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dutchvanwinkle · 3 years ago

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Have You Ever Sinned, Father? - Dutch x Reader

I didn't mean to get so carried away with plot, I just wanted to fuck Dutch in a church. But here we are. Inspired by this post from @simmehs of Priest Dutch.

First time putting any of my writing on tumblr, here's the ao3 link if you prefer.

Word count: 5,979

Content warnings: Smut, mention of past assault and blood

Summary: You seek counsel from a priest in Saint Denis.

“You’re desperate for a purpose. You want something you can serve.”

“Is this the part where you tell me to become a vessel for God?” you huff, amused at the lengths he’ll apparently consider to increase the number of churchgoers in his parish.

He shakes his head once and steps towards you again until the warmth of his chest is pressing into you. His fingers cup your chin and he holds your head to meet his gaze.

“Not for God,” he whispers against your lips and brushes his over them.

The man had you cornered, baring his teeth and sneering so close to your face you could smell the stench of moonshine even when you held your breath. You tried to duck out from under his arms, planted either side of you and it only stoked the sick fire within him while simultaneously sharpening the spikes of fear protruding from underneath your skin.

---

It hadn’t been your fault.

“There’s no point trying to run.”

Panting, you splash your face with freezing water from the outdoor bucket in an attempt to stun the memory out of you. It works until you re-open your eyes and jolt at the hand reaching out to you.

“Relax, it’s only me.” The familiar face of your friend steadies your stuttering breaths, bringing you back to the cornfield where you spend your working days.

The pay isn't fantastic, but the repetitive movements of pulling up the crops are monotonous enough to alleviate the whirlpool of thoughts occupying your head for most of the day. The fresh air is good for you too, you suppose.

“Sorry, I just... needed a minute.” You provide a nod to reassure them that you’re okay and they can go back to their work, turning your torso away to do the same.

“It’s that guy again, isn’t it?”

You nod hesitantly, blinking away the light that’s now too bright for your eyes.

Their hand rests on your shoulder, a comforting pressure that doesn’t relieve the existing weight that already resides there. “It’s over, whatever happened – it's over. He won’t do that to you again.”

That’s right, he won’t. Because you killed him.

♱

Saint Denis is known for its deep, dark corners where hidden secrets lurk. Including yours.

The early morning walk you’d elected to take hadn’t done any favours. Why would you go for a walk in the city where your nightmares live? You can’t run forever; it hasn’t worked so far and maybe you need to face it head-on.

It’s hardly like he was a man anyone cared about, which wasn’t surprising considering his affliction for abusing women. Good riddance, you thought; a sentiment you still stand by. He deserves what he got but you wish you hadn’t been the one to bring that justice. Taking a life is something you never thought you’d do, something you shouldn’t have been able to do. That’s what made it so scary, just how easy it was.

You just wished that the image of his blood on your hands could be washed away in your mind as easily as it had done in real life, when you plunged your hands into the nearest body of water and scrubbed until your skin began to blister.

It didn’t matter in your mind that it was self-defense, it was him or you. You’d be a fool not to choose yourself.

The sound of rushing water from the fountain in town calms you somewhat, enticing you to take the load off your feet and allow yourself some rest. Rest, incidentally, is all you want.

Maybe you’d feel this way forever. Maybe all your dreams would be haunted for the rest of your days. Maybe.

A deep breath in, not helping one bit thanks to the muggy air of the city, you tip your head back slightly and close your eyes to allow the sunlight to kiss your lids. Upon opening them, the cross atop the church steeple is centred in your gaze. Knitting your brow slightly, you look down at the small crowd of people making their way into the building.

The usual Sunday service. Not something you had attended in the city before.

As your legs carry you towards the entrance, you aren’t sure what you hope to find inside. Clarity? Forgiveness? Penance?

The room is welcoming, warm with the buzz of small conversation between what you can only assume to be regular worshipers, and beautifully lit thanks to the large windows and generous sunshine. If anything, it’ll be something to busy your eyes with for a short while.

