Kinktober Day 10: Priests with Sapnap
...It's in the title.
MINORS DNI!
Have you ever seen the cathedral in the afternoon? Rays of golden light transformed into halos of gold and oranges, red specks filling gaps between pure white streaks, the air filled with specks of dust that drift and paint the cracks between each colourful display of devotion. Candles of every kind, pillars and tealights, long burning towers of wax that are lit day in and day out, melting and painting old stained wood with pools long since forgotten and uncleaned.
There is piety in the air and whispered hymns on the lips of every soul that passes through those doors, head bowed and hands offered in prayer and repentance, and yet one resounding set of steps is all it takes to taint and defile, the solid click after click of your shoes against polished tile is a simple rhythm that sinks sin into the very stone foundations of the cathedral, rot seeping into the roots and curling around the heart of the church.
A demon in all but reality, and a saint in all but name, the dear priest and host of your affection is standing as he always does, clothed in his robes and hands ringed in rosery, lips moving through prayer after prayer as the air fills with thick incense. The censer long since sat upon the main altar, a centrepiece to the flowing wreaths and displays of devotion through fruit and wine, the ash that falls and spills from the gaps tells of age and endless nights in the fogs of devotion.
There is something in the way he moves, black hair so messy in comparison to the pristine press of his cassock, the black fabric barely missing the floor as he walks, broad shoulders filling out the edges and drawing the eyes of sinners and believers alike, there is a fire in the way he preaches, hands raised and eyes alight in the low light of the candles before him if it were not for his occupation one could have taken him for the sinner with the depths of his stare.
And yet it is you that walks before him, waiting as the members of the parish leave smiling and bidding you a good afternoon and well wishes as you stalk towards him, fingers dragging across pew after pew, smiling as he watches you, stepping back only as you draw near, hips bumping the alter he had preached before, black robes staining with ash as the censer rocks against the jostling movement.
He would call you temptation, a sin wrapped in the softest of hands, a smile so warm should not shudder through him leaving heat in his veins, the nickname given to him by the flock should not linger in his ears as you purr at him 'sapnap', he is devoted and pure, untainted and yet as you cage him, run your fingers up his clothed chest there is a wavering chill akin to his first prayer of the day, that first moment he runs his thumb against his rosery and dips his head but this…
This is the feeling of your fingers cupping his face, the soft drag of skin against skin, the smell of mint and the communion wine of your breath as you draw closer, smiling as if you are not trying to defile him, drag him down into the depths of your lust. And yet he cannot find it in him to pull away, to stop your lips from tracing their way down his neck tugging the neck of his robes free and leaving deepening marks that will be repented for and remind him of the corruption he had endured, taken from you.
You were still a member of his flock even now as you paint sin into his skin, he would bear this burden, take your lust and spin you anew in the light once again, but first, first, your dear Father Sapnap would have to bear the knowledge of the sin he was about to commit, of how this altar would be forever stained in sweat, tears and sin.
First, he will have to cry your name to the heavens and beg god for you to keep touching and taking from him as you had planned.
