This is honestly the most PWP-shit I've ever written but it's been sitting around in my computer since forever and apparently, at one point, I thought this was a good idea. Huh. What do you know.
If you feel like you'll go to hell if you read porn in which the interior of churches gets defiled by aged-up medival-ish dorks frickling in confession boxes, you might want to turn back. Also if you can't imagine Len as a priest.
That's all.
Lately, you've had reason to doubt whether you were doing something unforgivably sinful as many a chilly evening passed. But when another moonlit night comes around and the cold, cold light turns hues of red and green and blue and brown as it is cast onto the freezing marble, suddenly, even thinking becomes hard.
Without fail, he is there, waiting for you, always, just before the clock strikes midnight. He's sitting in the shadows as if to hide from the after-images of faithful believers that linger long past a sunday's service, their ever watchful eyes glued to the shivering form cloaked in darkness. And yet, it doesn't deter him- behind the empty confession boxes, long past nightfall, he waits, just like a starved dog hoping for food, to receive absolution. His definition of such is so deranged and wrong, you sometimes feel obliged to chide him, but as your eyes meet, just like every time, your breath catches in your throat and suddenly, his every word might as well be your command.
And, well, so far, you have never rejected him, anyways.
He's undeniably beautiful as he rises from his seat, the light getting caught in his snowy hair and fluttering, pale lashes as if to turn them into a broken prism in the saints' vibrant colours painted across the windows. As he comes to stand in front of you, short and frail and so, so gorgeous, almost glowing in the moon's cold shine, you refrain from reaching out, simply because you fear that giving in like that would increase the weight this sinfulness put onto you.
But then he bows, so very deeply, and your eyes trace every movement, committing every shift of muscle to memory and you quickly find yourself thinking that, oh, never mind, no god could ever grant you this kind of ephemeral sense of want. And even as you send your eternal soul straight into damnation, somehow, as he stays down and kisses your fingers as though mocking all those who hang off every word that escapes your lips, you figure that this is perfectly fine with you, too.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned", he laughs softly and warm puffs of breath on your fingers fight off the cold inside the church, sending shivers down your spine and heat to your cheeks. You know- you really do know- that you should be the first to ask for him to be burned at the stake, to be hanged or beheaded. Yet, instead, you begin to gingerly trace his chapped lower lip with the tip of your thumb and he grins.
"Since when do you care about that?", you ask him, ever the repetitive answer to an equally repetitive phrase. As he stands at his full height again, his mismatched eyes coming alive with mirth and amusement, he shrugs and closes the small gap between your bodies, pressing his chest against yours so firmly.
It never ceases to amaze you just how right it feels when his arms wrap around your neck, ripping your hair from its tie as your hands find purchase in the coarse material covering the ever so tempting dip of his hips. Neither can you deny that he always tastes sweet, almost sickeningly so, as your tongues clash at the brutal pace he sets for the both of you.
As you part for air, your initial urgency slowly fading, he glances at you from below his endless lashes, his lips glistening in the moonlight with your mixed saliva, and you can't help but choke on your breath like so many times before because, really, he is stunningly beautiful, more so than any angel ever drawn by the greatest of artists. And, moreover, he is only yours to claim.
Before you resume your previous actions, he sighs, so very lewdly, and strokes your cheek affectionately. "God, you're so hot", he says, not once caring about how he uses the lord's name in vain while standing in a house built for his service.
But instead of chastising him, you gently take his hand and bring it up to your mouth, licking along his digits slowly. He lets out a shaky moan before he rips is hand away and attacks your mouth again, and, well, you don't mind fighting back at all and before you know it, you're stumbling towards one of the confession boxes, still glued to his lips, and deep down, you're glad that the curtain is drawn back already.
Your back hits the wall and he's onto you, almost climbing you as he coils his every limb around your body, insistently tugging at your robes with clumsy, cold fingers. A soft laugh escapes you, just against his lips, as you slide to the floor, his ass naturally settling into your lap, and he pulls away a bit and frowns. "What?", he asks you, though his tone is impatient and angry, and you just smile.
"It's nothing, just you being cute", you reply and he leans in closer again, his shifting so delicious as it creates a teasing bit of friction against your crotch, and then he nips at your lips and you realise that, oh, he's threatening you by potentially leaving a mark. You can't say that the idea is entirely unpleasant, but even in the heat of the moment you should be aware of your position.
