To Ruin A Saint

by: dimsumjy

DISCLAIMER:

This is a work of fanfiction created for entertainment purposes. The characters are based on real individuals, but the relationships, personalities, events, dialogue, and situations portrayed in these stories are entirely fictional.

Some stories may contain mature themes, romance, intimacy, suggestive content, or other sensitive situations. Please read according to your own comfort level.

These stories are not intended to represent the real lives, personalities, or relationships of the individuals who inspired the characters.

Thank you for reading, and enjoy the story!

By continuing to read, you acknowledge that this is fictional content created for entertainment.

The cathedral was quiet in the way sacred places always were—heavy with reverence, thick with unspoken devotion. Rows of wooden pews stretched beneath the towering arches, filled with bowed heads and clasped hands as the morning mass unfolded.

At the front, Seth knelt with unwavering stillness.

The polished wood dug faintly into his knees, but he did not move. Discomfort was nothing compared to the peace he found within these walls. His head was bowed, fingers laced tightly together as every word of the liturgy settled into his chest like something sacred.

When the priest spoke, Seth listened.

When the congregation prayed, Seth prayed louder.

"And with your spirit," the priest declared.

"And with your spirit," Seth echoed without hesitation.

Every response came easily to him—practiced, familiar, etched into his bones after years of devotion. There was never a moment of doubt in his voice.

Never a moment of silence.

Then the priest raised his hands once more, his voice echoing beneath the cathedral's vaulted ceiling.

And Seth prepared himself to answer again.

"Lord, we are not worthy to receive You," the priest intoned, his arms spread wide before the golden crucifix. "But only say the word, and our souls shall be healed."

Seth stood in the front row, his posture as straight and unyielding as the wooden pew before him. His hands were clasped tight, knuckles white, the picture of a man consumed by his faith.

He was the church’s most devoted shadow—the one who arrived before the bells rang and stayed long after the candles were snuffed out.

"Amen," Seth whispered.

His voice was a low, practiced rasp that blended perfectly with the sea of murmurs around him.

The congregation followed in quiet harmony, the final word rolling across the cathedral like a soft wave before settling into silence. Seth remained still, his head bowed long after the others had lifted theirs.

His fingers tightened around one another.

Prayer did not end simply because the priest had finished speaking.

For Seth, it lingered.

He closed his eyes and let the silence of the cathedral settle over him, heavy and sacred. The faint crackle of burning candles reached his ears, along with the distant shuffle of parishioners shifting on wooden pews.

Somewhere in the back, a child coughed softly before being hushed. But Seth did not move.

Forgive me for the sins I have yet to commit,he prayed silently.

The words came instinctively, the same quiet plea he offered every day.

He prayed for strength.
For discipline. For a heart that would never stray from the path God had chosen for him.

Only when the priest finally lowered his hands and stepped away from the pulpit did Seth slowly open his eyes.

The mass was over.

Around him, people began to stand, the sound of wood scraping against stone filling the cathedral as the congregation prepared to leave.

Conversations started in soft murmurs, the solemn atmosphere slowly dissolving into the ordinary rhythm of the morning.

Seth remained where he was for a moment longer.

Seth slowly unfolded his long legs, the faint ache in his knees a familiar reminder of his penance. He took a deep, steadying breath.

He smoothed the front of his shirt, his expression a mask of calm, as he stepped out into the aisle.

But before he could take more than two steps toward the heavy oak doors, a shadow fell over him.

"Seth."

The voice was low and resonant, carrying the weight of authority and kindness. Seth stopped instantly, his head bowing instinctively as he turned.

Standing there was Father Miller, the elder priest whose eyes always seemed to see further than most. He was smiling, a small, knowing curve of the lips as he placed a weathered hand on Seth’s shoulder.

"Father," Seth greeted, his voice hushed out of habit.

"I watch you every morning, son," the priest began, his gaze sweeping over the now-emptying pews before settling back on Seth’s face. "The way you kneel, the way you speak the responses... it is rare to see such fire in a young man’s heart. Most come here out of routine, but you? You come here out of hunger."

Seth felt a flicker of something—pride, perhaps, or something deeper—stir in his chest. "I only wish to serve, Father. My life is nothing without His light."

Father Miller nodded slowly, his hand tightening slightly on Seth’s shoulder in a gesture of paternal pride. "It shows. Your faith is a mountain, Seth. Unyielding. Pure."

The priest leaned in a little closer, his tone turning more serious, almost prophetic. "Many are called, but few are chosen to walk the path of the truly sanctified. If you continue this way, if you keep your heart this guarded and this devoted... I see a different life for you. A higher calling."

Seth looked up, meeting the priest's eyes.

"You have the spirit of the ancient ones, Seth," Father Miller whispered. "If you stay the course, if you never let your foot stumble, you wouldn't just be a servant of this church. You could be a beacon. A saint in the making, perhaps, for a world that has forgotten how to kneel."

Saint.

The word saint echoed in the hollow space of Seth's mind. It was the ultimate validation, the highest peak of the mountain he had been climbing his entire life.

"I... I am not worthy of such words, Father," Seth managed to say, though his heart was hammering against his ribs.

"None of us are," the priest replied with a gentle pat on his shoulder. "But God chooses the vessels He wishes to fill. Keep your heart clean, Seth. Do not let the world stain what He has claimed."

With a final nod, Father Miller turned to head toward the sacristy, leaving Seth standing alone in the center of the aisle.

Seth stood frozen for a moment, the weight of the priest’s words settling over him like a heavy, golden mantle.

Asaint.

He closed his eyes, savoring the thought, feeling the righteous heat of it. He was untouchable. He was chosen. He was pure.

He turned to leave, his steps lighter, his chin held higher. He was ready to face the world, confident that nothing could ever break his resolve.

He didn't notice the side door of the choir loft creaking open. He didn't hear the light, rhythmic footsteps of the newcomer descending the stairs.

He only felt the sudden, inexplicable shift in the air—a coolness that cut through the warmth of his pride, making the hair on his arms stand up.

He took his first step toward the exit, his movements measured, his spirit feeling almost light—

Then, the silence broke.

It wasn't a loud noise. It was soft, almost tentative, like the brush of a velvet cloth against stone. A melody, delicate and breathy, drifted down from the shadows of the choir loft.

Seth froze.

It was a hymn he knew by heart, the Panis Angelicus, but it didn’t sound like the hymns he heard during the Sunday service. The voice was youthful, smooth, and possessed a haunting, melodic clarity that seemed to vibrate through the very pillars of the cathedral.

There was a raw, unfiltered sincerity to the tone that made the air around Seth feel suddenly charged, thick with an invisible electricity.

He didn't move. He couldn't.

The voice climbed higher, hitting a note so clear and fragile that Seth felt his own breath hitch in his throat. It was as if the singer wasn't just performing; he was praying with his entire being.

Seth felt a strange, jarring sensation in his chest—a sudden, sharp pull, as if the notes were physical hooks sinking into his skin. His hand, which had been resting near his heart, slowly dropped to his side, his fingers twitching.

Who was singing?

Seth turned his head, his gaze dragging toward the dark, elevated alcove of the choir loft. The shadows there were deep, shielding the singer from view, but the voice continued, weaving through the rafters, wrapping around Seth’s senses until he felt as though he were being pulled into the darkness.

He didn't know the singer. He didn't know the face. But for the first time in his life, the prayer he had just finished didn't feel like a shield. It felt like a trap.

He took a step toward the choir stairs, his heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against his ribs.

But Seth wasn't walking toward the door anymore. He was walking toward the sound.

