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A Benediction for Sinners

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This was not supposed to happen, Tim thinks as Father Todd tugs him by the tie into the center booth of the confessional.

It’s a tight fit; the booth wasn't built for two, and Father Todd is not a small man. Being this close after months of forcing himself to keep a respectful distance is making Tim's breath catch in his chest. And with Father Todd pulling him even closer, the intensity of his stare, it’s almost too much.

It wasn't supposed to happen, but Tim would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. More than once he’d come home after confession and jerked off to the thought, hurried and guilty; there had even been times, waiting in the pews, where he’d been unable to stop himself from fantasizing—despite the stop this you are in a church this is so wrong running through his mind.

Tim had tried to stop wanting him. When that hadn't worked, he’d tried to stay away from the church altogether. But the peace of mind that came from talking to Father Todd was something he couldn't give up. The way Father Todd’s eyes softened when he looked at Tim, the warmth of his laugh, the way his hands would linger on Tim’s shoulder after confession...

Tim couldn’t give him up. Not after he’d lost so many people.

That was how he met Father Todd in the first place. His life had fallen apart, with the deaths of his father and stepmother, his best friend, and his ex-girlfriend all within a few months. He’d buried himself in his work. And that had helped up to a point—the point where he had to go home, to sit alone and stare at the ceiling and ache from missing them.

Every day, he would put off coming home as long as possible. He would walk aimlessly through the city to exhaust himself, in hopes of being able to fall asleep the moment he collapsed on his bed. One particularly restless night, he found himself in front of a church; uncharacteristically impulsive, he stepped inside. It was only when he found himself faced with Father Todd that he realized how much he needed someone, and every feeling he’d been trying to avoid had crashed through the forefront of his mind, like a dam finally collapsing.

For a moment, he’d just stared, opening and closing his mouth, trying to compose something rational. There’s no reason you should listen to me—I'm not Catholic, I'm not even Christian, I'm a fucking agnostic Jew—but could you please do it anyway? Discarded. I need something, I need someone, I don't know why you should help me except that I need someone and I don't know where else to go. Yeah, that’ll go over well. I'm so lost, I'm so alone, I'm so—dramatic. This is ridiculous, I have no idea why I'm here, I'm sorry for wasting your time

After fumbling for words and fighting the urge to bolt for nearly two minutes, with Father Todd waiting patiently the whole time, Tim finally croaked, “I need...someone to talk to.”

Father Todd had grinned, then, and said, "I have two ears and an open confessional," and ushered Tim inside.

Tim had never meant to come back. Not the second time, not any time after that. Maybe he wouldn’t have come back if Father Todd hadn’t welcomed him so warmly each time. If his face hadn't lit up whenever Tim walked through the door. If he didn’t freely admit, with a grin and a hand on Tim’s shoulder, that he had missed Tim after periods where his self-control had been strong enough to keep him away.

It wasn’t supposed to happen but, Tim thinks, as Father Todd rests his hand on the back of Tim's neck, that it was about as inevitable as human nature is flawed. When he leans his forehead against Father Todd’s, it feels like gravity pulled him there.

Father Todd lifts his other hand to Tim's cheek. Tim leans into the touch, and feels it shake. The light is dim, but Tim can still make out his expression, and the conflict there, the anguish mixed with need, makes Tim ache.

When Father Todd speaks, it’s soft, deliberate.

"I'm not a perfect man,” he says. “I've made mistakes, I’ve made so many mistakes. But I've never broken my vows, I've never—"

He stops for a moment, staring at Tim like he's willing him to understand. "Tim. I don't do this."

Tim swallows. "You don't have to now," he says, but even as he does, he can't stop himself from lifting his hand to cover the one Father Todd's resting on Tim's cheek.

This is so selfish. He should be doing more than giving Father Todd a gentle out. He should back off, walk away, never come back. Anything but be the temptation that shakes a good man's faith. But even knowing that, ugly greed is stirring inside him--the idea of being someone's temptation, of being, for the first time in his life, that significant—

Father Todd's eyes slip shut and, for a moment, he breathes deep, as if steeling himself. When he opens his eyes again, the intensity in his gaze is almost frightening.

"Yes, I do," he says, and tilts Tim's face up so their lips meet.

After months of anticipation, that light brush of their lips is all it takes for Tim's restraint to vanish. Immediately he’s pushing Father Todd back to the confessional bench, kissing back hard, and crawling into his lap. Father Todd tugs him close, holding him tight with two huge hands on Tim's waist.

The kiss is sloppy, messy, bruisingly hard, and perfect—except for how they’re both still clothed. Trying not to break the kiss, Tim fumbles with the buttons of Father Todd's cassock, but clumsy and sausage-fingered as he is by lust, he's not terribly successful. After a final rough tug and a growl of frustration, he abandons it.

