Archive of Our Own

Dream wakes up with a gasp, blood rushing under his skin as he shuts his eyes, grabbing the rosary from his bed as he starts up a prayer, focusing on the cool beads in his hands until his prick flags. Rosary clutched tight in his hand, he gets dressed, pointedly ignoring the remnants of his dream, of male laughter as hands trail down his skin.

No, he tells himself firmly, guilt and shame flaring as he puts the white collar on, filling his mind up with what he needs to do before people show up for Mass. 

The church he’s in is small, with only him and one other to keep things in place, and he nods at the nun in passing, checking to see what chores there are to do before the doors open. Sweeping, holy water, getting the collection plate, general clean-up… 

The tasks are done efficiently between them, with the Sister being in charge of letting people in ― which is a blessing, considering he’s not the best at. People. Sighing, he takes a small amount of rubbish out the back, chickens clucking nearby in their cage, and he decides to see if they’ve got more eggs to use once he’s put it away. 

Eggs now in a basket, he freezes, wind whistling through the grass and trees. In the distance, there’s someone watching, only able to see shoulder-length hair and plain, earth-toned clothes, only able to see so much between the distance and the tree over them. 

One of the chicken bites his pant leg and he curses, glaring down at it as he leaves the coop. 

Looking up, there’s no-one in the distance.

Being such a small town, and even with Dream’s anti-social tendencies, it’s easy to see that there’s a new face in Mass. Brown eyes, brown hair with grey temples, in the back rows of the church. The new man is ― he is appealing, which is far as he’d go, more focused on the way that everytime he looks up in Mess, spreading His word, is the unerring way those eyes are on him. 

The newcomer doesn’t come up to thank him, which is quite odd, considering how used he is to people doing it, especially praising Dream’s voice as they do. 

For confession, there’s a bell attached to his room, that rings for those wishing to cleanse their souls if they do night work, or simply out of shame and guilt, to steal away in the night to the church to confess. The bell rings, waking him up from a hazy dream, pulling on his clothes quickly as he walks out to the main room, the one of the doors shut as the ringing continues. 

Dream takes a moment to appreciate the moonlight coming through stained glass, bathing the room in reds and yellows as he walks to the other side of the confession booth, door clicking shut. The ringing stops. 

“I haven’t done one of these in ages,” the person says, voice light and airy, dragging out the ages, “is forgive me father for I have sinned still a thing? Do I need to say it?” 

“No. You do not,” he says eventually, taking a deep breath, the other man’s voiced animated, can almost imagine a wry grin as he stares at the grate, seeing only black of the curtain on the other side, the man preferring anonymity than the ability for him to see who’s there, a human connection. 

“Hmmmmm,” the man smacks his lips, “let’s see. Oh, I ate shrimp the other day. Plus, wearing mixed fabrics. Oh, and I didn’t stone this divorced lady to death for being divorced. She was quite nice actually.”

Dream gapes, flummoxed. “Those,” he swallows, too many thoughts in his head to catch just one. “Those are not considered sins.” 

“Ah. New Testament,” the man points out, and Dream purses his lips, glaring at the black curtain, “right. Of course,” the man makes a few considering sounds and Dream bites his tongue, patience thinning rapidly. “Oh wait, I have something for that!” 

“Yes?” He asks quietly, definitely not in the mood to deal with heretics who just want to get a rise of the local priest. 

“Well, you see, I’ve been coming to this place, and the priest here is so very hot,” the man says, low and silky and Dream freezes, face heating. “He looks all cute and serious in his little get-up. Do you know him?” 

“Yes,” he chokes out, brain scrambling at the sheer audacity the man has.

“Is he single? Do you think he’d be up for say, hypothetically―“

“―That’s enough! ” He cuts the man off, ears ringing with the silence after, resisting the urge to loosen his priest’s collar. 

“We’ll get back to that, then,” the man says, unbothered. “Is finding him attractive bad? He’s such a pretty guy, you know. Even the most married man ever would probably find him attractive, considering the amazing blue eyes. And those lips,” the man continues and Dream wonders if this is a nightmare. He’d rather listen to the local cow farmer’s teary confessions of harrowed grief everytime one’s slaughtered, and those always make him cry. 

At least he wouldn’t have to deal with the fabric of his clothes feeling hot and itchy, a small part of him twisting itself into knots at the thought of this man thinking these things about him. 

“... And his hair looks so soft. All black and shiny, I’d love to just ― grab it, you know. Feel what it’s like.” 

Dream puts his face in his hands, body hot as his mind returns to the problem at hand. “These are definitely very immoral thoughts,” he cuts in before more comes. 

“Why?” The man asks, the simple word lodging itself into his brain. 

“Because they are,” he grits out, mind spinning.

The man hums skeptically, “okay. So, what now? Do you bless me? Does Jesus magically appear to remind us that he’s cleansed us of all sins ever?” 

“You,” his tongue feels thick in his mouth, mind covered in a heavy layer of cotton. “You do not think about it again. You pray to God to find forgiveness,” he says, mouth on rote, “whenever you have these thoughts, you say five Hail Mary’s.” 

The man makes a sound, then hums, and Dream breathes a sigh of relief as the door to the other side opens. 

Church is all he clings to, rosaries constant around his hand as he conducts Mass and Sacrament, and confessions are ― normal, the one’s he’s used to. Perhaps it was a test by God, he rationalises. That voice, saying such things, bringing up old ghosts and saying things so plainly, questioning.

There is a moment in Sacrament. The wafers, used to represent His body, and the new man. Brown eyes staring up at him as the wafer gets put on his tongue, and then ― the tongue against his finger, and there’s an explosion of heat from the contact, the man staring up at him, and the faintest hint of teeth before the man swallows the wafer, moving on. 

The simple moment, surely nothing to anyone, sticks with him, slides under his skin until it tingles, heats him up from inside. 

He’s woken up by the confession bell, the sound piercing through his sleep, and he yawns, tiredly putting on his priest frock over his pyjamas, rubbing his eyes as he makes his way to the booth. Sitting down on his side, he eyes the black warily, dread settling in his bones, the only sounds he can hear are the night owls outside.

“I’ve been bad again,” the man says, voice light, an edge to it. “And the last time I came here was so helpful,” is purred from the other side, and Dream licks his lips, swallowing at the way the man’s voice seems to whisper in his ear. “Will you hear me out?” 

“Of course,” he says, voice rough from sleep and the sudden appearance of him again, the sound of the man, which he thought was exaggerated, just as animated and captivating as before. There’s silence, and Dream can feel himself not breathe, waiting for the man to speak with anticipation.

“Well, you see,” the man hums, and there’s the sound of fabric as the man fiddles with something, “it’s that priest again.” 

What did I do?! He bites his tongue on his indignation.

“Okay, the priest did nothing but be ― himself, all pretty and everything,” the man huffs, and Dream can easily imagine the smirk on the other’s face. “But that’s the problem, you see.” 

Dream lets out a questioning sound, looking at the black curtain, face heating up the more the man talks. 

“Have you heard of masturbation?” 

Dream’s face feels terribly hot, brain supplying him with images of that brown-eyed man, prick in his ― “yes,” he says quickly, banishing the image as soon as he realises.

“Just checking,” the man hums, and there’s a thump against the other side of the booth, black curtain moving slightly under the man’s breath. “I was masturbating, as you do, and I kept thinking about that priest,” the man breathes, and Dream’s alarmed to find himself close to the partition, the wooden lattice close as he looks at the man’s effect on the curtain.

“The priest?” He repeats dumbly, moving back to the other side of the booth, away from the partition. 

“He’s so beautiful, so put-together,” the man’s words are darker and Dream shivers, “I do hope he’s had a good fuck, and perhaps I could do that. I could ruin him for all others, make him want only me,” Dream whimpers, cock hardening in his pants and Dream curses himself for forgetting his rosary, knuckles white as he grips his frock. 

“That,” he says, words disappearing as a hand appears from behind the curtain, gripping the lattice, and Dream’s eyes widen, brain crashing with shame, guilt and arousal, trying to make himself stop, those hands now in his mind, trailing over his body. 

“I want to see what’s under that frock he wears,” the man continues, voice pitching even lower and Dream lets out a sound, “want to see him cry with how good I’d fuck him, with how much pleasure,” the word is drawn out, “he’d experience. I had such a great orgasm, thinking about how I’d pull his hair,” the man’s voice is lighter and Dream looks down, cock leaking in his pants as he holds the frock tight enough for his hands to show blue veins.

Dream pants, keeping his hands still as the words sink into him, squeezing his eyes shut, then looking up at the booth ceiling.

“Did you know the priest’s name is Dream?” He freezes, brain scratching at his name on the other’s lips. “Dream, what a name for a priest. It’d be a dream to make him moan my name,” Dream bites his lip, the tang of blood unimportant, “it’d be so good for him, and I can’t stop thinking about it, pulling up that frock. He’d be so hard from wanting me,” the man muses.

Taking a deep breath, he starts pulling down his frock, unsure when he’d started pulling it up, it ending up at the tops of his thighs before he realises and shoving it back down, pulse rushing madly.

“Getting my hand, or my mouth, on him,” the hand on the lattice tightens, the wood groaning lightly. “I think I’d make him come, just once, before I fuck him. Nice and slow and maddening, he’d be begging for it, long before I even get my cock in him,” Dream whimpers, undoing the white collar so he can breathe, mind only the picture that’s being painted by such a provocative voice.

“I,” he breathes, mind buzzing with arousal.

The voice hums, hand disappearing behind the black curtain. “And so I came, thinking about that priest,” the man says, syllables drawn out, curling into his ears. “What do you suggest I do?” 

“You,” he coughs, brain trying in vain to get itself in order, “you should.”

“I should?” The man is definitely smirking now, all but audible in his tone. 

“You should,” he repeats, brain repeating he’d be begging for it and want to see him cry as he attempts to think of something else, dick throbbing. “Twenty Hail Mary’s, every day.” 

The man hums in consideration, “of course,” he says, but Dream can’t believe him, skin aching with want as the man leaves the church.

The next week, Dream is restless, he breaks two different rosaries by clutching them so tightly, brain in a fugue of lust. His insides feel like too much as he wakes up with distant thoughts of being taken, the man’s words in the back of his mind always.

And then there’s the new man, who has yet to introduce himself, always staring at him, a constant itch, another sensation on top of these emotions that he can’t beat down, and Dream wonders if he’s going mad. 

