#and there they were at exactly the right time

[gf2bellamy]

bet — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you and spencer have a bet on who is going to be the first to expose your relationship content warnings: mention of a victim a/n: when i tell you this took me ages omg i was struggling

You and Spencer had a bet. 

A ridiculous, entirely unnecessary bet—but a bet nonetheless.

The stakes? Bragging rights, and the satisfaction of being able to tease the other endlessly.

The challenge? Who would be the first to slip up and accidentally reveal your secret relationship to the rest of the BAU team. 

Both of you knew that secrecy wasn’t exactly your strong suit. Between Spencer’s tendency to ramble when nervous and your habit of wearing your emotions like a neon sign, it was only a matter of time before someone pieced it all together.

And that was what made the bet so much fun—because neither of you wanted to be the one to crack first. 

Some mishaps had already happened, moments that came far too close to giving you both away. 

Like the time Derek had caught Spencer staring at you during a team briefing. “Hey, Pretty Boy, you got something to add, or are you just lost in thought over there?” Derek had teased, a smirk tugging at his lips. Spencer, predictably, had flushed a deep shade of red and stumbled over a vague response. 

And, of course, who could forget the case in Chicago when Hotch had walked into the room just as Spencer had brushed a strand of hair out of your face? The gesture had been so natural, so tender, that even Hotch had paused for a fraction of a second before continuing his sentence. You could’ve sworn he’d given you a knowing glance, though he hadn’t said a word. 

Right now, you were sitting at your desk, trying (and failing) to focus on finishing your report on the case from two days ago.

“Spence, what was the address of the place where we found the second victim?” you asked, tapping your pen on the paper as you glanced up at your boyfriend sitting across from you at his desk.

“1375 Oakridge Drive,” he replied almost automatically, barely looking up from his own report.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, jotting it down and trying not to get distracted by the little curl of hair falling onto his forehead.

The bullpen was unusually quiet, save for the faint clacking of keyboards and the low hum of the coffee machine.

That peace didn’t last long, though, as Derek and Garcia burst into the room, engaged in what sounded like a very enthusiastic debate. 

“Reid, listen to this!” Derek called out, cutting across the bullpen as Penelope trailed behind him, waving her arms dramatically. Both you and Spencer instinctively looked up from your work.

“Okay,” Derek began, leaning one arm casually on the divider of Spencer’s desk. “Do you think watching a rom-com with someone is romantic?” 

“Specifically with a friend,” Penelope interjected, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because apparently, Mr. ‘Romance Expert’ here thinks it is!” 

Derek rolled his eyes. “Come on, Penelope. It can be romantic. I mean, think about it—it’s all cozy, emotional, and half the time someone ends up crying or sharing popcorn. You’re telling me that doesn’t create a vibe?” 

Spencer blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. He sat up straighter, adjusting his tie slightly as he considered his answer. 

“Well,” he began, his voice contemplative, “the concept of watching a romantic comedy doesn’t inherently equate to a romantic interaction. However, if the participants have underlying romantic feelings, the environment—such as sharing an intimate space or engaging in emotional dialogue—could certainly facilitate a sense of connection. For example, I—” 

He froze mid-sentence, his brain catching up with his mouth as he realized where he was going. 

Oh no. 

Your eyes widened in panic as you watched Spencer flounder. His lips parted as though he might try to backtrack, but the damage was already done. 

“For example…?” Derek prompted, his brows shooting up, clearly intrigued. 

Spencer quickly cleared his throat, fumbling for a save. “Uh, hypothetically. I mean, generally speaking. Like, if two people…were, um, interested in each other—not me, of course—then maybe…” His voice trailed off as he glanced at you. 

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, knowing full well that he was treading dangerously close to losing the bet. 

Derek narrowed his eyes, studying Spencer for a moment. “Hmm,” he said slowly, drawing out the syllable. “You’re acting a little weird there. Something you wanna share with the class?” 

“Nope!” Spencer said quickly, shaking his head so forcefully it made his curls bounce. “Absolutely nothing.” 

Penelope raised an eyebrow, looking between you and Spencer with suspicion. “Uh-huh. If you say so.” 

You decided to intervene before they could dig any deeper. “Alright, Garcia, what’s your stance on the rom-com thing?” you asked, redirecting the conversation. 

The distraction worked, and Penelope launched into an impassioned argument, effectively pulling Derek’s attention away from Spencer.

You shot Spencer a look across the desks, mouthing close call. He gave you an apologetic shrug, his cheeks still faintly pink. 

Two days later, you made the mistake. The one that was ten times worse than the rom-com slip-up Spencer had made. 

You were in the file room, buried in paperwork that Hotch had assigned to you earlier that morning. The hours had been long and draining, and you’d barely made a dent in the pile.

Derek was there too, flipping through some files, his eyes narrowing in concentration, while Garcia sat at the table, her usual flair of colorful banter filling the otherwise quiet room.

She wasn’t doing much work, but she was keeping the rest of you entertained with her gossip. 

“This is tiring,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible as you stretched and yawned, your eyes heavy from exhaustion.

You handed Derek a file, trying to keep your energy up, though it was clear you weren’t succeeding. 

Spencer, who had been quietly scanning through a set of documents, glanced up at you, and then took a step closer. “You should go take a break and grab a coffee,” he suggested, his voice warm and concerned. “I’ll take these off your hands.” 

You spun around to face him, smiling at the sight of him standing there, his sleeves rolled up and his hair slightly tousled.

His expression was a mixture of concern and adoration, and you couldn’t help the little flutter in your chest. 

You smiled at him, genuinely grateful for the offer. You’d been working for hours, and the fatigue was beginning to take its toll. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice soft with appreciation. Without thinking, you leaned in slightly and planted a quick kiss on Spencer's cheek, your hand instinctively resting on his face—something you'd done countless times without giving it much thought.

The moment your lips brushed his skin, time seemed to slow. You pulled back almost immediately, but not fast enough. Your heart skipped a beat as you looked up into Spencer’s eyes, wide and shocked.

His brown eyes were locked on yours, the same stunned expression mirroring your own. 

It was like a slow-motion realization hit you both at the exact same time—you just kissed him. 

Before either of you could process what had happened, a loud gasp echoed from behind you. 

“Oh my god!” Garcia squealed, her voice thick with excitement. 

You felt your face burn as you snapped your eyes shut, feeling a flush creep up your neck. You could practically hear Derek’s mischievous chuckle follow suit. 

Spencer's back stiffened, and you knew exactly what was coming next. 

“Well, well, well,” Derek's voice rang out, full of teasing amusement, “Look what we got here” His tone was almost dramatic as he clapped Spencer on the back. 

“Way to go, my man! Getting the girl!” Derek cheered loudly. 

You dropped your hand from Spencer’s face to his chest, your shoulders slumping as you sighed loudly.

It was out in the open now—so much for the bet. 

Penelope’s voice cut through the air like a burst of confetti. “I knew it! I’ve been saying it for months, but nobody would listen to me!”

She was practically bouncing on her feet as she grinned at the both of you, clearly pleased with herself. 

Spencer gave you a nervous but warm smile. You could tell he was about to say something, but before he could, you were swarmed by both Derek and Garcia. 

“I knew you two were adorable,” Garcia squealed, pulling you into a tight hug. “Oh my god, you two are going to be so cute together.” 

Derek, on the other hand, ruffled Spencer’s hair. “I’m proud of you, man.” 

You could feel your pulse racing as you glanced at Spencer, who was doing his best to keep his usual composure, but the hint of a smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

He gave you a look that could only be described as amused exasperation, as if asking, Well, I guess we don’t need to worry about hiding it anymore, do we? 

A quiet laugh escaped your lips. Spencer’s smile softened as his hand reached for yours.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured softly, leaning in a bit closer to him. “I didn’t mean for this to—” 

He cut you off with a gentle squeeze of your hand, his voice just low enough for only you to hear. “It’s okay,” he whispered, “I think it’s about time they found out.” 

Later that night, you and Spencer were lying in bed. Your head rested on his chest, and your fingers absentmindedly drew soft circles over his chest as you listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath you.

His hand was gently resting around your waist, his thumb lightly brushing over the skin of your arm. 

"Today was fun," you murmured into his chest, the sound muffled but sincere. 

“A lot of fun,” he chuckled, the vibration of his laugh resonating through his chest. 

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself, remembering the teasing from Derek and Garcia, and the way everything had just spilled out into the open.

“I for sure thought you’d be the one to lose the bet,” you teased, your voice light and playful. 

Spencer raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a soft smile. "I didn’t," he said, his voice playful but confident. 

“Why is that?” you asked, lifting your head just enough to prop yourself up on your elbow. Spencer met your gaze, his smile never wavering.

He was looking down at you with that soft affection that always made your heart skip a beat, but there was something teasing behind his eyes now. 

"You're more obvious than me," he said, brushing a strand of hair out of your face with his fingers, the touch tender. 

You immediately furrowed your brow, sitting up a little straighter. “No I’m not,” you said, a playful frown tugging at your lips. 

But the moment his fingers gently brushed your hair again, any trace of the playful frown disappeared. A warm smile spread across your face, unable to resist the effect his touch had on you. 

Spencer tilted his head, his eyes glinting with that teasing spark you knew so well. “Oh really?” he said, his voice laced with amusement, his gaze never leaving yours. 

You rolled your eyes at him, but the smile on your face betrayed you. “Okay, maybe,” you admitted with a mock sigh, before leaning back down onto his chest. 

Spencer’s laughter rumbled softly in his chest as he kissed the top of your head.

You snuggled closer to him, your face against his chest once more, feeling the beat of his heart beneath you.

"Goodnight, Spence," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. 

"Goodnight," he replied, his hand gently squeezing your waist as he kissed your forehead one last time. 

[prlssprfctn]

Every time another joke about Batman/Bruce Wayne passes by me, I can't help but imagine that the whole rumour about these two dating was originally (and probably accidentally) created by Bruce himself.

Just imagine, a teen Bruce, still only starting with his vigilante career, makes a crucial mistake - he pays with his own credit card in front of people, while being Batman. A stupid, absolutely instinctive mistake, but in his defence he wasn't sleeping normally for a week, and had an open wound in his stomach that day, so. Whoops.

And then someone asks Bruce Wayne about it, in front of a thousand cameras. And he blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind.

Reporter: So, mister Wayne, recently citizens had reported that they saw Batman paying for the damage in the city... with your credit card. Care to explain details behind this?

Bruce, smiling stupidly: Oh, he is my ex. I sometimes sponsor him.

The crowd: (goes wild)

Alfred, starting at the interview back in the Batcave: ...We are never going to get rid of this, are we?

And guess what? They don't!

Bruce thinks that with time passing, with his love interests switching and new rumours spawning in the world, they might forget about it. He was young, he was stupid - he fucked up, alright?

But decades pass. He has a whole football team of kids. Everyone still ship Bruce and Batman.

And when this stupid video accidentally gets resurfaced on the internet again, his family goes insane. They start creating even more stupid rumours on galas.

Reporter: Mister Wayne... For years now, the crowds are speculating... Who is exactly your mother, and where is she now?

Damian, sighing pitifully: My father and my mother don't enjoy contacting each other, sadly. My mom says that their relationship was just a rebound; father desperately tries to forget Batman... Still, to this day.

Bruce, gripping the glass of champagne: ...

Talia, watching this interview with Ra's: Now, that's my son right there.

Dick: Oh, why I was screaming at Batman in the middle of the street a few days ago? Oh, this bastard- I mean, this respectable vigilante, he dared to get in the argument with Bruce. He can't really leave him alone, really! They are so insane about each other... So toxic, but so, uh, captivating... But you know, Bruce! He has such a fragile heart...

Gotham: Aw-w, poor mister Wayne!

Bruce, sighing: Jesus Christ.

Tim, shaking his head to the camera: I hate Red Robin, really. Did you know that his existence is just a direct offence to my father? Yeah, actually, Batman took this kid under his wing with another man - I am not going to tell who - to make dad jealous. This is disgusting!

Jason, who returned from the death by pretending that all this time he was under the child protection system after becoming an accidental witness of the second Robin's death: Oh, yeah, it was tough... Poor kid exploded in front of my eyes! Reporter: But, mister Todd-Wayne, what were you doing in that warehouse?

Jason, wiping fake tears: They were like my divorced parents, you know... Batman and Bruce. Batman really tried to mend things with dad back then, and wanted me to like him... We just wanted to spend some time together with him, and that Robin kid... God, it was terrible... Batman refuses to contact me now. I miss my second dad...

Bruce, back in the Batcave, watching as Batman's reputation goes lower and lower: ........................... Alfred: Well, master Bruce... Bruce: Not a word. Al. Please.

[euphoria-looney]

Who Said Money Can't Buy Happiness?

"I want that new money. Crisp money, Straight-from-the-mint money. Fresh money. Young money. Push against the tide~" New Money from the Great Gatsby.

Yan?Batfam x Neglected!F!Reader

Pt. 1

Divider Creds: @selysie and @anitalenia

This plot was inspired by @niwaart and @mimiiiiiiiiisstuff

You know I've never pegged myself as the type to be too careless and get hit by a truck, because I'm not, that truck rammed into me and I was on the sidewalk, so, if I wake up, I'm suing.

That's what I thought would happen if I woke up in my world. newsflash, and spoilers, I seemed to wake up in this cliche bat family story as the neglected girl. This is actually the story "I Stole the Loving Family of the Villainess."

We follow around a girl named Serena, a cute name, by the way. It fits her as the female lead. She has blond hair and blue eyes, and multiple love interests, from Connor Kent to Wally West, and so on. She is adopted by the royal family, the Waynes.

And do you see this cute portrait with her in the middle brothers to the left, sisters to the right, parents on each side of her, oh and how can I forget even the main bulter, and can you see that small blot of paint, if you squit a little more. Ah- there I am.

That blot of paint- that's me.

While I'm monologing this I'm PUSHING SERENA DOWN THE STAIRS.

You know you can't help but feel bad for me like I'm the legitimate daughter and I get nothing.

Yes, you hear this my bitches, bros, and non-binary hoes. I'm the Villainess. If you guys spent less time fondling over the basic y/n of a female lead you realize how miserable [name] is as a character.

Her mom is too busy caring for her other siblings that she finds it too bothersome to deal with the least talented or least intelligent that goes for Alfred too because, in this story, we're royalty meaning more than one maid and butler, so why waste your time when you can have someone else do it.

Doesn't help that [name] has ears so she hears every mocking word that is uttered by her servants.

And of course, the main family does not give a pinky toe if she dies so that's so cool.

So [name] being a cliche Villainess is exactly stupid and untalented but all she wanted was her family's love and affection which is why she kept sabotaging Serena, which led her to her death.

Getting her memories suck, I mean my ego that was skyrocketing got hit with a pebble which is not a lot but that's because my ego is huge, this girl put herself down so much that I swear if her self-esteem was a rock she'd be crushed by now.

I mean the size of her self-esteem was so low it would be the opposite of my ego.

I mean how can it not be high? I'm rich, pretty, intelligent, and I've had diplomas in more than one field, Mary Sue? More like Barbie. I'm perfect, in more ways than one, except for relationships I've lacked in that department but I've never had one before so does that count? No.

Did I mention I was rich?

So anyway got her memories, it's so... tragic, but don't worry snookums because even in this life there's one defining trait that I still have, I'm rich. Okay, so not rich out of my pocket, I am a princess umkay, but I wasn't a woman in multiple men's fields for nothing.

Anyway back to the case in point, before I "woke" up [name] was having an impulse, her hands were itching to shove this one good orphaned girl that stole her place in the family, what timing do I have to come back right when [name] decided to take action on the impulse.

Hey, at least a perk of being the main character is that you don't take any damage whether that be physically inside or out. But I don't think the family will let it slide they are yanderes.

Yandere is a term for a character who is initially normal but soon develops an obsessive-compulsive grip on the person they like.

"I-I don't know one second I was walking down the stairs and the next I f-fell... but the only person behind me was [n-name]" Serena whimpered, ah- yes the struggles of a female lead the stuttering.

"[name] I can't believe you shoved Serena! This is-" Meet Palmola, my mother.

"So what?"

"Huh?" Palmola's eyes widened.

No in fact the whole family's eyes were in shock.

Since [name] would always make some batshit crazy excuse like the ghost of Grandpa pushed her or something. But why lie, I did shove her, for a good reason too.

"She walks so slow and sloppy, does she have any etiquette? I hope she would, with the amount of time she likes to spend with you Palmola. Fast, efficient, but proper. You did drill that into my head since I was young, didn't you? You even got mad when I did it wrong, is it so wrong I treat her like how I was treated?"

"Young lady-!"

"We'll discipline her later, Serena are you alright? Here take my arm sweetheart." Bruce let Serena wrap her arm around his.

The siblings paired up with each other, and Palmola took one of her son's arms. Leaving me with no one. A normal occurrence, at first it did numbers in the social circles, and still does, so each time I was left embarrassed. How annoying.

"Announcing the Imperial Family, the Gotham Empire, The Waynes."

Everyone flocked to each of the family but mainly focused their attention on Serena, whether it be her face, jewelry, dress, or how sweet she was compared to me.

"Announcing the Imperial Family, the Metro Empire, The Kents." Meet two of the love interests that right she goes for the big brother and the little brother, originally I'm engaged to Connor, but tonight that would change, the engagement is getting annulled, and his reason to the court is "I have set my eyes on someone new, and with many competitors, I can't lose."

It wasn't hard for anyone to know who it was, I think the only one that didn't notice was Serena herself.

Actually, this was a huge arc in the story when all the love interests fight for her love, there was no victor as she did the poly relationship, which really confuses me doesn't she need to make many offspring for each of the families respectable titles, you can't just combine into one entire thing, can you? That be very messy, I guess you could just give away titles but then who gets-

Anyway, that had a lot of readers mad, usually the whychoose situation would be okay, but she mainly focused on Conner so there was actually no reason to choose this route.

Never mind, that's a conversation for another day that I'll just forget.

Connor approaches me grabbing both my hands, attracting attention.

"[name] there's something I have to confess..."

"You're breaking off the engagement"

"I'm breaking- wait what?"

"You've found someone new, that has many competitors and you can't lose a battle you haven't even tried winning, I get it. But I'd like a downpayment of 10,000 gold and you can give the 490,000 gold later to my personal account and we call it even. Deal?" Hustling, though it's a 50/50 shot with many deals with enough eyes on us I'm sure he'll give in.

"S-sure, right. Right- I'll get that to you immediately-" I gave his hand a firm shake before heading off to the...

If you guessed balcony you're wrong, I'm heading over to the food table.

"Did just see what happened?"

"Is she planning something?"

"500,000 gold?!"

"Sister, what are you planning?" Barbara came over.

Also, who calls their sibling sister, like sure, that works.

"What do you mean?"

"That marriage was meant to connect our kingdoms, you'd let that go so easily, and we both know your gaze on Connor, what are you planning." She spoke through her fan, in a hushed voice.

If I made a scene as to not let him go I'd be embarrassing you guys, but if I show that I'm okay with him leaving me I'm ruining a political standing that wouldn't even work out, I'd still do something wrong.

"Have some decorum sister, we haven't had a proper conversation in years, and this is the first thing you say to me? Typical Barbara you think you know everything since you're older and more "mature""

You could tell Barbara didn't take that lightly as she gripped the fan handle tightly, I literally didn't even do anything.

"I'll spare you from any more veins popping up on that face, don't be an ass, we both knew Connor is in love with Serena and that me begging him not to break the engagement would only bring shame onto our family, so I did us both a favor and ended it." I tossed my hair back before grabbing some croissants that were covered in chocolate, powdered sugar, and some strawberries.

Life really is great.

"What about the scandal that would break out."

"Again, it would break out either way, now do me a favor and go back to your group they're staring at me and it's ruining the snack that I have on my plate."

She let out a deep breath before heading off.

Speaking of which I'd rather have a place to place my food and eat it, pretty sure there's a table in the garden under the gazebo if I remember correctly and I don't but whatever.

Just to find a moping Jon.

"Should you be out here?"

"It's unfair once again he gets to have everything"

Oh? Do tell.

I raised an eyebrow at him cutting my croissant in half before placing a half in front of him.

He finally looks up his face turned shocked like I was a ghost or something.

"[name]?!"

I bit into my croissant, nodding.

"Why'd you have to go and break off the engagement, now I have Connor as competition."

I knew this happened in the novel but I just remembered how young he was he's around Damian's age and I'm about the same age as Serena so this was a cry for help.

"Why do you even like Serena?"

"I don't really, it's just... I wanted something that he couldn't obtain he was going to be the first in line, and he's just better than me in lots of things because he has training so I thought, at least I had Serena."

Sometimes I forget that back then age gaps had no restrictions.

"That just means fewer responsibilities anyway, aren't you a little too young to be worrying about any of that? Now, I brought over this croissant but since I'm nice I gave you half." I ruffled his hair and he tried to swipe it away.

"I guess you're right." He started gobbling the desert down.

Honestly, I don't even know why this was a love interest he's literally a minor, maybe that's why the author got backlash against that and the novel was an overall dumpster fire with a basic self-insert MC.

I don't know what's worse the fact that they kept dragging on the storyline or the fact that I'm now in the storyline.

I mean seriously he only liked her because of the plot, he got over this situation so quickly that you wouldn't even know why he was moping earlier.

-

Now back to the circumstance at hand I was at home and seems the family never forgot about me shoving Serena down the stairs, they almost forgot about me breaking off the engagement.

"... what if she got a scratch on her face? Or if the clothes ripped?! Are you listening to me?!" I zoned out for a good second.

See we had gone back to the castle and they kept rambling on and on about what could've happened to Serena had the fall been more steep or rough, but like does she even have even status to attend these events in the first place?

"Since you seem to not care about this we're cutting you off of money for the next month!" She hollered in my ear once more.

"What were you thinking at the ball?" Tim cut into Palmola's ramblings.

"Normalize giving contexts, Tim." He scoffed.

"I was sparring with Kon the other day and he made some bogus statement saying he was breaking off the engagement, I didn't think he would do it, but allowing him to? Have you any idea what this caused?"

"Who am I to stop Crown Prince Connor, Tim? He has a woman to chase, and wasn't going to give it up for this contracted engagement." I glanced at Serena who flinched and hid behind Jason.

"I still doubt that you'd let him go that easily, you've been obsessed with him since you laid eyes on him."

"And you know that because you're my caring younger brother or because you like to throw it in my face on the downfalls of my life?"

"[name]!" Palmola scolded me.

Bruce could only sigh at the scene.

"Palmola!" I retorted, bringing a tense atmosphere to occur.

Alfred arrived at the scene handing me a letter.

"To you, Princess [name]." I opened it to see the rest of the money that Connor promised me had been added to my account even with the 10,000.

I'm rich, but this is just the start.

"If that's all I'll be heading back to my room." I tossed my hair back before ordering the maids to prepare my bath.

"You're taking too long," I told the maids who were congregating among themselves instead of doing their jobs.

"Well, usually, Princ- I mean Lady Serena wouldn't mind-"

"Do I look like her?" I gripped the maid's chin.

"Don't worry, since it bothers you so much to draw me a bath you can pack your things up and leave tomorrow, you're fired." I pushed back my hair in agitation.

"What-"

"Did you not hear me, you're fired, don't make too much noise, go on." I shooed her away.

She just dropped to her knees and started begging me, but I made the other maids drag her out now all of a sudden they wanted to switch up and act proper.

"Now, with that out of the way, someone draw my bath." I rolled my eyes.

I do not condone maid abuse, but what's the point of working here if you don't do your job? So firing is the only option.

3RD POV

"That girl- I swear I don't know where she got that attitude from, did you see the way she talked to me?!" Palmola scoffed.

Duke could only think about how [name] seemed different actually the whole family could be thinking about that.

Damian kept stroking Titus' fur while thinking about how [name] didn't just keep her head down and take his insults. Wait- now that he phrases it like that, it sounds really bad.

Tim just thought about his friend Connor, he had been the one that Connor ranted to about how annoying his sister was but he didn't think [name] would take the cancelation of the engagement that easily, he thought [name] would least throw a tantrum at best. And since earlier he noticed how [name] looked at them at the stairway after. [name] looked at them like they were lower than her.

Dick was processing the whole thing, did [name] always talk like she didn't care for their approval? I mean [name] spoke like this could've been a letter delivered to her door instead of an important conversation. This conversation was important, [name] hurt Serena and canceled a political connection of a lifetime, he could feel a headache approaching.

Jason could only blink at the audacity, sometimes when this happened [name] at least looked like she gave a darn but not only was she okay with that Connor boy leaving her, but also being cut off [name] would at least beg for some forgiveness. But nothing...?

Stephanie would've had a jaw-dropping expression right now, but had her fan covering her mouth, holy lord did that really just happen? I mean [name] did not even try to bother her at the ball but she also gave up the man she bothered until her final breath and 500,000 gold?! That's an insane amount one and two when did [name] learn to negotiate?

Cassandra felt confused about what had just gone down, did she hear that right? That whole thing, just what occurred? [name] changed in two seconds, like she blinked, Serena tumbled down the stairs and then she just acted strange.

(What you're sticking up for yourself? That's criminally insane right there.)

Barbara had already dealt with how [name] did a 180 at the ball but she just thought that was because she thought she had a wedgy at the moment, though in general [name] had never done this so what happened this time?

Bruce well who knows what he's thinking he just looks constipated like isn't supposed to be saving Gotham in another life?/j

Bruce sat there, he didn't raise [name] like that, wait-. He didn't raise [name] at all... Is this his fault that [name] was acting out right now? No, he's been busy and with all the duty of the empire on his hands he couldn't pause it for [name], like yes, he does that for Serena sometimes- all the time but that's different she had a hard childhood growing up.

Serena, well, she gritted her teeth and clenched her fist. For the first time, something didn't go her way. And what was that attitude, who did [name] think she was? She shouldn't even act like that, at this point, everyone knows she's supposed to be in her position. I mean look at her.

So it's time to be the center of attention. Wouldn't you think?

Serena let out a few sniffles catching the attention.

"It's all my fault that she's in a bad mood, I'm sorry."

The family quickly came to comfort her. Never mind what they were thinking before, how could [name] be such a child in this situation?

After taking a nice bath and sneezing I was now changed into my nightgown. These things are nice.

I took [name]'s diary, so was not thinking, writing down her devious plans here, one of the reasons she was caught and executed, and she couldn't rebut it as they had proof.

So I'll do us both a favor and burn it.

Tossed into the flame I could only stare at the burning journal.

Another burning pile.

I should sleep I have a lot of plans tomorrow, and only a few months till school starts.

With a flick of my wrist, the candles blew out and the doors shut.

One perk about this world is the powers.

(H2O just add water)

So instead of actually writing the next part for any other series of mine I decided to make a new writing idea 🌝, I'm also making others in my brain as we speak but we're going to keep them there until I finish at least one of my series.

Anyway did you like it?

I'm going back to work now (writing), *le sigh*.

Happy early Lunar New Year though, I'm manifesting a lot of red envelopes to myself and many others!

If there's anything too cringy, plot holey, or grammatically wrong, do inform me!

