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astudyincontrasts · 6 months

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Penance IX (redux)

Priest!Silco x Fem!Reader AU (nsfw)

A/N: Its my birthday! Last year everyone in this fandom and all the friends I have made because of it made today one of the most special birthdays I have had in a long time. I felt more loved and surrounded in celebration with sweet friends then I had in years, and the cup of that happiness has not stopped running over. There are not enough ways to express my love and gratitude for everyone I've had the joy of meeting here.

So this year, I wanted to offer a gift to all of you. Everyone has been exceedingly patient about my writing struggles to continue Penance, so I'd like to give you the alternate Penance XI chapter- blood I have managed to wring from that stone of writers block. The fate of the continuation of this story may still be up in the air until inspiration comes knocking again, but at least I can share this with you today.

To all my fandom friends, and everyone who has been so supportive of this silly little smutty story. You have my heart.

This picks up after Chapter VIII

“Girl, are you listening?”

Sister Marta’s sharply scolding voice brought you back down to earth with a little jerk, blinking as you turned attention back to the tall, thin, sallow faced nun to meet the exasperated gaze of her cataract-hazed grey eyes.

“Sorry Sister.” You mumbled, casting about for a context clue of whatever it was she might have been speaking about while you’d been off daydreaming about the priest of her parish. Nothing jumped out at you in the dusty old store room of the basement where you both stood in the dim light of one naked and straining lightbulb still swinging gently upon its cord from the nun’s yank of its chain a moment before.

You hadn’t meant to drift off, but it had been four days since you’d seen Father Silco last and that painful, sweet contrition you’d done across the desk of his office was still fresh in your mind as if it had just happened. You ought to have been angry at the fact he’d left you such an unsatisfied mess, and the fact he’d spanked you like a wicked child, in spite of his promise he’d never hurt you as they had back in school.

Truly, he had not. Those sharp little slaps of his open hand were nothing compared to the cruelty of a sharp ruler across knuckles or the backs of thighs delivered by an angry, bitter nun. You smiled faintly at Sister Marta’s increasingly irritated, withered old face and privately thought perhaps she could teach the Father a few things about corporal punishment.

“The candles, girl!” Sister Marta exhorted at last, the thin limit of her patience snapping.

Unlike the ‘my child’ diminutive that the other nuns like Sister Eleanor or Sister Angelica were so fond of using with you and other parishioners, Sister Marta had no use for any such hollow faithful endearments. You hadn’t yet made up your mind if it was an honest gruffness about her you liked, or an insulting mein you did not. You had the notion it would have hardly mattered to the old woman either way.

She nudged one of the pair of low boxes with the toe of her sensible black shoe from under her long, dark habit.

“Take them to the Father to be blessed and then kindly refill the votive stands. You can remove the spent ones and toss them.” She explained, slower this time as if she was speaking to a simpleton.

You bore it with a tight little smile and bent to lift the box on top, surprised by the weight of it, staggering a bit upon rising only to catch a smugly satisfied look on the wrinkled old pucker of a face before Sister Marta reached up to pull the chain of the light and leave you to struggle out the door of the closet and back up the rickety old stairs of the basement in the dark, save for the light from the open door at the top of the steps.

Quietly you wondered if you accidentally fell and broke your neck, if the church would have their endowment free of the burden of your presence that came with it.

Cold comfort, knowing you’d crush the brittle bird-boned old woman climbing up, wheezing softly behind you, and take her with you if you did pitch backward down the steps.

The real trial wasn’t making it to the top of the stairs with the heavy box full of candles, though. No, that one still lay ahead once you’d reached the top without incident. The real trial lay in taking that armload into the rectory to face Father Silco once more and ask his blessing.

You’d thought you’d be safe if you came on a Thursday. You’d avoided the parish planning committee on Monday, as well as your usual Wednesday session with the Father. You’d hardly doubted you’d be missed at the planning meeting, and Wednesday, well. You’d chosen to skip it half in a little act of spite, half just to see what might happen. When no scolding phone call or visit had been forthcoming after shirking both of those commitments the victory felt hollow.

Turning up to make yourself useful to the nuns on Thursday seemed like a good way to cover for your failed gambit and to keep from looking as if you were avoiding the church. Foolishly, you’d thought perhaps you’d manage to skim by with just catching a glimpse of Father Silco in passing.

Unsure if it was because you wanted to see him, or wanted him to see you.

You’d been on rocky footing ever since your little transgression in the confessional, and you knew it.

The door to the rectory lay open just across from the basement door in the open nave of the large narthex, and you waited until Sister Marta crested the steps behind you and shut the basement door to hobble off heavily upon her cane, before you started the slow walk toward his office. You didn’t let yourself hesitate in the doorway, and didn’t have a free hand to knock on the open door with anyway. Instead, summoning all the calm composure you could muster, you simply walked in and paused before his desk.

He sat there, scribbling away in an open book, papers and letters and other books opened in a slightly scattered mess about his work, dark head bent and eyepatch on. He left you standing there until he’d finished what he was writing. Until your elbows and wrists had begun to ache a little from the weight of the box you held. Only then he sat back, letting his pen drop upon the desk as elbows found the armrests of his tall-backed chair and he turned the cool glint of that duplicitously calm ocean colored eye upward.

The thin, scarred cut of his mouth tugged a hint of a smile at one corner.

“Lamb.” He stated mildly, as if unsurprised in the least to see you there and only half interested as to what you might want with him.

Infuriating, how badly you liked hearing that little endearment again. How flustered it made you feel to get hooked on the edge of that smile.

The box shifted heavily in your hands as you juggled its weight and stepped forward to set it upon his desk. Damn his paperwork.

“Sister Marta asked if you’d bless these candles so I could put them in the votive holders.” Your attempt to keep your voice as even and disaffected as possible only resulted in it coming out far softer than you’d meant for it to be.

Leaning forward a touch, Silco flipped one of the flaps of the cardboard lid back to glance at the candles inside with a little hum. One by one he folded each of the other three flaps back and rose to his feet. Elegant fingers stroked absently along the edge of one packaging dividers hashed between the votives within before he plucked a single candle out and set it aside.

Letting that cool eye of his drift shut he made the sign of the cross over the open box of remaining candles before opening both hands before himself, palms cupped upward.

“Lord Jesus Christ, true light that enlightens every man who comes into this world, bestow thy blessing upon these candles, and sanctify them with the light of thy grace. As these tapers burn with visible fire and dispel the darkness of night, so may our hearts with the help of thy grace be enlightened by the invisible fire of the splendor of the Holy Ghost, and may be free from all blindness of sin.”

His eye opened and fell upon you, and suddenly you were profoundly aware of how you just stood there, staring at the tall, lean lines of him in that dark cassock, soaking in the sound of his voice and very obviously not with your hands folded in reverent prayer or eyes downcast as they ought to have been. Something entirely ungodly flickered at the edge of Father Silco’s mouth as he continued on, holding your immobilized gaze.

“Clarify the eyes of our minds that we may see what is pleasing to thee and conducive to our salvation. After the dark perils of this life let us be worthy to reach the eternal light.” His eye closed once more and again he made the sign of the cross over the box as he finished, “Through thee, Jesus Christ, Savior of the world, who in perfect Trinity livest and reignest, God, for ever and ever. Amen.”

His hands lowered, one coming to settle over the glass edge of the candle he’d set to one side, and he considered you as you crossed yourself hastily and reached forward to gather the box back up again. He stopped you lifting it with a touch of the fingertips to its lid.

“When you are through with these, perhaps you’d come back here?” Couched so carefully as a question, yet all you could hear was the quiet order in it. Come back here. Your head was nodding before he even finished speaking and the thin, dark brow not covered by his eyepatch quirked slightly.

“Yes, Father.” Your correction of yourself came nearly automatically.

Another little humming assent and with a slow blink he removed the touch that had stopped you lifting the box, resuming his seat. You hoped he’d resume his work as well, but instead he sat there, watching you go, fingertips drumming thoughtfully upon the little glass votive.

You took your time with the candles, mostly because your hands were shaking and the very last thing you wanted to do was drop one of the blessed things and have it shatter across the church floor. But also, to give you time to scrape yourself together, collect calm and poise. It was no good, heart hammering anticipation equal parts nervousness and excitement. The part of yourself that had wanted so badly to keep up this little charade of wishing to avoid him had succumbed without so much as a whimper.

Again thoughts drifted back to Sunday. To the stinging warmth of skin under his hand, to how he’d teased you to a sodden mess without once slipping fingers beneath the barrier of cotton that had separated you. To how he’d left you wanting and writhing and nearly in tears. A perfect act of contrition, indeed.

It was a struggle not to let yourself wonder what next punishment he could possibly have in store for you.

