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The dappled multicoloured light, shining through the ornate stained glass window above the altar floods the grey flagstone floor. Harry, dressed in his vestments, positioning himself in the centre of the light on his knees, letting the warmth of the Lord rush over him, filling him with calm as he looks down at his Bible. It’s not the white leatherbound, gold leafed large print version he uses to preach to his flock. That one is sitting at the centre of the altar, held up and open on a wire stand to the ninety first Psalm. In his hand, however, he’s holding his small, battered copy that can slip in his pocket.
He turns to Daniel, his eyes skimming over the familiar story; it would serve as a reminder to his congregation that even if they find themselves in the lions’ den, God gives them the grace and strength to overcome all. He loses himself in the words for a bit, letting them wash over him as he traces the ridges and bumps of each word on the thin paper.
“Father Styles?” a voice behind him comes, making him jump slightly. He’s used to people interrupting him. After all, that’s why he leaves the large wooden doors propped open. The church was a sanctuary for everyone. Who was he to stop God’s children seeking out the truth?
He closes his book, suddenly aware of how much his knees ache from the flagstone floor as he gets back to his feet, turning around slowly. Standing in the centre of the aisle is Louis. Louis, who comes to confess all his sins to Harry, every day on his knees, little begs of forgiveness tumbling from his lips. Louis, whose ridges and bumps Harry feels under his fingertips almost as often as he feels the ridges and bumps of the Word.
“Hello, Louis,” he smiles, placing his Bible on the altar next to the Communion chalice. “Come to confess?”
He watches carefully as Louis’ eyes darken a little, his lips parting. “Yes, Father.”
It’s part of their charade now, a dance that he knows well. “Why don’t you go close the door then? I think you and I, and God, need some alone time, don’t you?”
Louis looks at him for a moment before nodding, disappearing back up the aisle Harry thinks for a moment he might trip over his own feet in his haste. The sound of the heavy wooden doors being eased shut, the large metal bolt being slid across it, rings through the rafters, echoing down across the empty congregation.
Harry considers for a moment whether Louis would ever confess in front of the whole congregation. Whether he could convince Louis to let him give the Lord what he wanted in front of fifty God-fearing people, knowing that he was special. Knowing that he was the only one God wanted spread out across his altar, the perfect divine sacrifice. It’s the way Louis should always be, God able to see all of him, ready.
Louis returns back into the church, standing at the top of the aisle. For a moment Harry just takes him in. The stained glass windows lining the sides of the church bathe him in brilliant colour, almost angelic as it radiates around him. Harry can feel himself starting to harden already. It’s exactly what God wants from him.
“Come here,” he instructs, moving to stand on the first of the five steps leading to the altar, his back to it. Louis nods, almost stumbling down the aisle before dropping to his knees on the flagstone, his head bowed. He looks stunning like that, his brown hair slipping out of the carefully tousled style, falling down around his face like thin curtains. Harry admires him for a moment, admires how worshipful he looks. “What do you want to tell me, lamb?” he asks.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” Louis mumbles, the words so familiar, and yet achingly hot. He hears them nearly every day, but when they’re coming from Louis’ mouth, he feels himself going wild with the power of them.
“Tell me what you’ve done.”
“I swore, Father. I took the Lord God’s name in vain. And I had unholy thoughts while reading a section of scripture.”
Harry resists the urge to kneel down in front of Louis, to place a gentle finger under his chin and tip his head up towards the Lord, to show him the majestic strength of the Lord, how proud he would be of Louis’ sacrifice for him. But it’s part of the charade. Louis must confess. And Harry must help him redeem himself.
“Why did you use the Lord God’s name in vain?” Harry asks.
He sees Louis’ breath catch slightly, his cheeks reddening. “I was—um… It was after I had the unholy thoughts and I–uh…” he trails off. Harry knows Louis well enough to fill in the gaps, to know what Louis is implying but doesn’t have the words to say.
“Come with me, Louis,” he says, holding his hand out. Louis looks up for a moment, staring at his hand, before finally putting his own hand in Louis’ palm. His skin is warm, and as Louis wraps his fingers around Harry’s, he dwarfs them. Carefully, he helps Louis to his feet, walking him up the five steps to the altar.
