Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Coyle sat in the pew beside his wife, but his soul was nowhere near God.

The air was thick with incense, voices rising in prayer all around him, yet all he could see—all he could think of—was Father Easterman.

The priest stood at the altar, clothed in black, every line of his body framed by the tall stone arches. The fabric fell long and clean, sleeves hugging narrow arms, the skirt flowing in a way that looked more like a gown than holy vestments.

It made Coyle’s stomach twist. It should have looked ridiculous, even shameful. But instead it suited him—lean, delicate, his figure almost fragile beneath the weight of ritual.

The white collar glared against the pale column of his throat. It looked like a shackle, a mark of ownership, and all Coyle could think about was tearing it open with his teeth.

Christ, he thought, this was worship. Not scripture. Not prayer. Him.

His chest ached with it, his cock hardening traitorously in the house of God. Shame coiled hot in his gut. If not for the service still pressing forward, he would have fled to the bathroom to spill himself out against cold tile, mumbling the priest’s name into his wrist like a blasphemy.

The Eucharist began.

Coyle’s wife rose first. Father Easterman greeted her with reverence, the wafer set gently on her tongue. It was holy, spotless.

Then Coyle stepped forward.

And everything changed.

The priest looked at him. Just a flicker, just a sliver of attention—but it landed like a blow to the chest.

“The Body of Christ,” he murmured.

Coyle opened his mouth. He hated himself for how readily he obeyed.

The wafer touched his tongue. And for a single, unbearable heartbeat, the priest held it there. His fingers—thin, precise, holy hands that consecrated bread into flesh—pressed lightly, possessively against his mouth. His gaze never wavered.

It was obscene. It was divine.

Coyle swallowed, his throat convulsing around the dry wafer, his cock twitching like he’d just been touched. The fingers withdrew at last, leaving his tongue scorched with absence.

He forgot to say Amen.

He forgot the sign of the cross.

He stumbled to the chalice and drank greedily, gulping down the wine as if it could quench the fire burning through him. The blood of Christ scorched his throat, and he thought of licking it from Father Easterman’s fingers instead.

He sat again, trembling, eyes locked on the altar.

The rest of the service dissolved into fantasy.

He imagined the priest’s hands—calloused from books, steady from sacraments—gripping his jaw, forcing it open. Those same hands that blessed, that absolved, now rough in his hair, dragging his head back. He saw himself kneeling at the altar rail, mouth full, tears streaking his face, while Father Easterman stood above him with that same serene mask, untouchable and cruel.

Every prayer sounded like command. Every verse twisted in his head until it was obscene. Take, eat. This is my body. He could hear it in Easterman’s voice, low and certain, whispered just for him.

By the final hymn, Coyle was undone. His skin burned, his body ached, and his mind roared with sin. He needed absolution. He needed to kneel in the confessional, to pour this filth out and beg forgiveness.

But what he needed more—God help him—was not Christ.

It was Father Easterman himself, breaking him open in the house of God.