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The Bishop stood over him in his grand black cassock, red-sashed and formal. And Christopher opened his mouth and let the two slender fingers slide a little too far across his trembling tongue, to lay the wafer upon it.
All he could do was stare in awe, at that heavenly face built to serve their Lord, handsome and worn by time, his pale colourless eyes peering into the young priest’s very soul.
Chris felt the first dribble of saliva run down to his chin before the bishop slid his fingers from his mouth and allowed him to swallow. Then to open it again as Bishop Wesker brought the small cup of wine to his lips and allowed him to drink from it. The blood of Christ, warming and sickly in its headiness, crawling down his throat like glue, little bronze cup still cold on his lip.
It was his first time since he had joined the order and sworn his oaths that he had met the Bishop of his diocese; who had come to observe the church for a few days as he made his usual rounds. And all of those horrific, guilty things Christopher had sworn to put aside upon taking the cloth threatened to spill back up his throat like crimson-wine vomit at the sheer prospect of a man as handsome as sin being the one to hand-feed him his communion.
Hardly the traditional method. But who was he to argue, when nobody ever dared question the word of Bishop Wesker, the most devout and holy of the entire diocese. And who was he to argue, on his knees with the man’s fingers in his mouth, drooling for them to slide in deeper, deeper, and fuck his throat wine-raw.
Bishop Wesker gave him a little smile as he took the cup away. Thin, fatherly, although he lacked even the flicker of the candlelight in his eyes. Chris daren’t look away. A distinctly uncomfortable feeling that his holiness was crawling through the eye of his mind and finding great humour in his sinful thoughts. The very thing he had sought to stop, the very thing that had already brought him so much trouble. It had followed him here like a flesh-eating promise.
It was something he was too afraid to even bring to confession.
“Careful, Father Redfield, you’re spilling it.” His voice was calm and orderly, aged like the beaten pages of the church’s oldest Bible, imbued in the incense smoked ancient wood and stone, leathery and light from decades of his devotion.
Chris hadn’t even realised his lips were still parted, wine dripping down his chin onto his black cassock until the Bishop had spoken. And he quickly shut his lips and swallowed properly, hurriedly wiping the wine from his chin as the humiliation burned on his face and on his neck, and he could feel the curious eyes of those also in line for communion trying to see why the new and so-far faultless Father had been so gently reprimanded.
The Bishop moved on, and Chris was left to swallow his shame, the taste of the Son’s blood, and that lingering paperiness of his holiness’ fingertips from where they had dragged back across his tongue, and given him that taste he had so been craving.
Mass concluded, and Bishop Wesker had been the one to corner him, and request for them to take a brief walk in the church gardens together.
A wet Spring morning had led into an overcast afternoon. Lush and green, wet grasses and blossoming trees in pink and white dripped in the flashes of sun when it came. From over the hedge came the yelling of children out playing on the field adjacent to the holy building, but the garden was theirs alone as they walked.
“You wanted to talk to me about something, your excellency?” He asked a little nervously, hands folded in front of himself as he did his best to shoot consistent, respectful glances up at the man keeping his pace. “I apologise for the mess I made at Mass, I—"
“It’s quite alright,” Wesker intercepted gently, “the eucharist can be overwhelming in its sanctity. Your brethren perhaps ought to feel jealous they could not feel as enlightened as yourself.”
Chris felt an uncomfortable surge in his gut at that.
“You are one of the newest of the order in this diocese, Father Redfield, I only meant to check on how you are settling in. It can be difficult for men of your age who converted to the faith quite so late in his life to truly feel at home in an ecclesiastical role.” He gave Chris a knowing, thin smile again. One that made the younger priest’s entire body ache.
“I haven’t had any problems in my role,” he said honestly, “it has given me peace of mind to find myself so useful to our Lord.” He daren’t look up as he continued; “I led a sinful life before I found my faith, and though I was baptised and confessed, sometimes I still feel I must atone.”