Dream wakes up, whimpering at the hardness of his cock, hand going inside his pants, trying to clear his mind as he works himself quickly and efficiently. Squeezing his eyes shut, he’s close to orgasm and then the image of the newcomer appears, smiling softly as he kisses a lady’s hand, talking to her quietly, and Dream was too far away to hear what was being said, but the image of him, wanting to be touched like that by him, makes him come with a cry. 

The shame and guilt are still there, omnipresent, but the pleasure is freeing, satisfying as he cleans himself up, body a frisson of nerves and bliss. And yet, there’s no ― no punishment, nothing from on high, only life as the day continues, as he sees the newcomer in Mass, in Sacrament, waiting for something to happen.

Two times this week he’s been ― disappointed ― by the late night confession bell, and he feels guilty about that every time as he listens. 

Tonight, the bell rings, and Dream’s heart is in his throat, pulse fast as he gets himself ready, the shadows on the walls of the main room more as he walks up to the booth, shutting the door gently. 

“I keep doing bad things,” the voice whispers, quiet and Dream breathes in sharply, anticipation and guilt warring inside. “Are you listening to me?” 

“Yes,” he breathes, fiddling with the ends of his sleeves.

“Honestly, I don’t think I’ll come back from this one,” the man drawls, a creak against the door on the other side, the sound of it making him think of the man stretching out in the small space. “After mass, after watching that priest,” there’s a pause and Dream’s face heats. “I keep staring at him, do you think he notices,” he says, voice quiet, like it's an afterthought and Dream makes a sound.

“Is that what you want to confess?” He asks, breath getting caught in his chest.

The man chuckles, “no. Just thinking. Building up,” there’s a hum. “I couldn’t stop thinking about that ― Dream,” his name is purred, every syllable treasured. “So, after mass, I go to the tavern, thinking about him,” about me, his mind supplies. “And there I find,” the voice pauses again, clicking his tongue. “Well, I don’t find the priest.” 

“What do you find?” He asks, annoyance rising with the way the man talks in circles. 

“I find a man,” the voice says, wistful and Dream’s heart beats loud in his chest, in his throat, “black hair, blue eyes, skinny as a rake. It’s like the Lord himself decided that I should be given a priest look-a-like,” Dream gulps, eyes widening as he stares at the black curtain, “so pale, so sensitive everywhere.”

“You,” he says weakly, mouth drying, unable to finish his sentence. 

“Yes,” the man breathes, “I fucked him, in a room at an inn,” Dream swallows, arousal sudden and all-consuming, staring at the hands clenching his thighs tightly, like the pain can distract him from this. “He screamed so well for me,” the voice says, lingering on every word carefully, until the words, the tone reaches him inside, “but he was so high-pitched. The priest has a much deeper voice, which was the only detractor.” 

“You,” he scratches the words out, unable to say anything else, cock throbbing between his thighs, brain fuzzing from arousal, from the fingernails digging into his thighs. 

“It’s not like I made him beg for me, like I said before,” the man hums, “but it was oh so very fun, to imagine that it was my priest I was fucking, making him lose control so deliciously,” my priest his brain picks out, and it’s that phrase that makes his hand go into his pants, whining quietly at the first touch of his hand against his prick. 

The black curtain moves, a hand coming up to clench the lattice, reaching out to him, and Dream keens quietly. 

“I opened him up, nice and slow,” the man purrs, fingers stretching, displaying what he did and Dream swallows, watching the fingers in fascination, “he was pleading by the third one,” Dream lets out a whine, arousal fizzing over his brain as he presses against his slit, own fingers slick with pre-come as he bites his lip, hoping for some measure of ― something. “I could’ve dragged it out, but I did also fuck him two more times after that.” 

Dream shivers, words rolling around his brain and he lets out another bitten-off sound, body aching under his frock, arching into his hand, thinking of brown eyes staring at him, of strong hands holding him open, taking him apart. 

“The second time, he was sobbing with how overwhelmed he was, crying into my chest as he rode me,” the voice goes on, every word driving gasps and moans out of him. “And the third time, was before he left in the morning, against the stone wall of the room,” the man reminisces, lost in memory. “He wanted more, maybe even a relationship, but all I wanted, all I do want,” the voice is sharp, piercing his arousal with a shiver, “is that priest.” 

Behind the hand, behind the curtain and lattice, he sees a grin, sharp and fanged as he comes into his hand, gasping as he comes down, free hand coming up to try and grab the other’s hand ― but it disappears into the other side, leaving only the black curtain, mind scrambled as he holds onto the lattice. 

The faint sounds of the door opening, then the main church door closing as Dream breathes, mind blank of anything at all, even the ever-present shame and guilt.

Dream is useless, only managing to sweep half the floor before somehow, the broom breaks. He stumbles over words in his sermons, thinking about those confessions, about that brown-eyed man’s stare during Mass or Sacrament.

The clear blue of the sky, the sprawling village feels too confining, the space judgemental as he waits and waits but nothing happens.

So, one day, he sends a messenger to request a move, thinking that maybe a change of pace is needed. Within the week, he’s on the train to a bigger city, the church sending someone else to fill in his spot at the village. 

That maybe, if he leaves this now-claustrophobic village and that voice behind, leaves that brown-eyed man he can’t help thinking about, he could ― continue life as normal, with his priesthood, with his sanity, with his belief in God.

His new place, it turns out, is not just a simple church, but a cathedral, walls big and imposing, murals on the ceiling, various stained glass windows letting in oceans of light and he breathes in the change gratefully. On his way to the priest’s quarters, he sees a huge organ, gaping at how much more there is compared to the place he was before. 

There are more priests, more nuns in the quarters, nodding as he’s introduced to them, names leaving his head quickly as he gets himself settled in the new place, room small and his bag filled mainly with his tattered bible (New Testament, a voice says in his ears, unable to think of anything else now), with more frocks and plain black clothes, and more rosaries. 

Working in this new church, in this grand building, complete with bells that ring deeply throughout the hours, is pleasing, and he enjoys learning how the bells work when it’s his turn, putting up ladders to clean the stained glass, high and looming. 

Time meanders on, and Dream is only caught ― unaware, in the mornings, dreams filled with moans and fingers inside, of brown eyes staring at him ― and half the time he stuffs his hand into his mouth as he gets himself off quickly, emotions a swirling cocktail. The other half, he steadfastly ignores, praying around clenched rosaries until it passes. 

And one day, Dream is woken up by a knock on his door, a priest telling him it’s time for his turn to do the confessional. Nodding, he sighs, putting on his frock, rosary around his hand as he makes the walk down, halting as he enters the main room. 

The church smells of ozone and petrichor, and there’s a faint sound of thunder, shining colours intense through the stained glass as Dream walks to the confessional. The confessional is much the same as the other one at his old church, same wood, same lattice and curtains as he sits on his side. 

“Hello?” He asks, only hearing the sound of heart, the far-off thunder rumbling. 

Another heart beat ― one, two, three ― “my priest left me,” the voice says and he freezes, dread and arousal pooling in his belly, “why, oh why, would he do that?” The man hums, black curtain shifting, fingers covered in it as they reach through the lattice. 

Dream shivers, the thunder spearing through his ears, a crash of far-off lightning, heart jackrabbiting in his chest. No, one part of him screams, yes, says another. 

“He thought he could get away, get a change of view, but he doesn’t understand.” 

“Understand what?” He asks. 

The man chuckles, thunder rumbling at the same time, “that he’s mine,” the man says, words curling around his insides, making his cock throb, grin obvious in his voice. 

“You―you’re a demon,” he stutters out, mind scrambling as to how he can be here, how he can know. The fingers, reaching through the curtains, stop. 

A crash of lightning, a flash of a grin, sharp and fanged, showing through as the curtain flutters. “Why,” the man pauses, and Dream holds onto his seat, flinching at another rumble of thunder, “yes, I am.” 

Fear freezing his blood, he clenches the rosaries tightly as he opens the door, opening the other side’s door to reveal ― nothing, heart pounding through his gasping chest as he stares at the empty booth. 

There’s a sound behind him, but before he can turn, hands, hands that he's never touched, but has seen, thought about, cover his eyes. “Oh, my Dream,” the man purrs and he shivers, clenching the rosaries in his fists, and there’s a faint smoking, a hissing before the rosary is taken out of his hand, hearing it hit the ground. “Very rude,” the man ― demon ― complains, hand tightening over his eyes. 

“How are you ― in here, this is―“

The demon laughs, a crash of lightning, and Dream bites his tongue, feeling body heat behind him, a breath against his ear, “well you see, I was a human before that, and an angel so very long ago before I tried humanity ― but that’s neither here nor there,” the voice hums, nipping his ear lightly, and Dream makes a sound, clutching at the warm wrist of the hand covering his eyes, vaguely noting the hair he can feel on it. “And this place, so very pretty, yes, but so devoid.”

“Devoid?” He echoes, heart rattling in his chest as the demon’s other hand trails up his right arm.

“That’s for another day. My priest, my Dream,” he shivers at the man’s tone, gasping at hearing it so close to his ears. “I had a thought, on the train here, and as my priest, you’d want to hear it out,” a moan gets pulled out of him, feeling the trailing hand pull at his collar, thumb pressing into the top of his spine. 

Dream gulps, thunder rumbling, hearing the man’s breath in his ear, can feel the grin against the shell of it, and he nods.

“Let’s see,” the man hums, tongue flicking against his ear, and he can feel a press to the side of his head, like a forehead, “ah yes. I thought, when I heard the news, that my priest,” at this, the demon’s thumb goes down his spine, achingly slowly. “That I could find him, in an inn,” there’s a hum, and Dream’s dick throbs in his frock, terrified-aroused, “that he’d be opening himself up for me, waiting for me to fill him up, like he needs,” at this, the fingers on his spine rest at the lower end, digging into the bone.

Dream gasps, legs weak as he kneels down on the floor, clutching his frock tightly as he’s followed down, and there’s a huff from behind him.

There’s a click of a tongue, and he shivers, goosebumps rising at the feel of teeth against the skin near his ear. “He’d be begging for me, opening himself up, but I’d just watch, I think,” the demon’s voice is low, “such a glorious sight it’d be.” The fingers against his spine stop, heat chasing the area as the fingers wander over his back to his front, resting on his stomach.

