Hallowed Be Thine Name (Patreon)

Today was one of those days when I wake up in the middle of the night with an idea for a story and start writing furiously to get the idea out before it disappears. I’m happy with how it turned out and instead of slotting in for a Saturday release, I’ve decided to share it with you lot today. I hope you enjoy.

The Temple of the Fifth Moon did not sleep so much as hold its breath.

Ned had been in plenty of rich places after dark — counting-houses, a magistrate’s townhouse, once the back room of a gaming den where the takings were kept in a tea-chest — but none of them had smelled like this. Cold stone, beeswax, and a sweet smoke that clung to the back of the throat. Silver lamps burned low along the nave, each one shaped like a crescent, and the light they threw was the colour of old coins. Offerings crowded every ledge. Bowls of moonstones. Rings threaded on silk cords. A pair of ceremonial ewers so heavy with silver that Ned’s paws ached just looking at them.

“Bloody generous of you,” he muttered at the great statue at the far end. “Immortal, and still on the take.”

The Fifth Moon Goddess regarded the empty temple with a serene, carved muzzle and five crescents cut into the stone above her brow. She did not answer. Goddesses, in Ned’s experience, never did. That was half the appeal of robbing them.

He was a compact raccoon, mid-twenties, masked face sharp in the lamplight, ringed tail flicking with the particular nerves of a lad who had already had two ales too many and one plan too few. His claws were neatly filed for quiet work. His jerkin was dark. The sack at his belt already held a fistful of unset gems and a thumb-ring he rather fancied keeping. What he wanted now was the thing on the side-altar: a lunar diadem, silver and pale gems, small enough to vanish and valuable enough to keep him in taverns until the next moon turned.

He had one paw on it when he heard the pawsteps.

Not the scuff of a night-warden’s boots. Bare pads on stone. Slow. Unhurried. Coming from the vestry door with the confidence of a male who belonged here.

Ned swore, very quietly, and looked for a door that was not there.

The shroud was. It lay across a stand beside the altar, gauzy, silver-threaded, meant for draping the statue on high feasts. He snatched it, hauled it over his head and shoulders, and tried to arrange himself into something that might pass for otherworldly. The diadem went up his sleeve. His tail, traitor that it was, refused to vanish and stuck out behind him like a striped banner.

The candlestick went over with a clang that rang the length of the nave.

“Oh, sodding—”

He clapped a paw over his muzzle. Too late.

Father Tim came round the pillar and stopped.

He was a tall collie, early forties, broad through the chest and shoulders, the long fur of his ruff and chest brushed to a pale cream that caught the lamps. Traditional vestments hung on him as if they had been cut for exactly that frame: dark outer robe, a stole worked with crescents, the hem brushing his hocks. His ears were high. His muzzle was long and handsome in the severe way of males who have spent years being listened to. He smelled of clean fur, incense, and the faint warm musk under it that no amount of temple soap quite erased.

He looked at the shrouded figure. He looked at the fallen candlestick. He looked, for half a heartbeat, at the striped tail.

Then he went to his knees.

The stone was hard. He did not seem to care. He bowed until his brow nearly touched the floor, ears folded, voice low and steady and appallingly sincere.

“Lady’s messenger. I am not worthy of the sight of you.”

Ned stared through the gauze.

He had prepared, in the frantic second before the collie appeared, to run, to fight, or to talk his way out with the sort of cheek that sometimes worked on drunk dock-males and never on priests. He had not prepared for this. His heart was still trying to kick its way out through his ribs. His breath tasted of cheap ale. The shroud itched.

Right. Spirit. He was a spirit. Spirits did not pant like cornered thieves.

“Rise,” he said, and was mortified by how much he sounded like himself. He pitched it lower. “Rise, faithful… servant. The Fifth Moon has sent me. Obviously. On a matter of. Of moons.”

Father Tim rose. He did not smile. His amber eyes were wide and bright, fixed on the place where Ned’s masked face showed dimly through the cloth. When he spoke, it was with the cadence of a male who had spent twenty years making doctrine sound like weather.

“A matter of moons,” he repeated, reverent. “Then the old signs were true. The texts speak of a night when the veil thins and a spirit walks the nave in borrowed flesh, smelling of the world beyond the temple wall.” His nose twitched, very slightly. “Often of… journeying. And strong drink. The goddess is not proud.”

“That’s right,” Ned said, seizing it. “Journeying. Very far. The ale is ceremonial. Where I come from.”