Normally, members of the congregation won’t go beyond the first step to take their Communion. Normally, members of the congregation never see the decorations on the altar, the way the gold wraps around it, the marble muted compared to the radiant glow of gold. But Louis isn’t a normal member of the congregation. Louis deserves to be on the altar, to sit with the other decorations proving God’s strength and grace as a designer. The silver, polished chalice, empty now, but normally brimming with the dark purple blood of Christ, the hand-twisted ciborium, the lid carefully positioned on top to protect the body of Christ, the chiselling of divine figures, carved into the stone as they emerge from the corners, the imposing crucifix, Jesus’ agony on display.
If Harry had his choice, he’d find a sculpture to chisel Louis’ cheekbones into the altar, a carver to whittle his features into every beam that rose from the pulpit up to the rafters. But even without that, he sees Louis everywhere in the church, images of him on his knees or spread out on the altar flitting through his mind as he polishes the marble until he can see his own reflection in it, or when he stands in the pulpit as he reads to the congregation, remembering how perfectly Louis can slip down inside it, staying on his knees, out of sight.
As they reach the altar, he watches as Louis licks his lips, his eyes falling to the altar cloth. In the nave of the church, the stained glass window rising up above them, dominating their view, it’s hard not to feel the presence of the Lord. Harry’s lifeworks were tied into it, into the area of soft carpeted stairs and platform, of draped gold and glowing light, the very heart of the church protected from the masses, the Sanctuary. It’s the place Harry can retreat, the place where he knows God’s all powerful presence can be felt as his fingers trace along the Tabernacle. And it’s the place where Louis should always be.
It doesn’t feel right for Louis to touch the altar cloth. The cloth is there to protect the surface of the altar from damage, but Louis, in his goodliness, should be put directly on the altar. That is a decision Harry reached months ago, and so he slowly removed the objects atop the altar until he could free the cloth, removing it carefully. He knows that Louis has begun to strip his clothes off, leaving them neatly at the front of the altar in a folded pile. It’s like he’s slipping into his own personal vestments for his forgiveness.
Louis doesn’t speak while he does this. He never speaks unless he’s directed to, and that’s how Harry prefers it. Some sermons are better taken in silence, but some days he craves to hear Louis’ voice fill the nave, echoing off the pews back to him like the call of angels. Once the altar is completely cleared off, he rests a gentle hand on it. The marble is freezing cold, the winter chill biting in the air a little. He hopes Louis won’t be too cold.
“The Lord is waiting for you,” he says as he turns back to Louis. For a moment it seems like Louis is considering the best way to get atop the altar, exactly how the Lord may want him. Harry likes to watch the confusion that clouds his face sometimes. It’s endearing, and reminds him of the very first time he watched Louis come apart, biting down furiously on the purificator until the fabric was drenched with his own saliva and desperate whines. When Harry had wiped the edge of the chalice with the purificator the following Sunday, his eyes had found Louis’ across the congregation, his lip slightly upturned as the other man blushed, averting his eyes.
He has a plan for Louis today though, so he places a gentle hand on his hip, turning him around so he faces the crucifix that’s mounted above the altar, overlooking all. It’s only right that Louis be up here, under the watchful eye of Christ, Harry muses as he splays his hand out across Louis’ back between his shoulder blades. The skin is warm and flushed underneath him, goosebumps erupting from around his fingertips. He wonders if that’s a natural response to being touched by someone as Heaven-blessed as himself. Louis always seems to break out into goosebumps at even the lightest brush. Giving no warning, he pushes firmly down until Louis’ chest meets the marble top of the altar, bent perfectly in half. Below him, Louis shivers slightly at the contact as Harry kicks his legs apart a little.
“I think some recitation will absolve you from your sin, lamb. How does that sound?”
“Thank you, Father,” Louis agrees, readily, his head turning to the side, cheek pressed firmly down against the marble top.
