Chapter Text
It’s accurate, the name. Little Boston.
You already miss your friends in the city. The freedom you had to act as you pleased. To breathe without your father asking you to behave properly. You don’t know how you lived here for your first fifteen years, and you certainly aren’t glad to be back.
You sit, alone, in one of the dilapidated pews of the Church of the Third Revelation. You’ve been home nearly a month, and have been dragged to sermon five times in three-and-a-half weeks.
Your father is bedridden this week, sick with fever, and you would be grateful had he not begged you to attend service without him.
And you are nothing if not obedient.
The wood is as painful to sit on as it had been when you were young, and creaks beneath your weight if you so much as think too hard. The Church was in sore need of repair, in more ways than one.
If you were fully honest with yourself, you never really cared for congregation. More often than not, it seemed to test your faith in God, rather than bolster it. The (renewed) Third Revelation proves no different.
The preacher circles around the space where a pulpit should be, regarding the parishioners like prey when he speaks.
What you see feels less like religion and more like spectacle, but the congregation eats it up. They stand when the pastor stands, speak in tongues as he casts out demons.
It reminds you of the theatre.
“Yes, the devil is in your hands.” The new preacher, Eli Sunday, kneels in front of Mrs. Hunter. Young palms wrapped around gnarled arthritic ones.
Mrs. Hunter has always been sweet to you. She taught you to make daisy chains with the few flowers that grow in Little Boston when you were small. It’s strange to watch this performance, a degree too intimate for someone you think of as a sort of family.
“-And I will suck it out.” Admittedly, this grabs your attention.
For a moment his tongue peeks pink past his lips as he takes Mrs. Hunter’s hands to his mouth. Your eyes feel glued to Eli, riveted as you watch him. You feel the tiniest twinge of disappointment when he doesn’t make good on his promise.
He rocks in religious fervor, withered hands crowning his forehead now, as he speaks scripture.
“Get out of here, ghost.” He keeps rocking, nearly bucking his hips, and you can’t help the way your eyes roam over him.
Your fingers twist in the skirt of your dress.
You’ve come to understand why the congregation is so… taken with Eli Sunday. He’s so profoundly physical when he speaks, seemingly raw in a way that reels you in.
It feels equal parts obscene and virtuous to watch him. Maybe that’s the charm.
It doesn’t hurt that he’s handsome. The lines of him are soft, his profile so delicately formed it makes you ache to touch him. To skim your fingers along his cheeks, his nose, his lips. He’s caught you looking every time, and of course, he’s the preacher, you should be looking at him, but you can tell he sees right through that. Something in his pretty green eyes tells you that he knows.
It spurs you on, frankly.
Recently, when you realize those eyes are on you, one in an audience of nearly thirty, you find yourself opening the topmost button of your blouse. Pulling on the neck of it to let air in. It’s summer, it’s innocent enough.
You find you like to watch him sweat, his eyes quickly tearing away to someone less distracting. Sometimes you even manage to get him to stutter during his sermon. It’s delightful.
By the end of today’s sermon, your collar is open, and you’re flushed. The heat is partially to blame. You wait for most of the parishioners to file out before you make your escape.
Eli calls your name just before you walk out of the doorway. You note how good it sounds in his mouth as you make your way to his stage.
He is speaking with Mrs. Hunter when you reach it, grasping her hands again, smile professional. She smiles at you as you arrive, and makes her exit soon after, thanking Eli for ‘guiding the sheep of Little Boston’ on her way out.
You wait for her to get out of ear shot before you speak to Eli. It doesn’t take long; she’s been half-deaf for as long as you’ve been alive.
“Is there something you need from me, sir?”
Eli’s mouth twitches and he turns away from you, grabbing a small wooden crate from behind him. It’s crammed with jars filled with exactly what, you can’t discern. Looks edible. You take them. His hand lays over yours, firm, and smiles peaceably when your eyes meet.
“Mrs. Goody requested you get these to your father. Is he faring well?”
“He’ll be alright. Hay fever just gets to him something awful this time of year.”
He hums, retracting his hands from yours. The places he touched feel cool despite the heat. “I’ll keep him in my prayers.”
“Thank you.”
Neither of you speak for several seconds, but Eli hasn’t quite dismissed you. You start to turn, not eager to sit much longer in awkward silence, no matter the impropriety.
“There is…” His mouth opens and closes. “There is something else we need to- discuss.”
You freeze, getting the sense you’re about to be preached at in a way that’s infinitely less entertaining than the past couple of hours have been. You set the crate on one of the pews.
“You’re in desperate need of saving.” Great start! It’s as if he’s choosing the worst things to say on purpose. Annoyance rises like bile in your throat. You’re sure it shows on your face. “Your- behavior with the- with your blouse needs to cease.”
