(for everyone) Command Me to Be Well
For: everyone
Title: Command Me to Be Well
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~2650
Warnings: Sexual content, priests
Summary: Kyungsoo is the mannequin into which Jongdae breathes life.
Jongdae first sees Kyungsoo through the glass window of a store front.
He’s wearing his favorite human disguise, the one that looks the most like his true appearance. Men and women alike stop to stare on the street; some even approach him shamelessly, offering as much of their time as he would be bothered to have. Jongdae particularly likes the humans who just stop short of groveling at his feet.
Jongdae knows that he is easily flattered, but what god doesn’t wish to be admired?
But he stops where he is, when he sees the mannequin. The clothes its wearing are deplorable, the less spoken of the better. But the skin is pale, the mouth is red and plump. The wig placed on it is an artificially shiny black, but suits the mannequin well.
Humans are a dime a dozen, and they know how to delude themselves with images of beauty quite well. This mannequin is pretty, but not very different from the other models on elevated pedestals, placed in varying locations around the store.
Jongdae enters, ignoring the salesperson who greets him. He examines the mannequin carefully, noting the almost unnaturally realistic body proportions. It is almost lifeless, just like all the others, but when Jongdae listens he can hear the faintest strum of something underneath the hollow chest and paper mache skin.
“Sir?” the saleswoman queries. Jongdae doesn’t answer. “Is there something you would like?”
He stares again to make sure, but it’s there. Humans would perhaps call this the faintest of heartbeats, but then they do not realize that there are spirits in everything around them, even the most beautiful of mannequins.
“Tell me,” Jongdae says, eventually. The saleswoman looks terrified at Jongdae’s shark-like smile. “Would you sell him” - gesturing to the mannequin - “to me?”
“Er,” she says, looking around, “we don’t really get questions like that-”
Jongdae interjects smoothly. “I’m quite sure of that,” he chuckles.
He watches detachedly as she becomes more nervous. “Let me ask a manager,” she says, backing away.
“You do that,” he says.
Of course, the manager of the store says no, but that has never stopped Jongdae. A simple no has never been enough to prevent him from enjoying the women he has wanted, the best wine and luxuries that he has desired over the centuries.
The streets are empty at night. The stores are closed and the streetlights flicker, threaten to extinguish themselves completely. Jongdae walks assuredly, afraid of no one and nothing.
The lock shifts in its groove easily when he commands it to. The door swings open before him without a push. He glides into the boutique. The clothing hangs still on the fixtures, the models motionless in their strange positions.
He stops before the most beautiful, admires again the large eyes, carved with a careful touch. Jongdae can imagine the feathery eyelashes surrounding them, the dark eyebrows curving above them. He reaches out a hand, and caresses the cheek of the mannequin.
“Lovely,” he says. The mannequin’s body seems to hum with a certain kind of frequency and intensity; its eyes crack and flutter, tracing his movements.
“You like the way I move,” he says, rather than asks. Jongdae is not graceful so much as he is lithe, but this little mannequin is not jealous of that. Rather, it seems to want to talk and walk. There’s a yearning in it that Jongdae has only found in the prayers of childless women and men facing death; a wish for life.
The mannequin’s eyes fix on him and widen, trying to convey its most fervent wish. “Then become human,” Jongdae thunders, his voice assuming all of his power and authority, which he usually leaves behind when he descends to play tricks on people.
Outside, a lightning bolt splits a young sapling; Jongdae hasn’t quite got the trick of it yet, not allowing his power to escape him when he’s doing something particularly intense.
No matter. The mannequin no longer stands before him; instead a boy lies on the ground, quivering and shaking. “How did you make me-” it begins, in a cracking voice. It sounds lovely, though thoroughly unused to speech.
“Don’t question me,” Jongdae says, but the heaviness is still there, an edge of darkness along the words. He passes a hand over the boy’s face and catches him when his body grows limp.
