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“Well, fuck me.” Tubbo huffs, looking out over the loitering group outside the church’s doors, “When did we pick up a crowd?”
It’s a beautiful Sunday morning.
A holy morning , Fit idly remembers telling himself this morning.
One where he’d seen the sunrise again and remarked on how God had painted the skies and washed them with a flush of vibrant blue.
It had mostly been said to jostle himself into motion, remembering that he was to lead today’s Sunday mass for the rest of this month. Meanwhile another Father recovered from a bout of illness that sent him inland, to a larger hospital.
He tended to lead a service on their slowest days; Drowsy Tuesdays and Mondays that had more dust bunnies in attendance then people.
And now it’s a beautiful Sunday morning and all of God’s children have seem to come knocking on their front door.
Tubbo sucks in a tight breath between his teeth, giving Fit a grimace as he wheels away from the front window, “Sorry, Father. Slipped out.”
Fit blinks tiredly at him for a moment, lost, before settling for a snort when the realization of Tubbo’s ‘slip’ dawns on him, “I think God’ll forgive you for that one without a penance needed. Sometimes? You need to swear a little.” And, quite truly, they are fucked . This is more people than Fit and a handful of altar servers with a choir of nearby school kids can deal with.
“Don’t tell the others you said that,” Tubbo warns, “Last time I swore in front of the other priests, they dragged me by the ear out of the churchyard! Slimey lil—“
“Tubbo.” Fit arches a brow.
Tubbo crosses his arms. “Yeah, yeah. Love thy neighbor.” Tubbo’s head ducks with a huff, his foot tapping against the ground, “Do you think Pac n’ Mike’s gonna show up?”
Fit weighs his options. It’s likely. Not for long though.
They’ve always dipped out before communion.
When Fit asks why– well, the one time he remembered to ask— Pac said it was because they were following his rules. Communion is for the baptized, the holy ; Those who come to take in the blood and flesh of their Savior are meant for that sacrament. They were far behind on those tenements.
“Probably.” Fit admits after a beat. “It shouldn’t matter though. We have a Mass to run whether they show up or not.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Tubbo says.
Fit and him go to stand at the steps, opening the front doors with a wooden creak.
The church’s bell tolls out across the flat suburban landscape as it calls for an early mass. And, like clockwork, the members of their parish and community begin spooling into the entryway and start up their polite morning routine.
No one in the monastery had prepared him for the amount of lip service that being a priest required. A lot of his job is just pleasantries . He shakes the hands of the elderly and well-off the same way he does the destitute, but it’s all just smiles and half-measures.
This is his least favorite part of being a priest. The socialite aesthetic of it all. Fit was drawn to God because he was eager to clamber into the arms of someone who’d known the answers to his pain and ended up being the figurehead with open palms for everyone else. The irony isn’t lost on him.
It lends to his greetings, however, being second nature. Ending up as an action he does while casting his mind elsewhere. Like walking and listening to music.
Shake a hand, say good morning, God bless you, what a beautiful morning, shake a hand–
“Bom dia , Fitch!”
Fit’s consciousness is yanked back to reality, a smile worming onto his face. His hands clasp around familiar ink and oil stained palms.
“Pac! Bom dia, bom dia, bom dia– ” Fit muses warmly, “Good to see you again.”
There’s a lot about Pac that draws Fit’s eye.
The first of which being that despite everyone in their parish dressing to the nines on Sunday, Pac has never put in more effort than a laundered hoodie and cuffed jeans. It earns him a lot of sideways looks and muttered disrespect, but that’s never bothered Pac.
He’d asked if it did. Pac said he changes a lot of things about himself for others, but no amount of slights will make him wear slacks and a button up at 7 AM on a Sunday.
(Which had made Fit howl with laughter, hand clasped on his shoulder as he wiped tears from his eyes.)
The second being that he’s the most entrancing individual Fit’s ever had the pleasure to talk with. They met at a support group, Disability; Strength in Numbers, or something of that ilk. Fit had gone to maybe one meeting before and didn’t intend to go to another after that.
Of course, Pac had upended that plan. They chatted, joked, poked fun at the strange concept of having a disability support group in a school lunch room– with no ramps into the building– and had got along like a house on fire well after they’d been kicked.
Instead of going their separate ways, they’d spent an hour walking around the street. Chatting. Shooting the shit. Eventually they had to leave when the sun dipped below the horizon, and Fit had to awkwardly turn down Pac’s offer of drinks at a nearby bar– “ Not a date. Just to hang out, I’m new to town and I need someone besides my kid to talk to sometimes”--
He’d watched Pac’s form cast in shadow and buzzing fluorescent light and told him that no, no, they couldn’t meet up next week. He had a service to attend.