Spent votives replaced with fresh ones, and the box filled with the clatter of the empty candleholders, you made your way back to his office. Dropping the detritus of other people’s prayers off in the dumpster out back could wait. You had your own worship to attend to.

Father Silco’s desk was far less littered with papers when you returned, open books stacked neatly to one side now and everything else put away save for the book he was still writing in. And that little candle he’d taken. His dark head didn’t even lift as you set the softly clattering box down upon the settee against the wall.

“Office hours are over.” He intoned flatly as you wiped palms nervously over the skirt of the dress covering your thighs.

It froze you, cold like ice water suddenly filling the pit of your belly. Had he just dismissed you after ordering you to return?

“...Father?” It came out a strangled little question and you almost hated how needy the note of your voice made that singular word.

He glanced up and you realized with a start that he’d removed that eyepatch, the hellish orange-red fire of his darkened eye a constant little shock every single time. Ruined eye and teal flicked from you to the door and back again as if in blatant explanation.

“Lock the door.” He elaborated.

It should not have been a matter of pride that you managed to turn and do his bidding without falling all over yourself or scrambling in an embarrassing rush of eagerness, and yet. Far more collected than you felt within, you managed to push the door shut soundlessly and throw the latch, pausing for a moment with your back to him, safely sheltered in the little alcove of the doorway, to breathe through the easing of that sudden cold panic that had surfaced at your earlier misunderstanding.

When you returned to him he’d shut his notebook and set it aside atop the others, and reached to slide that pilfered votive candle before himself as he watched you sidle up to his desk. Watched you stop, smooth the skirt of your dress only to fist it again in fitful hands, watched the tight little press of thighs as he drew out the silence.

“Do you know what these are called?” He asked, nudging the little candle forward with the press of one elegant fingertip before rising from his seat.

“Devotionaries.” You answered, and watched him cross to the wall to the right of you, to a tall coat stand that stood near the door to his quarters.

“Very good.”

A child could have answered that question, but it did not stop the little smile of pleasure that tugged at the corners of your mouth. His praise as euphoric as a drug and twice as addictive, even for the smallest of successes.

Your mouth went dry however, as he turned profile to you, tugged a button or two open upon the throat of his cassock, and then turned his back to undo the rest before shrugging out of the long, dark cloth to hang it upon the coat stand. The black fabric fell in a long and shapeless mass without him, hem puddling ever so slightly on the floor.

It put you in mind of Peter Pan hanging up his shadow, or it would have done, had you not been so preoccupied with the shape of him divested of the dark habit. Of that petulant posture and taut lovely lines, proud set of shoulders and careless, dangerous beauty in how he moved. It was patently unfair that a man sporting licks of sliver at his temples and etched crows feet at the outset edges of his eye should have the lithe shape of youth the way he did.

Devoid of the cassock, he was left instead in the black roman-collared linen shirt and dark, sharply pleated trousers he wore beneath.

He turned back to you and came wandering back toward the desk, unbuttoning the cuffs at his wrists.

“Do you have a lighter?” The question was so casual it caught you off guard and you had to shake your head, tugging at the pocketless skirt of your dress on either side of thighs by way of explanation.

His mouth twisted the merest fraction of a smile as he tucked the cuff of one of his sleeves back, began rolling it neatly toward his elbow. Lean hips turned a fraction as he stepped closer.

“Left pocket.” He instructed, helpfully.

Hesitation grasped you but a moment before you inched forward, stepped into his space and paused. Glancing upward, you found his attention fixed upon meticulously still folding his sleeves back, crisp turn by turn. The focus of those mismatched eyes not even flickering to you, to how every fine hair upon your bare arms stood on end like they were aching toward him, toward that magnetic draw of snapping static thrumming in the air between you both.

Easing half behind him, you reached for the little gap of the pocket and slowly slid fingers into the warmth of its silken confines. Over the bone of his hip and down, wrist deep until you hit the bottom of the pocket and touched the smooth, rectangular shape of the lighter within. Metal heated to body temperature from where it nestled.

Fingers curled around it before you stopped. Let it go, and moved just a little closer, pressed fingers flat to that join between hip and thigh his pocket lay against. Pushed the delve of that pocket just a little deeper and felt his stomach tense beneath your fingertips as your cheek brushed the outside of his upper arm.

“The lighter, lamb. If you please.” His tone was darkly amused at least, though if you kept pushing your luck it would be at your own cost. That much was clear.

You scooped up the lighter once more, but withdrew your hand slow, knuckles grazing softly along the cut of muscle you could feel running from his hip inward and down. Air felt unwelcomely cold against your skin once you pulled your hand free, and before you could step back, he moved away for you. Walked away to resume his seat behind the desk as he finished doing up his other cuff to just below his right elbow.

A small push of his foot made space between the seat and the desk, and you only needed the flick of his eyes from you to the room he’d made to set you in motion to come and stand before him, his lighter clenched tight in your closed fist, unwilling to relinquish the little bit of his heat you held in your palm.

Gazing up at you, his attention licked over the details of your dress, your posture, your hesitant composure, as he tugged at the give of trousers a little at the bend of thigh and hip and settled himself more comfortably.

“You weren’t here yesterday.” He observed as he relaxed back against the tall chair, a flicker of a blink over that oceanic eye. You held your tongue and his gaze fell to the candle upon the desk just beside where you stood, and you wondered if your absence had made him angry, filled him with regret, or perhaps just left him lonesome. You wished there was a way to tell, any little crack in that stoic mask of scarred features and sharpness to let the truth of what he was thinking seep out. Nothing there though but that calculating, penetrating gaze and a subtle shrug of broad, lean shoulders, “I suppose we might make up for lost time, then. Contrition may be an important facet of faith, but so is devotion.”

He reached forward to scoop into fingers the loose end of the bow that tied the wrap of your dress shut beside your waist. His good eye narrowed, the fine lines of crowsfoot deepening. He’d seen that dress before, yes– the same one you’d worn to catch him by surprise in the confessional.

You allowed yourself the most innocent little smile you could manage when those mismatched eyes flicked sharply to your face, and willed breath to stay even, slow, no matter how skin had begun to sing his name in soft coursing waves of prickling goosebumps.

“I don’t suppose you have your rosary?” He asked archly, letting the ribbon of the bow drop from his open hand as he sat back once more.

He’d every right to ask it of you so dryly, given your lack of pockets. And you had every right to feel as smug as you did when you lifted a hand, reached into the low, criss-crossed neckline of your dress and drew out the strand of little purple beads from the nestle of your bra.

The war between shock, dark delight, the struggle to keep his poker face, and perhaps even a hint of righteous outrage that overtook the sharply handsome ruin of his features was nothing short of spectacular. You’d replay it, over and over again at night. Reveling in how well you toppled the high and mighty cold ivory pillar he so often perched upon.

Out and out you drew the beads until the little cross popped free and the rosary hung, swinging, upon your forefinger.

His hand, resting upon his knee, tightened, fingers twitching slightly, before it stilled, then lifted, palm open in demand.

You dropped that little holy object into his hand and watched his fist close around it, knowing full well he now held a little piece of your heat as surely as you held his within your other hand. There was a slight softening to the creases where thin brows met over that sharp nose that told you he felt it, too.

“Good girl.” He murmured, and the flush that crept up to warm your ears was nearly as delicious as the thrill that both chased up your spine and tugged at the backs of your knees to fold, to kneel. You rested the heel of your palm upon the desk behind you and let it take your weight so that you did not cave.

By the time he turned his face back up to you he’d mastered his expression once more, beatific calm singed at its hard edges.

“Turn around,” He instructed, making the simple order sound heavy, dangerous. Bringing thighs together from their slight sprawl, he patted the top of one, “Have a seat.”

Heart thudded hard in your ears as you did as you were bade, turning to sink onto his lap carefully, perched upon his knees. He sucked chipped teeth softly at it.

“Have a seat,” That grit velvet voice scolded gently from behind you as both his hands curled about your waist and urged you backward, until you sat comfortably fully upon him, back fitted to his front.

A hand upon your hip skimmed over stomach and waist, back to the bow of your dress.

“Why do we say devotions?” He asked, and you could feel the question purring through his chest against your back as he claimed the thick ribbon of the bow and tugged. The knot gave with no resistance, and the part of it he held served nicely to pull the cross of your dress open, just enough to part the skirt of it and leave you bare from stomach to thighs.

The shudder that overtook you was sweet and slow, wringing from core to limbs, leaving a little shivering tingle rising over scalp and curling toes, that familiar little throbbing ache back with a hot and hungry vengeance. Hips shifted in your seat as his fingertips ghosted skin to part fabric and push it aside, leaving your lower half bare save for the dark, smooth satin of underwear in the same shade of inky black as his habit.

“To remember the dead?” You chanced, feeling halfway there yourself, pulse racing erratically.

