#lowkey want to write a prequel but dont know if anybody wants that

[plasticfangtastic]

Cozy Corner Kinktober Day 26 (day 4 for me)

Prompts: 2. Gloves, 28. Uniform (clerical clothes), Kink of choice-- collar sort of

When the Lion loved the lamb

A/N: This is a lil’ fic request from @digitalbath2008 after seeing some of my horny posting– hope you like it!, also probably my last for kinktober hopefully I can do more next yr! The OC in this fic is from my original novel/WIP and has been modified to fit this work– his faceclaim is nikolaj coster-waldau if that helps.

Word Count: 3.4 K approx

TW: Priest kink, smut, angst, sex in sacred/religious grounds which I understand might be upsetting for some, not proofread, top homelander, dilf, blood, older man, OC characther, age gap-- HL is in his mid 20's and OC is mid/late 40s, moral corruption.

Sypnosis: Homelander seeks the only absolution he can receive.

Warm afternoon glow paints every inch of the empty parish with speckles of blues and greens, coloring the worn down carpet, hanging lights flicker off– ignoring him all together.

The room smells of old wood, paper and mold.

Yet he does not dare leave, the stale air sticky on his throat, sticks to him more than the narrow walls– the place so small is a cage, a cage filled with frankincense. 

Kneeling in-between chipped and scratched pews, ancient tomes rest in their seat behind him untouched, he whispers words in hopes they would reach something in the ether.

“He doesn’t listen.” 

He turns to the light voice, carrying an old jade vase in tow putting it down with a silent thud, the struggling breeze barely pushes the light skirt fabric of his cassock, his sight creeps slowly towards his face, and the dust stain on the tips of his white gloves– he swallows without relief, his throat its dry and scratchy, he tries to speak but no sounds leaves him as the man takes two steps down from the raised podium– his step has no meaningful weight to it yet the floorboards creak beneath the dull carpet regardless.

“There’s no one there listening to you.”

Cornflower blues meet dry pastures– there’s no light in those eyes, no warmth or life these eyes have come from the other side, lifeless and far away as if they’ve only ever lived within death, his skin is sickly and sun burnt, pale as the long blonde locks coming loose around his temple, as he looks down his old golden frames slide down his long nose.

Homelander counted the few wrinkles on his face-- time had been most kind to him even more to his face than it had been before painting white strokes down his temples, he thinks the pale locks would turn white before his face looked his age.

Homelander wants to answer and argue, to chastise him yet his tongue swells as the man reaches his side, placing an unamused hand on the back of the pew before him.

“What is it that you seek, my son? Service has ended for the evening.” He says softly, his voice is as light as a dried stream– Wanted to converse with our father? Not that it would have mattered… he looks away when he sees you.”

The heat brings the cries of cicadas, louder than the winds breaking through the cracks of the old building.

Homelander drowns in air, unable to speak and breathe, his throat aches, he wants anything to soothe and scratch the discomfort.

“I done… I done something bad.” He manages to speak, pushing the painful drought inside him.

Every inch of his body trembles, staring at his naked hands that reek of blood and flames, that reek of disease.

White fingers slither their way home atop his crossed thumbs, giving them a meaningless squeeze, Homelander barely gasps as if all the strength has been robbed out of his being, he feels every muscle on his hand succumb to the touch of cotton.

He swallows, finding some semblance of relief, the knot unbearable, but he seeks the deluded reprieve after all.

His eyes close shut as that left hand draws a cross on his forehead, whimpering as they abandon him again, tilting his head forward chasing his touch once more but meeting the vacantness of his stare once more.

“Bless me father… It has been so long… so long since I last came.” His voice cracks.

“Why?” He mutters.

“I carry this disease in me… I cannot stop… I cannot… I don’t want to stop… I dunno” He cries– it's the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore. The only warmth I have… but I’m so cold… so empty… yet am full of all these bad things.” he sobs, panting so hard his throat closes after every word.

His eyes sting and blur, and the pain in his throat travels down burying roots in his chest, digging and stabbing and twisting into his lungs until there’s no air left in the world, wheezing, desperate for mortal relief, trembling under his firm hand.

He cups his face with that firm hand, tilting his chin until he’s facing him completely, his body puppetered and steered until he it's clinging on the black threads, his eyelashes glued to each other as he tears up, a weary nervous smile creeps on his face as the touch stays for longer, as his other hand caresses his cheeks, pushing his hair back before burying itself inside wheat fields.

Crooking his neck until it's painful, never making a sound as his nails scratch at the rabat wrapped around his waist in return, desperate to tug and tear apart the woolen cloth.