“Oh, are you ah…” Pac had rubbed awkwardly at his arm, “Like, religious?”
“You could say that.” Fit joked, “I run the Mass, after all. Our Lady of Sorrow’s, down on ninth.” Then, after a beat, “I’m there every week, when I’m not running around doing chores. You could come visit. Don’t even have to pray, if that’s not your thing.”
“It’s not.” Pac had admitted, “You’re not gonna try like… convert me, right?”
Fit’s lip had twisted, a little sour, “Nah. I wouldn’t subject someone to that. I hate the idea that churches are just for that specific denomination, you know? They’re meant to be houses for community, not a members only club.”
Pac laughed, “Well. I mean, I’ll warn you now, yeah? I’m not religious, I wasn’t even raised in that stuff. I dunno what I’d even do there.”
“Sit. Hang out.” Fit offered, shrugging, “I’d appreciate someone to drag me out of long ass conversations where I can’t get a word in edgewise from.”
He ran a hand through his hair, eyes crinkled as he smiled, “Ah, I see. No worries, Fit. I’ll save you.”
Fit’s heart skipped a beat. He grinned, “My hero.”
Pac erupts into soft laughter, his eyes sparkling as he shakes Fit’s hand, “ Bom dia. How have you been?”
“Good, I’ve been good.” Fit responds, taking a quick catalog of the people around him. He releases his hand to take Pac by his bicep, gently moving him out of the line and more to Fit’s side, “No Mike or Richas today?”
Pac’s grin doesn’t flicker, which Fit hopes is a sign all is well, “No, not today. Richas has a game today and Mike’s gonna drive him. So,” He gestures in a sweeping motion to himself, “It’s ah… only me. I hope that’s okay.”
“Don’t do yourself a disservice, Pac,” Fit squeezes his arm, “You’re more than enough. I’m happy to see you. Mass isn’t the same when I can’t see you in our pews.”
Pac laughs. “Really? I didn’t realize you were watching.”
“I always do.” Fit’s face warms.
He tuts back, eyes flashing. “ Cuidado , Father. You should be paying attention to your service, no?”
Fit chuckles, his knees feeling weaker by the second, “I am. But you’re hard to ignore.” He’s grappling to stop the words as they leave his mouth, but by then it’s far too late. Pac’s cheeks dust with pink.
“ Fitchi.” He says, bemused, “I said be careful .”
His voice is laced with something too dangerous for Fit to define. Something that Fit shoves deep down past any conscious thought.
A parish member coughs and Fit’s face washes with a flush of embarrassment, realizing he’d completely forgotten about the rest of the morning line of people waiting to get in. Pac, coming to this same conclusion, pulls from Fit’s grasp;
“Sorry! Sorry, I’ll uh– I’ll go sit down.” He sends Fit a smile, “See you later, Fit.”
Fit has to pull his eyes from Pac, nodding in return before going back to the dull monotony of greetings. Good morning. God bless you. What a beautiful day.
His mind drifts to Pac and stays there.
“Father?” Someone asks, a beat out of his script.
Fit tries to reel in his thoughts; “Sorry, yes?”
A sweet elderly woman smiles, more gum than tooth, “So sorry to bother you, Father, but would you mind doing a blessing for me?” Her boney, thin, hands grip one of his. The cold pallid skin sends a shiver up his spine, but he smiles.
“Of course,” He holds out a hand, hovering it above her forehead and shutting his eyes, “God, please look fondly upon your children, please keep… keep–” Fuck. What was her name? His mind is swathed with images of Pac.
“ Abigail.” The woman softly answers.
Fit winces. “Right, yeah, just testing you.” He teases with a wink, shutting his eyes once more, “Please keep Abigail in your prayers. God gives us only the battles he knows we can handle and we pray that the fights you send to her are just as so. We say this in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy spirit.”
He does a small sign of the cross above her head, “Amen.”
“God,” Abigail continues on, her eyes still pinched shut even after Fit lowers his hands, “Please keep us in your mind and heart. Help keep us, your children, on the path to salvation. Lead us not into temptation and deliver us from evil.”
Fit opens his mouth. Shuts it. He nods, a little tentative, “Amen.”
Abigail sends a pulsing squeeze through his hand, “Even your most devout of lambs need some guidance from time to time. And please, keep them too, from the fires of damnation.”
