Summary: After a series of bad first dates, you weren't so sure you'd ever find someone in Metropolis who would truly understand you -- that is, until Clark Kent came along.
SR’s Note: Listen... as many of you may not know, I was a dancer all of my life from 2 years old all the way through the end of high school. (; Of course I still appreciate the art, and this was the perfect opportunity to write about it. (I have also recently been completely DISGUSTED by Timothee Chalamet's comments regarding this topic, and from here on out we absolutely do not claim that man -- so here is my retaliation, lol) Enjoy. <3
Tags: @rcarbo1 @lilah-asteria @whyucloudingmymind @bookofriverr @kitsunetori @velarisdusk @nctsawrus @lreadsstuff @paintedbyshadows @woollybread786 @cherry-hotline @obi-wansgirl @therevoloutionhasbegun (inbox me or comment if you'd like to be added!)
The voice on the other end of the line was warm, amused. You paused mid-step, one boot half-laced, your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.
"Not unless you count my father during The Nutcracker when I was six," you said, pulling the lace tight. "He pretended it was allergies."
Clark laughed -- that rich, easy sound you'd only heard a handful of times since meeting him at the Daily Planet's charity gala last month.
"Good," he said. "Because I'm picking you up in twenty minutes, and I'd hate to ruin my reputation upfront."
The line went dead before you could ask what he meant. Your brow furrowed as you stared at your reflection in the hallway mirror: wool coat buttoned crooked, hair resisting the neat twist you'd attempted, and confusion written all across your dolled-up features. Outside, the first snow of the new year had dusted Metropolis like powdered sugar.
:* ✧･ﾟ: *
The knock at your apartment door came exactly nineteen minutes later (you’d been counting) and when you opened the door, Clark stood there holding two paper cups steaming with something that smelled like cinnamon and burnt sugar. You couldn't help but inhale deeply.
“Spiced apple cider,” he said, handing you one. His grin was crooked, the kind that made his glasses slip down his nose just enough to be endearing. “The guy at the cart called it ‘winter in a cup.’ I figured we could use the warmth.”
You took a sip, the heat spreading through your fingers first, then your chest. “You’re weirdly punctual for someone who works in news,” you said, stepping out and locking the door behind you. "Seems like you're always on the chase."
Clark shrugged, adjusting his scarf; it was blue, just like his eyes. “Perks of super-speed,” he said, then blinked, as if catching himself. “I mean, uh. Deadlines. You learn to be on time.”
:* ✧･ﾟ: *
The streets were quieter than usual so early in the morning, the snow muffling the usual Metropolis hum. Clark walked close enough that his sleeve brushed yours, but never quite crossed that invisible line. You caught him glancing at you twice -- no, three times -- before he cleared his throat. “So. The ballet.”
You lifted your cider to your lips, the warmth lingering on your tongue like a secret.
"The ballet," you repeated, playing along with his obvious attempt at suspense. "Which, for the record, you still haven't explained."
Clark's smile deepened as he nudged you gently around a slushy puddle. "Swan Lake," he said, like it was nothing. Like he hadn't just named the one performance that could make your knees weak. "Matinee showing at the Metropolis Theatre. Unless you'd rather-"
"I love Swan Lake," you blurted, then winced at your own eagerness. The cup trembled slightly in your grip.
Clark didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he was gracious enough to pretend otherwise.
"Good," he said simply. "Because I may have also reserved us a table at that little French place next door. Their blueberry waffles are…" He paused, searching for the right word, and you watched, inexplicably charmed, as he settled on, "Life-changing."
:* ✧･ﾟ: *
The French place was even smaller than you’d imagined; just twelve tables crammed beneath a ceiling strung with fairy lights, the air thick with the scent of browned butter and melting gruyère. Clark held your chair out for you, his fingers brushing the small of your back for half a second longer than necessary, and when the waiter came, he ordered for both of you in near perfect French.
You raised an eyebrow. He ducked his head, suddenly sheepish. “I spent a summer in Paris,” he admitted. “F-for an internship. Mostly just, ate my way through the city...”
The food arrived, golden and steaming, the blueberries bright and pat of butter atop the golden bake melting. Clark watched you take the first bite, his expression shifting into something soft when your eyes fluttered shut at the first taste.
“Told you,” he murmured, and you didn’t even mind the smugness because he was right, it was life-changing.
:* ✧･ﾟ: *
At the theater, Clark produced the tickets from his coat pocket with a flourish, and the usher led you to seats far better than you’d dared hope: center orchestra, close enough to see the sweat on the dancers’ brows.
The lights dimmed.
The overture swelled.
And then... then the curtain rose, and the world narrowed to the stage, to Odette’s first arabesque, to the way Clark’s breath hitched beside you when the violins surged.
Act II. The swans.
Your chest ached with a familiar, childhood longing as the corps moved in perfect unison, their arms like wings, their feet barely touching the ground as they moved.
You didn’t realize you were crying until Clark’s thumb brushed your cheekbone, catching a tear before it could fall.
“Hey,” he whispered, his lips grazing your temple. “Are you okay?”