You sit near the back, small and alone. Hopefully telling enough to those around you that you aren’t there for conversation, just as a silent observer. Definitely not someone who had recently committed a major sin.

It isn't long before the room’s conversation dies down and its occupants minimise to rousing in their seats.

You lower your gaze slightly, wondering why on earth did you decide this was a good idea and is it too late to leave?

Instead of scouting out an escape route, your eyes wander to the small bible on the seat beside you. You don’t pick it up, just run your hand over the cover with a perturbed sigh. It’s hard to imagine this book will be able to cleanse you.

“Welcome all, to the service of the ‘The Church of the Holy Blessed Virgin’.” You look up at the source of the deep voice, from the priest standing behind the lectern. He isn’t at all what you expected, tall with dark hair pushed back and a thick moustache above his lip. It’s hard to tell truthfully due to his cassock, but his body looks broad from what you can see of his shoulders and chest.

“I am Father Dutch van der Linde,” he nods around the room, his baritone carrying beautifully around it. There’s an odd sagacity about the man that makes you very interested in what he has to say.

“Before we read our first passage, I would like to extend my thanks to our donors, without whom these services would not be possible. If you are able, we have a donation box towards the back; any contribution big or small is appreciated, as always.”

Shit. You didn’t have any money on you for a donation. Hopefully, nobody will mind.

The service passes pleasantly, him reading various passages and the congregation standing for a few hymns – sadly no communion since you could really do with some wine – which was all well and good but you don’t hear any whispers of forgiveness from the heavens just yet. Sooner than you expect, he’s at the end of his closing passage.

“May we become useful vessels that bring glory to your name. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

The light passing through the window hits his hand, revealing the glittering of gold rings.

“Amen,” you murmur, the priest bowing his head to the room.

When he raises it, he blinks his dark eyes up with it to meet yours instantly. He lingers there for a beat before turning away, walking from the podium and through the door to wherever, you aren’t quite sure.

The look on his face is difficult to read, but you fear some part of it is borne from uncertainty. Like he can sense the sinner in his midst.

You stand, hiding in the departing crowd until the outside air fills your lungs.

♱

Whether or not your soul had been somewhat cleansed by your attendance at the Sunday service, you found you had spent most of the week longing to return. Perhaps it was the tall, decorated walls, or the shelter of the curved roof, or the beautiful colours that bled through the stained-glass windows when the sun hit them at just the right angle. Or perhaps it was the priest.

No, it can't be the priest.

Whatever it was persuaded you to return the following week.

The service is more or less the same, the words spoken by the priest going in one ear and out the other despite how soothingly they roll off his tongue.

“The Lord lift up his face toward you, and give you peace. Amen.”

With the end of that closing prayer, he doesn’t look your way this time. He walks down as you suspected he normally would while his audience makes their way out of the church. You find yourself glued to your seat, if anything sinking further into it at not feeling any part of yourself turning pure. Not able to get the bloodstains out of your mind or heart.

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing your mind to just forget. If you weren’t forgiven you could live with it, but you would rather live in the dark than spend another day feeling the torment from your actions.

You remain there, hoping at any moment the weight will be lifted and you’ll be free. Free to go back to the mundane of everyday life that you hadn't expected to miss quite so much. For a while, you remain like this, an impending sense washing over you that if this doesn’t work, nothing will. It’ll be over and you’ll just have to learn to live with it.

The feeling remains.

You finally open your eyes, breath hitching at the sight of the man in front of you. Leant against the raised platform where he was speaking earlier, one foot over the other and arms crossed at his chest. A slight wrinkle between his brows as he studies you, his soft gaze boring into your startled one.

“Sorry,” your voice comes out as a whisper as you instantly stand to your feet. “I didn’t mean to linger.”

“Don’t apologise. The chapel doesn’t have opening hours; you are welcome to come and go as you please.”

You nod slightly, pressing your fingertip on the bench and averting your gaze to stare at the wood.

“I get the sense that right now, you do not want to go.” His comment is more of a statement than a question.

“Unfortunately, Father,” you clear your throat of the new word to come from it and look up, “I don’t think I know what I want.”

