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Shadows move through the chapel, as though it’s breathing. Every flicker of flame bends toward the storm outside, a color pane trembling with the force of wind. Father Lee kneels at the altar, rosary tight in his fist, each bead biting his skin as though penance can be earned simply by holding harder. “Lead us not into from temptation,” he murmurs, voice low, “deliver us from—”
A laugh cuts the silence. Soft, velvet, mocking. “Temptation, Father? Mm. I think you’re praying to the wrong God.”
Minho stiffens. His pulse leaps, but his voice stays firm as he answers without lifting his head. “Show yourself.”
Footsteps. unhurried, precise, echo along the nave. A figure emerges from between the pillars. Han Jisung, pale and perfect, eyes glittering like embers in the dark. Candlelight licks along the sharpness of his cheekbones, the sinful curve of his mouth.
Jisung drifts from the shadows at the far end of the pews. His grin is all fangs, yet strangely tender. “You pray so sweetly.”, Tell me, Father, are you asking forgiveness for sins you’ve already committed… Or the ones you dream about committing?”
Minho stands up but keeps his eyes on the alter. “This is holy ground. You don’t belong here.”
The figure steps forward, boots silent against stone. He is pale as moonlight, sharp as hunger itself, eyes shimmering in a crimson gleam. His smile cuts like a blade, showing the faintest glint of fang.
“And yet…” Jisung spreads his arms, motioning to the chapel, to the altar, to the crucifix glinting above. “Here I stand. Does your God sleep, Father? Or does He simply look the other way when you kneel and whisper His name?”
Minho swallows, throat bobbing. “You know nothing of my God, nor of my faith. And I will not fear you in His presence.”
Jisung takes a step closer, voice lowering to a rasp. “Faith cannot hide the sound of your heart, Father. It’s so loud. So fast. Like a hymn calling me to feast.”
His eyes drop, lingering on Minho’s throat, the delicate stretch of pale skin. Minho feels his breath hitch, and a tremor ripple through him, but he does not move.
“You’ll find no sustenance here,” he says, though his tone is thinner now. “The blood of the faithful burns. It will destroy you.”
“Then let it.” Jisung’s smile falters into hunger, something raw and aching. “Better to burn by your blood than starve a thousand years without tasting you.”
Stepping close enough that Minho can smell him; ash, earth, something metallic and rich beneath. His fingers hover at Minho’s jaw but do not touch, quivering with restraint. “One drop,” Jisung whispers. “One kiss of blood. Let me damn myself on you.”
The storm outside swells. The candles gutter. Minho’s body betrays him, his chin tilts, baring his throat. And Jisung, trembling and reverent, leans in. Lips ghosting, tongue tasting, then the sharp pierce of fangs.
Minho gasps, knees almost buckling as fire courses through him. He clutches at Jisung’s shoulders, breath ragged, not pushing away. The vampire shudders against him, moaning, drinking deep, until he wrenches back with a strangled cry. Blood stains his lips, his chin, his chest. His hand claws at his sternum, where Minho’s blood scorches him. The flesh smolders, burning a mark into skin.
“It hurts.” Jisung cries out, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “It hurts—”
Minho stares, horrified, enthralled, at the way the scar blooms like a blaze of fire across Jisung’s body. Without thinking, he presses his hand against it. The skin sizzles under his palm, and Jisung moans like it’s pleasure. “You’re mad,” Minho breathes, torn between fear and awe.
Jisung’s eyes blaze fever-bright as hecatches Minho’s wrist and presses it harder against the wound. “Scar me. Let me carry your blood under my skin forever.”
The candles gutter. The storm howls. And Minho, breaking every vow he has ever sworn, pulls him close and kisses him. The kiss is desperate and holy all at once. Minho tastes his own blood on Jisung’s tongue and shudders at the taste of iron metal. Jisung moans into his mouth, clutching him tight, as if the burn in his chest is ecstasy itself.
Their chests press together, Minho’s pounding heart against Jisung’s ridged burn, veins of scarlet branching like stained glass across his skin. Each movement draws a hiss of pain from Jisung, but his lips never leave Minho’s.
When at last Minho rips himself away, his breathing is ragged, his lips swollen. He stares at Jisung’s chest, at the mark carved there like a brand of ownership, and something inside him trembles.
“Father,” Jisung rasps, eyes wild, “damn me again.”
But Minho flees, rosary tangled in his hands, the echo of his own heartbeat chasing him out into the storm.
Sleep does not come. Minho lies awake in his narrow bed, moonlight slanting pale across his bare throat. He is denied even a fleeting glimpse of rest by his restless mind. He touches the bite mark, fingertips trembling at the tender sting, and feels shame flush hot beneath his skin.
It was only a kiss. It was only a weakness. It was only temptation— But when he closes his eyes, he feels it again. Lips on his neck, fangs inside him, the molten heat of blood pulled from his body. The way Jisung’s chest burned under his hand, scar etching itself into living flesh.
He rolls onto his side, clutching his pillow as though it could steady him. His breath comes shallow, harsh, and for one unholy instant he realizes, he is hard.
He jerks upright, horrified, pulling the crucifix from his nightstand and clutching it to his chest. “Deliver me,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Deliver me from this.”
But outside, in the rain-soaked courtyard, a shadow lingers. Jisung watches from beneath the eaves, lips still tasting of Minho’s blood. His hunger gnaws at him, but worse is the ache in his chest when he remembers Minho’s touch, the way those fingers pressed over his wound like a blessing.
Jisung smiles to himself, sharp and bitter. “You won’t pray me away, Father. I’ll haunt every breath you take until you say my name in worship.” And he melts back into the night.
The days blur together, each one steeped in unease. Minho’s parishioners notice the shadows beneath his eyes, the way he grips the edge of the pulpit too tightly when he delivers his homilies. He speaks of faith as a fortress, of God as a shield, but his voice trembles when he says deliver us from evil.
At night, the wound on his throat aches. It is not festering, nor is it healing. It’s alive, thrumming faintly, like a pulse that isn’t his. He sometimes traces it in the mirror, fingers hovering as if it might burn him. Every prayer feels heavier on his tongue. Each psalm like a lie he forces into the rafters.