The Bishop gave a nod of sincere, grey acknowledgement. “Self-flagellation will only get one so far,” he mused, stopping them under a cloister as the heavens began to drip again, light and dewy. “God made you perfect, Father Redfield, therefore it is not your task to change what he made you. Not entirely. Being, is one thing, it is our actions that are judged.” He looked down again at the young man in his black cassock, brown eyes nervous and barely able to keep contact.
“You haven’t done anything to break your vows, have you, Father Redfield?”
“No, your grace,” he said quickly, a little relieved maybe. For all the thoughts that had seemingly only gotten worse in the past few months of his service, he could at least honestly state he had not acted on a single one of them. He had kept his vows for now. And how proud he was to admit it to his grace in that noonday garden.
He watched Bishop Wesker’s beautiful, gaunt hand raise itself to adjust the crucifix hanging from his throat, his episcopal ring gold and glinting in the sparce Spring sunlight through the dappled rainclouds.
How very much he wished to kneel and kiss it, and put his lips to his excellency’s beautiful hand and allow it to grasp his throat, or slide beneath his collar and tug him closer to him. Until his face was buried in the older man’s robes, face ever so close to what was tucked away out of sight, out of mind. Unused, truly the most devout part of a man’s body. What he would do to receive the blessing of his excellency’s pure body, and be the first and only to lay his devotion and tongue to it.
“Father, are you feeling quite alright?”
Chris blinked back to reality. “Yes, your grace, just a little tired. I was preparing a sermon for tomorrow last night and forgot the time.”
“I see. I suppose your sacrifice was in good faith,” the Bishop chuckled, “I must be keeping you from your duties this afternoon, Father Redfield.”
“I am to receive confessions today,” he said sheepishly, “but there is rarely a queue, we’re a quiet village. I am grateful to have the opportunity to talk with you, your grace.”
Bishop Wesker observed him for a moment, and then smiled again, looking sage and grey. It was perhaps the greatest test God had ever sent Chris, within his past six years of training. When here of all the places in this world – a small village church – would bring to him a man he might’ve given great chase to as a teenager in love. And in that moment the priest had to look away, loosening the collar around his throat as he began to feel the heat.
Those nights of tumbling around in beds in the dark with another man were long behind him now. And somehow it was impossible to undress Bishop Wesker, in his smart cassock. To think there might be pale skin beneath, and a penis, seemed sacrilegious at best.
The rain had begun again by the time they had walked the cloisters back to the main vault, and the Bishop had been quickly commandeered away by Father Branaugh to attend to some ecumenical matters.
For that long afternoon, Chris sat in the confession booth. A tight, dark little space. All perfumed with old incense and lacquered wood, with only the intricately patterned golden grate masking the confessor to the holy man. In the dark he could close his eyes and listen as somebody entered the booth and murmured their confession, before offering them advice and prayers and setting to rest anxieties.
It was one of the few tasks he had come to enjoy. The peace, and the knowledge he was in some way perhaps helping people by merely lending an ear. It made him remember his own confessions before he entered the Church as a true disciple. Weeping his sins; of his sexual depravities and feeling so lost in a world he had not been prepared to respect.
Very few people came to confess that afternoon. And he sat in his booth, eyes closed, listening to the Spring rain on the church stained glass out in the main vault, and the occasional tap of footsteps on the ancient stone. Someone to light a candle or whisper a prayer amongst the pews. He could smell incense. Seeping, smoky and heady like communion wine in the air and into the booth.
He had almost dropped off when the confessor’s booth door opened, and somebody climbed inside. The rustle of clothes in the dark as they prepared themselves upon the seat.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” The stranger murmured through the grate.
And in an instant Chris felt his hairs stand on end as he recognised the soft parchment voice of the Bishop. Silk, smooth, well-thumbed by time and wisdom and charity. It had his heart thud uncomfortably hard in his chest in his moment of excitement, trapped in such an intimate space with the only man he’d eagerly break his vows for.
“It is four months since my last confession. I admit, I often overlook my minor sins, and feel little need to seek counsel from one of my Order. However, the past few days have forced me to confront a new temptation.”