“Amen.” Fit says, quicker now. He slips his hand from Abigail’s grip, ignoring her look, “A good prayer, ma’am. Unfortunately, we’re already behind schedule, so we have to keep going. But you can always talk with me after Mass–”
She waves her hand flippantly, “No, no. No need. Thank you, Father.” She says, continuing past, her pearl bracelets and necklace jingling as she shuffles into the church. It appears all she meant to say has already been said.
Fit excuses himself shortly after, explaining that Mass was about to begin and he must put on his vestments.
Instead he b-lines to the bathrooms and nearly kicks in a stall door. He halfway raises his foot before stomping it into the linoleum instead.
God sends us only the battles he knows we can handle.
Fit stands, stares at the grout between the tiles. He hears the long metallic pipes of the organ begin to wheeze out a tune and Fit twists on his heel, quickly turning on the sink’s faucet to splash water on his face.
Stars above, what’s wrong with him?
Now’s not the time to worry about this. About how people see his interactions with others. Fit knows what they are, he knows what he and Pac are, and it’s nothing near what that woman had so sneakily implied. Even if the guilt of it is leaking a headache behind his eyes.
He’s not gay. It’s a test. A battle, nothing more. Nothing wrong with being gay, but he’s not . God’s just really fucking testing him with Pac.
“Me and Mike live together. We’re raising Richas part-time, when he’s not with Cellbit or Bagi or Felps.” Pac explained, sipping black coffee out of a cheap foam cup.
Fit tilted his head slightly, still dressed in his vestments for Ordinary time. Post-Service attire usually didn’t include his full getup, but he was excited to talk to Pac again after he’d spotted him during the homily. Fit had honestly not expected Pac to visit, much less stay until the Sunday brunch.
“Are you guys…” Fit trailed off, cheeks warm, “Together?”
Pac seemed confused for a moment before his brows shoot to his hairline, “Oh! No, no–” He laughs, “No. Me and Mike are close, yeah, but I wouldn’t say it’s romantic. It’s more than that, you know?”
Fit frowned, thoroughly confused, “More than that?”
“It’s hard to explain.” Pac admitted after a beat, “We just take care of each other. The rest doesn’t matter. Whatever that implies, you know? Platonic, romantic–” He caught himself, stopping his sentence to take another sip, but the rest of his sentence implies everything Fit needed to know.
“Oh.” Fit had said, because he couldn’t think of anything else. Not for lack of platitudes to echo, but for the sheer mass of thoughts crowding his skull.
Pac peered over the rim of his cup, “Is that ok?”
“It’s fine!” Fit hurried to say, “I can’t speak for everyone but… It’s fine with me. Sorry, I–” He groans, running a hand down his face, “I didn’t mean to sound… upset. I’m just curious.”
Flicks of coffee spat over the sides of the cup as Pac snorted, “Curious?” He said, voice curling with the inflection of a joke, though Fit couldn’t see one that he’d made.
“Yeah.” Fit said, focused more on the donuts parallel to them on the table now that his face was burning, “Pac, I’m 33. I was in the army for most of that and a priest for the rest. You think I meet a lot of gay people?” Fit grabbed his meager breakfast with a napkin.
“A lot of out gay people,” Pac corrected with a point of a finger, “I guess not, no. But if you need help, you can ask me anything.” He pauses, adding, “Anything, Fit.”
The crowd of Sunday church-goers pushed in a closer as he twisted back to Pac and Fit’s confidence left him as quick as it’d arrived.
His tongue had grown three sizes in his mouth and he shook his head, clamming up, “It’s not for me. I’m fine where I am. But, uh… It’d be nice. For the community. I want to be more… open to people.”
When his gaze flicked back to Pac, there was a glimmer of recognition in his eye. An almost pitiful tilt to his sloped expression. It disappeared behind his slats of black hair when he turned away, “I think I can help with that, Fitchi.” His hip bumped Fit’s playfully. It leaves tingles in it’s wake.
The way Pac said his name stays on repeat in Fit’s mind for hours. He ends up staring up at the ceiling asking God to get rid of it before he does something to fix it himself. And after that domino caves, who knows where it’ll lead Fit.
God must’ve had mercy on him. He fell asleep before he could consider it.
The Liturgy of the Word goes as smoothly as Fit planned. Tubbo is his helpful buzzing bee, slipping from the piano to his side and back again when needed. He goes from a psalm to a gospel to another, songs intermittent between. He steps forward, his homily on his lips as he reads from his printed copy.