“Sometimes,” He agreed, and you swore you felt the whisper of scarred lips at your neck. Certainly felt the wash of warm breath plume over skin, “More generally devotions are an act of prayer or private worship. Remembrance is one act, as are service, reflection, beseeching, prostration… your rosary, for example, is considered a devotion.”

His hands slid along your arms, touch warm, bringing your hands together to press in prayer before he began to wind the beaded strings around your wrists again to bind them together.

“I thought that was a penance.” You exhaled in a shuddering little rasp.

“It can be, but not today.” The tip of his sharp nose drew a long, slow line against the rise of your spine, above the neckline of your dress between shoulder blades and to the base of your skull, “although that can be a devotion too.”

The heel of his foot caught the floor and pulled the seat with you both in it forward towards his desk, so that he could reach around you and lift the candle from where it sat before pushing you both back again. He held the votive before you.

“Light it,” he asked, free arm curling about you, fingers trailing the soft of your stomach from navel on down, “I owe you a devotion, lamb.”

Fingers bound in prayer fumbled with the thick golden rectangle of the lighter as you struggled not to simply sink back against him with a little shiver and beg that he stroke that little path across vulnerable skin once more. A flick of your thumb sent the hinged lid open and the circular little flint struck on the second attempt, hot flame bursting to life. Silco turned the candle so that you could light it and then pulled it away as you flicked the lighter shut and slipped it back between folded hands.

“Do you know the devotional prayer?” He asked, hand holding the candle coming to settle upon an armrest as his lap shifted beneath you, lean legs pressing together beneath your own and lifting before spreading wide, the hook of his knees beneath your thighs opening them in an indecent slow splay.

It set you writhing; the kissing chill of the air of the room contrasting sharply with the heat of him beneath you, so very bare, bound in his lap, spread open like an invitation. The door was locked, yes, you’d made sure of it but what if you were wrong? What if someone had a key? There’d be no explanation for the position you found yourself in, no way to hide.

The thrill of that little licking fear warred with the light caress of his free hand as it curled over the top of one thigh and smoothed toward your knee, only to hook it better in its drape over his own before it began the slow teasing, lazy circles that drew it back toward the little throbbing want hidden beneath the black satin gusset of thin panties.

“Bare legs.” He murmured, and you gave another little squirm, folded hands pressing together tighter. You’d not worn what you were coming to suspect was his favorite item of your clothing because you’d not expected to see him, and also to spite him if you did. The move seemed to have backfired spectacularly. When you had no excuse or answer, Father Silco simply carried on, a note of pleased amusement in his tone, “The prayer?”

“N-no. That is, no I don’t know it.”

“Hmn.” His little hum of disapproval at the gaps still existing in your liturgical knowledge colored your cheeks, and you could only hope that from his position he could not see the frustration that joined the embarrassment upon your face.

You watched him lift the candle slowly from where he’d held it at your side, bring it to hover over your open lap. His hand upon your thigh stilled its toying little strokes and instead closed in a taut grip of your leg, soft skin denting tenderly beneath his fingers.

“That’s alright,” he reassured you quietly, and you could hear the dark little smile in it, “This is my devotion anyhow.”

The flickering little candle he held hovering before you began to tilt, turn, and the inward gasp of breath caught in your throat as the clear melted wax welled at the lip of the red glass before spilling over, heat spattering in a little drip against the sensitive skin of your knee.

He paused, and you could feel him shift under your restless hips, feel the little roll of his own and the way his breath strained ever so slightly for just a moment.

“Does that hurt?” Low and velvet that voice mumbled up against the skin behind the fold of your ear and again he tipped a little burning drop of wax onto waiting skin.

Your knee jumped the barest fraction, reflexive little jerk at the soft scalding that faded quickly into gentle warmth, and you nodded, folded hands pressing the knuckles of forefingers tight to your lips.

“A little.” You breathed, raggedly.

“Enough to stop?” He pressed, and the soft moan of a sigh that broke from you when the warmth of his mouth touched to the hard thrum of your pulse answered well enough for you before your shattered little ‘no’ eked out.

His fingers had strayed far up the leg they’d been casually toying across, toward the heat that he had to feel absolutely radiating from the apex of thighs. One long forefinger drew a tracing line around the triangle of slippery black satin, up both edges and across your lower stomach slowly.

Air seized in your throat as his fingertips plucked at the smooth waistband.

“Lord, may this candle which I light illuminate all my difficulties and decisions.” Silco began, waiting to feel the tension stringing through you begin to ease before he spilled another dollop of wax, and then a second and third a bit further up each time. The soft sting of it had you writhing, the little shock of burning heat fading to a warm tickle as the wax rolled down in heavy drips, cooling against your skin.

Behind you, Silco’s breath caught in a little huff once more, a soft whistle between clenched chipped teeth on the inhale.

“May this candle be a fire,” He continued after a beat, spreading the warm little shocks and sudden pinching stings to the tender inner thigh of your other leg, “that burns away all my pride, selfishness…”

Writhing and shifting, you struggled in his lap, not wanting to escape yet fighting the way every fibre of you recoiled from the spattering searing sting of the wax in a reflexive, uncontrollable urge. Several of these squirming jerks of your hips and the hand teasing at the edge of your panties caught suddenly in a taut cup between your legs as you felt Silco’s own hips give a hard little shove upward.

Stilling breathlessly, he kept you waiting a long moment while he seemed to struggle to master himself, the fingers cupping you picking up an almost absent little up and down stroke over the satin covering the shape of your sex, unerringly finding the cleft between lips.

Cooling wax flexed and tugged at skin as you tried to spread a bit further for him, to press into his touch, scared if you were to beg for more with words that it might stop the tease entirely, as it had the last time he’d had his hand between your thighs. God, how he’d tormented you, brought you so terribly close… Hips rolled hard and slow against him in retaliation as you relived your humiliation.

As if reading your mind, his touch skimmed higher, and fingertips tucked themselves beneath the satin confines of the upper edge of panties, teasing little strokes at skin that tensed and trembled beneath his touch before they began to slip lower, “and all my other sins.”

Wax was flowing freely, dripping to punctuate each word, taking his sweet time as you wriggled and bucked in his lap, swallowing little gasps and hisses as your skin sang.

At least one shift of your hips must have caught him just right because for a moment you could hear him choke on his words, feel him tense beneath you again. Determined to give as good as you got you did it again and felt the rush of his breath fan against your neck.

His free hand tensed where it lay, fingertips so tremulously close to the cleft of lips, and delved to catch a second taut grip over the shape of your bare sex. The sudden hard grasp of naked contact had you spiraling, arching hard back against him. He was hard beneath you, you could feel it, and caught between his hand and that hint of hardness digging into the soft of your bottom you rocked slowly, only to be rewarded with a long pour of hot wax up your thigh that turned the gentle motion of hips to a wild little ride.

“May this candle be a flame,” He continued, and the broken rasp of his voice was nearly, nearly as sweet as the single slow caress of his finger that found the slick part of your folds and pressed between slippery skin to drag upward. Unerringly found the proud, eager little swell of your clit and sent your lower back into a hard strung arch with one little nudge, “that warms my heart and incites me to love.” He concluded, raggedly, and you swore you felt the graze of chipped teeth scrape over your shoulder.

Riding the light touch of his fingertip and behind you, the hard press of his cock through his pants and your open dress, you sprawled redolently back against him, let your neck find a home in a comfortable arch over his shoulder before turning your head, nestling forehead in the hollow of his throat before shifting to tuck a begging little kiss to the sharp of his jaw.

“Amen.” You finished for him, and felt the sting of wax hit your hip and then your stomach that made you hiss and buck hips once more. Your reward a groan of breath from him and another lingering stroke of his fingertips through soaked folds to flick caressingly at the sweet throbbing ache of your clit.

How long, how many bitter nights now had you wished for this, how many feverish and filthy dreams had you endured, just longing to feel his bare touch? It had become so much worse after your last meeting, all that sharp longing redoubled after his heartless punishing teasing.

No more, no more thin cotton or sheer lace or anything at all between his touch and you. The heat of his hand was nothing to the splashes of searing wax you’d endured, yet it was so much sweeter. That little flicking touch came ghosting over the sensitive little nub of your clit and you writhed unashamedly, trying every which way to force his touch more, closer, deeper.

The prayer was far too short for your liking. What good were hollow words meant to convey something as strong and fervent an ideal as devotion if they were over in mere minutes? Grumbling a little whinging protest you pushed back against him with a hard roll of hips.

“Father…” You objected, voice cracked with pleading.

“Who?” The grit dark velvet of his voice asked at your ear, delighted and tormented as the devil himself.

