Trigger warning: NSFW sacrilege and blasphemy, religious trauma and a whole lot of "my strict Catholic upbringing has seriously affected me"
"Take me to church
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
Offer me my deathless death
Good God, let me give you my life
No masters or kings when the ritual begins
There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin
In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene
Only then I am human
Only then I am clean
Oh, oh, Amen, Amen, Amen"
-Take Me To Church; Hozier
You woke the next morning bright and early, and you scowled, definitely feeling the wine from the night before. Your head was aching, and you rolled over, moaning slightly.
Katya was sitting up in bed next to you, smoking, with a pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose, reading the newspaper. A small mug of coffee was steaming gently on the table next to her, and she passed it over to you wordlessly.
You allowed yourself a moment to relax and soak in the domesticity of the whole thing, of waking up next to Katya, of looking at her forehead scrunch a little as she peered down through her reading glasses.
"Who reads the paper anymore, you grandpa," you grumbled, taking a sip of her coffee before handing it back. Katya scowled at you over the top of her glasses.
"Some of us enjoy the finer things in life," she said primly, flipping to the next page.
You peered over her shoulder. It was all in French, but your eyes narrowed in on a black-and-white, grainy photo of a crime scene next to photos of two young men, smiling with their arms around each other. Meutre dans dix-neuvième! The headline read, and you pursed your lips.
"That looks like some kind of murder scene," you said carefully, watching her out of the corner of your eye for a reaction. Her brows furrowed slightly, but she remained impassive as she scanned the article.
"Murder in the nineteenth arrondissement," she translated for you, one manicured nail tracing the headline.
Her hands were steady, and she took another deep drag of her cigarette. "No mention of a suspect," she said coolly. "Looks like it was just a robbery gone wrong."
"Hmmmm," you said, a little suspiciously. Katya narrowed her eyes at you.
"What, you find out what I do for work and all of a sudden I'm implicated in every murder that happens anywhere near us?" She said, but you could tell she was half-joking. You sat up and took the mug of coffee from her, cocking an eyebrow as you took a sip, saying nothing.
She shifted a bit uncomfortably, flicking the newspaper to keep it open. "This one was me, though," she admitted a little sheepishly. You scoffed, looking over her shoulder again at the article, at the photos.
"Which one was your witness?" You asked lightly. Her finger landed on the man on the left. He was young, with dark hair and eyes. Your heart twitched.
"That one saw me the last time I was here on a job," she explained, then moved her finger over to the other one. "But he told his boyfriend about me, so they both had to go."
You felt her eyes on the side of your face. "This one was self-preservation, котенок. If they had identified me or mentioned seeing me to the police, I would end up with international intelligence on my tail. That would make me more trouble than I'm worth to my employers, and they would terminate my contract."
You nodded, swallowing around the lump that had arisen in your throat. Katya's voice was soft. "It was quick," she said quietly. "They did not suffer." You nodded again, looking over at her. Her eyes were uncertain, like she was waiting for you to bolt.
You reached out and took her hand. "I know you're not cruel, Katya. You were just doing your job." You squeezed her hand, and she gave you a small smile, but her eyes still looked uncertain, flicking away from you nervously to look back down at the paper.
You wondered how she was feeling about having opened up about her past, her reality. You wondered if she felt relieved to not have to keep it a secret, or if she was still second-guessing, anxious about having you know all the ugly parts of her past. You thought to your own secrets, and thought about how you would feel, and found you didn't really know. You supposed you would only know once that day came.
There is no rose without thorns, your dad used to say. He had loved poems, reading to you from a book of poetry from the time you were small, showing you the way words could be used as a weapon or a paintbrush.
You had found that to be true - no fulfillment in your career without trauma, no happiness with your friends without the secrets you hid from them, no connection with Katya without the fear of your own feelings and the burden of both of your pasts and your secrets, the blood that stained her hands.
Well, Katya, you thought, remembering another poem you had read a long time ago, show me your thorns, and I'll show you fingers that are ready to bleed.