The music had finally bled out into the rafters, leaving the sanctuary in a suffocating, heavy silence. Seth stood at the base of the spiral stairs, his chest heaving, his fingers digging into the iron railing until his knuckles turned a bloodless white.

He was staring up at the boy.

The boy was a breathtaking, carnal vision in the dim cathedral light. Up there, alone in the loft, he looked less like a member of the choir and more like an idol waiting to be defiled.

The sunlight hit him just right, catching the soft, damp sheen of sweat on his collarbone and the way his thin, white vestments clung to the damp, graceful lines of his body.

He was beautiful. He waswrong.

He was everything a man of God was supposed to turn away from, and yet, Seth couldn't tear his eyes away.

Seth’s gaze roamed, unbidden and predatory. He watched the way the boy’s chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic heave from the exertion of the song, the fabric of his shirt straining slightly against the swell of his chest.

It wasn’t just the face—that ethereal, goddess-like perfection that made Seth’s throat go dry—it was the way he stood, so blissfully unaware, his lips still parted as if he were catching his breath from something much more intimate than a hymn.

Seth’s pulse was a frantic, punishing thud between his legs, a sharp contrast to the sanctity of the altar behind him.

He didn't want to pray.

He wanted to climb those stairs, corner that porcelain body against the cold stone wall, and see if that angelic, breathy voice could still hit those high notes when he was the one taking the breath away from him.

He wanted to reach out and smudge the holy light surrounding him, to see the boy flushed, undone, and gasping under his hands.

The boy was still standing there, oblivious, his head tilted back as he looked toward the stained glass. The sight of that vulnerable, arched throat was the final snap.

He wasn't praying anymore. He was undressing the angel with his eyes, imagining the taste of that sweat-slicked skin, wondering if his piety was as fragile as it looked—and how quickly he could break it.

Then, the boy blinked, his gaze slowly shifting, sliding down from the rafters and straight into the dark, shadowed corner where Seth was hiding.

Seth didn't move. He didn't hide. He let his hunger show in the sudden, darkening intensity of his stare, daring the angel to see exactly what he had awakened.

Their eyes locked—light meeting darkness, purity meeting a hunger so raw it should have been a crime. For a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, neither of them moved. Seth didn’t even blink.

Up close, the boy’s beauty was a violence. It stripped Seth of every prayer he had ever memorized.

The boy’s breath hitched, his lips parting slightly as if he could feel the predatory heat radiating from the man in the shadows. A faint, rosy flush crept up the porcelain column of his throat, vanishing beneath the collar of his white robes.

Then, as if burned by the sheer darkness in Seth’s stare, the boy flinched.

He quickly averted his gaze, his long lashes fluttering down to hide his eyes. With a hurried, almost frantic grace, he turned away, busying himself with the sheet music on the stand. His movements were shaky, the golden light catching the tremor in his fingers as he retreated further into the safety of the shadows.

Seth remained frozen at the foot of the stairs.

His heart wasn't just beating… it was rebelling.

The sound was deafening in the silence of the nave, a rhythmic, carnal drumbeat that mocked the holy bells. The "saintly" peace he had felt only minutes ago had been completely incinerated, replaced by a low, throbbing ache in his gut that no amount of kneeling could soothe.

He watched the silhouette of the boy move in the loft, and for the first time, Seth didn't feel the presence of the Holy Spirit. He felt the heavy, suffocating weight of his own skin.

He realized then—with a clarity that was both terrifying and intoxicating—that the priest was wrong.

He wasn't a beacon of light. He was a starving man, and he had just found the only thing that could satisfy him.

He didn't want the salvation offered at the altar. He wanted the heaven he saw in the curve of the boy’s lips. He wanted to own the angel, to stain that terrifying purity with his own hands until he knew no other god but him.

As Seth finally turned to walk toward the heavy oak doors, his stride was different—heavier, more grounded. He didn't look back at the crucifix. He didn't need to. He knew exactly what he was now.

He was a sinner. And as he stepped out into the blinding sunlight, he realized he had never felt more alive.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

The next morning, the sun had barely begun to bleed its pale, cold light over the horizon, but Seth was already there.

Usually, this was his hour of purest devotion. But as he pushed open the heavy oak doors, the air felt different. It didn’t smell of peace. It smelled of anticipation.

Seth didn't go to his usual pew. He didn't kneel immediately. Instead, he stood in the shadows of the narthex, his tall frame blending into the darkness of the stone pillars. His eyes were fixed on the side entrance, the one the choir used.

Then, the door creaked.

The boy stepped inside.

He looked even more ethereal in the dim, early light—his skin pale, his hair slightly tousled from the morning wind. He was clutching his sheet music to his chest, his head bowed in a habitual show of humility. He looked like a sacrifice walking into a temple, soft and unsuspecting.

The boy took a few steps, his light footsteps echoing softly against the marble, before he instinctively looked up toward the front of the church.

He froze.

Seth was standing there, unmoving, his gaze already locked onto him.

The air between them snapped with a sudden, suffocating tension. The boy’s eyes widened, a flash of genuine shock—and perhaps a flicker of fear—crossing his delicate features. He hadn't expected to be watched so early, especially not by the man whose intense, dark eyes had haunted his dreams the night before.

The porcelain purity of the boy face flushed a deep, frantic pink. His breath hitched, the sound loud in the vacant cathedral.

Unable to bear the sheer weight of Seth’s stare, he quickly averted his eyes, his head snapping down. He began to walk faster, his heart visibly thudding against the thin fabric of his shirt.

He practically scrambled toward the stairs of the choir loft, his fingers trembling as he gripped the railing, desperate to escape the heat of the gaze he could still feel crawling over his skin.

Seth didn't follow him. Not yet.

He stayed in the shadows, a dark smile ghosting his lips as he watched the angel flee. He liked the way he trembled. He liked the way he could make a saintly boy lose his composure with nothing but a look.

Seth finally moved, but he didn't head for the altar. He sat in the very back, in a spot where he could see every move.

Today, he wasn't there to hear the Word of God.

He was there to watch his new religion.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

The atmosphere in the cathedral was suffocating, thick with the scent of unlit wax and the heavy expectation of prayer.

As the rehearsal transitioned into a short service, the priest stood at the altar, his voice rising in a solemn pledge of devotion.

“To the Lord, we offer our hearts, our bodies, and our very souls," the priest intoned, his hands raised toward the heavens. "May we remain pure in his sight, untouched by the shadows of the world."

From the choir loft, the boy tried to close his eyes. He tried to let the familiar words wash over him, to find the sanctuary he usually felt within the liturgy. But he couldn't.

Every time he dared to peek through his lashes, he saw him.

Seth hadn't moved. He sat in the shadows of the back pew, his tall, rigid frame cutting a dark silhouette against the stone. He wasn't looking at the priest. He wasn't looking at the crucifix. His head wasn't even bowed.

His eyes were pinned directly on him.

It was a physical weight. The boy felt the heat of that stare crawling up his throat, making his skin prickle beneath his white robes. When it was time for him to sing a response, his voice faltered.

The note was shaky, thin, and breathless. He missed the cue, his fingers trembling so violently against the wooden railing that the sheet music nearly slipped from his grasp.

He felt exposed. It felt as if Seth’s gaze was stripping away his sanctity, layer by layer, right there in the house of God.

The priest reached the climax of the prayer, his voice booming through the rafters. "And let the faithful say..."

"Amen."

The word left Seth’s lips like a low, vibrating growl. It wasn't a prayer. It was a claim.

As the congregation echoed the word in a soft murmur, Seth kept his eyes locked on the boy’s pale, panicked face. He didn't blink. He didn't flinch. While his mouth spoke the word of God, his eyes told a much darker story. His "Amen" wasn't for the Lord—it was for the boy trembling above him.

