Chapter Text
Monsignor Pruitt, in his second go of life, has overcome his own monstrosity, faced his nightmares and defeated demons so not thinking of you should be easier than this. He would have gladly blamed the hunger had it still been coursing through him, he half wishes he could lay the fault of his yearnings on a long since banished ungodly thirst but the way he longs for your company, your touch, just one more glimpse of your thigh isn't the work of anything higher than he; nor is the way he pictures your lips as he spills himself upon his bed-covers in the evenings.
This isn't the want of something unholy, this is the infatuation of a man. He's left to wonder if there's much difference between the two.
Maybe the mistake had been re-establishing a friendship with you on his return, maybe it had been requesting your help with sermons just to spend time with you, more likely it had been when he revealed the truth, the awful horrific truth, just so he could hear his name spoken from your lips. John . Sometimes it sounds sweet, light, a thoughtless simple truth spoken weightless and accepted easily. Other times it's hushed, low, a depth of understanding uttered with reverence between only two people. Right now it's his title that's being used and it's full of concern.
"Father?"
"Yes, sorry, I'm not really with it at the moment." he tries at a laugh that sounds more strangled than he'd like and he hates it, hates it , the way his chest becomes tight and his stomach aches with emptiness over something so simple as you saying goodbye. The sermon he carries over to his desk is written, finished, there's no need for you to stay and it's not like he won't see you again soon enough anyway but heavens you look so lovely today it's taken everything in him not to reach out for you.
His fingers tremble, trust his body to give him away, and as he tries to make excuses about not feeling well and the mention of a fictional headache he's mortified when the neatly written papers slip clumsily from his hands to fan across the floor at his feet.
"Oh" is all he can manage as he watches the sheets flutter across the hard wood and he doesn't know what impression he's giving but you're across the floor in an instant wrapping him in a hug.
"Hey, it's ok. You should have said you were ill, I could have taken care of this" you offer and it's wonderful how cared for you can make him feel. How human he feels. How tactile you are.
You're still talking, offering words of comfort and reassurance, John knows you are, but he can't hear the words anymore, can't bring himself to tune back in because suddenly he's aware of just how close you are to one another, of how your breath tickles his neck with every word, of how with just one step you'd be chest to chest and right here and now just the thought of your breasts is too much for him to process.
You must have noticed because you're quiet now and looking up at him obviously concerned, you lean forward slightly, which doesn't help him at all, "Are you alright Father?" but John doesn't reply, just swallows thickly and tries to think of anything, anything , besides how attractive you, his young parishioner, look in that moment.
"Oh god I'm sorry, I've made you uncomfortable haven't I? I never meant to..."
"It's not that…it's fine...I just..."
"No really John, I'm sorry. ." You're panicking now, because you made a promise to yourself to not do this, not get too close, not cross any lines, yet here you are practically on top of him and gushing uncontrollably "I didn't think, I'm sorry. ." and you curse yourself as you go to move away only to find the hold he has on you tighten a little.
"It's, it's fine, really just.." stay here for a moment, stay in my arms a little longer, don't leave, let me have this just for a second. He runs a smooth hand down the span of your back and draws you in until you're flush against one another and between your use of his given name and the heat of your body he knows he is lost to you.
You stop your movements completely then. Stop apologising. Stop moving. Stop breathing.
Because from your new position you're fully aware of the priests erection pressing tightly above your right hip and from the petrified look on his face you think it's safe to guess he's aware of it too.
"I'm sorry, I…" He can't explain this to you but he can't seem to let you go either. You think he sounds broken somehow, desperate in his shame, and isn't that just like him? Drowning in the guilt of things he can't control.
"Shhh, it's ok" you sooth running your hands down strong shoulders until they're resting at his elbows and pressing your chest against him further hoping the unspoken "I feel it too" isn't lost in translation. The sharp inhalation of breath the priest takes as he squeezes his eyes closed tightly tells you it isn't.
He places a hand on your arm and quietly asks "Can you just.. just give me a minute..this is too much, I'm sorry."
"Of course" and oh aren't you both embarrassed now. Of course this isn't OK you think as you step away from him slightly looking for any distraction from the man standing before you. Sermon papers. Yes, you think and lower yourself to scoop them from where they're scattered upon the floor and attempt to stack them back into a neat pile.
Without the object of his desires pressed intimately against him John finds it easier to steady his heart beat, he needs to compose himself and he tries to even his breathing. He's relieved when he feels himself come back to some sort of normality but then he hears "They're not in order but I hope that's ok Father?" and looks down to see you kneeling before him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, and any hints of control he felt moments earlier leave him instantly and he's left wanting and aching and already so impossible close.
You've never seen lust in his eyes before but now the look is unmistakable. It's partly this, and partly your own arousal that gives you the courage to reach out an unsure hand to cup him through his jeans.
