5. Father Levi
“I have completed your trials. I want what’s mine,” Killian pants, wincing as he breathes, broken ribs screaming in anguish. His half naked body is burned and bruised, a thin sheen of sweat coating every inch of skin. His hair has gotten longer, sweat-soaked curls grazing just past his shoulders.
“Why go through all of this just for the very thing you fought to burn away?” a deep, disembodied voice asks.
“For him,” Killian growls, bearing his teeth in the direction of the voice just out of view.
“Foolish, boy. Your loyalty is displaced. He will never forsake Me.”
Killian winces, but not in pain. “Nobody told me you’d be so chatty,” he says, eyes slanting at the voice. “If I had known, I would have brought a fucking muzzle. ”
“You dare…” the voice booms, shaking the foundation.
Killian cuts him off. “Give. Me. What’s. Mine.” He spits each word, anger coating every syllable. “I’ve earned it.”
“See for yourself.” His voice is menacing. He doesn’t give Killian a second to prepare himself. Pain explodes in Killian’s chest, a disembodied hand shoving something inside. He can’t breathe. It feels like someone is pushing all of his organs aside, making room for something that simply doesn’t belong. Like squeezing a square block into a round hole. His body fights it, unwilling to rearrange itself again. Killian grits his teeth, falling to his knees as more pain wracks his body.
The disembodied hand flexes inside of his chest, and it feels like his veins have turned to snakes. His body is burning from the inside, flames exploding in his chest cavity, eating away at his limbs. Just when he thinks it is the worst it could get, the hand is gone. He thought he’d feel relief, thought he’d be able to breathe again, but no. It’s so much worse. It’s as if his body is rejecting something that was once a part of it. But he can’t die. He has to see him again. He has to live .
Something clicks in his chest cavity, and Killian’s whole body jerks as if every nerve ending in his body was smacked. Another click. Another jerk. His breath expels, and he can’t seem to find the air for another. With every click, his muscles tense more and more. He feels like a rubber band getting ready to snap. He tries to breathe through it. He tries to picture blue eyes, perfect cheekbones.
Parts of his body light up, as if a candle was lit just beneath the surface of his skin, but other parts remain dark. This pain is so much worse than all three of the trials he endured to get here. It’s worse than he could have ever imagined. It feels like his body is going to split in half, leaving nothing. He claws at his chest, trying to help his body remove what isn’t supposed to be there anymore. Killian can feel it when it finally clicks into place.
I wake with a rush, Killian’s screams so real I’m sure they’re echoing around my bedroom. I gulp air, holding my chest. It’s aching, as if I was living the dream. My whole body hurts. I look down, expecting to see my bare chest glowing like Killian’s, but all I find is a thin layer of sweat. I can still feel that giant hand inside of me, its fingers flexing as it moves around my chest cavity .
I stumble out of bed, going into the bathroom. With shaking hands, I splash cold water on my face, then look up. My reflection startles me. My face is gaunt, the dark circles under my eyes making me look more dead than alive. I force myself to breathe normally, gripping the sink in an effort to stop the tremble in my limbs.
“It was just a dream,” I say out loud, my voice echoing around the bathroom. But was it really just a dream? Since the demon left three months ago, I’ve been having dreams about him. Some are more vivid than others.
They have all been very different. Some of them were sexual, others were just us talking about our past, almost getting to know each other. I know it’s insane. Everything the demon told me in my dreams was made up by my brain, but it was quite elaborate. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the visions from the dream away.
When I open them again, it takes a while for my vision to return to normal. I take a deep breath, then another. I used to love sleeping. I would oftentimes talk to angels in my dreams, sometimes even God; now though, I dread it. I haven't seen God in my dreams since I allowed the demon to defile me. Now all I see is the demon. I have limited my sleeping to five or six hours a night, usually not allowing myself to fall asleep for longer than two hours at a time.
I know that God hasn’t abandoned me completely. I have received signs from Him. I haven't necessarily felt His presence, but these things take time. I sinned in the worst possible way. I know God will forgive me, I just need to suffer my punishment first.
I have continued business as normal though, sans exorcisms. I still run my church. Still hold mass. Still do my duty to convert people to God’s glory. Because maybe, if I save enough souls, I can save my own, and God will truly forgive me.
