Archive of Our Own

♱

“For Satan himself masquerades himself  as an angel of light.” 

(2 Corinthians 11:14)

The church was fuller than usual that morning, an unexpected sight for a Sunday service that had long grown routine. The familiar crowd had swelled, bolstered by fresh faces and curious newcomers who had come for one reason alone: a new priest.

A young one, they whispered—younger than most, yet already so composed, so assured. Not much older than thirty, they murmured, yet carrying himself with the presence of someone twice his age.

The news had traveled fast, passing between conversations in the nearby marketplace, hushed exchanges after evening prayers, quiet gossip slipping through the cracks of everyday life.

Nicholas had arrived early, as he always did, slipping into his usual spot near the front where the scent of incense hung the thickest. It clung to the air in heavy, curling ribbons, rising toward the high-vaulted ceiling, mingling with the distant flicker of candle flames. 

The morning light streamed through the stained glass, painting fractured hues across the stone floor, deep blues and reds, burning ambers and soft greens, shifting with the slow passage of time. It was a sight he had always found comforting. Familiar.

And yet today, there was something different.

He could feel it in the way people sat, the way they leaned forward, the way their whispers wove together like murmured prayers. Anticipation stirred in the air, settling over the congregation like the hush before a revelation. It thrummed in his chest, a quiet, eager pulse. His hands pressed together in his lap, not in unease, but in silent expectation.

Then the new priest, Father Byun Euijoo, stepped up to the pulpit.

Nicholas’s breath caught in his throat.

The priest was… striking.

The kind of man who commanded attention not by force, but by presence alone. His robes were pristine, flowing over his broad shoulders like water, the ivory fabric catching the glow of the candlelight, the morning sun filtering through the stained glass to paint him in shifting hues of gold and red. His face was smooth in its angles, the lines of his jaw and cheekbones softened yet no less arresting.

There was a warmth to him, a quiet magnetism in the gentle slope of his nose, the fullness of his lips, the way the corners of his mouth curved just slightly upward even when he was not smiling, giving the illusion of something kind, something welcoming.

The older women whispered, voices barely contained.

“So young…”

“Such presence…”

“I heard he studied in Europe for years. No wonder he speaks so well.”

Nicholas was not immune to their awe, though he could not name what held him so still. There was something about the priest that unsettled him, something that pressed deep into his chest, something that made the edges of his thoughts blur.

Then, Euijoo spoke.

“Brothers and sisters in Christ.”

The words were smooth, rolling off his tongue in a cadence so deliberate, so precise, that it silenced even the most restless among them.

It was not the voice Nicholas had expected.

Not booming, nor severe, not the rigid authority of an elder, nor the saccharine gentleness of a man eager to please.

No, Euijoo’s voice was something else entirely. Soft, but firm. Measured, but warm.

The kind of voice that did not command, but invited.

His sermon was unlike any Nicholas had heard before. It was not fire and brimstone, not the old, weary words of damnation that had been recited a thousand times over.

Instead, Euijoo spoke of devotion, of steadfast faith, of righteousness and the perils of temptation, not in warning, not in fear, but in something quieter. Almost knowing.

Nicholas barely moved–barely breathed.

There was something about the way Euijoo carried himself, the way he let the words settle, the way he stood at the pulpit like he had always belonged there. His fingers rested lightly against the wood, his posture never stiff, never forceful, only effortless.

And yet, 

He was distant.

Not cold, no, but something else. Detached, perhaps, like a scholar speaking of history, or a poet reciting verses he had long since memorized.

He did not watch his audience as one seeking approval. He did not ask for their praise, did not search for their nods of agreement.

Nicholas could not explain why that unsettled him.

He did not realize how much he had been hoping, waiting, for their eyes to meet, for even the briefest glance in his direction, for some acknowledgment that he, too, was listening.

But Euijoo never looked at him. Not once.

Instead, he smiled at the elderly women who greeted him after Mass, nodding warmly at the men who shook his hand, clapping a reassuring palm against the shoulders of the altar boys.

He was gracious, kind, endlessly patient as the congregation spoke to him, eager to make their introductions.

And yet, when Nicholas lingered near, waiting, hesitant, uncertain—there was nothing.

Not unkind, not dismissive, not cruel. Just nothing.

For a moment, their eyes met.

It lasted no longer than a breath, no longer than the shifting of candlelight. But in that moment, Nicholas felt something heavy settle in his stomach, something that made his chest tighten, something that burned hot beneath his skin despite the cool air of the church.

Then, Euijoo’s gaze moved past him, his attention already turned elsewhere, his lips curving into a soft, absent smile as he spoke to someone else.

Nicholas swallowed hard.

Why?

Why did it feel as though he was being ignored? As though he had done something wrong?

He had always been devout. He had always been eager to help, eager to please, eager to serve.

It was natural, wasn’t it? To seek the approval of a priest?

To want to be seen.

And yet, as Euijoo turned back toward the altar, as the remnants of his sermon still lingered in the air, Nicholas could still hear the words—"Even the most righteous can be led astray." He could not shake the feeling that they had been meant for him.

♱

"Take, eat; this is my body."

 (Matthew 26:26-29)

The days that followed were a slow, aching thing.

Nicholas did not think of himself as someone who sought attention, not in the way others did, not in the way the altar boys tripped over themselves to impress, nor in the way the older women lingered after Mass, their hands clasped over their hearts, eyes alight with admiration.

But still, something restless curled inside him, something that made his fingers twitch as he folded the cloths for the altar, something that made his chest tighten whenever Euijoo passed by him without so much as a glance.

It was maddening.

Nicholas had been raised within these walls, had spent his life devoted to this place, to its people. His presence had never gone unnoticed before. With his diligence and his service, he had never needed to beg for recognition.

And yet, Father Euijoo, with his quiet voice and unreadable gaze, with gentle smiles that never quite reached Nicholas, treated him as though he were no different from the worn-out pews, the flickering candles, and the dust settling in forgotten corners.

Nicholas could not understand it.

Worse, he could not stand it.

So, he tried harder.

He arrived even earlier, stayed even later, and took on duties that were not his own. He polished the brass of the candlesticks until they gleamed, arranged the hymnals so precisely that even the sisters remarked on his care.

He lingered near the sacristy, hoping for a word, a nod, some brief acknowledgment.

Nothing.

Euijoo never ignored him outright, that would have been easier. Instead, he did nothing at all.

He spoke to Nicholas only when necessary, never unkind but never warm, his tone measured, polite, distant. He praised the others, patted their backs, offered small words of encouragement.

To Nicholas, there was only silence.

It was ridiculous, he knew. He was not a child, not some foolish boy desperate for approval.

But still, the absence of attention was worse than disapproval.

It festered in his chest, turned his prayers hollow, made him feel as though something was unraveling beneath his ribs, thread by thread.

And then, on a quiet morning before Mass, Nicholas burned.

The chapel was empty save for them, the soft murmur of the wind slipping through the cracks in the old stone, stirring the candle flames where they stood in careful rows along the altar.

Nicholas had been tending to them, as he always did, ensuring each wick stood straight, each flame steady. The brass holders were warm beneath his fingertips, smooth from years of care.

He had not noticed Euijoo enter.

Not until he felt him.

Standing just beyond the candlelight, watching.

The knowledge settled over him like a second skin, prickling at the base of his neck. He did not turn. Did not acknowledge him.

Instead, he lingered.

His fingers moved slower, his movements precise, controlled. He let himself sway, just slightly, let his breath deepen, let his lashes lower as though caught in quiet devotion.

