Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

It had started as usual, when Hermione came to confession.

Well, it would have been usual, had she confessed to a priest with any frequency whatsoever since she was fourteen. Ironically, shortly after her confirmation her parents had dropped the pretense that they were good Catholics that went to church more than Christmas and Easter and they decided going to mass every Sunday wasn’t something they needed to do to be considered decent people.

Chreasters, they called themselves, laughing as they only stepped foot into church those two times a year after explaining it to her. Even at fourteen Hermione hadn’t truly known that she believed in organized religion, so she didn’t put up a fight when the family put on a front for the major holidays. Besides, it's not like it changed much anyway.The hymns, the homily, the eucharist, the incense at Midnight Mass were all the same. It was a formality and almost a comfort that it was perpetually recognizable.

Or nothing had changed until Father Bingham passed away in January, apparently, and had been replaced by another priest. A young one, her mother informed her from one of her friends though they had yet to see him since Easter wasn’t for a few more weeks.

She shouldn’t have come until then, certainly not on a Wednesday night. Followed the trend that had been in place for almost half her life now. There should never have been a reason.

There was a reason.

Hermione wasn’t certain what lead her to believe that her fight with Ron, the guilt that consumed her when he pushed for a child she did not want and didn’t know how to tell him led her to Friday night where she drank too much with the girls, let that cute guy buy her even more drinks after slipping off her rings when her friends left, let him lead her to his place…

Well, she couldn’t face Ron, not for the last five days since she left the strange (but attractive) man’s bed. She’d been in agony, not telling him, looking for some kind of absolution. The resolve to tell him their relationship wasn’t working, that she couldn’t take the pressure of him wanting her to quit her career so he could be a half arsed father and even less of a husband with the arrival of a child. So she could mother both of them rather than just the one (sometimes).

Thus, the weekly open confession at St. Pius IX church near her parents, a solid forty five minutes away from the flat that she shared with Ron just in case some noisy gossips got back to him.

With the new young priest. Who with his gorgeous platinum hair, pale skin, and sharp features looked more like a model than someone who had dedicated his life to the Catholic institution.

Father Malfoy.

Hermione would admit it to herself, he took her breath away for just a moment as she sat down and fidgeted in her seat, distracted by those shocking grey eyes as they met hers in anticipation. Waiting for her to confess her dirty, dark reasons for being here.

So she did, staring into his eyes. Blubbering it out as she played with the hem of her skirt, pink cheeked and humiliated.

No, not quite humiliated. Probably more embarrassed that she wasn’t humiliated, because the more in-depth she went about why she did it in the first place the more irritated she got.

Father Malfoy listened, nodded in all the right places, and gave Hermione her penance. A penance that felt far too light for her sins in the form of reciting the rosary thrice and sitting there in the church afterwards to think about what she had done and how God would forgive her anyway.

She blushed more about asking for a rosary than she did the confession, her hand tingling at the contact when he handed her his own.

Hermione thanked him quietly and left the confessional to allow the next person in line, gripping the beautiful emerald and onyx thing while surreptitiously checking her phone for how to do the rosary in the first place (look, it had been a while and she couldn’t remember what to do on the onyx colored beads interspersed between the emerald ‘Hail Mary’s’) before sitting in one of the back pews and getting to it.

She did her part, eventually, but she was the last there as she thought long and hard about how and why God would forgive her for cheating on her husband rather than just telling him the truth. So long, that she was the last sinner there doing her penance.

Or maybe she was just stalling. Still not wanting to face the inevitable.

“Oh, you’re still here.” A melodic voice called out from behind her, grabbing her attention.

“Oh, um, yes.” Hermione turns around, putting her forearm on the pew to face him. “Apologies, Father, I can leave if you are wanting to go home.”

In return, he waves a hand as he comes closer to her, close enough that she has to look up at his tall form into those eyes.

“It’s no bother…Hermione, wasn’t it?”

She nods, somehow preening that he remembered her name out of all the sinners he saw tonight. And trying not to think about how utterly ridiculous that sounded, shoving away thoughts of how attractive he was. Especially in black and white with a white color at his long neck. The simplicity accentuated him better, somehow, though she didn’t know why. And the purple stole - the only color he wore - made his sharp eyes all the more interesting as it reflected a strange royalty about how he carried himself, even here in his profession.

“Have you not completed your penance?” He asks, tapping a hand on the pew she’s sitting at.

“I have.” She confirms, looking down at her bag. She should probably leave, face the music so to speak.

She didn’t want to.

