Note: Hi readers! Sorry for the late update. I was busy with some stuff and was also stuck on figuring out how to continue after last chapter. Hope you enjoy!
The Taste of Guilt, The Shape of Flesh
Isaiah woke with a choking gasp, the dampness of his sheets clinging to his chest. His breath fogged in the morning cold, and for a moment he didn’t know where he was. Not the forest. Not the chapel floor. His own bed. He turned to the side, searching for warmth.
A breath fogged across his cheek.
His breath caught.
A face.
Inches from his own.
It was not human.
It wore the shape of one. But the mouth curled too slightly, the lips stretched in a wrong, flat smile. A pale mimicry of expression. Its skin was colorless, waxy, dead-fish gray, the hue of something embalmed but not buried. The eyes were painted-looking, too perfect and still, as though a child had drawn what they thought eyes should be. They looked through him, not at him. It smiled, or tried to. And that was worse. The smile knew nothing of joy, or sorrow, or cruelty. It was just... there. The shape of human warmth without the meaning. A face assembled from fragments of memory by something that did not belong in this world. Every line, every twitch was wrong.
Isaiah screamed and flung himself back. He hit the floor with a crack, sheets tangled around his legs, heart slamming against his ribs. He crawled back, gasping. But when he looked again, the thing was gone.
He was alone.
But the air was still warm where it had hovered.
Isaiah burst from the room, feet bare, calling out, “Father?”
No answer.
The hearth was cold.
Thaddeus was gone.
Isaiah didn’t think. He bolted, leaving the door open, nightshirt flapping against his knees, the chill slicing across his skin. He hadn't time to stop for boots or coat. He ran barefoot through the frost, thorns and twigs biting his soles, wild hair in his eyes.
The village finally emerged from the trees but as soon as his foot touched the edge of the square, the mood changed.
Laughter died.
Voices stilled.
Men lowered their eyes. Women pulled children behind them. The warmth vanished.
He must’ve looked mad. Filthy, frantic, sweat-matted and red-eyed, nightshirt clinging to his heaving chest.
“Father!” he shouted. “Thaddeus!”
Only silence.
And then a voice: “Isaiah?”
Alek.
He moved from the edge of the square, stepping quickly through the wary crowd. When he reached Isaiah, he placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “What in hell’s name happened to you? You’re freezing.”
“I woke up. He was gone. I thought he might be here.”
“Come with me. You’ll catch death like this.”
Alek ushered him away, down the side lane to the barn behind his family’s house. He pulled him inside, bolted the door, and lit a lamp. The warm scent of straw and cedar oil embraced them.
Isaiah paced, chest still rising and falling.
Alek watched him. “What happened?”
Isaiah stopped. Shook his head. “You won’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
He hesitated. And then, like a dam broke, he gave in. Not to trust, not to logic, but to the simple need to tell someone.
“I saw something,” Isaiah whispered. “In my room. Inches from me. It wasn’t a man. It looked like one, but not really. Its face... God, Alek, it was as if a corpse had tried to remember how to smile. Like it knew what a man should look like but had never truly seen one. Every inch of it was wrong.”
Alek was silent.
Then, "Maybe it was a dream."
Isaiah scoffed, Tears still hot on his cheeks. “Of course. You think I’m mad.”
“No,” Alek said softly. “No. I... I have dreams. Things like that. Not always. But more than I should. Since I was young.”
Isaiah looked at him.
Alek’s voice dropped. “It’s guilt. That’s what Father Vale told me. That people like me dream monsters because we are monsters. I used to come to chapel. He drove me out. Said my soul was sick. That desire would burn me.”
Isaiah’s voice caught. “He told you that?”
“I believed it, for a long time.”
Isaiah stepped closer.
And Alek didn’t move away.
Their eyes met, uncertain. Isaiah’s breath hitched, and for a moment neither moved. Then, slowly, almost without meaning to, Isaiah reached out. His fingers brushed Alek’s. Alek’s gaze dropped to Isaiah’s mouth. A heartbeat passed.
For a moment neither moved. Isaiah’s breath hitched, and then, hesitantly, he reached up, his fingers brushing the side of Alek’s neck. Alek leaned in slightly. Their foreheads touched.
Isaiah searched his face. "Do you still carry that guilt?"
Alek’s eyes softened. He didn’t answer, not with words.
Instead, his hand rose, cupped Isaiah’s jaw.
Isaiah leaned in.
Their lips met. Soft. Slow. Isaiah’s lips trembled. Alek’s were firm, warm.
Then they kissed again, and again, closer each time.
Fingers found skin. Hands slid beneath fabric. Isaiah whimpered as Alek lifted the nightshirt, their bodies pressed tight.
Alek lowered him gently onto the straw.
Isaiah gasped as his thighs parted, the cool air brushing his slick hole. Alek knelt, strong arms braced to either side of him. His cock was heavy, thick, already hard. It pulsed against Isaiah’s thigh.
Isaiah’s heart pounded. “Please,” he whispered.
Alek kissed him once more and pressed forward.
Isaiah moaned as the head stretched him. He clung to Alek’s shoulders, panting, as inch after inch filled him. His body burned. But it was a sweet burn. Nothing cruel, nothing taken. His hole clenched, opened, ached as Alek pushed in fully.
He cried out, but Alek held still, kissing his neck. “Breathe,” he murmured.
Isaiah did. He felt himself adjust around the cock inside him, felt his own length leak between them, untouched.
Alek began to move.
Slowly at first. Smooth, controlled. Then faster. Their bodies collided, thighs slapping, the straw rustling. Alek’s cock drove deep with every thrust, hitting something inside that made Isaiah’s vision blur.
He wrapped his legs tighter, taking more, begging for more.
“You’re perfect,” Alek whispered. “God help me.”
Isaiah moaned louder. “I needed this. I needed-”
“Me too,” Alek said. “Me too.”
They clung to each other. Sweat glistened between them. Alek’s pace grew ragged, deeper, stronger.
And with a final thrust, he buried himself fully and groaned into Isaiah’s throat as he spilled inside him, cock twitching.
Isaiah came moments later, untouched, gasping, body shaking.
When it was over, they lay tangled in the straw, skin to skin.
Alek stroked his hair and Isaiah let himself breathe.
For once, he did not feel afraid.
They slept for a while, curled together. Straw clung to their damp skin, but neither stirred until the sundown.
Isaiah woke first. The rustling of his movement roused Alek, who blinked sleepily.
“I have to go,” Isaiah whispered. “He’ll notice I’m gone.”
Alek leaned in, kissed his mouth softly. “Be careful. Please.”
Isaiah smiled faintly, tucked in his nightshirt, and slipped outside.
The sky was red. Fog clung low to the trees.
He padded barefoot back through the woods, heart thudding.
The house was ahead. Still. Dark.
Isaiah crept to the door and slowly pushed it open.
The air inside was quiet.
Then his breath caught.
Thaddeus was sitting at the table.
Waiting.
The look on his face was unreadable.
But it was not kind.
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