“Father… please… help me… help me…”

There’s blood clinging to hair– he reeks of death and steel, the once sparkling gold is dulled under the life of another, Homelander eyes are desperate, tears flowing shamelessly as his voice shreds, he leans downwards craning slightly as he pulls him.

There’s no smile on this holy man’s face– all he knows is that he sears his lips shut, his kiss is a flash wildfire, but the flame doesn’t cleanse anything for its too short, too chaste, too pure for him, he sees the red on those soft lips, Homelander’s own tongue licks at the impurity wanting to cleanse the holy man on behalf of God.

He wants more, he yearns and hungers for more, he wishes to be set ablaze, to be consumed by the flame held back on this man’s tongue, he wants nothing more but to be born from the ashes left at his feet.

“Are you seeking absolution?” He speaks into him– penance? You think God will give you any of that, my lost son?” His words are heavy yet are nothing but whispers only for this young man’s ears– I don’t think he will, John.”

John whimpers, tethering the edge before he bawls and drops to the ground, before he loses it all, but John is held firmly, his hands are the only thing with enough strength to yaw him before it's too late, with enough power to help him– yet they do not touch him, hid behind the flimsy cotton, they do not wish to touch him.

He is dirty. He’s carrying illness. 

Touching him will contaminate him, stain him, soil him.

He who is the only pure thing left… he cannot pollute him, The holy man thinks.

“Is okay… I’ll take all your sins… mortal and venial… I’ll take everything for you… for you who our heavenly father has turned away from… for you whom the only mother you’ll ever have cries for… I’ll take it all for you… so you can still bask in their light… so you have no shames nor guilts left– just as I promised.”

Homelander can only smile lightly, his lips trembling still.

The cicadas scream.

His lips drink him whole, Homelander chips at the wood, carving half-moons into the old bench, biting his lips raw– The older man's rawness gnawing at him, like everything else in this miserable agony, it gnaws at him, it carves a deep pain, that never leaves him, never grows dull, a pain that seeks to consume him and reshape him.

He takes the pain with him, he takes all this guilt with his kisses.

It will get worse before it gets better– Homelander thinks.

The cicadas fade behind the sound of his mouth, the quiet ditty of his tongue cloaked behind his endless gasps, he looks down and away, at the dissarrey of rows that he had pushed to make way for him, he looks down not wanting to shame him but he cannot stop… he knows ultimately that he would take all his sins with him including these…  his gaze catching the whiffling wheat coming undone, biting at his fingers unsure of where to go, wanting to bury them on his skin, to meld into him.

His gaze is as endless as the heavens– drool coats his cock, his long flat tongue cleans after himself, he takes him with ease, not gagging, not choking, he takes him as if he’s the very air that he breathes, Homelander can’t look away anymore… All he wants is to watch this spectacle– to see those lips kiss him and pleasure him, he wants to feel all the coldness fade away as he spreads the flames with all his permission.

As his head bobs, Homelander bloodied fingers meet silk, earning a muffled moan.

He comes as his lovers reaction reverberates inside him, knocking his head back like a broken spring as he cries and moans, seeing sprinkles of white before his sight returns.

“Father… Father Amarello, I'm sorry.” There’s nothing to clean him with, but the man doesn’t want it, his messied hair soaked in sweat sticks to his forehead, his cheeks flushed and his collar damp, he offers a sight reserved only for Homelander his tongue holding sin infused seed before swallowing it as if taste sweet like syrup– are you alright?”

“Do you feel empty?” He asks, resting his chin against the padded thigh, his gloved hand giving his half-limp member a couple demanding pumps– have you given me all your sins, my son?”

There’s nothing he wants more in the whole world than for God to let him feel his skin against his own, to feel his nimble fingers pamper him, but no matter how much burdens he willingly harbors on his behalf, that he willingly takes to save Homelander core… he would not touch him with raw.

“… it’s all too heavy.” He whimpers behind pants.

His is a sad smile, jittery knees lift him, planting short kisses, that never grow deep– their tongues are strangers on first name basis. Kissing his forehead, Homelander almost crumbles beneath him, as the hands hold him as if he’s worth more than gold.

As if he’s frail when it's this mortal man with janky knees and unexplained pains that is frail.

As frail as every person that has withered on his hands.

But he’s not… he has transcendent… he it's the link he has left to heaven.

He takes that vile hand that’s mixed with his own scent and what used to be somebody, kissing its heel distracting him enough to have unnoticed the new opening of his cassock, rabat discarded on a pew’s back, he takes that hand and lets him touch naked skin, letting him feel the warm pit that had formed in his navel.

