#rob st. john

[huariqueje]

St. John's Vale - Rob Adams

British , b . 1954 -

Watercolour , 10 x 7.5 in.

[shiberamune]

"are you ok" yeah sorry. im thinking abt judd nelson with stubble

[rolandrockover]

Reason in Motion

Let's be honest, Kiss have only rarely tried to hide their musical influences, no matter in what dimension they have made themselves felt in their own work. On Crazy Nights (1987) they even seem to have reached their personal high point on several occasions, making no secret of it at all, similar to a beloved cat that you regularly find in your living room aquarium.

I hope it should slowly dawn on the last of us that today we are taking another look at, drum roll… Reason to Live.

If Paul is to be believed, Desmond Child is responsible for the lion's share of Reason to Live, and therefore presumably also for the increased hunting frequency in foreign territories. So if that's where his heart has led him, fine by me, if you know what I mean. But you never really know with these two anyway, so why don't we do Paul the favor and just play through the whole thing with Desmond for a change.

And it would certainly be a good idea to briefly recall two of the probably biggest hits of the 80s, which Desmond must have simply soaked up while composing today's somewhat chilly tearjerker. Anyone who therefore would like to find out more about Foreigner's I Want to Know What Love Is (1984) and Heart's Alone (1987) and the extent to which Reason to Live and Desmond Child are up to their necks in this matter would be well advised to click on the last two links.

For today's interests, however, all we need to do is take a look at the chorus hook and its melody, which somehow manages to remind me every time anew of 80s movies in a not exactly subtle way.

Names like Ally Sheedy, Emilio Estevez or Rob Lowe inevitably come to mind, which brings us to the chorus hook of St. Elmo's Fire (Man in Motion) (1985), the title hit song from the coming of age yuppie drama of the same name, which is probably familiar to pretty much everyone who was old enough to consume or at least be aware of popular culture in that decade. Needless to say, said song could be found in at least high to top chart positions worldwide at that time, and that I love to imagine Desmond Child at the piano in the midst of this setting.

And even if St. Elmo's Fire's Hook comes across a whole lot more enthusiastic and upbeat than the rather melodramatic to depressed Reason to Live, which barely emerges from its Prozac cloud, this hardly changes the fact that both short but all the more catchy melodies are pretty much one and the same.

Moreover I don't understand the lyrical conclusion at all, this But it can't Be Your Looove-thing. Gee Desmond (or a bit Paul for my sake), love is of course the reason why we and all life lives at all!

No wonder this was not the big hit it was constructed to be.

While I had a reason to highlight these links, it's not my love:

Reason to Live (1987)

St. Elmo's Fire (Man in Motion) (1985)

[shadowwingtronix]

BW's "Yesterday's" Comic> Sonic The Hedgehog #88

[buildoblivion]

oh so jubilee is GOOD good

[filministic]

The Menu (2022) dir. Mark Mylod

[ruleof3bobby]

THE MENU (2022) Grade: C+

Had some intrigue in the start. It was lacking a hook, a reason, backstory. The ending was that cool either. Better grade cause there are some good acting and wow moments.

[bonniehooper]

Top Picks of 2023

My Top 20 Favorite Movies - #7: The Menu

Running Time: 107 Minutes

Released: November 18th, 2022

Watched It: January 2023

[theinternetarchive]

great films available on the internet archive part two

first post + the archive collection with all of them

la haine (1995) dir. mathieu kassovitz

carnival of souls (1962) dir. herk harvey

andrei tarkovsky's filmography

a nightmare on elm st. (1984) dir wes craven

possession (1981) dir. andrzej źuławski

the silence of the lambs (1991) dir. jonathan demme

safe (1995) dir. todd haynes

psycho (1960) dir. alfred hitchcock

cops (1922) dir. buster keaton

sherlock jr (1924) dir. buster keaton

when harry met sally... (1989) dir. rob rainer

the bride of frankenstein (1935) dir. james whale

man with a movie camera (1927) dir. dziga vertov

coffee and cigarettes (2003) dir. jim jarmusch

m (1931) dir. fritz lang

it happened one night (1934) dir. frank capra

casablanca (1942) dir. michael curtiz

purple noon (1960) dir. rene clement

carrie (1976) dir. brian de palma

eraserhead (1977) dir. david lynch

they live (1988) dir. john carpenter

female trouble (1974) dir. john waters

do the right thing (1989) dir. spike lee

wings (1927) dir. william a wellman

fallen angels (1995) dir. wong kar wai

velvet goldmine (1998) dir. todd haynes

black panthers (1968) dir. agnes varda

american psycho (2000) dir. mary harron

the manchurian candidate (1962) dir. john frankenheimer

girlfriends (1978) dir. claudia weill

more to come ♡ glad you all like movies.

