Fic: Earthly Delights
Dec. 19th, 2012 01:21 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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inthewildwoodTitle: Earthly Delights
Fandom: Stigmata
Summary: "Miss me?"
Rating: R
The thing about dating a scientist turned priest turned scientist again is that they tend to be on the move a lot. Particularly when they managed to spectacularly piss off the Vatican during that last priest-to-scientist transition, not to mention discovering that you’re some kind of weird reincarnation/posessee of a dead stigmatic who used you as a transmitter for a forbidden secret gospel. These are the kinds of things that make staying in one place a bit difficult, seeing as how their former employers are still deeply invested in suppressing the new gospel, and the people who actually believe in it (which they damn well better; it did almost kill you, after all) really want to come see you. Which you don’t exactly mind; you’re a bit doubtful that it helps them any, but Andrew seems to think it does, and he’s got more experience at this whole healing thing than you do. But what it all comes down to is that the Vatican-dodging, the affliction-healing and the general hecticness of life means you spend a lot of time on the move, together and apart.
On the bright side, it makes reunion sex really fucking hot.
“Miss me?” you tease as your hips bang against the wall paneling. You’re in a hotel room outside San Antonio- since Alameida worked in Brazil for so long, the people here seem especially anxious to have you come back. It’s not exactly a hardship. They’re equally eager to invite you to stay with them, but you turned that one down with an apologetic smile. Not that it wasn’t an incredibly generous offer, but you feel kind of weird staying in a place where everyone keeps looking at you like you’re about to hop up and walk across the pool. Besides, this is the first time you’ve seen Andrew in, like, three weeks, and your hosts probably don’t want to hear their new St. Francis having wallbanging sex in the next room. Some things really should stay between the messiah and her boyfriend.
“I believe the question is slightly reduntant,” he says. Considering he has both hands clenched around your hips and barely made it through the door before grabbing you, he has a point.
“Just checking.” You hitch a leg a little higher over his hip and are happy to hear him grunt in response. For some reason, the way he gets over you- specifically the heavy-breathing, hand-clenching, Jesus-fucking-Christ-you’re-gorgeous way- is simultaneously the sweetest and the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s because he tends to keep quiet and smile most of the time, while you’re more the babbly type, or maybe it’s because you like to push his buttons and watch him come undone in response. Either way, it’s pretty damn fun. In more ways than one.
You have a bed, which you haven’t made since you got up this morning- there’s maid service, but having people pick up after you feels weird, so you leave the Do Not Disturb sign up all day- but judging at the rate you’re going now, you won’t make it there. At least, not for round one. It’s been a long three weeks. Fortunately for the both of you, you’re wearing nothing but shorts and a camisole- can’t expect the flowing robes in this heat, after all- and he’s in the jeans and button-down shirt he flew in on. Your nipples are hard and poking against your shirt already, and if you stuck a hand down your shorts, you know you’d be so damn wet. And not from the heat, either. You decide to speed things up a bit, so you drag his shirt out of his belt, run a hand under it, and rake your nails down his shoulder. That does it. He yanks at your shoulder strap so hard it nearly breaks, and shoves his shirt off so hard that a few of the buttons do break and go pinging off into various corners of the room. Sometimes, you wonder how the hell he survived in the Vatican all those years; the collar really was wasted on him.
“Yes,” he says, face buried in your collarbone as he licks at a bead of sweat gathered there.
You crane your head to look at him. “Yes what?”
“Yes, I missed you.”
It’s ridiculously, almost tooth-rottingly sweet in the midst of all this, and you can’t help but pull his head up by the hair and kiss him properly, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip. He has a nice mouth. Knows how to use it, too. With your free hand, you dig under his belt, into his jeans, and- yep, he sure did miss you. You twist your hand in a way you know will do him in, and he groans and leans his head back, eyes closed, mouth parted so you can see his heavy breathing.
You are so fucking lucky.
But you’re not quite ready to let Round One be over yet, so you grab his hand and drag it down to your waistband. That’s all the push he needs. Rough fingers slide inside your panties and he, like you, knows exactly where to touch, so you’re coming with a yell and an exceptionally loud kick to the wall within seconds. This is why that staying-over option was such a bad idea.