Homelander finds himself holding Father Amarello’s thigh pushing him towards himself, as his hand explores what little it has, feeling the creamy skin, as he pushes more buttons to come undone, feeling the slight muscles and smooth hairs on his torso.

“Leave them all here… leave them inside me…” He hithers, goosebumps growing on him as sharpened claws trace his hips where his eyes can’t see it– I’ll take them all so you can be clean again.”

Wet heat blankets him, filling his lungs heavily, all he can smell it’s this terrible mold and stale air, the breeze has ceased but the cicadas continue their choir practice, weeds don’t rustle anymore and the sun has turned from gold to a mandarin, the church is envelop in this light, watching over him like the grieving face of the Holy Ghost.

He rutted his hips, body twitching after every thrust, every grunt, every push.

Deeper, hotter, excruciating.

He wants to become one with him, he wants their bodies to become the same if that’s the only way he can touch him, Father’s bareness it's not for him to have, only shameful glimpses are awarded but they aren’t prices they’re accidents– claiming he’s sullied, the fermenting disease leftover by him cannot touch him… he doth not wish to return his evils, he said before.

Homelander wants more… the greed… it's not greed its hunger clamoring for morsels, his teeth sinking against the nape of his neck, dampening the cloth, inhaling the sweet aroma that defines him… inhaling these perfume of myrrh and peaches.

He wants kisses but they cannot, he stops him as his finger hooks inside his mouth, Homelander pants his tongue tracing his lover’s jawline, every push shakes the ground Beneath, kisses paint his face and drinks his sweat but aren't pleased.

Lifting his hips and legs just enough to hit the sweet spot, the man can’t stay silent; his stifled moans are now all that fills these sacred grounds, hanging on his shoulders afraid of drowning, afraid of the way his body is transforming for this lamb.

This carnivorous lamb that seeks to molt its wool– sharp fangs scratch at his ear as he grunts and sobs.

“Don’t fret…” He says quietly, clinging on his shoulders pushing them closer, suffocating himself as his body it's covered in salty-sweet sweat, as his body seeks to wash this young man’s spirit, he bares the agony, for the flames are cleansing– God made me strong for you…. you won’t break me, John.”

He should’ve ignore the boy when he first saw him in the gardens, he should’ve never given him a smile, he should’ve never given him his arms, he should have never tempted this frail soul, he should’ve ran before he had had a chance of defiling God’s gift… now he had to be strong– for this young man’s salvation would save millions… God who blessed this lands with these exalted children, who blessed this land with somebody like John… who came to the misfortune of encountering him… who had the misfortune of tarnishing his guileless soul…  now God turned away in shame as this boy continued to blacken his spirit as he wondered the wilderness without guidance.

So Father Amarello had to fix it… this was God’s test… the reason he had received the call… that one day unbeknown to him, he would have to restore this pristine soul he had broken so that the world could keep its savior.

As he looked at that sobbing boy, as he felt his violent trust filling him more and more with his thick seed, as his stomach grew, and his legs gave up completely– he saw that boy from the garden, that lost boy too shy to come inside, who had no idea how to pray, who was so afraid of the world around him, who smiled at him so warmly as he listened to his practice sermons.

Wanting nothing more but to clean those tears, so he kissed them, drank them and quench his thirst with them.

He would ask forgiveness on his deathbed for this is one sin he doesn’t wish to be forgiven for… his lips linger on those thin lips, his tongue that’s never pampered another woman much less a man, nervously explored how much he’s welcomed.

Homelander takes him as if he’s the first drop of rain after a lifelong drought.

He tastes of him and peaches.

Homelander slows his trust, they deepen but there’s no frightened momentum, just tenderness left, his cock swelling ready to deliver the last of his venial sins, cupping the older man’s head so his head doesn’t touch the carpet any further.

His heart could give up happily, his whole body light, Amarello feels.

His eyes marginally open just to meet half-lit eyes, the prettiest shade of red he’s ever seen meets him, as the lightness makes more sense.

“Please don’t drop me” He mutters, a strange satiated smile looks back at Homelander as the young man realizes what he’s done– I really need to clean the ceiling.” 

Homelander blushes even more than it’s healthy, he lowers them softly, swaying away from the cluttered pews until he’s sitting on the altar where Father Amarello had left that jade vase earlier on.

He looks at the older man straddling his hips, burying his head on his chest, wiping his brow, his hands that had settled so expertly on his back now yearned to discover his hips.