And Jisung is always near. Minho sees him at the edge of the cemetery, a pale figure between the headstones, gone when he blinks. He hears laughter in the hush of the trees. At vespers, when the candles flicker too violently, Minho feels breath at the back of his neck, though no one stands behind him.
Jisung doesn’t touch him again, but he presses in. Every shadow stretches with his outline. Every silence quivers with his hunger.
And Minho, God help him, waits for it. He waits for the next flicker of movement, the next whisper curling at the edge of his hearing. His prayers grow frantic, but why does his heart leap when he senses Jisung?
One night, he wakes from a dream of teeth in his throat, cock hard against his sheets, the taste of blood sweet in his mouth though he’s bitten nothing. He buries his face in his hands, stifling a sob.
“I am yours, Lord,” he whispers. “I am yours—”
The crucifix on the wall shakes against the storm-wracked wind. And in the corner of his vision, just for an instant, he sees Jisung’s grin reflected in the glass of the window.
The chapel no longer feels like a sanctuary. Every prayer echoes too loudly, as though the vaulted ceiling throws his words back at him in mockery. His own voice sounds foreign, brittle, and the silence after each psalm presses down like a hand around his throat.
By day, Minho performs his duties. He listens to confessions, he blesses children, breaks bread at the altar. He says the words, but they feel hollow. His parishioners beam up at him, unaware that he is fraying. By night, he breaks.
The first time, he dreams of fangs, piercing him again, not cruelly but sweetly, the way a lover might place a kiss at the curve of the neck. He wakes gasping, sheets tangled around his legs, his cock hard and aching. His hand trembles when he pushes it against himself, shame coiling hot in his chest.
He doesn’t finish. He can’t. He sits up instead, rocking forward with his crucifix clutched in his hand until the edge bites his palm.
“Deliver me,” he whispers through gritted teeth, forehead damp. “Deliver me from evil.”
But when he lies down again, he finds himself pressing his fingers to the wound on his throat as though to remember the shape of Jisung’s mouth.
Another night, he goes to refill the holy water fonts. The small silver cruets slosh softly as he walks the aisles, dipping his fingers, blessing each basin.
When he lifts his hand the last time, he freezes. Though the chapel is still, the surface moves as though stirred by breath. And in the faint shimmer of the bowl, he sees Jisung’s reflection behind him, smiling, head tilted, as if whispering into his ear.
Minho whirls. The pews are empty. The water has gone warm beneath his touch.
He starts lighting extra candles at night. Entire rows of votives flickering in desperate defense. But it doesn’t keep Jisung away, it makes him laugh.
The sound curls through the rafters like smoke. “You think fire will chase me?” The voice is soft, almost kind, though it echoes from nowhere. “Father, you’ve already set me alight. Every breath I take sears.”
Minho grips the altar until his knuckles pale. “Leave me.”
A whisper brushes his neck, warm and cruel, “I can’t.”
The wound on his throat throbs constantly now, as if in rhythm with the mark he pressed into Jisung’s chest. Some nights, Minho swears he feels heat blooming across his sternum as though the scar lives in him too.
He prays harder, fasts until his head spins, whips his own shoulders with leather in secret penance, the lash biting into skin that already aches with invisible teeth. And yet, he craves.
His prayers dissolve into moans against the pews when he kneels too long, when his body betrays him in silence. He presses his forehead against the cool wood, panting, half a plea to God, half to the shadow that climgs.
“Why?” he whispers into the emptiness. “Why can’t I cast you out?”
The air shifts, soft as breath, and Jisung’s voice curls through the dark. “Because you don’t want to.”
It happens on the eve of a storm. The chapel groans under the weight of wind, the stained glass windows shuddering in their frames. Minho paces before the altar, rosary clutched so tightly in his fist the beads cut crescent marks into his skin. His lips move ceaselessly, psalms tumbling out in a rush.
Deliver me. Deliver me. Deliver me.
The candles flicker one by one as shadows swallow the pews. And still Minho kneels, forehead pressed to the cold marble, whispering until his voice breaks into desperate sobs.
“Why?” His cry cracks through the silence. “Why me? I’ve given you everything. My life, my body, my vows. Why do you let him follow me?”
His shoulders shake, his palms flat against the altar as if trying to hold himself together. He wants silence. He begs for silence. Instead, fingers brush his hair.
So gentle, so tender that he almost leans into it before realizing it isn’t real. He jerks away, heart lurching, but the sensation lingers. The ghost of touch, the weight of someone’s hand pressing gently at the nape of his neck.
He stumbles back, gasping, eyes darting over the empty nave. “Stop–” His voice breaks. “Stop haunting me!”
And then he sees him. Not a reflection, nor a shadow. Him.
Jisung stands at the far end of the chapel, framed by the storm-dark doorway, black coat dripping with rain. His eyes glimmer red in the light, his mouth parted in something like hunger, or sorrow.
For the first time since the night of the bite, they face each other without a veil. The silence stretches, thunder grumbling overhead. Minho’s pulse hammers so hard he swears Jisung can hear it. He wants to run. He wants to fall to his knees. He wants—he doesn’t know what he wants.
But he knows where he must go. To the confessional.
The wooden box feels too small, the carved screen between them flimsy as a cobweb. Minho grips the lattice until his knuckles blanch. He speaks first. His voice trembles. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
The irony hangs heavy in the air. From the other side, Jisung chuckles, low and rough. “Oh, Father. It’s not God you’ve sinned against.”
Minho squeezes his eyes shut. “Then who?”
“You know.” The whisper slides through the screen, hot as breath. “You feel me in your blood, in every prayer you choke on. You’re mine, whether you curse me or crave me.”
Minho’s throat tightens. His nails dig into the wood. “No. I belong to God.”
“Then why do you tremble every time you hear my name in the dark?”
The confessional creaks as Minho sits, wood groaning beneath his weight. His hands knot into fists over his lap. He cannot look toward the screen. If he does, he fears his resolve will shatter completely.
The storm presses on the chapel walls, thunder rolling, rain streaking down the windows. Between claps of thunder, silence suffocates. Until Jisung speaks. “Why hide here, Father? You knew I’d follow. You wanted me to.”
