I would like to apologize ahead of time. Listen, idk what this is, but if you want more, lmk.
Leviticus 17:11
Sebaciel || Nsfw || Cielās 20
There are two things Ciel has always loved: his mother and God. At one point in his life, he thought of them as one and the same. He knew what the catholic church said, what the priests preached, but to him, God was the woman who held him when he was ill and fed him spoonfuls of honey to ease the burning in his throat. God was his mother, or rather, He could be found in her gentle hands and soft voice. In her love and devotion to her son.
But she is gone now and he hasnāt felt the presence of God since.
Hasnāt stepped into a church either, had forced himself a few months ago and nearly collapsed on the marble steps. He tried different churches in different towns, different countries, had even flown to Italy and fallen on his knees in Vatican City. They all feel the same. Empty, like husks for where piety should be. Instead of God, Ciel feels a void. Instead of the warmth of His light, there would be nothing. Here is an important distinction: it is not coldness that Ciel feels when he reaches out in prayer; it is nothingness. God hasnāt shunned him. God just simply no longer exists to him.
The nothingness keeps Ciel up at night. He used to pace his room, feeling the eyes of the marble Mother Mary statue watching his restless movements.
A larger version of that statue stares at him now. Her expression is peaceful, loving, but he sees only pity in her stone eyes. He falls to his knees before her and crosses himself. The rosary beads tangled in his fingers feel like chains. His lips move with prayers.
This isnāt a church so he can stand being here, kneeling here. Despite all the nightmares being a student at St. Augustineās Academy has earned him over the years, Ciel still feels a quiet, odd comfort from being close. Usually, he sneaks onto the grounds. The first time he did it, heād taken his old route through the gardens, but Father Petersā office now overlooks the rose bushes that Ciel has to crawl past, so he opted to climb the rusted back gates instead. It is a farther walk and involves him trekking through a section of forest, but he doesnāt have to risk running into any priests and that is enough to make it worth the extra ten minutes.
The chapel sits by a small pond, its stone floors covered in moss and overgrown grass. Unlike the new church next to the school, this chapel has been abandoned and seldom looked after. In it, Ciel found familiarity.
He pauses in his prayers to reflect on his sins, of which there are many. He hasnāt been to confession since his motherās untimely death, knows he should, but like with the church, he canāt convince himself to cross the threshold. Outside the chapelās mossy glass windows, a pair of ducks circle the pond. The early summer breeze weaves through the chapel, rustling leaves and vines that hang from dusty chandeliers. Ciel stood, taking note of a gold cross that sits on the stone altar. It hasnāt been there the last time heās visited. Curious, he eases forward.
A green vine comes slithering over the body of the cross, wrapping itself around the legs of Jesus and coiling up until its lime green head is eye to eye with Ciel.
He stumbles back at the sight of such a large snake. It shouldnāt surprise him that in a place as overrun with greenery as this, snakes and spiders will take shelter. The serpentās eyes are gold and its tongue darts out, tasting the air. It slides forward, closer. Ciel can see its fangs, wondering if it's venomous. It probably is. He should probably run.
Before he can, the doors to the chapel creak open behind him. He takes his eyes off the snake, stupidly, to see who would come all the way out here.
A hand grabs his chin, cold and vicious without any sort of tenderness. Ciel finds himself staring into iridescent brown eyes. They flash red whenever the dancing sunlight hit just right.
āWhat is a little rabbit doing all the way out here?ā The man, if he can be called a man, has a smooth voice, like silk, like melted chocolate. Itās the type of voice Ciel likes to sink under.
Nails dig into his throat, stings like hell. He nearly forgets where he is. This is a holy place. He has so many unholy thoughts.
First of all, this stranger, a devil in the form of a man, surely, is dressed in priest clothes. The white collar peeking at his pale neck is stained by a drop of red. His hair is unruly, partially pushed away from his face with the exception of a few strays that hang over his narrowed eyes. Devil eyes. They make the back of Cielās throat burn. And heās grinning, sharp teeth on display like a cat, a wolf, a beast. Ciel thinks that word suits him best. Beast.
