Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1472212.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV), Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Sebastian_Moran/Jim_Moriarty, Sebastian_Moran_&_Jim_Moriarty
  Character:
      Jim_Moriarty, James_Moriarty, Sebastian_Moran
  Additional Tags:
      mormor, Priest_Kink, Implied_Underage, Roman_Catholicism,
      Preist!Sebastian, underage!Jim, Masturbation
  Series:
      Part 1 of Abnormally_Attracted_to_Sin
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-04-16 Words: 2654
****** Hide Me In Your Holiness ******
by EyeofMazikeen
Summary
     Cliche as it is, it’s always started the same way. A voice, soft and
     lilting behind the ornate privacy screen that separates the priestly
     side of the confessional from the layman’s side.
     “Forgive me father, for I have sinned....”
     They’re the words Sebastian (most) least wants to hear. Even in the
     very beginning, that very first time, he knew that something, from
     the minute that little Irish bastard walked into his confessional,
     that things were about to change. Not necessarily for the better. Not
     exactly for the worse, either. Jim Moriarty has always defined
     different. Just because Father Sebastian Moran is a priest doesn't
     mean he’s exempt from having his life upended.
     In fact, it just might make him that much more appealing of a target.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
 
“Forgive me father, for I have sinned....”
(8 years ago) - Ware, Hertfordshire
“... It’s been two weeks since my last confession.”
The lilting voice is young, nervous, and so very tense.  Too young to be an
adult, though god knows it isn’t stopping what Father Moran can only think of
as ‘the kid’ on the other side of the confessional from treating the situation
with the gravitas it deserves.  He sounds serious, so very serious.  Like God
himself was waiting on the other side of the old oak booth to lay a righteous
judgement upon him.
Sebastian, though relatively new at taking confession, knows that a little
silence goes a long way.  It’s not only a priest's duty to hear confessions, to
act in persona Christi,but to make sure that the penitent is in full
understanding of their sin so they can truly confess, and therefore truly be
absolved.
Silence, when offered, is usually filled.  The boy on the other side of the
booth sighs; a soft and almost sweet intake of breath as he gathers his nerve
before speaking.
“I’ve been thinking impure thoughts. “  Not exactly a shocker, that.  The kid
on the other side of the screen sounds what, all of about thirteen?  Boys his
age are pretty much made of impure thoughts.
“Go on, my child.”  It’s an immense effort on Sebastian’s part not to laugh,
and only a slightly milder effort to not let the dry (almost bitter) humor seep
into his voice.  The nuns at Allen Hall weren’t kidding when they said that
Sebastian Moran, while brimming with dedication, barely had the temperament
necessary to be a man of the cloth.
Then again, without Allen Hall and the Church to guide him, it was back to the
army or worse, back home.  Seminary school seemed like a blessing when weighed
against both those options.  Besides.  All that church his mother forced him
into, all the prayers and litanies his father beat into him were now at least
serving a purpose.  And... well.  It was peaceful.
Or at least it was peaceful on his side of the confessional.  The penitent
sitting in the box across from him seemed to be having a much more difficult
time.  Through the privacy grate Sebastian could see the boy fidget, suppressed
squirms and frequent rolls of his thin shoulders causing his clothes to rustle.
 Well, it was no surprise.  Sex and guilt and puberty are the worst possible
threesome.  Sebastian knows, he’s been there himself.
“I turn to impurity frequently, Father..  I can’t seem to stop myself, and when
I try to turn to prayer instead, it gets... complicated.”  There's something
almost like a frustrated little growl that accompanies the words as whisper
through the silent, sacred space between them.
“And how is prayer complicated for you?”  It’s a slightly puzzling dilemma,
though not entirely uncommon.  Sometimes it’s hard to focus on the meditative
side of prayer, especially when so many other things can.  But to find it so
frustrating?  It’s... interesting.
“Because I get down on my knees at the end of the bed, and close my eyes and
start to recite the Lord’s Prayer but all I hear is you.”
