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It was beautiful. Brilliant even, the way the sinking sun gleamed off the Mediterranean, reflecting the fire-orange sky and keening birds. Section 13 did not do vacations—no, the towering priest was not here for frivolity. Alexander Anderson had spent the entirety of the last forty-eight hours locked in a game of cat-and-mouse with a small coven of undead. It seemed whenever one succumbed, two more took its place: a hydra, fed on the underground world of sewers beneath the city. Now, at last, was a chance to rest.
The building stretched above Anderson like a stone goliath, the jutting balconies interrupting its stucco surface. He’d been told that Enrico Maxwell, his student and now the youngest leader Section 13 had ever had, was expected to meet with a local bishop the next day. That was how they'd come to be sharing a hotel suite. But after such a lengthy hunt Anderson was a disgrace; he needed to shower. There was blood, near black when it dried, spattering his clothes, and worse—Anderson had a problem. It was, he understood, common for regenerators to have unusually high libidos. However, the priest found that combat tended to exacerbate this issue and the effect stuck around until dealt with. He didn't want Enrico to notice, didn't need his shame pointed out. He wanted to shower and be done with it. Unfortunately, he thought as the doorknob clicked under his hand, he would have to pass Enrico to get to the bathroom. Maybe the young man would be asleep. He pulled his coat tight and stepped into the room.
While Anderson was busy, Maxwell had divided his time between visiting nearby museums and preparing for the meeting. He knew he was relatively young for his new position and that those outside of the organization wouldn't hesitate to take him down if possible; there might be respect for Section 13 but it was based more in fear than appreciation and Maxwell intended to keep it that way. He'd learned his violence from Anderson. He'd learned much from Anderson, and was glad to have the opportunity to see him again after some time away for seminary.
But their time apart had brought a certain concern to Maxwell's attention. It'd made him realize just how much of his thoughts were devoted to his former teacher, to the point where being in such close quarters now was a little frightening. So each night he'd had a little to drink, just enough to help him sleep, just in case Anderson returned while he was trying to rest. He'd been sitting in a chair smoking and was halfway through his nightcap when the door opened, and thankfully it'd relaxed him enough so he wasn't too startled.
"Father Anderson. Successful mission?"
He grunted in response, nodding curtly. "Thae coven has been dealt whit." Noting the drink, he fixed his gaze on the handsome, violet-eyed man in front of him. "Dinnae get carried away. Yer meetin's tomorrow." He was disturbed by just how attractive he found the young bishop. It was probably just the fighting, just the effect on his body, but it made him anxious. He felt certain there was no way Enrico wouldn't notice his erection. This was why he was normally so staunchly opposed to sharing a room with anyone. It was humiliating.
Maxwell nodded approvingly. "Well done." He didn't mind the blood at all—if anything it was an exciting sight, though how much of that was his upbringing and how much was the alcohol talking he couldn't say. "It's just a little. You look like you could use some. Join me." If they could spend some time together as peers then perhaps that'd be a way to get over whatever hangup he had about his former teacher.
Anderson's eyes widened briefly, the emotion swept away with a speed born of experience in concealment. He sat, despite his concern, despite his shame, for it would be worse if he did not. However, sitting like this, across from the pale man, he let his gaze linger longer than it should. Following with his eyes a wisp of hair that escaped Enrico's ponytail he took in the line of his cheekbone, the soft pink of his lips.
"Thank ye," he rumbled, crossing his legs and looking away. There were many things Anderson wished he could cast away: his inclination toward sins of the flesh, and the thoughts that went with those desires, were high on his list. He had to contend with the needs his body had, but still repented for the sin. More than once he'd begged the laboratory to fix it only for them to inform him that was not possible and remind him of his duty to remain celibate.
Maxwell had only been half-expecting Anderson to take him up on it and so for a moment didn't know what to say. Somehow Anderson's voice was deeper than he remembered, the scar pointing to irises greener and brighter, eyelashes longer and blonder—but they were just colleagues, and colleagues did not look at each other in that way. And he did not need anybody. Even if he wanted somebody, which he didn't, he couldn't because he had promised his body to the Church. He reached for an empty glass and poured a drink for Anderson, holding it out to him.
"Tell me about the hunt."
"Vampires are fast. Smart. They had me all turned around in thae sewer system, tryin tae track them down. But Ah finally did. This group was unusual. Thae leader was a female, one o’ thae oldest true undead Ah've ever encountered. She was somethin' else, seepin' power. Once she fell thae others were nae far behind." He tilted the glass, stirring the liquor with the movement before taking a drink. It was harsh, burning down his throat and through his blood like liquid fire. He took great pleasure in his next words, green eyes blazing and a grin splitting his rugged features. "Ah strung ‘em up like dolls."
That broad grin was infectious; Maxwell couldn't hold back his own smile as he drained the remains of his drink. "Did you now?" He stubbed out his cigarette, exhaling away from Anderson since their chairs were nearly side by side, then leaned in close. "How long did they kick and scream?"