Obviously wanting to change the subject, she suggested you walk to the little cafe down the street for breakfast, and you agreed willingly, following her into the bathroom to shower quickly and snorting with laughter as her hip popped when she climbed out of bed, causing her to throw a dark look over her shoulder at you.
You dressed in a soft cream boatneck sweater and the cigarette pants Katya had gotten you, sliding your feet into the Prada loafers and swiping your hair back from your face with a barrette. Katya wore a gauzy long sleeve black mesh dress adorned with little pearls that ended just below her knees, fishnets and platform Docs instead of her heels for a change.
She clomped through the apartment on the platforms, making you laugh as you grabbed your little leather backpack and followed her downstairs and out onto the street.
It was pleasantly warm out, and you sighed, not missing Moscow at all as you twined your fingers with Katya's and let her lead you down the street.
You took pictures of everything, partially to send to Bob and Monet, partially so you would have the memories preserved of this perfect trip. Last night had felt like a dream, and you wanted to wrap the memory in gauze and preserve it, keep it safe and close to your chest.
You got a table outside in the sun, and you sipped at your espresso, spreading jam and butter on your tartines as Katya smoked her way through four cigarettes and put away three pain au chocolat in quick succession. You marveled again at the state of her teeth with the amount of sugar she consumed and the two-pack-a-day habitual chain smoking.
"How do you keep your teeth so white?" You asked finally, taking a bite of your toast. She grinned at you, displaying those sparkling white teeth and batting her eyelashes.
"They're made of wood," she said seriously, before devolving into a fit of laughter, arms flailing and feet kicking out as she wheezed. You snorted, taking a sip of your espresso and watching her laugh.
Katya collected herself, taking another deep drag from her cigarette. "No, it's Crest white strips," she said, winking at you. "I have no idea how they still look this good."
"Yeah, especially at your age," you said, nodding sagely as you took another bite of your toast. "I'd think you'd be ready for dentures any day now." Katya scowled and flipped you off, and you grinned and blew her a kiss.
After a minute, you finished your toast and looked over at her. "So what's the plan? Are you done with...what you needed to come here for?"
Katya tensed slightly, but she nodded, lighting another cigarette. "Yes. My business in Paris is concluded." One of her eyebrows lifted. "Ready to go so soon?"
You blushed, shaking your head. "No, no. I'm having an amazing time, Katya. I just didn't know if you had a plan for how long we were going to stay. I promised Bob and Monet I would keep them updated."
Katya French inhaled, and you watched the smoke dissipate on the breeze as she blew it out. "Well, I have stuff planned for us today, and then I figured we'd use tomorrow for anything we left out today, and then if you're ready to go, we can." She took a sip of her coffee, gesturing at the city around you. "I could happily keep you here for a week straight, but I don't know how much your job will appreciate that."
You waved her off. You had told your manager you had a stomach bug and would be out for the next several days. "My manager is an idiot, and I'm his best employee. It's fine."
Katya smiled at you. "Well, good. Maybe we can stay a little longer and see Versailles or something, but that'll be a full day trip." You brightened, and Katya's eyes sparkled, obviously pleased by your visible excitement.
You took a cab to the Notre Dame cathedral, and Katya waited patiently while you stood outside, staring up at it in awed amazement. You felt small and humbled in front of the enormous structure, and you took in all of the statues of saints and holy figures that decorated the architecture. You snapped a quick picture for Bob and Monet before you could forget.
You felt Katya's arm wrap around your waist, and you nudged her gently in the ribs with an elbow, pointing up at one of the gargoyles. "Look, it's you."
Katya wheezed a laugh, grabbing your wrist as she flailed about. "You are such a bitch," she gasped, and you cackled, knocking your hip into hers.
"Come on, let's go inside. You sure you won't get struck by lightning or something if you set foot on consecrated ground?" Katya grinned at you, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.
"No time like the present to find out!" You laughed, twining your arm through hers and tugging her along through the front doors.
