Confession
The first of the three Monsterfuckers’ Ball fics I have planned. I made it Father MacAvoy instead. Hope you don’t mind.
Have some wholesome demon-on-priest smut *dodges lightning bolt*
AO3 link
x
Father Joseph MacAvoy was aware of three things. One, the church was cold: a bitter, bone-deep cold that had seeped into him and which would take substantially more than a hot cup of tea to drive away. The second was that he had not been paying full attention to the penitent in the confession booth for at least two minutes. The third, and this was by far the dominant thought in his mind, clamouring for his attention like the insistent ringing of the church bell, was that he needed a drink.
There was a bottle of whisky in the rectory behind the church, standing on the desk in his study, waiting for him. He imagined how it would look, the light from the lamps shining through it with a tawny-gold gleam, calling to him with a soothing, calming voice. He could almost smell it, rich and spicy with hints of smoke and peat, and his mouth watered at the thought of that first taste. It would burn on his tongue and in his throat, the heat mellowing with sweetness and a touch of salt, the aroma filling his nose before he swallowed. It would chase away the numbing cold and let his body relax as he drank his way down the bottle until sweet oblivion claimed him for another night. Perhaps it would even drive away the dreams.
“Father?” came a tentative voice from behind the screen, and Joseph started.
“Uh - yes,” he said quickly. “Five Hail Marys and an Act of Contrition.”
“Oh, thank you, Father!”
He listened to the prayers, the penitent speaking fervently. It was old Miss Ginger, he could see that, and while she had confessed to taking the Lord’s name in vain, and to envy over Mrs Lucas’s baking skills, he was well aware that she had other sins she had chosen not to unburden herself of. Perhaps she didn’t see malicious gossip as a sin, or perhaps she didn’t care. He found it hard to feel too strongly either way; the days of his youth, when he had been full of desire to do good, to spread the word of God and help comfort those in need of guidance, were far behind him. He was in his forties now, tired and disillusioned, a short, thin figure with brown hair falling around his face and catching on the stubble on his cheeks where he had neglected to shave that morning. It had been his intention to do so, but he had taken one look at his reflection, hollow-eyed and sweating as his body tried to rid itself of alcohol, and realised that he couldn’t stand to look at himself.
It wouldn’t be the first time he had taken confession while suffering the after-effects of the previous night’s drinking, and desperately awaiting the next hit of alcohol. Mother Superior often cast disapproving glances at him if she called at the rectory too early. It was something that she did at least twice a week, on the pretext of discussing some minor church matter which could easily have waited for a more civilised hour. He was almost sure she did it on purpose, just so she could give him one of those insincere smiles and make some snide comment about the communion wine, but he found it hard to summon much indignation, going through his days on autopilot until he could pour himself that first glass. The small congregation of Storybrooke deserved better.
He tried to pinpoint when it was that he had lost his way, and found that he couldn’t, only that it was after he had started crawling into the whisky bottle each night, and before the move to Storybrooke. Emigrating to small-town America from Glasgow five years ago had been something of a shock to the system, but the townsfolk were friendly and welcoming. All except for Mother Superior, of course, and the pawnbroker, who had never entered the church and who always seemed to eye him with an air of contempt. Joseph had hoped that a new start would inspire him, would rekindle his religious zeal, but with the passing of each year he seemed to grow more disenchanted with the world, and with himself.
He was relieved when Miss Ginger finally left, and shifted in his seat, hoping she was the last. Cold was sinking into his bones, not helped by either the black cassock or his thin frame, and he wanted to stand up, stretch, and head over to the rectory. He could light a fire and change into something that didn’t make him feel as though his balls were about to turn to icicles and drop off. The assigned time for confession was almost over, and the whisky was calling to him, an insistent prodding deep in his belly.
The sound of soft footsteps in the booth made him want to groan, and he looked through the lattice of carved wood, seeing dark hair and smooth, pale cheeks. The penitent had her head bowed, but he immediately knew who she was. Sister Belle, who had joined the Storybrooke convent less than a week ago. He had seen her the day she arrived, brought to the church by Mother Superior to make the introductions. They had entered with a bitter gust of wind, a flurry of dead leaves cartwheeling by their feet, and Joseph had felt himself shiver. He had told himself it was the cold. October had started out unseasonably chilly, and was getting worse as the month drew to a close.