You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the program in your lap. The stage lights cast shifting patterns across Clark’s face -- concern, curiosity, and something else you couldn’t place.
“Yeah,” you whispered back, your voice fraying at the edges. “Its just... I used to dance. When I was little.” The admission felt too big for the hushed dark of the theater, too raw next to the perfection unfolding onstage.
Clark’s hand found yours, his grip warm and sure. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t offer platitudes or empty praise. Just held on as Odette spun into her next variation, her tutu flaring like the petals of a moonlit flower.
By the time the curtain fell, your cheeks were damp, your chest hollowed out in the best possible way. The applause roared around you, but all you could focus on was the way Clark was looking at you, like he’d seen something precious hidden within every feature on your face.
“So,” he said as the house lights came up, his thumb tracing idle circles on your wrist. “Was it everything you remembered?”
“Better,” you admitted, and meant it. The ballet had been flawless, yes, but it was Clark’s quiet attentiveness, the way he’d gasped at all the right moments, the way he’d leaned in when you whispered commentary that made your ribs feel too small for your heart.
:* ✧･ﾟ: *
Outside the theater, the snow had thickened as mid-day came and went, blanketing Metropolis in hushed white. Clark shrugged off his coat, a gesture so instinctive it took you a second to realize he was offering it to you.
“You’re shivering,” he said, holding it out like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t standing there in just his sweater and scarf while the heavy winter gnawed at the city. You slipped your arms into the sleeves, the fabric impossibly warm, smelling faintly of cinnamon and the crisp, clean edge of winter air.
"Clark, you-"
Clark said nothing as he sucked in a breath through his teeth, his smile reassuring as he shrugged within his sweater, stepping out onto the sidewalk once more.
:* ✧･ﾟ: *
The walk back to your apartment was slower than the one there, the two of you meandering through side streets where the snow lay undisturbed. Clark pointed out a bakery he liked (“Their sourdough is ridiculous”), a bookstore with a cat that slept in the window (“Her name’s Tolstoy, and yes, she judges you”), and a tiny park where the lamplight caught the falling snow just right, turning it into swirls of gold. You weren’t sure when it happened, but at some point, his hand found yours, his fingers lacing through yours with an easy certainty that made your stomach swoop.
“So,” he said, squeezing your hand lightly as you paused beneath a streetlamp. “Tell me about the dancing.”
You hesitated, watching your breath fog in the cold air. Most dates didn’t ask. Most dates didn’t care. But Clark was watching you with that same quiet intensity he’d had in the theater, like every word you said was something worth remembering.
So you told him, about the too-small leotards, the blistered toes, the way your childhood bedroom walls had been plastered with ballerina cutouts from magazines.
“I quit when I was seventeen,” you admitted, kicking at a clump of snow. "Finally got my high-school growth spurt. My teacher said I’d gotten ‘too tall for the corps.’”
Clark’s grip on your hand tightened just slightly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“Too tall,” he repeated, and there was something in his voice -- not pity, not the syrupy sympathy you’d come to expect from others, but a quiet, simmering indignation. “That’s-”
He cut himself off, shaking his head. The snow caught in his eyelashes, melting almost instantly. “You ever think about trying again?”
The question startled you. You blinked up at him, your breath ghosting between you in the cold air. “What, like, now? At twenty-four?”
“Why not?” He shrugged, grinning that crooked grin that made your ribs feel too tight. “I’ve seen you walk in heels. That’s basically ballet.”
You snorted, shoving at his too-big shoulder with your free hand. “You’re ridiculous.”
Clark caught your wrist before you could pull away, his grip gentle but firm. The snowflakes clung to his dark lashes, framing eyes that held an unexpected intensity.
“I’m serious,” he said, his voice low. “There’s a studio near my place. Adult partners classes on Thursday nights.” He paused, his thumb tracing the delicate bones of your wrist. “We could go. If you wanted.”
You opened your mouth, to deflect, to laugh it off -- but the words tangled in your throat. Because he was serious. And the way he was looking at you, like he’d already imagined you there, in some sunlit studio with your hair coming loose from its ponytail... it made something long-dormant flutter behind your ribs.
A cab honked in the distance, breaking the spell. You exhaled, watching your breath curl between you.
“You’d really go to a ballet class?” You asked, unable to keep the skepticism from your voice. “Voluntarily?”
Clark’s grin returned, sly now. “I’ll have you know I took a semester of modern dance in college.” He adjusted his glasses with his free hand, the motion deliberately casual. “For, uh. Research. For an article.”
You burst out laughing, the sound echoing down the snowy street. “Research,” you repeated, shaking your head. “Right. Sure.”
Clark’s grin widened, unrepentant, and you realized with a sudden, dizzying clarity that you wanted to kiss him, right there, under the lamplight.
But before you could act on the impulse, Clark tugged you gently forward, his hand still warm around yours.
“Your lips are blue,” he said, frowning. His free hand came up to brush a melting flake from your bottom lip, the touch fleeting. “We should get you back to your place, where it's warm.”