"Father?..."
John can't bring himself to ask you to carry on so he stays silent instead tipping his head back and leaning on his palms against the old wooden writing desk behind him allowing you to make any further decisions. He lets out a soft moan as he feels his belt buckle unfastened and his zip pulled down. His shirt is lifted up and he feels warmth, a hand, work its way up his stomach as another hand runs up and down smoothly along the outside of his underwear, he has to bite his own lip as the elastic of his briefs is pulled down, releasing him quickly, and the hand leaves his stomach and the warmth is suddenly wrapped around somewhere else completely.
You can't quite believe your own actions but the feel of his skin against your palms is nothing short of divine and while the span of smooth flesh under his shirt is enticing it's the heat of his arousal resting heavy in your hands that causes your mouth to water.
It's with the first gentle strokes, the first push and pull, that he feels a soft wetness and just has to look down. He's never experienced anything that could compare to the sight of you, incredible wonderful you, running your tongue over the end of his cock.
As you continue with your strokes there's a questioning look in your eyes and John has to make an effort to hold your gaze, because as aroused and desperate as he feels right now he knows you need confirmation that he really does want this. He lets his eyes fall closed and hums out approval which seems to be enough as you take him between your lips and begin what the priest can only describe as some slow kind of torture.
He thinks you must have some experience as you seem to know what you're doing, and that thought disturbs him for a second before he's distracted by the removal of your lips only to be replaced by deft hands which set to work faster, each stroke punctuated by a squeeze. He's done this to himself numerous times before but to have you do this for him, in reality not just his sordid fantasies, leaves him quaking and breathless and he's not sure he can take much more of your hands, lips and teasing tongue running circles around him and eliciting the most undignified of moans.
His thighs are trembling and he doesn't have enough to hold onto until his hands find their way into your hair pulling you back gently so he can see your face, wide eyes and all. He knows it's too early but he's throbbing for release and as he pulls you forward and buries himself deep between your lips once again the only thought that crosses his mind is I'm going to come in her mouth .
His knees seem to give in and his stomach drops as he feels the familiar near painful tingle as he reaches his climax, and whether it's an involuntary jerk of his hips or last minute nerves he's not sure but with one uncontrollable movement he's out of your mouth and he can only watch as the last of his come bursts almost violently across your soft ruby lips.
It's filthy and sinful and so fucking terribly erotic.
As you turn to move he reaches to still you then turns your face upwards, keeping you in place to admire the mess he's made.
"Let me just look at you" he pants and he's awed by the sight of you looking up at him, his own unmistakable white fluid smeared across your reddened lips. He needs to look at you, because if you want nothing else, if he never has this again with anyone, he wants to always remember this image. As a blush creeps across your cheeks John can't help but think it completes the picture but then he lets you go as his own embarrassment emerges.
"We should..."
"Yeah..."
If he were more experienced, better at…this, he would offer you soft words he thinks. He would hold you? He would thank you? Is that correct etiquette? Is there correct etiquette for situations like this? He thinks maybe he'll just follow your lead, he doesn't want to make you uncomfortable, no more than he's sure you already are. Lord what has he done.
He can feel it as he pushes himself back into his jeans with shaking hands, the familiar sinking, the beginning of a spiral. breathe, breathe . Then there's a knock at the door.
He looks panicked. He looks dishevelled. You have come smeared across your face. Oh god.
He shoves a box of tissues into your hand and you scrub at your face while he fumbles with his belt buckle. The door handle turns as he runs his hands through his hair trying and failing to pull himself back together; eyes still wide, hair falling into his face and breathing heavy.
"Ah, Father, you're here." Bev smiles up at him and although she sees you you wouldn't know it with the way you're ignored completely.
"Yes, yes, what can I do for you?" He tries for calmness while aware that the crumpled tissues you hold tight in your fist still contain the sticky evidence of his recent debauchery.
"I should go, thank you for your time Father" you say shuffling toward the door hoping to escape before Bev can answer, or notice the burning flush of your cheeks.
"Oh, actually…" John raises a hand toward you as if he could stop you, "I.. the ah, the sermon, it's… not quite finished?"
"Oh?"
"Perhaps we could… work on it a little more? I'd like the opportunity to discuss some of the finer points? I.." he shoots a look to Bev who is clearly just waiting for his guest to leave and he fiddles awkwardly with his fingers "I'd really appreciate it if we could perhaps continue working together, on this , if that would be OK?"
"I'd like that" your eyes meet his. me too .
"You would??" and he has to work hard to suppress the smile threatening to bloom across his face but he thinks his glee must be evident by the way you hide your own smile with the bite of your lip.
"Yeah."
It's not until you're nearly home that you allow your joy to break across your face, he'd like to see you again, and you bask in it; A warm glow, a giddy smile and the taste of him lingering on your tongue.
.