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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.

Chapter Text

Coyle returned the following Sunday with the weight of his sin pressing heavy in his chest.

He had spent the week in torment—every idle moment filled with images of Father Easterman’s hands, his mouth, his voice. He had prayed until his throat was raw, begged forgiveness until he nearly believed it.

But the moment he stepped into the church again, the scent of incense thick in the air, it all came rushing back.

He sat beside his wife, rigid as stone, palms sweating against the polished wood of the pew. He told himself not to look. He told himself he could survive this hour without faltering.

And then Father Easterman spoke.

The priest’s voice rolled through the nave, calm and steady, weaving scripture into air heavy with smoke. But to Coyle’s ears, it was something else—low, intimate, directed only to him.

“Take, eat,” Father Easterman said, reading from the Gospel. “This is my body.”

Coyle’s stomach knotted. Heat surged into his groin. The words burrowed into him like a command whispered at his ear.

He forced his eyes shut, but behind his lids the visions grew worse. He saw the priest standing above him, pale hands breaking bread, only it wasn’t bread—it was flesh, pink and living, torn open between those elegant fingers. He saw blood dripping from the chalice, thick and dark, spilling over his lips as Father Easterman pressed it to his mouth.

When Coyle opened his eyes again, the church swam. The congregation blurred into faceless shapes, the candles stretched and swayed like molten gold. Only Easterman remained clear—standing tall at the altar, gaze lifted heavenward, voice unshaken.

And then, for an instant, those dark eyes dropped. Met his.

The look pierced straight through him.

Coyle’s cock twitched violently, trapped and aching in his trousers. Shame and lust tangled so fiercely he thought he might faint. His wife’s hand brushed his arm, seeming to notice how tense he was, but he barely felt it.

He couldn’t breathe. Every verse, every prayer, warped in his ears until it was nothing but obscenity.

Drink. This is my blood. Eat. Take. Be filled.

By the time communion began, Coyle was trembling so badly he thought his legs might give. He told himself to stay seated, to let his wife go alone. But the pull was irresistible.

He rose. He walked.

And as he neared the altar rail, the smoke seemed to thicken, the chanting around him softening into a kind of hum. He swore he heard Easterman’s voice low in his ear, separate from the scripture, close enough to make his skin prickle:

Open your mouth. Be a good boy.

Coyle’s knees hit the ground before he realized he’d knelt. He looked up, dazed, mouth already parting.

The wafer touched his tongue. And this time, he was sure—utterly certain—that Father Easterman pressed it harder, long enough for the gesture to feel deliberate. His throat convulsed, tears springing unbidden to his eyes as he swallowed.

He knew it wasn’t possible. He knew it must be his fevered imagination.

And yet, when he dared to look up, Father Easterman’s serene face seemed different. His lips—his thin, beautiful lips—curved just slightly, as though suppressing a smile.

Coyle staggered back to the pew, chest heaving, head swimming. His wife whispered something to him, but he couldn’t hear it over the pounding of his own blood. 

For the rest of the service, he could only sit there trembling, his entire body thrumming with shameful arousal.

The wine still burned in his throat. The taste of flesh still lingered on his tongue.

And Father Easterman’s voice, soft as sin, would not leave his head:

This is my body. Take it. Be filled.

Chapter Text

That night, Coyle could not find rest.

His wife slept easily at his side, her steady breaths rising and falling like waves against his restless body. He turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling as though the plaster would split open and reveal judgment. But it was not God he feared, not God who hovered at the edges of his thoughts.

It was Father Easterman.

The moment his eyes shut, he was back in the church.

The nave was deserted, though candles burned in endless rows, throwing gold light over the stone. The air was thick with incense, smoke drifting like holy mist, and at the altar stood Father Easterman.

Not in black this time.

He was dressed in white.

The robe clung faintly in the candlelight, almost translucent, hinting at the shadow of his body beneath. Draped over his shoulders was a stole, deep red, as if soaked in blood. The image was obscene and radiant at once—Christ and butcher, priest and sacrifice, savior and executioner.

“Come,” Easterman said, his voice ringing through the hollow church.

Coyle obeyed, stumbling down the aisle on trembling legs until his knees hit the stone. He looked up and saw the chalice in the priest’s hand. Dark liquid sloshed within, almost black.

“This is my blood,” Father Easterman murmured, lowering the cup.

Coyle opened his mouth, desperate, and the wine poured in heavy streams down his throat. It was thick, metallic, and hot, running over his lips and chin, down his neck, staining his shirt. He gagged, choking, but drank greedily still, clutching at the priest’s robes with shaking hands.

When the chalice was empty, Father Easterman lowered his hand. In the other palm he held bread—no, not bread.

Flesh. Pink, wet, freshly torn.

“This is my body,” he whispered.

Coyle wept as he took it onto his tongue. He chewed. Salt and copper filled his mouth. Blood seeped down his chin, mixing with spit. His stomach twisted, his cock throbbed painfully, and still he swallowed.

The priest’s hand lingered at his mouth, fingers brushing his lips, smearing blood across his cheek like a blessing.

And in the glow of the candles, the white robes shifted, catching the light, and Coyle could see him—his outline, lean and delicate beneath the linen, the faint rise of his chest, the shadow of his thighs.

A body made for ritual, for devotion, for consumption.

“You are mine,” Father Easterman said. His voice was calm, tender even, as though promising love instead of damnation. “You will eat, and you will drink, and you will belong to me.”

Coyle’s teeth sank deeper into the flesh offered to him. He tore it, lips smearing, throat working as he swallowed. He was sobbing, moaning, half-collapsing against the altar, but the priest only bent over him, stole dragging red against his face, murmuring scripture that had become nothing but filth:

Take, eat. Drink ye all of it. Do this in remembrance of me.