Swallowing, Dream’s hands touch the floor, extra support as his mind is taken over by the other’s words, the pictures vivid, and how much he wants― he wants― 

“Do you think, my Dream,” the demon says, smirk obvious in his tone, “he’d last long? He’s such a poor, repressed priest, after all, so used to hiding. I don’t think he will,” is purred into his ear, head being pulled back and he whimpers, arousal thrumming in his veins like the thunder. The hand on his stomach trails up to his nipples, pressing into them, the cloth sticking to skin as they harden, heedless of fabric, and his moan echoing throughout the huge room.

Panting, he can feel sweat under his frock, cock leaking steadily against his pants, and he feels helpless, wanted as there’s another bout of lightning and thunder.

“Even after he’d fingered himself to orgasm, crying such pretty tears, he’d still want me, I think,” is whispered, and Dream heaves, air difficult to come by, “couldn’t live without it, me inside him, and even as he screams and scratches me from the overstimulation, he’d beg for me to come inside him, again and again, gagging for it.”

Dream shuts his mouth, teeth clacking with how overly aware of how open it was as he pants, a loud keen echoing as the hand on his chest goes down to his folded knees, nimble fingers pulling up his frock slowly until they settle on the top of his pants. 

“My Dream,” the demon says, voice honey as he’s folded into the other’s body, hot length across his back, something hard pressing against his lower spine. There’s a feeling, a tingling, which Dream faintly realises is a beard scratching across his neck and he whimpers at the realisation, arousal hot and tight as the demon’s hand just rests on his waist, eyes covered by the other hand still. “He’d be so good for me, and I’d cherish him nonetheless.” 

Dream whines, the man disappearing with a flash of lightning and he sobs, curling up on the floor, thinking about that hand so close to his ― it only takes a stroke of his cock before he comes, accented with a rumble of thunder. Bereft and cold, he looks at the floor with teary eyes, eventually getting up on shaky hands, gasping as he finds his rosary, clutching it desperately, come coating his hands and rosary as he prays mindlessly, unsure if it’s to God or the demon.

Dream calls the next days off, citing sickness as he curls up in his bed, fellow priests leaving him meals to eat and praying for him as they put it down. 

He did think that he got away, that he could escape it, brain only fuzzy after, heart not in it as he looks at his bible. And worst of all, he wants it. Wants it so bad, body aching as he restrains himself, stomach rolling in arousal and shame.

Many years ago, his parents sent him to a monastery, his parent’s citing something off about him, and not wanting to deal with it, and he’d been ― he’d been keeping a lid on these immoral urges, prayers and priesthood helpful, stopping him from. Lingering, on man’s adam's apples, the sweep of hands, inviting laps and bodies.

After two days of bed rest, he gets up, tired and still―still, that orgasm, those words and that touch, still feeling them all as he puts on a fresh frock. Dream takes a breath, pressing a hand onto the side of his neck, shivering lightly, thinking of that beard, only a taste, that he wants, that he doesn’t. 

The day starts slowly, the other members of the church giving him easy jobs, which he takes with a tiny smile. 

After Mass, though. 

After Mass, people keep coming up to him, thanking God that he’s okay, that they’ve been worried, and he nods, heartened by the well-wishes. 

Then, his thoughts halt, the brown-eyed man from before, brown hair, grey at the temples, colour going into his beard as he smiles and takes Dream’s hand. “Ah, glad to hear you’re well,” the voice―the demon’s voice, the one he hears in his dreams and nightmares, in his brain at all hours―comes out of the brown-eyed man, and he’s already― 

He’s already hard, just hearing that voice, combined with the looks, and Dream can’t focus, ears and sight confused, feeling the demon’s hand hold his tighter. 

“This is Robert Gadling, isn’t he wonderful,” someone next to the man―to Robert says, and Robert laughs, shrugging, letting go of his hand. “He’s new here, but he’s been so helpful, taking up odd jobs around town!” 

“Call me Hob, please,” and Dream expects to see a disconnect, this voice can’t come out of that kind face, so congenial and kind, not what he’s used to hearing, expecting sharpness and filth and Dream shuts his mouth, ignoring his aching dick. “Are you okay?” Robert―Hob asks, head tilting before he chuckles, light and sunny, “of course not! You just came back. Perhaps you should lie down.” 

“I. Yes,” he scratches out, blinking, taking a step back and―faltering, and he whimpers as Hob catches him, hands on his waist, able to feel it through the cotton. Dream squeezes his eyes shut, heart racing in his chest as he holds onto Hob’s green shirt, threadbare and can feel a strong chest under his hands, can feel hair as his hands scramble, pulling himself away with force. Hob ― the demon, the voice ― looks at him with concern, frowning slightly. “I will. Make my leave now. Thank you.” 

The revelation is ― it should be obvious, now that he thinks about it, but it shocks him to the core, the man and the voice so separate to his mind, that combining them, making them into a cohesive whole is difficult. After meeting ― Hob, there are no more late night confessions and Dream is happy about that. He is. 

It’s good, that there’s no more confessions, can barely keep himself sane with the one’s already in his brain, permeating his being ― and yes, it’s good he keeps reminding himself, watching as Hob laughs with a friend, stained glass colours shining on him as he talks, gesturing excitedly. 

And Hob just ― glances at him casually, smiling at him, only a split second of attention before turning back to his friend. 

That’s good, Dream, he reminds himself through gritted teeth, staring down at the candles he’s lighting for when night comes. 

The days continue like this, a part of him screaming look at me! as Hob continues to talk to him only casually, in passing, and this is a new madness, watching as Hob talks with others, casually touches others. 

His work, his priesthood, which he usually takes pride in, falters, only managing sermons and mass by rote, thinking instead of Hob Gadling’s laugh, of his words, so real and here, not just in a book, of his touch, searing and also real, so real that the rest of world falls away, only able to see it after the lack of attention, a well drying up.

And, staring at this cathedral, the pretty stained glass, he begins, only starts to ― understand why Hob called it devoid. Lacking in divine touch, abundant in the touch of man and Dream can only find divine in. 

There is divinity, in the way Hob gazes at him, in the words whispered at night, in his hot touch. 

It’s been weeks of hoping for a late night confession, a voice in his ear and how could get addicted so quickly, jealousy and envy flowing through his veins as Hob laughs, a casual hand at another man’s waist, the other man looking at Hob in awe, and it’s. Good. 

His rosaries creak under the pressure of his grip, and he grimaces, the beads indenting themselves on his hand. It’s good, it’s good he repeats, watching surreptitiously as the other man tugs at Hob’s shirt and Hob grins, bright as the sun, stepping away and the man shuffles closer.

The man has dirty blond hair, and he’s nothing like Dream, but he can still hear those words. I fucked him, in a room at an inn ― all I do want is that priest, that night seared onto his brain, his bones and organs like the others, and he knows, he knows that Hob will maybe book a room, taking the man― 

Dream feels unhinged, half mad as the day ends, only managing to not break his rosary due to putting it around his neck, an endless ache inside as he squirrels away a vial of oil from the kitchen after dinner. 

Shutting his bedroom, his stomach squirms in trepidation and excitement as he lies on his bed, and it’s lunacy, determination as he shucks off his shoes and pants. His mind is filled with sunny smiles, brown eyes and a tempting voice as he slicks his fingers up, heart beating in his chest. 

He feels ― starved, hungry, insatiable as his fingers go up his thighs, shivering at the feeling, moaning quietly as a finger breaches his hole, pressure odd and tight as he breathes, thinking of other fingers, cleverer ones, that’d know how to do this, of dark eyes gazing at him. 

Dream pants, biting his pillow as he takes the finger out, replacing it with two, shuddering at the feeling, the ache inside abating as pleasure starts to spiral, slow and shaky as he stretches himself, following Hob’s twists and turns of fingers that were demonstrated before. 

Whining, he pants, arching into his fingers, sobbing into the pillow as the pleasure builds, feeling his fingers press against a spot inside that makes him see stars, that makes him want to scream. He was pleading by the third one echoes in his mind, words soft and deep as he puts a third finger in, flopping over to stuff his face into the pillow so muffles his cries, his pleas, the angle of his fingers changing to press into that spot, that nerve that lights him up inside, free hand gripping his pillow tightly as he comes.

Panting, he starts to feel more, arse slick as he pulls his fingers out, wiping them on his frock, desperation more bearable as he gets under his sheets, hands searching around for the oil to hide under his pillow, sleep taking him pleasantly.

A knocking brings him back to consciousness, “yes?” He says, voice raw and he winces, arse aching as another priest calls him through his door, telling him that it’s his turn to do confession. Mind pleasantly groggy, he cleans himself with a rag he has nearby, putting on his pants and boots. 

Mind still fuzzy and fluffy, he sits on his side of the booth, waiting for the other person to talk. 

“My priest,” that voice ―Hob’s voice― makes his head snap up, breath leaving him at the sight of Hob, his fanged grin on the other side of the lattice, skin heating under the dark brown gaze. “Oh, my Dream,” Hob purrs, and he tries to say something, but only lets out a weak sound instead, clarity rapidly returning, feeling alive. “My most wonderful Dream,” Hob praises, licking his lips, and he shivers, cock aching in his pants from the first syllable from Hob’s lips, tone trickling into his bones like honey, “come over here.”

Panting, he bangs into the confession door with his haste to get out, pulling open the other side of the confessional, almost expecting emptiness, but no, Hob is there, sitting down still, smiling up at him, moonlight caught in the whites of his eyes.

“Beautiful,” Hob breathes, leaning forward, feet between his legs as hands trail up his pants, under his frock. “What did you do? Tell me,” Hob breathes, one hand staying on his hips, the other cupping his cheek, pulling him down until their breath mingles, and Dream shivers at the thumb pressing into his bottom lip. 

“I,” he says, face heating as he thinks about it, insides aching pleasantly. “I put my fingers,” he fumbles and Hob lets out air between his teeth as he stares up at him, full attention heady after so long. “I got oil, from the kitchen,” he starts instead, feeling emboldened under Hob’s rapturous gaze, at the hand trailing up his torso. “You weren’t, I thought you would, with that man,” he breathes, embarrassed and unsure if he’s even coherent as Hob hums, stroking his cheek. 

“With who? My friend?” Hob grins, canines sharp as they nip at his chin, “I’d never do that. Well, aside from that one time, but I told you about that, and now you’re here, with me.” 

“Truly?” He asks quietly, and Hob presses kisses onto his cheeks, bringing one of his hands up to kiss the top of it. 

“Truly. I won’t, have never, lied to you,” the demon says, voice serious as the stone around them, eyes dark as they look at him, and Dream considers the words, the oath carefully, and the world halts as he makes his decision, nodding. Hob gives him a soft smile, “now, I want to hear.”