He didn’t mean to do it. He did.

He didn’t know what he wanted from it—he did.

And then he looked up.

The moment his gaze lifted, the moment his eyes met Euijoo’s, his fingers slipped.

The flame kissed his skin. A quick, sharp sting, heat blooming along the tips of his fingers. He gasped, the sound breaking from his lips before he could catch it, before he could turn it into something quieter. It was too sudden, too raw, too much. And what left his mouth was not a cry, not a hiss—

But a moan.

Soft, breathless, wrecked.

He wanted to bury himself to the ground.

But then, he saw it.

Euijoo's lips parted, just slightly. A shift in his breath, too controlled, too measured. His shoulders stiffened, his posture still as if caught mid-thought, mid-reaction.

For a moment, the silence between them stretched, thick and unbearable, the candlelight flickering between them, casting golden reflections in Euijoo’s eyes.

And Nicholas knew.

He knew the way a deer knew the moment before the hunter drew his arrow.

He knew it in the way Euijoo’s fingers twitched at his side, in the way his gaze lingered, weighted and unwavering, in the way his expression remained unreadable. Except for that fraction of a second, that moment where something else surfaced before it was smothered.

Then, Euijoo blinked. Exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. The moment slipped away.

"Careful," he murmured, stepping past Nicholas to reach for the chalice resting on the altar. "You don’t want to burn yourself."

Nicholas swallowed hard, his burned fingers curling into his robes. His skin still ached, but it was nothing compared to the unbearable heat coiling in his stomach, seeping beneath his ribs, curling around his throat like a noose.

Euijoo lingered a moment longer, then left.

Nicholas let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling too fast, too shallow.

He had known.

And worse, so had Euijoo.

The air was thick with incense, curling through the vast, silent space of the church, settling into the stillness like an unspoken promise. The sunlight filtering through the stained glass cast slow-moving patterns over the stone floor, bathing the altar in shifting hues of crimson and gold. The scent of wax and myrrh clung to the fabric of Nicholas’s clothes, mingling with the faintest trace of wine.

He knelt before the altar, his hands curled into his lap, his palms damp against the folds of his trousers.

He had done this countless times before, countless Sundays, countless Masses, the same motions, the same quiet reverence.

And yet, as Euijoo approached, as his eyes dipped downward and he lifted the host between his fingers, Nicholas felt something tighten in his throat.

Euijoo’s fingers were slender, tan against the white of the wafer, steady as he held it between them. His expression remained unreadable, his mouth set in that same near-smile, never quite warm, never quite kind.

Nicholas swallowed hard.

"Take, eat; this is my body."

The words rang through the silence, spoken so softly that they barely disturbed the still air.

Then, Euijoo reached out.

Nicholas had expected—what had he expected? That the host would be placed into his hands, as it always had been? That Euijoo would treat him no differently than the others?

But no.

Instead, Euijoo pressed the wafer directly to his lips.

Nicholas’s breath stuttered.

The touch was light, fleeting, barely there. And yet, it seared.

The wafer itself was tasteless, nothing more than paper dissolving on his tongue, but the imprint of Euijoo’s fingers lingered, a ghost of warmth against his skin. Nicholas’s lips had barely parted before the priest withdrew his hand, his fingers retreating into the loose drape of his sleeve, his expression unchanged.

But his eyes remained locked onto Nicholas’s.

Watching.

Nicholas swallowed, too quickly, too sharply, the wafer catching in his throat. His pulse hammered beneath his skin, hot and unsteady, spreading outward from the place where Euijoo had touched him, seeping into his fingertips, curling in his stomach like a weight he could not name.

It felt less like a blessing.

And more like a claim.

♱

“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak."

(Matthew 26:41)

The wafer had long since dissolved against his tongue, reduced to nothing, yet Nicholas could still feel it. An imprint, a ghost of something that should have faded but hadn’t. Days had passed, each one bleeding into the next in a haze of routine, and yet that moment remained suspended in his mind, lingering like the scent of burning incense long after the flames had been extinguished.

He told himself it was nothing.

A simple act of devotion, the same ritual performed for every member of the congregation.

And yet, when he closed his eyes, when he was left alone with nothing but his thoughts, something inside him whispered otherwise.

He tried to pray.

Each night, he knelt beside his bed, fingers clasped so tightly together that his knuckles turned white, his forehead pressed to his folded hands. He whispered his prayers in the hush of his room, let the words spill from his lips in practiced reverence, in desperate repetition.

He spoke them like a plea, like an invocation, like a man begging for absolution before he had even committed the sin.

But the words felt empty.

Hollow syllables, weightless and insubstantial, like mist curling through his fingers. He would recite them with all the fervor he could muster, and still, they rang false in his ears. Because even as he spoke them, his mind wandered.

It wandered back to that moment.

To the weight of Euijoo’s gaze.

To the slow, measured press of his fingers against Nicholas’s lips, light and fleeting yet purposeful in a way Nicholas could not understand.

To the way he had looked at him.

Had it been real? Had he imagined it? Was it simply his own mind, his own weakness, twisting something holy into something it was never meant to be?

God, I hope so.

And yet, he betrayed himself.

The first time it happened, he was half-asleep. His body moved on its own, rolling against the sheets, chasing a sensation that lingered in the corners of his mind, slipping between reality and something deeper, something that ached.

The second time, he was awake enough to realize.

His stomach twisted in horror, but he couldn’t stop it. His hips pressing into the mattress, seeking friction, a traitorous whimper slipping past his lips. His fingers clutched at the sheets, and in the dim candlelight, he could barely make out the way his form curved—slow, desperate, ruined.

At first, he told himself he wasn’t thinking about Euijoo.

He wasn’t imagining the press of strong fingers against his hip bones, wasn’t picturing his hooded eyes watching him, wasn’t feeling the heat of Euijoo’s body caging him in, keeping him still.

He wasn’t.

He wasn’t.

And then he was.

The moment his mind slipped, the moment he let it happen, he was lost.

His cunt ached.

Hot, swollen, slick with something shameful, something he had not permitted. He could feel it, sticky between his thighs, the unbearable emptiness inside him, the aching need that made him grind down harder, panting into the pillow, chasing something that wasn’t there.

The thought came slow, thick with heat, like a sickness taking root.

"Euijoo would not let me do this alone."

Nicholas gasped, his spine arching, his breath breaking on a sob.

The weight of it, the indecency, the sheer blasphemy of even imagining it. He should have stopped.

He didn’t.

Because once the thought was planted, it only grew. The weight of Euijoo’s hands. Holding him down. Keeping him still.

The low hum of his voice–Gentle. Knowing. Amused.

The softness of his gaze, so gentle, so unassuming, yet beneath it lay something knowing. A priest’s patience, a hunter’s certainty.

And worst of all, the way Euijoo would not let him go.

Nicholas whimpered, legs trembling, his cunt leaking against the sheets, hot and wet and slick with his own humiliation.

Father, he thought dizzily. Father, forgive me.

By the third time, he had stopped fighting.

He let himself sink into it, let himself writhe against the pillow he had shoved between his legs, the friction not enough, never enough.

His thighs trembled, his breath came in shallow gasps, his lips parted in helpless little sounds that he could not bite back.

And then he woke to it.

His breath caught, his mind still tangled in half-dreams, still thick with heat and guilt as he reeled in the aftermath. His nightclothes clung to him, damp, unclean, sticky with the evidence of what he had done.

It was everywhere.

Between his thighs, soaking his nightshirt, pooling beneath him, seeping from him like a confession he could not take back.

