|Naomh Pádraig | Saint Patrick (naomh_padraig) wrote in nevermore_logs,|
@ 2013-12-01 00:33:00
|Entry tags:||-abroad, saint george, saint padraig|
WHO: Padraig and then UK!George
WHAT: The influence of Lust
WHEN: November 29th
WHERE: His place in Dublin
WARNINGS: Wanking. Don't judge me, I suck and writing this kind of shit, but I was inspired. Oh and you know...whip stuff, because Padraig is pretty predictable at this point :D
Arriving home to Dublin was like returning to the scene of a crime. Padraig stepped over the threshold of his apartment with a heavy heart. He dropped his bag to the floor without even bothering to turn the light on first. The old, brick townhouse had been in his possession for over a century now and he knew it like his own skin. It was not difficult to walk the familiar hallway, crest the stairs he had been climbing for decades, and head into one of the rooms, even in the dark.
Padraig had left Dublin to escape his own heart, and in New York he had committed an even worse sin. He had willingly kissed Lust and then let her participate in what had very much not been penance. He had given into temptation and not for the woman he loved.
Despite the fact that his loved ones loathed when he punished himself, Padraig felt that if he had ever deserved the whip, now was the time. He had been to Aesculapius to heal the wounds he had received during his time with Lust because they represented something terrible. His back may have been now unmarred, but he planned to change that. Real penance was something he fervently wished to accomplish. Guild burdened his soul and it was the only way he really knew how to atone.
He lit several candles and removed his shirt before kneeling on the floor and reaching for a small wooden box. The metal latch flicked open and inside he found his rosary and his flagellator. Taking the rosary in his left hand and the flagellator in his right, he started to pray at a soft murmur as he flicked the whip over his back.
A loud crack echoed off the walls and Padraig felt the familiar and reassuring ache sear across his skin. A moment later, however, he was extremely discomfited by a near barrage of memories of Euterpe.
Unable to understand what was happening, he shook his head to try to clear the thoughts away. "God, deliver me from the sins of the flesh," he begged desperately. Another crack and Padraig gritted his teeth at the pain. It was biting and sharp, and something else followed it. Padraig remembered Euterpe's smile while they danced their way across the floor of the Halloween party. The image of how amazing she looked in her dress felt imprinted on his mind. With a small sound of distress, he flicked the whip back again which only caused the memories to worsen.
Once, Euterpe had shown up at his door in a costume which did very little to cover her beautiful form. Padraig breathed roughly as he remembered how beautiful she had looked in it. It was impossible to ignore that as the thoughts of her bubbled to the surface, he was growing hard between his legs.
Squeezing his eyes closed and praying now so loudly that it very nearly drowned out the crack of the whip, Padraig doubled his efforts. His back became a criss-cross of angry welts, and nothing drove the thoughts of Euterpe from his mind. It only seemed to make things worse until he was so hard that he ached.
A moan escaped Padraig's lips as memories of Euterpe turned to fantasy. He imagined Euterpe naked in his bed, waiting for him with that beautiful smile he loved so much playing across her lips. He pictured her hair brushing against his chest as she rode him. Her laugh when he brought her breakfast in bed. He would trace the curve of her hips with his fingers and take her breasts into his mouth-
Padraig dropped the whip and it clattered to the floor beneath him. His head was so foggy and full of Euterpe he hardly even realised his hand had strayed into his trousers. It was a relief when he stroked himself. The sound escaping his lips was closer to a growl than anything else. There was barely a hesitation before he pushed his trousers down and wrapped his hand around himself again.
The thoughts of Euterpe devolved into images of body parts and not much else as he increased the pace of his hand. His body was going on auto-pilot as he was so consumed by lust that he honestly couldn't focus on anything else. His body was all pleasure and need and friction paired with not a small amount of whimpering.
A swimming head caused him to fall to one arm, though he kept himself propped up. He continued to stroke himself, his pace becoming frantic. Need burned hot and low in his belly, rising until he came hard, with a shout of pleasure. His seed spilled across his altar and crucifix, which went unnoticed, at least at first.
With the sating of his lust, Padraig's mind began to clear. He sucked in lungfuls of air, trying to catch his breath. And with that, he finally started to realise what he had just done. In horror, he dropped the crucifix which was still coiled around his left hand. "Oh fuck-"
Padraig scrambled away from his altar, nausea slowly replacing the need in his belly. "Oh, no no no. No." He noticed the mess he had made of his altar and hissed more curse words in Irish.
Quickly, he rose and pulled his trousers back up. He ran to the bathroom where the nausea finally claimed him and he vomited into the toilet. Afterwards he wiped at his mouth and washed his hands a good four times, but he couldn't stop yet. He carried a towel into his altar room and cleaned up the mess he had made. Then and only then did he retreat into the corner of the room where he instantly curled up into a ball. Tears followed almost instantly, and that corner was where he stayed, topless and cold and bleeding, until his brother found him.