You nodded mutely, suddenly aware of the cold seeping through your tights, the way your toes had gone numb in their impractical boots. Clark shrugged out of his scarf, and looped it around your neck with a practiced twist. The wool smelled like cinnamon, like the crisp pages of a library book, like something you wanted to press your face into and inhale.
:* ✧･ﾟ: *
The scarf was still warm from his skin when you reached your apartment building, its fringes brushing your collarbones with each step. Snowflakes clung to Clark’s eyelashes as he hesitated on the stoop, one hand hovering near the small of your back like he couldn’t decide whether to touch you or not.
“Well... this is me,” you said lamely, wishing despite the cold, that you could find an excuse to spend more time with your new boyfriend.
Was that what he was, yet? Or, was it still too soon for something of the sort?
You hoped it wasn't.
Clark nodded, but didn’t move. Up close, you could see the exact moment a snowflake landed on his cheekbone and dissolved into nothing. His breath fogged between you, mingling with yours in the narrow space.
“Thursday,” he said suddenly, his voice rougher than usual. “The ballet class. If you want.”
You bit your lip. The sensible part of you knew you should say no, that this was too fast, too much, that grown women didn’t just relearn childhood skills on a whim.
But then Clark’s thumb brushed your wrist again, just once, and the sensible part of you lost its grip entirely.
“Okay,” you whispered.
His smile was slow, and devastating.
“Okay,” he echoed, like it was a promise.
You should have turned then, should have fumbled with your keys and disappeared behind the safety of your front door. But your fingers curled into the wool of his sweater instead, tugging him down just enough that your noses brushed. Clark froze, actually froze, like someone had pressed pause on the world -- and you felt his breath hitch as his skin touched your lips.
His mouth was warm against yours, warmer than it should have been in the winter, warmer than spiced cider or wool scarves or the blush creeping up your neck. Clark didn’t move at first, his breath stuttering like he was afraid to exhale. Then his hands settled on your waist, tentatively, as if you might vanish under his touch.
You didn’t vanish. You leaned in.
The kiss was soft and unhurried, nothing like the frantic first kisses you’d endured in dimly lit bars or the backs of cabs. Clark produced a warmth that had nothing to do with superhuman biology and everything to do with the way his thumb traced idle circles against your hipbone, every point of contact sending sparks fluttering across your skin.
When you finally pulled back, his glasses were fogged, his cheeks pink under the flickering porch light. You couldn't help but to smile, admiring the way the pale sunlight illuminated his bright blue eyes as he gazed right down at you.
“So,” he said, voice strained. “Uh - uh. Gosh.” He cleared his throat, and you giggled as the rosiness of his cheeks deepened. "Mmm. Thursday, then?"
You grinned, slipping his coat from your shoulders. You silently slid it over his shoulders once more, uncaring of the wintry chill that immediately clung to the too-thin jecket you'd thought was a good idea earlier this morning. As you began undoing his scarf from around your throat, he swallowed once, saying nothing as he simply admired you from a foot above.
You said nothing as you stood on your tippy toes and looped the wool around his neck once more, doing it twice before tugging down on it gently, pulling his lips to yours just one more time. A thousand sparks rushed through you when Clark wrapped his arms around your waist, this time kissing you greedily as he lifted you a few inches off the ground, both of you pulling away quickly as you couldn't contain your smiles.
"Thursday," you agreed, still smiling as you reluctantly pulled away, reaching for your front door handle as the feel of Clark's lips on yours still lingered.
You turned as you stepped inside, giving him a small little wave that he returned from the sidewalk below. By the time you'd shut the door and glanced out the window, he was already gone.
Rating: Explicit || Word Count: 5.7k
Content Warnings: blasphemy, confessions, lusting in the house of god, mutual pining, cunnilingus, face riding, p in v sex
Masterlist || AO3 Link
beta reader: @silcoitus <3
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession.”
Your voice doesn’t echo in the confessional booth, there is no ring like there is in the rest of the church. It drops flatly into the air, it does nothing to hide the way you can’t catch a decent or even breath.
You hear the priest, Father Paul, shift on the other side of the booth, but you can’t get the words out, you can’t continue the confession.
You can’t tell him this.
You wrote him a letter, asking to meet him in the church this evening to confess, and you wrote it anonymously, there is no pressure to confess now.
You could just walk out.
“Go on,” Father Paul encourages, voice gentle and smooth.
“I have lusted after someone. Repeatedly.” You say, voice quivering. Even though it’s the evening and there’s no one in the church but you and Father Paul, you keep your voice low, scared, terrified that someone will hear your confession. “I am infatuated with someone. I can’t stop thinking of him no matter how much I pray and it aches, Father.” Now that you’ve started, there is nothing you can do to stop the way your words spill from you. “He lives inside me, Father. I think of him always, his conscience lives in mine and he speaks to me every day. I can’t listen at mass anymore, I just watch him and wonder why God has cursed me to love a man I cannot have.”