Harry holds him down on the altar for a moment, admiring how his body looked, pressed flush against the altar as though giving an offering to God. He supposes that in many ways Louis does offer himself to the Lord, allowing Harry, a vessel of godliness, to take him apart in the Sanctuary, offering his most carnal, humane desires to be touched by Heaven, eased out and spread across the altar for God to examine and remedy, and then for Harry to put back together, dragging out the whines from him. If Harry could bottle the whines up and make the congregation drink it, he would in a heartbeat. Perhaps then they will understand what true devotion looks like. It looks like complete submission, an implicit trust, that God and his vessels will take him apart and put him back together, and Louis is so pliant and responsive to it, it drives Harry wild.
He finally releases his palm, gently tracing the curve of Louis’ spine, feeling the bumps of each vertebra. Often he finds himself doing that, his fingers exploring across the surface as he wonders how something that feels so human beneath his touch can be so surely divine. The way Louis shows his devotion to Harry, to the Lord, to the Church, is undeniably divine. Harry is sure of that. He keeps tracing the curve of his spine, pressing into some of the dips as hard as he dared. In moments like this he finds himself wondering if it’s possible he could break Louis, if the Lord would even let that happen. As he reaches down towards the base of his spine, his fingers stop as the sacral, his eyes tracing across the globes of Louis’ arse. They’re perfectly round, more proof of a divine architect.
He wants to touch, but he doesn’t want to rush anything. There’s time, he reminds himself. The church will be deserted for hours. And God would want him to savour the sacrifice, to prove how worthy they both are of his admiration and love. He takes his hand and instead tangles it in the slicked back brown hair atop Louis’ head, gripping the strands firmly before pulling his head directly upwards, watching as Louis’ chest arches above the altar. The curve of his body in this position should be studied by mathematicians and philosophers alike, Harry thought. The angle of the arch must form part of a golden ratio, an absolute proof of Heaven-sent cherubs. Louis bites back a moan at the sensation. He can tell Louis is trying not to make a sound. Some days that’s what he wants. A silent prayer and worship. But other days he wants the sounds of Louis’ devotion to echo through the Tabernacle, to spill out from the Sanctuary and down the aisle, flooding the pews to wash away the non-believers.
With the hand that isn’t tangled in Louis’ hair, still pulling upwards, he leans over his body, the fabric of his vestments rubbing against Louis’ naked back as he points to the ninety first psalm. “Start reading little lamb. Nice and clear so God can hear you speak his words,” he instructs.
It seems to take Louis a moment to process that before he swallows. “Psalm ninety one,” he starts, his voice strangled. It seems like it’s a laborious task for him, but Harry has no intention of making it particularly tedious. After all, he’s given Louis the Book to read the passages from, and he’s holding his head up. What else could Louis want? “ He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty .”
Assured that Louis is going to continue reading, Harry leans back again, removing the contact of his vestments against Louis’ flushed skin, but holding his hair tangled upwards. He briefly wonders if he can fashion some kind of accessory that he could use to hold Louis’ head up on the altar. It seems wrong for God not to be able to see his bright blue eyes as he laid himself out for him.
“ I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust .”
“Do you trust me, little lamb?” Harry asks, his voice low.
Louis tries to nod his head, but Harry’s holding firm, giving him no space to move. “Yes, Father. I trust you.”
“Here, the Sanctuary, this is your fortress. This is where you come to spread yourself in offering to God, like this. You’re doing so well, darling. God is so proud of you. You’re his most beautiful sacrifice.”
He can feel Louis relaxing with every word. “Thank you, Father.”
“Keep reading, lamb. God’s listening to you. Make him proud.”
“ Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilenc e,” Louis continues.
Holding his hair firmly to ensure he can keep reading, Harry pops one of his fingers into his mouth, sucking it gently. It’s important that things be slightly slick for Louis, though in his experience when Louis shows up to Confession he’s normally spent time fingering himself open. Harry likes Louis’ preparedness, and has never admonished him for it. If he had a choice, Louis would always be slick and open, ready to be used.
Once he’s satisfied his finger is wet enough, he traces it down Louis’ crack, revelling in the way Louis jumps slightly, tripping over his words. “Start the verse again please, love,” he instructs as he spreads Louis’ cheeks apart. He can see the slick from where Louis has fingered himself open glistening in the sunlight. He loves that his lamb thinks things through, preparing himself for the Lord, taking on all of his lessons. He pulls Louis’ hair a bit harder, an indicator for him to stop reading for a moment. Louis stutters, but stops, biting back a moan as Harry blows gently against his hole.
