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The heavy wooden door of the small confessional creaked as it closed behind her, scraping against the tile floor, and she sat on the unforgiving bench, made of wood in the same stain. There were simple prayers she had long since memorized in grade school, taped to the small armrest below the latticed box that offered veiled privacy to the penitent.
Dear Father Above,
I am sorry and repent with all my heart
She knew she was meant to kneel on the padded kneeler and rest her folded hands in prayer as she waited for the Septon to come absolve her of her most recent sins. But the kneeler had cracked in several places, foam stuffing giving way. There was a ghost of a smile as she wondered if there was another little girl, much like herself nearly twenty years ago, anxiously picking at the cracks of the kneeler as she awaited judgment from the Father.
Her throat tightened as she heard the grating of the opposite door opening, the walls nearly shaking as it was jammed closed. Muffled thumps and the squeak of shoes came through the lattice opening as she waited to be addressed. She scanned the laminated prayer again, refusing to pick at the spots where the edges peeled up, the way her fingers craved.
for all the wrong I have done
and for the good I have failed to do,
“Good evening,” a deep voice drawled, so clear it reminded her of how close he really was behind the lattice. “I hope you have not waited long.”
“No,” she shifted in her seat, cringing as the bench moaned. “Not at all.”
“This is a later confessional time than I typically allow. I was worried if all was right with you, my child?”
“I’m sorry, Father. My… My heart is heavy, and I…” her breath was short. “I seek absolution,” she stammered, closing her eyes and slowly letting the back of her head hit the back wall of her booth. For as much practice as she’d had, she still sounded the fool.
“May the Seven be on your heart and on your lips, so you may make a good confession,” he answered brusquely.
She clamped her eyes together, gathering her courage before sitting upright, recognizing his signal to begin.
“In the name of The Seven, forgive me Father for I have sinned.” She could taste her breath in the confession booth, heavy walls trapping her on all sides. A flickering lamp gave some light to the space, but the majority filtered in from the crack below the door, where it was not quite flush with the floor. She had always wondered if others waiting in line would be able to hear the sins of those who went before them. But there was not another soul in the Sept to hear her blasphemous words that evening.
She remembered straining her ears when she attended school here. Silently praying that one of the Septas wouldn’t notice her on her tiptoes as she inched closer to the booth. What could everyone else possibly have to confess? But it was never her Septa who noticed her, only another student.
“They're soundproof, Daenerys.” A reproachful whisper came from behind her, every syllable of her name an insult from their lips.
“How would you know?”
“Do you hear any sound?”
“Do you hear anything with all that cotton in your ears?” She sneered.
“Eyes to the Seven, Daenerys.” She shrank, whipping her head forward to stare at the seven sculptures on the altar ahead, as her Septa chided her, one wrinkled hand firmly on her shoulder, the other leaning on her walking cane. The older woman leaned down and whispered in her ear, breath all coffee, “And do not forget to ask the Father for forgiveness for the unkind things you tell your classmates.”
“And how long has it been since your last confession?” Today’s Septon’s gentle prompt interrupted her memory.
“It has been two weeks since my last confession, and—
“And you have found time to sin again?” His voice tinged with amusement.
Her eyes narrowed, and she ground her feet into the floor, so she would not hurl open the door to stomp out of the Sept. “I cannot help the lustful thoughts that plague my days and nights.” Her cheeks burned as the words tumbled from her mouth. It was never easier to say it out loud. Even with the veil of anonymity between them, she never felt more naked than in these moments. Waiting for a judgment that never came, only a precisely prescribed penance.
“And you are unmarried?”
She nearly ripped the lattice from its binding. He’d never asked such a personal question before. Did he truly not recognize her voice? After dozens of confessions of the same ailment that damned her? She could have picked out the way he hummed, “my child,” to her from a lineup of half a hundred Septons in the dark.
“My husband has long since passed,” she chagrined. It’d been years. Years that she was thankful for.
“My apologies,” he cleared his throat. “Do you have a partner who is leading you to such temptations?”
“No,” she frowned. There was a pregnant pause before he responded, and she could hear him adjusting in his seat.
“Shall we pray to the Maiden together? Perhaps intercessory prayer might help your will to defeat these… lustful thoughts unbefitting a faithful woman in our congregation.”
“As His will be done,” she mumbled, kicking her feet at the humiliation, wondering if the Crone would have been a more apt choice.
“And Daenerys?”
Her eyes shot to the lattice, heart pounding. All this time, he had never acknowledged her. Not a single Sunday service. Not a single confession. There had been a few amused comments suggesting familiarity during confession. Dark looks during his sermons where she felt his storming eyes pass through hers to the pew behind her. She was always sure that those words were meant for the person next to her or behind her, as much as she may have felt them in her belly. She had only ever been a wayward sheep, he the shepherd. She, the child, he, the forgiving father, passing judgment from their heavenly Father, so she could live to be tortured another day.
“Yes, Father Jon?” She breathed.
“Kneel. Please,” he amended after the initial demand.
She was helpless but to follow his commandment. She wordlessly slid from the bench and knelt on the crackled leather that licked raw spots in her knees. She bowed her head and folded her hands in prayer, nodding along and saying, “Amen,” at what she deemed to be appropriate places in his prayer for her.
