The holy water burned where it pooled beneath you both, searing into Father Noah's knees through the cloth of his slacks. A reminder of how he had fallen to his knees for you and knocked it over, a reminder that he had fallen for you.
Of course, the pain was immense. For any other angel it would have driven them into ripping themselves to shreds -- for fuck's sake, his wings were molting one by one. But you were a sight, heaven at his fingertips as his feathers fell around you to form a bastardized halo of his failed temperance.
How could this be a failure, though? When your hands were tangled in the long strands of his hair and your sopping pussy clenched and fluttered around him like Paradiso?
"You're my divine." Rasped words between each kiss.
Long gone was the innocence of a peck by the pious Father Noah, replaced by the points of sharpened canines and the suffocation of pleasure. This wasn't allowed, it was never allowed. Pleasure wasn't a virtue, it was a distraction only for the likes of humans and --
"Forgive me."
His long fingers were punishing, curled into the flesh of your hips, driving his own forward into you so hard that you slid along the polished marble floors. It broke that lusty spell, forced you to open your eyes fully to the hunched figure of the good Father.
His warm brown eyes bleeding black with the shadow of horns wound in his hair.
thinking a lot about domestic life with this sweet priest <3
cw: 18 + 𝖒𝖉𝖓𝖎. priest!noah, domme f!reader, fluff, mention of oral, religious themes.
When Noah comes in late, the only sound is his polished brogues against the soft floorboards, and him hushing the creak as they let out a soft whine beneath his weight. Tonight his prayer group ran late, and afterwards he was sequestered by one of his parishioners in need of a listening ear and guidance—something he would never refuse, though the latter kept him from returning to your home at a reasonably decent hour.
Clambering up the stairs, he follows the familiar path to the room that has become his, too. Once upon a time, on the nights before he found a place on the cold side of your king bed, his visits would end with him being escorted to the door and seen off with the soft press of a goodnight kiss to his cheek. Not anymore, though. Between nights spent in one another’s company, sharing long conversations over dinner, and eventually multiple sexual explorations, you’ve welcomed him further into your home—from being an acquaintance, the the local priest who welcomed you to his town on the day you moved in, to a lover who worships you to a higher degree than his own God.
When he reaches the bedroom, his eyes sweep over your sleeping form, your skin glowing under the moonlight filtering through the window. Tonight, you have chosen something soft to sleep in, a negligee with a lace hem that sits atop your thighs, an inviting sight, and purposeful, he has no doubt. Over time, Noah has come to learn you often do things with intent, to entice him, whether it was an invitation to join you or simply a way to get what you wanted from a man once devoted to a higher being, and naturally, it always worked, Noah falling for the bait every time.
As the mattress dips beneath his weight, he eases onto it carefully, trying not to wake you, slipping his shoes off, and nudging them beneath the bed where they belong, ready for him in the morning.
“My love,” Noah murmurs, rolling onto his side and tucking himself in close against your back, soft fingers trail down, walking slowly along the exposed skin of your thigh. Leaning forward, he presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, then trails another up toward the dip of your neck, his nose brushing along the column of it, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo, of you. It is as intoxicating as you are, and for a brief moment, he shifts closer.
As you stir, your hand finds his, pulling it around you to rest at your stomach, and he wraps his arm over you, tucking you together and drawing you in. Despite still being fully dressed, he sinks against you, content, a soft breath escaping him, a whisper against the shell of your ear paired with a gentle declaration of his love. In response, he is met with a tired, mumbled teasing remark. It comes as no surprise to him, bringing an instant, sly grin to his face, because even in your sleepy state, you’d never dare let him have the last word.
“You’re late,” you add, your voice soft, sounding as though you’re actively fighting sleep while he dips his head, another gentle press of his lips against your warm skin.
“I know,” he murmurs, as though it’s an apology for a promise he never made, or was able to keep. Noah knows that you’re not mad, you never are when it comes to him and his duties. You understand where his heart and priorities lie, and you’re respectful of them. All he can do in return is extend eternal gratitude for your understanding.
Behind you, he shifts, not to climb off the bed, but to sink further down it. His hand slips away from yours, albeit reluctantly, skimming over the front of your negligee, silk soft against his fingers, the fabric clinging and rising with ease.
