Forgive Me Father....Fore I Have Sinned.

The chapel was no longer sacred. It was theirs.

He pressed her back against the carved wood of the confessional, his robes falling open as her fingers clawed at him. She felt the heat of his body, the strength coiled beneath the fabric, and she trembled but not with fear, with hunger.

“On your knees,” he commanded. The words weren’t shouted, but they cut through her like a blade.

Her body obeyed before her mind caught up. She slid down, the stone floor biting her knees . She looked up at him, lips parted, the candlelight painting her face in gold and shadow.

His robes fell away, and the reality of him filled her vision. Hard, thick, and already swollen with need. She swallowed, desire and nerves twisting inside her.

“Confess with your mouth,” he growled.

Her lips closed around him, slow at first, reverent, then greedy as his hand guided her deeper. She gagged softly, but he held her there, savoring her submission, her tongue stroking along him, and her moans vibrating against his length.

“Good,” he hissed, thrusting into her mouth, watching her eyes water as she took him further. “You were made for this.”

When he pulled her up, her lips were wet, swollen, breath ragged. He kissed her hard, tasting himself on her tongue, before spinning her against the wooden door.

“Bend,” he ordered, pushing her forward.

Her hands braced on the booth as he yanked her habit up, baring her. The cool air kissed her thighs before his hand slapped her, sharp and claiming. She gasped, but it melted into a moan as his fingers spread her open, stroking her already slick heat.

“You ache for me,” he whispered against her ear. “You begged the darkness for this.”

“I did,” she panted, desperate. “I need you.”

He shoved into her in one fierce stroke, her cry echoing through the chapel. The wood creaked as he drove into her, hips slamming, every thrust claiming her body deeper. She clutched the frame of the confessional door, nails digging, as his pace grew brutal and relentless.

Her cries turned to screams of his name that were twisted with pleas. His hand wrapped around her throat, pulling her back against his chest as he pounded into her. She felt caged, consumed. Her body nothing but fire and need.

“I’ll ruin you,” he groaned, his teeth scraping her shoulder. “You’re mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped, over and over, until her voice broke.

His hand slid between her thighs, fingers finding her swollen clit, rubbing mercilessly. The world went black at the edges as the pressure tore through her, her orgasm ripping her apart in a scream. Her body clenched around him, dragging his release from him with a snarl.

He spilled into her, claiming her fully, his grip bruising, and his breath hot on her neck. They collapsed against the booth, bodies trembling, the candles at the altar sputtering low.

And in that shadow-drenched silence, she knew she was no longer just his initiate. She was bound to him by flesh, by sin, and by ecstasy that only he could give her. 

Her body still quivered against the wood, her breath uneven, and her thighs slick with his claim. The candles burned low as shadows crawled across the chapel walls like silent witnesses.

He didn’t let her go. His hand was still at her throat, his thumb tracing her racing pulse, reminding her who had taken her apart.

“You feel it now,” he whispered, his voice like velvet over iron. “The mark of me inside you. You’ll never forget it.”

She shuddered, eyes closing, lips parted in a soft whimper. “I’m yours.”

“Not just your body,” he said, teeth grazing her ear. His hips rolled slow, grinding his length inside her one last time, wringing another tremor from her raw, sensitive flesh. “Your soul. Your thoughts. Every secret you tried to keep. I’ll drag them from you, taste them, devour them.”

His hand slid down, pressing over her womb, firm, possessive. “You belong to me here,” he growled. Then his palm covered her breast, squeezing until she moaned. “And here. Every piece of you.”

She melted into his hold, her submission complete, her voice little more than a breath. “Take it. Take all of me.”

His mouth curved in a dark smile against her neck. “I will. Again. And again. Until there’s nothing left you can call your own.”

He kissed her neck, slow and bruising, his teeth leaving a mark. “You’ll walk through these halls aching, every step reminding you that you’re mine. And when the others look at you, they’ll know, without a word, that you’ve been consumed by me.”

Her knees trembled, but his arms caught her, cradling and caging at once. She realized she no longer wanted freedom. She wanted the hunger in his eyes, the claim in his touch.

And he promised, with every dark caress, to devour her until there was no separation. Only him, and her, bound in sin and shadow.

Broken-Hearted Rock Star Romances

 So, last night we went and saw Blink-182 at Bethel Woods. Mike was talking to a friend of ours about almost drumming with Good Charlotte and how this life wouldn't exist the way it does now if he chose that path with the band. 

And of COURSE it got my mind spinning about some broken-hearted rock star VS fan romance, because you know how I do.... So, here is it:

The night was a blur of distortion and sweat, the crowd pressed tight against the stage, fists in the air as the band closed their set with a chaotic crash of guitars. Behind the kit, he gave everything he had, with his hair plastered to his forehead, arms a blur, his heart thrumming louder than his snare.