The boy’s breath hitched, a soft, broken sound that was swallowed by the organ's swell. He quickly turned his back, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

He knew then that there was nowhere to hide.

Even in the light of the morning mass, Seth had already decided which god he was going to serve.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

The heavy toll of the final bell echoed through the cathedral, signaling the end of the service, but for Seth, the air only grew thicker.

He didn't move from his pew. He sat with his hands clasped, the picture of a man in deep reflection, but his eyes were like flint, tracked solely on the choir loft. He watched the other singers file out in a blur of white robes and hushed chatter, but the one vision who had ruined his peace stayed behind for a fraction of a second too long.

Then, the boy moved.

He didn't head for the main sacristy with the others. Instead, he ducked toward the narrow, shadowed spiral staircase that led to the rear exit—a shortcut to the quiet, overgrown courtyard behind the stone walls.

Seth stood up. His movements were fluid, devoid of the usual heavy reverence he showed the altar. He slipped through the side aisle.

By the time the heavy wooden door at the back of the church groaned shut, Seth was already pushing it open.

The morning mist in the courtyard was cold, smelling of damp earth and moss. He saw the boy immediately—a pale, ethereal figure hurrying toward the iron gates. He looked fragile against the gray stone, his shoulders hunched as if he were trying to make himself disappear.

"You're leaving early."

The voice didn't sound like Seth’s usual calm, melodic baritone. It was low, rasping, and carried a weight that made the air in the courtyard turn static.

The boy jumped, a soft, strangled gasp escaping his throat as he spun around. He nearly dropped the leather-bound hymnal clutched to his chest, his back hitting the cold stone of the perimeter wall. His chest was heaving, the frantic rise and fall of his breath making the fabric of his shirt cling to the hollow of his throat.

Seth didn't know his name. He didn't know where he came from or whose soul he belonged to. All he knew was the way the boy’s eyes—wide, wet with a sudden, instinctive terror—looked in the dim light.

He looked like a masterpiece waiting to be ruined.

Seth took a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the distance until his shadow completely swallowed the boy’s smaller frame. He didn't stop until he was inches away.

"I... I have to go," the boy whispered, his voice trembling so much it was barely a breath. He tried to look away, but the intensity of Seth’s gaze was like a physical hand holding his chin in place.

Seth leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate crawl near the boy's ear. "You were shaking during the Amen. I could hear it from the front row."

He reached out, not to touch him. Not yet. But to slam his palm against the stone wall right next to the boy's head, effectively pinning him. The sound of the impact echoed in the quiet garden.

"Who told you that you could stop singing?" Seth asked, his eyes darkening as they dropped to the boy's parted, trembling lips.

Up close, the "holy" beauty was even more devastating. It wasn't something to be worshipped from afar. It was something to be tasted, to be broken, to be possessed. Seth felt the frantic pulse in his own throat, a carnal rhythm that drowned out every prayer he had ever whispered.

The boy stayed frozen, paralyzed by the raw, predatory energy Seth was projecting. He looked like an angel cornered by a demon.

The silence in the courtyard was heavy, broken only by the frantic, shallow breaths escaping the boy's lips. He was pinned between the cold, unforgiving stone of the cathedral wall and the towering, suffocating heat of Seth’s body.

Seth didn't move. He leaned in closer, his shadow stretching over the boy like a shroud.

“Name?” Seth whispered.

"I... I’m... E-Elijah," the boy stammered, his voice cracking. He clutched his hymnal to his chest as if it could shield his heart from the predatory intensity of the man standing over him. "My name is... Elijah."

Elijah.

The name hit Seth like a physical blow. It sounded like a prayer, but in Seth’s mind, it tasted like a sin. Hearing that soft, trembling voice admit who he was sent a sudden, violent jolt of arousal straight to Seth’s gut.

It was a dark, carnal heat he hadn't prepared for—a throbbing, insistent need that made his vision swim. He wanted to reach out and wrap his hand around that slender throat, to feel the vibration of that name as it left Elijah’s lips again and again.

Seth’s jaw tightened, his knuckles turning white where his hand was still pressed against the stone. He could feel the pulse in his own throat hammering a frantic, sinful rhythm. He wanted to take him right there, against the sacred walls of the church, to see those holy eyes cloud over with the same dark hunger that was currently drowning him.

But he saw the way Elijah’s knees were shaking. He saw the genuine, wide-eyed terror reflecting in those glassy pupils.

If he moved now and if he let the monster out of the cage, Elijah would bolt. The angel would fly away, and Seth would lose the only piece of heaven he had ever actually touched.

Seth forced a slow, steady breath into his lungs, fighting to keep his expression a mask of calm, even as his blood burned. He lowered his head just enough so that his breath fanned against Elijah’s ear, a ghost of a touch that made the boy shiver.

"Elijah," Seth repeated, his voice dropping into a low, smooth caress that hid the jagged edges of his desire. "A beautiful name for a beautiful voice."

He deliberately softened his gaze. He needed Elijah to feel safe. He needed the boy to trust him, so that when he finally decided to break him, there would be nowhere left for the angel to run.

"I’m Seth. You don't need to be afraid of me," Seth lied, his voice a honeyed trap. "I just wanted to tell you that the Lord isn't the only one listening when you sing."

Seth slowly pulled his hand back from the wall, giving Elijah just enough space to breathe, though he remained dangerously close. He watched the way Elijah’s throat moved as he swallowed, the boy’s eyes darting toward the gate, then back to Seth’s face.

"I... I should go," Elijah whispered, though he seemed rooted to the spot, caught in the gravity of Seth’s presence.

"Of course," Seth replied, stepping back just one pace. "I’ll see you at the evening vespers, Elijah. Don't be late."

As Elijah finally turned and hurried toward the gate, his footsteps frantic and uneven, Seth stayed in the shadows of the courtyard. He watched the way the boy’s robes fluttered around his hips, his mind already vivid with the images of what he was going to do once he finally had the angel behind closed doors.

He wasn't a saint. He was a hunter. And the game had finally begun.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

The heavy wooden door groaned as Seth stepped back into the cool, incense-choked interior of the cathedral. The pews were empty now, the morning light cutting through the dust motes in long, silent shafts.

He didn't get far before a shadow moved near the altar.

"Seth," Father Miller called out, his voice echoing softly. He was smoothing the cloth over the pulpit, looking every bit the weary shepherd. "I thought you had gone. It’s good to see you staying behind to reflect."

Seth stopped, his hands clasped in front of him—the perfect image of a devout man. But beneath his skin, his blood was still singing a dark, jagged tune. The heat from the courtyard hadn't left him. It had only settled deep in his marrow.

"I needed a moment of silence, Father," Seth said, his voice smooth and untroubled.

Father Miller smiled, stepping down from the dais. He placed a hand on Seth’s shoulder, a gesture of profound pride. "The offer I made yesterday... I want you to truly weigh it in your heart. A man of your discipline, your purity... you were made for the cloth, Seth. You could be a saint for this generation. Think on it. The Lord has a place for you at His side."

Seth didn't answer. He couldn't. The irony was a bitter, intoxicating weight in his throat. He simply tilted his head, a slow, enigmatic smile spreading across his lips. A smile the priest mistook for humble contemplation.

"I will leave you to your prayers, then," Father Miller whispered, giving his shoulder a final pat before disappearing into the sacristy.

The click of the heavy door signaled Seth’s absolute solitude.

He was alone. Truly alone.

Seth moved to the front row, his boots thudding dully against the marble. He sat down, not kneeling this time, and stared directly up at the crucified figure hanging above the altar. The eyes of the statue seemed to watch him, cold and unblinking, but Seth didn't flinch.

