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Springs in the reserved northeastern town were bright and harmonious with shades of fern and fingers sticky with plum juice, bleeding mulberry and velvet tones down boney wrists to bare forearms, while the winters were white-embraced with feelings of community, especially in the church.
The church where Soobin, their newly consecrated Reverend Father, had grown up in for as long as he could remember. He knew the walls, the nooks, the crannies, better than he knew how to use his tongue to enunciate the vowels in the word of God.
It had been the year of his twenty-eighth birthday. His third year of reciting psalms, blessing the children of the town, wiping the foreheads of believers with ash every February and listening to the desire-driven impiety of teenagers whose parents cried out that they needed to be fixed, fearful of being separated when their time comes. To be saved, to be granted access to His kingdom.
It had been a particularly moody November, grey with weather that caused unusual amounts of bone-chilling shivers, when Soobin saw him; a man he had never seen before. He would’ve known—remembered a face like that. It was rare their town got newcomers in the first place.
A face that he had been warned of in the verses of Colossians, Galatians, and Romans; a face that greeted him with lust. Guilty.
He would’ve remembered the way he looked Soobin directly in the eyes whereas most people didn’t, fluttering his lashes like a guardian’s feathered wings when he stood at the familiar lectern, Bible spread out before him. Mischief in his posture and his subtle grins. The way he leaned forward on his prayer-burdened palms as Soobin spoke, engaged. Like he was seeking that very absolution, forgiveness and God’s mercy, Soobin was taught to grant the sinners of the town during his eight years of schooling.
After that Sunday’s grueling service, Soobin felt a lingering almost stalking presence steps behind him. He had felt it for a while, actually.
He shuddered before he turned around, met eye to eye with the figure of that said mysterious man. Soobin realized he was shorter by a handful of inches and younger in the face, too, once he saw him up close—assuming he had to be no older than twenty-two. When he inhaled sharply through his nose he noticed something else; the scent of tobacco and benzoin.
His scent; his impending stare. They created an unshakable sinking feeling in Soobin’s chest and a thought—a thought that felt too close to a brief falter he promised to abandon in the back of his skull the second he dedicated himself to the life of sacraments. A nudge that pushed him closer to a testament he had been long trying to escape, to desperately ignore. That Soobin, despite his years of devotion, was weaker than he appeared and always had been.
The silence in the empty church had been deafening on Soobin’s ears, he felt a rush of anxiety and an inappropriate craving to flee. He bids the cryptic beaut a bow of his inky head with a barely audible hum, acknowledgment, and turns on his feet to exit through the back door. In his hand, he had been clenching his Bible, his knuckles turning a shade of ivory.
Protection, that is what he prayed for that night before he closed his eyes and drifted into a dreamless sleep.
Except, he didn’t sleep at all. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched; was it Him or him?
♱
For the next following nights Soobin found himself with non-stop dreams, or could they be considered nightmares to a covenant-ridden man?
He found himself imagining the drag of pink lips against sensitive patches of skin, the crawl of fingers up his spine and nails down his back, and deceitful warmth in his core. A squeeze of thighs.
He wakes up in a cold sweat on nights like this—he finds his body seeking out the touch of a man. A man. He repeats to himself in his head like a broken record. Head draped across his palms, the same ones he uses to pray for salvation, and fingers gripping onto his hair by the root, roughly tugging. Cathartic. He felt like he could throw up. Some nights he feels like trying, forcefully, in hopes of ridding himself of the appetite for debauchery.
♱
When Soobin saw him again, it had been minutes before communion was to start. On the edge of the last pew from the lectern sat him.
The features that had been haunting Soobin’s dreams, beautiful as ever. He was dressed in dark shorts that stopped just barely above the knee, cheeky, and a pristine white button-up neatly tucked into the waist of his shorts, collar crisply folded. If Soobin stared hard enough, it seemed like he could see a glittering thin golden chain that rested delicately against the hollow of his smooth throat. A cross pressed to his sternum, he assumed. Soobin wanted to touch it; touch him, and feel whether he was warm or cold under his fingertips. Would he flinch? Or would he lean into Soobin’s touch?
He tried to stifle the grimace he felt wanting to crawl its way onto his lips, disgusted—guilty—by his own ache, and the way that his heartbeat began to quicken, or how he felt his hands inching near clamminess, undoubtedly nervous.
He couldn’t (could) understand why he made him so jumpy, he had to be just another believer, didn’t he?
With a shallow exhale, he pulled his eyes off him and forced himself to focus on the line of people beginning to form in front of him, patiently waiting to have the body and blood of Christ fed to them like it was really their last supper, too.