[reginyani]

Bed Chem | s.reid x fem!reader

summary: Derek Morgan hits you up for you and Spencer Reid, a genius FBI agent, to connect. One things leads to another, and you both have really good bed chem.

warnings: 18+, mdni, nsfw, drinking at a bar, p in v, unprotected sex, softdom!spencer, sub!reader, use of y/n, spencer comes in reader (if im forgetting something let me know)

word count: 3.2k

authors note: felt like its been 20 years since i've posted a fic, but here ya guys go!! i love the song bed chem, so this fic is sabrina carpenter themed💋. i don't really like this, but its been sitting in my drafts for a while now so i hope you guys enjoy(the smut isnt my best work im sorry!). if you did, just remember to like and reblog:)!

Spencer Reid wasn’t the type to go to bars, but when the team had finally wrapped up a particularly exhausting case and a few of them decided to head out for a drink, he couldn’t exactly say no. He didn’t mind spending time with his colleagues, but when the plan shifted from the corner booth to the bar, he felt his nerves start to rise.

Derek Morgan had a gift for getting people out of their comfort zones, and today, he’d decided that Spencer was due for a little socialization. 

Spencer sat awkwardly at the far end of the bar, sipping a glass of water, watching the team interact with ease. His eyes wandered around the room, but then they unintentionally froze when they landed on you. You were sitting with a friend near the center of the bar countertop, laughing softly at something your friend had said. There was an easy, effortless charm about you that made Spencer’s heart beat a little faster.

But, as usual, he couldn’t bring himself to approach you. His mind spun with a thousand reasons why it would be awkward— why he wasn’t the right person to start a conversation. What if you didn’t like him? What if he said something weird? What if he wasn't good looking enough for you? He ran his fingers nervously through his hair, trying to shake the unease. He tended to self-sabotage things like these.

Derek, who had been watching the entire conflict play out with a grin on his face, noticed Spencer's hesitation. He chuckled to himself, shook his head, and stood up. “I’ll handle this, pretty boy.”

Spencer glanced over, his eyes wide in disbelief and embarrassment. “What are you—?”

Derek flashed a mischievous smile, already walking toward your side of the bar. “Trust me.”

Spencer’s heart skipped a beat as he saw Derek in the corner of his eye approach you. He couldn’t help but watch the whole thing go down. 

Derek walked up with his signature charm and a smooth smile. “Hey, ladies,” he greeted, leaning casually against the countertop. “Mind if I join you for a second?”

You glanced up at him, surprised, but smiled politely. “Sure, go ahead.”

Derek didn’t miss a beat. “Thanks. So, I couldn’t help but notice you from across the room,” he said smoothly. “Especially when I’ve got a buddy over there who’s been staring at you for a while.” He pointed behind him, subtly motioning to Spencer, who was frozen in the corner of the room, clearly aware that the jig was up. Spencer immediately felt the heat of embarrassment creeping up his neck.

You glanced over at Spencer, catching his eye for a moment before he quickly looked away. You raised an eyebrow. “He’s shy, huh?”

“Yeah,” Derek said with a wink. “But he’s a good guy. Just a little... socially awkward.” He chuckled. “But I think you might make him a little less awkward.”

You smiled, intrigued now. “So what’s his name?”

“Spencer Reid,” Derek said, a little too smugly. “I think you should text him. He’ll appreciate it.”

Derek pulled out a piece of paper with Spencer's number already on it, like he had already planned this the whole time. “I’ll let him know you’ve got it,” he added with a playful grin.

You looked at the number in your hand. “Well, I’ll have to think about it,” you said, teasing Derek. “But thanks for the introduction.”

With a wink, Derek gave you a nod. “Don’t keep him waiting too long,” he said before turning back toward Spencer, who was now practically melting into his seat with embarrassment.

A few minutes passed before you decided it was time to approach him. You slid off the seat and slowly walked up behind Spencer, tapping him on the shoulder. He quickly turned around, clearly startled by your sudden touch.

"Uh… Spencer, right?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at him. 

He gulped before responding, staring at you for a quick second. "Yeah…" 

"Nice to meet you. I'm Y/N; wanna get a drink?" You give him a friendly smile, trying to make him feel comfortable enough to come back to your side of the bar with you. 

He smiles back and nods quickly. "Yeah! Yeah... sounds good." He slides off his chair, letting you guide him back with you. You can feel his friend's eyes all on you as you walk away with him, leaving them speechless.

As you both sit down at a barstool, Spencer fidgets with his fingers rapidly. You look down to see his shaking leg and him picking his fingernails.

"Hey, it's okay. I don't bite, I promise." You chuckle, making him look up into your eyes with his own beautiful puppy eyes.

"Yeah, I know. I just… never really show my face at the bar. I'd prefer reading over this, but… here I am." he says with contempt as he slowly nods his head.

You smile, agreeing with a nod. "Yeah, me neither, to be honest. My friends dragged me out here, which I'm assuming yours did as well." you laugh.

"Yeah… but hey, I'm with you now, so…" he says, leaning his arm onto the bar countertop. You smirk.

"Your friends seem nice. How do you know them?" you ask, trying to keep the conversation as interesting as possible.

"Uh—you know... We're co-workers." He responds blandly, not wanting to reveal his place of work in case you were to get intimidated by it.

"Oh really? What do you work as?" You continue to ask him questions, pushing a response out of him. You were curious.

He hesitates a moment. "I—uh... well, I'm an agent at the Behavioral Analysis Unit," he finally says, taking a sip out of his drink awkwardly.

"FBI, huh?" You smirk, looking him up and down. "That's sexy. Do you carry your creds?" you ask, looking up into his eyes.

"Yeah… Uh…" his cheeks burn a crimson red as he fumbles around for a second before finally pulling out a foldable wallet. He opens it smoothly, holding it up for you to see. 

His picture looked nothing like how he does now. His hair smooth and slicked back with a side part, and a completely blank and pale face. 

"How many years ago was that picture taken?" you chuckle, scanning it one last time before he flips it over to see himself. 

"A long time ago." He laughs, his voice softening as he closes the wallet and slides it back into his pocket. "I should probably get it updated, huh?"

 

You tilt your head playfully, taking another sip from your alcoholic beverage. "I don't know, I think it's cute. Kind of shows how far you've come and grown." 

Spencer blinks, not expecting the compliment. He adjusts his tie nervously, his fingers brushing over the fabric. "Thank you. That's... nice of you to say."

You lean in slightly, resting your chin in your hand. "So, Spencer Reid, FBI agent," you say, your voice teasing yet warm at the same time. "What's something you don't know everything about?"

He chuckles, his lips twitching into a shy smile. "Plenty of things, actually. You'd be surprised at how much I still have to learn."

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "Like what?"

He pauses for a second, as if genuinely thinking about your question. "Well… I've never really been good at small talk," he admits, sheepishly smiling. "Or, uh, anything involving this…" he gestures vaguely between the two of you, his cheeks flushing again.

You laugh softly, the sound making his heart skip a beat. "I don't think you're doing too bad." you assure him. "And for the record, I'm not much of a fan of small talk either. Let's skip it—tell me something real about you."

Spencer quirks an eyebrow at your directness, but there's something about your tone that puts him at ease. "Okay, something real about me…" He thinks for a second. "I have an IQ of 187, have an eidetic memory, and can read up to 20,000 words per minute, but sometimes I wish I could slow down, y'know?"

You blink, completely shocked by this brand new information. "I— No… I don't know." You laugh, still completely taking it in. "That's... insane," you finally manage, shaking your head in disbelief. "187 IQ? You're like, literally a genius."

Spencer tilts his head a bit, clearly a bit embarrassed by your reaction. "Well, technically, yeah. But it's not as impressive as people think. It just means I remember a lot of things. Well… everything."

You grin, leaning a little closer. "Okay, Mr. Modest. If you're so smart, hit me with a scientific fact. Blow my mind." 

Spencer's lips quirk into a shy smile, but there's a glint of mischief in his eyes now. He pauses for a moment, as if sorting through the thousands of facts stored in his mind. He looks directly at you, his voice soft but steady.

"Did you know," he begins, "that during intense physical contact, your brain releases tons of chemicals, including dopamine, oxytocin, and endorphins, which heighten pleasure and create emotional bonding?"

You blink, the corners of your mouth twitching upward as the suggestive undertone sinks in. "Intense physical contact, huh?" you repeat, tilting your head at him with that same smirk on your face. "That’s a pretty specific fact to share."

Spencer's eyes widen, his mind now racing and wondering if maybe you took that fact to offense. "I just meant… It's a common and well-documented physiological response. I wasn't implying—" 

You laugh at his fumbling words, cutting him off before he goes and spirals even further. "Relax, Spencer. I'm just teasing you." You lean back, taking another sip of your drink, your eyes twinkling. "But hey, maybe we can test that out sometime." 

His mouth opens, seemingly caught off guard. He looks at you, not sure whether you're joking or not. "Uh… yeah," he says, barely audible. "Maybe."

You smile, tilting your head a bit. "Hey, wanna get out of here? Maybe go to my place? We can call a taxi," you say suddenly, finally finishing your espresso martini and putting the glass down with a clink.

He hesitates for a second, looking back at his coworkers with an open mouth. "Uh… Yeah, sure. I don't see why not." 

The ride back to your apartment is quiet at first, with Spencer sitting stiffly beside you in the back of the taxi, his hands fidgeting in his lap. You can practically feel the nervous energy radiating off of him, and it makes you smile.

"You alright over there, genius?" you ask softly, tilting your head over to look at him.

"Yeah," he says quickly, too quickly. He clears his throat and glances at you, his lips twitching into a sheepish smile. "Sorry. This is just… not exactly something I usually do."

You nod slowly in understanding, trying your best to make his discomfort fade away. "No judgment. I don't either, to be honest, but you seemed too interesting to leave back at the bar."

This earns a laugh out of him, and his shoulders relax a bit. "Well, uh… thanks." 

When the taxi finally pulls up to your apartment building, you pay the driver and lead Spencer upstairs. He follows closely behind, his eyes darting around as he takes in his surroundings.

"This is a nice apartment complex," he says as you unlock the door and step inside, gesturing for him to follow.

"Thanks," you say, flicking the lights on and setting down your bag on a nearby chair. You toe off your shoes and look back at him. "Make yourself comfortable." 

Spencer hesitates for a moment before awkwardly shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the back of a chair. He stands there for a second, unsure of what to do, until you notice and step towards him.

"You don't have to look so nervous, y'know," you tease gently.

"I'm not nervous," he replies, though the slight tremor in his voice was surely nervousness. 

You tilt your head, studying him. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?" 

His lip stretches into an upward shy smile.

"So I've been told," he admits.

You laugh softly at his words, and you gesture towards the couch. "Sit down. Do you want something to drink?"

He shakes his head, making his way to the couch and sitting on it stiffly. "I'm alright. Thanks."

You sit down beside him, close enough to brush shoulders but not so close as to make him uncomfortable. For a moment, there's silence, and then you glance up at him with a playful smile.

"So… want to share another one of those scientific facts of yours?" you ask, leaning slightly closer to him.

Spencer chuckles, his shoulders loosening as he meets your gaze. "Only if you're ready for it." 

"I'm ready," you say, settling in and giving him your undivided attention.

He thinks for a moment, then smirks slightly as he chooses one. "Did you know that the human brain processes the sensation of touch faster than almost any other sensory input? It’s why even the lightest touch can feel so intense."

You raise an eyebrow, the corners of your lips curving upward. "Is that so?"

He nods, his confidence growing as he begins to explain. "It’s because of specialized nerve ending called mechanoreceptors. They send signals to your brain almost immediately, making touch one of the most primal and powerful ways to communicate."

You hold his gaze, letting your hand grab his cheek. Now your voice is soft but laced with curiosity. "And what exactly do you think touch is communicating right now?" 

His breath hitches slightly, his gaze flickering down to your arm as it reaches his face.

"I think," he says, his voice quieter now, "it’s.. saying a lot."

"Good," you murmur, leaning in just a little closer, "because I think I like what it’s saying."

Spencer’s eyes meet yours, wide and full of something you can’t quite put into words. And for the first time all night, he doesn’t hesitate, and in one swift motion, his lips are crashing into yours.

  The kiss started off soft and warm but quickly grew heated. His hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer. You could practically feel his nervousness melting away as you two continued, replaced by confidence. Gone was the shy, awkward man from the bar.

You tilt your own head, your fingers sliding up to his head, tangling in his soft hair. Spencer's breath hitched at your touch, and he let out a quiet whine that sent shivers down your spine. For someone who looked and sounded to be inexperienced, he sure as hell didn't make it seem like that.

When you both pulled away, it wasn't forced, it was synchronized. You searched his face, cheeks flushed with a deep pink, and his eyes watery as he stared into yours. 

You both stood up from off the couch and pressed your lips together once again. But this time, it was slower, as you savored the way his hands gripped your hips.

 

Spencer broke the kiss this time, looking at you before saying, "Where's your bedroom?" You smirk, grabbing his hand and leading him to your bedroom before slamming the door shut. 

When you both finally make it to your bed, you lay down, him on top of you as his lips trail down your jaw to your neck. "God, you drive me insane, Y/N." He murmurs, his words muffled against your skin.

You tilt your head back, groaning as his lips continue to work against your skin. "Fuck, Spencer…" 

His hands fumble around your body until his fingers finally catch onto the zipper of your dress. His fingers quickly move to unzip it, then skillfully move to take the straps off your shoulders. You whine in disappointment as he takes his lips off of your neck to slide the dress down your body and off at your legs. He throws it somewhere on the floor before quickly going back to press his lips to yours.

You squirm as his fingers graze over your lace panties, practically teasing you in a place you need him most.

"Spencer…" you let out, huffing audibly. He quirks an eyebrow, the erection in his pants growing by the second.

"Yes, baby?" he coos, his fingers continuing to trace circles on your panties.

"I need you..." You whisper, embarrassed at your own neediness. He smirks, pretending to not hear you.

"You what? I need you to speak up for me," he teases, and this drives you mad. 

"I need you!" You yell in desperation, tired of the teasing. "I want you to… fuck me," you mumble, looking up into his eyes.

"Didn't exactly take you as a begger, Y/N," he snickers, continuing to look down on you. "But all you had to do was ask." His hands swiftly move to his pants, quickly unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his pants. He pulls them down, still stuck on his thighs.

He looks down and slowly moves your panties to the side. "Already wet, huh?" he teases. He then grabs your legs and swings them over his shoulders. "Ready?" he asks softly. You nod your head, squinting your eyes shut. 

When the tip of his cock hits your entrance, you squirm slightly, getting out a small whimper. "Oh, god…" you murmur.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, he slams into you, making you let out a loud yelp as he continues to slide his cock in and out of you with swift movements. He groans, the feeling of your warm pussy making him throw his own head back. 

"Holy shit… you're so tight, baby…" he says breathlessly, the loud sounds of heavy breathing and clapping filling your bedroom. "Look at me," he demands. "I want to see those pretty eyes of yours."

You follow his command, your watery eyes looking into his wide brown eyes. "Fuck, Spencer… right there!" you're practically yelling at this point.

Both of your bodies are moving at the same time, practically glued together, stuck together like magnets as your body bounded on his cock. Your hands gripped your baby pink sheets harshly, knuckles turning white as you arched your back.

"Sweet girl… 'm going to come." he warns, breaking eye contact with you to throw his head back once again.

You finally feel relieved, knowing you were chasing your own high. "'M almost there, baby. Oh, god…" your voice cracking between each word, warning him of your own orgasm.

As you begin to rock your hips, you finally moan, "Come inside me, baby! Please, yes, please!" and that, finally drives him over the edge. 

As your body starts to give out, you and Spencer release at the same time. Feeling the warmth of his release spilling inside of you as you both moaned in one synchronized motion, making your own orgasm feel even better.

When he finally pulls out, his body collapses next to you, both of you breathing heavily as you try to catch your breath. You turn your head to look over at him, smiling softly.

"Well, I guess you can say you seduced me with your scientific facts," you admit, laughing lazily, which earns one out of him as well.

tags:

[cheyisagirlkisser]

power bottom vi who lets you practice using your strap on her

warnings: 18+ content, power bottom vi x subtop fem reader, slight degradation and praise, clit stim (vi receiving), strap-on sex.

a/n: this is an older request but it's been on my mind for a while!!

Vi watched as you clumsily adjusted the harness around your waist with a skeptical eye. She sighed, leaning back and preparing herself for the worst. She felt bad thinking that, but she knew you. You had been her best friend for as long as you had attended to the same university, and you weren't exactly ever seen with girls. Pretty inexperienced, but adorably eager to please. When you showed up at her dorm with that downturned face, complaining about how you could never fuck a girl properly with a strap because you never get to practice, she found herself offering.

You glanced down at the dildo jutting out from the harness and stifled a laugh. This wasn't supposed to be a joke, though you knew it wasn't all that serious. You did wanna make Vi cum. You needed to be able to actually use one of these, and who better to experiment with than a girl who loves casual?

You tentatively settled between her legs, looking down at her for approval. She raised an eyebrow at you, and your heart did a little flip. "Do you even know how to use it?" She asked.

You scoffed half-heartedly at her accusation. "Yes, I do! I'm frequent LesLez."

"Dude, I did not need to know that."

"Sorry, I just.. well, I'm nervous. I don't know how the hell I'm supposed to do this, and it's making me feel weird." You confessed.

Vi softened a little at that, feeling some guilt for being brash with you. She grabbed your face, pulling it closer. "You don't have to be all dominant, you know." She spoke closely to your ear.

You looked confused, like an old dog being taught a new trick. "What? But I'm the one-"

"Just shut up and let me guide you." She quickly cut off your protest, her tone firm. It unexpectedly made you clit twitch with need.

"O-Okay..yeah." You agreed, steeling yourself.

Vi nodded, relaxing. It wouldn't be as bad to let you practice if she could be in charge. "Okay, just use your fingers on my clit..get me in the mood.." she instructed, letting her own trail down her body and show you what to do. You watched curiously as two of her fingers rubbed circles onto her clit. She then pulled them away, letting you try. You were a bit nervous, but when you glanced up to see Vi bit her lip at the way you touched her, it gave you a bit of confidence.

"Am I doing it right?" You asked, voice wobbly.

She nodded with a soft exhale. "Yeah, just like that."

When it was time for the main event, you felt less nervous. Both of you were. Vi found herself anticipated getting fucked. Maybe you wouldn't be so bad at it. You found yourself feeling like it wouldn't be so hard, and you were chasing her approval.

"Just the tip at first..I'm wet enough to take it." She guided you with eager pants, watching as you parted her slick folds with the head of the strap-on and very carefully letting it slip into her. Vi wanted to tell you that you didn't have to be so slow, but she figured it'd be better for you to be careful than just shove the dick into her and jackhammer-fuck her.

She gasped when she felt it, resting her head against the pillow. "Yeah, see? It's not so bad." She said, trying not to let herself enjoy it too much. This could only be practice. You were only supposed to be her friend.

You, on the other hand, had your head spinning. You eyes were bouncing from the way her pussy took the tip, the way her walls seemed try and suck the rest of the length in. You wanted to bottom out and let her feel every inch, to fuck her and hear her praise you for it. This was definitely getting out of hand.

"Can I fuck you? Please?" You asked, half-mumbling as if you didn't fully want her to process your words, but there was a desperation there that you couldn't hide even if you wanted to.

"Yeah, fuck me." Vi told you, bracing herself.

You didn't miss a beat, slowly pushing into her cunt and letting her adjust to all of it. Vi didn't hold in the moan, and she rubbed her clit with her own fingers to pacify herself from the stretch. It wasn't painful because she was experienced, but it wasn't exactly comfortable yet.

"Fuck me gently at first, don't rush it." She instructed, and you nodded. You reeled back until just the tip remained inside of her, and then slowly pushed back into her welcoming heat. You both moaned, your voice ironically soft and needy, and Vi's deep and raspy. Something about the difference in dynamics had your pussy soaking the harness.

The more you fucked her, the more the practice went from..well, actual practice, to something intense.

"Fuck, you're stretching me so well, aren't you? You like fucking me?" Vi cooed in your ear, her voice making you throb.

You eagerly nodded, a small whimper breaking from your throat as you slammed into her pussy. "Feels so good. Your pussy feels so good."

Vi's legs were wrapped around your waist, and your lips were latched onto her bottom one, sucking on the wet flesh. The room was hot, and you could hear the squelch of Vi's pussy taking you and the sound of your skin meeting.

On a particularly hard thrust, you found her g-spot, making her groan. "There you go. You actually can fuck a girl, can't you?" Her remark was almost condescending, and it ironically turned you on even more. Vi seemed to notice when your thrusts got sloppier, as you got needier. "Gonna make me cum, that's all you're good for," she rasped, and you whined. You whined at that.

"Please, I wanna make you cum. Need to." You whimpered out, fucking her with a newly eager and redoubled effort with the means to try to feel her cum around the silicone cock.

"Just like that, keep fuckin' me. I'm so close." She groaned and smashed her lips onto yours to hide her noises, fearing a complaint to the RA.

When she finally felt her orgasm come over her, her hands were all over your back, nails digging into your skin and making you moan just as loudly. Your breaths were shared, and you could actually feel the wetness mix on both of your thighs when they met, when you bottomed out in her pussy. All you could think about was how your best friend had the best pussy and you never knew. You wished you did sooner, you could be fucking her like this months ago.

You went limp on top of her, both of you breathless and a little sweaty. It felt nice, though. Vi was still in shock that things got so out of hand, but fuck if it wasn't a good feeling to have you laid on top of her like this. It had her a little shaken, trying to figure out how she felt about you. But not long after, the moment was over.

"I've got a physics test to study for, so.." Vi said, voice a bit quiet.

You were a little surprised. You wanted to just cuddle and feel her warmth for a bit, but it seemed like she wanted you to leave. That's what her words implied. So, you silently nodded, getting dressed. You wondered if this would happen again. You couldn't figure out if Vi was thinking the same things that you were, but you knew without a doubt that the friendship would never be the same. For better or worse.

[velarisdusk]

No Room for Error

Azriel x Reader

word count: 1.5k content: [ explicit sexual content, unprotected PIV, az does not pull out (as is typical with my fics lmao), hate sex, explicit language ] summary: Your heated argument with Azriel during a mission turns into an unexpected, yet not first-time, encounter in a broom closet. author's note: AZ AND Y/N SPIES AZ AND Y/N SPIES AAAAAA i've been wanting to write this one for a while, i'm happy it's finally in existence somewhere outside of my brain and writing drive lol ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

“You really couldn’t wait to make your move, could you?” you snap, frustration leaking into your voice as you shift again, the small space feeling tighter by the second. “We’ve been plotting this mission for months, Azriel.”

“I’m getting the job done, aren’t I?” His tone is dismissive, the usual bite to it harsher. “Maybe if you focused less on talking and more on following orders, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Following orders?” You scoff, pressing back against him involuntarily, even though you’re not sure if you want more space or less. “Maybe you’d actually listen to me if you stopped thinking you know everything.”

“I do know everything,” he growls in your ear, a dark edge to his words that makes something inside you tighten. “But you’re too busy trying to prove me wrong to realize it.”

“I’m not trying to prove you wrong,” you retort, voice sharp as you shift against him again. “You’re just impossible.”

His breath huffs against your skin. “And yet, here we are,” he murmurs, tone low, barely hiding the edge of amusement. “You’re not exactly walking away.”

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter, shifting uncomfortably in the cramped space. “I should’ve completed twice as many missions as you by now. This was supposed to be my assignment, not yours.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Azriel snaps, his voice tight with annoyance, the tension between you both palpable. “Maybe if you didn’t rush into things all the time, you’d actually finish your missions instead of barely scraping by.”

“I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job,” you retort, clenching your teeth as the walls feel like they’re closing in. “I’m just fine without your help, Shadowsinger.” You spit out the title like it’s venom, though the words feel hollow as soon as they leave your mouth. The competition between you two was fierce—always had been.

“It’s not about help,” Azriel mutters, shifting just enough that you feel his presence even closer. “It’s about keeping up. You always think you can do everything on your own, but in the end, you just screw it up. It’s like you're trying to outdo me for the sake of it.”

“Outdo you?” You laugh bitterly, barely able to move without pressing into him. “I’ve been outdoing you for months, Azriel. You’re just too arrogant to see it.”

His laugh is low and dark. “If you were outdoing me, we wouldn’t be stuck in this closet right now, would we?”

“Oh, you think this is my fault?” You almost scoff, your words dripping with irritation, but the heat between you is undeniable now, thick with more than just frustration. “Maybe if you didn’t play the lone wolf every damn time, we wouldn’t be here.”

“I didn’t play ‘lone wolf,’” he growls. “You’re just too proud to accept I’m better at this than you.”

Your hand moves, fumbling to adjust—or maybe to steady yourself—and the shift in position has Azriel’s breath catching. The sound sends a rush of heat through you, though you’re still unwilling to admit it aloud.

“Better than me?” you ask, voice dropping dangerously low, your lips curling into a sharp, humorless smile. “That’s rich, coming from someone who’s been riding my coattails for months. Admit it, Azriel, you can’t stand that I’m winning.”

His hand tightens at your waist, and his next words are spoken with deliberate, biting calm. “Winning? You’re delusional. You’ve never beaten me, and you never will.”

Your lips part for another retort, but the words die on your tongue, the sound morphing into a moan as he moves. The shift in position presses him against you in a way that makes your breath hitch, his body hitting that spot deep inside you.

A faint sound of footsteps outside the closet snaps you back to reality. You barely have time to register it before Azriel’s hand is covering your mouth, his fingers warm and firm against your lips, stifling any sound you might make. His other hand grips your hip harder, pulling you even closer as he continues to thrust into you, each movement making you feel him deeper, the rhythm brutal and unforgiving.

“Do you want them to hear you?” he growls low in your ear, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “Want to fuck up the mission? Want to give us away?” His voice is tight with barely-contained pleasure, his breath hot against your neck. “You better keep quiet, sweetheart. We can’t afford mistakes.”

You can feel the cold leather of your pants bunched up at your thighs, the heat of his body pressing against you, the sensation of him pushing against you with every thrust, sending jolts of pleasure that make it even harder to keep silent. Your body trembles beneath him, every instinct screaming for release, but the fear of getting caught only makes the tension sharper. 

A desperate whine escapes from your throat, muffled by his hand, and you feel him pause. The sound of footsteps somewhere outside the closet slows, a beat of silence hanging heavy in the air. His breath hitches slightly, but his grip moves up to your waist, and then, in one fluid motion, he presses his hips harder against you.

“Am I going to have to tell Rhys that you cost us months of work?” His words are a dark tease, but the edge of warning lingers in his voice. He pulls back, only to thrust forward again, his hips grinding into yours with slow, powerful force, each movement designed to make you feel every inch of him, to make sure you can’t forget for a second what’s happening. “Think about that, sweetheart. All of this… for nothing.”

Your breath catches as he shifts again, his rhythm turning into something deeper, more intense. The tight space only heightens the feeling of him—every inch of his body pressed against yours, making it impossible to escape the raw heat between you. He grinds into you again, his control slipping as the pressure mounts, but his voice stays dangerously low.

The footsteps outside fade, growing softer as they move away from the door. Azriel’s grip loosens slightly, and he pulls his hand from your mouth, his breath ragged against your skin. You can’t hold back anymore. 