"As long as Ah wanted them tae...Ah pinned them tae thae walls o’ thae filthy place and killed ‘em one by one." The memory renewed the throbbing in his groin, a reminder he still had things to tend to that did not involve the presence of Enrico Maxwell and his too-pretty violet eyes, shaded by eyelashes so white Anderson could almost see through them. In some vain hope he could drink the problem away he finished his glass in one go, closing his eyes as he swallowed. Surrounded by fading smoke, the soft buzz of alcohol settling in his mind, Anderson couldn't help but think that Enrico looked a little like an angel.
"Wonderful." Grinning, he reached out to squeeze Anderson's knee then poured them both a little more. It couldn't hurt to celebrate. And he didn't want to let Anderson go just yet, not when the man spoke with such passion and seemed so full of life that he might rip the seams on his clothes any moment—Maxwell took another sip, trying to distract himself. "I hope they begged before you pinned them."
Blood rushed straight to Anderson's cheeks when those slender fingers touched his thigh. He realized too late he'd sucked in a loud breath, trying to calm himself. Clearly it was an accident and Enrico didn't realize the predicament the priest was in. "Like squealing pigs," he growled, sipping off the refilled glass. He raised his voice in a poor imitation, which served mostly to deepen his already thick accent. "Dinnae kill me, please, Ah'll dae anythin'!"
The loud inhale had caught Maxwell's attention, but he didn't want to think about it. He had to think about it. Surely his touch didn't disgust Anderson? He'd already had more to drink tonight than usual; his face felt warm, and when Anderson's accent grew heavier, those exotic vowels loud in his ears, he could feel the heat spreading to the tips of his ears.
"Sounds delightful," he said with a chuckle. "Come, let's move to the sofa so we can relax properly and you can tell me everything." He rose to his feet, not yet unsteady enough to be noticeable, and took both their glasses with him before Anderson could object. It was more a loveseat than a sofa but this was a test, he was testing himself, and he would pass it. He had to.
There wasn't really an option to refuse, not without being rude, even though Anderson feared every movement would bring attention to him. So he joined Enrico on the small couch, draping a long arm over the armrest. The blush creeping over Enrico's face did not escape his notice—had he felt how hard the Paladin was? Had he seen? He wanted to die of embarrassment but ended up just returning the glass to his mouth to drink more.
"So. Ye've been here this whole time?"
Maxwell quirked his lips in a brief frown. "You make it sound like I holed up in here. No." He took another sip. "I've been sightseeing. Perhaps we can go out together after my meeting tomorrow." He'd seen an advertisement for a library exhibit of illuminated manuscripts, which seemed appropriate for two priests. Then he glanced down, thinking of pulling out another cigarette from the elegant silver case he kept in his pocket.
Thankfully he'd been schooled well in the art of keeping a straight face, crucial for diplomatic relations, or his eyes would've widened at the realization of exactly what condition Anderson was in. He'd been too focused on the man's face, those broad shoulders, that rumbling voice, to see it before. Could it be—no, impossible. It must just be an unfortunate folding of the fabric. But he'd noticed Anderson come back from hunts like this before, and—no. It wouldn't do to dwell on such a thing. Though it would explain the gasp earlier. He licked his lips, a habit he had when thinking furiously.
"Anyway, you were supposed to tell me more about the hunt," he said as he reached for his cigarettes, his hand brushing along Anderson's thigh.
"Alrigh'." Anderson nodded briefly, grateful that nothing had been noticed in his move across the room. Sightseeing would be a nice break after several days spent underground. Every coherent thought he had fled, though, the instant Enrico's fingers brushed over his leg. He couldn't contain the softest of groans, covering it as quickly as he could by rubbing at the back of his neck as though it were sore. Immediately he launched into a lengthy explanation of the hunt, going into great detail about the elaborate system of tunnels beneath them in which the coven had lived. It was only through the liberal use of holy magic that he'd been able to keep track of the vampires, which were slippery as eels in the dark.
As Anderson went on and the warm buzzing of the liquor grew louder in his ears, Maxwell found himself losing interest. But he kept nodding along, asking questions about the tunnel system and the finer details of the holy magic, and laughed a little too suddenly at the description of the coven's stealth.
"Slippery, hm? I suppose you'd know all about that. Why, I remember watching you play tag with the children one time...." He gestured as he spoke, a small smile brightening his face at the memories, and touched Anderson's thigh again in the way that one would touch a conversation partner's shoulder—this was simply more convenient with how close they were sitting and after all, it meant nothing between priests. Even so, he found himself watching Anderson's expression. Maxwell was still of sound enough mind that if he skirted too close to something unspeakable he was prepared to repent, though that soundness was continuing to recede.
"Children only think they're stealthy." Anderson laughed but the sound was cut off suddenly into silence, that touch drawing his thoughts into dark places he wasn't prepared to face yet. It tingled up his leg, settling heavy in his crotch, the red blush creeping up his face unmistakable. He almost said something but he didn't really want the touch to stop. It was pleasant, after all, and it was not Enrico's fault that he had impure thoughts.