He prayed she would find peace in solitude. That she would turn to the strength of the Seven when evil tempted her. That she would remember the covenant she kept with the one true god. But when he prayed that she would find a love and union that would satisfy her, made in the likeness of His image, she squeezed back tears.
He had no idea how far gone she was. Down the rabbit hole and setting fire to any purity covenant she may have once had since the death of her husband and her return to the church. Even this confession was a sham, only serving to add fuel to the madness that lit her aflame.
For it was the echo of his low, thrumming voice from the pulpit on Sundays, and the groomed beard he kept short, unless you went to a Friday service, that plagued her. It was the feeling of his fingers against her lips as he passed communion between them, for she was too ashamed to meet his eyes in those moments. It was the musings of what the dark curls that would lie beneath his cassock might look like that inspired her fingers as they danced under the sheets.
She’d stopped hearing him as her lips softened and her head began to loll, visions of herself with a shadow-eyed lover overtaking her. Her folded hands broke apart, forearms banging against the armrest as she tore open her eyes to break herself from her reverie.
The septon’s fervent prayers paused before he concluded. “In your name we pray, that the Father grants his strength and the Maiden her protection, Amen.” His fingers drummed on his armrest, a habit of his when she seemed to try his patience. “Is something the matter, my child?”
She blew hot air from her nostrils, knuckles whitening as she gripped the edge of the armrest. “Father, even during prayer, I cannot close my eyes for all I see is…” she swallowed, wondering if she had taken this too far.
“What is it?” His tone was low and gruff. Her belly roiled with shame and desire, knowing how disgusted he must be with her.
“I see the man. The shadow. And we…” she trailed off, the descriptions of her shadow lover uncharted territory.
“Perhaps if you were to…share what plagues you, you may find solace and peace.”
She licked her lips, stomach in knots as she described the shifting daydreams she had. “His hands are warm as he undresses me. Sometimes we stay clothed, and his hands wander under my blouse or my dress. They’re everywhere. Like a feather, he touches my arms, my legs, my breasts, my…my cunt.”
He cleared his throat, but she had already closed her eyes, running her fingers over the same body parts she had imagined him touching. Too soft to be his, but all she had, she smoothed them over her neck, her arms, her stomach till they trailed between her legs. “He touches me there. Even kisses me there. Sometimes his fingers don’t stop at my cunt, and… And then when I sleep, I wake up craving, needing it. That touch. Other times, we kiss. All over each other’s throats, our tongues cross, and—
“And how do you combat these thoughts when you are not inside the holy seven walls?” He interrupted, pained restraint cracking his voice.
“I sin again,” she murmured, dropping her hands to her sides.. Besides that evening and the first confession, she had lied each time he asked this.
The first time she had told him the horrible truth, the confession had ended abruptly. She was assigned prayers, hymns, and to serve her community one hour for each time she had disgraced herself by fulfilling her lecherous fantasies with her fingers between her legs. Then the door had slammed, and by the time she had righted herself and grabbed her purse to exit, he was gone. She felt ever more the sinner when she lied at subsequent confessions that she would pray to the maiden, take a shower, or seek him in a confessional booth. She couldn’t bear to have repulsed him so much that he would refuse to hear her.
She shifted on her knees, padded kneeler squeaking and creaking. “The only way to stop the madness is when I touch myself, Father. I try to wait until it’s dark, and the thoughts have consumed me. My center feels so tense it’s painful, and I wonder if I’m possessed. My fingers—
“Have you lied to me on previous confessions? When you’ve told me you prayed?” He pressed, breathless.
“The only prayer that I can offer up for relief, Father, is when my hands are steepled between my legs.” She sank to sit on her heels, resting her forehead against the sharp edge of the armrest. There were no secrets now. Well, all but one.
The confessional box reverberated against her forehead, and a heavy slamming noise shook her teeth. Her heart sank, and she scrambled to her feet. He had not even provided her penance.
She burst through the door, blonde pieces of hair falling loose about her face as she glanced around the dimly lit sept for her Septon. His dark figure nearly disappeared in the shadows between candles and moonlight, barely visible with his black clothing and umber curls as he stalked through a row of pews.
“Father, I’m sorry!” She called, tripping down the step as she followed him.
He froze, so still her eyes could have played tricks, convincing her he was the statue of the Stranger.
“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry, I should have never lied.”
He glanced at her and rubbed his face with both hands, then turned to pace the aisle between the rows of pews.
She crossed through a narrow pew to reach his aisle. “I’m sorry,” she tried again, shuffling along the bench seat, brushing her fingers along faded hymnal books till she reached the edge of the pew. “Please forgive me. We can pray again. I’ll volunteer my time with the Sept school.”
His pacing became more frantic as she neared, so she stopped a few steps into the main aisle, standing where the large emblem of the seven-pointed star decorated the tile. She watched him pace, taut as a bowstring, his mumbled prayers unintelligible, but echoing all the same in the traitorous acoustics of the high-walled sept. This was not disgust. She knew this madness.
She fell to her knees on the seven-pointed star. “Father?” She called softly.
He whirled to face her, shaking his head as he saw her prostrate in the center of the sept. “Oh, fuck you calling me Father like that! You do this on purpose,” he spat, an accusatory finger pointed her way, before he turned again, stalking the aisles.
