Joseph/robert blasphemy

"You're sweating like a sinner, baby." Joseph hums, right in his ear, and the hand not pushing Robert's torso down against the pulpit slips between them to trail the damp line of his spine. "Why might that be?"

Robert wants to say, /fuck you/. He wants to say, /take off the stupid clergy shirt and kiss me/. He says nothing; only breathes heavy next to the pulpit's disconnected microphone, and thanks - not /God/, the /stars/ maybe - that the last worshippers left the chapel after the evening service some long hours ago.

"Sure wish I knew how to turn that mic on. I'd love to hear you sing for me."

And Robert's a quick-witted guy, he has a rebuttal on his lips, but then Joseph is on his knees - /no, no, it should be me,/ he thinks, /make me kneel, preacher/ - and his jeans are pulled just low enough for two oiled fingers to breach him.

He's seen those hands folded in prayer, he thinks. Lay hands on the sick, count rosaries, break holy communion.

Joseph anoints him while his cheek bruises against polished wood. Joseph's mouth finds his thighs and he hears membrane-thin, gilded bible pages beneath his stomach crumple and crush from his twisting. Joseph kisses him deeply, intimately, and the sun and the moon and Robert, in quaking breaths, make obeisance to him.