“Daddy.” The word was out before you could even think it, like it teetered perpetually on the edge of your teeth ever since the first time he prised it out of you, “P-please, please, daddy…”

The sharp blade of his nose shoved hard behind your ear, his ragged breathing a hushed tickling whuffle from narrow nostrils, and any further pleading you were on the verge of was stifled with a squealed little gasp as he spread the sodden petals of your pussy with the splay of three fingers, and the center one of those long, elegant digits found its way down between slicking folds, delving deep into the welcoming clenching grip of your want… only to withdraw his entire hand in a long, slow drag, tracing a line of accusatory wet all the way up to the dip of your navel.

It left you sobbing tearlessly, gasping and gulping and lifting hips in a wordless eagerness that only earned you another splattering of scalding wax across the strain of thighs.

Father Silco ignored your plight as steadfastly as any man of the cloth could ignore temptation, and began a new prayer.

“Earnestly I seek you;

I thirst for you,

my whole being longs for you,

in a dry and parched land

where there is no water.”

The psalm he recited washed over you like a slow caress while you squirmed fitfully on his lap and watched his hand lift, middle finger glossed to its base with your wet. Vanishing in your periphery, the sound of him sucking that long digit thoughtfully clean acted perfect punctuation to the sacrilege of his misappropriated prayer.

Guilt spiced the edge of half-denied pleasure and soft pain. As his hand slid back down your skin and toward the clenching, shivering yearning of your core, you’d never felt so debased, so deeply wicked and wrong. Burning wax hit your thigh once more in heavy, rolling drops and you arched, straining, hissing between clenched teeth; become more serpent in the garden of Eden than Eve.

“I have seen you in the sanctuary

and beheld your power and your glory.

Because your love is better than life,

my lips will glorify you.”

He teased the upper edge of soaked panties once more, tracing the pucker of their hem, slipping fingertips just beneath them, savoring the softness of skin and the way the taut of your stomach quivered beneath his touch. Desire welled like a dark stone filling your throat, heart coated in the sticky sap of filthy blasphemous sin as his scarred mouth tickled at the hook of your jaw and tender line of your throat. This was wrong, so wrong, so deliciously perfectly throbbingly wrong.

Heat flooded your face as you crushed the press of prayer folded hands to your forehead, eyes shut tight against the rushing high of mortifying lust. Forbidden, taboo, illicit; whatever you wanted to call that gut-deep and undisputed knowledge that this was unforgivably wrong, it excited you in a way nothing else ever had.

He could see it in you, you knew he could. He saw how horrible your deepest darkest thoughts could be and he just kept dragging them out into the light, smiling as he let you dirty yourself with the honesty of your predilections.

The line of his arm tightened against your side as he reached to slip fingers back into your heat, another lazy circling tease to against clit that left you wrung out and breathless before he delved back inside of you and let you ride the slow pumping slide of one long finger.

“I will praise you as long as I live,

and in your name I will lift up my hands.

I will be fully satisfied as with the richest of foods;

with singing lips my mouth will praise you.”

Your head rocked as he butted his forehead gently to your temple, words a warm, seeping whisper at your cheek, that stern, gravel worn seduction of his voice undoing you, taking you apart at the seams until you felt sure you’d fall open there in his lap like a ragdoll with the sin-like sawdust spilled out.

Inside of you, he was inside of you- and just that knowledge, just the wretchedly wonderful wrongness of it made the whole of you jerk in a taut little shiver of surrender. That slender artful finger kept up its torment like he had no notion of your mortal struggle; curling, thrusting, buried deep. It had you in a tailspin, hips working devoid of conscious thought, all sensation dialed down to the hard, hot, fluttering building to a crescendo within. Greed, gluttony, lust… were they called deadly sins because you felt fit to die if you did not satisfy each one right this moment?

The stinging pain of the wax he kept dripping in erratic little patterns jerked you from the sinking, seeping pit of ecstatic bliss over and over again, a cruel and wonderful see-saw that kept you gripping white-knuckled on the sharp edge of insensible pleasure.

“On my bed I remember you;

I think of you through the watches of the night.

Because you are my help,

I sing in the shadow of your wings.

I cling to you;

your right hand upholds me.”

His right hand was all that stood between you and heaven; the grinding press of the heel of his palm to the throb of your clit, the smooth slow fucking his single finger was giving you, all of it an overwhelming agony of delight but just shy of what you needed to crest the rising wave of tense bliss he was intent on drowning you with.

Head tossed back, you groaned that little, broken, sordid version of his holy title once more, hands bound at the wrists with your rosary clenched in fervent prayer to your chest that he’d let you come, please God just let you come...

And with that one word, beneath you Father Silco went suddenly still and rigid, something like a strangled gasp caught in his throat as hips pinned under your writhing ones jerked their own stilted thrust upward… and held for a long and breathless moment before you felt him sag with a rushing, panting release. His hand cupped to you had gone quite still, and you could feel the ragged rise and fall of his chest against your back.

Had he… had he just…? You shifted hips experimentally and heard him hiss a wordless scolding as his hand gripped the shape of your pussy hard. Stilling obediently, you had to struggle not to smile sinful bliss.

Just a little touch of you combined with the friction of your hips working in his lap and he’d cum those dark, well tailored pants of his.

In spite of being robbed of your own relief, for the moment you felt nothing but powerful, smug and heady with the evidence of how your infatuation was not one-sided, just as you had in the confessional, and it made you foolishly proud.

Proud, right up to the point when he withdrew his finger from within you and in the space of a half second, just before your mouth could open in complaint, caught a little pinch of your clit between thumb and middle finger only to assault that overstimulated cluster of slick nerves with his forefinger in such lashing that you pitched clean into the waiting arms of your release.

It was hard and fast, unmerciful, the lovely strain nearly ruined by how long he’d kept you waiting and how hard he’d teased you up to it.

“Amen.” He was purring in your ear, voice near drowned out by the hard thrumming pound of blood rushing in your brain. Thighs shivered in their hook over top of his own, gone weak as every ounce of tension bled out of you, leaving you lolling, warmly pliant and sighing devoutness far more fervent than any stale saint could have possibly understood.

There was a little click of glass as he set the remains of the candle back upon his desk and turned your face toward himself where your head lay back upon his shoulder. Fingers traced the curve of your cheek, and when he licked at the open part of your lips the faint taste of yourself mingled with him lingered. Bless me father, for I have sinned.

Profane and perfect, you felt his smile stretch against your mouth.

“Do you doubt my devotion, lamb?” He asked quietly, hands smoothing away the cooled and peeling wax in long strokes that left gently welted and red splotched skin stinging sweetly.

Your head shook infinitesimally, not wanting to break the scant contact of his mouth to your own.

“Do you pray for me, Father?” The urge to know felt crushing, the weight of guilt creeping in to gnaw at the edges of sordid bliss.

“Oh lamb. You’re the only thing I pray for anymore.”

#penance #silco #father silco #priest silco #silco au #arcane au #silco x reader #silco arcane x reader #no y/n #more penance at last! rejoice!#my birthday gift to you

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astudyincontrasts · 2 years

Text

Penance X

Priest!Silco x Fem!Reader AU (nsfw)

A nsfw multichapter little fic, dedicated to @purpurniymstitel‘s inspired prompt. One last chapter of fluff and fuckery before the proverbial shit hits the holy fan. This one fought me, guys. If you want warnings its just breakfast and blowjobs. Not even a little sorry. So much thanks to @ink-and-dagger and @x-amount-verbs for their support and help. 🖤

“Come have breakfast when you’re ready, lamb.”

It was terribly tempting, the sudden whim that struck you to slide out of bed and make your way across the loft and into the kitchen completely nude. Just to see what he'd do. To relish the look on his face and see if he'd drop eyes respectfully once more as he'd done when you'd sat up in bed and the sheets had pooled under your bare breasts. Or if he'd stare, perhaps leer silently in that sternly amused way of his, so constantly stoic save for that thin hint of a dark little smile that consistently flipped your world upside down and shook it like a snow globe.

You might've done it too - if the second you'd slid out of bed and stood on your own two feet the entire weight of your combined hangovers from the drinks and mystery drug hadn't come crashing down like a bag of bricks. Fully upright, your stomach soured and head spun, everything ached from the knuckles in your fingers to the roots of your hair. Even eyeballs throbbed and felt like their surface was coated in a fine grit.

No, no tempting sauntering anywhere for you this morning. You'd had your 'fun' as it were last night and now there was a piper to be paid.

Offering Father Silco a garbled response to his breakfast invitation that was some incoherent amalgamation of in a minute, gotta shower, and oh my god I'd like to die please, you stumbled for the bathroom. Had to pass by the open doorway and hey, that would just have to be tease enough. All you could manage. The shower was wonderfully hot, water pressure sublime as it pounded down on your aching head, easing some of the pain of the liquified grey matter sloshing about between your ears.