"My apologies," he murmured, pulling his hand back slightly enough that they were still touching but in a more casual manner. He hadn't been rebuked, and the warmth of Anderson's body clung to his palm. His face felt even hotter now—just the alcohol painting his fair complexion, only that, never mind the similar heat building in him lower down. "Do you still play games with them? Or sit them in your lap when you read to them?" He'd never joined in either activity, unwilling to stoop to the level of those foolish children. But he couldn't help wondering what it would have felt like to allow himself such a luxury, even once, his eyes searching Anderson's as though the answer would be there.
"O’ course. They deserve tae get thae love their parents dinnae have. It's wrong, ye know, thae people have children they dinnae love." Anderson seemed a little bit misty-eyed talking about it, as if he could make up somehow for his own horrendous childhood by loving the orphans brought to him. He shifted slightly in his seat, briefly pressing his thigh into Enrico's hand.
Maxwell made a noncommittal sound, too distracted by the feeling of Anderson's muscles shifting beneath his hand to take the conversational bait that would have normally made him grit his teeth. There was no way now he could deny his blush, the prickling crawling up his neck impossible to explain otherwise, but—but— It was as though the other man's movement had set his head spinning with it, the room weaving slightly.
"Tell me about what you've been doing while I was away." He reached across Anderson to set down his unfinished drink and maneuvered himself onto Anderson's lap, careful to avoid sitting on what he could not acknowledge, then finally opened the cigarette case he'd been holding. "Read your life to me." This was bold, he knew, but it was like Anderson's words had spurred something stubborn. He didn't care for parents, didn't care about love, and a gesture like this meant nothing. Else why would he do it?
The Paladin struggled to align his thoughts in some semblance of order. Enrico was in his lap. There was no way he wouldn't notice now what Anderson was trying to conceal. "My life? Why would ye want tae hear such ae dull thing? Mostly Ah chase after children." He finished his drink and set the glass aside as if by ignoring his body it might stop, though he knew from experience that it would not. Holding out a gloved hand for a cigarette, he leaned even closer in order to fish a lighter out of his pocket. This close he could smell Enrico, tobacco and alcohol mixed with some pleasant floral scent that was probably from whatever he used to make his hair so soft.
The arm of the sofa dug into Maxwell’s back; there was no room for him to lean away and he was struck with the scent of blood overlaying the faint notes of incense and musty books that followed Anderson everywhere. Woven through it all was something richer, muskier— He swallowed hard and gave Anderson a cigarette. "Because." Shrugging, he readjusted his legs to try and suppress his body's reaction. "What would you rather read?" He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, focusing on the lighter in Anderson's large hand, waiting for the flame.
Pinching the cigarette between his lips, the lighter sparking as he lit it, Anderson leaned back slightly to light Enrico's. He was struck again by how truly beautiful the man was, as if he were made of marble and brought to life. He took a big drag, tipping his head to blow the smoke away from them. "Tell me about seminary," he rumbled, his hand settling instinctively on the curve of Enrico’s hip.
Maxwell mirrored him, the smoke curling in the opposite direction. Being so close was already something of a foreign experience and the addition of Anderson's hand felt like a brand, burning into his skin even through his clerical shirt. He'd always thought of his former teacher as handsome in the way that one would observe a work of art, detached, but now, after their time apart, it was like looking at something that approached the sublime, wonderful and frightening at the same time. He couldn't pull away from the touch because that'd push him up against the other man's crotch and if he stayed like this it would be difficult for Anderson to miss the effect this intimacy was having on his own body, so he rested his free hand in his lap to cover himself with studied nonchalance.
"Why would you want to hear such a dull thing? Mostly I studied. Chased after my teachers." The instant that last sentence escaped him he regretted it, but the liquor dulled the sharp edge enough that he let it alone.
It was as if Anderson was running on autopilot; his hand crept beneath Enrico's shirt, already untucked for a comfortable evening, to rest against soft, warm skin. He didn't move otherwise but the touch sent a surge of heat through him. His eyes followed Enrico's hand. He couldn't be seeing correctly—the other priest seemed to be getting excited as well. Anderson knew he should pull away, end this nonsense before they did something they'd regret, but the buzz at the back of his head said it was okay. Just a few moments longer, and he'd stop. "Chased 'em, hmm?" he murmured almost as an afterthought.
Heart jackrabbiting at Anderson's advance, Maxwell looked past him and took a long drag. He exhaled the smoke through his nose, not yet daring to open his mouth again. This wasn't quite a game, not for him, but it was still dangerous whatever it was.
"They were never in their offices when they were supposed to be." He immediately closed his lips around the cigarette again, inhaling deeply and willing his hand to stop its inexplicable trembling.
Anderson didn't reply this time, taking another drag in an effort to calm himself down. He was getting uncomfortable, his member constricted far too tightly, and he had to move. Trying not to dislodge Enrico from his lap, or worse, touch him with his erection, he shifted his weight slightly and spread his thighs to get more space. The hand on Enrico’s hip seemed to have a mind of its own, stroking his skin as if he were exploring a work of art, the fabric of his glove silken and gentle.