“Did you wear this for me?” His head tilts as he gazes up at you with warm, puppy like eyes, catching the flutter of your lashes as you dare to peek out from beneath them, pushing back against your drowsy state.
“Yes…” you breathe, your fingers finding his hair and gliding through the thick mass close to his scalp. The gentle graze of your nails draws the faintest sound from him, something akin to a groan rising in his throat.
“Thank you… my love.” Domina sits easily on his tongue, his favourite name for you. Though tonight this offering you’ve presented feels less like something out of a scene pushing your dynamic, and more like an opportunity to worship his lover.
Noah doesn’t take the opportunity to slip off the bed and strip out of his uniform. Instead, he remains dressed, and guides you onto your back, spreading your thighs as he sinks down between them, his collar remaining in place. He knows that his usual collar, a gift from you, isn’t the only kind you enjoy seeing him wear while he’s between your thighs, worshipping you with the same mouth that speaks morning prayer.
As always, he is slow, reverent, attentive with each stroke of his tongue. There is no rush to finish, nor any intent to drag it out longer than you can bear, only a steady pace focused entirely on you and your needs, until you’re coming undone, baptising him as he worships you like something holy.
a little priest!noah headcanon: this is the guy you meet in the pit at a metal show, who’s there to support one of his bestfriends, and the playing band’s drummer, folio. he’s a little tipsy from having a pint of beer instead of his usual wine, and far more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him before. it’s an unusual sight, seeing him without his collar, but no less welcome. he still radiates that warm aura, and the second he notices you, like a moth to a flame, he’s drawing in closer, until you’re attached at the hip for the rest of the evening.
“You’re going to pull your panties aside for me. Show me how much you’ve given in to temptation.” Noah’s words make you gasp. You’d entered his confessional with the intention of baring your sins, and now he has you baring yourself in other ways, seeking forgiveness however he requests.
Trembling fingers reach for the thin fabric, already wet from your prior rubbing just from speaking with him and sharing your impure thoughts, practically tucked between your folds, barely offering any real cover as he sits back on his knees before you, eyes fixed on you, admiring you, nothing short of lust and reverence in his gaze.
Slowly, you tug at the fabric, feeling it slip free from between your folds. A soft squeak escapes your lips as you shift, but Noah says nothing. Your favourite sweet, warm priest is focused only on the space between your thighs, on your offering meant for him and him alone.
When the fabric is finally pulled aside, Noah exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, his pupils blown wide at the sight of you—your pussy glistening, your clit already swollen, your folds puffy, desperately needy and sensitive. Already he can see the wetness gathering, something inviting, something that makes him want to worship you.
“You’ve given in to so much…” he breathes, leaning closer, warm air brushing your sensitive cunt. His hands settle on your inner thighs, keeping you spread while his thumbs stroke along each fold. “Allow me to help you…” Murmuring, he moves one hand closer, fingers gliding slowly over your folds, feeling how slick you already are before slipping up to your clit, working in slow circles.
Your hips jolt at the contact while his other hand remains firm on your thigh. “Trust me,” he coos, and you do. You feel warmth bloom through you, telling you that you can. “Look how swollen your clit is, how badly you need to give in…” His voice stays low, his mouth close enough that his breath continues to ghost over you.
Your hips buck, pressing into his touch as he begins to rub your clit, slow and deliberate, focused on the pressure he applies and the circular rhythm of his movements, gathering your wetness and spreading it further. “You’re so wet, my sweet lamb. I can feel how much you need this, how much you need me.” His gaze lifts to your face, an unmistakable gleam in his eyes as he presses on, urging you to answer. “You need me, don’t you?”
“Yes, Father…” you breathe, struggling to keep your focus—your eyes on him, as soft moans rise in your throat and spill free beneath his attention. The way his fingers glide so easily over your cunt and between your folds, how he pinches your clit before rubbing it again, cooing to you over and over. Your head feels light, dizzy, lust overtaking you as that familiar warmth blooms in your stomach, the coil tightening with the telltale signs of your approaching orgasm.
“Let me hear those pretty sounds, sweet lamb. Let me hear how much you need me,” he urges, breathless as he watches you melt beneath his touch, spread out for him on the wooden bench, completely revealed in a holy place he’s willing to defile for his need of you.
