Chapter Text
When Dan Heng sees him approaching, something burns deep in his belly.
Dan Heng is in the middle of the Communion, mercifully providing ‘May the Lord be with you’ as he and the parish share the body and blood of Christ, when a shadow comes from the front doors, just before where Dan Heng stands the podium and where he has a vision of each and every person present today.
It is the last mass, a quiet, chilling evening when leaves still fall dry and the wind dances cold on their skin. The little the door stays open—for the church shall never be closed for those in need, regardless of what occurs outside—is enough to have Dan Heng breathe in the icy air and refresh his lungs, but the temperature is, until then, comfortable; then, he finds it unbearable.
“Blood and body of Christ,” he says, eyes on the newcomer.
“Amen,” the parishioner replies, but Dan Heng could not care less for who they are.
He who enters is hauntingly known for Dan Heng. Like holy scriptures, he sees the molten blood of red eyes and midnight-dark hair and observes it as they would the crucified saviour behind him, beautiful and eerie on the cross. Dan Heng licks his lips and blinks, swallowing dry. No, he cannot think of him when still serving the Lord.
That is how it should always be.
Dan Heng has a holy duty for life, a timeless devotion he cannot fault, an unwavering loyalty and fealty revered in the scriptures.
Never mind how he can feel chills not from the cold but from remembering the hoarseness of words coming out of that man’s mouth behind a latticed, wooden wall; never mind how he can feel eyes of sin on him, his garments being less than nothing for their stare or whatever roams that man’s mind.
Never mind, the same things roam Dan Heng’s. As much as he burns for them, he can never bring himself to admit them. To thrive in a sinner’s confession for him is unbecoming, and he answers the wrongness at night, begging until his knees hurt against the floor. He needs them to hurt, to keep him at bay.
So Dan Heng pretends he is not at the back of the parish, alone in one of the last benches, arm draped over its trailing, head tilted in annoyance, mouth curled in something the priest cannot define. Worst, he knows the man has his legs open to his will, and the other hand is probably tipping on his thigh with bandaged palms and fingers, no doubt ichor-kissed.
Curse Dan Heng for knowing a killer more than his God.
Curse him even more for finding it more enticing.
“Is there anything God may help you with tonight?” Dan Heng asks, approaching as far as he can, the man all in black still staring at him. The people have gone home, and now only candles of ephemeral burning remain, sharing faint flickers of flames within the house of the Lord.
It takes one, two, five seconds of breathing before the reply comes in an incensed timbre, never leaving Dan Heng, “I don’t know about Him, but you can help me, Father.” With fingers rhythmically picking on the back of the bench. Unwavering. Loyal.
Dan Heng has to resist the loud itch of air that gets stolen. “I am a middleman between you and Him, Ren,” he says, ignoring the arched eyebrow from his company. “The usual?” As if you have not been confessing ichor from the beginning and the red violence I keep listening to.
Their usual is nothing more, nothing less than the confessional.
Ren—fuck if Dan Heng will ever know his real name, if Ren even has one. Names have power, and they should not risk it despite Ren having the advantage of knowing and delectating in his—is worse than Thrones and Powers. The fear from above, Dan Heng knows he should withstand; the fear of this man, this mortal and tangible danger of flesh, on the other hand— how doomed am I before Your Radiance, even when I cannot admit I crave to fear him? Dan Heng’s thoughts and confessions will never be heard, for they would give him penitences worthy of pagan tragedies.
A figure Dan Heng would read in the chants of the lost paradise, Ren does not even sigh. The fingers stop tapping as in a trance. He gets up with the swing of a confident taker, eyeing Dan Heng as the parishioners would the paintings of Holy Mary, and walks towards the confessional at the corner of the podium. Isolated, protected, meant for God and his devotees. Echoes of sins and penitence alone, for a vestal priest and his loyal transgressor.
As he passes, Dan Heng inhales. Metal, earth, and spider-lilies. How far-fetched and yet so mimicry of wine should you be for me to drink?
