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“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Corto observes the man looking down at him from his mockery of a throne, pursing his thin lips in a lascivious smile, eating him with his eyes and pleasing himself in the image of Corto on his knees by his feet.
“It has been too long since my last confession.” That is a lie, and the smirk on the priest's face tells he knows that much. Never before in his life has Corto ever confessed. He doesn't believe in God enough for that.
“I have never been one for religion.” Still on his knees, the sailor leans forward, pressing his hand against the thief's chest and pushing him further against the chair. Taking advantage of the five centimetres of height difference between them, Corto towers over Rasputin. “I never thought there was much in it for me.” With a mischievous smile on his lips, Corto caresses the priest's torso through his clothes, cherishing the ravishing vision that the man before him is — the black cassock falls nicely on the thief, in a sinful and perfidious way that makes something buried deep inside Corto crawl and ripple and twist, screaming and begging for attention.
“Maybe I was wrong,” Corto continues with a lopsided smile. “Maybe I should have given religion a chance.” Corto slides his hands under the Father's soutane, making his way to his sensitive areas and electing a faint moan from him. It is a nice sound — small and shy and nothing like Rasputin at all. “I mean, if all the priests are like you, maybe there is something for me in it, after all.”
Bending over, Corto kisses the Russian's exposed neck. His skin tastes salty, and he smells of cigarette ash, cheap wine and wood polish. The sailor smiles against the thief's skin, he can see Rasputin clear as day breaking into the cupboard where the wine for Mass is kept, and taking as many bottles as he can before sneaking out to smoke and get drunk away from the prying eyes of the religious portraits scattered around the small church.
Father or not, Rasputin is still Rasputin, and that man is a bastard — Corto's bastard.
“Perhaps,” Rasputin says with a strangled breath. His vocal cords vibrate against Corto's lips. Swallowing dryly and taking a deep breath, the so-called priest digs his nails into the armrest of his pulpit chair, using all his willpower to keep his composure. Once his breathing is under control, he tries again, “Perhaps this would be easier if you told me what you've done.”
Leaning back minimally, Corto allows himself to observe the scene as a whole. Rasputin is tense and rigid with his hands clenched at his sides; his face is red, his chest rises and falls in long, deep breaths, and sweat drips down his throat, falling onto the collar of his messy, crumpled cassock.
Corto drags his fingers down Rasputin's jawline, enjoying the way the thief tenses even further under his touch. The man laughs to himself, no matter what, his dear friend will always be headstrong. Not that it matters, Corto has proven more than once that he can be as stubborn as Rasputin, if not worse.
If Rasputin wants to play hard, all Corto needs to do is play harder.
Corto meets Rasputin's gaze, a crooked smile on his face. In a deep silky voice, with lust and arousal dripping from his every word like poison, he declares, “I'm not seeking penance for what I've done, Father.”
Rasputin gulps dryly, his Adam's apple bobbing. The Russian's dark eyes shine fiercely in the pale candlelight, broadcasting his raw emotions to anyone who knows the man well enough to read them — malice, lust, desire, hunger, passion, and possession.
“I'm asking forgiveness for what I'm about to do.”
As the Angel of Death had descended to Earth once before on an Egyptian night, Corte descends on Rasputin taking what has long been rightfully marked as his. The Russian's lips are thin and parched, and his mouth has the same cigarette ash and cheap wine as his skin. Rasputin moans into Corto's mouth, losing the one-sided battle against his urges. Parting his lips, he allows Corto to fully savour his mouth. Corto lets his tongue become reacquainted with Rasputin's mouth, relearning everything that may have been forgotten during all the time the Russian was playing dead.
Once the inconvenience of needing to breathe becomes sufficiently inconvenient that neither of them can ignore it any longer, Corto pulls away, much to the annoyance of Rasputin, who whimpers at the loss of the sailor's lips.
Corto grins openly at Rasputin's indignation, savouring the way the thief's defences are falling one by one.
