Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13208454.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Jean-Jacques_Leroy/Yuri_Plisetsky, Past_Jean-Jacques_Leroy/Otabek_Altin,
      Past_Jean-Jacques_Leroy/Isabella_Yang_-_Relationship
  Character:
      Jean-Jacques_Leroy, Yuri_Plisetsky
  Additional Tags:
      Watersports, Omorashi, Underage_Sex, Clergy_kink, Pliroy, Father_Leroy,
      runaway_Yuri, Smut, feelings_tm, Wetting, pissing
  Series:
      Part 10 of Under_the_Golden_Sea
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-12-30 Words: 3520
****** Agape and Eros ******
by annabeth
Summary
     Just like he might have expected, sixteen-year-old Yuri Plisetsky was
     kneeling in one of the pews, his head bowed, his hands folded,
     looking for all the world like the perfect penitent.
     Father Leroy knew better.
Notes
     Not much to say about this, it's just what it says on the tin:
     underage sex with a dash of piss and clergy kink. I stole Father
     Dubois (again) from Blownwish. Runaway Yuri is probably hive mind at
     this point, but I first came across him in Blownwish's fic, so
     there's that.
See the end of the work for more notes
It was late, after hours, and Father Leroy was getting ready to leave the
church proper and go home to the rectory, where he would make a simple yet
nutritious meal—he might just pop a Hungry Man into the microwave, actually—and
then he would sit, like he did every night, cross-legged on his bed and open
his Bible. His prayers soothed him, especially after a mass; he found public
speaking stressful despite his desire to lead his flock down the right path.
His calling had been a surprise to his parents, but Jean-Jacques had always
felt a keen closeness to the Lord. Alain Sr. had asked him once why, when he
was a teenager, singing in front of a rowdy crowd of people had not made him
anxious or uncomfortable, but speaking the Word made him always need time to
himself after.
That was back when he led his youth group at St. Anthony's in prayer every
weekend after the morning service. He hadn't been able to explain it then and
he couldn't now. He just knew that after mass, he loved to curl up on his
spartan bed and pray until his eyelids were heavy.
Sometimes he read, too; his current book was by Pope Benedict XVI, titled God
is Love. It spoke of Eros and Agape and Father Leroy desperately needed a dose
of agape tonight, because sometimes he needed reminders that his life was part
of a bigger purpose, that he had been Called, and that it was his duty as
priest to his congregation to teach them the ways of love and peace, of hope
and the light of God.
Sometimes, though, he longed for something beyond the solitary life he led in
his little bare room with the crucifix hanging above an old tube television
that received exactly two channels: the news, and EWTN. He had moved to America
because he had felt strongly that Americans needed God's guidance, and—yes, and
since he'd been here, he'd been trying to lead one particular lamb of his flock
back to the straight and narrow, and just like he might have expected, sixteen-
year-old Yuri Plisetsky was kneeling in one of the pews, his head bowed, his
hands folded, looking for all the world like the perfect penitent.
Father Leroy knew better.
"Yuri," he said softly. The votive candles that were lit left the church in a
warm glow; the flames flickered as Father Leroy spoke. The young man looked up,
and Father Leroy was struck anew by his beautiful eyes—eyes that seemed
designed by God to speak directly to the loneliness in Father Leroy's soul. He
had to stop thinking like that. He was a priest, and Yuri was a-a—not a child
exactly, but much too young for some of the thoughts that crept in at night
when Father Leroy couldn't sleep.
He could see how green those eyes were even in the limited light dispelling
some of the nighttime gloom in the church. He could also see the wicked smile
that curved those lips—sinful lips. Lips that also intruded on Father Leroy's
dreams.
If he awoke, hard and aching and thinking of green eyes and that wicked mouth,
he would try to redirect himself, but often found himself thinking instead
about the first boy he'd loved. The first person he'd loved, really. Isabella
had been an afterthought, an attempt to accede to his parents' view of him, and
try to make the idea of marriage and children work. It hadn't, though. He'd
loved Izzy, but it just wasn't as blinding strong and knee-weakening as what
he'd felt for Otabek Altin, the kid in his youth group who taught him to smoke
cigarettes and give blowjobs.
When he'd become the leader of his youth group, he'd shunned Beks on purpose.
He wasn't proud of it. But he'd felt so much damn pressure to conform, to be
Good. And Beks Altin—he wasn't Good. He was Temptation, and what Jean-Jacques
needed in his life at that point was Grace, not Temptation—so he'd started
dating Izzy.
