Bastardization - Mulled Juice/Archbishop Cream

Mulled these nutz

When the sun retires amongst clouds of pink hues and pearly blues, bearing light that illuminates the dimming church foyers, a bustling crowd shuffles out from their posts. Stone tiled floors harbor framed pillars, sculpted detailings of wealth and of worship bore the stench of light magic, divinity clinging to its surface. An ostentatious display of pride, signature to the Creme Republic's monastery. Rising to his feet from a kneel, as the ceremony is adjourned and the participants scatter in tow, fellow Elder Mille-Feuille stands by his side.

The great makai Republic is regarded for its amity, aegis by the vast sea she harbors. A rather esteemed Elder, pressured to a knee in favor of pleasing his Divines, positioned beside common men and townsfolk as humble equals; Mulled Juice reluctantly billows a sigh once they are privileged to rise.

A rather jarring event, though he'd never admit to such a belief, these prayers bore no authentic importance and only serve to squander his time. Drawing on for hours, silent wasted time spent on his knees with his lips sealed shut and hands clasped together. Praying to an ethereal who'd never served him in turn. Periodically, his eyes would flicker open once he was sure those around him were far too enraptured in prayer, glancing up to the man stood valiantly atop the miniature stage, illuminated by the stained glass windows that occupy the cathedral.

Two steep staircases on either side of the platform, and a thick pulpit the Archbishop stands behind. Preaching prayers and reciting grace he'd known by heart, his sole presence made the affair all the more entertaining. Thick, curled locks of alabaster that shun his vison; an ivory hat detailed in cherubic divinity. A sainted exterior concealed by long, wool cloaks and gold, not a sliver of skin visible beyond his visage simply to bear conservation. Perhaps that was the endearment.

His eyes shut to moralize poetics and express his vocal gratitude to the Divines, for each and every blessing they've granted. The Archbishop speaks of war and of bloodshed, giving thanks to those celestial beings beyond them for endowing their victory, and Mulled Juice has taken to studying him. His lips and how they move when he speaks, how his voice projects so kindly off these ecru walls, so willingly servile to his gods.

The Archbishop talks of bastardization, and how common men mustn't let the sin of deceit taint their tongue; but Mulled Juice can only admire how he wears not a single scar nor fracture, and how soft his skin must be to the touch. So pale, in fact, there is a constant rosy flush to his cheeks that Mulled only wishes to hold. He retains no shame nor has the capacity to possess bashfulness, simply allowing such thoughts to plague his mind without avoidance or shun.

The captivating Archbishop lectures purity and pleasantries, but Mulled already frisks a pulse between his thighs, and a cold sweat envelops him humiliatingly. A heat radiating-- almost hovering his skin that he can't be rid of. Beneath the length of his hair, sweat forms and materializes at his nape. His heart thunders as the faint, familiar sensation makes his posture stern and spine go straight in realization. Though he keeps his eyes shut in prayer, he cannot help but feel as though he is far too seen, and his muscles tense.

All to the hands of his Archbishop. The raw effect he has on the elder is far too sinful for a man of God, smells too much of myrrh to be considered holy. He feels as though he's been cast under a sick, wicked spell, and if he opens his eyes the Archbishop will bore horns.

The Archbishop's words fade distant until they are but a hum to an atmosphere and to occupy the quietude, a low drawl that lulls his mind. He can hear the syllables that surface from his heart and roll off his tongue so smoothly, but cannot understand the words. The bishop's voice coils and bounds his consciousness like prey, and while the figure speaks of chastity, Mulled can only think of how he'd look bare.