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The cathedral was near silent. Stone arches soared into shadow, pierced by shafts of late afternoon sun that fell like divine fingers upon the polished wood of the pews and the cold marble of the altar. Specs of dust danced in the kaleidoscope of colors scattered across the hall, and the air smelled of old books, beeswax, and the faint, lingering ghost of incense.
Soul’s hands trembled as he snuffed out the last of the candles. The hiss of the wick dying was loud in the profound quiet. He could feel Jongseob’s gaze on him from across the cathedral, almost painful, like a hot brand. It had been like this all through the evening service. Soul, in his crisp white alb, trying to focus on the liturgy, the prayers, when to ring the bells and when to spread the incense. And Jongseob, just a few feet away, was tracking every swallow of Soul’s throat, every nervous flutter of his lashes, and every bite of his lips.
Soul was fumbling, dropping the snuffer for the third time as he tried to smother the guttering candle flames. His nerves were raw, a maddening itch under his skin. He jumped at the sound of Jongseob’s voice, his heart lurching wildly in his chest.
“Done?” Jongseob asked, his tone quiet, in the empty, echoing church. His fingers were already quickly working at the rope around his waist. The sound of it hitting the floor was jarringly loud in the silence that had fallen after the last prayer.
“Almost,” Soul managed to answer, his voice barely audible even to himself. His hands were shaking, but he continued to tackle the last candles, the flames finally snuffed out under his trembling fingers.
Jongseob approached him, his movements fluid and confident, his eyes fixed on Soul with an intensity that made Soul’s knees weak. Soul’s heart raced, pounding in his ears loudly. He felt like a cornered rabbit, trapped and helpless.
“Something wrong, Soul?” Jongseob asked, and Soul could swear there was a smirk playing on those full lips. He was so close now, scarily close, so that Soul could smell his floral scent mixed with the faint, lingering aroma of incense from the last service.
Soul swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “We… we shouldn’t,” he stammered, pointing feebly towards the still open door to the sacristy. The light from the stained glass windows cast vivid patterns across the floorboards, but it did little to ease the darkening of Soul’s mood.
Jongseob didn’t move. He just stood there, watching Soul almost unnervingly. Soul wondered if he had crossed some line unknowingly, if Jongseob had expected something else from him tonight. But what? Soul had no idea what was going on in that beautiful head of his.
“Shouldn’t what?” Jongseob finally asked, innocently, and Soul felt a flutter of panic in his chest.
Soul nibbled at his lips, feeling like a mouse caught in the gaze of a snake. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He glanced away, unable to meet Jongseob’s eyes anymore.
Jongseob stepped even closer, the warmth of his body a sudden, unsettling presence. Soul’s breath hitched as Jongseob’s fingers brushed against his own. The touch was feather-light, but it sent sparks up Soul's arm and into his chest.
“Let me show you?” Jongseob murmured, his voice low and husky, a sound that seemed to pierce right through Soul.
And Soul found himself nodding, despite his better judgment. Maybe it was the desire in Jongseob's eyes, maybe it was the thrill of the unknown, or maybe it was simply the raw need that had been growing inside him, quietly festering like an open wound. Whatever it was, it pushed Soul forward, led him like a lamb to slaughter into the secret, sin-coated world that Jongseob offered to him.
As soon as Soul nodded, Jongseob’s hands were all over him, one sliding to the nape of his neck, the other curving around his waist, pulling him in until their bodies met from chest to thigh. Soul gasped into the kiss, a soft, startled sound swallowed by Jongseob’s mouth.
It was nothing like the chaste, respectful peace of the church. Jongseob’s tongue swept against his, hungrily, as if he were starving. Soul’s fingers twisted into the fabric of Jongseob’s robe, clinging as if he might drown. Between breaths, ragged and shared, Soul’s lips moved almost on instinct, the old words rising like a plea from some untouched part of his soul.
“…Our Father, who art in heaven…” he whispered against Jongseob’s mouth, the prayer slipping out between one searing kiss and the next.
Jongseob pulled back just enough to look at him, his eyes glittering with amusement. He brushed his thumb over Soul’s kiss-swollen bottom lip. “Praying already, kitty?” he murmured, his voice so low Soul could barely hear it. He felt so embarrassed, what was he praying for? He had a near angelic creature in his hands and he was praying, what was wrong with him?
The nickname shot through Soul like a bolt of lightning, short-circuiting every coherent thought. A full-body shudder wracked him, and he made a soft, choked sound, his knees buckling slightly. Jongseob’s grip tightened, holding him up.