Somehow, he seemed to catch onto it.

“That’s good.” He nods slowly, tapping those long, pale fingers again. They catch her eye before she looks back up at him in the silence, the tension that somehow permeates the room. “Since you’ve completed your penance you’re qualified for the eucharist again.”

Hermione blinks at him, not knowing where this is going.

“I…I was going to clean the tabernacle anyway. Would you like to take communion? I could use the practice anyway.”

She raised a brow, wondering why a priest would need practice for something he surely did daily but was willing to take just about anything as an excuse to not go home.

“Oh um, okay. Sure.”

He gestures for her to follow him closer to the altar, and Hermione finds herself for perhaps the first time seated in the front pew as he goes about his business, setting things up. As if by habit Father Malfoy goes about a short homily to an audience of one before he gets to the familiar bit, and she listens enraptured for perhaps the first time.

“Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof: but only say the word, and my soul shall be healed.” He raises a wafer, “The Body of Christ.”

“Amen.” Hermione murmurs, her voice echoing anyway amongst the empty stone church. He repeats the process with the golden chalice and takes a sip before wordlessly getting in place at the front of the aisle.

She comes up wither her hands in the proper place, but in a bold, daring move decides last second to go with the other method of taking communion, clasping them together and opening her mouth. His lips twitch, clearly amused somehow even though it’s a perfectly normal way to take it and places the wafer on her tongue. When she closes her mouth she’s too quick, catching his fingers as they slowly exit, keeping her gaze the whole time.

Hermione chews and swallows the near tasteless dry thing, unabashed as he turns away from her and holds out the chalice.

“The Blood of Christ.” Father Malfoy proclaims in a heady voice that has no place here, as if he’s mimicking her just barely appropriate response to the wafer. Hermione reaches for the cup as she’s been taught but he doesn’t release it, narrowing his eyes with a heat that doesn’t belong there at all.

Hermione goes with it anyway, parting her mouth as he brings the chalice to her lips to swallow as she never looks away from those silver eyes darkening with every moment.

It’s somehow the most titillating sip of wine she’s ever had while staring, a pull towards the man in front of her that reeks of inappropriateness. Or it was, until he tilts too far and it dribbles all over her chin and onto her white blouse.

Apologies follow as she dabs at it, his hands coming to do the same with a cloth before pausing her breasts, realizing how unseemly it is.

They’re close. So close.

Close enough that they’re sharing breaths, she can feel the heat of him, practically feeling his heart beat as his hands pause on her ruined blouse.

She wonders if he can feel her own heart pounding too, a sharp desire coursing through her at this very attractive man standing far too close to her.

Especially as she carefully, so carefully because she’s not sure she’s reading him right takes his hand in hers and drags it down, down, down to her breast.

He swallows but doesn’t snatch his hand away. Rather, he looks at it before meeting her encouraging eyes and cups her through her bra as if weighing it. Calculating.

Seeing if she’ll go for it.

Will she?

“Are you sure?” Hermione pants as his hand doesn’t move - the hand that she doesn’t want to go away. In fact, wanting more, the promise in his darkened eyes making her believe that somehow he wants her too.

But no, can they really? She thinks about his vow. His robes. The collar at his chest.

The reason she came here in the first place…

“I’m sure.” His eyes flash to hers, no sign of guilt there whatsoever in his smirk. “Priests need something to confess too, and aren’t you the most delicious sin I could imagine needing penance for.”

She probably shouldn’t encourage this, keep on track for both of them. She definitely shouldn’t.

Screw it.

Hermione leaps at him, swiping the white collar from his neck as their lips crashed together in a bruising, heated kiss that he meets with a fervor, his hands practically ripping her wine soaked blouse from her in a surprising show of strength, buttons flying everywhere.

After they both get his cassock off, their lips momentarily leaving each other to shift it over his head Hermione grips his shirt from his trousers, pulling it up frantically as they kiss, lips leaving each other only briefly so he can assist in taking it off and letting it fall unceremoniously to the ground as they start relieving themselves of other clothes.

She smooths her hands over skin as his fingers find her bra, unclasping it with a surprising ease.

Her hands - impatient - find his smooth chest surprisingly toned for his profession, squealing when he pulls her flush against him, his desire clear against her stomach.

His hands drift down her bare waist to her still skirt covered arse, squeezing appreciatively before he gestures for her to jump, her legs around his waist only briefly before she is sat upon a hard surface, pulling back in confusion as he stops their kiss.

“Lie back.” He orders huskily, a palm on her stomach as he pushes gently for her to acquiesce.