Such a beautiful creature is only fit for one purpose. Jongdae brings him to his own temple, where his likeness is painted on the wall and carved into sculptures and tableaus. He leaves him in the courtyard, a crumpled body on the flagstones, to be found by those sworn to be his own and accepted as one in their ranks.
He hides behind a pillar, though his own power shields him better. The candlelight dances off the walls as one of the acolytes finds the boy and calls the others.
The priests call his mannequin, Kyungsoo. It is quickly decided that the boy is amnesiac, though otherwise healthy. The temple adopts him, and Kyungsoo is content to stay.
He does not remember Jongdae, thanks to Jongdae’s own tampering. But he finds a certain relief in calling the god of the temple his creator. Watching, invisible, Jongdae preens.
Kyungsoo recognizes Jongdae’s face and playful expression in the images on the walls of the temple, though he chalks it up to a past friend or relative, a forgotten memory he cannot recall. Kyungsoo prays to remember, but Jongdae only enjoys his voice, its musicality and weight.
Kyungsoo cries out, and Jongdae relishes the sound. Every lonely tear is a jewel that Jongdae collects to wear as a choker around his neck.
He has no intention to let Kyungsoo out of his grasp, outside the temple.
Despite his lack of knowledge of the world, Kyungsoo is eager to learn and obey, rising easily through the ranks of the brothers. Jongdae watches over him, blessing his path. It is not necessary; others fall in love so easily with Kyungsoo that Jongdae finds himself jealous.
Jealous? Over a human? Jongdae scoffs, but he still sends a fever in the night to consume the recipient of Kyungsoo’s first kiss.
A snake, to bite the hand that touches Kyungsoo for the first time.
When Kyungsoo is of age, he asks to be initiated as a priest. The rites include fasting and praying at the inner altar for ten days.
The room is dark and lit by the flame that must be continually tended. Jongdae remembers giving this command in another time, another century - for some reason he no longer bears in mind. He supposes he should recall, but he has always existed and will still; time passes, and soon humans will forget him completely. That should be revenge enough, he reasons.
Kyungsoo lights the incense sticks as he enters the room, sits on the gold rug before the small sculpture of Jongdae, hands outstretched in giving.
The ceremonial clothes are brocade and silk, heavy on a healthy man’s frame. But Kyungsoo has always been pale and thin. When he faints, Jongdae materializes to hold him in his arms and coax him back to consciousness. The lashes flutter as the cheeks blush red. Jongdae smiles. “You are mine,” he says. “You must not forget.”
The vision is one that Kyungsoo will cherish. Though he is duty bound to report anything he Sees to the temple, he keeps this one to himself. Jongdae approves.
Kyungsoo becomes a novice priest, comfortable in his duties in ministering to the people. He especially likes helping the poor, whose prayers Jongdae can’t be bothered to answer. Jongdae rolls his eyes a little at that, but his little mannequin seems to have a bleeding heart as well as a pretty face.
Because of his sympathy and honest advice, the priests quickly put him in the confessional to hear the sins of the ordinary. Often, their problems are childish and petty. They speak of lust and jealousy, vice and greed. Kyungsoo, naive and sweet in his little cloaked box, listens and counsels them to love others. They leave, absolved of their guilt for a week or two, to go and sin some more.
Jongdae watches the way Kyungsoo sits, lightly on the confessional seat. His linen priest robes hang over his shoulders pleasingly; the color suits his skin. The wood of the confessional is intricately carved, and he runs his fingers over the bumps and sworls as he listens to a housewife speak about her neighbor.
“I want,” she whispers into the slats of the door. Jongdae watches, amused as Kyungsoo colors in his little space. “He’s so handsome, and so nice. He listens, not like my husband. He doesn’t take and take, the way my children do, without giving back.”
Kyungsoo means to make a soothing noise, but it comes out in a high pitched squeak that makes Jongdae grin. The woman pays no attention, playing with the zipper on her purse as she continues. “He says he loves me. I haven’t heard anyone say that in so long. I want him, though I can’t leave my husband. Because of the children, you know. But he says he loves me, and I want to tell him I love him too - I want to show him-”
“Sister,” Kyungsoo interjects, hurriedly as Jongdae’s eyes darken. “Adultery is wrong. Those of us who have sworn our vows in the temple of our god are bound to what we have promised. You must not speak to your neighbor anymore, for he distracts you from the relationship that you should have with your husband and children.”
