Chapter Text
Ominis Gaunt rarely granted his mind the petty indulgence of wandering. He was of the firm belief that when things are as they should be, and one is doing what one must do, one’s mind could (and should) maintain its course. Today, however (and only for the briefest moment) as he meandered along the River Lossie, letting its soft rippling guide his steps, he faltered.
Quite weakly, in his opinion, he allowed himself to consider the unexpected turns of his life. Because when Ominis Gaunt was a boy – growing up in a privileged, wealthy home of a pure-blooded, magical family – he’d never have imagined his life would lead him here. Not even with the understanding he was different from his siblings: derided and ridiculed for his blindness and his tender heart. Not even with the rough trajectory of his schooling, given the curse levied unfairly on his dear friend, Anne, the toll it took on her twin brother, practically driving him to madness. And not even in light of the extraordinary events of his fifth year of schooling that led to an inevitable severing of the bonds between all the friends.
No, not even the unanswered questions and loose ends that sat like gritty rock salt in the open wounds of his harrowing upbringing, disallowing them to scar over, could have prepared him for his current reality as the diocesan priest of the world’s most dismal and uninteresting parish in the far-Northern town of Elgan, Scotland.
Indeed, these had been the longest three years of his life.
Would that he could turn back time and advise himself not to acquiesce to such a post. But after narrowly surviving the bore that was his education at Hogwarts after his old friend, Sebastian Sallow, had been sent to Azkaban, he felt he had few options, and even fewer fucks to give about them.
Become an auror? The most sought-after position of Hogwarts hopefuls? Only to flit about wearing a Ministry badge like a permission slip, playing make-believe that he was some kind of better man than those he’d be chasing down? Ridiculous. Run a shop? Of what? And to don a mask each day, pretending to not be completely disinterested in the little people of some little village and the excruciating minutiae of their little lives? Hogwash.
At the time, it sounded like a laughably small life. But compared to this? Heaven.
No, instead, what Ominis looks back upon with regret is choosing to serve his family. The Gaunts. At the time of his graduation, however, he had realized that terrible though they may be, they never did desert him. Somehow, they found a way not to become cursed. They found a way not to become overcome by their propensity for dark magic – at least not to the point of being turned-in about it. And, stupidly, Ominis had thought he could maintain his optimism, fight his DNA that felt drawn to the power of old, dark magic, and still suckle at the teet of Mommy and Daddy who, apparently, needed someone “on the inside” – like a family member – to keep watch of the Elgin Ruins and the mysterious, unspoken magic or treasure or whatever else they hid. (Ominis was never privy to that part of the equation.)
Off to seminary he went after Hogwarts to learn everything about being a good little Catholic from scratch, having had no religious influence of any kind growing up. Why would he have? In his world, his pure-blood line of ancestry practically was its own religion, at the feet of which other, less-deserving witches and wizards seemed to worship. It was a status about which Ominis used to feel far more ashamed. But after all of his years of pretending, a little voice of existential apathy mewed within him like a stinted kitten who hadn’t yet opened its eyes, annoyingly scratching at him asking “...and why shouldn’t they worship you?” He almost thought to agree with it just to make it shut up.
Once tender-hearted and optimistic, Ominis was eager and willing to play the part of altar-boy at the start of seminary school, having grown completely numb to most every emotion that would cause him to care otherwise. It was as good a path as any, given the loss of every important person from his life, or the indifference of those who hadn’t died, left, or been sent to the famed and dreadful magical prison into which Ominis would occasionally send letters with no hope of ever hearing back.
Indeed, he wasn’t confident Sebastian Sallow ever received his letters at all. For a while, he sent them, regardless, full of the musings of a good ol’ friend and sent in good faith. But by the end of his attempts, he became so convinced they never reached their intended recipient that Ominis amused himself by indulging in writing all sorts of shocking and ridiculous nonsense. Confessing boyish feelings of “love,” and revealing all the “impure thoughts” he would have about his old friend. Which, of course he didn’t, actually. Or did he? No matter, as it was a moot point and it was merely for amusement, anyway. There was nothing to do at the seminary but read the Holy Book and write and write and write and occasionally fool around with his roommate, Jimmy Baker, but only insofar as Jim was full of precisely enough – but not too much – self-loathing to do so.