“Do you remember what baptism John preached?” he asks. He knows Louis knows the answer. He asks him every time still, regardless.
“He preached the baptism of repentance for the remission of sins,” Louis chokes out
“Exactly. God forgives you when you repent, lamb. Are you ready to be baptised again, to be God’s blameless cherub?”
“Yes, Father.”
Harry swirls his tongue around his mouth to make sure he has enough saliva before spitting between Louis’ cheeks, his saliva mingling with the slick already there. He wastes no time in dragging his finger through the slick, making a cross on the puckered hole, before circling the rim. “God loves you so much, lamb. Keep reading.”
“ They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone ,” Louis continues to read.
“Ready for me to bear you up to the Lord in my hand? Deliver you to him, the way he wants you?”
Louis tries to drop his head down onto the altar, a desperate moan tumbling from his lips as Harry continues to circle his hole, but his hair is held too firm, the sensation dragging another whine from him. Harry wants to drink his essence, to twist and wring until every desperate, breathy, high pitched whine Louis can make is spilled into the church, flooding the flagstone and staining it with the desperation he feels somewhere deep in his gut. He wants to know if God drinks Louis’ whines up, the way they drink the blood of Christ. If it’s a holy experience to let it dance across his lips and slide down his throat.
Carefully, he slides his finger into Louis, letting the heat envelop him. It’s the closest to touching Heaven he’s ever come on Earth, the sensation just as breathlessly exhilarating as the first time. He thinks he may never tire from the way Louis’ soft walls grip him, as though afraid the intrusion will disappear, the way the velvet soft heat permeates into his pores, cleansing him from the inside out. He’s never known a touch so holy. Beneath him, Louis whines, desperate and high pitched as Harry thrusts the finger in and out, Louis’ hole needily pulling him back in every time he tries to withdraw his finger all the way.
There’s something intoxicating about watching his finger disappear into Louis. It’s the finger he uses to cross himself after every prayer, the finger he uses to turn the thin pages of the Bible, the finger he uses to bless and anoint others. It seems only right that he’s using that finger to bless Louis from the inside out. “Keep reading, lamb. You’re almost done with this psalm. I want God to hear you worshipping him,” he says, his voice level. He feels Louis shiver, although whether it’s from the sensations, the cold altar, or his reverence to God, he doesn’t know.
“ With long life will I satisfy him, and shew him my salvation ,” Louis gasps out, every few words punctuated by a desperate whine that seems to spill from deep within him. Harry pulls his head up a little further, watching his back arch beautifully, the curve of his spine the shape poets would write about and architectures would spend years training to create. But he can do it with just the twist of his hand, pulling God’s own creation into the most beautiful form possible. He fingers Louis for a moment longer, before dropping a gentle kiss between his shoulder blades, his lips hot against Louis’ cool skin.
It’s like kissing marble, he considers. Like someone sat in front of a likeness of God, spending years chipping and shaping the stone, memorising the curves and shapes of God’s own figure, committing them to the chisel in a demonstration of eternal devotion and when the carver stepped back, Louis was left. He wonders if Louis knows how Godlike he is, if he knows that, while Harry is a vessel for God’s thoughts, salvation for the masses, it’s Louis whom God holds a mirror up for. It’s why it makes sense for Louis to sacrifice himself on the altar for the Lord. After all, did God not send his only Son to Earth as a sacrifice?
“God’s so proud of you, little lamb,” he says, his voice low as his lips still ghost across Louis’ skin. Finally, he extracts his finger, dragging the wetness across Louis’ lower back, marking a cross that glistens in the multicoloured light, making Louis look briefly radiant. Like God is really coming to claim his Son back to the Heavens. He releases the grip he has on his hair, watching as Louis falls back onto the altar, trembling, and whining at the loss of contact. Gently, Harry places his hands on Louis’ hips, pulling him upright.