Her eyes widened before she cast them to the floor. “I… I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” Her sins weren’t purposeful. But seeking him for solace and forgiveness, for inspiration, that was purposeful.
He paused his steps for a moment, drumming his fingers against the edge of a pew. “You’ve always been a poor liar, Daenerys.” Each syllable of her name was uttered with truth. “I could hear them in the confessional. I don’t have to look at you now to know you don’t mean that.”
She peered up at him from where she knelt, knees screaming without the comfort of the padded kneeler. The shadows of the candlelight confirmed what she had prayed for. “And what is your excuse?”
When he looked down at her again, his cheeks were red and his eyes were alight. He was fire made flesh. “Excuse?” He spluttered, stepping into her aisle. “I am a man of the cloth, I can assure you, I don’t know what you are talking about now.”
She glanced at the front of his black trousers, obscenely tight where they outlined his hardened member. “You do,” she whispered, peeling herself from the floor to approach him. Her shiny shoes clacked against the tile floors. “You feel it too.”
Five rows of pews separated them. It was too many for what she wanted. Too few for what was godly. If they chose to be saved.
He looked down and closed his eyes, shaking his head as his lip curled in disgust. She wasn’t sure if it was with her or himself. “Please.” He held out one hand as if to stop her from approaching any closer, while the other gripped the edge of the pew. His forearm flexed, and she cursed herself for noticing it.
She stopped. Her legs were numb from the hard tile, and her lip trembled at the rejection. She’d come so close. “I’m sorry, Father. I’ll leave.”
“No!” His voice was thunder, booming and echoing off the walls, louder than any sermon she’d seen him give. Louder than any sin he had ever condemned. His eyes were red-rimmed and desperate when they met hers. “Don’t you understand how that is worse?” He’d dropped his grip on the pew, falling to sit on the bench.
She was frozen, watching him as he rubbed his face and turned to the seven effigies that bordered the altar. Ornate stonework of the seven faces of their god, and higher still above them were stained glass portraits of each. It was a rarity for a sept this old to have such detailed work of all seven. Even the Stranger.
“I’m not sure what you’d have me do.” She didn’t need to speak up. The acoustics of the seven walls towering above them ensured he would hear her, even if she whispered.
He chuckled darkly, eyes to the Stranger as he made his first confession of the night. “I have so many perverse thoughts of the things I would have you do.” He barked out a laugh that near made her jump. “I’m not sure where I’d begin.”
Her body chilled at the admission. Her heart, which had thundered in her chest since she’d arrived for confession, was nearly in her throat. “I—
“I need a fucking drink.” He stood abruptly and strode up the steps to the sanctuary, turning to her again before he reached the altar. “You coming?”
His eyes were kinder than they’d been moments ago. Tired, but familiar and warm. She blinked, dumbfounded, before following him up the steps to an area of the sept she hadn’t entered since her days as an altar server. Her eyes flitted nervously to all the finer details of the sanctuary she had forgotten, or couldn’t notice from her seat in the congregation. Rows of candles and gold trim. The walnut pulpit he spoke from each service, and the swirls in the prodigious ivory altar, clean of all ornamentation.
He nearly smiled at her when he reached the entry to the sacristy. It didn’t reach his clouded, red-rimmed eyes, and barely twitched across his beard. There were a few grays that marked his beard she hadn’t noticed before. “It’s been a while since you’ve been back here, hasn’t it?”
“Feels like a lifetime.” She had been young; she wasn’t sure if she’d even flowered at the time. She would help prepare for services and hold candles during readings, desperate not to botch anything, so she would stay in the good graces of her Septa that year.
Following him through the door was stepping back in time, but with a different sense of wonder than what she’d held some twenty years ago. The room was identical to what she remembered, with large wardrobes full of special garments hanging inside, rainbow rows of candlesticks, and golden chalices. Everything so ancient it seemed the whole room should be covered in dust, but it never was.
She brushed her fingers over a wooden credenza, filled with more paraphernalia she couldn’t begin to name anymore. Jon busied himself at a cabinet, removing a bottle of wine and a corkscrew opener. He smoothly removed the seal and uncorked it as if he’d done it a thousand times.
“Do all the Septons drink from the sept stores?”
He raised an eyebrow at her, walking to the credenza where she stood. He was closer than he’d ever been, just an arm’s distance away as he bent over to open one of the doors. His starched black shirt stretched over his back, hugging muscles she’d only imagined. He removed two simple goblets with a sardonic smirk. “Only the bad ones.”
He poured the wine, gulping from his glass heavily, before handing her the other one. He topped his off again and then leaned against the tall cabinet containing the wine cellar while he openly appraised her. If she had felt naked in the confessional, she felt as if he could see through to her bones in the sacristy. Taking a long swallow from her wine, she grimaced at the sour mouth feel.
“Sorry,” he shrugged. “I’m sure it’s not a great wine, but,” he tilted his head to the cabinets behind him. “It’s available.”
“I have a question.”
He gestured for her to continue, drinking from his goblet again.
“Do all fathers say, 'fuck,' or is that also just the bad ones?”