Plus, sending his amusements away into a void where they’d never be delivered or received was a surefire way Ominis’ favorite source of entertainment wouldn’t be discovered. And, if they were received, they’d surely be screened and deemed too untoward to deliver, though the thought of scarring the eyes of the odd Azkaban security guard gave Ominis a wicked sense of delight.
It was his third year at the seminary when he stopped writing, entirely. Five years ago, now. The hope had been completely snuffed out of him and the darkness of life’s futility closed around him as darkly as his restricted vision. After all, it is difficult to motivate oneself when there is, simply, no point.
After graduating from the seminary at the top of his class, like a very good boy, he served for a single year as a transitional deacon under Father Duncan, who was a regrettable collection of flesh and bone that seemed to hold together by precisely one sinew and one strand of hair he insisted on combing over his thin and bespotted scalp. Ominis was glad for his release, as the man smelt of stale ham and a weeks-old tea bag, and Ominis was hastily ordained the father of the very same parish to replace good old Duncan. His father pulled those strings, no doubt.
It should be noted it was his very ordination that was the final straw in Ominis’ faithlessness, if there was any faith to begin with, as he was sure he would never have made it this far if anyone in the priesthood actually had any gifts of discernment or foresight. Surely they’d have seen how little he cared, and how cynical his mind was to hold such a position. But with his smooth and compelling voice, he could deliver a sermon as good as any, and the stoic expression he so oft carried on his face did give the impression of being quite proper and lost in holy thought.
But even amidst the futility of his post, Ominis couldn’t help but feel frustrated by the dwindling numbers of his congregation. It was sad to have to pretend so ruthlessly. Sadder still to pretend for no one, in particular. And when he asked his father for something new, something different, a new post, or a new way to be relevant, he was always assured of the importance of his work.
“You haven’t a clue what it is you keep in those ruins, Ominis! How dare you second-guess my judgment!” The words of his father would ring in his mind. Daddy Dearest never did seem too keen on telling Ominis anything beyond that, however.
This evening, Ominis was sure his sermon had been excellent. It always felt like such a jape to really nail one so flawlessly that no one would suspect he was an imposter; both faithless and magical; nothing at all like his parishioners. But it was delivered on the fewest number of ears, yet, according to the eager and highly analytical Deacon Ridley, who he had grown to rely on over the past year and half.
Today was, sadly, his last day. Ominis was quite fond of him. His enthusiasm and purity of heart reminded him of a memory of that Plummley boy from Hogwarts so many years ago. So earnest and true. He almost – almost – restored Ominis’ hope in the whole thing.
“The whole thing” being life, generally.
As he made his way back to his small church building in Elgan, a veritable pimple in comparison to the grand cathedral the ruins once were, just next-door, Ominis sighed deeply to himself, running his fingers through his hair, and momentarily pressing at the sore muscles of his burdened shoulders as he attempted to estimate just how long he had allowed himself to wallow in self-pity so as to accurately seek recompense for such a thing with just a little bit of self-flagellation later – a practice he once thought morbid, but now was one of the few ways he could feel, well, anything at all.
‘Good Lord,’ Ominis thought to himself, ‘how have I become such a shadow?’
“Father Grimm, your new deacon has arrived,” Deacon Ripley announced, standing ready and eager at the door of the church on Ominis’ arrival. Even after so many years, Ominis found his pseudonym jarring. Anonymity to protect the family, and whatnot.
“Thank you, Ripley, you may show him to my office.”
“Em…actually…” Ripley seemed hesitant, “he’s waiting in the confessional, Father. Said he preferred to begin there.”
“Oh! Bit strange…” Ominis mutters. “Right, well…I suppose that’s it for you, Ripley. Glad to have had a proper send off with the congregation earlier. I’m truly terrible at goodbyes.”
“It has been a pleasure serving with you, Father Grimm, and learning at your side. You’ve been a great mentor…and friend.” Deacon Ripley coughs shyly, and though he is only a few years Ominis’ junior, he boyishly throws himself towards the Father in an adoring and relatively quick hug. “I hope our paths will cross once more,” he says as he swipes tears from his face.