Dream furrows his brows, taking a second as he contemplates, words feeling clumsy in his mouth. “The oil, I wanted to, I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he continues softly, “couldn’t stop thinking about―what you said,” he stutters, face heating. 

Hob’s hands go around his waist, tugging him close, and he whines, feeling something hard ―a cock, Hob’s cock, pressing against his thigh, “that’s good, I wanted you to,” Hob whispers, one of his hands trailing under his frock, trailing against his hip, meeting his lower spine to stroke it, skin tingling under callused fingertips, reminding him of the pleasant ache inside.

“It was―terrifying, I was nervous, and it felt weird at first,” he squirms, feeling Hob’s fingers trail lower, and he whimpers, grinding down onto the hardness he can feel. “I wanted it to be you, I kept thinking about―you, doing that, to me.” 

“How did it feel, my priest?” Hob asks, voice reverberating in the small booth, his arms going around Hob’s shoulders as Hob’s fingers slip inside his pants to grab one of his arse cheeks, “did you enjoy it? Did you take long?” Hob asks slowly, biting at his neck and Dream moans, sinking onto the other’s solid body.

“No,” he whines, “not long. It felt―it felt so good, I didn’t even touch myself,” Hob moans, clutching him tighter, a finger breaching him inside, and the pleasure inside spikes so high as he lifts himself up, grounding back down on the other’s clothed cock. “It―it only, I only managed three fingers.” 

Hob groans, squeezing his arse tightly, three fingers slipping inside his hole, and he whines, shivering at the feeling of Hob’s fingers inside, thicker than his own, the burn sweet as Hob stretches him, oil still inside from before helping with the friction and Hob moans again, teeth biting his throat as his fingers squelch out of Dream’s hole, “you feel divine,” Hob whispers, “my most divine Dream.”

Dream pants, skin flushing under Hob’s words, cock aching against his pants, against layers of clothes, cock throbbing, “please,” he cries, gasping as Hob grabs onto his hips, watching as Hob pushes him away, and his heart aches at that ― until Hob kneels on the ground, staring up at him with dark, reflective eyes. “What are you doing?” 

Hob grins, dangerous as his hands get placed on Hob’s shoulders, as his frock gets shucked up and the pants get pulled down, “Sacrament,” is all Hob says before― 

His cock is enveloped in a warm heat, Hob’s mouth and Dream’s sob echoes, clever tongue licking up his length and Dream trembles, can’t handle seeing Hob’s eyelashes, so dark, so near his pubic hair as Hob takes him to the root, mind exploding at the feel of fangs on the edge of his cock, a mere brush, and he can’t even warn, can only sob as he comes down Hob’s throat.

Even as his dick softens, Hob still sucks and licks, the overstimulation making him shudder, the afterglow dragged on in silvers of pleasure and he whines as Hob pulls away, lips puffy and red as they stare up at him. Dream can only collapse onto the floor, holding onto Hob for dear life.

“I want to, I want to,” he chokes out, hands shaking as his hands trail down Hob’s chest.

“Don’t worry,” Hob coos, a hand coming up to his cheek, pulling him in for a salty kiss, their first kiss, chaste and soft and Dream whines into it, body shivering and lax, “there’ll always be time for that.” Hob hums, kissing him deeper this time, hands going into his hair.

The next day, he somehow wakes in his own bed, confused as he looks around, finding nothing out of place. There are aches and marks, sensitive as he puts on his frock to be ready for the day, on his throat, on his hips, that reassure him that the night before happened.

It’s an hour before Mass starts, according to the chime of the bells when he feels a hand at his waist and stops sorting out the wafers for Sacrament. Turning around, he relaxes at Hob’s smiling face, unsure how to react. 

Hob hums, other hand coming up to cup his cheek, thumb going down his throat, brown eyes gleaming as his head is tilted up, and he shivers at the thumb against the teeth marks on his throat, hidden under his collar. Hob lets him go, crowding him against the table and his heart beats wildly in his chest, aware of the other’s doing their own chores to prepare for Mass. 

“Looks like you had a nice night,” Hob chirps, smirking lightly and Dream’s face heats, hands clenching the edge of the table.

“Yes,” he manages, internally screaming at the part of him that’s gotten hard from hearing Hob’s voice. 

There’s another hum from Hob, a knee pressing against his cock and he shivers, feeling Hob’s arms move, a brush of teeth against his ear before Hob’s not on him anymore, air cold from the lack of the other man as he opens his eyes, seeing Hob eating a wafer with a wink.

Dream takes a deep breath as Hob walks away, following after him as he walks into the area close to the kitchen, and Dream’s unable to see him when he goes down a hallway. 

When Dream all-but jogs into the area, Hob’s nowhere to be seen.

Dream is awakened from a hot sleep, still able to feel a phantom heat on top of him, with a knock at his door, telling him it’s his turn to take confession. Getting dressed, he yawns as he walks into the main room, stopping abruptly at the feeling in the air, stomach rolling as he stares at the confession box. Stepping inside his side, he stares at the black curtain, certain of who it is. 

“Why are you doing this to me?” Dream asks quietly, blood rushing in his ears as there’s silence. 

“Well,” the voice ― Hob, answers, word stretching out slowly, and there’s a sound, a boot against the door of the confession, and Dream can almost see the other man spreading out into every inch of the space as if he’s always belonged there, “you’re just too much for this place,” Hob hums and there’s a sound, fingernails against wood near the lattice on the other side and Dream can feel his face heating, mind imagining those nails on him.

“That cannot be all,” he chokes out and Hob huffs.

“Of course not,” and there’s a thunk, the curtain moving under Hob’s head, “but, my Dream,” he swallows, hearing the possessive relish in Hob’s tone. “I want you to do something for me. Nothing terrible, it’ll feel very good, I promise.”

Dream gulps again, Hob’s voice whispering into his ear, and he finds himself nodding, though right after, “what is it?” 

“Nothing you haven’t done before,” Hob says airily, and he can hear fabric rustling on the other side, “but last time, you were so quiet," there’s a sigh, fluttering the curtain. “Trying to be so quiet while you got off to me describing fucking that other man,” Dream’s heart rate spikes, feeling even hotter at what Hob’s saying. “I want to hear you, my priest.” 

Dream lets out a sound, mortified and terrified, and so aroused, he notices belatedly, cock aching in his pants. “You―you,” he flounders, brain skipping over the other’s words. 

“I didn’t even hear you moan. Were you thinking that it could’ve been you?” Hob asks and he shivers, letting out another pathetic sound, “I did want it to be you, but you already know that,” Hob’s voice drops an octave, and Dream licks his dry lips, swallowing more. “Before you put your hand in your pants, at least lick it first,” caught in Hob’s words, he follows it immediately, hearing Hob sigh as he moans, saliva making his dick easier to stroke. “There we go.”

“Hob,” he cries, moans loud in the booth, as well as the sound of his cock being stroked, his own head resting near the lattice that separates them.

“Perfect,” Hob praises, and Dream can almost feel the gust of the other’s breath between the curtain, “slower now, you should enjoy it,” Dream whimpers, rising heat simmering as he follows Hob’s words, becoming aware of the calluses on his hand, of the sensitive spots, and he lets out another wretched cry as a thumbnail presses into his slit, squeezing his eyes shut as he thinks about Hob doing this to him. “Tell me, how do you feel?” 

Dream pants, the building arousal making his skin tingle, “go―good,” he whimpers, arching into his hand, “can I,” he groans, slow pace too much. 

“Are you close?” Hob whispers, grin in his voice and Dream nods, “tell me.” 

“It’s―“ he whines, other hand holding onto the wooden lattice desperately, curling into Hob’s voice as he continues, “it’s slow and good but it’s not enough, please.” 

Hob hums and he’s only half-aware as the other side of the booth clicks open, feeling Hob not as close, hearing boots walk over to his door, and he watches with bated breath as his door opens and there’s ― massive black leather and feather wings, so many pairs, enveloping him and he orgasms with a shout as they touch him, body and soul, feeling cradled in Hob’s heat and fire.

The passing of days is in the little looks Hob gives him throughout the day, the brief touches after Mass, the way he’s unable to think of Hob’s mouth on his cock while Hob stares up at him for Sacrament, the masses of wings and Hob’s pleased tones. And then― 

A knock on his door, expecting ― he doesn’t comprehend it, Hob at his door, leaning against the door frame. “I,” he chokes out, confused as Hob walks forward, pressing into him and he walks backward automatically, Hob matching him until he plunks down on his bed.

Hob looks around his small room, distaste obvious until Hob stares at him, face going soft as Hob bears down on him, a hand going into his hair, petting it softly. “This is definitely no place for a pretty thing like you,” Hob purrs, lips hovering over his own and he moans. “So boring, so stale. Tell me, my Dream, how did you end up in these hollowed halls to begin with?”

Dream frowns, looking away as Hob sits atop him. “My parents left me at a monastery when I was a child,” he says quietly, not wanting to think about that while Hob is here.

“Why would they do that?” Hob frowns, eyes darkening, hand clenching in his hair before stopping, eyes gleaming as Hob kisses him firmly, and he shivers at the bite of a fang against his lip, the tiniest scrape. 

“They―they, I remember them telling me that I wasn’t,” he pants, mind scrambling, “I was not, I was difficult―for them,” he struggles, words lost under and Hob’s expression turns dark, thunderous. “I remember, I had siblings,” he confesses quietly, heart aching, never having told even this at confessions, old memories long repressed of asking can I go home now? and only getting negative answers, that this is your home now.

“What respectable God-fearing people would abandon their own child?!” Hob hisses, every word articulated and careful, and the next kiss is rougher, an edge of sulfur in his mouth, scorching and he whimpers, Hob’s weight on him blazing hot as the man presses down, free hand going to ruck up Dream’s frock, and Dream ― his eyes feel wet, leaking from all the overwhelming emotions and some part of him feeling vindicated at Hob’s anger.

“I―I,” the memories are returning, the weight of Hob on top of him, the feel of the hand on his burgeoning hard-on keeping him present, “I told them, that I thought one of my sibling’s friends, who was a boy, that I―“

“Shhhhhhhh, I know,” Hob whispers, and Dream’s brain goes fuzzy as he arches into the touch, “that’s enough, my poor priest, thrown away like that.” Dream cries from the emotions brought up, from the pleasure as Hob strokes him. “I’d care for you, appreciate you more than terrible parents, or this uncaring myth ever will,” Hob breathes.

