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The church was silent and dark; incense weighed heavily in the air, making the sparse lights appear dimmer and shadows longer. Sometimes lost travellers arrived to sit bashfully in the last rows and listen to the silky voice of the priest, but that night nobody was there to haunt the pews. The priest, as he was in habit of when nobody came to listen to his preaching, was sitting in the confessional booth, waiting for any lonely soul in need of absolution. Gallagher was one such soul, but what he was seeking was far from salvation.
"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned."
The words echoed in the darkness, probably waking the priest up from a small nap. Gallagher couldn't see his face properly through the screen, but he could hear a sudden movement on the other side, and someone cleared his throat. The man smiled to himself. That was a good start.
"When was your last confession, my child?" The priest asked. His calm, low voice sent shivers down Gallagher's spine. He hummed in response, taking his time to gather his thoughts, although he knew the answer all too well.
"Never, father, this is my first time," he replied, earning a surprised gasp from the priest.
"That's… unusual. I can guide you through the ritual, my child, in case you don't know the steps."
"No need, father," the hound drawled as he leaned closer to the screen. He could barely see the man on the other side: wings resting softly over his shoulders, grey hair perfectly combed even at this hour, a glimpse of his golden eyes, catching light from a small lamp placed inside. He couldn't distinguish the expression he was wearing, but he could still picture him in vivid detail. Mr. Sunday was the head of the Oak Family, after all. His face was plastered all over Penacony. His work as a priest came second to his duties. "May I?"
"Proceed," Sunday replied. His voice seemed bored and a tad tired, but Gallagher knew well enough this would change in just a few minutes. They would have so much fun.
"I have been having those dreams lately, father," he started in a low whisper. He heard rustling on the other side as Sunday slid closer. "They always start very innocently, but they build up as I go, and I wake up quite... bothered."
"What kind of dreams are those?"
"They are all different, but there is one common element throughout: a man. I always meet him in my dreams, and we... do things together."
"What's wrong with that? Dreams are not sins; you are not consciously evocating them to take a certain form," Sunday explained with a small tilt to his voice. Disapproval? Was he thinking this lamb came in to waste his time?
Gallagher's face broke into a smile. "No, no, father, you don't understand. Those dreams are of a very sinful nature. The things we do in those dreams linger in my mind for days."
"What are they, then? Be precise, my child." Sunday was trying to maintain his professional indifference, but the hound could tell he was growing impatient. In the wee hours of the night, only the hounds and their prey occupied the streets. The priest wanted to go home.
"We fuck."
The silence that followed suddenly felt charged and heavy. The priest inhaled sharply; Gallagher could almost taste how nervous he became. Golden eyes looked up at him once again, wide.
"You… fuck ," he repeated slowly. "Having intercourse is not a sin anymore; we left behind such old-world biases against human sexuality."
"Yes, father, but this is no ordinary intercourse. " Ah, what careful use of words! Building distance between himself and the topic. Gallagher's fingers tapped a jolly tune on the wood of the confessional. "This man, if only you could see him, father... He's breathtaking. A true man of faith, I can't tear my eyes away from him. I feel the need to possess him. To defile this pure, innocent beauty. That's no regular intercourse , father. That's worship."
"Worshipping your partner's body isn't against the church either." Sunday's words were accompanied by a not so discreet scoff. He really was getting impatient.
"You don't understand, father," Gallagher continued, lowering his voice even more now. "Last night I fucked him on the altar," was it his imagination or did Sunday choke on air? "He was gorgeous, with his hands tied down, exposing the expanse of his body. His skin was warm and smooth beneath my fingers, bruising easily with even the lightest pressure. He tried hopelessly to cover himself but he couldn't. He was mine to adore and defile beneath the stained glass windows, casting colourful shadows on his body. I took him there, his legs on my shoulders, tiny whimpers echoing in the silence around us. He came untouched all over himself—such a shameless slut he was. I left him there on the altar, dripping on the ceremonial cloth. He begged to be released, but I knew his lambs would come soon, and they would be equally amazed by the sight of him as I was. He was a work of art."
Sunday was silent for a longer minute; the hound could hear his hastened breathing. He leaned his head on the wood in an attempt to see more of the priest. What a pity; his face was obscured by the wings as if he were ashamed of his reaction to Gallagher’s confession.
"Did I say something wrong, father?" A whispered question broke through the silence, stretching uncomfortably between them. Sunday jumped in place, brought back to earth from his reveries.
"N-no, of course not," he replied hastily. "That definitely wasn't a normal intercourse. I don't even know where to start."
