Fic: Revelations
OMG PEOPLE, I WOKE UP AT FOUR A.M. AND WROTE 3,400 WORDS OF PRIEST PORN! GOD DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL! (And, er, save me a seat?)
Title: Revelations
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Categories: AU, PWP, sacrilege
Length: ~3400 words
Summary: AU. John is a priest, Rodney is sin, and I am so going to hell.
A/N: The original idea for this was, shamefully, mine, but huge thanks are due to not_sally, who provided some excellent backstory; chopchica, who spurred me on with this choice tidbit; and dar_jeeling, who further illustrated the point. Y’all rock--brimstone backrubs, one and all!
A/N2: This is not meant to be malicious or offensive in any way; if you’re religiously sensitive and think that this story might make you uncomfortable, please just don’t read it. Thanks.
ETA: Now with a beautiful cover by slodwick! I *heart* slodwick. *g*
ETA2: not_sally wrote more backstory! Prior Enlightenment--shivery lovely and exactly how it happened. *vbg*
Revelations
“You’re wearing jeans,” he says.
Only Rodney. Only Rodney would open the door to find him actually standing there, and instead of--instead of grabbing him and pulling him inside, would pause and comment on his wardrobe. With a disappointed look on his face, no less. And John--John would laugh, except if he did it would come out hysterical and choked, and he can’t afford to hear that right now. He’s already forfeited too much, far too much control.
Instead he offers Rodney his most serious, disapproving look--the one he gives (gave) to adolescent schoolboys caught carving obscene graffiti into the backs of pews. “What do you want--cassock and collar? Full Sunday Vestments? Sex in the confessional?”
“Um,” Rodney says, turning pink, clearly picturing it. And the worst part is, John can picture it too--has pictured it: straddling Rodney’s lap in the narrow space, arms and shoulders forced into close proximity, Rodney’s hands on his back and the echoing sounds of their breath, heavy and frantic as they--as--
“I should go,” John says.
“Yeah,” says Rodney, stepping away from the door, letting John in.
It clicks shut behind him with a finality he’s already felt, rattling in his bones for hours days weeks...since the moment he first met Rodney, he’d like to say, except that’s not really fair. That implies fate, and he--he’s supposed to believe in free will. The beauty of it is, he can still hear himself saying, is that man is free to choose.
Free to fall.
“Would you like a drink?” Rodney asks, atypically at a loss for words. This can’t be easy for him, either, John thinks. Rodney may not agree with the principle behind it, but he knows what this--what just coming here--means for John. And he’s not reveling in it: in John’s sin, still intangible, implicit, but hovering in the space between them. He’s not reveling, but John almost wishes that he were. It would be easy, then: so easy to turn and walk out that door.
“No,” John says. “I’m--” Good, he starts to say. “--Fine. Can we...” He stares at his hands. “Would you...”
“Would you like me to kiss you?” Rodney asks, voice oddly flat, yet loaded with so much...
“Yes,” John says. “Yes.” Because sin is a slippery slope, and he’s tumbled through here already. He started this, not Rodney; and that, in many ways, is what spurs him on, that voice in the back of his brain whispering, You did this, you. Sin of thought, sin of deed: sometimes the difference is...academic.
That’s what his interest in Rodney was, at first. Or so he thinks, or so he likes to tell himself: it’s impossible not to look back and wonder. In John’s increasingly flawed recollection, he came out of their first meeting both bemused and intrigued, and feeling not a little like he had just been run over by a cement mixer, or maybe a dump truck. Rodney could certainly talk. But he also, surprisingly, had something to say. John has met far too many people, a large number of them in his own profession, who just regurgitate the same familiar rhetoric over and over, without thought, without care, reducing what was once profound to something virtually meaningless. But Rodney thought about everything. Rodney found meaning in everything. And while he and John of course disagreed on a number of points, that somehow made it even better.
Even more surprising than Rodney’s first appearance was his second. He’d obviously read up since their last encounter, ‘cause he came in quoting scripture--for devilish purposes, part of John would like to say, but really, Rodney possessed nothing more devilish than a heady dose of curiosity and a love of a good debate. If either of those qualities were sinful, well, John shared them in equal quantity. So when Rodney came back a third time, John suggested they move the dialogue out of the confessional--“I’m not sensing a real desire for repentance here, Rodney”--and into John’s office. They drank several carafes worth of coffee and talked until John’s duties called him away.
Rodney kept coming back: a good thing, too, because otherwise John might’ve had to go looking for him. He hadn’t felt this...this stimulated in years. So when Rodney got hungry during one of their--sessions? debates? hang-outs?--and suggested they go grab a sandwich--“I happen to be hypoglycemic, Father, and unless you want to get in some practice delivering the last rites...”--John didn’t even think to resist, to refuse. They started meeting outside the hours John was assigned to the chaplaincy. They started to become friends.