Minho flinches. “You presume too much.”
A chuckle hums through the lattice. “Do I? You’ve been calling me in every prayer you whisper. Every time your body shakes on these floors, every time your lips beg for deliverance, you’re begging for me.”
Minho’s fingernails bite into his palms. “Blasphemy.”
“No,” Jisung breathes, velvet-smooth. “Truth. The kind you can’t speak at the altar.”
The silence stretches. Minho counts his heartbeats, each one hammering louder. He wants to flee, to throw the door open and run into the storm. But he cannot move. His body is pinned by the weight of Jisung’s voice, low and warm, curling into him like smoke.
“You prayed for me last night,” Jisung murmurs. “Didn’t you?”
Minho shakes his head. “I prayed for deliverance.”
A laugh, soft and cruel. “Deliverance into my arms.”
“No—”
“Yes. You clutched your little crucifix like it could hold me back, but you caressed the wound I gave you. You touched it with reverence. Tell me that’s not devotion, Father. Tell me you don’t worship me.”
Minho’s breath stutters. His lips part, but no sound comes. Jisung leans closer, his voice brushing through the screen, sinful intimacy. “You’ve tasted prayer, and you’ve tasted me. Which burned more?”
The words slice through Minho. He bows his head, trembling, throat too tight to answer.
“You’re quiet,” Jisung whispers.
Something inside Minho cracks. A sob rips from his chest, unbidden, raw. He clutches the wood as though it will keep him tethered. “I don’t want this,” he chokes.
“Liar.” Jisung’s tone sharpens, hungry now. “You want it so badly you shake with it. You want it so badly your body begs me through the walls. Say it, Father. Confess.”
The storm growls, candles flicker, and Minho finally breaks. “I crave you.” The words spill like blood from a wound. “God forgive me—I crave you.”
A long silence follows, filled only by his ragged breathing, until Jisung slides his fingers through the small gap at the edge of the lattice. He traces the curve of Minho’s wrist, pale fingers shaking with want, as though Jisung himself trembles at the contact. Minho’s breath catches but doesn’t move.
“Your hands,” Jisung murmurs. “Always clasped in prayer. Do you know how I’ve dreamt of unbinding them? Of guiding them where they ache to go?” The fingers trail higher, grazing his forearm. Minho quiveres, every sinew taut under Jisung’s touch.
“Or,” Jisung breathes, voice darkening, “perhaps here—” And then, with slow inevitability, Jisung’s hand slides lower, until it rests on Minho’s thigh.
Minho gasps, the sound strangled in his throat. The heat of it sears through the cloth. “You could push me away, you could scream. You could call upon your God.” Jisung says mockingly.
Minho’s lips part, though no words come. Jisung is right. He could speak, but he won’t. His thigh trembles beneath Jisung’s palm. Instead of pushing, he leans in, just slightly, closer to the lattice, forehead pressing to the wood, as if that nearness is all he dares.
The weight of Jisung’s hand on Minho’s thigh feels heavier than the crucifix around his neck, heavier than all his vows combined. Heat seeps through the cloth, spreading, a cruel reminder of how easily flesh betrays spirit.
Minho squeezes his eyes shut. “This is—this is a sin.”
“Then sin with me,” Jisung murmurs. “You’ve carried that cross long enough. Let it fall.”
Minho shakes his head, throat tight. “I can’t. My vows. My soul—”
“Your soul?” Jisung laughs softly, a sound both sharp and aching. “Your soul sings for me every night. I hear it in your prayers, in your cries. You call it torment. I call it salvation.”
The hand on his thigh presses firmer, and Minho doesn’t move away. He shifts closer as though seeking his touch he shouldn’t. He should push Jisung away, but he doesn’t want to.
“Tell me, Father,” Jisung whispers, “when you touch yourself in the dark, do you whisper God’s name? Or mine?”
Minho jerks, choking on a breath. His cheeks blaze with shame. “You twist me into something I’m not.”
“Something you’re not?” Jisung’s voice drops, velvet-turned blade. “Look at yourself. Trembling, sweating, pulse galloping beneath your skin. You’re starving, Father. And not for bread or wine.”
A tear slips down Minho’s cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. His voice cracks when he speaks: “You’re the Devil.”
“No,” Jisung whispers. “I’m the answer.”
Silence falls, broken only by Minho’s ragged breathing. The hand on his thigh strokes upward just a fraction, close enough to ignite every nerve, far enough to deny relief.
“You could end this,” Jisung murmurs. “Say the word and I’ll vanish. But you won’t. You’ll keep me here, bleeding into your nights, burning into your chest. Because you need me.”
Minho gives in, his forehead presses hard into the lattice, as if he could disappear into the wood.
“You’ve locked yourself in a box,” Jisung continues, voice like smoke curling under a door. “But boxes open, Father. All you have to do is invite me in.”
Minho breaks. His lips tremble, his hands fall limp against his lap, and his voice comes out raw, ruined. “Come to me.”
Jisung’s hand presses against the inner curve of Minho’s thigh, fingers pricking like thorns, making Minho flinch before pulling away.
The confessional door creaks, hinges groaning on the other side. Then, with the inevitability of a closing prayer, Jisung steps inside, the wood straining as though the chapel itself resists. The storm outside howls like a warning swallowed by thunder, and Minho feels like his whole body is shaking with how fast his heart beats.
Bootsteps fill the silence. The confessional’s narrow space fills with shadow, with the weight of breath that isn’t his own. The door clicks shut. For a heartbeat, there is only darkness, thick, choking, holy and profane all at once.
Then the warmth of Jisung’s breath grazing Minho’s ear, his presence so close the air itself bends. “You opened the door,” Jisung whispers, velvet edged with triumph. “Now you’re mine.”
Minho closes his eyes, a prayer or a curse hovers on his tongue, but nothing comes. The crucifix weighs like a chain across his chest. The wound at his throat burns like fire. And in the dark of the confessional, he bows his head in invitation.
The air is too small for two bodies. The pressure of Jisung’s presence crowding into the space, his coat brushes against Minho’s sleeve, the warmth of breath ghosting over his ear. He grips the edge of the seat until his knuckles blanch, willing his body not to tremble, but it does. It betrays him.