One by one, they came and they went. Flavorless cream-colored wafers quickly pressed to tongues and shallow sips of wine from a golden chalice. He was used to this, it didn't make him feel like he was on the brink of slipping up until all he finally had was a face framed with ember strands and petal-like lips in his field of vision.
The sound of his heels clinking against the aged hardwood floor of the church made Soobin’s mouth gradually grow dryer and dryer until it felt like his throat was stuffed with cotton, suffocating. Soobin could almost believe it was only them that were standing in the church. The silence was painful and made him thoroughly aware of his heartbeat picking up again—how it felt like it was beating directly against his eardrums. He had no escape this time, he couldn’t curtly nod at him and turn the other way to leave. He had a job, a duty, a mission from God to execute.
The gap between them was small, less than a foot. Tobacco and fresh lilies, that’s all Soobin could focus on; it was wafting off him. He desperately tried to avoid making eye contact with him but he couldn’t fight off the pull he felt from watching how his eyelashes fluttered like a dove’s wings, innocent. Wafer brought up to spread lips and pressed on an awaiting tongue, same as everyone else. Except, not.
Soobin was consciously aware of their position—him peering down at the man with his fingers inside his mouth, on his tongue with a melting barrier between them. How it seemed he could almost perfectly cover his figure like a cloak. He felt like he couldn’t move. Abated exhale and evident shudder in his broad shoulders. The shorter man began to grin slightly, his teeth grazed Soobin’s knuckle as he removed his fingers from his mouth. He swore he felt the warmth of his pink tongue against his fingertip. Vivid replays of his dreams over the past few nights flew through his mind—his lips, his eyes, the profane longing of his touch.
Was he leaning in closer than he had been before, or was Soobin just imagining things from being tested by his own craving to consume him? It was beyond inappropriate and disrespectful, but he didn’t know how to stop.
With a trembling hand, he grabbed the neck of the chalice again and meticulously watched him drink. Soobin thought about it spilling from the corner of his mouth, down his chin and onto his neck where the thin chain was sitting, patient. He thought about holding him by his nape, long fingers buried in his strands of hair, and licking it up. He thought about what he’d sound like if he nipped the underside of his jaw and left his mark on him like ash as he watched his Adam's apple move from swallowing the wine.
Soobin cleared his throat like he was about to cough and put a noticeable distance between the two of them, with the fleeting shift of his own eyes amongst the pews he remembered where he was, what he was doing, and most importantly, who he was. He saw the sets of eyes staring back at him like a wildfire, hot and searing.
Chagrin, humiliation. That’s what Soobin felt seething in his stomach.
He didn’t have much time to focus on it—he had one last hymn, one last prayer, and then this would be over—but he couldn’t do that just yet.
Instead, he watched the man saunter away before pausing for what felt like a breath of a second. Their focus met each other—heady—his eyes were a dark, molten shade of brown, like rich cacao. His plush lips were spread again and that’s when Soobin heard him breathe: Beomgyu.
His voice while it was quiet and gentle, it was clear and deep and filled Soobin’s core with the same feeling he had felt this entire service: hunger and unease.
♱
Soobin hadn’t stopped rolling his name around in his brain since he heard it in the church.
It felt sinful, like a confession.
Beomgyu. Beomgyu. Beomgyu.
What made it worse is that he sought to say it aloud to himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to, didn’t have a reason to, as he hadn’t seen him in days, once again. Despite the lack of Beomgyu being in front of him, that doesn’t mean he was freed of his presence. It lingered; the feeling of his teeth against his knuckle still itched, his tobacco and lily scent was smothering him, and his dreams—they didn’t stop. They only got more invasive and less virtuous according to God’s law. The very law he abided to follow until death.
Soobin had been closing up the church for the night and making his way down the short cobble path that was between the church and the chapel’s porch, ready to return to the rectory for the night when he saw something in the distance from his peripheral vision—the amber glow of a cigarette between the knuckles of two fingers.
The longer he looked, the more he realized who it was. That damning face and presence.
With a bit of kick in his step, Soobin approached Beomgyu’s figure, trying to ignore the peculiar feeling already building up in his chest.
“What are you still doing here? It isn’t often that I see you outside of Mass—or, well—at all.”
He knew his voice was wavering a bit underneath the faux confidence, coming out way more casual and comfortable that he would’ve liked it to. But something about Beomgyu made him feel he lost all the skills he had well-developed over the years. He was intimidating, untouchable.
“That sounds like you want to see me more, Father. Anyway,”
A flick of his wrist, the cigarette was dropped to the porch floor and graciously put out underneath Beomgyu’s sole. Soobin watched—his eyes felt like they were glued on every single one of Beomgyu’s little movements. A flush in Soobin’s cheeks. It must’ve been from the cool dusk breeze from November’s fall bleeding into December’s winter.
