When I was a kid i had this idea of "saving" like you would do in a game. So whenever I felt particularly content i would take a note of my surroundings and “save” that moment😌
author’s note: So, my friend asked for confessional glory hole and this is a confessional glory hole. It's a real shame I haven't done priest!Viktor until now :')
AO3
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It echoes off the gilded frames, the stained-glass windows that picture the stations of crucifixion in vivid colours spilling across the marble floor. Footsteps—heels, dry and rhythmic—suggestive in their promise of what kind of ankles wobble in them, what kind of hips sway above. He knows before your perfume pierces through wood and incense, wipes his forehead, despite it being dry, and asks for forgiveness in silence before you settle on the other side of the grille.
He straightens in the narrow booth, thumb and forefinger tugging at his collar until the white slip sits square over his throat. The little tooth of cloth, pale and dumb, covering the place where his pulse hammers—Adam’s apple, the first fruit ever bitten after temptation made a fool of the first man.
Then, the hinges whisper, and you arrive. The perfume is quicker than sight, seeping through the lattice, threading itself into the incense like a weed among flowers. Not some meek scent of lilies or soap but thick, dizzying: orange blossom drowned in musk, a trace of salt where it clings to your skin. It does to him what nothing should—burns a heat low in his body where he should be at rest, makes his fingers twitch on the wood as if he might dig through and seize you. The smoke and polish of the chapel cannot smother it; it eats straight through, like rot through varnish.
Your skirt sighs as you sit, close enough that he feels the air shift. His tongue sticks briefly to the roof of his mouth. He lowers his head, eyes shutting hard, and still the words come—clear, habitual, outright wicked in a way the phrase should be a greeting and acknowledgement—innocent and pure—yet when it rolls off your tongue, it sounds like bragging.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
And God might as well have left him, because he cannot wait to hear what sacrilege you have brought him this time. He tells himself it is holy work: to bear the rot of others, to rake it up and scatter it so souls may breathe. Yet what it does to him is no act of charity. Each confession is a small sting under the skin, a drop of something poisonous that never drains. He has listened to gluttons who choked on their own plenty, adulterers who ended on the gallows, proud men snuffed out like Nebuchadnezzar crawling the fields on all fours. Every sinner has a ruin, and he knows it by rote—Samson, blinded for his appetites; Lot’s wife, nothing but salt for a single backward glance.
Still he leans close to the grille as if to drink from it, every word you offer licked into his ear. His chest is tight, ribs clawing at his heart. Heat rides the nerves of his thighs, skittering down into the meat of him, a pulse that should be tamped out but grows sharper with each syllable. He swallows—dry, papery, useless—and clasps his hands until the knuckles rasp, as if bone could make a better cage than God ever gave him.
He shifts, trying to make more space in his lungs, and the cane at his side tips, kissing the corner of the booth with a dry wood-on-wood click. A sound too sharp in the hush, like a nail driven. He closes his eyes.
“Speak, child.”
There is the small catch of a swallow, and his mind makes ruin of it—throat that bobs, fluid that slips the gullet, tongue that flattens, cheeks hollowing as if wrapped round something vulgar. The image grips him by the roots of his spine, sends a shiver raking down. He presses harder into the seat as your voice comes.
“I have lain with a man not my husband. More than once.”
He lets the words settle, all sour and sweet at once. His answer scrapes out low: “Do you know it does not work so? That you cannot rinse yourself clean and begin again each time?”
Through the lattice, a wrinkle flowers between your brows, caught square in the grid of shadow. He hurries to add, “I do not speak to shame you.” His tongue is heavy; it tastes of iron.
You hesitate, then ask, almost in challenge: “And how do you do it? How do you hold yourself apart from all this?”
A lie waits already on his lips, cold as stone: “By prayer, and by God’s grace, which is stronger than flesh.”
The words are ash. If he were not whipped already, he would scourge himself for them—for speaking what he knows to be false while wearing His cloth.
For sacrilege, he loses the cassock—slips it from his shoulders like a skin too heavy to wear, folds it badly, leaves it on the chair. He stands penitent under the cold stream, one hand braced disgracefully on the wall handle, the other tentative where he stops being priest and becomes man.
The first time he swore it would also be the last. Then the next week came, and your voice with it. The confessions poured like oil down his spine, slicking him, marking him. He carried them home like relics, like curses, and the body in him begged until he gave it what it wanted.