Louis leans on him as he tries to stand, the effect of the Scriptures and Harry’s finger evident in his limbs. He’s piliant, letting Harry move him where he needs to as Harry turns him around, before lowering him back onto the altar again, this time on his back, his cock standing hard away from the rest of his body. He pushes Louis until his head is hanging down off the top of the altar, just below the crucifix, before pulling his legs apart, bending his knees and putting his feet flat against the cool marble, spreading the most intimate parts of Louis open for the Lord to see. He knows Louis loves being presented to the Lord.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, tracing a finger down the column of Lous’ neck, visible and strained as his head falls backwards. “Can you see the crucifix above you?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Don’t take your eyes off of it while we do this, okay? I want him to know it’s all for him. That you spread yourself out in the Sanctuary for God alone. Think you can do that, lamb?”
“What are we doing, Father?”
Harry smiles, knowing Louis can’t see him. He loves it when he surprises Louis. “ Ye shall keep my sabbaths and reverence my sanctuary: I am the Lord ,” he quotes. Still, it seems like Louis doesn’t understand. That’s okay, Harry thinks. Sometimes it’s not for the lamb to understand why he’s laying on the altar. Sometimes until the stone comes down, the lamb twisting against the marble, the white coat staining red, the lamb thinks he’s still in the pasture. But God has picked Louis from the pasture, set him upon the altar.
Harry removes his finger, taking a moment to admire how Louis’ body looks, spread out across the white marble. He wonders if anyone would oppose him using Louis as an altar, throwing out the old marble one, replacing it instead with the living, breathing evidence of God’s power and might. Perhaps one time he’ll try to rest the chalice on Louis’ back, see if he can hold himself still enough to not spill the blood of Christ down his back, the red tears tracking down his pale flesh.
It’s time, though. Harry can feel the stirring. He knows God is waiting. He’s laid the lamb down now, and God will be disappointed if he doesn’t deliver. He presses his hands against Louis’ hips, pinning him down against the altar, giving him no space to move. He’ll just have to take exactly what God gives him, which is exactly how Harry likes it. He lowers himself down onto his knees, his head bent for a moment. It was only right he pray over the sacrifice. It was a routine he was used to, staring down at the carpet beneath his knees. Louis was the only person he ever got on his knees for. Only like this, too. Only when he’s spread vulnerable across the altar, deep in the Sanctuary of the Lord. Only now does it seem right for Harry, a man of the cloth, to be on his knees in devotion. How else could he express his worshipful thanks to God for delivering him such a beautiful sacrifice?
“ Stand in awe and sin not: commune with your own heart upon your bed and be still ,” Harry recites as an instruction. “Do you know what the next line is, little lamb? It’s from Psalms.”
“Uh,” Louis’ voice comes, slightly strangled. “ Selah ?”
“Clever boy,” Harry praises. “Selah in the Psalms has a few debated meanings. But to me, it means a change of intensity, a change of volume. God doesn’t want you to be quiet, lamb. He wants to hear you praise him. So don’t hold back. I want the rafters to echo with your whines. It’s how God knows you’re giving yourself over to him, so completely.”
He knows Louis is still processing that. Sometimes he likes to throw theological ideas into the proceedings, ways to challenge Louis’ understanding of the Scripture. He’ll understand this one too, in time. He’ll understand exactly what Harry intends to do with him. He places his hands against Louis’ shins, pulling his legs apart even further, before licking a long strip up his crack, flattening his tongue down.
On the altar, Louis lets out a guttural, desperate whine, his hips pushing against Harry, trying to find more contact. Harry tightens his grip on Louis’ shins, shaking them slightly. “Be still,” he repeats, before licking gently against his hole. The moans and whines he drags from Louis’ lips with each gentle lick, his hole fluttering desperately against the overwhelming sensations, are heavenly. He’s never seen anything better. He can feel Louis clenching his muscles underneath his fingers in an effort to refrain from moving.
Perhaps next time he sacrifices Louis he should truss him up, delivering him to the Lord in complete submission, unable to resist anything, just take what the Lord chose to anoint him with. It’s an overwhelming thought as he considers whether the cords of his vestments would bind Louis enough, provide enough strength to keep him spread open. The more he licks the wetter the hole gets, as though being lowered over and over into the baptismal font, purifying Louis from deep within.