The Bishop sighed, warm and flickering like a candle. Chris closed his eyes, grasping onto every single word he spoke, willing his heart to slow its pace.
“Since coming to view this diocese, I have met somebody quite interesting. In all my years serving our Lord, not once have I had my head turned, and yet…”
Chris opened his eyes and stared into the gloom, feeling his heartbeat seemingly pulse now in his eyeballs.
The Bishop sighed again. Longing, wistful.
“One of the Fathers is so to my taste I have not been able to control my sinful thoughts.”
Chris swallowed thickly, feeling his palms start to sweat. “In what manner… have you sinned with your thoughts?” He asked, sounding hoarse and tentative. It was dangerous territory, discussing something of this nature with a man so holy. And knowing it may very well be about himself.
There was a shifting sound, as if the Bishop had moved in closer to the grate before he spoke.
“About his face,” came the whisper, smooth and seeping, “and how jealous I felt to remember he could only serve our Lord, and never me with it. How I imagined how long it’d take me to slip my hands beneath his robes and touch the flesh beneath, how many kisses it’d take from his lips to his throat, and how many more down his youthful skin until I had a taste of his manhood.”
The young priest could say nothing. The inescapable image of being stripped and fingered and kissed by the bishop all down his body was too much after six years without even allowing to touch himself.
“At confession today, I was overcome by the urge to slide my fingers down his willing throat, just to see the tears pool in his eyes as he swallowed me so gratefully. So sweetly. And fuck it as he gurgled out the Lord’s prayer in my name.”
Chris’ fingers were winding into his cassock now. Bishop Wesker’s voice seemed to inject itself into his skin, crawling beneath it in little erotic pulses, electrifying every inch until the very clothes he wore seemed sensual in how they clung to him, and shifted against him.
Don’t. He warned himself. Temptation crawling down to between his legs. Trying desperately not to remember the way the holiness’ fingers had tasted in his mouth, how smooth and slender and long.
“I confess further, Father, that I have been plagued with visions of sodomy ever since I laid my eyes upon him, two nights ago. And have dreamed since only of laying him out upon the altar and spreading his legs to receive me; he has the look of a reformed whore, and the gentle beauty of a sodomite, and yet…” the Bishop chuckled, bemused and darkening in his tongue-rolling fantasies. “I never thought myself to be one quite like him. But as I sit here now in the dark and picture his face, I can think only of putting my cock to his hungry lips, or entering him as one does a woman, and blessing him with what it is he clearly craves.”
There was a long silence which followed. Chris clutching at his cassock, regulating his breaths as he tried in vain to ignore the swelling at his groin, and the longing ache of his untouched penis begging for a touch.
“Six years is such a long time, Father,” the whisper was so sharp that Chris jumped, and could’ve sworn in that moment to have seen two red glints through the grate. “Six years…” a drawl now, leather and illuminated manuscript, “I can smell your arousal, Father Redfield. Did you really dampen your underwear just from my confession?” A lurid tease, an edge of cruel humour to it. “Perhaps…” he whispered, “you are imagining it is my hand which strokes it now. Fondling you in the dark. But your hand cannot truly be enough, hm?”
Chris lifted his crucifix to his lips, biting it to hide his hitch in breath as he let his palm glide over the bulge in his robes. And almost let loose a weak moan just from the ghost of a hand brushing his penis, now so hard he could no longer turn his head away. How his entire body seemed to vibrate, and his groin beat like his heart. Anxious for pleasure. Denied for so long.
“I’d let you keep my ring on your tongue as I touched you, no need for it to hurt,” the Bishop murmured, head leaning now against the grate, so close Chris could almost see the pale skin of his cheek, and smell the incense on his clothes. “I confess, I have never spilled my seed in all my time serving the Lord. I grow weary of abstinence, I grow lustful of youth, and embittered that men so young and beautiful have chosen such a path. One in which I cannot touch them.”
The young priest was rubbing himself now through his clothes, trying to keep it quiet as he drank in Wesker’s voice. Craving so intensely for the touch of another, he could almost feel it in the dark, a second hand stroking his penis in careful, teasing pumps. A cold, slender hand. He let a soft moan slip, and could almost hear the resultant smile on the Bishop’s shielded face.