You don’t shy away from letting him hear you. Soft, satisfied moans slip past your lips, followed by a louder gasp when you feel the intrusion of his finger—one long, tattooed digit sinking deep inside you, curling, soon joined by a second.
“So wet…” he murmurs. “Mmm, all just for me… you keep getting wetter and wetter. You see how bad this has gotten? You straying into temptation.” He punctuates each word with the quickening of his fingers inside you, dragging them along your walls and curling them with every deep thrust, pressing into the spongy spot tucked just behind your clit—the one that has your hips bucking and you rising desperately off the bench.
Noah can feel how close you are, and he wants nothing more than to push you over that edge, to make you fully give in to temptation, to surrender yourself to him and his worship. “I can feel it,” he breathes, “how much you want to give yourself to me.”
His other hand glides over your thigh in slow, caressing strokes as he continues working his fingers inside you, eyes darkening as they fix on your face. “I can feel you getting tighter.” His voice drops, deeper, darker. “You want it, don’t you? You want to give yourself over to me. Say it.” More commanding now. “Say, yes, Father.”
The words hover on the tip of your tongue, your confession that you do, that you want him, want this, that it’s all you’ve been thinking about, but instead, all that comes out is a loud, helpless moan as your orgasm tears through you. Your body trembles, your walls clenching around his fingers, desperate to keep them inside you as you ride the wave.
When you finally collapse back against the wall of the confessional, chest heaving, you whisper, “Yes, Father.”
A sly, satisfied smirk curves Noah’s lips as he slowly slips his fingers from inside you, pulls your panties back into place, and rises to his feet. Then, he leans down, pressing a kiss to your sweat sheened forehead, his tone gentler now as he whispers, “Well done, my sweet lamb.”
I loove this and I love when you do one plot for all versions of Noah, could you write something for each of them with this line? Thank you⭐️
I did four again, because I have so many noah's in my head and these ones all wanted to play with this idea 🤭 there's an extra special one included at the end for @flowery-mess and one for himbo!noah can be found here 💕
CW: fingering (f receiving), oral simulation, masturbation with toys, a little dirty talk, unprotected sex (p in v)
Smut below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.
𝐕𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐧ⵑ𝐍𝐨𝐚𝐡 : He’s gotten more confident, and it’s endearing, you can feel it in the way he touches you, the way his fingers skilfully move inside you, experimenting with slow and quick strokes. You hear it in his voice too, when he manages to coax another moan from your lips, your back arching off the bed as he slowly runs his finger along your velvety walls, stroking that one sweet spot.
“You like that?” he asks, but there’s no doubt in his tone—just the slow crawl of a grin across his lips. “Yeah, you do,” he purrs, mouth pressed against your thigh, his brown doe eyes fixated on you, watching the way you writhe and respond to every movement.
“What about if I do this…” His voice trails off, and a deeper sound is pulled from your throat as his fingers stroke the back of your cunt, the sensation driving something unfamiliar through you—a heat that makes you tighten around him.
“Oh, you’re more sensitive there?” he murmurs, and it’s as though he’s mentally saving that thought. His fingers keep exploring, stroking you from the inside, searching for the spot you like the most.
“I think this is the one you like the most though, right?” His fingers switch back to the front, curled and buried deep as he presses into the spongy-soft point behind your clit, making you practically purr in his hands.
𝐕𝐀ⵑ𝐍𝐨𝐚𝐡: “You like that? Yeah, you do,” Noah croons into your ear, and you gasp, the wet sounds that follow his voice sending a shiver down your spine. His own moans bleed into the audio as he continues feeding the most obscene filth into your ears, crafting a dreamlike, vivid image in your mind.
“What if I go a little deeper?”
You’re following his words, and when he speaks them, it’s like a command—the toy inside you mimics the motion, driving deeper. The sensation spreads through you like wildfire, making you arch off the bed with a deep moan.
“What about if I lick your clit just like this while I finger you, huh?”
Right then, he starts making the sloppiest mouth sounds—wet, messy, deliberate. You know it’s just a prop, some toy he’s licking into for effect, but it doesn’t matter. Your fingers fumble for the Satisfyer, switching it on before pressing it in place against your aching, sensitive clit. You’ve purposely avoided stimulation under his guidance, and now you’re almost shaking from need.