“God is testing your faith,” Father Paul murmurs, and you shake your head at that, wiping the tears that are now streaming down your cheeks. “He has not forsaken you, my chi–”
“But he has, Father!” you blurt, sobbing. God has forsaken you, he has left you. Your prayers are not answered, you cannot feel his light. He is gone. He does not want you.
“The Lord is testing you. He presses your faith to see how strongly you stand by Him. His good grace will reward you if only you trust in Him–in His word.”
As if you could feel any more ashamed, you’re embarrassed by your lack of composure compared to Father Paul’s even tone, his gentle speech.
Choking back a sob, you breathe out a laugh at yourself. “I pray constantly, Father, and I have heard and seen nothing from God. He left me because He cannot love me with the gravity of this sin. The man I lust for physically–emotionally–belongs to God and God alone. I have angered the Lord.”
Father Paul doesn’t say anything for a short time, and your heart starts racing faster and faster with every passing second. He belongs to God, Father Paul belongs to God– he must know that.
“Does this man you lust for belong to God more than most of His children?” Father Paul finally says, an air of curiosity in his voice.
“Yes.”
“What does this man do?”
You groan, conflicted. “I can’t tell you, Father.”
“The Seal of Confession protects you, my child. This is between you and God and no one else. You don’t have to be afraid.” In your head, you can see Father Paul, the sincerity in his eyes. His voice is gentle and calming, easing you away from your feverish emotions.
You hang your head forward, tears dripping down your chin as you truly consider telling Father Paul that it’s him you’re obsessed with. It’s him you can’t stop thinking about, him that’s filling your every thought.
“I have prayed every day, Father,” you say, breathless, “to get you out of my head. And it never works. My prayers are not heard and it’s eating me alive.”
The priest is silent, and you have to fill that silent space; you can’t let it sit there, you have to say something.
“I can’t have you because you are under oath, you abide by the collar. You are God’s medium in this house and I should not need you like I do but I can’t help it, Father.”
Still, Father Paul is silent, and your eyes sting with more oncoming tears as you try to plead with the man.
“Help me, Father,” you whisper, “please.”
Father Paul shifts behind the divider and you hear him step out of the booth. Your heart sinks to your stomach and you step out, eyes adjusting to the light in the church. Father Paul has his back to you, face in his hands. With the raven tousle of his hair, the black of his shirt and pants, and the dim candlelight of the church, he looks like a shadow. You reach out to him with a hand, and as soon as you lay a finger on his shoulder he flinches.
“Father, I don't know what to do,” you whisper again.
“I am your priest,” Father Paul says, evening his breathing through careful words. “I have to maintain a boundary.”
“I know!” you cry, so upset with yourself now as tears run down your cheeks. “Father, I need your guidance, please, I can’t do this alone!”
You fall to your knees, fingers locked together, praying that the priest will hear you. Your tears drip onto the wooden floorboards that you press your forehead against, hoping to hear him turn around to see it’s you that’s confiding in him, begging for his forgiveness and help.
He shifts again, shoes scuffing against the floor as he turns around and approaches you. His clothes rustle, and you quickly realize he’s very close. You look up, arms still braced against the floor and fingers still locked tightly, but he’s so close. He’s crouched on one knee, lips pressed into a thin line. You can see there’s so much happening in his head, just looking at his eyes.
You reach out to him again, your hand tingling as blood returns to it once you’ve relinquished your hold. Father Paul is close enough that you don’t have to reach far to touch him, to let your palm fit so perfectly against his cheek. His skin is warm, and you realize how flush his face is, his nose and cheeks–even his ears–are dusted with a light pink. Your thumb brushes just under his eye, middle and ring fingers teased by the dark curls of his sideburns.
“Please,” you whisper again, and Father Paul’s eyes flit down to your hand, lips parted. His own hand covers yours and you sigh at the contact, pleased, despite knowing he’ll remove your hand and send you away to pray hours longer for god’s forgiveness.
But he doesn’t.
Father Paul’s hand is soft against your own, gentle as he weaves his fingers between yours. His head turns just slightly, tilting down as his eyes close and he presses his lips against your palm in a chaste kiss. Your heart melts at the gesture but quickly skips a beat when the priest opens his eyes to look at you with heavy lids, dark eyelashes fluttering. His other hand reaches out and mimics you, holding your face. His hands are larger than yours and his fingers easily thread into your hair, pressing lightly, curious.
“I have wanted to touch you for so long,” Father Paul whispers, observing every feature of your face now that he has you so close. He tracks the way your throat bobs as you swallow nervously, and he doesn’t miss the slight quiver in your lip.
You sit up now, careful not to lose the Father’s touch as you adjust and draw nearer to him. On your knees, you lean forward so your noses are almost touching. You watch his mouth open around words he wants to say but cannot get out, a look of wonder and infatuation in his eyes, pupils dark and dilated.
“Father,” you whisper, closing the distance and watching with rapture as the priest takes in your nearing lips and the way his title sounds leaving them. “Touch me more.”
Father Paul takes the initiative, leaning into you so his lips brush yours so lightly you’re not sure they’re even there, but then his mouth slots against yours, and you do feel it. His lips are soft but hesitant, wanting but unsure. You feel a shooting pang of guilt in your chest as you realize that this is blasphemy, that Father Paul could lose his collar for this.