Thirdly, (fourthly? Heās lost count.) the beastās hot breath falls on Cielās lips. His mind is spiraling to things that would get him divinely punished.
āFather.ā Oh, calling him that feels like a sin. āIām sorry.ā Ciel swallows and the priestās eyes trail down his throat. āI needed a place to pray andā¦ā And what? The church feels too claustrophobic? His sins feel too heavy? How long has it been since his last confession?
The devil man holding him in place clicks his tongue in mocked disapproval. āAre you too unclean to bare yourself before God?ā His cold hand inch up, up, grips Cielās chin, swipes a thumb agonizingly slow over Cielās bottom lip.
He wants to dart a tongue out, taste the sin that comes with the desire to be fucked by a priest. But he doesnāt, still has some smidgen of composure left to keep him from becoming a wanton mess.
āNo, Father.ā Cielās hands grip the altar behind him in a feeble attempt at steadying himself. āI canā¦ā He swallows again, feeling too hot and too cold at the same time. āI can bare myself.ā He doesnāt know what heās saying. The words leaving his mouth do so without permission. There is nothing but the white hot hand on his skin, the red eyes eating up his body. āFather..ā
āMichaelis,ā the priest finishes.
āFather Michaelis.ā If hell opens up and swallows him, Ciel would know why, would think it justifiable. āPlease donāt mention this to Father Peters,ā he pleads.
Michaelisā cruel grin grows wider. āI hope you are not asking me to lie, little rabbit. That would be sinful.ā He says the word sinful like itās honey. Like it's melted candy.
āNo, no. Not lie, justā¦ā He canāt think while heās being looked at like this, like heās food. Prey. āJust donāt tell him.ā Please donāt tell him because Father Peters...Father Peters has a hold on Ciel that he canāt explain. Father Peters knows where all his buttons are, where to verbally press to get Ciel to his knees. It was never sexual, not explicitly, but that didnāt stop Ciel from running back to his dorm room after every encounter with the priest, tears streaming down his face and his cock hard under his altar boy robes.
Maybe heās masochistic. Maybe he wants to be damned. This can all be explained by some psychologist somewhere. Repressed sexual desires and a traumatic childhood paired with a lack of fatherly attention and an over abundance of classic catholic shame. Ciel has had his fair share of psychologists. He knows their diagnoses for what he has. Thereās a medical term, probably, but Ciel has a simpler one.
Heās a whore. A fucking filthy slut. All those years being told he needs to be a good little catholic boy, told he must keep his hands over his blanket, has resulted in a sinner that wants to be praised while heās being fucked like a common whore.
Heās still thinking about riding this priestās dick. Itās like the switch in his fucked up head has flipped and all that good catholic shame has been flushed out of his system.
āDid you hear me?ā Father Michaelis asks. āWhatās your name?ā
Name? Does he even have a name? Why bother with such trivial questions when he can be bent over the altar, prayer beads around his neck while he takes the priestās thick-
Cielās head spins. The slap is so hard that he falls to the ground, cheek burning. He pants, holds his face in his hand and looks up at the priest standing over him. Father Michaelis is still smiling that cruel, devilish smile. It makes Cielās cock so fucking hard. He grips it through his dress pants, unbothered when the priestās eyes drop to watch his lewd display.
āThat hurt, Father,ā he says, pitches his tone so that it ends in a whine. Like heās a kicked puppy, a pathetic pet being punished.
Father Michaelis presses his boot down on Cielās hand, grinds the heel into Cielās cock.
āName,ā he commands, stern and impatient. Ciel drops the hand holding his cheek and wraps his fingers around the priestās leg instead.
āCiel,ā he says. āYouāre hurting me.ā
āYou like it.ā The priest pulls away, ignores the dejected look on Cielās face. āIām taking you to Father Peters.ā
Itās nearly enough to snap him back to reality, but heās still hard, still close enough to the devilish father to feel the heat radiating from his body.
āDonāt look so terrified,ā Father Michaelis says, chuckling. āPerhaps weāll punish you for your sins together.ā