He closed his eyes, and the darkness was immediately flooded with the image of Elijah.

He saw the way the boy’s porcelain skin had flushed a frantic pink in the courtyard. He heard the way Elijah’s name had tripped over his trembling lips. He felt the phantom heat of that arched, vulnerable throat against his palm.

Seth’s hand moved, unbidden and certain.

The rustle of his clothes was loud in the hollow silence of the cathedral. His breathing, once measured and holy, turned ragged and shallow.

His eyes remained wide open, fixed on the crucifix with a chilling, defiant intensity as his hand worked with a desperate, punishing speed.

In his mind, the image of Elijah was a fever dream—the way the boy’s skin had flushed, the way his pulse had throbbed visibly in the hollow of his throat when Seth cornered him.

Seth could almost feel the phantom warmth of that skin now, imagining his fingers digging into those delicate shoulders, forcing the angel down onto the cold, consecrated stone.

He imagined the white choir robes being ripped away, the fabric sighing as it hit the floor, revealing the untouched purity beneath.

A low, guttural sound escaped Seth's throat—a half-stifled moan that echoed off the vaulted ceiling like a desecration. He wasn't thinking of hymns anymore. He was thinking of the sounds Elijah would make if Seth’s mouth were pressed against that arched, trembling neck.

He wanted to hear that "angelic" voice break, to hear it turn from a prayer into a sob of pure, helpless surrender.

The friction was a burning reminder of his own mortality, a sharp contrast to the cold, dead statues surrounding him.

"Elijah..." he hissed, the name catching in his throat like a jagged blade.

The shadow of the altar loomed over Seth, but he no longer sought its light. He slumped forward, his forehead nearly touching the smooth, cold wood of the pew in front of him. His head was bowed, but not in prayer.

His eyes were blown wide, dark and unfocused, fixed intently on his own lap. He watched the rhythmic, frantic motion of his hand, his knuckles white as they moved with a punishing, desperate speed.

Every stroke was a direct insult to the sacred space around him, a rhythmic slapping sound that echoed obscenely against the high, vaulted ceilings.

"Elijah..." he choked out again, the name falling from his lips like a confession.

He let out a low, vibrating moan, his chest heaving as he imagined the boy’s terrified, porcelain face right there beneath him. In his mind, he wasn't just touching himself. He was imagining the friction of Elijah’s skin, the way those slender, trembling thighs would feel pinned against the stone floor of the sanctuary.

Another guttural groan escaped him, louder this time, bouncing off the statues of the saints who watched him in silent judgment. Seth didn't care.

He leaned into the sensation, his breathing turning into a series of jagged, wet gasps. He watched himself, mesmerized by the raw, carnal reality of his own body—a body that Father Miller believed was destined for priesthood, but which Seth knew was destined for a much darker ritual.

He was close now. The heat in his gut was a roaring fire, consuming every "Amen" he had ever uttered.

"Elijah... please," he hissed through gritted teeth, his eyes tracking the frantic movement of his hand until the world began to blur.

His back arched violently, his muscles locking into a rigid, agonizing tension. A final, broken moan tore from his throat—a sound of pure, unholy release that seemed to stain the very air of the cathedral.

He stayed like that for a long moment, head bowed low, gasping for air as the echoes of his sacrilege faded into the heavy silence of the nave.

When his heart finally slowed, Seth didn't move. He remained hunched over, staring at the evidence of his sin on his hands. A slow, dark smile began to spread across his face. He felt powerful. He felt alive.

He looked up at the crucifix, his gaze cold and defiant. He had found a new god to worship, and he couldn't wait to see the look on Elijah’s face when he realized he was the one on the altar.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

The sun eventually dipped below the horizon, casting long, skeletal shadows across the cathedral's stone floor. The evening vespers were about to begin.

He had cleaned himself, straightened his collar, and regained the mask of the perfect devotee. But his skin felt tight, humming with the residual electricity of his private sacrilege.

He took his place in the shadows of a side pillar, a spot that gave him a direct, unobstructed view of the choir loft. He didn't have to wait long. The side door creaked open, and the choir members began to file in, their voices hushed.

Then came Elijah.

The boy looked weary, his movements hesitant as if he could still feel the phantom weight of Seth’s gaze from that morning. He didn't look toward the pews; he kept his eyes fixed on his sheet music, his knuckles white as he gripped the paper.

The soft glow of the vesper candles caught the curve of his cheek, making him look even more like a saintly icon and even more like a target.

The organ began its low, mournful swell. The priest entered, the scent of fresh incense billowing, but Seth didn't bow. He watched Elijah’s throat move as the boy took a shaky breath, preparing to sing.

As the first notes of the vesper hymn rose, Elijah’s voice joined in—a pure, silver thread of sound that seemed to vibrate through the very marrow of Seth’s bones.

Seth leaned back against the cold stone pillar, his hand resting hidden in his pocket, his fingers curling into a tight, possessive fist. He wasn't listening to the lyrics of praise. He was watching the way the candlelight flickered in Elijah’s eyes, the way the boy’s lips parted for every breath, the way his chest rose and fell beneath that white robe.

You don't even know, Seth thought, a dark, predatory heat pooling in his gut once more. You’re singing for a God who can’t touch you the way I’m going to.

The service reached the point of the evening prayer. The congregation knelt, a sea of bowed heads. Seth followed suit, but he kept his chin up, his eyes locked onto the loft.

"Lord, let our prayer rise like incense before You," the priest intoned.

"Amen," Seth whispered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.

His eyes didn't leave Elijah. He watched the boy flinch at the sound of the response, his gaze darting briefly, fearfully, toward the pews before snapping back to the altar. Elijah knew. He could feel the hunter in the room.

Seth’s smile was invisible in the dim light, sharp and unforgiving. The service was almost over, and the darkness outside was waiting.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

The final hymn was still trembling in the rafters, a hauntingly beautiful melody that usually signaled the start of a quiet, reflective evening for the rest of the congregation. But as the choir reached the penultimate note, Seth didn't bow his head. He didn't wait for the final blessing.

He moved with the silent efficiency of a shadow.

He rose from his seat, his footsteps muffled by the velvet-thick silence of the sanctuary, and slipped through the heavy side door before the priest could even raise his hands to dismiss the faithful.

Seth moved into the deepest part of the alleyway, pressing his back against the rough, moss-covered brick of an old perimeter wall. He checked his watch, the glow of the dial catching the faint, predatory gleam in his eyes.

The silence of the alley was absolute, broken only by the distant, muffled sound of the cathedral’s final "Amen" bleeding through the thick stone walls.

Then, he heard it.

The soft, rhythmic click-clack of dress shoes on pavement.

Seth stopped breathing. He tilted his head, his senses sharpened to a razor’s edge. The footsteps were uneven, hesitant. Elijah was coming, and he was alone.

As the boy rounded the corner, his silhouette appeared. Elijah was clutching his bag to his chest, his head tucked low, walking quickly as if he could outrun his own shadow. He was so close that Seth could hear the hitching, ragged quality of his breath.

Seth didn't move. He didn't make a sound. He let Elijah walk past his hiding spot, letting the boy’s scent fill the air around him.

He waited until Elijah was just a few feet ahead, the boy’s back completely turned to him, before he finally stepped out from the wall. His movements were calculated, silent, and heavy with intent.

"You're walking fast tonight, Elijah," Seth said, his voice a low, smooth purr that cut through the silence like a blade.

Elijah froze mid-step, his entire frame shuddering as if struck by a lightning bolt. He didn't turn around immediately. He stood trembling, his hands tightening around his bag until his knuckles were raw.

