annundriel: ([spn] Every Bended Knee)
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Love the Sinner [AO3]. Dean/Castiel. NC-17. 1652 words. AU. Prompts: dirty talk, priests. Confession is supposed to be good for the soul. Father Castiel is beginning to have his doubts.


Many thanks to [livejournal.com profile] cautionzombies and [livejournal.com profile] dizzzylu. <3


“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Castiel blinks in the dim light of the confessional, recognizing that voice. His blood zings in his veins, muscles tensing in anticipation. He knows what’s coming, knows what happens next, and he should leave now, get out while he still can, but the low tones of that voice on the other side of the screen pin him in place.

“How long has it been since your last confession?” he asks instead, proud that the words come out clear, the tremors he feels confined to his flesh.

There’s a huff of breath in the other cubicle; Castiel thinks he can hear amusement in it, imagines he can feel the hot puff of air against his skin even though he’s buried under layers of cloth. “Mmm,” the voice hums. “Couple weeks, I think? You remember, Father, don’t you?”

Castiel swallows, his Adam’s apple nudging his collar. It feels too tight, suddenly; he challenges himself not to reach up and adjust it. Focuses on that small discomfort to keep from falling into the memory of two weeks ago when that voice had appeared—reappeared—on the other side of the screen, asking Castiel to forgive him in low tones and then describing exactly the things he needed to be forgiven for, the things he’d do for forgiveness.

“Yes,” Castiel answers. “I remember.”

“Good. I’d hate to think you had other people coming in here, getting you off.” The voice pauses, and Castiel thinks he can hear the soft sound of a tongue sliding over lips. “You don’t, do you, Father? I’m the only one that comes here to tell you how much I want to get on my knees and suck your cock?”

Digging his fingernails into the fleshy part of his palm, Castiel shifts against the wooden bench and tries to ignore the heavy weight of his cock between his legs. “Yes,” he says. “Only—” He means to say only you, but his voice catches in his throat. Clearing it, he continues. “What sins have you committed since then?”

“Well.” Castiel can hear him moving inches away. “It’s more what I’ve thought about committing than what I’ve actually committed.”

Castiel nods even though the man can’t see him—grateful that he can’t—and closes his eyes, expectant. “Go on.”

“I think about you, Father. All the time. The things I’d like to do to you, the sounds you make when you’re trying not to come. I touch myself and think about you and your hand on your cock, on my cock. Pretend they’re your fingers getting wet with my spunk, jerking me off. Fuck, do you know how often I’ve gotten off to that thought alone lately?”

“I—” He shouldn’t say it, he shouldn’t say— “Tell me.”

“Every time I touch myself, which is often, Father, let me tell you. Every time, you’re there with your fingers, your eyes and your voice and your mouth. God, your mouth. It’s a shame you’re a priest, with a mouth like that. You should talk filth, not scripture. I’d get on my knees for you either way, though, mouth your cock through your pants. Unzip you and suck you down while I got off on your voice. I’d listen to whatever you had to say, as long as you kept talking.”

In the confines of his pants, beneath his robes, Castiel’s cock hardens. It isn’t only the words the man is saying, it’s his voice, the sound of it, the tone. The way it seeps into Castiel’s skin and gets into his blood, pumping through his veins like a drug he’s becoming addicted to. Dangerous and life-altering. He clenches his fist and licks his lips, thinks about this unnamed, faceless stranger with a voice like sin on his knees before him, looking up at Castiel with eyes gone dark and—

“You know what I look like?”

A chuckle. “Course I do,” he answers. “Didn’t think I chose this confessional randomly, did you, Father? That I get my rocks off talking dirty to any ol’ priest?” The wood creaks as the man moves, leaning close to the screen. Castiel catches a pink hint of lips, golden skin. “No, this is all about you.”

Castiel heart thuds in his chest; he feels breathless, light-headed. “I—Do I know you?”

“Maybe.” A pause, clothing rustling. “Maybe not. Doesn’t really matter, does it? That just makes things complicated and we have to keep this simple. Who cares who we are when I want your fingers in my ass and my cock in your mouth, sliding between those lips? Fuck me,” he groans. “Just the thought of it and I’m close. Just the thought of you on the other side of this screen, hard and wanting and I’m—You are hard, aren’t you, Father?”