Dan Heng follows in silence, pretending not to accompany the movements of Ren’s shoulders, his back, shoulder-blades, the flow of hair. Whatever itch his fingers tingle with, he resists. Who knows how much blood he could obtain by sight, much more on taste? In his imagination, he fantasies the mere touch on Ren’s skin would taint his own like the reddest red, dark and mesmerising. An immoral baptise, sea of gomorran blood, I cannot drown in it.
No, no, Dan Heng can’t think of it. He has been baptised once, in the light of the divine—and blood as water is a sin before God.
And as usual, Ren waits for his priest to sit appropriately on his side of the confessional. Dan Heng wonders if Ren pays attention to his breathing and waits for him to inhale deeply, or if Ren listens acutely enough to dictate the pace and decide when they should begin. Of course, the sinner starts, and Dan Heng will welcome him with open arms.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” comes as a bored, no, not bored, strangely stretched and longed voice, low and resounding through the little box. Even though a thin wall of fine wooden work separates them, Dan Heng feels Ren and his mouth against his neck, just below the jawline, over a much-cherished vein that now burns under his skin. “Last time I confessed was… a week ago?” Yes, and you didn't clean your shoes before coming in, Dan Heng nods in a hush.
“Go on.” He keeps his eyes lowered on the faint silhouettes of his legs and feet, joining hands over the garment and lap, but the darkness of the confessional and the black of clothes become one and steal much of their light. Between his palms rests a rosary, witness to one too many confessions between him and his dry heart. His hands are sore from how tight he held it, and he continues to keep it. Ren, how come your hands are always bandaged when mine are hurt and yours cause their ache?
“I murdered three people tonight, Father,” says Ren, nonchalant and with a telltale tone of jaded-grinning lips. If Dan Heng does not convince himself it is disinterest, he cannot convince that his curiosity is heretical. “I hanged the first and made it look like it was a suicide, though blood still drips from wounds I inflicted before it. If you visit the old crooked birch just behind the mausoleum, look south alongside the gargoyle, you can see his feet, grimy and bare. No one goes there—did you know, Father, they pray against maverick spirits lingering there from the prosecutions? Fear builds a devil’s playground for some.”
Much perfect for you, though I worry you would not care should they ever find you. “And why did you do it?” Because Ren is a wavering creature when it comes to his reasons. Boredom, vengeance, or simply money, the justifications come and go depending on the week. None of them are genuinely justifiable and forgiving, for Ren has never been forgiving in the first place. If Dan Heng had to find a fitting word that would not condemn the man, perhaps just, raw and direct could be used. Ren claims to be the righteous hand of god with a mockery of a smile, from time to time, a forgotten devil that people would be reminded of in no time—a complex of God in punishment. Indeed, there is not a righteous man on earth who does good and never sins.
Regardless, Dan Heng is weak when it comes to his scrutiny. He needs to know if Ren is willing to share—and thank God, he is.
“He had an evil eye, Father,” explains Ren, and Dan Heng can see him leaning against the wall separating them. It is a simple movement from a shadowplay, nothing else, barely allowing Dan Heng to trace thin lines of light between the holes of the latticed screen. Trying to ignore and look away is useless, as always. “Not in the way they speak of it, not with envy, but I saw him with ill-intent towards brats.”
So many in the parish could fit the description. Dan Heng will discover who it was the following day or, maybe, the following Sunday.
“I see.” It still doesn’t abdicate your sin, but I would misheed it easier than you would cut someone’s throat. As a priest and servant of the saints, Dan Heng should not be partial and choose sides, only provide help and forgive, but God, when Ren comes in and fulfils unspoken, undisclosed desires of his without reprehension. What Dan Heng cannot do, Ren would guiltlessly execute. “And the other two?”
“I would have hanged them as well, but the bastards resisted enough to ruin the trinity. When one tried to run, I threw a knife at his back, so I buried his body in the most recent tombstone. The soil was still sludged enough. Claimed to know I was responsible for the death of his friend, that one apostle who was found crucified upside down a few months ago. As if I would do a half-meekly job like that one.” Obviously, because Ren’s hands used to be healthy and skilled for carpentry, or so he said once to Dan Heng, amid more confessions of gore. Does he still breathe the wood and remind himself of those times? Maybe even Christ was reminded of better times in blood and cross. Ah, but Ren is anything but a sanctum. More likely, he would be his antagonist and Dan Heng… strangely entertains it. “Worry not, though, Father—I laid his body better than the winter-crossed corpse.”