So you simply take to turn his nipping back into another heated, long kiss and before long, his fingers return to your clothes, this time making your robes drop from your shoulders and you can't help but shiver at the cold that hits you after shedding the warmest layer of clothing. He grins against your mouth triumphantly, then, and you growl in the back of your throat before you shove your chilly hands up his clothes against his flushed back.
A yelp escapes him and he moves to scramble to his feet, but you hold him firmly in place, letting your palms travel downwards. When they come to rest on his ass- finally- you give his plump backside a hard squeeze and the moan that rips from his throat makes you wonder how you managed to hold out without this for only a second. But instead of letting his sweet groans and moans resound, you drink them up as you seamlessly lock your lips with his again, sometimes holding back your own noises as he begins to rut against you needily.
His cold fingers start fiddling with the hem of your trousers and you swear that it should be against the law to accidentally brush against your painfully hard cock that often. When the cold air finally hits your flushed erection, he looks pleased with himself, his reddened cheeks and swollen lips giving way to the lewdest smile he can muster up. "How scandalous, Father, indulging in such earthly pleasure", he breathes hotly into your ear and before you can stop yourself, you use your hold on his ass to grind into him, panting out a moan that he greedily seals up with his mouth.
"I...", you begin and yet trail off as you forget how to form coherent language, but somehow, he still knows what it is that you want and he climbs off you for only a second, pulling his legs out of his trousers and throwing them into the dark church. He moves to straddle you again, is eyes screwing shut as your erections meet between your bodies and you quickly hug his waist close to you, letting your hands feel around his spread cheeks.
When you find his entrance, warm and wet and definitely prepared, you can feel the smile he hides in the crook of your neck, even with the shaky sigh he lets out. "Didn't wanna hold us up with this", he mutters and kisses your collarbone and you can't help but smile a bit yourself as you softly rub around a little, his hands finding purchase in your thin sleeves. "God", he breathes, shuddering. "God, Len, let's just..."
Your name, spoken in that sexual sigh, almost makes you come right then and there. But it doesn't, so you grab his hips again and roughly yank on him until you are lined up with his entrance. He straightens up on top of you and wraps his arms tightly around your neck, locking eyes with you as he slowly goes down on you, his face twisting in pain. Yet he bravely endures it all and then claims your lips as his prize when you are settled deeply inside of him.
Gently, you trace his spine with your fingers as he waits for what feels like hours, and at some point, he leans into it before he picks himself up, slowly dragging you out of his heat before he drops down again, tightening his hold around your neck for stability. The first few times, he's slow, but he quickly becomes faster until you are both sloppily meeting each other halfway through, all the while panting into the suffocatingly thick air in the space between your mouths.
It's clear to you that you won't last long like this and so, as though to not disappoint that angelic creature riding you, you trail your hand over his abdomen and journey even further downwards, letting his cock slide into your hand so naturally. And he moans- God, does he moan. His voice echoes off the cold stone, clearer than any instrument ever played in here, louder than any bell and more melodic than any half-hearted Hallelujah ever sung within these walls.
He picks up his speed in response to your administrations, always chanting a sweet mantra of your name between soft groans and pleasured noises, and then he begins shaking, squeezing you so perfectly, again and again and again, driving you mad and killing you while keeping you grounded and breathing life into you. One especially rough smack of your hips meeting his is what sends you over the edge and he halts his every movement, sitting in your lap with his mouth hanging open lewdly and his eyes half-lidded and hungry. He waits until every post-orgasmic shudder stops, lets you fill him without as much as batting a pale lash and when you come down from your high, over-stimulated and tired, you pull him into you, lazily sharing lips while softly stroking his member in your hand.
When he finally comes, too, all soft moans and trembling limbs, he slumps forward and grins into your shoulder. Still linked in an intimate place, you find it fairly hard to shift around, so you settle for remaining the way you are right now and wrap your arms around his back just the same way he hugs you.
There's a shuddering breath, almost like a laugh, before he speaks, muffled by your skin. "It's fuckin' cold in here", he says but instead of getting up to redress himself, he curls up even more against you, squeezing you tight. You can't say that you hate the silence that settles then, with your mind too tired and too much at ease for you to feel guilty. And just when you think that he might have fallen asleep like that, he mutters something. It's hard to make out, barely above a whisper, but you hear it nonetheless, word-by-word, way too clearly.
