Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/ works/14111430. Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Underage Category: F/M Fandom: Captain_America_(Movies), Marvel_Cinematic_Universe, The_Avengers_(Marvel Movies) Relationship: Steve_Rogers/Reader Character: Steve_Rogers, James_"Bucky"_Barnes Additional Tags: Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Alternate_Universe_-_No_Powers, Catholic_School, Roman_Catholicism, teenage_reader, Small_Towns, Post- Serum_Steve_Rogers, Priest_Steve_Rogers, Underage_Sex, Power_Imbalance, inappropriate_relationships, Resolved_Sexual_Tension, I'm_Going_to_Hell, Come_with_me, it_will_be_fun, and_hawt, Priest_Kink, Catholic_school_does weird_things_to_your_brain Stats: Published: 2018-03-27 Updated: 2018-03-31 Chapters: 5/? Words: 8005 ****** #Blessed ****** by justanothersong Summary You didn’t mind so much, really. The only big hiccup was that each class year had a single lunch period, so though you had a few friendly enough acquaintances in your year, you had no one you really felt like spending the time with to socialize. Midway through your sophomore year, you started eating your lunch in the school library, and that was when things began to change with Father Steve Notes PLEASE TAKE NOTE: This story will feature a relationship between a teenage reader and a twenty-something priest. This can be extremely triggering for some people so if this is going to be a problem for you, PLEASE don't read. The rest of you, please come join me as we merrily traipse our way to hell. ***** Chapter 1 ***** High school wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t too bad. You didn’t really have any close friends, but that wasn’t surprising. Small towns could be incredibly insular, and either you fit in, or you didn’t. You had fit in once, long ago, but a car accident the year you turned eight had changed all that. You’d missed much of the school year, healing from bad bone breaks and some internal injuries, and when you were ready to go back, you had just missed too much to rejoin your class. As they moved on to the fourth grade, you were kept a year back, and you became an immediate outsider: not part of your new class, not part of your old class, something odd and in between in a small Catholic school where everyone knew everyone else and you grew up together, moving from grade to grade as a group. By high school it hadn’t changed and though you had managed to make a few friends from your old age group, they weren’t terribly close and you were still on the fringes. You didn’t mind so much, really. The only big hiccup was that each class year had a single lunch period, so though you had a few friendly enough acquaintances in your year, you had no one you really felt like spending the time with to socialize. Midway through your sophomore year, you started eating your lunch in the school library, and that was when things began to change with Father Steve.   He had arrived in town at the start of your freshman year, joining the small parish that had long been headed by Father Donahue, all on his own. It immediately caused a bit of a stir, a handsome young man taking up a clergy post in a small town where life tended to revolve around the happenings of the church. He quickly gained a reputation for being kind and friendly, where Father Donahue had always been a bit on the surly and judgemental side, and was well liked by everyone in the parish -- especially the teenage girls, who tended to blush and titter as he passed by and gave them a smile. You were not immune to it, though you liked to think you didn’t broadcast it like the others. You had been as surprised as anyone to meet the new young priest; it had always just been Father Donahue, and the elderly Father Edwin who had retired and moved away when you were still in grade school. The thought had never occured to you that there would even be priests quite so young -- and certainly not so handsome. It was his smile that really got you, in the end. Sure, his eyes were gorgeous -- soft and kind and incredibly blue -- and the well-muscled body he hid beneath his black cotton shirts and collars was quite the surprise, making even the most pure of PTA moms go wide-eyed and flushed when he turned up in shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt to play in the Faculty vs Students basketball game, but that smile is what drew you in. It was a little crooked, one corner turning up just a bit higher than the other, lower lip often chapped and pink, and always reaching those beautiful eyes with a touch of mirth, a touch of fondness. You’d forgotten to breathe for just a second, the first time it was trained on you. But you were a realist. You were a teenager, still in high school, and he was a priest. It didn’t matter that he was attractive and so young, just a scant few years older than you; Father Steve was about as attainable as the photoshopped faces that lined magazine pages. You could admire all you wanted in the back of your mind, but you easily compartmentalized and pushed those thoughts away. After all, it’d be very awkward if you harbored a long crush on him, what with the rumor being he would be fully taking over the small parish from Father Donahue in coming years.   