His eyes glazed over as he looked at her before bursting into laughter. He set his wine to the side, doubling over as his body shook. She giggled in return, cheeks hurting by the time he righted himself again.
“You shouldn’t curse in the sacristy, Daenerys. I thought your Septa taught you better than that,” he smirked around his goblet, chest quaking with the last of his chuckles.
She scoffed in indignation. “Don’t worry,” she grabbed her goblet, taking a purposeful sip. “I’ll confess it to my bad fucking priest later.”
He snorted, then turned back to the cabinet, shimmying one of the drawers in its casing till it finally withdrew, a mess of items inside. He pulled out a small lighter and slid it into his pocket before grabbing the bottle of wine and his goblet. “Come.” He tilted his head back toward the exit to the sanctuary. “There’s a better place to confess.”
She grabbed her goblet, stopping at the cabinet to snag another bottle of wine and the corkscrew she’d seen him use earlier. She had a feeling this would require more courage than she currently possessed.
He set his wine on the altar and fumbled with the lighter in his pocket. She let the wine flow acidic waves down her throat as he lit long, dripping candles that flanked each side of the marble effigies of the seven. The flames soared, illuminating warm shadows amongst the feet of the seven faces.
He knelt in the center of the statues, facing the Father, where another mosaic of the seven-pointed star decorated the ground between the altar and the wall of faces. She set her goblet in front of her as she knelt beside him.
“So this is where you confess your sins?”
He didn’t look her way, his troubled face surveying their jury. “The ones I can’t share with the High Septon, yes.”
“Why here? It’s so,” she shook her head, “open.”
He sighed, reaching for her goblet and treating himself to a drink that melted into his chest. “I feel heard here. Seen.”
She nodded in agreement. There was no hiding here. Every face of their god towered above them, echoed in colorful stained glass that would catch the sunlight during a daytime service. The sun had long since set outside, but waves of moonlight passed over them.
“What sins of yours could possibly be so bad?” She longed to touch him. She feared caressing his shoulder, but her strongest desire was to hold him and apologize for driving him to the same madness as her, and to tell him that she understood. He was seen.
“I lie for the sake of Father Sam, for I don’t think he could stomach the truth of my sins.” His gaze dropped to the facets of the star below their knees. “I am a wolf, filled with lecherous thoughts of one of the sheep in my flock. I am a craven, failing to abstain from the sins of my own flesh.”
“You are human.”
He turned his head to look at her, his puzzled brows furrowed together. “That was my sermon last Tuesday.” He glanced at the seven faces again. “Try it.”
She studied the marble effigies surrounding them from on high in the dimly lit sept, candles glowing. Not a soul inside save the two of them. A wayward sheep and the wolf she’d tempted. “I’m sorry,” she sank to sit upon her heels, closing her eyes and massaging her temples. She was too seen here. “I just don’t know what we’re doing.”
“Here,” he shifted till he came behind her, straddling either side of her folded feet. “Steeple your hands together like this.” His touch was fire when he gently took both hands and brought them to a praying stance. “But keep them by your chest for now,” he murmured in her ear.
“I’ve prayed before, Jon.” Her voice trembled, betraying her nerves. Goosebumps rose over the flesh he’d touched, from her ankles to the ear he had whispered in to her hands folded in false prayer.
He raised his brows at the informal use of his name, but didn’t comment. “Repeat after me.” She nodded, eyes cast down. “Father, forgive me, I come to you directly to seek absolution.”
She repeated dutifully.
His breath was warm on her neck. “Now, you should say, ‘I have committed the sin of dishonesty. I have lied to my Septon at countless confessions about my actions. I should have been truthful with my Septon about each time I masturbated.”
She attempted to remember her lines, whispering them so lightly that she wasn’t sure if Jon could hear her. She could only focus on his knees outside of hers and the feather-light touch of his fingertips on her arms.
“Each time… Each time I—
“Each time I masturbated,” he murmured, thumb stroking the side of her elbow.
The words fell out in a tumble, but Jon replied, “Good girl,” all the same.
“Next, you should say, ‘I confess to lying about the nature of my lustful fantasies.”
She turned her head to face him, idignant, heat rising up her chest. “I never lied about those.”
Shadows from the candle flames danced across his face, so close to hers she could smell the wine on his breath. “Were you forthcoming about who the subject was?”
Her eyes flicked to his stained lips. “No,” she sighed, turning back to the judge and jury. “I confess to lying about the nature of my lustful fantasies.” She reached for her wine, swallowing the last of it before adding, “I should have told my Septon that he was the subject of every dream, waking or not. That he haunted me.”
She felt him remove the pin that held her hair up, letting blonde waves fall down her shoulders. “No more than you’ve haunted me,” he murmured.
“I’m sorry,” she tittered.
He swept her hair over one shoulder and placed a tentative hand on the opposite shoulder. “Don’t be. It’s reminded me I’m human.”
Her eyes fluttered as he enveloped her from behind. She could feel his body nearing hers, barely touching his chest to her back. His hand trailed over her clavicle, while the other reached around to unbutton the top button of her shirt. Her breath hiccupped as he whispered in her ear, “Now say, ‘I know now that absolution is only granted when the truth is laid bare. ’”
“Jon,” she gasped as his deft fingers reached the second button.