“See?” Jongseob breathed, leaning in to nip gently at Soul’s jaw. “You like that. You're so beautiful.”
He guided Soul backward, step by unsteady step, until the backs of Soul’s thighs met the cold, solid edge of the altar. The polished marble felt ice cold, shocking against his skin even through all the layers of clothes. Jongseob’s hands went to the hem of Soul’s alb, pushing the lightweight fabric up his thighs.
“Jongseob…” Soul tried, but his protest dissolved into a moan as Jongseob sank gracefully to his knees before him.
“Be quiet, we're in a church, be respectful,” Jongseob said, his gaze locked on Soul’s. There was a reverence in his movements that felt like a mockery of the sacred space, or perhaps its own kind of devotion to Soul’s presence. He freed Soul from his trousers, his touch surprisingly gentle. Soul’s head fell back, his eyes squeezing shut as Jongseob’s mouth, hot and wet, took him in.
The sensation was devastating, a sharp, slick pleasure that tore another fractured prayer from Soul’s lips. “…hallowed be Thy name…” he panted, his fingers finding their way into Jongseob’s hair. It was soft, that long, blonde hair, slipping like silk between his trembling fingers. Everyone in the church had always told him to cut it, since it made him almost eerily feminine, but Soul adored it, and he'd take any excuse to touch it. Now, he petted it clumsily, a gesture of helpless affection and overwhelming need, as Jongseob licked along Soul’s cock insatiably.
Every pull of Jongseob’s mouth, every swirl of his tongue on his blushed tip was drawing Soul closer to the edge. The sacred and the profane swirled together in his mind - the scent of wax and old wood, the kaleidoscope of saints watching from the windows, and the utterly decadent feel of a mouth on him, here, in God’s house. He was muttering pieces of liturgy, broken psalms, between gasps.
Jongseob hummed around him, the vibration shooting straight to Soul’s core, and his hands came up to grip Soul’s hips, holding him steady as the pace quickened. Soul’s petting grew more desperate, his breaths coming in short, sharp whimpers.
“I’m.. I’m gonna…” he choked out, a final warning that was half-sob.
Jongseob only took him deeper, his cheeks hollowing in a desperate attempt to taste any more of Soul’s cock. That was all it took. Soul cried out, a raw, visecral sound that echoed loudly in the vaulted silence, as he spilled into the others mouth. Jongseob stayed with him through every pulse, swallowing gently, until Soul was spent, shuddering and limp against the altar.
Slowly, Jongseob pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a satisfied, dark smile playing on his lips. He looked up at Soul, who was breathing heavily, eyes wide with shock and satiation.
“Thy kingdom come,” Jongseob finished softly, laughing at his own joke, his voice rough and scratchy, completing the prayer Soul had long abandoned. He rested his cheek against Soul’s thigh, his breath warm on sensitive skin. “Was I good?”
Soul’s hand trembled as it drifted from Jongseob’s hair to his cheek. The blonde strands were soft, like spun silk, and he stroked them gently, his touch reverent. Jongseob’s eyes, dark and liquid, watched him, waiting.
“Yes,” Soul whispered, his voice hoarse as he nodded desperately.
A slow, pleased smile spread across Jongseob’s lips. He rose from his knees, his movements graceful even as he stood. Soul’s hand remained on his cheek, and Jongseob leaned into it, closing his eyes briefly before capturing Soul’s mouth in a kiss.
Soul tasted the faint, salty bitterness of himself on Jongseob’s tongue, and it made his stomach flutter with a strange, warm ache. He kissed back, clumsily but earnestly, letting Jongseob lead.
When they broke apart, Jongseob’s hands settled on Soul’s hips again, his thumbs rubbing circles over the thin fabric of the alb.
“Can you…” Jongseob murmured, his voice still low. “Fuck me. Please.”
Soul blinked, the words hitting him like a punch to the face. The warmth that had been pooling in his belly turned cold, replaced by a sharp spike of anxiety. His gaze flickered involuntarily upward to the great crucifix suspended above them, the carved figure of Christ gazing down with endless, silent sorrow.
“Here?” Soul breathed, his voice cracking. “On the altar?”
He couldn’t. The idea was too frightening, too blasphemous. The marble was cold beneath his thighs, a reminder of the sanctity of this place. To do such a thing, on this very stone where but a few hours ago he'd received the body of Christ… it felt like a line he couldn’t cross.