Hunched over a library table with the remains of your lunch scattered around and a book open in front of you, you barely registered the creak of the chair across from you being pulled out and might not have noticed him at all if the broadness of his shoulders hadn’t blocked some of the light streaming in through the back windows. You always took the table in the back, not wanting to be disturbed, and for the most part you passed your lunch hours unseen -- at least until that particular day. You glanced up in surprise to see the young Father smiling at you. “Now I could be wrong,” he told you, voice pitched low in deference to the rules of the library, “But last I checked, this wasn’t the cafeteria.” You immediately flushed. “Sorry,” you muttered, moving to pack up your things. “Hey, no, it’s okay,” Father Steve said, teasing smile softening into a more concerned expression, one hand reached across the table to gently take your wrist and stop your hurried packing. “You don’t have to go,” he went on. “I was just surprised to see you back here. Need some extra study time this week?” Father Steve didn’t teach at the school, though he was omnipresent on campus; he was involved in many of the outreach programs and extracurricular activities as well as some counseling, and had a small office on the third floor. It wasn’t unusual to encounter him in the halls, though for some reason it startled you a little for him to find you in your library hideaway. “No, no, I just…” you started, flush deepening. Not even your parents knew that you didn’t socialize much with your peers; you didn’t want them to worry, and it didn’t bother you enough to call attention to it. Still, it was embarrassing to admit to someone like Father Steve. You were certain he must have had dozens of friends when he was in school. You sighed. “I don’t… I don’t really have anyone to each lunch with so I just come up here. It’s okay though, I like it this way, it’s… it’s quiet.” Father Steve considered your words for a moment and then nodded. “I used to spend my lunch behind the bleachers in the gym at my high school,” he told you. “Kinda smelled like old sneakers in there, but it was worth it not to deal with the cafeteria.” Your eyes went wide with surprise; Father Steve, hiding out? It couldn’t be. His gaze drifted over the remnants of your lunch, half a sandwich and some cool ranch Doritos in plastic bags, sitting atop the brown paper bag you had carried it in. “Though I do think we have some rules here about food and drinks in the library,” he intoned in the most officious voice you’d ever heard him use. You opened your mouth to defend yourself but had no chance, eyes widening again as Father Steve leaned forward with his hands clasped on the table, a conspiratorial smile on his face. “But I might be willing to overlook that if you wanted to share those chips with me.” You laughed in surprise, clapping a hand over your mouth to stifle the sudden sound, feeling a little warm all over when Father Steve chuckled in response. You nudged the half-empty chip bag towards him and helped himself, giving a pleased sigh as he crunched on the proffered snack. “Oh man,” he said, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head. “I haven’t had these in years.” You smiled, a real, genuine smile for a change. “Can’t put Doritos on the rectory shopping list, Father Steve?” you teased. If there was a flirtatious lilt to your voice, he didn’t seem to notice. He leaned forward again and dropped his voice to a whisper, as though he were telling you some grand secret. “Father Donahue doesn’t like them. Ate a stale one once and broke his dentures. Now they’re banned from the kitchen.” You couldn’t help but giggle, Father Steve joining you in your laughter, loud enough to earn a gently admonishing look from the librarian. It passed quickly, the overall affection for Father Steve in the parish and attached schools enough to sway her to move on, leaving you both to your laughter. The next morning, when you were packing your lunch for the day, you threw an extra bag of Doritos in your usual brown paper bag on a hunch. When Father Steve showed up in the library at the start of your lunch period with his own brown paper bag in tow, you smiled and pulled out the extra chips, tossing them onto the table in front of the seat just across from you. Father Steve grinned, and that was where it really began. ***** Chapter 2 ***** The thought never occurred to you to find it strange. It didn’t occur to anyone, really; not the librarian that saw you talking and quietly laughing each day, not your parents when you’d casually mention chatting with Father Steve about this or that topic that was lately holding your interest. You certainly didn’t think it out of the ordinary when you’d walk into the afternoon study hall that Father Steve proctored twice a week and see the way he lit up in a smile to see you. Father Steve was just being friendly, after all. He was a kind man, and a good role model. If nothing else, your parents were pleased that you had taken an interest in the Church, in a manner of speaking, and happy to see that your mood seemed to be in a better place as of late. You found yourself often thinking how nice it would be if Father Steve was a boy your age, rather than the rising star in the parish. How lovely it could be if he sat beside you in study hall, instead of smiling at you from the teacher’s desk. How wonderful it would be if he held your hand across the library table, rather than reaching across just to pat your hand gently and then quickly pull his away. You were certain you weren’t the first person at your Church to have a crush on the young priest, but something told you that you were feeling it a lot more than anyone else.   