“Say, the words, Daenerys. This is penance.”
She grasped his hands, stilling them above her goose-pimpled breasts, so she could repeat the words as quickly as her chattering lips would allow.
He dropped his hands from her grip, continuing, “I apologize for using the words ‘cunt,’ and ‘fuck,’ in two of the most sacred places of your chapel.”
She could barely hear herself say the words back, barely see the god who surely would not forgive her for this, but her lips moved all the same while Jon’s curious hands lightly trailed over her hips.
“I absolve to use my mouth for better purposes.”
She hesitated. Eyes wide and ears ringing, she came off her knees to sit on the cold floor and turn her whole body to him. She kneeled facing him, and her eyes darted from his smoke-filled ones, back to his parted, wine-stained lips. “I absolve to use my mouth for better purposes,” she whispered to his lips as she closed the gap between them.
Their initial kiss was filled with as much caution and trepidation as their first one had been so many years ago. When times were simpler and they had been just Jon and Dany. Not the craven Sept and the desperate widow. They were children playing at games that she had long forgotten. For as much courage as it took to bring her lips to his now, she was sure she’d had more tenacity when they had first done this, hiding behind a tree at the end of a school day.
Jon must have felt the same. His lips were frozen and firm when she met them. She kissed him once, twice, and parted from him, terrified she had ruined everything.
“No,” he whispered, hand moving to grasp her jaw, bringing them back together. The second kiss left her breathless. Where he had been cold and unmoving at first, she realized now that it was shock. His lips were pliant and warm, moving against hers till she surrendered to him. His tongue met hers, exploring her mouth and caressing places she didn’t know yearned for his touch.
She crawled closer to him, her hands aching to hold him. They ran over taut shoulders and his slim waist, pulling him closer till the gap between them had closed. A strong arm wrapped around her, hoisting her till there was no longer room for spirits and memories to separate them. His chest was against hers, hearts beating wildly against each other. If he had not held her up, she was certain she would have collapsed.
She waited to break the kiss till her screaming knees could no longer take the pressure and her lungs risked collapsing without oxygen. “Do you remember?”
He shook his head, breathless laughter on his kiss-marked lips that he touched with tentative hands. “What are you talking about?”
She sat on her side, the cold tile prickling her legs through her skirt. “The tree? The— the first time?” She panted, fingers tracing her own swollen lips.
He blinked quickly, then stifled a groan as he came off his knees to sit next to her. “Aye. Of course I do.”
She looked down at her heaving chest, open buttons revealing her collarbone. “I didn’t think you remembered me, is all.” Curiosity consumed her as she waited for his response, and she spied at him through her lashes, a lock of hair falling in her face.
His lips were tight, staring past the altar down into a sea of empty pews. “I thought I’d seen a ghost the first time I saw you at service again. Was that a year ago?”
She was unsure.
He ran his eyes over her, stopping to rest on her decolletage. “But no. I could never forget you. When you never brought it up to me, I figured you didn’t recognize me.”
“Could you blame me for not saying anything? Knowing now what I wanted? And what you are?”
He closed his eyes with a sardonic laugh, then reached for her again, curiously fiddling with the third button on her blouse till it popped open. “I think we’ve established, I’m a ‘bad fucking priest.’”
She licked her lips, then undid the fourth button herself, shirt parting to her navel, revealing a light silver bra beneath it. “You’re not.”
Moonlight streamed through the stained glass image of the Smith high on the walls of the sept, cascading soft light over them in the dark. “Mender of broken things,” he murmured, Northern burr thick as he pleaded to the heavens. “I pray we have not gone too far for you to mend every vow I’ve broken.”
She cast her eyes up at the Smith, but lost focus when his fingers crept down her bare ribs. “The gods have a sense of humor,” she whispered.
“No,” he rasped, eyes flitting from her neck back to The Smith towering above. “If they wanted a laugh, the Maiden would have her scornful eyes on me as I defiled you.”
She scoffed, reaching to loosen his white collar. “I’m not sure she cares much for the sanctity of widows.” Her blouse hung loose around her shoulders, nearly as defiant as she was. “You don’t think the Maiden would be scornful of me?” She climbed to straddle his lap, surprising herself with her boldness, and slipped the white collar from its black confinement. “Tempting one of her most pure?”
“I’m no maid.” His hard chest gave a minute shrug that stilled her hands on the first button of his black shirt by his throat.
“You mean to tell me that pious, faithful Father Jon,” she nearly giggled at the joy it brought her. “Has… has—
“I don’t mean to stop and share details, Dany. The Father forgave me and welcomed me to his ministry. Now these sins…” He ran his hands up and down her sides, raking his eyes over the bare skin that ran from her neck to her navel.
“Surely all can be forgiven again?”
“If one were penitent.” She cocked her head, waiting for further explanation. “I don’t mean to be sorry for what we do. He can’t forgive what I can’t apologize for.”
“And you’re okay with that?” She murmured, guilt burning her conscience for the fire they had not yet stepped into.
“If I don’t do this, I don’t think I could forgive myself.” He smiled, kind and resigned to damnation, as he tucked her hair behind her ears. “Are you okay with that?”
She nodded, kissing him softly. “And so we walk into the fires of hell together.” She meant it as a joke, but his face told her he took it seriously.