He'd broken up with Izzy without ever even kissing her. In fact, he'd never
kissed Otabek, either—things had progressed so fast, and it was like a meteor
falling to earth, streaking hot and then coming to a crash landing and never
anything but those clumsy blowjobs and one lousy attempt to fuck. He couldn't
even call it making love. They hadn't gotten far—only one finger into Jean-
Jacques's ass and then a realization they needed something stronger than spit
to go on. With spit and a prayer, his grandmother had always said, but she
obviously hadn't meant gay sex, Jean-Jacques had reflected later.
So now, when he'd wake up from dreams of Yuri, he'd end up thinking about Beks,
and the love that had never had a chance to die and the first kiss he'd never
had the chance to experience, and it was a circle of fire in his mind, always
leading back to green eyes. Green eyes, and lips red as apples and as tempting
as Original Sin.
"Heya, Father," Yuri said, breaking into Father Leroy's reverie. He shifted on
his knees and Father Leroy thought about other things he could do on his knees,
and then he had to think—hard—about the Holy Virgin Mary watching her son Jesus
being crucified in order to will down his erection.
"It's late, Mr. Plisetsky," Father Leroy said. "Shouldn't you be going back to
the group home? Mrs. Seiver will be looking for you, won't she?"
"Nah, I told that old bag that I liked to stay at church. Pray for her immortal
fucking soul, all that. She bought it, the idiot."
"But it sounds like that's what you're doing," Father Leroy said in confusion.
This boy always left him muddled and confused, like he was a dog chasing its
own tail. He told himself he hated the feeling.
Then he had to pray to God the Father about the sin of lying, and ask
forgiveness for his continual inability not to lie to himself.
"The truth is, I'm running away," Yuri confided. "See?" He held up a duffel
bag. It was clearly almost empty—Father Leroy knew that the kids from Madame
Portia's Group Home for Youths didn't have much, but he'd be surprised if Yuri
had anything in that bag besides maybe an extra pair of jeans and some
contraband, like cigarettes. He'd busted him more than once for smoking out by
the rectory, in the garden, where the smoke rose up and infiltrated Father
Leroy's bedroom.
Father Leroy was pretty sure that was intentional, and had asked himself, on
occasion, how Yuri knew which was his bedroom. It wasn't like the kid had ever
actually been in his bedroom.
Well, that he knew of. He was also pretty sure that Yuri was a pickpocket, and
so he might have found his way to Father Leroy's room. It wasn't like he had
anything to steal, though. Even the cheap trinkets from his mother weren't
worth a nickel, not to someone looking for something valuable to part from its
owner.
"All right, come on," Father Leroy said. "I'll have to drive you back; it's
late, and it's dark out, and—" He was thinking about whether he should borrow
the church's Oldsmobile for that purpose when Yuri broke in and said,
"No! Father, I can make it home by myself. But I have these prayers to
finish—for my Mama back in Russia, God rest her soul. I think she's dead," he
added in an aside. He wiggled and as Father Leroy got closer he could see Yuri
tighten his leg muscles, almost as if he was—he was squeezing his thighs
together. That was a movement of time immemorial, if Father Leroy had ever seen
one.
"Please let me drive you home," he said. "It's clear that you need the washroom
and the church is locked up for the night. Father Dubois has the keys tonight,
I'm afraid."
"Oh, that's all right," Yuri said. Father Leroy was now close enough to see the
sharp, unholy gleam flickering like the candlelight in those green eyes.
"Besides, that shithole will never be my home. Pray with me, Father." He bowed
his head again.
Father Leroy knelt near him, about a foot away really, to try to calm his
racing heart, cool his nerves, and keep his head about him so close to the boy
he dreamt of. Those dreams did not even come close to the reality of this boy's
beauty—or the Temptation he offered. It was worse than what Beks had offered,
back when he was a young teenager. Because back then he could have blamed it on
hormones. Now he was almost thirty, and he didn't have any business thinking
this… child… was hot. But you know he's not a child, not really, the devil on
his shoulder whispered.
But he did think Yuri was hot, and thus, he bowed his head too: Please, God the
Father, and my Savior Jesus Christ, grant me the power to resist this
temptation, to remain pure in my heart, and pure in my love for You—
A sound interrupted his prayer. It was just a solitary drip, at first. Like
maybe one of the sinks was leaking. But Father Leroy knew that was
impossible—he'd just told Yuri that the washrooms were locked.
He was about to wonder if he'd accidentally tipped over the wine, forgotten to
lock it back up, when the drip became a series of drips, increasing in
frequency and speed. He glanced down—he was praying, after all—and his eyes
widened.
His gaze shot to Yuri's head. He couldn't see his face, not really, just a lot
of fine blond hair. Yuri didn't move; he still appeared, for all intents and
purposes, to be praying diligently, like a proper penitent should.