“Of course.”

“And the candlestick was a test.”

“A test,” Father Tim said, as if this were the most natural thing in the temple. He righted the candlestick with careful paws and set it straight. His claws were pale, blunt, priest-kept. “You honour us by stumbling. The Fifth Moon herself is said to misstep when she first takes a body. It proves the incarnation is real.”

Ned’s tail gave a guilty twitch under the shroud. He pinned it with one heel.

“Yes. Exactly that. Incarnation. I’m very incarnated. Don’t touch me, mind. Spirits don’t like being grabbed. We smite.”

“I would not dream of seizing a messenger uninvited.” Father Tim folded his paws into his sleeves. The picture of humility. Only his tail, heavy and feathered, moved once behind him in a slow arc, the way a pleased male’s tail moves when he has decided something and does not mean to share it yet. “But if you are truly sent, there are questions the rite demands I ask. Forgive me. I am only a male. A servant. I must be sure.”

A male. Ned almost laughed. The collie looked like every stern painting of temple fathers Ned had ever slunk past, and he was talking about rites as if Ned might be examined and found holy. The world’s stupidest priest. Thank the goddess — thank whoever — for stupid priests.

“Ask,” Ned said grandly. “I know all the answers. Being a spirit.”

“What is the secret name of the Fifth Moon, spoken only in the inner sanctum?”

Ned’s mind went as blank as a washed slate.

“It’s… Moon,” he said. “Secretly. The secret is that it’s not secret. To spirits.”

Father Tim closed his eyes. For a moment Ned thought he had blown it. Then the collie exhaled, long and shaking, as if he had been granted a vision.

“The paradox of the unveiled name,” he murmured. “I have waited fifteen years to hear a messenger confirm it. The commentaries are divided. You have ended a schism.”

“Have I,” Ned said faintly.

“And the five offerings a spirit must accept before dawn, lest the visitation curdle and the thief-wind enter the nave?”

Ned did not like the word thief. He liked it even less that his sleeve was heavier than it ought to be.

“Those,” he said. “Yes. I’ll accept those. Quickly. Then I have to go back to the moon. They’re expecting me.”

“The texts are clear that a messenger who departs before the hospitality is finished leaves a wound in the veil.” Father Tim’s voice softened, almost sorrowful. “The guards would have to be called. The nave sealed. Every male and female in the temple roused to pray the wound shut. It would be loud. Official. There would be searches.”

Ned’s ears, hidden under gauze, went flat.

“We don’t want that.”

“No, honoured spirit. We do not.” The collie stepped closer. He was tall enough that Ned had to tip his muzzle up, which ruined the spectral dignity somewhat. Up close the incense could not quite cover him: warm collie, clean, with a darker note underneath, the honest scent of a male in his prime who had been awake and wanting something he had not yet named aloud. “The first offering is questions. You have borne that. The second is the unveiling. A shroud is for statues. A spirit who means to be known must be seen.”

“Seen,” Ned repeated.

“By the priest alone. In the Chamber of the Fifth Silence. No congregation. No record. Only the old hospitality, flesh to flesh, so the goddess may look through my eyes and know her messenger is true.” He bowed his head, the very model of a devout chap about to do something dreadful for excellent reasons. “If you refuse, I must assume you are a deceiver. And deceivers, I’m afraid, are a matter for the temple guard.”

The diadem slid another inch down Ned’s sleeve and tapped his wrist like a tell.

He thought of the guard. He thought of the sack at his belt, the gems, the thumb-ring, the years of not being caught finally running out in a nave that smelled of beeswax. He thought, with a straight male’s genuine alarm, that this handsome bastard of a priest was talking about flesh.

He was not bent. He liked females — tavern lasses with quick paws and laughter, a vixen once who had bitten his ear and called him a daft kit. He did not get on his back for other males. He did not kneel. He did not—

Father Tim waited, patient as stone, amber eyes lowered in respect that did not feel as safe as respect ought to feel.

Ned swallowed. The shroud tasted of dust and silver thread.

“Lead on, then,” he said, and tried to sound like a moon. “But I’m warning you. Any funny business and I’ll smite you so hard your tail falls off.”

“I shall keep my tail,” Father Tim said mildly, “where the rite requires it.”