Maxwell's throat went tight with panic—it felt like Anderson was considering pushing him off even while touching him so tenderly, and his mind was too liquor-logged to reconcile the mixed signals. Vaguely he recalled being told to go easy on the drinking, and he thought he had been, but he didn't drink frequently and there was nothing to be done about it now. He twisted his torso, draping his arms around Anderson's neck in a loose gesture that could almost be called a hug while being careful to keep his still-lit cigarette safely in the air, so they were nearly cheek-to-cheek. This had to be innocent enough that he couldn't be rejected.
"I missed you," he mumbled beneath his breath, too quiet and unclear for Anderson to understand. Maxwell couldn't even understand himself.
"Hmm?" Now they were even closer. His alcohol-influenced brain spurred him to press a delicate kiss to Enrico's throat, above his clerical collar. He was immediately horrified with himself and he did almost push him off then, panic rising like bile. He went too far and he knew it. Heart thundering, Anderson awaited the rage he knew would come.
Maxwell gave a little shake of his head, unwilling to repeat such an embarrassing thought. He didn't need anybody. Then he felt what had to be Anderson's lips on his neck and stiffened, pulse spiking.This was a mistake, just a misunderstanding, it meant nothing— He knew he should put an end to this but his body ached with the need to be touched, to be held, after going nearly his entire life without. If Anderson wouldn't comment on his giving in to this base need then he wouldn't comment on what was simply an accident of proximity. With a quiet sigh that came out more tremulous than he would've liked, Maxwell rested his head in the crook of Anderson's neck. Not the full weight of it, just enough to show that the gesture was forgiven.
The anger Anderson expected never came. His cigarette had gone out and with shaking fingers he let it fall, his right hand joining the left on his hips, a weight settling like stone in his gut as he knew he couldn't turn back from this now. Perhaps it was the alcohol. Of course it was. Anderson knew better than this, but he just couldn't stop. It felt too good to be so close. Enrico's breath ghosted across his neck when he got comfortable, making his skin prickle and sending a shiver down his body.
"Enrico…." he started weakly but trailed off to nothing.
Instead of responding Maxwell brought his cigarette back for one last drag, the long tail of ashes breaking off onto the floor followed shortly by the remains of the rest of it as he exhaled against the other man's skin. He didn't dare speak—this moment felt unreal, as though the sound of his voice would make him realize that he was dreaming and force him awake. Now he let his full weight settle onto Anderson, still trying to ignore the throbbing that grew more insistent when Anderson held him with both hands. Even with the gloves the heat was almost unbearable.
Anderson snuck further up beneath his clerical shirt, flattening his fingers wide onto the planes of Enrico's belly. All the Paladin could concentrate on now was the fire of need being stoked in him. If he didn't force himself away soon, he feared he would be unable to do so. Yet he just couldn't make himself pull back. He had given up on concealing his erection at this point and when Enrico settled into his lap he groaned at the stimulation.
Maxwell's breath quickened, his heart beginning to pound so hard he was sure Anderson could hear it. There was no mistaking the fact of the erection beneath him, hard against his ass, or the fact of his own. This was wrong, horribly wrong—but they'd gotten this far without being struck down. This was such a small thing, really, in the grander scheme; did the Bible not say that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect? He let his legs relax, spreading his thighs a little, and gently pressed his belly against Anderson's hand so he could better feel it rise and fall with him. It wasn't too late to turn away from the edge, he told himself, even though it felt like they'd both already climbed over the guardrail.
Letting out a soft sigh Anderson leaned forward, removing one of his hands. He tugged his glove off with his teeth, winding his thick fingers into Enrico's ponytail. It felt as though if he breathed or moved too quickly that this moment might end. His lips found skin again and this time he was less afraid, allowing himself to place a firmer kiss on the marble of Enrico’s throat. Despite the voice in his head insisting that this was morally reprehensible, that God would certainly smite them, it didn't feel wrong. On the contrary, it felt exactly right.
Maxwell closed his eyes, a sound somewhere between a whimper and a gasp escaping him when Anderson's mouth landed hot on his skin in an unmistakable kiss. Slowly, like he was trying not to startle a wild animal, he pulled off both his gloves behind Anderson's head then touched the other man's hair with bare and shaking hands. It was softer than it looked and the skin at his nape was delicate, strange for a man who seemed so big and rough. And this was a man, they were both men, this was forbidden—but nobody of Judas Iscariot was destined for heaven. And if his teacher—his Father—did not feel it necessary to stop then he would not stop.
"This is wrong," Anderson muttered, even as he leaned toward Enrico's hands. Even as his own fingers journeyed higher, his thumb brushing over a tender nipple. "Enrico...we should nae." But his words were devoid of any real conviction, as if he felt by just saying them he might somehow let himself free of the sin he was committing.
At the words Maxwell froze, then curled his hands into fists tight in Anderson's hair. Why now, why did the objection come now and with not even any belief behind it? Now, when the sensitive skin of his nipple tingled from the touch and meant it was far too late?
"Don't talk," he muttered, pressing a fierce kiss to Anderson's neck. Pulling one leg up he shifted so he was no longer twisting his body and was instead straddling Anderson's lap, wobbling a little bit before catching himself by grabbing those broad shoulders. Without meeting Anderson's eyes he kissed his neck again, burying his face in the soft vulnerable skin there and inhaling deeply.