“Tell me, Father, do you fear damnation?”
“Yes,” he gasped, “yes… your grace.”
“You are a good boy, Christopher,” the Bishop soothed, “but you have tempted, and you have made me sin. And now I seek no prayer of absolution from you…”
Chris could feel the shame burning his face, but he couldn’t stop himself. Biting back his little gasps of need, as the invisible hand caressed his cock and fondled him in the velvety black, hypnotised by a voice inescapable in his cell. His legs were trembling, and he knew he should stop, that it was a great shame to pour his filth into his holy garb.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered back, clutching at his cock and falling forward a little with a throated groan, catching himself before an unfortunate release. “I’m sorry, I had no idea…”
The Bishop chuckled. “Oh, Father. I am willing to absolve you, and myself, in the eyes of our Lord. Enacting on our sins under his eye, and together we can beg for our forgiveness. A little frustration is all. Should we absolve that issue, and remind ourselves of pleasure, and why we choose to forsake it. Then we might be set free from desire.”
“Yes…” Chris breathed, flustered and finding it difficult to focus as his brain swam and his cock pulsed angrily beneath his still fingers. “A reminder, w-we could pray on it together, your grace. Your guidance… I would appreciate it.” He swallowed, eyes closed, feeling his shame wet the fabric under his palm. “I have sinned, too.”
“We are all sinners, seeking God’s love,” Bishop Wesker spoke. And this time it was kind, forgiving, and Chris slumped back in the booth as he massaged his penis again lightly. A soft moan, stifled by his tongue at his teeth.
“Father,” the Bishop coaxed, “you may not waste your seed in an act of self-pleasure. The Catholic Church is most unfavourable of seed wasted outside of procreation.”
“Y-yeah…” Chris muttered, readjusting his hips. “It’s been so long… I confess, my lord, I want it so bad, sometimes.” It was a confession he had to whisper, ashamed, uncouth. Something he had prayed he’d never need to confront.
“I know, my poor boy. You have chosen a difficult and sacrificial route for somebody so young,” the Bishop murmured, “but by all means, come to the inner chapel tonight, once the bell strikes midnight. And together we shall seek our absolution.”
Chris removed his hands from his cock with a desperate little sigh. He had been so close, and yet the pain of leaving it to throb felt so sweet, a rightful punishment for what he had dared to do in God’s own church.
“I shall, your grace. I am thankful for your guidance.”
“Amen,” the Bishop whispered.
And again, Chris caught what he thought to be a red glint through the grate, before Wesker exited the booth and left only his incense and spellbinding voice to linger and taunt the young priest until his duties completed.
*
The inner chapel was dead still at this hour.
As if he had stepped into a dream, Christopher descended the three stone steps down into the sanctum lit up on all sides by hundreds and hundreds of white dripping candles in the alcoves. The soft glow flickering and dancing like flames at the edges of the room.
Down here, below the Earth. Where the Church smelled of faint earthy rot beneath the frankincense and myrrh.
For a moment Chris hesitated on the bottom step. He had been drawn here from his bed after hours of restlessness, listening to the other priest in his room sleep the night away, whilst the heat pooled between his legs and throbbed for the very thought of his Bishop. As if tugged by some invisible string to his throat, to the white collar of his cassock he had dressed himself in again before coming to meet the Bishop.
At the end of the chapel, up at the altar, the Bishop faced away from him. Perhaps admiring the ornate crucifix hung upon the wall. At the mellow sorrow carved into the Son’s face as he bled for humanity, and did not blame them for what they did.
Chris could still remember crying as a child when he had first been told the story. And even now as a grown man some childish part of him wished so desperately to be able to offer a sacrifice so meaningful, for so many. And be so loved.
“Father Redfield,” Bishop Wesker murmured, voice low and reverberating in the small sanctum, “come, kneel. Let us not waste our time.” He did not turn around. But lifted his head, as if hearing Chris’ trepidation to step down onto the cracked and dusty flagstones. “Are you afraid?”
