[iRO] I am going to hell, no really.
Title: I am going to hell, no really, that is the doc title
Series: Ragnarok Online.
Characters: Dulche, Espe
Rating: NSFW
Length: 1750
Summary: Assassin versus priest. Nobody wins.
Warnings: Somewhat dubious consent. Nobody ever says no, though.
Notes: Original characters in an established universe (Ragnarok Online).
Dulche has the ability to heal, but he's still rather fond of keeping his liver intact. Which is why when Espe slides into the confessional with him, hidden blades at his wrists not so very hidden, Dulche's first reaction is not to shove the assassin back out, but instead to quickly slide shut the screen separating them from the penitent on the other side.
Espe's mouth curves into a familiar smile, all teeth, no heart. There's not enough room for them both to sit in the small space inside the booth; there's hardly enough room for Espe to stand in front of Dulche, shoulders hunched, blade loose in his fingers. He looks all wrong, inside a church, inside a confessional, an assassin, committing sin merely by existing.
“Get out,” Dulche hisses, low enough that the murmured confession of the penitent can be heard over his voice. He feels tense enough to snap, though he doesn't dare.
Espe's grin broadens, and he settles across Dulche's lap. For all it's the only way for the two of them to reasonably fit in the tiny booth, it's uncomfortable. “Nah,” he says, louder than Dulche, loud enough that there's a plaintive “Father?” from the other side of the screen. They both ignore it. Espe's right hand rises to cover Dulche's, where it holds the screen closed. The thin blade in his left drops a touch, relaxed and ready. Dulche sees the movement of the stiletto out of the corner of his eye, flinches, tries to cover it with a cough.
“Father?” The voice is quieter now. Hesitant. “Father, are you there?”
Dulche's hand twitches. His training tells him to respond to the penitent. Espe's grip, thumb digging into his wrist, tells him to keep silent. He's ashamed to realize that between the Goddess and Espe, he fears the assassin more.
“I'm in confession,” he says at last, soft. There's a shifting sound on the other side, a subdued click as the penitent finally gives up and leaves the confessional. Damn, he thinks, and heaven forgive me.
“What luck,” Espe says, and leans close, breath warm on Dulche's skin. He's too close. Dulche can feel himself going scarlet. “I've come to confess.”
“Get out,” Dulche says. Again. The dull 'tak' of metal on wood catches his attention, and the stiletto is there, Espe's set it to rest on the bench. He can't decide if he should be insulted or flattered by the apparent nonchalance. He could take it, now that Espe is distracted by the buttons at Dulche's collar. Could stab Espe with it, now that the assassin has both his hands busied opening Dulche's coat. But he doesn't, and Espe's lips touch the priest's shoulder.
“Forgive me, Father,” he mouths, and Dulche shudders. “I have sinned,” he says, and Dulche gasps. Espe's weight rests heavy on his legs. “It has been,” and here Espe pauses, one gloved hand slid just so beneath the waistband of Dulche's pants. “...A very long time since my last confession,” he finishes at last.
Dulche glares at him. “You've never been to confession.”
“Exactly,” Espe says, a little too cheerfully for Dulche's comfort. He kisses the priest, and the moment Dulche lifts his hands to shove Espe off, curls gloved fingers around Dulche's cock.
Dulche's growl of irritation changes into a startled moan. He slams his hands down on the bench, before his shove can follow suit and become an embrace. Something bites into his palm. The stiletto. He shouldn't take it. A priest facing an assassin will never win. He knows it. He's seen it. He grabs the blade anyway. He'll take the chance. In close quarters, Espe's katars are probably useless. He's not sure the assassin even has them at the moment.
He holds the blade to Espe's throat. He's probably holding it wrong. Dulche feels the curve of Espe's mouth against his skin. The man--crazy bastard, and heaven forgive me for that, too--is smiling. With sharp metal against his skin, smiling.
And then Espe grabs his wrist, yanks hard enough to make his shoulder throb, slams his hand against the confessional's back wall. Dulche's fingers go numb. The stiletto clatters back to the bench. Espe's eyes are dark, darker than usual, and his grin shifts into something threatening. “Don't do that again,” he says, and his hand tightens around Dulche's cock. Dulche bites his lip, willing himself to stay silent.