Dan Heng breathes in wood and polish, but a faint yet prominent scent of ichor and mud with leather overtakes his senses. The last thing he knows is his forehead leaning against the wall. He feels his fringe starting to moist, glueing on his skin, and wonders if Ren, on the other side of the wall, can see or smell him. Perhaps they rest on exact opposite spots, perhaps not. So much to think of them touching.
“I don’t worry about how you execute them,” he confesses, even if the confession is not his to make. Well. At least not for the weight of the sin itself, the interest sparks from another flame. A priest’s confessions might be the loneliest conversation in the scriptures, for God is as quiet as the night. Or, maybe—God simply refuses to see him. It would make sense. “And you, too, have no care for their execution, most of the time. How come this one matters?”
“I don’t care for them. Most days and nights,” admits Ren, and did his voice lower somewhere along the sentence? “But occasionally, I think of how you’d see them. Is it better when I mind not for them or when I spare a thoughtful second over their artistry?”
Ren was more of an artist ages ago. Or so he says. Dan Heng prefers when he speaks of nostalgic elements as such rather than other people. “I suppose the answer I have to give you as the priest would be that, in the end, it is not what I view, but what He would judge you for. Tell me, what about the third?”
It takes a few seconds, faint sounds of muscles and clothes moving closer. As close as they can get against the wall, Dan Heng ghostly feels the warmth as if nothing separates them. Ren speaks as the hollow wind, “That one was because I felt like it.” Is his breath kissing my cheek through the lattice, or am I going mad? “Aren’t wrath and jealousy a sin despite God being their prime perpetrator?”
Dan Heng swallows. “Is that how you see Him?”
“‘For your God, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God’, isn’t it correct? Why should I be punished for acting as he would towards His adoration?”
No proper man of the Lord should allow a mortal to speak as such of the Almighty, and yet—Dan Heng shakes his head, refraining from letting even the tiniest of lifts on the corner of his lips. He heaves a sigh, tightening the grip around the rosary, which is now nearer and nearer between his legs. “Is that why you took a third life? The green of jealousy and red of ire?”
Another beat, only to be followed by a too-blasée tone in contrast to the words, “I killed him because he kept staring at you.”
(Too many a confession they have shared after the last prayers, the late hours of the night, and all that Ren professes with having his priest in mind in its articulation are met with—)
Dan Heng lets one hand touch the ligneous veil and closes his eyes. Restraining an iniquitous sound from leaving through his lips, he swallows again. The cassock feels constricting each second, he needs to loosen it around his throat, and his cheeks tingle.
No doubt, Ren is aware of the effect he causes by saying those words and acts as if nothing is amiss, for he continues in that unbefitting tone of insensibility, “Every mass he came by, he never gave two fucks about the hymns you sang, the prayers you offered, or even the blessings you gave.” Is that not precisely what you do? And Dan Heng knows it is of faux assumption; more than once, Ren recites each word the priest speaks in horrifying detail. Ren pays too much attention, even as a phantom, unnoticed most of the time. Unfortunately, he never finds the hunter among the prey. “But a malady recognises the other, Father. I usually ignore and don’t mind those I kill when asked for, but when it comes to those I ache to get rid of, I even forsake I wish to be laid dead myself. After yesterday’s last prayers after Communion, I knocked him out with the handle of my knife and brought him to the mausoleum. He never knew my face, but it didn’t matter, I suppose. I carved his eyes out first, gave it to the vultures, and ripped his tongue from the pome. A clean cut just under it, and his throat hung open. Cutting the rest was harder; I needed more than a knife. An axe did the job nicely, though I could not remove all the filth in one go.”
“Where is his body now?” Where have you put him to painfully rest?
“Which part of him?” As if he asks about the weather, or how well the last Communion went.
“His head?”
Perhaps now they could be staring into each other’s irises, pools of black with nothing if not mirrors of another, only separated by a wooden curtain. “There are statues of Virtues watching over the sanctuary, crafted for the forgotten and lost souls of apostles and believers martyred. A miracle, as they wish to hope. Under the one which reigns over the four winds, behind the mortuary, if you wish to see it for yourself, Father.”