“Tell me how good that feels, baby. You gonna tell me how good?”
And you do, soft, broken mewls slipping from your lips as your back arches again. You grind your hips down against the toy buried inside you and hold the Satisfyer firmly to your clit, the sensation sending wave after wave of pleasure rippling through your body.
“You gonna be good and cum for me, hm?” he continues to croon between exaggerated licks. “Fuck, you taste so fucking good, you know that? I wanna feel you cum all over my tongue. Give it to me, baby.”
His words coax you closer, pulling you right to the edge until you feel it, that taut coil snapping as heat rushes through your trembling body, sending you careening over into ecstasy.
𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭ⵑ𝐍𝐨𝐚𝐡 : It’s a pretty sight to see—Noah sprawled out beneath you, long hair framing his face like a halo. You don’t take your eyes off his as you slowly roll your hips, circling them intentionally to feel the thick weight of his cock buried inside you, rubbing against all your most sensitive areas.
Your nails graze down along his tattooed chest while his hands grip your waist, guiding your movements. His hips lift just enough to add the pressure you’re seeking—until they buck, sending a jolt of pleasure through you that makes you moan faintly, grinning down at him.
“You like that?” he asks.
You nod slowly, a soft purring “mhm” slipping past your lips as you lean forward, half laying over him to meet his mouth in a kiss. Just as your lips touch, he bucks again, catching you off guard and making you quiver atop him, clenching tighter around him. His words melt into the kiss, his teasing smirk pressing against your lips.
“Yeah, you do.”
For a subby little thing, he can be quite the cocky brat.
𝐄𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝ⵑ𝐍𝐨𝐚𝐡 : Sunday mornings are possibly the best, even if the creeping shadow of Monday means losing Noah to his work schedule, he always makes up for it with a slow, lazy morning in bed, which often leads to an equally slow morning shower.
It’s no surprise you both end up there: your back pressed to his chest, his mouth trailing kisses, nips, and marks along your shoulder and neck as his hands roam freely, tracing every curve and dip, drinking you in while the water cascades over you both.
When your head tips back, he meets your mouth with a soft kiss, something so tender it draws a soft sigh from you. His fingers trail lower, slipping past your stomach, daring and teasing all at once.
What you expect to happen doesn’t—at least, not fully.
His fingers push between your folds, circling your clit in a slow, deliberate motion, as though he’s testing how wet you are for him, as if he’s just getting a feel for your body. You let out a quiet moan against his lips, and the corners of his mouth pull into a slight grin as he murmurs, “You like that? Yeah, you do.”
He coos it softly, like he already knows the answer.
His free hand brushes up your stomach, warm and careful, stopping at your chest where he cups and kneads your breast. He pinches your nipple between his forefinger and thumb, then releases it to slide his hand further upward, until it slips gently around your throat—no pressure, resting there, and somehow, that soft touch feels more dizzying than any pressure ever could.
a birthday dinner and gift for your sweet local priest 💕
cw: 18 + 𝖒𝖉𝖓𝖎. mention of religion, sub priest!noah, domme!reader, suggestive elements, mostly soft fluff.
You’ve been contemplating getting him a gift for a while, something fitting, something that showed him you’d been listening during your conversations over dinner, that there was depth to what you shared. Something that spoke of a connection beyond sex, because with him, regardless of his status in the community, within the church, it feels like something divine between you.
It’s surprising how much there is still left to explore in such a small town. Rows of independent shops along Main Street draw your attention the most. You haven’t ventured through many since your arrival. The only reason you began attending church was because Noah had been kind enough to visit you the day you moved into the neighborhood—the local priest, welcoming you to the community, bearing a casserole he admitted hadn’t been cooked by him.
There’s nothing like celebrating a new chapter of life with the signature gift you give the grieving. It was something you both laughed about over dinner that evening, after you invited him over—not because you were interested or trying to flirt, but because you were lonely, and when you looked into those warm, brown eyes, you couldn’t help but feel a shared kinship in that loneliness.
The local priest, beloved by everyone in his community, seemed to carry a sadness in his eyes, one you knew you mirrored back in your own.