I walk to the shower, ignoring the tub completely. I try to forget it even exists most days. I haven't touched it since that day . I have considered hiring someone to remove it completely but couldn’t bring myself to make the call. Maybe that’s why God hasn’t truly shown himself. Maybe it's because I am holding on to remnants of the demon.
After showering, I decide to just get ready for the day. I don my white Vestment. The fabric is thick and heavy as it drapes over my shoulders. I run my hand over the shiny gold details. I only wear it on Christmas and Easter, and the last several days have been Holy Week. It’s officially Easter Sunday, the end of The Easter Triduum. This holiday used to bring me so much joy, but this year, I’ve felt empty.
I used my special recipe to bake unleavened bread for the holiday, as is my tradition, but it all felt meaningless. I look at the bread, wishing it could tell me how to fix my life. It doesn’t. It just sits there. Maybe it’s not the flesh of Christ. I grab it from the kitchen counter, leaving my apartment a few seconds later.
My footsteps echo in the empty church. The lights are low, no sun out to shine through the stained glass. The pews are cold and empty, and I can’t help but feel as though they reflect my heart. Easter Mass won’t start for another three hours. Then the church will be alive with light and people, but I will still remain cold and empty.
I look up to the front of the church, the altar decked out with fresh white lilies and a white cloth. To the right of the altar is a tall wooden cross, a long white cloth draped over the arms with flowers all around it. Beside it, is a basket full of flower crowns made out of white lilies. I make them specially for the young girls that come to church.
After placing my bread on the altar, I go into the confession box. I know no one will come at this time of the day to confess, but I crave the silence the box offers. I sit there, not making a single sound for I don't know how long, when I hear the doors to the church open.
I look at my watch. Too early for mass. Maybe it’s raining outside, and a homeless person is seeking shelter. Maybe a lost soul is looking for forgiveness. I listen, the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming closer to my box. The door to the other side opens, and a person sits down.
I look through the lattice, trying to see a glimpse of this person. Their image is too distorted to see, the booth too dark. All I can make out is long, dark hair. I choose to stay quiet, waiting for the person to speak. I don't like to rush people when they’re in the confessional. I find people will tell me everything in due time.
“I’m sorry, Father, for I have never confessed,” a voice says softly. It’s deep, almost familiar, but I can’t place it. I’ve had thousands of people in this confession booth over the years, so it’s not surprising the voice sounds familiar. They all start to sound the same eventually.
“Rest easy. There is a first time for everything, and it’s better to be late than never,” I reassure him, listening intently. I hear the man shift, settling for a few seconds, only to shift again.
“I have done a lot of evil, unforgivable things in my time on this earth,” the man says.
“Tell me about them, but please remember, it’s not up to you to forgive them,” I respond, holding my breath because I’m intrigued. It’s always interesting when confessions start this way. My brain races through the different possibilities. Is this man going to admit to murder? It takes several heartbeats before the man responds.
“I have seduced a man of the cloth,” he says finally, and I hiss in a breath. My heart beats faster, pulse racing. A year ago, I would have known exactly what to say, but now? How am I supposed to respond?
I swallow, forcing words around the lump that has formed in my throat. “Do you regret this action? ”
Again, the man takes a long moment to answer. “I know I should, but I don’t. I think I’ve fallen in love with him.”
“But you know that it cannot be reciprocated. A holy man has pledged himself to God. He must remain celibate.” I’m not sure if I’m talking to the person on the other side of the lattice or myself. The man mutters something, but I can’t quite make it out. “For your penance, you must go before the image of God and recite the Act of Contrition three times.”
“Of course, Father, but first, may I ask you something?” the man says.
“Yes.”
“What is the physical form of the holy spirit?”
The question throws me completely off guard. “A dove,” I respond, but the word comes out slowly as my brain catches on the word. Dove.
No. It’s not possible. It has to be a weird coincidence. But how? And why now?
Before I have much more time to ponder, the door to my side of the confessional opens. A tall man enters the small space with me. It’s too dark to see him. I should be terrified, but I’m not .
The man kneels at my feet, hands clasped together atop my knees. “O, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee.”
“What are you doing?” I ask, but I already know. A chill goes up my spine. I can’t see the man’s face, dark strands falling over either side. But his hands. I could recognize those hands anywhere. The long fingers, and how perfect they felt inside me…
A dream. This is another dream.
“I’m reciting the Act of Contrition to my God,” the man responds as if the explanation is obvious. “And I detest all my sins because of thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love.”