Because Ren is a different piece of work by designs further than heaven, his invitation may sound innocent to the man, yet Dan Heng reads the thin lines of wrath between each sentence. Why would you wish to see him?, it almost says, but Dan Heng finds a worse semantic of partaking. One that, in his lonely thoughts, he delights from afar. They never sound like a mistake, even if , clearly, being the worst misjudgement he could partake in.
As a devotee to his divine, Dan Heng refuses to acknowledge the aching burn between his legs that grows each answer. Still, despite any hardship, he leans forward, fooling himself into believing nothing resides in the middle. The rosary is lost somewhere in the dress, amid the contour of his thighs. “The right to take a life is reserved for He who blesses one in nurture, Ren.” Even his voice becomes weaker, nearly making him chuckle at his pathos. So unbecoming of him. “What makes you think you are deigned to do so?”
“I couldn’t care less for what he deigns me for, Father. When red or jade are bestowed on me, I view a right to act as I see fit, for when I trusted His influence, I met nothing but disgrace. I thought you would understand this better than anyone else.”
Dan Heng wants to raise his gaze from under the eyelashes and give up to a starving touch he could never reach. “...this is no confession of mine, Ren.” Mine are just as woeful. “It is seen as a wonderful thing to suffer and endure. Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial.”
“Ah, but I am no blessing and much less tested for goodness of heart. Father, I withstand yours with more gladness than whatever He could provide me.” How daring. Ren directs words and confessions meant for someone else. He should look at Dan Heng and see a diaphanous being instead of an—may he be forgiven—epitome. Dangerous and addictive, Dan Heng could not find in it a charm. The pain he inflicts is nothing in comparison to His. He is nothing before God, but Ren— “I find myself worshipping a better divine than the one you serve.”
Would I pay the price for your sacrilege? More than once, victims are wronged and sanctioned as culprits. No, better defined—they are collateral damage, the castigation itself. Ah, but maybe it is well-deserved chastening, only not as sentenced. Guilty, but not as charged. Dan Heng will never fulfil his amends.
“You shall not have other gods, Ren.”
“What if I adore you, instead?”
Dan Heng inhales sharply a knife to his throat, or it is his chaplet smothering him. “No adoration for those who are not Its Holiness.” You know it. You know it too well.
“You are no false prophet and are as biblical as a winged fire of white. Might as well be the door to Heaven or Hell, Father.”
“Now you speak of death,” rebukes Dan Heng, a finger flying to his collar and pulling it away from his skin and throat. He still feels airless, constricted and heavy, though most of the discomfort springs somewhere else, much closer to his other prayer bead. “The desire to take one’s own life is also a test and sin with roots in selfishness and pride. The arrogance of assuming you can decide an end, even on your own vitality, is profane.”
“But I hope you will take mine. If one aches for death, is it not fair to ache for you and your dismissal?”
“Your body is a temple.” How can you not see it when I hold back from kneeling within a different temple than that of God, by your ruth? “God’s Spirit dwells in you, so no destruction should befall you, or else you destroy Him.” Though you would enjoy this, wouldn’t you?
Ren intones so sacredly the young priest imagines feeling his rasping voice on his neck. “And I cannot feel more sanctified and blessed than when I think of you, bare and willing, praying my name and scraping your knees for me as if I were your divine, Father.”
Dan Heng knows his inhale is loud. Between his legs and in the pit of his stomach, he turns into a funeral pyre, purging any uncleanliness he possesses—though it only worsens, he feels his chastity palpitate. “You speak of blasphemy.”
Devil-tempting, bewitching irreligion, which Dan Heng wants to wretch his purity for.
When silence betides the confessional, dread engulfs Dan Heng.
These are the moments he enjoys the most, but at the same time, he hates them thoroughly. How devotion and hatred become one entity alone is still a mystery to him, regardless of feeling them in his body, chilling up and down every limb. The desire to tremble and behold should be reserved for his reverence for God alone, but Ren makes him shiver in terror and countless other frights. He truly should not see them as the same epithet or, even worse—a mortal flesh more alluring than the holy spirit.
