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“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” The familiar velvety voice comes through the other side of the confessional, and Harry takes a sharp inhale of breath.
Everyone warned him that Tom Riddle was no ordinary child, an incarnation of the devil, they said. Harry refused to believe it, he still does, even after everything; people also told him to avoid the devilish child. He didn’t.
Giving his blessing, Harry indicates for Tom to continue, his face only barely visible through the latticed window. Harry doesn’t have to see clearly to know how intense the boy’s eyes bore into him, or what shape his lips form around the smirk.
“Lately, I’ve been tempted,” Tom starts. “I’ve been having improper thoughts.”
Having improper thoughts for a fifteen-year-old is hardly a sin, but rather a natural response to the ever-changing hormones and heightened curiosity. Yet, Harry knows for certain that this isn’t entirely the case.
“Just the thoughts?” He inquires in a whisper, afraid that his voice might break.
“No, Father Harry.” Judging by the tone, Tom is smirking suggestively. “I’ve acted on those thoughts, too.”
And he doesn’t sound remorseful in the least; if anything, he is smug and proud. Harry exhales quietly, closing his eyes in defeat. “Tell me everything.”
There’s a pause as if Tom isn’t sure what to tell, and then, “I’ve been infatuated with someone. Ever since I saw him, I knew he would be different, not like other people, who are stupid and ignorant, a pebble beneath my feet. No, Harry… Father Harry, he stands above the crowd. It’s not about his status as a priest, I’ve seen priests before, unworthy pigs calling themselves shepherds,” Tom spat angrily, but his voice quickly returned to the thick sweetness with which he spoke before. “Harry is the only one worthy to guide the mindless sheep, he could command anything, and they’d follow. But of course, he is also too kind, never using his virtue to his advantage, so selfless, so genuinely invested in helping people. How adorable,” Tom chuckles lightly, and it sends shivers down Harry’s spine. “From the very first day we met, I wanted to worship him. I wanted him.”
Harry leans his head against the wall, eyes still closed. He hasn’t expected Tom to start this far ahead, but it isn’t for him to correct such nuances when people come to him for a confession. They are free to talk as long and detailed as they want, and it’s Harry’s job to listen and offer guidance. Even if his insides churn unpleasantly and his personal feelings burn like boiling water.
“Harry… His eyes are so bright and full of love and compassion. He has enough for everyone, but more importantly, for me as well. I wanted to drink that love from his lips, to stick my tongue inside his precious mouth that talks of god and faith. For him to only be mine, to only look at me like only I exist. I wanted him.” Tom’s voice is a breathy insistence, and Harry forces his eyes open. By the outline of the shadowed window between them, he can guess that Tom is leaning close, seeking Harry’s shape with hungry eyes. “Father Harry… It’s all I can ever think about. Even after last week, when I…”
Harry tenses, contemplating if he should stop Tom from continuing, but the bile in his throat keeps him silent. Unable to do anything, much like that time…
“When I cornered you into the wall and kissed…”
Harry’s heart speeds up at Tom’s change of address. The pretence of talking about someone else wasn’t helping much before, but now the breathed-out ‘you’ makes it so much more palpable…
“I held you with as much force as I could muster,” Tom continues. “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t ever let you go. At last, I captured your lips between mine, savouring the delicate taste, exploring every crevice of your mouth with my tongue. You whimpered so lovely, even though you struggled and tried to push me away…”
Harry laments how short and delicate he is that even a teenager twice his younger easily overpowers him.
“That’s alright, Harry, I don’t hold a grudge. I know you didn’t mean to push me away. Will you forgive me?” He doesn’t expect the answer because it’s not even half of the confession yet. “But as exquisite as it was, the kiss was not enough, I needed… I need more.”
At this point Tom breathes sharply, likely getting aroused as he speaks, Harry on the other hand barely breathes, plastering himself to the wall. He wants to run, but it’s no different from when Tom pinned him to the wall. It’s the same stupor and inability to do anything.