Skin was pleasantly pink by the time you'd toweled off, scrubbed up and soft and feeling about forty percent more human. You towel dried hair until it was no longer dripping, piled it up messily and then dug about in your dresser. Maybe you weren't going to subject him to a Lady Godiva over breakfast but if you had him here, all to yourself, you could still make him suffer just a touch. Cheeky high waisted boyshort panties and a soft-worn, cropped very short and faded old tee-shirt that hung just a little off one shoulder would do just fine. And felt wonderfully comfortable anyhow.

Grabbing the mug of his absolutely vile coffee he'd left for you, bare feet padded out to the kitchen to find him buttering toast, one half-eaten triangle caught in his teeth. Noted with some satisfaction the subtle little double take he gave your approach. That shirt wasn't cut so high as to expose the underside of breasts but a good reach upward would do the trick. You rounded both him and the kitchen island he stood at and poured the contents of your mug into the sink before rinsing it out. Turned to catch him watching as one dark brow arched a slow upward climb.

"You don't like coffee?" He asked mildly.

"Father. That was not coffee. That was a cry for help."

You reached for the pot - he'd poured hot water over the grounds in an actual pot on the stove and then boiled it more! Oh Christ. The look you shot him was dryly incredulous and he had the grace to look at least a little chastened, if shocked at your bald-faced insult. It was an unexpected delightful departure from his usual stern dour. Grabbing the kettle from the stove to refill it, you watched as he wandered over with the plate of toast triangles to peer into his pot of war-crime level coffee as if it might explain itself and how anyone could find it a disappointment. Setting the refilled kettle back on the stove and clicking on the heat you leaned over and stole a bite of the toast he held forgotten between thumb and forefinger.

Golden, generously buttered and delicious. He stiffened as you stole your bite, pulling the toast back afterward like you'd steal the whole thing next. And set the plate within your reach on the countertop by the stove.

"I beg your pardon." So affronted, both at your toast thievery and your coffee insults.

"You ought to." Undeterred and good humored. He deserved whatever ribbing he got and you weren't sorry in the least. Reaching up to open a cabinet, you offered him a slight smile, what little you could manage without feeling like all the brittle bones in your face would crack from the hangover. Watched him eye that reach of yours, the lift of shirt and long stretch up on tiptoes to grab the press out of the cabinet. "And next you should call the farmers that grew those coffee beans and apologize to them."

"You're quite mean in the mornings." He observed dryly, leaning against the countertop and finishing his toast as you scooped grounds into the press then watched the kettle and rubbed at your forehead, willing the pulse of your heartbeat behind it to not throb quite so loudly. He brushed the crumbs off fingers against dark pants before sidling closer, caging you in against the countertop with the brace of the heels of both palms to its edge, to glance over your shoulder at the french press waiting on the counter.

"That doesn't seem like nearly enough." Chin came to rest upon the shoulder half bared by the loose neckline of your shirt, and in spite of the full body agony you were currently experiencing the gentle electric thrill of proximity managed to break through, like a soft static charge up along the whole back side of you where a mere inch or two stood separation of skin.

Mouth opened to explain you only needed a few scoops not an entire half a cup of coffee grounds when his thumbs stroked lightly over the outer edge of your own hands they were braced alongside and suddenly you didn't care all that much about explaining the finer points of coffee making. Even less so when he grazed the touch of his mouth over your bared shoulder, and then back to the soft weight of his chin resting there as you struggled to scrape enough of yourself together to lift the now whistling kettle from the heat and pour the water over the grounds.

Not sure if the rush you felt when he pushed off the counter to go back to puttering about the kitchen was one of gratitude or loss. But for one sterling, perfect second there it had felt so lovely to just indulge in the simplicity of standing in your own kitchen with a person you wanted so badly you could feel it down to the marrow of your bones, both of you half dressed and rumpled and happy. To be free for one second of all the intricate complications that actually came along with all this.

Too early and too overwhelmed with self inflicted misery to give any attention to all those ghosts beginning to gather in the dark corners of your mind, whispering to each other about what a terrible idea this all was. You'd been ignoring them for a little over a month now, what was one more stolen day?

A rummage in a drawer found a bottle of ibuprofen and you knocked two back, washing them down with water cupped in hands under the sink, and then turned to catch him watching you again as he stood by the stove, setting pan on an unlit burner and cutting butter into it. You watched the flex and give of that enormous dark tattoo across his bare skin as he moved, turned attention back to his task and put the butter away in the fridge before grabbing the eggs.

Fingers tingled at their tips, itched to touch and trace. Bad enough you could hardly stand to keep your hands to yourself around him anyhow, now this? You liked it terribly. One more dark little facet and secret page in his book to savor, keep to yourself. It had you interrupting his search for silverware, drawing close to trace the light tip of a forefinger over the coil of one snake. Felt it still him, watched his shoulders stiffen and breath shallow.

"This is... this looks like a story." You observed, watching the back of his head warily as you brushed lips to the bloody red apple dead center. Let fingers span the taut of his waist, up his ribcage. Listened to the soft stutter of breath that escaped him slow before you wound arms around him from behind as he leant weight heavily upon palms on the kitchen counter.

"Mn. One for another time. How are you feeling?" That rough velvet voice of his pitched low. Had you press your cheek to the sprawl of ink across pale skin to feel the reverberation of the words in him.

"Hhrrmm." Noncommittal noise of pain and regret that had him actually laughing, albeit silently. Shoulders just shaking slightly against the press of your cheek. A hand rose to cover one of yours splayed across his chest, fingers sliding into the spaces between your own, palm pressing yours a bit tighter to him.

The timer you'd set for the steeping coffee chimed and you jumped at the noise, peeled yourself away from him to turn it off and push the press down. Glanced up to catch him watching you again, over one shoulder and out of the corner of his good eye. The weight of that gaze made it a fight of sheer willpower to keep fingers from shaking ever so slightly as you poured a fresh mug of coffee for yourself, and then one for him as well. Added the two spoons of sugar you'd seen him take it with before turning slowly to find Silco facing you, still leaning against the counter, expression unreadable.

You held his mug out in silence and watched his gaze flick toward it, give it a long consideration before red and teal ticked up toward you as he reached out and took it. Set it blindly back on the counter beside him before extending that hand again in offering. Warm, when you slid your fingers into its grasp, let him use the tether of it to pull you in before the way he advanced had you backpedaling, unconsciously letting him herd you, chase you until your back hit up against the kitchen island. A sharp slice of a smile tugging at one edge of his scarred mouth, attention straying down you slowly.

A fingertip grazed your bare navel, traced a light line upward so slowly it froze breath in lungs.

"Why is it you seem so determined to show me every piece of undergarment you own?" That finger caught the hem of your short shirt and lifted slightly. In spite of the fact you'd chosen it on purpose to be a tease, heart was a hard pound timpani in your eardrums as the back of his finger stroked light along the curve of the underside of first one breast and then the other in an impossibly slow line, raising the soft sweep of warm fire up both arms and clear across the tingle of scalp.

"Or sometimes the lack thereof." he murmured with the slight lift of one brow.

The accusation was hardly fair. Most of the occasions... alright, at least half of the occasions he'd been party to your underthings it was of his own volition, curiosity, or cunning. The hand you'd been hoping might travel further up instead fell, spanned your stomach before it slid to your hip, joined by his other hand on the hip opposite as his cant of a smile tightened slightly. Had you wrapping your own fingers lightly around his wrist.

"Up." He directed, and you jumped, took a seat on the island countertop. Practically had to stop yourself asking how high?

He settled between the spread of thighs and caught the hem of that shirt again. This time drew it up and up till it came even with your mouth, breasts bared, nipples stiffening slowly against the cool air.

"Open." A second's confused hesitation before your mouth parted. The dark line of a brow over an ocean colored eye quirked slightly. "Wider, if you please."

And you obeyed, mouth parting as you knew he liked it, tongue flat and tip touching the backs of lower teeth. Earned you a darkly pleased smile and the push of that shirt between lips. No need to tell you to close on it, you did so automatically, left holding that cropped shirt up for him in your mouth like a little toy. Hot blush seeping up behind cheeks, the throb in your temples nothing whatsoever to do with your hangover anymore.

He braced a hand on the countertop and settled into enjoying the view, the elegant length of one finger back to tracing the shape of a breast, soft sickle metronome back and forth under the curve before it drew straight up to press lightly to the tip of a nipple that stiffened fully and obligingly against its light touch. Had you exhale hard through your nose. The sound of it only curled the scarred half of his mouth a bit higher.

He drew a lazy circle around the tingling, sensitive little nub, gave it a tiny flick that made your entire body tense in the jerk of a little jolt. Magma heat oozing slow through sluggish veins still waking, still catching up and catching on and catching fire as he toyed with you. Succulent soft fluttered yearning rebuilding in the hungry pit between your legs, as if even though he'd finally given you release a few hours ago, it had meant nothing, done nothing to soothe or ease that constant burn for him, more of him.