Sounds of muscles and clothes moving on the other side of the confessional are heard. Dan Heng is alarmed, almost uttering, ‘We are not done yet, I still have to ask you to regret it, assign your penitence, bless and hear you’, for all that his hand hurt from how much he holds the beads of the rosary, that which fell between his thighs and he feels the minor cross’ edges when he tights his legs. An indecorous sound escapes his throat, and he bites his tongue as soon as he hears the sinner’s door open.
Why are you leaving earlier tonight? Dan Heng is still lost when his door is opened, amber luminaries turning into unfit auras behind Ren’s silhouette, slowly detailing itself before the priest.
That Ren is a tall man, Dan Heng has always known, seen up close. He always needs to look up, avoiding molten blood to find his greens, and only has an advantage when at the lectern, on high steps of the altar. Sometimes, not even those, for the way Ren stares at him never feels below his, enchanting as shackles and nails into his spine.
Only Dan Heng is now sitting against the tight wall of his confessional box, with nowhere to run, and Ren lingers on his one exit and entrance, looking down on him with ironic reverence. It is not belittling, yet Dan Heng feels minor even in the title. Worse, he knows he stares up at Ren as one views the crucifixion.
“Tell me, Father,” says Ren, stretching Father as if it is pure elation on vocalising a new word. “Is the adoration of another deity graver than murder?”
If so, I am worse than a killer. “Regardless of being worse or not, it is asked not to commit any.”
“How will I be punished for committing both?” Ren leans lower to kneel before Dan Heng, from gazing down to raising his chin, as one would in their prayers towards the cross.
“How do you expect to be punished?” Dan Heng should not rebuke as much as he does with Ren. He should ask if Ren regrets his actions, hear the inevitable denial, and assign penitences with farewells into the night, only to be left craving what he should never have. Instead, he feeds a sinner with his flesh for meat and ichor for wine.
Ren’s fingers rest not on the priest's legs but on pieces of the black dress, delicately holding it between his digits. “Gnawing my flesh for my infamous birth, immersed in fire-flaming waters streaming and coiling in boiling blood, for I have killed many and more. Until the stream grows black in the remnants of those I murdered.”
More than once, Ren had shared fantasies of death with Dan Heng as confessions. By now, the priest entertains them in his head with vivid details and trembles at the ghostly touch over his clothes. Prisoner of breath, Dan Heng can only hope the pump within his thorax is not as loud as he feels, threatening to burst.
“I would have my skin flayed and organs harvested by clawed demons for subjecting my body to mutilations.” Bandages are wrapping his hands and some fingers, and they disappear under dark, no doubt smudged, sleeves. Dan Heng wonders how they would feel against his ankles, calves, and up his nakedness. “Burning sands and great flakes of flame falling as snow from the sky, perhaps, fated as Sodom. Nothing more fitting than eternal harm, though this could be more of a present than an actual penalisation for me.”
Dan Heng swallows nothing, throat hurting. “Perhaps your fitting punishment happens to be benevolence. Are you not the one who claims Power’s influence even in sardonic tones? He who serves justice just like the Lord?”
“That may be, Father. As always, your words are worth listening to.”
Like this, Ren is mere inches from reaching Dan Heng’s height. It would be easy to lean down, close the distance, to support his hands on his confessor’s shoulders, to pull him nearer.
As Dan Heng envisions, Ren acts.
The hands of a killer are lotus-silked, the scent is of gore and ice, and Ren approaches until his chest touches Dan Heng’s thighs, fingers gripping the fabric of the garments. Their breaths share fillets of air. Dan Heng feels himself melting against his seat, so he holds onto its edges until his fingers ache. Wherever the rosary has gone to now, he forgets it.
“We shouldn’t do this,” he meekly lets out a whisper of plea. He should have never kept his confessions and late-night meetings with a serial murderer in the first place, but now is a night too late to think of it.
“Hm.” Ren does not reveal a thing through his semblance. “Is your servitude to the Lord so mighty and holy you are bound to no other?”
You know it is. “I belong to Him. Everything I have and am, and will be, should only be His, and I serve Him by helping others on His behalf.” Even if in solitude and voiceless prayers of mine, I envision your figure instead of Him.