“Erm..I’m sure they will, Ripley,” Ominis assures him with a pat on the shoulder, quite taken aback at the young man’s display. “Chin up, now! Remember what it is you represent. Should you need anything at all, you may always call on me, and I’ll sing your praises far and wide.”
“Thank you, Father Grimm,” Ripley says as he backs out of the hall, and the small cathedral of his first assignment, forever.
After another deep sigh, Ominis moves his way to the confessional.
‘Fantastic. Another zealot,’ he thinks to himself as he pauses at the door, takes in a deep inhale and situates himself for a routine confessional – a part of the job that felt like sanctioned gossip and, generally, he didn’t mind whatsoever.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” a voice says from the other side of the confessional, and Ominis’ blood runs cold. It is a voice he knows – knew – would know, anywhere. Even in its deeper, coarser state. It is resonant and full, placed forward in the mouth, laced with a sneer and teetering eagerly on the edge of a punchline that never quite comes.
‘Certainly it cannot be?’ Ominis wonders to himself as the voice continues, the sound of it luring a cold collection of tense nerves deep within Ominis’ gut out of a dense and long-forgotten hibernation.
“My last confession was…nine years ago, give or take. But not in a confessional. Too small for me. No, I proclaimed my guilt in front of a Ministry of Magic tribunal, but I’m sure you already know that. Now, I wonder…Father Grimm…” The way he emphasizes the last name with a plosive ‘m’ sound at the end sends a chill up Ominis’ spine. “...could you possibly grant the likes of me absolution ?”
“That remains to be seen,” Ominis says, business-as-usual, as his palms begin to sweat. He feels betrayed, somehow. Hoodwinked. But he stays the course. “You may continue.”
“Don’t you know who I am?” the voice asks.
“I am sure I do not,” Ominis lies and the voice huffs out a single burst of laughter through his nose. But Ominis, stalwart and determined, continues, “the confessional is a sacred exchange between you and God. And true repentance begins with humility. Do you approach your confession with a humble heart?”
There is a scuffle in the chamber to his left, and Ominis hears the door of the confessional open and close. Confident footsteps clack against the stone floor, echoing hauntingly throughout the empty cathedral, and the door to his own half of the enclosure opens.
Ominis hears the voice laugh in a cocky way through closed lips from directly above him. “I’ve been told I lack the capacity for humility…will that be a problem?”
Confusion and indignation boil over within Ominis from his very core. But his years of sheer boredom have preserved his ability to stay calm in almost any situation. Cooly, he rises and gently shoves his way out of the confessional and into the cathedral.
“What, exactly, are you doing here, Sebastian?” he asks as he walks between the pews, trying to make the appearance of having anything at all to do.
“Didn’t you hear? I’m your new Deacon,” Sebastian says haughtily.
“Surely not. Last I heard you were in Azkaban.” Ominis says neutrally, repressing every urge to run towards his old friend, embrace him for their old bond, punch him for his recklessness, and push him away for daring to upend Ominis’ life so suddenly.
“You haven’t written to me in years, so how would you know?” Sebastian says curtly and Ominis’ very bone marrow freezes solid. Turning around, he maintains his composure as he scoffs, “surely not one of them made it to you. They don’t deliver letters to Azkaban.”
“No, but the Ministry sets them aside…just in case,” Sebastian says wickedly as he walks deliberately, slowly towards Ominis. “And I was the glad recipient of your correspondence when they were given to me as a peace offering upon my release. You see, I’ve become the Ministry’s little bitch. Turns out my aptitude for dark magic and ancient relics have piqued their interest. In exchange for my freedom, I devote my life’s career to them. Easy swap, I’d say.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Ominis asks, his heart racing to feel Sebastian is so close to him he can feel the very most final edges of Sebastian’s breath on his face like gossamer threads of a fraying linen.
“You’re my friend,” Sebastian says matter-of-factly. “Why wouldn’t I?’
The way he says it brings Ominis both a sense of calm and of turmoil. It is both hopeful and foreboding. Heartening and…terrifying.
“Don’t worry,” Sebastian says, taking additional steps forward. “I know you didn't want to turn me in. I don’t blame you.”
“Don’t–” Ominis commands, holding up a hand to inform Sebastian not to come any closer. With the way his presence makes Ominis’ heart beat, and stomach flip, he cannot risk contact.