He dipped that dark head, messy haired and sleep softened, dipped and dragged the tip of his tongue warmly over the rise of that little bud. Soft, sweet, wet tickle of it sending your head rocking back, material of shirt straining in the clench of your teeth and muffling your little sigh of bliss as eyes drifted shut. And those teasing, featherlight licks continued, had your breath coming in deep gulps until he closed teeth over the primed and singing little cluster of sweet nerves, lovely little pinch fitted right to his front teeth. It lasted but a second and you were staring at the ceiling in hot desperation like god himself was about to punch through the drywall and smite you both.

"I ought to be at Mass right now." He intoned quietly, and the tilt of your head lowered slowly to catch him gazing back at you, expression thoughtful, unreadable save for the scant touch of wicked humor crinkling the outer edges of his eyes. Right back to a savoring soft suckle of the nipple he'd been ignoring, making your eyes roll back as the urge to clench together the thighs he stood firmly between wrung a full body shiver out of you from curling toes to tingling scalp.

"Mmnf. Mmnn."

"What's that, lamb?" Head lifted once more as he reached to pluck the shirt from your mouth for you. So helpful when it pleased him to be.

"We've already got bread." You nodded toward the plate of toast he'd left on the opposite counter. "I've got a bottle of wine around here..."

He pushed the shirt back between your lips with a chagrined expression, as if he was sorry he'd ever given you the opportunity to chime in. Teeth clenched on it again and yes, you pouted. Why not? He'd earned it. Smug bastard. Father Silco leaned on the countertop, jaw working as gaze ticked thoughtfully over you in no rush. The brace of those lean arms was a welcome distraction. Lithely muscled and forearms corded from elbow to wrist, hands rose to trace the lovely thick rise of a vein running across the back of his wrists and up over the top of forearm to disappear in the crook of elbow and rise again softer over the stretch of bicep. Strength belied by his lean frame. You'd felt it; as he'd held you down or lifted you up, his hands on your wrists, your throat, your backside. Good thing he favored a gentle touch because otherwise...

Thumbs hooked in the tops of your panties and he tugged, had your hands hitting the countertop automatically to lift yourself before rational thought could even catch up. And then he stood there with those silk-soft things dangling from a forefinger and your bottom bare on cold granite.

"I've eaten more than enough of the body of Christ, don't you think? Time for a different one, hm?"

Eyes widened as he gathered panties and slid them into a pocket, slipped hand behind one ankle and stroked a cupping cradle of it up the dangle of your calf as it hung off the countertop, caught behind your knee and lifted, the slow lever of it necessitating your slouch backward that turned into a full sprawl as he raised that leg, slipped it over the span of one shoulder. And came to rest between your open thighs.

Breath was coming in hard gulps now, every nerve alight and skin lifted in a map of sweetly prickling goosebumps as small, tense shivers that had absolutely nothing to do with the chill of the stone underneath you swept through you in little waves. He watched it, watched you - barely clinging to the keen edge of terrified excitement- and smoothed a hand up the underside of your lifted thigh in a soothing caress.

"You'll keep that shirt between your teeth, lamb. And behave yourself." Touch left you and there was the soft sound of small beads rattling together. The noise of him pulling from his pocket the rosary he'd taken off you last night in the confessional. Hands cupped as he held it over your lower stomach and he let it puddle into your fingers one gleaming purple bead at a time. "Behave yourself or I'll go ahead and fix those hands of yours together with that again. Understood?"

"Mmnf Mnnffmn." It was tacit agreement, if a bit muffled, helped by the emphatic nod of your head. Oh god. Behave yourself? How? Only he could have asked you, naked in every way that counted, spread sprawled upon your own kitchen island, eager, slicking sex bare and a scant few inches from his face to behave yourself.

Still, you sucked a breath and closed fingers tightly around the rosary as your head rocked back against the stone beneath it.

Warm fingers stroked slow, came to press softly over the shape of your lips, and the fight to lift hips up into them was a bare knuckle brawl within. Unsure which was worse; that he had a front row seat to your suffering want or that he could quite literally feel it stringing through you in little tremors. You'd been so sure that mouth of his would start there, at the soft of inner thighs, that you'd had legs tensed so badly they'd begun to ache. Instead he kept that hand pressed to the shape of your sex and rose a little, leg over his shoulder hitching with it, and brushed a kiss just under the dip of your navel. Soft, gentle. Oh god, the way air left you when the tip of his tongue licked an unhurried little line straight up the softness of lower stomach to that point he'd kissed. And he lingered there, mouth warm as it spread soft worship out to the ticklish hollows where hip and thigh met, tasting the velvet soft of vulnerable skin, breath fanning along the gentle little convulsions of your stomach before he finally found his way down the top of a thigh and let his hand slide away.

The groan you released as his fingertip stroked through the part of your pussy was inhuman, drug up from the depths and pitching out of your throat on fumbling legs, fighting to escape the clench of teeth and stifling damp fabric of your shirt. His tenderness was unraveling, undoing. It was going to end you, and every ounce of you yearned toward it with open arms.

Tears were dripping from the outer edges of eyes by the time a gentle hook and press of thumbs caught and spread you wide. The most vulnerable, bare feeling of your life - and you only spread thighs all the further for him, face hot fire and air struggling to get through the line of your teeth to fill stuttering lungs.

You could hear the breath he took when he spread you. Feel it escape across the slick wet of silk skin.

"Ah, lamb. Such a pretty thing, aren't you?" He murmured, the grit velvet dark of that voice doing just as much to you as his touch could, had eyes closing involuntarily while the beads in your tight fingers bit into skin where they were joined together by little silver links. He sounded almost... almost sad about it, in a way. As if anything he found so lovely could ever be forbidden. Thumbs stroked along lips and folds, drew you more open, wider.

The touch of his tongue sent you spinning.

Just a soft, light little lick. Like one might wet their finger before turning a page. Tender and just over the waiting plush throb of your exposed clit.

Every last inch of you spasmed in one taut, wringing little paroxysm of bliss. Fire rushing through veins and heart hammering so hard you could hear the blood in your ears. Do it again. Do it again, do it more. More. More now.

Suddenly not so hard to understand why he'd been so emphatic that you behave.

Again that gentle, slight lick. And you arching, practically sobbing a moan as you rocked from the back of your head to the crown on unforgiving granite, fingers folded like a tight prayer over little beads. A third little wet tease of his tongue and all the while across the back of your eyelids all you could see was the vision of him, bent over you as he was, the coil and curl of snakes shaped to a cross and brilliant red fruit at its center sprawled dark across his back as he toyed with you spread out before him.

A fourth lick, this one with the tip of his tongue curled, digging in ever so gently, catching a delicious flick of a rub that had another of those little spasms leap out of you, thighs trembling hard. And you heard him laugh, softly. A bare hum of a thing, delighted. As if he'd read your mind, that voice of his picked up before the next wonderful pass of his tongue.

"Now the serpent was more cunning than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made. And he said to the woman, "Has God indeed said, 'You shall not eat of every tree of the garden'?"

Another dragging little lick, but this one lingered, flattened slightly, drew the barest hint of a circle that had you writhing, had that heel pressed to his back digging in encouragingly. Forked tongue and sweet fruit, indeed.

"And the woman said to the serpent, "We may eat the fruit of the trees of the garden; but of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God has said, 'You shall not eat it, nor shall you touch it, lest you die.' "

Slick and slow that tip of his tongue slid up the entire length of you, warm and soft, only to dip straight into your entrance without warning, pressing and filling ecstatic ticklishness, lick and slide and slow thrust before he traced a firm circle around the inner edge of that sweet, sensitive hollow as you felt yourself clench in a mortifying little flutter.

"Then the serpent said to the woman, 'You will not surely die. For God knows that in the day you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.' "

You were whining. The grasp of the shirt in your teeth stopping the pleading, begging, demanding you'd otherwise be doing. And you weren't going to dare let it go. Not if it stood any chance of making him stop if you did so. Cheek turned to press against the cool countertop as you worked hips, trying wordlessly to make him stop speaking, stop that voice of his running over and through you and just give you the attentions he was teasing at.

Instead he pressed a kiss to your clit. Chaste, if such a thing was possible, ineffably gentle.

"So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate, and she also gave some to her husband who was with her, and he ate."

"Mmmn. Mmmnnhhph!" Intolerable. Torturous. You groused under him, huffing breath and lifting hips and struggling.

Until the lips that grazed your clit in kisses closed over it. Left you with the barest ghost of a sensation of teeth just touching at that softly swollen little nub before he sucked, humming gently as if to himself, or in pleasure at the taste of you, and every single other sensation in the world condensed into that one gently vibrating, sublime soft suction that had you arch off the countertop in a shape fit to break your spine.