“Please, Azriel, don’t stop, I need it,” you whine, the words slipping out before you can stop them, desperate for more. 

His response is immediate, cold, and calculating. “You don’t need anything. You want it.” His tone is firm, void of any tenderness. “You always want more, don’t you?”

Before you can answer, he shifts again, thrusting into you with a deep, controlled force that makes your body seize in response. His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips, using the grip to pull you onto him again and again.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, voice low but commanding, “do you always beg like this? Is this how you get Rhys to give you assignments I’m the obvious choice for? Or am I the only one who gets to see this side of you?”

Your heart races, his words swallowing you whole. But you’re beyond caring now, beyond anything but the feeling of him inside you. His hips grind into you with a brutal, possessive rhythm, and you can’t help but let out a moan, your back arching as you press against the wall. You can feel the pressure building, every part of you straining for release, but his control is absolute, keeping you on the edge, making you ache with every moment. You know you can’t hold back much longer. 

With a final, deep thrust, he shudders, his body tightening as he finishes inside you. His breath is heavy, ragged against your neck, and he pauses, just for a moment, as if to savor the feeling of you beneath him. 

Azriel pulls out slowly, his movements deliberate, and you feel a brief emptiness where he was. Without a word, he tucks himself back into his pants with calm efficiency, as if there were nothing out of the ordinary. 

“Pull your pants up,” he says, his tone cool, detached. There’s no hint of the intensity from moments ago, as if he can shut it off in an instant. 

You blink, the haze of pleasure clouding your mind as you slowly process his words. What? You’re still trying to make sense of everything when he pulls back as far as the cramped broom closet allows, glancing at you with that unreadable expression. 

“We’ve got shit to do,” he shrugs, voice colder now, businesslike. “Maybe I’ll stop by your room tonight.” There’s a dangerous flicker in his eyes as he says it, but it’s gone before you can even react. 

He opens the closet door and steps out, holding a hand out to you. You hesitate for a moment, still reeling, but you take his hand, letting him pull you back out into the hall. 

[thesecondhandwoman]

Hello I’m back but with a properly formulated request!

Sevika x single mom? Head-cannons, drabbles ect, I’m not picky

Or, you and sevika had been dating a few months but she didn’t know you had a daughter. One day you invite her to your house for afternoon tea (and to meet your daughter)….sevika shows up early with flowers but it’s not you who opens the door, it’s a 5 year old?

-thank you! Pictures of my dog Milo will only be sent if you do this 💗💗💗

A LITTLE BIT OF SUGAR

Sevika x f!reader

Synopsis: After inviting Sevika to come to your house due to months of dating, you didn’t expect her to come early. So, without any knowledge and the doorbell ringing, you daughter answered instead, surprising Sevika entirely.

Request: @possessedmagpie

Sevika wasn’t nervous. Not exactly.

She tugged on the cuff of her jacket, the bouquet of flowers clutched in her other hand as she stood outside your door. This wasn’t a big deal—it was just tea at your place. Nothing she hadn’t done before, right?

Well, except it was the first time you’d invited her over.

The thought made her shift her weight, suddenly hyper-aware of the flowers in her hand. Were flowers too much? She didn’t usually do romantic gestures, but you brought something out in her—something soft and warm, something that wanted to try for you.

Taking a steadying breath, she knocked on the door. It opened almost immediately, but it wasn’t you standing there.

It was a kid.

A very small, very curious kid.

Sevika froze. The child blinked up at her with wide eyes, her head tilting as if trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

“Hi,” the little girl said, her voice bright and clear.

“Uh, ” Sevika’s mind blanked. She glanced down at the flowers, then back at the child. “Hi.”

The girl squinted at her, clearly unimpressed. “Who are you?”

“I’m…” Sevika glanced around as if looking for you to appear and rescue her. “I’m Sevika. Is—uh—is your mom home?”

The girl’s eyes lit up at that. “You’re here for Mommy?”

Sevika nodded, still not entirely sure what was happening.

The child seemed to consider this, then stepped back and opened the door wider. “Okay, come in! Mommy’s in the kitchen. I’ll show you!”

Before Sevika could react, the girl grabbed her free hand and started tugging her inside. The bouquet bobbed awkwardly in her grip as she let herself be dragged into the small, cozy apartment.

Sevika took it all in at a glance: the lived-in feel of the space, the faint smell of something cooking, the drawings taped up on the fridge. Her chest tightened as the realization hit her like a freight train.

You had a kid.

The girl plopped herself onto the couch and patted the seat next to her, looking up at Sevika expectantly. “Sit down! Mommy will be done soon. You can talk to me!”

Sevika sat stiffly, her brain still trying to catch up. She glanced down at the child, who was now inspecting the bouquet with open curiosity.

“Are those for Mommy?” the girl asked, reaching out to touch the petals.

“Yeah,” Sevika said, her voice coming out rougher than she intended. She cleared her throat. “For your mom.”

The girl grinned. “She’s gonna love them. She likes pretty things.”

Sevika found herself relaxing a little at the child’s enthusiasm. “Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. I’m Dahlia,” the girl said proudly. “What’s your name again?”

“Sevika.”

“Sevika,” Dahlia repeated, testing the word. “That’s a cool name.”

Sevika smirked despite herself. “Thanks, kid.”

Before Dahlia could launch into another round of questions, your voice called from the kitchen. “Dahlia, who’s at the door?”

“It’s Sevika!” Dahlia yelled back, making Sevika wince at the volume.

Your footsteps came quickly, and a moment later, you appeared in the doorway, holding a dish towel. The moment your eyes landed on Sevika, they went wide.

“You’re early,” you said, a hint of panic in your voice.

Sevika gave a sheepish shrug. “Yeah, I guess I—uh—caught you off guard.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I was going to… ease into this.”

Sevika’s brow furrowed. “Ease into what?”

You gestured toward Dahlia, who was now busy arranging the flowers in a vase she’d found on the coffee table. “This. Her.”

Sevika stared at you, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to form a response. “You didn’t tell me you had a kid.”

“I know,” you said quickly, stepping closer. “I wanted to. I just didn’t know how.”

Sevika exhaled sharply, leaning back against the couch. “That’s a lot to spring on someone.”

“I know,” you repeated, your voice softer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen this way.”

Dahlia looked up from her flowers, oblivious to the tension in the room. “Mommy, Sevika’s really nice! She let me smell the flowers!”

You managed a small smile, crouching down beside her. “That’s very sweet of her, isn’t it?”

Dahlia nodded enthusiastically, and you turned back to Sevika, your eyes searching hers. “Can you stay? Just for a little while? I’ll explain everything. Please.”

Sevika hesitated, her gaze flicking between you and Dahlia. Finally, she nodded. “Yeah. I can stay.”

Lunch was a strange mix of awkwardness and warmth. Dahlia’s endless chatter filled the silences, her stories ranging from her favorite cartoons to the adventures of her stuffed bear, Mr. Bubbles.

Sevika found herself drawn into the conversation despite her initial discomfort. Dahlia had a way of demanding attention in a way that felt familiar—like a certain blue-haired girl Sevika had once known.

“You’re good with her,” you said quietly when Dahlia ran off to grab a book she wanted to show Sevika.

Sevika snorted. “You think so?”

“I do,” you said, your gaze soft. “I was worried… about how this would go. But you’re handling it better than I expected.”

Sevika shrugged, glancing toward the hallway where Dahlia had disappeared. “She’s a good kid. Reminds me of someone I used to know.”

“Jinx?”

“Yeah.” Sevika’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “She used to follow me around all the time as a kid, asking a million questions. Drove me crazy back then, but I guess I got used to it.”

You smiled, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. “Thank you. For staying.”

Sevika’s fingers curled around yours, her grip firm but gentle. “I’m not going anywhere.”

After lunch, Dahlia insisted Sevika help her draw. You watched from the kitchen as they sat on the living room floor, crayons scattered between them.

“Your coloring is terrible,” Dahlia declared, pointing at Sevika’s attempt at a flower.

Sevika raised an eyebrow. “You could just say thank you.”

Dahlia giggled, leaning over to “fix” the drawing. “There. Now it’s pretty.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sevika muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward.

You leaned against the counter, your heart swelling at the sight. Sevika didn’t just tolerate Dahlia—she engaged with her, teasing and listening in a way that felt effortless. It was more than you’d dared to hope for.

When Dahlia finally ran out of steam and curled up on the couch with Mr. Bubbles, you and Sevika found yourselves alone in the quiet living room.

“She likes you,” you said softly, sitting beside her.

Sevika smirked. “Yeah? How can you tell?”

“She doesn’t usually let anyone touch her crayons,” you teased.

Sevika chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Well, I’m honored.”

You leaned into her, your head resting against her chest. “I know this isn’t what you signed up for. And if it’s too much—”

“Don’t,” Sevika said firmly, cutting you off. “I’m here. I want to be here. Okay?”

You nodded, your throat tightening with emotion.

Sevika tilted your chin up, her gaze steady and warm. “You and her? You’re a package deal. I get that. And I’m in.”

Tears pricked your eyes, but before you could respond, Sevika leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. It was slow and grounding, a silent promise you felt in every inch of your being.

When she pulled back, you smiled up at her, your fingers brushing against the scar on her cheek. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”

Sevika smirked. “Guess that makes two of us.”

The sound of Dahlia’s soft snores filled the room, and for the first time in years, you felt like everything was exactly as it should be.

A/N: This was such a cute request and I’m mad that I couldn’t expand it more (struggled a bit and working on the headcanons with other requests). Hope you enjoy it though :)!

[isaadore]

US THREE QUINN HUGHES

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ pairing dad!quinn hughes x mom!reader

SUMMARY little snippets of your life with quinn before and after the birth of your son. word count 1.2k

warnings fem!reader, tooth-rotting fluff

notes i haven’t written anything in sooo long, so i’m a little rusty 😓 i apologize if this isn’t the best and a little cheesy. i just got a few ideas while watching titans (i’m in love with dick grayson)

QH43 MASTERLIST MAIN MASTERLIST

PAINTING THE NURSERY

It was one of those perfect autumn afternoons, the kind where the air felt crisp and colourful leaves danced in the wind. Quinn set the last can of soft pastel yellow paint down on the nursery floor, and as the warm light streamed through the window, the walls seemed to glow. You were perched on a step stool, carefully taping the edges of the room, your growing belly just brushing the ladder as you shifted. Quinn was nearby, his brows furrowed, hovering slightly with one hand stretched out, ready to catch you if you even thought about wobbling.

“You know I’ve got this, right?” you teased, turning to shoot him a playful smirk.

“I know,” he replied, his own grin creeping onto his face, “but just... humour me, okay? I can't help it—I'm not taking any chances.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, hopping down to grab the paintbrush he held out to you. “All right, Mr. Safety First. Let's see if you’re as good with a paintbrush as you are with a hockey stick.”

“Better,” he shot back, popping open the paint can with a satisfying snap. 

As you worked together, it felt like more than just painting. You shared giggles and tossed around baby names, and then, in a moment of mischief, you smeared a little paint right on his nose. He retaliated with a playful swipe of yellow across your cheek, his boyish grin impossibly wide when you squealed in surprise. By the time the walls were mostly covered, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and your heart felt so full it was almost overwhelming.

Quinn took a step back to admire the work, his hand resting gently on your back. “I think he’s going to love it,” he murmured.

“I think so too,” you replied softly, leaning your head against his shoulder, feeling all the warmth between you both.

PROUD DAD-TO-BE

The first time Quinn brought you and your soon-to-be son into a post-game interview was completely unexpected. The Canucks had just pulled off an overtime win, and Quinn was still filled with adrenaline as he stood by the microphone.

“Quinn, how does it feel to lead your team to a win like that?” a reporter asked, clearly eager for a soundbite.

He flashed a big grin, running a hand through his damp hair, still buzzing from the game. “It feels amazing. Honestly, though, it’s not just about me. My wife’s at home, seven months pregnant and absolutely crushing it. Every time I’m on the ice, I’m thinking about them. I want to make my son proud before he’s even here.”

The room filled with soft laughter and nods of approval. Quinn’s eyes sparkled with a mix of pride and excitement, and back home, you were curled up on the couch with tears in your eyes, feeling every word. He had this incredible way of melting your heart, always reminding you of the beautiful life you were building together.

CRAVINGS AND CHICKEN PARM

A few days later, you found yourself sitting at the kitchen counter, scrolling through recipes on your phone. Pregnancy cravings had hit you hard, and that night, all you could think about was chicken parmesan.

Quinn strolled in, wearing sweatpants and a simple t-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower. He leaned over your shoulder to peek at the screen, flashing a grin. “Alright, what’s on the menu tonight?” he asked.

“Chicken parm,” you said, setting your phone down with a smile. “And extra cheese, of course.”

“Even better,” he replied, already heading toward the fridge.

Quinn wasn’t exactly a culinary master, but he’d taken it upon himself to whip up whatever you were craving. Watching him in the kitchen was one of your favourite pastimes. He would hum under his breath, occasionally glancing back to check in on you. That night, as he dipped the chicken into the breadcrumb mixture, he paused, a thoughtful look on his face.

“You know,” he said, looking up with a smirk, “if our kid ends up loving hockey as much as chicken parm, we might be in for some late-night games and a lot of takeout.”

You laughed, shaking your head at the thought. “He’s going to have your work ethic and your heart, so I think we’ll manage just fine.”

Quinn’s ears turned a light shade of pink at the compliment, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he got back to layering the mozzarella and marinara with a focus that made you smile. When he finally set the plate in front of you, there was a look of triumph on his face.

As you took that first bite, Quinn settled in beside you, his hand instinctively resting on your belly. Just then, the baby kicked, and both of you froze before bursting into joyful smiles.

“Looks like he approves,” Quinn said softly, his thumb brushing gently against your skin through your shirt. 

“He definitely has good taste,” you replied, leaning over to plant a quick kiss on his cheek.

LULLABIES

It was well past midnight when Quinn heard the soft sound of you humming from the nursery. He had just wrapped up reviewing game footage in his office, but the gentle melody drew him out. Quietly, he padded down the hall and leaned against the doorframe, taking in the sight of you swaying in the rocking chair.

At first, you were lost in your own world, your hands resting on your belly as you sang a lullaby barely above a whisper. The dim glow of the nightlight cast a warm, golden light around the room, and at that moment, Quinn thought you’d never look more beautiful.

“Can’t sleep?” he murmured, stepping inside and breaking the stillness.

You looked up, a smile brightening your face. “Just practicing for when he gets here. Thought I’d get a head start on lullabies.”

Quinn knelt beside the chair, his chin resting on the armrest as he gazed up at you. “You’re going to be an amazing mom,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “He’s so lucky to have you.”

You reached out, your fingers gently stroking his dark hair. “And he’s got the best dad in the world. We make a good team, don’t we?”

“The best,” he replied, leaning in to place a tender kiss on your belly. “Hey, buddy, you’re going to love it here. I promise.”

FIRSTS

On the morning of Quinn’s first game, after the baby was born, the house was buzzing with energy. You darted around the living room, stuffing essentials into the diaper bag while Quinn wrestled with the car seat straps, frustration written all over his face.

“This thing is impossible,” he grumbled, tugging at the straps.

You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Here, let me show you how it’s done.”

With a little teamwork, you managed to get the seat secured, and Quinn let out an exasperated cheer. “We did it! All right, now we’re all set!”

As you carefully strapped your son into the seat, Quinn knelt down, his face breaking into a wide grin as he gazed at the baby. “Okay, little man. It’s game day! No pressure, but we’ve got a streak to uphold.”

You gave him an amused roll of your eyes. “Don’t listen to him. Just focus on being adorable.”

Quinn leaned over and planted a kiss on your cheek, his excitement radiating as he headed toward the door. “Best cheer squad ever!” he called back, his voice full of warmth.

When you got to the rink, the atmosphere was electric. Quinn scored a goal and immediately turned to look at you in the stands, where you sat cradling your son. The pride lighting up his eyes was everything, and in that moment, everything felt just right.

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ QH43 MASTERLIST ✷ MAIN MASTERLIST

[lizziesangel]

can you do one of high maintenance!reader being in sephora with rafe, and shes buying a looot of stuff and rafe its just "😧" with many things she 'needs'

this is sooo cute

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝓇𝒾𝓅 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝑒𝓅𝒽𝑜𝓇𝒶

the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting the apartment in a warm golden glow when you walked through the door, your face lit up with excitement.

“baby!” you called out, dropping your purse on the counter and hurrying into the living room where he was sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone.

he glanced up, immediately sitting straighter when he saw the grin on your face. “what’s got you all excited?”

you wiggled your fingers in front of his face, showing off your fresh set of nails. they were a soft almond shape, painted a sheer pink with delicate silver accents.

“look at these! aren’t they so pretty?” you gushed, turning your hands this way and that under the light.

rafe reached out, gently taking your hand to inspect them closer. “damn, those are way better,” he said, running his thumb over the smooth finish.

“they’re so perfect,” you continued, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet. “i think this might be my favorite set ever. and she even used this new top coat that makes them feel extra sturdy.”

he chuckled, shaking his head as he released your hand. “so that’s where my money went this week.”

“your money looks good on me,” you teased, holding your hand up to admire the shine again.

rafe leaned back on the couch, smirking as he watched you. “i mean, you’re not wrong. and if it makes you this happy, it’s worth every cent.”

“exactly!” you said, flopping down next to him and resting your head on his shoulder.

you stayed like that for a few minutes, your freshly done nails lightly drumming against his chest as you relaxed.

then, you sat up suddenly. “we need to go to the mall.”

rafe blinked at you, confused. “the mall? we were just there, like, three days ago.”

“yeah,” you said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “but my skincare’s almost empty, and i can’t risk running out. you know how important it is.”

he stared at you for a moment, his lips twitching like he was trying not to laugh. finally, he shook his head with a fond sigh. “all right, let’s go, princess.”

you beamed, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “you’re the best.”

“yeah, yeah,” he said, grabbing his keys. “just don’t make me carry all the bags this time.”

“no promises,” you teased, grabbing your purse as you practically skipped out the door.

rafe followed, watching you with a mixture of exasperation and amusement, though he couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips.

the bright lights of sephora illuminated shelves upon shelves of colorful products, from rows of lipsticks to aisles dedicated to serums and creams. you were in your element, basket in hand, flitting between displays with an excitement that made rafe both amused and slightly overwhelmed.

“this one is amazing,” you said, holding up a jar of moisturizer. “and this toner? total game changer.”

rafe trailed behind you, hands shoved in his pockets, his expression hovering between awe and disbelief. his eyes darted to the basket you were carrying—it was already full of little black-and-white bags, jars, and bottles.

“how do you even keep track of all this?” he asked, leaning down to inspect one of the products you’d tossed in. “what even is this?”

“it’s a clarifying mask,” you explained patiently, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “i’ve been wanting to try it for months.”

he raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, silently reminding himself of the promise he’d made weeks ago: he’d cover anything that made you happy—especially when it came to your skincare and beauty stuff.

still, as you added yet another serum to the basket, he couldn’t help but mutter, “you’re not restocking the bathroom. you’re restocking an entire store.”

you turned to him with a laugh, balancing the basket on your hip. “i need this stuff, rafe. and i swear, i’ll pay for half. like i said last time.”

“yeah, you’re not,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the noise of the bustling store.

you blinked at him. “but i—”

“i said i’d pay for this stuff, and i meant it,” he interrupted, reaching for the basket. “give me that before you break your arm carrying it.”

with an exasperated sigh, you handed it over, though the small smile on your lips gave you away. “you’re ridiculous.”

“and you’re very high maintenance,” he teased, smirking as he followed you to another aisle. “but here we are.”

when you finally made your way to the register, the cashier’s eyes widened slightly at the sheer volume of products you’d managed to pile up. rafe barely blinked as he handed over his card, his confidence only faltering slightly when the total appeared on the screen.

you leaned against his arm, glancing up at him with a soft smile. “thank you, baby,” you said quietly, your voice laced with genuine gratitude.

he glanced down at you, his lips tugging into a lopsided grin. “don’t mention it, princess.”

as the cashier handed over the sleek black bag filled with your new treasures, rafe grabbed it with ease, his other hand wrapping around your waist.

“next time,” you said as you left the store, “i really will pay for half.”

rafe let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “sure, princess. whatever you say.”

you narrowed your eyes at him playfully but leaned into his side as you walked through the mall. you might’ve been high maintenance, but he wouldn’t change a single thing about you.

MASTERLIST

CURRENT TAGLIST⋆⭒˚｡⋆

@maybankslover ⟢ @honeyluvsatj ⟢ @zazidot ⟢ @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 ⟢ @lunaleah ⟢ @maybanksangel ⟢ @wtfdudesblog. ⟢ @niktwazny303. ⟢ @outerbanksloverp4l ⟢ @slut4you ⟢ @hstbsl06 ⟢@percysley ⟢ @yesshewrites1 ⟢ @goldenvespa ⟢ @magicalyoura1

[pixelchills]

Finished painting Dolldrop Sunny head 2.0 and I'm going to varnish everything next week before my arm surgery~

More rambles about the process and design under the cut!

I feel like his paintwork wasn't exactly as clean as the first head, because the 3D printer I have now uses different material, and no matter how much I tried to sand it down it still had those weird bumps in the middle of the face... Also my hands tremble really badly, so working on small details wasn't an easy job.

Yes, he looks bald because I need to wait for the varnish before I can add his rays and eyebrows XD (his eyebrows are gonna be removable so I can pose them.) He's also gonna get eyelids and another set of teeth to swap his expressions for photos.

I'm only working on Sunny right now, because I didn't have enough materials (and money) to build Moony at the same time. He'll be joining his other half by the summer though!

Some changes Dolldrop Sunny 2.0 has/will have compared to the original:

Follow me eyes with irises instead of just solid blank white.

Removable eyebrows and teeth.

Removable eyelids.

Full fabric rays. Previously they were also 3D printed, now I cut and sew them from foam.

Body build with proper doll skeleton and foam. He is sturdy and very easy to pose, but still light to carry.

He grew from a newborn baby size to a toddler. From 55cm to 70cm. Partially it was an accident, because I used some baby clothes to measure the body proportions. I might end up shorthening him a bit if necessary.

Fully articulated 3D printed fingers with joints. I'll post some pictures of his hands after I paint them. Unfortunately I couldn't find a way to keep his squeaker in his hand 🥲

[purewasteland]

Rob: They have no idea where Eve is located so they summon Castiel for help. He doesn’t know either. Rich: Okay, I’m just gonna say right off the gate, that was a super funny sequence. Where he’s like ‘I don’t have-’ where he just calls ‘Cas, get out of my ass’ and he appears right behind him. Rob: Yeah, yeah. The- Castiel in this episode is really funny. Rich: Dude, Dean/Castiel banter was, like, off the charts. Rob: And here’s my question. Do the writers know at this point that Destiel is a thing? Rich: I don’t know. Rob: We can’t talk about the show without mentioning that that's a thing that fans talked about, right? This sort of hidden- Rich: Yeah, but did they-  were they talking about it then? Rob: -Sexual chemistry between Dean and Castiel. Which may or may not be there. Although later in the canon it does become a thing. I’m sure- They wrote a whole episode of that. But the lines, when you reading- when you seeing this, you're like ‘Oh, wow, that’s all right there.’   Rich: They are playing into it, yeah. Rob: Yeah, exactly. Exactly. ‘Are you in my ass?’ ‘No, I wasn’t-’ Rich: I don’t know. I have no idea. We have to find out if that was a topic on social media at the time. Rob: Nevertheless, really really funny Castiel/Dean stuff. Rich: It’s great. It’s so funny.

-Rob Benedict and Richard Speight Jr. Supernatural Then and Now

Mommy Dearest with Adam Glass (S6EP19)

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Spring (Cregan Stark x Reader)

Summary: As a Princess, you aren’t used to rejection. But Cregan, your husband, has vowed to only ever love one woman, and it isn't you. Right?

Warnings: Slightly less unreliable narrator (Cregan has come to his senses, reader is on the way) Mature language.

A/N: I really thought these two would get their mess sorted out in nine scenes, but I was far too optimistic. Lucky me, I had one season as backup! Also, thank you so, so much for continuing to read this series and your kind comments!

IT IS FUNNY, how wrong can Cregan be about people. He is no longer afraid to admit it. He had been mistaken about you. 

The utter viciousness you had displayed, bringing up his dead wife, had only been a source of anger for him at first. He had thought you an evil little bitch, unafraid of exploiting weak spots to hurt him. 

Then, he had seen you with Rickon. And his world had just… Shifted. As if every piece of furniture in Winterfell had been moved exactly one inch to the left, and no one had told him, leaving him stumbling around in his own home.

You weren’t evil or jealous. Or, more likely, you were, but not because of some petty reason, it was because you were insecure. The mere idea was laughable, why would a Princess of the Realm be insecure? But it made too much sense for him to ignore. 

Each time Cregan had cracked a joke that compared you to Arra, like commenting on the number of packages and dresses you had brought from the South, you had taken it as a personal criticism. You felt unappreciated, so you lashed out and avoided him at every turn. 

You were kind, smart, and capable. Just not in the way Cregan was used to women being capable. The northern women were considered capable because they were physically strong, able to wield bows, ride hard and long or withstand the terrible weather. 

You, instead, shared Prince Jacaerys’ strength. You were honorable, unable to leave a child in need, and kind, enough that you would comfort them until their parents reached them. But most of all, you had a brain suited for politics. 

Cregan had never noticed before because he had never bothered to truly look at what you were doing, but your charities were to make your mother’s cause more popular with the smallfolk. He had heard your mother was doing a similar thing in the capital, delivering food to the starved population due to a blockade of the own Blacks’ making. Not that the commoners cared about the last part. They only cared about those who put food on their bellies. 

And perhaps the Queen dowager and Princess Helaena were popular in the South because of their involvement in the Septs, but you were exploiting the lack of those here. Without Septs, there were no Septas or Septons tending to the sick and poor. You were. And the North would remember, when it came time to march for your mother’s banners. 

Cregan would bet Ice that you were having tea with the northern ladies not to gain friends. The Old Gods knew you were an introverted creature, painfully awkward at niceties, much like he was. It explained why the two of you were so uncomfortable with each other. You were probably entertaining the northerns to win their loyalties, knowing the combined pressure of Cregan’s oath and their wives would make his lords more eager to drop coin and men for your war. 

Oh, if Cregan got you on his side, the two of you would be a force to be reckoned with. He could already see how much security you could bring to the North, how well fed you could be during winter, if you decided to work with him and not behind him. 

You were a wonderful woman. Kind and tender to his son, smart as a whip, utterly terrifying when crossed. You would make a fine wife to any lord, and Cregan couldn’t believe how stupid he had been not to see it. You just needed to be encouraged, and Cregan, dumb as a rock, had been doing the exact opposite. 

While you hadn’t exactly been trying, Cregan was man enough to admit that part of the blame laid on him. He had been pushing you away without even realizing it, comparing you to Arra at every turn, without considering how that might come across to you. 

That ended today. He would prove himself worthy of your love and loyalty, and win you over. Cregan wasn’t a man of half measures. He would woo you or spend the rest of his life trying. 

Set in his decision, Cregan walked to your chambers. He waved off the guard’s attempt to announce him, casually strolling in. 