“Would you like to tell me what brings you to me?”

“I... I did something bad.”

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

You hesitate slightly, but shake your head in the negative.

“It’ll be difficult for me to help you if you don’t tell me what’s plaguing your thoughts, but I will do my best.”

“Thanks,” you swallow, only now realising that you’re quite nervous. “I’m not... I don’t come to church, usually.”

“I know.”

You tilt your head slightly in questioning and he shrugs.

“Not this one, at least.”

With an accepting nod, you turn your attention to the stained glass of the windows behind the raised platform. “It’s nice.”

“Would you like a closer look?” he’s no longer leaning, instead standing with his hands clasped.

“Sure,” you shrug, perhaps the beauty of art will provide some release.

He holds his hand out and beckons you once to come to him. The walk through the rows of chairs feels longer than you expected, with each step you’re unsure if the room is expanding or you’re growing smaller into yourself.

“You are safe here, my child.”

He must’ve noticed. Thankfully, the soothing tone of his words relaxes your shoulders along with a tension in your brow that you hadn’t yet registered. He gestures his head slightly in the direction he then walks in, you following until you’re up on the platform.

“Am I allowed up here?” you look back at the room, now looking much smaller from this point of view.

He chuckles softly. “You think I would lead you somewhere you weren’t allowed?”

You aren’t sure about that, you don’t know him even if he is a man of the cloth, but you shake your head anyway.

The two of you stand in front of the window. It’s beautiful, if a little harder to depict up close. It feels almost criminal to be in the presence of something so exquisite when you feel so dirty, as though you’re insulting the building just by being there. The warmth of the priest resonates to you and you find yourself choked up, trying to discretely swallow the feeling.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, and you can feel that he’s now looking at you. You turn your gaze to your hands, picking at your fingernails. “It’s okay,” he repeats.

You look at him. Really look at him. The man looks like he’s seen his fair share of sin himself. A dark aura to this priest that you hadn’t regarded before in the few others you’d come across. Unless... now that you had welcomed darkness into your life, taken the breath from the lungs of another, you could recognise it in those around you? Almost as though their sins radiated from them like the rays of the burning sun when it bounces off the windows? Could he see yours coming from you?

“Have you ever sinned, Father?” you hadn’t had time to think about the appropriateness of the question before blurting it out.

A smile creeps onto his lips, one that almost seems like it belongs to a different man from a past life. “I have.”

“But you’re a priest?”

“Correct. Our Lord is a forgiving one.”

“When was the last time you sinned?” you shift your weight from one foot to the other, feeling surprisingly comfortable around the man.

“You know, when people look for guidance, they usually talk about themselves.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Don’t apologise.”

You nod, pressing your lips together to stop another apology for apologising breaking past them. The choking feeling rises in your throat again and this time reaches your eyes, tears stinging that you desperately hope don’t start to fall down your face.

His hand is on your upper back then, reassuringly placed which only makes you feel like it’s reassurance you don’t deserve. You don’t deserve his time or his kindness. “Anything you say to me is confidential, you understand?”

It’s enough to convince you. You feel as though you’ll explode otherwise. “I killed a man.”

The silence that follows your monotone confession isn’t deafening, and his hand on your back doesn’t falter which makes you question if he’s even heard you. The weight on your shoulders doesn’t lighten, but it shifts slightly at the expression of your guilt.

“May I ask why?”

You bring your hands to your face and huff, as though smearing the blood on there now that he knows who you are. What you are. You bring your hands down and splay them in front of you, staring at the apparent murder weapons. If you tell him your motivation, perhaps he won’t think of you as such a monster.

“He... I didn’t know him, but he tried to... to...”

“You don’t need to say anything further.”

His tone calms you somewhat, but not enough to barricade against the tears which have now flown freely down your cheeks.

The hand on your back is removed, and he raises his other to take both your hands in his, turning you towards him and turning them over in turn so your palms face upwards. He runs his finger, which happens to be very calloused, from the centre of your wrist to the tip of your middle finger.

“These don’t look like murderer's hands to me.”

“You can’t see the blood,” you mumble.

