaks apart. “Her neck. Her breasts. Between her thighs until she came on my tongue. I wanted to learn every sound she could make. Catalogue them. Know exactly what made her whimper, what made her cry out, what made her curse God’s name while I...”

His hips jerk hard against me. Almost violent in their need. I feel him shaking everywhere we touch. A continuous quaking that might be cold or arousal or the complete dissolution of years of carefully maintained control.

Finally, finally I taste his soul coming apart. The walls splintering. Sweet corruption, bitter shame, the bittersweet taste of faith crumbling.

“And what about the thing that made you come hardest when you touched yourself alone? What was that?”

He has no more sounds for me. His teeth gnawing as he ruts hot and open and desperate against my body.

“Making her kneel,” he gasps out. “Having her mouth on me. Watching her take me. Hearing her choke on it. Coming down her throat while she looked up at me with tears in her eyes and still wanted more.”

The more he speaks, the more I feed. His soul spilling into me, piece by piece. What pours out is pure, unfiltered, human. Nearly mine now.

“I’m disgusting,” he keens. “I’m broken. I’m...”

“You’re human,” I tell him. Every word he spoke resonating through this flesh yes, but vibrating through what I am beneath it.

His destruction tastes like sacrament.

Each confession has made him harder against me. His hips have been moving a while now—grinding down unconsciously at first, then catching, stopping, starting again with more desperation. The friction building heat between us despite the cutting wind.

I watch his face throughout. The way shame and arousal chase each other across his features. How his eyes squeeze shut when the words are too much, then snap open like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he can’t see me bearing witness.

His breathing roughens, coming faster despite the cold. His hands grip tighter—one on my shoulder, one braced against stone beside my head, scraping his knuckles raw without noticing.

“I wanted her on her knees,” he says again, reacting to the very thought. “Wanted to watch her want me back. Wanted...” His voice cracks. “Wanted to lose control. To make her lose control. To drown in it and forget about god and duty and everything except...”

I grow hard under him and his breathing stutters when he feels it through layers of dark cloth. Horror and want warring in his expression.

“Yes,” I breathe against his ear. “Feel it. Don’t stop.”

He’s shaking violently now. Cold and lust and grief, all of them tangled, indistinguishable. His teeth start chattering. My hands slide under his collar, feeling his pulse hammer in his throat—frantic, wild.

Snow begins to fall. First flakes catching in his wild hair, stark against his darkness.

“I will be taking all of you,” I tell him. My hands sliding from his neck down his shoulders. “Not just the parts you’ve polished for consumption. Not the performance you give from your pulpit. All of you. The wanting and the shame and the hunger and the fear. You do not need to deny and punish and mortify yourself to be loved anymore.”

My fingers find his collar. The stiff white band that marks him as holy. I work the fastening loose.

He startles, recoiling slightly. His hands fly up to stop me—then freeze. Hover between us, shaking. He observes them, as if they belonged to someone else.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he reaches up. Unfastens the collar himself. Tugs it free.

He stares at it one moment more—this symbol of everything he’s been, everything he’s believed, everything he’s sacrificed for. Then he throws it away. The white band arcing through falling snow to land on dark stone with a soft fhump.

Discarded.

Now the dark cloth of his shirt. His own hands this time, fumbling with buttons, getting three undone before he can’t manage anymore. I help with the rest. Working them open one by one, revealing naked skin beneath dark fabric. He gasps as December air hits exposed flesh. Or at being unmade, piece by piece. Both.

I push the dark cloth off his shoulders. It catches at his wrists before sliding free entirely. His chest is bare now, rising and falling rapidly. Skin flushed and exposed. I trace the contrast with fingertips—heat and cold warring across flesh.

He breaks.

Deep shuddering sounds wracking through him while his hips again grind down, still seeking friction, still hard and desperate and human. The sounds hit my face like baptism reversed. His whole body shaking with more than winter now. The grief of all those years wasted in denial pouring out of him.

I watch his face through it. The agony there. Deeper than physical. The pain of a man realizing he’s been starving himself for nothing. That the feast was always here, waiting, and he chose famine because someone told him hunger was holy.

His lips move. Prayers or curses or pleas. I can’t tell. Maybe he can’t either. The words ghost between us, dissolving into nothing. Snow catching on his lips, melting.

I pull him down fully against me. Chest to bare chest. His skin like ice against mine initially, then warming through friction and desperation and the heat now radiating from this vessel’s fed flesh.

