Work Text:
He feels… full.
Relentless pounding, stretching him like he hadn't been stretched in decades.
He doesn't remember what happened.
He remembers a pair of glossy blue eyes seeking advice, when everyone had already left.
He remembers opening the cabinet in the sacristy, offering a drink and a talk.
He remembers an empty bottle of gin falling down, when a strong hand made him bend over the table.
“Forgive me father, for I have made you sin,” a deep voice behind him groans. “Or should I say Daddy, we've been naughty?”
If he doesn't remember tomorrow, is it still a sin?