He nods, almost empathetically. “Come with me.”

You follow where he goes, him dropping one of his hands and now holding one of yours with his other. His hold is soft, making it the easiest thing in the world to follow him wherever he’s leading you.

The destination is a mirror, leant against the side of the wall beside the platform. He positions you in front of it.

You look at yourself, the dishevelled look in your eye inescapable. And there he stands behind you, big hands now holding your upper arms with a gentle strength.

“Tell me what you see.”

You observe your reflection, not really seeing anything and once again your attention diverts to the man behind you. You shrug. “I just look lost.”

He blinks slowly, his hold on you tightening ever so slightly. “That’s right,” you aren’t sure when he lowered his head, but his mouth is now beside your ear. “Let me guide you.”

A shiver runs down your spine at that. Somehow, you trust him. Religious or not, you trust him. You give him a nod.

“Good. I unfortunately have other matters that require my attention right now, but do you think you could come back three evenings from now? You can just give my door a knock when you arrive.” He flitters his eyes to the left at a door a little further down from where you’re stood. You give him another nod.

You watch him walk away in the mirror until he’s out of sight. When you turn round to the room, he’s nowhere to be seen.

♱

The church looks different at night. Even with permission you still feel like you shouldn’t be here.

There isn’t any light bleeding through the windows, nothing to illuminate the beautiful architecture and instead shrouding it in darkness where one can only attempt a guess of what lurks in the shadows. The altar is the only place harbouring any light, where a few candles flicker with that natural flow of air. Everything is still, eerily quiet except for your timid footsteps that walk down the aisle. Each one echoes in some corner of the building, which now feels far too big, despite your best efforts to tread lightly.

You avoid your reflection when you walk past the mirror.

Reverend Dutch van der Linde

You spend a moment looking at the plaque which appears to be well taken care of, recently polished despite the dust that settles on the other various surfaces in the room. There aren’t any noises coming from inside, hopefully, your arrival isn’t going to wake or disturb him. Your hand creeps up, knuckles just inches away from the wood. You knock.

There’s a pause, then a few muffled steps that grow louder as they approach. The door opens and the man behind it almost appears taller than when you last saw him.

“Evening, Father,” you make your best effort to sound casual.

“Hello, my child. Would you wait up there for me?” he points to the lectern.

“Sure,” you shrug and he closes the door.

It feels even more wrong to be up here without him, making the wait for him to join seem longer than it is. Thankfully, the door opens and he strides out with a bottle of something in one hand and two glasses in the other.

“You drink?” he says, placing them down on the lectern.

“You drink?”

He smirks. “Priests are allowed to drink, you know.”

You shrug, unsure why you thought they weren’t. There’s something bizarre about a priest drinking alcohol, but there’s something bizarre about this priest in general.

“What are we toasting?” you ask as he hands you a glass.

He holds his glass up, pondering it as he turns it in his hand. “Faith.”

“To faith, I guess.” You clink your glass against his and down the whisky, him doing the same. “Can I ask why we’re drinking?”

“You could do with loosening up a little.”

You shunt a laugh, averting your gaze to the surface of the lectern and running your finger along the wood.

“The Lord forgives you for it,” he says soothingly.

“He tell you that?” you continue to watch your finger trace the lines in the wood.

“Not explicitly. But I am his servant and I forgive you.”

“Well, I can still feel the weight,” you sigh, looking back to him.

“What weight is that?”

“The weight on my shoulders.”

“May I?” his hands reach out, hovering over your shoulders and you nod indifferently.

“Yes, you’re very tense.”

“That’s because you’re touching me.”

“You were tense before I started touching you.”

“Then why d’you have to touch me to check?”

A smile, one that seemed to have an underlying intrigue grew on his face. Slowly, his warm hands brush up to the base of your neck – not pressing down, just there. If he moved any muscle in his hand upwards, he wouldn’t be touching you at all. He runs his thumbs from the side of your chin and along your jaw, the calloused tips delightfully relaxing as he sighs slightly, taking in the view of your face.

“What’s your diagnosis?”

That smile again.