“I wanted to talk to you. Wanted to ask you a question, actually. Preferably in private. It’s a bit cold, isn’t it?” Beomgyu’s voice was smooth and had a teasing tone intertwined with it. Like he was making a mockery of Soobin, almost, and it tugged at his heartstrings. Degrading.
“Ah—then we should go inside, shall we?” Beomgyu hummed in agreement and stepped aside for Soobin to open up the chapel door. Soobin didn’t want to be alone with him, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to ignore the lechery that clouded his mind whenever he was near him.
There were a few harrowing moments of silence within the chapel once they were settled inside.
“Father, do you know the story of Saint Mary of Egypt?” Beomgyu’s voice broke the silence, it was hushed like a murmur. His view was focused on the ground between them, shy. Soobin couldn’t see his eyes, just the way his shoulders sagged like he was unsure of himself and it made him harbor this strange need to protect him, to cherish him.
“I do, of course.” He couldn’t tell where this was going—that same cotton feeling was returning except it felt like it had been lit on fire, a threat to Soobin’s mouth, mind, and heart alike.
“She was a young woman, a prostitute, who sought to quench her lust, insatiable as it was, and made a victim out of men due to it.” A furrow of his brows, confused. He was having a hard time remembering everything he had been taught. Overwhelmed with this topic, conversation, and the tension. “But, why do you ask?”
“Because, Father. I find myself relating to her, when I look at you. I have this uncontrollable attraction to go against what has been taught as ‘right.’ And, If I’m being honest, I feel—know, actually—that you experience the same. You, too, feel that same need to disobey.”
Soobin didn’t know what to say. Any response he could have conjured up had been stripped from his mind. He felt like he had been caught red-handed, something sour brewing.
“Beomgyu,”
Soobin’s voice came out throaty and rough. It had been the first time he said it. He felt like he had never spoken before, like he didn’t know how.
The vowels of his name rolled around on his palate, savoring it like the first bite taken out of a—the—forbidden fruit, and off his tongue like a hymn: Holy.
Ave Maria.
Beomgyu’s avoidant stare shifted carefully from the aged hardwood floor of the chapel beneath both of their feet and to Soobin’s mouth. It had been well after service hours now, in fact, the sun was setting upon the horizon. The sky was morphing from that bright and promising blue and into a mix of warmth; red, orange, yellow, even pink amongst the delicate clouds. Their two abandoned figures were being enveloped in a heaven-like atmosphere. The light peering in through the stained glass windows—Jesus, Joseph, Mary watching them—made Soobin’s skin look tan, golden and sweltering, in Beomgyu’s vision. It was like they resided within the candle flames that lit the rooms of worship. Pure, divine, designed to be clean and untainted.
The tension in the room felt high and sultry. He noticed there was a mere quiver in Soobin’s lips, undetectable otherwise had he not meticulously studied each and every one of Soobin’s behaviors, subtle or in-your-face alike. Like the way he furrowed his eyebrows when the young children of the church ran off from their parents to ask him questions as if he were God himself, or how he made himself look smaller, less gangly, the minute he stepped away from the lectern, Bible engulfed in his singular palm and tied up like a knot by his long fingers. Safety. Beomgyu wondered how Soobin would react if he knew how the elder women of the church talked about him; how handsome and sharp he was; how they wished, prayed, that their daughters would end up married and bearing children with a man like him. He studied him these past few weeks like he did with the crisp scriptures he grew up reading upon his mother’s demanding requests. They were etched into Beomgyu’s eyelids when he closed his eyes and pressed his palms together at night to pray, or when he pressed his lips to the cross of Christ that lived on his rosary. A routine he possesses and enacts despite a lack of faith; he believed it was too late. He had already succumbed to desire long ago, he was more sin than virtue. He was an oxymoron, two-faced, a perverse-angel.
Fear was bleeding from Soobin’s poise like a rabbit with its neck stuck between the piercing canines of a wolf’s carnivorous and experienced jaw. He’s like an imp, sacrilegious, a death wish above all. Soobin thought gravely to himself.
That very quiver of the lip lapped hungrily at the core of Beomgyu’s lower belly, enticing—carnal, and spurred him on to perform what he does next:
With a coquette bat of his thick doll-like lashes, he tenderly wrapped his delicate fingers around Soobin’s meek wrist, guiding him like he often guided prayers and preached gospel to the eager awaiting sermon attendees.
He pressed Soobin’s fingers to his own plush bottom lip; a rose.
An innocent tilt of the head. Beomgyu’s russet strands of hair framed his face like he was a valuable painting encased in polished glass.
He whispered as if he and Soobin were confined within the walls of a confessional.