“I went down on my knees before you, and Harry, those green eyes of yours looked at me then, wide and shiny with panic, you couldn’t believe I’d do that, could you? Right there, against the cold stone of the sacred cathedral. But Harry, my fascination with you has no bounds. Only you can be above me, I care not about the saints or god watching us from the painted ceiling. Or even heaven. There’s no heaven more desired for me than your body in my arms, your flesh in my mouth…”
Harry squeezes his eyes shut, he wants to cover his ears, not to hear any more. But Tom’s whisper is like a hiss of a snake, devious, tempting, impossible to turn away from.
“I would kiss every inch of it, I’d carve my mark onto your body. And I would lick your wounds and drink your blood, and the scars will stay, like a claim of mine, so everyone knows who you belong to. Mine, only mine…”
Harry shudders at the sweetness of Tom’s voice spouting words that are no different from a threat. Tom Riddle was a sweet child, so Harry thought the first time he saw him. Too smart for his age and isolated from his peers, who never knew neither kindness nor love, but who deserved it like any other. Tom seemed reserved, but gradually he opened up to Harry, talking to him about his life and childhood. He didn’t have much in his life and very little that he did, were his treasures he got overly possessive about. Never Harry thought that he’d become one of those as well.
Tom never loved another person, he never knew what love is, and Harry’s heart bled at the thought of how little it took for Tom to decide that Harry was the answer to both. Tom couldn’t quite put Harry in a box, but oh he sure wished so.
“I love you, Harry.” Tom’s voice is as innocent as that of lamb. “I love you, you know that, don’t you?” For a moment, his eyes gleam heavily in a ruby candlelight, not unlike that of a monster watching its prey. “Don’t you love me, Father Harry?”
“Of course, I love you, Tom,” Harry cracks in a pained whisper, he couldn’t lie; despite everything, he loved Tom like any child of God, it wasn’t something Harry could shake out of his belief.
There’s silence, stretching into a gradually calming heartbeat, and it’s because Harry isn’t looking at Tom that he misses him leaving his side of the confessional. Tom is quiet, Tom is sneaky, Tom knows exactly how to hunt.
“No, no, you can’t go in here, Tom,” Harry protests when the curtain before him opens with a barely audible swish.
“Let’s not allow anyone to see us, then.” Tom completely misses the point, or rather, he doesn’t care about the rules or Harry’s will.
Much like before, Tom lowers himself on the knees. In a confined place he is too close, and now that Harry is sitting it’s easier for Tom to reach wherever he wishes. Harry freezes, heart rate spiralling into a frantic beat once again.
He doesn’t want a repeat of what happened just recently. This is supposed to be a confession, a way for Tom to repent his sins, not to add more.
“Harry…” Tom breathes in the same air Harry lets out in small cautious puffs, and his face is a picture of serenity.
“Tom, sto-” He doesn’t get to finish, as his lips are pulled into a kiss. Firm arms push at his chest and shoulders, holding in place, as Tom plunges his tongue deeper.
Harry is in pain, not from any physical force, but from the mental pressure of how wrong it is. He keeps quiet, inhaling shallowly through the nose, and his eyes get blurry with the prickling tears.
He doesn’t want to be here, to go through any of this again, but instead of struggling, he prays, recounting verses in his head, like a fallen rabbit that pretends to be dead in hopes of the danger to pass. Tom isn’t fooled, nor does the passiveness stop him. If anything, he takes it as encouragement, drinking kisses from Harry’s mouth like it’s the sweetest nectar…
“T-tom…” Harry manages to utter when Tom eases away. “Please, Tom… don’t do this.”
“But Harry, I need you…” Tom’s eyes are clouded with lust and desire, it’s almost scary how much want shine through them. “Please…”
Harry doesn’t believe for a second that Tom is asking for permission. What is the point of it, if he can take whatever he wants by force. Tears streak down Harry’s cheeks, he’s disappointed with himself that he can’t do anything, can’t even move, frozen in place.