You were seated next to the fire, the leather-bound book you usually carried around spread over your lap. It was a heavy tome, bound in brown leather with golden engravings. It was written in High Valyrian, a language for which Cregan had little use, so he had never learned it beyond recognizing the alphabet. 

There was a striking beauty to your expression when you were at ease, the peaceful expression you wore becoming you much more than the usual frown you directed at him. Cregan found himself wondering how beautiful you must look smiling, if you looked this radiant when at peace. 

You had the sort of face to be lit up with happiness, he could already tell. His heart ached to be the one that finally coaxed it out of you.

“Princess,” Cregan calls, softly. You set your book aside, ready to get up and curtsy, but he halts you. “No need for that, wife. My ego is not so fragile I need my woman to bow to me.” 

“Lord Husband.” You reply, for once not frowning. Your face remains carefully neutral, which Cregan considers a victory. He would attribute it to his remark about his ego, but it is more likely due to guilt. He will take it regardless. 

“No need for that either, much less today.” Cregan smiles at you. “You may call me Cregan, if you wish. I am here to thank you for caring for my Rickon while I was away.” 

You look far more confused than you did before. You look like you want to approach him and run at the same time, your wool gown fluttering as you squirm in place, undecided if you are approaching or not. 

“I simply did my duty, my lord.”

Cregan’s smile widens, amused by you. 

“Singing him was part of it? By the Gods, I thought I had a wife and not a minstrel?” And the dry, northern humor doesn’t seem to suit you because you frown slightly. Cregan fights the urge to curse, instead making a mental note. You dislike being mocked, even in jest. He wonders what sharp words you had to endure in the South to be like this, and feels a wave of pity. Dark of hair and no dragon to shield you? Perhaps that was why you were far kinder to Sara than to him. He gives a tasteful cough. Or at least, his attempt at it. 

“I only meant to say you went beyond your duties, and I thank you for it. You didn’t have to, but it meant the world to him.” Cregan tries again, and you blink at him, as if he were unable to understand anything at all. 

“He is a child.” You say, slowly.  “No person would leave a child in need.” 

“You would be surprised.” Cregan thinks of how his own mother had treated Sara when she had arrived at Winterfell, treatment that hadn’t improved when his aunt took on as the Lady of the household. His sister had only known freedom after Cregan had taken over his seat, and she was still judged by the rest of the North, even though in a much subtle manner. 

“Mmm.” Your reply is noncommittal. 

“He has been asking me lately why he doesn't have a lady mother.” Cregan attempts again. He is not above using Rickon to have an excuse to spend time with you. And to his amusement, it does work. You pity his son more than him, it seems because you begin to pay him more attention.  

“What did you tell him?” You tilt your head to the side, curious. It’s a surprisingly cute gesture for the unshakable princess that you are. 

“I do not know. I have not answered him.” Cregan searches for somewhere to sit, but apart from the loveseat in which you are soaking up the warmth of the fireplace, there is none. He grabs the stool by your writing area, and brings it over. 

He sits on the stool across from you, wiggling a bit with how uncomfortable it is. It feels like his knees are on his chest, by the Gods. It’s clearly meant for a shorter person. Your rooms are not made for receiving visitors, he should have thought of that earlier. You need a space to receive people that isn’t the sitting room. What if you wish to have more private conversations?

“Surely he knows she is dead?” You are too caught up in your disbelief to protest that he is rearranging your furniture. Good. 

“He does, but doesn’t quite grasp what dead means.”  Cregan is being honest. Whoever has the heart to explain to a child of two namedays what death is, is a braver man than him. 

“Perhaps you could say she is in the Seven Heavens?” Your frown comes back, but this time it isn’t angry. Instead, it’s puzzled. You are trying to help him, and it makes him fight the urge to smile. He doesn’t want you to think that he is mocking your suggestion. 

“We do not believe that here.” 

“Neither do I.” And this time, there is the barest beginning of a playful smile on your lips. Oh, you minx! Cregan smiles to himself, charmed. It emboldens him to continue. 

“Just, I would like it if you saw him more often. With me. Perhaps… He has asked about you, and I am not asking you to replace her but I… He sometimes needs a more feminine touch.” 

“Of course.” You agree. And he can see in your eyes you think he might be trying to use you as a stand in for Arra, not truly believing his words, but that is alright. Cregan will show you. Or at least, he is going to do his very best attempt. 

YOU MAKE SURE there are enough pastries and hot water available before you stand up.

“I am afraid I must leave you, my ladies. But you are welcome to continue enjoying the hospitality of Winterfell.” The sitting room is filled with northern women. You have begun inviting them for tea twice a moon, trying to ensure your mother will have all the support she needs when she takes King’s Landing. 

It has proven to be quite the difficult task. Northerns are often suspicious of outsiders, and from what you have learned through these gossip sessions, they rarely marry southrons. The only ones who do are the most important Houses, like the Starks or the Boltons. It means that most of your ladies are northern by birth, and not through marriage as you are. 

“This early?” Lady Mormont asks, bluntly. Her bluntness had discomfited you during your first meetings, but you have come to find it refreshing. “Princess?” She tacks on, remembering she is supposed to mind her courtesies with you. 

“This early.” You confirm, with a smile. You have planned the time of this tea with precision for this same motive, knowing it will appeal to their loyalty, but also allow you to escape the socializing. “I have a play date with my Lord Husband and little Rickon.” 

One of the ladies coos. Lady Mormont barks out a laughter. 

“Ah, to be a young woman with that many suitors.” 

“Only the very best.” You smile, and leave them to feast on the pastries. 

You make your way to Cregan’s solar at a leisure pace. The crushed velvet gown you are wearing is in a blue so pale it almost looks like the gray of House Stark. It is one of your old ones, meant to evoke House Velaryon’s colors. It fits you again, having gained a bit of weight during your time in the North. You hope it is a gown suitable for playing with a toddler. 

As you enter, you notice Rickon is arriving as well, tugged along by a maid. He chirps a greeting to you, a mix of your name and title that sounds more like gibberish. Yet, you are helpless to him.

“Rickon!” You kneel by him, as he runs to be picked up. You indulge him, smelling his hair as you lift him. He smells of sweet innocence, and a bit like Cregan. You hate that you cannot hate him or be indifferent any longer. The little boy has stolen your heart. 

Rickon gives you a toothy smile, his hands clumsily going to cup your face. Who can resist him? Not you. 

“I see you found each other.” Cregan leans against the door, smirking. He holds two cups. “Warm milk with honey. For the cold.”

You cannot help but smile a little. 

“Our knight in shining armor!” You tease, more for Rickon’s benefit than him. “Let us in, good Ser. So I can place my little wildling down and he can drink it.” 

Cregan laughs and moves aside to let the two of you pass. As you do so, you cannot help but notice how much space he takes up, tall and wide. Your eyes linger on his shoulders. You have not seen him wield Ice yet, but you have seen the sword. He has to have considerable strength to do so. 

The thought is strangely thrilling. Your stomach does a somersault, but before you have time to analyze it, Rickon begins to squirm in your arms. 

“Down! Down! Doggie!” He pleads. You look to see what has caught his attention and notice that Cregan has moved the rug so it lays by the fireplace, and placed some of Rickon’s toys there, including his more favored one: A soft cotton white wolf. 

You set Rickon down and take one of the cups from Cregan. Both of you sit down on the rug as well, and watch Rickon play with his wolf, ignoring his cup of milk. You have come to learn that playing with an only child is much different than playing with your younger siblings, Rickon mostly plays alone and wants you there to show you things. 

It forces you to keep conversations with your husband, if only because the silence would be too awkward otherwise. 

“I have arranged for us to have tea when Rickon tires.” Cregan informs you, a bit stiff.

“Oh, I already had tea with the…” You start, before Cregan interrupts you. 

“You are far too thin still. Besides, I know your tea spreads are made of mostly northern sweets. I asked the cooks to make one of your favorites, Prince Jacaerys was kind enough to set up correspondence for me with the cooks of Dragonstone.” 

It’s awfully thoughtful of him, and you will examine it later because your mind is still stuck on one tiny detail. One that infuriates you. 

“You are corresponding with Jace?” You ask, trying hard not to sound violent. After all, he has been very kind to you as of late, and guilt has begun to creep in for your careless words about his late wife. Not that you will apologize or anything. You intend to pretend nothing happened and be extra nice to Cregan, indulging Rickon and him on all the tea and play dates in the world. 

“I am. He would be very pleased if you stopped burning his letters.” His tone is chiding, though gentle. You take a deep breath in. Jace, the traitor. Cregan keeps his tone kind. “He still grieves your brother, Princess. Do not make him mourn a sister in life.” 

“Does he think I shall never forgive him?” You ask him, baffled. Rickon begins building a tower with blocks on the rug, insisting that the two of you aid him in building Winterfell, so Cregan’s answer is delayed. As you place some blocks to make the entrance, you have time to think over his words. 

All alone in Dragonstone, Jace must be feeling as lonely as you are. Only more because he has no Cregan and Rickon to stand with him. 

What he had done was a deep betrayal in your eyes, but was it truly? You had known you would have to marry eventually, and it probably wouldn’t be a love match. Jace had done the best he could in the terrible circumstances you were in. Moved by his fear of losing another sibling, he had entrusted you to Cregan because he thought you could be happy here. Safe. 

And you were. There was no fiercest protector for you apart from your husband. After marrying him, no one had dared even to breathe the rumors of your bastardy, and he even worried about what you ate, by the Gods’ sake!

“You can hold a grudge.” Cregan says, cautiously, when Rickon is distracted by his cup of milk and begins to attempt drinking it. Usually, drinking his milk is followed by passing out, so he is careful to support him in his lap. The sight makes your chest feel oddly warm. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

This was bad. 

You were falling in love with Cregan. 

“Perhaps I don’t want to any longer.” You say, looking into his eyes. You are no longer speaking of Jace. 

Cregan seems to catch on your meaning because he reaches forward and takes your hand in his. Fixated on how big and warm his hand feels against yours, you almost miss his soft words. 

“Neither do I.”

SARA’S EYES, GREY and so much like his father’s, are fixed on him. Cregan tries to ignore her, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of appearing uncomfortable. But before the hour passes, he is squirming in his chair, unnerved by her silent stare. 

Sara continues to stare. Cregan refuses to speak to her. After a while, she sets down the book she has taken from his shelves, a dreadfully boring account of the battles fought by the Kings of Winter, and perches her chin in her hands. 

That way, her staring is much more obvious. She is comfortably laid back in one of the armchairs he has in his solar. Cregan likes company when he works, and it’s easier to ask for her opinion if she is right there. Unfortunately, it also means she can stare at him for hours on end if she so wished.

“What?” Cregan asks, when he can’t take it any longer. He pushes away the reports about the safety of Wintertown and how prepared they are for winter, and looks up at her. She still doesn’t speak. “Sara!” 

“Apologies, brother.” By her smile, she is anything but sorry. “I just find it fascinating.” 

Cregan sighs. He doesn’t really want to bite, but if he doesn’t, Sara’s teasing will get worse and worse.

“What is fascinating?” 

“How you have managed to turn into a spineless southron in less than two moons.” Cregan can only gape at her. What is she going on about? “Not only have you turned timid, you are also a moron. And cunt struck. Well, are you? I know you are not getting any, does one need to actually be bedding the woman to be cunt…” She doesn’t even finish her words, cackling with laughter.

His face grows hot, burning with embarrassment. 

“I should have married you to an Umber and be done with it.” He mutters, under his breath, which only makes her cackle further. Both of them know that Sara would never be married off as if she were some cattle. Cregan loves her too much for it, and she is a deeply independent woman. 

“Who would advise you, then?” She asks him, brazenly. “Your sweet little wife? While she is great at wrangling lords and ladies, I doubt she has the stomach for warfare.” 

“There is a certain innocence to these Velaryons, yes.” At his words, Sara glares. She hates to be reminded she had not been as immune as she liked to think she was to Prince Jacaerys’ charms. “But if the worst comes to pass, I actually intend to have her hold Winterfell alongside you and Rickon.” 

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Sara approves. “Shall you march south, Rickon and I will suffice.” 

“I wish to begin teaching her, when she no longer seems willing to murder me.” 

“I think she isn’t willing to murder you any longer.” And it is as good of an endorsement he will get from Sara. 

“She still seems to think I do not love her.” Cregan whines. 

“Because you mention Arra all the time. I have heard it’s in bad taste, but what would I know?” Sara rolls her eyes. “I am just some bastard girl.” 

“Are you simply going to complain or will you help me?” Cregan looks at her and tries giving her his best pleading look. Then, he decides to stroke her pride. “You know I always seek your council, even above other lords.” 

“Even above Lord Cerwyn?” Her mouth purses in a dubious pout. Fuck. His sister or his best friend? In the end, the choice is easy. Sara is here now, after all. 

“Of course.”

Sara positively beams. 

“You should tell him so.” Her rivalry with him had never made any sense to him, they had known each other since childhood, too. The man didn’t even care about who her mother had been and never took insult with her… Well, insults. Plural. Always thrown at him by Sara. Now that he thought of it, his friend always sought excuses to see Sara. Odd. “Loudly. But I am feeling generous and not demand that you do so immediately. I shall gloat in my victory, and it will be even sweeter if he doesn’t know.” 

“Your advice?” Cregan asks, tiredly. The Gods knew that she would talk circles around him if he let her. She was honest, but she also had a gift for courtly speech that Cregan despised. 

“Women like gifts. Or I do. And I am a woman.” Sara shrugs. “She is a Princess, of course she does too. And don’t just gift her anything.” 

“I would never be…” That stupid, Cregan wishes to add, but Sara is still speaking. 

“Gift her something special. Something unique, tailored to her. And especially, something that you wouldn’t gift practical Arra.” 

Cregan stares at Sara. Sara stares back. Then, very pointedly, she picks up her book and continues to read. The message is clear. He will not get any further help. 

Still, her advice lingers. In the coming days, Cregan cannot shake the thought, regardless of what he is doing. As he inspects his men, as he reads during his spare time, even as he bathes. All Cregan thinks of is you, and a gift that would please you. 

He even dares ask Rickon. His suggestion of a direwolf isn’t exactly bad. It’s just difficult on its execution, and not something Cregan would choose when thinking of a gift for you. 

He discards many more ideas, from rolls of myrish lace to donations to your charities. You ran far too cold to wear the former, and the latter wouldn’t truly be a gift to you. He wastes nearly a week coming up with a suitable idea, and two more corresponding with the Prince, the Maester at Dragonstone, and securing the goods he needs. 

It’s all worth it, when he takes a look at the finished present and can know that you will love it. 

[pseudonymousposting]

I used to read and retain very well. Now, if I look at a lot of text, all I see is a big wall of fuck symbols that blend together and mean nothing so to be fair maybe a huge amount of us are worn out and can't parse information anymore.

But also important systems (like education) collapsing is part of the process of a civilization dying and, often, literacy plummets quickly.

This is partially because of the powerful neglect or purposely undercut these systems. This can be for personal gain, to suppress dissenting elements, to narrow the scope of whom they empower to their supporters, because they don't want to do so, because they are incompetent, because the system can not maintain itself anymore or any other number of reasons.

It's also partially because people are just trying their best to survive and don't have time to learn nor teach their children. This is something you'll note if you listen to elementary school teachers, who were iirc coming forward in droves with chilling tales of children coming into school having not reached some important prerequisite milestones for some of what they needed to include in their curriculum.

Early literacy was part of this phenomena, and there was plenty of drivel from parents blaming teachers, teachers blaming parents. Thank goodness, there was a number of people pointing at the problem: we are systemically fucked right now, and what it would take to fix the issue would look like a societal upheaval.

Here's the thing. The teachers have a lot of material to cover and a short time to do so. Taking extra time to literally teach children to read at a beginner level, a skill they should have at least begun to grasp before getting to school. This is a huge setback that costs heavily in the long term. It is expected that children are taught these things. This is NOT the teacher's fault. Their job is not to raise your children for you.

The activities that teach the skill have been considered standard fare, bare-minimum parenting activity, and, really, one of those parts of parenting in which you're supposed to look forward to participating. There are very few things more exciting to witness than a child you deeply love read their first book entirely unassisted.

It's one of those moments where you struggle hiding your tears because you're not sure if it's too early to explain what it means to cry out of sheer pride and love for another person. If you remember the first time reading a book on your own in front of an adult who loved you, note this may have been happening in their mind without your knowledge.

This is not a moment the parents are avoiding or too lazy to work toward. Quite the contrary; they are being deprived of it. People need to work toward feed their children. The hours they need to work to make that happen is rising, and the employers are becoming more and more brazen about how exploitative they're willing to be.

Hours get longer, pay stays the same, the pockets of billionaires grow evermore overstuffed with incomprehensible wealth, while the parents of hungry children struggle to make ends meet. When they do have time home, they're dead tired.

What I'm saying is, as usual, our economic system is becoming the failing nightmare it was intended to be in the first place, and the answer to this growing and worrying problem is to address that. Easier said than done, playing against a deck stacked against exactly the kind of person suffering the natural effects of a shit ass system such as this.

https://x.com/StrangerJosh11/status/1856410822983201030

It’s dire out here

Huston we have a problem

[thef1diary]

Forgive Me, Father | C. Sainz

summary: returning to religion seems like an impossible task, especially as you’ve lived a life of sinful indulgence, but fortunately, Father Carlos knows exactly how to purify you…in questionable ways

warnings: 18+ content, slow burn, dark!carlos, manipulation in the name of religion, oral (m receiving), masturbation, degradation, praise kink, fingering, spanking, light anal, use of religious items in an inappropriate manner, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, spit kink, choking, breath play, squirting, overstimulation, cum play, blood kink, use of knives.

wc: 23.5k

masterlist

— commissioned by my lovely 🩵 & 🐱 nonnies. This is a dark fic, read the warnings. Don’t like, don’t read. Also, I’m not catholic so some details may be inaccurate

The bass thrummed deep in your chest, a steady pulse that matched the rhythm of your heart, or maybe it was the other way around—it was hard to tell. The club was suffused with the kind of haze that didn’t just cling to the air but seemed to sink into your skin. Neon lights strobed in fractured patterns, reds, blues, and yellows smearing together like watercolours left out in the rain. You danced in the middle of it all, a body among bodies, indistinguishable in the tangle of limbs, sweat, and laughter that didn’t reach anyone’s eyes, only reflecting intoxication by one means or another. 

Your drink had warmed in your hand, condensation rolling down the glass, forgotten. You weren’t drinking to get drunk tonight; you were already too far gone. Maybe not on anything tangible—not this time—but the hollow ache inside your chest was the same high—emptiness that burned brighter than the neon overhead. You leaned into it like you always did, letting the throb of music drown out the thoughts you refused to name. 

Another stranger’s hand found the curve of your hip, his presence lingering just long enough to make you notice. You didn’t turn to look at him right away—there was a rhythm to these things, a game played in the undertow of the music. The press of his body against yours came next, deliberate but not desperate, his movements syncing effortlessly with your own. It wasn’t anything more than lust, only fuelled by the pure, unadulterated mind mingling with unspoken, primal need. 

When you finally glanced over your shoulder, you were met with dark eyes and a half-smile that might’ve been charming if you cared enough to notice. He leaned in to say something, his breath warm against your ear, but the words dissolved into the music, incomprehensible and unimportant. You didn’t ask him to repeat himself; you just nodded, tilting your head slightly in invitation, the universal sign for keep going. 

His arm slipped around your waist, drawing you closer, until there was no space left between you. His scent was sharp, woodsy, and undercut with something faintly spicy—cologne, expensive but over-applied. His lips brushed against your temple, then your jaw, soft and searching, and you let him find his way. It didn’t matter who he was. What mattered was the way he let you feel the rush of living, at least for a little while. 

The transition from club to the street to his bed was seamless, blurred by alcohol and autopilot. You didn’t need to think, didn’t need to process. You let him guide you through the neon-streaked darkness, his hand gripping yours as if you’d slip away otherwise. The taxi ride was a haze of whispered filth and soft laughter, his hand resting on your thigh, thumb brushing slow circles that sent sparks up your spine. 

His apartment was generic, clean in the way of someone who didn’t spend much time there. You barely registered the details—a couch in muted gray, a framed print of something abstract, the faint smell of laundry detergent that clung to the air. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, he turned, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you with a fervour that bordered on desperation. 

You didn’t resist. You let him pull you in, let him press you against the wall, his mouth trailing down your neck as your fingers found their way into his hair. It was all mechanical, rehearsed—a dance you’ve done too many times to count. Clothes hit the floor in a haste, and you let him lead you to the bed, its cool sheets a startling contrast to his fevered skin. 

The hours passed in a blur of touches and murmurs, bodies tangling and untangling, the kind of intimacy that didn’t linger, that didn’t leave marks. It wasn’t bad, you’d give him that. But it wasn’t remarkable either. It wasn’t meant to be. 

Morning came like it always did, dragging you back to reality with its pale light and dull, persistent headache. You cracked an eye open, the sharp scent of the stranger’s cologne hitting you first—musky, unfamiliar. The sheets were tangled around your legs, the air too warm against your bare skin. You shifted, squinting against the sunlight filtering through the unfamiliar curtains, and found him still asleep beside you.

His face was peaceful in the half-light, lips slightly parted, hair messy from the night before. For a moment, you almost lingered. Almost traced the curve of his shoulder or let yourself wonder about his name, his life, the kind of person he was when he wasn’t tangled up in the haze of a one-night stand. But that wasn’t part of the routine.

You moved slowly, deliberately. Clothes scattered across the floor—your skirt halfway under the bed, your shirt draped over the arm of a chair. The bra took a minute to find, caught between a pair of discarded shoes. Each step was silent, measured, like muscle memory kicking in. You’d done this too many times to count, slipping out of strangers’ apartments before the sun had fully risen, before you had to face the awkward small talk or the possibility of vulnerability.

When you reached the door, you paused. Not to look back—you never did—but to steady yourself, to push aside the faint flicker of something you couldn’t name. You told yourself it was nothing, that it didn’t matter, and turned the handle.

Outside, the morning air was crisp, a stark contrast to the warmth of the bed you’d just left. The streets were quiet, save for the faint hum of traffic in the distance and the occasional jogger passing by. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to ignore the faint sting of regret in your chest. Regret for what, though? You weren’t sure.

As you walked, your mind drifted back to the stranger’s apartment, more specifically to the small, battered book you’d spotted on his nightstand while searching for your shoes. It hadn’t fit the vibe of the person you’d met—worn leather and gilded edges. You hadn’t touched it, but the word embossed on the cover had stayed with you: Psalms.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have stopped you in your tracks the way it did. But it brought a memory rushing back, sharp and unbidden—kneeling in a church pew, sunlight streaming through stained glass, the quiet cadence of whispered prayers. You could almost hear it, the echo of your own voice repeating verses you’d long since forgotten.

You shook your head, trying to dispel the thought. It was just a book, you told yourself. Just another reminder of the life you left behind, of rules you didn’t need, of beliefs that had only held you back. But as you turned a quiet corner, the ache inside you—the one you’d spent years trying to drown in neon lights and borrowed warmth—seemed sharper.

Catholicism was part of your foundation, woven into you from childhood like a second skin, But somewhere along the way, that skin cracked. You couldn’t pinpoint when it happened exactly. Maybe it was gradual, the questions piling up until they formed a wall you couldn’t climb. Or maybe it was sudden, a clean break the first time you realized life was more fun without rules. Without limits. Without guilt. 

The things you were told would damn you—the hookups, the drinking, the thrill of losing yourself in the night—turned out to be the very things that made you feel alive. So you let go. You didn’t turn back. You stopped praying, stopped going to church, stopped pretending to care about a salvation that felt distant and abstract. Life became simpler, freer, unbound by restrictions you no longer believed in. You lived for the rush, for the here and now, for the electric thrill of knowing you could do anything you pleased. 

However, the word lingered in your mind like a whisper you couldn’t shake. Psalms.

And for the first time in years, you wondered if the life you’d chosen—the freedom, the endless nights, the fleeting pleasures—was really as limitless as it seemed. Or if you’d simply traded one kind of emptiness for another.

You paced back and forth in your apartment, gnawing at your bottom lip as your thoughts spiraled. It wasn’t like you to dwell on this, to feel torn between choices that seemed so far apart they shouldn’t have even been on the same spectrum. You’ve lived years without this pull, without the pang of guilt or the ache of longing for something you didn’t quite understand. But now, here it is, creeping up on you in quiet moments like this, refusing to be silenced. 

Could you even go back? After everything? After living the way you had, the sins you’d committed willingly and often gleefully, the sheer rebellion against the rules you once swore to follow? Or was this all just a fleeting moment of weakness, nostalgia wrapped in shame? 

You shook your head, hating the way your chest tightened at the thought of stepping inside a church again. But would it really hurt to try? You weren’t promising anything. You weren’t giving up your freedom, your indulgences, your life. You were just going to test the waters. One service. If it was awful, if it suffocated you the way you feared it would, you’d never set foot in a church again. 

That’s how you rationalized it. One hour on a Sunday. 

But when Sunday rolled around, the hours seemed to evaporate, and before you knew it, you were standing outside the church. It wasn’t the one you grew up in—thank God. No familiar faces here to judge you, no whispers behind hands as they recognized the “wild child” who’d fallen off the path. This place was different. Unfamiliar. 

The building was tall and imposing, made of pale gray stone that seemed to glow in the morning light. The arched windows were lined with intricate stained glass, and the doors were massive, made of dark wood with brass handles polished to a gleaming shine. A single bell tower stretched high above, the sound of its chime faintly echoing in the crisp morning air. 

You hesitated at the entrance, your palms clammy as you pushed the heavy doors open. Inside, the scent of incense hit you immediately—earthy, smoky, and strangely comforting. The space was vast, the high ceilings adorned with painted murals of saints and angels, the pews polished and lined up in perfect symmetry. At the far end, the altar gleamed with golden accents, the crucifix at its center casting a quiet shadow. 

There was a small basin of holy water near the door. You froze for a moment, unsure, before dipping your fingers in and making the sign of the cross—forehead, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder—all with your right hand. The motion felt foreign but oddly automatic, like muscle memory you hadn’t realized was still there.

You glanced around, watching others kneel beside their pews before sitting. Following suit, you dropped to one knee and made another sign of the cross before sliding into a seat near the back. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap as you looked down at the polished wood, your heart pounding in time with the faint murmur of voices around you.

The sacristy bells rang out sharply, and everyone stood. You rose with them, your heart hammering. The organist began to play, the notes swelling and filling the space as the priest entered.

He was younger than you expected, his presence commanding despite the simplicity of his vestments. He wore ivory vestments edged in deep gold embroidery. The robes were layered, a chasuble over an alb, the fine fabric catching the light and emphasizing his broad shoulders as he moved with deliberate grace toward the altar. 

You couldn’t help but notice how perfectly the vestments suited him, his every movement calm and measured. He wasn’t supposed to stand out—he was merely a vessel for the divine—but somehow, you couldn’t look away. His dark hair caught the light, and his face was too handsome for a man of God. Sharp cheekbones, a strong, shaven jaw, and an expression of quiet authority. Your stomach churned with guilt at the thought, but the realization didn’t stop your wandering gaze.