A part of you is smug knowing you weren’t imagining his eyes on you. The rest grows more vexed by the moment.
There’s a difference in tact when he speaks on a personal level, versus when he performs for sermon. He’s less certain; the words in his mouth would rather trip than step over his lips.
“It’s nearly a hundred degrees, Eli. Is it sin to be hot?”
“And you’re unrepentant.” His eyes flit to your collarbone, the undone button. “You know what you’re doing and I need you to stop- Stop trying to tempt me. Please.”
There’s a pleading note to it. Almost charming, if he weren’t blaming you entirely for his own thoughts.
“You realize you are the one who looks.” Eli looks struck for a moment, sweat beading down his temple, before he recovers. “Simply don’t look.”
“Your father asked me to keep an eye on you.” He speaks in that gentle way, like he’s doing you a favor. It’s infuriating. “And I see now he was well in his right to, the way that you act-“
Your mouth moves quicker than your brain, spitfire and rageful.
“How dare you-“ You see red.
‘The way that you act?’ You swear you can taste venom.
Before you can even think it, your hand whips across the side of Eli’s face. The sound is clear and sharp. The force of it knocks a lock of hair loose to dangle above his eyes.
There’s a split second of sweet shock spread across his face, before his brows fall. Your palm stings, but the pain is distant, detached.
Eli catches your wrist before it can return to your side. He’s tall enough that holding you is enough to pull your heels off the ground.
You’re both still for a spell, chests heaving with breath. Your eyes are drawn to the mark you left, already pink and angry across his jaw. You would feel regret, guilt even, if the contempt in his eyes weren’t so divine.
“How dare me?” His voice is low, dangerous. Something about that thrills you. “I should suck the sin from your fingers for th-“
“What’s stopping you?”
Eli’s mouth hangs open, yet no more words pass them. You’ve stopped him dead in his tracks, and it feels like the very air in the church ignites.
Then, his eyes are on you, really on you, rolling over you in your entirety, as if he’s only just seen you for the first time. His gaze lights you from the inside out, but you don’t move, not one inch.
Your skin feels sweltering, and a portion of that heat is from anger, a feeling you know as well as the backs of your eyelids. A larger portion is from something else you haven’t really had the opportunity to understand.
Lust, maybe.
You’ve been kissed, taken even, more than once. Your time in the city wasn’t nearly as uneventful to be overshadowed by some overzealous priest just looking at you.
Was it?
“Go ahead. Save me, Eli.”
It’s meant to be mocking, appealing to a complex he so clearly has, and maybe some of that still shines through, but all you can hear is the reverence.
He soaks it up like rain on dry land, his cheeks nearly matching color with your handprint. Your hand is guided, a bit shakily, to his lips.
His marked flesh is overwarm beneath your fingers as he gingerly aligns your hand with the print. Your heart stutters at the feeling of his breath ghosting over the inside of your wrist.
His tongue swipes quickly at the edge of his mouth, and lord, he’s much too hesitant!
You surge forward, dragging the pad of your thumb across his lips almost hungrily, before you part them. His hand hangs on your wrist, decorative more than anything. He could remove you at any time, if he wanted to, yet there’s no strength behind it.
His mouth opens for you, warm and inviting, and you can’t help the teasing smile that curls onto your face.
“What was that you said about biting?” Your voice is soft, just above a whisper. You drag across his front teeth, reveling in the smoothness of them. The mouth of an herbivore. He makes a noise like a question, asking for clarification. “During the sermon before.”
He scoffs, cheeks flushed a pretty pink, but the intimidation just isn’t there with his lips wrapped around you. You feel your smile go soft.
“Don’t…” his voice is muffled, slurred against your hand. “Don’t bully me.” You feel along his molars, delightfully pointy against the skin of your thumb.
It’s ironic how much you feel like you’re the one devouring him in all this.
“Make it less easy for me.” Your thumb presses into the muscle of his tongue and he breathes, more a whine than a sigh. His other hand slides over his hip, seemingly a clear path to his cock, before stopping with visible effort. It twists in his shirt and his eyelashes flutter.
He’s clearly trying not to touch himself, but why? Maybe if you were someone else, you wouldn’t mention it.
Regrettably for him, you aren’t.
You slide your thumb from his mouth, and he mourns the loss, his grip just barely tightening on your wrist, fighting the instinct to keep you there. You glide across his lips, coating them with his saliva. It makes you think of varnish over an oil painting. You tear your eyes away, down to the severely neglected bulge in his slacks. It looks painful.