He stammers, slightly. He tries to play it off, but between trying to remember the correct passage and Pac, he falls short.
He’s staring.
Pac watches the mass, sometimes. He doesn’t make a habit of it. Usually when Fit’s eyes skirt over him, he’s engrossed in his phone or flipping aimlessly through a bible. Which is fair, Fit hadn’t asked him to be devout– He asked him to show up.
But today he’s staring. And not in the lazy glossy eyed way most of the parish does, but with rapt attention, as if he’s trying to pin Fit in place with his eyes. Then, and only when he notices Fit’s gaze, does he smile saccharine and bright.
“Neither do I condemn you; Go, and do not sin again. From John (8:11), tells us to not shame those who have sinned, but instead understand that we are no better than sinners in the eyes of God. Instead, we are to be drawn to–to true human connection, free from…” The words feel ashen on his tongue.
“From… from the devil’s tracked filth of pornography.” His face is warm. He doesn’t choose or design or draft a homily. Fit is like many priests in his county– He just takes one from the internet. It’s like a newsletter and he spends maybe a minute on it before printing it out and reading from it at his stand like a proper middle school book report.
He hadn’t realized the topic he picked was so… Well, it feels stupid now. To preach about porn when he’s spent hours ogling Pac. Aren’t those the same? In his mind, morally, they must. They hold the same sinful weight.
Fit feels warm under the collar. Sweat beading on his neck, along his temples. Surely Pac isn’t smiling because he knows, right? How could he? He looks again. No judgment. No frustration. Pac’s grin grows an inch wider, a flush to his cheeks.
He stumbles over his words again. Ah.
Pac’s smiling because he likes this. Not in a cruel, bullying, fashion– No .
Pac likes seeing him flustered. He’s enjoying this, watching him flush and blush and stammer. Watching him talk about porn while he watches only Pac from the raised dias and altar he hides behind. Maybe he doesn’t know the true length of it, but Pac enjoys this flex of power.
Fit tugs at his clerical collar and clears his throat. “Excuse me.” He mumbles, eyes dropped to his script as he tries to empty his mind and focus. Tries to push out all the devils in his mind, all the temptations drawing images to the forefront of his brain.
Preparing the altar doesn’t go much easier. Even without the need to talk, Fit feels exposed for his feverishness. His hands quiver when he takes the plate from Tubbo, he nearly spills the wine when he pours it into the chalice.
He must overlook the crowd, but Fit doesn’t see them. He only sees Pac. More than ever before, his image has dug it’s fingers into his consciousness.
Fit’s sweaty palms try and hold up the Eucharist, but it looks flat and balmy between his fingers. How could anyone pray to this?
“You who know and can do all things, who nourish us on earth, lead your brothers and sisters to the table of heaven to be fellow heirs and guests with your saints… forever.” His eyes meet Pac’s. He doesn’t say a word, but instead mouths something that Fit can hear as if he were right over his shoulder;
Cuidado, Father.
He hopes only Pac notices when his voice trembles; “Amen.”
Again, with the wine, he instead says a prayer that he hopes is heard beyond his ornamental changing of the wine into blood; Have mercy. Have mercy. Have mercy. Have mercy.
Tubbo’s fingers slam down on the piano keys. The parish and all members of the congregation begin to shuffle and line up on their way to the dias and Pac is lost in the shuffle. Fit hands out rations of the body and blood to other altar boys and choir members who volunteer to help, and he busies himself.
The air is stuffy. Too hot. Fit’s never felt such an oppressive heat in his church, but now it bows out around him on all sides. Fit has had– he’s had urges before. Such is part of God’s tests, or Satan’s cruel jokes. But he’s never felt them so heavy on his shoulders as he does now, when the broiling in his gut bubbles, more scalding than ever before.
Fit worries it’ll never soothe until he takes action, but that action gives him a headrush unlike anything he’s ever felt prior. Staring up at ceilings, trying to mentally battle all the images of Pac’s hands on his hips, cupping his face, his lips dragging down his throat– They’re nothing in comparison to here. To now.
To when Fit looked in Pac’s eyes and thought for a moment he was about to be devoured whole and could only wish it came sooner.
“The blood of Christ.” He says.
“Amen.” Comes the response. Drink. Shuffle, kneel, sit.
“The blood of Christ.”
“Amen.” Drink. Shuffle. Kneel. Sit.
“ Fitchi .”