He can feel Louis trembling in an effort not to move. The valiant effort is incredible, a further proof of just how good Louis is for him, for the Lord, and it makes Harry feel slightly dizzy as he flattens his tongue against Louis’ hole, feeling the way it flutters for him. His licks turn more heated, his tongue dipping into the warm walls, rhythmically moving it in and out of Louis until it starts to ache. The whines and whimpers he drags out of Louis with every lick seem to echo off the rafters, rising from the altar and dancing through the beams, bouncing around the nave and coming back to him a thousandfold. It’s like the best worship he’s ever heard, a solo song, but somehow also a chorus of angelic throngs.
“Father, please,” Louis begs, his voice broken and destroyed. He’s sacrificing everything to God, every time he allows himself to be spread out on the altar and taken. Some days he sacrifices his strength and his humility. On days like today, though, he seems to be sacrificing his control, allowing God to rush through him, shredding his voice and blinding him. It’s a devotion unlike any Harry has seen before. He wonders just how much he could do to Louis to drag out the evidence of his devotion, if he could make him weep on the altar, like Mary Magdalene at Jesus’ feet. If Louis would let him clean his very soul with the tears.
“ I will utterly consume all things from off the land, said the Lord, ” Harry recites. Louis moans, a desperate, broken, needy moan that heralds how close he is. How ready he is to show his devotion, to sacrifice himself. Harry pins him firmly down, flattening his tongue against his hole again as Louis thrashes desperately above him, his flesh hitting the altar over and over.
“Father, please, I’m so close,” he begs. Harry doesn’t relent, licking furiously as he tries to keep Louis still. Louis’ begs become unintelligible, just a jumbled mess of pleas to a God Harry knew must be watching. He shows no mercy as Louis trembles desperately beneath him, his body tensing. He knows it’s coming, even as Louis arches his back, his hands falling to the side and gripping the edge of the altar with all his might, his fingers turning white with the force of it.
Harry keeps the firm grip on his hip, the tongue pressed against the fluttering hole as Louis tenses, his entire body going solid, his head dragging up from where it was hanging heavy over the edge of the altar, instead slamming down into the top of it as he arches his neck, exposing all of his vulnerable flesh. His words are unintelligible, a jumble of pleads and whines, high pitched and clawingly desperate. Still, Harry doesn’t relent. It’s important to keep pushing Louis through it, to watch him come entirely apart in front of the Lord.
It’s with a small shout though, that Louis eventually comes apart. He tenses even more, his eyes falling shut, with a little exaltation to the Lord, before long white ribbons spurt from him, painting his chest and stomach, some of the ribbons even dancing up to his chin. Almost immediately, he relaxes, his body falling limp. Harry knows what needs to happen next. He needs to contribute his offering too. As much as it pains him, he drags himself away from Louis’ hole, carefully getting up onto his feet.
He admires Louis for a moment, completely limp, his breathing slow and rhythmic, his chest rising and falling with each breath. As he walks around the altar, admiring his sacrifice from all angles, he realises Louis has bitten his lip at some point, hard enough to draw blood. It staines his pale lips bright blush red, and Harry can’t help the way his finger darts out to drag through the stickiness. He’s never made Louis bleed before, he realises. The blood clings to his finger, sticky and thick. He can’t decide what to do with it for a moment. He wonders whether he should lick it off his fingers, taste the offering he’s presented to the Lord, but he decides against it. He can’t let his lips soil the sacrifice. Instead, he rubs his finger through Louis’ lips, collecting as much blood as he can, before smearing it across Louis’ forehead in a rudimentary cross shape. Louis’ eyelids flutter slightly at the action, but they still remain shut, his blue eyes hidden from Harry.
Harry wants to drag his eyelids open, to make him stare up at the rafters of the nave and see what God has created. But he also loves Louis like this, completely spent and totally reverent. He reaches the bottom of the altar again, admiring the way Louis’ spit soaked hole seems to glisten. How long could he leave Louis here, he wonders. Perhaps the man would never leave. Perhaps he’d stay spent on the altar forever.