The Chamber of the Fifth Silence lay behind the statue, down a passage so narrow Ned’s tail brushed both walls. No windows. A single lamp. The air was warmer, thick with oil of nightflower and the mineral smell of a basin set into the floor, water trembling under the light. A low couch stood against the far wall, heaped with pale hides and a bolster embroidered with crescents. The door was heavy. When Father Tim shut it, the latch fell with a sound like a decision.

“The third offering,” the collie said, “is the laying-aside of the world’s cloth. Spirits do not enter the Silence dressed as burglars.”

“I never said I was a—”

“The journeying garb.” A glance, polite, devastating. “Your sleeve is singing, honoured spirit. Silver has a tone, if one has spent one’s life among it.”

Ned went still. The diadem had slipped to his paw. He could feel the gems through the leather of his glove.

Father Tim did not reach for it. He only unfastened his own stole, folded it, and set it on a chest as if this were any other evening office. Then the outer robe. Beneath it his fur was thick and well kept, cream at the chest, sable along the back and arms, the lighter feathering of his thighs disappearing under a simple linen wrap that did very little to hide the weight between his legs. He was a big male. Broad. The muscle under the fur moved when he set the robe down. His sheath sat heavy against one thigh, the outline of it already fuller than a priest’s ought to be during an exorcism of thieves, and his balls hung in a soft, furred purse that shifted when he turned.

Ned’s mouth went dry for reasons he refused to examine.

“I’m not taking my kit off for a collie I’ve just met,” he said. “Spirit or not. That’s not— I’m not like that. I like females. Properly. This is a misunderstanding of a very religious nature.”

“The rite does not consult your habits,” Father Tim said. He stepped in. One big paw lifted, slow enough to dodge, and drew the shroud down off Ned’s ears. The raccoon flinched. Cool air hit his mask. The collie’s claws grazed the sensitive edge of one ear and Ned’s knee nearly buckled, a stupid bright shiver racing down his spine. “There. A masked face. The commentaries never mentioned a mask. How marvellously specific the goddess is.”

“Don’t—”

“Hush.” It was gentle, and it was not a request. Father Tim’s other paw settled at the back of Ned’s neck, pads warm through the shorter fur there, holding him the way a male holds a smaller male he has already decided will not leave. “You are shaking. Messengers often do, the first time they are received. The fourth offering is scent. You will forgive me if I confirm you.”

He bent his long muzzle into the crook of Ned’s throat and breathed in.

Ned made a noise he would deny later, a thin startled nh— and tried to twist away. The grip at his neck tightened just enough to still him. Father Tim’s nose was cold and wet for a second, then hot breath, then the slow drag of a tongue, one broad lap from collarbone to the soft fur under the jaw. The sound of it was wet and unhurried. Lick. A pause. Another, filthier, right over the pulse.

“Ale,” the priest murmured against his fur. “Stone dust. Fear. And under that—” He inhaled again, deeper, and a low pleased sound rolled in his chest, almost a groan, the first crack in the holy voice. “Raccoon. Young. Heated, though you don’t want to be. Your sheath’s waking. I can smell it.”

“That’s the incense,” Ned said, high and furious and hard in his smallclothes already, the traitor. “That’s not— I’m straight, you daft— your holiness. I’m a spirit who’s straight. This isn’t hospitality, this is you having a go.”

“This is the old way.” Father Tim’s paw slid down his chest, popped the toggles of the jerkin one by one, and pushed it off his shoulders. The sack and the diadem clinked to the hides. He did not even look at them. His eyes stayed on Ned’s newly bared torso: the denser fur of the belly, the paler chest, nipples hidden until a thumb-pad found one and circled until it peaked. Ned jerked. “A priest knows a messenger by taking him into his mouth, his paws, and his body, until the goddess is satisfied the flesh is honest. If I stop, the visitation fails. If the visitation fails, I open that door and call the guard, and you explain the diadem to a male with a spear and no sense of humour.”

He said it so calmly Ned almost believed the doctrine existed.

Almost.

The paw at his neck slid around to his muzzle, thumb pressing at the corner of his mouth, not cruel, simply sure. Father Tim’s own mouth was close enough that Ned could see the gleam of teeth, the dark of his nose, the way his ears had tipped forward with interest he was no longer bothering to hide.

“Kneel, spirit.”

“I don’t kneel for—”

“Kneel. Or we are finished, and not in the way that spares you.”

The stone was cold under Ned’s knees. His tail curled tight around his own hip, ringed fur bristling. He stared at the linen wrap and hated the shape under it, hated the heat crawling up his own belly, hated that his cock was pushing at his sheath in helpless little twitches every time the collie breathed on him. Straight. He was straight. This was a job gone wrong and a priest gone mad and if he bolted now he would be taken in the passage with gems in his paws and a story no magistrate would believe.

