#also shoutout ORION CARLING...

[gurokiitty]

a/n : i live for desperate, pent-up men (* ´ ﹃｀)

LEAD ME NOT INTO TEMPTATION

{ priest! curly x f! reader }

word count : 1408

warnings/tags : NSFW, religious themes, implied age-gap, ooc, confessional booth masturbation, corruption, verbal fantasies, sexual shame and guilt.

You come every Friday. Always after sundown, when the walls sweat and the pews groan, lonely and dark with the weight of waiting.

You never call it confession, but you ask for his ear. You tell him you're burdened. You tell him you're afraid.

Yet you look at him through the screen like he’s your shame and your salvation all at once. You lean forward with your lips glossy and bitten, your voice wet with something worse than sorrow.

Father Carling listens, as he must. It is his duty, it is his cross—and he carries it with shoulders bowed, hands tight in his lap, knuckles white as wafers.

Tonight, your voice is different. Loose, almost drunken. But you’re not drunk, no, the hunger that laces your words is older than that—older than you—and it drips into the booth like oil, slick and heavy, impossible to cleanse.

"Bless me, Father," you whisper, voice like sugar melting down his spine. “For I have sinned.”

"…How long has it been?" he rasps, already clearing his throat. Already ashamed. "Since my last confession?" You hum, sweetly. "Seven days. But I’ve been thinking of you every one of them."

His breath catches.

You lean closer to the screen, and the latticework casts tiny bruises of shadow across your cheeks. He can see your outline, just barely—the hazy swell of your shoulders, the shape of your mouth. He doesn’t need more than that. He’s imagined worse in the empty hours of morning, when the church bells are silent and his sheets are damp.

"I touched myself this morning," you whisper, mouth close to the mesh, your breath fanning through. "And then again after lunch. I can't stop thinking about you, Father."

He freezes. Every hair on his arms lifts in silent protest. He swallows. Hard. But his voice is calm.

"You mustn’t speak like that in here."

"Why not?” you breathe, "Isn’t it better I say it in here than… do it again out there?"

Your knees shift apart—he can tell from the sound of fabric sweeping across the bench.

“You want to know what I’m doing now, Father?”

Just a gentle pass of fingers beneath your skirt, but the sound—your breath hitching, the soft grind of cotton between your legs—is unmistakable. The booth is hot. Suffocating. You breathe like someone freshly exorcised.

“You’re doing it again,” he says, voice thin with disbelief. “Right now?”

“Mmhm,” you murmur, lips going slack. “Can you hear it?”

He can. The wet, indecent sound of your fingers parting what should remain untouched. It echoes in his skull like water dripping in a crypt.

The screen shifts as you lean your head against it, the lattice bending as if it might snap under your breath. He’s sweating. His fingers curl inward, dragging up the swell of his crotch, gripping flesh that’s pale and sickly-soft under the black. He palms himself clumsily through his cassock, breath ragged, stomach clenching with shame.

"You mustn’t…" he repeats, moreso to himself than to you. A final, trembling plea from a man already halfway to Hell. His teeth grit behind closed lips. Through the thin clerical robe, he feels how stiff he’s become. He tells himself he hasn’t done anything yet—but that’s a lie, and God does not suffer liars. He just listens to the sound, that awful squelch as your fingers work through the slick mess between your thighs, it fills the booth like incense. A new kind of sacrament.

“Tell me what you see when you close your eyes,” he croaks. “Speak it plain. Do not spare me. I—I deserve to know the full weight of your corruption.”

He tells himself it’s to save your soul—but he’s trembling. His thighs twitch beneath his robes, his cock a thick and pulsing brand of guilt in his fist. A bead of precum blooms at the head, spun from years of tension and restraint.

You whimper, soft and obscene, and he squeezes harder.

"I see your mouth," you whine, "I imagine you licking me here—along my slit—moving your tongue slowly, carefully..."

He gasps—a broken, wounded sound. His hand stills for only a second before moving again, more desperate now. His fingers are sticky with his own filth, the damp cotton of his underclothes clinging to him like a second skin.

“I imagine your hands, too. You have big fingers, Father. I think they’d stretch me.”

A groan. Low, muffled into his sleeve as his spine arches. He should leave. He should run. He should vomit at the altar.

Instead, he shifts forward, pressing his forehead to the cool mesh of the confessional screen, his breath stinking of guilt and lust and sour wine from the last Mass.

“Keep going,” he whispers. “Please.”

“I’m using both hands now,” you say. “One finger on my clit, one inside. It’s so wet. So hot. You did this to me, Father.”

Through the screen, you watch him squirm. He doesn’t know how visible he is—how his silhouette shudders every time your voice dips.

He stifles a moan, eyes squeezed shut as his own hand moves in jerks. Harsh. Desperate. He’s biting his tongue, practically drawing blood, but the pain only makes him harder, makes his grip crueler. His hips jerk forward and the booth creaks beneath his weight.

“I want to come in front of you,” you moan, “I want you to see me dripping for you. I want you to open that screen, just once, and look at what you've done.”

A sob breaks loose from him. He imagines you curled in the opposite booth, thighs glistening, belly twitching, slick smeared down to your knees.

His legs twitch at the thought and he caves, pulling his cock out from under his robes—angry and red and leaking at the tip like something wounded, and strokes it furiously.

“You’re going to make me cum,” you pant. “Please, Father. Tell me I can.”

He’s already gone, already past the point of prayer and penance. He trembles, his voice cracked wide and bleeding:

“God sees this—He sees you ruin yourself.”

“I want Him to,” you whisper. “I want Him to watch you too.”

"F—Fuck."

Something in him cracks. And when he speaks again, it’s not his voice. It’s lower, darker. Sick with want and full of lust. “Say my name,” he begs, pleads, the words tumbling out before he can catch them. “Let me hear it. Let me hear you cum with my name on your tongue.”

Your cries become wet and frantic, and he thinks he might die hearing them. Might rot right there in the booth, buried beneath his vestments, his purity crumbling around his shaking hand.

"I give you permission, my Child," he groans, the words dragging out of him like a curse, “Cum for me.”

You gasp like a dying girl. The noise he makes in response is worse—a soft, strangled whine, helpless and boyish.

“I'm—" you mewl, and he can hear it: the crescendo of your breath, the slapping rhythm of your hand, the helpless, wet clench of your insides.

You choke on his name, your slick crashing down around your fingers in waves, in dribbles, in sin. It leaks into the wood. It soaks the hem of your skirt.

He follows—only seconds after—his whole body shaking, his hand sticky and twitching and useless as it cups the spent, wilting shame between his thighs.

It hits his fingers in hot, thick ribbons—disgrace painting his palm, his robes, the edge of the wood below him. His whole body seizes, a twitching marionette held up by guilt and ecstasy. His spine curls, bowing as if in prayer, but there’s nothing devout in the way he grips the edge of the seat, white-knuckled, twitching with aftershocks.

He can hear you breathe, just beyond the screen. Shallow, shaky, content.

“…Did you cum too, Father?” you ask, your voice soft, breathless. Yet, you sound triumphant. Vicious with beauty.

He doesn’t respond. Can’t. The taste of it is thick in his throat—a blasphemous stew of salt, blood, and bile. His collar is too tight. His chest aches like he’s been struck.

And still, your voice continues, dreamy and warm: “You sounded so pretty. I thought maybe you did.”

His cock throbs in his weary hand, softening slowly under the weight of what he’s done. What he let you do.

But he sits there. Still. Listening to you rise. Watching your outline slip from view.

And then, very quietly, he whispers:

“God forgive me.”