Instead, he rocks up on his knees, rucking up the robe between their bodies. It bares Father Todd's legs, and his underwear; the sight of his erection, plainly visible through the black boxer briefs, makes Tim salivate. He wants to take a moment to admire, but need's still clawing at his insides, making him impatient, and he can't stop himself from leaning up and kissing Father Todd again.

Father Todd kisses back, sucking on Tim’s lower lip. As he does, he makes use of hands that are apparently far more deft than Tim's, and undoes Tim's fly. He makes short work of Tim's briefs, too, and puts one of his big hands around both of their dicks.

Tim's eyes fly open. The sudden sensation is so intense that he almost chokes on his own tongue. And then the sight of Father Todd watching him, his lips swollen and red, so close—it sends a quake of lust through him, making him cry out, his back arching involuntarily.

It’s overwhelming, and when Father Todd kisses him again, Tim has to close his eyes. The smell of Father Todd and the distinctive wood smell of the confessional, the taste of Father Todd’s mouth, the warmth of his body in the enclosed space; everything is a reminder of the months of anticipation, of the wrongness of fucking in a church—and that’s another jolt of electricity through him.

Without warning, Father Todd bites Tim’s lower lip, squeezing his hand on their cocks, and Tim, taken by surprise, comes so hard it dizzies him.

He collapses onto Father Todd, leaning against him heavily. Embarassment follows on the orgasm’s heels, from having come so quickly, so he hides his face against Father Todd’s shoulder, and lets his head loll as he catches his breath.

As he does, he finds himself face to face with the clerical collar. Hesitantly, he leans forward, nuzzles against the bare skin above it; then, feeling very bold, he darts out his tongue to taste the salt of Father Todd's skin. Leaning forward further, he follows the lick with a wet, open-mouthed kiss, and then a gentle little scrape of his teeth. Father Todd's breath catches, and Tim smiles.

Pulling back, Tim looks down, and sees that Father Todd's still hard. Tim glances back up at Father Todd’s face—Father Todd is watching him, gaze so hungry, lips so swollen and used—and bites his lip to watch Father Todd watch him do it. And then Tim pushes himself backwards off of Father Todd's lap, onto the floor, where he looks up at Father Todd from between his knees.

Tim leans forward without looking away from Father Todd’s face. He sucks the tip of Father Todd's dick into his mouth, smiling around it when Father Todd’s eyes widen, when he pushes his hands into Tim's hair.

As Tim slowly sinks down, taking more of Father Todd’s dick into his mouth, Father Todd starts to mumble under his breath.

"Ave verum corpus..."

There’s a moment of disconnect, an is he...? he is, oh God, and then Tim’s moaning with his mouth full, reaching down to wrap his hand around his dick.

"Natum de Maria Virgine, vere passum, immolatum in cruce pro homine..."

It’s so much to take in, the benediction, the taste and weight of the dick in his mouth, that Tim can’t draw it out as long as he wants to, that he has to start bobbing his head in earnest. Tim’s eagerness makes him careless, makes him sloppy, but it feels so good that he can't bring himself to care about his lack of finesse.

Father Todd pauses in his chant to swallow, audible even where Tim’s between his legs. But before long Father Todd’s regaining his breath, his composure, and he takes the chant back up with a shaking, hoarse voice.

"C-cuius latus perforatum. Fluxit aqua, et—et sanguine, esto nobis praegustatum—in mortis examine—ah—"

Tim pulls back so he has room to lavish attention on the head of Father Todd’s cock, wrapping his free hand around the base as he does, swirling his tongue and mouthing around the head, before sinking down further so that his lips meet the circle of his fist. When he starts to suck, to swallow, Father Todd's fingers twist in Tim's hair hard enough to yank a few strands free, and then Tim’s mouth is flooding with his come.

Tim tries to relax his throat, to swallow around it, but he’s not fast enough to catch it all, and a few drops spill out onto his spit-soaked chin.

He doesn’t have time to wipe his face, though, because the second Tim pulls away, Father Todd is yanking him up to clutch him close. He rubs the come on Tim’s chin away with a finger, and then kisses Tim softly for a brief moment, resting their foreheads together once again. Father Todd’s eyes are closed, and this near, Tim can see the dark eyelashes staining his cheek, spiky with tears.

Father Todd opens his mouth, and finishes the hymn in a low croak. "O Iesu dulcis, O Iesu pie, O Iesu, fili Mariae."

"Miserere mei." His hand, still in Tim's hair, shakes.

"Miserere mei. Amen."