One ordinary Thursday found you late for study hall, having stopped at your locker to grab a textbook for the following period and dawdled a little too long, pausing at a water fountain and nipping into the bathroom to check your hair. When you finally made it to the assigned classroom, the rest of the students were engaged in their studies or chatting, barely taking notice of you as you walked inside. Father Steve and said your name quietly as you entered, arching a blonde eyebrow. “Took your time in getting here today?” he asked quietly. You smiled. “Sorry, Father,” you responded, gripping the straps of your backpack and bouncing just a little on your heels. “I guess I lost track of time?” “Let’s just not make it a habit,” he told you, and nodded for you to take a seat. You had just turned to head towards an open desk when you heard him draw in a sharp breath and call you back again. You frowned, the expression on the friendly priest’s face unreadable. “Yes, Father Steve?” you asked. He bit his lip for a short moment. “Are you sure you understand the uniform code?” he asked softly; you didn’t miss the way his eyes, normally so bright and lively but now somehow darker, drifted from your untucked white uniform blouse to your pleated plaid skirt and then down your bare legs to your slouched socks and sneakers. You frowned and glanced down, unsure of what he was seeing until you lit on the untucked blouse. “Oh. Yeah, sorry. I guess I forgot to tuck it in this morning.” “And your skirt?” Father Steve pressed, swallowing hard. “You’re not rolling the waist, are you? You know we have rules about that.” Your frown deepened; uniform skirts were meant to be worn no more than two inches above the knee, everyone knew that. Few took risks with it -- most faculty was glad to pull out a ruler and check if you argued. “I’m not,” you protested. You glanced down again; your skirt didn’t seem any shorter than usual, at least not to you. “Please just… take your seat,” the priest said quietly, and you uncertainly made your way to an open desk, wondering what that was all about. The next day at lunch in the library, it was like it never happened at all. It continued like that for some time. Father Steve seemed to run hot and cold; while he was mostly the fun and kind man you saw that first afternoon in the library, he’d go quiet and contemplative sometimes, questioning you on silly inconsequential things, like the state of your uniform, how you spent your time outside of school, or the way you’d show up late to study hall on occasion.   One afternoon found him particularly harsh; you were late to your Algebra class, not knowing that the teacher everyone hated and dreaded, Mr. Pierce, had called out sick and that Father Steve had stepped in to proctor. You showed up at the door a full ten minutes late, snickering over a stupid joke told by Scott Lang, one of the few students in your own grade year that you were friendly with. You’d run into each other in the hallway when you were each looking for excuses to blow off Algebra entirely, settling on arriving late enough to annoy Pierce but not enough to really get into trouble for it. “Apparently your tardiness is no longer limited to study hall,” Father Steve’s voice cut out coldly when you tried to slip in the door. You froze in place, startled at his tone of voice, leaving Scott, who was still laughing, to crash right into you. You blushed. “Father Steve! What are you…?” He sighed heavily and stood. “Mr. Pierce is not in today,” he said evenly, his eyes trained not on you but on Scott, who stood looking sheepish and cowed behind you. “Which you both would have known if you had bothered to arrive on time.” A few of your classmates were watching now; it was clear they had been left busy work to do while Father Steve proctored, making sure everyone checked in for attendance count and no one got themselves into any trouble, but now their attention had turned from their worksheets to the front of the class. No one had ever heard Father Steve sound even a little bit angry before, not like this. “Sorry, Father,” Scott said quickly, offering a shrug. “We were just…” “Wasting time,” Father Steve filled in, frowning. “Time that should be spent doing the work that Mr. Pierce left for you to complete today, but you don’t have to worry about that now. You’ll both have plenty of time to finish your work in detention this afternoon.” Scott nodded quickly and all but ran to his usual desk, but you were frozen in place. You’d never had detention before, not even so much as a demerit; and you’d certainly never been disciplined by Father Steve, of all people. You felt a little bit betrayed; you’d thought, for a time, that you really were friends, at the least. He noticed your incredulous stare and shook his head, blue eyes cast down to the worn linoleum floor. “Please take your seat,” he said quietly, voice kinder than it had been only moments before, and you nodded numbly, sitting down at the back of the class. You felt almost as though you would cry, and couldn’t meet Father Steve’s gaze for the rest of the period.   Detention wasn’t so bad. At least Scott was there, and Dr. Erskine, a fun and friendly science teacher, was proctoring. He was extremely lenient, letting the students gathered do just about whatever they wanted, so long as they weren’t too loud and didn’t cause any real trouble. It was getting dark out by the time detention was over and you were feeling awful about the way things happened that afternoon. At the last moment, you decided to run and see if Father Steve was in his office before you walked home. It would give you a chance to explain yourself -- or, at the least, to apologize. You didn’t like leaving things the way they were, or leaving him so angry at you. It made you feel uncomfortable and cold inside, like there was a sharp ball of ice in the pit of your stomach. The third floor was deserted so late in the afternoon, with classes long done for the day and few people