“Killian,” I whisper, closing my eyes, begging myself to wake up. The last dream I had like this left me coming all over my bedding.
“I firmly resolve with the help of Thy grace to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin. Amen.” It’s definitely Killian’s voice, but softer, somehow.
“Killian,” I try again, but the man just starts the prayer all over. I try to push him off, try to stand up, but the man is kneeling over me, practically in my lap. His clasped hands are a little too close to my cock for comfort.
“Stop,” I say before Killian can start repeating the prayer for a third time. I ball my hands into fists, digging my blunt nails into my palms. Pain will make me wake up from this.
“O, my God,” Killian starts the prayer anyway, and enough is enough. I will not play these games any longer. I grab two fistfuls of his hair and pull.
“O, my God,” Killian repeats, this time the phrase coming out a moan. A spark of electricity shoots down my body, ending in my cock and making it twitch. I pull again.
“I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee.” Killian moans out the words with another tug of my hands. My cock gets harder at the sound.
“Get off of me,” I say. I look at Killian’s kneeled body, trying to decide where I might be able to get leverage. I have already tried his broad shoulders, and pulling his hair was only making my own cock hard.
“And I detest all my sins because of thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love,” Killian recites, and I try to stand. I manage to pry apart Killian’s clasped hands, but they land on my cock. The moan that escapes me is purely accidental. It’s because I haven't been touched in so long. I can’t help my body’s response to external stimuli. It’s science.
“I firmly resolve with the help of Thy grace to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin.” Killian cups my cock, messaging through the layer of fabric.
“Amen,” he finishes, and I am so gobsmacked, it takes me a few seconds to form any coherent thoughts.
“What… what are you doing?” I ask, my breath stuttering against my will.
Killian finally looks up, eyes meeting mine. There is some light traveling into the confessional box, but Killian’s face is mostly covered in shadows. His eyes though, there is a slant of light over them. They are softer than I remember, as if someone took their fingers and smoothed out the sides. His hair is longer as well.
“My penance, Father,” he responds, with a smirk .
“You can’t do this.” This is my worst nightmare - being trapped in a confession booth with a demon who has no respect for God.
“You told me to do this.” One of Killian’s hands cups my cock, his other rubbing up and down my leg. “Do you want me to stop?” The question looks genuine, but it wouldn’t matter what I said. The demon wouldn’t listen.
“That was before… before I knew you were… you,” I stammer out by way of answer.
“I think you always knew it was me,” Killian responds, his hand never ceasing.
“I did not,” I snap, the words hanging between us. Killian stares at me, a vulnerability to his expression that I’ve never seen before. “I-I thought you were gone.”
“I told you I would return. Don’t you remember. I said soon. What did you think I meant?” Killian asks, leaning toward me. We’ve had similar discussions in other dreams, but he always tells me that he hasn’t returned. That he was just visiting me for now, and he still has unfinished business to take care of. What’s different about this dream? Why now ?
“Well… soon can mean a lot of things.” I can’t breathe with the demon this close to me, let alone think. “I thought you forgot about me. Moved on to another priest.”
“I could never forget about you. You’re my priest. My one and only.” Killian leans closer to me, his breath ghosting over my mouth.
“Why are you here?” I asks, pressing my back as far against the wall as it could go. These dreams usually have a purpose. I chalk it up to my mind, trying to process the things that I had done.
“To ask for forgiveness,” Killian whispers against my lips, then leans closer. I meet him halfway, allowing the demon to kiss me gently. I tell myself to push the demon away. Tell myself not to kiss back. But I don't do any of those things. Instead, I lean into the kiss, my lips grazing over the demon’s. I can feel him smile against my lips before he deepens our kiss.
I jump when I hear the doors to the church open. My heart starts racing in his chest. This can’t be happening. Footsteps draw closer. No. This cannot be happening. I don't know what to do. If I push the demon out of the booth, then whoever just came in will know that I was not alone in the booth, and that will look bad. Really bad.
“Please be quiet,” I whisper. Killian grins and nods, falling back on his haunches. I sigh in relief. I stand, starting to squeeze past Killian to cut the person off before they enter the confessional. I freeze when I hear someone open the door on the other side, the rustling of a body sitting next to us a moment later.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was two weeks ago,” a masculine voice says. I close my eyes, counting to ten to try to calm my racing heart. I stiffly sit back down, with Killian kneeling at my feet again. I stay quiet, waiting for the person to continue.