[krispyweiss]

Talk about Mudflaps: “Spinal Tap” Sequel to Begin Filming in 2024

- Paul McCartney, Elton John and Garth Brooks to make cameos alongside original cast

A sequel to 1984’s “This is Spinal Tap” will begin filming in 2024, Billboard reports.

“Everybody’s back,” director Rob Reiner said, meaning Christopher Guest as Nigel Tufnel, Michael McKean as David St. Hubbins and Harry Shearer as Derek Smalls.

Paul McCartney, Elton John and Garth Brooks will make cameos and Reiner promises a “few other surprises” to boot.

Filming is to begin in February with the storyline based around the long-estranged Tap being forced into a contractually obligated reunion concert.

“All these years and a lot of bad blood we’ll get into and they’re thrown back together and forced to deal with each other and play this concert,” Reiner said.

There is no title or release date for the film.

11/28/23

[abs0luteb4stard]

W A T C H I N G

This movie is so exquisite.

Elevated Dark Comedy Horror. 🔥✨️

It is a prestigiously made godamn movie. Top of the line.

If you like Chopped Championship, you'll love this.

[sueclancy]

Movies and noticing stuff

My wife and I went to see the movie Barbie at the Mcmenamins St. John’s Theater and Pub – a friend suggested seeing Barbie at this particular theater because it might be easier for me to hear. She was right! And this theater has a closed captioning device that sit in the cup holder and has a positional gooseneck!!! This made it possible for deaf me to comfortably enjoy the movie! And boy did we…

[robburtontoday]

ＯＰＥＮ ＨＯＵＳＥ 🆕 www.rem.ax/450Marine | 2100SF all-on-one-floor bungalow 3BR 2Bath on beautiful quiet 1 acre lot in Logy Bay close to city!⁠

Rob Burton FRI⁠ REALTOR | Fellow of the Real Estate Institute⁠ (709) 682-2345⁠

#confidence #changeyourlife #growthstartshere #change #bemore #domore #reachinghigher #takeaction #OpenHouse #LoveStJohns #RobBurtonToday #TeamBurton ♥️

[violettathepiratequeen]

The Writers of BtVS

So because I'm a nerd, and because I was curious, I compiled a list of the credited Buffy writers and their episodes, mostly to check for their own consistency, haha. And because I thought it was interesting enough to share:

WRITERS:

Joss Whedon

Welcome to the Hellmouth

The Harvest

Nightmares (with David Greenwalt)

Out of Mind, Out of Sight (with Ashley Gable and Thomas A. Swyden)

Prophecy Girl

When She Was Bad

School Hard (with David Greenwalt)

Lie to Me

Ted (with David Greenwalt)

Innocence

Becoming, Part 1

Becoming, Part 2

Anne

Amends

Doppelgangland

Graduation Day, Part 1

Graduation Day, Part 2

The Freshman

Hush

Who Are You?

Restless

Family

The Body

The Gift

Once More With Feeling

Lessons

Chosen

Dana Reston

Witch

David Greenwalt

Teacher’s Pet

Angel

Nightmares (with Joss Whedon)

School Hard (with Joss Whedon)

Reptile Boy

Ted (with Joss Whedon)

Faith, Hope, and Trick

Homecoming

Rob Des Hotel & Dean Batali

Never Kill a Boy on the First Date 

The Puppet Show 

The Dark Age 

Phases 

Killed By Death 

Matt Kiene

The Pack

Inca Mummy Girl (with Joe Reinkemeyer)

Ashley Gable and Thomas A. Swyden

I, Robot… You, Jane

Out of Mind, Out of Sight (with Joss Whedon)

Ty King

Some Assembly Required

Passion

Joe Reinkemeyer

Inca Mummy Girl (with Matt Kiene)

Carl Ellsworth

Halloween

Howard Gordon

What’s My Line? Part 1 (with Marti Noxon)

Marti Noxon

What’s My Line? Part 1 (with Howard Gordon)