You’re tempted to just slide down the wall- your legs feel shaky enough for it- but instead you unwrap your legs from his waist and stand on your own, as befits the messiah. The agnostic, unwed-sex-with-a-defrocked-priest-having messiah. The church might need to adjust their parameters a bit. Or they would, if they had any interest in acknowledging you as anything more than a paranoid schizophrenic. Well fuck them; this paranoid schizophrenic has an awesome life, an awesome boyfriend, and awesome sex.
Speaking of.
It’s a bit early for round two just yet, but not for more making out, and you really have missed his mouth. You let him carry you over to the bed and sit there straddling him, hands in his hair, pressing yourself as close to him as you can. He smells like sweat and incense and a faint whiff of cologne, and you’ve missed that too. Just like you’ve missed the feel of him under your hands, the rough edges of his denim shirt, the muscles of his arms and back- he’s damn built considering his line of work- and the way he shifts against you, working almost in tandem. You’ve gotten to know each other pretty well over the last few years, and you can predict his movements down to the second. Oddly enough, this never makes things boring; not only do you still find each other sexy, there’s an added kick that comes with knowing the other person well enough to get exactly what they want without them having to say it. Yeah, there was some spice to anonymous sex back in the day, but all things said and done, you prefer this by a mile. Not least which because it means he’s extra-surprised when you do this.
You wrap your leg a bit tighter around his hip, and before he has the chance to react, roll over, dragging him with you so he’s on top. “Wh-” he starts to say, but you shush him by putting a finger to his lips and wriggling in exactly the right place to get a reaction. He leans down and crushes his mouth against yours, and you let him, wrapping both arms around his neck. Reaction got.
You untangle your arms long enough to yank the camisole over your head and lean back, luxuriating in his mouth on your breasts. You let your fingers creep up his back, tracing lines around his shoulder blades and finally wrapping a hand around his neck, holding his head in place. Meanwhile, he’s yanking your shorts off, so you return the favour by unbuttoning his jeans and shoving them down to the floor. He climbs the rest of the way up onto the bed and lowers himself down, and- ah. Oh, that feels good. Hot and warm and full, and achy in the best possible way. The first time you did this, you rolled over afterwards and politely asked him why the hell he’d gone for years without, because not only did it seem physically impossible- there are men who do not enjoy making love to women, but Andrew Kiernan is not one of them- it was horribly unfair to an demographic who could have been hitting that like the fist of whatever god you picked. But then, maybe you should have been thanking him for that, because by the time he finally gave up that collar, he had a lot of time to make up for, and you weren’t exactly reluctant to help. Like now, for instance, as you nip at his shoulder and he grabs your waist and comes with a shout. He hasn’t forgotten you, though, and he slides a hand down between you and rubs, and you sink your teeth into his shoulder again. You figure you’ve made enough noise for one afternoon.
He pulls out and shifts over to the side, and you snuggle under his arm with a happy sigh. “So,” you say, “how was Brussels?”
A chuckle vibrates through him. “It was nice enough. A tad too wet for my tastes, and the situation didn’t really need my particular skills. I suspect the nuns were disappointed that you didn’t come with me.”
“Aww.” You nuzzle your nose against his shoulder. “Maybe next time. Wouldn’t want to disappoint the Sisters of Perpetual Sadness.”
“Perpetual Sorrow,” he corrects, though you suspect it’s more reflexive than anything else. “Maybe next time indeed. How are things here?”
“Good,” you say, propping yourself up on an elbow. “I still don’t- well you know how I feel about the whole healing thing. But the people who come by seem really happy to see me. Especially the kids- they keep tagging around after me when I leave. Maybe they think I’m going to start manifesting chocolate and candy instead of- what?” He’s resting his head on his arms and smiling in a way that’s part adorable, part disconcerting.
“The nuns did mention an orphanage,” he said, “on the outskirts of Anderlecht. They’ve been struggling financially, it seems, but if a stigmatic stopped by, well- pilgrims might find they have a greater incentive to stop by the church. And it would give the sisters a chance to meet you.”
You grin. “Vacation in Belgium?”