Jongseob watched the fear bloom in Soul’s eyes. His own expression softened, the predatory edge melting away into something tender, understanding. He cupped Soul’s face, forcing him to look away from the crucifix and back into his own eyes.
“We don't have to do it here,” Jongseob said softly. “We can go to the back. The little room where we keep the old linens.” He leaned in, his breath warm against Soul’s ear. “It’s private. No one will see.”
Soul swallowed, his heart still pounding. “But… it’s still the church,” he argued weakly.
Jongseob’s thumb stroked along Soul’s jawline. “It’s just a room, kitty. A room with a door we can close.” He kissed Soul’s temple, a gentle, reassuring press. “I want you. I want to feel you. But I don’t want you to be scared.” He paused, his eyes searching Soul’s. “Do you want me?”
He looked at Jongseob, at his beautiful, frighteningly dark eyes, at his lips still swollen from their kiss, at the elegant curve of his neck where his robe had fallen open.
“Yes,” Soul said, more firmly this time. “I want you.”
Jongseob smiled, so bright that it lit up his face. “Then come with me.”
He took Soul’s hand, his grip firm. They stepped away from the altar, leaving the cold marble behind. Soul followed, his legs still shaky as Jongseob led him through the shadowy nave, past the silent pews, to a small, unassuming door tucked beside the baptismal font.
Inside, it was exactly as Jongseob had described: a narrow storage room, crowded with shelves of folded altar cloths, spare candles, and boxes of incense. The air was dusty and still. The only light came from a single, small window high up, casting a weak, greyish glow.
Jongseob closed the door behind them, and the world outside vanished. Here, it was just them. He turned to Soul, his expression open and encouraging.
“It’s okay,” Jongseob whispered, reaching for Soul’s hands. “It’s just us now.”
Soul nodded, letting Jongseob pull him closer. The fear was still there, an abundance of verses and sermons and lectures rushing through his mind, but it was overshadowed by a rising tide of need. Jongseob kissed him again, a slow, deep kiss that felt like a promise. Then he began to undress himself, letting his cassock fall open, revealing the smooth, pale skin of his chest and shoulders.
Soul watched, mesmerized, more entranced then when he read the Word of God. Jongseob guided him to a stack of folded linen cloths, and gently pushed him to sit. Then Jongseob knelt before him again, and looked up at Soul, his eyes luminous in the dim light.
“Make me ready for you,” he said softly.
Soul’s hands were steadier now. He found the small bottle of holy oil, and silently prayed for forgiveness. Soul slicked his fingers and reached for Jongseob, touching him with a reverence that felt holy in its own way. Jongseob sighed, leaning into the touch, his head falling back as Soul worked him open with careful, scissoring motions.
“You’re so beautiful,” Soul murmured, the words coming unbidden. He’d never said such things aloud.
Jongseob smiled, though it felt like it was as fragile as glass. and he could burst into tears at any time. "Only for you,” he breathed.
Soul took Jongseob at his word, his fingers slipping into the oil-slick heat of him gently. He explored, curious, feeling the tight clench and release around each digit, the arch of Jongseob’s back as he sought out more. Their breaths mingled, Jongseob’s soft sighs and whines contrasting Soul’s quiet, intent focus.
It was foreign, the power Soul felt in his hands, to bring Jongseob this kind of pleasure. He watched the expressions cross Jongseob’s face, the way his lips parted, the creases that formed between his brows.
Soul drew back, his fingers slick and his heart aching with need. “I want—” he started, the words barely audible, and then swallowed them down. He didn’t know how to finish the sentence, how to articulate the desire that felt like a wild flame in his belly. He wanted to fuck Jongseob with Jesus watching. He wanted the fragments of color which the stained glass windows created to paint them as they kissed each other. He wanted God to witness their love.
Jongseob, though, seemed to understand. He rose to his feet, and stepped back into the main hall with Soul. From amidst the hanging vestments, Jongseob gathered ropes of woven silk, the ones their priest used as his cincture. Their rich colors of burgundy and scarlet and gold were a stark contrast to the drab linen they had left behind. “Tie me,” he said, offering them to Soul.
Soul took them, his heart pounding, and nodded toward the altar. Back in the cathedral’s light, Jongseob spread himself across the cold marble, his pale form a striking contrast against the surface. Soul bound him there, ritualistic in his movements, the ropes crossing over his chest, his thighs spread wide, exposed. Jongseob tilted his head back, exposing the column of his throat, and Soul felt his breath hitch.
