ohgod ohfuck this ask has got me on some Shit
Ilya has never been religious. It surprises most people since he has never taken off his mother’s crucifix chain since the day she died. He also has a habit of fucking with people about things, his accent and ability to deadpan through any amount of bullshit making him a deadly weapon in sarcasm. But it is true: he doesn’t think much about religion. About God. About what comes after this.
Cliff has always been religious. Italian-Catholic. Mass every week and on all the major holidays. Feast days. Lent. All of it. He did a stint as an altar boy growing up (which always earns him plenty of distasteful jokes and scandalized looks, but it was really pretty boring stuff) and speaks Italian with his family. He doesn’t live like a monk, obviously, but it’s just part of who he is. It’s just something he does, and has always done, and will always do.
And neither of things really matter or have anything to do with each other. Until they do.
Until Ilya is on his back, thighs wrapped so tight around Cliff’s waist, the bed frame creaking and groaning beneath them as Cliff drives into him, over and over, his nails digging deep, angry red tracks into Cliff’s back and shoulders - and then, suddenly, something… clicks.
Maybe it’s the way the lamp light is catching on Ilya’s sweat-soaked curls and the hot, thin line of gold at his throat. Maybe it’s the almost musical cadence of their breathing and moaning as their sounds wrap around each other in the close air of the bedroom. Maybe it’s just the fact that, as much as he’s tried and tried and tried, Cliff has never been able to keep from turning his affection into devotion. Into dedication. Into worship.
Whatever it is, it possesses Cliff in a way. He doesn’t break his stride as he carefully slides a hand beneath the cross on Ilya’s chest, palms it as delicately as a newly hatched bird, and lifts it to his lips, pressing s kiss to the metal. Ilya can only watch, stunned, his body suddenly vibrating at a higher frequency, some deep, intrinsic chord left long dormant suddenly struck within him like a chapel bell, and his eyes line with tears.
Cliff surges forward to capture his mouth, a deep, imperfect mess of a kiss, and then he buries his face in the crook of Ilya’s shoulder and starts babbling. No - not babbling, Ilya realizes as his hips snap forward faster, harder, striking that bell inside him with dizzying force.
Praying. He’s praying into Ilya’s skin, grabbing at him and holding him and fucking into him like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Altissimo, onnipotente e buon Signore, tue sono la lode, la gloria e l’onore e ogni benedizione. Ilya has no idea what he’s saying, but he doesn’t stop, not even when Ilya’s release is finally pulled out of him and his moans turn to whines as he clings to Cliff for dear life.
It’s not until his own climax finally hits him that Cliff stutters to a stop in his recitation. They lay in silence for a while, heart pressed to galloping heart. Then Cliff kisses Ilya again, deep and slow, and whispers against his lips: Amen.