It should have been enough. If John weren’t so weak, it would be enough.
But, “Yes,” he says, “Yes.”
Rodney’s face breaks into a big, beautiful grin. He closes the distance between them, murmuring, “I’ve wanted, for so long I’ve wanted...” He slides into the circle of John’s arms, arms raised instinctively to welcome him in. John’s hands meet the solid flesh of Rodney’s shoulders just as Rodney’s fingers reach up to flutter along the line of his jaw, caress the back of his neck, and then they are kissing, really kissing, Rodney’s mouth eager and insistent, but not yet demanding: he’s still letting John move at his own pace, waiting for John to come to him.
It was John who made the first move. He hadn’t even known he was making it until he was already halfway there: it had been unconscious, instinctive. (An unplanned sin is still that: a sin.) They’d gone to get a beer (because drink is not forbidden, oh no), and John would like to blame the alcohol, but he only had two, wasn’t even lightly buzzed. Not from drink, anyway--maybe from the hypnotic movement of Rodney’s hands, emphatic gestures as he spoke; or from the light that came into his eyes, the brilliant spark of an idea; or from his mouth, that strange, twisting, glorious mouth that drew John’s gaze like light and matter into a black hole, like sad eyes and wounded wrists once did. Yes, Rodney’s mouth: Rodney’s mouth would be his undoing.
So he bent and kissed it, there in the parking lot, in the moonlight, a shadowy movement for the shadow places. His own Gethsemane. A single kiss.
“Um,” Rodney had said, as John drew black, blinking and stunned. “That was a ‘Bless you, my son,’ kind of thing, right?”
And John had said, “I really don’t know.”
He knows now. He knows Rodney’s hands sliding over his skin, undressing him. He knows Rodney’s voice, reassuring: “This is going to be so good, John; I promise, I’m going to make you feel so good.” He knows the press of Rodney’s sheets, cool against his back, and the shadowy figure of Rodney hovering over him, stroking down his sides, touching him where no one else has touched him before. Where he hasn’t touched himself, not for pleasure, not for twenty-five years of tightly-coiled restraint.
And at Rodney’s touch, it all comes crashing down.
When Rodney takes him into his mouth, John nearly sobs. “Shh,” Rodney says, swirling his tongue around the head of John’s cock, “It’s all right, I’ve got you”; and, “You’re circumcised? Isn’t that kind of weird for--”
“Oh God, Rodney, shut up,” John manages, and maybe it’s the blasphemy that wins him the argument, because for once, Rodney does.
Rodney’s hands on his hips, fingers like the press of fiery pokers. Better get used to it, because this is--he doesn’t want to say worth it, because no sin is worth it, that’s the whole point. Except, except--
Except Rodney’s mouth is hot and wet and slick, taking him in, accepting him, and John clenches his fists around the sheets and comes in about three seconds.
John flops back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he says.
“That’s okay,” Rodney says, swallowing, licking him clean. “It’s your--wow--first time, right? Wow.” Then he says, “Um, you are apologizing to me, right?”
John raises his head. “No, my personal guardian angel and I are having a little chat. Yes, I’m apologizing to you!”
“You’re remarkably cranky for someone who’s just received his first blow job,” Rodney says, clambering up beside him. And in a softer tone: “You did like it, right?”
“Yes,” John says, reaching for him, trying to ignore the tears pricking at his eyes. “I liked it. I--”
“What does this mean?” Rodney had asked, meaning, That you kissed me.
“I--” John had started, the pause lasting too long.
“Think about it,” Rodney had supplied in the silence. “You should think about it. And...” He took a shaky breath, but looked John in the eye, visibly forced himself to look John in the eye: “...And when you’re done thinking about it, come over to my apartment. Tonight, tomorrow night, the night after that. I’ll be home. We can talk.”
But they both knew they were past talking.
What does this mean, Rodney had asked, and now, just like then, John knows what he’s really saying. Was it worth it? Is it? Is this, is us, worth it all to you?
“I want to,” John says, frantic, inarticulate. He pulls Rodney’s mouth to his, tastes him--tastes himself, there on Rodney’s lips and tongue. John should be revolted, horrified, shamed, but it’s lost in the warmth and pressure of another body moving on his, in this strange rush of pleasure: he came in Rodney’s mouth. He came in Rodney’s mouth, and Rodney swallowed everything; swallowed, and didn’t choke.
