open post.

[mund]

GEN/NSFW/TFLN/TEXTS/STARTERS/PROMPTS from canonmates/non-canonmates most welcome.

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[mund]

[ Here's the juicy little secret, the thing they don't tell you in Catechism, in your entire blessed lifetime: you are all. fucking. damned. That's the entire premise of grace and salvation, isn't it? You had to be a wretched piece of shit, or else the magic just isn't there. Graves knows that to his bones, of course -- being a priest lets you be two things: a holier-than-thou motherfucker (sometimes not literally, it all depends on how much you like the Madonna, and no, not the singer) or someone who's acutely aware of what's coming for you and it isn't seventy two virgins and a big house in the clouds. No, your destination's way down south.

Graves is very carefully neither, but he has his duties and his obligations (even if he sometimes doubts there's anyone out there at all), and he fulfills his duties with a severity and tenacity that will shame even the most hardened Puritans. But he's not without weakness, especially not when the biggest one comes in the form of a lanky, tall, and hunched young man with fine cheekbones and a generous mouth, with a general disposition that suggests that his mother keeps him firmly under her thumb, and cruelly so.

Credence Barebone. Graves is inexplicably kinder to him, for reasons that he's evidently realizing -- reasons aren't all platonically altruistic, reasons that have everything to do with the shy flutter of those eyelashes, the occasional pursing of those lips, the shy, awkwardly ardent nature of Credence's overtures. There is no doubt about it, the boy is both beautiful and tortured, which is all the more personally perplexing when Graves has historically never been inclined to favor any of those things.

Things get steadily worse when Graves wakes at night, mired in obscenely sensuous dreams, self-control shot to pieces by the threads of desire, need, because God made man and God made him so fucking flawed that he prays when he wraps his hand around his cock and he prays when he thinks of Credence's mouth around his dick, of him sinking deep into that tight, tight hole and he prays when he comes in a whisper of his name, buried in sin.

He's damned. Of course he is.

He asks for forgiveness the first six, seven, eight times it happens. Nine onwards, there's no 'first' anymore, and he stops asking. He lets it sit with him, this filthy little thing, this hobgoblin of the soul that reminds him how he wants more than anything to fuck Credence Barebone into the mattress, and on occasion he's half-certain Credence knows, that perhaps lust has a smell to it that he's already picked up, especially today. Graves doesn't miss the anxiety during this particular lesson, and when he excuses himself the priest gives him a grace period of four, five minutes.

He enters the empty bathroom on the sixth, surprised to see him there instead of locked away in a stall. ]

Are you all right?

[insidiose]

[ credence has dreams too. these are so much more vivid than his daytime imaginings, visions of the both of them tangled together with father graves above him, weighing him down, filling him in a way he can't even hope to accurately imagine and whispering filthy things into his ear that make credence arch against him and moan. he always wakes sweaty, heated, and hard. at first he'd tried to simply calm himself down and go back to sleep but night after night of waking with an ache in him he gives in, curling his fingers around his cock and thinking about the older man's body against his, imagining it's his hand wrapped around him instead and he always comes with his face hidden against his shoulder and a muffled mumble of father on his lips. every night he desperately cleans himself and the bed before he can be caught out in the morning. once, he'd done it huddled in the bathroom here hurried and desperate but it had made him feel so dirty and anxious that he couldn't bring himself to do it again.

perhaps it's funny on a cosmic level that they have such a similarity. credence never stops praying afterward then, begging for forgiveness.

credence's only experiences with anything are these moments and a series of clumsy kisses with another boy hidden away from prying eyes. but that had ended as quickly as it had started and he tries to forget it now that it's gone. it's not worth thinking about—his focus is elsewhere now anyway.

that focus has just walked through the door to find him.

credence startles visibly at the sound of father graves' voice and he looks at him guiltily, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. what if you had been touching yourself here again, a cruel part of his brain whispers, and his face immediately flushes red. ] I—

Yes, [ his voice is wavering slightly, nervous and shamed as he looks just slightly askance from the older man, but he's trying to not sound like he's lying. ] yes, I'm all right. I just didn't feel well for a moment, I'm sorry. [ sorry for thinking of you like that, sorry for sinning so much while i do, sorry, sorry, sorry ]

—Father Graves? [ it's blurted out suddenly before he can stop it. ] What are you supposed to do when you can't stop thinking about things that are sinful? I've prayed and I've prayed but nothing is helping. [ a heavy admission, and especially one outside of confession, but perhaps an understandable one for someone his age. certainly it doesn't mean he's talking about the man before him... right? ]