“Inside. I want you inside.”
A pause.
The chapel had grown silent, eerily silent. Outside the crickets began chirping, making it clear that the sun had fully set and the darkness outside began infiltrating their surroundings. That once warm candle-esque lit room became drowned in darkness. Patronizing. The full moon and its light were daunting, creating a shadow of the statue of Christ that hung heavily on the chapel’s wall, center of the room, cast upon them. Soobin; a priest. Beomgyu; a “believer.” To Soobin, the only noise that could be heard was the frantic and heavy breathing coming from himself, taking in the consequences of Beomgyu’s behest. Was he willingly to commit a cardinal sin? Lust. Was he, too, ready to succumb to desire?
Soobin was growing desperate. His fingers were still pressed to Beomgyu’s lips and Beomgyu’s fingers were still wrapped around Soobin’s wrist, urging it an inch downwards to tug on his bottom lip teasingly. A flash of his teeth, pearly white. Sharp. Soobin’s mouth felt dry. He wanted to lick them, taste his gums, his tongue on his own. He wanted to know if he’d be able to savor the tobacco of Beomgyu’s cigarette he had before pulling him inside the chapel, locking them away in what is heaven to one and hell to the other. He wanted Beomgyu’s teeth to press into his skin, his wrists, his neck, to be marked and consumed. A mark of the beast.
“I want you to take me, whole and raw.” Beomgyu said a bit firmer this time. He took a step further into Soobin’s space making Soobin take a step back. They repeated this move until the back of Soobin’s knees hit the base of the statue. He was utterly submerged. It was too late for him, too. He felt despair, he felt disgusting.
Soobin didn’t understand how this man—both younger and shorter, smaller, daintier than him—was able to break him, completely. That he held so much power in the palm of his hands and the words he spoke, maybe he would’ve been a stronger preacher.
He looked down: Beomgyu’s eyes were half-lidded, glossy, scanning his face. He was looking at his eyebrows, the slope of his nose, the sweet bend and curve of his cupid’s bow. This made Soobin feel queasy, but there was a different type of churning in his lower belly. Something amorous. He felt like he could throw up, but the only thing that would come up would be his heart, his transgressions coated in something dark and murky—proof of possession because that had to be the only explanation for why he was so weak and easy.
Beomgyu finally let go of Soobin’s wrist. It lingered on its own for a few seconds, growing used to the feeling of Beomgyu’s velvetiness under his finger tips. It felt like the shape of his fingers were branded into his skin. He belonged to Beomgyu now. The younger man placed his hands on Soobin’s shoulders pressing down on them before opening his mouth to speak again.
“Father, I want you to sit down and present your wrists to me.”
That title. Soobin knew he wasn’t deserving of it anymore. To think that he was ever bestowed the role of being the bridge between God and his believers.
As if he were a puppet being dragged around by several steel strings, he dropped to his knees and sat down, his legs kicked out before him rather dumbly. The texture of his black slacks briefly rubbed against his knees. It reminded him of the sensation of skin being dragged against a twine carpet. A memory of youth, when he was certain nothing and no one could rob him of his relationship with God. A smoldering ache of cracked flesh like a fresh wound. His eyes never left Beomgyu’s own demanding gaze, it was horrifying and alluring. Soobin felt himself slipping away, his brain overwhelmed with a sense of submission; of innate obedience.
“Father, I need you to tell me that you want this. That you’re okay with breaking your promise to God, for me. That you want me to use you.” Beomgyu had crouched near Soobin’s ear, speaking to him in the softest tone he had heard that night. It felt like it was doused in affection. His skin felt covered in goosebumps, it almost hurt. It was startling how much his body truly reacted.
A curt nod was all Soobin could give Beomgyu, partnered with a muttered yes.
Even an octave higher would break the illusion he created for himself—that he wasn’t fully giving in to desire, that he hadn’t been swayed down a volatile path, never had to accept it, and was going to be forgiven by Him.
With a shaky exhale, he held his wrists out in front of him, presenting himself to Beomgyu much like the body and blood of Christ that was fed during Mass and ultimately severing his promise. There was no way that he could be forgiven. He was now worse than the people that kneel before him in the confessionals. What was worse is that he wasn’t anonymously giving himself up to Beomgyu; he knew, Beomgyu knew, God knew.
Next thing he knew Beomgyu was pulling out a rosary from his pants pocket—it was dark brown, wooden, and clearly showed signs of age. An item that had been held onto for longer than Soobin could’ve imagined. Ironic for someone who wasn’t much of a believer—and being wrapped around Soobin’s twinning wrists, skillfully tied into a secure knot. It left no room for much movement. The cross itself, twinkling like a prized jewel when the moonlight struck it, hotly dug directly into the vein that popped out on the underside of his wrist. A valuable reminder of what he was throwing away. Years of devotion. If he flexed his wrist he almost worried that it would cut into his gauzy skin. That it would slash his muscle, down to the bone and consume his marrow greedily.
