Thread by @DorisDuksozz

Ok but catholic #sheith posts got me by the navel and for some reason I was thinking about rosaries otw to work this morning and now I have Priest!Shiro who went into seminary because he couldn't shake his desire for slender, small men with big eyes and he knows god is testing

him when he finds himself the Priest at Keith's small parish church.

Keith's family is /devout/ and Keith is a fierce young man with a penchant for fighting and finding himself in trouble. As far as Shiro can tell, he usually gets into fights in defense of others, though he

/does/ have a rather...caustic...tongue, Shiro has to admit, but he doesn't think the young man has ever done anything truly /bad/.

Still, Keith's family keeps dragging him to Shiro's metaphorical doorstep, keeps coming to him, begging Shiro for his help in saving their son.

Shiro feels woefully ill equipped to be taking confession and trying to guide a man who makes Shiro himself need to confess sins of lust and desire more mornings than not. Even as he tries to control his mind, in sleep, Shiro's body always betrays him.

But, Shiro would never

act on his impulses, that's what brought him closer to god in the first place. The need to set aside what he knows to be wrong and seek gods forgiveness.

Every second of every day, if that's what it takes.

That's what he was taught. It's what he believes.

Until the day Keith

shows up in his church, in his confessional, early, too early, in the morning, and Shiro would swear he can smell blood through the partition and his worry stops him from being able to pretend he doesn't know who is huddled on the other side.

"Keith?" Shiro's voice is soft with

worry and he can feel the way Keith flinches back, can hear the muffled crying Keith is trying to hide in his knees. Shiro's voice is firmer when he says, "I'm coming over, I'm coming in."

And maybe that's when he crossed the line. Later, he will ask himself many times when he

lost control.

Keith looks up at him, with the widest eyes Shiro's ever beheld, red rimmed and flooded with tears and sparkling like the sky at night and Shiro knows he shouldn't be forcing himself into the small space with Keith, but his concern overrides everything he clings

to, those eyes, that crumpled face a lure that has him hooked, reeling, and he just barely stops himself from wiping the tears from Keith's cheeks.

He's obviously been fighting but Shiro has never seen him so upset after, Keith has never been the one to seek /him/ out.

"What is it?" Shiro breathes into the smaller man's space, trying to crouch low, make his bulk comforting instead of intimidating.

Keith's laugh is derisive, face twisting into something angry and scared and self loathing, "I was hoping you could tell me."

Shiro blinks, owlish

in his confusion.

"What-- What's /wrong/ with me?" Keith's voice wavers and his eyes are swimming but so incredibly fierce, full of life and confusion and desperation, "Why do I do what I do and want what I want and why does it have to be /wrong/?"

His voice is so small, spoken

into his knees, that Shiro almost misses it. He doesn't know why his heart is hammering so hard in his chest but he recognizes the grief, the dissonance between what Keith feels and what he has been taught to believe he should feel, as something he is still struggling to control

within himself and he murmurs, "Oh, Keith," cards his fingers through the younger man's unruly, silken hair before he can stop himself.

Shiro prays the gesture comes off as soothing instead of what it is. A sign of his own sinful shortcomings.

"What is it you feel so wrong in

wanting, in doing?" And the second Shiro asks for Keith's confession, the second Shiro realizes his own desires sound transparent in his words, the second the heat of Keith's gaze lands on him, he wishes he could swallow back down the words.

Shiro should never have left the

sanctum of his side. He shouldn't have come here - a few feet of distance, a barrier, however flimsy, has allowed him to keep up this farce.

But this is too close, too real, too personal - this is too resemblant of the dreams that plague his sleep and his cock stirs beneath his

robes.

Shiro knows he will never be done atoning for this moment.

Knows he can't stop it now that it is in motion.

Knows he doesn't want to when Keith looks up at him, his eyes hot, his mouth swollen around a split lip, Keith goes to open his mouth but nothing comes out.

Keith's voice fails him, internalized shame stealing his ability to speak the right words, to understand what it is he wants to say.

A hushed whisper, "Everything. Everything I want is wrong." And then Keith is sobbing into his knees again and Shiro's heart is breaking so he

gathers Keith's trembling body and holds it against his own, waits for him to still.

Neither of them are comfortable and neither would want to be anywhere else.

They don't speak much more that night, Shiro tells Keith to pray, to trust in god, and self-flagellates until he

can barely lift his arms.

Keith comes more and more often after that.

At night, during the day, sometimes he seems troubled, other times hopeful, but rarely does he seek Shiro out as his Priest, more often, Shiro feels, it seems Keith seeks him out as a friend.

Shiro tells

himself there is nothing wrong with that and knows that everything is wrong with that. But Keith's family is happy and he isn't fighting so much anymore and Shiro atones and atones and atones for the time they spend together. For the things he thinks and wants and doesn't prevent

from happening, until the night he finds Keith crying in his confessional, again, and Shiro thinks he smells alcohol instead of blood this time and his heart is hammering hard enough to shatter every one of his ribs when he asks Keith, "What is it, my child?"