“You prayed for this,” Jisung murmurs, low and velvety, a sound that seems to vibrate through Minho’s bones. “You begged for me, and now, here I am.”
Minho shuts his eyes tight, words catching in his throat. “I didn’t—”
“Didn’t?” Jisung leans in closer, the whisper curling along the shell of his ear. “You opened the door. With your lips. With your blood. With every sleepless night you spent aching under your sheets.”
Minho shudders. Shame scorches his skin, but beneath it, want. Terrible, forbidden want. “Stop twisting me,” he pleads, voice raw.
“I’m not twisting.” Fingers brush his wrist in the dark, cold at first, then burning as they linger. “I’m uncovering. Stripping you bare until you can see yourself.”
Minho jerks, but the touch follows; up his forearm, savoring. His breath catches when Jisung’s hand rests just over his racing heart. “Do you feel it? How it beats for me?”
Minho bites down on a cry, lips trembling. His pulse hammers so hard against Jisung’s palm it feels like confession in itself.
“Say it,” Jisung urges, voice dark and tender all at once. “Say you crave me.”
Minho’s chest heaves. “I…” The word dies, strangled.
Jisung exhales, soft laughter brushing Minho’s skin. “It’s fine, let me prove it for you.”
A ghost of a kiss brushes the edge of Minho’s jaw. A strangled cry escapes him, body convulsing as though struck by celestial fire. Another follows, firmer this time, pressed against the hollow beneath his ear.
Minho lets out a broken sound, half-moan, half-prayer. His hands come up, not to push away, but to clutch the fabric of Jisung’s coat as though he’s drowning.
Jisung hums against his throat. “That’s it. Confess without words.”
Minho’s knees weaken. The confessional walls seem to collapse inward, suffocating, sacred, unbearable.
Then Jisung pulls back. “Too small,” he murmurs. “This box can’t hold what you’re begging me for.”
Jisung cold hand catches Minho’s. He resists for only a second before allowing himself to be guided out into the chapel. The vastness swallows him— the rows of candles, the storm rattling the stained glass, the altar looming. And there, in the center of it, Jisung turns him, pressing him back against a pew.
Jisung’s yes burn in the dim. “Here,” he whispers. “Where God can see.”
Minho doesn’t look away. He stands pinned against the pew, Jisung’s hand spread firm across his chest. The crucifix at his collar glints faintly, trembling with each rise and fall of his breath.
“You’re shaking,” Jisung murmurs, voice soft as sin. “Are you afraid of me, Father?”
Minho swallows hard, throat working around words he can’t form. “I… I fear God.”
Jisung’s lips curve. “And yet you’re looking at me.”
He leans in, letting his breath ghost across Minho’s cheek before brushing their lips together, just a whisper of a kiss, a tease of warmth and nothing more. Minho quivers, lashes fluttering shut.
“You don’t kiss Him like that,” Jisung says against his mouth, cruel and tender all at once.
Minho lets out a fractured sound, his head tipping back against the wood. His hands hover uselessly at his sides, torn between clutching his rosary and reaching for the vampire in front of him.
Jisung takes the choice away. He catches one of Minho’s hands, lifting it with reverence, pressing a kiss to the inside of his wrist, over the pulsing vein, tasting the warmth and rhythm of life. Minho’s knees almost give out.
“Do you feel that?” Jisung whispers. “Your blood begging to be mine. Your body begging to be touched.”
Minho shakes his head, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. “I shouldn’t—”
“Hmm...” Jisung’s mouth trails higher, brushing Minho’s sleeve, his throat, his jaw. Each touch is deliberate, reverent as any sacrament. “But you are. That’s the holiest truth there is; not what you should, but what you are.”
His lips find the scar again, pressing into it like a seal. Minho cries out softly, clapping a hand over his own mouth a beat too late. Shame floods his face, but the sound lingers in the air, undeniable.
Jisung smiles against his skin. “There you go. That’s your real prayer.”
The storm cracks above, thunder rolling like an organ’s final chord. The candle flames shiver. Minho’s chest heaves, as though every breath is a battle. His soul is torn between altar and abyss. And he doesn’t push Jisung away. His body trembles against the pew, Jisung’s lips trace the hollow of his throat, his jaw, never giving him more than a ghost of contact.
“Such restraint,” Jisung murmurs, almost fond. His fingers slip higher along Minho’s arm, grazing muscle, feeling the tension there. “You want to claw at me, to hold me, to beg me to take more. But you don’t move.”
“I can’t,” Minho rasps.
“You can,” Jisung corrects, biting the edge of his earlobe just enough to make him jolt. “You simply won’t. Because you still think you belong to Him. But your body has already betrayed you.”
Minho makes a broken sound, torn from the depths of him, shame staining his cheeks red. Jisung kisses the tear that slips free. Tender, almost cruel in its softness. “Every saint fell once, Father. You’ll fall into me.”
The words curl through Minho like smoke, leaving him dizzy, pliant. His lips part with a stuttered whisper: “Please…”
“Please what?” Jisung steps back, staring down at Minho, “Say it. Pray to me.”
Minho swallows hard as he steps after him. His fingers closing around the edge of Jisung’s coat to keep him close. “Please—don’t leave me burning like this.”
Something dark and victorious flickers in Jisung’s gaze. He steps back, just enough to catch Minho’s wrist and tug. The priest stumbles after him, dazed, as though his body has chosen before his mind has.
He follows Jisung into the sacristy, the room behind the altar meant for chalices and vestments, lit only by trembling candles.
Jisung closes the door with a low thud. Candles flicker faintly here too, shadows stretching high. Minho stands in the center of the room, chest heaving, crucifix heavy against him. Jisung approaches slowly, like a predator savoring the moment before the kill.
“You’ve never been touched like this, have you?” Jisung whispers, circling him, hand brushing his shoulder, his waist, the curve of his hip. “Never been opened. Never been prepared. Untouched, even by yourself.”