Sebastian laughs. “Is that the kind of control you wish to take of me, old friend? What you spoke of in your letters?”
“Oh please,” Ominis says with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “They were nothing but a jest. A ridiculous way to pass the time while enduring a hell of my own creation.”
“You know nothing of hell,” Sebastian spits back hollowly, once again igniting a dichotomy of feelings in Ominis – both compassion and sadness, and a rage that latches down to his very toes. Rage that Sebastian would presume to know what Ominis had or hadn’t been through. Rage that Sebastian had indeed, likely known a hell Ominis could never fathom. And Rage that he would be so shortsighted and selfish as to have landed himself there in the first place.
With a righteous indignation, Ominis charges forward, “an ounce of forethought would have prevented you from landing yourself there, Sebastian.” He raises his hand, pointing towards Sebastian as he says, “the selfishness of your actions–” but his voice is cut off.
Sebastian has grabbed Ominis’ wrist and Ominis isn’t entirely certain he still has knees.
‘Goddamn Sebastian’s magnetic charisma, even all these years later,’ Ominis thinks to himself as he wrestles his hand free from Sebastian’s grasp.
“Why are you really here?” Ominis demands, on his last leg of patience.
“I told you. I’m your new Deacon,” Sebastian says, factually, insisting on closing the space between them once more.
“Lying is a sin, you know,” Ominis hisses.
“Isn’t it just, Father Grimm ?” Sebastian retorts, haughty in his superior stance of having far more information on the matter. Something that annoys Ominis greatly.
Sebastian explains, quite innocently, “I assure you I’m telling the truth. The Ministry have arranged it. I have official papers. And since you’re my friend, I will tell you all. I’m to gain your trust, make my way into the ruins, and fetch an ancient relic from the tombs below, likely with the aid of a key only you have. I’m told I’ll know it when I see it, given my experience with such things. Then I’m to turn it into the ministry and ensure it is safely out of the hands of meddling Gaunts, like yourself. Imagine my surprise when I was told you were the one keeping it safe. Never thought you’d join the family ranks.”
“You have no idea why I’m here,” Ominis begins to say as Sebastian laughs heartily. “I’m sure you gave up, my dear Ominis! That’s certainly what it looks like.”
Ominis feels as if he’s being torn apart. His old life colliding with his new is not a kind of fission he ever thought he’d experience and it is far, far more uncomfortable than he could have fathomed. He is so ashamed to stand before his friend, to whom he had preached of a better, nobler way and a higher road. Yet here he is, graveling at the feet of the dark wizards that control him to be a more interesting cog in their machine.
Yet here is Sebastian Sallow. Reckless, foolhardy, and selfish. Thrown into Azkaban for killing his uncle, and sticking to his morals for the sake of saving his sister. Throwing himself on the proverbial sword for her sake, and plucked from that terrible place to forge his path in the world in a way that doesn’t sound terrible, all things considered. And he’s here only because he needs something. Of course he is.
‘Who’s the fool?’ Ominis wonders to himself.
“Let’s get you your key then, and you can get your precious relic and be on your way,” Ominis says, brushing past Sebastian towards his office.
“Just like that?” Sebastian asks, unable to mask the disappointment in his voice.
“And since you’re my friend ,” Ominis quotes back to Sebastian, snidely, “I’ll tell you the truth that not one member of my family has cared to share what it is I’m supposed to be protecting. So for all they’ll know, a robber came in and ransacked the place. Mess it up a bit in the tombs, won’t you? It will help me sell the story.”
“What am I missing?” Sebastian asks, skeptically.
“What’s the issue, Sebastian? You’ll have your relic. That is what you came for, is it not?” Ominis asks as they pass a row of pews that sit along the wall near Father Grimm’s office.
Sebastian’s hurried steps approach, falling in behind Ominis as he says, lowly, “yes, that is all I came for.” But the slight squint in his eyes betrays him – ‘not that Ominis could see it anyway, ’ he thinks to himself.
Quite instinctively, Ominis spins around on his heels to face his old friend, his voice thick with fury, “I shall hear no more lies under this holy roof, Sebastian.”