You pull away, and the both of you share a look of shock at one another, not sure how to proceed.
“We shouldn’t do this,” you whisper, lips still dangerously close to Father Paul’s.
He nods. “You’re exactly right, we shouldn’t.” Though his words tell you to stop, you can feel that he wants more from you–more of you. Before you can move away or manage another word, Father Paul’s lips are on yours again, more sure this time. He’s made up his mind, for the time being.
His hands move, one on your middle back and the other on your shoulder, pressing so you’ll lay down for him. His arm is secure and you lean back, trusting he won’t let you fall, and when your head rests against the floor, Father Paul leans over you. His arms cage you in on either side of your head, hair hanging over his forehead as he kisses you harder. His tongue probes at your mouth and you let him in, letting him taste every inch of you that he can find. Once your tongue meets his, he’s ravenous, mouth devouring yours with a fervor you’ve only ever seen when he’s preaching.
The warmth of him is like a fire, hot skin against hot skin as his mouth moves from your lips to your cheek, down to your jaw, and finally your neck, where he sucks a flaming mark into you. You moan, skin tingling where he’s claimed you and where his tongue now soothes, hoping you have a good turtleneck to wear tomorrow.
A low rumble sounds from Father Paul’s chest, his teeth nipping at the skin of your throat. You arch your neck, bearing yourself to him, his hot breath against you beginning to drive you insane. His middle becomes rigid as he flexes his stomach to hold himself up when he removes his hands. They fall to your waist and push up, up, until they feel the curve of your clothed breasts.
“Father, please,” you whimper, and you sound like you had before, begging for his forgiveness and guidance, only now you’re begging for him to take off your shirt and touch you.
Father Paul takes the hem of your shirt and slides it up, and you lift up your back to help him get it over your head. You hadn’t cared to wear a bra when you came to the church, only dressed in a t-shirt and some thin pajama pants. You’ve even kicked off your shoes. Now, as you lay on the floor of St. Patrick’s Church, your bare chest exposed to Father Paul, you shiver as you feel the nearness of him and his body heat, and it makes up for the chill that raises goosebumps on your arms and hardens your nipples.
Father Paul eyes your breasts hungrily, hands hovering over them, trembling. His breath is ragged, uneven, and as he lowers his hands to feel your chest, his hips slide forward, pressing his clothed cock against the apex of your thighs. You gasp, your nerves lighting up as Father Paul touches you, gropes you, soft, smooth palms brushing over your stiffened nipples. His hands are still shaking as he holds your breasts, and he squeezes lightly before shifting them to your ribs. A thumb reaches out to circle your nipple, and you inhale sharply, grinding your hips against his clothed erection in time with the gentle circles he rubs into you.
“Father,” you whisper, relishing the ironic godliness of his title. There is nothing godly about what you’re doing now, as he massages your chest on the floor of a church. At least the confessional booth is still nearby, in case you want to use it.
“Paul,” the priest corrects, a little breathless. “Please, call me Paul.”
You don’t argue with him, you don’t want to, having called his name into the empty night of your room in bouts of pleasure. You only nod your head, sighing his name into the empty church.
“Paul,” you whine, and the man on top of you lets out a shuddering breath, seemingly pleased. You say his name again, and he lowers his head, kissing your sternum before moving lower to take your other nipple into his mouth. He bites gently, and soothes the immediate pain with his tongue, lapping at your skin.
“I need to taste you,” he whispers, and your head perks up at that. You watch with bated breaths as Father Paul kisses down your body, his hands tickling down your sides until they reach the hem of your thin bottoms.
Father Paul looks up at you now, eyes dark and half-lidded. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead that his dark hair sticks to and your heart flutters seeing him so disheveled for you.
“Please, let me taste you,” he whispers.
Neither of you have any more reservations as you nod desperately, stumbling over your own pleading and whimpering for him until he slides your pajamas down your hips and throws them off somewhere with your shoes and shirt. All that you’re left in are your panties, thin and positively soaked.
Father Paul pauses for a moment, brown eyes glued to your clothed mound. He seems caught by a thought, not sure what he should do now. Maybe he doesn’t know how to taste you? He’s been a priest for a long time now, that comes as no surprise. But it seems he’s wanted to do this longer than you have, if his highly-driven lust for you is anything to go off of.
“I can’t have you here,” Father Paul finally whispers, eyes wide with hunger. “I need you in my bed.”
You nod and he helps you up, taking your clothes and leading you to the doors. He steps out for a second, looking to make sure no one is out, and when he’s sure all is still in the dark nighttime that blankets everything outside, he tugs your hand. You tread carefully across the stone path to the rectory, clutching one arm to your bare chest. Once you’re inside Father Paul grabs you and presses you against the door. His mouth claims yours, feverish and seemingly insatiable. He drops your clothes by the door in favor of grabbing your waist to pull you close so you can feel his erection pressing insistently against you.
