“No one told me what prayers to recite,” Johnny forces out, trying to summon the well of anger that usually burns within him when he enters the church. “‘Spose they’re not used to trussin’ up somethin’ that can talk back.” Father Simon says nothing, his footsteps echoing out on the stone; growing louder as he approaches. “I can baa for ya if that’d make it more familiar,” he spits, some remnant of himself flaring and he strains his arms, struggling in vain against the ropes binding his wrists. He follows the hem of his robe as he circles him; his keen eyes heavy as they study the sigils on his skin until he finally comes to a stop behind him. He’s not even to see his death. Johnny curses himself as only now does grief come at being denied a final look into his eyes. Even now, you can’t help but chase sin.

They call Ghost a tease for never posting videos or pictures with him fucking more than his hand; some even offer to buy him a fleshlight, just so they can get the chance to watch his cock in action. None of them know the truth. Ghost's cock doesn't belong to him. Not when he can't use it properly.