The silence that rings between the two confessional booth is deafening.  There
should be words.  He should be speaking, guiding, saying something to the
parishioner across from him but all Sebastian can do is take a calculated
breath and hope that this isn’t going where he ho- thinks it is.
“I see you, you know.  Around campus.  Teaching classes.  Giving sermons.
 And...”  The voice trails off shyly, and Sebastian finds he has to lean in
closer to the privacy divider to hear it when it picks back up again.  Not from
eagerness on Sebastian's part, certainly.  But there is an expectation that
one’s sins, when confessed to a priest, will be heard so that the sacrament of
penance can be appropriately administered.
“I can’t stop thinking about you, Father.”  Satan himself couldn’t make the
title sound more appealing.  The (much, his brain emphasizes, and it has the
opposite of the desired effect; heightening the tension between them instead of
dispelling it altogether) younger man’s voice has changed, from shy and
reticent to outright indulgent and sinful.  
“You’re always on my mind.  Your voice, slightly rough as you guide us through
the Apostle’s Creed.  Your hands, on the altar.  On the host.  And I can’t help
but think of those hands on me.”
“A-and...”  Again, an almost bashful stutter.  The potential energy of the
moment hangs suspended between them, ready to tip over at the slightest sound
from outside.  “I can’t help it.  I think about you and... I touch myself
Father.”  
It’s a whispered secret, soft and low and full of more suggestion than it is
guilt.  The sound of it, so unapologetic and brutally tempting, sends tendrils
of lust tangling through his entire system; redirects all his blood down to his
groin.  Hell.  forget the penitent across from him, Sebastian’s own cock is at
least half hard, rapidly filling out the black wool of his priestly vestments,
simply from the sound of that damned voice and the terrible, sinful, so
shamefully enjoyable things it was suggesting.
“Through my pants at first.  Then it wasn't enough.  I had to feel skin.  My
hands aren't big like yours are.  They’re not rough either.  But if I close my
eyes and touch myself just so...”  He’s doing it now, Sebastian can tell.  The
idea should be disgusting.  Appalling.  Shocking and horrifying and distasteful
and blasphemous.  All Father Moran can feel is the ghost of guilt, pushed to
the background by a massive tide of lust for the fact that he doesn't actually
feel any of those things.
“A-ah.  I can sort of get it to feel right.” A soft little groan couples
another few frantic movements on the other side of the privacy screen, and
Sebastian’s mouth all but waters with the mental images the shadow play created
by the latticework between them.  He’s left to sin on his own, to fill in the
blanks, to imagine what this mysterious boy and his (well worked, from the
sound of it) cock look like.  It’s all a blur of half remembered encounters in
the dark halls of boarding school to the backs of stolen cars in moments of
youthful indiscretion to one memorable time in the back of an only temporarily
vacated barracks.
“I want  to stop myself, Father, I do.”  It’s an almost plaintive whine, but
there’s subtle defiant undercurrent that sets the hairs on the back of
Sebastian’s neck to standing.  This is all too surreal, too fucking odd and
tempting and wrong and... fuck.  That little bastard is panting now, the sound
of his shallow breath coming in time with barely restrained movements of his
shoulders and... and....
He’s not.  He can’t be.  Oh... oh god.  He is.  Once identified, there’s no
mistaking the rhythmic, if still largely suppressed rocking of the body across
the confessional from him.  His penitent, whoever it is, is quite obviously...
laying hands on themselves while receiving (or at least attempting to receive)
a sacrament.
As much as Sebastian would like to tell himself that it’s just shock that keeps
him from moving, from interrupting, from putting a stop to things like he damn
well should, he’s just not that good of a liar.  To himself, to God and any of
the bloody saints that might be witnessing it.  Lust and fascination root him
in place, frozen as the only witness to such a blasphemous act.