He leads the housewife in the prayer she should recite, for Jongdae to forgive her sins. Jongdae ignores the words, paying attention only to the way the blush descends down Kyungsoo’s neck, into the robes that swamp his body.
“Thank you, Father,” the woman says, her mind full of thoughts of seducing her neighbor and bringing her husband to his knees with the knowledge, now that her god has forgiven her.
She opens the door of the box, only to find Jongdae in his guise, smiling at her. “Oh!” she exclaims, shocked. He watches her run off before he goes inside the confessional, failing to close the door.
Jongdae is silent, waiting or Kyungsoo to gather himself together. He closes his eyes, anticipating the pleasure he will encounter, destroying what he has made.
He has waited so long for this.
“My dear one, how can I help you today?” Kyungsoo asks. Jongdae doesn’t need to tap in his omniscience to know that Kyungsoo is folding his hands together, trying to will his agitation and embarassment away.
“Father,” Jongdae says, tasting the word slowly on his tongue. “I want.” He presses his fingers into the slats, where Kyungsoo can see him reaching.
“It is healthy to have ambitions,” Kyungsoo says after a moment. Jongdae almost laughs out loud.
Instead he says, in a boyish voice, “But I want all the time, Father.” He stretches, almost bored as he plans his next words. “I feel constantly aroused - I always have excuse myself, in class, to go to the bathroom and tend to myself. I have sex with girls my age but they always want more. I have sex with boys, but it isn’t enough.”
“You should pray,” Kyungsoo says, “for our god to take this unnatural desire away from you.”
“I fuck strangers,” Jongdae says, louder, as if he can’t hear the priest, his little mannequin. His creation. “But they’re always so guilty, after. They say that I’m young, that I should be playing with my friends. That I’m a child. They say I’m wrong to feel such a way.”
“If you pray,” Kyungsoo says, voice wavering, “our god will help you. He will heal you and make you well.”
Jongdae smiles, the cat that has caught his prey. “Do you remember my voice, Father?” He gets up and opens the door, stands before Kyungsoo’s. “I’ve spoken to you, before. The last time I was here? You heard me, didn’t you? Touching myself as you told me what to pray, and I repeated it back to you.”
“If you pray,” Kyungsoo begins again, but Jongdae opens the door and climbs into his lap.
“Don’t look at me directly,” he whispers into Kyungsoo’s ear, as he ruts against him. Kyungsoo moans, head tilting back and eyes closing automatically.
Jongdae slowly unbuttons the robes that every single one of his priests wears, kissing each patch of skin that comes into contact with the cool air. “We shouldn’t do this,” Kyungsoo whispers.
“The god of this temple doesn’t listen to your prayers,” Jongdae replies. “He has much better things to do,” he says, right before he swallows Kyungsoo down, listening to the way the boy cries out beneath him.
He watches the way Kyungsoo shivers and aches for his touch, as he draws back to simply kiss the tip of the priest’s cock. He laves at the smooth skin and chuckles, listening to the way Kyungsoo moans. His hands come down, to tighten unconsciously in Jongdae’s hair.
“I don’t believe that,” Kyungsoo says at last, when Jongdae presses down, down on him, until Kyungsoo hits the back of his throat. Jongdae swallows once, twice.
Kyungsoo is unexperienced, barely untouched. It’s too much for him, and tears come to his eyes when Jongae tastes the bitterness on his tongue.
Kyungsoo has been saved for Jongdae to take as much as he wants, and he will enjoy. “But, you do know,” he says, clambering into Kyungsoo’s lap. He presses his jaw to the side with two fingers when Kyungsoo tries to look at him.