The hiss of the other compartment opening makes Espe go still on Dulche's lap. Tense. Listening. A tentative voice floats through the partition. “I've come to confess, Father,” it says, and Espe curses under his breath, foul. They both recognize the voice, and it's clear to Dulche that Espe wants nothing to do with its owner, though he can't think of a reason why.
“Father?” says the voice again, and Espe curses again, even fouler than before. The stiletto is back in his hand, though Dulche's not sure when he picked it up.
“You'd better answer him,” Espe says, and then he's gone, the sudden light from the open confessional door burning Dulche's eyes, distracting him from the lingering scent of worn leather.
A gentle knock at the screen brings Dulche's attention back to the penitent. Suddenly all too aware of his disheveled state, he takes a moment to carefully rearrange his clothing (the uncomfortable tightness of his pants will fade, given enough time) before he slides the screen back to hear Leche's confession.
**
He doesn't see Espe for several days, which is neither unusual nor concerning. It's a welcome respite from their usual tense interactions inside the confessional (and would it really hurt Espe, Dulche wonders, to show up somewhere else once in a while?).
Which is exactly why he is so surprised to open the door to his apartments and comes face to face with Espe. He looks wrong somehow, something in his stance not quite right. Dulche can't put his finger on exactly what.
“Nogg Road,” Espe says, as if this should mean something to the priest. “Did you know there are beasts there made entirely of flame?”
“Pardon?” Dulche asks, just in time for Espe to slump against him. He takes a surprised breath, and the stink of burned leather seeps into his lungs. The wrongness and Nogg Road suddenly make sense.
“Forgive me, father, I have sinned,” Espe says, close and quiet, the words slurring into one another.
“Shut up,” Dulche says, and tries to shift the man upright. It's difficult. He's heavy.
“Holy Valkyrie, valor and wisdom, be with me in battle,” he says, and his voice is nearly a whisper. “Give me strength. Forgive me.”
“Shut up,” Dulche says, “and stand up. I can't carry you.” It's a lie, but he thinks that maybe, maybe, if he can get Espe moving, the man will stop praying, and he thinks he'll do nearly anything to stop that.
Espe lifts his head slowly, breathing through his teeth, and his eyes are murky with pain. “Goddess, protect me,” he says thickly, and this close, Dulche can see angry red marks on his cheek, superficial burns that hurt more than they damage. He hopes the rest are the same. He doubts it. They're probably worse.
It takes him fully ten minutes to move Espe from the parlor floor onto a bed, and he's right about the burns. Espe's leathers are a complete loss, having done their best to protect their wearer from injury. The skin underneath, when Dulche finally cuts the last of the leather free, is wet and fouled. Blistered skin covers a wide swath of Espe's arm and chest. The temptation to heal it, to be rid of the disgusting sight, to stop the pain Espe clearly suffers, is strong. But Espe has lapsed into unconsciousness, though his mouth still soundlessly works the rosary. Dulche doesn't dare heal him now. He fears the cure might be worse than the disease.
So Dulche does what he can, and uses what little magic he dares, and wraps Espe's torso and arm carefully in gauze. Espe, for what Dulche suspects is the first time in a long time, sleeps in the same bed for more than two nights running, and his eyes, when he wakes, are fever-bright.
When Dulche wakes on the sixth morning, Espe is gone again, the pile of dirtied gauze and shredded leather in one corner the only indication he was ever there.
**
Two weeks later, and Espe is in the confessional again. Dulche is strangely relieved to see Espe whole, if not entirely well, though the relief is tempered by a certain measure of embarrassment. He is thankful, at least, that the confessional door can be locked. He hardly needs another priest to open the door and see him, pants off, one leg thrown over Espe's shoulder, and Espe's head between his thighs.
Dulche has to bite his knuckles to keep quiet. The confessions of the penitent in the other booth are no more than a dull roar in his ears. If he looks down, all he can see is the dark brown of Espe's hair, the bridge of his nose, the curl of his eyelashes. He tries not to look down. It will be his undoing.
Espe moans around Dulche's cock, and Dulche shudders, buries his fingers in Espe's hair. He's not sure if he's holding the assassin there or holding him back. He can feel Espe's shoulder shift under his thigh and he knows the man is masturbating. That's what finishes him off in the end, and he comes, fingers knotted in Espe's hair, his heel digging into Espe's back. Espe coughs, once, wipes his mouth, and slides up, sealing his lips over Dulche's in a kiss that might mean nothing.