Poetically, Sebastian’s palms are the ones becoming sweaty. He has clearly gotten under Ominis’ skin and he likes it. Perhaps Ominis hasn’t been forgotten, after all. As far-fetched a fantasy as it could possibly be, Sebastian dares to think that perhaps the things Ominis wrote in his letters weren’t only for laughs.
“Why have you come here?” Ominis demands again, his voice loud, commanding and direct. It sends a shiver down Sebastian’s spine and he can’t help but fall in line to Ominis’ authority.
Moreso, he is happy to do it. He always was. As students, Sebastian liked the way Ominis looked out for him. He admired his natural aptitude for leadership and the guiding light he provided – the only influence that ever succeeded to smooth any of Sebastian’s rough, rowdy edges.
“I wanted to see you,” Sebastian responds, obediently.
“Why?” Ominis demands further, taking a step forward.
“I….I…” Sebastian stammers. He is flustered by Ominis’ directness. Moreso, he is flustered to so clearly be lacking the upper-hand he had begun with. In his hesitation, Ominis collapses in the pew that lines the wall near his office in sheer frustration. He drags his hands through his hair on his head, causing it to ripple and glisten its beguiling platinum hues in the candlelight as he pleads, more earnestly, “Sebastian, please, for the friendship we used to share, do me the respect of being forthright and let’s be done with it.”
Sebastian sits beside his old friend, frustrated in his own right. He folds his arms across his chest: an unthinking act of emotional self defense. His heart races and sweat threatens to bead on his forehead, spattered with years more freckles than when he was a boy, as he speaks plainly and without pretense. “I missed you, Ominis. You’re my…were my best friend…” An unexpected sense of relief floods Ominis from head to toe. He never realized the grief and tension that lived within him, wondering about the one he had shared so much with, connected so fully with, and was so very drawn to. Sebastian continues to explain, “you were my brother…my only friend. I spent so many days and nights thinking of…I…I didn’t know if…”
Annoyed, Ominis stiffens again, asking pointedly, “enough with the stammering, Sebastian! Time moves slowly enough as it is.”
And whether it was a command or an invitation, Sebastian isn’t entirely sure as he blurts, “I needed to know if your letters were real.”
“What?” Ominis asks. This was not what he expected to hear. Given Sebastian’s cunning entrance and his snide, condescending attitude, Ominis had been bracing for an insult, a demand. But this? His heart races as he wonders why Sebastian would ask this.
“You said you loved me…you said you dreamed of…” Sebastian starts, but Ominis cuts him off, severely uncomfortable with hearing his cavalier, irresponsible words repeated. “I know what I said,” he spits.
‘Yes, I know what I said,’ he thinks to himself. ‘I said I was in love with him. I said I had dreamed of a life together that I resented we could not have. That I fantasized about controlling him, of owning him, of making him do my bidding…written purely for amusement…yes, purely for amusement…’
“And what if I told you it was only for a laugh, hmm? A foolish way to pass the time? From one dreary, unforgiving place to another?” Ominis asks, aloof, and Sebastian’s blood runs cold, draining from his face. He was always sarcastic, lacing his sharp wit with thick irony, but this is a side of Ominis less familiar to Sebastian.
‘Perhaps the years hadn’t been kind to him, either,’ Sebastian thinks to himself, a smile breaking into the corner of his mouth to consider the parallel nature of their mutual, jaded downturn. Still, knowing the odds are against him, he still hopes against hope Ominis is only testing him. Teasing him. Playing a game with him, as he so often would back when. How he loved the way Ominis could toy with him. He feels blood rushing into his lower half at the thought.
Sitting up straighter, Sebastian adopts a confident tone. “I’d say I don’t believe you.”
‘A challenge?’ Ominis thinks to himself as his heart wrenches in his chest. His stomach flutters as it dusts off the memory of a once-masterful choreography of tension between two adept and willing friends.
“And if I said it was real?” Ominis asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
Sebastian’s heartbeat races with anticipation and longing as the urges of his most unspeakable desires numbs him in shimmying waves from his toes to his fingertips. How many nights in Azkaban he stayed sane by thinking of Ominis, he couldn’t count, but never did he think he would ever be in a position such as this.
Ominis’ whisper lives in his ears like a tingling echo. ‘If I said it was real?’ He sits tall and turns towards his friend sitting next to him in the pew as he slides his hand onto Ominis’ knee and whispers in a rasp, deep with wanting, “then I’d ask you what the fuck you were waiting for?”