“But it feels so good.”  Another few desperate pants, this time coupled with a
slight whine that drops straight from the lump in Sebastian’s stomach to the
taut mess of lust and guilt knotted up between his navel and his groin.
Besides, there’s something about the almost desperate quality of that lilting
voice that makes something inside him unfurl; something lon
g repressed and unabashedly feral.
Part of seminary was taking a lot of classes, having a fuck ton of discussions
about dealing with temptation.  While not naturally inclined to a life of
celibacy, Sebastian thought that he’d be prepared for the worst the world had
to throw at him.  Nothing he learned during his time at Allen Hall prepared him
for this.  Funnily enough, his own time at St. Edmund’s (dutifully suffered
through before army, then Seminary, before returning as a campus priest and
part time teacher) certainly had.
Catholic schools.  Full of the young, beset on all sides by those dead set on
forcing them to repress every wild impulse and hormone rush, fed shame and
punishment for every indiscretion in hopes that they’d all fit the same saintly
mold... or at least appear to.  A wonderful system, Sebastian knew firsthand.
 What it got you was a terrific little group of skilled liars and sneaks with
massive guilt complexes.  Usually with a goodly amount of BDSM kink thrown in
for good measure.
It was odd that he joined the priesthood given his feelings on the matter, but
if his time in Afghanistan taught him one thing it was that if you can’t beat
‘em, join ‘em.  Well.  That was about 80% of the reason he ended in Seminary,
and then back at St. Edmund’s in the first place.
So here he was, newly ordained Father Sebastian Moran, surrounded with kids
just like the kind he used to be.  Good at committing sin, best at hiding it.
 Funny, it seemed that for all the sins this penitent had been engaging in, he
didn’t want to hide much at all.  Wanking in a semi public confessional booth
in front of the object of your impure thoughts didn't really speak to a desire
for divine mercy.  Divine forgivness. Divine pleasue was the only thing
Sebastian could hear in the harmonics of that devilish lilt. 
“All I hear is your voice, over and over.  I can see you in my mind’s eye,
Father, as clearly as if you were standing before me.  Your hands on my head,
fingers tangled in my hair, pressing my mouth down.. down... down...”
“In my fantasy I suck you off as you say St. Micheal’s prayer for us both,
swallow every centimeter you down as you pray for our forgiveness.”  The boy’s
voice is more hushed than usual, breathless and quick and Sebastian can’t tell
if it’s because of shame or... something else.
“Oh God.”  They’re the first words Sebastian speaks during the whole ordeal,
and it’s enough to push the young man across from him over the edge.
“O-oh... oh.  Oh.  Look, Father.”  One pale hand raises in front of the privacy
divider.  “I’ve done it again.”  A soft series of sucking noises follows the
half moan, half stuttered exclamation.  It’s hard to tell in the low light, but
they seem long and thin and... just a bit wet.
“I think I’ve done it again, Father.  Should I confess that too, or do I get
some sort of free pass on confessing things that you’ve witnessed?”  That’s no
boy’s voice, not any more.  It’s predatory, dark, and while it sounds young
there’s very little that’s youthfulabout it.  That dancing lilt is nothing but
smug satisfaction, post coital bliss and just the barest hints of a deep,
untouched hunger.
The sensations that cascade through Father Sebastian Moran at the sound of it
are the very definition of improper.  Indecent.  There’s very little that’s
sacred or pious inside him at that moment.  It’s all barely suppressed lust and
an immense amount of sinful delight as he listens to the young man on the other
side of the booth slowly, deliberately suck every last drop of come off his
fingers.
“I’ll see myself out then, shall I?”  There are wicked lips twisted in laughter
on the other side of the confessional.  Sebastian knows this as deeply as he
knows that he’s stumbled into some sort of exceptional hell.  Any more
introspection is cut short by that dancing lilt, filthy and rich and
penetrating, as it echoes through the (hopefully) empty church around them.
 The voice is confident, brash, and above all damnably loud.  None of those
qualities make it any less desirable.