He did not stop. Not when you bucked into his face, felt the crush of that sharp nose to soft give of your skin, not when you shouted behind your makeshift gag or moaned out a garbled prayer of his name and his name only as hard wringing shudders took you in hot waves, his tongue toying at you as he just kept up that sucking, humming, licking little sweet torture. More and more and more until you broke for him. Back landing hard upon the stone as one long, slow shiver swept down you, the plane of your stomach a fit of those delicious ecstatic fluttering convulsions within.

He kept you spread, and it was your turn to hum quietly now, weak little moans as he lapped at the sticky sweet spill of how wet he'd made you cum, unapologetic in his unhurried taste of you and how you dripped for him. Delicious warm passes of his tongue leaving you boneless, reeling, smiling indolently to yourself as you reached fingers still holding beads down and let them card through his hair, let them catch and tug just a little and then smooth gently against the mussed fall of it.

One glance down yourself found the juxtaposition of blue eye and violent red gazing back up at you, watching as that sharp point of his nose nudged against the tender pulsing swell of your clit, sensation of his tongue dipping into you again, sliding deep as it would go if the way that teal eye slanted near closed was any indication, or that softly delicious rolling pressure at your entrance. And then up he came slow, fingers splaying gentle strokes at folds he kept spread, and started those little, light licks once more, this time to either side of the gentle ache of the cluster of nerves he'd already left agonizingly sensitive. Infuriatingly gentle things that had you squirming until he dragged the whole broad flat of his tongue along you proper, sending a shocking, sudden and hard little second release rippling through you. Fingers clenched in his hair, every fibre of every muscle gone taut and trembling as you bucked a little flailing spasm, groaning against the sodden fabric in your teeth as you rode out that lovely ecstasy against the play of his tongue.

Sucking breath and trapped for a moment behind heavy eyelids, you felt rather than saw him nestle and rub a cheek against your inner thigh. Felt the brush of a cluster of kisses to the heat of tender skin just at its innermost as he released his spread of you and stroked soothingly over glossed lips. Arms reached out blindly to him and he gathered you up, a gentle hoist off the stone to cradle you against himself, tugging that shirt free from your mouth before folding your bonelessness in close. Scent of his hair as your nose crushed to his temple, feel of the way the lean muscle of his back bunched and spread under your fingers as you cradled arms around his shoulders. Blade of his nose pushed up under your jaw, against your throat and then down as he bit gently over the shelf of your collarbone.

"Breathe, little lamb, I've got you."

Up he scooped you, legs winding about his narrow waist, and got you across the room to sink down into one of the large chairs by the windows, cuddled up to him, just trying to find an even pace of breath as lovely little tremors like aftershocks clenched little fits within. Nothing but the heat of his skin, the scent of him, of you on him, and those long fingered hands caressing lazy long strokes up and down your back as you slid down into the warm waters of sumptuous afterglow.

"Lamb?"

"Hmm? Head turned to nuzzle at his ear, catch it between your lips and tug just lightly. Felt it tense and lift his shoulders like it tickled him.

"I want a promise from you."

Oh god, not another one. You hadn't necessarily been on the winning end of the last promises exchanged. Until recently, that is. In this moment the bargain you'd struck felt very rewarding indeed. If one could reasonably call getting the most amazing head from a priest on your own kitchen island a reward. Heaving a breath, you released his ear and sat back, twisted that rosary into a lose bracelet around your wrist as you met his gaze.

"Alright."

He held that eye contact in a considering silence until you began to nearly squirm under it, brows knitting slowly as you withered under his introspection and hesitation.

"What happened last night. Never again, yes?"

Heat flooded your face and keeping even with his gaze became an impossibility, attention sliding away to the window, to your own lap, to the flat of his chest where you let fingers splay out and stroke gently across pale skin. His hand closed on the wrist not wrapped in rosary and stilled it, squeezed.

"Lamb." Tone almost on the edge of warning.

"Yes, Father." God, it made you sound like a petulant, scolded thing. And all while sitting there still bare-assed and soaked from his attention. Hand released your wrist to press forefinger and middle up under the soft of your chin until you had to look at him again.

"I mean it. Never, ever again take something when you don't know what it is. Promise me." So emphatic. Voice with a ripped edge to it and the last between gritted, chipped teeth.

Wait. This was about the drugs?

"Wh- Yes. Yes I promise." What? Just the drugs? You'd known it was stupid and reckless of you but he was acting as if you'd held a gun to your head or perhaps tried walking tightrope on the edge of the building roof. It had just been some Ecstasy. Probably. Maybe.

The promise had him relax visibly though. Let him rock back against the chair, hands falling to your hips before he seemed to remember he still had your underwear in his pocket and dug it out for you, offering it back with a wicked little tilt of a smile that had no right to look as good as it did on the angles of his face. You took them, hesitantly, shooting him another confused little look that took him a moment to interpret.

"If you think I want to share you, you're wrong." It came out quiet, his turn to let attention stray away, watching one thumb trace a pattern across the top of your thigh, that muscle in the edge of his jaw back to jumping at the hard flex of it. "But I have no right to ask you - no right to make a demand like that."

Lying, if you said that didn't sting a little. Not that he was unwilling to press the issue of wanting you all to himself, but rather that he couldn't or didn't understand that it was already what you wanted. What you'd realized quite profoundly, and to some detriment last night. Your turn to catch his hand at the wrist and still it, stop its patterns before sliding your fingers between his own and lifting them both in a laced clasp to brush your mouth over his knuckles one by one between yours. Waiting until you had his full attention again.

"I want you to."

The ruin of his teeth bared and he wrenched hand out of yours to catch at hips, drag them tight and flush to his waist, fingers bruising grip as he shoved the bridge of his nose hard against your own.

"You could have died last night. That idiot boy could have killed you. And what then, hm? Would you like to hear how I spent half of last night convinced I was going to feel you stop breathing and the other half hating a man I never met because he had the audacity to touch you?"

The heat of it was stunning, ran so contrary to his usual calm, icy grip and chill stern anger when you'd seen him riled. It had you smoothing back the dark locks of mussed hair falling over his brow as he drew back slightly, looking half uncomfortable himself at the outburst that hadn't even raised his voice past a low snarl.

Hands shaped themselves to the broad of his shoulders, swept from the inner rise toward neck and back out again as thumbs dug gentle circles into the round of muscle and lower lip tucked itself between your teeth in a hard pinch. It should have been flattering that he'd been jealous. Instead it felt bitter that you'd done something so cavalier and callous. A justifiable sensation, but terrible nonetheless. It was a fruitless search for decent words of apology, or promise that it wouldn't happen again. Everything you floundered up from the depths felt trite and silly the second you repeated them in your mind.

"I'm sorry." The mumbled roteness of it all you managed. Both of you breathed soft resignation at it.

Against the way he'd grabbed you close, you became slowly aware of how hard he was. How hard he must have been since he had you over the countertop... and how hard he'd been earlier in bed. It had to be torture. A second's hesitation and you slid a hand down between you both, shifted hips back to slide the cup of that palm over him and watched him struggle not to press into it, falter, fail with a shift of hips under you before he forced the slow close of that teal eye back open again and reached for your wrist.

"Lamb, please-"

"Don't you want me?" It wasn't infantile, wasn't pleading or teasing. You asked it honest, hurt at the way he kept rebuffing you over and over in the face of his obvious need. Because what else could it be at this point?

His look was stunned, dark brow drawing toward the ruination of its scarred and barely existent brother as he stared taut consternation at your question. The hand that had been reaching for your wrist rose. Slid to cradle the curve of your cheek, thumb a press against the corner of your mouth as he shook his head slightly.

A weight dropped like a stone into the pit of your stomach.

"All I do anymore is want you." Barely a whisper of his voice.

And that awful weight vanished. Dissolved blessedly quick as it had formed. Head turned and you caught his thumb, drew it into your mouth and watched him as you sucked the tip of it slow, pressed the roll of your tongue against its pad as his lips parted, mismatched gaze trained upon your mouth with some silent battle going on behind that scarred countenance. You let his thumb slip free to rest its dampness against your lower lip. And then leaned in, nestled against the scarred half of his face and brushed a trail of slow kisses back over one of the deeper etching lines, ran the tip of your nose along the outside of his ear as fingers of one hand spread over the rise and fall of his chest. Nudged forehead to the softening grey at his temple.

"I want you, too."

The lines of his throat worked a swallow you could feel under fingertips that had taken up a light stroke from chin to collarbone and he curled his own hand over the nape of your neck at your words, turned his head, enough to press forehead against yours and meet your gaze again. Fingers grazed along the softness of your hairline down along the tender skin at the back of your neck, waking a soft little thrill that coursed down through skin and tingled sweet electric fire up over your crown. That teal eye blinked once and you pressed the hand cupped to him tighter in a little rub. Felt him suck a hard breath.

