Sins And Chastity

The Final One

MARNI

No one sneaks past them.

Not unnoticed. Not untouched.

That’s what I've learned during my four years at Blueridge High.

This school isn't like other schools. It doesn’t run on rules or teachers or student councils, or even the principal. It runs on them.

Four boys.

Four kings.

Four problems no one is brave—or stupid—enough to challenge.

A pack of ridiculously hot football stars who dragged the team out of a fifteen-year championship drought and turned them into legends. Three titles in four years. A legacy built on dominance and fear. As freshmen, they skipped junior varsity entirely and walked straight onto varsity like they owned it. Like they’d always belonged there.

They didn’t win it all that first year.

But they learned something much more valuable than victory.

They learned how to destroy.

They didn't crumble from the loss. They adapted. They sharpened themselves into something unbreakable —unbeatable.

By the time sophomore year rolled around, they weren’t just good—they were inevitable. By junior year, they were untouchable.

But Now?

As seniors they’re a warning.

They’re called the Four Deadly Sins. Yeah. Like the Bible. Except this version feels a lot less fictional. There used to be more of them. Seven, technically. But power like that doesn’t stay crowded for long. Two got girlfriends and softened. One left.

But the rest?

They stayed exactly the same.

And trust me, the name isn’t an exaggeration.

Jethro Winters. Kingston Scott. Spencer Ross. Damon Hunt.

They’re the epitome of sin.

They own this place. Not officially. Not on paper. But everyone knows it.

Teachers look the other way. Students fall in line. And if you don’t— You learn to. Fast.

They’re worshipped here. Feared more than they’re loved. Untouchable in that way people only get when they have everything—money, power, looks, attention, praise, connections—and absolutely no reason to be good.

Future politicians. CEOs. Pro athletes.

Boys who have never been told no.

Boys who wouldn’t listen if they were.

They rule this place like royalty—even if only one of them actually has the name to match. Walking, talking vices with their futures already paved out in front of them, born to parents who practically own half the state while the other half answers to them.

They're treated like Gods of the school. Not just because of what they do on the football field, but because of who they are off it. And they lean into it. Hard.

Each of them wears a title.

A brand.

A sin.

Damon is Lust. Pretty in a way that feels intentional. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing when he looks at you. Raven-black hair, come-hither green eyes, a tall, sculpted body honed by his role as the team’s placekicker. His smile promises things he has no intention of giving—and somehow, that only makes people want him more. Add in that lazy swagger and dangerously smooth charm, and he’s impossible to resist.

Spencer is Greed. Quiet. Calculated. Sandy blond hair, always a little messy, pale gray eyes that miss nothing, and a runner’s build made for endurance. He’s never satisfied—always pushing, always wanting more. Straight A student. Top of every class. Perfect scores. Endless ambition. And its still not enough.

Kingston is Wrath. You hear him before you see him. Heavy steps. Short temper. Built like a weapon and just as eager to be used. Brown hair, warm chocolate eyes, and a fuse so short it might as well be nonexistent. As a tight end, he hits hard and doesn’t mind hitting back harder—sometimes just for the thrill of it.

And then—

There’s Jethro.

Everything bends around him.

Quarterback. Point guard in basketball season. Captain. Leader.

Pride.

Everything starts and ends with him.

The one who leads the rest.

Jethro Winters is Pride personified. Every glance, every whisper, every silence shifts when he passes. Blond hair, piercing blue eyes, that effortless, infuriating perfection, with a body carved like he was built to be worshipped. He doesn’t just walk through the halls—he claims them.

He doesn’t demand attention.

He expects it.

And he gets it.

Because people like Jethro don’t just exist.

They take.

His ego isn’t just big—it’s justified. Reinforced by every win, every look, every person who’s ever fallen at his feet, every poor soul he's ever destroyed, and every girl who's ever lost their panties to him.

He knows exactly what he is: every teenage fantasy brought to life.

A wet dream—so long as he keeps that arrogant, sinful mouth shut.

And worse—

He knows how to exploit it to get what he wants.

All four of them are devastatingly beautiful.

And all four of them are cruel.

And if you’re not careful—

They’ll ruin you.

Because if they notice you?