He’d given Enrico an out, a way to escape from the tangled web of sin they were falling deeper into. Enrico hadn’t taken it. At least they shared the guilt, he supposed. Enrico's tight grip, the pain prickling at his scalp, and his lips, perfect and soft on Anderson's neck, made him feel mad with need. The big man moaned, a deep growling sound that left no doubt to his enjoyment, cock throbbing under Enrico.
Despite the stubborn and drunken anger driving him now Maxwell still hesitated to press their crotches together, unsure where that would lead. Instead he kept kissing Anderson's neck, working his way up each side until he was trailing his lips along the man's jaw. His hands crept closer to the base of Anderson's neck as though he couldn't decide whether to undo his clerical collar or strangle him.
Tilting his head, Anderson removed his hand from Enrico's hair to undo his own collar. "Keep goin'," the priest insisted, hips lifting enough to bridge the gap between their bodies. His roaming hands settled on the buttons on Enrico's shirt—he was desperate to see him, touch him, taste him.
When Anderson closed the distance Maxwell gasped, almost hyperventilating—how much of it was fear creeping back in and how much of it was pure arousal he couldn't say, didn't want to say. He'd touched himself on rare occasions, always repenting afterwards whether he believed it necessary or not, but this felt so different that a part of him had to admit it made sense that such a thing would be forbidden. Since the collar was taken care of he lowered his hands to work on the buttons of Anderson's shirt instead, copying his former teacher. His lips parted more with each jawline kiss, tongue licking light at first then heavier, the salt of the man's skin an addictive taste that he chased higher and higher until he was so close to Anderson's mouth they were inhaling each other's breath.
Anderson remembered what it had been like, lifetimes ago when he'd lain with another, but this was different. Better, in the way that it would be if one compared a drawing of the sea to the real thing. He didn't remember any of it feeling like this. This was all-encompassing, liquid heat in his bones that made him dizzy. He couldn't restrain himself—and did it really matter? They were already doing this. The desire was as much a sin as the act itself. Anderson kissed him. Buttons undone beneath his fingers, fabric fell away as he led Enrico into the sweetest kiss he had ever experienced.
The kiss, his first kiss— Maxwell couldn't begin to describe it. Almost as though he'd been pierced by a ray of light even though it was pitch dark outside, but that didn't do it justice at all. He moaned into Anderson's mouth, hips bucking once as some strange emotion began swelling in him and pricking wet at his eyes. He clung to Anderson's unbuttoned shirt like a drowning man, the chest hair tickling at his fingers reminding him that this was real.
In that instant Anderson knew they would never be able to go back. Love surged in his chest. The kind of love that made men go mad, kill out of envy and rage, something he could no longer deny nor take back. Playing gently over Enrico's skin as he pushed back his shirt, he broke the kiss only to nuzzle his face into the crook of his neck, breaths ragged as he tried desperately to cling to some semblance of control. He'd known all along, deep down, that he had feelings for Enrico. He just couldn't face it. He still didn't feel like he could.
Maxwell didn't want to try and put a name to what he was feeling, though a traitorous voice told him he knew what it was. If he named it that would make it real, as real as their hands on each other, and he'd insisted so many times he didn't need it. Shrugging his shirt off, he tugged Anderson's down as well then slipped his arms around him and held him close. Maxwell was trembling again and he couldn't, wouldn't think about why. Gently, almost hesitantly, he stroked Anderson's hair and took a few deep stuttering breaths, trying to steady himself even as the lonely ship he'd built for himself was sinking.
Their bodies pressed together, Anderson big and wide, Enrico delicate, like glass against him. He could feel the other man shattering, crumbling. He cradled him, the stone in a torrent, lips against his skin. He needed to claim the bishop but wouldn't move further while he seemed so upset, so he kissed at him, offering what he could not say with words.
After what felt like hours Maxwell got his breathing to even out again, mostly. He let go and reached behind his head to undo his ponytail, shaking his hair loose and letting the ribbon drop on the floor with the rest of their wreckage. He leaned back slightly so he could cup Anderson's face with both hands and look at him, gaze roving like he was searching for something, before closing his eyes and pressing their lips together again.
Anderson watched raptly while Enrico undid his hair, winding his fingers into the long, soft tresses. Their lips met, Anderson pressing his tongue into the other man's mouth. He couldn't remember ever feeling this heated, not after missions or when he'd lost his virginity, and certainly never alone.
Maxwell made a small surprised sound when Anderson deepened the kiss, eyes fluttering open for a second, but didn't withdraw. His heart hadn't stopped pounding and his breath threatened to start hitching again, so as a distraction he slid one hand down Anderson's body, feeling the constellation of scars as he went, before stopping just above the waistband of his trousers. It was easier to act now than to think or feel, though he didn't know what to do with his hands at all.
He thrust against Enrico when he felt his touch on his hip, begging wordlessly to be touched, giving him permission. Anderson was almost as lost—he understood how this worked in theory but it had been so long ago and only once, with a woman.... So he did what felt natural, sliding down Enrico's back to squeeze his ass gently, almost shy.