When Ominis’ hand reaches for Sebastian’s face, Sebastian is sure he might melt out from beneath the fickle confines of his skin. And when Ominis says with cool indifference, “remind me, Sebastian…was it absolution you were after?” as he grips behind Sebastian’s head to pull him close, dipping his thumb into Sebastian’s mouth…well, surely Sebastian must be dreaming.
Overcome with the fog of sheer lust that floods his mind, Sebastian nods. “I only want your forgiveness,” he utters with raw, dry desperation and Ominis can hardly believe his ears.
‘Yes, he should seek my forgiveness,’ he thinks to himself as the years of betrayal, grief, heartache, and rage simmer within. Were it not for all the loss and the listlessness of losing his friends, perhaps Ominis wouldn’t be here. Miserable. If not for Sebastian’s selfishness, perhaps Ominis’ light would never have been snuffed out so brutally.
“On your knees, then,” Ominis commands, callously, gripping Sebastian’s chin and pressing his thumb deeper into his mouth as he guides Sebastian by his head to the submissive stance before him. The tugging in his groin that he feels as Sebastian gently sucks at his thumb is unbelievably intense.
“Anything, you ask, Ominis,” Sebastian pleads, beginning to paw at Ominis’ robes in an attempt to pull them up but Ominis grasps at his wrist with his free hand, halting his attempts. Nonchalantly, he says in his proper, smooth affect, “Given the circumstances, you would do well to address me as ‘Father.’”
“Fuck ,” Sebastian whispers under his breath, his whole body surging with the need to be compliant – to be chastized for his many years of sins and wrongdoings.
“Filthy…” Ominis chides, pulling Sebastian up by his dirty little mouth to as high a kneel as he is able. “I wonder…” he practically sings from his velveteen throat as he leans towards the familiar face that has haunted his dreams. “What does such a filthy mouth taste like?”
Sebastian's hands rest on Ominis’ knees, sliding up his legs and gripping into his hips as Ominis’ fingers tightens around his chin and neck and he is yanked forward into a rough, hungry, and commanding kiss. Each man inhales the other, devouring years of secrets that live somewhere behind their molars, and the desires they have kept hidden beneath their tongues. Their hearts race in unison, creating a stormy and dark percussion that slams against their respective ribs, the usual chant of ‘thump…thump…thump…’ having been replaced with a lone, voracious directive ‘more…more…more…’
Amidst the gasping for air and the sweat and the spit, punishing fingers claw and grip, embittered teeth gnaw and bite, soft hair is clutched with the force of resentment, robes are flung off with desperate thirst, and waistbands are unclasped in the haste of desire.
But when Sebastian dares rise, Ominis halts his pace, assertively shoving him back to the ground by his rippling, broad shoulders. “There is work to be done, yet, Sallow,” he practically snarls. He almost shocks himself with how like his father he sounds, speaking to Sebastian the way Lord Gaunt might condescend to a servant. Yet, deep within him, the urge to succumb to every instinct of his class and status mews gently ‘...and why not?’ as he relaxes into the inevitability of his dominance taking hold.
“Your hand,” he demands of Sebastian, who looks up at the platinum adonis before him with wide, adoring eyes. Instantly, Sebastian plants his palm on Ominis’ torso in blind obedience, eager to be directed. “Look what you’ve done…” Ominis scolds as he takes Sebastian’s hand and guides it to the taught bulge beneath his pants, accentuating his reprimand with a few acerbic ‘tsks.’ Sebastian’s chest heaves with deep, wanting breaths to feel Ominis’ fullness, his mouth going dry to know the ways in which he wants this is so mutual.
“I’m sorry…Father…” Sebastian croaks. Ominis laughs breathily through closed lips, reaching behind Sebastian’s head of full, thick waves that dance with his fingers like ripples of moonlight on the ocean’s surface. “Good boy. As you should be.” He pauses to gauge Sebastian’s reaction but Sebastian doesn’t move. Annoyed, Ominis instructs, “will you be handling the problems you’ve created or need I tell you how to do every little thing?”