The candles hissed, their smoke filling the air like burning offerings. Coyle felt his own body spilling, rutting helplessly against the stone floor, as if the ritual demanded not only his mouth but every part of him. He thought he might die there, torn open, emptied, consumed by the priest’s hand.

And through it all, Father Easterman’s serene mask never broke. His lips curled only faintly, just enough to reveal something cruel and knowing in the dim light.

Coyle woke with a sob strangled in his throat, the sheets damp beneath him, his cock still throbbing in shameful release. His wife stirred faintly, turned in her sleep, but did not wake.

He pressed his face into the pillow, shuddering. His lips still tasted of blood. His tongue still felt the press of flesh.

And in the dark, he prayed—

Not to God. Never to God again.

Only to Easterman. 

Chapter Text

The dreams consumed him.

Every night now Father Easterman came to him, draped in white robes so sheer the candlelight painted the faint outline of his body beneath them, a crimson stole hung like a wound dripping down his narrow shoulders. Every night his eyes glowed, divine, bright with the steady patience of a god who had waited centuries for his chosen mouth.

And every night, he came bearing meat.

Not bread, not wafers—meat, steaming and red, carved thick from his own body as though it were the most natural sacrament in the world. The slices glistened with fat, dripping onto the stone floor where they hissed their last, ghostly cries into the wax pools of the candles.

“Open,” Father Easterman murmured, pressing the first hunk to Coyle’s lips.

It was still warm from the priest’s body, quivering like it had only just been cut. Coyle gagged as the taste hit his tongue—rich, salty, metallic—but Easterman pushed harder, fingers firm against his jaw until the whole mouthful slid inside.

“Chew,” he ordered. “Swallow. You will be filled.”

Coyle obeyed. The flesh broke apart between his teeth, juices spilling down his chin. Steam rose into his nose, a steady, shapeless burn snaking its way up the back of his throat, choking him with its heat. He belched against the fullness already pressing down his throat, but the priest was relentless.

Another slab, thicker than the first, stuffed into his mouth.

Then another.

Coyle swallowed, gagged, tears streaking down his cheeks. “I can’t—please, Father, I can’t hold any more—”

“You can.” Easterman’s voice deepened, his hand cupping the back of Coyle’s skull, forcing another morsel past his lips. “You must. You are my altar, my vessel. Take me into yourself.”

Chew. Swallow. Eat.

The flesh was rich, unbearably rich, like nothing Coyle had ever tasted. It filled his belly until he thought it would tear him open. Yet the moment he swallowed, hunger gnawed again, fiercer, sharper.

“My perfect, starving beast.”

Coyle sobbed through mouthfuls of meat, choking, drooling, the grease slicking his beard and chin. He wanted to beg for mercy but his mouth was never empty, always filled again by Easterman’s hands. His belly ballooned with the load, skin prickling and raw, straining against his shirt until the fabric pulled taut.

When he thought he might burst, the priest lifted the chalice.

The blood inside it steamed in the candlelight, dark as wine, bubbling faintly like it had only just been poured fresh from a wound, the metallic tang of its scent filling the air like smoke. He tipped it over Coyle’s lips, forcing him to drink.

Tears spilled openly from Leland’s eyes as he drank, his stomach roiling with every reflexive, heaving sob, but the priest’s hand held him fast. “Drink, my son. Every drop. My blood is your wine.”

The liquid hit his throat like fire. Thick and hot, so much so that he could almost feel the delicate skin blistering, as much of it splashing down his chest as went down to his overfull stomach. Coyle could feel himself choking on the torrent, but the priest didn’t let up—he poured and poured, chasing every bite of meat with floods of blood.

Finally, finally it came to a halt, and he couldn’t tell whether he was more relieved or bereft at its loss. Coyle belched loud and wet, stomach lurching at the motion. God–and he shouldn’t be invoking the Lord’s name, not here, not now–help him, he could barely breathe, every attempt little more than an aborted gasp, cut off the moment it threatened to take up any more space in his already-stuffed torso.

Helplessly he grabbed at himself, fumbling with his shirt until the straining buttons popped open. His swollen belly bulged outward, hard as if he were carrying a child, glistening with sweat, sensitive as a new wound. Maybe if he tried, he could almost blame his breathlessness on its bulk alone; he caressed it with trembling, bloodstained hands, moaning around the next mouthful, his cock pressing thick and urgent against his trousers, seemingly more and more sensitive with every cramp of his roiling belly. He looked down at himself and nearly wept: grotesquely full, raw-skinned, red-faced and glutted—but also blessed. 

A vessel. The priest’s vessel.

Blood and drool streamed from his lips, his cheeks shiny with grease. Easterman smiled down at him, shining like an angel in the low light, reaching down to cup his face. “Good boy. You were made to carry me.”

The words undid him.

When Coyle jolted awake, his throat burned with bile. He staggered from the bed to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before vomiting violently. His body heaved and heaved until he was on his knees, face wet, eyes bloodshot.

But through the acid sting, through the shame of his own convulsions, one truth lingered bright and unshakable:

It had been too real to stay in dreams.

He had to taste it for himself.

The next day, he went through his rounds with hollow eyes, stomach turning at every smell, but his mind gnawed on only one thought: flesh, still steaming with body heat, thick and coppery with blood. By nightfall he knew he couldn’t deny it much longer.

His wife’s touch meant nothing now. Her voice barely pierced the fog. At work, he snapped at his men, hand hovering over his baton like violence alone could quiet the craving.

Nothing did. Nothing could.

And so, by week’s end, he found himself again at the church doors long after dark, fingers trembling on the brass handle, mouth already watering at the thought of what waited inside.

Chapter Text

Coyle could barely remember driving to the rectory.

His uniform clung damp to his body, collar darkened with sweat, chest pressing thick against the fabric as if the dream had left its weight inside him. All day the hunger had sharpened—through the scent of pork roasting at the market, through blood pooling beneath a deer strung up at the butcher’s, through the sight of a fellow officer laughing, spit shining at his lip.

