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It's a normal human thing, John thinks.
The windows in the old hatchback are fogged, the air heavy and filled with the sounds of small gasps and the creaking of the car.
It's just the cause of the sin nature that plagues mankind.
Father Garcia groans against John's ear as he thrusts deeper still into the younger man, who's gripping onto the priest like his life depends on it. He knows he's leaving crescent shaped dents from his nails on Garcia's back through his shirt, holding onto the man like he'll fall if he doesn't. Like he isn't being pressed into the back seat of the other man's car, held down and fucked into.
He was just a man, after all. Weak and susceptible.
"F-Father," John sobs as the air is punched out of him as each thrust has Father Garcia slamming into his prostate. "More… I need more,"
"Fuck, John," Garcia mouth moves from John's neck to his lips, pressing them together in a kiss that's mostly teeth and tongue. His movements speed up, hips snapping forward into John, drawing out a wrecked moan with each thrust. John's moans ring in his ears as they're mixed with the sound of skin slapping skin in a symphony of lust and sin.
It's a normal human thing to get wet dreams.
What's not normal, John discerns, is having a wet dream about a priest. Not just a priest, but another man, his own mentor, one of the only people who still believes in him.
He had a wet dream about Father Garcia.
He awoke with a start, heart pounding in his chest, throat feeling dry and worn like he'd been screaming. His eyes scanned the dark of his room as reality slowly settled on him and he realized that no, he wasn't in Father Garcia's car. He wasn't being pinned to the back seat by the man, who's hands had a bruising grip on his hips. He wasn't being spoken to in his ears, sweet nothings in Spanish floating deliciously around him.
He wasn't being fucked by Father Garcia.
That thought urges John's hips forward in a harsh thrust, and he moans as his cock drags against the fabric of the pillow. The pillow that always sat on the opposite end of the bed as John. The pillow that gradually got used less and less over the past year, until finally it lay untouched. The pillow that John never really used, wouldn't use, until now at least when, in a fit of desperation, he shoved it under his hips so he'd have something he could rut against.
Like a dog in heat.
John's face heats up at the thought, and a pang of guilt stings his chest like it did after he realized, once awake, that he was painfully hard. A small wet spot had already formed on the front of his boxers, and when he pulled himself out of them precum was steadily leaking from the tip.
It's not that he hadn't gotten wet dreams before. John had been a teenager before, like any other man. He'd sinned like any other man. It was just that it's been so long. When he was married, his needs were met often enough that it was never really a problem. After that fateful day, however, when everything began falling apart, well, he had other things on his mind. Especially with the nightmares.
He began dreading going to sleep, knowing what awaited him in the abyss. He remembered attempting to go as long as he could without sleep, lasting days on end on black coffee, fervent prayer, and a determination that would usually crumble around day three.
Now that everything was over, well, his dreams seemed to calm down. He still had nightmares of course, the new horrors he had seen those three days preceding the Profane Sabbath had invaded his sleeping mind. But they didn't feel as real as before. They felt like actual dreams, something he could wake up sweating from and then, once he calmed down, forget. He didn't have that same choked feeling that he usually had when he finally escaped them, like there was that cursed red hand on his throat.
Tonight's dream, however, was different. It started about the same as they usually did with John running away from something inhuman, no cross in hand, no way to defend himself. Tonight it was through the dank sewers of the candy tunnel, that armless mutation chasing after him, repeating that one word in its gargled voice. Mother. Then a gunshot, and Father Garcia was there, standing over the body of the creature.
Then it shifted.
Father Garcia wraps his hand around John's leaking cock as he strokes him mercilessly in time with his thrusts. Each push, each swipe, has John rocketing closer and closer to the edge of oblivion, until he's right along it, balancing, one small push and it's all over .
It wasn't enough.
John lets out a high pitched whine as his hips falter for a moment when the realization hits him, hard and heavy like the fault sitting in his heart.
It wasn't enough. He couldn't come.
His dream never finished. He woke up right there on the edge, gasping as he awaited an orgasm that never hit him, never gave him the satisfaction, just left him feeling empty in more ways than one.
So here he was, humping desperately against his ex wife's pillow in an attempt to come to the false memory of Father Garcia fucking him.
God, John was fucked.
He hated himself for how he knew he looked, rutting against a pillow, gasping, cock leaking onto the mattress below. He hated himself for what he knew he was doing, sinning in such a dirty, lewd way, and yet he couldn't bring himself to care enough to stop. He was so, so close, all he needed was that one small push .
"Desperate, huh, mijo?"
John jumped as the voice entered his mind, and a loud moan burst from his lips. Sometimes he was glad he lived alone.
Fantasizing about his mentor was definitely going to be added to the long list of John's sins tonight.
"Fuck, yes ," he muttered to himself, pressing his face against his own pillow as pressed his hips against the other, feeling his cheeks burn up.
"Plea-please, Father, I'm s-so close," he hiccups, simultaneously trying to buck up into Father Garcia's hand and fuck down on his cock.
Father Garcia chuckles, pressing a brisk kiss to the younger priest's temple. "What do you need, mi amor?"
The imagined nickname has John whining a rattled sound, hips snapping forward.
"N-need you," he gasps aloud, feeling too good to be ashamed, and yet the feeling still burns in his chest. What would Father Garcia think if he saw him now? Would he chastise him, berate him for his vulgarity, for what his filthy mind is conjuring up?
Or would he join him?
John whines again, thrusting forward faster as he feels a tightness in his stomach.
God, he'd want him to join him, he'd beg him to, to climb on him and take control. Maybe he'd hold his hips down so he couldn't cum yet as punishment for his actions. Maybe he'd grind against him, take what he wants from John, use him as the father saw fit, use John like the whore he really was.
John bites his lip imagining Father Garcia calling him a whore in that rusty accented voice. His cock jumps at the thought, leaking like his mouth is, open from gasping as drool pools on the pillow beneath him.
Father Garcia speeds up, slamming himself impossibly deeper into John as his hand becomes a blur on his dick. "Then come for me, John."
John all but wails as he comes, hips stuttering against the pillow as his orgasm hits him, images of Father Garcia floods his brain. He keeps working his hips, riding through the aftershocks of his orgasm even when it starts to become too much, esp ecially when it becomes too much, like he's punishing himself. He deserves the pain that follows pleasure, imagining Father Garcia milking him for all he's worth until he's writhing, begging him to stop.
Eventually John stops, and the heavy, pathetic weight of his actions lay on him like a blanket. He feels exhausted, and as sleep mercifully starts to grab him away from his guilt, he has one final fleeting thought before he falls into the abyss of slumber.
I'm going to hell. He thinks, and then he's asleep, praying for the first time for regular nightmares again.