“Please,” Dream sobs as he comes, exhaustion soon settling in after the orgasm as Hob coos at him some more, feeling a hand stroke his hair as he falls into sleep.

The cathedral is ― big, and empty, as Dream thinks about his ― faith. He still has it, in God, but it’s less than before, as he looks at a stained glass window of of Jesus, people milling about on the ground floor while he stares at the window, the second floor he’s on more of a wraparound floor, to show the mural and all the other windows and tapestries. 

“My Dream,” a voice purrs and his face heats, feeling Hob next to him suddenly, “should I be jealous?” Hob frowns, standing in front of him, fiddling with his rosary and― 

“You’re not,” Dream says, remembering the burning and hissing on a stormy night, as Hob right now fiddles with the same cross.

“Depends on your own faith,” Hob says, pulling him closer with it, “it just feels like a tickle now,” Hob whispers, smirking at him, “again, should I be jealous? You’re meant to be married to your god, after all.” 

“No, that’s not―no,” he replies, skin hot and feeling too-small as he’s absurdly aware of the people on the floor below, the way Hob is close enough for their breaths to mingle, the way Hob’s hair shines with gold from the stained glass. 

“Good,” Hob hums, another hand coming up to stroke his jaw as he leaves.

It’s late night, and Dream feels restless, switching one of his chores to clean up the candles on the altar and replace them, looking up at the statue of a crucified Jesus as he thinks about the memories that were brought up, vague memories of his siblings, knowing one had curly hair and darker skin than he, remembering a foreboding older brother who was kind as he throws the candles out into the the trash outside.

Walking back inside, he goes to the storage room to get the replacement candles, footsteps echoing as he walks up to the altar ― and stops, seeing Hob near the altar, back to him. “I have chores to do,” Dream says loftily, putting the replacement candles on a nearby pew. 

“You always have chores to do,” Hob drawls, turning around to lean on the altar, and Dream resists the urge to point out how sacrilegious that is, but. That ship has long since sailed, as the saying goes. “How about, I just talk while you do your chores?” Hob asks, arms wide. 

Dream watches him warily, “talk about what?” Hob’s eyes are a brand on him as he gets out some of the candles, Hob next to him as he starts to put them onto the altar. 

“Nothing you haven’t heard before,” Hob says smoothly, and Dream does a half-shrug, nodding. Dream can handle whatever Hob has in mind, steeling himself as he puts more candles on the altar, leaning over to start at the farthest bit away from him, candles being placed in their little ceramic holders. A hand brushes up his spine and he shivers, confidence faltering, quickly moving away to get more candles. 

“Are you going to start soon?” He asks, Hob’s gaze on him a tingle under skin.

“Aren’t you a priest with an attitude today,” Hob says, smirk in his voice as he continues to put the candles down. Hob hums, then plucks one of the candles out of his hands, and Dream huffs. “That’s an idea,” Hob says brightly, and Dream scowls as Hob pats his cheek with the candle. 

“What?” 

“Oh, my priest,” Hob hums, twirling the candle in his hand. “I think some melting wax may be fun,” Hob tilts his head and Dream ― isn’t following, at all, as he continues to put more candles down. “There are so many more ways to have fun than just the usual sex ― which, yes, it’s great and I’m always up for it,” Hob grins.

“I’m not following,” he scowls.

Hob ― Hob grabs him by his collar, turning him around so his back hits the altar, ceramic holders shuttering in place as the candles in hands fall to the floor, heart jumping as Hob crowds him against the altar. There’s a burst of fire, the candle in Hob’s hand lighting itself and wind shudders against the doors. “I think, my dear priest, you should burn off some of that guilt, some of that inevitable shame that this place gives you.” 

“Burn off?” He croaks, watching the lit candle, brain stuttering at the feel of Hob’s hand undoing his white collar, a hand going under the black fabric.

“Don’t worry, nothing’ll happen,” Hob coos, the candle just ― stops burning, releasing smoke and the scent of jasmine, “just a thing for you to think about, my Dream,” Hob puts the candle down into a holder, wax already melted from the top of it as a hand lightly covers his neck, pulse jumping at the feel of it. “You, naked, all the candles lit in this room, showing how beautiful you are under candlelight,” Hob muses, and Dream swallows, holding onto Hob’s wrist as he’s forced down, empty ceramic holders clinking under his weight. 

Hob’s eyes, only a thin ring of brown around his irises as they stare down at him, fangs glinting in moonlight, and Dream can’t tell whether he shivers in arousal or fear as the candles he’s set down light up close to him, able to feel the heat.

“Perfect,” Hob purrs, hand squeezing his throat lightly and Dream can’t stop his moan, blood rushing in his veins wildly as Hob drapes over him, no doubt feeling his arousal, and Dream’s brain is full of why and yes and no as Hob’s thumbnail digs into his adam’s apple, arching into his touch desperately. “And I have a candle in my hand, wax melting down it, and you want it on your skin, melting hard onto you, the feeling brutal and absolute, all those negative feelings brought to the surface.” 

Dream gasps, squeezing his eyes shut as Hob’s thumb moves to his pulse, and it sounds ― it sounds crazy, but it also is something, now that it’s said, he wants. He accidentally burnt himself on candle wax before, the feeling was warm, and he had to peel it off after, the feeling ― good, and he could see Hob’s candlelit eyes as the wax is melted onto his chest, or his arm.

Hob chuckles darkly against his lips and Dream moans, body tense as he tries not to fall onto the ceramic under him, “your skin, so pale, maybe they should be black candles,” Hob muses, “contrasting so pretty as it hardens onto you, and oh, you’d be so hard for it, leaking like you are now,” Dream ― he whines, arching his body up to Hob’s, mind on fire as he holds onto Hob’s arm.

Dream tries to speak, but it’s just needy sounds as Hob’s hand goes under his frock, fingers lightly trailing up his chest, then down, a trail, and Dream’s whimper echoes.

“So wanting, so needy, all that sweet wax, begging for me to let you come as more wax gets put on you, on your hips, maybe,” Hob purrs, fingers walking down to hips and Dream feels a strong wave of arousal, pulling him under, “do you think you’ll come untouched?” Hob asks into his ear, licking the shell of it. 

Dream shivers, body contracting at the feel of Hob’s fingers on his hips, trailing to his pubic hair, “yes, yes,” he cries, voice broken as his mind replaces fingers with wax, the feeling unbearable, amazing. He gasps, hiding his face in Hob’s hair, smelling sulfur and sunlight as Hob’s fingers scratch down past his cock, going to his inner thighs. 

“Are you close, my priest?” Hob asks, voice sweet and curling like smoke into his body and he shakes, feeling on the edge of it, unable to― 

“Please,” he whispers, and Hob’s fingers dig into his thighs, a finger swiping up pre-come.

“My Dream, of course,” Hob breathes, fingers digging into his throat the same time as his thighs, and Dream’s orgasm is a gut-punch, insides tingling and tight as the aftershocks roll through him. Hob pulls him up, and he’s boneless, holding onto the other’s wrist, onto Hob’s shoulders as he gasps, opening to his eyes to see Hob, eyes shining with candles behind Dream before they go out, the scent of jasmine permeating as Dream takes deep breaths.

Dream lets out a croak as Hob’s other hand is taken out of his pants, come-covered and Dream can only watch in a pleasant daze as Hob cleans off one of fingers with his mouth, then goes to Dream’s mouth, release salty and bitter as he licks it.

Between one breath and the next, Hob is gone and Dream slides down to the floor, staring at the candles with hazy eyes, feeling ― burnt out, made something else.

Dream stares at the marks around his throat in the mostly-cloudy mirror, the skin purple and sensitive as he pokes it, watching his face go red as he thinks about the night before, grimacing as he puts on his frock, skin tingling under the fabric and he takes a breath.

His body feels ― weird, raw, the touch of his frock too much, but he breathes through it as he goes about his chores, the bruises under his collar a constant reminder, more marks on his chest and thighs which he can feel. Throughout Mass, Hob stares at him darkly, gaze almost palpable as he goes through his sermon.

Dream can’t even remember his sermon, words coming out of his mouth like razor blades as he thinks about the marks under his frock, thinks about the way he wants to fall to the floor and beg for more from Hob, uncaring of the audience as he’d beg and plead and pray, knowing it’d get answered.

Dream wakes up from from a searing dream of heat and sulfur, of a voice in the darkness pressing in on him― 

He wakes to the gas lamp in his room, which he’s sure he turned off, looking around his tiny room to see Hob on the other side of the room, drawers open that are full of his rosaries. “Hob?” He asks, turning over to watch as Hob looks through his various ones. 

“My Dream,” Hob says, distracted as he looks through his items, “which one, out of all these, is yours?” 

Dream groans, curling up in bed, “it has a red cross on it,” he answers, voice low. One of his first rosaries, made especially for him. Hob makes a cheerful sound as he finds it, rosary a dark grey, with its red cross gleaming in the candlelight. 

“Perfect,” Hob whispers, rosary clutched in his hand as he sits down next to him, eyes dark as they stare at him. Hob leans down to kiss him, soft and warm, and Dream’s mind wakes up as it continues, feeling the rosary around the other man’s hand as they cup his face. “My beautiful priest,” Dream shivers, feeling Hob’s thumb caress his bottom lip, the touch igniting him inside.

“Hob,” he croaks, arching up as Hob pulls down his sheet, moaning into his mouth as his pyjamas get unbuttoned, shivering at the hot touch, cold draft from the rest of the room unnoticeable as Hob leans over him, touching his sides reverently. 

The heat inside builds slowly as Hob touches him, mouth going down his chin and neck, his hands guided to hold onto brown-grey hair, absurdly soft as he threads his hands through it. “There we go,” Hob hums, hands sweeping down his sides, thumbs pressing into his hips, then touching his stomach, going down to his thighs, pushing them apart. “How much longer ‘till you have to get up?” 

Dream groans, squinting at the clock on the other side of the room, gasping at brush of a hand across his hardening prick, “Half an hour,” he manages, fisting Hob’s hair tightly, who only hums, beard scratching his collarbone as Hob bites them. “Why?”

“Just relax for me, my Dream,” he shivers, gasping at the feel of a slick finger breaching his hole, arching into it, mind sparking at the feel of Hob’s finger inside, moaning as another one gets added, burn only temporary as he’s stretched, at the lightest brush against his prostate. “So good for me,” Hob says, voice soft as brown-black eyes stare at him, moans getting slowly louder as another finger gets added. 