It warms you to see the lengths that this is affecting him. All you’ve done is say words and put your fingers in his mouth and he’s already unraveling, all for you. You wonder what could be done to make him come apart completely.
You look back up at him through your lashes.
“Is there something stopping you?”
For a moment, he doesn’t understand, but then he huffs, indignant, like he’s frustrated that you even had to ask. Or maybe he’s just not happy with this interruption.
“I am a man of the cloth, ’a shepherd to the people of Little Boston’,” A snort escapes your iron-clad defenses at that. This awards you a withering glare from Eli, but still he pushes onward. “I’m not meant to… succumb to sinful desires.”
The lines godly men will draw to keep righteous. You exhale a laugh through your nose and his eyes narrow.
Your fingers make their ascent up the soft planes of his face, into the hair just above his ear. You scratch lightly at his scalp, and he sighs through his nose.
You smile, saccharine sweet.
“Then don’t.”
His brows twitch, confused at your flippancy, before realizing the depth of what you really mean. He takes in a breath, tremulous and audible.
You’ve turned his personal boundary into a command.
It feels a bit like you’re testing a ring of keys, hoping to unlock a new version of Eli (and yourself) with each word you speak.
This one is hesitant, gorgeous, obedient. (You feel beautiful too, but different, in control.)
“God rewards his most faithful servants, if I remember correctly.” You tack on the words like an afterthought, and he doesn’t move, eyes filling with wonder when he looks at you.
“I honestly can’t tell if you’re sin or sanctity.”
You laugh lightly, and the hand in his hair falls back to your side, igniting a path down his chest. You let your gaze fall to his lips, your fingers on them.
“Ah.” You pull your hand back. “Seems like you’ve gotten all of it.” You step back, teasing, and his hand releases your wrist with reluctance. He looks adrift, mouth ajar. There’d better be tears in his eyes. You wiggle your fingers.
You step towards the crate, really selling your exit, but honestly you can’t take much more of this. It’s been all of ten seconds and you already want him back on you. You make like you're about to pick your package up before straightening. He doesn’t move an inch.
You hum in faux-thought, as if you hadn’t made up your mind.
“Now that I think about it, I’m not sure I’m entirely absolved yet.” Your voice carries a note of theatrical worry. “Lay hands on me?”
You look back up at him, and what you see makes you shiver in anticipation. He wants you, so desperately it’s visible.
His movements are feverish as his fingers press softly into the flesh just below your bust, before laying his palm flat against your ribs. You exhale, grateful to have him touching you again, and he matches you.
Eli’s voice is airy, nearly a whisper, when he speaks.
“Are they here… the ghosts?” His slender fingers graze the fabric, clung to your belly with sweat. You shudder and watch him swallow as his eyes trace over your body.
“Lower.” He falls to his knees.
The floor cracks under his weight, and you follow suit, dropping into the front most pew. The wood creaks. You lift up your skirt and he finishes the job, fingers frantically curling around the waistband of your bloomers and pulling them down to your ankles. You slip a foot out, your shoe catching on the fabric and clattering to the floor but you really couldn’t give less of a shit.
You spread your legs and Eli’s there in an instant, hands on your thighs and you’re feeling dreadfully religious right about now.
Your shoeless heel is hiked up onto the seat of the pew as he laps at your lower lips, head hidden by the thin fabric of your summerwear. His palms are warm as they help keep you open. You feel like sacrament on his tongue.
Your hand hovers above him, aching to be tangled in his hair, anything. You gravitate towards his neck, the nearest exposed skin. You desperately want to see more of him, to watch him taste you.
Each swipe of his tongue makes your body sing, heart thumping so hard your breath shakes. A gasp is ripped from you as he sucks on your clit experimentally.
“Good-“ You can hear him, wet sounds, soft moans, and the feelings are starting to swell, become everything. “-Lord.”
The nape of his neck is shorn, cropped hair soft under your fingertips and you feel him shiver, see the goosebumps rise along his neck. You lightly drag your nails over the top of his spine, just beyond the collar of his cassock, and his hips jerk. Fuck, you’re nearly there just watching him.
Eli moans, short and pitiful and delicious, his grip tight and grounding on your thigh. You hiss out a breath.
His lips stutter on your pussy, and then he’s completely still, forehead pressed against your pelvis. After a moment, the hand on your thigh relaxes, and you feel his puffs of breath against your skin. You nearly whine from the lack of friction happening.
After a moment too long of nothing, you lift the fabric of your skirt, feeling a bit like you’re unveiling a bride. You huff out a breath.
“Why’ve you stopped?”
His cheeks are splashed with scarlet, embarrassed, lips shining with spit and you. It’s clear the moment you uncover him that he’s come without being touched. It plucks at a string deep within you, knowing you made that happen. If you could have this moment etched into your mind permanently, you would gladly pay any fee.