You anchor your fingers into the front of his shirt, clawing at him desperately as he guides you backwards to the bedroom. The door is already open and you stumble when the backs of your knees hit the frame of the bed, falling onto the soft comforter below.
Father Paul stands above you, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. His hair is a mess, eyes wide, and straining at the front of his pants, his clothed cock.
“You shall not make for yourself a graven image–any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth,” he mumbles quietly, quoting the verse like it’s a part of him.
“You shall not bow down to them nor serve them.” With a gentle hand on your leg, Father Paul guides you to pivot, and you can see the candle left burning on his nightstand. Your legs hang off the edge of the bed and he joins you there, lowering himself to his knees before you.
“I hardly need to carve you,” he says, smiling up at you.
“Paul–” you start, but he cuts you off, clicking his tongue.
“I knew it was you in that confessional booth,” he says, taking one of your legs and putting it over his shoulder. “I heard your whispered prayers at the altar nearly every day.” Now the other leg. “I admit, I prayed on this very thing as well.”
You watch in awe now as Father Paul leaves gentle kisses on the insides of your thighs, nearing your wet core.
“I will not forsake you.” It’s whispered against your warm skin, a promise, and for the first time in months, you feel safe and seen.
Instead of removing your panties, Father Paul leans forward to press his lips against your clothed bud, and you sigh, laying back to rest on the bedspread beneath you. His breath is warm against your most sensitive parts and your skin tingles as his fingers tug at your panties. You lift your hips to aid him, and there is no time wasted as he flattens his tongue between your folds.
You gasp, jolted by the feeling, and between your thighs Father Paul moans, tasting you. His tongue teases your clit with feather-like strokes and nudges
“Paul– I– ah!” You stumble over your words as the priest thrusts his tongue into your hole and groans against you. The noises he makes are messy and desperate, heavy breaths fanning hot over your mound as his tongue writhes inside of you.
“God, you taste so good,” the priest groans breathlessly, prodding your entrance with a finger. You don’t have time to wonder how he is so talented with his mouth if he only uses it for preaching. You can’t think about anything other than how relieving it is to feel his finger curling inside of you. You barely adjust before he pulls it out and thrusts in a second finger, stretching you open for him.
You whimper, high and breathy, and as if he wasn’t doing enough to you already, Father Paul’s lips purse around your clit and suck, sending your hips bucking towards his mouth. His name tumbles from you unceremoniously, shocked, and your fingers find root in his hair, pulling hard. He groans at your desperate tugging and the vibration travels through you, threatening to make you dizzy as his fingers continue to curl against your walls.
His mouth leaves you and it’s a sudden loss, but you’re inwardly grateful for the moment to breathe and relax. Taking one hand out of the priest’s dark curls, you prop yourself up on your elbow to look down at gim, and you feel yourself throb around his fingers when you lay eyes on him.
Father Paul is a mess. His dark hair has been thrown about by your clawing. His face is red and covered in your slick, open and panting mouth wet from your hole. It drips from his chin and stains his shirt in haphazard dribbles. There’s a barely visible sheen of sweat on his throat, and you're struck with a compulsion to lick it.
“I want you to ride my face,” he says, failing to catch his breath as his chest rises and falls rapidly. “Can you do that for me?” He looks ravenous, eyes wide and wanting. The tendons in his arm strain as his fingers work you slowly, keeping you needing more of him. You couldn’t deny him if you wanted to.
“Yes, please,” you whimper, and Father Paul climbs onto the bed, laying down and directing you over top of him
“Use me,” he whispers, practically begging, before pulling you down onto him. His nose flares hotly over your mound as he devours you without restraint, tongue ravishing you. You take his desperate command, use me, to heart and let your fingers tangle into his hair again, grinding against his mouth.
He was going easy on you before, warming you up, because now you feel the coil in your belly winding tight very quickly. The way he sucks and spoils your clit feels less overwhelming now and your hips chase the feeling, muscles growing tense and breathing becoming ragged and quick as you near your orgasm.
You look down at Father Paul only to find he’s already looking up at you, brown eyes locked onto your face as you mumble out praises of his work and warnings of your orgasm. With his face buried in your heat, the Father moans loudly, sending you over the edge of your climax as the vibrations work through you.
Your back arches as your orgasm strikes you, and from your mouth spills a high moan of your worshiper’s name. Through your pleasure, Father Paul does not stop for a second. He guides you through your orgasm as every muscle throbs at once and waves of bliss wash over you again and again until you’re whining and limply pushing him away.
You pant and roll off him, trying to catch your breath as the priest lays on his back, panting. You feel electric as you lay in your afterglow. Father Paul crawls over to you, leaving kisses around your thighs and soothing your sensitive nerves. As if he wants you to beg for his mouth again, his tongue darts out to lick up what wetness you’ve left around his mouth, and your walls clench around nothing.
Whatever his tongue can’t get he wipes clean with his sleeve before leaving a wet trail up the length of your body, kissing everywhere he can. Your nerves light aflame everywhere his lips touch you, raising goosebumps on your bare skin. When he finally reaches your mouth, his lips brush yours just barely before pressing in a light and tender kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue and it sends your heart fluttering as reality begins to set in.