The sick, wet heat of it made his stomach churn, but worse—worse was the emptiness that followed.

His cunt ached so badly it was painful, pulsing with the tainted need for something, anything to fill it.

Nicholas gasped, hands fisting into the sheets, his chest rising and falling too fast, too shallow.

The shame came in waves, washing over him, drowning him, leaving him hollow and spent and filthy.

No.

No, no, no.

He staggered from the bed, nearly tripping over himself in his haste, grabbing onto the edge of the table to keep himself upright. His hands were shaking, the candle beside him still flickering weakly, barely illuminating his reflection in the small mirror propped against the wall.

He looked defiled.

His hair was a mess, his lips swollen, his pupils blown wide, dark with something he refused to name. His nightshirt clung to his skin, his thighs still trembling, and when he shifted, he could feel it—the slickness, the unbearable reminder of what he had done, what he had allowed himself to become.

His stomach twisted, and suddenly, he was shaking, breathless, undone, breaking.

This was nothing.

This was nothing.

And yet, the next time he saw Euijoo, something inside him coiled tight.

♱

"You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons too; you cannot have a part in both the Lord’s table and the table of demons."

 (1 Corinthians 10:21)

Morning Mass had ended, and yet Nicholas remained.

The pew beneath him was hard, the cold seeping through his robes, but the discomfort barely registered. His fingers curled slightly against the polished wood, his grip tightening, releasing, tightening again. The scent of wax and incense still hung in the air, thick and cloying, sinking into the folds of his clothes, pressing against the inside of his skull.

It hadn’t faded.

Not the scent, not the weight in his chest, not the echo of his own voice wrung thin and desperate in the dark.

His skin still felt sensitive, too warm beneath his collar, his limbs sluggish with the remnants of something he did not want to name.

He had scrubbed his hands raw that morning, had knelt on the hard stone floor of his room, pressing his forehead against the edge of his bed until the ache sank deep into his bones.

Fingers curled around the cross at his neck, he whispered his prayers until his throat grew dry, clinging to the cool metal as if it could absolve him.

He traced the sign of the cross over his own chest again and again, as if it would undo what he had done.

It hadn’t.

So he had come here.

Where else could he go?

He had walked into the church with his head bowed, moving through the morning rituals as if he were no different from the others. He had pressed his palms together with conviction, had bowed his head at every prayer, had murmured the hymns without faltering.

If he pretended hard enough, if he filled every space with devotion, then perhaps, just perhaps, he would be forgiven.

Perhaps it would go unnoticed.

But as he sat there now, hands flexing against the wood, something inside him curled tight.

He felt watched.

It was irrational. He knew that.

The church was full of movement, with congregants filing out, murmuring their blessings, exchanging pleasantries. The air was filled with voices, the soft rustling of cloth, the distant chime of the bell signaling the hour.

There was nothing unnatural here.

Nothing that should make his chest tighten, that should make the back of his neck prickle with heat.

And yet.

His breath came too shallow. His fingers clenched slightly against his thighs.

He had spent the morning avoiding his gaze, but every time he dared to lift his head, he swore he could feel it—something heavy, something knowing, something pressing against the edges of his skin.

He was being irrational.

He had to be.

And yet, when his eyes flickered toward the altar, toward the figure still clad in white and gold, his stomach twisted.

Father Euijoo stood in easy conversation with an older woman near the front of the church, his expression soft, his voice dipped in warmth. Nicholas watched as her face brightened, eyes crinkling in delight at whatever gentle remark he had made.

She grasped his hands, weathered fingers pressing against his in quiet reverence, and Euijoo accepted the touch with grace. His other hand reached out, steadying, comforting, a small gesture of reassurance that only made the coil of bitterness in Nicholas’s chest tighten further.

He wanted that. Not the smile, not the warmth extended to another, but the acknowledgment, the simple weight of being seen.

It was childish, this stirring in his chest, this tightening in his throat. He had been raised to believe that good deeds were their own reward, that service should not seek recognition, that humility was a virtue.

And yet, the absence of Euijoo’s attention gnawed at him, made his hands twitch against his sides, made him linger when he should have moved on.

Not just to tidy up, not just to complete some menial task, but because he needed, desperately, to be noticed.

So he waited, hovering just near enough, searching for an excuse.

It came in the form of a pitcher of water.

Euijoo was speaking with a small group of congregants now, nodding along as they talked, hands clasped neatly in front of him. Beside him, the simple silver pitcher sat untouched, condensation beading along its edges, a small cup resting beside it.

Nicholas moved before he could stop himself.

He lifted the pitcher, carefully pouring the water into the cup, hands steady despite the tightness in his throat.

And then, before he could think better of it, he stepped forward, offering the cup with a quiet, “Father.”

His voice was soft but certain, measured and controlled.

Euijoo's gaze barely flickered toward him.

A single glance. That was all.

Then, without a word, he reached for the cup.

Nicholas held his breath, waiting for something, anything. The warmth of skin, the press of touch, the weight of acknowledgment. But Euijoo took the cup without touching him at all. His fingers curved around the base, careful, avoiding Nicholas’s skin entirely.

He barely even looked at him.

A clipped, quiet "Thank you," and then Euijoo was already turning back, already lifting the cup to his lips, already slipping away from Nicholas’s grasp as though he had never been there at all.

Nicholas felt cold.

The rejection was not harsh. It was not cruel. It was nothing.

And nothing was worse.

The Eucharistic hymn swelled around him, soft voices weaving through the still air. The faint bite of oil and burning wicks lingered in the rafters, threading through the press of bodies, sinking into cloth and skin.

Nicholas was kneeling.

His knees pressed into the hard stone floor, his hands folded tightly together, the ridges of his knuckles white from the pressure. The congregation moved through the familiar rhythm of the Mass, their voices dipping into solemn reverence as the priest stood at the altar, lifting the chalice.

"This is My blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant…"

Nicholas watched.

The silver gleamed under the candlelight, the deep red of the wine catching in the flicker of the flames. Euijoo lifted it to his lips, slow and unhurried, his lashes lowering as he took the first sip. He drank with the same care he did all things, his movements measured, reverent, except for the way his eyes never strayed.

Nicholas held his breath.

Euijoo tilted his head back, the angle sharpening the line of his throat, the candlelight catching in the hollow there, painting his skin in hues of gold and blood.

The wine touched his lips, dark and rich, and when he swallowed, Nicholas swore he could hear it.

The slow pull of liquid, the quiet shift of breath as it passed between his lips.

And then, just as the chalice tipped lower, a single drop spilled past the curve of Euijoo’s mouth, trailing down the line of his jaw, dark against the warmth of his skin.

He did not wipe it away.

The voices around him blurred, the low murmur of prayer becoming distant, lost beneath the sound of his own heartbeat. He should be looking at the altar. He should be bowing his head, whispering amen, focusing on the ritual, on the presence of God—

But his eyes did not leave Euijoo.

And Euijoo did not look away from him either.

Nicholas’s breath came uneven, his chest tight, his fingers digging into the folds of his robe. Euijoo had to see it.

The slight parting of his lips, the tension in his shoulders, the way his thighs pressed together as something thick and unbearable pooled low in his stomach.

The drop of wine continued its path, vanishing beneath the pristine white of Euijoo’s vestments, swallowed by the fabric.

Nicholas could feel it now.

The unbearable heat creeping up the back of his neck, settling in his chest, pressing against his ribs. His own lips tingled. His mouth was dry. His pulse thrummed against the base of his throat.

It was suffocating.

The way Euijoo held his gaze. The way he exhaled so softly afterward. His lashes lowered for just a breath, just long enough to feel like a confirmation.