Inside, it was hushed and quiet, the air smelling of incense. Katya pretended to have a minor seizure as she stepped over the threshold, and you laughed a bit too loudly, drawing the ire of a few old ladies that had walked in in front of you.
"Hateful old bats," Katya whispered, glaring right back at them as they gave you the evil eye over their shoulders. Her eyes avoided looking up at the altar at the center of the space, instead focusing in on you with a too-casual smile. "Come on, let's go look around."
The cathedral was filled with scattered worshippers who knelt over their rosaries, whispering prayers over their folded hands. At the front, by the altar, a robed priest was saying something you couldn't hear, two altar boys on either side of him holding gold censers of incense on long gold chains that swayed rhythmically. The congregation rose in reply, murmured prayers and whispers that sounded like the crashing of waves on rocks.
You felt Katya stiffen at the sight of the priest, and cursed yourself internally. You hadn't realized they would be in the middle of Mass. You looked over at her, observing the way she had somehow become smaller beneath the huge Gothic architecture.
You followed her gaze over to a stained glass depiction of the Virgin Mary holding the body of Jesus, her tear-stained eyes upturned towards Heaven.
You tugged Katya away, over towards the little alcoves on the side which were lined with statues of saints and martyrs. "If this is too much, we can go," you murmured quietly.
Over on the sides, it wasn't as crowded, and Katya stared up at the statue in front of you. It was carved of marble, and depicted a saint holding his decapitated head in his hands, his expression one of blissful piety. Her expression was unreadable, but she looked over at you, smiling softly.
"I'm fine, детка," she said quietly. "Just brings back a lot of memories. Let's go look at some of the little prayer rooms."
You followed her down the aisle, past the row of stained glass windows, and down a small hallway. It was almost completely empty, over this way, and it opened up into a dark, circular room, dotted with smaller alcoves containing little statues of saints, or just other stained glass windows. Large porcelain statues of different saints lined the walls, tiered tables of small flickering candles sitting in front of them.
Incense was burning back here, too, and it was warm and heavy in the air, the light so dim you could see only the outline of Katya against the stained glass.
You thought she could have been a saint, too, that you could picture her features carved in marble and set in some ancient cathedral to be worshiped, incense burning around her and devotees lighting candles in her name at her feet. You would have been one of them, would have prostrated yourself at her feet and glorified her name like a penitent sinner, smearing holy oil on your forehead and your palms and your heart and receiving Communion at her feet.
You walked over to the little table in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary, the biggest one in the room. She had her blue cloak on, her eyes cast up to heaven. You picked up a match and struck it, lighting one of the candles. You didn't know what you prayed for.
You thought maybe you just prayed that this would last forever.
You felt Katya's hand on your elbow, tugging you back, into one of the small alcoves that lined the walls. It was empty of statues or candles, only containing a tall, narrow stained glass window. You could see the image of a woman with a gold halo around her head, looking sorrowful and clutching a gold chalice. The words on the bottom read "Ste. Marie Madeleine." Mary Magdalene.
Katya's hands were warm on your waist, and she pulled you close, pressing you back against the stained glass, her lips on your neck. You suppressed a gasp.
"Katya," you hissed, "We can't -" You felt her hand grip the back of your knee and pull, your leg wrapping around her waist so she could grind down onto you, and you cut yourself off, not wanting to make any noise.
Katya's grin was absolutely wicked in the low light as she stared at you. "Afraid you're going to go to hell?" You rolled your eyes affectionately, but kissed her, letting her tongue slip deep into your mouth, your hands in her hair.
Her mouth was holy war, a sacred plundering, slow and thorough as she lowered your defenses.
Her hands were hot all over you, gripping you tight, and when you opened your eyes, you could see the statue of the Virgin Mary staring at you accusingly. Like you've never been young and horny, you thought drily. Immaculate Conception, indeed.
You tipped your head back to give Katya easier access, and her tongue was hot on your skin as she consecrated you with her lips and teeth and tongue.