A whimper slips through Castiel’s bitten lips. It’s a small sound, but it echoes like thunder between them. Yes, he’s hard. There’s no use denying it, no use fighting the pull he feels low in his belly when those words--those perfect, filthy words--slide through the grate. He can’t say the words himself, though, not quite. It isn’t--He isn’t--

Yeah,” the voice groans. “Yeah, you’re hard. You want to touch yourself, don’t you? Want to jerk off right there while I talk you through it. Wish I could see you, Father. Wish you weren’t so far away.”

“I’m not—” Castiel’s voice comes out too thick and he stops, tries again. Can’t believe he’s encouraging this, but can’t imagine stopping. “I’m not so far away.”

The chuckle is rueful this time. “Yeah, you are.”

Castiel shakes his head, doesn’t want to think about that right now. Doesn’t want to think. That will only lead to guilt and Castiel doesn’t want this spoiled. He’s human and weak and he can admit that he wants this. Here and now, he wants this. “Tell me, then,” he says. “Tell me what you would do with me if you had me.”

“I’d fuck you. I’d fuck that sweet ass of yours, twist your hair in my fingers and pin you down and fuck you. Bit you until you bruise, until there’s really something for that collar to hide.” He groans, and Castiel wonders if his hand is pressed against his cock through his pants. He hasn’t heard the sound of a zipper—assuming he’s wearing something that zips—and he knows he isn’t alone in this. “I want to mark your pretty skin so bad, Father. Want people to know what I’ve done.”

“And what have you done?” Castiel asks before he can stop himself. His pulse roars in his ears, fingers aching from the fist he has them clenched in. He shouldn’t encourage this, he can’t encourage this, but he needs to know. “What do you want to do?”

“Everything,” the voice answers. “Everything. It’d be so good, Father. I’d start on my knees and work my way up. Kiss you everywhere. Lick and suck. I want to taste your balls, feel them in my mouth. Breathe in and smell only you, thick and hot. Want to fuck you with my fingers, my tongue. Feel your ass around my cock while you fucking scream my name. Are you a screamer? I bet I could make you into one.”

Castiel nods, even though he’s hidden from sight. He bets he could, bets this man could do anything he set his mind to. Like make a priest come in his robes during confession, distract him with his words and his voice until he doesn’t care that he’s sinning, until all he wants is more.

“I want to hear you beg for more while I pound you into the mattress. I’d fuck you on your back, so I can see your face when you come. Hearing you is good, but seeing you would be better. I want you to look at me when it happens, want you to grip my shoulders, and gasp my name. Use me and bruise me. I want to feel you squeezing around me as you shoot between us and then I want to lick it off your skin, taste you on my tongue.”

Castiel groans, and a hand appears against the screen, fingers flexing.

Fuck, Father. I’m so fucking hard and you’re right there. I can hear you, your breathing, your tongue on your lips. Every shift of your hips on that bench. There’s just enough room in here,” he says. “I bet I could fit between your thighs. Or, or on your lap. Could ride you right there, grind our cocks together, bite at your throat. Mess up your hair so it’s less choirboy, a little more rock ‘n roll.”

“Yes,” Castiel whispers, hand coming up to mirror the one on the other side, press at the screen. “Yes.”

“Your hand,” the voice says. “I can almost feel it, feel the warmth if it, want to feel it on my—”

The rest of his words are bitten off, a muffled groan carrying across the short distance between them, and Castiel knows he’s coming, recognizes the sound from the times before. Knows that hitch of breath, that barest slip of sound that escapes the hand Castiel guesses is covering his lips. They light him up in ways he’d forgotten were possible, make him want to snap and do something reckless, crazy. Throw the doors open and find out who’s on the other side.

Instead, he presses his fist to his aching cock through his vestments and comes, bottom lip between his teeth.

When it’s over, when he’s breathless and shaking, pants sticking uncomfortably, Castiel finds green eyes watching him through the screen, hooded and shining.

“Thanks be to God,” he says, and then those eyes are moving away, the hand is gone from the screen, and Castiel is left alone in the confessional, heart still coming down.
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