Sister Belle was beautiful, with large blue eyes and full, pink lips, shining chestnut hair swept neatly into a knot at the back of her head. She had looked him over with surprising directness when they were introduced, the light of curiosity in her eyes, and it had made him nervous. There had been a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth, but when Mother Superior looked back at her it had disappeared, her hands clasped at her waist and her head bowed, the perfect picture of demure humility. That tiny reaction had made him think that she held Mother Superior in a certain amount of contempt, which was as fascinating as it was shocking. He himself had always thought that the head of the Sisters of Saint Meissa was too inclined to be judgemental rather than to practice forgiveness, but he had never imagined any of the nuns would agree with him. Especially a newcomer.
He had seen Sister Belle in the church every day since then. Her slim figure was covered from neck to knees in the plain, dark blue dress that all the nuns wore, with thick tights and stout shoes beneath. The nuns always worked in the church, taking charge of the dusting and flower-arranging, but Sister Belle seemed to be there more than most. Joseph often found her alone after her sisters had gone, her eyes meeting his as she knelt to pray, that tiny smile quirking her lips as she passed him with arms full of flowers.
A scent hung around her, warm and oddly sharp like the smouldering wicks of snuffed-out candles, but he thought it suited her. There was an air of mischief about her too, in the twinkle in her eye and the quirk of her lips, as though she was always thinking of a joke that no one else knew. He couldn’t imagine what it was that amused her so about being in the church each day, but perhaps simply being away from the watchful eye of Mother Superior was enough to make her happy. She greeted him with warm tones, her voice soft, her eyes gleaming. It had made him nervous all over again, and he found himself stammering as he responded to her. He called himself an idiot for doing so, but there it was. The charms of a pretty young woman weren’t completely thwarted by the white collar around his neck, it seemed.
It had been many years since he had been distracted by thoughts of pleasures of the flesh, and he certainly had no intention of ever letting them take shape in his mind, even if she hadn’t been a nun. Yet if he was totally honest with himself, her beauty wasn’t what caused the nerves. It was more a sense of knowing, as though she could see to the heart of him. As though he was naked before her, all his secret shame displayed for her to study. As though she had seen every one of his faults. His weaknesses.
The thought of her knowing all his frailties was disturbing, but given that she had come to him to make her confession, he tried to push away his own feelings and concentrate on whatever she had to tell him. Some petty jealousies towards her new sisters, perhaps. Some uncharitable thoughts towards the less pious citizens of Storybrooke, or towards Mother Superior. Nothing more serious than that, he was sure. He watched as she made the sign of the Cross, and waited.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” she said, her voice clear and melodious. “It has been seven days since my last confession.”
Just before she came here, then. I wonder where she lived before Storybrooke. Why did she leave? Why come here, of all places?
“God is merciful,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “Tell me your sins, child.”
There was a pause.
“I - I have not been chaste, Father,” she said. “I have had - impure thoughts.”
Right. Not impatience or lack of charity. Well, she’s young. Celibacy can be a hard path, for some. Joseph licked his lips nervously, his heart thumping.
“Ah - well - impure thoughts are not uncommon,” he managed. “The Lord understands that it can be hard to overrule your body’s - urges. The important thing is not to act on them.”
She was silent for a moment, and Joseph frowned.
“I take it no one in this town has been bothering you?” he said. “I know that some of the young men here can find it hard to take no for an answer at times, even from the nuns. If you’ve had any difficulties in that respect, the Sheriff takes that sort of thing very seriously. If - if you wanted someone to speak to him on your behalf—”
“Oh no, Father,” she said hastily. “No, it’s nothing like that.”
He sensed that she wanted to speak, but was holding back, no doubt out of some sense of shame.
“Go on,” he said gently.