at all remaining on campus. The hallways seemed almost frightening, awash in shadow between the few flickering fluorescent lights still lighting the way. Father Steve’s door was open, warm yellow light spilling out into the hallway, and you approached slowly, nervous now that you were confronted with the reality of actually having to speak with him about it. But you wanted to fix things. You needed to fix things. You heard Father Steve speaking as you came near and you paused, thinking for a moment that he was in a counseling session or speaking with someone from the faculty. But, you reasoned, for something like that, he’d have closed his door -- you were sure of that much. And you noted as you got closer that it was only his voice you were hearing. With a confused frown, you peeked just a little into the open doorway, standing in the shadow so you wouldn’t be seen. Father Steve was leaned over his desk, his elbows braced on the weathered wooden desktop. There was a strand of beads in hands, clasped in front of him; dark green beads with silver accent pieces catching in the light, a crucifix dangling down. It was his rosary, you realized. His forehead was pressed against his hands, his eyes squeezed shut. “Please,” you heard him say, voice low and deep and barely above a whisper. “Please, help me. Help me. If this is a test, I am failing. I am failing. I need your help, your guidance, please… please, I can’t do this… I’ll lose everything, I’ll ruin her… I’ll ruin everything… I’m not strong enough.” He was praying, you realized, blushing deep in the dark of the shadowy hallway. You were intruding on a private moment. You crept away, without interrupting him, wondering to yourself at what you had just seen. ***** Chapter 3 ***** Father Steve didn’t come to the library for lunch the next day, or the day after. You thought perhaps he was still upset over the detention incident; he wasn’t even at your study hall that Thursday, Ms. Hill from the administrative office filling in for him without any reasons given. Even as it upset you and made you a bit nervous, you forced yourself to let it go. He may be a priest, you reminded yourself, but he was still human. You’d upset him, reminded him of the fact that you were a student and he wasn’t; he needed a little time. And that was fine. That was okay. It wasn’t as though either of you had made any promises, after all. For all you knew, he just happened to be at the library often enough that he decided to take pity on you, eating all alone. You didn’t like that thought very much. It made you feel a little pathetic, if you were being honest with yourself, and a little sad. You tried to push it away. After all, you were certain that come lunchtime on Monday afternoon, he would be back and everything would be good again. Only, on Monday, he didn’t come back. You knew he was on campus -- you’d passed him in the hallways and he refused to even look at you. Tuesday came and he didn’t come to lunch, again, and Ms. Hill sat in for him during study hall, again. Wednesday morning he walked right past you in an empty hallway, when you were running an errand for your homeroom teacher, and he didn’t so much as glance your way. It was just too much after that. You had to talk to him, to straighten things out. Apologize. Tell him that you missed him -- missed his company. Between your last two classes of the day, you made a point to go to the third floor and check Father Steve’s counseling sheet for the day. It hung on a clipboard outside of his closed office door and you knew he checked it regularly and always before leaving for the day, in case any of the students might need him. It surprised you to see that each of the squares were empty, but at least it worked out in your favor. You signed your name in the very last slot of the day, scribbling it so it was all but unreadable. All Father Steve would know was that a student was requesting a late counseling session; he’d have no idea it was you. You spent the rest of your day nearly buzzing out of your skin with anticipation. You were nervous, afraid that an apology wouldn’t be enough and you’d lose your only real friend at school -- hell, even in town. You’d told him that once, on a quiet day in the library when you were feeling low and he was doing all he could to lift your spirits. “I don’t really have any friends,” you’d said quietly, when he suggested spending some time out and about with your friends to bring a little cheerfulness back to yourself. Father Steve’s brows knit for a moment and you’d been afraid to look, thinking you’d see only pity in his eyes. But there was no pity there, only sadness and understanding. He’d reached out across the table and squeezed your hand. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” he’d asked. You’d snorted, moving to wipe a stray tear from your eyes, noting only absently that he hadn’t let go of your hand. “Yeah, sure,” you said. “You have to be my friend. It’s in your job description. And you just feel bad for me anyway.” “I didn’t have many friends when I was in school,” Father Steve countered. “Just one. He didn’t pity me for it -- just like I don’t pity you. I like you, doll. I like having lunch with you. You’re smart and you’re funny and I look forward to it everyday. We’re friends. So you have me, if you need me.” He didn’t notice what he’d said -- what he’d called you. You didn’t call attention to it, even as it made you feel warm inside. It was like that everyday; just being around him, spending the short time you had together, made you feel good. And you missed it -- you missed him.   