"Mr. Plisetsky!" Father Leroy hissed, trying not to shout. "Are you aware that
you—ah, that you're—"
Those green eyes were suddenly focused on his, bright and filled with mischief.
"Oh, Father, don't look so shocked," he said, as the drip became a loud
splattering sound on the floor of the church. "I just couldn't hold it
anymore."
"But—I—" Father Leroy couldn't find the words. He wanted to scold, but was that
the right thing to do? Scold a child for having an accident?
But Yuri was sixteen. He was old enough to hold his urine, right? Surely this
had never happened before, at least, not where Father Leroy had ever been
present.
But maybe it was a medical condition. Maybe he was sick. He went to reach for
Yuri, and there was that smile, a cat's gleam in the dark. The splattering
continued, and Father Leroy found himself staring at Yuri's knees in something
akin to awe. Where was his horror? he asked himself, even as he watched the
puddle spread. It had soaked the denim at both of Yuri's knees already. If it
spread much further, it was going to seep into his own robes.
Why didn't he jump to his feet? he asked himself, as he stared in that same
trainwreck-style fascination at the puddle. When he glanced at Yuri's groin, it
was like a river spurting out of the front of Yuri's jeans, the fabric too
inundated to hold anything more. Yuri let out a long sigh of relief and relaxed
back against the pew, and the torrent slowed back to a drip as the sodden denim
continued to leak.
"What are you doing?" he found himself asking, voice hoarse. He glanced at
Yuri's face, and—shit, he cursed, even though he knew he'd need to pray it away
later. His body tightened just from the satisfied, almost gloating, expression
on Yuri's features. His cock thrilled to the sight and hardened in his robes.
And some part of his hindbrain sat up and took notice and wrote down, yes,
pissing, yes, okay and Father Leroy knew he couldn't do the smart thing, the
right thing, and chastise Yuri for it. And just as he knew that, he suddenly
knew that Yuri had done it on purpose.
"I had to go," Yuri said, shrugging. He got up and plopped his drenched ass on
the seat of the pew and smiled. It was a golden smile, completely at odds with
the naughty thing he'd just done. "I'll clean it up, if you want." Another
flicker of a smile. "Maybe."
"But—" Father Leroy wanted to be scandalized, but he couldn't find the right
emotion. He couldn't pin down the proper response—because who pissed their
pants, deliberately, in a church? "I'll have to take you back to my room for a
shower. D'you have a change of clothes?" The duffel was thankfully untouched on
the seat of the pew.
"I thought you'd never ask," Yuri said with a twinkle. "And I have a pair of
jeans. Underwear. Socks. That's it. There hasn't been a new t-shirt donated in
my size in awhile."
"I might have something," Father Leroy muttered. "Come on." And Yuri flowed
upwards with such grace, much like his urine had flowed with such force only
minutes earlier. He made a wet squelching sound with every step, and Father
Leroy didn't know what to do about his sneakers—it was unlikely any of his
would fit the kid.
So they walked in silence to the rectory, and in the darkness, Father Leroy
stopped, tugging Yuri to a halt.
"Take your jeans off here," he said. He wondered how he was going to explain
the rather impressive puddle in the church come morning, but he didn't want
Yuri to track too much of it into the rectory too. "And your sneakers."
"Underwear too?" Yuri asked, and Father Leroy knew his horror was written on
his face when Yuri laughed. "Relax. I'm just kidding, Father. For right now,
anyway."
"You will only be taking your underwear off for a shower," Father Leroy said.
But he wondered about that, more and more, after Yuri left his jeans in a damp
heap by the rectory steps and climbed them in underwear that clung even more
than usual to his bulge and his ass. Jean-Jacques wanted to get into that ass,
all of a sudden. He wondered if Yuri would let him.
Yuri was also barefoot, and he had truly elegant feet, leading Father Leroy to
wonder, also, if he liked feet too, or just because they were Yuri's. They
climbed the steps to Father Leroy's room, and once inside, he was pointing,
ready to say, the washroom is through that door, when Yuri stripped out of his
underwear and t-shirt. He stood there, in a beam of moonlight, nude and
glorious. His cock, young and flushed, was fully hard. His nipples were already
peaking too.
Father Leroy swallowed; his own cock was still stiff against his thigh,
uncomfortable as heck but he hadn't wanted to adjust himself in front of a
teenage boy—or maybe it was that he hadn't wanted to do it in front of Yuri
specifically, because he had those… feelings about him.