She sucked in a breath, and he waited patiently for her to gather her courage. Poor girl. Probably mooning over some young pop star. One of those boy bands, or whatever they call themselves now. I doubt Mother Superior would approve, but it’s hardly the crime of the century.
“I’ve had the most terrible dreams, Father,” she said breathlessly. “I think the Devil must send them to me.”
“The Devil is always testing those that God loves,” said Joseph gravely.
“How can God love me, when the Devil has made me his!” she breathed.
Joseph’s head jerked upwards at her words, hissed out through her teeth. His heart began to thump hard, his skin tingling. There was a cold sensation flowing up the back of his neck, a creeping sense that something was very wrong, and he swallowed, his throat dry.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“He comes to me,” she whispered. “At night, when I sleep. He comes to me, Father. I can feel his eyes on me, watching me from the dark.”
A nightmare. Joseph felt himself breathe a little easier. She’s having nightmares. A new town, new sisters around her - hardly surprising.
“The Devil is cunning,” he said. “But these are only dreams.”
“But it’s so real!”
“He will try to reach you in whatever way he can, to tempt you,” said Joseph, hoping his tone sounded calmer than he felt. “He can take a pleasing form to lure you in.”
“I doubt you would call his form pleasing,” she said. “He has golden eyes and sharp claws, Father, and his skin is covered in scales. Horns grow from his head, and he has a long tail and leathery wings. He wraps them around me, and pulls me to him so I can’t escape.”
“That sounds like a terrifying dream,” said Joseph soothingly. “Rest assured that God is with you, protecting you while you sleep. Say your prayers each night, hold Him in your heart, and you will be safe.”
“I’m afraid, Father,” she said, her voice unsteady. “I’m afraid of the things the Devil does, and - and how they make me feel.”
Joseph cleared his throat nervously.
“Wh-what things?”
She turned towards him, and he heard the soft thump as she pressed her hands against the wooden panel between the booths. The scent of snuffed-out candles was there again, drifting into his nose, and he felt his heart thump hard.
“He tears my nightdress from me,” she said, her voice somewhat breathless and almost eager. “He strips me bare and binds me to the bed by my wrists and ankles. My legs are open, ready for him. Ready to let him inside.”
Joseph swallowed hard, a vision of her leaping into his mind, naked and bound, those blue eyes gazing up at him and that tiny secretive smile curving her lips. He shoved the image away hurriedly, furious with himself, but the image lingered, insistent, inviting. She reached up, fingers sliding slowly over the latticework grill between the booths, slipping over the holes with small, rhythmic thumps of her fingertips against the screen.
“He - he puts his head between my legs, Father, and - and tastes me,” she went on. “He licks me all over, this long, hot tongue sliding all over my flesh as he growls in pleasure. I can feel his tongue inside me. Pushing deep inside me.”
He watched as the tip of her index finger pushed into one of the holes, pink flesh bulging outwards. A shard of arousal pierced him, shooting down his body to his groin, and he could feel his cock start to swell. His mouth fell open in horror.
“I - I understand this must be distressing to recount—” he began.
“Yes, Father, but you haven’t heard the worst part!” she said insistently.
Joseph closed his eyes. There’s worse?
“He - he takes me,” she breathed, her voice low and throaty. “I can feel him between my legs, grown long and hard and thick, and he takes me. So many times. Pushing into me over and over until I scream. I can feel him thrusting inside me, pulsing inside me, filling me with his hot seed, and - and it feels good.”
His erection was causing Joseph a serious problem, and he pressed a hand down on it, willing it to go away. That just seemed to make the situation worse, so he closed his eyes and tried to ignore it, shifting awkwardly in his seat.
“The - ah - the Devil wants to tempt you,” he said thickly, the words seeming to stick on his tongue. “Pleasure is a common temptation, and lust a sin, but God’s grace will protect against the Devil’s wiles. Contrition is what is important.”
Sister Belle let out a low, hollow laugh.
“But that’s the thing,” she said insistently. “When I wake, I don’t feel contrite. I feel as though I want more.”
She moved, the silhouette of her body shifting behind the wooden screen, the gentle scrape of her nails against the wood. He could sense her staring at him, could feel the warm gust of her breath through the lattice work. She was breathing too heavily, and he felt his own breath quicken in response, his cock twitching.