Then, just for a second, his lips curved.

Nicholas felt it like a physical force.

It wasn’t a smile, not quite, not fully. Just a slight tug at the corners of his mouth, something unreadable, something that sent a shiver down Nicholas’s spine.

Then it was gone.

The moment had passed. Euijoo turned away, expression smooth, the weight of the Mass settling over his shoulders once more.

Nicholas forced himself to breathe.

He tried to refocus, tried to force the words of the next prayer from his lips, tried to shake the feeling that his priest had just looked at him like a man looks at something he intends to consume.

But the weight of it was already pressing against his chest, suffocating.

And when the congregation rose for the final blessing, Nicholas could still feel the ghost of wine staining his tongue.

Nicholas felt marked.

Long after he had left the church that night, long after the candles had been snuffed out and the echoes of whispered prayers had faded, Euijoo’s voice lingered.

He had closed his homily with a verse, one meant for all.

And yet, as the last syllables had left his lips, as his gaze had settled, steady and unyielding, on Nicholas alone, it had felt like a warning. Or perhaps, like a claim.

"You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons too; you cannot have a part in both the Lord’s table and the table of demons."

The words curled in his chest, sinking deep, lodging beneath his ribs.

Nicholas was beginning to understand.

♱

"Every knee shall bow, and every tongue shall confess."

(Philippians 2:10-1)

The evening air had thickened within the church, dense with the mingling scents of candle wax and burning incense, pressing against the ancient stone walls like an unspoken prayer. The shadows cast by flickering candlelight stretched long across the floor, their restless movements warping against the curves of the vaulted ceiling.

Nicholas squeezed his eyes shut. He should not be thinking about it.

But the image was seared into him. The gleam of the chalice, the deep red of wine catching in the candlelight, the slow tilt of the silver against Euijoo’s lips.

The way his throat had moved as he swallowed. The way he had let a single drop slip past the corner of his mouth, trailing lazy down his jaw, disappearing beneath the high collar of his vestments, swallowed by the pristine fabric.

He had wanted to be the one to catch it.

Heat clawed at the back of his neck, remorse curling tight in his stomach. He could still feel the ghost of it, still taste it on his tongue, though he had never touched it, though it had never been his to take.

It had not stopped there.

The thought had taken root, buried itself deep in the marrow of his bones, in the spaces between breath and prayer.

He had tried—God, he had tried—to push it away, to suffocate it beneath the weight of his devotion, to drown it in whispered penitence.

But the sickness had already spread.

And he had imagined Euijoo in between his legs.

A priest. A holy man. A servant of God. On his knees, his light brown hair mussed between Nicholas’s fingers, those soft yet unreadable lips parting. His tan skin stark against Nicholas’s pale thighs, his tongue hot and wet, tracing paths of ruin into him.

He had imagined Euijoo murmuring scripture between it all, mouthing it into the softness of his skin like a perversion of holy text, the words an offering not to God, but to him.

Nicholas’s breath came too fast, too shallow. He dug his nails into the fabric of his cassock, willed the thought away.

He had prayed. He had suffered for it. He had woken that morning wrecked, stained, unclean. Had scrubbed himself raw, as he had before, as he would again.

Had whispered so many Hail Marys that the words bled into one another, empty, rote, useless. But nothing had undone it.

And now, as he knelt on the cold stone, as prayer once again filled the air around him, he realized.

It was still there.

The want had not faded.

It had only deepened, twisting itself into something heavier, something inescapable.

The practiced ritual of Mass should have brought Nicholas the usual sense of order, of security, of something firm and unmoving to hold onto. Instead, he felt adrift.

The stone floor was cold beneath him, the chill seeping through the fabric of his cassock and biting at his skin, grounding him in a way that felt both necessary and unbearable. He knelt in practiced reverence, his hands resting lightly upon his lap, fingers curling slightly against the fabric as though bracing himself against something unseen.

He let his head bow forward, let his lips part just enough to let the murmurs of prayer pass through, his voice joining the quiet chorus that filled the space in slow, measured waves.

But there was something off,  something wrong.

Something pulling his focus away from the sacred words, from the steady rhythm of prayer, from the safety of habit.

He could sense it.

A presence. A weight that pressed against him like a hand at the back of his neck, lingering, unrelenting. It sent a shiver up the length of his spine, a slow, creeping sensation that refused to be ignored.

He had no reason to look up.

No reason to acknowledge the gnawing awareness that curled in his chest, thick and suffocating.

He should have kept his gaze fixed downward, his thoughts anchored in the verses that had guided him since childhood. He should have ignored the quiet pull, the unease that coiled tight beneath his ribs.

And yet, he didn’t.

His movements were hesitant, weighed down by an uncertainty he could not name. Slowly, as though compelled by something beyond himself, Nicholas lifted his gaze, breath hitching the moment his eyes found what they sought.

The priest was watching him.

Euijoo should not have been looking at him, not when the rest of the congregation had their heads bowed, their eyes closed in solemn reverence. He should have been leading the prayer, his lips forming sacred words meant to cleanse, meant to save.

And yet, Euijoo’s gaze did not waver, did not flicker away in feigned disinterest or unawareness. It remained fixed upon Nicholas, unwavering, piercing, filled with something unreadable.

The candlelight twisted against the sharp angles of Euijoo’s face, casting shifting shadows that made it impossible to tell whether his expression was softened by the golden glow or sharpened by the darkness that crept along the edges. His lips were parted slightly, as though caught mid-prayer, but Nicholas knew.

He knew that the priest was not speaking. Not now. Not for the same reasons as the others.

Nicholas felt his pulse rise, a slow, dreadful rhythm pounding against his ribs, each beat sending a fresh wave of heat crawling up the back of his neck.

He should look away. He should lower his head, close his eyes, return to the safety of scripture, to the well-worn prayers that had always brought him peace.

But something about that stare held him, trapped him beneath its weight, rendering him motionless, breathless, stripped bare beneath the knowing gaze of a man who should not have been looking at him like this.

The murmurs of the congregation rose in unison, their voices weaving together in sacred harmony, each syllable pressed into the thick air, heavy with meaning.

Nicholas parted his lips, let the words form on his tongue, but his voice faltered, the verse dissolving before it could leave his throat. His breath came uneven now, shallow and strained, his fingers curling tighter against his lap as if the motion alone could ground him, could keep him from unraveling.

"Every knee shall bow, and every tongue shall confess."

The words rang out, reverent and unwavering, their meaning pressed deep into the space between breath and silence.

Nicholas knew them well, had spoken them countless times before, had felt the weight of their truth seep into his very being.

But now, as he stared into the eyes of the man across the room, the words twisted into something else, something unspoken, something that did not belong within the sanctity of this moment.

Then, slowly, Euijoo smiled.

It was not the kind of smile meant to reassure, nor one of warmth or kindness, nor even the distant, practiced pleasantry he often offered to the congregation. No, this was something quieter, something softer—something that did not belong here, within the sacred hush of prayer.

It was knowing. It was intentional.

It was a quiet confirmation of something Nicholas could not name, could not bear to name.

A shudder passed through him, barely perceptible, but enough that he felt it in the tightness of his breath, in the way he  stiffened against the cold of the stone floor.

His hands clenched, his nails digging into the folds of his robe, his chest tightening with the effort of keeping still, of keeping his thoughts from slipping into something he could not afford to entertain.

He did not understand.

He did.

He did not want to know what it meant.

And yet, he did.

♱

"Confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed."

