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A young-looking man sat in the very last pew during the service. He wasn’t somebody that Father Robinavitch had ever seen in the small town of Broken Bow, Nebraska. The priest glanced towards him throughout the service.
It was unusual for there to be someone Father Robinavitch was unfamiliar with. Even the way the man dressed was unusual. He was clothed in all black, in a style that the priest had never seen anyone wear in the town. Everyone here was very conforming; always wearing the same styles. Love thy neighbour was very not just scripture here in this small town, it was life.
But still, the priest reckoned that the man must be a family member of somebody in the town. Perhaps a misbehaving boy who had been sent to live in rural Nebraska with his grandparents as a punishment. Stranger things had happened in this town. It wasn’t necessarily unheard of; parents sometimes thought that living and working on the Nebraskan farmlands would whip their kids into shape.
So, Father Robinavitch continued the service as normal.
As usual, the service began with the town’s choir group — the choir was made up of people of various ages, both young and old. The church’s organist led the congregation. The choristers were always beautiful to hear; their voices swallowed the silence of the hall instantly. Father Robinavitch watched as many proud grandparents and parents watched the younger singers with tissues and teary eyes. Incandescent light spilled from the stained glass windows. A mosaic of vivid scripture, illuminated by sunlight. It painted a wash of rainbow in the church, casting a colourful glow onto the group at the front of the room.
The service continued as it should. A donation plate was passed around the congregation. Most families donated. Church and belief was one of the things that brought the town together, and in this small town, those who could donate would love to honour the cause. The man dressed in black did not donate, but it didn’t surprise the priest. It made sense in his head— of course, if he was forced to come here by family to straighten out his behaviour, he would become resentful. He wondered if with time over the season, the newcomer would grow to conform and would donate one day too.
Then, Father Robinavitch led the service. He held his Bible and encouraged the worshippers to take theirs out too; if they didn’t have one of their own, he ensured that he — and the Lord — would be able to provide for them. He said it, glancing at the newcomer donned in all black, but the man didn’t even make an acknowledgement that he had heard the offer. So, the Father shook his head and continued on with the service. He preached in a bold voice, enrapturing the attention of all in the room immediately; of course, not including the newcomer. It didn’t hurt the Father’s ego. He just continued with the thought that with time, it would change.
Then, the Father led the worshippers into a community prayer. The congregation bowed their heads, closed eyes, clasped hands and gentle murmurings of quiet hymns. The Father opened his eyes only slightly to cast a glance to the back of the room. The newcomer stared back. For the first time, the man’s curly brown bangs didn’t cast shadow over his eyes. His eyes were dark; unnaturally so. It felt like the priest had opened his eyes to an endless expanse of black void. A frozen fingertip slowly traced itself down the Father’s spine. This stranger felt wrong. He couldn’t speak how, for he didn’t have the words.
Father Robinavitch closed his eyes once again in an instant, clutching the cool metal of the silver cross that he wore around his neck as he continued his own prayer.
Then came Holy Communion. The worshippers lined up in an orderly fashion and kneeled one by one to take a sliver of bread and a sip of the gentle grape wine to honour the body of Christ. The man stayed sitting coolly. He didn’t watch the communion, his eyes fixed on the priest like a magnet. The Father tried to act like he didn’t feel the boring of dark eyes on his body, but his skin prickled with goosebumps and his hair stood on end.
Then the service drew to a close. Some families came to thank the Father for a beautiful service personally. He held their hands in his, and told them that he and the Lord would always be there to guide them. And then slowly, the worshippers filtered out of the church.
The church settled slowly with every church member that left. The wooden pews creaked softly. The candles that were lit at the front of the room dripped wax gently in their holders. Father Robinavitch thought that even the saints depicted in the divine illuminations of the stained-glass windows were silent, too.
Yet, the newcomer still remained. The darkly dressed man sat still in his seat, and didn’t make any indication that he would be leaving any time soon. So, Father Robinavitch walked slowly down the aisle next to the pews and placed a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Is there something troubling you, my son?” The Father asked in a low tone.
The man didn’t flinch underneath the priest’s hand. In fact, he made no movement at all underneath the touch. He just spoke to the floor, “troubling me?” There was a pause. “No. I’m not troubled.”