It was early evening when you made your way to his office. You’d passed much of the afternoon helping with a student council project, decorating the gym for the next day’s pep rally, making your way up to the third floor only after most of the building had cleared. It was dark again and you felt even more nervous than you had the first time, but you promised yourself that you’d see it through today, that you’d speak to him. You knocked on the open door, smiling gently when Father Steve looked up. “Hi Father Steve,” you said quietly. He seemed startled to see you, saying your name in surprise. “Oh… I have… uh… someone’s coming for counseling this evening, I’m sorry. We’ll have to talk another time.” You stared at your shoes, toeing at a broken piece of linoleum tile on his office floor. “That was me,” you admitted. Looking up, you bit your lip. “I was hoping we could talk?” Father Steve gave a heavy sigh and stood. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea,” he told you, open honesty on his face, and you felt your heart break in your chest. You couldn’t help yourself; you couldn’t stop it. Your face crumpled and you choked on a sob, a wave of hot tears washing down your cheeks even as you put your hand over your mouth and tried to stifle them. “I’m sorry!” you said through your tears. “I didn’t wanna… I didn’t mean to make you so mad at me, I didn’t…” Your words faded into more sobs, your shoulders shaking with the intensity of your tears. “No no no, don’t cry, please don’t cry!” Father Steve said quickly, and you felt yourself suddenly wrapped up in his strong arms, your face pressed against his chest. “Please don’t cry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to upset you.” You heard rather than saw the door click shut; Father Steve had pushed it shut with one hand before putting his arms back around you. “I thought you were my friend,” you told him, still shivering in his arms. He was a solid wall of muscle against you, warm and strong and smelling of the same clean aftershave that you’d grown so fond of in recent months. Father Steve hushed you, rubbing his hand up and down your back. “I am your friend, sweetheart, I promise.” You pulled back a little to look up into his eyes, tears still streaking down your cheeks. “Please don’t be mad at me anymore,” you said quietly, voice thick with emotion. “Please, I can’t stand it, I can’t.” The tears in his eyes surprised you. “I’m not mad at you, I’m not. I promise.” You sniffled and pulled out of his embrace. “You won’t talk to me, won’t even look at me,” you accused quietly. “You don’t come to see me in the library anymore.” Father Steve gave another sigh, sitting down at his desk and gesturing towards the small couch that he kept in the cramped office for visitors and students who came to counseling. You shook your head, preferring to be closer, standing right alongside his desk. He took a deep breath and said your name, and you had the feeling that whatever he was about to say had been rehearsed a few times in advance. “When I took my holy orders, there were things that I knew I was giving up,” he told you quietly. There was that openness about his face again, some strange raw honesty in his voice as he spoke. You had the feeling this was not a conversation that he’d have had with just anyone. “In the years since then, I’ve been fine with all of that. I haven’t struggled with it. Until now.” You looked at him curiously, not quite understanding. He had paused, perhaps hoping he wouldn’t have to continue, but seeing your expression, he sighed. “There are things that I’m… that I can’t have,” he tried again. “I’ve never felt that I was losing anything in vowing to give them up, and I’ve never been tempted. But lately, I… you have to understand, I’m still human.” He reached up and touched the white collar at his throat, eyes cast down, thick eyelashes fanning over his cheeks. “I still feel things. And I’ve been struggling.” You didn’t understand what he was trying to tell you, not right away. You frowned down at where he had folded his hands on the desk and reached out, laying your own hand on top of his. “What can I do to help?” you asked. “It’s not… it’s not because of me, is it?” Father Steve’s shoulders seemed to shudder and he pulled his hands away from yours, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head. “You can’t…” he started, and then heaved another sigh. “There’s nothing you can do. And I promise you, it’s nothing you’ve done. This is my own… struggle.” He looked up at you then, a strange sadness in his bright blue eyes even as he offered a small smile. “I shouldn’t even be saying all of this to you, but I trust you. I know that you won’t say anything.” “You’re right, I won’t,” you agreed. You were frustrated; it went beyond the loneliness you had been feeling and the worry that you’d done something wrong. Now you knew that he was hurting, and you wanted to help him, if only he’d tell you how. “There has to be something I can do,” you went on, offering him a smile. “I miss you and if this… this thing, that you’re dealing with, is what’s keeping you away, I want to help. That’s what friends do, right?” ***** Chapter 4 ***** You had taken a few step forward as you spoke and perched yourself on the edge of his desk, leaning forward just a little to keep your balance. You hadn’t realized how near you were to him until he tried to inch away, your knee brushing his arm and making him draw in a startled breath. In the dim light of his desk lamp, you watched as his eyes drifted from the collar of your blouse and down to your waist, to settle where your plaid skirt had pulled up, exposing more of your thighs than was strictly modest. You watched as Father Steve licked his lips and swallowed hard, seemingly unable to pull away his gaze and then finally, finally, you understood. The cheerful banter over lunch everyday. The way he’d get hung up on the state of your uniform. The soft touches you’d exchange, hands over hands on the library table, the occasional hug. The errant nicknames. Doll. Sweetheart. His prayers… a test. Temptation. And Scott, oh god, Scott. Father Steve wasn’t angry that you were late, that you’d wasted your class time. He hadn’t really been angry at all -- he had been jealous!   