Beomgyu was in Soobin’s lap, straddling him. Soobin’s intertwined wrists were pressed between him and Beomgyu, a new type of ache from the unfamiliar positioning of his arms. The rosary digging deeper into his veins. Christ. His knees were caging his thick thighs, he wondered if he felt that same ache in his knees. If his skin felt exposed despite being fully dressed, if he felt like he was giving up a piece of himself he had grown so used to.
A drag forward from the shorter man—a weight that was once on his lap was now seated properly on his crotch. A whine. A roll of hips. The echoing of rough fabric rubbing against each other. It was sung like a homily to Soobin’s ears.
Soobin felt a deft hand creep up the back of his neck, playing with the hair sticking on his neck. It was like a phantom. When did he start sweating? It was gently tugging on his dark strands while the other hand slid up his front to rest on his sternum, fingers playing with the hollow of his throat that was covered by his Roman collar. Beomgyu’s flat palm carefully pushed him back against the base of the statue, dramatically knocking the wind out of his lungs. If he dragged his vision up even an inch his eyes would meet with Jesus Christ himself. He was watching. Watching Soobin being slowly pulled apart at his seams. Filth.
“Father—”
“Soobin. Call me Soobin. Please.” Soobin said bitterly, his voice cracking on the ‘please’ from not properly talking for a while. His heart felt like it was going to stop.
Beomgyu looked at him confused, like he was stupid before a smile akin to the devil’s appeared on rosy lips. Soobin’s craving to bite them, lick them, suck on them presented itself in his brain again.
“Well—Soobin.” another firm roll of his hips. “I wanna tell you something. I think about you, lots, you know?” an airy laugh. “When you’re at the podium preaching, feeding the faithful during communion—” an increasing stifling, growing heat between both of their legs. “I stare at your hands. They’re so pretty, long. And big. I imagine them touching me. Inside m—” Breathless.
Soobin felt like he was being wrung dry. The mention of him being inside Beomgyu, it made him whimper like a kicked animal in his throat. He’s never made that noise before, not even for himself. He’s never been touched like this before. At all for that matter. He signed an oath against it long ago along with his liberty. He burned them at the stake.
“I’ve always wanted you—The day I arrived in this shit town. You remember, don’t you? You kept looking at me. As if I was one of the seraphs they talk about in the Bible.”
“You’re beautiful. Terrifying, but beautiful.” Soobin said without thinking, interrupting Beomgyu’s spiel. He felt pathetic being unable to stop himself. He felt his slacks growing tighter, tenting. A heartbeat-like throb. He wanted to act like he wasn’t familiar with it, but he was. He wasn’t free of sin, and to act holier than thou, especially in this moment, would be a lie. He was full of them; to himself, to the devoted, everyone.
A playful scoff is what was heard in response. Pathetic, undeniably so.
“Preacher boy, how cute. Do you wanna see something?” A nod. “Okay, sit still. Be good, remember?”
Beomgyu stood back on his feet, immediately he looked at the damage. Soobin’s skin; his face and inch of his throat. They were flushed, dewy like the grass lawns of the church during spring, blooming. Sweat beading at his forehead. With playful eyes trailing down, Beomgyu noticed the true size of Soobin. He whistles. That caused Soobin to squirm a bit due to embarrassment and look away. For someone so pretty, he can be a real prick at times. He thought to himself.
That makes Beomgyu giggle, boyish. He likes how shy, how virgin, Soobin is despite being older than himself. He wants to eat him, lick his bones clean. He wants to claim him and make him his . Leave him ruined for anyone else, but most importantly, God and the graces above alike.
Beomgyu quickly kicks off his leather dress shoes to the side and begins undoing his pants button and zipper. The noise makes Soobin sit up a little straighter. He was gawking at this moment and he didn’t care. Not while Beomgyu was shucking his pants off his legs—they looked longer than usual from this angle, but he was still dainty. He was like a peach. Soft exterior, easy to bruise and break.
Intricate patterns of black lace came into Soobin’s view. He felt his wrists involuntarily twist in his restraints, beads slotting into the gaps of each other and tightening. He wanted to reach out and caress Beomgyu’s thighs. He wanted to feel how soft they were. If they would really bruise at the press of a finger.