He can feel Rodney’s cock, quietly insistent against his belly. He hasn’t touched it yet, hasn’t dared: until tonight, he and his own cock have had only the most passing acquaintance. He’s still somewhat afraid, feeling clumsy and ridiculous, almost forty years old and a foreigner in this bed. He wants to make Rodney feel as good as Rodney has made him feel, and he doesn’t know how.
“What do you,” he whispers, “what do you want me to do?”
Rodney smiles against his mouth. “Anything. Whatever you want.”
Care to be a little more specific? he wants to say, but then it strikes him: something very specific. Something he could do that, from what he’s heard, would make Rodney feel very good--and with the added bonus of keeping Rodney firmly in the driver’s seat.
“I could,” John says, voice catching. “I could let you fuck me.”
Rodney’s face is a torrent of confused emotion. “Um, yes? ...I mean, wait, ‘let you’? Do you want me to? Are you sure? Really, only if you want me to. But I want to if you want me to. Um.”
And how is he supposed to answer that, to tell Rodney what he wants? He doesn’t know himself. In fact, he’s never been more confused about or as sure of something before in his life.
He’s also never been someone to do things by degrees. When he accepted his vow of purity and chastity, he did not go halfway: no guilty late-night jerk-off sessions; no vile fondling of the altar boys. Now he’s breaking that vow, and there’s no reason to go halfway, either: now that he’s here, he wants everything, everything. Everything.
“Yes,” he says, “yes, I’m sure,” and Rodney really doesn’t need any other encouragement, groping madly at the bedside drawer, producing exotic objects like lube and condoms. John’s always been able to distance himself by thinking about the ridiculousness of sex--just check out the accessories!--but it doesn’t seem so ridiculous now. And there’s nothing farcical about Rodney’s voice as he says, “Turn over.” John rolls, mashing his face into the pillow. He likes this, he thinks, this blindness: Rodney could do anything to him, and he would never see it coming.
What Rodney does is: press a kiss to the small of his back, cup his ass, slowly spread the cheeks. John tenses, sucking in a deep breath. Rodney pokes him in the ribs: “Would you relax?”
“Unlikely,” John says.
“Mmm,” says Rodney, and John can see the barest flicker of movement, feel the pressure of Rodney’s thumbs, and then...
He knows he makes a noise: something high-pitched, almost animal. A keen. Rodney’s tongue, warm and wet, slides between his asscheeks, stroking over his hole--he doesn’t know the word for this, for whatever Rodney is doing; wouldn’t be able to say it if he did. But Rodney tongues him, dipping and darting inside, and when he thinks about it, if he could think about it, it’s so dirtywrong that...God, that it just makes it better. As does Rodney’s knee between his legs, pushing his thighs apart, holding him down as he humps helplessly into the mattress. And he’s...he’s not going to come again already, is he?
“Whoa, slow down,” Rodney says, reaching under and around, pinching the head of John’s cock. “Not yet. Wait until I’m inside you.”
Dumb thing to say. Really dumb thing to say, because that would have done it if Rodney’s hand weren’t there, that would have sent him over the edge. Just the thought--and who would have guessed that the moment he stopped being a saint, he’d instantly become such a whore?
Rodney turns him over again, adjusting his limbs like a rag doll’s, pushing a pillow up under his butt. “You’re going to like this,” Rodney promises. “God, I really hope you like this.” Then he’s drizzling something cold, whispering, “Sorry, sorry, it’s gonna warm”; and then something’s circling again, moving across virgin territory: not a tongue. A finger.
It’s strange, John thinks as he’s penetrated, but then, all of this is strange. Still, this is stranger: a weird pressure and an odd burning and then Rodney, Rodney inside him, opening him up. He squirms, fingers tensing, toes: “Relax,” Rodney says, for like the millionth time. Not helpful.
“Not helpful,” John grunts. “Would you be relaxed if I had my fingers up your ass?”
“Yes,” Rodney says, matter-of-fact, and just like that, John can see it: pushing inside, breaching Rodney with his fingers, his cock, what it would feel like to come sliding home. And John gasps, because for the first time, he doesn’t have to shy away from these idle musings: he can act on them, will act on them. Touch and be touched, fuck and be fucked, maybe even love--
Rodney’s fingers slip away, and John feels their absence like a painful ache. But Rodney’s still there, hiking one of John’s legs up over his shoulder. John goes willingly. “Are you ready?” Rodney asks, bracing himself, and John’s already a million miles past that, having cycled through readiness and uncertainty a thousand thousand times in the course of a single second. But he says, “Yes, just do it, yes already,” and then there’s something prodding at him, so much bigger than the fingers. But that’s okay, that’s perfectly fitting, because this is all, all so much bigger than he could have possibly imagined.