Father Tim untied the wrap and let it fall.

His cock came free of a dark sheath already rolled halfway back, thick, flushed a deep ruddy pink against the cream of his belly-fur, the shaft heavy enough to bob when he shifted his stance. A knot sat at the base, not yet swollen, a promise of a swell. The head was tapered, slick at the tip with a clear bead that caught the lamp and stretched, trembling, before it fell. His balls hung fat and furred beneath, the skin of the sack looser, swaying. The smell of him hit Ned like a door opening into a den: musk, salt, clean male, strong enough that Ned’s nose wrinkled and his mouth watered in the same horrified second.

“The fifth offering,” Father Tim said, voice gone rougher, “is the kiss of the messenger upon the priest’s flesh. Open.”

“You’re having me on,” Ned whispered. “This isn’t in any book. You’re just a filthy-minded collie who wants his cock sucked, and I’m—”

“A spirit with a stolen diadem and a very short future, if he keeps talking.” A big paw cupped the back of his skull, claws pricking just enough to make the point. The other took that heavy cock and tapped the wet head against Ned’s muzzle, once, twice, smearing precum across the black fur of his mask, over his lips. The taste was bitter-salt and immediate. Ned’s tongue darted out before he could stop it. He gagged on the flavour and on himself.

“That’s it,” Father Tim murmured. “Good lad. Tongue out.”

Ned’s ears burned. He put his tongue out because the alternative was the guard, and the collie fed him the head with a slow push, stretching his lips around a girth that made his jaw ache at once. Hot. Silken at the tip, harder beneath, the taste flooding thicker as Father Tim’s hips gave a restrained roll. Glk. Ned’s throat clicked. Spit gathered and spilled down his chin into his chest fur.

“Mmm. There. Keep your claws off unless you mean to scratch, and if you scratch I shall assume the spirit requires correction.” The priest’s voice had lost none of its polish and all of its innocence. He petted Ned’s ear with the pads of two fingers, rubbing the thin skin until Ned shivered and sucked by accident, a wet schlck that echoed in the small chamber. “Listen to you. Spirits are noisy, it seems. Again.”

He rocked in, not deep enough to choke, deep enough that Ned’s nose buried in the thick fur at the base and the smell of musk and balls wiped out the incense. Ned’s eyes watered. His paws hovered, useless, then gripped the collie’s thighs because he had to hold something. The fur there was dense and warm. Muscle shifted under it as Father Tim fucked his mouth in short, devout strokes, each one ending with a quiet, filthy sound — mmh, hahh — from the priest’s chest, as if even he could not keep the office silent.

“You take it well for a male who likes females,” he said, almost kind. “Your tongue’s doing the work. Under the head — yes. There. Ahh. Goddess. That’s the spot. Don’t you dare stop.”

Ned hated him. Ned’s cock had shoved fully out of his sheath inside his smallclothes, aching, leaking into the cloth, and every time the collie’s knot bumped his lips he felt his own hole clench around nothing in a way that made him want to die of embarrassment. He was not bent. His body had not received the notice. Precum smeared his tongue. He swallowed because he had to, and the swallow dragged a groan out of Father Tim that was nothing like prayer.

“Hnnh— good. Enough.” The cock slipped free, shining, a string of spit connecting the head to Ned’s lower lip until it broke. Ned coughed, chest heaving, muzzle a mess. Father Tim looked down at him with bright, hungry eyes and thumbed the spit off his chin, then pushed that thumb into Ned’s mouth for him to clean. “Up. On the couch. On your front. The rite isn’t finished until I’ve had you properly.”

“Properly,” Ned croaked. “You mean— you’re going to put that in me. That. I’m not— I’ve never— I’m a bloke who fucks, I don’t get fucked, I’m straight, you hear me, I’m—”

“I hear a messenger bargaining.” Father Tim lifted him. Just lifted him, paws under his arms, and set him on the hides as if he weighed nothing. The strength of it knocked the rest of the speech out of Ned’s lungs. The collie stripped his smallclothes down his legs, past the desperate curve of his cock, and made a soft, interested sound at what he found.