He wriggles out of the schoolboy uniform he conjured, a slow striptease to taunt and aggravate the priest underneath him. He doesn’t expect Kyungsoo’s hands to seize and tighten on his hips, to pull him down and hold still. “I won’t do this anymore.”
Jongdae leans in and chuckles, bites Kyungsoo’s ear hard enough to draw blood. “But I want,” he whines, and Kyungsoo no longer protests as Jongdae pushes his hands away to sink on his cock.
My little mannequin, he almost sighs approvingly, but he bites back the words. He goes slow at first, but then Kyungsoo presses his feet flat on the floor to meet him with every thrust.
Jongdae scratches at Kyungsoo’s chest as the priest reaches out with a cold hand, to stroke Jongdae’s cock until precome leaks from the tip. Jongdae clenches around the priest, listening to Kyungsoo moan contentedly. “Beg for it,” he snarls. “Tell me how much you want it. How good I am, because I’ve fucked so many people that I’m damn good at it.”
Kyungsoo gasps. “You’re good,” he says, and his face crumples.
Jongdae spills over his own hand, between the two of them. He begins to speed up, but he holds back. “Confess your guilt,” Jongdae demands, mocking. “Tell your god how sorry you are, that you couldn’t help but fuck a nympho like me.”
He sinks down faster and faster, watching Kyungsoo’s face scrunch up as he grows closer to the edge. “Say it, goddamnit,” Jongdae growls. “Confess your sins!”
He feels the warmth within him, the wetness filling him before Kyungsoo shouts and his eyes fly open. “Forgive me!” he shouts, looking straight at Jongdae.
There is a moment, when Jongdae can see the recognition in Kyungsoo’s eyes. It is quickly replaced in horror. But soon enough the head drops, the hands drop away from his sides as Jongdae pulls away. Steps quickly approach the confessional box, having heard Kyungsoo’s cries.
“What a pity,” Jongdae says, brushing his hand over the cheek of his pretty little mannequin, his creation.
The footsteps grow closer.
The door of the confessional box opens. The acolyte who has come to investigate frowns. There is no one inside, and nothing either.
Title: Command Me to Be Well
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~2650
Warnings: Sexual content, priests
Summary: Kyungsoo is the mannequin into which Jongdae breathes life.
Jongdae first sees Kyungsoo through the glass window of a store front.
He’s wearing his favorite human disguise, the one that looks the most like his true appearance. Men and women alike stop to stare on the street; some even approach him shamelessly, offering as much of their time as he would be bothered to have. Jongdae particularly likes the humans who just stop short of groveling at his feet.
Jongdae knows that he is easily flattered, but what god doesn’t wish to be admired?
But he stops where he is, when he sees the mannequin. The clothes its wearing are deplorable, the less spoken of the better. But the skin is pale, the mouth is red and plump. The wig placed on it is an artificially shiny black, but suits the mannequin well.
Humans are a dime a dozen, and they know how to delude themselves with images of beauty quite well. This mannequin is pretty, but not very different from the other models on elevated pedestals, placed in varying locations around the store.
Jongdae enters, ignoring the salesperson who greets him. He examines the mannequin carefully, noting the almost unnaturally realistic body proportions. It is almost lifeless, just like all the others, but when Jongdae listens he can hear the faintest strum of something underneath the hollow chest and paper mache skin.
“Sir?” the saleswoman queries. Jongdae doesn’t answer. “Is there something you would like?”
He stares again to make sure, but it’s there. Humans would perhaps call this the faintest of heartbeats, but then they do not realize that there are spirits in everything around them, even the most beautiful of mannequins.
“Tell me,” Jongdae says, eventually. The saleswoman looks terrified at Jongdae’s shark-like smile. “Would you sell him” - gesturing to the mannequin - “to me?”
“Er,” she says, looking around, “we don’t really get questions like that-”
Jongdae interjects smoothly. “I’m quite sure of that,” he chuckles.
He watches detachedly as she becomes more nervous. “Let me ask a manager,” she says, backing away.
“You do that,” he says.