Let him feel how I accept his weight, his need, his complete collapse.

“Surrender is power,” I murmur against his temple. “The body knows truths the mind denies. Being truly seen—all your darkness, all your need—and still being held. Your god never offered you this. He cannot.”

I can. Is what I’m saying.

My hands move down his back. Feeling each vertebra, each tremor, each place his body is honest even while his mind still struggles.

“Why?”

The word tears out of him, muffled against my skin. Small. Broken. Pure bewilderment wrapped in grief.

“Why did I try so hard? Why did I deny so— much?”

The last word dissolves into a sound that’s barely human. Grief for wasted years, for prayers that went nowhere, for all the nights he touched himself with one hand and clutched his rosary with the other, hating himself for being exactly what he was made to be.

And he’s finally Broken. Finally Mine.

I keep hold of him while he shakes apart. The body performs comfort. I taste Loss of Conviction. The sweetness of wasted sacrifice. All those years. For nothing.

Years of fasting for a god who was never going to feast with him. All that effort. All that pain. All that carefully maintained control.

Unwanted.

The snow falls harder, burying the discarded collar in white. Quietly erasing the evidence of what he was. Making space for what he’s becoming.

“Because you were taught that love must be earned through suffering,” I tell him. Gentle but inexorable, just as the burning night. “That god’s affection comes through self-denial. But look at you now. More yourself in sin than you ever were in sanctity.”

I pull back enough to see his face. Red from cold and crying, lips chapped and bitten, eyes wild with something between terror and relief. Snowflakes catching in his eyelashes. Melting on flushed cheeks.

“This is what you truly are. Human. Wanting. Whole.”

My hands move with purpose now. Not just receiving but guiding. To the dark cloth of his trousers. Unfastening, peeling away the last barriers. He doesn’t stop me. Helps, even, hands made clumsy by cold and need, and the trembling that won’t stop. The fabric opens, pushed down just enough—his shirt still tangled at his waist, pants loosened, everything half-undone and honest.

When I free him from the final barrier, he gasps. It’s the exposure. Winter air on heated flesh. The vulnerability of being laid bare on a rooftop at dawn while the world below prepares for Christmas worship.

I slide my hand down his abdomen—feeling muscles contract under my palm, the way his breathing goes ragged as my fingers move lower. Trail through the dark hair below his navel. Pause at the base of his cock, letting him feel the promise of touch without giving it yet.

He whimpers. Hips jerking forward, seeking. His hands grip my shoulders hard enough to bruise.

“Please,” he chokes out.

I wrap my hand around him and the sound he makes could shatter stained glass.

His skin burns under my palm despite the cold. Or because of it. The contrast making sensation sharper, more immediate. He’s so hard it must hurt.

“Does it feel like sin?” I ask. My hand moving slow, learning him. The exact pressure that makes his breath catch. The rhythm that makes his hips thrust forward seeking more. “No. It feels like the first honest thing you’ve done in forever, does it not?”

He moans through clenched teeth. Tries to stop the sounds. Can’t. Each stroke of my hand pulls noises from him—broken, desperate, human. The sounds are pained but it’s the pain of lancing a festering wound. Something infected finally draining. Beautiful in their rawness.

And I drink those sounds like wine. His physical pleasure feeding my spiritual satiation. The vessel’s body now fully heated, flushed, warm as any human would be.

“Your god made you with these needs then told you they were impure,” I continue. Watching his face for every micro-expression. The way shame and pleasure still war there, how one keeps losing to the other. “I’m showing you the truth of your own flesh.”

His hips move into my touch. Desperate now. His knees scraping bloody against stone as he moves. He gasps at the cold, at my hand, at everything.

The climax builds in him fast. Too much sensation after too much denial. I feel it in the tension of his muscles—every fiber pulled taut. In the desperate quality of his breathing. In the way his fingers dig into my shoulders, like I’m the only solid thing in his collapsing world.

“Please,” he chokes out again. Not sure what he’s begging for. Release or forgiveness or understanding or all of them at once.

“Let go,” I tell him. Meaning everything. His body, yes. But more. His certainty, his carefully maintained control, his performed holiness. “Surrender to me. You are Mine.”

His body goes rigid for one suspended moment. Every muscle locked. Face tilted toward the lightening sky, throat exposed and vulnerable. Mouth open on a cry that might be prayer or blasphemy or something beyond both. Snow falling into his open mouth, melting on his tongue.