He does not touch himself with hunger—he strokes with dread, slow, as if delaying execution, though the outcome is always the same: the water running hotter though he never touched the tap, the breath hammering until it ricochets off tile. When he finishes, he shudders like the condemned dropped through the gallows. The silence afterward is worst: the hiss of pipes, the clatter of drops, the shame packed thick as fat stuffed into a pig at a wedding feast—holy vows by day, then by midnight a dionysian revel, gluttony carved and swallowed till no one can stand. He dries himself not with care but with violence, red raw, as if he might rub away the crime.
“Do you truly never stumble, Father?”
The way you say it—low, full of knowing—makes him feel caught in the act, as if the booth itself had eyes. His breath huffs out, sharp. How cunning you are, or perhaps it is kinship—sinner to sinner.
“Everyone does,” he answers, voice steadier than he feels. “God forsakes no one, as long as we atone.”
A pause; the faint shift of fabric as you settle more comfortably. “That sounds like a man who knows what it is to stumble.”
He almost smiles, almost snarls—he cannot tell which. The trap gapes wide, yet he edges closer to it, moth to candleflame. “I know what it is to rise again.”
Your laugh is soft, teasing, the kind that slips between ribs. He should turn stern, shepherd you back to remorse, but the words dry in his throat.
“Lying with a man not my husband,” you continue, “is not the worst sin I’ve to confess.”
His stomach knots. Curiosity, he tells himself. Employment hazard. He must hear the depths in order to pull you out. But the ache that blooms in him knows better—it is hunger. The crumbs of you are all he gets, and he feeds on them as if starved. He leans closer into the grate, breath stirring the dust caught there.
“What then?”
Your answer falls quiet, but he hears it as if whispered against his ear: “It is lying with a man while thinking of another. Holding a hand over his mouth so I could imagine the voice of someone else.”
Spear lances through—his heart kicks once, violent. He presses his palm hard to his thigh to stop it from climbing higher, but the rush unfurls, undammable. He wants it—wants it to be him behind your hand, him named in your head, him the phantom stitched into your flesh. Lust runs his spine like molten tin, collects hard between his legs until he shifts, grinding down against nothing, cursing the cassock for being both barrier and accomplice.
He ought to flinch, to throw a psalm at the thought, but all he does is lean nearer, nose almost to the wood, as if the lattice might widen. Your voice has lodged inside his skull, and now every syllable rubs raw where he is weakest. He can see it—your palm sealing a stranger's mouth, your body arching, swallowing sound, his name forming silent on your tongue.
God forgive him, he aches to be the sin itself.
He clears his throat, forces his tongue to shape something priestly, something neutral. The words come out rougher than he means, snagged on the vacuum of depravity hollowing him out, tempting him to succumb.
“Indecency is indecency,” he says, tone meant to be cool, unshaken. But the scrape of his voice betrays him, heat bleeding through every syllable. “No matter if you are happy with your partner of choice or not.”
Even as he says it, he hears how it lands—harsher than doctrine, softer than reprimand, like a man defending himself more than judging another. He grips the edge of the seat until the wood prints crescents in his palm, praying you do not hear the truth in it: that indecency is all he can think of, and he wants it branded with your face.
You frown, or at least he hears it in your tone. “I thought you did not aim to shame me.” Your spine thumps back against the wood, a dull report, and before he knows it he has reached—fool that he is—lured and trapped like some creature of naïve age.
His fingers lace through the grate, panic rattling his throat. “I do not. I—” he swallows the rest, the words I sympathise locked in his chest. “Confess. Freely.” A beat too short, his voice already racing to cover itself: “But accept the atonement I will give you.”
You lean forward again, palm pressed flat to the lattice. Skin glides the wood until it meets his fingers, and the touch is obscene—an intimacy disguised as accident, as ritual. It feels like fucking.
He tears himself back, drops into the seat, drags his hand through hair that doesn’t need smoothing. Eyes shut, as if darkness might save him, he braces to listen.
“I am plagued,” you say at last, “by someone out of reach. A voice I cannot shake. Kind, forgiving, with words that stay in me long after they’re spoken. I find myself… repeating them. I find myself building sins around them.”
His gut turns. He is lost between knowing he should not listen the way he does—not as confessor but as deviant—and wanting more.
You shift then: fabric rustles, knees meet the narrow step—and your fingers thread through the lattice. They grope softly, searching, patient as roots.