“I do hope I haven’t burdened you terribly with my confession.  I hear sin,
even to the most devout, can potentially be contagious.  I hope you don’t find
me catching, Father.”  There’s a momentary pause in the speech, just long
enough for a wink.  He can’t see it through the divider, but Sebastian knows
damn well that the cheeky little fuck did it all the same.
“Good night, Father.  And sweet dreams.”  There’s a rustle of cloth again as
the penitent stands, one hand rattling the thick oak door as it opens just a
crack before Sebastian can find the words to stop his retreat.
“Wait.”  Even half choked out, he manages to make the word sound commanding.
 Fortunately, it’s enough to make the body on the other side halt.  The words
of the sacrament flood back to Sebastian’s mind, replacing the doubt and the
lust and the particularly sweet rush of endorphins that filled him when he
realized exactly what that filthy, clever mouth had been doing.  The rite
 spills from him in a rush, half prayer of absolution and half protective magic
spell to keep the demon (inside) across from him at bay.
God the Father of mercies,
through the death and resurrection of his Son
has reconciled the world to himself
and sent the Holy Spirit among us
for the forgiveness of sins;
through the ministry of the Church
may God give you pardon and peace,
and I absolve you from your sins
in the name of the Father, and of the Son,
and of the Holy Spirit.
Amen.
“I absolve you of your sins.  Now go forth, and give thanks to the Lord for he
is good.”  By the time he reaches the end of the rite he’s practically panting,
and not simply from lack of breath.  The entire scene has somehow become
unbearably erotic; taboo and sinful in ways that hit buttons Sebastian thought
he’d locked down and hidden away years ago.
“Yeah...”  The giggle that accompanies the whisper is sin incarnate.  Seductive
and mocking and fuck... there has to be at least eight million things wired
wrong in his head and in his heart and certainly in his cock because it
shouldn't sound or feel that good coming from someone that young.
“God is good.  But I bet he’s not half as good as you.  Catch you later, Father
Moran.”  A hot flash of panic burns away the fog of lust clouding his mind
because... fuck.  There are several priests on campus.  And while the old iron
privacy screens aren't exactly impenetrable, it should be relatively difficult
for the younger man to have known exactly who it was across from him unless...
Well.  He did say he spent a lot of time listening to Sebastian’s voice.  Maybe
he recognized it.  Maybe it was a damned lucky guess.  Maybe the whole debacle
was just some sort of insane, cruel, and really sexually confusing joke.
Only vaguely haunted by the ghost of his experience, Sebastian manages to make
it through the rest of his (fortunately much less interesting and infinitely
less complicated) confessions halfway back to his chambers before realizing,
with stark terror, that his mysterious penitent doesn't just have a priest
fixation.  It seems that he has a fixation specifically on Sebastian himself.
It’s flattering and disturbing all at once.  A scenario made all the more
unsettling by the fact that Sebastian, doesn't have the slightest idea who he
is.
Though, he thinks to himself with a sharp clench of his square jaw, the mystery
penitent's identity is certainly going to be worth finding out, if only to keep
something so dangerous and wholly improper from ever happening again.
Yeah.
If only.
 
End Notes
     Written for what is quickly becoming known as PreistKink!Mormor
     Christmas. Hehehe. For the wonderful Brynn and my unrepentant partner
     in MorMor crime, Aidan. What have you bastards done to me?!
     In theory there will be more chapters detailing several of Jim's
     other confessions, but for now this remains a stand alone story.
     While I have an abundance of ideas from Aidan as to horrible, filthy,
     kinky shit these two fucks can get up to in a church please feel free
     to leave suggestions as to what type of depravity I can work in to
     hit all your kink buttons, folks. <3
     Porn Credits for this chapter go to:
     Brynncognito for requesting Priest!Kink in the first place
     DreamMasterLoki for confessional wanking and the whole general idea
     of Preist!Kink MorMor age gap depravity
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