“I have been… Erm… unfaithful to my wife,” the man says after a minute of hesitance. I hate these. I always want to tell the men to chop their balls off as penance, but I can’t.
“Does she know?” I ask instead. After my question, I look down at the feeling of something on my legs. I find the demon, lifting up my robes. I kick at him, but the demon holds a finger to his lips, the universal signal for “shh”. Does that mean that if I do anything, the demon will make his presence known?
“She found out a few hours ago. That’s why I’m here instead of home. She saw messages between me and my side piece,” the man responds, and I grit my teeth. I glance over at Killian, who also looks annoyed.
“That sounds like a difficult situation,” I say, even though I want to say much more. I hiss out a breath when I feel Killian’s hands on the waistband of my white slacks. He doesn't move further, just looks up at me with a question in his eyes. This is just a dream. It has to be, so I just nod without thinking.
“She wouldn’t have found out if she hadn’t been looking. It’s her fault, really.”
I don't have time to be mad at him, not when Killian is slowly unzipping my pants. The noise is so loud, it has to have been audible around the church. The man on the other side of the confessional doesn’t say anything, though. He’s probably too much of a narcissist.
“You’re the one who has sinned, yet you blame her,” I respond.
“You don’t get it, Father. Ever since the baby was born, she has ignored me. A man has needs.”
“I’m sure,” I say, barely paying attention. Killian has now pulled down my pants, my semi-hard cock hitting the cool air around us. I want to mouth “no”, but my lips won’t work. How can I stop him, really? The booth is too small to get away. Killian won’t move even if I asked him too. If I say anything, the man on the other side will know. The only choice I really have is to allow it to happen. Right?
“It’s not my fault this woman at work was willing to give me what I needed when my wife wasn’t. And it’s not my fault my wife looked at my phone tonight when my side piece texted a nude.” I squirm when Killian takes my cock in his big hands, looking at it like it’s the last supper.
“Mmmhmm,” I respond noncommittally, transfixed by the way Killian inspects my now fully hard cock. He licks his lips, and my cock twitches in response. This is a dream. I could tell him no, but this is very clearly a dream. The demon isn’t here. I've fallen asleep.
“Father, are you even listening to me?” The man asks, anger coating the words .
“Yes,” I answer, way more enthusiastically than intended, because it’s at that moment that Killian chooses to swallow my cock whole. I bite my lip to stop myself from moaning, my eyes rolling back in my head for a split second.
“Are you okay?” The man asks, sounding like he’s two seconds from coming to check on me.
“I’m fine,” I manage to get out. I sound somewhat normal despite the fact that Killian is now bobbing up and down on my cock. “Please continue your confession.”
“Alright. Well… my wife saw the messages. I tried to convince her that she was just being paranoid, and that it was all in her head. That my coworker meant it for a different person, and it was an accident. She wasn’t having it. She kicked me out,” the man finishes, and if my soul wasn’t being sucked out through my dick at this very moment by a soulless demon, I might have been angry by his clear gaslighting. I bite my lip again, trying so hard not to scream when Killian takes me deep. I squeeze my bench.
“Well… what should I do?” The man asks, frustration coating each word .
I want to scream at him to leave so I can finish in Killian’s mouth in peace before I wake up from this dream. I take a deep breath, then another.
“Go home and pack your bags. She deserves better than you,” I respond, gripping Killian’s hair. Instead of pulling him off, I push him deeper. A low moan escapes Killian, and I don't even care if the man hears it.
“Excuse me?” The man asks, undignified.
“Please.” The word is breathy, but the man must have taken it as a response.
“I-I- I’ve never been so disrespected,” the man says heatedly.
“Yeah, well, your wife has probably never had an orgasm. We all have our grievances.” Killian pops off my dick long enough to interrupt. I am horrified for a split second, but then happy that Killian said something I couldn’t. This is just a dream, so it doesn’t matter anyway. None of this is real.
The man doesn’t respond to that. Just storms out of the confession booth and the church, slamming every door behind him. Killian doesn't even wait for him to leave, just envelopes my cock with his hot mouth once more. I jerk, the sensation so new yet so amazing.
“ Oh ...” I moan, tangling my fingers in the demon's thick hair once more, gripping the strands tight to hold Killian’s head while I thrust into his waiting mouth. He moans in abandon, putting his hands behind his back, a silent gesture of submission. It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
“Feels so good,” I groan, out of my mind with pleasure. This is most certainly a dream. A very vivid dream. I’m so sleep deprived, it could happen. I can feel every single moan the demon makes on my cock, and it’s driving me that much closer to my release.