You felt… strange. Like you could feel the soft shiver of every breath he was taking, the sound of it almost thundering in your ears. Your heart was beating hard and fast, a blush rising in your cheeks, and you were very aware of how quiet the rest of the floor was. There were no noises in the halls, no lockers opening and closing and no footsteps against the tile. It was late and getting dark, and you were all alone. “Father Steve?” you asked carefully, watching the shameful color rise high in his cheeks when his gaze is torn away from your legs. “I think I need your help with something.” He could sense a change in your voice, in your demeanor, as you spoke, and suddenly Father Steve looked so very young to your eyes. You bit your lip, his eyes following the movement, and offered your shyest smile. “Yeah, sure… I mean, of course, anything you need,” he told you earnestly. “Father Steve, I think my skirt might be too short. Would you check it for me?” you asked quietly, hoping he understood your words for what they were: an invitation. “Looks… looks okay from here,” Father Steve said. His voice was pitched deep and low, eyes gone dark and breathing heavy and deep enough that you could see his chest rise and fall. Bracing your hands on the edge of the desk, you cocked your head to the side and smiled. “I’d really appreciate it if you could check for me, Father,” you told him, dropping your own voice to barely above a whisper. “Please?” You were playing with fire, you knew that. It went beyond simply frowned upon or unsavory; what you were feeling, what you knew that Father Steve was feeling too, was forbidden. It was one thing to flirt with an older boy, another thing entirely o flirt and offer yourself up to a grown man, a teacher… a priest. Father Steve nodded slowly. He reached out with one shaking hand, ostensibly to take the plain wooden ruler from where it sat in the plastic organizer on his desk but he paused, leaving it behind to reach instead and place one wide warm palm against your thigh. You sighed at the touch, spreading your legs just the slightest bit without even realizing it and watching with half-lidded eyes as the young priest slid out of his desk chair and fell to his knees before you. He said your name, low and reverent, peering up at you with a questioning gaze, hand hot and heavy against your skin. “Please,” you whispered again, and that was all it took. Father Steve leaned in with a groan, eyes fluttering shut as he nosed at the soft skin at the crook of your knee, first brushing his mouth across your thigh and then parting his lips to drag them upwards, pushing your skirt up as he went. “So gorgeous,” he whispered softly, punctuating his words with a sucking kiss. You whimpered, your hands gripping the edge of his desk, and the sound made him shudder. “So perfect,” he whispered. You were certainly no angel; you’d fooled around before, with a couple of boys from school, a couple girls. It never went too far, mostly kissing and some light touching. But this? This was all new. Something new that you’d heard of, seen in this or that grainy internet video, maybe even imagined, but never felt. Never dreamed you’d feel, not now, not with Father Steve. Your skirt was rucked up around your waist and Father Steve was mouthing against the damp cotton of your panties, little yearning groans coming his throat. “Want you,” he muttered, and whispered your name. “Can I have you, sweetheart? Can I taste you?” You gasped out another Please! and then he was pushing aside the soft wet fabric of your panties and licking a thick enthusiastic stripe right inside of you. You gasped and jolted, his strong hands reaching to hold your hips in place. Father Steve was still groaning, the sounds coming interspersed between the slick little wet noises his mouth made against you. Your breath was coming hard and fast, your body trembling hard. No one had ever touched you like this before, made you feel so much. You tried to say his name, to tell him what you were feeling, how good it was, but you couldn’t get the words out. “Fath… ah… ah… oh god, please, please…” you babbled and you could swear you felt his lips pull into a smile against you. He moaned, soft and deep, before pulling away, hands drifting from where they held your hips to push your thighs further apart. As wrecked as he was, you could only imagine how you must look. Father Steve’s face was heated and red, lips swollen and shiny-slick. You felt a tingling low in your gut to know that it was from you -- that it was your own wetness gracing that perfect mouth -- shivering when he flicked a pink tongue out to lick the taste of you off of his lips. Father Steve inched his hands up your thighs, beneath your skirt to the lacy scalloped waistband of your panties. He began tugging them down and you lifted yourself off the desk just an inch or two on instinct so he could slide them down your legs and toss them away, abandoned on the floor of his office. When he pushed your thighs apart again, he moaned at the sight of you. “So fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered, and you weren’t sure if the words were meant for