Maxwell broke the kiss and gasped soundlessly at the thrust, their hips rocking together, then once more when those large hands squeezed him, this time with his voice cracking like he was a teenager again. He didn't like how vulnerable it made him sound so he swallowed, biting his lip, and began to work on unbuckling Anderson's belt.
The way his voice cracked made Anderson throb hard, a thick moan escaping him. Suddenly aware that there were still way, way too many clothes between them, he quickly moved to mirror Enrico and get his pants undone.
Hearing that sound come from his former teacher flooded Maxwell's face with heat and with a new sense of urgency he got Anderson's trousers unzipped, but then he paused again. He could see the man's cock straining against his underwear and— Maxwell didn't know what he'd been expecting but it was large, larger than his own. He pressed a palm over it, looking up at Anderson through his eyelashes and embarrassed by his sudden shyness.
The touch drew another moan out even as Anderson tugged Enrico's member free of the fabric to rub him after abandoning his other glove. Anderson thought he was pure beauty, foreskin sliding back to reveal a tip pink and sensitive, the silver of his pubic hair soft on his fingers.
He bucked roughly into Anderson's hold with a soft moan. Wanting to hear more of the man's sweet low voice, he pulled down the underwear and trailed his slender fingers along the length of Anderson's cock. It was thick enough to almost stop him from wrapping his hand all the way around, a little intimidating at first sight but still attractive just like the man it belonged to.
Anderson felt himself release a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. This pure acceptance was new to him—he’d secretly feared Enrico would take one look at him and bail. Anderson couldn't put his finger on why exactly but it still surprised him. Panting softly, he ran his big fingers up the bottom of Enrico's cock before wrapping them around him in the way he usually did to himself when he was alone.
Maxwell shuddered all over, holding back another moan for fear of his voice betraying him again, then followed his instinct and began slowly pumping his hand up and down. The way Anderson's cock throbbed in his hand was almost a marvel—the idea he could be so desired, so wanted, was still hard to believe. He shifted his hips again, drawing their bodies closer together.
His eyes fluttered shut, mouth falling open to gasp in deep pleasure. "Enrico," Anderson moaned. "Enrico, God." Even if this was all they did, he thought, he'd be happy. Gathering the liquid that beaded on Enrico's tip, he slicked up his member to copy what was being done to himself.
Maxwell was falling apart already, chest flushed and heaving and hips jerking with every stroke of Anderson's hand. With another shudder he leaned in to rest his forehead on Anderson's shoulder, watching how the man's hand nearly engulfed his own cock. The sofa was feeling increasingly inadequate for the two tall men but getting up seemed too risky—what if Anderson got second thoughts once he could see Maxwell as a person and not just parts? Instead he kissed the skin beneath his mouth, murmuring Anderson's name between gasps.
Letting out a stream of curses in Scots Anderson thrust a bit too hard, almost unseating Enrico in his excitement; he hadn't realized just how sensitive he could be until that instant. "Bedroom," he stated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. All he knew right now was that he needed to have this beautiful man in every way he could. Afraid to ruin the moment he stood up, wrapping his arms around Enrico's back and legs to carry him. As soon as they passed into the next room Anderson laid him down on one of the beds, scooting down to lick up his collarbone.
Maxwell yelped when he was swept up, clinging to Anderson in his surprise, but stronger than the indignation was that unspeakable feeling rising in him again, flipping his stomach on the way up. Once they were on the bed his hands found Anderson's hair again, petting him roughly as he panted and jolted under that hot tongue. Every nerve in his body was ablaze in a way he hadn't thought was possible and he never wanted this to end. Maxwell couldn't reach Anderson's cock like this but he could use a leg instead, brushing his knee against it and smearing Anderson's precum on his trousers.
He worked his way down, suckling eagerly at his nipple before switching to the other. Groaning when Enrico pushed his leg up, he moved to yank his pants the rest of the way down. Anderson's own were quickly kicked away too, deposited on the floor. His hand surrounded Enrico's member again, firmly rubbing him.
"Oh, Anderson," he moaned, arching up at each new touch and letting out a loud whine when Anderson took hold of him, voice cracking again— He froze and clapped his hands over his mouth. When the sound didn't seem to attract any outside attention he relaxed and began touching the other man again, running his hands across whatever he could reach.
He growled in response, grazing his teeth over the pale skin. "How far dae ye want…. Are we really goin' tae do this?" he asked softly. It was more for his reassurance than anything; he was nervous despite the alcohol, woefully inexperienced, and barely even had a basic understanding of sex between men.
"I...." Maxwell looked at Anderson, finding himself at a bit of a loss. What little the Church had taught him about his mortal flesh certainly hadn't covered anything like this. "We're already doing it, aren't we?" He wasn't sober enough to want to stop and talk about whatever 'this' was; he just needed to be close with Anderson and hear him moan his name again.
"Ah...we are...Ah think...one o’ us is supposed tae be inside thae other." Taking Enrico’s words as enough consent he continued his journey down his lithe form, licking curiously up his cock as if tasting a treat for the first time.
His frown didn't last long, wiped away by Anderson's tongue. "Ah, G—" he barely stopped himself from taking the Lord's name in vain as his hips jerked. Panting hard, he crossed his arms over his face and tried to will his body into calming down some.