"I love you."
And you go rigid. He sits up in your lap, looking at you with frightened, wide eyes and then covers his mouth with his hands, seconds away from apologising. "I love you, too", is what you want to say, though, and even if it has never occured to you that your feelings of adoration for him (when you weren't hiding from them or beating yourself up over them by almost ripping your rosary over your fiftieth Ave Maria, that is) might be just that- plain old love, disgusting and immoral and heretic, but so natural to you- right now, all the pieces are falling into place and you don't hate it in the slightest.
There's many things you want to say in those brief, fleeting seconds when you recall that you are a priest, sworn to live a life in celibate, sitting in an empty confession box that you defiled so many times you've lost count of it with another man in your arms, still, but in the end, you realise that, appalled as you should be, you can't bring yourself to feel like the pathetic sinner you are- at the end of the day, you're just human and there's something- love; it is love, you chastise yourself- that has taken a hold of you and that has, for a long time, pushed you into doing things every rational fiber in your body should have objected to.
So when you speak into the tense air, it's preceeded by a sigh and makes your voice come out more softly than you think it's ever been. "It's okay", you tell him, and you honestly mean it. Because it really is just perfectly fine, him saying that he loves you. So you take his hands away from his mouth and lean up to kiss him, sweetly, and it's so strange, doing this without the slightest urge to do something different from chastely pressing your lips against his perfect ones. It makes your stomach stirr nevertheless.
Yet, you notice how he shows hesitance, reluctance even, so out of character for him as he tries his hardest not to lean into it, to enjoy it, as though you just overstepped the boundary to his comfort-level. When it becomes too painful to bear, at last, you pull away and meet his eyes, more wild and frightened that you've ever seen them, and you stroke his cheek. He flinches. Undeterred, you choose to pull him close and cradle the back of his head as his face presses into your shoulder. He's stiff and awkward at first, gradually relaxing until he's sluped against you. The fabric on your shoulder dampens after a while and his lithe form shakes ever so slightly that you feel like he might slip away into nothingness if you didn't hold him even tighter.
"Why don't we just up and run away?", you suggest quietly after even the soft sobs quaking in his body die down and instantly wonder if you'd even thought your words through before saying them. (You realise that, no, that definitely hadn't been the case.) He lifts his head, just barely, and peeks at you from under his lashes, his eyes glassy and red, yet alive and shimmering with newly discovered hope that he tries so desperately to surpress.
"You don't mean that", he accuses and bunches up the fabric of your shirt in his balled fists, averting his eyes and smiling wrily. "You've got everything here, you can't possibly just ditch and call it a day. Why would you even do that? 'Cause I accidentally said something in the spur of the moment?" His tone is so angry, he almost manages to cover up the shakiness of tears straining his voice, but you still hear every tiny nuance of the lament leaving his lips.
You catch his jaw with two fingers and make him look at you, doing your best to send him an encouraging, earnest expression in the temporary darkness created by a cloud edging in front of the moon. "I'd leave any day if it meant that I could follow you", you mutter and stroke over the rain on his porcelain cheek with the pad of your thumb, so tenderly that you surprise even yourself. "I hate this whole situation. The only one who makes me feel like I'm a living human being is you and then our time together is so limited, it's cringeworthy."
He looks at you owlishly before chuckling and you smile because it's such a melodious sound, reminiscent of chimes in the breeze. "We're idiots. We'll totally get burned at the stake and then burn in purgatory forever", he laughs and his moist eyes crinkle at the corners from his mirthful smile. Slowly, he leans forwards and presses his lips against yours, sweet and gentle, and you kiss him back as it it was second nature. "But if that's what you want", he says as he pulls away a little too quickly for your liking. "Then let's just go, sometime soon."
Admittedly, you have to repeat his words to yourself a few times before you manage to wrap your head around them, but quickly go wide-eyed when their meaning finally settles. "Really?", you ask him, a little dumbstruck, and he smirks, reclaiming your lips instead of replying. On second thought, maybe that is enough of an answer at this point of time.
Your fingers sink into the soft flesh of his hips and he sighs as his damp lashes flutter against your cheeks, his hips instinctively snapping against yours.
Until you leave, there is still plenty of time.