you or for himself. “Taste so fuckin’ good, I can’t stand it,” he went on, and buried his face once again into your dripping cunt. You could feel it building, your thighs trembling beneath the onslaught of his perfect mouth. It seemed like Father Steve was everywhere, surrounding you and inside of you, sucking at your clit and then pressing his thick tongue deep inside of you. You were making noises again, soft little gasping sounds, and you knew you were close. When it hit you, it stole your breath away; it was nothing like the pale little shivery thing you could bring on yourself with a slow press and rub of your own fingers. This was explosive, pleasure shooting up and down your spine, your whole body shaking with tremors and tingles that seemed to spread even to your fingertips and the hard points of your nipples. You tried to catch your breath in the comedown but you couldn’t do it, couldn’t settle yourself down, because he wasn’t stopping. He. Wasn’t. Stopping. Father Steve didn’t even slow down. He seemed almost like a man possessed, licking and sucking even harder, applying gentle pressure with his lips and teeth. You threw your head back and gasped when he pressed a thick finger inside of you, your hips rolling against his hand without even a thought on your part, pure animal instinct to chase the pleasure he was intent on giving you. When your climax hit again, your back arched and you cried out, not loud or shrill but gasping and sweet, primal noises of want and pleasure. The sudden wet flood between your thighs startled you but Father Steve seemed so pleased, groaning low and lapping away until you couldn’t stop shaking and you pulled at his hair. Then, and only then, did he stop. You thought he’d been a mess before but now...god. You knew you’d never see anything quite so gorgeous or quite so erotic for the rest of your life, his usually neat blonde hair a twisted mess from your fingers, eyes so dark and pupils so blown as to be almost black, lips more red and swollen and the slickness of your release all over his mouth and chin. He blinked and took some deep breaths before falling back onto his heels, as though he wasn’t quite sure what had just happened. You felt weak and shaky, and let yourself slide from the desk to slip into his lap, hands gripping his black shirt to keep you from falling. “Oh god,” he whispered, breathing fast enough that you thought he might hyperventilate. “Oh god. What have I done. What have I done to you.” Shaky and overwrought as you were, you couldn’t have that. You wouldn’t allow him to punish himself like this, to panic. You leaned quickly forward and pressed your lips to his, licking into his mouth when he drew in a startled breath and tasting your own sweet musk on his tongue. It didn’t take long for him to return your affection, kissing you long and deep and holding your body flush against his as he made soft little sounds of desire. He still wanted you; you could feel him, his arousal pressing hot and hard against your core. It seemed your body knew just what to do, your hips starting to roll against him, a rhythmic motion that had him groaning and gasping into your kiss, your name always the first intelligible sound he would make when you’d break apart for air. Soon the friction of your movement against him didn’t seem enough, and you crept a slim hand between your bodies, enjoying the way he shuddered hard and moaned low when you first slipped your fingers beneath his waistband. The gentle pressure of your fingertips brushing across his hardened length was all that he needed, and Father Steve kissed you fiercely, canting his hips forward as he came hot and wet in your hand. When it was over, neither of you moved, still cuddled close there on the floor, staring at each other with wide, shocked eyes, and wondering what to do next. ***** Chapter 5 ***** The lateness of the hour and the darkening sky finally moved the both of you to action, quickly pulling apart to straighten your clothes and clean up what of the mess that you could. You’d inadvertently knocked the organizer off of Father Steve’s desked and his blotter and some folders had been shoved aside; you moved to begin straightening it and when you bent to retrieve a few fallen pens from the floor, you heard a strangled groan come from behind you. That was when you remembered that you weren’t wearing anything beneath your skirt, and quickly straightened with a blush. Father Steve was watching you with a nervous blush of his own, the small wisp of cotton fabric in his hands. He cleared his throat, and averted his gaze. “I don’t think these will do you any good, I’m afraid,” he said, voice low and a little raw. He still looked a mess, black cotton shirt hanging untucked and his belt undone, white plastic collar half pulled away from his throat. “The elastic is all torn.” “I’ll just… I don’t know, hold my skirt down on the walk home,” you muttered quickly. Your parents knew you had planned to stay late that day -- you’d told them about the pep rally decorations, and they’d been so pleased that you’d gotten involved with something happening at school for a change -- but staying much longer would really be pushing it. “I can drive you home,” Father Steve offered. He still spoke quietly, as though the still atmosphere of his office was something precious and not to be disturbed. “I’ll get the keys to the rectory car and…” “No, it’s okay,” you said quickly, shaking your head as you slipped your backpack, absently left on the floor by the door, over one shoulders. “I’m only a few blocks away and it’d just raise more questions if you went to the trouble.” You paused a moment, waiting for him to say