The man was thinner than the priest expected, and colder too. Chill clung to the very fabric of the dark coat the man wore. Then, the newcomer turned his head and locked eyes once again with Father Robinavitch. The priest swallowed, and tried very hard to resist the urge to remove his hand from the man’s shoulder. Once again, cold traced down Father Robinavitch’s spine, but this time it persisted. It spread throughout his body in an instant, casting bitter frostiness throughout his skin. He felt it in his very core, coursing through his bone marrow and freezing his blood.
The priest snatched his hand away. He scrambled to hold the cross around his neck once again, and as if it was a spell, gentle warmth thrummed through his body and dispelled the sepulchral chill that had taken hold of him. The Father gasped for a breath— it was as if he had been dunked into ice water and then snatched out and placed under the Sahara sun all in one swift motion.
The ‘man’ watched him with curiosity. Blood rushed through Father Robinavitch’s ears— it was deafening, he could hear his pulse echo through his ear canal. He felt something knot in his throat.
The priest just pleaded in prayer, “what are you?”
The newcomer opened his mouth. Two sharp, ivory canines sat in his mouth. The Priest straightened up immediately, taking vast stumbling steps backwards. The man turned his head away, facing the flush of summer light pouring in through the cathedral glass. The bright white fangs in his mouth glistened in the light— gently glimmering with gold and green and blue. Father Robinavitch’s hand scrambled to his chest, clutching the fabric of his clothes. His heart hammered under his skin and bones, like a drum. His mouth went dry.
Father Robinavitch could not move. For all his years reading sermons, he had never encountered something like this. For his childhood before he had devoted himself to the Lord, he had heard folklore of the supernatural. Witchcraft and wizardry. Black magic. Spectres and spirits and disembodied voices. Hairy beings controlled by the moon cycle.
Vampires.
“No.” The priest shook his head and spoke hoarsely. “This is the house of the Lord–”
“I know.”
The priest continued, “you aren’t welcome here.”
The monster closed his mouth for a second. And then he said, “I thought you might say that.”
Father Robinavitch clutched the cross until the edges bit into the flesh of his palm. “You come here to mock the Lord.”
“No,” the being spoke gently. “I come here for you.”
The words stumbled through the air like a cold draught. Father Robinavitch felt as if the breath had been forced out of his lungs. As if all of a sudden, every movement in his inner workings stopped with the flip of a switch. For him. This being— this creature, whatever he was, was here for him. He shook his head. “I have nothing to offer you.”
“Oh, Father,” the monster spoke gently, his fangs peeking from under his lips, “that isn’t true.”
“Who are you?”
The creature stood up. The movement wasn’t fast or sudden, but Father Robinavitch stumbled back all the same. The monster rose from the pew with unexpected clumsiness, and yet he was still graceful in a way that the priest would not be able to explain. The creature straightened his head, wrung his hands gently and ran a gentle hand over the pew he stood from. “My name is Dennis Whitaker.”
The sun pouring in from the window covered the creature ‘Dennis’. An incredibly human name for something so inhumane. It felt too ordinary, like a name he could attribute to a neighbour or a friend. Not to the creature who stood in front of him with fangs hiding in his mouth.
“Dennis Whitaker,” Father Robinavitch repeated.
“Yes.”
“That— does not fit you.”
“No,” Dennis agreed. “But it did. Once.”
The priest gestured towards the sunlight in a whisper, “I thought your kind could not be in the sun?”
“People think many things about ‘my kind’, as you put it.”
The priest held the cross tighter and raised it towards the monster lightly. “And what about this? Is this a myth too?”
Dennis flinched immediately. “No. That isn’t a myth.”
The priest felt comforted at those words— his faith would prevail over all. Even though the encounter with this creature went against anything he had ever known, his faith would help him through it. He spoke again, this time feeling braver, “what is it you want with me?”
“Warmth,” Dennis answered gently. His eyes wandered from the cross and flicked down towards Robinavitch’s throat. “I think you have plenty to share.”
Father Robinavitch shook his head. “No, I refuse it. I won’t let a creature like you taint me. Go back to wherever you came from, or I will not be so merciful.”
Dennis shook his head. “You preached the importance of mercy in your sermon— of giving to those in need. Just because my wants are less common than most, you’ll deny me?”
It was in an instant that Dennis’ hand rested on Father Robinavitch’s shoulder instead. He was gentle, in a way that made Father Robinavitch blink. There was no force, no pressure. Dennis stood there, looking, the dark void in his eyes swallowed the priest’s pride whole. Dennis was shorter, in a way that made it uncomfortable for him to stretch up in such a fashion. And so, with the same gentleness, he pushed the priest to sit into one of the pews.