With a swift movement that could be considered offensive, Corto rips the priest's cassock, exposing his hairy, sweaty chest and causing a few buttons to fly away — not that any of them care.
Rasputin's chest is marred by scars, small and large, conspicuous or faded, every corner of his skin is marked by a memento of an encounter gone wrong, a lie that has been caught, or a friend turned foe. Every scar is a reminder that not even the thief of thieves can go through life without bearing the consequences of his actions. They are also a testament to the fact that Rasputin survived, and will continue to do so.
On Rasputin's right side, just below his ribs, there is a mark larger than the others, with deformed, red skin. Corto swallows dryly at the sight of the burn that could easily be bigger than his hand. Logically, Corto knows that the possibility of Rasputin coming out unscathed from the explosion that caused his near-death was almost nil, but Corto had also spent a long time believing that Rasputin had died only to find him again in a godforsaken village in Mexico of all places, so perhaps the logical part of his brain hasn't put two and two together yet.
Rasputin stirs slightly in his chair, and Corto realizes that his staring contest with Rasputin's exposed torso is making the man uncomfortable.
With a thoroughness that doesn't quite belong to him, Corto trails his fingers along the burn scar; studying its edges, feeling the bruised skin against the calluses on his fingers. Rasputin breathed sharply, waiting for his companion's next move.
Corto kisses the scarred skin. It's a sweet, almost innocent gesture, but above all, it's a declaration of acceptance.
Rasputin is Rasputin no matter what, and Corto accepts every bit of him — stellar personality and charred skin included.
“Perhaps,” Corto starts, his voice uncharacteristically soft. Leaning back, Corto rests on his knees. From his place at the Father's feet, Rasputin looks way too big. Bigger than life and death itself. The candles’ light shines upon him, surrounding the priest with a regal aura. The thief looks almost ethereal. “I should pray to God, after all.”
“Yeah, what for?”
“To thank him, of course,” Corto continued in the same soft tone.
Thank him for this absurdity of a man, this thief that stole Corto's heart and has yet to give it back — not that Corto will ever take it back. He should say his graces for Rasputin, for this man who is half of his life, half of his soul. God, real or not, is responsible for creating this outrageous man down to his atrocious personality, kleptomaniac tendencies, pathological lies, and all the other little things that make Corto's heart beat harder. For all that, for all the little pieces that make Rasputin nothing else but Rasputin himself, God should get some prayers and even some praise, too. Because once one creates the epitome of man, a being so perfectly imperfect that he breathtakingly captures the essence of humanity, one definitely deserves some congratulations.
Rasputin is God's most grotesque creation, and Corto is very thankful for His work. And maybe someday he will say that to Rasputin's face. Not that he needs to, since the look on Rasputin's face when the gazes meet tells Corto his dear had caught the words he doesn't dare to say out loud yet.
“Well,” Rasputin begins, using the tone he adopts when speaking to parishioners — cocky and condensed. “If you really want to strengthen your ties with God, you can always start with a good relationship with His most faithful servants.”
“And that would be you, I assume?”
“Of course,” the bastard says with a smirk. “Who else but me?”
Corto laughs.
Indeed, who else but him?
“Tell me, Father, what do you have in mind?”
“I believe it was the Bible that says that to please a man of God is to please God Himself.”
“The Bible says that?”
“Of course,” Rasputin says nonchalantly. “Maybe. Probably. I never read the damn thing.”
Corto chuckles.
“Oh, Father, what would your parishioners say if they heard you talk like that?”
“I think they'd be too scandalized by what we're doing to pay attention to what I'm saying.”
“And what are we're doing, Father?”
“Sinning, of course.”
“Do you think this is a sin?”
“Tell me, pretty boy, when have we done anything other than sinning?” Rasputin caresses Corto's face. “Besides, I'm pretty sure it says somewhere that a man shouldn't lie down with another man.”
“Good thing we're not lying down, then.”