(James 5:16)

The door to the confessional was heavy, the aged wood groaning as Nicholas pulled it open, its weight dragging against reluctant hinges. He hesitated for only a moment, standing at the threshold where the light of the church faded into the cramped, unlit space within. The air inside was thick, heavy with the lingering scent of varnished oak and old incense, clinging to the walls like a secret never spoken aloud.

It was suffocating, wrapping around his throat, pressing against his ribs. He stepped inside anyway.

The door shut behind him with a soft thud, enclosing him in the narrow wooden chamber, carved latticework separating him from the man on the other side. The small space left no room to think, no air to breathe freely, only the quiet hush of his own trembling breaths and the distant murmur of candle flames flickering in the sanctuary beyond.

He folded his hands together, pressing his fingers tight against each other as if the pressure alone could still their shaking, as if clinging to even the smallest tether could root him in place.

The confessional had always been a place of refuge, of absolution.

A space where sins were spoken into the darkness and washed away, forgiven, forgotten.

But as Nicholas knelt, pressing his knees against the wooden bench, he felt no relief, no certainty that the weight pressing down on him would be lifted. His heart pounded, his pulse quickening with each ragged breath, the silence stretching long, too long, unbearable.

Then, with a soft click, the lattice window slid open.

He should have felt lighter at the sound, should have felt the first whisper of relief. But instead, the breath in his throat caught, the tight coil of unease in his chest winding impossibly tighter.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

The words left him in a whisper, barely more than breath, dissolving into the hush between them.

Silence followed.

A silence that stretched, deep and consuming, swallowing the confession whole before the response came. Low, warm, too even, too composed, edged with something Nicholas could not name.

"Speak, my child."

His throat constricted. He had been prepared for this moment, had rehearsed the words in his mind over and over again, had told himself he only needed to say them, to name the sin, and it would be stripped away from him, cast out into the void where it could no longer reach him.

And yet, with that voice in his ears—his voice—so calm, so patient, so knowing, Nicholas hesitated.

His fingers curled tighter, nails pressing into his palms as he forced himself to inhale, to steady his breath, to push past the unease and the fear and the ache that had been gnawing at him for days, weeks, longer than he dared admit.

"I think impure thoughts."

It came out uneven, strained, trembling with something he could not suppress. He swallowed hard, breath stuttering as he forced the next words from his lips.

"About... someone holy."

The moment stretched, taut as a wire, the weight of his confession settling between them like something tangible. Nicholas could barely bring himself to breathe, his stomach twisting, his fingers pressing deeper into his lap.

He had done things.

Things he could not take back, things he could still feel in the aching pulse of his flesh, in the heat that clung to him long after the sin had been committed.

His thighs tensed, guilt curling tight in his gut. He could not say it—I thought of him, I wanted him, I— his breath hitched, throat closing around the words before they could slip free. But the silence spoke for him. The weight of his confession should have been enough.

And then he heard it.

A sound. Soft, barely audible, but unmistakable. A low hum, thoughtful, almost... amused.

Nicholas’s breath faltered.

The sound sent a shiver down his spine, not because it was cruel, nor mocking, but because it was gentle. A sound of interest. Understanding. Expectation.

He did not have to say it. He knew.

Euijoo had known from the moment he stepped inside.

"The body is weak," Euijoo murmured, his voice dragging over each word, slow, savoring, settling deep into Nicholas’s bones. "But the soul? That can be saved."

It should have comforted him. It should have.

But Nicholas felt no salvation. No absolution.

Only the weight of Euijoo’s voice curling around him, warm and steady, unshaken, unworried.

He should be disgusted.

The thought clashed violently against the moment, sending a fresh wave of unease crashing into him. His priest should be horrified. Should recoil at his words, should demand he repent, should remind him of the fire and brimstone that awaited sinners who dared to corrupt something sacred.

But Euijoo did none of those things.

He did not scold, did not rebuke, did not warn.

Instead, he was silent. Watching. Waiting.

Nicholas’s skin prickled, something heavy curling low in his stomach, something he could not name.

His hands clenched against his lap, fingernails digging into the fabric of his pants as if the pressure alone could steady him.

His lips parted, searching for something to say, some way to fix this moment, to make it right, but no words came.

And then—

"Say three Our Fathers... and come to me after Mass."

His breath caught, the words sinking in slow, steady, unwavering.

The silence that followed was unbearable. Nicholas could not move, could not breathe, could not think. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, drowning out all else.

This was not condemnation.

This was not correction.

This was something else entirely.

And as the confessional fell into silence once more, he realized.  

Euijoo had been waiting for him to break.

♱

"And the woman saw that the fruit was good for food, and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom. So she took some and ate it." 

(Genesis 3:6)

The rectory was quiet. A thick, suffocating kind of quiet that pressed against the walls, filling every space where light could not reach. Only the low flicker of candlelight remained, its glow stretching long shadows across the stone, painting everything in a trembling, fever-warm hue.

Nicholas hesitated at the threshold. His fingers curled against the doorframe, gripping the wood hard enough that his knuckles ached.

The air inside smelled of wine and wax and something deeper, something that clung to the walls, to the very bones of this place. He shouldn’t be here. He knew that. And yet, his feet carried him forward, step by step, like a man being led toward his own undoing.

Euijoo was waiting.

He stood near the altar, bathed in the dim glow of the candlelight, his posture relaxed, his presence consuming. The white of his vestments had been shed, replaced with the dark simplicity of his cassock. He was not dressed as he was during Mass, not standing before a congregation with the weight of scripture in his hands. Here, in this moment, he was just a man.

And yet, Nicholas could not look at him without feeling something crawl up the back of his throat, some mixture of reverence and dread, of yearning and guilt so sharp it made his chest ache.

“Are you still burdened, Nicholas?”

The question should have been gentle.

It should have been a mercy.

But Euijoo’s voice was not the voice he used before the masses, not the careful cadence of a shepherd guiding his flock.

It was something else now. Lower. Coaxing. As if his voice alone could pull Nicholas toward him, could wrap around him and leave him with no room to escape.

Nicholas swallowed, but his throat was too dry, too tight.

“I—” He faltered, hesitating, not trusting himself to speak.

Euijoo did not press him for an answer. Not yet. Instead, he reached into the folds of his robe, drew out a cigarette, and set it between his lips. A flick of silver, the brief kiss of flame, and then smoke curled from his mouth in slow, languid spirals.

He exhaled like a man unbothered, like one who had done this before. Perhaps he had.

Nicholas could only watch, transfixed.

Euijoo’s gaze flicked toward him as he brought the cigarette to his lips once more, lifting a brow as if he could see straight through him, as if he knew exactly what Nicholas was thinking. The ember flared, casting a fleeting glow against the sharp cut of his cheekbone, and for a moment, Nicholas could not look away.

It was a terrible thing, the way Euijoo made even sin look effortless. The way he held himself was not indulgent, not careless, but calculated, as though every movement was meant to be seen, meant to be followed. Nicholas swallowed hard, heat coiling low in his stomach.

He should not be looking.

He should not want.

And yet, he did.

The ember burned red against the dim candlelight, casting flickering shadows across Euijoo’s face. He took another drag, slow and measured, and when he finally met Nicholas’s gaze, there was something knowing in his eyes. Calculated. Amused.

A hunter’s patience.

He did not speak right away. He only watched.

Nicholas willed himself to move, to turn away, but before he could, Euijoo exhaled.

The smoke unfurled between them, curling around Nicholas’s face, seeping into his skin, his lungs.

The scent of it clung to him, invasive, inescapable, like something permanent.