"W-who..." Elijah breathed, his voice barely a tremor in the cold air.

Seth stepped closer, closing the gap until he was looming directly behind him. He could see the way Elijah’s shoulder blades tensed beneath his sweater. Seth reached out, letting his hand hover just inches away from Elijah’s hair, savoring the sheer, terrifying power of being the only thing between this boy and the rest of the world.

"It’s just me," Seth murmured, his voice dropping that made Elijah’s knees buckle slightly. "And I think you and I have a lot more to talk about than just the liturgy."

Elijah’s breath hitched, a soft, broken sound that died in the damp air of the alley. He didn't run. He couldn't.

It was as if Seth’s voice had woven a physical tether around his limbs, pinning him to the cold cobblestones. He stood there, trembling so violently that the strap of his bag slipped from his shoulder, his head bowed as if waiting for a blow.

Seth didn't give him the mercy of distance.

He stepped forward, his tall, imposing frame closing the gap until the heat radiating from his chest pressed against Elijah’s back.

Slowly, deliberately, Seth reached out. He didn't grab him roughly. Instead, his hand slid over Elijah’s shoulder, his fingers splaying out across the boy's collarbone.

Seth leaned down, his face hovering just an inch from the shell of Elijah’s ear. He could smell the lingering scent of altar incense and the sweet, sharp musk of the boy’s fear.

"You’re shaking." Seth whispered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a violent shiver down Elijah’s spine.

He let his nose brush against the soft hair at Elijah’s temple, a touch so intimate it felt like a violation of everything holy. Elijah’s eyes drifted shut, his breath coming in shallow, jagged gasps. He looked utterly undone, a saintly icon crumbling under the weight of a sinner's touch.

"S-Seth... please," Elijah managed to stammer, his voice thin and watery. He didn't even know what he was pleading for—mercy, or the very thing that was making his knees feel like water.

Seth’s hand moved from his shoulder, his thumb tracing the sensitive line of Elijah’s jaw before hooking under his chin, forcing the boy to tilt his head back.

"Please what, Elijah?" Seth murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of the boy's earlobe.

"Do you want me to stop? Or do you want to tell me why you couldn't keep your eyes off me during the vespers?"

He tightened his grip on Elijah’s chin just enough to be felt, a silent reminder of who owned this moment. The tension in the alleyway was thick enough to choke on, a dark, carnal energy that made the surrounding church walls feel like they were closing in.

Seth could feel the hard, insistent throb in his own gut, the memory of his earlier release in the pew fueling a new, much more dangerous hunger. He wasn't satisfied with fantasies anymore. He had the real thing in his hands, trembling and helpless.

"Look at me.” Seth commanded, his voice dropping into a dark, irresistible growl.

The sound broke the stillness of the alley before Elijah even made a move. It started as a hitch in his breath and then the tears came. They spilled over his lashes, hot and fast, tracking pale paths through the cold, night air as his entire frame began to shudder with the force of his breakdown.

He didn't scream. He didn't fight. He simply collapsed inward, his knees buckling until he was little more than a dead weight in Seth’s hold.

Seth’s hands, which had been so steady and sure only a moment ago, suddenly went rigid.

Panic clawed at his throat. This wasn't the script. He had wanted the angel to tremble, to beg, to be desperate, but he hadn't prepared for the sheer, shattered vulnerability of those tears.

Damn it,Seth cursed silently, his heart stuttering.Stop. Just stop.

He felt like a man holding a porcelain statue that was cracking under the slightest pressure. He shifted his grip, his instincts screaming at him to pull back, to create distance before the boy’s unraveling destroyed the very image of purity he was so obsessed with.

But then, Elijah moved.

His hand came up, trembling, and pressed against Seth’s palm where it cradled his face. Elijah’s cheek leaned into the palm, a slow, trusting, and devastatingly broken movement. He pressed his face into the warmth of Seth’s hand, seeking shelter in the very person who was terrorizing him.

The contact scorched Seth.

Shit.

Seth’s jaw tightened until it ached. He let out a sharp, ragged breath that was half-groan, half-curse. He felt his resolve splintering. Not because he wanted to let go, but because the boy’s touch was doing something to his mind.

It was a silent admission of surrender, a gesture of absolute, terrified trust that felt like a hook sinking into his chest.

He knew that if he pulled away now, he would be the monster. But if he stayed, he was inviting a kind of ruin he wasn't sure he could survive. The smell of Elijah’s tears was mixing with the scent of his skin, and it was driving Seth toward a brink he hadn't intended to cross tonight.

"Elijah..." Seth breathed, his voice stripped of its earlier, practiced dominance. It sounded raw, strained by the effort of holding back the urge to either crush the boy or fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness.

He kept his hand pressed against Elijah’s cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear with a touch that was dangerously gentle. He felt Elijah shiver again, a soft whimper escaping his throat as he turned his face further into Seth’s palm, almost as if he were trying to hide from the world by disappearing into Seth’s skin.

Seth felt his own heart hammering, not with the triumph of the predator, but with a terrifying, addictive possessiveness.

He had wanted to break the angel, but the angel was breaking him instead.

Driven by a sudden, desperate impulse, Seth leaned down. He didn't take him with the predatory force he had imagined earlier. Instead, he pressed a soft, lingering peck against Elijah's salt-stained lips.

It was tentative, almost a question. A final chance for the angel to realize who he was dealing with and fly away.

Seth pulled back just an inch, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He waited. He expected the slap, the scream, or the sound of Elijah’s shoes hitting the pavement as he fled into the night.

But the silence held.

Elijah didn't run. Instead, a small, choked gasp escaped his throat. Before Seth could even process the lack of rejection, he felt Elijah’s hands fly up to grab the front of his jacket.

With a strength born of pure, desperate longing, Elijah pulled Seth back down.

He didn't just lean in; he crashed his lips against Seth’s in a clumsy, feverish kiss. It was a messy, salt-flavored collision of teeth and desperation. Elijah was sobbing into the kiss, his body molding itself against Seth’s hard frame as if he were trying to crawl inside his skin.

Seth froze, his eyes widening in the dark. He felt the wetness of Elijah’s tears against his own cheeks, the heat of the boy’s mouth, and the way Elijah’s fingers were digging into his shoulders, anchoring him there.

Seth slammed Elijah back against the cold brick wall, his body acting like a heavy cage. He pinned him there, his large hands gripping Elijah’s thighs and pulling them high around his waist.

"Fuck... Elijah..." Seth groaned, his voice deep and rough.

He began to press his lower body into Elijah’s, moving in a slow, torturous rhythm. The friction of their clothes rubbing together in that tight space made Elijah let out a sharp, broken moan.

"Ah... hngh... Seth... haahh..." Elijah gasped, his head snapping back against the stone. He clutched Seth’s shoulders, his fingers digging in deep as his body arched into every heavy thrust.

Seth’s breathing was ragged. He buried his face in Elijah’s neck, let out another guttural moan, and ground himself even harder against the boy.

"Haah... you feel... so good... damn it, Elijah..."

They were both shaking, right on the edge of losing it. The dry humping was intense, a desperate heat building up between them that threatened to boil over right there in the dirt of the alley.

Elijah was sobbing into Seth’s ear, his small whimpers of "Ngh... more... please, more..." driving Seth to the brink.

But just before they could reach the finish line, Seth pulled back, his eyes dark and blown wide with lust. He was panting, his forehead resting against Elijah’s.

"Not here," Seth hissed, his voice trembling. "Not out here where someone could see you."

With a sudden burst of strength, Seth kept Elijah hooked around his waist and carried him back toward the side entrance of the cathedral. He knew a place—a small, dusty storage room near the old bell tower that hadn't been used in years.