When the final cymbal rang out, he tossed a stick into the crowd. He didn’t even notice where it landed.

Backstage was its usual mess of empty bottles, torn setlists, and laughter, but when he slipped away for some air. That’s when he saw her.

She was standing by the barricade, still clutching his drumstick like it was treasure. Her smile wasn’t starstruck but was something softer, warmer. Their eyes met, and for a second, it felt like the chaos of the night dimmed to silence.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough from shouting over amps.

“Hey,” she replied, holding up the stick. “Guess this belongs to you?”

He shook his head. “Nah. Pretty sure it found the right hands.”

They both laughed, and it wasn’t the strained kind of small talk he was used to. There was ease between them, like they’d been waiting for this exact moment. He leaned against the railing, suddenly nervous in a way that sold-out shows never made him.

“I’ve been playing drums for years,” he admitted, “but I think tonight’s the first time I’ve actually hit the right beat.”

She tilted her head, eyes catching the glow of the streetlight. “And what beat is that?”

“The one that leads me here.”

It was cheesy, reckless and so very punk of him. But she smiled, and something in her expression told him she felt it too.

From that night on, it wasn’t just the music that kept him up on stage but knowing that somewhere in the crowd, she was there, smiling, holding on to that drumstick that had started it all.

Love at first sight, he thought, wasn’t about sparks flying. It was about one steady rhythm, the kind you never wanted to let fade.

For weeks after that night, they kept seeing each other. Coffee after rehearsal. Long walks through dimly lit city streets where she teased him about his wild drumming hair, the stupid faces he made when he played, and he tried to hide the way he was falling harder with every smile.

But it didn’t take long before the band started to notice.

“Dude, she’s a fan,” snarled Mikey, as they loaded gear into the van. “You’re playing with fire. Fans don’t date, they worship....and when that worship goes sour, it gets ugly.”

He tightened his grip on the cymbal case. “She’s not like that.”

“They’re all like that,” Mikey shot back, voice low but sharp. “They love the idea of us. Not the reality. And when reality hits? Headlines. Gossip. Split bands. You want to risk the band for a piece of ass?”

But she wasn’t a fling. He knew that. She was the only calm in the noise of tour buses, sweaty venues, and endless afterparties. When they were together, he wasn’t the punk drummer of an up and coming band, he was just himself.

Still, rumors spread fast. Fans on message boards noticed her in the background of backstage photos. Whispers started: Who is she? Why is she always there? Some cheered him on; others tore into her. One night, she showed him her phone, hands shaking. Comments were flooding her socials and some were cruel enough to draw blood without a blade.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she whispered. “I love your music. I love you. But being in your world...it’s fucking brutal.”

He hated himself for not having an answer. The drumsticks that once felt like magic in his hand now felt like weapons that he’d cursed her with.

The breaking point came after a show one random Friday night. The band was heading off stage when a fan screamed at her from the crowd, spitting venom. Security dragged the girl out, but not before her sweet face crumpled. Later, she told him:

“I can’t be the reason they hate you. Or the reason they hate me.”

He sat in the silence of the dressing room long after she left, the echoes of the set ringing hollow in his ears. The rhythm that had once saved him was now tearing him apart.

The night after that, he sat on the edge of his hotel bed, staring at his phone. Her last text message sat unread: If you want me in your life, say it now. Otherwise, I’ll walk away.

His chest ached, but his hands wouldn’t move.

Across the room, Mikey lit a cigarette by the window, smoke curling into the stale air. “You can’t have both,” he said flatly. “You choose her, you drag us all down. You choose us, maybe we still got a shot at making it and into the history books.”

He wanted to scream that the band wasn’t everything, that maybe love mattered more than fame. But then he pictured the kit under the stage lights, the roar of the crowd, the only rhythm that had ever made sense before her. He thought of his bandmates and all their blood, sweat, years clawing at the walls of obscurity. Could he throw that away for something fragile, something already bleeding from the edges?

When morning came, his reply was a ghost. Just silence.

She didn’t wait. By the next week, her number was disconnected. Her socials wiped clean. 

He buried himself in the music. Louder, faster, harder. His fills got sharper, his beats more brutal, as if he could drown the hollow in his chest beneath the crash of cymbals. The crowd never knew the difference. They screamed his name, worshiped his sweat and fire, and he gave them every piece of himself.

But some nights, when the lights went down and the crowd’s roar faded into a ringing silence, he caught himself staring at the empty space by the barricade. The spot where a girl with soft brown eyes and a stolen drumstick had once stood, making him believe there was more than noise.

He chose the band. And the band gave him everything.

But it would never give him her and they'd never see each other again.