There’s a clink of the rosary, which he’s forgotten about as Hob adds another finger, stretching him, and he can only whine as Hob folds his leg closer to the wall, changing the angle of the fingers inside, keening at the unrelenting press against that spot, the now sweet and pleasurable burn of Hob’s fingers stretching his walls. 

“Beautiful,” Hob breathes, kissing his nipples, down to his stomach and Dream can only sob, overwhelmed by Hob’s mouth, hands on ― in ― him, skin tingling from Hob’s beard and bites.

Then there’s a clink of rosaries, and he breathes sharply, feeling something hard ― one of the beads, go inside him, and he lets out a questioning sound, brain confused by the soft heat of Hob’s fingers, then the hardness of the bead. 

“Aren’t you meant to say something while using these?” Hob frowns up at him, eyebrows raising before going back to kissing his stomach, and Dream is startled as another bead enters, gasping at it.

Soon after, there’s a low muttering, a litany of prayers and confessions, forgive me for I have looked upon a man lustfully, Our Lord Who Art In Heaven, forgive me for I have masturbated to a man, Hallowed be thy name, forgive for I have―  and it takes a bit to realise that it’s him saying it, mind stretching as Hob’s fingers leave, one at a time, as more and more beads get taken in, unable to comprehend how that can fit inside, his hands twitching in Hob’s hair. 

“My Dream,” Hob says into his thigh, and he comes back to himself, shivering at the beads, eventually forcing his eyes down to see Hob’s brown eyes, to see the rosary, underneath his cock, “keep this in today, no coming and think of me,” Hob says, biting his thigh as more beads get pushed inside, and he feels ― full, he realises, and Hob’s words are absurd, considering how much he thinks of Hob already.

“Will you,” he rasps, voice dragged out, words coming from some place inside him that’s broken loose, “tell me,” he frowns, cock aching and red as Hob hums, stubbly chin resting on his thigh, “tell me, about you, how you.” 

Hob kisses his thighs more, going up to his hips, and he can feel the cross of his rosary as his leg gets pulled down, mind fraying at the feeling of it, “if you want,” Hob says, and it takes a moment for him to remember what he said, “But not now, you have to go do your day,” Hob’s fingers dance up his belly, pinching his nipples, moving him in to kiss the other man deeply before he disappears, there one second, and gone the next, leaving him aching and full.

Dream is finishing putting on his outfit, slowly as he gets used to the feeling inside when there’s a knock on the door. Opening it, he finds one of the other priests there. “I heard you were mumbling earlier. Is everything alright?” 

He opens his mouth, then closes it, feeling his face heat, “ah. Early prayer,” he says with a gulp.

The priest nods, giving him a smile, “well the chores are up now, so if you’re feeling ready,” the priest offers, and Dream has vague memories of this priest trying to invite him along to other things as he nods, closing the door as he picks out another rosary to put around his neck, the beads inside pressing against his prostate and he sucks in a breath.

The day passes slowly, time dripping like molasses, every minute an hour as he does his chores, and he’s lucky that he doesn’t have to run Mass, unsure if he’d be able to handle it, with a part of mind taken up by Hob, and the rest with the beads inside. 

He’s constantly paranoid that people can hear them move around as he walks around, on a knife’s edge all day, arousal mixing with the fear of being found out.

Hob, in Mass, only gives him the barest attention, brief glances and smiles, which Dream is more than happy with, mind unravelling slowly throughout the day.

By the time his day ends, Dream is only fire, only the feelings of the beads inside as he makes his way to his room, only managing to blink stupidly at Hob on his bed before collapsing onto the man, and Hob laughs, arms going around his waist he undoes his frock, gasping at the feel of the rough fabric over his sensitive nipples, and he’s faintly aware of Hob’s amused stare as he takes off his shoes and pants. “Hob,” he whines, voice small and cracked. 

“My priest, so needy,” Hob whispers, fang brushing against his neck, fingers going up his spine slowly and he cries, the simple touch painful. Hob lies on the bed, hands going to his thighs to bring him closer, and he shudders, feeling Hob’s hardness pressing between his legs, and it feels like something breaks inside him as one of Hob’s hands goes to the cross, can feel as Hob tug on it, freeing one of the beads and he keens, hiding in Hob’s chest, biting down.

Another bead gets taken out, then another, and absurdly, he can hear muttering, vaguely recognising it as himself, if only because of the prayers. “Our Father, Who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy Will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.”

Hob lets out a delighted sound, and Dream starts to feel the empty spaces the rosary occupied as it gets taken out, one by one, and the prayer changes, mind following years of built-in coping as he tries to not come.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of death. Amen.”

Pulling on Hob’s shirt, his mind frays even more at the chest hair, at the way Hob pulls him up even more until Hob is sitting against the wall at the top of the bed, and he shivers as more beads are pulled out, emptiness stark inside him, feeling Hob’s hard cock against his arse, prayers being cut off by chanting of Hob’s name, grinding down on the cock mindlessly, only able to feel the pleasure and arousal and empty.

“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Ame―Hob, Hob please,” he begs as the last of the beads are pulled out, arse clenching around nothing, and Hob shushes him, other hand touching his face, kissing his cheek and nipping down his neck, and he can only cry as he’s turned, settling back against the other’s chest.

“My Dream, so good for me today,” Hob purrs into his ear and he lets out a broken sound at the feeling of Hob’s cock against his arse, holding onto Hob’s shoulder desperately, grinding down on the clothed dick, yawning emptiness inside as Hob hand touches his chest, flickering hard nipples. “So desperate for me, aren’t you?” 

“Please, please, please,” he cries, not realising he’s crying until he opens his eyes to stare up at Hob, tears hot down his cheeks. “Need you inside, please.” 

Hob’s fingers trail down his stomach, and he shivers, pressing into the hand as it touches his pubic hair, hands slow as they fondle his balls, his aching cock and he cries out, pleasure tumbling over itself. “Not yet. So beautiful,” Hob praises and he aches under the praise, under soft touches and he keeps trying to grind onto Hob’s cock, uncaring that it’s still under pants as he tries to wriggle it inside, feeling Hob take a deep breath. 

“Please, I can’t, please, please,” he pleads, words slurring under his need, his pleasure.

“Shhhhh, don’t worry, you can come whenever you want now,” Hob whispers in his ear, and it takes Hob’s fingers pressing against the slit to make him come with a shaking cry, silencing himself by biting Hob’s shoulder. 

The force of the orgasm is powerful, making him shiver down to his bones, exhaustion creeping up on him, but he remembers Hob’s every word, “you said,” he breathes, “you said―you’d tell me,” he wheezes, and Hob’s still hard against him, but Hob doesn’t seem to care, Hob’s other hand petting his hair, and Dream only keeps himself awake by sheer force of will as he stares up at the other man. 

Hob sighs, “it’s not that interesting. Many aeons ago, I was an angel, but I saw the humans milling about one day, and so I left to become one,” Hob shrugs, fingers tugging Dream’s hair lightly as he watches Hob’s expressions, his furrowed brows. “Of course, as a human, I did many bad things, all that life before wouldn’t let me do, bound by duty to someone I’ve never met. And so, as humans all inevitably die, I went to hell.” 

“And how?” He asks, voice rust as he fights off sleep, turning around to lay on the other’s chest.

“I didn’t have enough of living yet, truly living! And becoming a demon was the only way to get back here, so I could experience more, and so, here I am.” 

“Your wings,” he sighs, thinking of that glimpse he saw once.

“Even being a normal human, I was an angel, still had the essence of it as I died, but honestly, it’s all so very uninteresting, and this is who I am now. You’re tired, my Dream, go to sleep,” Hob says, kissing his hair and then there’s a flurry of kisses over his face, and he groans, curling up onto Hob as his mind slips away.

The next day was ― painful, body aching all over, lessening each day. A few days later, he stands in the main room of the church, feeling that peculiar feeling in the air as he stares at the confessionals. Blinking, he enters his side, staring at Hob between the lattice, thinking of the mixture of words and feelings building inside.

Hob stays quiet, dark eyes on him and Dream gulps, “I want to leave,” he whispers and Hob’s brows furrow, “with you.” 

“Ah,” Hob frowns and Dream thinks of course he doesn’t want to leave with me, he’s a demon, he’s― ”that’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?” He scowls, watching Hob scratch his head, avoiding his eyes as Hob sighs. 

“Just―” Hob crosses his arms, “I’d also like to leave with you, if that’s what you want. But consider, once you’re out of this crypt, what will you do?” 

“What will I,” he parrots, and Hob scratches a temple, expression as closed off as it’s ever been. 

“Without your priesthood and chores,” Hob sighs once more, eyes serious as they stare at him, “this is all you’ve ever known. You can do anything once you leave, so what would you do?” 

Dream opens and shuts his mouth, anxiety appearing at what Hob’s suggesting, but also―“I do not know, but I still want to.” Hob nods, face pinched. “Hob,” he says and Hob grimaces. 

“Okay. Fine,” Hob runs a hand through his hair, “You’re probably aware on some level that you’re not the first priest I fell―was with,” Hob scowls, crossing his arms, and Dream’s heart rate spikes at the aborted words, “and they,” Hob tugs at his lips, hand petting his beard. “It’s different, outside. They thought that they’d be ― some fucktoy or slave or worshipful devotee for me to use whenever, and they were disappointed that it wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like, then?” 

Hob stretches out, cracking his knuckles as he stares up at the booth ceiling, “if we were to go, I’d want to show you all there is, take you on a ship, we could go to France and try all the things there! Go to farmer’s markets and try all the things! We could go to the opera, even!” Hob brightens, “there’s so much to see and do! But before…“ Hob deflates, “they were never interested in that. Only me, or the sex, or we simply argued too much until we broke off. One of them even went back to church, I found out when they’re older.” 

“Must have been difficult,” Dream frowns, unsure what to do with Hob’s ― vulnerability.

“It’s always difficult,” Hob says, voice bitter. “Always either me or living, and I don’t want that. I want to do our own things, do things together, discover all the newest inventions!  So, just ― think it over, for me. If in a few weeks you still want to do that, or even just go on your own,” Hob shrugs, “I do have feelings for you, you know,” Hob says softly, and Dream’s eyes widen, “again, think it over.” Hob says, leaving Dream speechless as he walks out of the booth.