The local bookshop becomes your first stop. As you step inside, you’re enveloped in dim light and a cozy atmosphere. Shelves of books line the walls, with excess stacks scattered throughout. Across the way, you spot rows of vinyl records, stacked neatly, alphabetized, no doubt, or arranged with the same quiet care as the books you begin to peruse. The space feels right, comforting rather than claustrophobic, the kind of warmth that draws you in. It takes you back to the first time you stepped into Noah’s confessional, after your third time attending one of his sermons.
𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊
“I’ve never done this before.” You laugh quietly, the soft sound reverberating off the wood that surrounds you.
“Confessional or…?” He leaves it open ended, and you wonder what he’s hinting at, what question he wants answered. You have many of your own, though most are ones you can’t exactly ask a priest. You’re not entirely sure of his state, but the more time you spend together, the more you find yourself lusting after him, and it’s starting to feel immoral. Thrilling, even.
“Yes. I’ve never confessed to sin.”
“Everyone is a sinner.” Noah says it not as an accusation, but as comfort—an offering that you’re not alone in your flaws or your mistakes.
“Including you?” The words slip out before you can stop them.
“Yes, including me.” You can’t see him, but you hear the smile in his voice. You picture the way the corners of his mouth curl up, the dimples that settle in his cheeks—the sight that always makes you melt a little every time you witness it.
“What do I confess?” you ask, though truthfully, you’re only searching for an excuse to stay in there longer. You enjoy talking to him, perhaps more than you should, but you fear that being around him too much only encourages the fondness you already feel.
“Anything you wish. You don’t have to. We can just talk.”
“Just talk?” You look down, fiddling with your fingers. You can’t remember the last time you came across someone who wanted to just talk—let alone a man. Most paid you little mind, always wanting one thing or another, and yet all you and Noah had been doing in recent weeks was talking. Talking over dinner, at the church’s charity drive, at the community center where you offered to help him set up. You told yourself it was to be useful, but mostly, you just wanted to keep talking to him.
“Is that all you want to do with me, Father?” Your voice lowers as you ask the question, intentionally laced with suggestion, and you catch the subtle way Noah clears his throat.
You half expect him to correct you, the way he does when you’re alone, away from the church and his collar. “It’s Noah,” he always reminds you, as if leveling the playing field. Yet it feels more like he’s ready to step down beneath you at a moment’s notice—the soft look in his eyes betraying a longing for something deeper than leadership. Already subservient to God, it shouldn’t surprise you that he might find a quiet delight in surrendering control altogether.
The correction doesn’t come, but there’s a distinct smile in his voice, the sound of restraint as he quietly says, “For now.”
“Are you looking for you or yourself?”
A soft voice breaks through the rows of shelves, and when you turn, your eyes settle on a young man—shorter than Noah, with shoulder length dark hair and striking grey eyes. He looks soft, warm, almost familiar. Closing the space between you, he clasps his hands in front of him. Tattoos span across his fingers and trail up the parts of his arms visible beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt, disappearing further beneath the fabric. It reminds you of Noah, of the way his tattoos stretch beyond sight, and how often you catch yourself thinking about just how far they go.
“A friend,” you manage, clearing your throat. “I wanted to surprise him with a gift, but I don’t quite know what he’d like…”
Your attention drifts back to the shelves of books while the man tilts his head, studying you for a moment before reaching past to pull one free. There’s no apparent rhythm or reason to his choice, yet he seems to know exactly what he’s looking for.
“The Devourers.” He says it like a fact, certain. You open your mouth to ask a question, but he’s already answering it before you can speak. “It’s for Noah, right? I’m Nicholas, his best friend, and you must be his new friend.” He pauses, his soft smile matching the warmth in his eyes. “He’s spoken a lot about you.”
The thought that Noah has talked about you to anyone sends a flush to your cheeks, and you look away, clearing your throat again. “Well, he’s been so helpful and polite since I moved here. I just wanted to show him my appreciation.”
“Then allow me to recommend this.” He presses the book into your hands with a gentle, encouraging nod.
Your heart pounds a little harder in your chest, even long after you’ve stepped out of the bookstore, gift in hand, already contemplating whether to have it wrapped, and when exactly you might give it to him.