No one went there. No one would hear them.

He kicked the heavy wooden door open and slammed it shut behind them, the click of the lock echoing in the silent, dark room. The air smelled of old wood and incense.

Seth didn't even wait to find a light. He pressed Elijah down onto a stack of old altar cloths, his hands already fumbling with the buttons of the boy's clothes.

"Nnghh... Seth... h-here?" Elijah whispered, his voice high and needy in the dark.

"Yes," Seth growled, his voice vibrating with a dangerous hunger. He hovered over him, his shadow swallowing Elijah whole. "Right here. Where I can finally have all of you."

Seth’s hunger took over like a tidal wave. His hands gripped the fabric of Elijah’s shirt and yanked, the sound of threads snapping echoing sharply in the small stone room.

"Seth!" Elijah gasped, his back arching off the dusty altar cloths as he felt Seth’s hot palms finally slide over his bare skin.

"Be quiet," Seth growled, his voice a dark, vibrating moan against Elijah’s collarbone. "Just... let me feel you."

Seth was a mess of desperate sounds, his breath coming in ragged hitches as he buried his face in Elijah’s chest. He trailed wet, biting kisses down to the boy's stomach, his hands frantic as they moved to rid Elijah of the rest of his clothes.

With a rough, powerful heave, Seth hooked his arms under Elijah’s pits and hoisted him up. Elijah let out a sharp sound as he was lifted, his legs instinctively locking around Seth’s waist again.

Seth carried him two steps through the dark before slamming him down onto the cold, wooden surface of an old sacristy table.

The wood groaned under their weight, but Seth didn't care.

Seth’s hands, trembling with a violent hunger, moved to Elijah’s waist. He gripped the fabric of Elijah’s trousers and yanked them down with a single, desperate motion, tossing them blindly into the shadows.

Now, Elijah lay there completely exposed, his pale skin glowing like marble in the faint moonlight. Seth’s breath hitched, a deep, guttural moan vibrating in his throat. "God... Elijah... you're beautiful.”

He looked up at Elijah’s face, expecting to see him turn away in shame. But he didn't.

Elijah was lying back on the table, his chest heaving, his eyes wet and unfocused. He wasn't pulling away. Instead, he was biting down hard on his lower lip, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh to stifle a sob of pure, overwhelming need.

His hands were gripped white-knuckled on the edge of the table, his knuckles straining as he silently offered himself up.

Seeing that Elijah was letting him, that the angel was inviting the ruin—made Seth lose the last thread of his sanity.

He dragged his thumb along the line of Elijah’s inner thigh, watching the boy shudder and gasp. "You’re so fucking beautiful, Elijah. Did you really think you were going to leave this place the same way you came in?"

Elijah whimpered, his head falling back against the hard wood of the table. He was biting his lip so hard it looked like it might bleed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, desperate gulps of air.

"Seth—nghhhh… s-so good…”

"That’s it," Seth growled, his voice dipping into a low, rumbling vibration that seemed to rattle the very bones of the room. "I want to hear every single note. I want you to scream for me just like you scream for your God, but I’m the only one who’s going to be answering you tonight."

Seth looked down at Elijah again and felt a surge of possessiveness so violent it made his head swim.

"You're so fucking perfect like this," Seth rasped, his eyes dark and hungry as they traced every inch of Elijah’s pale, arched body. "Stretched out on this table like a sacrifice. But you’re not for Him. You’re for me."

Seth didn't wait. He slid off the edge of the table, dropping to his knees between Elijah’s splayed thighs. The cold stone floor bit into his knees, but he didn't feel it. All he felt was the radiating heat from the boy in front of him.

"Seth... haahh... what are you—" Elijah’s voice broke into a sharp, high-pitched gasp as he felt Seth’s large, warm hands wrap firmly around him.

Seth didn't answer with words. He looked up, locking eyes with Elijah one last time before he leaned forward and took him into his mouth.

"AHHH! God!" Elijah’s head snapped back, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edges of the wooden table. His back arched violently, his chest heaving as he felt the wet, swirling heat of Seth’s mouth.

Seth was relentless. He used his tongue with a punishing, rhythmic precision, his throat vibrating with a low, constant moan that Elijah could feel deep in his bones. Seth looked up through his lashes, watching the way Elijah’s face was contorted in a mix of agony and pure, sinful ecstasy.

Seth used one hand to stroke Elijah’s thigh, his thumb digging into the soft skin, while the other hand stayed locked on Elijah's hip, anchoring him to the table.

"Oh god... haah... hah... Seth, stop... no, don't stop! Ohhh... please!" Elijah was sobbing now, his voice echoing off the high stone walls of the silent room.

He was thrusting his hips instinctively, his fingers tangling in Seth’s hair, pulling him closer, begging for the very ruin Seth was giving him.

Seth let out a long, vibrating growl against him, his suction increasing, his pace turning frantic. He wanted to drain the very soul out of the boy. He wanted Elijah to remember this feeling every time he stood in that choir loft, every time he opened his mouth to sing a hymn.

"Mmhh... you taste like heaven," Seth hissed, pulling back for just a second to breathe, his lips slick and shining in the moonlight. "But you’re screaming like you’re in hell, Elijah. Which one is it? Tell me.”

"It's... haah... it's you!" Elijah cried out, his eyes rolling back. "It's just you! Seth... please... I'm... I'm gonna—hngh!"

Seth didn't let him finish. He surged forward again, his mouth swallowing Elijah’s cries, his moans turning into a rhythmic, guttural soundtrack to their shared sacrilege.

Seth pulled back just as Elijah reached the height of his desperation, leaving the boy gasping and stranded on the cold wood of the table. Elijah’s hips arched instinctively, seeking the warmth that had just been ripped away, his eyes fluttering open to find Seth looming over him once more.

Seth’s face was a mask of dark, mocking devotion. He reached out, his slick hand wrapping firmly around Elijah, beginning a slow, torturous friction that made Elijah’s entire body recoil in a jolt of pure electricity.

"Hahhh... Seth... please... why did you—" Elijah’s voice broke into a pathetic, needy whimper.

"Shh," Seth hissed, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly calm register. He didn't look away. He kept his dark eyes locked onto Elijah’s tear-streaked face, his hand moving with a steady, punishing rhythm. "Look at you. Splayed out in the house of the Lord, begging a sinner like me to ruin you."

Seth let out a long, shaky moan of his own, the friction of his hand against Elijah’s heat making his own pulse throb painfully. He leaned in close, his lips grazing Elijah’s burning ear.

"You should be ashamed, Elijah," Seth whispered, his voice dripping with a cruel, heavy irony. "This is a sacrilege. A mortal sin. Don't you feel the weight of it?"

"Hngh... I... I don't care... just... ahhh!" Elijah cried out as Seth’s thumb pressed down hard, his pace quickening until the slapping sound of skin on skin filled the small, dusty room.

"You don't care?" Seth growled, his eyes flashing with a predatory light. He leaned down, his forehead pressing against Elijah’s, forcing the boy to see the reflection of his own corruption.

"Then prove it. Pray for us, Elijah. While I do this to you... pray to your God and tell Him how much you love what I'm doing."

"N-no... Seth... haahh… n-nooo…”

"Pray.” Seth commanded, his voice a sharp, guttural bark that made Elijah flinch. Seth’s hand became a blur, his grip tightening as he drove Elijah toward the edge. "Tell Him how good it feels. Ask for forgiveness while you’re coming for me. Do it.”

Elijah’s head tossed back, his throat working as he tried to find his voice amidst the waves of pleasure crashing over him. "Our... Father... h-hngh... who art... ahhh! Seth! P-please... forgive... anngghh... aah!"