It hurts, Rodney pushing in, and that’s fitting too, John decides: a little suffering for his sins. They must be pretty minimal, however, if the rapid pace at which pain is swapped for pleasure is any indication. A short stay in Purgatory, and then it’s...
It’s Rodney flush against him, inside him, staring into his eyes. Rodney smiles, tentative, face full of so much emotion that John can hardly stand it. He shifts his hips, mostly as an excuse to look away, but the movement sparks something inside him, an incredible rush of pleasure that he can feel resonating in the pads of his fingers and the tips of his toes. He moans, learning another noise he didn’t know he could make, and Rodney arches his neck and say, “Yeah, okay, okay.” And then he starts to move.
It’s incredible, feeling Rodney move in and out, stretching him, fucking him. They’re fucking, they’re having sex, and this is it, John can never come back from this. Doesn’t know if he wants to. To zip up his pants and tighten his collar and never again feel another body slamming into him, claiming him, pleasuring him for pleasure’s sake. It’s wanton and sinful, yes, but it feels so good. It makes him feel so good.
Rodney bends down and kisses him, messy and wet. John’s joints ache even as his nerves sing; he’s not really sure if all his limbs are still attached. But his cock, long-neglected, is once again requesting his attention. Rodney reaches down to oblige it, and John surprises himself by slapping his hand away. “Let me do it,” he says, “I want to do it, I want--” To touch myself, he thinks, and then he does, he is; he’s stroking his own hard length, sharp frantic jerks that culminate in a moment of recognition, that yes, this is him. This is him, and he’s coming all over his hand and chest, just like he came in Rodney’s mouth, just like Rodney is now coming inside of him: slow steady pulses, both of them, together.
Rodney collapses into him, giving him one last slow, sleepy kiss before rolling off. John himself feels drained; unsurprising, he thinks: he’s wearing the evidence of that final purge. He puts his hand in it, the sin of Onan and so much more, and it’s sticky on his fingers, odd-smelling, strangely familiar. “Neat, huh?” Rodney says, and it is kind of neat. He never would have put it that way himself; but then, Rodney helps him to see things in a different light.
“It’s gonna dry, though,” Rodney says, through a yawn. “Should get a towel, wipe it off.”
John shakes his head. “No, let it. Let it dry.”
Rodney gives him a look, a “clearly you, not to mention your entire organization, is insane” look. That look is a large part of what’s responsible for John’s current state. “Don’t be st--” Rodney starts, but then his eyes widen. “Or is this some kind of bizarre penance?” he asks. John doesn’t say anything. “Well, it stops right now,” Rodney says, heaving himself out of bed; John watches him disappear into the bathroom and return a moment later, carrying a wet washcloth. It’s warm and gentle on his skin, Rodney surprisingly careful, precise.
“Is this some kind of bizarre re-baptism?” John asks, quietly.
Rodney rolls his eyes. “Yes,” he says, “welcome to the church of good living.” But there’s a lack of lightness to his tone, a pronounced seriousness to his brow. And for all the care he showed in cleaning John, when he’s done, he chucks the washcloth absently to the floor.
He touches John’s cheek with moist fingers. “You okay?” he asks.
John nods.
A frown. “Talk to me.”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you glad?”
John sighs. “I’m not...I’m not unglad, do you know what I mean?”
“No,” says Rodney.
John’s mouth twitches. “I mean, maybe that’s the essential problem, right there. The...the thrust of it.”
Okay, and now is probably not the best time to discover that he has a dirty mind.
But Rodney only grants him a tenuous half-smile. “But you’re not, like, going to start tearing your hair or self-flagellating, or race out of here in the middle of the night to go prostrate yourself in front of a bishop?”
For a smart man, a brilliant man, Rodney can be really remarkably stupid. “No,” John says. “No, that is not that plan.”
“Oh,” Rodney says. “Good.”
John drifts.
He wakes once in the middle of the night, the moonlight having shifted through the curtains, cutting a swath across his face, the floor. He’s moved, too, his arm thrown across Rodney’s waist, his head on his chest, surprisingly comfortable. From where he’s lying, John can see a straight path back the way they came, through the bedroom door, out into the living room. Their clothes are scattered like breadcrumbs, and for a moment, John almost wishes that he had come dressed in his best Sunday Vestments so that he could see them lying there, crumpled and discarded, like a pale twist of snakeskin, shed when it ceased to fit.
He wakes again with the light more golden than silver, and in it, a beam of sapphire, staring down at him. “You’re still here,” says Rodney, wondrous.