“I put my hand between my legs and I’m so wet, Father,” she breathed. “So wet and hot and ready.”
Joseph squeezed his eyes shut, wishing that this whole encounter was a bad, whisky-fuelled dream and he would wake drooling on his desk with a thumping headache, as he so often did.
“So - so I touch myself,” she whispered. “I slide my fingers deep inside. I rub at that little place where it feels so good, until the pleasure takes me and I cry out with it!”
Joseph cleared his throat, trying to push away the images her words created. What was wrong with him? She had come to him for help, for absolution, not his own forbidden lust unexpectedly rearing its head.
“Do you want to atone?” he asked, his voice unsteady, and she exhaled, long and low, as though she had been waiting for him to ask.
“Oh yes, Father!” she said eagerly. “I know how bad I’ve been! I want to be punished!”
Joseph shook his head tiredly.
“Have you more sins that you want to confess?” he asked. Please God, let her say no. I’m getting too bloody old for this.
“Not today, Father.”
“Very well,” he said, his voice still shaking a little. “Three Our Fathers, three Hail Marys.”
He listened to her go through the prayers, running a shaking hand over his face and feeling the rasp of stubble against his fingers. Once she had finished speaking, he went through the prayer of absolution, and Sister Belle said ‘Amen’ in a soft voice as she pulled back from the wooden screen.
“Thank you, Father,” she whispered.
Footsteps faded as she walked out, and he heard a low, heavy thump as the church door closed. Joseph sat back with a sigh, feeling drained. At least his cock appeared to be going back to sleep. He was sweating, and he was unsure if it was his newly-awakened lust or his sudden, overwhelming need for whisky. The latter would surely drown out the former; he just needed to get to it. He realised that listening to her recount her lurid nightmares had probably been the longest he had gone in years without thinking about how much he needed a drink. Quite what that said about the state of his soul was something he was trying not to contemplate.
x
Joseph sat at the desk in his office, listening to the slow tick of the clock and tapping his pen against the paper as he tried to get through the first draft of his sermon. It felt as though he had been at it for hours, but the words wouldn’t come, and whenever he glanced down at the notebook in front of him, it was as though the lines he was certain he had written had disappeared, and he needed to start afresh. At least his study was warmer than the church; a fire crackled in the hearth, and he had changed out of his cassock and into plain black pants beneath his black shirt and white collar, his silver crucifix around his neck. He rubbed at the space between his eyes, sitting back and reaching for his whisky, and a knock at the door startled him.
Pushing back his chair, he glanced at the clock, which showed that it was almost midnight. Unease made his skin prickle, and he cast an eye towards the hallway. Who would be calling so late? The knock came again, a heavy, insistent pounding that seemed to echo through him, and his heart thumped hard, his breath catching in his throat. It must be something urgent. Someone hurt or dying.
He stood, grasping at the edge of the desk as he staggered a little, and turned as he heard the front door open on its own and slow, rhythmic footsteps echoing in the hallway. Fear bloomed in the back of his mind, scrabbling with tiny claws, whispering that darkness was coming for him. He tried to speak, but the words seemed to swell in his throat, cleaving his tongue to the roof of his mouth and rendering him mute. Warmth flooded over him, wrapping around him, as though a fire was raging in the next room, and he couldn’t move, his body frozen in place with fear. Helplessly, he watched the study door swing open, and Sister Belle entered with a smooth, graceful stride.
Joseph felt himself relax, relieved at the sight of her, even as he wondered at her being there, and how she had got past what he was sure had been a locked door. His eyes widened in alarm when he saw what she was wearing: a tight black dress that clung to her curves and left her legs bare and pale. She must have been freezing on the walk over from the convent, and his first instinct was to grab a coat to put around her, but then she stepped closer, her lips parting, her chest heaving. He felt his pulse beat in his throat, tracing a throbbing thread of fire down to his groin, and he licked his lips nervously. She looked a little strange, her eyes sparkling with blue light. For a moment that light rippled over her skin, picking out tiny scales, and he told himself the whisky was making him see things. His throat felt dry as dust, but to his surprise, he didn’t want a drink.
