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Popeman and Altarboy

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Matt tugs at the collar of Father Lantom's spare cassock, the only spare change of clothes he could find on short notice. It's surprisingly comfortable. Roomy, and Matt is trying not think about the fact that all he's wearing is the cassock and his boots, and he'd seriously considered leaving the boots behind as well; the smell was overwhelming.

He's never been happier to reach home. The boots go in the trash and his feet get hosed down before he goes inside.

"Holy shit. Emphasis on the holy."

"Foggy. I hope you weren't waiting up." Ever since Foggy found out about his alter ego, and particularly after they started this...thing Matt still isn't ready to label, he's worried. A lot.

"You hope wrong. So very, very wrong."


Matt finds himself pressed against the wall, Foggy's body soft against him.

"You have no idea," Foggy breathes, and kisses him. His hands skim over the cassock, digging into the fabric at Matt's hips and pulling him in closer. Matt pulls away form the kiss to breathe and Foggy nuzzles right at the edge of the high collar.


"Yeah, Matt. Oh. Now, I've got a confession to make. A few, actually. This could take a while, Father Murdock." Foggy grins as Matt actually blushes, and it's the most awesome thing because Matt is freaking shameless when it comes to sex.


"I confess to wanting to push my boyfriend up against the wall, crawl under his very sexy religious robe, and suck his brains out of his dick." Foggy lets the hand not pinning Matt’s shoulders to the wall slide down to where Matt is very interested in what’s going on. He squeezes Matt, wraps the material of the cassock around his erection and slowly jacks Matt off.

"Foggy!" Matt is beautifully strung between incredibly turned on and utterly embarrassed. He's also not quite used to the absolutely filthy mouth Foggy has on him.

"And then I confess to wanting to push him over the kitchen table, lift up his skirt—" fuck, the way Foggy hits the 't' in skirt is obscene "—and fuck what's left of his brains out. How’s that sound?"

“God, yes. Please.” Foggy is a man of his word and a man of action. His knees crack against the floor when he drops, Matt’s hands finding their way into his hair with unerring accuracy. It’s hot and smells like sex underneath Matt’s robe. Foggy loves it. (Loves this man, has for years, even if Matt’s not ready to hear it yet.)

He also loves giving Matt blow jobs because it’s one of the few times Matt loses a little bit of his control. Matt’s fingers tighten in his hair, the spike of pain making Foggy hum, which means Matt pulls harder, and it’s a lovely cycle. Foggy hollows his cheeks, sucks at Matt hard enough to make him shout, then pulls off completely.

“Matthew. Are you reciting a devotional in Latin?” He hears Matt’s head thump against the wall, which prompts him to pull himself out from under the robes and into the cool air of the apartment. It’s about time for part 2 anyways.

“Just getting a jump on my Penance,” Matt gasps, and he looks wrecked, hair mussed and lips kiss-swollen, skin pale against the dark black priest’s robe.

“Ah. Well. That seems counterproductive to me.” He smooths the cassock over Matt and cant help but lean in and mouth him though the material. “We have a lot more sinning to do.”

“Foggy, this is—so wrong.” And yet, Matt can’t find it in himself to stop this.

“Blaspheme,” Foggy sings, standing up and pulling Matt into a quick two step, guiding them towards the kitchen table, “blasphe-you, blasphe-everybody-in-the-room.” Matt’s eyebrows arch up and Foggy kisses him before the wisecrack can leave his lips.

Kissing derails them. It’s still new enough, for both of them, that Foggy sometimes still finds himself awestruck that he gets to have this. And Matt considers every kiss a countdown to some sort of end, so he cherishes every one of them.

But soon their bodies demand they get a move on. And Foggy, blessed Foggy, has gleefully stashed lube wherever he could, so it’s close at hand. Matt finds himself chest-down on his kitchen table, shuddering as Foggy opens him up with slick fingers, the material of the cassock rubbing against the skin just above his ass.

He’s always gentle, even when he’s fucking Matt on the kitchen table, sweaty and hot, heartbeat racing. Matt’s hands curl over the edge, bracing himself, and soon Foggy’s hands cover his, filling the spaces between Matt’s fingers as they work towards their orgasms together, grunting and cursing.

Matt’s close, so close, but it’s never been easy for him to give into pleasure, to lose himself in something soft and good, but when Foggy leans down and says, “Bless me father, for I have sinned,” Matt spills over the edge with a shuddering shout. Foggy laughs as he comes, which is appropriate. Matt’s never been with anyone who takes such easy joy in this as Foggy.

They end up on the floor, side by side, both still mostly dressed. Foggy’s a bright white streak in the red-tinged darkness.

“Boyfriend?” Matt asks after he’s caught his breath.

“Yep,” Foggy says, with a shrug he doesn’t bother to tell Matt about. “Deal with it.”

Matt doesn’t answer, just reaches out and links his fingers through Foggy’s, a small smile turning up the corners of his lip. Foggy grins up at the ceiling. The silence between them is comfortable, but never meant to last.

“Where’d you get the priest get up?” Foggy asks, voice muggy with satisfaction.

“It’s, uh. Father Lantom’s spare.”

“Ah.” Matt can feel Foggy trying not to laugh.

“I think I’m going to have to buy him a new one.”

“Yeah. I don’t think dry cleaning will cut it. And I have a few other things to confess, too.” That gets a rare, deserved chuckle out of Matt and Foggy feels content, lying on the floor with his boyfriend and contemplating new ways they can blaspheme.