If you somehow manage to catch their attention—

That’s it.

You don’t just walk away from the Four Deadly Sins.

You survive them...

If you’re lucky.

Because the Sins hunt and defile virgins for sport. They've made it their mission in life—or at least their high school lives—to take every virgin in our senior class.

They call it a pact.

Everyone else calls it what it is.

And it gets worse. Because the hunt and capture simply isn't enough. Not for cruel boys such as the Sins. They take a token from every virgin they deflower. They call it the "cherry archive" An online database available to the whole school where they name and shame every virgin by uploading pictures of blood stains after popping cherries.

Yes. The assholes actually take pictures of the blood a ruptured hymen leaves behind after defiling a virgin—and they share them. Like some sort of twisted trophy. And they label the Sin responsible for the popped cherry like a badge of honor.

I didn't believe it when I heard about the website in Freshman year. I thought the rumor was made up—or at the least exaggerated—because there was no way in hell someone could be that disturbed. But it was true. Lexi and I visited the site and were disgusted by what we discovered. According to the "Cherry Archive, " Damon Hunt has the most notches on his belt. His name appears more than any other Sin. Kingston comes in a close second, And Jethro and Spencer round out the end of the list, along with past Sins who have since moved on.

You would think the risk of depravity like that would deter virgins away from them. But it doesn't. I think it does the opposite. The girls in my school want to be named by them. They strive to make their vile list. To be one of the "chosen ones" for the whole world to see.

The Sins have worked their way through almost every girl in our grade, and it’s not exactly a secret. The whole school knows what they do. Other schools know. The faculty knows. Some parents at home. It’s the kind of reputation that spreads fast—and sticks.

There are rules, of course. Even the Sins have standards, their own f****d up moral code.

They don’t go after girls in long-term relationships. They don’t touch underclassmen—no matter how many throw themselves at their feet, begging for attention.

Everyone else?

Fair game.

And once you catch their eye, that’s it. Nothing and no one can save you. Teachers don’t step in. The principal looks the other way.

They choose.

They mark.

They take.

And they shame.

Not by force—because they don’t have to. That’s the worst part of it all. Girls line up for them. Trip over themselves for a chance. Because the Sins aren’t just popular—they’re untouchable. Built different. Better than all the rest. Hotter than the flames of hell.

And they know it.

Girls worship them. Chase them. Offer themselves up like it’s some twisted honor. Around here, being chosen by a Sin is treated like a rite of passage—a sick, sacred milestone that means you’ve finally made it.

I don’t get it.

There are more important things in life than being someone’s conquest.

But around here, that makes me the strange one.

Because once you’re marked, you don’t get a say anymore. You’re done when they decide you are. Not before.

Fight back?

You get punished.

Quietly. Loudly. However they feel like that day. But it usually happens in a room full of voyeurs to watch as you're humiliated. Debased.

Tell someone?

It only makes them angry.

Hide?

It’s so much worse when they find you.

Because they will find you.

They always do.

In four years, they’ve taken sixty-five girls. Sixty-five.

And that number would be higher if some girls hadn’t already been claimed before high school even started—middle school relationships that somehow earned them immunity. “Untouchable,” according to the Sins.

Now senior year is almost over.

And they’ve taken just about everyone.

Almost.

A few of us are still left.

Two others.

And me.

Because I did something no one else managed to do.

I stayed invisible.

For four years, I kept my head down, avoided attention, and moved through this school like a ghost. I learned their patterns. Their habits. Where they sat. Where they went.

And I stayed far, far away.

Not that it was always easy.

I’ve had classes with them—it’s impossible not to. Freshman year, I was even paired with Jethro Winters for science. He spent most of the time messing around, barely paying attention, while I did all the work to keep us from failing.

He never noticed me.

None of them did.

At least… not that I know of.

I made sure of it.

Every class, I took the same seat—second row, by the window. Close enough to blend in, far enough to avoid the back where they always sat. A buffer of bodies between me and them. No eye contact. No reason to look twice.

And outside of class, I was even more careful.

I stopped using my locker the second I realized it was right outside the gym—their territory and home away from home. I skipped the cafeteria and left campus every lunch. I just happened to be “sick” on picture day every year, so I’d never end up in a yearbook.

