#kinkto

The old cathedral is quiet, smelling of dust and centuries of incense. You aren't a regular visitor, but you find peace in the forgotten corners of the hallowed halls. You stop near a row of dark, heavy oak pews, drawn by an impossible sight. A young man kneeling in a shaft of sun-dusted light, he looks ethereal, his hair the color of sun-bleached sand, and though he wears simple white linen, the way the light clings to him is wrong, too intense. As you draw closer, you see the tell-tale, impossibly soft shadow of folded wings hidden beneath his tunic, brushing the stone floor.

He looks like an angel, beautiful and utterly alone. Must be lonely… In your own head you stumble, shoes hitting the cobblestone, sound resounding throughout the cathedral. He looks up, startled, his wide, dark golden-flecked eyes meet yours. A wave of pink immediately stains his freckled cheeks. He quickly ducks his head, clutching the worn wood of the pew, trembling slightly. His shy perfection makes a strange, possessive ache bloom in your chest. You kneel beside him, your voice low and gentle, yet firm with unexpected authority.

"You shouldn't be here alone, beautiful thing," you whisper, reaching out to tilt his chin up. His skin feels cool and soft beneath your touch. “Humans like pretty things… You should be careful.“

"I... I was just," he stammers, unable to meet your gaze. He is utterly flustered, completely at your mercy.

You offer a soft smile, reaching for his hand. "Don't worry," you murmur, your voice low and comforting. "Your secret is safe with me, beautiful thing… This place is too cold for you. Let's go somewhere warm."

Gently, you coax him to his feet. He follows, silent and compliant, his hand light and trusting in yours. His bare feet patter after yours, hitting the cool stone floor. You lead him out of the ancient silence of the church and into the soft, familiar warmth of your home. In the warmth of your own space, he stands awkwardly, his wings, now fully unfurled, luminous and soft as moonlight, brushing the walls. They look perfectly sensitive.

"They must be dusty from the temple," you murmur, your voice soft with authority. "Come here, beautiful boy. Let me brush them."

He walks to you instantly, lowering his back, his body language one of shy surrender. As your fingers gently begin to trace the delicate, fragile plumes, a deep shudder runs through him. He gasps, his golden eyes wide with shock and pleasure at the sudden, unfamiliar sensation. You sit him down, making him kneel before you. You reach for his face, tilting his chin up to meet your gaze.

"You belong to me now," you breathe, your voice thick with love. "You are the most perfect being I have ever seen."

You sit back, letting him explore. He doesn't rush. He begins tentatively, his fingers tracing the contour of your throat, then hovering over your collarbone. He is timid, fearing he might sully your flesh.

"Don't be shy, my angel," you command softly, tilting your head back. "You belong to me. Every touch is a gift. Let me show you the world."

His golden eyes darken with frantic need, his light flickers with internal conflict and overwhelming devotion. He presses a kiss to the pulse point at your wrist, then trails reverent kisses down your arm. When his hands reach your core, tracing the line of your inner thigh, he stills. He lets out a shaky breath, his purity struggling with the raw desire you are making him feel.

"This isn’t…" he whispers, his eyes pleading. "God would never approve of this."

You don't soothe him with words. Instead, you take his trembling hands in yours and bring them to your throat, tilting your head to expose the pale, vulnerable column. 

"God is blind to this kind of perfection," you command, your voice ringing with overwhelming certainty. "He cannot feel your skin, he cannot witness your devotion, and he cannot cherish you like this. He cannot love you like I love you. If he did, you would not be in that cathedral by yourself."

You reach down, running your fingers gently through the soft gold of his hair. "You are mine, Felix. And this is our temple now. Your perfection is for me, and only me. You will stay with me forever."

You exhale sharply, watching his theological crisis dissolving under the weight of your claim. You push him gently back onto the soft cloth, his eyes wide and dedicated. Now, it is your turn to worship. You pull the loose white linen of his tunic open, exposing the pale, flawless skin of his chest. Your hands, warm and purposeful, run over the cool, smooth planes of his abdomen. You lean down, licking a slow, deliberate line from his clavicles to his sternum, before finding the tight, pink nubs of his nipples. You tease them with your tongue and teeth, watching the light in his eyes shudder. A low, soft whimper, totally new, escapes his throat.

You shift, kneeling between his trembling thighs. You reach down, carefully working the linen away to reveal his hardening member. It is perfect, pale, and already dripping . You take it in your hand, stroking the length, watching his breath catch. Your eyes stay on him as you lower your head, your mouth warping around him completely. Your devotion is single-minded, expressing everything you feel for his flawless body. Felix arches against your touch, his hands instinctively clenching the cloths spread beneath him.

"Too much," he chokes out, the sound muffled, his voice thick with overwhelming, forbidden pleasure.

You increase the speed and pressure, your hands guiding him, your mouth consuming him utterly. The wet, rhythmic sounds of your devotion fill the space as you drive him higher, watching his light flickers, his perfection dissolving into desperate human need under your touch, leaving way to his frantic gasps.

"You are my treasure, so perfect for my love, look at how beautiful you are yielding for me."

The dedication to every detail of his pleasure is all that matters. The climax hits him like a shockwave, a shuddering, profound release that tears a muffled cry from his throat. His body seizes against your mouth, consumed entirely by the overwhelming force of your worship. You don't pull back. You continue, praising the taste of his pure, dedicated submission, as you swallow, your mouth never leaving its claim. You want more. You need to see that beautiful, devastating expression on his face again. You increase the pressure, your hands gripping his hips firmly to keep him anchored to your worship.

"You're not done, my perfect boy," you command, your voice a thick, possessive whisper. "Look at you, my angel. So wet and so sensitive, twitching for me. You're so delicate, like a shy, perfect boy. It's so beautiful to watch you break like this."

His light flickers violently, and his wings twitch and ripple with every surge of pleasure, scattering golden dust onto the mess of cloth. He is already straining against your touch, his whimper turning into a guttural choke as the second, more violent wave of sensation hits him. You don't stop until he convulses again, a total, shivering release that makes his entire body lock and his light flare out in submission. You lift your head, your mouth slick with his essence, your eyes filled with fierce, triumphant love.

"My beautiful boy," you breathe, pressing a final, possessive kiss right to the place you just consumed. You lay your cheek against his thigh, resting your body against his.

He shifts, his voice barely a soft, pleading sound, "Please... can we... just a little more?"

You smile, running a gentle but firm hand over the curve of his hip, leaning to lick his lips pulling back before he can kiss back. A broken whimper leaves him through a breath, as you shush him. "Not yet, my angel. You're trembling so hard you'd break if I touched you again. Don't worry, you belong to me now."