So, option 1 for this would be someone crushing on Father Forthill or OMC who happens to be a relatively young attractive priest. *cough Stimata cough* Option 2 is more of a roleplay/costume kink. Charecter of choice thinks those Roman collars are sexy?
Yeah, definetly going to hell but would rather not go alone.
I will not write Teenage!Michael crushing on Twenty-Something!Forthill I will not write Teenage!Michael crushing on Twenty-Something!Forthill I will not write Teenage!Michael crushing on Twenty-Something!Forthill
...No seriously, I have no business writing this, I don't really have the necessary background knowledge to...
.... .... But I have other fills I should be working on, so... ... ... ... Ah hells.
I ran from Justin's burning house, from the fire that killed him and Elaine. I don't know why I ran - it wasn't like I had anywhere to go.
But I ran and kept running until I felt safe. I looked around and realized I'd stopped on a church doorstep, and started to laugh, a little hysterically.
Places can become imbued with emotions and power: Bob had taught me that. This place felt warm and welcoming, the way I'd always imagined a good House of God might resonate. The people who came here might not all be Believers, but they loved and felt community, and that was important, too.
I opened the door.
"The church is closed for cleaning, my son," the young Father told me. It was dim, or he would have noticed I looked like shit.
"I'll help you clean it, then," I said, because going outside sounded like a terrible idea.
The Father looked at me for a long moment, and then nodded. "Come into the light," he beckoned. I stepped forward, and his eyes widened. They were grey-blue, like Lake Michigan before a storm. "You're hurt!"
"A few scratches, Father," I shrugged. "I'd like to clean up, if you don't mind letting me borrow a sink and some paper towels?"
"All that and a First Aid kit," he offered me his hand. I took it uncertainly and followed him to a back room.
After six years with Justin, I'd gotten used to neglecting my injuries. Wizards healed quickly, so why waste medicine on a few cuts and bruises? That was Justin's philosophy. The Father was gentle but brisk, like he'd bandaged a lot of vagabond kids in his lifetime. Seemed odd - he couldn't have been more than twenty-five.
"What happened to you, my son?" he asked, seeing some of the older bruises from Justin's shield-training.
"Rough neighborhood," I muttered, and the lie felt sour. The Father lifted my chin to look in my face, I flicked my eyes away. "...my guardian," I said, uncomfortable. "I, uh, ran away, I guess." Did it count as running away from home if you killed your guardian first?
"No one has the right to treat you this way," he said sadly. "What is your name, my son?"
"Harry. What about you?"
"George," he offered a hand. I shook it with a small smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Harry. Why did you come to the church?"
"It felt...right." I shrugged. "I dunno. You still want help cleaning this place up?"
"If you feel up to it," he nodded.
I laughed. "It's just some scratches, Father George. No big deal."
We swept and mopped the whole place - I was exhausted by the end. Father George had already dusted and waxed the pews, I realized when I collapsed on one with a huge sigh.
He chuckled.
"What will you do now, Harry?"
"Find someplace to sleep, I guess," I mumbled. I'd spent the past few hours pointedly not thinking about what would happen when I finished cleaning the church.
There was a lengthy pause. "There's a bed in the church, for nights I can't make it home," he said carefully. He knew I had nothing. He knew there was a lot of very expensive stuff in this church. And he was still willing to leave me in said church, alone. My eyes watered.
No one had ever trusted me like that, not since my dad died.
"Why are you being so nice?" I couldn't help but ask. Stupid question really - what if he took it back?
"Because you are in need, and it costs me nothing to be generous in this," he said, rubbing my shoulder. "And it would cost you greatly, should I turn you away. Refusing to help you would not only be unchristian, it would be inhumane."
I broke down and hugged him, crying. Elaine and I were friends, but we couldn't really give each other this kind of thing. For ten years, the only thing I'd gotten that I thought even approached this kind of selfless kindness was when Justin took me in - and that turned out to be a huge lie.
Father George patted me on the back and I tried to compose myself. He gave me a handkerchief and showed me the little cell - huge crucifix, small bed, the whole nine yards. My feet hung off the cot. We laughed.
He stroked my forehead and wished me goodnight before he left.
None of this explained the dream I had, but perhaps being sixteen and hormonal helped. He'd been nice to me. He was attractive, if a little feminine. I was sleeping in his bed. Having an innocent dream of him holding me wasn't a big deal. When he stopped holding and started touching, that was awkward to remember in the morning, especially when the thing that I noticed first after waking was damp boxers.
I didn't take anything from the church. I walked out and faced the Wardens, faced the trial, and I got through it all with the thought of Father George cleaning me up tenderly, stroking my forehead before I fell asleep.
And if I'm a little reluctant to deal with preachers and churches now, well, maybe it's because I'm uncomfortable at the reminder of porno dreams of the nicest man I ever met.
You are awesome. That was so much sweeter of a fill than my terrible prompt deserved. Harry needs more random acts of kindness in his life. And that last line is hilarious.