Entranced and entirely lust-drunk, Sebastian claws at the barriers that stand between him and Ominis’ straining bulge in a daze, making quick work of the buckles, buttons and ties that hold his pants and underclothes in place, ripping them away to expose his chiseled, jutting cock. At the sight of it, his eyes roll back into his head as he endures a wave of satisfying pleasure that consumes him and causes him to gasp lightly. Ominis smiles.
Sebastian takes Ominis’ shaft in his hand, cupping his balls gently and begins to pump slowly. He licks at the tip of it when he notes a tell-tale glisten form and a devilish smile spreads across his face when Ominis sighs deeply with his touch, and relaxes his body, sliding down in the pew and allowing his knees to fall further apart.
Ominis grips a hand into Sebastian’s hair as though it were the life-preserver in the stormy waters of deprivation in which they tread, and rests his other hand contentedly on Sebastian’s shoulder. The sensation of Sebastian’s hands and tongue feel to his body like oxygen to his lungs. Still, the undercurrent of years of pent up anger and discouragement drive him as he demands, defiantly, “confess your sins to me.”
Sebastian can feel the blood rushing to his face, in anticipation of his shame being put on full display. Yet, deep within his bones, within the throbbing of his desire, he knows this is the pathway for his own redemption. There is no other way.
“I killed my Uncle,” he says simply as he beckons more of Ominis’ erection with nimble and tempting hands. “And poachers. And ashwinders.”
The words sting Ominis to his core, reminding him of the hope he once had for Sebastian. For humanity. He can no longer tamp down the hatred he feels that Sebastian would have been so short sighted and selfish as to let himself become a… “ murderer ,” he says cruelly, through a dry mouth as waves of ecstasy flow through him from the touch of the very same criminal.
“Yes,” Sebastian says desperately. “And I am not chaste, Father,” Sebastian confesses as he subtly increases the speed of his hands, his mind feverish with wanting. A jealousy rears its head in Ominis at the memory of Sebastian’s charisma and the way he helped himself to the girls who threw themselves at him like common whores. “How many?” Ominis demands between shaky, metered breaths that hold back his impending release.
“Eleven…” Sebastian says lowly, his voice frying with thirst. Ominis’ hips begin to join Sebastian’s efforts, as he jealously insults his old friend through gritted teeth. “ Little slut… ” But with his libel, Ominis’ hips rolling slowly and rhythmically with the sliding of Sebastian’s masterful hands. He holds in a gasp when he feels Sebastian pause to spit on his cock, the sensation of his saliva like warm honey dripping down his searing skin.
“I am…but…” Sebastian trails off and it frustrates Ominis greatly, lingering like an unresolved melody in the air.
“But what?” he demands furiously, tensing his grip in Sebastian’s hair, causing him to cry out lightly in protest to the pain of it. “Confess!” he orders.
“But I didn’t want them!” Sebastian blurts as his greedy hands beg Ominis’ cock to release for them. “I didn’t want them,” he says again, clenching his jaw with heaving breaths and persistent hands.
“Liar ,” Ominis accuses, the years of stories he’s told himself about Sebastian clinging to their author for validation, despite the reality of his current situation.
“It’s true,” Sebastian declares, trailing kisses along the exposed flesh of Ominis’ concave, muscular abdomen and exposed inner thighs. “Let me show you what I always wanted…” he whispers oh-so seductively. And when Sebastian’s tongue begins to explore the very same places on the body of his friend, Ominis demands his mind not be carried away with Sebastian’s spell, repeating the words of his friend’s admissions
‘He is a liar…’ Ominis thinks, pinching his eyes together against the sensation of Sebastian’s tongue sucking at his bellybutton.
‘Nothing but a dirty whore… ’ Ominis thinks to himself as Sebastian’s mouth kisses from the base to the tip of his straining shaft.
‘A petty criminal…’ he insists to himself, despite Sebastian’s lips wrapping themselves around his head as easily as if they had done so dozens of times before.
‘A cold-hearted murderer…’ Ominis forces himself to recall as Sebastian’s tongue cleverly dances along the most sensitive, welcoming parts of Ominis’ cock while his lips magnificently, possessively envelop him.