It’s only when she does as he say sand his lips travel quickly down her bare chest and sternum that’s he’s set her upon the altar, kissing down her form while simultaneously pushing her skirt up that he wishes to worship her here.

It’s wrong. So, so, very wrong.

It only turns her on more.

Moreso when his perfect, pale long fingers trail down her embarrassingly wet knickers to the gusset, briefly caressing her right…there, before simply moving it aside and attacking her with his tongue.

“Oh, God!” She cries out as he eats her like it’s his last supper, panting as her hands grip his beautiful locks. She can feel him murmuring things against her, words she can barely make out until a phrase catches and her breath catches.

He’s praying. Kissing, licking, sucking a prayer into her as if she’s a god.

No.

His goddess.

It’s not long before his tongue hits her right…there and his fingers suddenly push into her and curl, only taking but ten strokes of a hail mary just as she had done before on his emerald beads before she’s coming.

In that moment, she swears she sees the light, and thinking maybe - just maybe  - she’s not going to hell at all thanks to her penance.

But no, her penance isn’t over yet, she thinks as she sits up, seeing him lick his own lips of her orgasm off himself as he stares at her like his own angel.

Or devil. The jury is out.

Shoving that thought aside because frankly, Hermione is too far gone at this point, she hops down and moves him backwards towards the pew, finding his smirk enticing and excited the whole way to their destination. Once he’s where she wants him she kneels before him as if in prayer, slowly unzipping his trousers and pulling him out of his pants.

Oh god.

He’s pink, hard, and far bigger than anyone who dedicated themselves to the church has a right to be. No, this man should have been destined to make some girl happy, to make her his wife, perhaps pump little children in her that could be raised as good, Christian folks.

Apparently, it was meant for someone like her instead. A sinner.

Hermione was never happier for the title as she takes him in her mouth, swirling her tongue around.

The noises and curses he makes are nice, but it’s the ‘Oh, god’s’ that make her smirk with his cock in her mouth, that driver her hands to make him feel good as she tastes the salt of his precum on her tongue. She takes him almost to the brink before pulling off with a pop, hands on his thighs as she gazes up at him in question. Permission.

“Do it.” He pants, begging her to give him the release they both want.

Being on top, being in this position even on her knees makes Hermione drunk with power, the naughtiness of their actions making her stomach pool with a heat that she’s never known before.

It only gets better as she straddles him on the pew, easily ignoring the hard wood on her knees as she lines herself up and slowly sinks onto him, hands behind him for support.

“Oh fuck.” He groans as his hands find her waist, encouraging her to move.

She does, bouncing up and down as her head goes into his shoulder before one of his hands grips her curls, forcing her head up. Their tongues meet in a war path, in fighting for dominance as they continue to push into each other at a hard pace before she can feel herself start to pulse, gripping his cock in her hold as she grinds onto him, fingers rubbing at just the right place.

He comes first and bites her neck, but continues to slam her hips into his as she changes her angle just…there! And finds her release again.

Once she comes too, still with him inside her they pant together and find their breathes. Hermiones looks down into his eyes, not knowing what to say.

“That was…it was…”

“Positively sinful.” He smirks, laughing against her. “Totally worth it.”

She can’t help a laugh as he softens within her, finding no need to move just now even as the consequences of their, her action start coming to the surface.

Oh…oh…

She barely feels as he lifts her up, helping her to stand before sitting beside her. Hermione slumps onto the pew, feeling Father Malfoy’s heat at her left side.

“I…I think I might need to go to confession again, Father Malfoy.” She bites her lip, looking up at him but not quite keeping the smile off her face.

Father Malfoy. She just had sex with a priest. (A corrupt one for certain, but still a priest.)

Who knew it could be so erotic?

“I’m here every Wednesday and Saturday for just that.” He informs her, leering in a way that makes her think he knows she’s not sorry at all about what they’ve done.

“Hmm.” She responds, his eyes glittering in response to her own that promises something positively sinful.

Maybe she’s not sorry. Maybe she should tell Ron she wants a divorce, that they’re simply not going to reconcile their differences.

Maybe she should stop being a Chreaster and go to church (cough, cough - confession) more often.

“I’ll mark that in my calendar.”

With a smirk, he nudges her in the shoulder, hand tantalizingly drifting up her thigh.

“And I’ll ensure that your penance is…thorough. And deserved.”

Hermione hums as it reaches just where she wants it, thinking that yes, perhaps (pretending at) being a good Catholic might work out for her after all.