So much has happened in the passing months, especially between you and Noah, and your budding relationship. You’ve gone from soft spoken, stolen moments to spending time together openly, deepening your connection and your bond. Never could you have anticipated the lengths to which your relationship would blossom—that a man devoted to the worship of God would come to worship you.
As October draws to an end, the cooling chill of winter settles in. The scent of pumpkin spice lingers in the air, a promise of the coming holiday season. When you approach the church, open even on All Hallows’ Eve, there are only a handful of familiar faces, most of them older members of the congregation. They light candles, murmur quiet prayers, and leave small gifts with Father Jolly, which you assume are for the upcoming Christmas charity drive.
“Father,” you greet softly, bowing your head. He returns the gesture with equal respect.
“What are these for?” you ask, nodding toward the small table of offerings—mostly baked goods, a few bunches of flowers tied with string, and a knitted scarf with an envelope laid on top, Noah’s name written neatly across it.
“Didn’t you know? It’s our young priest Noah’s birthday.” There’s a hint of pride in Father Jolly’s voice, a twinkle in his eye. The affection warms your heart, to see how loved your sweet priest is, not just by his flock but by his peers as well.
“No, I didn’t…” you admit softly, trying not to let on how disheartened you feel.
Father Jolly steps closer, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Don’t take it personally. He isn’t one to celebrate. He doesn’t enjoy the fuss. In fact, he spends most of the day at the local shelter—if you’re looking for him, that is.”
“I—” You pause, realizing how transparent your interest must seem. You frequent the church often, though mostly to see Noah—to sit with him, to talk, to invite him to dinner, to whisper soft, sinful confessions in the confessional before slipping into his office, where you act them out together. You’ve done many things, and while part of you should feel hurt that he never shared his birthday with you, you can’t find it in yourself to believe it was out of malice.
“Thank you, Father Jolly,” you say graciously before slipping away, your next destination clear—the local shelter.
As expected, Noah was there.
You’d wanted to stay and watch him work, but the moment he noticed you, perking up like an excitable puppy, you knew you’d never get any volunteering done with him around to distract you. Instead, you slipped back home to focus on your real reason for visiting, inviting him over for dinner. It wasn’t anything extravagant, you had just enough ingredients for minted lamb, creamy mashed potatoes, and vegetables, with the makings of an easy lemon cheesecake for dessert.
“I didn’t want you to be alone on your birthday,” you confess later, your plate nearly empty, a glass of wine in hand. Noah holds the other, his thumb brushing slow circles against your skin.
“I’m never alone on my birthday,” he replies softly. “That’s why I choose to volunteer. There are so many people who need more than I do, and if I can spend my day doing that, it’s better than being given things I don’t need.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. There’s such purity in him—soft, tender, and achingly selfless. He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it, his faint stubble grazing your knuckles.
“Does this mean you don’t want my gift?” you tease, your tone light and playful as you tilt your head with a smile. You need to offer it before you lose your nerve, before the thought of him tasting the wine from your lips becomes too tempting.
“I never said that, now did I?” A mischievous glimmer sparks in his eyes.
Reluctantly, you pull your hand from his, set down your glass, and reach for the wrapped package resting at the edge of the table. It’s been months since you bought it, months of waiting for the right moment to give it to him. You ramble as you hand it over, unable to stop the nervous flutter in your chest.
It’s only a book, nothing particularly special, and yet it feels significant. Like it carries a meaning deeper than you can name, a quiet testament to the intimacy that’s grown between you. Somehow, it feels as though you’re handing him your heart. Foolish, perhaps, or poetic, given the title revealed as he peels away the paper.
“The Devourers.” He says it softly, fingertips tracing the cover, then the spine, before skimming tenderly across the edges of the pages. When he finally looks up at you, his face lights with warmth. “Let me guess, Nicholas?”
You nod, shifting in your seat and reaching for your glass, just to have something to do with your hands. “He said you’d like it,” you murmur, taking a sip.
Noah reaches across the table, taking your glass and setting it aside. His tattooed fingers lift to your chin, caressing softly as he leans in. “He’d be right,” he whispers. His voice fades as his lips brush against yours—light, reverent, and full of promise. You melt into him, smiling against the kiss, realizing just how perfect your gift truly was. Your sweet priest holding not only your offering, but your heart in his hands.
