Joseph knows he is doomed to burn for far worse sins than onanism.

In the grand scheme of things, onanism barely counted as a sin. MacAvoy doubted there was a man alive who hadn't succumbed at one time or another, and if there was, he'd forward the name to Rome for consideration for canonization. Anyone who could do that would surely have two other miracles hidden somewhere. Even he, who rarely thought of women in anything but intellectual terms, occasionally had urges which were best dealt with quickly lest they distract from more important matters. Since he'd started drinking, those urges had become very rare indeed.

Even when he stopped drinking, they didn't return until the night he'd shared a pillow with Belle, rejoicing in the feeling of her breath on his face and longing to be closer, closer, closer to his angel, and he was suddenly dealing with far more than vague urges. What had once been a biological impulse had taken on a far more emotional component. MacAvoy didn't want release; he wanted Belle's body against him, her lips under his, her sweet voice in his ear telling him that she was happy with him. He wanted to lose himself in her, to be one with his angel, however briefly.

Very cold showers, he'd found, were a satisfactory solution. He would stand under the frigid water and pray for forgiveness and the strength to protect Belle from his lust until the urge was conquered, and he could face her again with innocent eyes. Had she not tried to leave, he could have gone on happily thus.

But Belle did try to leave him, and he'd lost his mind, crushing his mouth to hers in desperation, and suddenly his urges had a sharp new focus. Instead of reflecting on her beauty or how nice it would be to hold her in his arms, he now knew what her lips tasted like. He knew how soft and warm and sweet they were, and he longed to taste them again every moment of every day. He longed to know what other parts of her would taste like and how her lips would feel against other places on his body, and cold water was no longer a solution to his problem.

MacAvoy knew he was doomed to spending most of his afterlife in Purgatory at best, somewhere far hotter at worst, but he wouldn't burn for onanism. It was the sins that went along with it that would damn him. His thoughts had never been less pure, Satan constantly whispering in his ear all the things he could do to his angel, reminding him that he had hands he could use to touch and stroke and caress her, lips that could kiss her and whisper every filthy desire he had, a cock that had been made to pleasure her. The thought of Belle breathless with pleasure because of something he'd done was enough to drive him mad.

Worse was the covetousness, the resentment he felt at knowing he was not the first man in Belle's life. She'd had a husband and then a fiancee, men who she loved, men who were permitted to hold and touch and kiss her, everything that he would never be allowed to do. Belle was not a possession, not something to be owned, but a dark part of him wanted desperately for her to be his.

In his waking dreams he could see Belle wrapped in the arms of a man who was not him although they shared a face. Her bare body pressed full-length against his as she kissed and clung to him, letting him plunder her sweetness, his hands roaming every inch of her. She sighed and moaned, arching into him, letting him touch her everywhere as she caressed him in return, whispering her love for him.

The jealousy nearly blinded him even as his body responded, and he couldn't get the images out of his head. Reaching out, he turned the faucet down as far as it went, hoping the icy water coursing over him would cool his lust. What wouldn't he give to be in that man's place, to have Belle in his arms, soft and sweet and willing? It would be worth the sin, worth the betrayal of his vows to have his angel so close.

The cold water was doing nothing to slake his lust, and he nudged the temperature higher, clenching his teeth as he took himself in hand. He'd never allowed himself to think about Belle when he did this, but he was too weak to fight it any longer. What would she say if she could see him like this? What would she say if she walked into the bathroom right now to see him with his cock in his hand and her name on his lips?

"Belle..." he whimpered, imagining her blue eyes upon him, "Forgive me."

"If you were sorry, you'd stop," Belle told him calmly, leaning against the wall of the shower, and he thrust sharply into his hand, overwhelmed by her mere presence.

"I can't," he ground out, his grasp on language slipping away as he fondled himself, his strokes rough, "You're so beautiful. So perfect. Belle, I need you. I need my angel. Please."

She would deny him, of course she would. Belle was too pure to sin with him. She'd never allow him to put his filthy, unworthy hands on her. "Please," he begged again, almost sobbing with need, and she stepped into the spray with him, the water somehow not touching her as she moved to stand in front of him.

Her lips were softly parted, and he leaned forward helplessly, needing to capture them with his own. Belle's mouth was Heaven, and nothing but her lips could soothe him now. Her lips and the touch of her hand. His cock throbbed at the mere thought that Belle could touch him, and he whimpered, thrusting his hips forward shamelessly. His angel had the power to cure his sinful nature. Just one touch from her hand, the merest brush of her fingers over his aching flesh would be enough to satisfy him eternally. If she'd just touch him, all the lust would pour from his soul, leaving him clean and pure, like her.

Blindly he searched for her mouth, moaning in agony when he couldn't find it. "Please!" he whimpered pathetically, "Kiss... touch... let me touch you..." To bring her pleasure would be the greatest gift he could ever receive, but Belle shook her head.

"Lust is a sin," she breathed, her eyes sympathetic.

"Not lust," he groaned. Nothing they did together could be called lust. Nothing they did together could be sin. "Not lust. Love."

Both hands were on his cock now as he thrust frantically, so close to his release that he was seeing stars. "Please, please, please, love, please," he panted, needing her touch to push him over the edge.

"Love," she echoed with a sweet smile, then her fingers glanced over the head of his cock, and it was enough, more than enough. He'd never come so hard, the pleasure reverberating from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head as he made noises like a dying animal, his seed spurting over his hands in endless pulses as Belle gazed at him lovingly.

"Joseph?" Belle's voice came from directly outside the bathroom door, and he blinked his eyes open, his fantasy dissolving, "Did you call me?"

"Fuck!" he hissed, searching desperately for a reason he would have been calling her name while he was in the shower. He cleared his throat, struggling to sound like he hadn't just been wanking furiously to thoughts of her, "Uh, yes. Could you put shaving foam on the grocery list?"

"Sure," Belle chirped, and if she thought it odd he'd needed to tell her that immediately instead of waiting until he was done in the bath, she didn't say anything. "Anything else?"

'And then could you join me?' The words were on the tip of his tongue, and he swallowed them down. "No, that's it."

He strained his ears to hear her moving away and released his hold on his cock, grunting as the spray struck his sensitive flesh. He would burn for this, and if there was the slightest hope his fantasy could ever come true, he wouldn't even care. If only there was.

Standing under the rapidly cooling spray, MacAvoy crossed himself. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned..." Although he spoke to God, it was a pair of blue eyes that he longed to see mercy in.