“Don’t do it,” Father Robinavitch prayed. “I won’t let you.”
“Then don’t let me,” Dennis answered, bowing his head slowly. Father Robinavitch squeezed the cross necklace in his hand like a lifeline. And then, he let go. He made no effort to stop the way things progressed. He did not move the cross again, he did not cry out for the Lord. He simply moved his neck to the side to let Dennis get easier access.
The first thing he felt was the chill of the vampire’s fangs. It was unusual to feel somebody else’s teeth brush the tender skin of his neck. Then, there was a prick of pain and the priest shut his eyes. Then, that same chill spread through his body as it had already done once before. It was all-consuming, it wrapped itself first around his throat, then ribbons of cold dressed themselves through his lungs and heart.
The pain grappled his body. Father Robinavitch gasped out as the vampire drew more and more blood. Dennis drank with restrained tenderness at first; but restraint was not mercy. His eyes flung open, and his hands scrabbled to push Dennis— but then, warmth. It spread quicker than the cold ever did, a tingling warmth that thrummed underneath his skin and banished any ache the cold had brought with it. Just as his fingers clutched the fabric of Dennis’ coat, he did not push away. Instead he pulled closer, his wandering fingers found themselves entangled in the curls at the back of Dennis’ head and pushing him deeper into the crook of his neck. Dennis made a small noise against the flesh of his neck, a noise that was most definitely unholy.
Father Robinavitch tried to cast away the thought of the stained-glass saints watching him be defiled right in their place of worship.
The priest was, of course, not ever a man who had indulged in drink or drugs. Somehow, he thought he had broken sobriety. His mind wandered— this, he thought, must have been what it felt like to be completely intoxicated. For once, the Father understood why good men ruined themselves and their livelihoods in pursuit of this feeling.
The church had heard every prayer, want, and desire that had ever come from Father Robinavitch, and now they were hearing the sound he made when Dennis fed from him.
Dennis lifted his head, and it was gone. The warmth, the lightness, the feeling of being desired vanished. Dennis just looked at him and the priest could see his own blood smear. And Father Robinavitch should have been terrified. He should have lifted the cross, brandished it and forced the creature who had just desecrated his very soul and destroyed everything that he had ever known in seconds. But he didn’t. Yes, he felt fear. It licked its way at his heart and squeezed in a way that filled him with horror completely.
But no. That wasn’t the only thing that plagued Father Robinavitch. Deep underneath the dread, there was something else— something equally human in such a humiliating way. “What did you do to me?” He almost demanded, his voice shaking.
“Only what you allowed,” Dennis replied. He lifted a pale hand and wiped the blood from around his lips with his thumb. Father Robinavitch watched as the vampire put that same thumb inside of his mouth and cleaned it with his tongue, without ever breaking his gaze. Dennis’ eyes were no longer lifeless, dark, and empty as they once were. A twinkle of something more humane glistened in there; a fire had been lit and it warmed everything he did.
“That can’t be true—” Father Robinavitch began, stumbling over the words.
“Then raise your cross. Put it to my skin and destroy me altogether.”
Seconds passed by, and yet Father Robinavitch made no effort to move. He sat slumped, his head being held up the back of the pew in a dishevelled state. So Dennis moved instead, partly closing the distance. He spoke very plainly and closely to Father Robinavitch’s parted lips. “You could tell me to stop, but you won’t.”
Dennis didn’t wait for a reply. He swallowed the distance whole this time, pushing his lips against the Father’s. Father Robinavitch’s hand grasped the back of the pew in shock. The metallic taste of his own blood filled his senses. He smelled it, and tasted it, and his head began to spin. It was disgusting, it made him nauseous. It was sinful and so deeply blasphemous that he wondered for a moment whether he would go to Hell. The warmth that Dennis stole from him after retreating from the bite came rushing back. He tasted it all— his sin, his surrender and his allowance of this to continue. He knew his body was betraying him, the strain in his pants became too much for him to just ignore.
He knew that Dennis could feel it too, the way Dennis straddled his lap and then ground his knee down into the tightness in one swift motion. Father Robinavitch’s hands flew up and pushed Dennis away. The newly lit flame in Dennis’ eyes looked down at his.
“Father?” Dennis pleaded.