Father Amarello laments his age once more, lifted by invisible strings as the man bounces him on his manhood.

All the strength his mortal body has left amounts to draped arms across his shoulders staying in place on a prayer.

His moans sing his praises, that lost lamb continues to bite, unable to stop that nervous choked laugh as he watches his every expression, watching the holy man crumble delightedly.

His legs just dangling on his sides, his own cock leaking all over Homelander’s suit.

“Father… is okay… you can feel good… too.”

“No… I can’t… is not… it's obscene…” he gasps, closing his eyes harshly, his whole face tense as the boy lifts him further to drop him harshly– please my child… just… just don’t think of this vessel… just empty all your sorrows without thinking of me.”

“But you kissed me.” It bites him, drawing blood that’s not there, he feels that fanged lamb tearing his throat into gorey strips, as bloodied lips seek to swallow his voice– It’s all I can do… I want to thank you for all you do for me.”

Tear stains clean by his gloved hand, he doesn’t know what to say left speechless by the kindness in his voice, his lips tremble but no sound leaves them, Homelander is quick to do as he pleases, as he had done before.

He can’t remember anymore, how much he’s cummed, all he knows it's that the cicadas are gone, that the sun is almost asleep, the blue glow of the incoming night doesn’t take away the sweltering heat, it doesn’t help him feel less suffocated.

Homelander swallows blessings, takes his righteousness with each pump, his tongue messily slobbers all over a member that no longer can stay fully hard, he warms it… with this heat it's just burns him more like it, Homelander thinks as his cheeks hollow around it, watching him cumming dryly as his fingers mix and froth the seed he’d left behind, Amarello’s leg just throw over his shoulder as limp as most of him.

Yet his fist is tight, skin callusing as he grips the carmine beads that tug at the tied rosary on Homelander’s neck, the collar that keeps him calm.

His free hand pumping his cock to the rhythm of his lazy licks.

Homelander lets out a wet hiss before cumming into his palm, slithering towards the older man whose dazed gaze no longer sees anything… woken up from this trance by a familiar flavor– his tongue cleans his fingers until they glisten, sucking on them as hungrily as John had been before, he can only watch at his only lifeline to god washes him with spit with feline grace.

He’s enthralled as the sound digs into his brain, as he sees all that’s wrong with him it's taken away.

This holy man bore all these indignations to help him.

Homelander understand that this world needs him, needs him more than they’ll ever understand– but he cannot be the only one that has to make sacrifices… he can only carry so much burden before he explodes under the weight.

For this man it's benevolent, he’s kind, he’s bounteous in his efforts… in his love, he will carry that weight on his behalf so he can continue his duty.

He cries as the man cups his cheek, his covered hand leaves a print as it struggles to settle on his sharp cheekbones.

“Is alright… John… he isn’t mad at you… just at me…”

“I didn’t mean to kill those people.” he whimpered– I got so angry. I am so sorry for all I’ve done…”

“Don’t think of it any further my son… my soft John… it’s all here… all your sins are gone and now reside in me… give thanks to the lord, for he’s good.” He musters a weak smile– save a life… any life… no matter how wretched… just one as penance my delicate son… continue to use these blessings from the lord… do it for me… do it for my blessing too.”

Melting as he opens his lips ajar with nude fingers, shuddering as he feels his incandencing touch, hotter than the sun could ever be, burning him with tenderness, he’s delicate yet firm.

“No matter what you do… I’ll absolve you… for you are good… you’re a savior… my child.”

“Yes… Father…” he chokes back a sob.

Homelander sits once more looking at all he had almost broken in his fever, feeling light… feeling the room grow bigger, he awaits for the priest as he comes carrying a small basket of peaches.

His hands playing with the carmine rosary as he watches him.

“They’ve sprung like weeds… too many, even the rabbits and deers don’t want them… take some before you leave… you look thin…” he’s voice is pained from the strain on his body, but his concern is genuine– did you hear the sermon today?” 

He nods lightly.

“You know you can come in… I know crowds are hard for you… but you shouldn’t be afraid… but then again I hate public speaking.” he scoffs playfully, taking a ripe peach off the pile.

In this disheveled state he still jumps back as the golden juices spurt, not wanting to dirty his clerical uniform, the juice stains his hand and chin, offering the bitten peach as it drips onto the ground.

He wants nothing but to reject him, but his mouth opens as he falls under the spell of his gaze.

Homelander's heart skips a beat as those lifeless eyes remind him that he’s nothing but a feeble lamb as the old lion still has claws and fangs.