Ned’s shaft was smaller than the priest’s, ruddy, curved, the sheath peeled back, the tip wet and angry. His balls were drawn up tight. His tail had fluffed to twice its size. Between his cheeks, when Father Tim pushed the tail aside and spread him with both thumbs, his hole winked, pink-brown and clenched, the fur around it damp with sweat and the sharp raccoon musk that fear and unwanted heat had pushed out of him.

“Lovely,” Father Tim said, and it was the first word all night that did not pretend to be scripture. Then, recovering, smoother: “The inner seal. It must be opened with oil and with patience, or the visitation bruises. Breathe.”

“Don’t you dare put your tongue—”

He put his tongue there.

Ned yelped, a raw ahh—! that cracked into a moan he bit off too late. Father Tim’s muzzle pressed in, cold nose against his sack, hot tongue laving a broad stripe over his hole, then pointing, pushing, wetting him in filthy little laps. The sound was obscene. Slrp. Mmh. Slrp. The collie groaned into him as if the taste were a privilege, paws spreading Ned’s cheeks wider, claws dimpling the fur. Ned’s hips jerked. He tried to crawl up the couch. A heavy forearm pinned his waist.

“Stay. Nnh. You taste like a male who’s been nervous for hours. Sharp. Good.” Another lick, slower, circling the rim until it softened, then the pointed push of tongue inside, shallow, wriggling. Ned’s toes curled in his boots — he still had his bloody boots on — and a broken sound fell out of him, ohh, fuck, don’t—

“Language,” Father Tim said, amused, mouth wet. “Even spirits mind their mouths in the Silence. Or they don’t. I find I prefer they don’t.”

He reached for a vial on the chest, thumbed the stopper, and poured oil over his fingers. It smelled green and warm. Two pads pressed at Ned’s hole, rubbing the oil in, and then one thick finger sank past the ring with a pressure that made Ned’s eyes cross.

“Hhh— too much, that’s— ahh—”

“One finger is not too much. You’re tight because you’re fighting it. Stop fighting it and it’ll feel like what it is.” The finger crooked. Ned’s spine bowed. Something inside him lit up, a deep rolling spark that was not pain and not quite pleasure and then, when the collie rubbed it again, was so much pleasure his cock jumped and spat a thin string onto the hides. “There. That’s the sweet place. The texts are very clear about the sweet place. They simply don’t use your sort of words for it.”

“You made the texts up,” Ned gasped, and immediately wished he hadn’t, because Father Tim laughed, low and warm, and added a second finger.

The stretch burned. Oil slicked the way. The two fingers scissored, then curled together, rubbing that spot in steady pulses until Ned’s thighs shook and his mouth would not stay shut. Ah. Ah. Nnh— ohh, bloody— ahh. His cock drooled. His hole fluttered around the intrusion, trying to push it out and sucking it back. Every rub sent a wave up his spine that pooled behind his balls and made his mind go soft and stupid.

“You’re clenching like you want a third,” Father Tim observed. “Greedy little spirit.”

“I’m not greedy, I’m— fuck— I’m trying not to scream, you smug—”

The third finger pushed in beside the others and Ned did scream, a short hoarse ahh—! muffled in the bolster. It hurt for three heartbeats. Then the hurt melted into a heavy, full ache, and the collie’s pads found that spot again and worked it until Ned was rocking back onto his paw without meaning to, tail flagged high, presenting like a female in heat and hating himself for the motion even as his body chased it.

“Look at you,” Father Tim said softly. “Straight as a plumb line, and fucking yourself on a priest’s fingers. The goddess has a sense of humour.”

“Take them out. Put it in. Get it over with. If you’re going to— just— don’t make me beg, I won’t beg, I’m not—”

“You will, if I decide the rite requires it.” The fingers slipped free. Ned’s hole clenched on nothing and he whimpered, an actual whimper, mortifying. Father Tim slicked his cock with the same oil, the sound of his paw on his shaft wet and rhythmic, shlick, shlick, and knelt up behind him. The blunt head kissed Ned’s rim. Hot. Enormous. “Last chance to call yourself a thief and take the guard. Or you breathe out, and you take me, and you keep your holy little story until I’m finished with it.”

Ned pressed his face into the bolster. His paws fisted the hides. His heart hammered. He was straight. He was caught. He was so hard it hurt, and the empty ache where those fingers had been was worse than the fear.

“Do it,” he said, muffled. “And if you tell anyone I’ll— ohh—!”

Father Tim pushed.