“Demon, I’m gonna…” I trail off, my hand shooting out to grip the lattice. I push my fingers through the holes, flexing them to find purchase. Killian tightens his mouth around my cock and relaxes his throat, and I somehow go deeper, the head of my cock, pressing against the back of his throat with every thrust.
“Oh my…” the word trails off as I come, shooting my release down Killian’s throat. I grip the lattice so hard; it splinters in my fist. My palm stings when the wood pierces my skin, but I barely re gister it, too caught up in the way Killian sucks me dry.
“I usually wake up now,” I say after a moment, slowly removing my hand from the lattice. I hold it in the light, finding blood on my palm. Now that the adrenaline of my orgasm is wearing off, my entire hand burns. Pain during my dreams in nothing new to me, though.
“You’re not asleep.” Killian’s voice is deep, raw from his recent throat fucking.
“Yes, I am. I’m always asleep when this happens,” I retort, blinking down at him.
“Levi. You’re awake. I’m here, kneeling in front of you. This is real.” Killian’s brows crease in concern.
“No, it’s not. You’re just trying to trick me.” I get to my feet, pushing past Killian. I stumble out of the confession box, forcing new air into my lungs. I have to figure out a way to wake myself up.
“Father. I can assure you, this is not a dream,” Killian says, emerging from the confessional a moment later. I am shocked by his appearance, really seeing him for the first time since this whole thing started .
Killian’s hair is longer now, black locks reaching just past his shoulders. His lip is split open with other cuts, bruises, and dried blood marring his beautiful face. His skin is tan and peeling, as if he has been sunbathing, but his skin got a little too burnt. His hands are dirty, as if he has been doing some kind of back breaking labor.
He wears a black button up shirt and a pair of black pants that look like they’ve seen better days. Something about his body and stance is wary. He’s not as cocky and I remember him being. He’s not wearing his signature smirk or making crude comments. I glance over his body once more, trying to decide what he’s hiding. I wonder if the rest of his body is as rough looking as his face.
What happened to him?
“Then I’m hallucinating,” I say, looking at him, barely resisting the urge to go to him and touch this marred face. “Oh my god, it makes perfect sense. You’re a figment of my imagination. I’m so sleep deprived, my brain has figured out other ways to trick me. You’re right. You aren’t a dream, but you aren’t real either. I just need to get more sleep. ”
“That’s not…” Killian starts.
I choose to ignore him. Ignore him, and he will go away. If I don't feed into this hallucination, it will just vanish. Yes. That makes perfect sense .
I turn my back on the vision, going to the bathroom. I turn on the water, pumping soap onto my hands and then placing them under the stream. The cuts sting, but I hold in my hiss of pain. Killian wraps his arms around me. My body stiffens because I can feel his hard body pressed against my own. Can my mind do that?
I decide to ignore it. The mind is a powerful thing, after all. I rub my hands together. Killian’s big hands trail down my arms, sending shivers down my spine. Eventually, they join mine under the water, his palms warm against the back of my hands. One of his hands rests on each of my own.
The water is tinged red with my blood and brown with the dirt that covers his hands. I find myself wondering why his hands were so dirty. Why his nails are ruined, as if he had been clawing at something. Then I remind myself that he’s not real and the reason why his hands are dirty aren’t real either. We finish washing our hands the dry them .
I do my best to keep ignoring him, even though the vision is insistent and keeps trying to touch me. I turn on my heel and head to the altar where I had left the bread. I have preparations to do, and I can’t spend all morning talking to an imaginary demon.
“Levi… don’t you have a lot of questions for me?” Killian asks, following me. I blatantly ignore him, bending behind the altar to lift the cloth. I reach onto the shelf under the altar, pulling out a large tray with small glasses and small plates. I place the tray on the altar, turning my attention to the bread I had baked.
“I’m not a hallucination,” Killian says, standing directly in front of the altar so that he’s directly in my eye line. I refuse to even look at him. Instead, I take the knife, wincing as I grip it with my damaged hand. I ignore the pain and carefully slice the bread into small, even pieces.
“Look at me.” I feel fingers touch my skin followed by pressure on my chin. I don't give up, just firmly look down, continuing my ritual.