Of course, the manager of the store says no, but that has never stopped Jongdae. A simple no has never been enough to prevent him from enjoying the women he has wanted, the best wine and luxuries that he has desired over the centuries.
The streets are empty at night. The stores are closed and the streetlights flicker, threaten to extinguish themselves completely. Jongdae walks assuredly, afraid of no one and nothing.
The lock shifts in its groove easily when he commands it to. The door swings open before him without a push. He glides into the boutique. The clothing hangs still on the fixtures, the models motionless in their strange positions.
He stops before the most beautiful, admires again the large eyes, carved with a careful touch. Jongdae can imagine the feathery eyelashes surrounding them, the dark eyebrows curving above them. He reaches out a hand, and caresses the cheek of the mannequin.
“Lovely,” he says. The mannequin’s body seems to hum with a certain kind of frequency and intensity; its eyes crack and flutter, tracing his movements.
“You like the way I move,” he says, rather than asks. Jongdae is not graceful so much as he is lithe, but this little mannequin is not jealous of that. Rather, it seems to want to talk and walk. There’s a yearning in it that Jongdae has only found in the prayers of childless women and men facing death; a wish for life.
The mannequin’s eyes fix on him and widen, trying to convey its most fervent wish. “Then become human,” Jongdae thunders, his voice assuming all of his power and authority, which he usually leaves behind when he descends to play tricks on people.
Outside, a lightning bolt splits a young sapling; Jongdae hasn’t quite got the trick of it yet, not allowing his power to escape him when he’s doing something particularly intense.
No matter. The mannequin no longer stands before him; instead a boy lies on the ground, quivering and shaking. “How did you make me-” it begins, in a cracking voice. It sounds lovely, though thoroughly unused to speech.
“Don’t question me,” Jongdae says, but the heaviness is still there, an edge of darkness along the words. He passes a hand over the boy’s face and catches him when his body grows limp.
Such a beautiful creature is only fit for one purpose. Jongdae brings him to his own temple, where his likeness is painted on the wall and carved into sculptures and tableaus. He leaves him in the courtyard, a crumpled body on the flagstones, to be found by those sworn to be his own and accepted as one in their ranks.
He hides behind a pillar, though his own power shields him better. The candlelight dances off the walls as one of the acolytes finds the boy and calls the others.
The priests call his mannequin, Kyungsoo. It is quickly decided that the boy is amnesiac, though otherwise healthy. The temple adopts him, and Kyungsoo is content to stay.
He does not remember Jongdae, thanks to Jongdae’s own tampering. But he finds a certain relief in calling the god of the temple his creator. Watching, invisible, Jongdae preens.
Kyungsoo recognizes Jongdae’s face and playful expression in the images on the walls of the temple, though he chalks it up to a past friend or relative, a forgotten memory he cannot recall. Kyungsoo prays to remember, but Jongdae only enjoys his voice, its musicality and weight.
Kyungsoo cries out, and Jongdae relishes the sound. Every lonely tear is a jewel that Jongdae collects to wear as a choker around his neck.
He has no intention to let Kyungsoo out of his grasp, outside the temple.
Despite his lack of knowledge of the world, Kyungsoo is eager to learn and obey, rising easily through the ranks of the brothers. Jongdae watches over him, blessing his path. It is not necessary; others fall in love so easily with Kyungsoo that Jongdae finds himself jealous.
Jealous? Over a human? Jongdae scoffs, but he still sends a fever in the night to consume the recipient of Kyungsoo’s first kiss.
A snake, to bite the hand that touches Kyungsoo for the first time.
When Kyungsoo is of age, he asks to be initiated as a priest. The rites include fasting and praying at the inner altar for ten days.
The room is dark and lit by the flame that must be continually tended. Jongdae remembers giving this command in another time, another century - for some reason he no longer bears in mind. He supposes he should recall, but he has always existed and will still; time passes, and soon humans will forget him completely. That should be revenge enough, he reasons.
Kyungsoo lights the incense sticks as he enters the room, sits on the gold rug before the small sculpture of Jongdae, hands outstretched in giving.