The head breached him in one relentless, careful drive, stretching the rim wider than the fingers had, a bright burning ring of pressure that made Ned’s voice break into a long, shaking ahhhh— nnh, wait, wait— The collie did not wait long. He held there, panting through his teeth, one paw stroking Ned’s flank, and then sank deeper, inch by thick inch, until Ned felt stuffed to the lungs and the heavy balls bumped his own.

“Hahh. There. Goddess, you’re tight. Hot. Gripping me like you mean to keep me.” Father Tim’s composure had finally cracked; the words came rough, punctuated by the small involuntary rolls of his hips. “Breathe, lad. You’re taking it. You’re doing so well for a male who doesn’t do this.”

“Shut up,” Ned sobbed, and it came out wrecked, because the burn was already turning into that deep, rolling fullness, the shaft dragging over the sweet place with every tiny shift. His cock swung under him, dripping. “Move. If you’re— mmh— if you’re going to ruin me, move, don’t just— ohh—”

Father Tim moved.

He drew back until the head tugged at the rim and drove in again, a smooth, deep stroke that punched a moan out of both of them. The couch creaked. The hides slid. The sound of it was wet and blunt, oil and bodies, schlck, schlck, and under it the priest’s breath, hah, hah, and Ned’s voice going to pieces: ahh, ahh, fuck, that’s— nnh— deeper, no, not deeper, ahhh—

The collie set a pace that was not cruel and not kind. Steady. Thorough. Each thrust seated him to the swelling root, the knot beginning to fatten, bumping Ned’s rim and threatening a stretch he was not ready to think about. Father Tim’s chest came down over his back, fur to fur, the weight of a bigger male pinning him, muzzle at his ear.

“Listen to yourself,” he growled, and licked the ear, sucked the tip, bit gently. Ned’s whole body jolted. “Moaning like a rent-lad in an alley. Is this what straight feels like, spirit? This clench? This cock dripping on my hides while I fuck the sense out of you?”

“I hate you,” Ned gasped. “I hate— ohh, right there, don’t stop, I hate you—”

“Mmh. Honest at last.”

He shifted the angle and the next stroke glanced off that inner place so perfectly Ned’s vision whitened. Pleasure rolled up from somewhere behind his balls, not a sharp peak but a slow, organ-deep wave, his rim fluttering, his cock jerking untouched, a thin spurt striping the hides. It wasn’t the full end. It was worse. It was his body answering without permission, a helpless milking clench around the cock inside him, and the sound he made was not a word at all, just ah— ah— hnnnh—

“There it is,” Father Tim panted. “The little death before the death. You’re fluttering. Goddess, you’re fluttering on me. Do it again.”

He fucked him through it, harder now, the slap of hips against fur loud in the chamber, balls swinging to meet Ned’s with a soft heavy thup each time he bottomed out. Ned’s paws scrabbled. His claws popped and caught the hide. His tail was gripped suddenly in the collie’s fist and used like a handle, pulling him back onto each thrust, and the indignity of that — striped tail hauled, arse presented, straight cock bouncing and leaking — burned almost as hot as the pleasure.

“You’re going to take my knot,” Father Tim said against his ear, voice shredded, pious words abandoned. “You’ve opened enough. It’s swelling. Feel it.”

Ned felt it. The base was thicker every stroke, catching on his rim, pop in, pop almost out, a growing obstruction that made each entry a fight his body was losing on purpose. Panic and want tangled so tight he could not tell them apart.

“It won’t fit— ahh— it’ll split me, you mad— nnh, ohh, it’s catching—”

“It’ll fit. Push out. Now.”

Ned pushed, sobbing, and Father Tim drove in with a grunt that was half prayer and half animal, hhhnn—, and the knot popped past the ring in a blinding stretch. Ned shouted. The sound bounced off stone — AHH— fuck, fuck, it’s in, it’s in— — and then the knot swelled the rest of the way inside him, locking, huge, a pressure that sat right against that sweet deep place and did not let up. His hole clenched helplessly around the intruder. His cock fired again, a weak clear pulse, and the rolling bliss hit him properly this time: not a spurt so much as a seizure of pleasure, wave after wave clamping down on the knot, his belly tightening, his paws shaking, his voice gone to a continuous broken moan, ohh, ohh, ohhhh, I can’t, I’m— ahhh—

No seed, or almost none. Just his body wringing itself out around the male inside him, thighs quivering, hole milking, mind wiped white. It went on longer than it had any right to. Every time he thought it had finished, the knot nudged that spot and another roll took him, smaller, meaner, until he was drooling on the bolster and whining like something tamed.