Ren is swift as the wind; his hands find a way under Dan Heng’s thighs without properly gripping them, and he pushes himself forward. “And is defiling God’s wife worse than murder, Father?”
No. Yes. Dan Heng’s tongue burns to agree, though he knows not the honest answer to the question.
So Dan Heng replies with that which he has learned, memorised by heart, “The wages of sin is death.”
“Good.”
Many a night Dan Heng fantasised whether Ren’s lips would taste like the blood he spilled or something else. In his unrighteous thoughts, the taste was a spectrum of poignancy, bitterer than the wine of Communion. Sometimes, Dan Heng smelled nicotine in Ren’s breath, and the astringency would have cigarettes laid in a tongue. Dan Heng never once experimented with it but could taste it so well at night when lost in his imagination. Worse, he could touch it.
He is taken by surprise when Ren’s lips taste lily-scented balsams in broken skin, spice-flowered and metallic.
The grip changes from the seat’s edge to Ren’s shoulders, nape, and fingers nip and twist on hair and on the clothing leather. Whatever breath he still had in his lungs was now gone, Ren sucking it out of him in a terrible bite with no space for air. Dan Heng heaves improper sounds from within, but all mercy is lost—he only feels Ren holding onto his still-covered thighs and pulling him forward; he feels Ren abusing his lips with teeth and cold-ruined lips, moistness wetting its way inside and devouring his tongue with sharp canines.
Dan Heng hits the back of the confessional box as Ren pulls his hips to him, incapable of howling since his mouth is still under one’s lack of mercy.
Quick and desperate, their separation is sufficient, so Dan Heng inhales with difficulty and is eaten once more.
Ren has his hands tightening as they roam as they please the expansion of his thighs, almost ripping the cloth—they do not tear it, thankfully, Dan Heng thinks, but they pull the fabric to his wish and frees the skin.
In painful inhales, Dan Heng detaches his mouth in shock, struggling for air. His lips feel sore and puffy, and maybe blood is accumulating between skin cracks; not that he cares, not now. “W-What are you—?” A bite on his neck, a moan is free, and Dan Heng wants to hide from and tight around something, red in the face. Jesus, I've never sounded lewd. He abandons Ren’s hair to search for the rosary, but finds nothing anywhere. “Ren, Ren, Ren—” Wait, wait, please, yet none of it gets out if not for a wanton form of a prayer.
“‘Gonna serve you as you deserve, Father,” is hushed against his neck, just under his ear, followed by a foul bite that makes Dan Heng whimper. “Worship is only proper when a believer kneels before their god.”
But Ren kneels between Dan Heng’s legs, manoeuvring them over his shoulders as he pulls the clothing covering them. Mesmerised and overwhelmed, Dan Heng does not even notice a beaded necklace falling to the ground or when his shoes and garment expose him, and oh, oh, even there he is now uncovered—he shivers from the cold and blinks, staring down at Ren with brilliant eyes. “I’m no divine,” he murmurs, legs trembling more at the contact of Ren’s warm palms than from the icy air. He tries to close his legs, rosette painting him whole. “It’s sacrilegious…”
“I don’t think there's anything holier than you.” Ren closes his eyes in what appears elation, cheek brushing rough against the pale thigh.
Dan Heng whimpers again. “Please…”
Ren moves the longer pieces of black fabric out of the way, breathing just at the juncture of thigh and hip. “You see, I didn't partake in the Communion earlier, Father,” he says, and his voice arouses a knot into Dan Heng’s belly, shivers and something just between his legs, warm and fluttering. “I missed the entire mass, arriving at the end. I enjoy listening to and seeing you preach.”
You could have come forward after the last parishioner, which would have been the logical response, but Dan Heng is losing sanity each second that passes.
“Isn’t it fair I eat the body of the sacred now?”
Dan Heng forces his lips shut when his midst is exposed, but the maculate sound escapes his throat as a telltale.
His cunt is wet, uncomfortably so. Ren spends seconds observing it, soon giving up and turning mouthful of it, finally ripping a shattered moan from the priest, who shuts his eyes and loses strength in his bones.