Minho lowers his head, mortified but silent. His silence is confirmation. Jisung smiles, sharp and reverent. He tilts Minho’s chin up, forcing his gaze. “Let me be the first. I’ll carve you open and make you holy again.”
He lowers to his knees before Minho, hands firm on the priest’s hips. His mouth hovers over the bulge beneath Minho’s robes, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him.
“Say yes, Father,” Jisung murmurs, eyes glinting. “Give me your permission, and I’ll worship you the way you’ve starved for.”
Jisung’s breath fans hot against the heavy folds of Minho’s robes. His hands grip the priest’s hips with chilling steadiness, thumbs stroking small circles as though he has all the time in the world.
“Such silence,” Jisung murmurs, his lips ghosting just shy of contact. “You think silence will save you. That if you don’t speak, God will still call you blameless.”
Jisung noses along the line of cloth, teasing, inhaling him like incense. “But your body speaks for you. I can hear your heartbeat and feel how you tremble. Smell the ache that clings to you like iron.”
“Stop,” Minho whispers, the word strangled.
“Stop?” Jisung looks up, mouth curved in something between pity and hunger. “You’re the one who asked me not to leave you burning. Now you tell me to stop? Which prayer shall I answer, Father?”
Minho’s jaw tightens. His knees threaten to buckle. Jisung’s lips hover over the bulge in his robes, not touching, just close enough for Minho to feel every word vibrate against him. “You begged me in your sleep, writhed under your sheets, clutched the wound I gave you like a relic. And still you pretend.”
“I swore vows,” Minho breathes, eyes squeezed shut. “I swore my body would not—”
“Would not what?” Jisung interrupts, his voice like a knife wrapped in silk. “Would not hunger? Would not burn? Would not crave being filled, stretched, undone?”
A broken whimper tears from Minho’s throat. Jisung’s thumbs press harder into his hips. “Say it,” he commands, low and insistent. “Give me your permission. Speak it this time, Father. Let me prepare you, worship you, and make you mine in every way.”
The storm outside cracks the air, thunder splitting through the chapel. Candles flicker. Minho’s breath comes ragged, his body trembling from the war within him. Finally, his lips part. The word escapes like blood from a wound. “…Yes.”
Jisung’s smile is slow, reverent, victorious. “Good boy.”
He lowers his mouth fully now, pressing a kiss through the cloth, a benediction and a claim all at once. Minho gasps, his hands clenching desperately in the fabric of his robes, every nerve alight. And with infinite patience, Jisung begins to undo him.
He doesn’t rush. Not when Minho’s entire body is strung taut as a bow, not when every tremor betrays him. Jisung presses soft kisses against the heavy vestment, lips dampening the garment in faint circles, a parody of devotion.
“Do you feel that? Even through the robe I can taste you. Salt and heat. A priest’s hunger wrapped in holiness.”
Minho lets out a strangled gasp, his hand darting to Jisung’s shoulder— hovering, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. Jiisung smiles against the layers. He drags his fangs, not piercing, just grazing, so that Minho feels the sharpness even through the layers. The scrape pulls a desperate sound from his throat.
“You hide so prettily,” Jisung continues, voice hushed, a litany meant for Minho’s ears alone. “Cloth and vows, silence and prayer. And yet here you are, pulsing against my mouth like you want me to worship.”
“Don’t—” Minho chokes out, but it isn’t command, it’s plea.
Jisung rewards him with pressure, lips closing around the bulge beneath the vestments, suckling through the garment. The priest buckles, knees knocking against the pew as if the very structure of the church seeks to witness his undoing.
“You taste of restraint,” Jisung murmurs, pausing to lap at the dampened cloth. “And desperation. Mmm… almost sweet.”
His fingers curl around Minho’s thighs, kneading firmly, coaxing them apart. The robe rustles, heavy folds giving way as Jisung noses deeper, burying his face against the barrier as if he means to inhale the priest whole.
Minho’s breathing stutters. His head tips back, the crucifix at his neck dangling, catching candlelight like it, too, trembles in fear.
“It’s alright,” Jisung soothes, lips still moving against him. “You don’t have to beg yet. I’ll make you beg soon enough.”
Then, wicked as confession whispered in the dark, he parts his lips wide and exhales hot breath through the cloth, letting the heat seep into Minho’s most sensitive place, untouched, unseen, and yet utterly possessed.
Minho moans low, scandalous, and his hand finally presses down hard on Jisung’s shoulder, as though he can’t decide whether to shove him away or anchor himself there.
Jisung stills at last, lips wet against the garment. When lifts his head, his eyes gleam, black hunger haloed with the flicker of candlelight.
“Too many layers,” he whispers, voice low, reverent, cruel. “You think they’ll protect you, but they only make me want to tear them apart.”
Minho shakes his head weakly, but his hand remains where it rests on Jisung’s shoulder, gripping as though afraid of falling.
Jisung rises, not all the way, just enough to let his fingers ghost along the priest’s chest, tracing the heavy folds of his vestments. He hooks one finger into the collar, tugging gently, letting the garment shift against Minho’s throat.
“Let me see you,” he murmurs. “Let me look at the flesh you’ve hidden away for Him. Let me take it for myself.”
When Minho doesn’t move, Jisung smiles faintly, patience sharpened into cruelty. He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of Minho’s ear. “You already said yes,” he reminds him. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”
Minho exhales shakily. “I—”
“Shh.” Jisung cuts him off with a kiss just beneath his ear, a slow drag of lips and fang that makes Minho’s knees weaken. At the same time, his hands tug deftly at the ties of the robe, loosening one knot, then another. The fabric begins to slacken, slipping from Minho’s shoulders.
The first glimpse of skin is pale and trembling, a canvas of restraint offered up for ruin. Jisung watches Minho’s chest rise and fall, eyes lingering on the scar etched over his neck. His hand lifts, palm grazing the mark as if it’s holy scripture.
“This,” Jisung whispers, pressing a kiss to the scar. “This belongs to me already.”
Minho’s eyes squeeze shut, shame and arousal bleeding together. The robe slides further, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone, the faint sheen of sweat glossing in the low light.