Everything struck him like a reminder.

But it wasn’t meat he wanted. Not blood in general.

It was him.

Father Easterman.

By the time he stood outside the rectory door, Coyle’s pulse was rattling like a war drum. He told himself he hadn’t planned this visit—but somewhere in the darker corners of his mind, each step here had been laid out long before.

The door opened suddenly.

Father Easterman stood framed in lamplight, cassock tugged at his throat, collar undone. Bare legs showed pale beneath the hem. For a long moment, he only blinked at the sergeant.

“Sergeant Coyle,” he said carefully. “It’s rather late. What are you—”

Coyle moved before the thought could finish. He shoved inside, slamming the door shut, driving the priest back against the wall with both hands gripping his shoulders. The notepad in Easterman’s grasp clattered to the floor, scattering homily notes across the wood.

“You—” Coyle’s breath came ragged, near-animal. “You know. Don’t play dumb with me. You been feeding me. Calling me in my sleep. Making me your vessel.”

Easterman’s voice was firm, but not steady. “Get ahold of yourself. Whatever you’re thinking—”

“No.” Coyle pressed in until their chests almost touched. His fingers dug into the priest’s collar, popping the top button. “I feel you. You’ve been stuffing me full of yourself.”

The priest’s mouth opened in protest, but a flicker in his eyes—just a glimmer of recognition—undid Coyle entirely. He groaned and dropped his forehead to Easterman’s shoulder.

“I knew it. You want me to carry you. To eat, to drink, to be—” He pulled back, pupils blown wide, a fever shining in them. “Then give it to me. Give it to me now.”

His hands yanked Father Easterman’s shirt, baring pale skin, his mouth latching down hard enough to bruise. Spit and muttered prayers smeared across the priest’s collarbone.

“Warm… so warm already… Jesus Christ, I need it—”

The priest twisted, but Coyle slammed him harder into the wall, one hand pinning his wrist above his head, the other pawing down his stomach as though searching for the place to cut. To bite. To tear. 

“Let me taste you,” Coyle whispered with bruising tenderness. “Please. I’ll be good. I’ll drink it all, Father.”

His teeth grazed dangerously close to breaking skin. Easterman’s breath hitched—not just fear, not only disgust, but something else.

Coyle felt it, seized on it.

“You feel it too,” he hissed, grinding against him shamelessly. “Don’t lie. You want this. I’ll take it from you, Father. Every drop.”

“Coyle,” Easterman snapped, trembling, trying to wrench free. “You have to stop! You’re not in control of yourself!”

But the words fell hollow, thin with something he could not name.

Coyle’s grip only grew more desperate, frantic. He dragged his face down Father Easterman’s shirtfront, wet mouth leaving trails over skin, muttering half-prayers, half-pleas. When at last the priest shoved him hard enough to stagger him back, the cop didn’t lunge again.

He crumpled instead—down to his knees, head bowed against the priest’s stomach. His voice cracked.

“Please. Please, Father. I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe. I’m starving. I can’t—“ His voice cracked, shoulders shaking. His hands fumbled at the hem of the cassock like a child grasping for comfort. “Don’t leave me like this. You know what yer doin’ to me. You’ll kill me.”

When he looked up, his eyes shone wet and wild.

“Don’t leave me like this. Don’t starve me. I’ll die. I’ll fuckin’ die,” he choked, the desperation spilling into sobs. “I don’t want to fuckin’ die!” His broad shoulders shook where he knelt at the priest’s feet, clutching at his thighs, his uniform damp with sweat and feverish want.

Father Easterman stared down, pulse hammering. He should cast him off, drag him up, excise this mania from him. But the sight—this man kneeling, broken, begging like a supplicant at the altar—sent a dark thrill curling in his gut.

And it was too much.

Slowly, with shaking fingers, Father Easterman rolled his sleeve to the elbow. He hesitated, watching Coyle’s face tilt up with awe—like a starving hound offered its master’s hand. 

Then, almost in a whisper, he extended his arm.

“Take,” he said, voice low, bitter with self-betrayal. “If you must.”

Coyle gasped like he’d been absolved. His hands closed around the offered limb with reverence, trembling as though it were the chalice itself. 

And then his mouth was on it.

At first only kissing, wet, open-mouthed devotion along the pale flesh. Then teeth. Pressing, scraping, biting down until—finally—the skin broke.

Hot blood welled up. Coyle groaned deep in his chest as it touched his tongue. He drank. The taste was metallic, steaming in his mouth like sacrament, and he nearly convulsed from the ecstasy of it.  He latched harder, swallowing greedily, smearing his lips red. His whole body shook as he gulped, his free hand sliding to his shirtfront to undo buttons, feeling as if his belly was swelling forward as though every swallow made him rounder.

Above him, Father Easterman’s breath came ragged, eyes half-shut. He should recoil, but he couldn’t. He watched instead as this man consumed him, blood smearing over his jaw, his throat, his uniform, like some obscene baptism.

Coyle finally lifted his mouth, gasping, drool and blood running down his chin. His eyes were wet, crazed, shining like a man reborn. “Father…” His hand pressed over his stomach. “I can feel you in me.”

Father Easterman stumbled back, clutching his arm. The bite marks glistened wet, blood welling dark. His whole body trembled, collar soaked with sweat, cock throbbing so hard it made him dizzy. He had allowed this—offered it. And God help him, the memory of those teeth sent another pulse of desire straight through him.

“Father,please-“ Coyle clutched at his thighs, moaning like a starving dog. “Don’t stop. Please. I’ll starve without you.”

The way he said Father made Easterman’s body ache with shameful heat. His lips parted, his hand hovering in the air as if begging to be seized again.

He whispered to the silence, “No… you don’t understand. You’ll unmake me.”

But the sergeant only pressed closer, face smeared red against his belly. “I dream of you. I taste you even in my sleep. Don’t deny me.”