“I’ll drink to that.” He assisted her off his lap to standing and brought her empty chalice to the altar.
She handed him the corkscrew, and he nimbly opened the second bottle, pieces of cork crumbling as he removed it. He drank straight from the bottle before pouring both of them a generous glass. She reached up on her tiptoes to wipe the scarlet wine that had dribbled down his chin into his beard.
His hand met hers, cupping it where she let it rest on his jaw. “Will you tell me again? The dreams you had of us?”
Her cheeks heated, and she was certain that the warmth from the candles was overwhelming. “I can try.” She dropped her hand from him, then retrieved her wine and rewarded herself with a large gulp. By her second glass, she barely noticed the acidity.
“It starts with my arms. Your hands drift all over them, warming me. But it’s only a tease. Of what they’re capable of.”
“Beyond breaking bread and praying for our redemption?” He quipped on a mouthful of wine.
She sipped hers again, savouring the mouth feeling now. “It’s…It’s like lava in my veins. I feel you from the tip of my pinky all the way up my shoulders.”
Jon reached for her hands, running them from the tips of her pinkies up to her shoulders and back down. “Like this?”
She nodded quickly, fumbling for her wine. She shuddered around another swallow, causing wine to dribble onto her hands and down her chin.
Jon continued to stroke her arms, pausing at the open neckline of her blouse. “What about this?” His deft fingers crept over her shoulders and pushed her blouse down one side, then the other.
She untucked her shirt, letting it fall to the sanctuary floor. She nodded again, while his hands explored her revealed body, caressing her shoulders, her back, her waist. She rested her forehead against his chest, trying to hide, but praying he wouldn’t stop.
“Where else did you say I touched you?”
“My breasts,” she whispered.
He reached for where her bra clasped, fiddling with the back for a moment before understanding dawned on her. She reached behind herself and helped his fingers unhook her bra.
“Thank you,” he murmured as unpracticed fingers slid the straps down her shoulders. Maybe they were not so different from the children who played at games behind a tree after school.
Her eyes were closed as she anticipated his next touch. When it didn’t come, she removed her forehead from his chest to stare up at him. Jon stepped back to stare at her, half-naked, steps from the altar where he typically performed his blessings each week. Her nipples had hardened in the cool air of the sept, nearly as red as the wine they’d shared. Her arms came up to cover herself.
“Please don’t. They’re divine.”
“I want you to touch them. Please?” She didn’t want to beg. But standing in front of him as another statue to be prayed before felt sacrilegious.
A bashful smirk cocked up his face. “Forgive me.” His shoes sounded against the tile as he returned to her orbit. He brushed his hands slowly over her arms again, slowly bringing them to her breasts. “You’re so beautiful, Daenerys.”
She gasped softly when his thumbs brushed over her nipples.
“Is that how you imagined us?”
“More,” she prayed.
“I already feel like a glutton.” But he indulged her, caressing her nipples and dragging his thumb down the center of her ribs.
“You kiss me too. My neck. My breasts.” And so he indulged her again, bowing his head as if in prayer to kiss up her neck as he continued to stroke her breasts. She groaned as his tongue found a spot near her ear, so sensitive she might have peaked.
He held her waist as he stepped back, pressing her against the altar. She gasped as cold marble hit her back in juxtaposition with the lava in her veins from his affections. Jon hungrily dined on her neck and chest, encouraged by her laboured breath.
Desperate to feel him as well, she grasped his shirt, searching for the placket of buttons. She made quick work of them till her hands found his hardened stomach. His cock was equally hard, pressed against her body, a tantalizing reminder of how each dream would culminate.
Jon shimmied out of his black shirt, tossing it to the side so it landed near hers. He grasped her breast, leaning down to bring it to his mouth, sucking and teasing at it with his tongue.
“This isn’t the only part of you I kissed, was it?”
The low hum of his voice against her skin vibrated through her, and her inners clenched. “No. You, you kiss my cunt too.”
She whined when he abandoned the sensitive skin of her rosy breasts. His muscles contracted as he scooped her behind the thighs, raising her till she was placed on the altar. She laid back, immediately arching upwards in protest of the cold, whimpering as she kicked off her shoes.
“If I can’t keep any other vow tonight, I vow to pray at your altar.” Jon hiked up her skirt to her waist, taking his time. For as much as she wished, he would take her; this wasn’t a dream. He wasn’t under her control. Although he touched her in every excruciating place she’d imagined, he did not ravish her with the passion that came from her need to find satisfaction quickly. He was reverent, studying and memorizing the inches of bare flesh.
His fingers grazed the damp center of her panties, and her toes curled. “Jon,” she sighed, hooking her fingers in her panties to wiggle them down. “May we pray?” She grinned sheepishly at him as he snorted and assisted her with removing her panties.
He studied her glistening center, then found her eyes. “Worship takes time, Daenerys. It’s not so simple as steepling your fingers between your legs.”
Her cheeks warmed at the reminder of her earlier confession, but she was too far down the road to hell for shame. She bit her lip. “You use your fingers too. In my dreams.”
A thick finger came to rest on her outer lips, sending shivers up her spine. “I see I’m not the only glutton.” He circled her lips with curiosity, before carefully parting them with two fingers, collecting the wetness and spreading it to her clit.