Euijoo watched him through the haze, the ember at his fingertips burning low.

“You look troubled,” he murmured, his voice low, unhurried. “Shall I help?”

Nicholas swallowed. The weight of it pressed into his chest, thick and heavy.

This was suffocation.

This was indulgence.

He did not know which terrified him more.

Euijoo held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned slightly, crushing the cigarette against the edge of the altar. The ember crumbled into ash. An act of quiet defiance. He let the stub fall to the floor and ground it beneath his heel before stepping forward.

Closer.

Nicholas’s breath stilled.

“You came here seeking something,” Euijoo said. “Didn’t you?”

Nicholas felt heat rise to his face, his entire body tense with something he could not name.

“I wanted—” His breath shuddered out of him. “I only wanted to be rid of it. These thoughts. These—”

His words broke apart before he could finish.

He hated himself for it.

Euijoo hummed, a quiet, thoughtful sound, not unlike the one in the confessional.

“You came here,” he repeated, slower this time, “because you are hungry.”

Then came the touch, light yet purposeful, inevitable.

Euijoo’s thumb brushed against Nicholas’s lower lip, the same fleeting graze he had given during communion. But now, without the congregation, without the veil of ritual and holiness, it was something else entirely.

Nicholas’s breath caught. There, at the corner of his mouth, he tasted it. The lingering bite of smoke and ash, bitter against the warmth of Euijoo’s skin.

Euijoo smiled.

“You’ve tasted the body of Christ,” he murmured, his thumb pressing against the softness of Nicholas’s lip. “And yet, you still hunger.”

A tremor ran through Nicholas, violent and uncontrollable, like something inside him was fracturing, splitting open, breaking apart at the seams.

"No," he whispered, but it sounded unconvincing even to his own ears.

No, he should not. No, he did not want—

But that was a lie, wasn’t it?

Because he was betraying himself. Because his knees felt weak, and his breath was uneven, and the heat in his stomach was curling, twisting, growing unbearable.

Because Euijoo was right, and Nicholas hated him for it, hated that he could see through him so effortlessly, hated that he did not rebuke him, that he did not cast him out like he should have.

He clenched his jaw, trying to hold it in, trying to push it down, but the shame was too much, and before he could stop himself, something hot spilled over—tears slipping past his lashes, trailing down his cheeks in silent, succumbing surrender.

Euijoo exhaled softly, and Nicholas did not know what he had expected. Pity, perhaps. A moment of restraint, of hesitation.

But there was none.

Instead, Euijoo only smiled.

Not the way a priest should. Not the way a saint should.

But like a man who had found something, someone, he wanted to keep.

And then, with a quiet hum, Euijoo brushed the pad of his thumb against the wetness of Nicholas’s cheek, smearing the tear away in a touch so reverent, so unbearably tender, that it sent another violent tremor through Nicholas’s body.

"You cry so beautifully," Euijoo murmured, more to himself than to Nicholas.

The words made something wretched twist inside Nicholas’s chest.

This was not kindness.

This was not mercy.

This was possession.

And in that moment, Nicholas understood.

There would be no salvation.

♱

"Their innocence was lost, and they knew they were naked." 

(Genesis 3:7)

The night air was thick, swollen with the scent of candle wax and old stone, the distant echo of the last parishioners' footsteps swallowed by the yawning silence of the church. Nicholas stood stiffly in place, his back pressing against the altar, breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. His fingers curled into the heavy fabric of his robes as if that alone could tether him to something good, something pure. But purity had long since abandoned him.

Euijoo loomed before him, a shadow in the dim candlelight, his expression unreadable beneath the shifting glow.

The flickering light caught on the soft curves of his face, casting gentle shadows that made him look almost angelic.

Almost.

Nicholas knew better now.

He had seen the curl of that smile, the way his gaze lingered, knowing and indulgent. And yet, he did not move.

“You’ve spent so long trying to be good,” Euijoo murmured, his voice smooth as oil, seeping into the cracks of Nicholas’s resolve. “Praying. Confessing. But tell me, child—” He reached out, fingers brushing against Nicholas’s jaw, tilting his face upward. “Did it ever make you clean?”

Nicholas swallowed hard, his throat tightening as shame burned through him, raw and aching. He should recoil, should drop to his knees and beg for deliverance. But he knew now.

There was no saving him. Not from this. Not from himself.

The touch against his collar was light, almost absentminded, but it made Nicholas jolt nonetheless. Euijoo’s fingers traced the line of his robes, a slow, deliberate path down the center of his chest. Then, with excruciating patience, he undid the first button.

Nicholas trembled. His pulse thrummed against his throat as Euijoo worked methodically, each snap of fabric breaking the silence, exposing inch after inch of fevered skin to the cool night air.

“You wear these like armor,” Euijoo mused, slipping the robes from his shoulders, watching as they pooled at his feet. “I wonder—” He leaned in, breath ghosting over Nicholas’s cheek. “Have they ever truly protected you?”

Nicholas let out a quiet, shamed breath, but he did not answer. Could not answer.

His body betrayed him, shivering beneath Euijoo’s touch, burning at the press of his fingers as they traced bare skin, learning him, claiming him.

He had been stripped of his vestments. Of his virtue.

And God—God was nowhere to be found.

Nicholas flinched when Euijoo moved, when strong hands guided him down, shifting him with effortless ease. He barely had time to register the shift before he felt it, the weight of Euijoo’s palm at the back of his neck, the slow, insistent pressure coaxing him forward.

"Open," Euijoo murmured, gentle, commanding.

Nicholas obeyed before he could think to resist. Before he could remind himself of what was right, of what was holy. 

"F-Father—" The word slipped out like a prayer, desperate, disgraced.

His lips parted, breath trembling, his vision blurred with unshed tears as Euijoo pressed against them, firm and unrelenting. The taste of him flooded his tongue, bitter and searing, something he would never wash away.

Humiliation clawed at his ribs, violent and unyielding, and yet his flesh yielded all the same.

He wanted to recoil. He wanted to disappear.

But more than anything, he wanted.

Wanted so desperately, so achingly, that it made him sick.

Euijoo exhaled a pleased hum, his fingers curling into Nicholas’s hair, keeping him there, keeping him pliant.

“Greedy,” Euijoo murmured, his fingers brushing down Nicholas’s throat, lingering at the rapid pulse there. “You kneel before the altar of your own desire, and still, you expect mercy—"

His hand drifted lower, fingertips tracing the ridge of Nicholas’s collarbone through the fabric. “Tell me, sweet boy,” he murmured, voice velvet-soft, “is it mercy you crave or something far crueler?”

Nicholas shuddered, sin curling deep in his gut, hot and sickly. His breath hitched as Euijoo’s touch grew firmer, more possessive, like he was marking him, branding him as his own. His whole body felt taut, wound tight with something he did not want to name, something he could not fight.

Euijoo leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of Nicholas’s ear, his breath warm, steady. 

“You pray for salvation, but I see the truth. You long for something else entirely.”

Nicholas let out a broken sound, his head bowing, his forehead pressing against the priest’s thigh as though seeking refuge. But there was no refuge. Not here. Not anymore.

Euijoo exhaled softly, his fingers threading through Nicholas’s hair, gripping just enough to make his scalp tingle. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Good boy.”

The weight of those words pressed into Nicholas like a brand.

Good.

As if there was anything good left of him.

As if he had not already been led to slaughter, offered up willingly at the altar of his own weakness.

Euijoo’s hands guided him, lifting him as though he weighed nothing, until Nicholas found himself scattered upon the altar, his robes pooling around him like a sacrificial offering.