"Kneel."

No different than the first time in the rectory; that breathless, illicit little tension stringing up your spine and the soft ache back between thighs that had only just abated. Had you shutting eyes as you repressed an all too obvious little shiver.

His legs spread and you slid down between them, panties forgotten on the arm of the chair as you settled on knees between his thighs, watching him like any second now you expected him to change his mind and scramble backwards up out of the chair and out of your reach. The way he was breathing hard as you hooked fingers in the waist of his pants and tugged the button open was no comfort at all in waylaying such a notion. Yet his hands settled on your arms as they rested atop his thighs, and that gaze down at you as you tugged zipper open didn't waver. Still, you went slow. No room for both him and your heart in your throat.

Fingertips curled in the waist of underwear as you leaned close, pulled the split of pants open wide and bared the skin of his lower stomach down to the base of that hard cock, but did not free him just yet. Instead, rocked forward to press your face fully into the gentle curve of one of the shallow lines of muscle that traced from hip inward, buried your face in warm skin and inhaled the scent of him, filled lungs with it. And then began to lick slow at the velvet softness of his lower stomach. Nuzzling kisses and dragging your tongue from the line of fabric on up in ticklish slow drags that had his stomach tightening with each pass that rose nearly to his navel.

One of his hands came to rest across your forehead in a caress that curled back into your hair, thumb dragging against your hairline as you let eyes drift shut at the taste of his skin, salt sweat and clean as you remembered. Warm against your tongue and tensing in slow fits with every pressing suck of a kiss as you traced the sparse line of soft hair that trailed below his navel. Listened to breath hiss from between his teeth as fingers tightened their grip in your hair. And then you finally turned eyes back upward as you helped free him from the confines of clothes.

Only half as lost as he had looked the first time you'd done this to him in the confessional, far more in control of himself but still gazing down at you with something behind that ineffable expression as if he struggled to believe you were real. Or perhaps that he was willing to allow this.

So terribly, achingly hard, he twitched the moment your hands grazed him.

The desire to speak to him, to tell him the most indecent things sprung to mind, but the way his fingers curled and released in your hair only to tighten again, the slight tremble you could feel in his thighs, the way the tip of him was already slowly oozing thick beads of precum all stopped you. Had you recall exactly how this went last time, with him finishing so terribly soon and that horrible look of mortification mingled with the agony of his relief. Not your desire to be cruel, to torment him into cumming himself prematurely all over again.

Instead, you kept touch light, decided to return the favor of those little licks he'd teased you with. Wrapping a hand around the base of his cock, rosary dangling off your wrist and down around him as you traced the thick vein that ran the whole length of his underside straight upward with the tip of your tongue. Skin fever hot and smooth, taste of him blooming across your tongue as you rose, licked and toyed at the hypersensitive little web of skin just at the underside of his head and watched the way his stomach muscles rolled a slow clench and release, smiled to yourself at the stifled sound he made.

Silco was huffing breath audibly by the time you'd finished tracing little licks around the ridge of the head of his cock, gaze trained up on him before you slid the wet gloss of your tongue over the dripping line of cum that had begun to seep down that smooth bell curve and along the length of him. Let him watch your eyes slant nearly closed as that slight bitter salt hit tastebuds. And you kept up that delicate torment, treating him no better than you would a melting ice cream cone until his hand in your hair caught a tighter grip and gave a little tug. Stopped you mid lick, tongue still out and pressed against the pulse of one thick vein as you looked up at him, all feigned innocence as to what could possibly be the matter.

"If being a tease were a sin, lamb, I don't know if there'd be any saving you."

His expression one of mingled dark amusement and absolutely livid lust, he used that grip to draw your head back, and you arched your neck obligingly, kept mouth open and wide as he slid closer, toward the edge of the chair, took himself in hand over top of your grip still on the base of him and gazed down at you as he gave himself a few slow pumps before drawing you in, laying the head of his cock on the flat of your tongue and pulling you onto it.

"Swallow me." The words came out of him thickly, like he had to fight to keep that tone calm.

Lips closed around him as you let him slide in, let him pull you forward onto his cock, jaw opening and tongue flattening further the more he filled your mouth. And he did fill your mouth. You'd almost forgotten how your jaw ached the following day after the first time. In he slid himself until you both felt him nudge at the back of your throat and heard him groan softly at the surrounding wet heat that enveloped him. Fisted grip of your hair made to draw you back but you resisted, glanced upward and lifted chin just a touch, let the back of your throat relax as best you could and slid him just a little deeper.

The thin of his lower lip caught hard between chipped teeth as your gag reflex betrayed you, convulsed slightly, had you choking gently around the head of him before you slid back. There weren't too many of those left in you, but you'd offer him what you could, and worth it to see how badly he liked it. He set the pace and you sucked hard, rolled tongue against and over him, saved the hardest suction for the sensitive head of his cock as he nearly popped from your mouth each time.

Not long until he was unraveling, till those hips of his were lifting as he slumped back in the chair, his grip relaxing into a fitful hand at the crown of your head. Above you, he fought between letting his head rock back and wanting to watch you. One hard little twitch as you swallowed him to the back of your throat again had you bracing as he lost the battle, chin lifted and eyes closed as he fought not to buck himself down your throat, the spill of his release hot and hard, both his hands a cradle to your face as you struggled to swallow him. He pitched forward, curled slightly over you, grip gentling, and you were able to let him slide out just enough to catch the last of him on your tongue.

Your name a quiet gasp following the aching moan that had escaped him as he came.

He was panting breath still as you let him slip from your mouth, his fingertips a warm tremble against your cheeks. Having him in the confessional, shocked, slightly terrified and off his game had been delicious in its own way, but this felt wonderful. So undone by you, dark hair falling over his forehead and teal eye shut as he rocked with each inhalation, all those lovely bare lines of him things you wanted to memorize, keep sacred and secret to yourself. The way he sprawled back in the chair, indolent and boneless and still magnificent in his splay making you grin. Like no matter how you tried him or broke him or ruined him there was forever this air of lazy strength that clung to his shape. The way even a loose fist could curl tight in a moment's notice to wield again.

His hands slid away, one coming to prop the weight of his forehead between the span of forefinger and thumb, elbow on the arm of the chair, and he smiled thinly.

"Good girl."

The raggedly breathed praise had you preening, using his knees to push yourself to your feet and pull panties back on before you caught his hand and hauled him to his own feet. He groused slightly but rose, put himself away, and let you pull him into a piled sprawl with you on the couch, arms loose about each other as you draped half over him, cheek to the hammer of his heartbeat as it slowed gradually.

Stolen time and precious. Tried not to think too hard about it, not to count the seconds or minutes and just take the day for what it was. You both lapsed into a little quiet doze upon the couch. Well, quiet save for the fact he did indeed snore at the level of some kind of hellish heavy machinery. A casual elbow to the ribs woke him, had him mumbling and rubbing at his face before lacing a hand in yours and settling it upon his sternum. Kept you there, draped warmly over him and pressed the occasional kiss to your hair as the pair of you lazed together.

Breakfast became late brunch. Toast warmed in the oven and him admitting that your coffee was indeed better than his crime against nature. Thankfully his omelets were worlds better than his coffee; golden and perfect, oozing cheese and the perfect final remedy to the damaged you'd done yourself the night before.

He helped himself to your shower, and you exercised an inhuman amount of restraint not joining him by surprise.

The normalcy of it all was so alien. How strange, to know that when the pair of you curled together later in one of the large chairs with him in a book and you on your phone that it was a thing that could have ruined both your lives if anyone ever knew about it. To have the underlying understanding that later that night when you both splayed across your bed with takeout to watch a movie that it was somehow wrong. None of it as wrong as what had come earlier, but still. That a simple thing could be so forbidden.

And perhaps that was why you liked it so much. The guilty pleasure of the mundane; of sitting half propped back against him as he lay on his side, not complaining in the least at the way you slurped your lo mein, or stole the last bite of his eggroll. At the simple intimacy of him getting drinks for you both when he'd only got up to pour one for himself. The way he touched you throughout the day; little thoughtless caresses any time you were close enough, as if the urge to constantly reaffirm your nearness played a soft undercurrent to all those thoughts of his you wished you could hear.

It was painful when he left later. Physically stung to watch him pull his shirt on and redress himself respectably. Took everything in you when he leaned over where you sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a last kiss to your forehead not to grab hold of his arms and tell him to stay the night again, to leave early next morning instead. It left a vacuum of silence and a hole behind when the door shut behind him. Everything quieter, emptier, less.

The ghost of him still in that bed with you when you laid down. Pillow a poor substitute for him even with the scent that still clung to it.

In so deep, terribly deep. Very horribly aware as you lay there in the sleepless dark exactly what had come after the bite of that forbidden fruit for poor Eve.

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