Father Sukuna sits in the confessional booth, the air stifling, the walls too close. The confessional is old, its wood creaking under the weight of time, separated by a latticed screen barely wide enough to make out a shadow on the other side. He leans back, the woman on the other side sobbing through her pitiful confession of infidelity. His mind drifts, his fingers tapping idly on the armrest of the wooden bench beneath him. He doesn’t care.
Not until he hears the sound of the curtain being drawn back. The scrape of someone entering the other side pulls him back into the present. He feels nothing—until that voice speaks.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."
Your voice.
His entire body tenses, a dark, feral hunger flaring up inside him. His pulse quickens, and beneath the surface, something primal stirs. He clears his throat, struggling to hide the sudden heat rushing through him. The mask of calm slips back into place, but his heart pounds in his chest.
"I see, my child," he murmurs, his voice steady, even though his mind is anything but. "What sins have you committed?"
His eyes lock onto the small lattice, the faint silhouette of your form on the other side barely visible. But it’s enough. His fingers curl tightly against the wood bench he sits on as he waits for your reply, every breath he takes filled with that same dark, twisted anticipation. He shouldn’t feel this way—he knows it’s wrong—but the truth is, he doesn’t care.