What’s My Line? Part 2

Bad Eggs

Surprise

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

I Only Have Eyes For You

Dead Man’s Party

Beauty and the Beasts

The Wish

Consequences

The Prom

Living Conditions

Wild at Heart

Doomed (with David Fury and Jane Espenson)

Goodbye Iowa

New Moon Rising

Buffy vs. Dracula

Into the Woods

Forever

Bargaining, Part 1

Wrecked

Villains

Bring on the Night (with Douglas Petrie)

Elin Hampton

Go Fish (with David Fury)

David Fury

Go Fish (with Elin Hampton)

Helpless

Choices

Fear Itself

Doomed (with Marti Noxon and Jane Espenson)

The I in Team

Primeval

Real Me

Shadow

Crush

Bargaining, Part 2

Life Serial (with Jane Espenson)

Gone

Grave

Sleeper (with Jane Espenson)

Showtime

Lies My Parents Told Me (with Drew Goddard)

Thania St. John

Gingerbread (with Jane Espenson)

Jane Espenson

Band Candy

Gingerbread (with Thania St. John)

Earshot

The Harsh Light of Day

Pangs

Doomed (with David Fury and Marti Noxon)

A New Man

Superstar

The Replacement

Triangle

Checkpoint (with Douglas Petrie)

I Was Made to Love You

Intervention

After Life

Flooded (with Douglas Petrie)

Life Serial (with David Fury)

Doublemeat Palace

Same Time, Same Place

Conversations with Dead People (with Drew Goddard)

Sleeper (with David Fury)

First Date

Storyteller

End of Days (with Douglas Petrie)

Douglas Petrie

Revelations

Bad Girls

Enemies

The Initiative

This Year’s Girl

The Yoko Factor

No Place Like Home

Fool For Love

Checkpoint (with Jane Espenson)

The Weight of the World

Flooded (with Jane Espenson)

As You Were

Two to Go

Beneath You

Bring on the Night (with Marti Noxon)

Get it Done

End of Days (with Jane Espenson)

Dan Vebber

Lovers Walk

The Zeppo

Tracey Forbes

Beer Bad

Something Blue

Where the Wild Things Are

Rebecca Rand Kirshner

Out of My Mind

Listening to Fear

Tough Love

Tabula Rasa

Hell’s Bells

Help

Potential

Touched

Steven S. DeKnight

Blood Ties

Spiral

All the Way

Dead Things

Seeing Red

Drew Z. Greenberg

Smashed

Older and Far Away

Entropy

Him

The Killer in Me

Empty Places

Diego Gutierrez

Normal Again

Drew Goddard

Selfless

Conversations with Dead People (with Jane Espenson) 

Never Leave Me

Lies My Parents Told Me (with David Fury)

Dirty Girls

So the conclusion I've come to is... in my own fanfic writing projects, I sometimes have works that I know are very good and are received well. And there are some that I know just stink, and the lower interaction reflects it. It's pretty comforting to know that for professional writers, the same thing is true.

Jane Espenson, for instance, beloved by Spuffies everywhere for being our man on the inside, ALSO co-wrote "Gingerbread," my least favorite ep ever.

Douglas Petrie is, in my opinion, absolutely an undercover Spuffy, or at least understood the assignment well enough to fake it. And I love him for being the first to write Wesley, for breaking Bangel up one of the times in S3, for writing "Fool for Love," for strengthening Spike's character in every ep that included him.

And David Fury... look, I know he gets a lot of flack, but I think he doesn't actually hate Spike as much as it seems. Looking at his list of episodes and the messages I know to be in them, I think he's just VERY pro-soul, and can't wrap his head around a vampire being good without one. But once Spike does get his soul... well, we need look no further than "Showtime."

But really, let's all bow down to Rebecca Rand Kirshner. For "Out of My Mind." For "Tabula Rasa." For "Help." For "Touched." For some of the sweetest Spuffy moments in all her other eps.

[comphy-and-cozy]

Dear god - Adrian Kempe

Pairing: priest!Adrian Kempe x Reader (f)

Summary: After a tough breakup, what better place to turn to for support than the church? AU.

Word Count: 4.3K

Warnings: Brief reference to drinking/drugs, religious guilt, extreme sacrilege, desecration of a confessional booth, etc. Smut (18+ ONLY). Unprotected sex, oral sex (m + f receiving), fingering (f receiving), degradation, spanking. Think Fleabag hot priest but if he was a hockey player. If this is going to offend you, please do not proceed. Your media consumption is your responsibility.