“Yes,” John says, marvelling right along with him. “I’m still here.”
*************
Meep. Don’t hurt me.
Title: Revelations
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Categories: AU, PWP, sacrilege
Length: ~3400 words
Summary: AU. John is a priest, Rodney is sin, and I am so going to hell.
A/N: The original idea for this was, shamefully, mine, but huge thanks are due to not_sally, who provided some excellent backstory; chopchica, who spurred me on with this choice tidbit; and dar_jeeling, who further illustrated the point. Y’all rock--brimstone backrubs, one and all!
A/N2: This is not meant to be malicious or offensive in any way; if you’re religiously sensitive and think that this story might make you uncomfortable, please just don’t read it. Thanks.
ETA: Now with a beautiful cover by slodwick! I *heart* slodwick. *g*
ETA2: not_sally wrote more backstory! Prior Enlightenment--shivery lovely and exactly how it happened. *vbg*
Revelations
“You’re wearing jeans,” he says.
Only Rodney. Only Rodney would open the door to find him actually standing there, and instead of--instead of grabbing him and pulling him inside, would pause and comment on his wardrobe. With a disappointed look on his face, no less. And John--John would laugh, except if he did it would come out hysterical and choked, and he can’t afford to hear that right now. He’s already forfeited too much, far too much control.
Instead he offers Rodney his most serious, disapproving look--the one he gives (gave) to adolescent schoolboys caught carving obscene graffiti into the backs of pews. “What do you want--cassock and collar? Full Sunday Vestments? Sex in the confessional?”
“Um,” Rodney says, turning pink, clearly picturing it. And the worst part is, John can picture it too--has pictured it: straddling Rodney’s lap in the narrow space, arms and shoulders forced into close proximity, Rodney’s hands on his back and the echoing sounds of their breath, heavy and frantic as they--as--
“I should go,” John says.
“Yeah,” says Rodney, stepping away from the door, letting John in.
It clicks shut behind him with a finality he’s already felt, rattling in his bones for hours days weeks...since the moment he first met Rodney, he’d like to say, except that’s not really fair. That implies fate, and he--he’s supposed to believe in free will. The beauty of it is, he can still hear himself saying, is that man is free to choose.
Free to fall.
“Would you like a drink?” Rodney asks, atypically at a loss for words. This can’t be easy for him, either, John thinks. Rodney may not agree with the principle behind it, but he knows what this--what just coming here--means for John. And he’s not reveling in it: in John’s sin, still intangible, implicit, but hovering in the space between them. He’s not reveling, but John almost wishes that he were. It would be easy, then: so easy to turn and walk out that door.
“No,” John says. “I’m--” Good, he starts to say. “--Fine. Can we...” He stares at his hands. “Would you...”
“Would you like me to kiss you?” Rodney asks, voice oddly flat, yet loaded with so much...
“Yes,” John says. “Yes.” Because sin is a slippery slope, and he’s tumbled through here already. He started this, not Rodney; and that, in many ways, is what spurs him on, that voice in the back of his brain whispering, You did this, you. Sin of thought, sin of deed: sometimes the difference is...academic.
That’s what his interest in Rodney was, at first. Or so he thinks, or so he likes to tell himself: it’s impossible not to look back and wonder. In John’s increasingly flawed recollection, he came out of their first meeting both bemused and intrigued, and feeling not a little like he had just been run over by a cement mixer, or maybe a dump truck. Rodney could certainly talk. But he also, surprisingly, had something to say. John has met far too many people, a large number of them in his own profession, who just regurgitate the same familiar rhetoric over and over, without thought, without care, reducing what was once profound to something virtually meaningless. But Rodney thought about everything. Rodney found meaning in everything. And while he and John of course disagreed on a number of points, that somehow made it even better.
Even more surprising than Rodney’s first appearance was his second. He’d obviously read up since their last encounter, ‘cause he came in quoting scripture--for devilish purposes, part of John would like to say, but really, Rodney possessed nothing more devilish than a heady dose of curiosity and a love of a good debate. If either of those qualities were sinful, well, John shared them in equal quantity. So when Rodney came back a third time, John suggested they move the dialogue out of the confessional--“I’m not sensing a real desire for repentance here, Rodney”--and into John’s office. They drank several carafes worth of coffee and talked until John’s duties called him away.
Rodney kept coming back: a good thing, too, because otherwise John might’ve had to go looking for him. He hadn’t felt this...this stimulated in years. So when Rodney got hungry during one of their--sessions? debates? hang-outs?--and suggested they go grab a sandwich--“I happen to be hypoglycemic, Father, and unless you want to get in some practice delivering the last rites...”--John didn’t even think to resist, to refuse. They started meeting outside the hours John was assigned to the chaplaincy. They started to become friends.