“Sister Belle,” he managed. “Wh-what are you doing here so late?”
He still couldn’t move. It was strange, but that warmth was seeping into him, making his muscles relax and his body grow loose, even as his brain called strident warnings at him. She stepped closer, until she was almost touching him, her full lips open and glistening, and he remembered the things she had told him. Her nightmares. Her desires. Long, pale fingers ran over his chest, and he tried to move, tried to step away from her. He needed to tell her to leave, but he didn’t want to. He wanted her to stay.
“I had to come, Father,” she whispered, letting her hands slip down his chest to his waist. “I have a need. There was a choice to be made, and I chose you.”
She tugged at the belt of his pants, and his mouth fell open, his eyes wide and his body frozen in place. His brain was screaming at him to push her away, but he couldn’t move, and she pushed black pants over his hips with his boxers, sinking to her knees as she lifted the hem of his black shirt. Her hand was hot as it wrapped around his cock, and she looked up at him, eyes blazing with blue fire as she took him slowly into her mouth.
x
Joseph jerked awake, his heart thumping, breath coming hard as he lay in the darkness of his bedroom, the pillows cool against his hot skin. Moonlight was shining through the curtains, a dim blue colour outlining the dresser and chair and the wardrobe that contained his clothes. He let out a shuddering sigh, running his hands over his face and relaxing into the sheets as he realised he was alone. The dream had been very real, so real he could remember how she felt. The warmth of her, the wetness of her mouth around him. His cock was hard, pushing against the cotton pants he wore, and he closed his eyes, trying to think of anything but her. Trying to distract himself with his plans for the day ahead, no matter that it was still the middle of the night. An early start would be good for him.
His head was aching from too much whisky, so firstly he would need tea, or perhaps some coffee. He would sit in his study and drink coffee and he would finish writing his sermon for next Sunday’s Mass. He could also go through the preparations for the Christmas fundraiser; he had the preliminary enquiries from potential stallholders to look through, after all. That should be enough to distract him from thoughts of Sister Belle and her blue eyes and tiny smile.
“You’re very restless.”
Her voice made him start, and he pushed up on his elbows with a sharp intake of breath as she seemed to flow out of the darkness, a slender shadow-creature. Her limbs were as pale as milk, her body wrapped in a tight black dress that he was sure no nun in Storybrooke would ever consider wearing. The same dress she had worn in his dream. She crawled onto the bed at his feet, moonlight licking over her skin and shining in her hair as she watched him.
“No need to hide from me, Father,” she said. “I can see into your soul. I can see what you want.”
She grasped the sheets, slowly pulling them down his body, uncovering his naked chest and his thin legs in their loose pants. Her eyes lingered on his groin, where his erection pushed up against the cotton pants, and she smirked as she looked up at him. She walked up the bed a little way on her hands and knees, sitting back on her heels when she reached his knees and reaching for the strings at the waistband of his pants. Joseph shook his head, and realised with sudden, complete clarity that his headache had disappeared, and that he was stone-cold sober, as though his soul had been cleansed. It was oddly exhilarating.
“I’m dreaming again,” he whispered. “This can’t be real. You can’t be real.”
“Oh, I’m very real,” she said softly, and stroked a finger down the hard length of his cock, sending a jolt of pleasure through him. “As real as this. As filled with need as this. You want me, don’t you?”
Joseph closed his eyes, trying to summon a lie from deep inside him. That smouldering scent was all around her again, drifting into his nose and catching in his throat. Not candles, he realised. More like embers, like coal. She was watching him with those knowing eyes, one finger gently stroking him. It curled under his balls, circling them one by one before drawing up the length of his cock to the head and making him twitch.
“You want me, don’t you?” she repeated.
“Yes!” he gasped. “But I - I shouldn’t. I can’t. It - it wouldn’t be right.”
“But you want to,” she said knowingly, and he swallowed hard, nodding wordlessly.