Author's Note: Blame @senditcolton on this delicious, deranged, blasphemous beauty of an idea. I'm so sorry. And a huge thank you to Nik, Rickie and my beloved discord fam for answering all of my religion questions 📿✝️ I'm not Catholic but I tried my best!

MOODBOARD ← BACK TO MAIN MASTERLIST ← BACK TO 'SO CLOSE TO WHAT' MASTERLIST

The breakup left you broken in every sense of the word. No matter where you went, reminders of Rob followed you everywhere—on the 405, at the coffee shop, in the shower.

You tried everything: booze, drugs, men, women, therapy—none of it could banish him from your head for more than an evening. And then you’d wake up, usually feeling worse for the wear, and the memory of his touch, his voice, his scent would flood back into your system and the agony would set back in.

You’re not sure where the idea to return to church came from, but you find yourself making your way to the St. Joseph Cathedral in Los Angeles. It’s been a few years since you were a regular attendee, and since you’re arriving well before evening Mass, you’re hoping that there won’t be a huge crowd that will recognize your very delayed return.

Fortunately, the nave is almost empty save for a few solo congregants scattered throughout the numerous pews. It feels strange to be here, feeling like there are whispers following you, judging you for your extended absence from the pews—you’re sure that’s just the religious guilt gnawing at your conscience.

And then you hear your name, with a lilt at the end like the speaker can’t believe it’s you.

You turn and you’re greeted by a familiar face. “Father Adrian. It’s good to see you.”

He’s smiling, as handsome as ever. His long hair is tied back into a neat bun, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to his forearms. You always liked Father Adrian; he had a more approachable energy than the others, his casual nature much less intimidating than the stoic Father John that you grew up with.

You’ve changed, but so has he. He looks older, more comfortable in his skin; he’s filled out his form a bit more than before. He looks good.

“How have you been?” he asks.

Pausing, you contemplate how you want to answer his question. The familiar sharp throb in your chest returns, along with the flash of Rob’s face. But you plaster on your practiced fake smile and manage, “I’ve been fine. And you?”

Father Adrian smiles knowingly, like he can see straight through your lie, but he humors you anyways. “I have been well, thank you for asking.”

You manage some small talk for a few minutes, pausing when the last of the congregants bids him farewell on their way out.

Once the large wooden door shuts, the sound echoing slightly in the marble ceiling of the church, Father Adrian turns back to you. “So, are you going to tell me the truth? Why are you really here?”

Your gaze shifts to your feet, feeling a mix of shame and guilt at his call out. “I… had a really bad breakup. I’ve taken it pretty hard—I’m not doing very good. I’m a little desperate, to be honest.”

Father Adrian’s smile is wry. “You must be, if you’re turning to the church for help.”

There’s levity in his voice, and you let out a soft chuckle. The action feels strange, almost unnatural—you can’t remember the last time you let out a genuine laugh.

“I’m sorry to hear about your breakup,” he says. “It sounds like you’ve been having a tough time.”

You nod, glancing down at your feet. Now that you’re here, standing in front of him, saying it out loud, you wonder why you ever thought this was a good idea. This was stupid, you think, reaching for your bag and ready to make some excuse to leave—

“Would you like to go Confession?”

Your eyes follow his motion toward the booth. You hadn’t even thought of it as an option, but now that he’s offered it, you contemplate. There had always been something cathartic about confession, releasing your sins and laying yourself bare in the privacy and anonymity of the confession booth.

You’ve tried everything else. Why not?

So, after you nod your assent, he gestures for you to lead the way. Drawing the curtain shut, you take a breath, feeling the familiar weight of Rob resting heavy on your shoulders and in your heart. You sit down, and you hear Father Adrian take a seat on the opposite side of the divider.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” you say, making the sign of the cross. “My last confession was… a long time ago.”

Father Adrian is quiet on the other side, waiting for you to continue. Your voice wavers, but once you begin talking, the words spill out like a tidal wave. The lump in your throat forms quickly, and before you can stop them, the tears are pouring out, too.

“Please,” you cry, “I want to forget about him. I need to forget about him.”

With the dam of your feelings broken, your deepest, most vulnerable thoughts cascade out into the empty space, absorbed by patient, listening ears on the other side of the screen. You nearly choke on your sobs, breath stuttering in your throat until your words are replaced by short, staccato gasps of air.