Something broke inside the priest then.

He lowered his sleeve, stared at the streaks of blood, then guided the arm back to Coyle’s mouth.

“Then take,” he breathed, voice fractured, his hand sliding into Coyle’s hair. “Take more.”

Coyle sobbed with relief, sinking his teeth in again. Blood spilled hot down his throat, over his chin, his moans muffled against flesh.

Father Easterman’s head thudded back against the wall, mouth open in a soundless gasp. His cock throbbed violently, his body quaking with each greedy pull. His hand tightened in Coyle’s hair, urging him closer.

“Yes… drink of me,” he groaned, voice breaking. “Empty me. I give myself to you.”

The words spilled from him like prayer—obscene, desecrated prayer.

Coyle rubbed his belly as he drank, moaning like a beast at slaughter, devotion frantic and messy. And Easterman, horrified and undone, could do nothing but press him closer, offering more.

“Eat of me,” he whispered, trembling, guiding the arm to his lips. “For this is my body, broken for you.”

Coyle bit down again, blood flooding, and the priest shuddered, voice collapsing into a groan.

“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, my son. Drink. For this is my blood, shed for you.”

The liturgy spilled from his lips, transfigured into blasphemy sweeter than prayer. With every drop consumed, his horror deepened into desire, until all he wanted was to give himself over—to be emptied, consumed, unmade.

And at the feet of his supplicant, Easterman whispered what he knew was the final heresy, trembling with rapture and ruin:

“Do this in remembrance of me.”

Chapter Text

The rectory was quiet save for the rasp of their breathing.

The lamp on the desk guttered, its glow casting feverish shadows across the walls. Coyle knelt still at Easterman’s feet, chest heaving, his lips smeared crimson. His uniform looked ruined—spattered with blood and sweat—yet he wore it like vestments, as though he’d just completed a rite. His broad hands rubbed his stomach slowly, reverently, as if he truly felt the priest filling him.

Father Easterman’s arm throbbed, the sleeve sticky with half-dried streaks. He swayed against the wall, his own cock pulsing so hard he thought he might disgrace himself right there. His hand, trembling, hovered over Coyle’s head but did not move away. He couldn’t. The man’s mouth was still hot against his skin, his teeth leaving marks like stigmata.

Easterman should have cast him out, should have bound his arm and gone to his knees in penance—but instead he whispered, “Enough,” voice faint and ragged, and Coyle obeyed with a groan of denial.

The sergeant lifted his face, eyes glazed with hunger and awe. The blood clinging to his chin glimmered in the lamp light, and for an instant Easterman thought of martyrs painted in the cathedral windows—mouths open, eyes turned heavenward, bathed in red.

But this was no martyrdom. This was a desecration, and the worst part was how badly he wanted more.

Coyle rose unsteadily, looming over him. His broad chest pressed close, still damp with sweat, breath steaming in short, hot bursts. “You can’t take it back now,” he said, voice raw with want and hunger. “You gave yourself to me. You’re mine, Father. You’re in me.”

The words struck Easterman like a lash. His whole body shuddered, shame colliding with arousal. He shoved the man back a step, but Coyle only smiled through his bloodied lips. A smile that looked more like devotion than triumph.

“Soon,” Coyle whispered, leaning close, “I’ll be starvin’ again. You don’t want to see me like that. You’ll give me more. You have to.” His hands dragged over the priest’s cassock, fingers gripping tight as though holding to an anchor. “Or I’ll go mad. I’ll tear the streets apart looking for you.”

Easterman’s mouth opened, then shut. The thought of this man unleashed, prowling the city with his thirst, sent a flash of dread through him. But beneath it curled something darker: the prideful thrill that he alone could feed him, that he alone was the vessel and the source.

Coyle sank suddenly back to his knees, as though overcome by the weight of his own hunger. His hands clutched at the hem of Easterman’s garment again, his forehead pressed to the priest’s stomach. “Please, Father,” he murmured, voice breaking with exhaustion. “Don’t send me away. Let me stay. Just tonight. I’ll lie at your feet like a dog if that’s what you want.”

The words hollowed the priest out.

A dog.

A supplicant.

His chest tightened with something perilously close to longing. He could already picture it: the broad form curled on the floor beside his bed, close enough to hear him breathe in sleep, waiting for the next offering.

And as the priest stood trembling, torn between casting him into the night and dragging him to the inner sanctum of his room, he realized the choice was no longer his alone. Coyle’s presence had already seeped into the walls of the rectory, into his own veins, into the marrow of what remained of his faith.

The sound of footsteps in the rectory corridor froze both of them.

Easterman’s hand shot to Coyle’s mouth, smearing the blood there as he pressed it shut. “Quiet,” he hissed, his voice sharp with fear. Coyle stilled instantly, wide eyes flicking toward the door. The footsteps drew nearer, boards creaking under deliberate weight.

A knock followed. “Father Easterman?” A young voice, weary but courteous—the voice of one of the brothers. “Are you awake still? The light’s under your door.”

Easterman smoothed his cassock with shaking hands, stepped over scattered homily notes, and forced his voice into calm. “Yes, Brother. I was finishing work. Is something the matter?”

The door cracked open, a pale face peering in. The priest’s body shielded Coyle from view, though the sergeant knelt motionless at his back, crouched low like a cornered animal.

“Ah..Nothing, Father,” the man murmured. “I thought I heard…something.” His eyes searched the room, lingering on the lamp still burning.

Easterman smiled thinly. “Only the scratching of my pen.”

The young man nodded, offered a tired goodnight, and retreated. The footsteps faded down the hall.

For a long moment, the silence that followed was louder than any voice. Easterman didn’t turn at once. He closed the door softly, drew in a breath that tasted of iron, and then faced the sergeant.

“Get out.” His voice was ice, cold enough to cut.

Coyle blinked, still half on his knees, still trembling with blood and hunger. “What?”