The priest shook his head – although the Bishop could not see – and stepped down in a haze. The candles swum in the edges of his vision, and the long shadow cast by the Bishop at the altar seemed to wrap about his ankles and pull him down the aisle toward him. Slow, careful, heart beating sluggish in his chest.
It was as if he’d stepped into another world. And only he and Wesker and the resultant shadows existed here.
He knelt down once he reached the altar, and looked up feeling white-faced and wan. And when the Bishop turned and gave him his grey, sage smile, and offered out his elegant, skeletal hand gleaming with its episcopal ring, Chris leaned in and planted his lips to it without a single thought.
Cold gold against his lips, he held it there, panting almost, his hands reaching up to blindly clasp at Wesker’s cold hand and hold it as he sucked on the ring and gazed up deep in his hypnosis to the face of his absolution.
“Sin,” began the Bishop, soft and dark, “it is our greatest enemy in this world. And it is only our fear of damnation which keeps us from indulgence.” He brought his fingertips to Chris’ lips now, and let them slide between their eager partition to stroke his quivering tongue all the way to his uvula. “But I believe it is dangerous not to exercise little sins now and again.”
Chris attempted to ask what he meant by this. It was hardly the teachings of the regular Catholic Church. But as he made an effort to speak, he gagged as Wesker’s fingertips slipped down his throat and stroked it, fingerfucking it gently enough the priest could only gag and whimper as he clutched at his Bishop’s robes.
“God made you perfect, Father, in his image,” Wesker smiled, affectionate and still somewhat frighteningly icy. The way his smiles never quite reached his eyes. And in this candlelit vault the light danced in them like hellfire. “And God designed our bodies for pleasure. It is our task to resist it. To leave such things to those not vowed to the church.”
His fingers still worked in and out of Chris’ throat, fucking the sounds from him as thin lines of drool escaped the young priest’s mouth. His hellish eyes watching in satisfied glory as tears of strain beaded in his disciple’s eyelashes.
“But we are all God’s men. And what a great sin it is to want, and be wanted,” he breathed, drawing his fingers out from Chris’ throat, webbed with his saliva, glistening in the golden light. “But we want, and we are wanted, as God made it so. And who are we to deny his will?”
“Your grace…” Chris began weakly, only to be silenced as the Bishop slipped the ring from his finger, and placed it upon his tongue like a communion wafer. Cold, heavy, a taste of flesh. Chris could feel the saliva running down his chin as he kept his lips parted, and was dragged in closer by Wesker’s fingers as they curled about his collar, and had him kneel right between his knees.
“You brought us into temptation, Father, take your responsibilities, and we shall delight the divine and become one.”
Chris didn’t need to be told. His trembling hands were already sliding up underneath Wesker’s cassock, lifting it above his head as he put his head between the man’s pale legs. And the scent of manliness washed over him. One of which he had not known in so long now it brought a groan of mournful lust to his throat, saliva dripping to the flagstones as his cock twitched in response. In the darkness he sought it, put his face to it, and felt its softness with his cheek and nose and wet lips.
“I would rather you not swallow my ring, Christopher,” the Bishop spoke from the black above, his hand caressing Chris’ head through the fabric as he guided him to his half-soft cock. “Tuck it under your tongue, and take me into you. My chastity is as good as yours.”
Another weak moan, hungry, scared. Ashamed he of all people thought he had the right to drink the chaste and holy and untouched from his grace. And still he did as instructed, and fumbled in the darkness to let the soft appendage into his mouth and suck it like a starving man, his fingers eagerly searching for the Bishop’s balls, feeling their frightening fullness, feeling years of potent, holy seed. And he sucked his cock as if he wished for his baptism to be of it.
Taking it deep, into his throat, drinking in deep breaths of Wesker’s musk as if it were frankincense. His cock throbbing and burning in his gullet, bruising his palette, the back of his throat, sloppy as he worked. It had been so long.