Jisung takes his time, stripping him layer by layer, first the outer robe, then the cassock beneath, each fold of cloth gathered and laid aside with deliberate slowness. By the time Minho stands in only his thin undershirt and trousers, he’s trembling outright, arms instinctively crossing his chest.
Jisung catches his wrists, gentle but firm, and pulls them down. “Don’t hide from me, Father. Not now.”
Jisung drops to his knees again, but this time his hands push beneath the garment at Minho’s waist, cool fingers pressing into bare skin. He breathes against the thin linen stretched over Minho’s cock, hot enough to make the priest whimper.
“Better,” Jisung says, voice a purr. “But not nearly enough.”
His fangs shine as he nips the edge of fabric, teeth tugging at it with hunger. Jisung’s patience frays like wax too close to the flame. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Minho’s trousers, tugging them down inch by inch until cool air hits overheated skin.
Minho gasps as he’s bared fully, his cock flushed and rigid, the sight alone enough to twist shame into raw need. He makes a choked sound, instinctively reaching for the folds of cloth pooling at his ankles, as if the discarded cloth could shield him still.
But Jisung catches his wrists and holds them gently, his lips curl into a smile, cruel and reverent. “Look at you,” he whispers. “Stripped of everything but hunger. Holier than you’ve ever been.”
Minho’s head shakes frantically, but the healed scar on his stomach rises and falls with each desperate breath, proof that every word is truth. Jisung lowers himself, tongue dragging up the thick vein along Minho’s cock, a wet trail from root to tip. He withholds. Tasting and savoring Minho’s gasps as if each one is a hymn.
“Please,” Minho finally rasps, voice cracked raw.
Jisung’s head tilts. “Please what, Father? Pray properly.”
Minho swallows hard, shame burning his face. “Please… take me.”
“Not enough.” Jisung’s tongue flicks against the head, coaxing a leak of salt onto his lips. “You want me to suck you? To fuck you? To ruin you so badly you’ll never kneel at that altar without thinking of me?”
A sob breaks loose from Minho’s chest. His knees buckle, only Jisung’s grip keeping him upright. “Yes,” he gasps. “Yes, please.. Fill me. I can’t— I can’t stop—”
Jisung’s eyes blaze, pupils swallowing what little light lingers. The bed in the vestry is narrow, meant for moments of rest between vigils, not for this. Yet Jisung lays Minho upon it like an offering, stripping away the last of his garments until the priest lies bare in candlelight, trembling but unresisting.
He releases Minho’s wrists, only to stroke slow circles at the inside of his thighs, parting them wider, reverence threaded through command. “That’s it,” he purrs. “Your prayers are mine now.”
Jisung’s hand dips into his coat, drawing out a small glass vial. The liquid inside clings thick and golden, catching the candlelight in molten waves. When he uncorks it, the fragrance spills into the air, myrrh, frankincense, something darker beneath. The chapel itself seems to bow, the air growing heavier, more solemn.
Minho stares, chest heaving. “What is that?”
“Oil,” Jisung says simply, tilting it so the light glimmers across the glass. “Older than you. Older than this church. It was made for consecration, for crowning kings and blessing altars.” His lips curl faintly. “And now, for you.”
He tips the vial over his hand. The oil pools across his fingers, gleaming as he rubs them together, slick and ready. He holds them up to Minho’s trembling body, the faint scent curling like incense smoke. “Do you see? Even God provided for this moment.”
“Blasphemy,” Minho whispers, but his voice is unsteady, cracking at the edges.
“Revelation,” Jisung corrects, and leans in to kiss the scar over Minho’s stomach. His mouth lingers there as his fingers, now glistening, slide lower, ghosting along the line of Minho’s thighs before pressing between them. The first touch makes Minho gasp, sharp and broken, clutching at the pew for support.
“Beautiful,” Jisung soothes, pressing his slick fingers in slow, teasing circles around his rim. “Let me make you ready.”
Minho trembles violently, his face twisted with shame and unbearable want. “I can’t—”
“You can,” Jisung murmurs, pressing a fingertip just inside, breaching him with exquisite slowness. The oil makes it smooth, a glide that steals Minho’s breath. “And you will. You already said yes, Father. Your body has been waiting for me all along.”
A strangled cry escapes Minho as the finger pushes deeper, curling carefully, stretching. The bed creaking beneath his grip.
“See how well you take me,” Jisung whispers, voice molten, reverent. “As though you were made for this.” Another finger joins the first, and a whimper escapes through Minho’s clenched teeth, his head dropping forward, sweat dampening the hair at his temples. Jisung kisses along his jaw, his throat, his scar again, every touch grounding him as he works him wider.
“You’ll beg for me soon,” Jisung promises, scissoring his fingers deep, brushing a spot that wrenches a cry from him, scandalous in the holy hush of the chapel. “Beg to be filled, to be bred. All those vows drowned in pleasure until the only prayer you know is my name.”
“Jisung!” Minho gasps, back arching helplessly as Jisung adds a third finger, stretching him open with oil-slick patience. His whole body trembles, every nerve alight, shame dissolving into pure need.
“Say it,” Jisung commands, tongue flicking against Minho’s ear. “Say what you crave.”
“I—” Minho chokes on the word, then sobs as Jisung thrusts his fingers deeper, stroking ruthlessly until his legs quake. “I want—oh God—please, I need-”
Jisung stills his fingers for a second, as though savoring the sound, before he dives them. He bites at Minho’s throat, just enough to make him shudder. “Not God. Me.”
Minho’s voice finally breaks, raw and ruined. “I want you to fill me up. Please, Jisung—let me feel you.”
The confession echoes like blasphemy through the chapel, rattling candle flames, shaking the silence. Jisung withdraws his fingers with aching slowness, smearing oil against Minho’s thighs as he pulls back.
He shrugs out of his coat, dark fabric falling heavy to the floor. His shirt follows, buttons undone with unhurried grace until pale skin and hard muscle gleam in the golden glow. For the first time, Minho truly sees him, scars like constellations across his ribs, veins like ink beneath porcelain flesh, beauty and ruin married into one form.
“Yours,” Jisung murmurs, leaning down so their lips almost brush. “Every inch of me. Yours, if you’ll give me what I crave in return.”