Beomgyu slowly, seductively, drops to his knees, on all fours, and crawls his way up Soobin’s body until he’s seated on his clothed crotch again. Except this time, there is one less barrier. Up close Soobin can see the tip of Beomgyu’s cock peeking out of the thin band of his panties. He noticed the way it digs into his hips, and how the tops of his thighs look full on top of his own. Spread. Supple. I want to sink my teeth into his flesh, chew him up. Brand him the way he’s branded me. He noticed the faint wet spot forming on the front, the hardness, the size. He’s smaller than Soobin. He’s sure that if he held them together, Soobin’s own cock would dwarf his. The imagery alone made him buck up into Beomgyu’s barely covered crotch. An act of unadulterated neediness. A breathy noise could be heard from both of them. What has Beomgyu done to him?
“S–Soobin. I prepared myself for you, before I called out to you for this preaching, but I want to touch you, first. Can I?” He sounded uncharacteristically coy. Was it all an act?
“Beomgyu, please.” Another buck into Beomgyu’s clothed cock, causing him to be jostled and toppled over slightly. A lip-bitten moan escaped from the throat of the man seated atop him.
Beomgyu nods before dragging his hand down Soobin’s front, a featherlike brush of fingers from his stomach—Soobin curls in on himself, sensitive—to the button of his slacks. Undoing his button and zipper, Beomgyu pulls his cock out, lips left agape. He has an ounce of doubt for half a second, but he persists. He brings his palm to his lips, a generous cupping motion, before spitting. He presses his spit-slickened palm to Soobin’s cock and strokes from tip to base. Immediately he sets his wrist into a firm flicking motion, paying special attention to his shaft and tip. The noise, it's slick. It has Soobin panting harder in Beomgyu’s face. His legs tensing up and rocking the man in his lap an inch with each swift drag of his palm, fucking into it in small timid movements. He needed more.
“Soobin, when I said I thought about you—It included this. Me. My hands on you while I touch myself in the solace of my home. How dirty? Ungodly? Dreamt of it. It’s what I prayed to be freed of, but I can’t. Couldn’t. I had to feel you for myself, first.” Beomgyu’s constant flick of his wrist—a firm squeeze—being paired with his words, confessions, didn’t help Soobin from tipping over into the man’s neck, breathing him in like the frankincense that permeates the air of Mass.
He was meeting Beomgyu’s palm with his own thrusts, eyes screwed shut and gnawing at his bottom lip. Letting himself utterly loose like a dog off his leash. His teeth dug so deep he was certain he began to taste the metallic flavor of blood bursting on the tip of his tongue. Getting drunk off it like wine. For a second, he opened his eyes and looked down. His vision blurred; dazed like an autumn fog had been blocking his view. His tongue was resting heavy in his mouth, only noise that crawled out of his throat had been grunts. It was like his brain was fully shut-off, dumbfounded by Beomgyu’s hand. It was like his body wasn’t his own anymore. Soobin realized that Beomgyu’s palm, albeit not small, was unable to fully grasp his cock. He howled high in his throat like a cry; urging him to thrust harder into Beomgyu’s grip and skilled fingers. He was smearing his fingers with the translucent white of his pre-cum—lacy, like a veil. The sight shook him and made him feel like he was high off the nectar of a lily.
“Beomgyu—I’m going to—”
Immediately the motion of Beomgyu’s hand halts, dropping his cock. He watches it slap against his clothed stomach. Some of his pre-cum dripped off and rubbed into his clerical shirt. White on black, staining. A ruin of his soul.
Beomgyu abruptly rises to his knees to scoot himself closer to Soobin. He was a breath away from kissing him. With one hand he grabs Soobin’s cock by the base while he pushes his panties to the side with the other and begins sinking down his length, inch by inch. It hurts regardless of how much he could’ve prepped. When Soobin bottoms out, he clenches around him causing them both to moan.
“You’re being so g–good for me, preacher boy.”
He sounded like he had no air in his lungs, like he was trying to pretend it doesn’t hurt when it does. Soobin sees it in the way his cheeks flush up, glazed with a mahogany hue. His eyebrows are scrunched and his lips are slick from being bitten. If his vision zeroed in on his tempting mouth, he’d see the cracks where blood trickled through. How he was biting his tongue to keep himself from groaning, hissing at the stretch. Beomgyu sits there on Soobin’s cock, waiting for himself to adjust before moving, his heart pounding in his ribcage. Beomgyu takes this time to look at Soobin’s face and get a good look at it; he looks blissful and fucked out. It makes his thighs twitch and his hips tip forward, a swivel. He watches the way Soobin’s lip and eyebrows quirk at the movement. Satisfying. He keeps moving his hips in small circles to see the way his expressions contort especially every time he clenches around him.
“Soobin, I’m gonna fuck you now.”
A rise to the tip and a drop to the base. No time for Soobin to prepare himself.