Deciding the reaction meant he was doing something right, Anderson placed his lips against the pink tip, sucking gently. Enrico tasted of salt, not unpleasant, and he could smell some sort of delicious soap on his skin.
It was too much, more than Maxwell had ever guiltily fantasized about. "Oh, cazzo—" With a strangled groan he came, face still mostly hidden, unable to control his inexperienced body.
Unexpectedly, Anderson’s mouth was filled with thick, salty semen, which he swallowed quickly, circling his head with his tongue to make sure none spilt. When he released Enrico he smiled, kissing his thigh.
Slowly Maxwell lowered his arms to look at Anderson, and the fondness in the man's smile helped soothe the burn of humiliation from losing control. He couldn't speak yet but he reached out to touch Anderson's cheek with a shaky hand, trying to show that he didn't want this to be over.
Although he greatly enjoyed making Enrico feel so good, Anderson himself was nursing an erection so hard it hurt. He crawled up, kissing as he went, until he was within reach again, his round ass against Enrico's crotch. It made sense to him that if they were going to do this, he would be the one penetrated. Enrico was simply too small and his dick too large for it to be safe.
Maxwell groaned again, quieter this time—his cock was still sensitive and the pressure kept him half-hard. He laid one hand on Anderson's hip and circled Anderson's cock with the other, tugging gently as he contemplated the way it slid in and out of his long fingers. Inside the other man? There was only one place for that; while the idea seemed bizarre, he supposed it was no more perverted than what they were already doing. There was no God-given way to ease the passage, though, so wouldn't it hurt? Then again, he'd dealt with pain before.
There was no doubt in Anderson's lust-thickened mind that they were going to follow through with it; the thought alone excited him. Enrico's touch had him arching toward him, panting as precum covered his fingers.
There was something thrilling about seeing this huge warrior so desperate, so affected by his touch, and Maxwell soon found himself aching with need again. He slid his hand down and off Anderson's cock, feeling beneath for the entrance he was expected to use. He didn't question the idea of him being the one to do it—it felt natural, logical given his position both here and in the hierarchy of the Church.
"Please—" he gasped, entirely at Enrico's mercy, shuddering when those delicate fingers ran across his skin. He had a small glass vial of oil, used during the sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick, in his pocket dimension. It was blessed olive oil but it shouldn't hurt so he called the bottle to his hand and pressed it into Enrico's palm. He’d heard somewhere of people using oil like this and it was already a sin, what they were doing. They were already too far to take it back. What did it matter if he used the oil?
Maxwell had definitely seen that vial before—at the latest Chrism Mass he'd presided over, no less. Shooting Anderson a look but shoving his objections down, he opened it and poured some of the oil onto his left hand. Dropping the recorked vial on the bed nearby, he braced his right hand on Anderson's pelvis next to his cock and returned his now oil-slicked fingers to Anderson's entrance. "Per istam sanctam unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per lumbos deliquisti. Amen," he muttered, as if that would make this any less sacrilegious.
Anderson let out a shuddering moan, the touch making him ache for more. He had always loved to hear Enrico pray, the man’s velvet voice even more sensual in Latin, and now each word had Anderson's member twitching. He leaned forward slightly, palms on Enrico's chest, to give him more room to work, face flushed as he looked down on him.
Any other time Maxwell would've felt trapped, the weight of those calloused hands on him pinning him down, but here it felt reassuring, like he was being held. And Anderson hovering over him like this, eyes half-lidded in passion, could have been Saint Michael in a painting somewhere. After a split second's hesitation he pressed in with his middle finger, watching Anderson's face for any signs of discomfort.
It was far from uncomfortable; the pressure was strange at first, but Enrico brushed across something inside him and Anderson found himself coming undone all at once. He reflexively pressed himself down further, seed painting Enrico's stomach and chest as he came so hard he saw stars. Mortified, he tried to catch his breath, grunting, "Dinnae stop."
Maxwell gasped as Anderson forced his finger deeper inside, the tight heat making his cock throb. When Anderson climaxed his expression spoke to something deep in Maxwell's soul, driving him to swipe his free hand through the cum on him and bring it to his mouth for a taste, murmuring "Accipite, et manducate ex hoc omnes, hoc est enim corpus meum." He paused, thinking, then squeezed in a second finger alongside the first.
"Prendi e bevi, questo è il mio sangue," he murmured in response, panting heavily as he dug his nails into his own thigh until blood bloomed crimson beneath them.
"Il sacramento ricevuto con la bocca sia accolto con purezza nel nostro spirito, o Signore, e il dono anoi fatto nel tempo ci sia rimedio per la vita eterna." Switching smoothly between languages, Maxwell reached out and took this offering as well. The taste of copper was rich on his tongue like wine; in a way it made him feel better to adapt the rites to this, the familiarity of ritual settling easy on him.
After a few long moments of slowly pumping his fingers in and out, Anderson felt a little less tight and Maxwell withdrew his hand. Out of an abundance of caution he retrieved the vial and poured himself more oil, using it to slick up his cock before touching the tip to Anderson's entrance. But he didn't press in just yet, looking at his former teacher with a question in his eyes.