The prayer disintegrated into a long, shattered scream of release. Elijah’s body went rigid, his fingers clawing at the wooden table as he finally broke, his eyes rolling back in a daze of unholy ecstasy.

Seth didn't stop. He watched every flicker of pleasure on Elijah's face, a dark, satisfied smile spreading across his lips as he felt the boy's pulse throb against his palm.

"Amen," Seth whispered darkly, his own breath hitching as he felt the final tremors leave Elijah’s body.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

The air in the small, forgotten room was thick with the scent of old incense and the raw, heavy musk of their shared sin. Seth didn't give Elijah a moment to recover. Before the boy could even stop trembling from his release, Seth’s large, rough hands gripped his hips and flipped him over on the cold wooden table.

"Seth?" Elijah gasped, his voice weak and broken as his chest pressed against the hard wood.

Seth didn't answer. He shoved Elijah’s upper body down, forcing him to arch his back until he was kneeling on the table, completely exposed and vulnerable. Seth stood behind him, his eyes dark and dilated as he looked down at the pale, trembling sight of the boy’s most private depths.

Without a word, Seth leaned down.

"Haaahh! Oh—anghhh!" Elijah’s fingers clawed at the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white as he felt the sudden, hot wetness of Seth’s tongue against him.

Seth was relentless. He ignored the muffled sobs coming from the boy, burying his face between Elijah’s thighs. He used his tongue with a hungry, swirling precision, tasting every inch of him with a starving intensity. The sound of Seth’s wet, rhythmic movements and his deep, guttural moans filled the silent stone room, echoing off the walls like a dark hymn.

Elijah was a mess of high-pitched whimpers and jagged breaths. He felt like he was being devoured, his head tossing from side to side on the table. "S-Seth... please! It’s... nghhh... it’s too much... too much—mmhhhh…”

Seth pulled back for just a second, his face flushed and his lips glistening in the faint moonlight. He looked up at the high, shadowed ceiling of the church building, a twisted, predatory smile spreading across his face.

"Thank you, Lord," Seth whispered, his voice a low, raspy growl that made Elijah shiver. "Thank you for this... for letting me taste your most beautiful angel."

He let out a long, shaky groan, his eyes snapping back to Elijah’s flushed skin. "He tastes better than the wine. Better than any blessing I’ve ever received."

With a sudden surge of hunger, Seth leaned back in, his tongue working even more aggressively than before. He wanted to mark him, to claim every hidden part of him until Elijah couldn't think of anything else but the man who was currently desecrating him in the house of God.

"Haahh... ahhh... Seth! I can't... ah—hnghh!” Elijah’s back arched violently, his toes curling against the wood as he felt another wave of heat building up deep inside him, driven by the sheer, unholy skill of Seth’s mouth.

Seth pulled back from Elijah’s trembling form for just a second, his face flushed and his eyes dark with a hunger that no prayer could ever satisfy.

He gripped Elijah’s hips, pulling him back against his own rigid, aching heat. The friction was agonizing, a slow torture that made Seth let out a long, vibrating groan.

"Nngh... you’re so tight, Elijah. So perfect for me,” Seth rasped, his voice a low, predatory growl against the boy’s burning ear. "Do you feel that? Do you feel how much I want to ruin you?"

Elijah was a total mess. His forehead was pressed against the cold, dusty wood of the table, his breath coming in jagged, high-pitched sobs. He was shaking so hard the table rattled, his fingers clawing at the edges until his knuckles were white.

The feeling of Seth’s tongue, then the sudden cold, and now that massive, insistent heat pressing against him was driving him over the edge.

"S-Seth... haah... please," Elijah whimpered, his voice breaking.

"Please what?" Seth hissed, his hand sliding around to grip Elijah’s throat gently, forcing him to tilt his head back. "Tell me exactly what you want. Say it loud enough for your God to hear you in the nave."

Elijah let out a shattered moan, his eyes rolling back as he felt Seth’s tip prod against his entrance. The sheer, overwhelming need finally snapped his last thread of modesty.

"I-inside... mnnghh... Seth, please! Just put it inside me!" Elijah screamed, the words echoing sharply off the stone walls. "Nngh... break me... make me yours... ahhh! Hah... hah..."

Seth let out a guttural, triumphant moan at the sound of the angel’s corruption. He didn't wait. He immediately stripped off his clothes. Then he guided himself to the opening and pushed, a slow, heavy intrusion that made them both gasp in unison.

"Aah! H-hngh! Lord... please... forgive me... nngh... ahh!" Elijah sobbed, his prayer turning into a desperate, carnal plea as he felt Seth filling him up, stretching him until he thought he might break. "Lord... forgive me... but it feels... it feels so good... Seth! Nnghhh... more!"

The heavy, wooden table groaned under their combined weight, a rhythmic creaking that filled the dusty silence of the old room. Seth’s movements were forceful and deep, his hands bruising Elijah’s hips as he drove into him with a relentless, starving energy.

Elijah was a broken mess beneath him, his face pressed into the wood, his eyes squeezed shut as the pleasure and the guilt crashed over him like a tidal wave.

"Forgive me! Nngh... Lord, please, forgive me!" Elijah sobbed, his voice rising in volume, echoing off the stone walls. "I’m sorry... haah... I’m sorry for wanting this... for loving the way he... ah! Oh heavens—nghh…”

Every thrust from Seth was punctuated by a dark, vibrating sound from his chest. "Amen," Seth growled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp against the back of Elijah's neck. "Amen to your sin, Elijah."

"I pledge... ngh... I pledge my soul!" Elijah cried out, his voice cracking with a mixture of agony and ecstasy. "I’m a sinner... hah... a filthy sinner... Lord, look at what I’m doing! I’m letting him... I’m letting him ruin me and I never want him to stop! Ahhnghh!"

Seth’s pace turned frantic, his breathing turning into jagged, wet gasps. He leaned down, his chest crushing against Elijah’s back, his sweat dripping onto the boy’s skin.

"Amen!" Seth roared, the word a command rather than a prayer. He gripped Elijah’s hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat. "Say it! Tell Him you’d choose this over Heaven! Tell Him!"

"I would! I do! Ngh... haah... I choose him!" Elijah screamed, his voice reaching a fever pitch.

"Forgive me for choosing the flesh over the spirit! I’m sorry... I’m so sorry... but Seth... Seth is my god tonight! Ah! Nngh... more! Give me more!"

“Amen! Ohhh… fuck!” Seth’s moans became a rhythmic chant, his body locking into a final, desperate tempo. He was no longer a man of the cloth; he was a force of pure, carnal obsession.

The room was filled with the sounds of their frantic, overlapping voices.

"Fuck... Elijah... I'm—" Seth’s voice broke, his entire frame tensing as he reached the breaking point.

"Take it! Ahh! Take my soul with you! Ahhh…”

He gripped Elijah’s hips so hard his knuckles turned white, his entire body going rigid as he reached the peak. With a sharp, jagged groan, Seth surrendered completely, surging forward one last time to release everything deep inside the boy.

"Aahhh! Ahh... Seth!" Elijah’s back arched into a perfect, agonizing curve, his fingers clawing at the wood as he felt the searing heat of Seth’s release filling him. He let out a long, shattered cry that died into a series of weak, hitching sobs.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged, overlapping breathing. Seth stayed pressed against Elijah’s back, his chest heaving, his forehead resting against the nape of the boy’s neck.

He could feel the frantic, dying pulse in Elijah’s throat, a rhythmic reminder of the soul he had just successfully claimed.