Keith's voice is

rough with tears and slurred with drink and he begs for Shiro's forgiveness, not gods.

"I can't help if you don't tell me what it is that troubles you so. What is it you want?"

Keith looks at him straight through the screen, eyes alight and stubborn and wanting, and he

confesses, "You."

And Shiro stops breathing.

"I want /you/, Shiro."

And Shiro can't breathe.

"And I can't stop."

And Shiro's head fills with white noise.

Shiro doesn’t know when Keith crossed over to his side, just knows he comes back to himself as Keith is pressing his slender body to Shiro’s, face pressing into Shiro’s chest like a brand, hot despite all the layers between them, and then he is lost again, halfway to wrecked

already as he fists his hands at his sides and tries with every ounce of willpower and crumbling self-control he has not to touch, not to pull the other man closer, not to break every single vow that has been holding Shiro together.

“Keith--” Shiro feels like he’s drowning on

air now that he is breathing again - great, shuddering breaths as he tries to regain control, “/Keith/,” Shiro gasps, his hands finally flying open, reaching out, /touching/, wrapping themselves around Keith’s upper arms at Keith presses up and against, his small hands closing in

Shiro’s robes, trying to pull Shiro closer, practically climbing him, “I can’t, we--” Shiro grits out – more to himself than Keith. “Please,” he begs, more to god than anyone present.

Keith is as lost in the moment as he is, as unaware of what to do, how to act, how to ask,

despite being consumed by wanton lust and greedy desire and he presses himself as tight as he can to Shiro, Shiro trapped between his small frame and the wooden paneling of the confessional wall and he wrests himself high enough to press his face into Shiro’s throat.

That small amount of contact cracking every bit of Shiro’s resolve, dealing a damning blow to Shiro’s need to believe this is wrong when everything in his life suddenly feels /right/ for the first time ever.

Skin finally meeting skin has both of them as gasping, grasping,

and Keith presses his words directly /into/ Shiro, a challenge, a plea, “Stop me. Tell me this is wrong,” and Shiro’s mouth works soundlessly, his hands clutching tighter to Keith’s arms and he is going to bruise him and neither of them care, “Tell me you don’t want this,” Keith

demands, begs, because he can’t stop himself from wanting, from /needing/, from knowing that he’s going to hell and finding it impossible to care in this moment.

“I can’t,” Shiro whispers, broken by his own need, his own traitorous want. “I /can’t/,” Shiro whispers again, as his

resolve crumbles beneath the weight of Keith’s wet mouth, his words, his aching. And Shiro knows he is damned, knows he always has been, knows he is damning Keith along with him.

And he knows he should care about Keith’s immortal soul, finds that it is just one more thing he isn’t capable of in this moment, and he keens brokenly as he crushes Keith against him.

Shiro is now the one burying his face in Keith neck, trying to hide from himself as much as

trying to get closer to Keith, and neither of them know how long they stay like that. Clutching to each other, breathing each other, settling into each other even as they burn with a shame as all-consuming as their lust, even as they acknowledge they can no longer deny their

lecherous natures, their perverse desires, if only internally, if only for each other.

“Kiss me,” Keith mouths, breath ghosting against Shiro’s cheek, and Shiro wants to tell Keith that he has never, that he can’t possibly, but he /can/, because he is before his brain has caught

up with his treacherous body.

Shiro is pressing his dry, chapped lips to Keith’s plump, wet mouth and thinking this is what heaven must be like. Thinks if he can never have heaven in the afterlife, he’ll take what he can get of it in this one, and inhales Keith’s sweet,

mewling sigh.

The kiss is chaste, closed mouthed and brief and more electrifying than any other experience in Shiro’s life. Keith presses his face back into Shiro’s chest, hiding his flushed face, his giddy smile, his intense pleasure over such a simple thing.

This is wrong, this is /wrong/, they both keep reminding themselves, even as they find it impossible to pull away.

Eventually, the sun rises and reality comes creeping back and they force themselves to pull away from each other, from the quiet comfort and understanding and

acceptance of their shared embrace.

“Keith—“
“Shiro—“

They both start, stop, laugh, end up saying nothing.

They both start, stop, laugh, end up saying nothing.

Keith goes home and kisses his mother’s cheek and does his work and thinks of strong arms and stormy eyes and soft kisses and wonders why god would deem this incredible, beautiful, flying feeling in his chest wrong.

Shiro goes to his room and doesn’t come out until there is no flesh across the back of his shoulders, until he has said so many Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s and repented until his voice leaves him.

But the desire. The desire stays.