He makes quick work of shedding his vestments. Nudity in the church has never been a source of shame for him. God made man beautiful, and clothed them to quell temptation. But what use would it be to quell temptation when he has divinity spread out on his altar, he thinks. Already he knows he’s hard. Louis seems to have that kind of effect on him, from the very first time he dropped to his knees and begged for forgiveness, the power Louis held over him was undeniable.
There’s no need to prep Louis further, so he takes one of his legs, hooking it over his shoulder, before thrusting in with one swift movement. Below him, Louis squirms slightly at the intrusion, whimpering slightly. His head has slipped back, falling off the side of the altar again. Harry hopes he opens his eyes and keeps looking at the crucifix, like he was instructed to. It’s only right that Louis knows he’s been watched the whole time by God as he gives himself over and over to a man of the cloth. He wonders if that excites Louis as much as it excites him as he pulls back, thrusting in again. With every thrust he draws out another little whimper from Louis.
It’s too broken to be a proper moan, the overstimulation clearly overwhelming him. But there’s something so beautiful about watching Louis pliantly allow Harry to thrust into him, pulling his leg to make each thrust deeper than the last. The tight heat around his finger is nothing compared to the heat around his cock, each drag intoxicatingly overwhelming. Every moment Harry spends thrusting into the man is another moment he implicitly knows of the existence of a divine creator. Nothing else could explain Louis.
Sometimes he talks while he thrusts into Louis, reciting Scripture, or asking Louis to read something to him. But today he doesn’t want that. Instead he wants the desperate little whimpers to mingle with the sound of flesh hitting the marble altar, the echoes off the stone walls somehow incredibly holy and divine, but also fundamentally human and material. In moments like this, Harry really grasps his own mortality, his tentative gasp on the divine comforter, reaching through the human experience to wrap around him, to demonstrate God’s power as Louis’ heat grips him tighter.
He can feel himself starting to get closer. It wouldn’t do to paint inside Louis, he decides. He wants to see his offering, mingling with Louis’. When he’s close enough that he can feel his breath starting to hitch, his legs shaking with the effort, his heart racing, he pulls out, revelling in the desperate moan that tumbles from Louis’ lips, the way his hips seem to try to chase Harry. Like even though he’s totally spent and overstimulated, he still somehow wants more. Harry thinks he couldn’t love Louis more if he tried.
“ He has set his love upon me,” Harry quotes, wrapping a fist around his cock and pumping furiously. Louis doesn’t even drag his head up from where it’s hanging heavy off the altar, his arms still laying uselessly beside him. He knows what’s coming, and he knows it’s futile to resist. God wants both their offerings, splattered across his new altar. It takes barely two pumps before Harry feels himself tense up, all of his nerves aching for the release. As he spills across Louis’ chest, he watches as Louis’ breath catches slightly at the surprise, the ribbons mingling with the dying come already settled on his flesh. Harry keeps pumping his fist until he’s completely spent, his legs almost giving out on him from the force of it.
As he dresses himself, he admires the way Louis stays perfectly still, their offerings ready for God to see. It suits Louis, he thinks as he walks back round to the top of the altar, rescuing the Bible from its wire stand. He positions himself back at the steps as he opens the heavy book, all but ignoring Louis now. He wants to make sure he does this bit right, that his offering is given plenty of time to dry.
“Psalms Four,” he starts, his voice low. Louis moans quietly, shifting ever so slightly. “ Hear me when I call, O God of my righteousness: thou hast enlarged me when I was in distress; have mercy upon me, and hear my prayer.”
He continues to recite the whole psalm, his voice steady as he reads. Louis still doesn’t move, not even as the come on him dries. Once Harry is finished with that psalm, he turns the large pages, finding another one to read. It’s incredibly reverent, he decides, as his eyes trace across Louis’ form. Still, he hasn’t opened his eyes, his back still slightly arched. The flush of his skin against the marble is so beautiful, Harry wants to write songs about it, encouraging all of the congregation to worship at Louis’ feet. He’s the closest thing Harry has ever touched to Heaven.