“That was the idea.”
“You’re on.”
Fandom: Stigmata
Summary: "Miss me?"
Rating: R
The thing about dating a scientist turned priest turned scientist again is that they tend to be on the move a lot. Particularly when they managed to spectacularly piss off the Vatican during that last priest-to-scientist transition, not to mention discovering that you’re some kind of weird reincarnation/posessee of a dead stigmatic who used you as a transmitter for a forbidden secret gospel. These are the kinds of things that make staying in one place a bit difficult, seeing as how their former employers are still deeply invested in suppressing the new gospel, and the people who actually believe in it (which they damn well better; it did almost kill you, after all) really want to come see you. Which you don’t exactly mind; you’re a bit doubtful that it helps them any, but Andrew seems to think it does, and he’s got more experience at this whole healing thing than you do. But what it all comes down to is that the Vatican-dodging, the affliction-healing and the general hecticness of life means you spend a lot of time on the move, together and apart.
On the bright side, it makes reunion sex really fucking hot.
* * * *
“Miss me?” you tease as your hips bang against the wall paneling. You’re in a hotel room outside San Antonio- since Alameida worked in Brazil for so long, the people here seem especially anxious to have you come back. It’s not exactly a hardship. They’re equally eager to invite you to stay with them, but you turned that one down with an apologetic smile. Not that it wasn’t an incredibly generous offer, but you feel kind of weird staying in a place where everyone keeps looking at you like you’re about to hop up and walk across the pool. Besides, this is the first time you’ve seen Andrew in, like, three weeks, and your hosts probably don’t want to hear their new St. Francis having wallbanging sex in the next room. Some things really should stay between the messiah and her boyfriend.
“I believe the question is slightly reduntant,” he says. Considering he has both hands clenched around your hips and barely made it through the door before grabbing you, he has a point.
“Just checking.” You hitch a leg a little higher over his hip and are happy to hear him grunt in response. For some reason, the way he gets over you- specifically the heavy-breathing, hand-clenching, Jesus-fucking-Christ-you’re-gorgeous way- is simultaneously the sweetest and the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s because he tends to keep quiet and smile most of the time, while you’re more the babbly type, or maybe it’s because you like to push his buttons and watch him come undone in response. Either way, it’s pretty damn fun. In more ways than one.
You have a bed, which you haven’t made since you got up this morning- there’s maid service, but having people pick up after you feels weird, so you leave the Do Not Disturb sign up all day- but judging at the rate you’re going now, you won’t make it there. At least, not for round one. It’s been a long three weeks. Fortunately for the both of you, you’re wearing nothing but shorts and a camisole- can’t expect the flowing robes in this heat, after all- and he’s in the jeans and button-down shirt he flew in on. Your nipples are hard and poking against your shirt already, and if you stuck a hand down your shorts, you know you’d be so damn wet. And not from the heat, either. You decide to speed things up a bit, so you drag his shirt out of his belt, run a hand under it, and rake your nails down his shoulder. That does it. He yanks at your shoulder strap so hard it nearly breaks, and shoves his shirt off so hard that a few of the buttons do break and go pinging off into various corners of the room. Sometimes, you wonder how the hell he survived in the Vatican all those years; the collar really was wasted on him.
“Yes,” he says, face buried in your collarbone as he licks at a bead of sweat gathered there.
You crane your head to look at him. “Yes what?”
“Yes, I missed you.”
It’s ridiculously, almost tooth-rottingly sweet in the midst of all this, and you can’t help but pull his head up by the hair and kiss him properly, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip. He has a nice mouth. Knows how to use it, too. With your free hand, you dig under his belt, into his jeans, and- yep, he sure did miss you. You twist your hand in a way you know will do him in, and he groans and leans his head back, eyes closed, mouth parted so you can see his heavy breathing.
You are so fucking lucky.
But you’re not quite ready to let Round One be over yet, so you grab his hand and drag it down to your waistband. That’s all the push he needs. Rough fingers slide inside your panties and he, like you, knows exactly where to touch, so you’re coming with a yell and an exceptionally loud kick to the wall within seconds. This is why that staying-over option was such a bad idea.