And every movement, every twinge of pain, every agonizing scrape of his vocal chords in his throat, of his ruined flesh against fabric, dredges up every filthy fantasy he has ever had about Keith and drags him further and further from god.

The rituals of service, the routine of his role, had always brought Shiro comfort. It was meditative, prayer in action, his duty to his congregation, to honor their souls.

Keith had torn all that asunder, Shiro knew no comfort, had no honor, possessed only by thoughts of the

other man. By visions of what he can barely conceptualize wanting to do with their mouths and hands and bodies.

There were services he'd swear he spoke entirely into Keith's eyes. He burned hotter and hotter beneath Keith's gaze, even as shame flooded every part of his being.

He felt certain everyone must know but no one in the parish acted any different, ever looked at him askance, and it made them both bold.

For months it was enough just to tangle their limbs together, first fully clothed and then without all the extra bulk of Shiro's robes itchy

between them. Sometimes they would kiss, haphazard and shy, hands unsure as they fluttered about each other's bodies, skimmed over each other's faces, stayed clutched fiercely at their sides.

But they grew less and less timid, their hands more sure, their mouths roving and hot.

Keith always sighed so softly against him, his body pliant and lax and so, so surrendering it made something hard and possessive and hungry take control of Shiro's hands and his teeth and soon it becomes harder and harder to part after just a few hours spent talking, petting over

soft arms, legs and neck, eventually discovering hips and stomach, back and thighs. To stop and remember to breathe instead of devour each other as mouths find pleasure where hands had previously found purchase.

Keith never confesses to Shiro and Shiro does penance for both

their souls.

But he doesn't stop it.

Shiro doesn't have it in himself to turn Keith away.
Keith is too in love for the shame of coming to Shiro, again and again, to take root.

The first time Keith arches up against Shiro, coming against him with a breathless cry, Shiro knows

he /can't/ stop it. He won't.

That uprooting Keith from his heart would just as surely kill him as save him.

They are dressed in their underwear, Keith pinned beneath Shiro, sunk into the modest mattress of the modest bed of Shiro's modest room, Keith's hands trapped, wrists

held fast in one of Shiro's large hands so he can't accidently grip at Shiro's fleshless shoulders. Shiro's other hand is wrapped loosely around Keith's neck, thumb tilting Keith's head at the right angle for the kiss to be deep and slick and heady, Shiro fucking his tongue

greedily in and out of Keith's mouth and Keith's hips stutter the same rolling rhythm out against Shiro's thick thigh.

He sounds shocked, eyes blissed out and mouth slackening and Shiro is ruined by the beauty he has here, on earth, in his own two hands.

This, Shiro thinks, is

why he's always stopped them from going so far. Shiro is still hard as a rock and he knows he can't live without more of this already, Keith's boneless, warm body beneath him more addictive than any benediction.

He presses words of absolution against Keith's flesh, licks him

clean with his tongue and his devotion and his own release comes with Keith's hands in his hair, Keith's belly quivering beneath Shiro's mouth, Keith moaning Shiro's name like he knows no other god.

Shiro's mouth is full of the taste of him, his heart ablaze with want for more

and he thinks he is starting to understand what makes this thing between them so wrong, so dangerous.

They have only just begun and Shiro would already give up everything, in this life and every other, to stay by his side, to keep him safe, to see him smile, to hear his voice

thick with want, breathy with delight, heavy with Shiro's name, and know that nothing could take it from him.

A deal with the devil sounds like a bargain to Shiro the first time Keith pushes him down on the bench of a pew, drops to his knees, sucks Shiro into his mouth and moans

like he's touched heaven as Shiro's cock knocks against the back of his throat. Keith is trying to go easy but he's so eager and Shiro's hands fisted in Keith's hair, a litany of Hail Mary's falling continuously from Shiro's lips even as he tries not to thrust up into Keith's

wethotwanting mouth, lips soundlessly forming the words even as he is coming hard and fast into Keith's wethotwanting mouth.

Shiro tries to keep himself from thinking what other parts of Keith are wet and hot and wanting.

He fails miserably.

So miserably that he pulls Keith up, one fist in Keith's shirt collar, the other hand tight around his slender shoulder, his lust making him rough as he puts Keith where Shiro wants him.

Shiro pushes Keith's trousers and underwear down in one go, holding tight to Keith's hip

to help him balance, knees on either side of Shiro's lap and pale thighs spread so wide.

The sounds Keith had been unable to stifle in the past leave Shiro woefully underprepared for what breaks loose from Keith's throat the first time Shiro lifts him, a palm cupping each cheek

and spreading him open against Shiro's face, any hesitation in that first taste, that first brush of his tongue over Keith's opening evaporating as Keith's back bowed, arching and pressing mindlessly into Shiro's mouth, straight into the heart of Shiro's desires, mouth round and

perfect and /screaming/ wordlessly as Keith's hands clutch at the top of the pew.