It was all Anderson could do to keep himself together, gasping as Enrico worked him open, still-hard cock jutting in front of him. When fingers were replaced by the tip of Enrico's cock he didn't hesitate to sink down, sheathing him fully inside himself. The sensation was incredible—the priest threw his head back in a loud cry that sounded something like Enrico's name. Tears threatened to prick at his eyes, though he couldn't quite say why they were there. Perhaps he was just over-excited.
Maxwell let his head hit the sheets, breathing hard and staring unfocused at the ceiling before closing his eyes. This was overwhelming enough, nothing like Anderson's hand on him at all, and that foreign emotion was shoving its way up again— His hips bucked out of pure instinct, the tight friction dragging a whimper out of him as he grabbed at Anderson's hips to ground himself.
The big priest started to ride him and each time he sank down Enrico's cock hit that spot inside him that had made him climax before. He kept swearing under his breath, half of it Scots and the rest mostly unintelligible Latin that tumbled out unbidden.
Eyes still squeezed shut, Maxwell gasped out a quiet moan with every one of Anderson's thrusts and tried to meet them with his own. Their combined weight lying on top of his hair tugged at his scalp but it wasn't an unpleasant feeling, and any pain from it was soothed by the beautiful low rumble of Anderson's voice.
Anderson bent down to kiss Enrico, giving him more room to thrust up. He kept repeating Enrico’s name, the sound of it heavy with lust, as if by saying it he could prevent the moment from ending. He'd never felt like this. It was addictive.
Maxwell groaned into the kiss, drawing his legs up for more leverage so he could drive himself harder into the most private part of Anderson. This was his now, only his— Maybe he had a little of God's favor after all. "Mi fai impazzire," he mumbled, barely audible, his English failing him as well. "Alexander, ti voglio, ti voglio più di—" He swallowed as if trying to stop something from escaping.
Those words drew him close to the edge. It felt good to be wanted, desirable, in every way possible. "Ho bisogno di te, Enrico. Mi fai bruciare di desiderio." Anderson's voice trembled a bit, his breath hot against Enrico’s neck.
His stomach flipped at Anderson's words and he gripped the man's hips even tighter, strong enough to bruise anyone else. This was real, this was his—this was dangerous, wanting and being wanted, and he'd have to do something about it but he couldn't turn back now. Not when that strange feeling was spreading hot and heavy once more through his body, his vision going watery as if with tears—
Toes curling, fingertips digging white into warm skin, Maxwell came again with a long moan, his voice lust-thick and cracking with emotion at the end, his hips stuttering as he buried himself in Anderson.
The priest bit down hard as orgasm crashed through him like a tidal wave. The feeling of Enrico throbbing inside him was delicious, although he couldn't quite pin down why he liked it so much. His thighs tightened as he thrust himself down on Enrico's cock one last time, nails harsh on his skin. As he covered the bishop with another burst of seed he buried his face against the bruised skin of his shoulder, panting.
Maxwell could hardly breathe, almost in shock from the intensity of it all, and turned his head to nuzzle Anderson's stubble-rough cheek. Something wet slipped down his face and he didn't think anything of it, he didn't want to even admit he'd noticed it.
The rough pad of Anderson’s thumb brushed away the tear, the priest otherwise not acknowledging it. He was swamped with a flurry of emotions. Shame for his sin, for such weakness. Affection. Fear. It was easier to have no attachment beyond his children. This put him at risk.
Letting his trembling legs lay flat again, Maxwell slipped out of Anderson and allowed himself to hold the man close. Their bodies were filthy, sticking together, and his head was pounding now, a preview of the hangover he'd likely have tomorrow—he felt like there was something he should say but couldn't bring himself to think of the words. As long as this waking dream lasted he wouldn't have to come to terms with what they'd done.
"Please forgive me," Anderson muttered, a useless prayer to atone for a sin already committed. A sin he felt would be repeated; through this act they had opened Pandora's box, realizing what he knew all along but refused to admit. He loved Enrico. He allowed himself to get comfortable, clenching when he moved in an effort to keep the part of Enrico still inside him from slipping away.
A flash of resentment jolted through Maxwell. This had been as much his decision as Anderson's. Did his former teacher still feel the need to treat him like a student?
"May God forgive us both," he retorted, voice quiet but forceful. As he caressed Anderson's back, each pass of his hands over the ridges and valleys of scar and muscle grew heavier, dragging across skin, until suddenly he wrapped his arms around him like a snake, clutching him close. This was his now, whatever it was, and he wasn't going to let it go. The stain on his soul could simply be washed away with the blood of the Lamb, the blood of heathens.
Anderson nodded briefly, settling himself heavily into Enrico's arms, the cursed embrace of two men damned. At least they would burn together, he thought.
Maxwell relaxed under Anderson’s weight. The second circle of Hell might be a whirlwind of damned lovers, carnal sinners who’d subjugated their reason to desire, but did Dante not also write that desire is spiritual motion? As leader of Section 13 with all the clandestine power that entailed, Maxwell could use this desire to drive himself to greater heights—and if he fell he’d take Anderson down with him. Now they’d never be parted.