“When I atone I already sin again. I touch myself praying, hoping he can feel me. Hoping he knows. I fuck other men, cover their mouths so they don’t moan in a voice I don’t want, cover their ears so I can say Father instead of their names—”
“Stop,” he chokes, sucker-punched, rendered culprit by the vile enjoyment of listening. Sin drowns him, sweet and cloying; he sees it all behind his eyelids—your hips driving down, the grind of your ass, calling him through orgasm stolen from an unsuspecting mate. Succubus unwanted, clawing at the door beyond which absolution lies.
“Don’t dismiss me,” you whisper, desperate. “I know when someone whispers my name with lust.”
He grips the seat, knuckles white, and hisses through his teeth, “It does not matter what I lust after. It matters that I do not follow.”
“Why?” you challenge. “Why must we be scorned for this?”
“You will not be,” he breathes, tormented. “I would be—I vowed. I promised. I gave myself, and there is no way off the path that will allow me to return.”
“That does not sound like a benevolent God.”
A scalding, childish fit—you might as well have said unfair. Heat floods his skull, a rage that is shame and desire mingled. He unhooks the grate sharply; wood scrapes, and suddenly there is a square-shaped gap, a tiny window framing your face. He leans in, seizes your chin in his hand.
“Foolish child,” he says, eyes burning into yours. “God is not benevolent.”
Your pupils spill into blackness, mouth slackens. He runs a thumb across your lip. “God is to be feared, not toyed with. You—” he pushes the thumb inside, feels the wet heat of you close around it “—tempt me. And I—” he drags a ragged breath “—am a weak man.”
“Please,” you say around him, words muffled, desperate, hands worming through the gap to clutch his cassock. “Please.” Your tongue flattens, and he presses down on it—communion emptied of the Body of Christ, reduced to body alone.
Something crumbles. Not slowly, but all at once, like a wall giving way to flood. He forgets the priest, forgets the collar, forgets the years bled into litany. The man takes over, violent in his hunger, and he is almost only a spectator to himself—watching as his body leans forward, as his hand steadies your jaw for more, as his breath hisses through clenched teeth with the sound of ruin.
A mean, human thought clicks into place: if he is to be condemned, he will not go alone. Let the angels tally two; let the same fire take you with him—accomplice, not supplicant.
“I will not give you absolution for this, do you understand?” His voice is low, hoarse, unrecognisable. “You will carry this sin to the grave.”
You nod, frantic, hands finding what they seek—a confirmation, hard beneath cloth, that the torment is mutual. Through the cassock you palm him, and he jerks, holy figure unmade into flesh and bone, nothing but man caught under your touch.
“Are you certain you’re ready to throw your soul away for a priest’s cock?”
“For yours,” you breathe, “I am ready.”
Viktor straightens as if dragged upright by invisible rope, head tipped back, eyes crushed shut. His hands cradle your skull—gesture caught between benediction and violence, as if he might bless you or snap you clean through. You wait there, patient, faithful, hands locked where his shame throbs under layers.
He shifts nearer. Nearer still. Until even the drift of your palms up to his stomach feels like desecration, like a hymn spat on the floor. And then warmth blooms warmer—your face presses hard to his groin, greedy, mouth parted wide, your breath searing through fabric. You cling as if he were the absolution itself.
But he knows better. Knows that all you gather from him is damnation. That what you drink in now, what you worship, marks you for eternal suffering unless another man of the cloth gives you leave. And he knows—knows with a gut-deep certainty—you will not seek it.
“Lost lamb,” Viktor hears himself say, tone wicked, not his own but something in him given over to hunger. Devil guides his tongue when he lets you undo the buttons, your hands sliding beneath cassock to find his bare thighs. You pause only at the brace, fingers brushing it with care, then squeeze his hip in quiet recognition. No question, no shame.
“Take what you want,” he tells you, voice a rasp. “The communion you deserve.”
But it is not fair, nor just. He is the one meant to guide, and instead he lets you think yourself Babylon’s whore while it is he who sells himself out for the delight of flesh. He marvels at how easily you bow to it, when the truth is that he is the one bent double, a priest trading away what cannot be restored.
You draw his underwear down, slow as if unwrapping a wound to tend it, as if your hands had been sent to heal instead of befoul. And then—oh—what was warm becomes warmer still. Your mouth finds him, tongue tracing from root to crown, and it feels like sacrament defiled, baptism not of water but of fire. Each lick scorches him, as though you were marking him with flame, branding him holy and damned in the same breath.
Desecration as worship—he braces both hands on the wood, knuckles moon-pale, as if the booth itself might hold him upright while you drag him into the pit. He knows he ought to pull away, to wrench himself free, yet he watches—no, feels—himself ablaze and cannot stop it.