Once he’s finished reading the second psalm, he shuts the Book with a snap, loud enough that Louis jumps slightly, his blue eyes flying open. His pupils are still completely blown out, so wide that only the tiniest rim of blue is visible, the blackness of his pupils almost consuming his whole eye. He shivers slightly, perhaps in reverence, or perhaps in shame, goosebumps erupting across his skin. Harry traces a finger through their offerings, pleased to find they have, for the most part at least, dried.
He offers a hand out to Louis, who takes it graciously, and pulls him up to a seated position, dropping his legs down in front of the altar. They swing there for a moment as Harry takes in his features, running a hand through Louis’ tousled hair. He wants to pepper his jawbone with kisses, to find out what Louis tastes like. But that’s a line he’s never crossed before. He wonders if Louis would get angry at him, or whether he would bend to his whim at the gentlest of touches. One day, maybe he’ll find out. Maybe God will grant him another miracle.
For a moment neither of them moves. Louis looks slightly stunned, his legs still swinging. His cheeks are flushed red, the colour of Communion wine, his chest painted white and holy. Harry rather wishes he’d thought to dip the little crucifix Louis wears around his neck into their white offerings, but as he watches the little silver pendulum swing slightly, he realises that some of Louis’ ribbons have landed on it, dappling it white. He hopes Louis never cleans it.
Carefully, he unfolds Louis’ clothes from where they were left, helping Louis get back into them. It’s a slow, methodical process. It feels right, to dress the sacrifice. Louis is totally dependent on him, seemingly unable to stand without support. Harry keeps him on the altar for as much as possible, to avoid damaging him. Only once he pulls Louis’ knitted jumper on, the man sitting back on the altar, Harry’s hand ghosting across his chest, does he really take in Louis’ features. He wants to trace a gentle finger down the sharp cheekbones, to see if they feel like carved marble under his fingertips, if his skin would tingle at the contact.
“Father?” Louis asks, his voice raspy. It sounds like he’s been exalting for hours. His eyes still flutter shut occasionally, his breathing heavy.
“Yes, lamb?” he asks, finally allowing himself to trace Louis’ face. He starts with the cheekbone, before dragging his finger under Louis’ chin, tipping the centre of it up ever so slightly. Louis allows his head to be manoeuvred, his back curving slightly with the new position.
“Am I forgiven?”
He stares down at Louis for a second, wondering whether it was even possible for God to see anything he’d ever done as a sin. Surely his own child couldn’t be sinful? He thumbs gently over Louis’ cheek, admiring the way the man leans into the touch, whining slightly. “ God, the Father of Mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself, and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen,” he declares, stroking a gentle cross into Louis’ cheek.
Louis dips his head down, biting his lip. “Thank you, Father.”
“God has freed you from your sins,” he says, stepping back and giving Louis space to get up from the altar. “Go in peace.”
“Thanks be to God,” Louis replies, his legs shaking slightly as he stands. Harry waits for a moment to see what he’ll do, but Louis just glances at him, before starting to walk back down the aisle, his legs slightly bowed from the strain of the positions he’s held. Harry can’t help the way his eyes trace Louis all the way down, the way the multicoloured light dances in his hair and all around him, making him look utterly radiant.
Sometimes when he watches Louis walk away he wants to chase after him, to tug at his hand until Louis turns around, sees them in the radiant brilliance Harry sees them in. But he knows he can’t do that. He knows he needs to wait until Louis is ready. So he will. He’ll write his sermons, and he’ll read his books, and he’ll listen to the tumbling whines and begs of forgiveness Louis seems to create so perfectly.
Once he hears the heavy sliding bolt sliding across the door, the sound echoing in the space, followed by the creak of the old wooden door, he knows he’s alone again. He walks back up to the top of the altar, his fingertips brushing over the top of it to make sure the surface was clear, before he relays out the altar cloth and the items, the order meticulously perfect. After he’s satisfied with that, he reopens his book again.
Perhaps he should include the ninety first Psalm in Sunday’s service, he wonders. He can’t help but contemplate if Louis would be able to sit there in the pews, his head bowed, listening to Harry read the same words he was told to recite while Harry sacrificed him. He couldn't think of a better sermon, as he flips to the correct page.