"He consented," Gallagher added matter of factly. "In fact, it was his idea. I was only a vessel for his twisted ideas, complicit in his deviancy."
"You should've opposed it!" The priest exclaimed. His voice broke the serenity of the church. He cleared his throat again. "My apologies. That is one dream. Do others follow a similar… Is there a theme?"
"Oh yes, father, there is," the hound purred. He got Sunday hooked; now reel him in... "He loves being punished, you know. A few days ago, I dreamed of him asking me to tie and flog him while he was praying. I bound his hands in front of him this time, folded in prayer. His back was naked, hair obscuring his beautiful face. He asked me to not hold back. All the time I was flogging him, he kept muttering prayers to his god, asking forgiveness for his sinful desires."
"Oh," the priest breathed. He shifted in place impatiently. "He asked you to... hurt him?"
"He begged for it, father," the hound grinned, his voice back to the low whisper, barely audible in the echoing silence. "He begged me to go harder on him," Sunday swallowed audibly. "He wanted the pain. He wanted to feel it for the next couple of days, the constant throbbing under his clothes as robes kept rubbing over the raw skin of his back. He loves it; he calls it penance."
"You shouldn't…" Sunday's voice cracked; Gallagher could've sworn he saw the man shiver behind the screen, but it was almost impossible to tell. His breath came short when he continued. "You should distance yourself from this temptation. Is there a real-life reason for your dreams? Anything in particular that influences the scenarios your unconscious provides?"
"Of course there is," the hound barked out a short laugh. "The man I dream of really exists."
Silence followed, broken by a quiet: "That is very inappropriate."
"I know, but as you said, it's my unconscious playing tricks on me." Gallagher's fingers ran down the edge of the screen. Sunday turned his face up at the sudden sound, and his eyes caught light again—twin pools of molten gold. "He is so beautiful. His graceful presence fills me with desires I cannot comprehend; his fear of god and devotion to his faith make it all the more difficult to stay away. I am a simple man, father. When I see such purity incarnate, I want to destroy it."
"That's no way of talking about a man of faith!" Sunday scolded him, raising his voice again. Gallagher caught a glimpse of his lips through the screen, bitten and wet. Was he biting down on his lips to keep his reactions in check?
"Oh, father… There is darkness in him, a dark desire calling out to me. He is a man of god, but underneath his carefully maintained presence lies a layer of filth even I cannot fully comprehend."
The priest was silent for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. No sound, no movement; only quickened breathing, revealing his agitation. Gallagher was patient; there was no rush. He shifted on the small bench, waiting. When Sunday spoke up again, his voice was tense.
"What else do you dream about?" He asked, and that was all Gallagher wanted. He grinned to himself when a wave of heat engulfed his body, sending jolts of excitement down his back.
"There are a lot of various scenarios; they rarely repeat themselves over time,” he purred. “There is one, though, I find especially intriguing. I've been dreaming about it a lot lately, and that was what pushed me to seek your help, father."
Sunday was silent, but the hound knew he had his full attention.
"In those dreams I visit him for a confession," he continued, drawing a surprised gasp from the other man. "Oh yes, he's sitting in the confessional booth just like you are, father. The church is silent and dark; there's only the two of us. He asks me to confess my sins, and I tell him all about my fantasies, every detail of what I've been doing to him in my dreams. He doesn't wait for me to confess everything. He asks me to come over to receive my penance on the spot. He is so furious with me. But when I get there, he's already on his knees, waiting for me."
The priest was almost panting, loud enough for Gallagher to hear. The line of his shoulder was tense, the ends of his wings were fluttering nervously. Golden eyes seemed fixated on the hound, seeing straight into his soul.
"And... what then?" He asked impatiently, leaning even closer to the screen.
"He says he has to exorcise the demons of deviance from my soul." The hound's voice was smooth and dangerous, vibrating with need he kept on a tight leash. “He pushes me down on the narrow bench there. It’s quite uncomfortable, and I ask him how he can survive sitting there for hours, but he only shrugs, saying it's not an issue unless I spank him the day before. Oh, father, if only you could see how beautiful his cheeks are after a good spanking! He bruises so easily he’s black and blue after only a handful of slaps, and he's begging for more even when he clearly can't take it. A work of art, I tell you."
The panting on the other side quickened, accompanied by a sudden movement. The priest arched back slightly, biting down on his lip. A small, barely noticeable moan escaped him in the silence of the church.
"Continue," he gasped out, and Gallagher did, drinking up all the sweet reactions.