You linger, cruel in your devotion. Tease him with the slick tip, tongue circling, lips grazing, your nose nudging the tender underside as though you would scent him, taste him whole. He is altar, you the supplicant, begging wordlessly with mouth and breath, and every twitch of your lips is prayer profaned.
Then your mouth closes around the head, warm and tight, and Viktor—certain hell’s gates swing wide for him—cannot fathom why damnation should feel like this: pure, undistilled heaven.
Your tongue flattens along the tender underside, serpent-slick, sliding with ancient cunning as though it knew him before he was born. Heat licks him there, sharp and wet, and the sound of it—the quiet drag, the small suck of pressure—turns the booth into an echo chamber of sin. He presses his face to the wood, blind, unable to see you, and so every sensation blooms larger: your mouth sheathing him inch by inch, the tremor of breath through your nose, the guttural hum when he twitches on your tongue.
The flame catches at his loins, roars up the base of his spine, eats his chest hollow until oxygen itself deserts him. He clings to the lattice, ribs heaving, delirium stealing all reason. At last, when he yields—when he lets himself be taken—every shred of struggle falls away.
He drowns in it. And in drowning he understands all sinners at once: why they return to their ruin, why scandal never dies. Because in your mouth wickedness does not taste foul, it tastes clean—like grace itself. The wet heat of you exposes the vacancy at the heart of what he preaches, strips it bare. How can this be wrong, he thinks wildly, when it feels like the only truth left to him?
He breathes out, “Fuck,” and you flinch at the sound but keep him pillowed on your tongue, mouth open wide, eyes turned up—glass-bright, hair clinging in damp strips to your temple. He dares to look. Power smites him like thunder.
“Attempting to drag me down with you, aren’t you? Is this what you wanted?” He slides free, drags himself along your face—slow presses to cheek and brow—slick shining where he leaves you marked. You give a tiny shake of the head. He chuckles, low. “No? What is it that you want then, my temptress?”
“More,” you whisper. “End me. Suffocate me. Live in me. Abide in me.”
Scripture curdles. He thumbs your jaw until it opens wider. “Then open,” he murmurs. “Take and keep.” One palm braces the frame, the other cups the hinge of your skull; he angles you, feeds you the wet crown by degrees. “Two taps if it’s too much.”
You swallow him like you were made for it and this only. It doesn’t stop. First the wide maw—soft, careful, teeth held back—then the channel narrows; a small force, a push, and he feels the gullet take him, deeper, deeper still until your nose settles against the straining muscle at his base and you breathe through what little fissure you can find. Fully sheathed, he breathes too—thin, as if it were his throat blocked and not yours.
“Lust, greed, gluttony,” he grits. “Are you proud too?”
You nod, the motion tight, and he chokes on a moan. His palm firms on the hinge of your skull. “Hold.”
Your throat flutters; a wet, low sound folds around him. He feels the slick seal of you, the small convulsion when he pulses, the heat gathering where your lips bruise against him. A tear beads at your lash and clings; saliva tracks to his thigh. He fixes you there—no thrust, no mercy—thumb finding the soft notch beneath your jaw to feel himself inside you.
“Good,” he says, voice thinned to wire. “Keep it.”
The change in him is blunt as a gear slipping its tooth. Months you’ve been levering him open—confession by confession, notch by notch—until the hinge runs free. Mind and soul yap their cautions; the body shoulders past, takes the reins, answers to nothing but selfish, primal id. What sits in the booth now is not a shepherd but the animal that wore his coat.
He draws back a fraction and drives forward. Tightness closes over him—again the warm seal of lips, then the hard ring deeper in that grips like a fist. Your tongue flattens and sluices him on; the soft palate yields, the throat answers with that quick little clutch that spears sensation right up his spine. He feels the pull change as you swallow—pressure, vacuum, a slick squeeze that milks the length of him. Your nose nudges at the root; his breath notches. He holds you there a heartbeat, then works you in a slow, metered rhythm, using your mouth like it was made to keep him. The heat off your face dampens his belly; his thighs tremble against your palms.
If this is your mouth, what would your cunt do? The thought lands and keeps landing. He sees it when he shuts his eyes: you braced on the kneeler, dress rucked to your waist, his hand at the back of your neck to line you up. The first push in—tight, living grip, the hot clutch of you around the head; a roll of his hips to seat himself, to feel you take it. Your breath broken against the wood, your thighs opening because he asks, because you want; his palm low on your belly to feel himself through you while you clamp around him and shove back for more.