“You heard me,” Easterman said, tone flat, cruel. “You have to leave. Now.”

The sergeant shook his head, lips wet, eyes blazing. “No—no, you can’t send me off like this. I’ll fuckin’ starve, Father. You don’t understand. I need you—“

“Then starve.” The words left Easterman’s mouth with such brutal finality that Coyle reeled as if struck. The priest strode to the door, yanked it open, and stood waiting.

For a moment Coyle didn’t move. His jaw tightened, his breath came hot and hard through his nose, and then he pushed to his feet. The air around him felt charged, as though he might lunge again—teeth, fists, need all tangled into violence.

He stepped close enough that Easterman could feel the heat radiating from his body. His voice dropped into a growl. “I’ll be back. You can’t keep me out.”

The words lingered like a curse as he shoved past, boot heels striking the boards with heavy finality. The rectory door slammed behind him.

And then Father Easterman was alone.

He shut the door softly this time, his hands trembling. His whole body shook with the need to collapse to the floor, to retch, to pray until dawn. He should go at once to confession, drag one of the brothers from bed, pour out what had happened before it swallowed him whole. He should scour his skin, bind his arm, cleanse himself.

But he didn’t.

He sat down heavily, lifted his sleeve, and stared. The marks gleamed wet and raw, teeth sunk deep into his flesh. His breath caught as the memory of that mouth—hot, ravenous, desperate—returned to him in perfect detail.

He could still feel it. The scrape of teeth, the suction, the obscene worship that had poured into every bite. His cock throbbed, shameful and insistent, until his whole body trembled.

Father Easterman pressed his wrist to his lips, shuddering, as though he might taste the ghost of it again.

And he whispered, to no one, to the dark:

“God help me.”

Chapter Text

The rectory door shut with a heavy thud, and for the first time in months Father Easterman slid the bolt into place. He had installed locks only days ago, though it shamed him to admit why. The cold metal clicked under his trembling hand, and he leaned his forehead against the wood, listening to the silence beyond. No footsteps. No heavy breathing. No voice rasping through the dark. For now, he was alone.

Alone—but not free.

He stripped off his cassock with unsteady fingers, cloth sticking to the sweat still clinging to his skin. His cock pressed hard against the lining of his trousers, aching with a pulse he despised. Every brush of fabric made him wince with need. He muttered prayers beneath his breath, fragments torn from the Mass, begging the words to cool him. But they fell flat, powerless against the memory of teeth on his arm, breath on his ear, a laugh too close to a moan.

Disgusted with himself, he turned toward the iron crucifix on the wall. He knelt before it, then dragged out the scourge he kept hidden at the bottom of a drawer. It was crude—knotted cord with bits of iron bound in—but it had served him well in darker nights. He bared his back, gritted his teeth, and lashed.

The first strike cut sharp fire across his shoulders. The second drew blood. He forced himself into rhythm, each lash a penance, each welt a prayer. Sweat poured down his brow, mixing with the blood. His breath grew ragged, his chest heaving. The pain was supposed to purify. But with every sting, every rivulet of blood, the image of Coyle only grew sharper—his broad chest, his fevered eyes, his mouth smearing red over pale flesh.

When at last the scourge slipped from his hand, his body trembled raw and slick, his back crosshatched with weeping red lines. He collapsed to his knees, lips pressed to the floorboards, whispering fragments of prayers until his voice broke into hoarse silence.

“God, strip me of this hunger. Or kill me.”

Shuddering, he crawled to his bed. He lay on his stomach at first, the sheets sticking to his bleeding back, but the ache between his thighs was unbearable. He rolled to his side, clutching at the covers like a drowning man. His cock throbbed heavy and desperate, but he refused his hand. He buried his face in the pillow, sweat soaking through.

Exhaustion took him, and darkness followed.

The dream came sudden and bright.

He opened his eyes to a cold gleam of marble beneath his back. An altar. His arms stretched at his sides, yet no bonds held him. He simply could not move, as though the stone itself commanded stillness.

His vestments were gone. In their place, a white garment clung to his form, long and flowing, simple as linen. Even a pale white lace draped over his head like a bride’s veil. It reminded him—horribly, inexorably—of the icon of the Virgin Mary, the holy mother swathed in pure cloth.

Footsteps echoed. Measured, heavy, approaching. He did not need to turn his head to know.

Leland Coyle.

The sergeant’s figure loomed above him, smile wide and hungry. “Tonight,” he said, voice rumbling like distant thunder. “Tonight I take you fully.”

The priest’s breath quickened. “No—no, you mustn’t. I’m begging you—”

But his words faltered. An unfamiliar sensation bloomed low in his body, a wet, hot ache between his legs. Not the tight, pulsing need he had always known, but something softer, open, quivering with strange anticipation.

His head snapped up, eyes wide. Coyle’s hands gripped his knees, spreading them apart. The white cloth rode up, baring his waist.

Father Easterman froze. Where his cock should have stood, there was only smooth flesh—parted, dripping, pulsing. 

A cunt.

His chest heaved, panic rising. “No… God, no, this is—”

But before he could speak further, Coyle’s fingers were on him. A brush of rough fingertips against slick folds, and a shockwave tore through him so violent his back arched off the altar. His cry split the silence, half-pain, half-something unbearable.

Coyle leaned close, lips against his ear, soothing and coaxing. “Easy, Father… fuckin’ soft as velvet. Now let me in.”

One thick calloused finger pressed against the small entrance. Too tight, almost too small to fit anything in—but it slid, slow and claiming, into the trembling heat. Father Easterman shuddered so hard he thought his bones would snap. His lips parted in ragged moans he could not contain.

“You were never meant to be Father,” Coyle whispered, his free hand stroking sweat-damp strands of hair back from the priest’s face. “You’re Mother. And I’ll fill you, make you mine, until you’re swollen with me.”