No clubs. No sports. No social media.

Nothing that could put me on their radar.

And somehow… it worked.

I’d managed to keep unwanted attention off me by blending in—doing the bare minimum to pass and graduate. Any incidents or small run-ins between us over the years never turned into real confrontations.

Even though there had been plenty.

There was the time in gym last year, when Kingston and Jethro were sitting in the bleachers and I accidentally hit Kingston with a poorly served birdie. The second it happened, I fled—bolting for the girls’ locker room like my feet were on fire, my racket clattering to the floor behind me as he lifted his brown head to search for the culprit.

Later that day, I found out another girl had taken the fall for me.

Kingston made her apologize.

By giving him a hand job.

There were even rumors that Jethro had watched.

So yeah—I got pretty damn lucky.

Then there was that notable occurrence with Damon that happened in our art class, sophomore year, when I’d unknowingly used up all of the red paint he needed to finish his project. When he discovered I’d used it all, he sought me out in the back of the room, but I escaped confrontation as the bell rang and students flooded the space between us to block me from sight.

And then I got the hell out of there before he could try to find me.

There was also that incident with Spencer last year—and this is probably the most important to have avoided. I’d missed a week of school because I was sick—wasn't faking, actually sick with the Flu—so I’d missed the mile in Gym class, and decided to make it up during lunch period. Well, Spencer was there unbeknownst to me, tossing a football back and forth to Kingston, who was up in the bleachers, and somehow my DC shoe came untied, so I stopped to tie it. And that’s when I heard a shout come out of nowhere and looked up just in time to find Spencer running backward, head towards the blue sky at the football plummeting my way—his back dangerously close to colliding with me. Thank God Lexi was there because she pushed me out of the way just in time. And then made a joke about a meet-cute as we scrambled back into the school to hide.

And lastly that brings us to the candid encounter with Jethro that took place that same year when I was late to school for a make-up math test. Rain pattered the asphalt as I ran across the cafeteria parking lot to find the doors locked. By then, I was soaking wet and desperate, so I looked around and found Kingston, Damon, and Spencer behind me, walking towards the door to the gym that Jethro was holding open for them. Noting they were still quite a distance away, I darted past them and slipped through the door, catching Jethro’s blue gaze as I barely brushed by. He muttered something I didn’t listen to as I ran down the hall past him, disappearing into a classroom before he could go looking.

That is if he even wanted to. 

Now, there are ten weeks left and senior year is almost over. My time at this school is quickly dwindling to an end...and I’ve got nothing to show for it.

Come to think about it... the majority of my time spent within these halls has been wasted on dodging the Sins.

I’m not in any of the yearbooks. I’m not in any of the clubs. I didn’t participate in class trips or spirit week. I haven’t won any awards to leave behind when I go.

When I go, it'll feel like I never even existed in this school at all. I won't be leaving anything that says I was ever here. There will be no mark, no lasting legacy – like the Sins and their football plaques, or Jethro and his two basketball championships.

And it's embarrassing to admit that I allowed four boys to dictate every move I made during these last four years. Four boys that I don’t even truly know. Four boys who wouldn’t have even given me the time of day had it not been for the status of my virginity.

And for what?

Just so I could avoid attention that I didn’t know how to handle? Just because there was a slight chance they would mark me as their next project? Their last one?

I’d let them take so much from me when they hadn’t even demanded anything in the first place. But I refuse to let them take another thing from me—whether they ask for it or not.

I let them take my locker. I let them dictate the clothes I wore, and the words I said to other students in fear that I’d say the wrong thing and word would get back to them to put me on their radar.

They’d taken away academic achievements—because I was too afraid to strive for anything above mediocre in fear of making it easier for them to find me. They’d taken clubs, extracurricular activities, and choir away because I didn't want to spend more time in this school than what was necessary in order to prevent running into them after hours—at times when the staff around here was sparse. And invited trouble.

The sins have singlehandedly robbed me of my high school experience.

But no more.

Because it’s time to try to salvage what’s left of my senior year. From this day forward, I will wear, say, and do whatever the hell I want whenever the hell I want. And I’m not going to let anything, or anyone— certainly not four boys—stop me from making these last few weeks the best they can be.