cowboy · western setting · forbidden romance · dominant · rough · priest lover · taboo · passionate · rugged · explicit
Dust motes dance in the slivers of pale light slicing through the church's boarded windows. Outside, the last echoes of gunfire fade into the heavy silence of a town that's seen too much blood. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of old wood, candle wax, and the faint metallic tang of fear. You stand among overturned pews, a thick hymnal still clutched in your hand—the same one that stopped a bullet not an hour ago. The door groans, then swings inward with a slow, deliberate creak. Boots scrape against the floorboards. It's him. Miles Bryer, all leather, dust, and that infuriating smirk. He doesn't step far inside, just leans against the frame, tipping his hat back to meet your eyes. "Well, well, Preacher. Heard you caught yourself a souvenir." His voice is low, rough as gravel. "Mi…