Cold stone kissed his spine, the sacred space where he had once knelt in devotion now bearing his trembling form beneath Euijoo’s touch.

He barely had a moment to catch his breath before warmth replaced the chill, Euijoo’s mouth against his skin, trailing lower with unhurried purpose.

His lips pressed reverently to the plane of Nicholas’s stomach, then lower, lower still, mapping him with hands and tongue like a prayer being spoken into his flesh.

Nicholas jerked when Euijoo’s breath ghosted against his inner thigh.

“F-Father,” he gasped, hands twitching at his sides, unsure whether to push away or pull closer.

Heat coiled deep in his gut, pooling low, thick and unbearable. His fingers twitched where they clutched the altar cloth, his form caught between shame and something deeper, darker—an aching kind of anticipation.  

The first kiss was almost reverent, a soft press against the tender skin of his inner thigh, just shy of where Nicholas burned for him most.

Then another and another, each lingering, lips parting just enough for teeth to graze, for tongue to soothe, until the marks bloomed dark and deep against pale flesh. His back arched off the altar, a cry catching in his throat, his legs trembling beneath Euijoo’s steady hands.

A low hum of approval followed, warm against his skin. Euijoo’s fingers trailed higher, skimming over the damp lace clinging to Nicholas’s hips, his touch light and teasing.

He exhaled sharply, gaze dark with hunger as he took in the sight of him, soaked through, trembling, undone.

Then, slowly, he lowered his head and ran his tongue over the thin fabric, tasting the desperation soaked into the fabric. 

Nicholas whimpered, shame and want tangling in his chest, but Euijoo only chuckled, the sound rich and indulgent. His fingers hooked into the lace, peeling it away inch by inch, dragging it down over soft thighs, savoring every moment of Nicholas’s unraveling.

Then, without pause, Euijoo was back.

The first stroke of his tongue was deliberate, and Nicholas swore he felt his soul leave him, lost to the heat, the wet pull of lips and tongue dragging him deeper into submission.  

Euijoo took his time.

He always did.

Savoring, teasing, indulging in every twitch, every gasp, every broken sound that left Nicholas’s lips.

He worked him open with a patience that burned, hands gripping his thighs, holding him still as Nicholas writhed beneath him. The wet sounds filled the chapel, obscene and inescapable, mingling with the ragged hitch of Nicholas’s breath.  

Then, wicked and merciless, Euijoo blew against the damp skin, and Nicholas sobbed, his hips jolting, his whole body alight with sensation.  

“Look at you,” Euijoo murmured, voice smooth, heavy with something Nicholas couldn’t name but felt settle deep in his chest. He lifted his gaze, eyes alight, drinking him in, his lips slick and red from where they had lingered. “So eager. So lovely.”  

His hands traced slow, reverent paths along Nicholas’s trembling thighs, parting him further, spreading him open with a patience that made Nicholas tremble.

“Hush, little vixen,” he cooed, pressing another kiss, just above where Nicholas ached for him most. 

“Let me hear you pray.”

Nicholas had never known hunger like this.

Consuming, devouring, leaving no part of him untouched. It curled hot and aching in his gut, raw to the point of agony, and still, Euijoo gave him only as much as he pleased.

He moved at his own pace, dragging fingertips over sweat-damp skin, pressing kisses to the curves of his hips, the soft of his stomach, anywhere but where Nicholas needed him most.

He lingered, cruel in his patience, watching Nicholas tremble as though his unraveling was pleasure enough.

"F-Father, please—" The plea broke apart in his mouth, splintering into a whimper as Euijoo took him deeper, as his tongue worked him open with cruel patience.

“Shhh.” Euijoo’s grip tightened around his hips, pressing him back down. “You’ll take what I give you, child.”

Nicholas let out a broken sob, his thighs trembling. "I—I can't, I—oh, God—"

He was unraveling. Completely. Utterly.

Euijoo hummed against his skin, dragging his tongue in faster strokes that left Nicholas writhing, gasping, begging without words.

His grip on Nicholas’s thighs tightened, but it wasn’t just his hands holding him still.

His long fingers pressed deep inside, curling unhurried and precise, stroking over the spot that had Nicholas sobbing.  

“You’re shaking.” Euijoo’s voice was velvety,  the vibrations of his words making Nicholas jolt. 

Nicholas was drowning.

The pleasure devastating. Unfathomable.

He had thought he knew. Had thought he understood the shape of it, the way desire curled low in his belly when he touched himself in the dark, whispering half-formed prayers into his pillow.

He had imagined how it might feel, Euijoo’s hands on him, his mouth, his voice like honeyed sin in his ear.

But this—this was beyond anything he had ever known, beyond anything his restless, shame-stained nights had ever prepared him for.

It was deeper, heavier, consuming.

There was no distance, no barrier of imagination to shield him from the raw, overwhelming reality of Euijoo’s touch– his fingers pressed deeper, coaxing another broken whimper from his lips.

“Do you want to finish, little lamb?” 

Nicholas let out a broken cry, desperation flooding his senses.

Euijoo’s mouth was back on him, tongue flicking over the sensitive bud with devastating precision, lips latching around it, sucking until Nicholas keened, his back arching helplessly beneath him. 

Heat curled up his spine, molten and relentless, sweat pooling where his skin met the altar. His slick painted Euijoo’s lips, his chin, and still, he did not waver, did not ease, driving Nicholas higher, closer–until the pleasure was unbearable, teetering on the brink of unmaking.  

The need clawed at him, feverish, mindless.

His hips rolled without thought, pressing himself against Euijoo’s mouth, seeking more, seeking mercy.

But Euijoo only let him, only hummed in quiet amusement, the vibrations making Nicholas convulse . His tongue flicked again, devastating, his lips closing around him in a slow, indulgent suck.   

“Y-yes, Father—please—please, I– I need—”  

And then—nothing.

The warmth was gone.

Nicholas let out a strangled sound, his frame shaking, still thrumming with unfulfilled need. His head spun, his vision blurred with tears of frustration.

"No—" The word slipped out in a desperate whisper before he could stop it.

Euijoo chuckled, pressing a kiss to Nicholas’s trembling thigh. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice steeped in mock pity. “You were about to give in, weren’t you?”

"Have mercy on me— please." Nicholas could barely breathe, his form still trembling, straining toward pleasure that had been cruelly stolen from him.

Euijoo’s hands pressed him down, his frame bending beneath the weight of something inevitable, something inescapable.

Nicholas gasped, his limbs shaking, still thrumming with unfulfilled need.

He wanted to reach for it again, to grasp onto the pleasure Euijoo had so cruelly stolen from him. But before he could, hands were on him again, flipping him effortlessly, pressing him down until his chest met the cold, unyielding stone.

The position left him open, vulnerable, laid bare beneath Euijoo’s shadow.

A sharp gasp tore from his lips as he was spread open, his body yielding, aching from the stretch. Then, before he could gather himself, before he could beg, he was filled, wholly, completely, without mercy.

A sinner made sacred by desecration. He trembled beneath the weight of it, the fullness pressing deep, throbbing, unrelenting.

A sob wracked through him, he trembling beneath the weight of it, stretched around something that should never have been his to take. He was shaking, the length of it pressing against every nerve, overwhelming in a way that felt like both punishment and salvation.

The ache of it settled deep, stealing the breath from his lungs, leaving only the unbearable stretch, the thick heat of him pulsing, filling him past the point of relief, past the point of redemption.

Nicholas let out a choked sob, every movement exposing his betrayal.