Pushing up on her knees, she grasped the hem of her tight little dress and tugged it upwards, peeling it over her head and tossing it aside. She was naked beneath except for a thin gold chain around her neck with a dark, round stone like a pool of pure shadow, a hole in the air that seemed to eat the light, hanging between her breasts. His eyes widened at the sight of her, at the pure beauty of her form, pert breasts with small, dark buds at their centres above a tiny waist and long, pale thighs. Silver moonlight shone on the curves of her breasts and hips, streaks of dark blue shadow painting the lines of her ribs and the hollow of her navel. The dark cleft between her thighs glistened with promise, and he felt his mouth water as he shook his head.
“No, no,” he said weakly. “You’re a - a dream. This is a dream.”
She tilted her head to the side, dark hair falling in a shining wave over one pale shoulder, and her eyes gleamed with that blue fire again.
“Would you prefer that?” she asked softly. “Dreams can be powerful. Do you want this to be a dream? A fantasy?”
He shook his head again, abandoning propriety in favour of honesty.
“No,” he whispered. “No, I don’t want that. I want it to be real.”
“Then let it be real,” she breathed, and she leaned forward, hands sliding up his chest as she brushed her nose with his. “Let yourself feel for once, Father.”
The stone between her breasts was resting on his chest, and he was surprised at how heavy and warm it was. As though it burned with its own fire. His eyes flicked up to hers, and she pushed up on her hands, gazing down at him. He tried to find the will to tell her to leave.
“If - if Mother Superior knew you were here—”
“That self-righteous gnat could find fault in the purest heart,” she said sharply. “I don’t give a damn what she thinks of me.”
“Well, neither do I,” he said impatiently. “But if she catches you, the whole town would turn its back on you. And on me.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” she said. “So unless she’s hiding in the bloody wardrobe, I think we’re safe.”
“But - but your vows!” he said. “Your soul! You can’t be here, you should - you should go.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“No.”
He bit down on his tongue, but the word had left his mouth almost immediately, and she smiled.
“I thought not,” she said, and bent to kiss his chest. “You’re an honest man. A good man.”
“Apparently bloody not,” he muttered, and she chuckled richly.
“Yes you are,” she said. “I’ve had a lot of churchmen cross my path, Father. Some I sought out, and some sought me, but I do believe you are one of the few I’ve met who is genuinely good. A little - lost - maybe. But good, at your core.”
“I’m not!” he said desperately. “I’m bloody hopeless! I’m - I’m an alcoholic priest who can’t even concentrate in confession because I’m thinking about the next bloody drink!”
“You were listening to my confession,” she said, and the tip of her tongue circled a spot on his neck, making him shiver. “You were listening very intently.”
He closed his eyes, not wanting to remember the shameful way he had responded to her words. It seemed ridiculous to be embarrassed over that when she was naked in his bedroom, but he had never claimed to be logical. She straightened up, that smile back on her face again.
“I don’t believe you even thought about whisky when I was telling you about my dreams, did you?”
Her voice was lilting, soothing, and he shook his head. Her smile grew, and she shifted on her knees, bending to let her lips graze his chest as she slipped back down the bed a little way.
“You shouldn’t worry about my soul, Father,” she said. “It’s in very, very good hands. And I want this, believe me. As much as you do.”
She grasped the waistband of the pants, tugging them down over his hips and exposing him to the cool night air. His cock bounced upwards, freed of its cotton prison, and she let out a low growl, taking him in hand and bending her head until her lips brushed against him. Joseph let out a cry, throwing his head back as she sucked him in between her lips. Her mouth was almost too hot to bear, and she let out a low moan as she let him sink deep into her, soft flesh yielding. It felt as though her tongue was wrapping around him, twisting and squeezing, and he pushed his hips upwards in response, letting out a deep groan.
He had never believed that something could feel so good, and he let his hands drop to her hair, stroking through it as she slipped him in and out of her mouth, her lips tugging at him as she sucked. Heat was rising up through his body, a heavy swell of pressure from the base of his spine, and he wanted it to spill over, to burst. He wanted to let the pleasure take him, to have her swallow down everything that he had to give. His back arched as he groaned, and she drew back, letting him slip from her mouth with a low hiss.