Fit’s hands shake as he holds the cup, eucharist feeling dull and cheap between his fingertips.
Pac stands there idly for a moment, dark eyes flicking from the rim of the glass then to his face. His head is bowed at a gentle incline, waiting and patient.
He swallows, tongue clicking around a dry throat. He’s done communion a million times, taken it as much as given, and yet the words fall short of speaking.
Soon, his pause will be noticed. Tubbo and him try to run through as many people as they can, keeping it short for those who work on a busy schedule. Their pace never falters. Someone will notice or take note of his hesitation. Rumors will spread. The path to salvation. Battles he cannot fight. All of it feels like a jumbled mess in his head.
Fit can almost see the wrinkled confusion in the faces behind Pac, slowly being drawn from their idle meditative walk to the altar’s steps like waking up from a dream. Meanwhile Fit is still drenched in his own nightmare, frozen and stiff.
He should just bless him. He should hold his shoulder and keep it brief, but to deny Pac of anything feels more sinful than sin. Especially denying him something Fit holds so dear.
He wipes the chalice with his cloth and holds it out.
Fit knows his words, the prayer, that he’s meant to say.
Pac steps forward when he doesn’t and leaves his lips parted.
“Pac.” He rasps instead, falling far too short of his obligations and all too quickly. And judging by the bemused glint in Pac’s eye, his falter doesn’t go unnoticed.
Fit tips the chalice towards his waiting tongue, then pulls away when he feels the weight of wine lighten in his hold. When it returns to his side, Pac makes a show of tipping his head again, hands still laced together and hoving in front of his chest.
Then when he straightens, this moment is when Fit sees him swallow with fluttering eyes. Pac darts his tongue out to chase a smudge on his lip, savoring the taste.
Fit’s breath is solid in his lungs. Weighted and heavy.
It remains stuck there until Pac dips away and Fit is reminded of his duties. He gives wine, wipes the rim, says his script.
Pac’s gaze never leaves him. Fit can feel it more heavily than the eyes of God. It dwells on the line of his cheek, where his cassock turns into the symbolic black and white collar that remains firm around his throat.
He adjusts his robes, feigning a speck of dust as he brushes the holy robes, smoothes them over his pants and length of his legs with a brief glance. Does it again when his mind tricks him into thinking the swollen cock between his legs is obvious, or even brushing against the sacramental cloth.
When he’s putting it all back on a tray that Tubbo holds out, he finds he looks at the warped reflection of his face in the golden sheen rather than his real one when Tubbo asks, “Are you alright? You looked a bit…” He leaves the words unspoken and it burns Fit with more frustration than relief.
“I’m fine,” He says, curt, trying to flash him with a convincing grin, “Long day. I’ll survive, God willing. Place these back in the tabernacle, please.”
Tubbo lets out a small chuckle of laughter at that and whisks the tray away, “You got it boss man,” though Fit is left sprawling in anxious worry as to whether it was as convincing as he’d hoped.
Fit walks back up the steps and spreads his hands at the clergy and guests, keeping his chin high. The balmy white light from the church’s bulbs are burning his eyes, melting his skin. The cassock, the robes, they’re all too warm to wear and heavy with his guilt.
A prayer. A blessing. A dismissal. It all rolls off his tongue like poison.
“Go in peace to love and serve the Lord, Our God.” He says, hands resting on the altar with a white knuckled grip.
“Praise be to God.” Comes the communal response, and on time comes Tubbo with the church organ, belting familiar chords from the pipes that signal those standing to grasp for their brochures once more.
He doesn’t see Pac. He descends the steps, crucifix held behind him by an altar boy he doesn’t know, and he travels up the center alley, sandwiched by low toned singing on either side.
Someone is chattering placatingly after he leaves the isle. “What a beautiful bell.” They say, stepping towards Fit. He hadn’t even noticed it going off after Mass.
“It’s a recording.” He grumbles, pushing past without another word.
Fit walks into the small service room they have and he sheds his robes like they’re burning his skin, only having half the mind to hang them and zip them within their plastic coffin before they’ve fallen to the floor (along with his stomach). Even the clerical collar feels like too much, but he can’t take that off even when his fingers hover over it.
Tubbo comes not long after, opening the door with some croaking dissent on his lips that Fit bullies into silence by shoving past him. Not to be intentionally rude, but rather with the recognition that Fit’s pants are strained now with an obvious tent.
The scandal alone would ruin his career.