“That’s enough,” the Bishop murmured after he’d allowed Chris to work his cock until the younger was pulling away to lap at his scrotum and suck the delicate skin. “Up, Christopher.”
Chris emerged from beneath the Bishop’s robes and stood before him. Drunk on his body. And lost all his thoughts as Wesker’s marble hands cupped his face and held him as he leaned down to kiss him. Tongue, snake-like and long, it licked about Chris’ mouth and down his throat as Chris fisted into his Bishop’s robes for support. He was panting into the kiss, lifting his tongue, until Wesker had found his ring and drew it out on the tip of his own tongue and spat it into his palm.
A wry look of pleasure on his handsome, aged face.
“It’s almost a shame you did not swallow it,” he chuckled, “now what reason have I to search through your innards, Father?”
“Your grace…” Chris whispered, flush and erect and quivering, forced to watch as Wesker slowly reapplied his ring. His own hand went to his groin and grasped the shaft of his cock through his cassock, gasping softly at his own sensitivity. “N-not here,” he said suddenly, spell momentarily snapped back to reality as he caught sight of Jesus on the Cross, and remembered there they were under the eyes of God. And that he had just fellated another man on his knees before him.
Wesker’s hands were on his shoulders now, one gliding to his throat, and slipping a forefinger beneath his collar to once again pull him in close.
“It’s too late for that now, Father. Far, far too late,” his voice was sharper now, colder, and Chris felt his heart seize in sudden realisation it was no longer a matter of choice. Or sin. And his grace meant to sodomise him beneath Christ’s eyes.
And yet when he tried to step away, the Bishop’s hand gripped his throat tight and forced a weak whimper from him as the tension quivered through his body right down to his penis.
“Lie upon the altar, Father, and we shall seek absolution from God. Do not keep me waiting any longer, I have ached deep within from the minute I first saw your sodomite face.”
“I’m sorry, your grace,” the young priest whispered, half strangled by the hand still clasped tight to his throat. Ashamed that after all he had done in his attempt to leave his past behind him, he had brought so much shame to himself and his Bishop. When he was released from Wesker’s grip he stumbled to the altar, legs weak, and lifted himself awkwardly up onto it.
Wesker moved in between his legs, gripping Chris’ thighs through his robes as he looked down upon him – at this angle, his face cast in long, odd shadows. Although the fire still razed on within the blackness of his eyes.
“Lie back, Father, and make your prayers.”
Christopher laid his spine out flat against the marble and weakly clasped his hands together, whimpering out the first few words of Latin prayer he could cling to as he stared up at the vault’s painted ceiling of saints and angels, and felt those cold fingers sliding up beneath his robes and pushing them to his hips.
“S-sancte Michael, defende no-nos in proelio…” he whispered to himself, clasping onto the words as the world flickered about him like the flames of hell, and he was aware of his Bishop climbing up onto the altar, limbs elongated and his face shimmering now like a failing mirage. Claws sunk into his buttocks as his hips were lifted, and he felt the Bishop’s cock hot and curved between his thighs.
“Ut non pereamus-“ he swallowed, reaching for his crucifix and gasping as Bishop Wesker loomed down upon him, so handsome and wide with his smile. “I-in tremendo…” Chris choked out, staring half lost in dream as the Bishop plucked his crucifix and brought it to his smiling lips, and it crumbled away to dust between his fingers.
“Iudicio, Christopher, have the sense to finish your prayers if you mean to beg for my mercy,” the Bishop chuckled. His fingers were sliding now back into Chris’ mouth, and as he bent down, his long strange tongue flickered in alongside and down Chris’ throat as he gasped and trembled in horror.
He was so vaguely, distantly aware of the Bishop’s cock sliding now inside of him. Pushing, hot, bold, blunt, stretching him without even a ghost of pain. It dug deep into his innards, spined and swollen and vividly pulsing as though it were made of thousands of live things crawling beneath one sheath of skin.
Chris kept his fingers entwined, gagging around the tongue and fingers crawling down his throat as he gazed up into the face of his grace. And moaned in pathetic desperation as the pulsating thrusts ground deep within him over and over, as if it lengthened within him, crawling up through his intestines and tearing him open on its spines.