You are laying in the bed of the parish priest of Crockett Island, naked, breathless, and the priest himself is worshiping you as his own god.
“I-I need you,” you sigh against Father Paul’s lips, holding him close as the haze of your orgasm starts to clear and is replaced by a carnal want to feel him inside you. His mouth parts on yours to say something but you can’t let him stop yet, so your tongue slips into his mouth, hips rolling up to press against his clothed cock.
“I need you, too,” Father Paul whispers, hissing when he presses against you, twitching in his pants at the stimulation. His pants are rough against your bare skin and you know your wetness is staining the fabric, but neither of you care as Father Paul maneuvers you to lay on the soft pillows of the bed.
He hovers over you, kisses growing messy and impatient. You grasp at each other, his hands feeling at your chest and hips and yours working open the buttons of his shirt. You need to see him, need to balance this dynamic where you’re stark naked and he’s clad head-to-toe.
Father Paul catches on and rears back onto his knees, quickly tugging out and tossing away the clergy collar around his neck before unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a soft, pale chest. He’s mostly hairless, a small speckle of curls on his chest and a dark trail running from his navel into the hem of his pants. His hands reach down to start on his pants and relieve some of the pressure on his cock, but you stop him.
Father Paul’s eyes dart to you, concern softening the hunger and need in his eyes.
“Let me,” you whisper, eyeing his bulge as you sit up.
His hands float away and he relaxes, watching intently as you undo his belt buckle. It snaps open with a sharp clink and takes minimal effort on your part to pull through the loops of his pants. Father Paul takes it from you and tosses it to the floor, his soft stomach rippling into small rolls when he leans over.
Before you start on his fly, you cup your hand to the hard ridge of him, feeling the warmth there. He inhales sharply, hips rutting into your hand of their own accord.
“Please, don’t tease, not now, lamb,” Father Paul whispers, and the nickname he’s given you causes a small whimper to bubble up in your throat.
You do as told and quickly unzip his trousers to reveal black boxers. He sighs, pleased, and you eye the dark spot of precum on the fabric. Your fingers hook into the slightly damp material and tug, letting his cock spring out.
It’s thick, thicker than you anticipated, but his blessed size is not what catches you by surprise. Your lips part around a gasp when you see just how hard he is, sporting a bright red tip that’s weeping precum, and veins that pop out against velvety skin. His cock seems just as pale as the rest of him, only flushed a light pink with how long he’s been hard and how much he’s apparently enjoyed everything so far.
“I didn’t think you would enjoy it that much,” you mumble, lips parting when Father Paul takes your chin in one hand and tilts it up to him.
“Really?” he asks, smiling, and you nod into his hand. Father Paul leans close to you, nose nearly touching yours as he whispers, “I would take you over Communion every mass if I could.”
For such a dirty promise, his words drip like honey, and you want to taste that sweetness. You crane up to meet his lips, wrapping your fingers around his cock as you do and relishing the shuddering gasp that tumbles from Father Paul.
You pump him slowly, greatly pleased with the feeling of him in your hand, shifting and throbbing. He drips precum like a fountain, pent-up, but it makes each glide of your hand more and more slick, until a wet sound accompanies every flick of your wrist. Soon, his hips are rocking gently into your hand, and you match his pace, wishing you could bottle up all of the delightful little sounds he makes. He can hardly kiss you now as he fucks into your hand, too overwhelmed to focus on anything but your hand on his cock.
“You’re very good at this,” he manages, panting like a dog now but the sheen of sweat on his chest makes him seem to glow. A bead of sweat rolls from his damp, dark halo of hair to his temple, the heat of him radiating towards you as he works himself in your hand.
You smile, still watching intently. “Do you want to come like this?”
“No.” His answer is quick and abrupt, hips slowing to a stop. Your hand is wet with his precum and you look up at him, tongue laving over your fingers as you clean up your mess.
“You’re teasing again, lamb,” Father Paul hums, chastising, and before you can protest he snatches your wrist and takes your fingers into his mouth. You’re speechless as his tongue wraps around your digits, licking his own precum off of them. When he deems them clean, he slides them slowly out of his mouth and leans into you, lips meeting yours hungrily. He pushes you to lay back down against the pillows and you wipe your hand haphazardly on the bedspread before you grab his face, holding him close. He manages to get out of his pants and boxers, with some difficulty, but as soon as you feel the tip of him nudging your folds you know you’re a goner.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Father Paul asks, hips rocking slowly against yours, hardly relieving any of the burning arousal you have for him as his cock glides over your clit again and again.
“Yes,” you beg, wrapping your legs around his hips. “Please, Paul, I need you!”
He doesn’t need to be told twice as he lines himself up and pushes into you, bottoming out in one strong thrust. A loud, low moan tumbles from you as he thrusts to the hilt, sitting hot and heavy inside of you. Father Paul isn’t very quiet either, a long, shuddering groan leaving him as he buries himself deep inside you. Your name falls from his lips in uttered praises, repeated over and over as you adjust to the feeling of one another.