The tears slow, like a breath of sobriety flashing through you when you realize that you’ve been babbling nonsensically for who knows how long. There’s silence on the other end, and you take a shaky, sniffly breath, wiping your eyes and praying that your mascara isn’t running too badly.

You shift on the wooden bench, the silence nearing an uncomfortably long length. Embarrassment sinks in and your brain races for a formal response you’re supposed to give at the end of a confession, but there is none.

“Beg.”

Your eyes shoot to the dark, screened window where his voice comes from; you’re sure you had to have imagined that. “S- sorry, Father?”

There’s a soft swish on the other side of the barrier, like he, too, is shifting in his seat; you swear you can hear his breath quicken. “You want to forget about him? Beg for it. Beg Him for it.”

You sit in shocked silence. And then you find yourself sliding off of the bench, finding the hard, wooden floor where so many confessions have taken place. Settling on your knees, you clasp your hands in front of you and squeeze your eyes shut. “Dear God—please help me forget about him. Please. I can’t do this anymore.”

The sound of heels clicking on the floor beside you reaches your ears and moments later, the thick velvet curtain is ripped to the side. Father Adrian is standing, looking down at you on your knees, his frame so large it nearly covers up all of the light from the nave behind him.

“I can help you forget about him.”

Tears line your eyes again. “Please, Father.”

Father Adrian’s lips are on yours before you have a chance to take a breath, hot and insistent. It takes an embarrassingly little amount of time for you to give in, accepting his kiss and returning it. You feel the curl of his smile against your mouth as he helps you to your feet and backs you up, creating space for him to step into the booth with you. He tears away from your lips to tug the curtain shut, wrapping the two of you in secrecy and the promise of sin.

You wouldn’t have been able to remember your ex’s name if God herself asked you. All you can see is him, the crisp white collar distinct even in the dim light. The weight of a thousand worries is no longer pressing on your heart, your mind only able to echo one word: “Father.”

His smile is dark, darker than you’ve ever seen it, and he smirks down at you. One large hand comes to cup your chin, a thumb running along your jawline. The touch makes you shiver with desire.

“I can help you forget about him,” he repeats. “But first, you have to repent.”

You can hear the sound of his belt buckle followed by a zip and a soft whoosh of fabric. Sinking to your knees once again, your hands grasp in front of you, coming into contact with bare, taut thighs. A quick assessment in the dark brings your hand to a firmer appendage, and your body blazes.

Part of you is expecting to be struck dead as your fingers wrap around him, stroking slow and tentative caresses over the velvety skin. Bringing your mouth closer, your tongue drags over his length, and the low sigh of approval directs you to repeat the action. Obediently, you do, the weight of him heavy along your tongue. Once his tip slips past your lips, it isn’t long until its working its way toward the back of your throat. Another low moan echoes quietly inside the walls of the confession booth, thick fingers carding through your hair.

“Eyes on me,” he commands, tilting your head back to allow you a better view. With the change in angle, the control also shifts; Father Adrian holds your head still and presses his hips forward, slipping the tip of his dick over your tongue and back down your throat. Your jaw hinges to accommodate his more than generous size, eyes watering slightly at the tight fit.

In the dim light, you see a smile flit at the corners of his lips at the sight. His eyes, dark and fierce, watch the way his length pushes between your lips, flushed and wet with spit. You blink away your tears, feeling a droplet slip out, sliding down your face.

“Good girl.”

The low praise makes you shiver, a throb of arousal thumping sinfully between your thighs. Father Adrian pulls away to reach for the buttons on your cardigan. He pauses. “May I?”

You look up and your eyes meet his. It’s intense, his heady gaze, and the keen attention he has on you makes you dizzy. In answer, your hands reach up and you begin to unbutton them yourself. You shrug it off, leaving only the lacy bralette that was hiding beneath the light knit.

He breaks his stare, looking down to admire the sight of you. His hands move to run over your breasts, feeling them in his palms; your nipples harden at his gentle touch. Based on the way his dick twitches, you assume he can feel it.

“Gorgeous,” he says, and the compliment makes you preen.

You reach for his length again, eager to touch him once more, and he chuckles. “You like to be praised. Is that because it’s me, or because it’s God?”

“What’s the difference?” you ask, wrapping your hand around him again and earning a stutter in place of a retort.

And then, as if a flip switched, Father Adrian resumes control once more, gently pulling you up to stand. You can hear his heavy breath as he directs you to turn around, encouraging you to bend forward. His body presses up against yours, the rigidity of his hard-on rubbing into your ass while he leans forward and purrs, “The difference is that God can’t fuck you.”