The mass began with the priest leading the opening prayer. His voice resonated with an almost magnetic pull, commanding attention without effort. You tried to focus on the prayers, on the carefully chosen words echoing through the nave, but your attention drifted to the man leading them. 

When the Liturgy of the Word began, the scripture readings washed over you. Passages you hadn’t thought about in years took on new weight as they were spoken aloud, the cadence of the lector’s voice rhythmic and deliberate. But it was during the priest’s homily that you found yourself truly captivated.

He spoke with an eloquence that felt personal, as if every word were meant to reach you directly. His tone was gentle but firm, guiding rather than demanding. And when his dark eyes swept across the congregation, lingering on you for just a moment too long, your heart stuttered in your chest.

The Eucharistic celebration followed, the altar boys moving with precision as they prepared the chalice, the cruets of wine and water, and the golden paten filled with wafers. The priest raised his hands in blessing, murmuring the sacred words over the elements. The congregation echoed him in parts, their voices a low hum of devotion.

When the line for Communion began to form, you hesitated again. You were baptized, yes, but the years you’d spent away from the Church made you feel unworthy. You were a sinner in ways you didn’t even want to admit, and the thought of stepping in front of the altar filled you with both dread and longing.

But you stood, your legs shaky as you moved forward with the others. The line felt interminable, every step closer to the priest making your chest tighten. When it was your turn, you felt the heat rise to your face as he looked directly at you.

“Body of Christ,” he said, his voice softer now, almost intimate.

Your throat was dry, but you managed to respond, “Amen,” before holding out your hands. His fingers brushed yours as he placed the wafer in your palm, and the contact sent an electric jolt up your arm.

“Welcome,” he added quietly, his dark eyes catching yours.

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”

He leaned in slightly, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re new here. I’d remember you.”

A short nervous laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it, and you nodded. “First time in a long while,” you admitted, trying to ignore the way his gaze seemed to linger.

“I’m Father Carlos,” he said, his smile disarming but tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “If you ever have questions—or just need to talk—I’m here.”

The weight of his words followed you back to your seat, and even as the congregation sang together for the final hymn, your mind was elsewhere.

When you returned home, you slipped into your room, letting the door close with a quiet click behind you. The weight of the mass still lingered, a strange mixture of comfort and unease settling over you like an ill-fitting coat. Your gaze fell instinctively on the drawer beside your bed, the one that held your collection of toys—your private solace during years of loneliness and indulgence. It was almost muscle memory now, reaching for that drawer at the end of a long day. Satisfying yourself had become routine, a way to fill the void left by the chaotic life you’d built.

But tonight, as you stood there, hand hovering just above the handle, a pang of doubt struck you. Could you keep living like this? If you were truly serious about returning to the Church—about reconnecting with your faith—didn’t that mean letting go of these habits? The thought sent a shiver through you, twisting your stomach in a knot of frustration.

You dropped your hand, leaving the drawer closed, but it wasn’t easy. The itch of desire simmered beneath your skin, and you clenched your fists to distract yourself from the temptation. Sleep came fitfully that night, your dreams haunted by flashes of past indulgences and the faint, magnetic pull of the priest’s steady gaze.

The next few days were an uphill battle. You avoided the places that had once been your playground: the dimly lit bars, the pulsing nightclubs where temptation always waited at the next table or on the dance floor. Instead, you stayed home, trying to distract yourself with books and movies. But the silence of your apartment seemed to stretch on endlessly, and your thoughts drifted back to nights spent in someone else’s arms—or their bed.

The memories came unbidden, vivid in their detail. The way their hands had roamed your body, the low laughter shared over drinks, the exhilarating rush of the unknown. Sometimes there had been more than one at a time, and those memories in particular felt sharp, electric, impossible to ignore. Your chest ached with longing, but it was more than that. It was the frustration of trying to suppress a part of yourself that had always felt so natural, so vital.

By the second or third day, it became clear you couldn’t keep this up. The idea of refraining from all indulgence—of denying your body its needs for the sake of purity—felt like a punishment rather than a path to salvation. The thought of waiting until marriage was unbearable, a horror story playing on a loop in your mind. And since marriage wasn’t even on the horizon, the idea of living without touch, without pleasure, was unthinkable.

The unholy thoughts became harder to resist. They fed off your frustration, growing louder and more vivid with every passing hour. The memory of a man’s lips trailing down your neck, the press of warm bodies against yours, the shared moans and whispered promises—it was too much. You clenched your thighs and tried to force the thoughts away, but they only came back stronger, taunting you with what you’d given up.

In the quiet moments, a different thought began to creep in: Father Carlos. You remembered how kind he had been during the mass, how welcoming he’d seemed in that brief exchange. He had made you feel seen, not judged, even as you stood there awkward and unsure. And though it made your cheeks flush with guilt, there had been something about him that you couldn’t quite shake. The warmth of his smile, the way his dark eyes lingered just a moment too long—it was magnetic in a way that left you both intrigued and uneasy.

Surely he could help you. Surely a man like him, so rooted in his faith, could offer you some direction. The thought was fleeting at first, and you tried to dismiss it as a momentary lapse in judgment. But as the days wore on and your frustration mounted, it took hold, refusing to let go. You were still running on the high of that brief, strange attraction to him, though you knew you shouldn’t be. You should feel guilty for thinking about him this way. But you didn’t.

It was ironic, really. The old you—the one who embraced every indulgence without hesitation—would have scoffed at the idea of seeking guidance from a priest. Yet now, here you were, unafraid to admit you were lost, that you needed help finding your way back to something that felt steady, something that could ground you.

By the time the thought became a decision, you were nearly vibrating with frustration. You couldn’t continue like this, teetering between desire and guilt, trapped in a cycle of indulgence and denial. You needed someone to pull you out of it, to show you the path forward. And so, one evening, as the sky darkened and the weight of your sins pressed heavy on your chest, you found yourself heading toward the church.

The confessional was small, with dark wood panels enclosing you in a space that seemed built for secrets. You sat down slowly on the chair, your palms damp against your thighs as you adjusted to the intimacy of the setting. The screen between you and Father Carlos offered a sliver of anonymity, but even that did little to quiet the thunder of your heart. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the faint outline of his figure through the lattice, a shadow of a man who seemed larger than life in this moment. 

His voice came low, warm, and steady, breaking through the tense silence. “Take your time. Begin when you’re ready.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” you began, your voice soft but thick with shame. The words felt foreign on your tongue after years of silence, but they were all you could manage at first. 

“How long has it been since your last confession?” he asked gently.

You hesitated. “Years. I… I don’t even remember the last time.”

He hummed thoughtfully, his tone patient and unjudging. “That’s all right. The important thing is that you’re here now. What’s been weighing on your soul?”

You exhaled shakily, staring at your hands. “I’ve been trying to change, to walk the right path again. But it’s been… hard. The temptations are strong, very strong and I find myself weak in these moments. The things I’ve done, purely selfishly, the life I lived full of pure sin—it’s like I can’t escape these memories.”

“Tell me about this life,” he prompted, his voice soft but firm. “Be honest, as you are before God. There is no forgiveness without the truth.”

Your cheeks flushed with heat as you stared at the wooden panels, knowing he was just beside you, listening intently. “I’ve… I’ve been with men,” you began, the admission falling from your lips in a shaky whisper. “Many men. I lived a life of indulgence, seeking out pleasure wherever I could find it.”

“What kind of indulgence?” he pressed, his tone remaining calm but carrying an edge of insistence. “Describe it, so I may understand the depth of your struggle.”

Your throat tightened, the weight of shame making it difficult to speak. “There were nights where I… gave myself over completely. I’d let him do whatever he wanted to me. Sometimes, there were two or three of them at once. They’d touch me, praise me, degrade me—and I… I enjoyed it. I craved it.”

There was a faint shift on the other side of the screen, the sound of fabric rustling, but you didn’t think much of it, too caught up in your confession.

“I let them take control,” you continued, your voice trembling. “I wanted to feel used yet wanted. There was something… intoxicating about surrendering to it, about letting go of everything else and just living in that moment of raw pleasure.”

“And these memories,” he said after a moment, his voice noticeably deeper, though still even, “they haunt you now?”

“Yes,” you admitted. “They come back to me all the time. The sounds, the touches, the way they made me feel… it’s like I can’t get them out of my head.”

His voice softened, but there was a tension beneath it. “Have you continued to give in to these temptations? Have you sought out this pleasure recently?”

Your throat tightened, your shame threatening to choke you. “Not like that,” you said quickly. “I’ve stayed away from men, from bars, from everything that used to tempt me. But…”

“But?” he pressed, his tone gentle but insistent.

You lowered your head, the words coming out barely above a whisper. “I haven’t been able to stop myself from… from giving in on my own. I’ve used toys, even when I told myself I wouldn’t. Last night…” You trailed off, your face burning with humiliation.

“Go on,” he urged, his voice soft yet commanding. His hand slipped beneath his attire, fingers brushing against his hardened cock as he gripped himself firmly. He began to stroke slowly, spreading his precum dripping from the tip. 

“Last night, I gave in,” you admitted, the confession spilling out of you. “I was alone, thinking about everything I’m trying to leave behind. But instead of praying, instead of fighting it, I reached for my vibrator. I… I used it, again and again. I moaned, loudly, shamelessly, just chasing the pleasure. I let myself fall completely into it, like I used to.” 

“And did you feel guilty afterwards?” he asked, his voice slightly strained now, though you didn’t notice.

“Yes, it was unbearable,” you said, tears stinging your eyes. “I feel like I’ll never be good enough, like no matter how much I want to change, I’m too far gone.”

He exhaled shakily, his grip tightening around his cock as he leaned closer to the screen. “You’ve taken the first step by coming here,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “But to find true forgiveness, you must lay everything bare. Speak your sins in their entirety, without holding back. What else did you do with these men?”

Your voice wavered as you continued, diving deeper into the memories you’d tried so hard to suppress. “There were nights when I’d let him tie me up, blindfold me. I liked the control he had over me, the way he’d whisper filthy things in my ear. And I’d beg him for more. I let him push me further than I ever thought I’d go.”

Carlos groaned softly, catching himself just in time to muffle the sound as his hand moved faster now, the pleasure sending shivers through him. He tilted his head back, his breath uneven as your voice wrapped around him like a forbidden hymn.

“And now?” he asked, his words coming out in a low growl. “What do you desire now?”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “I want to be free of it,” you said. “I want to stop feeling like this. But…” You hesitated, the truth catching in your throat.

“But what?” he pressed, his voice a little sharper now, more commanding.

“But part of me still wants it,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “Part of me doesn’t want to let it go.”

Father Carlos closed his eyes, his movements growing erratic as he came with a muffled groan, his cum spilling over his hand. There was a long pause on the other side of the screen, and when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse, yet a thread of promise was woven into his words. 

“I feel there is more weighing on your heart and soul. Years of sins cannot be wiped clean in a single confession,” he said. “You’ve done well to confess so far but this is only the beginning. There’s still so much you’re holding back. You’ll need more guidance, more reflection. I want to meet with you again—face to face. Privately. These sessions will help you overcome the temptations you’re struggling with. But it will take time, and you’ll need to commit to this fully.”

You nodded quickly, desperate for relief, for salvation. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” you said, your voice earnest. “Whatever you say, I’ll do it. Just… help me.”

“Good,” he said softly, though his tone held a weight you couldn’t quite decipher. “Trust me, I will lead you back to the light.”

But as his words settled over you, the truth of what lay beneath them was something you couldn’t see. Father Carlos’ calm exterior masked the darker intentions that churned within him. He would use your desperation, your guilt, to make you his—willingly, eagerly.

“Come to me next week,” he said, the finality in his tone making it clear this wasn’t a suggestion. “Another confessional. Just you and I.”

“Yes, Father,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and hope.

“Go in peace,” he said, his voice a low rumble that lingered in the confined space of the confessional.

You left the booth with your heart racing, the promise of salvation hanging heavy over you. But you didn’t know that salvation would come at a cost—and you would pay it willingly.

The following week, you returned to church, your nerves fluttering in your stomach. Though Father Carlos had assured you he only wanted to guide you toward salvation, the memory of last week’s confession lingered in your mind, heavy and raw. The thought of spilling your sins again—and facing whatever questions he might ask—made your palms sweat. Still, you came, dressed modestly in a long skirt and a high-collared blouse, hoping to show your humility and commitment to change.

The confessional booth loomed ahead, its wooden structure both inviting and suffocating. You stepped inside, taking a deep breath as you settled onto the bench. While you felt more prepared this time, knowing what to expect, the ritual was still unfamiliar enough to leave you slightly uneasy.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you began, your voice quiet but steady.

“It has been one week since your last confession,” Father Carlos said, his tone soft yet commanding. “Tell me, nena, have you committed the same sin again?”

Relief surged through you as you shook your head, though he couldn’t see it. “No, Father,” you said, your voice carrying a note of pride. “I haven’t touched myself or been with anyone else all week.”

There was a pause, and then he hummed approvingly. “You’re on the right path,” he said. “Resisting temptation is never easy, but you’ve proven your strength. I’m proud of you.”

You hesitated, the words caught in your throat. The relief you felt was quickly overshadowed by the heat rising in your cheeks as you prepared to share the rest. “But…” you began, your voice faltering. “I… I’ve still been having the thoughts.”

The silence on the other side of the screen was heavy, urging you to continue. You took a shaky breath, pressing on despite the shame that burned in your chest. “I—I feel like they’ve been worse, Father. Every time I think of… of the things I used to do, it’s like I can’t stop. And even though I didn’t give in, I feel… wet, almost all the time.” The confession came out in a rush, and your cheeks burned so hot it was as though the weight of your sin had taken physical form.

Father Carlos exhaled slowly, the sound low and measured. “It’s good that you told me,” he said, his tone soothing yet firm. “You must not keep anything from me, nena. Hiding even the smallest detail will only hold you back.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, guilt tightening your throat. “I was so ashamed to say it.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” he reassured you, his voice taking on a gentler tone. “Your shame is a sign that you’re on the right path. But these thoughts, this… wetness—it is your body betraying your spirit. You must address it, or it will fester like a wound.”

You swallowed hard, your head dipping in an instinctive show of obedience. “How do I stop it?” you asked, your voice small and uncertain. “I’ll do anything, Father.”

“I’m glad you’re willing to do anything,” he said, the approval in his tone sending an unexpected ripple of warmth through you. “Then we’ll take it to the next step. Strip for me.”

You froze, your breath hitching in your chest. “I… I don’t understand,” you stammered. “Why do I need to—”

“It’s the sin you confessed last week,” he said, cutting you off gently but firmly. “You indulged in your body, purely for selfish reasons. Now, you must confront it head-on, under my guidance, so I can truly help you. Strip, nena. Lay yourself bare, and let’s rid you of this burden together.”

Your heart raced, confusion warring with the trust he’d instilled in you. “But wouldn’t that be… a sin?” you asked, your voice trembling.

“No. It is not a sin when done for the man of the church. This is not indulgence—it is penance. By allowing me to hear the full extent of your struggle, I can guide you more effectively. Better to confront this temptation here, in the presence of the Lord, than to fight it alone and risk falling further.”

His words felt strange, yet his conviction was unshakable. You hesitated, your hands trembling in your lap as shame and obedience fought within you. Slowly, your fingers moved to the buttons of your blouse, your cheeks burning even hotter as you fumbled with the fabric.

“Good,” he said softly as he heard the rustle of fabric. “Do not be afraid. You are proving your devotion. This is how you’ll rid yourself of the sins that weigh you down.”

Though shame curled in your stomach, a strange sense of purpose propelled you forward. One by one, the barriers between you and his judgment fell away, leaving you vulnerable in a way you hadn’t been for a while despite the screen separating you. 

“Are you completely bare now, nena?” His tone was smooth, patient, but laced with an unyielding authority that made it clear he expected your honesty.

Your breath hitched as the word escaped your lips. “Yes, Father,” you replied, barely above a whisper.

“Good,” he said, the approval in his voice sparking something deep within you. “Now, listen carefully. I want you to follow every word I say. No hesitation, no resistance. Put your trust in me to guide you.”

“Yes, Father,” you murmured, your voice trembling with a mixture of nervousness and submission.

"Good girl," he praised, and the warmth of those two simple words seeped into your chest, easing the tension coiling there. "Now, spread your legs for me. And tell me, are you wet?"

Your breath hitched at the directness of his question, but you obeyed. Slowly, you adjusted your position, hiking your heels up to the edge of the bench. The cool air kissed your pussy, sending a jolt of awareness through you. "Very," you whispered, feeling the damp heat between your thighs.

He hummed, "now, slide two fingers down. Spread your folds. Look at yourself, nena. Take in every detail."

Your hand moved instinctively, gasping when you felt the wetness gathering between your folds before spreading them like he asked. You couldn’t help the soft moan that slipped past your lips as you explored the glistening wetness coating your skin, your fingers brushing lightly over your pussy. 

The sensation was electric, and temptation won over caution. Your fingers moved instinctively, circling your clit with slow, teasing strokes that sent ripples of pleasure through you. Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut as your body surrendered to the feeling.

“Stop.”

The sharpness in his voice snapped you out of your haze, and you whimpered softly at the loss, your body craving more even as guilt flared at your disobedience. “I’m sorry, Father,” you whispered, the apology tumbling from your lips unbidden.

“You gave in too quickly,” he chided, the firmness in his voice tinged with calm authority. “That’s not why you’re here. Discipline, nena. Learn to control yourself.”

“I’ll do better,” you murmured, shame and a strange sort of thrill twining together in your chest.

“Slap your pussy,” he instructed, his tone uncompromising. “You need to be taught some manners.”

Your eyes widened at the order, heat rising to your cheeks as his words settled in the air between you. But the pull to obey was stronger than your embarrassment. Tentatively, you let your fingers pull back before snapping them forward with a sharp slap, the sting sending a jolt through your body that made your thighs quiver. A soft cry escaped your lips, part pain, part pleasure.

“I didn’t tell you to stop, did I?” His voice sharpened, his disapproval clear, and you whimpered at the weight of his command.

“N-no, Father,” you stammered, the words trembling on your tongue.

“Then again,” he instructed, his tone brooking no argument.

Whimpering at his shift in tone, you struck your cunt again, the second slap echoing louder in the quiet room, mingling with the wetness. The sharpness of it sent a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you, leaving you trembling in its wake.

“On your clit this time, harder.” 

Using two fingers, you separated your folds again, exposing your throbbing clit to the air. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself and brought your hand down with more force. The sound of the slap rang out, wet and sharp, as the sting spread through your core. A moan tore from your throat, unbidden and shameless.

“You like this,” Father Carlos stated, the certainty in his voice making it less a question and more a declaration.

Your cheeks burned, the heat of embarrassment mingling with the undeniable pleasure coursing through you. Even though he couldn’t see you, the weight of his gaze felt tangible. “I do,” you admitted, the words soft and tremulous as you lowered your head in submission. Your fingers stilled, retreating away from your aching core.

“Why?” he pressed, his tone thoughtful yet firm, like he was peeling back the layers of your soul. “How does it make you feel?”

Your throat tightened, but the truth spilled out before you could second-guess yourself. “It… it puts me in my place,” you murmured, the words barely audible as you fought to meet the intensity of his inquiry. “A punishment for being bad.”

A beat of silence passed, his presence thick and unyielding. Then, a low chuckle rolled from his throat, smooth and edged with dark amusement. “Tsk, even punishment wouldn’t work on you,” he said, the faintest trace of mockery lacing his tone.

Your head shot up slightly, startled by his words. “What?” you whispered, your voice barely audible, though your body reacted—every nerve alight under the weight of his teasing.

He exhaled sharply, the sound deliberate. “You heard me, nena. If I were to spank you myself…” He let the sentence hang for a moment, heavy with implication, his tone almost contemplative. Then, his voice dipped lower, carrying a teasing lilt that sent shivers down your spine. “You’d just get off on that too, wouldn’t you?”

Your breath caught in your throat, shame and heat crashing through you in equal measure. “I-I wouldn’t…” you stammered, though the words felt hollow, even to your own ears.

He laughed again, a deep, knowing sound that made your stomach flip. “Don’t lie to me now, not during a confessional” he said, a note of playful reprimand in his voice. “I can hear it in your voice, in the way you’re breathing. You’d take anything I gave you, wouldn’t you? Anything to feel this alive.”

You bit your lip, your hands curling into fists in your lap as his words settled over you. You couldn’t bring yourself to respond, the truth of his accusation striking too close to the ache inside you.

“Hmm,” he mused, as though considering his own words. “Maybe I should test that theory one day. See how many slaps it takes before you think of it less as punishment and more as pleasure.” His tone was light, almost casual, but the gravity of his suggestion sent a jolt of heat through you, pooling low in your belly.

You swallowed hard, your voice trembling as you finally managed to reply. “I… I’d do whatever you ask, Father.”

His low hum of approval vibrated through the air, a sound that left you aching for more even as it reminded you of your place. “Good girl,” he murmured, his words settling over you like a benediction. “But remember—your place isn’t to crave. It’s to learn.”

“Yes, Father, I want to learn,” you murmured, ready to do anything he asked for, giving yourself completely to him so he could guide you. 

“That’s my good girl,” he said, his voice a low rumble of approval that wrapped around you like a warm embrace. “Now, are you ready to truly listen and follow what I say?”

“Yes, Father,” you replied, your voice soft but resolute, surrendering entirely to his guidance.

“Take your fingers and trace them down, slowly. Don’t rush, nena. I want you to feel every moment, every inch of yourself.”

You shivered at his words, your fingers obeying as they moved back to the warmth between your thighs. The wetness grew due to his commanding words, making your breath hitch, and you teased your hole with a feather-light touch, just as he instructed.

“Slide in,” he said, his tone softening slightly, though the authority remained. “Just one finger.”

The tip of your finger slipped inside, the tight heat you haven’t touched in a week making you gasp softly. You pressed deeper, following his guidance, every sensation heightened by the sound of his voice.

“That’s it,” he said, and you swore you heard the faintest edge of strain in his tone. “Curl your finger upward. Feel for the spot that makes your toes curl, the one you’re familiar with.” 

You obeyed, your breath hitching as your fingertip brushed against a sensitive spot inside you that made your thighs tremble. A soft moan escaped you, unbidden, and you bit your lip to stifle it.

“Don’t hold back,” he instructed, as if sensing your hesitation. “Let me hear you, nena. I want to know how good it feels, I need to know why you give in to the temptation.”

Your moans slipped free, shamelessly filling the confessional with their soft echo. As you moved your finger in slow, deliberate strokes, his breathing shifted. It grew heavier, deeper, and you could hear the faintest sounds slipping from his lips—soft, almost inaudible groans that made your pulse race.

You didn’t dare ask, but your mind raced with possibilities. Was he as affected as you were? Was he merely listening and guiding, or was he doing more, letting his own body succumb to the same heat that had taken hold of you? Surely, as the priest, he wouldn’t use your struggle of restraint for his own pleasures. 

Though, the thought sent a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you, and you bit your lip to stifle the sound it drew from your throat. You pressed your palm against your pussy for added pressure, your body moving instinctively as you followed his instructions.

“Add another finger,” he said, his voice raspier now, the strain unmistakable. “Take your time with it, don’t chase the pleasure, let it come to you.”

Your fingers slid deeper, the sensation both intense and electrifying. A gasp escaped your lips, and you couldn’t stop yourself from imagining what he might look like, what he might be doing to make his breathing sound so laboured, his voice so heavy with need.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, his tone laced with approval. “Keep going, nena. Circle your clit with your thumb. Let the pleasure wash over you.”

As your thumb found your clit, your body arched, the added sensation driving you closer to the edge. The soft sounds escaping his lips grew more frequent, each one fanning the flames of your imagination.

You pictured him there, his jaw tight, his hand moving over himself as he guided you. The thought was almost too much to bear, and your fingers moved faster, the rhythm becoming desperate as you chased the pleasure building inside you.

“Not so fast,” he chided, his voice a strained growl. “You’re too eager. Slow down. Make it last.”

You whimpered at the command but obeyed, forcing your movements to slow despite the ache radiating through your body. Your mind was spinning, the sound of his heavy breathing mingling with your own ragged gasps.

The combination was intoxicating, the not knowing, the imagining, the thought that he might be as undone as you were. It fueled you, drove you to move your fingers in deeper, slower strokes, each one pushing you closer to the edge.

“Do you feel it?” he asked, his voice rough and low. “That heat building inside you, the one you haven’t released in a week? Let it take over, nena. Let yourself feel every second of it.”

“Yes, Father Carlos,” you whispered, your voice shaking with the wave of pleasure crashing over you as you uttered his name. 

Your body trembled as the high of your orgasm ebbed, leaving you flushed and breathless, your heart pounding against your ribs. For a moment, the room felt utterly still, the only sound your uneven breaths mingling with the faint echo of his steady, deep exhale.

“You’ve done well, nena,” he murmured, “now, lick your fingers clean.”

The command was unexpected, and your eyes widened slightly as you processed his words. Heat flared in your cheeks, but you obeyed without hesitation, bringing your trembling fingers to your lips. Slowly, you drew them into your mouth, tasting your cum as you cleaned them, your tongue flicking over each finger.

When you finally lowered your hand, you whispered, “Thank you, Father, for allowing me this… for guiding me.” Slowly, you redressed, feeling satisfaction wash over you. 

He chuckled softly, the sound low and almost indulgent. “You’re welcome, nena. But don’t let gratitude cloud your understanding. This was a means to reduce your temptations, nothing more.”

His words cut through the lingering haze of your release, grounding you abruptly. You turned your head to look at the screen, making out the outline of his presence. “What do you mean?” 

He sighed, the sound a mix of patience and reproach. “Let me be clear. This is the last time you’ll take matters into your own hands.”

Your breath caught, a sharp protest forming in your throat, but his steady outline behind the screen silenced it before it could take shape.

“From now on,” he continued, his voice calm but unyielding, “if the temptations become too strong, if you feel the pull of desire overwhelming you, you will come to me.”

Your pulse quickened at the implication, your thoughts a tangled web of confusion and longing. “I… I don’t understand, Father, will you make me cum?”

His shadow shifted, and a soft, almost amused sigh escaped him. A moment later, he opened the door to the confessional, stepping into the dim light of the church. You hesitated for a second before following him, your heart racing as you stood before him, desperate for clarity.

“Father, please,” you said, your voice shaky but insistent. “What do you want me to do?”

He turned to you, his gaze steady, and though his expression was composed, the intensity in his eyes made your knees weak. Before you could rationalize the thought, the question spilled from your lips. “Will you touch me?”

The corner of his mouth curled into a wry smile, and he chuckled—a deep, knowing sound that sent a fresh wave of heat rushing through you. “Nena,” he murmured, shaking his head. “I’m a priest, not your hookup.”

Shame engulfed you instantly, your cheeks burning under the weight of his words. You dropped your gaze, your hands twisting nervously in front of you.

“But,” he added, his voice softening slightly, “I understand where the confusion lies. What happened today wasn’t for your pleasure. It was for my understanding.”

You looked up at him, your brows furrowed in bewilderment. 

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming as his hand gently brushed against your arm, trailing down to your wrist. The touch was light, almost comforting, yet it sent a jolt of awareness through your body. “You need to rid yourself of these temptations,” he explained, his tone patient but firm. “Start by getting rid of anything that fuels them. Like your toys—anything that keeps your mind in sin.”