“Fuck ,” Ominis whispers as his entire being crumbles into the betraying, selfish filth before him that was once his friend Sebastian Sallow. With both hands secured into his hair, caring not a whit for the pain it might cause him to be manhandled this way, he pulls Sebastian’s willing head towards his rolling hips, impaling Sebastian’s face unapologetically to the back of his throat.
Sebastian wished Ominis could see the way it satisfied him, the tears that formed in his eyes, the red color of his face as he choked on the cock inside him, the dripping spit that covered his chin, the way his eyes rolled to the back of his head with delight as every rough thrust sent jolts of lightning to his own groin, and how every pain and discomfort felt like retribution for his terrible choices that led to being parted from the man he always loved.
But Ominis was quite content, indeed, to hear the way Sebastian choked and gargled. To hear the way he struggled to breathe amidst it all. To feel he was responsible for an ounce of well-deserved suffering that paled in comparison to the years of sorrow Sebastian’s actions had caused for Ominis.
“You will swallow,” Ominis instructs with his final thrashing jolts, Sebastian unable to affirm beyond a haphazard, humming grunt, a smile setting into his lips despite being stretched to capacity as he feels Ominis’ warm release spread across his tongue and fill his his throat, accompanied by the most captivating, delightful moans and sighs he has ever had the privilege to hear.
Ominis’ hands release Sebastian’s head, flooding his scalp with relief. The two remain still and silent for what feels like a small lifetime as they both paw at their disheveled hair and Sebastian swipes at his raw, wet face. Without a word, Ominis tucks himself together, buckling his pants and throwing his robe back over his head. He stands, to Sebastian’s surprise, and walks towards his office, mere paces away, leaving Sebastian confused and wanting, given the unsatisfied arousal he feels, himself.
Sebastian forces himself to stand, following uncomfortably in Ominis’ wake. All he can think to say through the disquieting tension of his deep satisfaction and deeper dissatisfaction as he stands in the office doorway is, “am I forgiven?”
Ominis forages through his desk and holds a key outward with an extended arm. Aloof, he asks, “do you feel absolved, Sebastian?”
The question punches at Sebastian’s gut, revealing the fact that he feels he has only just begun to scratch the surface of making up for his lifetime of poor choices.
Before Sebastian can reply, Ominis says, indifferently, “this is the key you need to access the tomb in the ruins. It is, after all, what you came here for.”
Bewildered, Sebastian walks forward in an automatic way and takes the key offered to him as Ominis continues his lecture. “Given your track record, I expect I shall never see you again, though I would appreciate it if you return the key before you depart. I will leave my office door unlocked. Good night, Sebastian.”
Ominis dips his head downward, gesturing to the door, as if waiting for Sebastian to turn and go. But Sebastian finds himself paralyzed, afraid that doing so might break his heart beyond repair – an outcome he did not anticipate nor account for.
Sebastian attempts to clear his dry throat and Ominis inhales sharply at his continued presence in his office. The men stand in silence, leaning into the energy of the other as if it were a chess game of life-and-death.
Now, Ominis Gaunt rarely granted his mind the petty indulgence of wandering. But in this moment, after the turn of events this evening that had made his life immeasurably more interesting than they had been in the three-to-seven years prior, he allowed himself to consider, for just a moment, that Sebastian Sallow might have changed. The thought flooded him with the sensation of so many butterflies. And so…on the off chance it could possibly be true, he broke the silence between them.
“If, on the other hand, I am wrong about you…morning prayers begin at eight AM, sharp.” Ominis is glad to have made it through the sentence without wavering.
Sebastian feels a mischievous smile pull at the corners of his mouth. “I won’t be late,” he says simply as he turns to go.
But, ever forward-thinking, Ominis – now flooded again with desire, his limbs practically quivering with the anticipation of all that is to come – does not miss the opportunity to assert his position, yet again. He calls out, “Oh, and Sebastain?”
“Yes?"
“Don’t forget, the act of self-pleasuring is a sin in the eyes of God and will not be tolerated under any circumstances. Do you understand?” Ominis’ heart beats up into his throat as he waits for Sebastian’s response, who is only pausing long enough for his smile to not betray his excitement before he replies.
“Yes, Father. I understand. Completely.”
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Inspired by this art by @_jazzd on Twitter (They are Sebastian- & Ominis-shaped, after all)