The words struck deep, turning his shame into molten desire. The priest writhed on the marble, tears streaking his cheeks, cunt gripping down on the invading finger. His voice broke in pleading sobs.

“God forgive me… Please God forgive me…”

But Coyle only chuckled, sliding another finger in, stretching him further. “Don’t pray to Him. Pray to me. You’ll carry me inside you. You’ll bear me whole.”

The priest writhed, his new, wet flesh clenching desperately around the fingers already working him open. He wanted to fight, to resist, but every stroke inside him sent a rush of heat that robbed him of strength. His hips moved helplessly, chasing Coyle’s touch like a starving man.

“Beautiful,” Leland murmured, lowering himself. “You’re already begging, even when you say you’re not.”

He withdrew his fingers slowly, leaving Father Easterman trembling with emptiness, only to press the blunt head of his cock against the dripping entrance. The priest’s eyes widened, his breath stopping in his throat.

“No—please—”

Coyle pushed.

 The first stretch was unbearable, a burning tear that should have been pain. But it wasn’t pain. It was too much, too good, a delirium of sensation that made Father Easterman’s back arch off the marble, his hands clawing at air that wouldn’t obey him. His voice cracked into a hoarse, keening cry as inch after inch filled him, spreading him wide, splitting him open to a fullness that felt like revelation.

“There,” Coyle growled, sinking deep until his hips crushed against the priest’s trembling thighs. “You feel that? You were made for me. My altar. My vessel.”

Father Easterman’s lips moved in broken prayers, but they were prayers of need, not denial. He was quaking, shuddering, wetness dripping down his thighs, his cunt gripping hungrily around the invader inside him.

Then came the first bite.

Coyle bent low and sank his teeth into Father Easterman’s shoulder. The flesh tore away, blood flooding his mouth—yet the priest didn’t scream in pain. His whole body convulsed with a shock of ecstasy so intense his vision went white. His cry echoed through the vaulted dream-chamber, not agony but release, as if every nerve in his body had been lit like a star.

Coyle chewed, swallowed, and bit again, this time at Father Easterman’s chest. The linen stained crimson as a piece of flesh tore free, and the priest moaned like a man being undone, arching into the bite, his cunt spasming around the other man’s cock in helpless pulses.

“God above—ah—ah, please!”

But he didn’t know if he was begging for it to stop or for more.

Coyle thrust harder now, each stroke grinding deep into the new, eager heat, each bite leaving him more ragged, more raw, yet drunk on a pleasure that made his blood sing. Flesh vanished between Leland’s teeth—his arm, his ribs, his side—yet the priest only bucked and wept, trembling with bliss so sharp it broke him open.

“Do ya see now, Mother?” Coyle rasped against his ear, mouth smeared red. “You don’t need your God. You need me. You need to be filled. To be eaten. To be mine.”

Every word struck like unholy gospel.

Father Easterman’s body quivered violently, his legs spread wide, his cunt clutching greedily at the cock inside him. He sobbed, moaned, pleaded, until the altar itself seemed to shake beneath him. With each tear of flesh came another flood of unbearable ecstasy, a high that left him wrecked and yearning for the next bite.

When Coyle finally drove into him, brutal and consuming, his teeth buried in the priest’s throat, Father Easterman shattered completely—screaming his rapture to a God who could no longer hear him.

The marble drank the blood. The dream rang with his cries. And all he could feel was pleasure so holy, so devastating, that it stripped him of name, of title, of soul—leaving only the vessel Coyle had made of him.

The dream did not let him go.

Father Easterman lay pinned to the altar, body trembling, half-devoured and yet whole in ways that defied reason. His throat was slick with blood, his chest marked with bites where Coyle had taken chunks of him into his mouth. He should have been dying, should have been writhing in mortal agony, but every tear of flesh filled him with more heat, more unbearable delight that left him moaning like a penitent overcome with holy vision.

Coyle’s cock ground deeper with each thrust, heavy and relentless, stretching the new wet ache between his legs to the limit. The priest’s cunt clung greedily around it, pulling, milking, desperate to be filled further. He sobbed prayers that tangled into cries of pleasure, voice cracking as the altar shook with the rhythm of their bodies.

“More,” Coyle growled against his ear, his mouth red, his hands braced on the priest’s thighs, nails digging in. “You’ll take every part of me. You’ll take it until you break.”

And then the bites grew rougher. His teeth closed on what was left of Father Easterman’s arm, his side, his ribs, tearing strips of flesh as if claiming communion. But instead of pain, each bite exploded into waves of ecstasy so profound it blinded the priest, left him screaming out until his voice broke. Every missing piece of his body seemed only to make the heat inside him spread wider, his cunt tightening as if desperate to pull Coyle deeper, to be filled in the places his body had been emptied.

“You’re mine now,” Coyle murmured, lifting his head, blood shining on his chin. “Not Father. Not shepherd. Mother. Vessel. Altar.”

He thrust harder, rougher, as if to carve the words into the priest’s body with each stroke. Father Easterman writhed beneath him, weeping openly, his moans shaking the vaulted dream-chamber. His cunt spasmed around the cock that filled him, sucking at it with frantic pulses, and Coyle leaned down, biting his neck again, drawing out more blood that ran down to stain the white cloth.

The pleasure was unbearable. His body twisted between ecstasy and surrender, every nerve alight, until Father Easterman was little more than a shuddering voice crying, “Yes—ah—God, yessss—”

And then Coyle’s thrusts grew erratic, deeper, each one hitting something inside him that made his vision spark white. With a final, guttural growl, Coyle slammed into him and came—thick, hot, endless, flooding his new flesh. Father Easterman could feel it spilling into him, spreading warmth through every corner of his trembling body. His cunt clenched down around it, milking, holding, as if unwilling to let it go.

Coyle did not stop there. He sank his teeth into the priest’s shoulder again, deeper, harder, swallowing another piece of him as his seed pumped inside. The sensation doubled—pleasure and fullness and loss all at once, so overwhelming that Father Easterman’s back arched off the altar and his voice broke into a ragged scream that echoed like liturgy.