The ceremonial clothes are brocade and silk, heavy on a healthy man’s frame. But Kyungsoo has always been pale and thin. When he faints, Jongdae materializes to hold him in his arms and coax him back to consciousness. The lashes flutter as the cheeks blush red. Jongdae smiles. “You are mine,” he says. “You must not forget.”
The vision is one that Kyungsoo will cherish. Though he is duty bound to report anything he Sees to the temple, he keeps this one to himself. Jongdae approves.
Kyungsoo becomes a novice priest, comfortable in his duties in ministering to the people. He especially likes helping the poor, whose prayers Jongdae can’t be bothered to answer. Jongdae rolls his eyes a little at that, but his little mannequin seems to have a bleeding heart as well as a pretty face.
Because of his sympathy and honest advice, the priests quickly put him in the confessional to hear the sins of the ordinary. Often, their problems are childish and petty. They speak of lust and jealousy, vice and greed. Kyungsoo, naive and sweet in his little cloaked box, listens and counsels them to love others. They leave, absolved of their guilt for a week or two, to go and sin some more.
Jongdae watches the way Kyungsoo sits, lightly on the confessional seat. His linen priest robes hang over his shoulders pleasingly; the color suits his skin. The wood of the confessional is intricately carved, and he runs his fingers over the bumps and sworls as he listens to a housewife speak about her neighbor.
“I want,” she whispers into the slats of the door. Jongdae watches, amused as Kyungsoo colors in his little space. “He’s so handsome, and so nice. He listens, not like my husband. He doesn’t take and take, the way my children do, without giving back.”
Kyungsoo means to make a soothing noise, but it comes out in a high pitched squeak that makes Jongdae grin. The woman pays no attention, playing with the zipper on her purse as she continues. “He says he loves me. I haven’t heard anyone say that in so long. I want him, though I can’t leave my husband. Because of the children, you know. But he says he loves me, and I want to tell him I love him too - I want to show him-”
“Sister,” Kyungsoo interjects, hurriedly as Jongdae’s eyes darken. “Adultery is wrong. Those of us who have sworn our vows in the temple of our god are bound to what we have promised. You must not speak to your neighbor anymore, for he distracts you from the relationship that you should have with your husband and children.”
He leads the housewife in the prayer she should recite, for Jongdae to forgive her sins. Jongdae ignores the words, paying attention only to the way the blush descends down Kyungsoo’s neck, into the robes that swamp his body.
“Thank you, Father,” the woman says, her mind full of thoughts of seducing her neighbor and bringing her husband to his knees with the knowledge, now that her god has forgiven her.
She opens the door of the box, only to find Jongdae in his guise, smiling at her. “Oh!” she exclaims, shocked. He watches her run off before he goes inside the confessional, failing to close the door.
Jongdae is silent, waiting or Kyungsoo to gather himself together. He closes his eyes, anticipating the pleasure he will encounter, destroying what he has made.
He has waited so long for this.
“My dear one, how can I help you today?” Kyungsoo asks. Jongdae doesn’t need to tap in his omniscience to know that Kyungsoo is folding his hands together, trying to will his agitation and embarassment away.
“Father,” Jongdae says, tasting the word slowly on his tongue. “I want.” He presses his fingers into the slats, where Kyungsoo can see him reaching.
“It is healthy to have ambitions,” Kyungsoo says after a moment. Jongdae almost laughs out loud.
Instead he says, in a boyish voice, “But I want all the time, Father.” He stretches, almost bored as he plans his next words. “I feel constantly aroused - I always have excuse myself, in class, to go to the bathroom and tend to myself. I have sex with girls my age but they always want more. I have sex with boys, but it isn’t enough.”
“You should pray,” Kyungsoo says, “for our god to take this unnatural desire away from you.”
“I fuck strangers,” Jongdae says, louder, as if he can’t hear the priest, his little mannequin. His creation. “But they’re always so guilty, after. They say that I’m young, that I should be playing with my friends. That I’m a child. They say I’m wrong to feel such a way.”