He approached Jongseob from behind, his hands tracing the curves of Jongseob’s back, lingering on the sharp jut of his spine. With Jongseob already slick from the oil, Soul aligned himself and pushed in, a slow, inexorable slide into heat and tightness. The sensation was overwhelming, Jongseob hot and clenching around him, drawing him deeper with each thrust.
Jongseob’s fingers found purchase in the altar cloth, his knuckles white as he gripped it. Soul covered his body with his own, his mouth finding the shell of Jongseob’s ear. “Look at Him,” he breathed.
Obediently, Jongseob moved his gaze to the figure above them, making Soul's cock twitch. The painted Jesus with his arms outstretched in embrace or benediction. The faded blue of His robes matched the sky beyond the stained glass windows. Soul’s thrusts quickened, a now frenzied rhythm that matched the scattered beat of his heart. He could see the desire mirrored in Jongseob’s gaze, their eyes meeting across the short distance between their faces.
The marble altar vibrated with the force of Soul's thrusts, the echoes of their union mingling with the stillness of the cathedral. Jongseob’s moans rose into the vaulted ceiling, a sacred offering to the sculpture of Christ whose gaze seemed to soften, to bless. When Soul finally spilled into him, a hot rush of release that made Jongseob’s whole body shudder, they collapsed together onto the cold stone, ropes still binding, skin slick with sweat and sanctified oil.
As they lay tangled on the altar, the ropes still cinching Jongseob's wrists and ankles, Soul pulled away just enough to gaze down at the mess they'd made. White, thick ropes of his release glistened on Jongseob's stomach, some dripping down the curve of his hip and pooling on the stark marble. Soul traced a finger through it slowly, smearing it across Jongseob's waist.
Soul whispered, his voice hoarse from exertion. "Clean it up. Please.”
Jongseob's eyes, flicked from Soul's face to the mess on his own body, slightly surprised Soul would like such a thing. However, without much hesitation, he lowered his head, his lips parting. He began to lick, slow strokes of his tongue, starting from the top of the altar and moving downward. Each lick was unhurried, sensual. He swallowed what he gathered, his throat working visibly. Soul watched, mesmerized, as Jongseob's tongue lapped at the cum on his thighs, sucking gently to draw more into his mouth.
When most was gone, Jongseob looked up, his mouth wet, his lips shiny. "All of it?" he asked, voice quiet.
Soul nodded.
Jongseob shifted, twisting to reach where Soul's release had dripped onto the altar cloth itself. He pressed his mouth to the linen, sucking the fabric to draw the last remnants into his mouth. When he finished, he sat back, licking his lips clean, a faint, satisfied smile on his face.
"Good," Soul murmured, leaning down to kiss him, tasting himself on Jongseob's tongue, salt and sin and surrender and for the first time in this church, safety.
Soul untied him slowly, fingers tender on the knots. Freed, Jongseob turned and kissed him, deep and languid, tasting the salt of exertion and something like devotion on Soul’s tongue. “More, please” Jongseob whispered, breathless between kisses. “Take me somewhere else Soul.”
Soul’s eyes flickered toward the row of confessional booths along the northern wall, dark oak, carved with angels and demons in eternal struggle. He led Jongseob there, hand guiding him by the hip. Inside the narrow space, the air was intertwined with the scent of old wood and penitent whispers. Soul pressed Jongseob against the lattice screen, kissing him again, biting his lower lip, swallowing his gasp.
Then Soul reached for the Bible left on the small shelf, a worn, leather-bound volume open to the Psalms. He flicked to Romans 1:27, the sound of a sharp rip of paper stark in the quiet. “Open up,” he asked gently. Jongseob obeyed, letting Soul place the parchment across his tongue, the ink-smudged verses against his palate. Soul kissed him over the gag, teeth grazing the paper, a blasphemous tenderness.
He entered Jongseob again, this angle deeper, letting him to hit his prostate easier, the confined space forcing their bodies into a fevered compact. Jongseob’s hands braced against the screen; his muffled cries vibrated through the Bible page. Soul fucked him with a possessive rhythm, one hand gripping Jongseob’s hair, the other caressing his cheek. They kissed between thrusts, Soul removing the paper only to replace it after, each time with a different page; A few pages from Song of Songs, then Leviticus, then Soul’s favourite, 1 Samuel 18. The words became pulp in Jongseob’s mouth, holy text turned to sacrament of their sin.
