It’s easy to be religious, until you meet an angel.
“There is no God,” Arthur mourns sarcastically as his priest’s collar is removed from his neck.
“That’s funny, coming from you,” the angel retorts, kissing up his neck.
It’s been this way for a while now.
Arthur’s ashamed to admit that he’d spoken holy prayers the first time Alfred had revealed himself, a golden glow framing the angel in ethereal light. He’d actually knelt, too. It’s humiliating to think on that now, as Alfred’s fingers dance up his robes, ghosting over pale thighs.
The celibacy has made him vulnerable and inexperienced, Arthur thinks, considering that Alfred’s touch is hot on his skin and he finds himself melting for what looks and acts like a man. He’d never questioned his sexuality before the angel kissed him, years and years ago. To be fair, he also hasn’t questioned it since.