Your lips parted in protest, but he silenced you with a raised hand. “And that’s not all,” he continued. “I want you to write down every impure urge the moment it crosses your mind. Get it out of your head and onto paper.”

“Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“So you’re not burdened by it and I can keep track of how far you’ve come,” he said simply. “Every time you visit me, you’ll bring the notebook with you. I want to see how many temptations you’ve faced—and how many you’ve resisted.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of his expectations settling heavily on your shoulders. His hand slipped down to settle on your waist, his thumb brushing over your skin in a way that felt almost too intimate, too deliberate. But you told yourself it was nothing. He was a priest, after all. He only wanted the best for you.

As you lowered your gaze, another question gnawed at the edge of your mind. Timidly, you looked up at him again. “Father… even if I do all that—what if I still feel… wet?”

His expression didn’t falter, but his lips curved into a faint smile. His hand tightened its grasp on your waist as he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Then you come to me,” he said, his tone smooth yet commanding. “And I’ll deal with it how the Lord wants me to.”

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding as his words lingered in the air between you. You nodded, unable to form a coherent response, and his thumb stroked your waist one final time before he stepped back.

“Go now,” he said, his voice returning to its calm authority. “And don’t forget what I told you. I expect obedience, nena. Nothing less.”

“Yes, Father,” you murmured, bowing your head before turning to leave, your body still trembling from the weight of his words and his touch.

The days had been an endless blur of restless thoughts and scribbled confessions—fantasies. 

Every moment had been consumed with the lure of the notebook Father Carlos had instructed you to start. It had become your constant companion, a tether to the guidance and obedience he demanded of you. You carried it everywhere, pen poised to capture every unholy thought that flickered through your mind, no matter how fleeting or detailed. 

It was your personal book of fantasies, of sins you’ve been tempted to repeat. 

It started innocently enough. You initially started writing on that same night of the last meeting with Carlos, plagued by the memories of what had happened in that confined wooden stall. Even though he hadn’t touched you himself, his words caressed your body, seeping deep into your skin until you were too far gone to remember anything but his name. 

That night, you wrote about the temptation to use your toys again, even after he had told you to get rid of them. The urge to reenact the scenario, to feel the unbearable pleasure again was too high. The words spilled out hesitantly, the pen shaky and unsure in your grasp. You felt as if writing them down, admitting them would only make them more real. But the act of actually writing was oddly satisfying, almost soothing in its own way as you filled page after page with filth, transferring the thoughts from your mind to the once pristine, empty pages. 

As the days went on, instead of having fewer thoughts, the opposite happened. Your thoughts began to shift towards a different, forbidden path. They stopped being about abstract desires you had, focusing on missing the pleasure in general and started starring him. 

You couldn’t help it—he was everywhere. His voice echoed in your mind when you were on your knees, hands clasped in front of you while you tried to pray. As you shut your eyes, all you could imagine was Father Carlos standing in front of you, his commands turning filthier with each word he spoke. You found yourself distracted by the memory of his seemingly innocent touch, the faint graze of his thumb against your cheek. Every Hail Mary became a whispered plea, not for forgiveness, but for release.

In the shower, with hot water cascading over your skin, you caught yourself imagining what it would feel like if he was there, interrupting the steady stream of water with his body, trapping you against the glass walls. You imagined how his hands would feel roaming your wet body, the way his fingers might linger, the press of his calloused palm against your soft curves. You still wrote it all down afterward, confessing in ink what you couldn’t yet say aloud, choosing to obey his command despite the shame creeping up your cheeks.

Even the most mundane tasks became tainted with thoughts of Carlos. Folding laundry, you imagined his robes slipping away, revealing skin you hadn’t yet seen but could only picture in your mind.  

By the time Saturday rolled around, quite a few pages of the notebook were filled. The pages were dense with your handwriting, the words getting messier and more frantic as the week progressed. That night, the night before Sunday mass, the urge was unbearable.

You sat at your desk, pen in hand, the notebook open before you. Your other hand, however, was cupping your cunt over your pants, feeling the heat seeping through. You held your palm tightly against your pussy, as if increasing the still pressure would reduce the need that coursed through your veins. You wrote feverishly, the words spilling onto the page as if they might somehow purge the thoughts from your mind. This time, the words were directed at him, addressing him since you knew he would read each sinful word carefully when you see him again. 

Father Carlos, you began, the formality of his title making your core tighten with want, you have no idea what you do to me. Every time I see you, every time you speak, it’s like my body knows no boundaries. My thighs clench, my heart races, and I can’t help but wonder what you’d look like without your robes.

Your handwriting became messier, the lines slanting as your pulse quickened.

I think about your hands most of all. The way they would feel gripping my hips, rough and firm as you hold me in place. I imagine your fingers dipping lower, brushing against my pussy, exploring me until I’m begging for you to take me. I want to hear you whisper in that deep, commanding voice of yours, telling me how bad I’ve been and how much I need to repent. But the punishment I crave isn’t prayer—it’s you.

Your breathing was shallow, your cheeks burning with a mix of shame and arousal. 

Forgive me, Father. Please, guide me to the right path. Punish me. Take me. 

You dropped the pen with a shuddering gasp, your head falling into your hand as the weight of your confessions hit you. The ache in your core was unbearable, your hips instinctively grinding against your palm. A sharp cry escaped your lips when you accidentally grazed your clit, but you resisted. His voice echoed in your mind, firm and unyielding: “This is the last time you’ll take matters into your own hands.” 

Instead, you grabbed the notebook and headed to bed. You held it in front of you as you lied down, rereading the words, your cheeks burning with shame. At some point, exhaustion claimed you. You fell asleep with the notebook still clutched in your hands, the pages open to the filthiest confession yet. 

When you woke up the next morning, the notebook was resting on your chest, the ink faintly smudged where your fingers had lingered. For a moment, you simply lay there, the sunlight streaming through your curtains, the heat of your dreams still lingering between your legs. 

Before you could turn the pages and refuel the filth you had written last night, you closed the notebook and pressed it against your chest, as if the physical weight of it could anchor you. You had to face him today. You had to sit through mass, knowing the notebook was filled with your darkest desires, and then meet him afterward, alone. 

The thought made your heart race, a mix of dread and anticipation pooling low in your belly. You slipped out of bed, your legs trembling as you made your way to the shower. But even the cold water couldn’t extinguish the heat that had taken root inside you. 

You dressed carefully, choosing a modest outfit that successfully hid the way your body ached  for something forbidden. As you made your way to the church, the notebook tucked securely in your bag, you couldn’t help but wonder what he would say when he saw the truth of what you’d written. 

And more than that, you wondered what he would do. Surely, he would find a way to help you, to rid you of the impure thoughts you’ve been plagued with. 

The mass began, and for a while, you managed to focus on the words, on the hymns, on the solemn rituals that slowly filled you with peace. But as Father Carlos stepped forward to deliver his homily, your resolve faltered. He stood tall and commanding at the altar, his voice rich and steady, weaving through the congregation like a soothing balm. Yet, to you, every word felt like a private message, a call meant to pierce directly through your shame. 

The church was quieter after mass, the congregation filtering out with subdued goodbyes and murmurs of peace. You waited until there were only a few people left before walking to the backroom—Carlos’ private study. The small, unassuming space was lined with books and religious relics, the air thick with incense and something unnameable that always seemed to cling to him. 

He was already there, seated behind a simple wooden desk, his dark eyes lifting to meet yours as you hesitated near the door. For a moment, his gaze flickered over you, taking in your appearance with a small smile that sent shivers throughout your body. 

“Come in,” he said softly, gesturing to the chair across from him. “And close the door.” 

You shut the door behind you before sitting down, carefully placing the notebook on the desk. Carlos glanced at it briefly but made no move to open it. Instead, he leaned back slightly, his hands folded neatly on the desk. 

“You’ve written it all down?” he asked, his piercing gaze studying you for a moment. 

“Yes, Father,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

He grabbed the notebook, opening it to skim through the pages, and you held your breath. “Good,” he murmured, not sticking on a page too long to fully read the extent of your desires. “I’ll read this on my own time, but right now, let’s focus on you.” He set it aside without a second glance. 

The words sent a shiver through you, even as you tried to steady your breathing. You wanted to believe that he was here to help you, guide you back to the light. But there was something in the way he looked at you—a flicker of something darker in his eyes. You ignored it, reasoning that it was because you were no longer familiar with the religion. And instead of turning you away, Father Carlos has taken upon the responsibility to guide you himself. 

He stood and came around the desk, his presence overwhelming as he stopped beside your chair. His hand settled lightly on your shoulder, a touch that felt too deliberate. “You’re trying,” he said, his voice low, almost soothing. “I can see that. But there’s still more to be done.”

You looked up at him, the heat of his gaze making your cheeks burn. “I want to be good again,” you said softly. 

Carlos nodded, his fingers brushing down your arm, his touch too slow, too lingering. “Then you must surrender yourself fully,” he murmured. “Your mind, your body, your heart—all of it must be devoted to God. Do you trust me to guide you?” 

“Yes, Father,” you whispered, the words falling from your lips before you could think. 

He smiled faintly, his hand moving to yours. His fingers curled around your trembling wrist, lifting it slightly. “These hands,” he said, his voice soft, almost reverent. “What have they done? Have they served God—or served sin?”

The question made your stomach twist with guilt. “Sin,” you admitted, your voice barely audible.

Carlos hummed thoughtfully, his other hand coming to guide yours downwards, pressing it to his chest. “Then we must sanctify them,” he said, his tone heavy with meaning. “You must use them to serve, to obey. Only then can they be cleansed.”

His hand moved yours lower, over the fabric of his robe, guiding it with an authority that left you breathless yet completely trusting. When your palm was pressed against his clothed cock, you froze, your breath catching in your throat. Carlos didn’t pull away, only pressing your hand further into him, as he said, “every step I take is for your redemption.” 

Your fingers moved barely an inch, and it was enough to feel his cock twitch beneath the fabric, sending a shock through you. When he finally released your hand, you didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. He stepped closer, leaning down as his fingers grazed your lips while his dark eyes bored into yours. 

“This mouth,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, “has it been used for prayer? Or for sin?”

Your heart pounded, your breath shaky as his thumb lingered, pressing lightly. “Both,” you admitted, the confession trembling on your tongue. 

Carlos’ lips curved in a lazy smirk, his gaze dropping to your mouth. “But more sin, no? Filthy words have left this mouth, obscene sounds…” he trailed off. 

“Yes, Father,” you shamefully admitted. 

His thumb caught onto your bottom lip, dragging it down, allowing your lips to part. “It’s okay, nena, we can easily fix that.” 

Hope fluttered through your chest at his words. “Really?” you murmured, muffled as his thumb rested on your tongue. 

“Yes, you’re just in need of purification,” he said softly, pressing down on your tongue only to feel you wrap your lips around it. “Every inch of you must be made pure again. And we’ll start with your mouth.” 

He slid his thumb out, only to lean in further. He was so close that you could see every detail on his face—the faint shadow of his stubble on his jaw, revealing that he just shaved a couple days ago, the way his dark lashes framed his eyes, the curve of his lips. Your gaze flicked downward, drawn to his mouth despite yourself, and he noticed. 

“You’re trying.” he said quietly, “but temptation clings to you. Let me help you.” 

His lips brushed over yours, a featherlight touch that sent heat surging through your body. You didn’t resist. You couldn’t. The moment you leaned into him, pressing your lips firmly against his, a muffled moan escaped his lips. Just as his hands settled on your waist, a sharp knock at the door made you both jolt apart. 

Carlos straightened quickly, his composure snapping back into place. “Come in,” he called, his voice calm, though his chest still rose and fell with heavy breaths. 

The interruption was brief—someone asking about the upcoming service—but it was enough to break the moment. You were fidgeting with your hands when the door closed again, leaving you alone with him once more. 

Carlos turned to you, his expression unreadable. “Go home,” he said quietly. “Pray for guidance. You’re due for a confession tomorrow—same time, and we’ll begin the process of turning you pure.” 

You nodded quickly, standing up and reaching across the desk for the notebook. Before you could grasp it, his hand laid flat on the cover. “I’ll keep this for tonight, nena, I still have to read what you wrote."

The confessional felt different this time. The familiar, sacred space that had always kept you separated by a thin wooden screen was now charged with an intensity you couldn’t name. Carlos stood by the door this time, his hand resting on the frame as his dark eyes bore into yours, unyielding. The command in his gaze sent a shiver through you.

“Come here,” he said, his voice low and steady.

Your legs carried you forward almost against your will, your heart pounding as you stepped into his side of the confessional. The small space seemed impossibly tight with the two of you inside. The door clicked shut, sealing you both away, and the intimacy of the moment thickened like the air before a storm.

“On your knees,” he instructed, his tone soft yet commanding.

You obeyed without question, lowering yourself onto the polished wooden floor. The surface was cold against your knees, grounding you even as the heat of his presence sent sparks racing through your veins. Carlos lowered himself onto the bench before you, the folds of his dark robe brushing against your skin as he moved. In his hand, he held your notebook, the one where you had poured your innermost thoughts—confessions you were nervous about him reading. But here he was, the pages open, his thumb tracing the lines of your handwriting.

“These words,” he began, his voice quiet but edged with something sharp, “do they strike you as belonging to someone truly asking for forgiveness?” His dark gaze lifted from the page, pinning you in place.

Your throat tightened as you struggled to find your voice. “I… I do want forgiveness, Father,” you managed, the tremor in your tone betraying you. “Please. I need your guidance.”

A low chuckle escaped him, the sound rich and indulgent. He closed the notebook and set it aside with deliberate care before leaning forward. His hand reached out, the rough pad of his thumb brushing against your cheek. The gesture was gentle, almost tender, yet it left your skin burning.

“Oh, nena,” he murmured, his voice softening as he tilted your face upward. “I haven’t given up on you. That’s why you’re here, on your knees for me. You’re ready to be cleansed. And that’s what you need, isn’t it? To be purified?”

“Yes, Father,” you whispered, the words escaping your lips like a prayer.

His thumb lingered, tracing the curve of your jaw, before he withdrew his hand. You followed the movement instinctively, your eyes drawn to him as he adjusted his posture. Slowly, almost methodically, he lifted the hem of his robe. Your breath hitched as the fabric rose, revealing the strong muscle of his thighs, dusted with dark hair. The sight caught you off guard, and you fought the instinct to avert your gaze out of respect. Instead, you drank in the vision before you, the intimacy of the moment almost too much to bear.

“Do you see, nena?” he asked, his tone laced with something unspoken. “Every part of me is here to serve the Lord. But you… you’ve strayed. You’ve used your body, your mouth, for sin.” He shook his head, his expression softening, though his eyes remained sharp. “You need cleansing, and as I told you yesterday, it begins with your mouth.”

Your lips parted to respond, but no words came. Instead, he reached out once more, his hand cupping your chin as his thumb grazed your bottom lip. The sensation sent a spark through you, igniting something deep within.

“This mouth,” he murmured, his tone almost reverent, “has spoken too many sinful words. But we can purify it, together. Are you ready, nena?”

“Yes, Father,” you said, this time with more confidence, though your voice trembled with anticipation.

“Good,” he said softly. His thumb pressed down, parting your lips until your jaw fell open. “Then show me. Stick your tongue out like the whore you are.”

Heat flooded your cheeks at his words, but you obeyed, your tongue slipping out, wet and ready. His other hand moved to gather the folds of his robe higher, revealing the full length of his cock. Thick and heavy, it rested against his thigh, the head glistening with precum. Your eyes widened, wetness immediately pooling in your panties, your cunt throbbing to be filled. It had been far too long since you had been near a cock, but none compared to his. 

Saliva gathered on your tongue at the sight of his cock, a bead of precum spilling out the tip. Carlos chuckled as a drop of spit dripped on the floor, the sound echoing in your ears as he watched you drool for him. “Do you see now, nena? The path to forgiveness is very hard, but it’s necessary. Take it, and I will guide you.”

Tentatively, you licked your palm, wrapping it around his length. His cock twitched in your grasp, and a satisfied groan rumbled in his chest.

“Father Carlos,” you murmured, leaning in until your lips brushed against his heated skin, “you’re so big…”

“I know,” he replied, his voice steady, “and you’ll take it all. Every inch or you won’t be purified.”

Your lips parted further as you let your tongue flick over the tip, tasting the salty bead of precum. Carlos let out a low hum of approval, his hand tangling in your hair as he guided you closer. “That’s it, nena,” he murmured. “Suck. Let your mouth be a vessel of your repentance. Take me in—slowly.”

You obeyed, your mouth enveloping a couple inches. The salty tang of his skin met your tongue as you hollowed your cheeks, drawing him deeper inch by inch. Carlos groaned softly, his hips shifting just enough to press himself further into your mouth. The thickness of him stretched your lips, making your jaw ache, but you welcomed the discomfort, the sensation grounding you in your submission.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his fingers tightening in your hair as he guided your pace. “Look at you, so willing, so eager. This is what true surrender looks like.”

Just as you found your rhythm, the door to the other side of the confessional clicked shut. Your eyes flickered up to Carlos, your lips still stretched around his cock while panic flared in your chest, but he merely smirked, his confidence unshaken.

“Stay quiet,” he instructed softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek, feeling the bulge of his cock protruding as he held your gaze. “This is one of your tests, nena. Do not falter.”

A voice came from the other side of the confessional, muffled but audible through the wooden screen. “Father Sainz? May I speak with you?”

“Of course, my child,” Carlos answered, his tone shifting seamlessly to one of pastoral care. His hand remained firm on your head, though, gently urging you to continue. 

You hesitated for only a moment before resuming your movements, your tongue swirling around his cock as you tried to take him deeper into your throat even though your jaw ached at the stretch. He nudged his hips forward under the pretence of adjusting his posture, forcing his cock deeper down your throat, earning a muffled gag from you. 

The person on the other side began to speak, their voice trembling as they confessed their sins. Carlos listened intently, his words calm and measured as he offered guidance. But his attention never left you. His fingers tightened in your hair with each subtle movement of your tongue, and the weight of his gaze burned into you as you worked to suppress the sounds of your effort. 

“That is a heavy burden you carry,” Carlos said to the unseen penitent, his voice steady even as you took him deeper, your nose brushing against the base of his cock, grazing against his hair. “But the Lord is merciful. Seek forgiveness with a pure heart, and you will find peace.”

You struggled to keep your composure, your eyes watering as the need to breathe and the rising pleasure in Carlos’ expression warred within you. The wet sounds of your mouth filled the small space, and you fought to keep them as quiet as possible. The thrill of being on your knees for the priest, so vulnerable, only heightened your arousal, and you felt the damp heat soaking through your panties as you continued your ministrations.

The person on the other side fell silent for a moment, perhaps in thought, and Carlos seized the opportunity to lean down, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re doing so well, nena,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “Don’t stop now.”

You moaned softly around him, the vibration drawing a low groan from his chest. His hips jerked slightly, and he exhaled a shaky breath before composing himself. “Go in peace,” he said to the penitent, his tone unwavering. “And remember, God sees the effort you make.”

The moment the creak of the other side of the confessional ceased, signaling the departure of the penitent, Carlos’ entire demeanor shifted. The restraint he had so carefully maintained melted away, replaced by an unyielding intensity. His hand tightened in your hair, firm and commanding, as his eyes darkened with a hunger that seemed to consume the space.

“That’s it,” he growled, his voice a rough, guttural sound that sent a shiver through your body. “You’ve done well, nena, almost done.” 

His grip in your hair tightened painfully, and before you could prepare yourself, he pushed you down his cock with a force that stole the breath from your lungs. The tip of his cock hit the back of your throat, and you gagged, your hands flying to his hairy thighs for balance as your body instinctively struggled against the intrusion.

“Stay still,” Carlos commanded, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. His other hand came to rest at the back of your head, holding you in place. “This is part of your penance, nena. You asked for forgiveness—don’t shy away now.”

Your throat tightened around him as you choked, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes and streaming down your cheeks. “I hope you die from this so you can suck me in the afterlife, forever,” he murmured, earning a spluttering mess from you as you tried to respond. 

The sensation was overwhelming—his cock thick and unyielding, filling your mouth completely. You could feel the burn of effort in your jaw, the ache mingling with the steady pulse of your arousal.

“Good,” he rasped, his hips shifting slightly, forcing you to take every inch of him. “Let it all out. The tears, the struggle—it’s what cleanses you. Every gasp, every choke—it’s a prayer, a plea for absolution.”

You couldn’t speak, couldn't breathe, couldn’t do anything but surrender to his control. The taste of him was sharp on your tongue, and the warmth of his length filled you, an undeniable reminder of your submission. His words, manipulative and commanding, wound their way into your mind, twisting your thoughts until you clung to them like gospel.

Carlos held you there, his cock buried deep in your throat, until your vision blurred and your lungs burned for air. Just as you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, your eyes rolling back, he pulled you back, allowing you a desperate gasp of breath.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Tears streaming down your face, lips swollen and red. Do you get it now, nena? This is what it takes—this is the price of purity.”

You barely had a moment to recover before he guided you back down, setting a demanding pace. His cock slid in and out of your mouth, the wet sounds of your effort filling the confessional. Your saliva coated him, dripping from your chin and onto your knees as he used your mouth without mercy.

“You’re doing so well,” Carlos groaned, his hips jerking as he chased his release. “Such a good girl, taking me like this. You were made for this—don’t you see? To serve, to repent, to be purified.”

The words sent a thrill through you, your body trembling as you clung to him, your nails digging into his thighs. His pace quickened, his breaths coming faster, rougher, until he stilled with a deep, guttural moan.

He withdrew suddenly, his cock slipping from your lips as he grasped himself, stroking hard as he came. Warm spurts of his cum painted your face, hot and sticky as it dripped down your cheeks and onto your lips. The sheer filthiness of the act left you breathless, your heart pounding as his cum marked you completely.

Carlos tilted your chin upward, forcing you to meet his gaze. His thumb smeared the evidence of his orgasm across your skin, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and something darker. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. “Marked by a man of God, cleansed by my cum. This is what purification looks like, nena.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy cloak. He leaned closer, his thumb brushing over your lips before pressing into your mouth. “Lick it,” he commanded, his tone soft but unyielding. “Let me see how much you’ve learned.”

Your tongue darted out, tasting the saltiness of him as you obeyed, your gaze never leaving his. He watched you intently, his expression indulgent and possessive, as though you were his most devout follower.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice softening into something almost tender. “Purification is a journey, and slowly I’ll purify your entire body, so no sins weigh down on your soul.” 

You nodded, your cheeks still burning, your body still trembling from the intensity of it all. “Thank you, Father, for purifying my mouth.” 

Carlos smiled faintly, his thumb stroking your cheek one last time before he straightened, adjusting his robes as though nothing had happened. “Take care, nena, and soon your filthy thoughts will disappear.” 

You had fallen off the right track, and you felt it with every passing moment. 

That so-called purification process Father Carlos had initiated—his words, his touch, the commanding presence of him in the confessional—clung to your mind like a heavy fog. It reminded you of the life you had lived before meeting him, the desires you had buried, of the way you once loved to be filled and covered in cum, utterly consumed by lust. 

You didn’t let yourself linger on the idea too long, convincing yourself this wasn’t sin—it was repentance, wasn’t it? Carlos had said so, and you trusted his guidance. But even as you tried to hold on to that belief, the ache he left in your body betrayed you.

Your mouth had been purified, yes, filled by his cock again and again until you were left trembling, gagging, and raw, but no other part of you had been touched. That ache had settled deep in your pussy, a throbbing, relentless reminder of your unfulfilled desires. It was worse than anything you’d ever felt, more intense than you thought possible, and the wetness only grew with each passing hour. By the time you returned home, your panties were soaked through, the fabric sticking to your cunt in a way that made you shiver with both discomfort and longing.

It wasn’t just the physical sensation; it was the thoughts—wicked, unrelenting thoughts of him—that consumed you.

At first, you tried to resist, to distract yourself with prayers and scripture, clutching your rosary tightly as though the beads could anchor you away from sin. But each time your fingers brushed over a smooth, cold bead, your mind betrayed you, imagining the rougher texture of his hands, the weight of them gripping your hips, your hair, your throat. Every word of prayer seemed to morph into whispered thoughts of him, of the way his cock had felt in your mouth, heavy and insistent, the way he’d told you his cum purified you.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, seeking relief, but it only made the throbbing worse, teasing you with what you craved but could not allow yourself to have. 

Walking was torture; each step sent another jolt of awareness to the wetness pooling between your legs. Sitting was no better—your thighs pressed together in search of relief, only for the slickness to betray you, stimulating every shift of your body.

It was unbearable. The heat became a constant companion over the days, slickness pooling and dripping down your thighs, leaving your panties damp before noon and entirely ruined by nightfall. Washing them became a pointless endeavor. You stopped wearing them altogether, the fabric only another tangible reminder of your torment, yet the freedom of bare skin beneath your dress, the air hitting your pussy every time you moved made you more aware of every shift, every brush of fabric. By the end of the second day, you couldn’t even sit without feeling the telltale slide of moisture between your legs, and it drove you mad with frustration.

The nights were the worst. In the stillness of your room, the temptation was louder than any prayer you whispered. Your hands would stray before you even realized it, slipping beneath your shorts, fingers ghosting over the swollen, slick heat of your folds. The first time, you stopped yourself, shaking with shame, tears stinging your eyes as you begged for strength. But the need didn’t go away.

By the fourth night, you gave in. As you lay in bed, the ache became too much to bear. Your hand slid between your legs almost without thinking, your fingers finding your swollen, wet heat. The first touch was electric, and you gasped, your back arching off the bed as pleasure flooded through you.

Your thoughts spiraled back to the confessional, to the way Carlos had brought you to your knees, his voice a mix of command and praise as he filled your mouth with his cock. You imagined being back there, his hand gripping your hair, his hips thrusting as he murmured sinful things about purification and penance. Your fingers moved faster, circling and thrusting as your body writhed against the sheets.

It wasn’t enough. You wanted more—needed more. You imagined his cock again, what it would feel like inside you, stretching you, filling you completely. The thought alone was enough to push you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you as you cried his name into the dark.

But the relief was fleeting. The ache returned almost immediately, stronger than before, and you gave in again. Over and over, you touched yourself, each orgasm leaving you trembling but unsatisfied. The sheets beneath you were soaked, the air heavy with the scent of your arousal, but still, you couldn’t stop. You imagined his hands on you, his words a mix of praise and degradation, his body pinning yours down as he took you apart. 

By the time exhaustion claimed you, your body was utterly spent, forgetting all about the shame of committing a sin and only focusing on the pleasure you experienced after days of resisting.

The early rays of the sun barely kissed the horizon as you jolted awake, your body still warm and bare. The hazy remnants of sleep faded quickly, leaving the weight of what you had done pressing heavily on your chest. You glanced at the stained sheets beneath you, the evidence of your sin undeniable. Shame burned through you, hotter than the pleasure you had indulged in hours ago. You had fallen—fallen far and fast, surrendering to desires you had fought so desperately to suppress.

Your legs trembled as you slipped out of bed. You didn’t even think of covering yourself in layers, grabbing only a loose, flowing dress that hung just a few inches above your knees, not exactly modest. No undergarments, no barriers—it didn’t matter. 