Shiro gives no sign of stopping, pulling Keith closer even as he is moving unerringly toward Shiro, but Keith is begging him already all the same.

Shiro feels full, high, drunk, desperately

powerful as Keith begs and cries out his name and writhes and promises Shiro anything, everything, as long as he doesn't stop, never stops, and Shiro slicks his tongue deeper, holds Keith so close Shiro is suffocating himself, and barely notices as he comes again, unable to hold

back as Keith quivers and squirms against him and around him and clenches and /pulses/ as his release rains down over them.

Shiro cradles Keith in his lap until he comes back to himself in a pew that reeks of sex and release and their shared sins.

Keith presses small, shy

kisses into Shiro's throat, sighs and pets at Shiro's chest, and let's himself be held for as long as they dare.

Shiro cleans the pew wearing a rough, burlap-sack robe, it chafes and burns over his whipped shoulders and torn ribs and raw thighs.

And all Shiro can think about

is the dark, unexpected taste of Keith and what it would feel like to stroke him to release with his fingers, instead. To be able to see Keith's beautiful face as he falls apart for Shiro.

He let's himself think, for the briefest of moments, what it might be like to join with

Keith there, how hot and tight and, oh, god, the sounds he might make /then/ and Shiro's whole body shudders, hands and arms and faith trembling as he cleans the pew, again and again and again.

Until he is certain the only traces of their submission to earthly delights are

those buried beneath their skin, seared into their memories, branded on their souls.

His body aches, he doesn't sleep well, fasts for gods forgiveness of the sin he marks Keith with almost daily now, and feels reality tilting beneath his feet as he readies himself for Mass.

Shiro isn't sure when Keith stopped bowing his head in supplication, when he stopped giving any pretense of closing his eyes and seeking gods blessing or forgiveness or understanding, when he began holding his head high, gaze never leaving Shiro, twin flames of devotion & desire

blazing in his dark eyes like comets streaking across the night sky.

Keith has ever been headstrong, utterly /in/ or completely /out/, and having to choose between the right or the wrong of what he feels for Shiro, he let go of god entirely, deciding somewhere along the way

he would worship at Shiro's feet and Shiro's feet alone.

Keith has sworn himself, body and soul, to Shiro, and Shiro will never forget his fascinated horror and disgusted titillation the first time Keith swirls his tongue and sucks at Shiro's finger while accepting the host.

Shiro's gasp is inaudible, all the air within him evaporating in the same millisecond all his blood lunges for his cock.

Keith's eyes are gleefully wicked and the moment only lasts the barest few seconds but Shiro is hard beneath his robes as he delivers the rest of the

congregations sacraments, going through the motions on autopilot while his brain replays the soft suck of Keith's slick mouth around his finger on loop.

By the end of the service Shiro's been hard for so long it's painful, his erection weeping, crying out its need for release.

Shiro searches for Keith after Mass but he is nowhere to be found. Shiro is too hot and beyond horny and feels silly worrying about why Keith chose not to come to him that night.

He finds himself rutting into his own fist in that modest bedroom of his, chasing his own release

with thoughts of Keith, /his Keith/, and failing for the first time to agonize over Keith's relationship with the holy father and the utter damnation of his soul at Shiro's hands - and mouth.

Failing, for the first time, not to immediately seek absolution after, instead

missing Keith's warmth, his steadying presence, the easy simplicity of his company.

He falls asleep, hand still wrapped around his softened cock, head full of Keith.

Shiro dreams of an angry, vengeful god, one that slings sulfur and brimstone, condemning the same love he

offers when one hand, the other hidden behind his back and drenched in a poison there is no cure for.

Shiro wakes, shaking and trying to remind himself how to breathe, and he is certain this is gods way of reminding him of what he isn't meant to have.

Keith is half a town away, still tasting the eucharist and Shiro on his tongue and rubbing at his half hard cock lazily.

He wants, /wants/ so much, so deep, he knows he can't satisfy his own desires, that all he can do is stoke the flames and stroke himself and dream of Shiro,

always of Shiro.

Keith knows Shiro will be wondering where he is, that Shiro will be wanting for Keith the same way Keith is longing for him, and steels his resolve.

Shiro needs to let go his shame, Keith thinks. Let it go so he can hold Keith properly, fully, in both hands.

Keith presses his smile to his pillow, sighing Shiro's name as he palms at himself harder, rubbing and rocking and reaching for his release as a highlight reel of Shiro's sexiest moments plays behind his eyes.

He moans Shiro's name as he climaxes, loud and wanton and without

guilt.

If Keith still believed in god, he'd have to believe god meant for them to be together, for them to love one another, and for a moment thinks maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be an instrument of god's will, if it meant loving Shiro got to be his life's purpose instead of

merely his reason for living.

@threadreaderapp unroll