Soobin watches him attentively, mouth agape. His wrists kept twisting despite the beads continuing to get tighter and tighter, choking his flesh, but he doesn’t care. He wants to hold Beomgyu, grip tightly onto his skin and watch it get splotchy, ruddy, before it blossoms into beautiful shades of purple, blue, and red. Just like the petunias that cover the porch of the chapel. He wants to dig his nails in like rusted metal—the same used on Christ, hammered, crucifying—and pick the skin out from under them with his teeth.
His fingers were gripping onto Soobin’s thighs grounding him while he vigorously bounced on his cock. His lashes clumped together with faint tears due to the stretch from earlier and the constant jab of his length pounding inside his heat, they pointed at the ends in a way that was almost cute. His russet strands of hair were in disarray, hot and sticky. His skin looked paler under the moonlight but it shone like he was crafted out of polished marble. He glistened like the weeping angels that protected the dead. Beomgyu was religiously erotic.
He felt one of Beomgyu’s hands let go of his thigh and anchor themselves onto his throat. His thumb was pressing into the center of his Roman collar again. It hurt; the pressure of him digging into his windpipe made his eyes roll back and his vision get spotty. Beomgyu wasn’t stupid though, he knew to let go. The pain felt rich, it made him thrust deeper into Beomgyu. The drag was sleek and smooth, he felt his tip brush against something spongey. In response Beomgyu let out a particularly loud moan and it echoed off the pale walls of the chapel. The only thing that dampened the noise were the oak rows of seats that were laid out in front of them. Another reminder of the place of worship they were disgracing. Blasphemous.
“Again. Soobin—Do that again. I–I need.” Beomgyu’s cock was leaking like a broken faucet. His panties were sullied and ruined, his cum dripping down the once unblemished black lace. Soobin wanted to lick him clean of his mess. He was like a depraved man.
Beomgyu was riding the pace Soobin was feeding him, but he was slowing down. His own thighs began to aggressively burn in his muscles. He was letting himself be throttled up and down by Soobin’s thrusts as if he were a toy. Self-indulgent in a way he thought would’ve had him fed to the wolves. He knew that he was about to cum from the cloying build up in his stomach, it was addictive. Reminded him of why he defied God years ago in the first place.
“Soobin, tell me. Who do you still worship? God? Or me?”
When Beomgyu asked this, he was gently stroking his Adam’s apple. A strangely intimate act. He never removed his hand from Soobin’s throat. The angle made him look like he was a figure of worship he would’ve been taught to respect, to love, heavenly. Divinity. Soobin could imagine dedicating and devoting himself to Beomgyu and the hollow dips of his collarbones; learning about him, his stories, his philosophies. He wanted to pray to him. From birth to death. It was almost too good to be true.
“Yes—Yes, Beomgyu. I worship you. You are my Go–”
With that, Beomgyu was clamping down on his cock and cumming. On himself, on Soobin’s clerical shirt. Soobin mourned the fact Beomgyu’s chest wasn’t bare. He wanted to see what his bare skin looked like delicately painted, wanted to run his fingers through it and sully himself further with Beomgyu’s mess.
He remained rocking against Soobin, whining each time his tip even meekly grazed his prostate. Soobin was close—really close. Just once, he needs to feel Beomgyu’s lips against his own and prick them like a needle with his teeth. Begging like he begged for forgiveness the first time he realized he felt differently about men, about the neighborly boy across the street at the ripe age of fifteen, or about when he thought of tainting himself with the callouses scarred into his palms.
“Beom—Kiss me. Just this once. Please.”
It didn’t take much convincing. Beomgyu bruisingly grabbed Soobin by his jaw, prying his top row from his bottom row and kissed him. Ouch. Crash of bone. Wet. Soobin pushed Beomgyu’s tongue aside with his own and ran it against the expanses of his teeth, his gums—sweet—it was everything he wanted. He sucked. He bit into his lips, made them bleed more and lapped the blood up like he was starving. It was beastly, rotten, and foul. He felt guilty. He felt like all the light within him had been stolen. But he couldn’t bring himself to care, not fully at least.
“—Inside me. Do you hear me, Soobin? I want you to cum inside me. Make me your virgin whore.” Right against Soobin’s lips. Breathless. Barely audible.
The thread (of restraint, his last leg of hope of remaining pure) in Soobin’s stomach had frayed and snapped completely beyond repair. He felt himself cumming inside of Beomgyu. It felt like it was never-ending, an eternal act. His toes curled inside the soles of his shoes. He was prodding his cock deeper into Beomgyu like he needed this piece of himself buried inside him to bear later—like a child, a creation of two —to remain a permanent part of his being. He could’ve almost sworn that he felt wet patches on his slack legs where his cum was dripping out of Beomgyu. He felt like his bones were melted down into a liquid, maybe the water he was taught to bless people with.