One lick and suck has him twisting limbs—or trying to—while the following ones push his head back and arches his spine. Mellow and cool invade his wetness with brilliance, cunt narrowing around the lukewarm tongue in non-stop trembles. It is serpentine, or feels as such—Dan Heng discovers it is useless to attempt and hide his pitiful moans with the back of his hand or biting his lips, and when tears bring along a sobbing of delectation, he simply gives up.
Ren nips at his bud with his teeth, and with a lost rosary, Dan Heng finds solace in the remaining one hanging around his collar. “Oh, God—”
A groan resounds against his throbbing sex. “That’s not my name, Father.” And another bite on his button, followed by a deep sucking.
“Ah!”
“I’m sure He has never managed to make you feel this good.” Every goddamn time Ren speaks, it reverberates on the tender dripping cunt he feasts on. Dan Heng shivers every time with a pathetic cry. “Or do you also rejoice Him in prayers after hours with the same voice you chant mine with?”
I don’t, I don’t, I don’t keeps playing over and over in Dan Heng’s brain, but he only opens his mouth for a whimpering symphony. Burning face and frantic heart, he grips the prayer beads from around his collar and brings forth the rosary to his lips. “Have mercy,” he pleads, slivered words in complex breaths. It is not to God, though.
Dan Heng still has no idea what he begs mercy for, much less if Ren burying his face back in his cunt is the cry he pleaded; nonetheless, uncouth bliss veneers with guilt, veins steaming and belly feeding the hotness. It is so, so close to overflowing—the rosary is scrambled with its beads in his hold, hurting his palm and smudging it with his pants and saliva. He did not even notice he began to drool.
Below is not any better: even if Ren seems determined to eat him whole and drink him dry, fluids still run down his skin. What was once a proper and well-kept priest’s garment slowly and ascending turns into a filthy, drenched mess on its loose fabric. That seat will have to be swept clean sometime.
“Soul of Christ, sanctify me…” No act of contrition could help him repent, especially for he knows how much of a liar his heart would be. The beads pierce his palm enough to draw blood, but Dan Heng still keeps it close to his lips, broken and muttering, “Body of Christ, save me—blood of Chri—ah—ist, inebriate me… water f-from the side of Christ, wash— ah… — wash me…”
A sardonic laugh echoes just under him. “Can you recite the whole prayer as I have my share of the feast, Father?” A long, deep brush of the tongue between the soggy slits, ending with a terrific and foul kiss over the most erogenous button. “A good reverend, you are.”
Dan Heng should chastise the murderer for even thinking of his body as the holy Communion, yet a wretched whimper escapes his throat and weakens greatly. “Ah… p-passion of Christ, ssstrengthen me— oh, good Jesus, hear me…”
The Lord has clearly forsaken me, he thinks, only to promptly become heavy in dizziness with a mean graze of teeth where he is most sensitive. His cunt could be bitten and wounded among euphoria, thoughts of it being arousal oscillating where Ren invades with his tongue. The heat only worsens in his stomach, he wants to crawl and curl in himself while seeking to end it, but his insides throb in both pain and rapture.
“...h-hide me within your wounds… keep me close to you…”
A viciously unfair slurp of tongue deep in his cunt makes him pour. His back arches and limbs tremble, his hands hit the confessional wooden walls, he melts where he carelessly lies. Wordless and airless, Dan Heng forgets what the prayer is supposed to summon.
While he can feel himself leaking and shuddering from below, burning and tender of ache; he hears wet sounds of a mouthful of his springs. He spasms still, cunt being tormented even after its high, legs trembling and seeking to close, only to embrace the head buried between them. Through moist eyelashes and eyes, Ren still appears as a shadow to him.
“Hm…” Even mere sounds the shadow offers awake his body shaking, weaker than ever. “Sweetest wine, reverend. I could get drunk on you.”
Retaking the air lost is painful, but not more than realising it is not enough.
What act of contrition does one utter when staining that which is supposed to be penitence designed? Whatever it should be, Dan Heng wonders if he even has a chance at redemption. Considering how he regrets nothing, maybe he should not even bother with it.
At least the rosary in his hand is sufficient solace, and perhaps the lost one will serve as a lesson.