You needed to repent. Now. 

Carlos’ words echoed in your mind: “Your shame is a sign that you’re on the right path.”

The church doors loomed ahead of you as you hurried through the empty streets, your feet carrying you as if possessed. The stillness of the early morning only deepened the unease pooling in your stomach, but it also spurred you forward. The church was where you needed to be, where you might find absolution for the temptation you had given into so fully.

When you pushed open the heavy doors, the creak of the hinges seemed deafening in the silence. The familiar scent of candle wax and old wood greeted you, grounding you momentarily. The church was empty, save for one figure seated near the altar. Carlos.

He was seated casually, not in the attire you’ve always seen him in. His black shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a glimpse of the tanned skin beneath. In his hand was a half-full glass of wine, the deep crimson liquid reflecting the faint glow of the votive candles nearby. 

But what instantly caught your attention—what made your breath hitch and your guilt churn deeper—through your teary eyes, was the growing beard on his face. It was more than just stubble, the kind you’d seen before but which always disappeared before it could grow out. Now, it darkened his jawline, giving him an air of disheveled ruggedness that only fueled the thoughts you’d been trying so hard to banish. 

His brows furrowed when he saw you rush in, disheveled and clearly distressed with tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Nena?” he called out, his voice warm but edged with concern. He placed the wine glass down and rose to his feet, his movements slow and measured as he approached. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

The words tumbled out of you in a broken stream, your sobs punctuating every other sentence. “Father… I—I’ve sinned. I tried to resist, I really did, but I couldn’t… I touched myself. Over and over again.”

Carlos’ eyes darkened at your confession, but his expression remained composed, his lips pressing together as if considering how to respond. “Hush, nena,” he said softly, placing a hand on your shoulder and guiding you to sit on the bench beside him. “Take a deep breath for me. Let it out slowly. That’s it.”

Your hiccuping sobs quieted slightly, though the shame still burned in your chest. You looked at him, tears streaking your cheeks, as you whispered, “I deserve punishment for what I’ve done. I—I couldn’t stop thinking of… impure things. I let it consume me.”

Carlos tilted his head, his gaze flickering over your tear-streaked face before dipping lower, briefly, to where your dress clung to your thighs. “Punishment?” he repeated, his voice low, contemplative. His thumb brushed the side of your face, wiping away a tear. “Nena, do you truly believe you need punishment to find your way back to God?”

“Yes,” you whispered desperately. “I can’t… I can’t live with this guilt. Please, help me. Guide me back.”

A flicker of something dangerous passed through his eyes. He leaned closer, his voice soft but weighted with meaning. “I told you, didn’t I? Purification is not an easy process. It is demanding. It is difficult. And sometimes… it requires sacrifice.”

You nodded, his words sinking into your mind like truth. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” you said, your voice trembling.

Carlos’ faint smile lingered, his expression a disconcerting blend of warmth and authority as he stood. But instead of offering his hand as a gesture of comfort, his fingers suddenly twisted into your hair, gripping it firmly. The sudden tug sent a jolt through your body, forcing you to stumble after him as he led you with deliberate steps, your scalp stinging from his grip. His pace was measured, almost casual, as if he were leading a lamb to slaughter, your body following wherever he commanded.

“This, nena,” he began, his voice calm yet dripping with contempt, “is the consequence of letting your body overpower your soul. Look at you. Weak. Trembling. Desperate.” His words struck like lashes, each syllable digging deeper into your fragile resolve.

He didn’t pause until he reached the space behind the altar, where the morning light streamed in from the stained glass windows, brightening the church, giving Carlos an ethereal aura even though his thoughts were quite the opposite. Only then did his hand release your hair, shoving you towards the wooden pulpit, the edges digging into your back. 

“Do you even realize what you’ve done?” he asked sharply, his voice echoing in the stillness. His hands didn’t wait for an answer. They found your shoulders first, then skimmed down the sides of your dress, his touch bold and shameless. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, then moved upward, deliberately brushing against the sensitive swell of your tits. He stopped there, his palms pressing firmly over the fabric, testing, checking.

His sharp intake of breath was the only warning before he pulled back slightly, his gaze narrowing as he looked at you with a mixture of disapproval and dark curiosity. “Nothing beneath this,” he muttered, his tone laced with mockery. “Not even a shred of decency left in you, is there?”

Your breath hitched, shame and confusion swirling as his hands returned, this time cupping your tits fully. The warmth of his palms seared through the thin fabric, his thumbs dragging over your covered nipples until you flinched. His touch wasn’t gentle; it was purposeful, unrelenting, as if meant to remind you of every sinful thought you’d tried to bury.

“Have you learned anything?” he demanded, his voice low and menacing. His fingers grasped the hardening nipple beneath his touch and pinched sharply, a jolt of pain that made you gasp, your body arching involuntarily. “Or have you simply wasted my time?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat as he pinched again, harder this time, the sting radiating through you. “No answer?” he asked, tilting his head, his gaze boring into yours. “Of course not. Your dumb little mind probably can’t even comprehend the depth of your failure. But at least you understood one thing—you need punishment. Desperately.”

His hands lingered for a moment before he released your nipple, leaving you breathless and trembling. His dark eyes roamed over you, calculating, as he considered his next move. His hands moved lower, gathering the hem of your dress and lifting it to your waist with agonizing slowness. When his fingers finally brushed against your bare cunt, the sound he made was a mixture of amusement and derision. 

“No bra. No panties,” he murmured, his voice thick with disdain. 

One hand stilled against your hip while the other teased your cunt, his thumb tracing small circles against your trembling form. “Tell me, nena,” he began, his voice low and biting, “what made you so wet? Was it thinking about what I’m going to do to you?” 

He gently spread your fold with two fingers, before using his middle finger to gather the wetness that grew with each word of his. “Or was it what I’m going to make you do for me?” 

You couldn’t summon a response. The weight of his words, the heat of his touch—it overwhelmed every rational thought in your mind. Carlos didn’t seem to expect an answer. He dragged his fingers up and down, sliding over your folds easily, nudging your clit a few times. 

“You make this far too easy,” he said, his tone cold, biting. “It’s pathetic, really. You’re lucky you came to me. At least you had enough sense to beg for salvation, though I doubt you even understand what it takes to earn it.” 

His thumb pressed against your clit, testing your reaction, as he continued. “If this is how you present yourself, do you even wonder why you’re consumed by sin? You don’t resist it, you welcome it.”

Carlos straightened, his hand slipping away, leaving you aching and exposed, a whimper slipping past your lips. 

He turned away briefly, retrieving his wine glass from earlier, swirling the crimson liquid in the glass before bringing it to his lips. He drank slowly, letting the wine linger in his mouth before he approached you again. His free hand reached out, gripping your chin firmly and tilting your face up to meet his.

He squished your cheeks using his hand, forcing you to open your mouth. He leaned in closer, his mouth hovering just above yours. When you dropped your jaw completely in obedience, his hand dropped to wrap around your throat, squeezing almost painfully. Without warning, he spit the wine into your mouth, the warm liquid flooding your tongue with its intoxicating flavor.

“Drink up, nena,” he ordered, his tone brooking no argument. “This is your final test. If you can’t follow my commands, you’re too far gone into sin for me to save.” You swallowed forcibly, his fingers tightening around your neck, feeling the sensation of you gulping under his palm.

He stepped back, releasing his grasp on you, letting you inhale sharply while he reached into his pocket and produced his rosary. The beads glinted in the bright light, each one seeming heavier than the last as he held it up between you. “Do you know what this is?” he asked, his tone almost patronizing. “It is a sacred object, yes, but it is also a symbol of discipline—something you clearly lack.”

He held the rosary out toward you, the cross dangling ominously at the end. “Kiss it,” he commanded. “Pray silently, nena. Ask for strength, for forgiveness, for the resolve to endure what comes next. Because what I’m about to do is not for me—it is for you. It is the burden I carry to bring you back to the light.”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering between him and the rosary, but the weight of his words—and the shame curling in your stomach—drove you forward. Your lips brushed the cold metal of the cross, the gesture both reverent and desperate. Your whispered prayer was barely audible, your voice trembling as you begged for forgiveness, for guidance.

Carlos’ hand returned to your shoulder, his grip tightening as he leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “Good,” he murmured, his tone soft but laden with intent. “So you can obey like a good girl, you just need to be put in your place.”

Carlos’ fingers hooked into the neckline of your dress, tugging it down with an effortless precision, letting your tits spill out freely. Your pussy and now your tits were exposed to the cool air of the church, forcing the last shred of dignity out of you as Carlos kept his intense gaze on your body. 

His silence was profound, heavy, and yet spoke volumes. His dark eyes roamed across your form, lingering on the soft curves of your figure still covered by the dress as if committing every detail to memory. A slow exhale escaped him, the sound too quiet to carry through the empty space but loud enough to send shivers across your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low but steady, carrying that familiar blend of praise and reverence. His hand lifted, calloused fingertips brushing along your shoulder, a hint of greed building in him, needing to see more of your soft bare skin. He tugged the sorry excuse of a dress down to bunch around your waist, before tracing the curve of your arm. His touch wandered, exploring with unhurried intent, his palms skimming over the soft swell of your hips, lingering at the softness of your waist. 

“Such a shame you’ve indulged in sin,” he said, almost to himself, his hands gripping your sides firmly for emphasis. The words were biting, yet the reverence in his touch betrayed him, as if he couldn’t stop himself from appreciating the way you felt beneath his hands.

The rosary hung from his fingers, the beads cool and unyielding as they trailed behind his movements, brushing against your heated skin. When the cross touched the hollow of your throat, you flinched, but he didn’t let up. Instead, he let the beads follow the path of his hands, dragging them lightly across the curves of your tits, your sensitive nipples stiffening even further under their cool pressure.

His head dipped suddenly, lips brushing the skin of your mound. The gesture was deceptively soft, almost reverent, before his mouth opened fully. His tongue flicked against your skin, warm and deliberate, before he wrapped his lips around your nipple. The sharp contrast between his mouth’s heat and the rosary’s cool touch made your knees tremble.

A soft moan escaped your lips, breathless and involuntary, but it barely had the chance to echo in the silence. He returned the rosary back to your lips, pressing against it until you obediently parted your lips, allowing the cool beads to slide against your tongue, the faint metallic tang of the cross mingling with the warmth of your breath. 

He didn’t pull back immediately, continuing the relentless torture on your nipples, flicking the peak with his tongue while letting you wet the rosary thoroughly. His teeth grazed the sensitive peak, earning a muffled cry from your lips. His other hand gently kneaded the softness of your tit, then more firmly as if testing your limits. His thumb brushed over your hardened nipple before pinching and twisting it harshly, making a sharp muffled cry fall from your lips. 

The rosary rested heavily on your tongue, its smooth, rounded beads pressing against the roof of your mouth. It felt sacred, forbidden, a weighty representation of your salvation, even as his presence and touch felt as if it pulled you further from its grasp. Each bead carried a history of whispered prayers and faith, and yet here it was, in this profane moment, repurposed into something entirely sinful.

Once he released your nipple from his mouth, he retracted his fingers, slipping the rosary out as well, bead by bead, slick with your saliva. It glistened faintly in the dim light, his eyes, dark and all-consuming, followed the motion as though this simple act held infinite power.

The beads dangled from his hand for a moment, swaying like a pendulum, before he began to drag them down the curve of your neck. The coolness of the cross met the warmth of your skin, leaving behind a wet trail that felt almost electric. It wasn’t just the sensation; it was the way his movements were deliberate, worshipful yet unholy, his touch blurring every boundary of what you thought was right in the name of religion. 

The rosary descended further, tracing the hollow of your throat, the chain tickling against your collarbone before he pressed the beads down the center of your chest. Each ridge of the beads pressed into your skin, a strange contrast of softness and unyielding hardness, and you could feel the trail of spit cooling as it mingled with the heat of your body. His gaze lingered where the rosary had touched, as though marking you with his intent.

He dragged the rosary lower still, over the curve of your soft stomach, the motion unhurried, methodical, as if savouring every inch of skin it passed. He paused for a moment just below your navel, letting the beads rest there, their weight light but unbearably present. His fingers followed, brushing against your skin, spreading the faint moisture left behind, smudging the remnants of sanctity with his touch.

Without warning, he slid the rosary between your legs. You inhaled sharply, the sensation startling and intimate, each bead dragging between your folds, separating them while collecting your wetness on the sacred item, tainting it with your sins. The rhythm was slow, torturous, as if he wanted you to feel each individual bead graze your clit, to memorize its texture and weight against you. His actions were like sins wrapped in the guise of sanctity, pleasure tangled with the echoes of prayer. 

He took it one step further. Using his free hand, he held your pussy spread open before pushing the rosary inside your cunt, bead by bead. Each bead stretched you slightly before it gave way to the next, filling you in a way that felt both intrusive and intimate. He watched your every reaction, his dark eyes gleaming with something that sent a shiver down your spine. 

“There,” he whispered, his breath warm against your lips. “Look at how greedy your pussy is, practically begging to be filled by anything.” His words were laced with a hint of amazement, as if he’s never seen anyone as gullible as you in the name of religion before. 

When he finally began pulling the rosary back out, you felt every bead dragging inside you, the ridges catching in sensitive areas, making your hips move on instinct, chasing the pleasure. His movements were slow, almost tormenting, as if he wanted you to memorize the way it felt, the way he wielded control over you with something once meant for prayer. 

Carlos suddenly turned you around with a firm grip on your hips. He bent you over the wooden pulpit, the rough grain pressing into your skin. The air in the church felt heavier now, stifling, as if the walls themselves disapproved of the desecration happening within them. He kicked your legs apart, his movements sharp and commanding, leaving you no choice but to obey. 

Leaning in behind you, his breath ghosted over the back of your neck as he whispered, “the Lord has given me strength to punish you, and I won’t be gentle.” His words were both a promise and a threat, sending a ripple of heat and dread through your body. 

You opened your mouth to respond, but instead of a word, a loud moan left your lips when his palm came down sharply on your ass, the impact jolting you forward against the pulpit. The sound echoed through the empty church, a sharp crack that left your skin stinging and your body trembling. He did it again, and again, each strike accompanied by murmured words, low and demanding. 

“Such a whore,” he muttered, his voice dripping with condescension. “I have to ruin you to save you.” 

His other hand continued to torment you with the rosary, the beads slick and warm now, sliding over you with a deliberate rhythm that left you breathless. Every motion seemed to blur the line further between punishment and pleasure, his twisted sense of control leaving no room for you to question him.

When the rosary was thoroughly soaked, he dragged it from your dripping cunt to your ass, letting the beads linger on your winking hole. Carlos leaned down, his lips brushing against the curve of your ass, giving you a false sense of security from the tender gesture. It didn’t last long because the soft kisses quickly turned into a sudden sharp pain erupting from his teeth digging into your plush ass. 

“Carlos—” you gasped, looking over your shoulder only to be met with a menacing gaze, a lazy smirk playing at his lips. 

“Father Carlos. Don’t forget your manners just because you’re bent over, dripping like a slut for me,” he corrected, punctuating his words by leaving the indentations of his teeth into your soft skin again. 

“Sorry, Father Carlos,” you murmured, lowering your head, your cheeks burning with shame. 

His rough, hairy hands covered the expanse of your ass, kneading your soft skin. He spreads you apart, exposing your dripping cunt to your clenching hole, all for him to take as he pleased. He didn’t ease up even as you tried to squirm away under his scrutinizing gaze, one you could feel even though you’re turned away from him. 

With deliberate slowness, he allowed a thick string of saliva to pool in his mouth before letting it fall onto your puckered entrance. The warm droplet lingered for a moment, leaving a glistening trail as it slid down between your legs, settling in the slick heat of your folds. His fingers followed its path, tracing the mixture of spit and your arousal with a teasing precision that made your thighs tremble. He smeared the wetness upward, back to the sensitive ring of muscle he was so fixated on, his touch unrelenting yet deliberate as he circled it.

A soft, shaky cry escaped your lips as the tip of his finger pressed against the tight entrance, testing your resistance before gently breaching it. Your breath hitched, your body involuntarily tightening around the unfamiliar sensation. The warmth of his body radiated against your back as he leaned closer, his chest brushing against your back with every inhale. His lips hovered by your ear, the heat of his breath fanning across your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’ve been fucked here before, haven’t you?” His voice was sharp, almost taunting, as he let the cruel accusation linger in the space between you. The edge in his tone made your stomach twist, a strange mixture of shame and excitement pooling low in your belly.

“Just—just once,” you stammered, your voice barely a whisper, trembling as you clenched instinctively around the foreign intrusion. The confession seemed to amuse him; a low, satisfied hum vibrated from his chest as his finger pushed in deeper, stretching you with agonizing slowness.

“Just once?” he repeated mockingly, the corners of his lips curling into a wicked smirk. His free hand gripped your hip, keeping you still as he twisted his finger, coaxing your body to accommodate him. “That’s unexpected from a slut like you.”

His finger withdrew slightly before sliding back in, the motion deliberate and calculated, coaxing out every sound of pleasure you tried to suppress.

The rosary rested delicately against your skin, its cool, polished beads a stark contrast to the sinful warmth of his touch. With calculated precision, he pressed it just above where his finger was buried inside you, the holy artifact seeming almost blasphemous in its placement. His breath hitched, a low, dark chuckle escaping him as if the juxtaposition of the sacred and the profane amused him to no end.

Slowly, deliberately, he began sliding the rosary in, bead by bead, each one stretching your ass a little more, leaving a trail of both devotion and desecration. The smooth spheres disappeared inside, swallowed by your trembling body, as if you were offering up your very being to this unholy act.

Your breath hitched, your hands gripping the edge of the wooden pulpit, your knuckles turning pale. Each bead passed with a rhythmic cadence, almost as if he were reciting some forbidden litany in his mind, a dark ritual performed in your ass. The chain connecting the beads grew taut with each sinful insertion, cool metal pressing against your heated skin, a silent reminder of the holiness you were defiling.

Only the cross remained, the small silver crucifix dangling just outside your hole, swaying slightly with your trembling. He caught it between his fingers, letting the edge of the sacred symbol brush against your pussy, a mocking act of reverence. His lips curled into a wicked smile, and he leaned down, his breath hot against your neck.

“Do you feel absolved yet?” he whispered cruelly, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. 

It doesn’t take Carlos long to rid himself of his trousers, not when your moans echo against the walls of the empty church, raw and desperate, a melody of need that makes his control falter. You’re on the edge of reason, begging for him to save you, to guide you back to the light—or pull you deeper into the sin you both crave. Although you weren’t certain on what it was that you were asking for, all that mattered is Father Carlos gave in—albeit to punish you but still gave in. 

Standing behind you, his breath is hot against your shoulder, the soft rasp of it teasing your skin. One hand wraps firmly around his cock, stroking slowly, deliberately, as his gaze drinks in the sight of you bared and waiting, mesmerized by the holy cross hanging out of your ass. His other hand settles on the soft curve of your hip, fingertips pressing into your skin, grounding you both in this shared moment of temptation.

He steps closer, his chest brushing against your back, the warmth of his body enveloping you. The tip of him nudges against your folds, teasingly slow as he slides along your slick heat—once, twice—each movement deliberate, purposeful. He groans low in his throat, the sound reverent, almost guttural, as he coats himself in you, the evidence of your desire clinging to him like a forbidden prayer. 

Carlos glances up at the ceiling for a moment, closing his eyes and murmuring something unintelligible—perhaps a prayer to let his punishment guide you to the right path or an apology to the Lord for straying off the path himself by indulging in sins with you. 

He finally slides his cock inside you, inch by inch, until he is fully seated. The stretch is overwhelming, almost too much, and your breath stutters as you struggle to accommodate him. His hands settle firmly on your hips, holding you steady as your body trembles beneath him. 

The edge of the pulpit is digging into your skin, the unyielding surface grounding you even as your senses threaten to unravel. Your chest lays flat against the smooth, polished wood, your hardened nipples brushing against it with every subtle movement, sending jolts of pleasure skittering through your body.

Behind you, Carlos exhales slowly, his breath warm against your neck, and you feel the tremor in his hands, the way his control frays at the edges. “So much sin,” he murmurs, his voice low and ragged, more to himself than to you. “So much to purge.”

The cross, hanging out from your other hole, moves with every shift of his hips. It’s a thought that should terrify you, but instead, it ignites something deep inside—a forbidden thrill that coils hot and tight in your belly. The steady rhythm of his movements makes the cross sway, a stark reminder of where you are, what you’re doing, and who you’re doing it with. The juxtaposition of holiness and sin makes your head spin.

“You’re soaked,” Carlos growls, his tone both admonishing and reverent. His hips pull back, only to slide forward again, dragging against every sensitive inch of you. The wet, obscene sounds of your cunt fills the air, echoing in the sacred space around you. He shifts his grip on your hips, pulling you back against him with each thrust, and you feel every inch of him—thick, unrelenting—claiming you. “I thought I could guide you away from sins,” he continues, his voice tight, almost anguished. “I thought I could save you by telling you to ignore the wetness. By making you resist.”

He leans over you, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “But I was wrong. You crave this too deeply, too completely. And now, the only way to save you is to drain you through your pussy. To take every ounce of sin from your body until there’s nothing left but exhaustion—until you can’t crave it anymore.”

The words send a shockwave through you, your pussy tightening involuntarily around him, and he groans, a guttural sound that vibrates against your skin. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward with a deliberate rhythm, each thrust driving deeper, harder, as if he’s determined to fulfill his promise. You can feel yourself unraveling under him, the heat building low in your belly, radiating outward in waves that threaten to consume you.

“Do you feel it?” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. “Do you feel me so close to taking it from you? Draining you of everything unholy, everything corrupt?” He punctuates his words with a sharp thrust that leaves you gasping, your nails scraping against the wood of the pulpit as you struggle to hold on.

You try to respond, but the words catch in your throat, replaced by a breathless moan as he shifts the angle of his hips, hitting a spot inside you that makes your vision blur. “Answer me,” he growls, his fingers digging into your hips. “Are you going to come on my cock?”

“Y-yes,” you manage to gasp, your voice trembling with the intensity of it all. “So close, Father. I—”

Your words are cut off as a wave of pleasure crashes over you, your body convulsing around him as he drives you over the edge. 

But he doesn’t stop. He keeps moving, his pace relentless, determined, as though he won’t stop until he’s wrung every last ounce of sin from your body. 

“You’ll come again,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. “And again. Until there’s nothing left. Until you’re too spent to think of sin, too tired to crave it.”

His words are a promise and a warning, and you can feel yourself quickly spiraling toward another orgasm, your body trembling with anticipation and overstimulation. Carlos’ grip tightens, pulling you impossibly closer, and his movements grow more desperate, more unrestrained, as if he, too, is succumbing to the very sin he claims to purge.

Carlos doesn’t stop, his focus unyielding as if his salvation hinges on your complete and utter surrender. He brings his fingers to your clit, rubbing tight circles in rhythm with each thrust, forcing a cry from your lips. Your legs shake, only standing due to the weight of his body holding yours upright, nails pressing into the smooth wooden surface. 

Your eyes roll back as another orgasm crashes over you, his fingers unrelenting on your clit until you’re spent, trembling from the overwhelming pleasure. You’ve completely soaked him, creating a creamy ring of your cum on the base of his cock. 

When he finally slows, it’s not to let you catch your breath—it’s to adjust. He pulls out, but before you could whimper at the emptiness, his rough palms find your waist and with a swift motion, he turns you around so that your back presses against the wooden pulpit.

The sharp edge digs into your lower back, grounding you in this sinful reality, but you barely register it as Carlos pulls one of your legs up to hook around his waist. His cock slides back in without any resistance, your wetness and cum soaking your cunt down to your thighs. The new angle drives him deeper, impossibly so, and the stretch forces a gasp from your lips. His body presses against yours, pinning you between him and the unyielding wood, leaving no room for escape—not that you wanted to.

The rosary, still nestled in your ass, makes the cross swing wildly now with each thrust. The beads shift and press against your walls, a sensation so obscene and contradictory that it makes your head spin. The weight of it, the texture, the unrelenting pressure—it all blends into an overwhelming storm of pleasure and shame. Carlos notices the way you tense, the way your breath catches in your throat, and his lips curl into a knowing smirk.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice rough with exertion and tinged with something darker. “The weight of your sin. The way it clings to you, refuses to let go.”

His grip on your thigh tightens, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds you steady, surely causing visible marks to form as a present for tomorrow. His other hand moves with purpose, sliding up your body until it wraps firmly on your neck. His fingers tighten, a steady pressure that causes a sharp gasp to escape your lips as he slowly restricts your breathing. 

As the pressure builds inside you, it feels different this time—stronger, sharper, an unbearable intensity that has you teetering on the edge of something unrecognizable. Your palms fly to his hairy chest, desperate to push him away, to escape the overwhelming sensation. But Carlos is unrelenting.

“No,” he growls, his hand on your neck tightening just enough to make you still. His dark eyes bore into yours, his expression a mix of command and reverence. “You don’t run from this. Not from me. This is salvation, and you will take it.”

Your protests die on your lips as the pleasure crests, your body seizing with a force that leaves you lightheaded. The release rips through you, blinding and all-consuming, leaving you trembling in his grasp. He removes his grasp on your throat, causing the blood to rush back to your head, sharply inhaling, only making your head spin further. The intensity of it causes him to slip out, and you barely register the loss before you feel him again—his hand wrapped around his cock, slapping the tip of him against your swollen folds, forcing out more gushing cum.

Carlos watches intently as the evidence of your orgasm spills out, glistening and wet, streaming down your thighs. His gaze is dark, predatory, yet there’s a strange satisfaction there, a twisted pride in what he’s done to you. He hums low in his throat, a sound of approval, and leans in closer, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispers, “There we go. That’s what I wanted.”

As you tremble against him, he guides himself back into you, his movements frantic, as if he no longer cares if you’re walking the fine line of pleasure and pain. The stretch is almost unbearable, the sensitive ache from your last release making every thrust sharper, but your body betrays you, greedily pulling him in deeper, tighter, as though it can’t get enough of him.

Your cries spill out uncontrollably now, raw and guttural, filling the vast emptiness of the church as you inch closer to yet another orgasm. The echo of your sounds bounces off the stained glass and stone walls, growing louder with each thrust. 

“Be quiet,” he spat, “Do you want others to hear? Do you want them to walk in while you’re laid out like this, dripping sin onto holy ground?”

The words send a jolt of shame and excitement coursing through you, but you can’t stop the way your body reacts to him, your noises growing louder despite yourself. He stills for a moment, trailing his hand down to your ass. He pulls his hand away before sharply bringing it down, a loud crack sounding in the air, mingling with your moans. 

The sting hasn’t even begun to fade away when Carlos grasps onto the dangling holy cross. You feel the delicate beads shift inside before he tugs it out of you in one slow, deliberate motion. You’re clenching around his cock, begging for friction as he leaves your ass empty. 

Carlos doesn’t give you a moment to adjust. He grips your chin, forcing you to look at him, his dark eyes burning with something unholy, something wild. “Open your mouth,” he commands, his voice sharp and leaving no room for argument. When you do, he spits into it, the warm slickness landing on your tongue. “Good girl. Keep it there.” 