They breathed into each other’s mouths. It felt like Beomgyu was centimeters from kissing Soobin again, but he didn’t. Instead it was cold. And when he finally titled his head back again, he was met with the penetrative eyes of the statue. The feeling of shame returning. Couldn’t even be a martyr.
Empty.
♱
It had been a week since he last saw Beomgyu.
A man with shoulder length red-brown hair that curled sweetly around his ears and full cheeks—it made him look celestial; seraphic. When he stood tall, it felt like he was meant to be born with soft finger woven wings that expanded from the smooth center between his boney shoulder blades. Three of them on each side, wrapping around him like a protective seal. A blessing from God.
But Soobin knew he carried something minacious within his core. He had a taste of it. He felt the lush inside of it. He was corrupted by it.
It had been a week since that night in the chapel. That night where he watched the sky turn from the most bewitching shade of coral and into a haunting midnight. A shudder rests in the ridges of his spine.
The night that Soobin committed one of the most profound sins against his priesthood. A sin that, even if he pleaded on his hands and knees—scathed and scarred from the slashes of his desires—head pressed into the solid earth and kissed the feet of the Lord himself, would never be forgiven. He would never be untarnished, forever spoilt like the rotted meat of his Father’s beloved sacrificial lamb.
He knew repentance wasn’t an option, not even with another priest. Any semblance of brotherhood had been lost. Soobin was alone and it was cold. An indescribable pressure sat itself on his chest (like when Beomgyu sat on his lap, devouring him and his faith whole). When he breathed in, it felt like he was being crushed from the inside.
Soobin stopped showing up to the church to conduct his priestly duties; Mass, reconciliation, sermons. He stopped praying in the morning, before his meals, at night. He stopped all of it. He hadn’t touched his Bible in days. The mere sight and brush of fingertips against the worn dark leather cover left a taste of bile in his throat, flooding his senses. He smelled like dead.
He felt like a piece of him had died.
He heard the knocks at the rectory door, the calling of his name from the Bishops of his church. Sometimes it was even the elderly women who always told him just how sweet and handsome he was. The rap of knuckles on the vast wooden door made his head throb like the church bells, a tonal ring he once believed was like no other, it felt like death standing on his porch getting ready to drag him down into the depths of Hell.
Chastising; a divine punishment.
Disgusting.
It made him feel disgusting, like he needed to peel off his layers of skin, muscle, fat, bone, and be born anew. He didn’t want these people coming to him for answers. He didn’t want them seeking absolution when he himself was no longer chaste.
It took him three more days before he finally took a step outside of the rectory. The air was brittle due to the winter season slowly approaching. The grass on the lawn had been dusted with icy shards, had it rained recently? Soobin wasn’t sure. The trees were bare-boned and the tree trunks were shades of grey, white, and ash.
Soobin felt like there was ash in his skull and icicles puncturing the gaps scattered throughout his ribcage, aiming directly for his heart. Killing him.
It felt like he was moving through thick sludge as he made his way down to the church. It was still early morning, probably around eight. Soobin didn’t know. He didn’t check. He hadn’t eaten yet, or had his morning coffee—He wondered how Beomgyu liked his. He wondered where he was right now, if he was safe. It felt like he didn’t exist at all. It felt like Beomgyu was a test sent by God to tempt him, ensure that he stood strong against his desires, and he failed—His routine that he used to know like the back of his hand and knobby knuckle had been lost to a former shell of himself he no longer believed existed, even in past tense. He was moving on autopilot; he was well familiarized with this path of chilled cobble ground, but it felt different. Unbearable. A stumble in his step. His feet felt too big for his body. His heart couldn’t relax, it felt like a hammer was being taken to his chest. Each individual beat felt like the hollow between his bones were being enlarged and pounded into specks of dust. He tried to focus his vision on the puffs of cold breath in front of him, or his hands and the way he forgot to wear gloves; his cuticles and knuckles looked bitten and bloody. He wasn’t a nail biter, He didn’t used to smoke, either. Now he finds the yearning for it, humming in his nerves. He misses the tobacco flavor. He misses Beomgyu. but lots of things can change in just a few days. In a week.
The rigid centenarian and gothic architecture of the church towered over Soobin. A structure that once brought him immense reassurance was now his biggest burden. He stared hard at the black doors of the church, infinite in height. Standing in front of a place of worship was demoralizing now; his presence in the same place felt like disrespect to his former Father and all the people that taught him.
A new oath was formed on his pale cold-cracked lips. One that promises a goodbye, an escape from faith and the breaking of thus alike.