Chapter Text
The cathedral stands tall, a beacon able to be seen from far and wide, just at the edge of the rolling step hills. Its opulence is something to be admired, something to be respected. The priest inside is kept in only the finest of things, because his satisfaction means prosperity for the people.
Every word that the priest speaks is law; it’s to be obeyed, because there is no other option. No one can disobey a word from the priesthood; the things they are able to do are without measure. Each word spoken by the priest is a prophecy in its own right. For this reason, priests are men of few words; they speak little but each word measured and perfected. A gift to the people.
Priest Louis VIII is still young, but he has committed the vow of priesthood, and his wisdom reflects that. He studies the scriptures and communes with the deities and when the people come to see him, he offers them simple but timely blessings. He is a good priest, a well loved and respected member of the sainthood.
May he live long and bless the people.
—
It is easy enough, in a time of peace, to get into the cathedral. Harry finds himself pleased by how easy it is, how trusting the people are. No one is even standing at the rear doors, a sign of the good and joyous time the land is in at the moment.
He walks the hallowed halls with purpose, and finds the spiral stairs with ease, right where he expected them to be. In the early hours of the morning like this is, not even a porter stands at the priest’s door. Likely no one will show up until the break of dawn, still nearly an hour away yet.
He opens the heavy doors and lets them shut silently behind him. The room is covered in fine rugs and tapestries, and the four poster bed has a rich blue canopy above it. A breeze flows through the open windows and the light of the moon highlights the sleeping form breathing deeply upon the bed.
Harry slips his bag off of his shoulder and sets it onto the carpet next to the bed, drawing out of it the most important item he’s brought.
In his bed, the priest lays on his side, long eyelashes casting shadows in the moonlight on his cheeks. His lips are parted and his breathing is slow. He looks fit to be painted, hung in the gallery alongside the great priests of old.
Harry leans over and, between those parted lips, carefully pushes the thick bulb he’s brought out.
The priest has clearly never had to fear. He does not wake easily, only stirring as Harry gets to the widest portion, eyelashes fluttering as he gains consciousness.
Harry pushes the last of it in with a strong hand, forcing the priest’s mouth open, his lips now stretched around it. He moves both his hands to the two thick pieces of leather that now hang at either side of his mouth, manhandling the priest’s head before he’s awake enough to truly comprehend, pulling them behind his neck, under his ears, and threading the buckle as best he can at an awkward angle like this. He can fix it later.
The priest makes a sort of “Mmn,” noise as he gains full consciousness, eyes widening and teeth biting down. Harry sits back and starts to draw other items from his bag as the priest’s hands fly to his face. He scrambles up in bed, fingers working at the bulb and then tracing the leather straps around.
Harry takes the items from his bag and stands, reaching out and taking easy control of one of the priest’s wrists, much to his steadily growing “Nngh,” noises of distress.
With the first wrist captured, Harry slips on a loose leather mitten, capturing the hand in a fist inside a fingerless shape. He threads the buckle around the wrist and tightens it not unkindly, locking it in place and then letting go, capturing the other wrist easily and repeating the process with a second mitt.
He releases all contact with the priest and stands back, watching as the priest assesses himself. Besides the mitts and gag, the priest is only in a loose blue tunic that leaves little to the imagination. A bit of golden stitching around the collar and down the front designate it as a proper priesthood garment, perfectly matching to the one that Harry is wearing.
The priest tries first to pull the mitts off — he cannot.
He tries to get at the buckle behind his head — he cannot.
Eyeing Harry warily, he then gets up and tries to make a run for the door. While Harry lets him go, he watches with satisfaction as the mitts prevent him from even being able to properly turn the handle.
Harry walks calmly over to him and puts a hand on his waist, ushering the priest back toward the bed in gentle motions. The priest looks at him distrustfully but clearly sees that there is no out in this situation, allowing himself to be herded back.
Harry pushes him back onto the bed and then crawls over him, laying down on the far side of the large bed. The priest is stiff next to him, clearly uncomfortable with his presence.
Well. Harry can help with that.
He reaches to the floor and fishes out of his bag a small bloom. It drips with a honeyed pollen down his fingers. With his thumb and forefinger, he grabs the priest’s cheeks and turns him so his face looks upward, eyes wide like a wild animal’s. Harry pushes open the end of the bulb in the priest’s mouth and uses his thumb to insert the dripping flower into the bulb, filling and stretching it slightly inside of the priest’s mouth. He gets a small moan of protest, and a tepid pushback of mitten hands against his arms, but the priest is clearly too timid to fight much. That’s fine.
Once the bloom is in, Harry pulls back, wiping his fingers on the bedding and then looking out the window, trying to gauge how much time until someone comes in to wake the priest. Not long, by his estimation and the lightening of the sky.
Next to him, the priest moans softly.