It should have been enough. If John weren’t so weak, it would be enough.
But, “Yes,” he says, “Yes.”
Rodney’s face breaks into a big, beautiful grin. He closes the distance between them, murmuring, “I’ve wanted, for so long I’ve wanted...” He slides into the circle of John’s arms, arms raised instinctively to welcome him in. John’s hands meet the solid flesh of Rodney’s shoulders just as Rodney’s fingers reach up to flutter along the line of his jaw, caress the back of his neck, and then they are kissing, really kissing, Rodney’s mouth eager and insistent, but not yet demanding: he’s still letting John move at his own pace, waiting for John to come to him.
It was John who made the first move. He hadn’t even known he was making it until he was already halfway there: it had been unconscious, instinctive. (An unplanned sin is still that: a sin.) They’d gone to get a beer (because drink is not forbidden, oh no), and John would like to blame the alcohol, but he only had two, wasn’t even lightly buzzed. Not from drink, anyway--maybe from the hypnotic movement of Rodney’s hands, emphatic gestures as he spoke; or from the light that came into his eyes, the brilliant spark of an idea; or from his mouth, that strange, twisting, glorious mouth that drew John’s gaze like light and matter into a black hole, like sad eyes and wounded wrists once did. Yes, Rodney’s mouth: Rodney’s mouth would be his undoing.
So he bent and kissed it, there in the parking lot, in the moonlight, a shadowy movement for the shadow places. His own Gethsemane. A single kiss.
“Um,” Rodney had said, as John drew black, blinking and stunned. “That was a ‘Bless you, my son,’ kind of thing, right?”
And John had said, “I really don’t know.”
He knows now. He knows Rodney’s hands sliding over his skin, undressing him. He knows Rodney’s voice, reassuring: “This is going to be so good, John; I promise, I’m going to make you feel so good.” He knows the press of Rodney’s sheets, cool against his back, and the shadowy figure of Rodney hovering over him, stroking down his sides, touching him where no one else has touched him before. Where he hasn’t touched himself, not for pleasure, not for twenty-five years of tightly-coiled restraint.
And at Rodney’s touch, it all comes crashing down.
When Rodney takes him into his mouth, John nearly sobs. “Shh,” Rodney says, swirling his tongue around the head of John’s cock, “It’s all right, I’ve got you”; and, “You’re circumcised? Isn’t that kind of weird for--”
“Oh God, Rodney, shut up,” John manages, and maybe it’s the blasphemy that wins him the argument, because for once, Rodney does.
Rodney’s hands on his hips, fingers like the press of fiery pokers. Better get used to it, because this is--he doesn’t want to say worth it, because no sin is worth it, that’s the whole point. Except, except--
Except Rodney’s mouth is hot and wet and slick, taking him in, accepting him, and John clenches his fists around the sheets and comes in about three seconds.
John flops back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he says.
“That’s okay,” Rodney says, swallowing, licking him clean. “It’s your--wow--first time, right? Wow.” Then he says, “Um, you are apologizing to me, right?”
John raises his head. “No, my personal guardian angel and I are having a little chat. Yes, I’m apologizing to you!”
“You’re remarkably cranky for someone who’s just received his first blow job,” Rodney says, clambering up beside him. And in a softer tone: “You did like it, right?”
“Yes,” John says, reaching for him, trying to ignore the tears pricking at his eyes. “I liked it. I--”
“What does this mean?” Rodney had asked, meaning, That you kissed me.
“I--” John had started, the pause lasting too long.
“Think about it,” Rodney had supplied in the silence. “You should think about it. And...” He took a shaky breath, but looked John in the eye, visibly forced himself to look John in the eye: “...And when you’re done thinking about it, come over to my apartment. Tonight, tomorrow night, the night after that. I’ll be home. We can talk.”
But they both knew they were past talking.
What does this mean, Rodney had asked, and now, just like then, John knows what he’s really saying. Was it worth it? Is it? Is this, is us, worth it all to you?
“I want to,” John says, frantic, inarticulate. He pulls Rodney’s mouth to his, tastes him--tastes himself, there on Rodney’s lips and tongue. John should be revolted, horrified, shamed, but it’s lost in the warmth and pressure of another body moving on his, in this strange rush of pleasure: he came in Rodney’s mouth. He came in Rodney’s mouth, and Rodney swallowed everything; swallowed, and didn’t choke.