He sets his jaw and keeps your throat, but his mind is already there—inside you—falling without brakes, while you surrender and ask for nothing except that he doesn’t stop.
He eases just enough to let you breathe and speaks low—the words ring in the little wooden chamber, muffled to the nave where stone saints judge and holy water ticks into the basin. “Is that why you only confide in me? Why you wait until it gets late? Is that what you were hoping for all this time?”
You hum—answer and sin at once—and the vibration runs up his length. His mind flicks, unbidden, through every mass you’ve queued for, every time he set the wafer on your tongue: white body on pink, a sight that always felt wrong in his gut for reasons he would not name.
“Do you come to feed at the altar with your mind all dirty?” he asks, thumb at your jaw. “Do you accept the body of Christ pretending it’s mine?”
“Yes,” you breathe, shameless. “Do you not?”
It hits him—there’s no hiding one pervert from another. Kinship, filthy and exact. He drops decorum and lets the truth out on a whisper. “I do.”
The sound you make could knock a saint from a niche. It goes on as you reach for him again, greedy, mouth opening, throat flexing to take. He sinks back into you and whatever leash he kept snaps. He sets his feet, hauls your head in his palm, and drives—short, packed thrusts that seat him deep, then deeper, until your nose breathes in skin. Your swallow tightens; heat and pressure climb his body with their nails out. Spit strings to his lower abdomen; your eyes blur; the back of your throat learns him and holds. He uses you, steady and brutal, jaw to hinge, breath to breath, ignoring the sting of your tears because you don’t signal to stop—you only push closer.
If anyone’s listening, let them hear. Let the booth creak and the breath break and the wet carry. At this hour the nave is empty of witnesses; the only ear tuned to it is God’s, and Viktor moves as if to speak straight into it.
He talks as he works you—broken things, wicked things that don’t sound like him at all. “Open—yes—keep me—don’t spill.” A gasp. “Be a good little congregant.” Another, rougher: “Let me mark you. Hold. Hold.”
The rise comes on fast and ugly. Muscles jump in his legs; his hand tightens at the base of your skull. The grip of you climbs and climbs—wet seal, fierce ring, the small clench of your throat that drags him to the edge. His breath gutters; a raw sound tears loose.
“Look at me,” he manages, ragged. “Show me.”
You ease back just enough, keep him heavy on your tongue, mouth wide. He spills—hot, hard pulses—onto that pink cradle while you hold steady, unflinching. He whimpers, undone by the sight, and you close your lips over him again, gathering the last of it before swallowing with your eyes on his.
“Thank you, Father,” you say, earnest.
He falls back into the seat, cloth rumpled, collar askew, neck damp. He drags air in, broad and shaking, presses his thumbs into his eyes until sparks bloom. He waits—forces himself to—until you sit back as well.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
“Yes,” you say, quiet. “Are you?”
He is both—right and wrong. He scowls as, in the dark behind his lids, images and sounds flare: repentance, condemnation, the eternal flame licking at sinners, Satan’s laughter—sated, vicious. And opposite that: fulfilment—body well-fed, taken and kept, a clean dull glow of having been used and using. Restless panic scratches at his mind; at the centre of him sits a stillness he cannot argue with.
“I will be,” he says, solemn.
Silence stretches until breathing on both sides of wood thins back to nothing. You shift; he hears the small readiness of you leaving. “Your atonement,” he says. “Keep coming to church. See no other priest. Stray from futile delights until you see me.”
“Are you certain that’s how I truly atone?”
“No,” he says. “That’s how you abide in me.”
He stays in the booth, listening to the heels clack away until the sound thins and dies. Body heavy, slack with the after, he gathers himself, straightens the cloth, steps out. The church feels strange—like a house walked into after the furniture’s been moved. He decides to test if there is a way back, though his mind is already made.
At the altar he kneels—pain biting the joints, a small sacrifice to placate a stern god.
“Forgive me, Father,” he whispers, crestfallen. “For I have sinned.”
On the north wall hangs a modest oil of Saint Peter after the cock has crowed—eyes swollen from weeping, beard coarse with tears, the keys glinting at his belt, a rooster skulking in the corner like a rebuke; the blue mantle gathered to his chest.
The thin gilt frame jerks, slips its hook, and drops. A blunt thump, glass star-bursts, the mitred corner of the frame splits clean through. Candles shiver. Viktor jolts—and knows it then: he’s been left.
izzy806
stormborns
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andulkaphoto