Corto grins maniacally, and Rasputin laughs loudly
“You, my dearest, are nothing but an incorrigible bastard walking down the dark path.” Rasputin pulls Corto by the collar, forcing the sailor to meet him on his level. “But fear not, Father Rasputin will make sure to wash away all your sins.”
The following kiss is initiated by Rasputin, and for once in a long time, Corto lets him have all the control. Rasputin's kisses are fierce and hungry, filled with pent-up tension mixed with passion and possession. Rasputin is taking what is rightfully his, and for a brief moment, Corto allows him to. But that is not the game they're playing, and so Corto pulls away.
“Now, Father, I believe I was the one supposed to please you.” Corto wipes the corner of Rasputin's mouth with his thumb. “This is my confession, after all.”
Pushing Rasputin against the chair once more, Corto busies himself with untying the sash that rests lazily on the Russian's waist. Swallowing hard, Corto takes a moment to bathe in the image before him.
Rasputin is hard, so fucking hard.
Corto is not a merciful man. With long, deliberate movements, he teases and arouses Rasputin, trailing a path of kisses down his inner thigh and slowly making his way to his erection.
Rasputin moans beneath him, shaking under his touch — so helpless, so defenceless, so desperate.
“God!” Rasputin screams.
“Now, Father,” Corto says against his burning skin, “you cannot say God’s name in vain.”
“Fuck you, Corto!” He bites.
“No.” Corto licks Rasputin's inner thighs. “I'll fuck you.”
God's name is not the only thing Rasputin says in vain once Corto finally touches his hard erection with his mouth. Kissing the base of the so-called priest's penis, the sailor makes his way up from the base to the tip with long, deliberate licks. Rasputin's hands find their way to Corto's hair, and the thief's fingers pull it violently; his legs wrap themselves around Corto unconsciously, locking him in place and making it almost impossible to pull back — not that Corto wants to. Sliding up and down slowly, Corto uses his tongue to rub the length of Rasputin's cock, sucking hard and playing with the head of his penis. Rasputin's breath is harsh and weak, and Corto is not sure whether he can understand the things his lover is saying anymore — he is pretty sure Rasputin isn't talking in English any longer.
Never being the one to voluntarily get down on his knees, Corto can't remember the last time he's had Rasputin in his mouth, but the pleasure of having his man in his mouth, with his legs spread around him and his long, calluses fingers deep in his hair makes Corto question if he's as clever as he believes himself to be since anyone with half a brain would do anything to be in that prestigious position at any given moment.
Rasputin howls, screaming Corto's name as if it was God's. Corto takes it as the incentive to intensify the rhythm, adding his hands to mix and causing Rasputin to scream even louder. The thief's body shakes, his legs twitch, he arches his back and his breath shortens.
The Father is loud, obscene and vulgar, he says Corto's name repeatedly, along with a mix of expletives and profanities. He screams for God while begging Corto to go deeper; he asks for mercy but doesn't allow Corto to pull back. He is the one sitting on the throne, but he's actually the slave.
Corto plays with Rasputin like a tiger plays with its prey. He toys with him, bringing the thief to the edge only to stop. He tests Rasputin's limits, his patience, his wits, and, above all, his pride. Corto enjoys being a bastard and enjoys making Rasputin whimper and beg. He loves to see this insufferable man so irrefutably under his control.
Torture would be kinder.
Rasputin's cum drips down the side of Corto's mouth. Wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb, Corto licks the cum off his finger and leans back, giving Rasputin space to recover.
His hair, his beard and even his chest hair are frizzy and matted, and sweat drips down his forehead, neck and chest, making his skin glisten in an angelic way. The thief's muscles tremble with exhaustion, and his breathing is laboured and shallow. The beautiful cassock was reduced to nothing but rags.
Faced with such a magnanimous display, Corto can't help but smile proudly.
This is beautiful, Rasputin is beautiful.
Corto may not believe in Heaven, but he's sure he's never been closer to the Gates of Paradise before.