"God, this is so sacrilegious - Katya, I feel like this is probably five kinds of illegal - Jesus Christ, don't stop -" Katya clapped a hand over your mouth, eyes narrowing at you.
"What have I told you about being quiet, you little brat," she hissed. "Do you want to get caught?" You shook your head, eyes wide.
It was so wrong. It was so, so beyond wrong to let Katya get you off in a fucking church, in the Notre Dame cathedral, with the fucking Blessed Virgin staring at you and your back against a stained glass depiction of Mary Magdalene. But you couldn't help the way your hips rolled under Katya's, seeking the friction of her touch, the sacred claiming that was promised in the press of her hips against yours. She smirked down at you.
"Do you like the idea of someone walking in on us?" She murmured, leaning down to suck a lovebite onto your neck. Your eyes fluttered shut, and your leg tightened around her waist.
You felt her hand snake down your front, unbuttoning your pants, and then slide down into your panties, where you were already wet, the slippery cleft between your legs like a sacred tabernacle as Katya ran her fingers through the chrism that slipped down your thighs.
"Does it make you wet to think about someone seeing me fucking you here, in a church?" Her fingers slid between your folds, circling your clit, and your moan was stifled by her hand over your mouth, your eyes rolling back in your head as she played with your clit slowly.
You remembered reading about Joan of Arc detailing how the angels had came to her in a vision, how she had heard divine testimony in her dreams. You thought that this was a sort of divine testimony, the way that wickedness seemed to spill from Katya's lips like a holy font as she sanctified your body with that holy adoration that seemed to burn brighter and brighter in her eyes.
Carefully, she pressed her middle finger inside of you, then added her ring finger, fucking you slowly, thoroughly, and you were soaking wet around her fingers, your hips twitching up to meet her, your stifled gasps and moans your own sort of gospel as Katya opened you up to receive her.
The candlelight played on the incense heavy in the air and made the light look fuzzy and soft, and it set off Katya's blonde hair so she looked haloed and holy, canonized and beatific, with those big blue eyes worshipping you like you were a sacred shrine, a vision on painted glass.
Your hands slipped through her hair, tugging gently, your thumbs smoothing over the sharpness of her cheekbones, of her jaw, the softness of her ears, letting your eyes flutter shut.
There, in the darkness, incense filling your nose and candlelight flickering behind your closed eyes, your hands memorizing the contours of Katya's face and her fingers deep inside of you, you thought you maybe found your own religion.
"God, you're so wet," she hissed, and then the ordained and deified aura around her was morphing into something darker as she fucked into you faster, and you whimpered behind her hand, your hands clinging around her shoulders for dear life.
She had gone from saint to sinner, from devout to wicked, and when she leaned down to lick a stripe up the side of your neck, teeth scraping against your skin and painting you with her sin, you thought she might have been the devil herself.
The devil kissed your neck, and it was nothing but Heaven, divine grace and choirs of angels as her fingers worked you open and her teeth sank into your neck. You were reminded, then, that the devil used to be God's favorite, and you thought that if Katya was there, then even Hell could be something holy.
"You're such a fucking slut, детка." You whined and nodded as she swiped a thumb along your lips, and you opened your mouth obediently, letting her thumb rest on your tongue. You could taste the sin that stained her hands. She was a sin you wanted to commit, an unholy temptation you wanted to let yourself be defiled by.
Jesus, you were such a slut. You were such a shameless hussy. You were letting Katya finger you in a church, and you were enjoying it. Hell was too good for you.
You stared into Katya's eyes, that bright blue piercing you like a spear. You could see your entire lifetime stretching before you in her eyes, Heaven, Hell and purgatory all spread out in those limitless blue depths.
"Do you have anything you wish to confess, детка?" Katya murmured conversationally, and you moaned, "God, fuck you," the sound muffled by her hand and her thumb between your teeth. She grinned wickedly, and her thumb began to circle your clit slowly. You could practically feel the hellfire licking at your feet, your back against the cool stained glass.