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timeasmymeasure
Hot For Preacher
Date: 2011-03-19 08:32 am (UTC)So, option 1 for this would be someone crushing on Father Forthill or OMC who happens to be a relatively young attractive priest. *cough Stimata cough*
Option 2 is more of a roleplay/costume kink. Charecter of choice thinks those Roman collars are sexy?
Yeah, definetly going to hell but would rather not go alone.
Re: Hot For Preacher
Date: 2011-03-19 11:40 am (UTC)I will not write Teenage!Michael crushing on Twenty-Something!Forthill
I will not write Teenage!Michael crushing on Twenty-Something!Forthill
...No seriously, I have no business writing this, I don't really have the necessary background knowledge to...
....
....
But I have other fills I should be working on, so...
...
...
...
Ah hells.
When Harry Met George
Date: 2011-03-19 03:42 pm (UTC)But I ran and kept running until I felt safe. I looked around and realized I'd stopped on a church doorstep, and started to laugh, a little hysterically.
Places can become imbued with emotions and power: Bob had taught me that. This place felt warm and welcoming, the way I'd always imagined a good House of God might resonate. The people who came here might not all be Believers, but they loved and felt community, and that was important, too.
I opened the door.
"The church is closed for cleaning, my son," the young Father told me. It was dim, or he would have noticed I looked like shit.
"I'll help you clean it, then," I said, because going outside sounded like a terrible idea.
The Father looked at me for a long moment, and then nodded. "Come into the light," he beckoned. I stepped forward, and his eyes widened. They were grey-blue, like Lake Michigan before a storm. "You're hurt!"
"A few scratches, Father," I shrugged. "I'd like to clean up, if you don't mind letting me borrow a sink and some paper towels?"
"All that and a First Aid kit," he offered me his hand. I took it uncertainly and followed him to a back room.
After six years with Justin, I'd gotten used to neglecting my injuries. Wizards healed quickly, so why waste medicine on a few cuts and bruises? That was Justin's philosophy. The Father was gentle but brisk, like he'd bandaged a lot of vagabond kids in his lifetime. Seemed odd - he couldn't have been more than twenty-five.
"What happened to you, my son?" he asked, seeing some of the older bruises from Justin's shield-training.
"Rough neighborhood," I muttered, and the lie felt sour. The Father lifted my chin to look in my face, I flicked my eyes away. "...my guardian," I said, uncomfortable. "I, uh, ran away, I guess." Did it count as running away from home if you killed your guardian first?
"No one has the right to treat you this way," he said sadly. "What is your name, my son?"
"Harry. What about you?"
"George," he offered a hand. I shook it with a small smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Harry. Why did you come to the church?"
"It felt...right." I shrugged. "I dunno. You still want help cleaning this place up?"
"If you feel up to it," he nodded.
I laughed. "It's just some scratches, Father George. No big deal."
We swept and mopped the whole place - I was exhausted by the end. Father George had already dusted and waxed the pews, I realized when I collapsed on one with a huge sigh.
He chuckled.
"What will you do now, Harry?"
"Find someplace to sleep, I guess," I mumbled. I'd spent the past few hours pointedly not thinking about what would happen when I finished cleaning the church.
There was a lengthy pause. "There's a bed in the church, for nights I can't make it home," he said carefully. He knew I had nothing. He knew there was a lot of very expensive stuff in this church. And he was still willing to leave me in said church, alone. My eyes watered.
No one had ever trusted me like that, not since my dad died.
"Why are you being so nice?" I couldn't help but ask. Stupid question really - what if he took it back?
"Because you are in need, and it costs me nothing to be generous in this," he said, rubbing my shoulder. "And it would cost you greatly, should I turn you away. Refusing to help you would not only be unchristian, it would be inhumane."
I broke down and hugged him, crying. Elaine and I were friends, but we couldn't really give each other this kind of thing. For ten years, the only thing I'd gotten that I thought even approached this kind of selfless kindness was when Justin took me in - and that turned out to be a huge lie.
Father George patted me on the back and I tried to compose myself. He gave me a handkerchief and showed me the little cell - huge crucifix, small bed, the whole nine yards. My feet hung off the cot. We laughed.
He stroked my forehead and wished me goodnight before he left.
None of this explained the dream I had, but perhaps being sixteen and hormonal helped. He'd been nice to me. He was attractive, if a little feminine. I was sleeping in his bed. Having an innocent dream of him holding me wasn't a big deal. When he stopped holding and started touching, that was awkward to remember in the morning, especially when the thing that I noticed first after waking was damp boxers.
I didn't take anything from the church. I walked out and faced the Wardens, faced the trial, and I got through it all with the thought of Father George cleaning me up tenderly, stroking my forehead before I fell asleep.
And if I'm a little reluctant to deal with preachers and churches now, well, maybe it's because I'm uncomfortable at the reminder of porno dreams of the nicest man I ever met.
OP
Date: 2011-03-19 10:01 pm (UTC)Re: OP
Date: 2011-03-19 11:03 pm (UTC)