After, when Jongseob could barely stand, Soul drew him out of the confessional and onto the pews. They lay together in the crimson glow of sunset through stained glass, kissing lazily, Soul licking the ink from Jongseob’s lips. “You taste like paper,” Soul laughed, and Jongseob giggled, soft and exhausted.
They cleaned each other with linens for the altar, wiping away sweat and oil and cum. Soul brought a censer from the altar, lit the incense within: myrrh and frankincense, and swung it gently around them. The smoke curled, purifying the air, weaving the scent of sex into something softer.
The incense smoke settled around them like a soft aura, it's pinkish hue like a halo above their heads. Soul’s hands trailed over Jongseob’s body, cleaning him with linen, wiping away the last traces of ink and sweat from the small creases of his skin. Jongseob did the same, his touch tender as he ran the cloth over Soul’s shoulders, down the curve of his spine. They kissed lazily between strokes, swapping the taste of each other’s skin.
Soul stood in the dying light, and walked to the baptismal font at the side of the altar. He dipped his hands into the holy water, cool and clear. “Come here,” he murmured.
Jongseob padded over, and Soul cupped water in his palms, letting it trickle over Jongseob’s chest, his stomach, between his legs. Jongseob shivered, but it felt cleansing, like a baptism.
But could the stain of this sin ever be cleared?
Soul used the linen again, now wet with the holy water, to wipe Jongseob down until he shone. Jongseob took the cloth and did the same for Soul, his movements slow, reverent.
Back on the pews, they lay again, the heavy embroidered cope wrapped around them. Jongseob nuzzled into Soul’s neck. “Kitty,” he whispered, playful.
Soul chuckled, but his eyes were distant. The laughter faded, and a shadow crossed his face. Jongseob noticed, leaning up to look at him. “What’s wrong?”
Soul didn’t answer at first. He stared up at the scultpure of Christ, the figure’s arms still outstretched in benediction or condemnation, Soul couldn’t tell anymore. His breath hitched, and a tear slipped from the corner of his eye, trailing down his cheek.
“I’m so scared,” Soul admitted, voice barely a whisper. “Scared that...after all this, after what we did...He’ll send me to Hell. That I’ve damned myself. Damned you.”
Another tear fell. Jongseob watched him, heart aching. He didn’ speak; he just leaned in and kissed Soul’s tear away, soft lips against wet skin. Then he kissed Soul’s mouth, gentle, pouring all the reassurance he didn’t have words for into the touch.
“You won’t go to Hell, you're a good person’” Jongseob murmured against his lips. “And if you do, I’ll be there with you. We’ll be damned together. It's ok.”
Soul shook, a sob breaking free. Jongseob wrapped him tighter in the cope, rocking him slightly. He kissed Soul’s forehead, his eyelids, the corner of his jaw. “Kitty,” he whispered again. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
Jongseob watched the last light of sunset fade through the stained glass, the colors dissolving into night. Soul lay against Jongseob, his breathing ragged and wet, the echo of his own damning words still ringing in his ears. He felt digusting. He felt like he'd dragged something bright and pure down into the mud with him.
Jongseob didn't argue any more. Instead, he pulled Soul closer, and began to sing, almost like a lullaby.
Dies irae, dies illa,
Solvet saecum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sibylla…
(Day of wrath, that day,
Will dissolve the world in ashes,
As David and the Sibyl bear witness…)
The sound of it filled the cathedral’s, a darkly beautiful flood of meaning. It was the hymn sung to usher souls into the afterlife, to acknowledge the final, terrible judgment waiting for all.
He was singing them into Hell.
But his hands were gentle. He stroked Soul’s hair, cradling him. He kissed the top of Soul’s head as he sang the lines weeping of the final trumpet summoning souls before the throne. He sang about the book of sins being brought forth, the guilty soul trembling as judgment approached. He sang about praying for mercy even as the judge descended.
Soul felt the jagged edges of his terror smooth out. By the time Jongseob’s voice faded on the final plea: “Sed libera me, Domine” (But free me, Lord), Soul was asleep. He had cried himself into exhausation the anger and fear had been sung over and into something else. He slept curled against Jongseob’s chest, the words of judgment and doom echoing in his dreams, not as a threat, but as a hymn of their love.
Jongseob held him, planting kisses wherever he could, listening to the silence that followed the chant, and whispered, “‘Libera me.’ Maybe He won’t. Maybe we’re already free.”