“Hey!” Tubbo balks behind him, voice becoming softer as Fit bustles down the hallways. The carpet is bleeding color, the midday sun casting stained glass reflections across the walls and floors.
He stares at them and doesn't stop until he finds his office far from the bustle of milling and, most likely, confused visitors to their church. Fit’s supposed to wave them off as they leave, he always does, and instead he’s slamming shut his door and drawing the blinds with trembling fingers.
He never uses this office. It’s meant for reflection and his more simple work. It’s rare for anyone to find it through the twisting halls of the church hall.
His heart pounds in his ears.
He can’t. He can’t be doing this, can’t be truly, truly, doing this—
His eyes catch sight of the crucifix hanging above his desk. Fit snatches it from the wall and shoves it into the desk drawer.
Fit stalks back and forth across the room. He feels like he’s on the brink of damnation, even though he’s arguably crossed it with his thoughts already.
Fuck it. Fit sits against the front of his desk, his hardon pressing through slacks insistent and unavoidable. Sweat drools from his nose, beading at the tip before dripping off to the floor.
He’s never actually… done this before. But he needs to. As a starving man to food, a thirsty one to water, Fit needs this before he starts to need Pac.
He rips at his belt, ignoring the snap of leather as he pulls it off and lets it drop to the ground. He unbuttons. Unzips.
His cock bulges against the soft cotton of his briefs.
Pac’s warm grin, his lidded eyes as his tongue slips over a droplet of wine flashes behind his eyes.
He traces the line of his cock through the fabric, the back of his nail following the pulse as it aches down and up his core. Fit digs into his briefs, fisting his cock in his hands and wincing at the dryness. A pearling bead of white pools at his tip, one that Fit smears with his thumb.
Fit’s not… completely incompetent. He’s seen bunkmates in the army jerk off. He can do this.
A shiver runs up his spine. Pac. Pac. Pac. Pac. He worships the name in his head like a prayer.
He does one, careful, stroke, a feeling like a punched gut near flattening him against the desk. A clawing pleasure crawls up his insides and he tries another, following the pulse of his hardon with one of his own.
It’s not enough. Not nearly enough. Fit needs more .
A small knock comes to the door.
Fit pinches his eyes shut. He thinks, for a moment, about not answering it.
“Fit?” Comes a small, timid, voice from behind the wood, “Can I come in?” The extended effort of Fit and not Fitch makes his stomach roll.
Fit’s mouth works around words he cannot say. He doesn’t want Pac to come into the room. He wants more than anything for Pac to come into the room.
The handle twists, slow, and gives without any effort. Fit hasn’t locked it. He hadn’t even considered it. The movement shatters his half-frozen shock and he starts desperately pulling back up his pants, trying to zip everything away–
The door pushes open a smidge and Pac peeks his head in.
Part of him had expected the moment he was seen to be the same one Fit caught aflame. That there’d be immediate holy punishment for being seen. Known, as an animal with such a pathetic carnal desire.
Pac’s eyes gleam with a certain hunger, one that makes the beast of Fit’s stomach purr and croon for more. It’s the same look he’d given him during Mass. A look that takes him his rumpled, messy, shirt and unbuttoned pants and flushed state like a predator sizing up prey.
He doesn’t run. He doesn’t yell or shame him. A flicker of pink dips out to wet Pac’s lip.
Fit’s breath comes out in pants. Do anything you want. Do whatever you want to me.
“Please.” It rolls off his tongue, pitched with need. His cock twitches in his pants.
Unfrozen, Pac steps in, shutting the door behind him and closing it with a locking click. He turns to Fit, eyes still wide and dilated, “ Fitchi .” He croons, hushed, pressing his back to the door.
Cards on the table. “I don’t know.” Fit admits, voice cracking, “I need you- Fuck, I’m sorry—“
“No! No, don’t be sorry.” Pac lets out a slow breath, stepping into Fit’s space, “Do you… want help?”
Fit feels like he’s going to pop. “Yes, fuck, yeah, please.”
Pac makes a keening sound low in his throat, “Is this my fault?” He doesn’t sound shameful as he asks. He sounds proud.
“ Pac. ” He whines. It’s an answer enough on it’s own.
Fit needs him here, now. Needed him last week. Needed him the day he met Pac. Oh, God, the idea of Pac taking him outside, in the dark like that–
Fit’s skin is alight as he brushes his hands against his sides, uses his hips to knock Fit’s legs apart, “It’s alright. I’ll take care of you. We’ll get this out of the way, then we’ll talk, yeah?” Pac murmurs, trailing a hand up and down in a hypnotic pattern on his thigh. Fit’s heart is going to burst out of his chest.