Father Tim was not finished.

Locked in, he could only grind, but he ground with intent, short powerful rolls of his hips, the knot tugging Ned’s rim from the inside, his cock pulsing. His paws roamed: one under Ned’s chest, pinching a nipple through the fur until Ned yelped; one wrapped around Ned’s neglected shaft, paw-pads rough and perfect, stroking him in time with the grinds.

“Come properly,” he ordered, breath hot, teeth at the scruff. “I’ve had the dry mercy. I want the wet one. Cum for me. Cum on my paw while you’re knotted like a bitch in the Silence, and don’t you dare pretend you don’t need it.”

“I’m not a— ahh— your paw, tighter, goddess, tighter—”

The collie’s fist closed. Oil and precum made it slick. He stroked root to tip, thumb swiping the head, and ground his knot in deep, and Ned’s balls drew up so hard they ached. The peak hit different this time — sharper, climbing, his cock swelling in that big paw — and then it broke.

“Ahh— ahh— FUCK— ohhh—”

He came in thick pulses, striping the hides and the collie’s fingers, each spurt punched out of him by the knot, his hole clamping so viciously Father Tim snarled and lost the last of his restraint. The priest’s hips jerked, stuttered, and he came with a raw, shocked sound, hhh— hahh, yes, take it, take all of it—, flooding Ned in hot heavy rushes. Ned felt every one. The fullness grew. Seed leaked around the seal of the knot and ran down his balls, obscene and warm, the smell of both of them suddenly enormous in the little room: musk, salt, oil, spunk, raccoon and collie fucked together until the incense didn’t stand a chance.

They stayed locked. Father Tim’s weight settled, careful not to crush, his chest heaving against Ned’s back, his tongue lapsing into slow, dazed licks along the raccoon’s ear and neck. The knot throbbed. Every throb dragged a weak aftershock through Ned’s spent cock and a whimper out of his throat.

“Mmh. Still fluttering,” the priest murmured, sounding wrecked and deeply satisfied. “The goddess is thorough.”

“The goddess,” Ned said, hoarse, face still in the bolster, “can get knotted herself. You’ve ruined my arse. I’m leaking. I can’t feel my legs. And I’m straight. I want that on the record. Whatever record spirits get.”

“Noted.” A kiss, absurdly tender, between his ears. “The knot will ease. Twenty minutes, perhaps. Try not to squirm. You’ll only make it swell again, and I am not a young male. I might take that as an invitation.”

Ned squirmed once, experimentally, felt the tug and the fresh seep of seed, and went very still.

“Bastard,” he said.

“Father,” Tim corrected, and had the gall to sound fond.

They lay in the mess and the lamp-smoke while the knot slowly, sullenly, gave up its claim. When it finally slipped free, the sound was wet and shameful, a rush of jizz following it onto the hides. Ned hissed. His hole felt open, used, sore in a way that would be worse tomorrow and was, right now, a low warm throb he refused to call pleasant. Father Tim cleaned him with a cloth and water from the basin, thorough, unembarrassed, wiping spunk from his balls and the fur of his thighs, even pressing a kiss to the small of his back as if that were part of the office too.

Ned dressed with shaking paws. The diadem was still on the chest. The sack of gems beside it. He looked at them. He looked at the collie, who had drawn his robe back on and somehow recovered the face of a respectable male of the temple, ears neat, expression mild, only the scent of sex and the slight disarray of his chest-fur giving him away.

“Right,” Ned said. His voice was not quite steady. “Visitation complete. I’ll just be off back to the moon. Don’t call the guard. We had a rite. A very stupid rite. I’m keeping the— no. I’m not keeping the diadem. You’ve put me off crime. Temporarily. My arse hurts and I have opinions about your religion.”

Father Tim picked up the diadem, turned it so the gems flashed, and set it back on the chest with the sack.

“You may go,” he said pleasantly. “The valuables stay. I should mention, before you invent a new doctrine on the way out, that I have known what you were since the candlestick.”

The chamber went very quiet.

Ned’s ears flattened so hard they ached.

“You what.”