Harry looks over at him. His lips are nicely stretched, and his eyes are already dark. Harry thinks about the bloom’s honeyed pollen, dripping down his throat from the end of the bulb. He watches the priest try to fight it, the way he starts to flit between complete stillness and minute twitching, trying to keep himself under control. He’s no longer paying much attention to what Harry is doing, only to his own body and the denial of pleasure. The embarrassment that someone else is in the room and he can do nothing about it.
Harry lets him try to figure it out for himself. The war between being an upstanding priest and giving into the carnal pleasure that will be all consuming as the bloom continues to drip.
He watches the priest begin to writhe underneath the thin summer sheets, mitted hands not yet giving in to trying to touch, but hips twisting for any small friction against the material that surrounds them.
Then the knock at the door sounds.
Harry sits up, making sure the gold of his tunic is on display as the door is pushed inward and two servants enter. The priest sits up as well, clumsily, staring with wide eyes at his morning visitors.
The servants stop when they catch sight of Harry, looking afraid, like they might run for help. Harry greets them warmly.
“Hello,” he says. “In the night, your priest has decided to partake in a vow of silence. I am from the higher order, dispatched to help him complete his vow. You may call me Priest Harry. I shall be at his side as he undertakes this venture.”
The two nod, frowning slightly.
“Priest Harry,” the taller one says. “What will Priest Louis do about the daily blessings?”
“Well I am here to step in when needed,” Harry says. “But it is important to remember that a priest’s words, while powerful, are not the only power that a priest has. A vow of silence is very important because it can help to unlock a priest’s true potential.”
They seem assuaged at that. Priest Louis utters a muffled sort of disagreement, his mitted hands flying to his face.
“These are for training,” Harry says, motioning. “You will find when this is over, your priest will be a changed man and better for it.”
“Priest Harry,” says the shorter one. “Should we serve you breakfast, then?”
Harry smiles kindly. “I should appreciate a small breakfast,” he says. “But I will be in charge of administering all of Priest Louis’ meals during my stay, so you shall only have to provide for one of us. I would not want to impose more than necessary on your kindness.”
“Your blessings know no bounds,” the taller says — a common saying for priests. “We shall prepare breakfast in the dining hall as normal, then.”
“Thank you,” Harry says. “It is much appreciated.”
They leave, looking pleased, and Harry has no doubt that word will be all around the cathedral in minutes.
The second the door shuts behind them, Louis crumples, moaning as he puts both mitts between his legs under the sheets. His face is a little blotchy from holding out as he humps up into the material with an arrhythmic abandon.
The full force of the bloom must be hitting, then.
Harry watches him for a moment as Louis works himself up to a messy release, hips stuttering under the sheets and a loud moan escaping his lips. When he collapses, breathing heavily, that’s when Harry goes into his bag and pulls out a length of cord.
“I gave you one as a treat for being so good,” Harry says, “But you will have to learn not to be selfish with your blessings.”
He takes advantage of Louis’ limp state to grab hold of his wrists, drawing them above his head and wrapping the cord between the buckles of the two mitts. Tying them to the headboard, Harry lets Louis test at the give, his breathing still calming down but a new fear and confusion alighting in his eyes.
The bloom, Harry knows, will continue to drip from the bulb in his mouth for a good while yet.
He watches the tension begin to build in Louis’ body, the way he goes from pliant and limp to tense, the way his limp cock swells, apparent even under the sheets. Louis begins to tug more earnestly at the cord binding his wrists, a muffled “Nngh,” of complaint as he finds the cord sturdy. Eventually, after humping uselessly at the sheets for a while, he makes the bold decision to flip over and rut messily into the bed, face down in the pillow as his moans grow louder.
Well. He’s quite bold.
Harry takes another two lengths of rope and, without hesitation, pulls the sheets off of Louis. He grabs his far ankle and uses it to flip Louis back over, cock leaking against his stomach and now exposed to the open air. Louis moans pitifully, trying to kick at him, as Harry ties the cord around Louis’ ankle and then pulls it taught, tying it tight to the footboard of the bed. With the second cord he gets a knee between Louis’ legs to do the same with the other, spreading Louis’ legs as far as he can, tying this ankle to the far corner of the footboard and ensuring that Louis won’t be able to turn himself back over.
Louis whines brokenly, humping into the air as he pulls at his arms and legs. His cock is full and leaking and, with the bloom seeping down his throat from the bulb, it won’t be stopping any time soon.
But Louis has to learn to conserve his blessings, to give to his people. Harry runs a finger up the inside of Louis’ thigh just to watch the muscles jump and listen to his squeak, but then he collects himself.
He stands, taking in the view of a priest learning to be subservient to his people, open and vulnerable and a slave to his own pleasure.
Then he leaves.
The door closes behind him and Louis’ broken moans can be heard inside.
Harry whispers to the door, “Lock for all but me,” and he hears the lock, which did not exist until this moment, click behind him.
It’s time to take breakfast.