He nods, feverish. Anything. Everything. He clings to Pac, bowing his head to shelter himself from sight. Pac leads it to land on his shoulder. This way, he doesn’t have to look as Pac’s searching hand dips into his pants, fishing out his hardened cock.
The touch of skin against skin makes goosebumps spill across his arms. Fit clutches at Pac’s sleeves.
“God have mercy. Have mercy, please, I can’t–”
Pac hushes him softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead, “ Respira, Fitchi. Breathe.” He coos, adding with that same sweet bemusement as he palms his hardon, “You really worked yourself up, no?”
“I shouldn’t be doing this–” Fit croaks, “My vows– I shouldn’t break them.” Yet here he is. Begging for them to be broken. Desperate for Pac to move, to make real the fantasies in his head.
“You’re not.” Pac says with a smile. He turns, spitting into his hand, “I am.” His cold fingers curl around Fit’s cock, slick with spit.
Fit’s breath catches in his throat, holding onto Pac’s back like a vice, “Pac!” He gasps, blushing and heaving into his shoulder. Lightning crawls up his spine, stomach doing flips as he cants his scarred hips into Pac’s touch.
Pac laughs gently, not unkindly, carefully stroking up and down his cock with slow movements, “How does it feel?” He flicks his wrist, skillfully applying pressure.
It’s electric. It’s amazing. It’s better than anything I’ve ever tried.
He swallows, eyes rising to look back at the door, at the drawn blinds, “S-someone could—“
“ Fitchi ,” Pac draws out the vowels, “They won’t see anything. I’m covering your front, right?”
He nods, looking down at the swath of blue that stands between Fit’s naked cock and the small glass windows that look out into the hallway. He opens his mouth to comment on it when Pac drags his thumb under his head, causing him to shove up into his grasp with a hiccuping sob.
“Shh,” Pac hushes, “They’ll hear you though.”
“Oh, God .” Fit shudders, “Pac, Pac —“
“Just hold onto me, keep yourself upright.” Pac says softly, “How does it feel? Do you want me to stop?” His nail traces his length from tip to base.
Fit flushes, shuddering, “It’s—- it feels good, but–”
“Do you want me to stop?” Pac patiently asks again.
He buries his face into Pac’s shoulder, breath short. “No. No , God, no, please— I don’t want you to stop, but it— it feels—“
Pac croons, nail dipping into Fit’s slit and nearly making him scream. He has to bite the cotton swath shoulder he’s resting on, wetting it with saliva. Fire shoots from his gut, and Fit suddenly understands why they call it chasing an orgasm.
“I know, I know. They’ve got you all twisted up.”
Fit didn’t even realize he was humping Pac’s hand, too focused on the coiled knot in his gut, “Ahh— hah — Pac—“
“Sometimes things feel good but they’re not good for you, it’s true. But this?” Pac squeezes his cock at the base, and Fit jumps, biting off a moan, “This is normal, Fit. This is good for you.”
Fit hears a door shut far on the other side of the building and he nearly leaps out of his skin, “Please, please , Pac, I—“
Oh God. He shouldn’t be doing this. He can’t stop. He might die if Pac leaves right now. All of these truths in his mind are interwoven in the tangled mess of his head and unable to be unscrambled while Pac’s fisting his cock. All that comes out is; I think I might’ve been wrong to never do this.
“I wouldn’t do anything that could hurt you. Ever , Fit.” Pac doesn’t make note of his reply, but hurries his movements in a way that makes Fit drool, a line of spittle falling from his lip and staining his hoodie, “I’ll make you feel good however, whenever , you want. That’s all I wanted.”
The thought makes Fit tear up. He clutches at the back of Pac’s head, still humping his hand like a sad desperate dog, “You can’t. You shouldn’t— I shouldn’t— ah —“ Fit can’t be worth that. The selfish weave of pleasure Pac shows him is something unattainable. At least, without massive sacrifice.
And his sacrifice becomes clear when Pac’s free hand comes up to slip under the white tab in his shirt, fingers teasing the white clerical collar.
Fit smothers his face into Pac’s shoulder, gripping his hip.
“He won’t know. I doubt he cares, Fit, but he won’t know.” Pac soothes, “You can say a prayer if it makes you feel better. I don’t mind.”