He raised his head to stare at her, and she held his gaze as her tongue swirled over the head of his cock. A ripple of light seemed to pass over her pale skin, as though a pattern of scales came and went, and for a moment it looked as though her tongue had grown long and tapered, winding around him, squeezing him. He told himself it was the moonlight playing tricks, and then she took him deep once more, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he cried out in pleasure. The air seemed cold when she let him slip out, and she kissed down his length, her tongue swirling over his balls and sending bursts of sensation through him.
“Oh, God!” he whispered desperately, and heard her chuckle again, hot breath bathing the head of his cock.
“Not even close,” she murmured.
She moved up his body, straddling him, her legs sliding against his thin hips, and he jerked at the feel of her skin against his as he reached for her, trembling fingers sliding up her pale thighs. Her skin was soft and smooth, hot despite the cold room, and she hissed in approval as his hands grasped her hips, her fingers stroking up over his belly to his thin chest. Shifting position a little, she pressed her core against the hard ridge of his cock, heat and wetness pulling a shuddering gasp from him.
“There’s no sin in sharing pleasure,” she said, and her hips rocked slowly back and forth, rubbing her wet flesh along his length and making him groan. “Bodies are made to give pleasure. To take pleasure. It reinforces human bonds. It creates life. Where is the sin in letting yourself enjoy it, Father?”
Joseph closed his eyes, trying to think of something that would actually convince himself as well as her. He found it an impossible task, but something told him to make one last empty gesture of protest.
“I took a vow of celibacy…” he said lamely, and she shrugged, a brief rise and fall of one smooth shoulder.
“You told me yourself that your God is merciful,” she said. “That contrition is what’s important.”
“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, that’s true.”
“So in the morning, you can tell Him how sorry you are that you fucked me until I screamed, can’t you?”
Joseph’s eyes flew wide open.
“Sister Belle!” he gasped, and she shook her head.
“I’m not Sister Belle,” she said. “Not anymore. I’m leaving the convent, leaving Storybrooke, and you’ll never see me again.”
Joseph felt a pang, a stab of pain at the thought of her leaving forever, but she smiled at him. For a moment it looked as though her eyes were filled with a strange blue fire, but then she blinked, and it was gone.
“Call me Lacey,” she said softly. “That’s who I truly am, Joseph MacAvoy. I’m Lacey.”
“Lacey,” he whispered, and it seemed to release something deep within his chest. Perhaps the last shred of his self-restraint. Her smile grew, her eyes gleaming.
“Yes!” she said, and took him in hand, raising up on her knees and sinking down onto him in one smooth motion.
Joseph arched upwards with a cry as he entered her. She was burning, scalding like soft, liquid fire. Her hips moved, gently rocking back and forth, letting him slide in and out as her wet flesh tugged at him, The sensation was incredible, making his skin tingle and his body throb with a deep, pulsing need to thrust. He pushed his hips upwards, getting deep inside her, wanting to feel her all around him. She made a noise of approval, hands sliding over his taut belly, and he felt tiny points of pain as her nails dug into his skin.
He raised his head a little, eyes flicking open, and she was undulating against him, breasts rising and falling with every thrusting roll of her hips. It felt incredible, but there was a dull, low-down ache there too, as though sharp hooks had lodged in his soul and were trying to pull it from him. As though there was something deep inside her, calling to him, trying to drag him with her into the dark of the night.
Lacey was moaning, a low purring sound as she circled her hips, and he could feel his cock stirring inside her, rubbing against her. The feel of it was sending ripples of sensation through him, and he could sense his balls drawing up, full and aching. She let out a growl of pleasure, shaking back her hair before fixing him with those strange eyes of hers, and it was as though scales bloomed on her skin, glistening blue in the moonlight before disappearing with a blink of his eyes.
“Touch me!” she gasped.