“No,” Father Robinavitch rasped. “You should not call me that.”
“Then what should I call you?” Dennis’ finger traced gently against the priest’s Adam’s apple.
Father Robinavitch’s hands came up to rest on Dennis’ waist. It was almost impossible to feel the very shape of him, with the layers of dark clothing that hung from his frame. Then, Father Robinavitch’s hands went upwards and pulled away at the black coat. Dennis helped him, shrugging the weight of the fabric off of his shoulders. The ebony coat fell to the floor in a pile.
Father Robinavitch hesitated then. “I suppose, if you must call me anything, Father might suffice.”
“It will,” Dennis promised, as he leaned in against the man’s neck again, his breath hot. Goosebumps spread against Father Robinavitch’s skin, blooming on his tender flesh underneath his collar. “Does God make you feel like this?”
Father Robinavitch shut his eyes tight, his grip strengthening at Dennis’ waist.
“No,” the priest whispered. “That is why I am afraid.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Dennis said. “He doesn’t control you.”
“He should.”
“But he doesn’t.”
“Does your God force fear into you?” Dennis asked, with a tilted head— his mouth still so impossibly close, those pointed fangs on display like they were a punishment.
“No.” Father Robinavitch met his eyes. “Obedience.”
“Then why are your hands still on my waist?”
Father Robinavitch opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. He shook his head slowly, as if to deny any accusation that had not come yet. But still, his hands shifted from their resting place upwards once again to the buttons of Dennis’ shirt. His hands shook as he began to unbutton the top button. The vampire didn’t speak, a smile settling on his lips. He was a temptress in his own right; yet the priest took little encouragement to forget his holy life and delve into a lifetime of sin.
Then each button was undone, he allowed the shirt to rest, open but still clinging to the monster’s body. It wasn’t just the shame that the thing he was craving wasn’t human; it was the fact that underneath the supernaturally cold skin and pointy fangs— he looked human. Blanched skin peeked through underneath the void of the cotton. It was more than tempting. The forbidden fruit sat in his lap, and he knew it would be so sweet.
As if anything that was holding Father Robinavitch back had dragged away from him, he stood in an instant. His hands stayed firm on the fabric of Dennis’ shirt, and he dragged the man to the back of the church— his altar stood there, his Bible still resting there from the service he had just led. He glanced at the cross upon the wall, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask for permission. Instead, he would ask for forgiveness.
The priest ripped the shirt off of the man, finally. He couldn’t wait a moment longer. Pale skin flush against his own; tan from working out in the sun on the farmlands surrounding the holy building he stood in. His hands roamed, coming up and holding the bare skin of the creature he was devoting himself to. His thumbs caressed the cold skin, but he didn’t feel the same ice that penetrated him before when he had touched the monster. Instead, he felt warmth spread through the pallid skin.
He shook his head, but he didn’t stop. Sin danced around in his mind like a revolving door. But when his hands had finally found salvation, he found it too. He made quick work of Dennis’ belt, hearing it clank against the marble tile of the floor. Then, he pulled the vampire’s jeans down with a roughness that he had never found within himself. His hands fumbled with his own zipper next, then the button that kept his Sunday slacks together. His cock ached against the fabric of his boxers, and with the impossibly angelic sight of something so wicked in front of him, he thought he would never come down from this high.
He pushed Dennis, his body coming flush against the wood of his altar with a satisfying thud. The Bible fell, cascading to the ground, the pages flipping open and lying on the floor discarded altogether.
“Sin can feel so good,” the priest murmured. He knew that Dennis would have a smug smirk on his face, but he didn’t allow himself to look. He wondered whether, if he saw Dennis’ face, the shame of something so monstrous looking at him, pressed against would turn him away from real pleasure.
Father Robinavitch’s hands delved into his boxers, his jeans still on. He thought that he was going crazy when he found his hard cock, twitching underneath the touch of his own palms and pulled it from his boxers. His hands found Dennis’ waist, not for the first time, and tightened around his body. And then he tasted the fruit; it was sweet. He realised then, why Eve threw everything away in the pursuit of it.
He pushed into Dennis with a groan. The man underneath him yowled and arched his back into him. Maybe the priest was greedy, a life of abstinence and celibacy; he would be sloppy and he knew it. Father Robinavitch leaned down, the silver cross around his neck found Dennis’ skin with a hiss. The cross grappled onto the vampire’s skin and Dennis yelped out a cry of pain. Desire seared through the priest’s veins, tantalizing hunger grasped him and forced him to act like a man who had been possessed by the devil himself.