“If you pray,” Kyungsoo says, voice wavering, “our god will help you. He will heal you and make you well.”
Jongdae smiles, the cat that has caught his prey. “Do you remember my voice, Father?” He gets up and opens the door, stands before Kyungsoo’s. “I’ve spoken to you, before. The last time I was here? You heard me, didn’t you? Touching myself as you told me what to pray, and I repeated it back to you.”
“If you pray,” Kyungsoo begins again, but Jongdae opens the door and climbs into his lap.
“Don’t look at me directly,” he whispers into Kyungsoo’s ear, as he ruts against him. Kyungsoo moans, head tilting back and eyes closing automatically.
Jongdae slowly unbuttons the robes that every single one of his priests wears, kissing each patch of skin that comes into contact with the cool air. “We shouldn’t do this,” Kyungsoo whispers.
“The god of this temple doesn’t listen to your prayers,” Jongdae replies. “He has much better things to do,” he says, right before he swallows Kyungsoo down, listening to the way the boy cries out beneath him.
He watches the way Kyungsoo shivers and aches for his touch, as he draws back to simply kiss the tip of the priest’s cock. He laves at the smooth skin and chuckles, listening to the way Kyungsoo moans. His hands come down, to tighten unconsciously in Jongdae’s hair.
“I don’t believe that,” Kyungsoo says at last, when Jongdae presses down, down on him, until Kyungsoo hits the back of his throat. Jongdae swallows once, twice.
Kyungsoo is unexperienced, barely untouched. It’s too much for him, and tears come to his eyes when Jongae tastes the bitterness on his tongue.
Kyungsoo has been saved for Jongdae to take as much as he wants, and he will enjoy. “But, you do know,” he says, clambering into Kyungsoo’s lap. He presses his jaw to the side with two fingers when Kyungsoo tries to look at him.
He wriggles out of the schoolboy uniform he conjured, a slow striptease to taunt and aggravate the priest underneath him. He doesn’t expect Kyungsoo’s hands to seize and tighten on his hips, to pull him down and hold still. “I won’t do this anymore.”
Jongdae leans in and chuckles, bites Kyungsoo’s ear hard enough to draw blood. “But I want,” he whines, and Kyungsoo no longer protests as Jongdae pushes his hands away to sink on his cock.
My little mannequin, he almost sighs approvingly, but he bites back the words. He goes slow at first, but then Kyungsoo presses his feet flat on the floor to meet him with every thrust.
Jongdae scratches at Kyungsoo’s chest as the priest reaches out with a cold hand, to stroke Jongdae’s cock until precome leaks from the tip. Jongdae clenches around the priest, listening to Kyungsoo moan contentedly. “Beg for it,” he snarls. “Tell me how much you want it. How good I am, because I’ve fucked so many people that I’m damn good at it.”
Kyungsoo gasps. “You’re good,” he says, and his face crumples.
Jongdae spills over his own hand, between the two of them. He begins to speed up, but he holds back. “Confess your guilt,” Jongdae demands, mocking. “Tell your god how sorry you are, that you couldn’t help but fuck a nympho like me.”
He sinks down faster and faster, watching Kyungsoo’s face scrunch up as he grows closer to the edge. “Say it, goddamnit,” Jongdae growls. “Confess your sins!”
He feels the warmth within him, the wetness filling him before Kyungsoo shouts and his eyes fly open. “Forgive me!” he shouts, looking straight at Jongdae.
There is a moment, when Jongdae can see the recognition in Kyungsoo’s eyes. It is quickly replaced in horror. But soon enough the head drops, the hands drop away from his sides as Jongdae pulls away. Steps quickly approach the confessional box, having heard Kyungsoo’s cries.
“What a pity,” Jongdae says, brushing his hand over the cheek of his pretty little mannequin, his creation.
The footsteps grow closer.
The door of the confessional box opens. The acolyte who has come to investigate frowns. There is no one inside, and nothing either.