“You need to let go.”

The slight eye-roll you didn’t mean to display feels rude, but he doesn’t comment or react. “And how do I do that?”

His left shoulder shrugs slightly. “That’s for us to figure out.”

“Us?”

“Mhm. I’m here to help you. I told you I would.”

He tilts your head up towards him, taking a small step forward until his torso is inches from yours. “Faith, my dear. I need you to have faith.”

“How can I have faith when I’m not sure if I even... believe?” the look you give him is hesitant but apologetic. The last thing you want to do is offend the priest in his own church.

“We’re nothing without faith,” he finally removes his hands and clasps them in front of himself.

“Easy for you to say, you’re a priest.”

“I had faith before I was a priest,” he turns to fill the glasses again. “It doesn’t matter if your faith isn’t in God, but you have to have faith in something.”

“What should I have faith in then?”

He appears to ponder this for a moment. “Me, if nothing else.”

“Well,” you clear your throat, “right now, you’re my only hope so I don’t think I have much choice.”

“It is my duty to guide people.” The word duty sounds thick on his tongue as he turns your attention to the bible he’s placed down, flicking through it while you sip at your drink. He taps on the page. “Can you read something for me?”

You look at the page, at the passage he’s pointing at. “John 3:12. We should not be like Cain, who was of the evil one and murdered his brother. And why did he murder him? Because his own deeds were evil and his brother’s righteous.”

“Good girl. And that man you killed, were his deeds righteous?”

You shake your head. “That doesn’t stop mine from being evil.”

He hums. “Cain was a wanderer, his punishment to wander the earth and wait for someone to find and kill him.”

“What does that mean for me?”

“You wandered, and you found me. You sought me out. If God thought you deserved the same fate as Cain, you’d be dead already.” He finishes the last of his drink, positioning himself behind you and putting his hands on either side of the lectern. You’re blocked in by him, but no part of you feels trapped. Instead, you feel safe with his arms around you.

He flicks through the pages again, musing until he finds what he was looking for. He taps another passage. “Read to me.”

“Timothy 2:22. So flee youthful passions and pursue righteousness, faith, love, and peace, along with those who call on the Lord from a pure heart.”

“Your heart,” he moves his hand to place his fingertips to the centre of your chest. “Feels very pure to me.”

Maybe he’s right. Or maybe he’s just choosing verses that’ll make you feel better.

His breath is suddenly hot on your ear. “Do you have faith in me?”

You nod minimally.

His warmth envelops you, torso pressing into your back after he takes a small step forward. It’s then that you realise... he’s hard. You can feel him against the curve of your ass, large and demanding.

“Father?” you ask, voice quieter than you’d hoped.

“Hm?”

“Isn’t lust a sin?”

His chest vibrates with a small laugh. “Yes, my dear. Even the best of those amongst us sin sometimes.”

“Even if it’s against the rules?”

“That’s why we repent,” his hand moves down tentatively from your chest, stopping at your stomach and holding you to his frame. Your knees begin to feel a little weak at the embrace and you use your hands to steady you, placing them on the lectern in front.

You sigh slightly, remembering the issue at hand. “But what’s the point, father? Even if I feel better, what then? My life serves no purpose as it is.”

“How nihilistic of you,” he murmurs.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -”

You’re silenced involuntarily at the raise of his other hand. He slowly places it back down.

“You’d like me to give you purpose, is that it?” his fingertips draw circles on your midsection.

“I suppose,” you swallow.

He hums, and his moustache makes contact with the top of your ear. After the next circle, his fingers trail down your abdomen and stop when they’re in line with your hip bones.

“Perhaps,” he plants a light kiss on your ear and your breath hitches, “your purpose is to serve me.”

With that, his wandering hand travels further south and cups you, your hitched breath releasing at the delightful pressure from his strong hands.

“That’s it, let it go.”

You bite down on your tongue and tighten your grip on the surface in front as he starts to circle his fingers over you. “Father,” you breathe.

“I know,” he hums, bringing his fingers back up and sliding them under your waistband.