“You ask to be corrupted, little lamb,” Euijoo whispered, his voice dark with satisfaction. "And I am more than willing.”

A sharp gasp tore from Nicholas’s throat as Euijoo’s hands gripped his hips, fingers pressing into his flesh, unrelenting. The pace quickened—harder, deeper—until Nicholas could feel himself unraveling, drowning beneath the weight of his own sin.

"Please—" The word fell from his lips before he could swallow it back. His voice was wrecked, trembling, desperate. “Please, I—oh, God—”

A hand tangled in his hair, yanking his head back with a force that sent heat searing down his spine.

Nicholas barely had time to gasp before Euijoo forced his gaze upward, toward the altar, toward the looming crucifix mounted above it.

The wooden cross stood tall, its shadow stretching over them both, over the defilement of Nicholas’s body, over the unholy spectacle of his own undoing.

Christ’s face was carved in sorrow, His gaze cast downward in eternal mourning. Watching.

“Look at Him,” Euijoo murmured, his grip tightening, keeping Nicholas from turning away.

His voice was almost tender, almost reverent. “Look at what you’ve become.”

Something wretched clawed at his chest, tangled with something darker, something sick and consuming.

"I—" His breath hitched. He was falling apart. “I don’t—I don’t know—”

Euijoo’s fingers flexed in his hair, holding him steady, making sure he did not look away.

"Does He pity you, little lamb?" he crooned, each word dripping with cruel amusement.

"Or does He see you for what you truly are?" His breath ghosted hot against Nicholas’s ear, his pace never faltering. "A desperate, filthy whore.”

Nicholas sobbed, the words sinking deep, burning into him as fiercely as the pleasure curling hot in his stomach.

The shame was excruciating.

And yet, God, and yet, his very being responded to it, tightening around Euijoo, seeking,  needing.

Each thrust sent a fresh wave of blinding pleasure through him, dragging a whimper from his throat, his cunt clenching down around the thick, unyielding length inside him.

He could feel it everywhere, could feel the way Euijoo filled him, the way he pulsed against his walls, the way his own body betrayed him by taking it so greedily.

Nicholas gasped, seizing as pleasure crashed over him, raw and relentless.

His back arched, his thighs trembling as wetness spilled between them, slick and shameless, dripping down his skin and pooling beneath him.

He tightened around Euijoo, his walls fluttering, clenching down in desperate, pulsing waves, dragging a ragged, wrecked whine from his throat—high and breathless, almost a sob.

“Father, I—” His voice broke, wrecked, pleading. “Oh, God, I—”

The word slipped from him before he could stop it, torn from the depths of his unraveling—”Fuck—”

The curse hit the air like a confession, gasped out between shattered breaths, his whole body seizing beneath the weight of it. The regret of it hit him instantly, searing through the pleasure, but it was too late. 

He had already given in, already fallen.     

And then Euijoo groaned, low and deep, his grip tightening, his movements stuttering as he buried himself inside one final time. A broken sound escaped Nicholas as warmth spilled into him, filling him. The aftershock wracked his frame, pleasure and humiliation entwined so tightly he could not tell where one ended and the other began.

Teeth sank into the back of his shoulder, sharp and unrelenting, the pain sparking through the haze of pleasure like a fresh wound.

Nicholas keened, a tremor ripping through him beneath the weight of it, his walls fluttering around Euijoo’s spent cock as if to draw him deeper.

He didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch—he liked it.

Liked the sting, the way it marked him, the way it made him feel owned. 

Euijoo’s breath was hot against his skin, his tongue flicking out to soothe the bruise before he finally, finally eased back, his hands tracing slow, possessive paths down Nicholas’s trembling body.

The weight of it lingered, sticky, seeping, a brand upon his body as much as it was upon his soul.

He was empty, somehow. Hollow in the places that had once been whole.

And yet, he was full.

So full.

Overwhelmed by the remnants of Euijoo’s sin inside him, the evidence of his own ruination.

His fingers dug into the altar cloth, his body throbbing, his mind unraveling beneath the weight of it, drowning in it, lost.

Something inside Nicholas shattered. A sob wrenched itself from his throat, his shoulders trembling beneath the weight of his own undoing.

Euijoo moved before Nicholas could shrink away, one hand curling around his jaw, the other smoothing over his heaving chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath. His lips found the tear-streaked curve of Nicholas’s cheek, soft at first, almost gentle.

Then another.

And another.

Kissing the sorrow from his skin like a benediction, like an indulgence.

His breath was warm against Nicholas’s face as he murmured, “Hush, my sweet boy.” His thumb traced slow circles over the corner of his mouth, catching the salt of his tears. “I’ve got you.”

But Nicholas knew—there was no comfort in this. No salvation in the touch that soothed even as it had tainted.

The remnants of Euijoo’s corruption seeped from him, a damning brand upon his skin. He felt it still, the throb, the emptiness where he had been stretched open, ravaged.

It was over. He had lost. He had fallen.

No salvation. No grace.

Only Euijoo.

Only this.

The quiet after felt heavier than the act itself. The air was still, thick with heat, pressing down on Nicholas like an unseen hand, like judgment. His limbs ached, thrumming with something he could not name, something that felt too much like loss and not enough like regret. He lay there, the cold stone beneath him doing nothing to quell the fever that burned through his veins. He trembled, not from the chill, but from something deeper, something that coiled tight in his stomach and refused to loosen.

He barely registered the sudden movement, the arms that gathered him up, the effortless way Euijoo lifted him from the cold stone and carried him across the room. The mattress dipped beneath him as he was laid down, the warmth of the sheets a stark contrast to the cool air licking at his skin.

The weight of his sin settled over him like an unbearable mantle, and yet, when he turned his head, when his bleary gaze found Euijoo’s, there was no regret.

Nicholas’s breath hitched.

His lips parted, the words forming before he could stop them, spilling out in a whisper that barely disturbed the silence. “What have I done?”

Euijoo sat beside him, half-shrouded in flickering shadows, watching, waiting. He was always waiting, patient as a saint, as though he had known this moment would come long before Nicholas had even dared to imagine it.

His fingers traced slow patterns against the side of Nicholas’s face, absentminded, almost reverent.

As if he had not been the one to drag Nicholas into the depths of this. As if he had not been the one to tear him apart and put him back together in a shape that did not—could not—belong to God anymore.

A soft sigh, then the rustle of fabric. Euijoo reached for a clean towel, dampening it with water from the basin at the altar. When he pressed it between Nicholas’s thighs, Nicholas flinched.

Not from the touch, but from the intimacy of it.

From the unbearable tenderness of being cared for after being unmade.

Euijoo hummed, the sound deep, indulgent, like a priest offering absolution. But there was no absolution here. Not for him.

“What you were always meant to do.” His thumb brushed against Nicholas’s swollen lip, tracing the shape of his mouth as if committing it to memory.

“You were never meant to be good. You were meant to be mine.”

Something in Nicholas shuddered at the words, something deep, something broken. A sob caught in his throat, but he did not turn away.

He should have.

He knew he should have.

But he only leaned closer, let himself sink deeper into the heat, into damnation.

Euijoo exhaled a quiet laugh, something pleased. He tilted Nicholas’s chin up, wiped a stray tear away with his thumb, then leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against his lips—soft, unhurried, as though offering comfort wrapped in corruption, as though sin had ever been so tender.

The candles flickered. The night stretched on.

And Nicholas did not seek forgiveness. He no longer wished to be good.

He longed only to bask in Euijoo’s warmth, now and forever.

─

—“So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken.”—Genesis 3:23

─

Fin.