“Supernatural messengers rarely swear at furniture,” Father Tim said. “They rarely smell of the Tin Whistle’s cheapest ale — I know the vintage, the landlord is a parishioner and a disgrace — and they do not carry a thief’s sack under a shroud while congratulating themselves on having found the stupidest priest in The City.” His mouth curved. Not a holy smile. A wicked one, ears tipped, eyes bright. “You are a terrible actor, Ned. If that is your name. You talk when you’re nervous. You agreed to be unclothed, oiled, tasted, and knotted because you thought a bit of gauze and a silly voice had me on my knees. I was on my knees because the view was better.”

Ned’s mouth opened. Shut. Opened again.

“You made me suck your cock.”

“You did it beautifully.”

“You invented a schism.”

“I ended one, too. Very efficient evening.”

“I’m straight.”

“You came twice. Once without spunking, which was a privilege to feel, and once all over my paw, which I shall be thinking about during tomorrow’s dawn office, may the goddess forgive my inattention.” He tilted his head. “You also called me a bastard, told me not to stop, and presented your tail like a male who knew exactly what he was offering. The doctrine was nonsense. The want wasn’t all mine.”

“I did it so you wouldn’t call the guard,” Ned snapped, heat flooding his mask under the fur. “I had no choice. You said searches. You said spears. You stood there with that— that thing and a voice like a sermon and I— I’m not bent. My body got confused. Bodies do that. It doesn’t mean I wanted a collie priest to knot me in a cupboard.”

“Chamber,” Father Tim said. “And perhaps not. You were frightened, and I used it, and I am not going to dress that up as virtue. I wanted you the moment I saw the tail and the panic and the ridiculous shroud. I decided to have you. You decided the guard was worse than my cock. Both of those things can be true, and you can still walk out of here furious, unarrested, and walking a little carefully.” He nodded at the door. “The valuables remain. That was the price. The rest was me being a mischievous bastard, as you so accurately put it.”

Ned stared at him. The handsome muzzle. The vestments hiding a body that had just held him down and fucked him until he sobbed. The complete absence of shame.

“You’re a fraud,” he said. “A shameless, cock-happy fraud in a goddess’s robes. None of that was real. The offerings. The sweet place in the texts. The veil. You stood there and made it up so you could get your knot in a raccoon who’d never so much as looked at another male’s sheath.”

“I have never claimed to be anything other than a humble servant of the Fifth Moon,” Father Tim said, and his eyes were laughing.

“Nothing about tonight was humble. You licked my hole and called it confirmation.”

“And you pushed back onto my tongue.” The collie opened the door. Cooler air from the passage slipped in, cutting the smell of sex. “Go on, then. Before I decide the rite requires a second witnessing. My knot’s gone down. My interest hasn’t.”

Ned snatched his dignity, failed to find it, and stalked into the passage with his tail bristling and his gait unmistakably careful. His ears were on fire. Jizz still dampened the fur between his thighs no matter how thoroughly he’d been wiped. Every step reminded him of the stretch, the lock, the way he had moaned don’t stop into a bolster while a priest stroked him off.

“Hypocritical priests,” he muttered, loud enough to carry. “Ridiculous religions. No professional standards. I’m reporting you to— to whoever priests get reported to. The moon. I’m telling the moon.”

“She already knows,” Father Tim called after him, mild as milk. “You’re welcome to visit again, spirit. The Tin Whistle does a tolerable pie, if you’d rather I bought you a drink before I bend you over next time. Less gauze. Fewer candlesticks.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it!”

“Bring the shroud if you miss it.”

Ned made a noise of pure offended raccoon and vanished toward the side door he should have used on the way in, gems left behind, arse thoroughly ruined, theology in tatters, and a heat in his belly he was going to have to drink about until it agreed to be someone else’s fault.

In the Chamber of the Fifth Silence, Father Tim gathered the soiled hides with the air of a male well pleased with his devotions, and permitted himself one quiet, unpriestly laugh.

Out in the nave, the lamps burned low. The offerings glinted. The great statue of the Fifth Moon Goddess stood as she had stood for a hundred years, serene, carved, five crescents on her brow.

For a long moment nothing moved.

Then, very slowly, the stone muzzle turned toward the empty passage. The carved eyes considered the fallen candlestick, the missing shroud, the faint scandalised muttering still fading toward the street.

A long silence.

The goddess shook her head, once, in the manner of a female who has seen every foolish male in The City and is no longer surprised, only tired.

Apparently she had seen everything.

The stone settled. The lamps hissed. Somewhere beyond the temple wall, a raccoon limped into the night insisting, to no one at all, that he was straight, that priests were a menace, and that he was never, under any moon, going back.

His tail, traitor to the last, had not yet come down.