“What if someone -”

“Don’t worry about that,” he interrupts, “we’re only reading.”

You blink your eyes up to the still-empty room in front as he slides his fingers into your garments, making contact with the wetness that already resides there. He tuts. “You are quite the sinner, aren’t you?”

The only thing you can think to do is nod, his finger circling your clit once again and you lean back into him. You aren’t thinking about your crimes, the sinning you’re currently doing or the place you’re doing it in. Everything is hazy and the only thing you want to focus on is the fire of bliss that’s been lit in your lower abdomen.

His fingertip brushes over and you whimper as it travels down to your entrance, the cold of his ring pressing over your clit. You tilt your head to the side instinctively and his lips find your neck, sucking gently. “So good for me,” he murmurs against your skin, entering just the tip of his finger.

“Oh God,” you breathe, letting your eyes fall close.

“Using the Lord’s name in vain, that’s another sin,” his teeth latch onto your neck and he pushes his finger in to the knuckle, you whimper as his cool ring presses into your opening and his palm holds your mound. His own hips press into your ass, small thrusts that he’s clearly holding back on. If it’s possible, he’s even harder than he was before.

He curls his finger, almost reaching that spot when he pulls back out to add another and moves them in again with another curl. You moan from your chest and roll your hips subconsciously, chasing the pleasure that’s caused your skin to turn hot and moisten.

Then the fingers are gone. So is his warmth on your back and the erection that was pressing into you. Your eyes snap open to see nobody, the view of the church is enough to remind you of what you’re doing. Slowly you turn, the priest stood a few steps behind you with a few strands of his pushed-back hair now falling on his face while he tries to control the rise and fall of his chest.

You open your mouth to speak, apologise, say something when he interrupts.

“I don’t think the problem is with the act you committed.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

He juts his jaw out slightly, swallowing before his tongue darts out to moisten his bottom lip. “You’re desperate for a purpose. You want something you can serve.”

“Is this the part where you tell me to become a vessel for God?” you huff, amused at the lengths he’ll apparently consider to increase the number of churchgoers in his parish.

He shakes his head once and steps towards you again until the warmth of his chest is pressing into you. His fingers cup your chin and he holds your head to meet his gaze.

“Not for God,” he whispers against your lips and brushes his over them.

Your eyes widen, understanding exactly what it is he’s referring to but not quite able to believe this is happening.

“But, you can’t -”

“Since I kept your secret,” he pretends not to have heard you, “will you keep mine?”

“What’s yours?”

His hands meet your hips and run up to your waist, gripping lightly at your flank. “That I’ve broken my oath.”

“You’ve broken your oath?”

“Well,” he plants a kiss on your shoulder, “not yet I haven’t.”

His head comes up to meet your gaze, eyes half-lidded and hungry with desire. He sighs slightly as he tilts his head, his breath skimming over your cheek.

“The way I see it,” he looks down at his hand which is running up and down your side, “you need a purpose. God surely won’t mind me providing you with one.”

With that, he looks back at your face to gauge your response. You chew your cheek; this is the only idea so far that’s made you tingle with excitement at the prospect of finally moving on.

And if you’ve already got a signed ticket to hell, you may as well have some fun on your way down.

Before you can take a moment to reconsider, your hands are on the sides of his face and you’ve pulled him forward to meet your lips with his. You kiss him greedily until he groans and wraps his arms around your waist, devouring you completely. He bites down on your bottom lip, demanding your mouth to open to allow his tongue to enter. Doing your best to keep up, you note how much better the whisky tastes when it comes from his tongue, accompanied by a hint of tobacco.

You moan into his mouth when he grips at your thigh, pulling it up until your leg is wrapped around his hip and he grinds into you, ridiculously hard and you know there’s no going back now.

“Father,” you moan as he kisses your neck, pushing your skirt up and you lean back on the lectern and rest your arms over his shoulders after he’s removed your undergarments.

“Damn thing,” he mutters, hitching up his own robe and pushing himself against you.

You didn’t have a chance to see it, but you can definitely feel it threatening your entrance as he twitches against you. He holds his cock with his hand, running along your slit as he mixes your wetness with his precum and all you want to do is squeal with how good it feels.