The Magdalene stared down at you impassively - the original wanton woman, the original sinner who spent her days in slavish Christian fidelity and repentance and whose memory had every facet of womanhood projected onto her by men who had never understood her sanctified devotion.
You understood her, understood every woman before you who had been tempted by the devil into the mortal sin of carnal lust. Katya was leading you on a tour of the garden of earthly delights, and you wanted to follow her like a steadfast disciple.
Her grin was demonic, white teeth flashing behind blood red lips. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," she began in that husky, rolling Russian accent, and you couldn't handle it anymore. You let your head tip back against the stained glass, feeling the weighty gaze of Mary Magdalene on you, surrounded by statues of long-dead saints, and came apart in your own perverted holy revelation, your legs shaking and Katya's fingers fucking you through it.
There was a sound in the hallway outside, and, quick as a flash, Katya was pulling her hand out of your pants, buttoning them up for you quickly and running her fingers through her hair, tugging you over to the little kneelers and shoving you down to your knees. She bent over her clasped hands as a pair of little old ladies came tottering in, murmuring to each other in French, and gave no indication of what the two of you had just been doing.
You surreptitiously ran your hands through your hair, wiping the remnants of Katya's lipstick from your lips, your jaw, trying to straighten your clothes so you didn't look so freshly-fucked. Your legs were still shaking, and you took a minute to lean forward, forehead on your folded hands as if you really were deep in prayer.
For a moment, you turned back and looked at the Magdalene, at her face carved out in painted glass to be alternately hatefully rebuked and obsessively revered by people who never knew her or the truth of her existence, all for the act of intimacy with God's only son- denied holiness for the crime of wanting.
You thought you knew what it meant to chase divinity and desire intimacy despite the threat of eternal damnation for the crime of yearning for something forbidden and wrong. You thought you understood why she had sinned anyway, why she had ignored the idea that a woman with desires was wicked by nature.
You were so boned. If you hadn't been destined for the Pit before this, this had just sealed your fate and determined that you would be condemned to eternal fire and brimstone. You found that you didn't mind it as much as you thought. Like the Magdalene, you could burn if it meant you got to experience every pleasure that sin had to offer you.
After a minute, Katya tugged you to your feet and led you back outside, grinning at you once you were back out in the sunlight. You smacked her arm, and she scowled at you. "What?" She demanded.
"I can not believe you just fucked me in a goddamn cathedral, that is so beyond sacrilegious," you said, and she winked at you.
"Yeah, but you liked it," she said, and you sighed, running a hand through your hair. God forgive you, but you had. You needed to like...say some Hail Marys or something to absolve yourself.
"I'm going straight to hell," you said finally, and Katya cackled, looping her arm through yours.
"'Hell is empty, and all the devils are here,'" she quoted, quirking an eyebrow at you as she knocked her shoulder into yours gently. Looking at her, at the sharpness of her cheekbones and the blood-red lipstick on her wide mouth that she wore like a loaded gun, you thought privately that she wasn't too far off from the truth.
You weren't religious, had been raised in the church but never sought that higher, divine connection that others seemed to cherish. Katya was as close as you had come to feeling true divinity.
"I've always wanted to have gay sex in a Catholic church," she said conversationally, and you leaned against her, smiling.
"Glad I could help you check off that bucket list item, Kats. Just run it by me first next time, okay? I feel like I could have used a heads up to prepare my soul for its imminent condemnation to a life of suffering in the flames of hellfire."
The sound of Katya's laughter followed you all the way to the cab.
"I will hallucinate your halos, your holiness." -Meena Kandasamy
Author's Note: y'all, I don't even know. This just happened. I was raised very strictly Catholic and went to Catholic school and I know Katya has talked about how her Catholic upbringing affected her so I thought it would be fun to explore some themes of religious trauma and the Saint vs the Sinner etc. Would like to clarify that I am not religious and do not intend to write the reader as a religious person either so don't worry, we're gonna keep on sinning. Enjoy and please let me know what you think!!! I welcome and love any and all feedback and appreciate all of you who have given it to me so far.