Disclaimer: I don't own the religion of Christianity. Nor do I own the MLB. I own Michael and Chris, that's it.
Summary: Michael's God can wait.
Notes: The Further Slashy Adventures of Michael the Pitcher and Chris the Catcher.
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They kiss again -- teeth knocking and tongues brushing -- and fingers meet still-damp-from-the-shower hair, tangle and tousle, pull lips against lips and hold them there.
Their chests knock together and Chris can feel the cool beads of Michael's rosary pressing against his throat, and he feels slightly guilty, but Chris is an atheist, and the moment passes.
The pitcher is whispering something in his ear -- "Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, amen" -- and his lips are at the catcher's ear, his breath hot and moist.
Chris has nothing to say to that, and instead, covers Michael's mouth with his own, effectively shutting him up.
There will be, the catcher thinks to himself, as the pitcher's hands fist in the soft material of his pristine white t-shirt, time for that later.
Michael's God can wait.