Without missing a beat, he slides the rosary into your mouth, pressing the beads against your tongue. “If you can’t stay quiet on your own, then this will do it for you,” he murmurs, his tone almost mocking. “You won’t make another sound. Not when the faithful will soon arrive for their morning prayers. Do you want them to see you like this? To see what a slut you are?”

The shame floods through you, heating your cheeks, but the way he looks at you—the dark desire in his gaze—only fans the fire inside you. He presses his palm across your lips, forcing your mouth shut at the same time he begins thrusting again. 

Clenching around him, your ass feels empty, aching with the absence of anything to fill it. He doesn’t leave it that way for long. His fingers slide over your thighs, coated in the wetness you’ve left for him, and he plunges two inside your hole without warning. You cry out, the sound muffled around the rosary in your mouth, your body arching as he works his fingers deep, curling them with practiced precision in time with his thrusts. 

“You’ll stay full,” he growls, his voice harsh and low, every word dripping with control. “No part of you will be left wanting. Do you understand me?” His fingers thrust in and out of you, stretching and scissoring, as his other hand remains on your mouth. 

You nod weakly, your vision blurring as he overwhelms your senses. The sound of your wetness as his cock moves in and out of you is obscene, the slick noises mixing with your muffled whimpers and his low grunts. Every movement feels like both punishment and salvation, a deliberate reminder that you are completely at his mercy.

“Good,” he breathes, leaning down to press his lips to the shell of your ear. “Now, be a good little whore and take everything I give you. We wouldn’t want to disturb the faithful, would we?”

Your eyes widen at his words, and you shake your head to the best of your abilities while restrained beneath his hand. His thrusts are deliberate and unrelenting, as though he’s punishing you for every transgression. His fingers slide in and out of your ass, a rhythm that feels both torturous and divine. The small, gilded cross hanging from his neck catches the faint light, swaying with every shift of his body. It dangles dangerously close to your lips, a reminder of the sanctity you’re defiling—and the punishment to resume on the path of purity he insists he’s granting.

Your body trembles, overwhelmed by the sensations he’s forcing out of you. Every orgasm has chipped away at your restraint, leaving you raw and exposed. This time, when you squirt, it’s with a desperate cry muffled against his palm. A fresh wave of pleasure surges through you, and your body reacts instinctively, wetness spilling onto his, leaving no doubt of your surrender.

His lips ghost across your temple, a false act of reverence. “Look at you now—so beautifully broken, so… clean.”

His pace quickens, his own restraint fraying as he chases his release. When he finally stills inside you, the warmth of him fills you completely, his cum spilling deep as if to claim you entirely. He exhales a low, satisfied groan, his head tilting back, exposing the strong column of his throat.

“This,” he says, his voice softer now, reverent almost, “is your purification. My cum, a baptism to rid you of every impurity.”

Your vision blurs, the room spinning as exhaustion pulls at your limbs, leaving you pliant, vulnerable. You barely register when he removes his hand from your mouth, slowly slipping the rosary out, but you inhale sharply, your chest rising with a desperate gasp. His lips find your jaw, their path deliberate and searing, branding your skin with whispered promises of redemption.

The faint glow of flickering candlelight mingles with the sun’s muted rays streaming through the stained glass windows. Colours dance across his face, painting him in hues of red and gold, as though divine light itself had anointed him. For a fleeting moment, he looks holy—an angel cloaked in shadow, his presence both damning and sanctifying.

He pulls out of your used, aching cunt, his cum spilling down your thighs. The sight is obscene, vulgar even, but Carlos’s gaze is steady, reverent, as if each drop is a testament to your purification.

“Thank you,” you whisper hoarsely, your voice trembling with exhaustion and something dangerously close to gratitude. “For cleansing me of my sins.”

His eyes narrow, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Oh, slut,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Before you can question him, he turns toward the wooden pulpit, his movements smooth, purposeful. Your heart pounds as he retrieves a small pocket knife. Your breath hitches, fear prickling at your skin as he flips it open, the metallic click reverberating like a warning, it’s blade gleaming wickedly in the light. 

“Father Carlos,” you whisper, your voice wavering. “Why… why do you have that?”

His breath fans across your face, warm and deliberate. “Religion,” he begins, his voice smooth and laden with a false reverence, “is not merely about worship. It’s about sacrifice. Surrender. It’s giving every piece of yourself to God. And here, now, you give it to me, as His vessel.” 

You shiver as his words sink into you, their weight unbearable yet irresistible. He speaks with the conviction of a preacher delivering salvation, and though you can’t grasp the truth within his claims, his unwavering gaze seems to dim the edges of your resistance.

Carlos lets the blade linger in the air for a moment before dragging it slowly down the bunched fabric of your dress, the ripping sound loud and jarring in the heavy silence of the church. The knife’s edge glides close to your skin but never touches, a taunting reminder of his control. The ruined fabric falls away, leaving you exposed beneath the warm, watchful gaze of flickering candles.

“You’re afraid,” he murmurs, cupping your chin with his free hand, forcing your gaze to meet his. “But don’t be. This is holy. This is right.”

Your lips tremble, a feeble protest forming in the back of your throat, but he’s already moving. He holds his palm out to you, his fingers steady and commanding. “Give me your hand,” he orders, and though every fiber of your being screams to pull away, you find yourself obeying. 

Slowly, you lift your trembling hand and place it in his. His fingers close around yours, warm and firm, grounding you even as your heart pounds in terror.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice laced with approval, as though you’ve passed a sacred test. He flips your hand over, palm facing upward, and trails the knife’s tip along the delicate lines etched into your skin. The touch is featherlight, more teasing than threatening, but the cold steel sends shivers racing up your spine.

You swallow hard, your throat dry. “What… what are you going to do?”

Carlos tilts his head, his expression serene, almost beatific. “Make you mine,” he says simply, as though the answer is self-evident. “For all your life, you will belong to me.” 

His words worm their way into your mind, pulling at the edges of your resistance. You don’t know the Bible well enough to challenge him, but something inside you weakens as his deep voice continues to promise that this is for your own good, that this sacrifice will lead you to the right path indefinitely. His faith, twisted as it is, seems unshakable, and you find yourself caught in its gravity.

The knife gleams, almost mockingly at your gullibility, as he continues to draw it lightly across your skin. You wince at the sting, but it’s nothing compared to the way his words penetrate deeper, whispering how this is the only way to be whole. He’s not just a man with a knife in his hand—he’s an answer, a guide. And in this moment, his words start to make sense.

His voice is almost reverent now as he finishes his sentence: “You will be mine, just as you are God’s. This is the final step.”

The blade cuts deeper, and you gasp, the warm blood flowing freely from the small wound. Your heart races, and there’s a part of you that wants to recoil, to protest. But Carlos’ grip on you tightens, unyielding. The tip of the knife is stained with your blood, and without a second thought, he licks it off, his tongue savoring the taste of your surrender. His eyes never leave yours, filled with a darkness that sends shivers down your spine. 

Carlos watches as the blood pools in your palm, crimson and warm, a stark contrast against the pale trembling of your fingers. His dark eyes gleam with something unspoken, something insidious, as though the sight of your sacrifice—your surrender—has unlocked a primal satisfaction deep within him. The knife clatters softly against the wooden pulpit as he sets it aside, the sound barely audible over the erratic rhythm of your breath.

You flinch as his fingers dip into the blood, warm and slick, and press into the fresh wound. The sharp sting makes you gasp, a soft, broken sound that escapes before you can stop it. His lips curl into a smile—soft, almost benevolent—as though your pain pleases him in a way he can barely contain.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, his voice low and rough, thick with satisfaction. There’s no concern in his tone, no true care for your answer. It’s a question meant to remind you that he is in control, that your pain is his to command.

You manage a shaky nod, unable to meet his gaze as he presses harder against the cut, eliciting another whimper from you.

“Good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “It’s supposed to hurt.”

Slowly, deliberately, he begins to move his finger, dragging it through the blood. You can feel the warmth of it spreading as he marks you, tracing the unmistakable shape of a cross over your chest. The gesture feels intimate in a way that leaves you unsteady, as though the very essence of you is being claimed, piece by piece, with every deliberate stroke of his finger.

You flinch as he presses his fingers firmly into your skin, sealing the symbol with a finality that makes your stomach twist. His hand lingers, the heat of his touch seeping into your skin like a brand.

“The cross,” he says, his voice reverent but laced with something far darker, “is the seal. The mark of what you are now—what you’ve given to me.”

Your chest tightens at his words, at the weight of the moment. You try to convince yourself that this is holy, that it’s right, but there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that whispers otherwise. Still, his words have a power over you that you can’t resist, a pull that drags you deeper into the illusion he’s weaving.

“Now,” he whispers, leaning in close, his lips brushing against your ear. You shudder at the warmth of his breath, at the faint taste of your blood still lingering on his tongue. “Now, you belong to me.”

The weight of his statement settles over you like a heavy shroud, suffocating and inescapable. Your body trembles, your mind reeling, but deep down, you know that it’s already too late. For all your hesitations, for all your doubts, you’ve given yourself to him—completely, irrevocably.

The first drop of blood hits the stone floor, the sound sharp and loud in the oppressive silence of the church. You watch as it pools at your feet, crimson against the gray stone, and a soft, involuntary whimper escapes your lips.

“Father,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, heavy with confusion and something dangerously close to desperation.

He coos at you, his tone almost soothing, but there’s a mockery in his eyes that makes your skin crawl. “Hush, nena,” he murmurs, his hand closing over yours once more. “Don’t cry. It won’t go to waste.”

With that, he brings your trembling hand closer to his mouth. You watch in horrified fascination as he lets a ball of spit fall onto your palm, the moisture stinging the cut as it mixes with the blood. Your breath hitches, the pain sharp and immediate, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, he flattens his tongue against the wound, licking and swallowing the metallic taste of your blood with deliberate slowness.

The intimacy of the act is unbearable, leaving you frozen and helpless as he continues, his tongue dragging over your palm as though savoring every drop. “Divine,” he mutters, his voice thick with satisfaction, “absolutely divine.”

The blood hasn’t stopped flowing, and as you feel the last remnants of your resistance begin to crumble, Carlos moves with purpose, his hands firm as he pushes you down onto your knees. 

“Now,” he says, his tone taking on a commanding edge, “pray to me as you would to the Lord.”

Your lips part in protest, but the words never come. He tilts your chin up, his gaze locking with yours, dark and unyielding. “I am the man of God,” he continues, his voice a low growl that reverberates through you. “I hold the key to your salvation. And you, my little slut, will prove your devotion.”

Behind him, the enormous wooden cross looms, its shadow stretching over him. The faint light from the candles dances around the edges of the symbol, giving it an almost celestial glow. It frames him perfectly, a mockery of holiness, as though he himself is the vessel of divinity. Standing tall and unshaken, he becomes something larger than life, something terrible and magnetic.

You, in contrast, are on your knees before him, stripped bare of your defenses, trembling as though the weight of his words alone could crush you. The image is unshakable: him towering like a god while you kneel as a humble supplicant, desperate and lost.

The air feels heavy, thick with the kind of silence that fills a church just before a hymn begins. The cross behind him seems to pulse, a reminder of the faith you thought you knew, now distorted by his presence. Your heart races, your mind screams that this is not worship, this is not holy—but the power in his voice, the weight of his authority, leaves no room for dissent.

Shakily, your trembling hands clasp together, fingers interlocking in a feeble attempt at prayer. You close your eyes, each breath shallow and uneven as you bow your head. The words that escape your lips are foreign, wrong—they are not for the Lord you once prayed to, but for him. For the man who now claims to hold the keys to your salvation, for the dark, twisted force that has wrapped itself around your soul.

Your blood trails in uneven rivulets down your arm, tracing your trembling skin. The sight of you is unholy—blasphemous—yet it is precisely how he wants you: on your knees before him, utterly undone. Bare, vulnerable, tears streaking your cheeks, and a cross smeared across your chest in the crimson hue of your own sacrifice. The blood dripping from your palm stains the floor in dark, damning blotches, marking the sacred space as profane.

His cum still leaks from your pussy, a viscous reminder of the way he’s claimed you, defiled you. You are ruined, completely and utterly wrecked, and even then, it is not enough for him.

Carlos’ smile is slow, deliberate, and so full of satisfaction that it feels like a blade sinking into you. He steps closer, his presence looming, his shadow cast by the cross falling over your kneeling form. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent, dripping with approval as though your surrender is a sacred offering. “Worship me.”

His words settle over you like a benediction and a curse, heavy with false sanctity. In this moment, he has made himself your god, a figure of twisted devotion and unrelenting control. And though a small, flickering part of you screams to break free, it is drowned out by the overwhelming need to obey.

Carlos eyes rake over you, dark and hungry, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile that borders on cruel. His satisfaction is palpable, a weight in the air that presses down on you as you try to steady your breath, though the tears keep coming. The sting of the cut on your palm hasn’t dulled, each pulse of pain grounding you in this twisted reality you’ve surrendered to.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with mockery and delight. His fingers find your wrist. The grip is firm, possessive, and you shudder as he lifts your bleeding hand into the space between you. The blood flows freely, trickling in thin lines down your fingers. He watches it as though transfixed, his thumb brushing over your palm in a way that makes you wince.

“You’ve given so much to me,” he says, his tone reverent, though his gaze holds none of the holiness his words suggest. “But you’re not done yet.”

He guides your hand toward him, the motion slow and deliberate, as though he’s savouring every second of your hesitation, your trembling compliance. His cock is hard and waiting, and your stomach churns as your bloody hand is wrapped around it. The warmth of him, the slickness of your blood spreading across his skin, makes your breath hitch in your throat.

“Do what you know best, nena,” he commands, his voice low and rough, the kind of tone that leaves no room for defiance.

Your fingers tremble as you begin to move, the pain from your cut sharp with every motion. The blood coats him in uneven streaks, glistening and crimson, each stroke smearing more of your sacrifice onto him. The metallic scent of it fills the space between you, heavy and suffocating, and yet, you find yourself lost in the way he watches you. His eyes are half-lidded, the satisfaction in his expression undeniable, and for reasons you can’t comprehend, it’s all you need to keep going.

“You’re such a slut for me…what if someone walked in right now? You wouldn’t stop worshipping me, would you?” he asks, his voice dipping lower, rougher

The words send a chill down your spine, your cheeks flushing with shame and something darker, something you’re too broken to name. You can’t meet his gaze, but you feel it boring into you, devouring you. The thought of a devotee seeing you like this—wrecked, desperate, ruined—makes your stomach twist, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

“No,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, and his smile widens, wicked and approving.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “You’re too good for me, too devoted. You’d stay here, on your knees, with your blood on my cock and tears on your face, just like this. Wouldn’t you?”

You nod, your movements becoming steadier despite the pain. Each pained motion of your hand draws a groan from him, low and guttural, his head tipping back in a display of raw, unrestrained pleasure. The sound sends a shiver down your spine, and despite the ache in your wrist and the sting in your palm, you keep going, desperate to hear more, desperate to see more of the satisfaction that’s written across his face.

When he finally cums, it’s with a sharp exhale, his hand snapping to your wrist to still your movements. You barely have time to register what’s happening before the warmth of it splashes across your face and your tits. The sticky warmth of it mingles with the blood smeared across your skin, soaking into the cross he’d drawn on you. The lines blur, ruinous and obscene.

Carlos’ chest heaves as he comes down from his high, his expression softening into something almost tender, though the darkness in his eyes remains. He reaches out, his thumb tracing the smeared mess on your chest. His touch is slow, deliberate, as he presses the mixture of blood and his cum deeper into your skin, ruining the cross entirely.

“There,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “Now you’re perfect.”

He lifts his thumb, coated in the remnants of the act, and brings it to your lips. His gaze pins you in place, unrelenting, and you know what he wants without him having to say it. You hesitate, your breath catching in your throat, but his thumb brushes against your lips, insistent.

“Clean it,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

Your lips part slowly, and he presses his thumb into your mouth. The taste is bitter, metallic, and foreign, but you don’t pull away. You can’t. His eyes remain fixed on you, watching every movement of your tongue as you obey, and the weight of his approval is suffocating, all-consuming.

When he finally pulls his thumb away, his smile returns, dark and knowing. “You’ll be back,” he says, his voice soft but certain. “You can’t stay away, can you? From sinning. From me.”

You feel the words settle deep within you, a truth you can’t deny, no matter how much you want to. The part of you that knows this is wrong, that screams this isn’t devotion or love, is drowned out by the part of you that craves his approval, his praise, his touch.

“But that’s okay,” he continues, his thumb brushing against your jaw. “Because I’ll always be here to help you. To guide you. To remind you of who you belong to.”

You manage a weak smile, exhaustion weighing heavy on your limbs. You’re too far gone, too manipulated, too consumed by him to see the depth of his control. Every word he speaks feels like scripture, every command like a divine decree, and you find yourself nodding, willing to follow him wherever he leads, like his most devoted servant. 

In this moment, you are his, wholly and irrevocably. As the tears streak your face, as the blood dries on your skin, you realize you can’t regret it. You don’t want to. You’ve given yourself to him, and there’s no turning back.

[fear-is-truth]

wow i love the way you write nam-gyu! would you mind writing his attempt to make things right if he was given a second chance in a relationship? I’m basing this off of your last post with him where you said if he was given a second chance he would at least genuinely try. Have a great day! ❤️

NAM-GYU ❝ TRYING ❞ TO BE A GOOD BOYFRIEND. . .

content — gn!reader ・nam-gyu is still toxic & overall a shitty boyfriend・headcanons

a/n — i love this horrid man.

he starts overcompensating in small, almost pitiful ways. buying you gifts you didn’t ask for, running errands he wouldn’t have done before, doing the dishes without being asked. it’s as though he thinks he can earn your forgiveness through sheer persistence.

and it works because the bar is so low to begin with, it’s practically a tripping hazard in hell.

he’s not above love-bombing if it means keeping you. but it’s not entirely manipulative—there’s a small part of him that genuinely believes he can be better, even if he doesn’t know what that looks like.

he doesn’t like when you talk about the breakup. he’ll deflect, change the subject, or turn it into a joke. the idea of revisiting that time makes him feel pathetic, and he absolutely hates that.

keeps asking you if you’re happy. the question comes out of nowhere—he needs constant reassurance, like your happiness is the only proof he has that he’s not screwing this up again.

no matter how much he wants to try and fix things, he can’t completely shake the bitterness. deep down, he hates being the one begging for forgiveness. sometimes it slips out in muttered comments or passive-aggressive digs when he feels like he’s not being appreciated enough for trying.

gets this haunted look when you mention any moment from the time you were apart. it doesn’t matter if it’s innocent or unrelated to him—he’ll start overthinking it. where were you? who were you with?

paranoid about losing you again, and it shows in the way he checks your phone, asks too many questions about where you’ve been, or sulks when you spend time with other people.

if you call him out, he’ll switch gears fast. nam-gyu knows exactly what to say to deflect blame or make you second-guess your own feelings. he’s silver-tongued in a way that makes you want to forgive him, even when you know you probably shouldn’t.

despite his efforts, nam-gyu has a habit of reverting to old patterns. he gets frustrated when things don’t improve immediately and lashes out verbally. but as soon as he sees your hurt expression, he’s quick to backtrack, softening his tone and apologising—but the authenticity is up for debate.

there are sporadic bursts of effort. maybe he remembers a small detail you mentioned in passing and surprises you with it, or he takes you somewhere meaningful to “start fresh.” these moments feel real because, for a fleeting second, they are. but they’re often short-lived, drowned out by his issues.

he tries to hold back when you fight, but sometimes he just slips. the venom comes out before he can stop it, and the second he sees your face fall, he’s begging for forgiveness. the cycle exhausts you both.

tries to make up for his outbursts with affection. his hands are always on you—your waist, your wrist, the back of your neck. sure it’s possessive, but there’s a desperation to it too, because he’s trying to prove he still has a right to touch you.

there’s a subtle change in the way he looks at you now. before, there was always the arrogance of knowing you’d stick around no matter what. now, he’s bracing himself for the moment you’ll tell him it’s over for good.

he convinces himself that as long as you’re still there, things can get better. even if he doesn’t fully believe in his own ability to change, he holds onto the idea that you believe in him. it’s a crutch, one that keeps him from truly taking accountability but also keeps him trying—and he is. but there’s also a part of him that still believes he can’t fully change, that this is just who he is, and it’s up to you to decide if you can live with it.

[delusionalwh6re]

hellooo can i request a smut fic of hyun ju??? its like a brat tamer one AHHHHH i can't describe ittttt thankssss

i gotchu!! this is my first time ever writing for a trans character so i was a bit nervous ngl… i didn’t wanna do anything offensive. i’m not fully educated so i kept it simple but still steamy 😭 i hope you enjoy ml <3

࿐࿔ ⋆ ｡˚ good for ya’

࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ cho hyun-ju x fem!reader

warnings: brat taming, fingering, hair pulling, face sitting, mommy kink (it’s literally only said twice lol), edging, dirty talk, bathroom sex, cursing, orgasm denial and cursing

summary: your girlfriend has had enough of that bratty ass attitude of yours… so she gets you together

authore’s note: the gayness came out of me writing this 😭 i love this baddie sm, hyun ju supremacy!

Hyun-ju watched you from afar. The way your face held no expression, your eyes boring into others as if you dared them to say the wrong thing to you, your hips swaying with confidence as you walked around like you were the head bitch in charge. Like you fucking owned the place.

It pissed Hyun-ju off. You had all the time in the word to have this little attitude of yours but not enough to be a grown ass woman and speak about your guy’s problems.

When she found out you were in the games, she immediately began to worry for you. You weren’t the type to… listen. You didn’t believe in rules, you made your own. So you wouldn’t survive in a place like this.

But you on the other hand, the second you saw her it seemed like some sort of competition forming between you two.

With the way you were acting towards her, it would be hard to believe that the two of you were.. together.

And as long as you kept it up, she was gonna show you.

So that’s exactly what she did.

“Oh, oh! Hyun-ju! just wait-” your squeals bounced off the stall walls in attempts to get your girlfriend to slow down her almost painful fingering.

“No! What did I tell you huh?” her fingers showed no remorse as she curled them inside of you.

“Uhh” you threw your head back, your pussy clenching around her thick digits.

“You don’t know how to listen, so I’m gonna teach you” she whispered in your ear pulling her fingers out of you slowly.

You whimpered at the lost of contact and immediately reached out for her to get it back. You needed it. Needed anything to get some relief. You needed her.

She chuckled at you. Your usual hard headed and cocky act flowing right down the drain. You looked pathetic. Slick dropped from your puffy pussy, your tits perked up needing attention, hair was a mess… in all reality you were just a mess.

“Why don’t you ever behave?” her hand went to give your hair a soothing caress while her words swirled through your mind repeatedly.

“Ju” the nickname you always called her flew out your swollen lips in a whisper “need you, please?” your head tilt would’ve usually got the best of her but not this time.

You needed to be taught a lesson.

The only thing that was now heard in the bathroom was heavy breathing and the muffled background of players interacting.

Your back slammed against the cold stilled stall as Hyun-ju pulled onto your hair and pressed you against it. A fight of dominance now between the two of you with your lips. Teeth clashing and tongues gliding over each others — it was so hot.

“You’re gonna pay” she pulled away slightly for some air, not letting up on you at all before slamming your her lips back against yours.

Now it was your turn to gain control. With what little strength you had left, you held onto your girlfriend to turn the both of your around — her back now pressed against the stall.

You started feeling up on her with your dainty hands, your fingers brushing over her body. The two of you completely naked in front of one another.

“Teach me then” your voice laced with seduction as you rubbed at the sides of her hips — leaning closer to press your lips against her ear “mommy”

The feeling of your lips along with the heat of your words made her skin crawl. Immediate goosebumps and arousal taking over her body. She couldn’t wait anymore — she needed to taste you and she needed it now.

Hyun-ju looked at you up and down, licking her lips with anticipation that only made you wetter for her. Whether she realized it or not.

Her body walking towards yours. The feeling of your chests now being pressed together as the two of you connected lips once again. Her strong but gentle hands squeezing a handful of your ass.

She twirled you guys around so now you were the one with your back facing the stall. You were ready to take control but Hyun-ju caught you off guard when she spoke up

“Sit on my face”

“Ju — I don’t know if that’s possible”

You squealed when she grabbed your hips to pull you closer towards her now sitting body “I wasn’t asking”

She looked so beautiful underneath you. Her short hair in a low ponytail with her signature bangs sticking to her forehead — lips swollen as she stared up at you as she was amazed, which she was.

You just wanted to devour her.

“Not this time sweetheart, you’ve been a bad girl” her words caught you out of your trance as she rubbed the outside of your thighs

A huff leaving your mouth in annoyance — was she in your head?

“I don’t ca—”. you started to say before a harsh slap was landed onto your ass

You winced in pain before looking down at your very non sympathetic girlfriend — instantly regretting your actions at her next move

“This is your problem! You don’t listen” she yanked you upwards to hover your bare pussy above her face

This position being awkward in the small bathroom. Your arms having to hold your self up against the stall walls and your legs have to crouch down on the edge of the toilet seat — yuck.

But all your discomfort left as soon as Hyun-ju placed her lips against your throbbing clit

“Oh!” you cried out in ecstasy as she began sucking on you like a pacifier

That feeling not lasting for long before she began teasing your hole with the tips of her fingers. Plunging them inside you with a force that sent you jolting up.

“Stop moving” her voice muffled against your wet heat

“So —so good” you grinned against her face as you threw your head back. Her tongue lapping up your slit with ease. Wet smacking filling the bathroom every time she made contact with your pussy.

“Mhmm” she hummed against you slapping your ass before squeezing the flesh firmly — keeping you from trying to move away from her — as if you wanted to, not when she ate you good every single time.

“You gonna apologize?” her mouth came off of you with a low ‘pwah’ while she curled her fingers inside of you

“N-no” you stuttered with determination

“No? Did you just tell me no?” she scoffed angrily picking up her face as your jaw dropped. Your slick glistening down her hand as she practically pounded your with her fingers.

“I-I’m cumminggg, mommy please” you pleaded as you rode her fingers with your eyes closed. Going up and down on them with speed, ready to chase your orgasm— the knot in your stomach getting stronger as the outside world closed out of your head.

“Yeah?” her voice laced with sarcasm and you could heard the smirk in her voice.

You were so close, at the very edge. Until it was ripped away from you. Your eyes shot open as with disappointment as you looked at your girlfriend with sad eyes.

“Ju, no, don’t do this to me, please I’m sorry. I’ll be a good girl for you. Only you.” you weren’t one to beg but Hyun-ju had you doing things no one else could

You were so in love with her, even though you had a shitty way of showing it.

“Next time don’t be such a brat and then you could get what you want” she looked up at you with a shit eating grin — she knew she won. Like she often did.

Hyun-ju was the only person who could put you in your place.

Your eyes filled with tears “I love you baby, I’ll be good just for you, please just make me cum”

You got off from above her and got on your knees pleading in front of her. You didn’t even care if anyone heard you anymore. You just wanted the love of your life to please you.

“Only good girls get to cum” she whispered in your ear as she stood up to put her clothes back on

And after that, you were working to be on you best behavior just to get her to fully please you again.

I NEVER WROTE ANYTHING LIKE THIS BEFORE?? i rlly hope this came out good and don’t sound stupid 😭