Minho swallows hard, his throat bobbing. Slowly, shakily, he turns his head to the side, baring the pale column of his neck. His pulse thrums visibly beneath the skin, a bell tolling in the silence.
“Take it,” Minho whispers, voice ragged. Jisung groans low in his chest, unable to resist any longer. His fangs pierce deeply, sliding into holy flesh. Minho cries out, not in fear but in relief, his hands flying up to clutch at Jisung’s shoulders. Jisung drinks, swallowing mouthfuls of consecrated life, only to gasp as agony sears through him.
The blood burns, lancing fire down his throat, spreading like molten iron across his chest, branding him from the inside. He tears himself away with a snarl, blood dripping from his lips, and slams his palm over his heart. Smoke curls where the skin blisters and scars, the wound etching itself permanently into him.
Minho, dazed and shaking, cups Jisung’s face with trembling hands. “Stop— stop, you’re hurting.”
“Never,” Jisung rasps, panting through the fire. His hand presses Minho down onto the bed, scar sizzling, chest heaving. “Your blood marks me as yours. I’ll bear this blessing of pain until I burn to ash.”
His cock, slick with oil and arousal, throbs between them, aching. He grabs Minho’s thighs, spreading him wide, but the fire in his chest makes his breath falter.
“Ride me,” Jisung pleads, voice hoarse with pain and hunger. “Take me inside you. Make me yours while the mark takes root.”
Minho shudders as Jisung’s hands guide him down on his length. Inch by inch until he settles fully. The stretch steals his breath away, his cry echoing against the stone walls.
Jisung groans, head thrown back, fangs still dripping crimson. “Hell… you’re perfect.”
The priest moves slowly at first, hips rocking, his hands braced against Jisung’s scarred chest as though to soothe the wound that sears beneath his touch. Each rise and fall drives him deeper onto Jisung’s cock, until rhythm overtakes fear, until every gasp is a prayer.
When Minho’s legs give out, Jisung takes control. He flips them easily, laying the priest on his stomach and lifting his hips high. The fire in his chest fuels him now, sharp and burning, as he thrusts deep and hard, fucking Minho into the mattress with a desperation that borders on worship.
Each snap of his hips is punctuated by groans, the sound of skin against skin, and Minho’s broken cries. The wound burns bright, but Jisung clings to it, letting it anchor him, letting it mark every thrust as both punishment and devotion.
“You’re mine,” he snarls into Minho’s ear, biting at the lobe, licking at the sweat beading down his neck. “Scar or vow, you’re mine now.”
Minho sobs into the sheets, his body clenching tight around the cock driving him open, undone utterly. And Jisung drives into him like he means to carve the truth into his soul.
Each thrust striking true, battering Minho’s prostate until the priest sobs openly into the mattress. His hands claw at the sheets, knuckles white, yet Jisung’s grip on his hips keeps him pinned, bruising tight, possessive.
“Fuck—” Minho chokes, voice ragged, shuddering beneath the relentless rhythm.
“Language, Father,” Jisung growls, sinking his teeth into the curve of Minho’s shoulder. The bite leaves crescents of blood rising to the surface, iron-sweet against his tongue. Minho jerks, crying out at the sting, but his body clenches tighter around the cock splitting him open.
Jisung licks the wound before biting again; this time lower, at the soft muscle of Minho’s back. Then his teeth graze the sweat-slicked line of Minho’s spine, marking him, scarlet crescents blooming like stigmata.
Minho’s face twists, his cries louder with every thrust, but his hips buck back into Jisung’s, desperate for more. Jisung snarls against his skin, chest burning from the scar, cock aching unbearably with every clench of Minho’s body.
But still, he cannot come. His length pulses inside Minho, desperate, straining, but release hovers forever out of reach.
“Say it,” Jisung pants, rutting deep, bruising him from the inside out. “Let me— please,” His fangs scrape Minho’s skin again, hand sliding up to pin the priest’s wrist against the mattress. “I can’t—can’t finish unless you allow me.”
Minho sobs, torn between shame and ecstasy, his body trembling violently. “You– ah, please,” his eyes squeeze shut, his lips quivering with the word.
Jisung’s thrusts grow more ragged, more desperate, hitting his prostate over and over until Minho’s voice breaks. “Yes,” he gasps, almost a scream. “You can cum, I allow it,”
Jisung stills for a heartbeat, searching Minho’s face for assurance. With Minho’s tiny nod he finally lets go, the permission cracks through him like lightning. With a guttural cry, he buries himself deep, body seizing as orgasm rips through him. His seed floods Minho in hot waves, the burn of the mark searing brighter as if sanctifying the moment itself.
Minho cries out at the sensation, clenching around him, spilling untouched onto the sheets, his whole body shaking with the violence of it.
Jisung collapses forward, chest pressed to Minho’s marked back, fangs grazing the fresh bite as he pants raggedly into his ear. His hips still move shallowly, riding out the aftershocks, his grip never loosening from Minho’s bruised hips.
“You’re mine,” he whispers hoarsely, pressing a bloody kiss to Minho’s shoulder. “Prayer for prayer. There’s no God left between us.”
Minho, trembling and undone, can only sob into the sheets, half shame, half devotion, wholly consumed.
The room reeks of sweat, iron, and incense, the sheets beneath them stained with sin. Jisung stays buried deep inside him, cock softening but refusing to leave the heat of the priest’s body, as though separation would undo the spell just cast.
For a long time, all Jisung can do is hold on. His chest still burns from the wound, breath stuttering against Minho’s back. His fangs graze the curve of Minho’s neck again, not biting— just resting there, as if the act of touching him at all could be worship.
“You’re shaking,” Jisung murmurs, lips brushing the sweat at Minho’s ear. His hand finally loosens from the priest’s bruised hip, sliding instead to cover his hand, threading their fingers together against the sheets.
Minho sobs once, broken, not from pain but from everything he has just surrendered. His vows, his God, his body, all of it given to the creature above him.
“I—” he swallows, voice barely audible. “I let you… I let you—”
“Ruin you?” Jisung finishes softly, kissing the tear-stained skin at his temple. His other hand ghosts down Minho’s spine, avoiding the bloodied crescents his teeth had carved. “No. I marked you. Claimed you. And I’ll bear my scar for you as long as you’ll bear yours for me.”