Fit sobs into his shoulder. “O— Our fath— father—“
The white collar comes loose under Pac’s finger, Fit can feel it wiggling out of it’s sheath. Pac hushes him, comforting and kind, as he begins to drag it out.
“Who art in— heaven, hallowed be thy name, by kingd–“ It comes free from his neck and Pac drops it off to the side. Fit watches it flitter to the ground, useless. It hadn’t even put up a fight. Like God hadn’t even tried to keep him.
It’s forgotten between pumps of his length, washed away by pleasure that makes Fit’s toes curl.
“Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven,” His voice tips up and down as Pac looses his tight grip on Fit’s cock, now focusing his ministrations on unbuttoning the top part of his vestment, “Give us this day o- aah— Oh, God, Pac , Pac —“ He moans, keening into the open air.
The moment Fit’s throat is exposed, Pac descends on it like a hungry beast, biting and sucking at the hollow of his collar and neck.
Stars burst behind Fit’s eyes and he thrashes in place, head twisted between pushing into Pac’s bites or away from it. He licks and sucks at the skin with a noisy slurp, pushed flush to Fit’s chest till his knees can coil around Pac’s back.
Fit’s fingers curl and snare on his hoodie and grab and tug and something burns and almost hurts in his stomach–
With a cant of his hip, he cums and spills ropes of cum all over Pac’s hand and his own vestment, a choked groan shoved from his chest as Fit thrusts up into his grip.
Then, as the pins and needles start to burn Fit’s finger tips, Pac zigs when he thought he would zag;
He dislodges from a bite, taking a slow breath in, “Finish the prayer.” He breathes, before diving back in to bite, now with more teeth, at where his neck connects to his shoulder.
Fit’s eyes burn with tears, grip doubling on Pac as he continues jerking off Fit’s cock, albeit with a gentler touch. His movements are boiling hot lava, not unwanted but teetering on the knife’s edge.
He curls over Pac, mouthing at his exposed flesh in a false mimic of Pac’s own work. When Pac’s teeth nip at his skin, Fit jolts into action; “Forgive us our tresspasses, le-lead us not into… into temptation—“ It all comes out like a slurry mess.
His eyes roll back, Pac’s hand slick with cum as it slides over his sensitive skin. Pac’s laugh against his throat sends cool air over the wet hickeys, “You missed a few lines, Father.” Fit’s punched out groan has Pac nosing him into a kiss, “Hush, shh, shh, we’ll be caught.”
“D-deliver us from— from evil.” Fit can barely hold onto the strings of coherency that he does have, focused on Pac’s hand as it travels down his balls and cups them, rubs the skin holding them and tracing their circumference with the back of his nail. He hiccups out a cry, tears staining his cheeks.
He can feel it again, the desire to cum brimming just under the surface of his skin. It feels awful, selfish, but he needs to— he needs it.
Fit sobs, “ Pac .”
“Amen, Father. Say amen.” Pac whispers, sharp in his ear, “Say amen and I’ll let you cum again.”
“Ah— Amen, amen , amen , please— please —“
Pac hurries his thrusts, dragging Fit kicking and screaming over another orgasm, spitting whatever remaining cum Fit had left over them both. His neck hurts, sore and aching when Pac finally presses his last kiss to his collarbone.
He’s too lost in the drowsy half-existence he lives in Pac’s arms. Fit thinks he ought to live here, brain emptied into nothing but a soupy bowl of gray matter, leaving nothing but Pac in it’s place.
Fingers brush Fit’s lips and he devoutly opens his mouth, accepting Pac’s fingers as he swipes salty cum over his tongue. He chases them, even as he pulls away. Pac laughs under his breath as he does.
Pac presses a kiss to his lips to distract him, as if Fit wouldn’t notice his hand dipping below his waistband to get himself off. That he’s Fingering himself to Fit’s whimpers and bitten off cries of overstimulation, pressed so flush against Pac’s jolting hips.
“Fit–” He bites out, groaning and thrusting against his fingers. Fit brushes back into a kiss to stop him from saying something that’ll ruin his cascading wave of glittering emptiness.
Pac finishes with a sigh, and Fit has to pretend not to be disappointed when he doesn’t push his fingers back between his teeth, only this time with Pac’s slick.
For a long while, there’s nothing but their breaths filling the empty air. Fit bathes in the touch, wincing only when Pac tucks him away back into his pants, zipping them up tight.
“I think we need to talk.” Pac says, brusque.
Fit’s forehead rests on his shoulder. He swallows around his thickened tongue.
“Yeah. Yeah, I think we do.”