After, Dream finds himself listening to people talk about their jobs, their family’s hobbies and work after Mass with an interested ear, and Hob ― makes sense. He likes the time to himself, essentially, the waiting to see Hob during the day, or the night. He’s happy that Hob still stares at him, light touches through the day, like an I’m thinking of you while Hob talks with his many friends, or has people approach for the odd job they need doing, while Dream does his work. 

One day, on impulse Dream takes a small book of clear paper and a pencil to try out ― whatever, soon filling it out with observations, meaningless writing, meaningless doodles, and it’s nice, watching as the curves of Hob’s mouth, his fangs appear on the page. Tries to scribble down the vague memories he has of his once-sister’s curly hair, some of the various statues and paintings around the church and they’re all terrible, but it’s fulfilling in its own way.

Dream is ― not who he was when he first arrived at the monastery he went to, vaguely remembering that he was demanding, and liked reading, the memories far away, but he can feel the parts of him that were hidden away during his years in the church, slowly reasserting itself. He was curious once, until one of the vicars at the monastery threatened to throw him out for asking stupid questions, and all these old and new parts of himself are tough to juggle, figuring out how they all fit while he keeps his head down with his chores. 

It’s three weeks and he wants ― wants Hob, and he only realises, that day, that he could also ask, and Hob would be willing, the fact so obvious that he wants to slap his head a bit, but refrains. 

Hob is waiting in the hallway to the kitchen, head tilted.

“How do you do that?” Dream says with a sigh, and Hob smirks, “nevermind. Just―“ 

“Just?” Hob says, walking past him until Hob leans against one of the columns supporting the floor above, “you did want me here, my Dream.”

“Yes, I know,” his face heats, deciding to ask or demand an entirely different thing to actually doing it, getting the actual words out and takes a deep breath, staring at Hob’s languid pose and he wants to―wants to make Hob even the tiniest bit insane that he’s made Dream.

Standing in front of Hob, he kneels. Hob straightens immediately, eyes wide as they stare down at him. “Dream―”

“I want to,” he says, terrified, but excited as his hands trail up Hob’s legs, looking up through his lashes.

“I don’t―I’m―alright,” Hob says breathlessly, hands reaching down to touch his face, stroking his jaw, one hand going into his hair, and Dream sits down, cold floor refreshing against the heat from Hob. “Take it slow,” Hob whispers as he pulls down the other’s trousers and underpants, palms sweaty as his hands go up hairy thighs.

Feeling Hob’s erection is very different from this angle, seeing it hard and even with his no experience, he’s salivating as he slowly puts his mouth over the cockhead as he takes more in. One of his hands goes under Hob’s shirt, whining at the feeling of more hair as it goes up, scratching into the skin and hair.

Hob moans, clenching his hair, other hand going to stroke his jaw and bottom lip, “ah, teeth,” Hob breathes and it takes him a moment to understand, working out how to so they don’t touch Hob’s cock. The soft directions ― your tongue, you can use your hands, so good for me ― make it easier as slowly brings Hob closer to orgasm, mind fuzzy yet clear. 

His knees ache from the ground, as well as his jaw from Hob’s cock, proud of himself as he wrenches out increasingly longer moans, as Hob holds his hair tightly, the pull sharp and he leans into it, feeling Hob’s cock at the edge of his throat.

“Dream,” Hob pants, pulling his head off and he moans, wanting the warm weight back, the occasional pre-come salty, “my priest, so needy.” Dream whines, mouth empty until Hob takes his free hand to open it with his thumb, “I’m close, but you want to stay there for me, don’t you?” Hob’s voice is rough and low, moonlight stained glass making him a riot of colours.

Dream is enraptured as Hob strokes his dick, own cock aching in his pants as he watches, kept still by the strong hand in his hair, unable to move closer like he wants. 

“Open those pretty lips,” Hob purrs and he complies, whining as Hob comes with a gasp, salty white fluid landing over his face and mouth. “Look at you, so blissed out, my very own priest on his knees for me,” Hob says as the come is cleaned from his face by Hob’s hand, and Dream can only hum as he’s fed more of the other’s spend, scalp tingling as Hob lets go. “So perfect,” a thumb caresses his lips, puffy from Hob’s cock as they kiss.

He’s almost unsurprised as Hob vanishes, flickering away as the kiss ends, leaving Dream aching and wanting on the floor.

It’s after Mass and some people are still lingering about, talking with friends as Dream sits in one of the pews, sketching, and then someone sits next to him. Frowning, he closes his book as he looks up, blinking as Hob sits close, arm resting on the back of the pew, other arm moving to snatch his book, “you’ve been using this a lot. Can I have a look?” 

“No,” he scowls, annoyed as Hob twirls the book in hand, then shrugs, putting it back on his lap.

“Fair enough. Can I at least know anything about your super-secret book?” Hob whispers, eyebrows wriggling. 

“Nothing interesting,” he puts away the book and pencil in his pants pocket, “silly doodles or whatever.” 

Hob hums and smiles softly, “it's always good to have a hobby!” 

“I am considering what you said,” he mentions quietly, and with Hob next to him, people talking nearby, and Dream considers something that he hasn’t before. “What if I wanted to be immortal, to be with you?”

That makes something he’s never seen before, seeing the shock as Hob gapes at him, face going red. “L―Let’s―let’s leave that for, after, once we’re,” Hob babbles, blinking as he gestures, and Dream’s quietly pleased to have shocked Hob so. 

“Okay,” he smiles as Hob scratches his head, mind still working out what Dream said, it looks like. “Hob,” he whispers and Hob stops, “all this time, and you have not even entered me.” The demon’s eyes darken, leaning closer to him, “I would have you do that against the stained glass.” 

“Demanding,” Hob breathes, and Dream looks away, apologies welling up before―“no, continue! I like it!” Dream blinks as Hob smiles at him, encouraging and happy, “do you have one in mind?” 

“Perhaps,” he mumbles and Hob raises an eyebrow, “the crucifixion, near the bells.” The stained glass is probably his favourite, the colours of Jesus on the cross darker compared to the other windows, black and red and white.

Hob nods, feet knocking against his legs as Hob comes closer, breath against his hair, and Dream can feel his face heat, looking out carefully to see that no-one’s paying attention to them, “now the real question. With or without people nearby?”

“Why ask about my silly hobby?” A woman asks and Dream smiles. 

“Metallurgy hardly seems silly, and it sounds interesting,” he provides, giving a tiny smile as the woman smiles in return, starting to talk about the hobby in detail, which Dream will put what he remembers of her words in his book. Soon after, the woman’s sister comes by, talking her sister up for the handy items she’s made, how she’s experimenting with making them more fancy as Dream listens quietly. 

Hob, who's been watching from across the room, walks closer, listening along idly before Hob takes his arm, and Dream’s eyes widen. “So sorry, but I think I need to borrow him for a bit, if you don’t mind,” Hob says mildly, smiling brightly as the sisters laugh, waving them off as Hob, arm locked in his, drags him into one of the hallways.

“Talk?” He says as Hob drags him along more winding hallways, then a staircase down until they reach another hallway, Hob’s arm leaving so his wrist is grabbed, and his pulse spikes as it’s put against the wall, blood quickly rushing down at the way Hob presses into him. “Jealous?” He breathes, free hand going up to Hob’s face ― before that hand also joins the one already against the wall, and he tries to wriggle the hand, only managing scrapes under the vice of Hob’s hand.

“Jealous? No,” Hob says after he’s stopped struggling, Hob’s free hand going under his frock, trailing slowly up his pants, pulling the priest frock up as it goes higher, hand warm against his skin, and he shivers as fingers pinch his nipple, twisting it slightly, pleasure sparking through him as he gasps into Hob’s shoulder. “Possessive? Definitely,” the words are punctuated with a press of a knee against his hardening erection, and Dream pants. 

The wall is cold behind him, compared to the heat of Hob’s body, the scrape of fangs on his throat as Hob’s hand goes to his other nipple, skin tingling at all the different sensations, cock throbbing against the other’s knee. “Why?” He wheezes, eyes shut tight, the fabric of Hob’s shirt warm and rough as his cock is pressed into, new pleasure zinging as he struggles against the hand on his wrists, still not budging them.

Hob hums, “well, why not?” is drawled into his ear, edge of a smirk he can feel as Hob nips at his earlobe, “you are my priest, after all.” Dream shivers, head hitting the wall with a thunk as Hob licks down his throat, “plus, I did really want to talk to you.” 

Dream moans, feeling like his insides are going to fly apart any second, unsure how he’d be able to handle that, considering how much Hob’s voice can easily ruin him, and he gasps at a fingernail digging briefly into his hardened nipple. “About?” He manages, voice cracked as he tries to move out from the fingernail, only scraping his hands and back, frock rucked up to his upper chest thanks to Hob, against the wall. 

There’s a click of a tongue, and Dream whimpers at the feel of fingers twisting his nipple, the pressure against his cock easing, which he mindlessly tries to bring back, bringing a leg around Hob’s hip. Hob chuckles, sound reverberating inside his head, “about how wonderfully, delightfully needy you are. Did you even jerk off before I appeared?”

“I,” Dream pants, grinding himself into Hob’s body, thoughts scattering, “I don’t―“ he pants, Hob nibbling at his throat, his adam’s apple and he all but melts onto the wall, only held up by Hob’s hand, “I didn’t,” he manages. 

“At all?” Hob gasps, fanged teeth scraping against his cheek, and Dream whines into the ensuing kiss, “oh, my poor priest, how terrible.” 

Dream groans, feeling Hob’s hand go back to his other nipple, tweaking it and pressing it ruthlessly, skin aching and over-sensitive. 

“I do wonder if you’re naturally this sensitive, even with your lack of experience,” Hob muses, going back to marking his throat, “will you still be like this,” Hob digs into his nipple and he whines, cock throbbing against Hob’s front, “a year from now? What does my priest think?” 

Thinking, as a whole, is a bit difficult as his mind slowly pieces the words together, Hob’s hand on his wrist pulling him up the wall, “I, I,” he cries, gasping Hob’s nail continues to dig, to press, another burst of pleasure taking the air of out of him, “m―maybe,” he slurs, feeling his orgasm in sight. 

“I think you will,” Hob purrs, nails going down his chest, his stomach, “I think that maybe I’ve made a bit of a monster, always craving, always wanting,” Hob sounds delighted, and Dream can’t find it in himself to disagree, knowing it’s true as he bucks into the other’s body, feeling Hob’s erection near him, “who would’ve thought that such a serious little priest could be such a slut, would go so willingly down a path of temptation.” 