A ragged exhale leaves Minho, his arching faintly into Jisung’s touch. His body aches everywhere— his thighs, his hips, his throat— but when Jisung slowly pulls out, Minho whines at the emptiness, clenching as if to keep him.
Jisung gently rolls him onto his back and his eyes darken at the sight. Minho’s chest streaked with sweat and tears, his cock spent and soft against his belly, his nipples raw from bites and licks. A vision of desecration and divinity all at once.
Jisung leans down and licks one of the fresh bite marks, then presses his mouth to Minho’s nipple, soothing with his tongue. Minho shivers, curling a hand into Jisung’s hair.
“Too much?” Jisung whispers, looking up through heavy lashes.
Minho’s lips part, trembling, but he shakes his head. “No… Just, gentle.”
And so Jisung gentles. His lips map each mark he left, kissing softly, reverently. His teeth scrape Minho’s jaw only to follow with a tender kiss. His hands rubbing warmth into sensitive thighs, coaxing his muscles to unclench.
Minho watches him with glassy eyes, torn between shame and awe, but each careful kiss untangles him further. When Jisung finally reaches his lips, Minho lets him in, the kiss wet and slow, tongues sliding lazily as if sealing a vow.
When they part, Jisung rests their foreheads together. “You let me come inside you. You let me bleed for you. There is nothing holier than that.”
Minho’s lips tremble, his eyes wet with tears. “You’ll be the death of me.”
Jisung smirks faintly, thumb stroking his jaw. “No, my love. I’ll be your afterlife.”
Minho thinks he will be a prisoner of his own compunction for the rest of his life.
The chapel is silent save for the hiss of guttering candles. incense hangs stale, blood drying at the edges of wounds, sweat cooling against trembling skin. Minho sits on the narrow bed, robe half-pulled across his body in a futile attempt to cover what cannot be hidden.
His hands are folded in his lap, clenched so tightly his knuckles whiten, as if he’s still trying to hold on to prayer. Yet the words will not come.
The crucifix above the door seems to mock him, gleaming faintly. He can still feel Jisung inside him—the stretch, the marks along his shoulders, the way his body welcomed the sin. He can feel the burn of his own blood upon Jisung’s chest, sanctifying the desecration as though Heaven itself had branded Jisung with his shame.
Minho bows his head; eyes burning but no sound leaves him. He cannot weep aloud, his voice would echo in the hollow chamber, betraying the weight of his undoing. But Jisung hears it anyway. He always hears.
Jisung kneels before him, still shirtless, chest seared with the scar where holy blood had bitten into him. He touches the mark almost absently, as if it were precious rather than pain, then lays his hands on Minho’s knees.
“You’re not praying,” Jisung murmurs, voice velvet and steady. “Why is that?”
Minho looks away, throat tightening. “Because I cannot.”
“Because you won’t,” Jisung corrects gently, stroking over Minho’s clenched hands until the priest finally unfurls his fingers. “Do you think He’s turned His face from you now? Or are you afraid He never watched you at all?”
Minho inhales sharply, shame cutting deep. “Stop.”
Jisung leans closer, forehead resting against Minho’s thigh, his voice lowered to something almost like worship. “No, Minho. I will not stop. I have waited too long to have you kneel for me, or let me kneel for you. Centuries too long.”
The word lands like thunder. Minho stiffens; his eyes go wide. “…Centuries?”
Jisung smiles, faint and terrible. Candlelight paints his features sharp and reverent. “You think this is chance? That I wandered into your chapel one hungry night?” He shakes his head. “No. I have searched for you across lifetimes, watched you buried and reborn. I carved centuries into memory, waiting for your soul to wear this face again.”
The confession cracks through Minho’s chest. His pulse races; his stomach turns. “You’re lying.”
“Look at me.” Jisung rises fluidly, towering over him, scarred chest bare as testimony. He cups Minho’s jaw with a trembling hand, thumb brushing the priest’s lower lip. “Does this feel like a lie? That I would bear your fire, mark myself with your holiness, just to be here with you?”
Minho shudders; words fail him. The weight of Jisung’s presence, the possessive tenderness and grief braided through his desire, presses harder than any sermon.
“I let you,” Jisung whispers, kissing Minho’s hand. “For you. For this. To prove that there is no God for me but you.”
Minho—poor, fractured, trembling Minho—feels the truth sink into bone, undoing the last fragile threads of his vow. The chapel feels too small; every candle burns only to illuminate his guilt.
“I…” He swallows hard, lowering his gaze, voice fraying. “I cannot accept that. I won’t believe that my soul—”
Jisung’s thumb brushes over his lip again, silencing him with touch instead of teeth. “You don’t have to believe me. I’ll carry the centuries for us both until you’re ready.”
The tenderness in his tone cuts deeper than any cruelty could have. Minho’s chest tightens, and he bows his head to hide the tears threatening again. His lips move as if to pray, but no words form—only a broken exhale.
Jisung lowers his head once more, presses a kiss just above Minho’s knee, light as ash. “I’ll wait,” he murmurs. “I always wait. But I will not leave you now. Not when I’ve found you again.”
Minho dares to look down, and the sight unravels him further; a vampire, scarred by his own blood, kneeling in devotion before him as though he were the altar. His heart aches, confused and raw, caught between vows and something far older, far darker, that feels dangerously like love.
The silence stretches, fragile, until Minho exhales. “Stay, then.”
Two words—a surrender, not of flesh this time, but of presence. Jisung smiles faintly, triumphant, unbearably tender. He rests his cheek against Minho’s thigh, closing his eyes as though the permission itself were salvation.
And Minho sits frozen, robe slipping from one bruised shoulder, candlelight painting his shame like gold. He cannot pray. He cannot move. He can only let Jisung stay. Feel the weight of eternity pressing close, whispering that nothing holy has ever burned so sweet.
He lowers his gaze, lips parting as if to beg for forgiveness, yet no prayer dares leave his tongue. Because deep down, he knows that shame, guilt, and sin will always cling to him closer than any God ever could.