You’re tempted to just slide down the wall- your legs feel shaky enough for it- but instead you unwrap your legs from his waist and stand on your own, as befits the messiah. The agnostic, unwed-sex-with-a-defrocked-priest-having messiah. The church might need to adjust their parameters a bit. Or they would, if they had any interest in acknowledging you as anything more than a paranoid schizophrenic. Well fuck them; this paranoid schizophrenic has an awesome life, an awesome boyfriend, and awesome sex.
Speaking of.
It’s a bit early for round two just yet, but not for more making out, and you really have missed his mouth. You let him carry you over to the bed and sit there straddling him, hands in his hair, pressing yourself as close to him as you can. He smells like sweat and incense and a faint whiff of cologne, and you’ve missed that too. Just like you’ve missed the feel of him under your hands, the rough edges of his denim shirt, the muscles of his arms and back- he’s damn built considering his line of work- and the way he shifts against you, working almost in tandem. You’ve gotten to know each other pretty well over the last few years, and you can predict his movements down to the second. Oddly enough, this never makes things boring; not only do you still find each other sexy, there’s an added kick that comes with knowing the other person well enough to get exactly what they want without them having to say it. Yeah, there was some spice to anonymous sex back in the day, but all things said and done, you prefer this by a mile. Not least which because it means he’s extra-surprised when you do this.
You wrap your leg a bit tighter around his hip, and before he has the chance to react, roll over, dragging him with you so he’s on top. “Wh-” he starts to say, but you shush him by putting a finger to his lips and wriggling in exactly the right place to get a reaction. He leans down and crushes his mouth against yours, and you let him, wrapping both arms around his neck. Reaction got.
You untangle your arms long enough to yank the camisole over your head and lean back, luxuriating in his mouth on your breasts. You let your fingers creep up his back, tracing lines around his shoulder blades and finally wrapping a hand around his neck, holding his head in place. Meanwhile, he’s yanking your shorts off, so you return the favour by unbuttoning his jeans and shoving them down to the floor. He climbs the rest of the way up onto the bed and lowers himself down, and- ah. Oh, that feels good. Hot and warm and full, and achy in the best possible way. The first time you did this, you rolled over afterwards and politely asked him why the hell he’d gone for years without, because not only did it seem physically impossible- there are men who do not enjoy making love to women, but Andrew Kiernan is not one of them- it was horribly unfair to an demographic who could have been hitting that like the fist of whatever god you picked. But then, maybe you should have been thanking him for that, because by the time he finally gave up that collar, he had a lot of time to make up for, and you weren’t exactly reluctant to help. Like now, for instance, as you nip at his shoulder and he grabs your waist and comes with a shout. He hasn’t forgotten you, though, and he slides a hand down between you and rubs, and you sink your teeth into his shoulder again. You figure you’ve made enough noise for one afternoon.
He pulls out and shifts over to the side, and you snuggle under his arm with a happy sigh. “So,” you say, “how was Brussels?”
A chuckle vibrates through him. “It was nice enough. A tad too wet for my tastes, and the situation didn’t really need my particular skills. I suspect the nuns were disappointed that you didn’t come with me.”
“Aww.” You nuzzle your nose against his shoulder. “Maybe next time. Wouldn’t want to disappoint the Sisters of Perpetual Sadness.”
“Perpetual Sorrow,” he corrects, though you suspect it’s more reflexive than anything else. “Maybe next time indeed. How are things here?”
“Good,” you say, propping yourself up on an elbow. “I still don’t- well you know how I feel about the whole healing thing. But the people who come by seem really happy to see me. Especially the kids- they keep tagging around after me when I leave. Maybe they think I’m going to start manifesting chocolate and candy instead of- what?” He’s resting his head on his arms and smiling in a way that’s part adorable, part disconcerting.
“The nuns did mention an orphanage,” he said, “on the outskirts of Anderlecht. They’ve been struggling financially, it seems, but if a stigmatic stopped by, well- pilgrims might find they have a greater incentive to stop by the church. And it would give the sisters a chance to meet you.”
You grin. “Vacation in Belgium?”
“That was the idea.”
“You’re on.”
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