Her breath caught from the first touch. He was unpracticed, but eager. Thorough in his discovery of what made her keel with pleasure. She wondered if he could feel her pulsing against his wandering fingers. Feel her need.
Her feet slipped against the marble when she felt the first press of his tongue against her cunt. Slow, each lap of his tongue testing how she would react. He gripped her thighs, spreading them further apart while dragging her closer to him. She didn’t recognize the guttural whimper that escaped her mouth as she was pulled down the altar to an unrelenting mouth.
His kiss was a revelation. She felt for her breast, rubbing and pinching at her hardened nipples, as she soared ever higher. The crown of her head dug into the hard altar, and her eyes searched the intricate painting of the towered ceiling above her for higher meaning. For anything that might ground her to this moment, so it might last an eternity.
Jon took a breath for air, her wetness shining on his plump lips in the candlelight. His grin was devilish. “Gods, if this is what the forbidden fruit tastes like, it’s no wonder humans are destined to sin.”
She laughed breathlessly, caressing his soft whiskers. For with his devilish grin, there was a playful innocence to his dark eyes that pained her heart. “Stopping now is the true sin,” she panted. Oh, how far we have fallen from grace…
He raised his brows playfully as she guided his head back to her cunt. His curls were softer than his beard, and she’d knotted her fingers in after the first few licks to her greedy center.
She kept him close, adrenaline building in her veins and disintegrating every conscious thought from her head. There was here. In the Sept upon the altar. There was now. Senses floating as she unconsciously scratched her Septon’s head as he feasted on her cunt. Then there were stars.
Convulsing, beautiful, white stars. Shattering across her vision as she clamped her eyes shut, body tensing and releasing with every gasp. Jon’s wet tongue, unaware and ambitious in its ventures.
“Stop,” she croaked, as her body became her own again. “Stop.” Her fingers tightened in his hair, weakly pulling him away from her burning body. “Stop!” She lightly smacked his shoulder till his mouth relented.
He cocked his head in a curiosity she did not have the energy to satisfy. She merely whimpered and lay her head against the altar, her limbs buzzing.
“Did you like it?” He asked, concern touching the low thrum of his voice.
She snorted, lazily scratching his scalp as he rested his head against her thigh. “Divine.”
He planted small kisses on her thigh, then groaned as he grasped the edges of the altar and straightened his back from where he’d been bent over. The shadows from the candles emphasized the planes of his chest and his corded arms. He sighed, head falling, then walked to the other end of the altar to where they had abandoned their wine glasses.
Daenerys slowly sat upright, her heat pressing into the cold marble.
“Drink,” he demanded, pushing the fine goblet into her proffered hands.
“Yes, Father,” she murmured dutifully, inhaling the wine and barely tasting the glass as she drained it.
He snorted, shaking his head before he gulped down the rest of his wine. A small rivulet flowed down his throat. She studied his Adam's apple bobbing with hooded eyes. He caught her gaze as he finished his cup, hastily wiping his mouth and dropping the goblet to the tile floor. It clattered, echoing across the sept.
She jumped and swallowed drily, licking the tang of dry wine from her teeth.
“What else would you have me do?” He shrugged, standing before her with his arms by his side and his palms turned toward her.
Her brows knit together. Nothing. Everything.
“In your dreams,” he prompted, in a way she had not seen since their school days. Desperate for guidance. Desperate for approval.
She leaned back, supporting herself with outstretched arms, feeling ridiculous judging a septon while mostly naked herself. “I’d have you remove your trousers, Father.”
He blinked, almost as if he was surprised that she would ask. Her face was flushed, from both the wine and her boldness, but she was not willing to relent. For all the time he had guided her soul, she could guide his body. At least this once.
He knelt, unlacing his black shoes, before standing again to kick them off. His black belt clanked as he unbuckled it, hissing as it slid through the belt loops and hit the floor alongside his shoes. All that remained was a pair of cotton black boxer briefs.
“Will you join me?” She whispered, chewing her lip.
He closed the few steps between them till she could feel his breath on her neck. “Forgive me,” he said. “It’s been—
She placed her hand on his jaw, her thumb against his wine-stained lower lip. “You don’t have to tell me how long it’s been since you sinned like this.” She smiled nervously, cheeks numb with delirium. She reached for the bottle of wine and brought it to his lips. “Drink, Father.”
He nodded, closing his eyes as she tilted the bottle against his mouth, pouring into him. He stayed her hands as he swallowed, and she set the bottle back to her side.
She leaned forward, catching his lips in a kiss before he could say anything else. She licked droplets of wine from his lips, tasting the acidity on his tongue where it had mixed with her sweetness.
He crawled to join her on the altar, and she lay back, visions of her stormy-eyed septon doubling as he hovered over her. His hardened member pressed into her leg, and she reached down to hold it, slaking her curiosity.
He groaned, arms faltering as he fell closer to her. His body warmed her, skin alight with everywhere he was, and calling for him with everywhere he wasn’t. “Gods have mercy,” he murmured as she continued to stroke his cock through the thin briefs.
“We have each other,” she whispered, praying he’d meet her gaze, as she hooked her thumbs into his briefs, struggling to push them down. “We have each other in every way a man and woman can have each other.”