Heat radiated through the priest, it spread through his very core. He barely took a second for himself before he pulled out again, just as quickly as he had pushed in the first time, and then snapped his hips back and pushed in again. The cross danced on the pale skin of Dennis, red burns seared and corrupted the smooth pale skin that had been there before.
“Father!” Dennis whined, his hands scrabbled frantically. His nails dug into the wood of the altar, before he grabbed onto it. “Have mercy.”
The priest ignored the cry, and just said “that’s good. You’re— fuck— being so good.” The noise the vampire made was somehow both more beautiful and more saintlike than any choir singers Father Robinavitch had ever heard in his years of devotion.
He didn’t stop then. The rhythm continued— in, out, and Dennis cried. He thought he could hear teardrops falling onto the wood. The way his neck had been attacked minutes prior, he did the same to the creature that ripped anything he had ever known about himself away. Heat began to pool in his gut; tight and raw and grabbing. His hips snapped back and then in, and his burning cross dangled on the vulnerable supernatural skin of his newest temptation. The vampire’s legs shook beneath him, and Father Robinavitch’s grip grew tighter to try and steady the man.
“I— fuck,” Father Robinavitch began through gritted teeth, “I am your God.” He claimed it in a way that was most certainly blasphemous, he knew he had already damned himself to Hell and he didn’t care in the moment for what would happen next. All he knew was what was happening in that moment, where he was no longer being puppeted by his ‘God’.
“Father, please,” Dennis cried as tears dripped down his face. “Bless me; turn away from— from it all.”
And the Father did, the heat that pooled in his stomach becoming unbearable. He picked up the pace, his thrusts became less and less restrained, he nailed Dennis’ prostate and grabbed a fistful of the curls at the back of Dennis’ hair. The noise the vampire made in response would have been enough to turn any man away from God, he thought. He leaned his head down, the cross around his neck now flush against Dennis’ skin and bit the flesh of Dennis’ neck — hard. He didn’t have fangs himself, but he snapped his teeth around the skin and allowed himself to have this. His hands gripped tighter, so tight that he knew he would leave an array of purple-blue bruises.
“I’m going to— fuck—” the priest stammered out against Dennis’ neck, closing his eyes.
“Please!” Dennis whimpered, grinding back on Father Robinavitch. For a second, the priest wondered whether he was taking Dennis’ virginity the way Dennis was taking his.
And then, almost as quickly as it began, it spilled over. He moaned, loud— he hoped none of the townspeople would be able to hear his or Dennis’ cries bouncing off the walls of the church. Warm cum coated Dennis’ insides, his grip tightening and then loosening in an instant. He stumbled back, everything inside him feeling so light and free for a change and then falling back into a heap on the tiled floor.
Dennis shook, his grip on the altar barely keeping him up, before it loosened and he fell on next to Father Robinavitch. Cum leaked out between his thighs, smearing on the clothes the Father still wore.
For a while, neither of them moved or dared to say a word. Past the walls of the church, the town around them moved as normal. Father Robinavitch lay on the cold tile, and he felt the cold spread through him the way Dennis’ chill had. Wax dripped from the candles on the table behind them. The old wooden pews creaked. Beside him, Dennis shook gently, then slowly it ceased, as if nothing had ever happened between them. They lay side by side. The priest finally dared to look at the monster he had just thrown everything away for.
Dennis’ perfect pale skin had been debauched by him. But the worst thing was, he still looked divine. His pale chest moved with every shaky breath, they came hard and uneven. Even ruined, he still looked touched by God himself and Father Robinavitch just didn’t understand why.
Sun shone down on them through the stained windows, a kaleidoscope of rainbow. He saw the bite on Dennis’ neck, raw and almost bleeding. His hands reached up to touch his own. He flinched when his hands made contact with his still tender skin. He looked down by his feet, the Bible he had knocked off the altar lay open still.
Father Robinavitch swallowed heavily— his mouth still tasted like blood somehow, but he urged himself to ignore it— then fixed his eyes on the ceiling above them.
“I think I will go to Hell for this,” the priest said to the ceiling.
No reply came for a while. Then there was a small breath from beside him, and the priest turned his head once more to see Dennis.
“Maybe,” Dennis replied. “I’ll find you there.”