“H―Hob,” he cries, face wet from tears as Hob grips his cock roughly, stroking it until he’s at the edge of orgasm, and then ― he sobs, staring up at the plain ceiling as Hob does something to stop his orgasm in its tracks. “Please.” 

“And even as I leave you wanting,” Hob whispers harshly in his ear, “you’ll still want more, so desperate and aching always,” Dream pants, wrung out as Hob grips his face, brown eyes gleaming and reflecting as they stare through him, inside him. Hob smirks, head tilting as Dream stares up at him, “you’d still want me? To leave?” 

“Yes,” he offers, falling to the floor as Hob vanishes, and Dream takes deep breaths, back scraped and tingly, as well as his hands as he lies in a heap on the floor. In a roundabout way, it was a warning, but still Dream knows that he wants to go through with it, determined even as he shakes from his lack of orgasm, feeling alive.

Today is a day full of baptisms, and Dream eyes the white stole he has to wear with disdain before putting it on, the ornately embroidered golden silk at least a much nicer fabric, at least, even if it’s over his usual frock. The hours pass in a blur of crying babies and born-agains, the many priests switching out occasionally as they do their rounds.

People mill about on the ground floor at the end of the long batch of baptisms, many of those with babies probably talking outside considering the lack of crying. 

“Look at you, so pretty in white,” a voice purrs and his heart jumps as Hob takes his hand, other hand trailing down the embroidery. “I wonder if those baptisms even worked, but I guess it doesn’t matter,” Hob says, leading him down to near the bells and Dream’s brain catches up, opening his mouth as his face heats.

“Hob―“ his mouth gets covered by Hob’s, kiss starting off slow and chaste, making him relax as he’s pushed against the stained glass. The sound of people on the ground floor make him anxious, but there’s only quiet talking and laughter as he puts his hands onto Hob’s jaw, beard scratchy under his hands as he melts into the warm body in front of him, the cold stained glass behind him. 

“My pretty priest,” Hob whispers, biting down his throat, and Dream whines as hands go under his frock, stroking up and down his thighs, slowly bringing him to hardness. Dream moans feeling the scrape of Hob’s beard against his neck as his pants are slowly taken down, mind scrambling at the slow feel of Hob’s hand on his cock, stroking him langorously, “such a vision for me.” 

Dream gasps, head tilting up to see the stained glass, Hob’s brown-grey hair in shades of white and red. “Hob,” he whines, bucking into Hob’s hand, frock itchy but also another layer of sensation as one of his hands grasps at the stained glass behind him fruitlessly, his other arm winding around Hob’s shoulders. “The people,” he scratches out, still hearing the sounds of merriment from below, only faint beneath the blood rushing in his ears.

Hob hums, fangs scraping against his throat, and his pulse spikes as Hob unlaces the stole, throwing it nearby as Hob’s hand on his cock speeds up, more rough and and overwhelming, pulling him deeper into pleasure. “Don’t worry about them,” Hob says against his ear, and Dream can only gasp, Hob fondling his balls as his frock joins the stole on the floor, and Dream shivers at the feel of glass against his back. 

“Please,” he says, the only word he can say as he curls himself around Hob and his warmth, whining at the feel of Hob’s skin and hair as his hand goes under the other’s shirt. 

“I know,” Hob says fondly, hand leaving his pants and the lack of touch is only for a moment, with Hob’s fingers slick as they press his taint and he gasps, pleasure bursting through his veins as they go inside, two at once, the feeling on the edge of painful, and there’s ― there’s a sound, reverberating through the church, can feel the glass vibrate beneath him as the organ starts playing, joyous and loud. “Relax for me, my dear,” Hob whispers, the words penetrating him even more than the music as his legs go around Hob’s waist, relaxing into Hob’s fingers. 

Hob kisses him sweetly, and Dream’s unable to catch his breath, the organ playing below sinking into his bones as he’s stretched, setting sun through the glass painting Hob in a myriad of colours, “please,” he cries, mind scrambling through all the sensations and emotions, cock leaking against Hob’s clothes as Hob’s fingers brush against that spot inside. 

“It’ll be okay,” is said against his lips, Hob’s free hand coming up to cup his jaw, and Dream melts more onto the glass, slowly warmed up by his body heat as Hob pulls down his own pants, quickly taking off his shirt, and Dream moans as Hob’s body presses against his, whining at the feeling of coarse hair against his chest, almost not noticing that Hob takes his fingers out to put three fingers, oil cold against their warmth. 

“Please―need you,” he chokes out, the organ’s music, Hob inside, the warmth of him, the stained glass all combining as Hob stretches him out more, as Hob bites and licks his neck, going down to his collarbones. “Hob,” he moans, unsure if his broken words are as loud as they seem to be, and he clutches at Hob’s shoulder and hair desperately, Hob’s other hand stroking his waist as four fingers enter him, stretch bright and blissful.

Dream begs and pleads, voice almost unrecognisable behind the organ music, loud and resonant and swallowing his sounds ― then Hob shushes him, mouth covering his own as Hob enters him, slick cockhead stretching him even more, and Dream can only pant, eyes wet and teary, moonlight and glass staining Hob red and white as he sinks onto Hob’s cock, and he sobs into Hob’s mouth. “How’s my Dream feeling?” Hob asks, voice strained. 

“Full,” he says, the word not explaining at all the feelings inside, like something has been put right as Hob holds him up against the glass, hands on his waist immovable as Hob ― leaves, every inch almost painful with the emptiness left behind before Hob goes back in, and he cries as Hob starts up a rhythm, slow but building, and Dream feels like he’s going to fly apart, prostate occasionally being brushed, “Hob.” 

“You feel so divine,” is whispered against his lips, and Dream can only clutch Hob desperately as he’s moved, one of Hob’s hands under his arse, new angle making his prostate being pressed against mercilessly, organ music reverberating throughout his body as he tries to hold on desperately to the heights of pleasure, biting Hob’s shoulder to muffle himself. “Let go for me, my priest,” Dream shudders, shaking his head at the feeling of Hob inside, wanting to relish every moment, “my most divine Dream.” 

Hob’s free hand goes to stroke his cock and he cries at the feeling, brain latching onto the chest hair he can feel against his cock as his orgasm rushes through him, powerful and all he’s aware of ― and when he opens his eyes next, with him melted against Hob, he white come splattered all up Hob’s chest― and it takes him a moment to place the moaning he can hear that’s not his own, can feel Hob’s moans against himself, hands digging into his arse as Hob comes. 

Dream’s cock, still hard, leaks against Hob’s chest at the feeling of the other’s spend inside, and he clenches desperately at Hob, feeling his cock slip out a bit and Hob groans, kissing his throat as hands massage his sides as the pleasure ebbs and flows, pulse eventually slowing as Hob kisses his neck, ears and face, as a hand comes up to pet his hair. The organ ― is still playing, people talking under it as Dream comes down, touching Hob’s beard mindlessly for the texture of the stubble, “I’ll have to leave sometime,” Hob says gently, face soft and affectionate as he looks up.

Taking a deep breath, then another and another, he nods, letting out a whine as Hob’s cock leaves, come leaking out of him as Hob continues to pet his hair as they kneel on the floor. Hob picks up the stole and wipes his chest with a huff, uncaring of Dream clinging to him as the silk moves onto his own skin, cleaning him up softly. 

Hob kisses him in between their clothes being put back on, and Dream can still feel come inside, still leaking onto his thighs as his frock gets put back on, then his stained stole. “Tonight?” Hob asks, thumb caressing jaw and Dream blinks. 

“Tonight?” He parrots, voice rough and scratched and Hob chuckles, kissing him again. 

“Thinking there’s new places to explore, other churches to desecrate maybe,” Hob says lightly, the tense set of his shoulders that he can feel, belying his emotions as the words start to make sense and Dream gapes, mind still slow from the orgasm.

“Tonight,” he confirms, and Hob relaxes, kissing him deeply.

After dinner and a bath, body tender and aching from the day, he frowns as he looks at his room, and his clothes. He only has a few pairs of normal clothes, and so puts them on, black pants and long-sleeved shirt, stowing the rest of his clothes and frocks, as well as the stained stole from today in his bag. 

Packing up his things like his book and pencils, bible and rosaries makes his bag overfull. Tonight is one thing, but with it actually happening, he feels ― anxious, terrified. And excited, as he takes his sheets down to the laundry, double-checking his room for anything he might’ve missed. 

Going to the kitchen, he picks up some bread and cheese to nibble on, keeping his steps as quiet as he can as he walks up to the chore-board, his name scribbled on with chalk, which he carefully wipes off with a rag. The prospect of discovering himself outside of this place is frightening, but he feels as ready as he can be.

Dream keeps expecting someone to pop up, to tell him to stay, to not give in as he slowly makes his way to the backdoor, much quieter than the main front door. His footsteps echo throughout the hallway, the back door imposing as he slowly opens it, keeping his eyes on the hallway behind him. 

With no-one appearing, he takes a deep breath and looks outside, the moonlight shining on Hob’s form, hands in his pants pockets. “Last chance,” Hob says, eyes soft and serious as they stare at him.

Dream’s mouth twitches up, some of his anxiety disappearing as he steps out of the door. A part of him knows ― Hob won’t blame him if he goes straight back in, and they might part ways, possibly forever. Dream, hiding and retreating back into himself as he recites sermons and beliefs by rote, by years of muscle memory. A shell of himself, living life not enjoying it.

Or, something terrifying, full of new experiences ― and possibly arguments and differences as he figures out himself, without the church that’s shaped him for years, and then Dream and Hob, who they are outside of it. Dream has no allusions that it’ll be ― difficult, to put it mildly. Has heard of many stories of drunken arguments, of so many people loving and hating each other in the same breath, and it’ll be one thing to listen to, and another to experience.

Looking past Hob, he sees the stars in the sky, the Milky Way shining beyond clouds, the faint sound of drunken laughter a few streets over.

Dream takes another step forward, shutting the door softly, although it still creaks as it shuts, and he takes another breath, keeping one hand on the door. Goodbye, he thinks to himself, looking back and up at the cathedral, blood rushing in his ears. 

Eventually, he focuses back on Hob, arm outstretched, almost touching him, a question sparked by his cascading thoughts, simple and complex, my priest in his veins, “if I am yours, are you mine?”

Hob chuckles, eyes bright. “Yours. Yes,” he sounds delighted, smiling so brilliantly that Dream expects the sun to rise for it.

Dream takes Hob’s hand. 

[Fin]