“Please,” Tom repeats, his hands shuffling to Harry’s groin, searching for the opening in the priest’s long robe. His movements are precise with no confusion or hesitation, he’s quick to unfasten the belt and unzip the trousers, much quicker than Harry realising what his intention is. Tom frees his soft cock out of the pants and gives it a firm squeeze, watching Harry’s reaction like a hawk. “Please, Father… Give me your blessing.”
It’s a deceptive plea; one moment Tom is looking up at him with pleading eyes, and the next he plunges down, tasting the cock with his mouth. Harry gasps, staring at nothing in particular. The curtain to the confessional behind Tom’s back doesn’t even stir, so careful Tom is with his movements. His tongue goes round the tip of Harry’s cock, it’s slower and gentler than last time, when he pushed Harry to the wall. The semi-privacy of a confessional doesn’t call for a rush, and Tom clearly wants to savour every single second.
It’s excruciatingly slow and Harry isn’t a saint, his body reacting to the stimulation in the most predictable way. Every fibre of his soul burns in agony at the act committed, the desecration of the holy ground, the betrayal of celibacy, and the very sin he’s fallen victim to. A sole point of pleasure is concentrated within his cock, and Harry rolls his eyes to heaven, pleading guilty before God.
As if aware of Harry’s thoughts, Tom lets the cock slide from his mouth with a filthy sound. “I’ll take the sin from you,” he says, lips glossy from saliva. “It’s mine alone to carry, Father Harry. Just like you are only mine. God cannot touch you.”
Harry doesn’t say anything as he gazes back at the eyes far gone. Whatever he could say, it won’t come through Tom’s head, so convinced the boy is in his righteous beliefs. No god is there for Tom to repent his sins to, the whole thing a mockery of a confession. For Harry to even have a sliver of hope that Tom might regret what he did…
Tom smiles his eerie smile before he lowers down on Harry’s hardened cock again, sucking it deep, playing a tongue around it. He bobs his head up and down in a newfound rhythm, and Harry isn’t thinking anymore, drawing a complete blank. It must be happening to someone else, it’s not his body if it easily betrays him so, chasing the building orgasm with the thrusts of hips. His fingers curl around the jet-black hair, clutching at it without much regard, forcing Tom’s head down, down, deeper.
His hand still rests in Tom’s curls, even when reality crashes back at him. Tom swallows around his cock, gladly accepting everything Harry gives him to the last of drops. He coughs and splutters barely audible, and it’s absurd, but Harry wants to comfort him as if this situation wasn’t precisely what Tom wanted. As if not him, but Harry was the one who forced and used him. The thought brings a flash of anger and immediate regret.
He is a misguided child, Harry reminds himself. He doesn’t know better.
Tom doesn’t rush to move away after he zips up Harry’s trousers back to decency. He only sits on the floor more comfortably, laying his cheek on Harry’s lap and hugging him by the thighs. Harry has no better choice than to brush the boy’s hair in a soothing manner, watching with a lump in his throat how Tom’s puffed up lips stretch into a soft and happy smile.
If only possible, he could be clinging to Harry’s thighs forever, so starved and desperate for a human touch he is. He almost looks like an ordinary child who only sought the warmth and comfort of an innocent embrace, if not for the swollen lips and trickle of saliva down his chin, an evidence of their shared sin.
Harry doesn’t have it in his heart to push the boy away at this point, even though his hold now loosened. It won’t be long before Tom has to go back to the orphanage, the cold and dreary place with no one there for him. If Harry can be the one to let this child feel love, however twisted in Tom’s perception, so be it.
When Tom finally stands back on his knees, eyes trained on Harry, pleading, briefly Harry sees the flash of sadness and regret that quickly gets replaced by the usual heavy gleam. Those might as well be his imagination, or a reflection from his own regretful eyes. Harry doesn’t need a mirror to know how sad and crushed he himself looks.
“Forgive me, Father…” Tom whispers quietly, and it’s the tiny note of sincerity, which might as well be Harry’s imagination too, that prompts him to respond in just as quiet a whisper:
“I forgive you.”