He tastes like salt and copper.
Series: Ragnarok Online.
Characters: Dulche, Espe
Rating: NSFW
Length: 1750
Summary: Assassin versus priest. Nobody wins.
Warnings: Somewhat dubious consent. Nobody ever says no, though.
Notes: Original characters in an established universe (Ragnarok Online).
Dulche has the ability to heal, but he's still rather fond of keeping his liver intact. Which is why when Espe slides into the confessional with him, hidden blades at his wrists not so very hidden, Dulche's first reaction is not to shove the assassin back out, but instead to quickly slide shut the screen separating them from the penitent on the other side.
Espe's mouth curves into a familiar smile, all teeth, no heart. There's not enough room for them both to sit in the small space inside the booth; there's hardly enough room for Espe to stand in front of Dulche, shoulders hunched, blade loose in his fingers. He looks all wrong, inside a church, inside a confessional, an assassin, committing sin merely by existing.
“Get out,” Dulche hisses, low enough that the murmured confession of the penitent can be heard over his voice. He feels tense enough to snap, though he doesn't dare.
Espe's grin broadens, and he settles across Dulche's lap. For all it's the only way for the two of them to reasonably fit in the tiny booth, it's uncomfortable. “Nah,” he says, louder than Dulche, loud enough that there's a plaintive “Father?” from the other side of the screen. They both ignore it. Espe's right hand rises to cover Dulche's, where it holds the screen closed. The thin blade in his left drops a touch, relaxed and ready. Dulche sees the movement of the stiletto out of the corner of his eye, flinches, tries to cover it with a cough.
“Father?” The voice is quieter now. Hesitant. “Father, are you there?”
Dulche's hand twitches. His training tells him to respond to the penitent. Espe's grip, thumb digging into his wrist, tells him to keep silent. He's ashamed to realize that between the Goddess and Espe, he fears the assassin more.
“I'm in confession,” he says at last, soft. There's a shifting sound on the other side, a subdued click as the penitent finally gives up and leaves the confessional. Damn, he thinks, and heaven forgive me.
“What luck,” Espe says, and leans close, breath warm on Dulche's skin. He's too close. Dulche can feel himself going scarlet. “I've come to confess.”
“Get out,” Dulche says. Again. The dull 'tak' of metal on wood catches his attention, and the stiletto is there, Espe's set it to rest on the bench. He can't decide if he should be insulted or flattered by the apparent nonchalance. He could take it, now that Espe is distracted by the buttons at Dulche's collar. Could stab Espe with it, now that the assassin has both his hands busied opening Dulche's coat. But he doesn't, and Espe's lips touch the priest's shoulder.
“Forgive me, Father,” he mouths, and Dulche shudders. “I have sinned,” he says, and Dulche gasps. Espe's weight rests heavy on his legs. “It has been,” and here Espe pauses, one gloved hand slid just so beneath the waistband of Dulche's pants. “...A very long time since my last confession,” he finishes at last.
Dulche glares at him. “You've never been to confession.”
“Exactly,” Espe says, a little too cheerfully for Dulche's comfort. He kisses the priest, and the moment Dulche lifts his hands to shove Espe off, curls gloved fingers around Dulche's cock.
Dulche's growl of irritation changes into a startled moan. He slams his hands down on the bench, before his shove can follow suit and become an embrace. Something bites into his palm. The stiletto. He shouldn't take it. A priest facing an assassin will never win. He knows it. He's seen it. He grabs the blade anyway. He'll take the chance. In close quarters, Espe's katars are probably useless. He's not sure the assassin even has them at the moment.
He holds the blade to Espe's throat. He's probably holding it wrong. Dulche feels the curve of Espe's mouth against his skin. The man--crazy bastard, and heaven forgive me for that, too--is smiling. With sharp metal against his skin, smiling.
And then Espe grabs his wrist, yanks hard enough to make his shoulder throb, slams his hand against the confessional's back wall. Dulche's fingers go numb. The stiletto clatters back to the bench. Espe's eyes are dark, darker than usual, and his grin shifts into something threatening. “Don't do that again,” he says, and his hand tightens around Dulche's cock. Dulche bites his lip, willing himself to stay silent.