His body gave way completely—blood and cum mingling, sweat running down, his white garment ruined, his form shivering with the paradox of being devoured and made whole in the same breath.

Coyle leaned over him, still buried to the hilt, still inside, lips brushing the priest’s ear as he whispered, voice thick with triumph:

“Now you’re complete.”

And in that moment, the priest believed him.

Chapter Text

The dream would not release him so easily.

Even after Coyle had spilled inside him, marking him as “complete,” the sergeant did not relent.

He dragged Father Easterman’s legs wider, pinned them with brute force, and fucked him harder, harder, as if the altar were meant to break beneath them. His blood was still running, his white garment torn away in strips, his body trembling and open. Coyle’s mouth moved across him, biting, kissing, devouring more pieces—his ribs, his thigh, the soft flesh at his side—each wound pouring out unbearable waves of ecstasy.

“You’ll never be rid of me,” Coyle rasped, thrusts cruel and relentless. “Every hole you have belongs to me now. Even the ones you didn’t know you had.”

And when Father Easterman sobbed, shaking his head, Coyle only pushed in deeper, grinding until the priest’s body convulsed in helpless climax, his cunt fluttering around the cock that claimed him. His mind shattered on the altar, reduced to incoherent cries of pleasure as blood and seed soaked the stone.

At last, as if sealing the sacrament, Coyle bit down on his throat, hard, sharp, teeth sinking deep. Easterman arched, screamed, felt the world split open in white fire—

—and woke screaming.

The rectory walls shook with the sound of his own voice. He was on his bed, twisted in damp sheets, his cassock half-off, his chest heaving. His skin was clammy, slick with sweat, and his cock ached, wet and softening, a sticky mess across his belly. He jerked upright, panting, clutching his throat with trembling fingers, sure he would feel the holes of Coyle’s teeth.

But there was no bite.

There was blood though. Not between his legs, but seeping from raw, welted lines carved into his back—punishments he had inflicted on himself before collapsing to sleep. The wounds had reopened in the night, staining his sheets. He pressed a shaking hand to them and stared at the red on his palm, mind spinning.

His first panicked thought was of the dream’s wet ache, the phantom cunt that still pulsed inside him. With horror, he shoved a hand between his legs, groping desperately. But there was no soft heat, no slick hole. Only his own cock, sticky, spent, softening against his palm.

He let out a sound—half sob, half laugh—and collapsed back against the mattress. His whole body trembled, drained, exhausted. But the dream clung to him: the altar, the gown, Coyle’s teeth, Coyle’s cock filling him until he screamed his name like prayer.

He couldn’t stop thinking of it.

And that was the true blasphemy.

After long minutes of panting and silent despair, Father Easterman forced himself up. Every movement ached, his back throbbing, his cock still tacky with the evidence of his sin. He staggered to the bathroom, peeled what remained of his garments from his body, and turned the shower on as hot as it would go.

The steam filled the small space instantly. He stepped in and let the scalding water hammer him, hissing as it struck the lashes on his back. The pain was grounding, punishing, cleansing—or so he told himself. He scrubbed his skin raw with soap, digging nails into his flesh, desperate to scrape away the ghost of Coyle’s mouth, the phantom of his own pleasure.

But no matter how hot the water, no matter how harsh the scrubbing, he couldn’t rid himself of the memory of that altar, that cunt, that unbearable ecstasy.

The more he washed, the more it clung.

The water beat down on him like penance, scalding his raw back until steam curled up in thick clouds. Father Easterman braced one hand on the tile wall, chest heaving, his other scrubbing furiously at his skin as though he could peel away what had been done in the dream. The soap slid uselessly down his body, the scent sharp, but nothing drowned out the memory of Coyle inside him.

He told himself not to think of it, not to linger on the phantom heat between his thighs—but the more he denied it, the sharper the ache grew. His cock was already swelling again, heavy and aching, betraying him.

“No… no…” he rasped to the shower steam, but his hand betrayed him, wrapping tight around the length, pumping slow at first, then faster, desperate. His forehead knocked against the tile, breath fogging the wall. The dream replayed behind his eyes: the altar, the white gown, Coyle’s voice telling him he’d make him Mother.

The thought alone sent him trembling.

He squeezed his eyes shut, choking out prayers, but they tangled into moans. His mouth went dry with need until he did something he never thought he would: he wet his fingers between his lips, sucking them down, pulling them out slick. His body moved before his mind could stop it. His hand reached behind, tentative, pressing one slippery finger against the tight ring of muscle.

The touch shocked him. He gasped, back arching as the fingertip slipped inside. His cock pulsed hard in his other hand.

“Ah—G-God forgive me…” he whispered, but he pushed deeper, curling slightly, and a wave of pleasure unlike any he had ever known tore through him. His knees nearly buckled. He added another finger, stretching, fucking himself in rhythm with the pump of his hand on his cock.

And the memory of Coyle’s cock inside him roared up again, vivid and hot—so much thicker, deeper, brutal in its fullness. He couldn’t stop the words spilling from his mouth, broken, needy:

“Fill me… please… take me… devour me… take me.”

His fingers worked desperately at his hole, opening himself, chasing that remembered stretch. He moaned louder, water running in rivulets over his face, mixing with sweat.

Then came the thought—the most obscene of all—that undid him: Coyle spilling inside him, not just to fill but to plant, to make him carry. The image struck like lightning: his belly swelling, not with food or blood, but with child. His breath caught, body clenching hard around his fingers.

“Ah—ah, Christ—yeesss, give me—make me—Mother—”

The climax hit violently, tearing through him. His cock spasmed, thick seed shooting across the slick tile, washing away in hot rivulets down the drain. His whole body convulsed, a cry breaking from his throat that bordered on a sob.

