like a prayer

Oh, he could swallow a Man,

devour him whole, inch by inch.

The curves of his lips, self-assured, are a bloody mess. Stained red to the thorns, softly parted; a martyr. He craves the taste — that blood, oh, how it stings. Oh, how it tastes, sweeter than rotting flesh. All that remains are smeared droplets across the white trim of his heart.

Exposed, heaving.

He sounds —

monstrous, divine,

focused.

He is corruption incarnate, a rotting beast. He ruts like one too.

The dose, this time, is far stronger than the last.

"The gods have forsaken you, sweetling," Xavier barks.

SLAP!

A deep sob catches inside Gaspard's chest. He refuses to bend, refuses to break. It's wrong, so wrong.

"Only I can cure you."

Tears prick the Gaspard's eyes. It's only a sin if he enjoys it—if he climaxes. He'll be good this time. He knows it. Xavier will cure him this time.He shudders and sighs, giving way to pleasure. Just a little. A little bit of pleasure never hurt.

It's not a sin if he doesn't—

SLAP!

Gaspard rocks forward with a yelp, his ass jiggling, and a desperate moan escapes his throat. Shame coarses through him. He buries his head, forgetting himself: here, there's no sweaty flesh to bury into, only the smooth marble of an altar, pressing against his forehead. Cold and uncaring, it still smells faintly of sacramental wine, heavy with sin.

Plap-plap-plap.

He always loves that sound: that sweet hymn of flesh on flesh. The sinful chorus of their private worship rings through the empty cathedral, ricochets against the pews. Moonlight spills into the chapel, a mysterious shade of blue. Gaspard wonders what secrets the moon keeps.

Will she forgive him, when he's finally cured?

"Please," he begs, wanton, even in his hypocrisy. "Forgive me, please—"

Gaspard mewls in spite of it all. He hates this part the most: how needy and pliant he becomes under His touch. He craves more, and more. His heart cascades down towards the soles of his aching feet each time he arches back onto his high heels. They were a gift from Him, a brilliant shade of red, heavier than an anchor at the bottom of the sea.

Xavier shoves him back down. He picks up his pace, each thrust losing rhythm. Only the spires reaching towards the heavens can carry the weight of His desire. He is a man possessed by knowledge, by lust.

He is the only man who can cure him.

"Let me help you," Xavier snaps his hips, desperate. "Gaspard, I'll save you. I promise."

"You will," Gaspard swears, quaking on the precipice of pleasure. He swears he will resist temptation. It's only a sin if he cannot overcome his convictions.

He bends, he breaks.

Oh, he could save a Man,

swallow him whole,

keep him safe-locked,

a tomb in his belly,

one thousand parasites

writhing,

trembling,

struggling

a firm hand squeezes the back of his neck,

softly, so that he—

"Xavier!"

— into the night.

Xavier will save him.

He promises.

Oh, yes!

He promises to save Gaspard from his sickness, cleanse him of his sins and alleviate the heavy burden of desire. Once a sinner, twice a sinner, it needn't matter. Gaspard will expose himself to all the martyrs and heretics, as above, so below, until his desires are forgotten.

He promises to absolve Gaspard of the sins he is wilfully committing. Beneath the watchful eyes of their Saint, their guiding light, Gaspard closes his eyes. His untouched cock strains against the white lace of his underwear.

He promises—

Gaspard casts his mind back one month ago, on a hot summer evening. His curls, usually so full of bounce, were stressed and frizzy. Sweat pooled beneath his armpits, drenching his habit, his arms clammy from the humidity. Fresh tendrils burrowed deep inside his groin, their ink as black as night, corrupting his soul.

Horrified, Gaspard stumbled out of his dorm, racing through the corridors, heels clacking against cobbled stone. He burst through the infirmary doors, lost and afraid, like an orphaned deer.

—he promises salvation.

"It is a sin, Xavier," Gaspard writhed, his arm stinging where the needle pricked his skin. "They would, ah, never allow it" he grunts, "this…this is forbidden."

Xavier's rhythmic ministrations took hold of his tongue.

"Then let us sin behind closed doors," Xavier commands, spreading Gaspard's legs apart. "Or would you rather call it a day, my sweet?"

"N-no, it is only a sin if—" Gaspard mutters. "It's only wrong if—if I enjoy it."

"Then don't," Xavier whispers, pupils blown wide. "It is a sin to partake in carnal pleasure, is it not?"

"Yes," Gaspard nods. Cold fingers, callously unwarmed, pry him open.

Xavier crooks his finger. "Then this is simply medicine, not pleasure"

"Promise me?"

"I promise, my sweet. Within this room, everything is confidential."

"I see," Gaspard mewls.

"I'll be thorough," Xavier says reassuringly. "You'll run a fever in the morning, if you don't relax now."

"Of course."

"Oh, sweet sister," Xavier hisses. He places a mirror between Gaspard's thighs. "Look at you…."

"Can I be cured?" Gaspard swallows thickly.

Xavier examines him carefully. His touch is surgically precise, yet reverent.

Gaspard's mouth falls open, gasping for breath. "I don't—oh! I don't know."

"Oh, you sweet thing," Xavier growls. "Let me wash away your sins."

It's blasphemy!

Xavier tilts the mirror, just so. "Will I find heaven, here?"

"No, no—," Gaspard cries apologetically, "—something broken."

He comes untouched, violently so. With each spasm of pleasure comes a wave of shame. He cries and gasps. The act of betrayal churns within in his gut, rises up his throat.

Fresh bile.

He feels sick, unworthy.

It is a sin to want without permission.

"I'm sorry, Sister, I'm broken," Gaspard heaves. His tears spill onto the altar, washing away their debauchery. "There's s-something broken inside me—"

"—no," Xavier pants, "something holy."