The hiss of the other compartment opening makes Espe go still on Dulche's lap. Tense. Listening. A tentative voice floats through the partition. “I've come to confess, Father,” it says, and Espe curses under his breath, foul. They both recognize the voice, and it's clear to Dulche that Espe wants nothing to do with its owner, though he can't think of a reason why.
“Father?” says the voice again, and Espe curses again, even fouler than before. The stiletto is back in his hand, though Dulche's not sure when he picked it up.
“You'd better answer him,” Espe says, and then he's gone, the sudden light from the open confessional door burning Dulche's eyes, distracting him from the lingering scent of worn leather.
A gentle knock at the screen brings Dulche's attention back to the penitent. Suddenly all too aware of his disheveled state, he takes a moment to carefully rearrange his clothing (the uncomfortable tightness of his pants will fade, given enough time) before he slides the screen back to hear Leche's confession.
**
He doesn't see Espe for several days, which is neither unusual nor concerning. It's a welcome respite from their usual tense interactions inside the confessional (and would it really hurt Espe, Dulche wonders, to show up somewhere else once in a while?).
Which is exactly why he is so surprised to open the door to his apartments and comes face to face with Espe. He looks wrong somehow, something in his stance not quite right. Dulche can't put his finger on exactly what.
“Nogg Road,” Espe says, as if this should mean something to the priest. “Did you know there are beasts there made entirely of flame?”
“Pardon?” Dulche asks, just in time for Espe to slump against him. He takes a surprised breath, and the stink of burned leather seeps into his lungs. The wrongness and Nogg Road suddenly make sense.
“Forgive me, father, I have sinned,” Espe says, close and quiet, the words slurring into one another.
“Shut up,” Dulche says, and tries to shift the man upright. It's difficult. He's heavy.
“Holy Valkyrie, valor and wisdom, be with me in battle,” he says, and his voice is nearly a whisper. “Give me strength. Forgive me.”
“Shut up,” Dulche says, “and stand up. I can't carry you.” It's a lie, but he thinks that maybe, maybe, if he can get Espe moving, the man will stop praying, and he thinks he'll do nearly anything to stop that.
Espe lifts his head slowly, breathing through his teeth, and his eyes are murky with pain. “Goddess, protect me,” he says thickly, and this close, Dulche can see angry red marks on his cheek, superficial burns that hurt more than they damage. He hopes the rest are the same. He doubts it. They're probably worse.
It takes him fully ten minutes to move Espe from the parlor floor onto a bed, and he's right about the burns. Espe's leathers are a complete loss, having done their best to protect their wearer from injury. The skin underneath, when Dulche finally cuts the last of the leather free, is wet and fouled. Blistered skin covers a wide swath of Espe's arm and chest. The temptation to heal it, to be rid of the disgusting sight, to stop the pain Espe clearly suffers, is strong. But Espe has lapsed into unconsciousness, though his mouth still soundlessly works the rosary. Dulche doesn't dare heal him now. He fears the cure might be worse than the disease.
So Dulche does what he can, and uses what little magic he dares, and wraps Espe's torso and arm carefully in gauze. Espe, for what Dulche suspects is the first time in a long time, sleeps in the same bed for more than two nights running, and his eyes, when he wakes, are fever-bright.
When Dulche wakes on the sixth morning, Espe is gone again, the pile of dirtied gauze and shredded leather in one corner the only indication he was ever there.
**
Two weeks later, and Espe is in the confessional again. Dulche is strangely relieved to see Espe whole, if not entirely well, though the relief is tempered by a certain measure of embarrassment. He is thankful, at least, that the confessional door can be locked. He hardly needs another priest to open the door and see him, pants off, one leg thrown over Espe's shoulder, and Espe's head between his thighs.
Dulche has to bite his knuckles to keep quiet. The confessions of the penitent in the other booth are no more than a dull roar in his ears. If he looks down, all he can see is the dark brown of Espe's hair, the bridge of his nose, the curl of his eyelashes. He tries not to look down. It will be his undoing.
Espe moans around Dulche's cock, and Dulche shudders, buries his fingers in Espe's hair. He's not sure if he's holding the assassin there or holding him back. He can feel Espe's shoulder shift under his thigh and he knows the man is masturbating. That's what finishes him off in the end, and he comes, fingers knotted in Espe's hair, his heel digging into Espe's back. Espe coughs, once, wipes his mouth, and slides up, sealing his lips over Dulche's in a kiss that might mean nothing.
He tastes like salt and copper.