"Yes, apologies. He doesn’t play around; he doesn’t try to seduce me. He opens my fly and unbuckles my belt. He takes out my hard cock and doesn't hesitate to take it into his hot, greedy mouth. And by god, father. It feels so good." Another muffled moan, Gallagher wished he could see the priest's hand, palming at his own dick, filling up his narrow pants. "His hair spills around his face like a veil, but I want to see him, to watch him, so I grab a handful and tilt his head back. Now I can see how clouded with desire his eyes are, how tears gather in the corners when I push him down and his nose touches down on my pubic bone. He chokes, but I keep him in place. That was what he wanted after all, right? I can feel his throat contracting around the tip when he swallows. I'm not all the way in, but it's close; I could push just a little more and I would be in his throat, cutting off air—oh? Everything is fine, father? You sound distressed."
Sunday was doing his best to keep the sounds down, but there was no doubt he was touching himself, aroused by the hound’s words. Gallagher couldn't see properly, but he could hear the broken gasps and heavy breathing coming from the other side.
"Yes!" the priest growled, surprising them both. "Don't you dare stop now!"
A giggle escaped Gallagher's lips. It was more amusing than he expected. His own dick was hard as well, pushing on the fabric of his underwear, but there was no time to take care of it. He could wait; he was patient. There would come a time when he would reap what he sowed. For now, though...
"If only you could see him, father. He looks up at me, his golden eyes filled with tears. He's wordlessly begging me to continue, even though he can barely manage to fit me in his innocent mouth. I'm the first mortal he fell to his knees for. Nobody else has ever done this to him. He revels in my attention; he's choking on my cock, but he can't stop. I stroke his hair. 'My perfect, holy slut', I murmur as I'm holding him down."
A mewling moan broke through the sudden silence. Sunday wasn't holding back anymore; his head was tilted back, lips parted, gasping for air. His breathy moans echoed in the darkness. Gallagher's fingers were clutching at the wood of the bench, knuckles white from effort. He fought hard to keep his own voice level, but excitement was slowly getting better of him, driving him crazy. He knew he wouldn't last if he could follow in the priest's footsteps right now.
"I fuck into his mouth until I can't take it anymore," he continued in a whisper, low and lined with his own arousal. "I come inside with a growl; my seed spills down his throat. He's a good boy, he drinks up every single drop, and he only winces once. He lets go and coughs, but I can see a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. I ask him if the ritual is complete, and he nods. 'The demons are gone, but you'll have to come back for maintenance,' he replies. I'll obey him; it was me who was asking for absolution after all. But before I leave, I notice a dark stain on his light grey pants. He came untouched, just from sucking me off. His lips are swollen and red when I leave. I wish I could kiss them."
Sunday's sweet moans echoed in the darkness. The moment the hound leaned in and growled, they crescendoed like the most beautiful music to his ears.
"Next time I see him," he continued, his lips almost pressed to the screen. As if he could taste the man on the other side, drink up his arousal. "He's already waiting for me on his knees, back pressed against the cold wall of the church. We don't need words. I hold him in place by the hair and fuck his mouth until his face is streaked with tears and his fingers are digging into my thighs." Sunday's hand was moving erratically; he covered his mouth with the other palm, but to no avail: Gallagher could hear the faintest words. He would be a monster if he let them fall on deaf ears. "He submits fully to this treatment; he's begging for more with his eyes, his moans and his purrs, sending vibrations down my dick. This time I paint his face with my come, and he takes it with a sigh of relief. It only takes me a couple of strokes to make him come into my hand."
A muffled scream echoed from the church's walls. The priest stilled when he spilt over his hand in sudden release; his moans turned into panting as he tried to regain his senses. The hound was waiting patiently, devouring every single tremble of Sunday's fingers, every breathy curse when he saw what mess he made of himself. This was what he desired, what he came there to witness. He could watch the priest scramble every day, overwhelmed by desire.
It took Sunday a moment to collect himself, but when he did, he blushed and turned away from the screen, one wing obscuring his face in shame. When he spoke up, his voice was trembling.
"Those thoughts... are of a very depraved nature indeed," he said and cleared his throat. "You will need to repent many times, my child. Come back again next week, at the same time. I will do my best to help you get rid of this shameful condition."
"Of course, father, I will follow your every word," the hound purred in response. Golden eyes glanced at him over the fluffy wing.
"Now go. You're absolved for what you did, but there is still room for improvement. I have faith in your absolution."
As the hound was standing up from the bench, a tiny, barely noticeable whisper reached him.
"What is your name?"
"Gallagher."
"Thank you, Gallagher."
The hound left the church in silence with a small smirk playing on his lips. The seed was planted. Now he had to wait to see it grow.
Back inside the church, a young priest collected himself after a world-shaking climax and slid to his knees in a prayer of repentance.