something, anything, but he only stood watching you, face a mixture of more emotions than you could fathom. Taking a deep breath, you turned to open the door and go, pausing when you felt a hand on your arm and heard him whisper your name. You fell into his embrace so easily. It hardly seemed that you had shared your first intimate touch only an hour or so ago, the way he folded you up in his arms and held you close. This kiss was different from the others, tentative and sweet, almost shy. You melted against him, forgetting for even the briefest moment that all of this was so very wrong. Father Steve sighed and broke the kiss, still holding you close and pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes squeezed shut as he willed the rest of the world away, wanting only to hold you a little longer and forget everything that existed outside of his closed office door. “What… what now, Father Steve?” you asked, voice soft and vulnerable. He opened his eyes when you spoke and you found yourself caught up in his gaze, held there with no escape. As if you’d ever want to try. “I’m not sure, sweetheart,” he told you, confusion and indecision clear in his gaze. He sighed again and pressed his lips to your forehead. “But I think, maybe, when we’re… if we’re ever alone like this… you can just call me Steve.”   You didn’t sleep very well that night. You felt like your body was still humming with the energy of your exertions with Father -- with Steve -- and your mind was racing a mile a minute. You’d shared such intimate touches with a man who was supposed to be completely off limits, a man of the cloth who you’d seen praying with your own eyes, pleading to resist the need to put his hands on you. You’d kissed him, tasted yourself on his lips. Felt the heat of his breath against your throat, the hard planes of his body pressed against yours. He’d prayed for the strength to resist a trespass and you’d offered yourself up on a silver platter. Had you… led him astray? Or had he been the one to lead you down the wrong path? You weren’t by any means stupid; you had heard all of the same stories and warnings over the years, that there would be adults ready to possess you, to manipulate you, to make you believe their lascivious intentions were something good, something that you wanted. But… you didn’t see that in Steve. It seemed impossible to think of him as some cold, calculating predator. You’d seen him with other students, girls far more flirtatious than you. The closeness that you felt between the two of you, even before this trespass you had taken, just wasn’t there. When you did finally fall asleep, it was fitful and restless.   Steve didn’t fare any better. Returning to the rectory, he felt as though the eyes of every statuary and icon that he passed on his way were staring him down with a disapproving gaze. It was wrong, it was all so wrong -- what he felt for you, what he had done. He tried to tell himself that it was nothing, this fascination he’d had for you, that he was just mixing up all the doubts he’d been having about his calling with the spark of friendship he had found in you. And then he’d gone and ruined everything. Steve was a realist. He told himself that he couldn’t really be falling for a teenage girl and for a good long while, he believed it. He told himself that he’d perhaps jumped the gun on his holy orders -- that he should have taken a little more time to experience life before selling himself wholesale to a life of service in the Church -- and now he would just have to deal with the consequential frustrating. He told himself that he shouldn’t, that he couldn’t put his hands on a young girl like you, a student, someone who trusted him. He thought he could do it, thought he was strong enough. He couldn’t help his fantasies, daydreams and quiet sinful little thoughts he kept to himself, dreams about laying you down on the simple twin bed in his little room and just letting himself explore. But he damn well could keep himself from doing anything stupid. Or so he thought. Until he he’d met your gaze that afternoon, saw in your eyes that you understood him, that you knew... and you issued your quiet invitation. That had long been one of his favorite fantasies: spreading your thighs beneath your uniform skirt and tasting all you had to offer. And now that it had come true? God, he wanted it even more. He wanted it again, and again, and again… Steve groaned, sitting at the simple wooden desk in his little room, head in his hands. He didn’t know what to do; all he knew was that being with you, even sitting quietly together, made him feel as though a weight was lifted from his shoulders. He knew, without a doubt, that it was the first instance of real happiness he’d had in several long, lonely years.   When it came time for lunch the next day, you were jittering in your seat in the library, tapping your foot restlessly on the ground and twisting your napkin on your hand. You’d gotten there a little bit early but you were still panicking, thinking that he wouldn’t show up -- that he had gotten what he wanted from you and whatever your little dalliance had been was over. You were staring down at your untouched lunch when you heard the soft scuff of the chair across from you being pulled out. “Is this seat taken?” Steve asked softly. You looked up to see him watching you with a timid, mild expression on his face. For the second time in recent days, you were struck by how very young he looked to your eyes, and you smiled. “Nah,” you told him, unable to stop the warm smile from breaking on your face. “I was just saving it for a friend.” Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!