He can feel Rodney’s cock, quietly insistent against his belly. He hasn’t touched it yet, hasn’t dared: until tonight, he and his own cock have had only the most passing acquaintance. He’s still somewhat afraid, feeling clumsy and ridiculous, almost forty years old and a foreigner in this bed. He wants to make Rodney feel as good as Rodney has made him feel, and he doesn’t know how.
“What do you,” he whispers, “what do you want me to do?”
Rodney smiles against his mouth. “Anything. Whatever you want.”
Care to be a little more specific? he wants to say, but then it strikes him: something very specific. Something he could do that, from what he’s heard, would make Rodney feel very good--and with the added bonus of keeping Rodney firmly in the driver’s seat.
“I could,” John says, voice catching. “I could let you fuck me.”
Rodney’s face is a torrent of confused emotion. “Um, yes? ...I mean, wait, ‘let you’? Do you want me to? Are you sure? Really, only if you want me to. But I want to if you want me to. Um.”
And how is he supposed to answer that, to tell Rodney what he wants? He doesn’t know himself. In fact, he’s never been more confused about or as sure of something before in his life.
He’s also never been someone to do things by degrees. When he accepted his vow of purity and chastity, he did not go halfway: no guilty late-night jerk-off sessions; no vile fondling of the altar boys. Now he’s breaking that vow, and there’s no reason to go halfway, either: now that he’s here, he wants everything, everything. Everything.
“Yes,” he says, “yes, I’m sure,” and Rodney really doesn’t need any other encouragement, groping madly at the bedside drawer, producing exotic objects like lube and condoms. John’s always been able to distance himself by thinking about the ridiculousness of sex--just check out the accessories!--but it doesn’t seem so ridiculous now. And there’s nothing farcical about Rodney’s voice as he says, “Turn over.” John rolls, mashing his face into the pillow. He likes this, he thinks, this blindness: Rodney could do anything to him, and he would never see it coming.
What Rodney does is: press a kiss to the small of his back, cup his ass, slowly spread the cheeks. John tenses, sucking in a deep breath. Rodney pokes him in the ribs: “Would you relax?”
“Unlikely,” John says.
“Mmm,” says Rodney, and John can see the barest flicker of movement, feel the pressure of Rodney’s thumbs, and then...
He knows he makes a noise: something high-pitched, almost animal. A keen. Rodney’s tongue, warm and wet, slides between his asscheeks, stroking over his hole--he doesn’t know the word for this, for whatever Rodney is doing; wouldn’t be able to say it if he did. But Rodney tongues him, dipping and darting inside, and when he thinks about it, if he could think about it, it’s so dirtywrong that...God, that it just makes it better. As does Rodney’s knee between his legs, pushing his thighs apart, holding him down as he humps helplessly into the mattress. And he’s...he’s not going to come again already, is he?
“Whoa, slow down,” Rodney says, reaching under and around, pinching the head of John’s cock. “Not yet. Wait until I’m inside you.”
Dumb thing to say. Really dumb thing to say, because that would have done it if Rodney’s hand weren’t there, that would have sent him over the edge. Just the thought--and who would have guessed that the moment he stopped being a saint, he’d instantly become such a whore?
Rodney turns him over again, adjusting his limbs like a rag doll’s, pushing a pillow up under his butt. “You’re going to like this,” Rodney promises. “God, I really hope you like this.” Then he’s drizzling something cold, whispering, “Sorry, sorry, it’s gonna warm”; and then something’s circling again, moving across virgin territory: not a tongue. A finger.
It’s strange, John thinks as he’s penetrated, but then, all of this is strange. Still, this is stranger: a weird pressure and an odd burning and then Rodney, Rodney inside him, opening him up. He squirms, fingers tensing, toes: “Relax,” Rodney says, for like the millionth time. Not helpful.
“Not helpful,” John grunts. “Would you be relaxed if I had my fingers up your ass?”
“Yes,” Rodney says, matter-of-fact, and just like that, John can see it: pushing inside, breaching Rodney with his fingers, his cock, what it would feel like to come sliding home. And John gasps, because for the first time, he doesn’t have to shy away from these idle musings: he can act on them, will act on them. Touch and be touched, fuck and be fucked, maybe even love--
Rodney’s fingers slip away, and John feels their absence like a painful ache. But Rodney’s still there, hiking one of John’s legs up over his shoulder. John goes willingly. “Are you ready?” Rodney asks, bracing himself, and John’s already a million miles past that, having cycled through readiness and uncertainty a thousand thousand times in the course of a single second. But he says, “Yes, just do it, yes already,” and then there’s something prodding at him, so much bigger than the fingers. But that’s okay, that’s perfectly fitting, because this is all, all so much bigger than he could have possibly imagined.