"Can I sit down?" Yuri asked, gesturing to the bed. But Father Leroy imagined
doing laundry at ten at night because Yuri had dripped piss on his blankets and
shook his head. He quickly began to undress, and as he did, he knew he was
making a big mistake, that he didn't know if God would ever forgive him for,
but there was Yuri, Temptation—but also possible Revelation—in that gorgeous
form and he was not about to turn it down if that's what Yuri wanted.
He tried not to think about the fact that the pissing had something to do with
weakening his resolve, because that way lay madness, but he just unbuttoned,
and unzipped, and finally he was naked, surrounded by clothing he should have
hung up neatly in the wardrobe by the door but what the hell, what was one more
sin?
And then he backed Yuri up against the wall, adjacent to the television, and as
he felt all that warm, warm skin come into contact with his own, he realized
the crucifix was directly above their heads. He closed his eyes and buried his
face into that neck and shoulder, and smelled a combination of sweat, almost
floral shampoo, and piss, bitter salt on Yuri's skin. God was judging him, but
he just. Couldn't. Deny his baser desires anymore.
Yuri gripped the back of his neck, almost hard enough to hurt, and dragged his
face towards his own.
"Kiss me, Father," he said heatedly. Forcefully. Unable to be denied.
"Surely you'd rather—"
"It's not my first rodeo, Father Leroy," Yuri said. "But… is it yours? Is this
your first kiss, Father?"
Jean-Jacques didn't deign that with a response. He just did what Yuri expected,
what he wanted, what he himself craved, and brought their lips together.
It was a surprise. Yuri's lips were slightly cool, and chapped, but somehow
they were soft as they moved against his. Pliant and gentle, like a proper
tutor should be. When Yuri opened his mouth and licked at the seam of Jean-
Jacques's lips, he got the hint and granted Yuri access. Yuri didn't ask
permission; he just devoured JJ's mouth, sucking his bottom lip in between his
teeth, nipping at it, then releasing it and stroking his tongue throughout the
cavern of JJ's mouth without any kind of reservation whatsoever.
And as he did it, his hand came down between their bodies, found JJ's cock with
unerring accuracy, and began to lightly draw a finger up and down its length.
JJ shivered and his cock twitched and he gave in, reaching down in much the
same way and it was probably clumsy, and unpracticed, when he grappled with
Yuri's still faintly damp hardness and finally got his fingers curled around
it. It had been years since he'd touched a dick other than his own, and that
time it had been Beks, showing him what to do, how to touch him, how hard to
stroke him, all things JJ was going to have to learn anew with Yuri.
But he wanted to learn, so he began to move his hand, slowly at first,
listening for the gasps and feeling the way Yuri's chest heaved against his
when he got it right. It quickly became apparent that Yuri liked a soft touch,
but a quick one; JJ adapted, holding Yuri's dick almost loosely but pumping it
swiftly even as Yuri discovered that JJ liked the squeeze of a hand on his cock
to almost hurt even as much as he liked the movements to be slow, drawing out
the pleasure. They were so different, he marveled, even as his body took over
and did what it was made to do: breath sawing in and out his lungs faster, his
cock jumping even in that tight grip, and Yuri's own breath was hot and rapid
against the hollow of his throat, cooling the sweat that had pooled there, even
as he worked JJ up, up, and then over.
He came, and as his hips juddered forth and trapped both of their hands, he
felt his hand pause on Yuri while he rode out the wave, and then, when he could
get his breath again, steady his knees, he sped up his fist even more and
turned his wrist on one upstroke and Yuri just about screamed, first in a
litany of fucks, then Russian curses that dovetailed with his orgasm and grew
quieter as his cock finished releasing all over them both.
JJ leaned hard on the hand that was against the wall, and he stretched it,
trying to keep his feet and hold Yuri up, and in doing so, he knocked the
crucifix from its nail and as it clattered to the floor, he didn't even bother
to watch it fall.
He knew what it meant. So he gathered Yuri close to him, and even though there
was still dry piss on his skin, he lay him gently on the bed and climbed in
after. He kissed Yuri lazily, still learning how, and knowing that his heart
was fit to burst.
He was in Love, and it wasn't Agape, and it wasn't with God, or Jesus, his
bridegroom.
No, it was with Yuri Plisetsky, and as the teenager drifted off, JJ realized
he'd found his Eros, and he wasn't in love with Otabek Altin anymore. No, Yuri
had blasted those feelings to smithereens, bored a hole in JJ's heart and taken
up permanent residence there.
Father Leroy set the alarm on his watch for an hour earlier than normal
because, tomorrow, he was going to have to sneak out a teenager with a penchant
for trouble. But whether Yuri was in trouble, or Father Leroy was, he couldn't
say.
He didn't sleep right away. He just laid there wallowing in his new feelings
and listening to the soft cadence of that beloved breath.
end.
End Notes
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