Eager to have more, your legs tighten around Father Paul’s hips and grind against him hard, sending him somehow deeper inside you. He winds back, leaving just the tip in before thrusting all the way in again, a disbelieving laugh tumbling out of you as he starts to pick up his pace.
“You feel… so, so good,” you sigh, a breathless cry following quickly after as you move your hips with him.
Father Paul can’t respond–he can’t speak. His entire body trembles as he struggles to hold himself over you. Lips parted, all he can do is breathe and moan as the tip of him kisses the deepest part of you over and over.
“Good god,” he whispers, leaning forward to rest his head against your chest. He fucks you slowly, savoring every thrust as he mumbles praises against your skin.
“Paul, please, I need more of you,” you whine, pressing your heels into his lower back to urge him faster, but he denies you.
“I… I can’t, lamb,” he says, voice hoarse as he looks up at you. His face is red and whether that’s from the intimacy of the moment or his hesitance (or a mix of both), you can’t tell. Your hands come up to hold his face, skin tickled by the dark locks of his hair that hang down. He’s hot, sweat coating your fingers as you cradle him, lips barely touching his.
“It’s okay,” you whisper, and Father Paul nods, swallowing almost nervously as his hips slow to a gentle rocking. He’s anxious, out of his element, but he wants more and you can see the conflict on his face.
“Take it at your own pace,” you say, and after a moment of hesitation, after a quick flash of uncertainty, he nods again. He pulls back slowly and with a low hiss, and your walls clench around the tip of him, waiting to feel him again. When he finally rocks back into you, a sigh of his name falls from your lips, and it seems incentive enough for the Father to gain a little more confidence. His hips speed up, breath hot against your skin as he leans into you, burying his gasps and moans in your neck.
“Let me hear you,” you encourage gently, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and he pulls away, leaning over you. His eyes are glued to where you two meet, watching how readily you take his cock over and over, and it doesn’t take much to notice the small noises he makes at that, the slight force he applies to every thrust while he watches.
There’s an air of desperation now as he takes you and you join him, rocking your hips against his as he starts to fuck you in earnest. Your clit grinds against him with every roll, and it has you whining for him, the volume of your combined cries growing as you find a comfortable pace.
“I waited too long to feel you wrapped around me,” Father Paul hisses, one hand moving down to your hips and squeezing until you feel his nails biting crescents into your skin. “I won’t make that same mistake.” There’s a sudden urgency in his voice when he says this, and he fucks into you harder, hips drilling against yours now as crude, wet sounds echo in the bedroom with every thrust. Your eyes lock onto each other and you watch the clench of his teeth, the fitful breaths that escape him, and you quickly feel that coil tightening low in your belly.
“I will take you again, and again, and again, and again, until I’ve had my fill of you,” he groans, watching you closely, eyes tracking your every expression and committing the image of each to memory. “And I will never be satisfied.”
His thrusts are sharp, uneven, messy, and you wouldn’t have it any other way as his words add to the frenzy of your building climax. You gasp and whine his name again and again, throwing your arms around his neck as you pull him into you to feel somehow closer, needing more of him around you all at once.
“Paul!” you cry out, face buried in the raven black of his hair as he fucks you harder and harder. “Please come, I want it inside me!”
It’s perverse, but it’s exactly what the both of you want as Father Paul’s thrusts begin to grow frantic and erratic, hips chasing against yours to reach that high that he so badly needs. You hold on for him, stave off your orgasm as long as you can, whispering his name like a broken, hedonistic prayer until–
“Yes, oh dear god!” Father Paul gasps before quickly thrusting as far in as he can get. A sharp cry of your name punches from his chest and you shiver as he fills you up. His cock throbs with a passion, warmth blossoming low in your belly each time it does, and the subtle, needy rock of his hips against yours grinds your clit until you join him in bliss.
Your orgasm washes over you, consuming every inch of you as the push and pull of your combined orgasms drags them both out. Your walls throb around him and he pulses in response, over and over until you don’t know where you end and he begins.
When it all seems to be finished, you lie there in each other’s arms, sweaty and panting. You couldn’t be bothered to care about cleaning up any fluids, simply content to lay with each other and relish your shared highs.
After some time has passed, Father Paul pulls his softened cock out of you, slowly, the two of you still sensitive, and the priest is quick to take you into his arms. You’re hot and covered in sweat (among other things), but oddly enough, the warmth of him is exactly what you want– no, need most right now.
“Thank you,” he whispers, lips pressing anywhere on your face that he can reach. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He utters it until it fades from your stream of consciousness and blends into the ambience surrounding you.
Your eyelids grow heavy, body sinking into Father Paul’s soft bed as you absently hear him whisper, “I love you.”
Before you fall asleep, you manage to mumble back, “I love you, too.”
tobias menzies will be like yes. i will be playing this historical figure. but i will give him new hair. better hair. and more importantly i will make him queer.
no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, in the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling, teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy,moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious,gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, splendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tango ever bro could cause a nuclear bomb inside me and i’d still ride.
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