It hurts, Rodney pushing in, and that’s fitting too, John decides: a little suffering for his sins. They must be pretty minimal, however, if the rapid pace at which pain is swapped for pleasure is any indication. A short stay in Purgatory, and then it’s...
It’s Rodney flush against him, inside him, staring into his eyes. Rodney smiles, tentative, face full of so much emotion that John can hardly stand it. He shifts his hips, mostly as an excuse to look away, but the movement sparks something inside him, an incredible rush of pleasure that he can feel resonating in the pads of his fingers and the tips of his toes. He moans, learning another noise he didn’t know he could make, and Rodney arches his neck and say, “Yeah, okay, okay.” And then he starts to move.
It’s incredible, feeling Rodney move in and out, stretching him, fucking him. They’re fucking, they’re having sex, and this is it, John can never come back from this. Doesn’t know if he wants to. To zip up his pants and tighten his collar and never again feel another body slamming into him, claiming him, pleasuring him for pleasure’s sake. It’s wanton and sinful, yes, but it feels so good. It makes him feel so good.
Rodney bends down and kisses him, messy and wet. John’s joints ache even as his nerves sing; he’s not really sure if all his limbs are still attached. But his cock, long-neglected, is once again requesting his attention. Rodney reaches down to oblige it, and John surprises himself by slapping his hand away. “Let me do it,” he says, “I want to do it, I want--” To touch myself, he thinks, and then he does, he is; he’s stroking his own hard length, sharp frantic jerks that culminate in a moment of recognition, that yes, this is him. This is him, and he’s coming all over his hand and chest, just like he came in Rodney’s mouth, just like Rodney is now coming inside of him: slow steady pulses, both of them, together.
Rodney collapses into him, giving him one last slow, sleepy kiss before rolling off. John himself feels drained; unsurprising, he thinks: he’s wearing the evidence of that final purge. He puts his hand in it, the sin of Onan and so much more, and it’s sticky on his fingers, odd-smelling, strangely familiar. “Neat, huh?” Rodney says, and it is kind of neat. He never would have put it that way himself; but then, Rodney helps him to see things in a different light.
“It’s gonna dry, though,” Rodney says, through a yawn. “Should get a towel, wipe it off.”
John shakes his head. “No, let it. Let it dry.”
Rodney gives him a look, a “clearly you, not to mention your entire organization, is insane” look. That look is a large part of what’s responsible for John’s current state. “Don’t be st--” Rodney starts, but then his eyes widen. “Or is this some kind of bizarre penance?” he asks. John doesn’t say anything. “Well, it stops right now,” Rodney says, heaving himself out of bed; John watches him disappear into the bathroom and return a moment later, carrying a wet washcloth. It’s warm and gentle on his skin, Rodney surprisingly careful, precise.
“Is this some kind of bizarre re-baptism?” John asks, quietly.
Rodney rolls his eyes. “Yes,” he says, “welcome to the church of good living.” But there’s a lack of lightness to his tone, a pronounced seriousness to his brow. And for all the care he showed in cleaning John, when he’s done, he chucks the washcloth absently to the floor.
He touches John’s cheek with moist fingers. “You okay?” he asks.
John nods.
A frown. “Talk to me.”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you glad?”
John sighs. “I’m not...I’m not unglad, do you know what I mean?”
“No,” says Rodney.
John’s mouth twitches. “I mean, maybe that’s the essential problem, right there. The...the thrust of it.”
Okay, and now is probably not the best time to discover that he has a dirty mind.
But Rodney only grants him a tenuous half-smile. “But you’re not, like, going to start tearing your hair or self-flagellating, or race out of here in the middle of the night to go prostrate yourself in front of a bishop?”
For a smart man, a brilliant man, Rodney can be really remarkably stupid. “No,” John says. “No, that is not that plan.”
“Oh,” Rodney says. “Good.”
John drifts.
He wakes once in the middle of the night, the moonlight having shifted through the curtains, cutting a swath across his face, the floor. He’s moved, too, his arm thrown across Rodney’s waist, his head on his chest, surprisingly comfortable. From where he’s lying, John can see a straight path back the way they came, through the bedroom door, out into the living room. Their clothes are scattered like breadcrumbs, and for a moment, John almost wishes that he had come dressed in his best Sunday Vestments so that he could see them lying there, crumpled and discarded, like a pale twist of snakeskin, shed when it ceased to fit.
He wakes again with the light more golden than silver, and in it, a beam of sapphire, staring down at him. “You’re still here,” says Rodney, wondrous.
“Yes,” John says, marvelling right along with him. “I’m still here.”
*************
Meep. Don’t hurt me.