Then the release crashes through him.

He comes sobbing. Pleasure and grief indistinguishable, his whole body convulsing with it. Shaking apart, reforming, coming undone, again, again, again. The heat of his release spills between us, shockingly warm.

But what I experience:

His beautiful soul. Every carefully maintained barrier between who he was supposed to be and who he actually is—shattered. The performance of holiness splits like rotten fruit to reveal the human underneath. Messy, wanting, real, and mine now. Consumed. Kept.

This is my climax. Possession.

He gasps through it. Great heaving sounds torn from his chest. Face hiding again against my neck, tears and the evidence of his humanity making him more honest than any confession ever could. His fingers still gripping my shoulders like he’s afraid of falling, even though he already has.

Even though the falling is over. Even though he’s already been caught.

I hold him through it all. Feel the aftershocks ripple through him. Muscles twitching, nerves firing, his weight heavy against me. His breathing ragged against my throat.

The shaking doesn’t stop even after the orgasm fades. Cold settling into exposed skin with vicious teeth now that arousal’s heat has passed. Snow accumulating in the hollow of his lower back, melting against heated skin, running down to wet his ass and thighs.

Heavy fingers through his hair. Gentle. Patient. Let him surface in his own time. His breath gradually slows down. The sounds becoming hiccups, then just shuddering inhales. The cold making itself known.

Below us, church bells begin to ring. Christmas morning. The sound rises through stone, through bone. Six chimes marking the hour. The call to worship carried on winter wind through falling snow.

He lifts his head slowly. Eyes red-rimmed and swollen, face wet with tears and melted snow and no dignity left. He looks younger like this. Raw. Real.

His lips are blue at the edges. Body shaking with cold now that the fever of confession and release has passed. He stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. Or perhaps seeing himself reflected in my eyes for the first time.

“What do I do now?”

I push him back and stand slowly, disentangling from him. He remains where he is—kneeling on cold stone. The position natural to him. Instinctive. Snow settling on his flushed back like a shroud.

His black shirt hangs open, still caught at his waist. Dark cloth framing his bare chest. Pants loosened around his hips. The discarded collar crumpled and abandoned somewhere behind us.

He looks like a present half-unwrapped. Symbols of office both cocooning and exposing him. Holy and profane at once.

I feel sated. Gorged. Strong in ways that have nothing to do with this physical form.

He looks up at me. His expression shifting as dawn light strengthens through the snow. Seeing me clearly now. Still magnificent. Still tempting. Perhaps more so for having held him through his fall.

I watch doubt bloom across his features. The question forming behind his eyes: Does he want a new master to replace the old?

I reach down, cup his face with one hand. Thumb tracing his swollen lower lip, slipping inside for a second.

“You can go back,” I tell him softly. “You still have a place here. Pretend this didn’t happen. Pray for forgiveness. Every night, remember and pray.” I smile. “Or love yourself. You know the truth now—surrender is freedom. And who’s to say that a broken, human, free priest isn’t exactly what they need here?”

I pause. Let him see the choice spreading before him.

“Tell me, where do you think you’ve been admiring the light from?”

I watch understanding slowly drip into his bones. The recognition that every prayer he ever said, he said from shadow. Every moment of devotion performed in darkness. Every time he felt close to god, he was actually here, in this place, this night, looking up at something distant and cold.

The light he loved so much? He saw it so clearly because he was standing in my darkness to begin with.

I don’t wait for his response. Don’t need to. The seed is planted. The truth is spoken. I fade back into shadow—returning to my natural state while the meat dissolves. Watching from darkness as dawn changes the world around him.

He rises slowly. Legs shaking. Reaches for the scattered pieces of himself. Pulls the dark shirt back around his shoulders, fumbles with buttons—gets two fastened before giving up. His hand hovers over where the collar should be, finds nothing, drops. The rosary he waved with such conviction, he doesn’t even look for. Lost to the night.

His hand reaches for the door that leads back down into the church. Hesitates.

Looks at me, where I was last, then at the rising sun, he closes his eyes and with a deep breath pulls it open and steps through.

I remain. Patient, eternal, knowing. Fed. Sated. Stronger.

He’ll be back, I know. They always come back.

Not because I corrupt them.

Because I’m the only one who sees them truly and doesn’t look away.

Because once you’ve been consumed by the dark, the light never quite looks the same again.

-

© 2025 E.M.V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake. All rights reserved.