He reached up with trembling hands, cupping her firm breasts. They fitted perfectly in his palms, her skin soft as silk, the nipples taut peaks beneath his stroking thumbs. Lacey yowled, pushing into his hands as he squeezed, rocking her hips as she rubbed against him. Dimly, he was aware of something brushing his legs behind her, something thin and hot and smooth stroking back and forth over them with a rhythmic heavy slap. Tail! It’s a tail! a shrill, terrified voice gibbered at the back of his mind, but that was impossible, so he ignored it. He silenced that voice, that tiny wail of terror, and focused on Lacey, concentrating on the feel of her against him, the way she clenched around him and the sounds she made as she circled and slipped and fucked.
It was hot where their bodies joined, scalding hot and slippery-wet, and he could feel her body tugging at him, pulling on his soul. He could feel her hunger, her desire, her need. Smooth hands slid up over his chest, sharp nails scraping against his skin as she quickened her pace, and he could feel the bliss rising up inside him like a wave, wanting to crash over him, wanting to pummel him and drown him and spit out his battered body on the shore. Lacey grinned, white teeth shining in the moonlight.
“That’s it!” she whispered. “Come for me! Fill me with it! All of it!”
Joseph groaned as he pushed upwards inside her, ready to burst, and she bucked her hips, rubbing against him with rapid, shallow thrusts, her hands braced on his belly and her head thrown back. A whimper began deep in her throat, growing in pitch until she let out a harsh cry, and he came hard, shouting wordlessly, his cock pulsing and squirting. Lacey let out a shriek of pleasure, her flesh clenching around him, pumping against his cock, milking every drop from him as he jerked and moaned. It was intense and almost terrifying, as though something inside him was tearing at the edges, as though his soul was leaving his body and being pulled into hers, but then it stopped with a sudden, sharp snap as her eyes caught his.
For a moment all he could do was try to pull air into his lungs as Lacey worked her hips, drawing the last of his seed deep inside her with a low growl of pleasure. He eyed her through half-closed lids, her full lips glistening and a satisfied smile on her face. There were no scales on her skin, no heavy thump of a tail stroking over his legs. Of course she doesn’t have a tail! Of course she’s not covered in scales, what the fuck is wrong with you? He let out a shuddering breath, running his hands over his face and listening to the heavy pounding of his pulse. The fell of her rising up off him made him drop his hands to the sides, and Lacey smirked at him, that dark pendant swinging in the air as she leaned on the palms of her hands.
“Thank you, Father,” she said softly. “You’ve given me exactly what I needed.”
She pushed up off the bed, bending to grab her dress, and he missed the heat of her, the night air cold against his skin and his softening cock, still glistening with her fluids. His body was tingling, his heart thumping as he came down from his high, but as she pulled the dress over her head a crawling sense of disappointment began creeping over his skin. She was leaving.
“Wait!” he said hoarsely.
“What is it?” she asked dismissively, as she tugged the dress straight.
“Are you going?” he asked. “Right now?”
“Perfect time, wouldn’t you say?” she said, slipping into her shoes.
Joseph shook his head, even more confused than when he had woken to find her half-naked in his room.
“But - but where will you go?” he asked. “It’s the middle of the night. Please, I - I don’t mind sleeping on the couch.”
Lacey smiled, stroking a hand across her belly.
“See?” she said. “A good man. Really not my usual type. I must be getting old.”
“But it’s not safe for you out there,” he insisted. “It’s bloody freezing, for a start, and - and the Rabbit Hole has some unsavoury types.”
She chuckled at that, her grin widening.
“Oh, don’t you worry about me, Father,” she said. “I have somewhere to go. And something very important to do.”
Joseph closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.
“Look,” he began, and opened his eyes before he cut off, blinking in shock.
The bedroom was empty, the only sign that she had ever been there a drying sheen of fluid on his lower belly and the lingering sense of pleasure still licking at his skin. Lacey was gone, perhaps forever, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret what they had done. How did one go about atoning when one felt no guilt? He ran his hands over his face before throwing back the sheets. Perhaps he could start by writing that sermon. Coffee, prayer, and preparation. That might do it.
It was four days later, when he was settling down by his fire with a book, that he realised he hadn’t drunk a drop of whisky since the night Lacey left.