He sagged against the wall, spent, fingers sliding free of his ass, the emptiness after sharper than before. His chest heaved as shame crashed down over him, heavier than the water.

Worse than before. So much worse.

He rinsed himself roughly, scrubbing at his skin until it burned, until every trace of his release swirled away. But the ghost of the dream clung to him still, seared into his flesh, into his mind.

When he finally shut the water off, he could barely stand. He dried himself in silence, jaw clenched, refusing to look at his own reflection in the fogged mirror.

He knew then he couldn’t face Coyle again. Not after this. Not if he wanted to keep any shred of his soul intact. Perhaps he could petition for reassignment—move to another parish, another town, bury himself in work and ritual until he smothered these desires.

For now, he told himself, he would focus on sermons, on Mass, on penance.

But even as he thought it, his cock twitched faintly against the towel, and the shame burned hotter.

Chapter Text

Father Easterman carried the days in a kind of trance.

Morning bells rang, and he moved through his duties like a man half awake—reciting mass, tending to the confessional, writing his sermons—but all of it felt as if it were happening underwater, sound dulled and light distant.

In the quiet hours of the rectory he drafted a letter to the bishop, his script unsteady, each word a struggle to make ordinary. He wrote of reassignment, of rest, that his parish “might benefit from younger hands.”

In truth, it was an escape disguised as humility.

He folded the letter neatly, pressed his seal upon it, and left it waiting on the desk beside the guttered candle.

Sleep always came fitful. 

When he looked in the mirror at dawn, he found a stranger watching him.

His hair had always been thin at the temples, the scalp showing through when the light struck it; now it lay dark and full, curling in ways it hadn’t in years. He brushed it once, twice, ran his fingers through, tugged lightly to test the root.

It felt real enough, yet the sight unsettled him. He told himself it was nothing—perhaps the oil he had used, perhaps the angle of the sun through the shutters. 

But when he bent to wash his face, he noticed something else: a tenderness in his chest.

At first it was only a mild ache, but when he pulled his cassock on, the cloth grazed his skin and he winced. It was not pain, not exactly; rather, an odd swelling sensitivity that made him catch his breath.

He pressed his hand to his sternum, feeling the faint tremor of his heartbeat beneath his palm. “This is punishment,” he whispered, almost convinced. 

He stood before the mirror longer than he should have, touching the spot through the fabric. The thought flickered, unwanted, of the dream—the heat, the strange fullness, the word mother whispered like a curse.

He snatched his hand away, fastened the collar tight, and refused to think on it again.

The hall outside was quiet. A faint chill clung to the stone floor as he descended toward the rectory kitchen. He busied himself with the small tasks of morning—lighting the kettle, setting out a mug, measuring the grounds by habit rather than thought.

Ritual, even this small one, steadied him.

When the coffee was ready, he poured it slowly and took a cautious sip. The taste was sharp, bitter, metallic. That same odd tang had lingered for days, though he couldn’t say when it had begun.

Perhaps the pipes were rusting again.

Perhaps it was simply penance seeping through even the smallest comforts.

He sat at the narrow table, fingers wrapped around the mug, eyes fixed on the curling steam.

His body still throbbed faintly, the ache coiling low, alien.

He tried to push the sensation aside and focus on his upcoming duties—the letters to the diocese, the parish accounts, his planned confession to the bishop about the transfer request.

But every thought drifted back to the same unanswerable question:

what have You made of me?

He looked down at his hands, pale against the dark mug. They trembled faintly, though the morning was warm.

“If this is Your will,” he murmured, “then let me bear it. But show me why.”

The bells began to toll outside, low and distant. The sound filled the room, and for a moment, he imagined it was not calling the faithful to prayer but marking the hour of his undoing.

He finished the coffee despite the metallic taste, set the empty cup aside, and pressed his palm to his chest once more. The heartbeat there felt heavier now, as though something beneath it stirred.

He closed his eyes. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Whatever this is, forgive me.”

The sound of the bells faded, leaving only the silence of the rectory and the faint echo of his own breathing.

Throughout the day, the air in the church seemed heavy, the incense clinging to his throat.

He could not escape the faint rhythm of his own pulse, a throb that seemed to live beneath his ribs, as if something there was growing, faint and restless. He buried himself in routine. He polished the chalice until the reflection wavered, rehearsed homilies aloud in the empty nave, anything to drown the restless noise inside his mind.

It was in the courtyard that he overheard the parishioners. He had gone to fetch the mail, passing a cluster of women by the garden wall. Their whispers slipped through the air like smoke.

“Have you heard about Mrs. Coyle?”

“Gone, they say. Vanished in the night. No word from her family.”

“Husband hasn’t been seen either, not properly. Some say he’s looking for her. Others say…” A hush, a look exchanged. “…well. You know how men are.”

Easterman stopped mid-step, his hand tightening on the mailbag. For an instant the world seemed to tilt.

He forced himself to move, pretending to arrange the envelopes, pretending not to hear. He told himself it was gossip—idle, baseless, cruel. He had not seen Coyle in days, and the silence, though heavy, had been a relief.

It was better this way.

Yet as he returned to his chambers, the thought lodged deep. He remembered the dream, the warmth of Coyle’s breath against his throat, the promise: You’ll never be rid of me.

His stomach turned. He set the mail aside and pressed a hand against his abdomen. There was a faint pulse there, deep under the skin, almost imperceptible. He held still, waiting for it to pass.

When it did not, he let out a shaky laugh, whispered,

“Nerves. Just nerves.”

He turned back to his desk, to the letter awaiting the bishop’s seal, to the papers of his sermon scattered in the lamplight. The familiar tasks steadied him, though beneath the surface something was stirring, patient and unseen.

As the night wore on, Father Easterman prayed—softly, insistently—but every time he closed his eyes, he could feel that subtle rhythm in his chest, that warmth beneath his skin, and the memory of a voice calling him Mother would not leave his mind.