Slowly, Seth shifted. He trailed his lips upward, his tongue tasting the salt and sweat on Elijah’s skin. He reached the sensitive junction where the shoulder met the neck and began to lick the skin with a slow, possessive deliberation.

"Seth..." Elijah whimpered, his eyes half-closed and glazed with a daze of unholy pleasure.

Seth didn't stop. He used his teeth to nip at the pale skin, before sinking them in just enough to draw a sharp gasp from the boy. He sucked the skin hard, his tongue swirling over the spot until a deep, dark bruise began to bloom—a mark that no choir robe or high collar would be able to fully hide.

"There," Seth whispered, his voice a dark, vibrating hum against the mark he had just made. "So you don't forget whose brand you're wearing when you stand at that altar tomorrow."

He let out a low, satisfied moan, his hand sliding up to cup Elijah’s jaw, forcing the boy to turn his head so they could share one last, breathless look in the dark.

"You’re mine now, Elijah," Seth hissed, his eyes burning with a terrifying, addictive hunger. "Body and soul. And not even your God can take you back from me."

Elijah couldn't even find the strength to argue. He simply leaned into the touch, a broken angel finally at peace in the arms of his demon.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

The next morning, the sunlight streaming through the cathedral’s stained-glass windows felt blinding, almost accusatory.

Elijah stood in the choir loft, his throat still raw and his body aching in places he never knew could hurt. He kept his chin tucked low, the high collar of his barong itchy against the dark, purple-red mark Seth had branded into his neck the night before.

He was early—earlier than usual. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm of anxiety and a shameful, lingering hunger. He kept glancing at the heavy oak doors, expecting Seth’s tall, imposing figure to stride in with that same predatory confidence.

But the minutes ticked by, and the pews began to fill with the elderly faithful, yet Seth’s seat remained empty.

Where is he?Elijah thought, his fingers trembling as he gripped his hymnal.Did he regret it? Was it just a game to him?

Unable to stay still, Elijah slipped out of the loft, making his way toward the side garden near the rectory. He told himself he just needed air, but his eyes were searching every shadow for a glimpse of black fabric.

He rounded the corner of the stone archway and froze.

There was Seth. He was leaning against the ancient brick wall of the courtyard, looking just as composed and "saintly" as ever. But he wasn't alone.

A young woman stood in front of him, her hand resting familiarly on Seth’s arm. She was beautiful, dressed in a modest floral dress, her face bright with a smile that looked far too comfortable. Seth was looking down at her, his expression unreadable, but he didn't pull away.

In fact, he leaned in slightly, whispering something that made the girl let out a soft, melodic giggle.

Elijah felt a sudden, sharp sting in his chest—a coldness that felt far worse than the bite of the wind the night before. He stayed hidden behind the pillar, his breath hitching. The same hands that had bruised his hips and torn his clothes were now being touched so casually by someone else.

Elijah couldn’t take it anymore. The sight of that woman’s hand on Seth’s arm felt like a serrated blade twisting in his gut. He spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs, and hurried back toward the side entrance of the church. He didn't look back, so he missed the way Seth’s eyes tracked his every move, sharp and calculating.

Seth watched the boy’s retreating back, a slow, dark satisfaction curling in his chest. He didn't even hear what the woman was saying anymore. Seeing the hurt, the sheer devastation on Elijah’s face, was better than any prayer. It meant he had won. He hadn't just taken Elijah's body; he had rooted himself deep inside the boy’s mind.

Good,Seth thought, his smirk widening as he dismissed the woman with a curt nod.Run, little angel. See if you can hide from me.

But when Seth finally entered the choir loft ten minutes later, ready to savor the sight of a pouting, broken Elijah, the smirk vanished instantly.

His entire body went rigid.

There, in the middle of the loft, was Elijah. But he wasn't alone. Another young man was standing so close to Elijah that their shoulders were brushing. They were sharing a single sheet of music, their heads leaned in together as they whispered about the tempo.

Elijah wasn't looking at the door. He was pointing at a note on the paper, his face flushed, a small, shy smile playing on his lips as the other guy laughed at something he said.

Seth felt a surge of white-hot rage explode in his chest. His hands, hidden in the folds of his slacks, snapped into tight, white-knuckled fists.

The possessiveness he had felt the night before came roaring back, ten times more violent.

He stood at the entrance of the loft, his shadow long and dark over the floor. He wanted to march over there, grab Elijah by the throat, and pull down that collar right in front of everyone to show the mark he had left.

He wanted to claim him—to mark his territory so clearly that no other man would ever dare breathe the same air as his angel.

Elijah finally looked up, his eyes widening as he caught Seth’s murderous stare. Instead of shrinking away, Elijah deliberately leaned a little closer to the guy beside him, his fingers grazing the other man’s hand as they adjusted the paper.

Seth’s breath hitched, a low, dangerous growl vibrating in his throat. Mentally, he was already dragging Elijah back to that storage room, but out here, under the eyes of the congregation, he had to play the saint.

"Elijah," Seth’s voice rang out, cold and sharp as a shard of glass, cutting through the murmurs of the choir. "The Rector is asking for the soloist. Now."

Elijah didn’t even flinch. He felt Seth’s heavy, suffocating gaze boring into the side of his head, but he kept his eyes fixed on the sheet music. The fear that usually made him tremble was replaced by a sharp, bitter spark of defiance.

"Harris," Elijah whispered, his voice soft but clear enough for Seth to hear. He turned to the guy beside him, offering a smile that was far more radiant than anything he’d given Seth that morning. "The acoustics are a bit... crowded here. It’s too noisy. Let’s move to the other side of the loft where we can actually hear ourselves practice."

Harris blinked, surprised by the sudden attention, but he nodded eagerly. "Sure, Elijah. Lead the way."

As Elijah stepped away, he brushed past Seth without a single glance. He didn't look at the dark, storm-filled eyes or the white-knuckled fists. He just kept walking, his shoulder grazing Harris’s as they retreated to a secluded corner of the balcony, leaving Seth standing frozen in the middle of the loft like a discarded relic.

Seth felt his heart hammering a violent, erratic rhythm against his ribs. The air in the cathedral, usually cool and sacred, suddenly felt like it was boiling. He watched them—watched how Harris leaned in to hear Elijah’s humming, how Elijah’s hand lingered near Harris’s sleeve.

The insanity he had felt in the alleyway the night before was nothing compared to this. It was a physical ache, a raw, primal urge to scream, to tear that baritone away, to remind everyone in this holy house that the boy singing like an angel was actually a sinner who belonged only to him.

He’s doing this on purpose,Seth thought, his jaw clicking as he ground his teeth together.He’s testing me.

Seth didn't move. He stood there, a shadow among the pews, his eyes fixed on the back of Elijah’s neck where he knew his mark was hidden beneath that collar. He could almost feel the phantom sensation of Elijah’s skin under his tongue, the way the boy had sobbed his name into the dark.

The choir began to warm up, their voices rising in a discordant swell, but all Seth could hear was the blood rushing in his ears. He realized then that he didn't just want Elijah… he needed to own the very air the boy breathed.

He turned his head slightly, staring out at the empty altar as if challenging the heavens themselves. A dark, jagged smile pulled at his lips, one that had no place in a church.

"Run all you want, little angel," Seth whispered to the empty air, his voice a low, terrifying promise that drifted like smoke. "But you can’t pray away the way you tasted last night. You can hide behind a thousand men, but at the end of the day... you’re the only one who knows exactly whose name you’ll be screaming when the lights go out."

He took a slow, deep breath, his eyes darkening until they were as black as the ink on the hymnals.

"You’re mine, Elijah. And I’m going to make sure you never forget it."

—FIN