His dark eyes flicked to hers. They were so close she could feel his heart beating against her chest. She pushed back a stray curl that had fallen near his temple, and he closed his eyes again, melting toward her touch. He panted, mouth parting open as she used her other hand to guide his cock to her entrance.
They slowly rocked into one another, Dany wincing from the stretch while Jon’s eyes were still closed. She wondered if this was another dream, but this was too palpable to be another dream. She smoothed her hands over his shoulders, his arms, around his waist. He was never this warm in her dreams.
Jon finally opened his eyes, studying her face. Her smile must have encouraged him as his pace increased when he saw it. A high-pitched moan left her lips at the increased friction, and his countenance broke with a crooked grin.
She raised her arms overhead, writhing as she struggled with the sensations. Cold marble and warm bodies, a darkened room broken by moonlight and flames from dancing candles, overwhelming pleasure mounting, burying the shame she’d felt when she first entered the sept that evening. It had never been like this.
She gasped, arms swinging from where they’d knocked the abandoned wine bottle to grip Jon’s back and push them upright. The bottle rolled and clanked as it fell from the altar to the floor below, rolling till it clanked against Jon’s abandoned goblet. Red wine pooled on the altar and dripped off the edges, scarlet raindrops marring the smooth tile.
There was silence as they watched cheap wine patter on the floor and spread across the altar till Jon broke out in laughter. True, deranged laughter.
“My back is soaked,” she giggled, feeling where the wine had seeped into her skirt, which she still wore rucked around her waist.
Jon chuckled, kicking off his black briefs and dismounting from the altar. Her feet were unsure when he picked her up by the waist and set her on the floor. He pushed her hair over one shoulder, and she shivered, feeling wine dribble down her back.
“I’ll help,” he murmured, merriment still coating his words as he guided her chest over a dry section of the altar till she was bent before him. His tongue traced her back, the flat of it running along her spine.
She was grateful for the altar as her knees buckled, weak and numb from the wine and him. Her fingers dug into the smooth edge of the marble while she shifted her back closer to his ministrations. His tongue was velvet as he sucked soft roses into her shoulder blades.
He slid her wine-dotted skirt and panties down her legs, helping her step out of them. She felt too boneless to turn from the altar. All she knew was that this was no longer a dream. She was not nearly creative enough to imagine this.
Jon’s thumb rubbed her hips as he draped himself over her, lips cascading down her neck. She arched her back to him, greedy for his touch. “I need you, Jon.” She would have begged if that’s what it took to complete this sacrament.
He entered her from behind with the same care as he had earlier. She whined, deep from the back of her throat as she felt him inside her again. The new angle pressed deep within her, and every slow stroke sent her vision spiraling.
She came soon after, nipples chafed raw from sliding against the cold stone, her body defenseless as she pulsed around his cock. There was no warning, no control, no stopping it. She was his, and he was hers.
Her stomach clenched, nerves shooting from her center through every cell of her body as Jon continued to thrust into her from behind. She neared overstimulation, singing his name, “Jon, Jon, Jon,” over and over as a hymn.
Her breathing came fast again, and when she paused her hymn, she heard Jon’s mumblings. So soft, she realized they weren’t for her. “From this day till the end of my days. Amen,” he breathed.
He was tense above her. She could feel his hard body contracting, shivering, and sweating against hers. “Let go, Jon.” They were the only coherent words she could think of in that moment. Let go.
When she soared again, she knew she had taken him with her to the heavens this time. He cried out, hands tightening around her shoulder and hip as his thrusts began to stutter.
The pleasure washed away any guilt she may have had for their fall from grace, as their joining was surely an ascension. So close to her previous orgasm, it felt as if the aftershocks from one had tumbled into the next one. Slower and more powerful, she tensed around him, her toes sliding out from underneath her.
“Holy fuck,” he cursed, his arm wrapped tight around her stomach, lest she fall. His chest rose and fell against her back.
“Holy fuck,” she agreed in a daze, eyes unseeing.
She didn’t move when he slowly peeled himself from her back. She lay still with her cheek pressed against the cool marble of the altar, blithely aware of the joint fluids dripping down her leg. For when her hearing returned and her soul rejoined her bones, her head still spun from wine and ecstasy as she attempted to stand again.
“Easy, Dany.” Jon caught her about the waist when she stumbled toward him. His slacks hung low on his hips without the belt to hold them upright.
Her mouth was cotton when she swallowed, turning her head to look around the sept as if for the first time that night. Her sins had been laid as bare as her flesh. Wax dripped down the candles they’d lit earlier that evening, and the moon no longer shone through the stained glass, only the stars. The statues of the seven were just that now. She had defied their judgment before their watchful eyes, and their power was gone. They were just statues.
She held an unsure hand to his chest, his heart pounding against her trembling palm. She gathered all of her clarity and wits to draw her eyes to meet his.
“Did you mean what you said?”
His head cocked minutely to the side.
“You’re not sorry for what we’ve done. You don’t… regret what we’ve done?”
If she hadn’t watched his mouth sound out the answer, she may not have heard him. But it was enough to fill the high walls and soaring ceilings of the sept.
“Never.”