Wesker pulled his tongue and fingers free, and Chris arched his back and gave a sharp cry as the Bishop’s claws dug into his hips and pulled him taut to his ever growing, elongating body. He towered above him now, disproportionate and grotesque in limb, his face suddenly distorted in a snarl as he fucked the priest upon the altar.
“Pater noster, qui es in cælis,” Chris gasped out, ragged and lost, as the flames climbed high about them and he lay as Evil crept through his body.
The Bishop was robeless now, a great pale creature with tangled horns protruding from the long, white hair upon its skull. He was fully sheathed upon it, over and over, protruding bulge of its cock through his slim stomach, and he could only lie back in shock as hot tears of absolute terror ran down his cheeks. He looked up at Jesus upon the Cross. And the Son watched him with that mellow, forgiving pity.
“P-pater…” he sobbed out as he felt his cock leak now against his thigh. Piss or blood or cum he could not tell, and he wept as he clasped his stomach and swallowed Wesker’s tongue as the demon fed it to him once again. He sucked on it desperately, feeding from his saliva, saccharine and sanguine all in one, and wept as he felt talons scrape through his hair in what might’ve been a calming gesture.
All at once he was pulled up upon its great length, and blacked out as he heard himself scream, at the sense of his gut filling with semen that burned like acid within him. And squirmed like insects, maggots, feasting on his innards.
Death he prayed for, a low moan of horror trickling from his lips, please, let me die.
“Father,” Wesker’s leathery, kindly voice, “open your eyes.”
And Chris unpeeled them with a sob, to look into the Bishop’s concerned and handsome face.
All around them the candles had burned low, and Wesker looked as any man should. Refined, elegant, beautiful. His slender hands cupping Chris’ back and head as he held him on his lap. His cock still sheathed within him, and a pleasant warmth spilled beyond.
“It can be an intense experience, after so long,” the Bishop chuckled as Chris flittered his eyes about anxiously, still panting and clutching his stomach as if the maggots still wormed within. “You took it well, Father Redfield, but the demon of lust still clings to you, I see it now. It may take quite a few sessions for us to eliminate it.”
“D-demon?” Chris croaked, shaky hands finding Wesker’s shoulders as he glanced down at his cock. Soft, having spilled down his thigh at some point.
“It must have smelled your sinful thoughts, and fed upon them,” the Bishop murmured, stroking his hair and pulling him in tight. A comforting, gentle embrace. “But we are blessed men, Christopher, and your God has brought you to me to save you from this fate.”
Chris sobbed softly, and hid his face in the Bishop’s robes, shameful and shivering.
“There there, my poor boy, this is why it is so cruel our order allows men so young and troubled into our midst. Your sins manifest and feed upon you, no matter how you pray or confess,” the Bishop continued, soft and papery and safe, “it is no wonder so often boys like you are taken advantage of.”
“T-thank you, your grace,” Chris croaked, pulling away, wet-cheeked and eyes tilted down in his humility. “For your kindness, and your guidance.” He gave a little gasp as Wesker’s hips shifted beneath him, and once again gripped his Bishop’s robes for support. “P-please… I don’t want to be damned,” he whispered, “please, help me.”
The Bishop embraced him again, and he sank into his frankincense and myrrh and leatherbound bibles.
“It would be my duty,” Wesker whispered, although when he spoke, it seemed to be many voices now in one, “now, the Act of Contrition, Christopher, and I shall let you free.”
Chris took a deep and shuddering breath. “Deus meus… ex toto corde pænitet me ómnium meórum peccatórum…” he spoke into the echo of the vault, and watched the shadows play tricks upon the wall in the lowing candlelight. And the Bishop seemed no shape of man at all.
This piece was written in collaboration with my good friend Birdy (@littlebirdycage on twt) who has drawn this in relation to this fic! They have some stunning other works you should check out if you're into chrisker/metaltango/general RE sexiness! I can't get over how GOOD this piece is, I only hope this silly little story has done some justice to our concept! <3