“You want a purpose?”

You nod eagerly, breath catching in your throat.

“Then serve me,” he asserts, stilling his motions at your entrance. “Think you can do that?”

“Yes, Father... please,” you whimper.

He grunts at that, pushing his cock in until you break his gaze and roll your eyes back into your head. You’re mouth-wateringly full, pulsating around him as his hand moves to hold your ass to keep you in place.

Some sound comes out of you, you doubt it’s a coherent word and more of a babble but whatever it is, it pleases him and his chest presses into you as he moves his hips back before pushing in again. His other hand moves past your shoulder so he can steady himself before he starts thrusting in and out.

“I knew you’d be worth it,” he mumbles, kissing you lazily and rolling his hips into you. “So fucking good... so warm and tight...”

You can only moan in response, hand moving to grip at his shoulder. You muse at his clerical collar, it feels like a crime to have such a beautifully thick neck covered like that. Bringing your head forward, you nip at the parts of his neck you can see. It spurs him on to fuck you deeper, bottoming out with each snap of his hips and accompanying grunts.

It’s then that you realise your cacophony of noises is echoing around the room, each slap of skin returning to your ears as the next one is generated. How can something so sinful sound so wonderful?

While you can already feel his grip on your ass starting to bruise, he angles himself differently and fucks you with animalistic desire. You throw your head back and cry out, all your nerve endings vibrating.

“Look at you,” he mutters and you tip your head forward to meet his gaze that’s watching your reactions with intent. “Serving me so well.”

The fire within is roaring now, burning you from the inside and you want nothing more than to put it out. “Father, I’m close...”

“That’s right, let it all go my dear,” he kisses you, passing the sweat from his lips over to yours.

He continues to kiss you when the burn travels lower and lower, your shoulder blades pulling together to brace for the release. Your eyes squeeze shut when you come, arms clinging to the priest’s neck and for that moment you feel as though you’re suspended in the air, no longer caring about any of your past worries. Who needs heaven when you can create your own?

His hips snap one last time and he lets out a deep moan of ecstasy as he warms your insides completely, not surprised when you feel it drip down your thighs; you were so stuffed to begin with there was never going to be any room for anything else.

Your head drops to his shoulder, the sweat from your forehead moistening his robe while his arms coil around your waist. His torso puffs as he pants, holding you while you both return to earth from whatever cloud you’d reached. He moves his hips out slowly, and it feels like a part of your body is missing now that he’s no longer inside you. He pulls a cloth from his pocket and attempts to catch the fluids, not wanting them to make their way to the floor of the holy building the pair of you just filled with debauchery.

He smooths his hair back when he stands, face glistening with sweat while he looks you over.

Somehow, you do feel lighter. Maybe you’ve just replaced your sin with a worse one but the abundance of pleasure coursing through you makes it so you no longer care. “At least neither of us has burst into flames,” you say, hoping to alleviate any worries, if he has them.

He smirks. “I’m sure if God has an issue with our arrangement, he’ll let us know.”

You nod. “It helped.”

His eyebrows raise almost comically, as though he’d completely forgotten about your prior concern and reason for visiting him in the first place. “Well,” he steps towards you and holds the side of your face, “then we best make sure we continue our practice regularly.”

You lean into his hand, the smile on your face feeling natural, unlike all the forced ones you’ve conjured since that awful day.

He kisses you and lingers there, before pulling away and dropping his hand with a sigh. “I think I have my fair share of prayers to do now.”

You laugh, wanting nothing more than to curl up in your bed for a nightmare-less sleep. “Thank you, Father.”

He nods with that same smirk again, leaving you to compose yourself before your journey home. Once his door is shut behind him, you scan the floor for your undergarments and realise they’re nowhere to be found. Eyes flitting to his door, you think you have a good idea where they wandered off to and make a mental note to return for them in the future.

Perhaps sinning isn’t so bad after all.

#dutch van der linde #dutch van der linde x reader #rdr2 #priest dutch #my stuff #writing

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