You only wish you got to see his face when he came. Next time, then.
“I…” His eyebrows arch with worry. You feel hopelessly endeared. “I’m sorry, I’ve…”
“Don’t apologize.” Your voice is soft enough it’s honestly embarrassing. Your hand is back in his hair, smoothing loose strands back from his forehead. Eli makes a little noise at the back of his throat. “Keep going.”
He doesn’t respond with words, getting right back to work on you like a good boy. You are determined to keep your dress up, to watch. The sight of him makes your stomach flip.
You keep your hand tangled in his hair, keeping his lips exactly where they need to be. He looks up at you from under his lashes, so pretty when he’s trying to please, keeping up the suction from before that he knew made you weak. That phenomenal feeling flutters across your body. Your hands tighten in his hair reflexively and he lets out a hiss, his eyes closing just so.
You’ve hurt him?
Apologetic, you loosen, making the decision to pet him instead. Eli pulls off you, just enough to speak, to whine, really.
“No, it’s-“ You don’t need a full sentence to know he wants you to keep your grip tight. No need to make this interruption longer than it is, not when you’re on the edge. You regain your hold on him, bringing him right back between your legs. He whimpers against you, and it’s so much to hear, to feel the vibrations.
Oh, you’re done for.
The ripples of warmth become waves of heat, and suddenly everything is white-hot. Your eyes screw tight and it’s glorious. Eli doesn’t stop, goes harder even, and you gasp, your other hand dropping the fabric of your dress to smack flat against the wood of the pew.
Everything is curling, your fingers, your toes, all the muscles in your body tightening with release. The blood in your ears rumbles so loud for a moment you can’t hear anything. It’s exquisite.
Your bottom lip is between your teeth, the only thing besides willpower keeping you from crying out to the entirety of Little Boston that you’re sodomizing the preacher in church. And holy shit, Eli’s still going, pushing you through waves of rapture, drinking you in with a desperation like he needs you to live.
It’s good, it’s good, until it’s actually too good, too much. You taste copper, near-sobbing as you pull him off you. The moment his lips aren’t on you, you’re a puppet with its strings cut.
You feel spent, can barely open your eyes to look at Eli. But you do, and he looks just as content as you feel, eyes mapping every inch of you like he couldn’t bear to forget. You let out a held breath, and he matches it, tongue swiping across his lips. You’re struck with the urge to kiss him. You lift your head from the back of the pew.
“Come here.” His eyes go a bit half-lidded as he crawls up to you, knee on the edge of the seat, right between your legs.
Your limbs feel like jelly, wobbly as you cup his incredibly warm cheek. You don’t close the distance yet, foreheads touching, a bit slick with perspiration, but surprisingly you aren’t disgusted. You breathe each other's air for a moment before he gives in, lips meeting yours in an ironically chaste kiss considering he just made you come so hard you actually went deaf for a second.
You deepen the kiss, tongue exploring new lands, and he trembles. You taste yourself on his lips, taste him too and it all suddenly feels so plainly real. You smile against his lips.
“You did so well.” You mumble against his lips, before kissing him again. “Perfect.”
He hums something between a sigh and a whimper, and you drag your thumb over his cheekbone, before sliding your hand down his form. You palm his returning erection and he cries against your mouth. So sensitive.
“Should probably change your pants, hm?” They’re damp under your hand, soiled. He nods fervently, rubbing your noses together.
“You need-“ His voice is choked, he gasps as you squeeze him over his slacks. “-The jams! Mrs. Goody.” Oh, they were jams. “But my-“ He moans, no longer able to keep focus on kissing you. His head flops onto your shoulder and he breathes a long and shaky exhale.
It’s funny, for a man with so many words to be rendered speechless by your touch.
“Your reward?” You turn your head to kiss the shell of his ear. He sighs. You feel positively wicked for what you’re about to do. His erection is back in full force now, his hips jerkily thrusting against your hand.
“Yes-!” His voice cracks, urgent, and affection swells your heart to bursting. It’s an internal battle, but you pull back from him completely, leaning against the wood. He sobs, breathing into your shoulder, open-mouthed and sloppy. You would bet money that he’s drooled just a bit on your sleeve.
You don’t mind much.
“Next Sunday?” Maybe you are the devil, have you considered that? He doesn’t answer for nearly half a minute, just breathing, trying not to shatter into a million beautiful pieces over you.
You would sweep him up, if he did. Pick up the shards, glue him back together and break him again.
“Next Sunday.” He speaks it like a proverb, like prayer.
You smile, nothing short of dastardly.
Eli Sunday might just make you a good and proper parishioner yet.