A smile blooms on your face, your hips swiveling against him, feeling the weight of his cock against your ass through the thin, breezy material of your skirt. His low chuckle echoes in your ear as his hands reach for the hem of your skirt that’s past your knees—a respectable length for church despite the very disrespectful things you’re doing inside it—and dragging it up your legs, holding it in place at your upper thigh, exposing your bare legs and mostly bare ass in the very cheeky underwear you’d decided on. You aren’t sure what gave you the instinct to wear lace today, but you’re glad you did.

Despite the darkness in the booth, you still feel the heat of his gaze on your ass. “You wore these to church?”

The irony drips off your frame as you say, “I wasn’t expecting them to be seen by anyone.”

Father Adrian hums. “Take them off.”

You do as you’re told, fingers hooking into the sides and shimmying the lace down over your hips. He drops to his knees behind you, nudging the bunch of your skirt to signal for you to hold it in place; he wants his hands free. You can feel the scruff of his beard scratch against the sensitive skin on your ass, his lips dancing near where you want him, but not quite there.

“Please, Father,” you whine.

He groans at that, and you’re rewarded with his mouth pressing against your folds. He groans again, this time at the taste of you on his tongue, and the vibration of it against your entrance elicits a moan from you.

Your pussy throbs with want just from the feeling of his hot breath against it; the spasm it gives when he drags a finger through your dampness, plunging his tongue between your folds is enough to make you cry out in pleasure. Father Adrian hums, pleased, his mouth moving so expertly on your cunt you wonder how much practice he’s had.

“Fuck,” you moan, dragging your hips over his mouth.

“Watch your language in the confession booth,” he scolds while he brings his finger up to your clit. You can barely huff out a chuckle—surely both of you will be smote any moment now—before that same finger dips inside you and you moan out again. “That’s it, baby. You want more?”

“Please, Father,” you beg, desperate to feel more of him. His tongue dances with his fingers, teasing you and coaxing more arousal from your already weeping lips.

Father Adrian’s finger slips to your entrance, pressing into you slowly until he’s two knuckles deep. Another moan falls from you, and soon he’s added another finger. “You’re dripping, baby. Only sluts get this wet.”

The statement makes you whine, heat radiating in your cheeks, and your hips roll against his face, seeking out more friction. Your action earns a sharp slap against your ass and the loss of his mouth against you. His low voice asks, “Are you a slut?”

“Only for you, Father,” you whisper, pushing back. He spanks you again, this time on the other cheek; a whimper of pleasure leaves your mouth, wordlessly begging him for more.

“Good girl. Now be a good little slut and come on my face.”

Before you have a chance to open your mouth to respond, he dives back into your center, lapping at your folds with fervor.

“Fuck, Father,” you cuss, no longer able to hold it in. He doesn't scold you this time, only increases the pressure of his tongue. You should be embarrassed by how quickly your orgasm approaches, why your fucking priest’s tongue in your pussy is what does it for you, but all you can focus on is seeking it, seeking more, seeking him.

You come with a cry, fingers clutching at the walls of the booth, shaky legs buckling as the waves crash into you. His eager tongue laps it up, warm and wet against your leaking pussy.

And you want more. Surely, you’ll be struck dead soon for the filthy, delicious sin of lust, so you might as well go out with a bang.

“Fuck me, Father.”

Behind you, he freezes, and for a moment you’re terrified you took it too far—oh my God, you freak, you took your priest fucking fantasy too far—but then he’s standing and you hear the clink of his belt hitting the floor.

“Having it in your mouth isn’t enough for you? Want it in this slutty, dripping little cunt too? Want your priest to fuck you until you come on it?”

Heat burns your cheeks—and another part of your body—at the filthy words pouring from his mouth. Your voice is breathy when you say, “Yes, Father.”

“Ride it.”

He sits, hands reaching for your hips and dragging your body toward him. His lips press against your chest, mouthing at the lace of your bralette before his hand tugs one of the cups down, then the other. He licks at your nipples, teeth grazing them until they can tug gently at the hardened buds. At the same time, his hand pulls your hips into him; he gazes up at you with dark eyes as his fingers hook into the waist of your skirt, tugging the material down to pool at your feet. You’re almost completely exposed, while he has his entire garb on; the contrast heightens the power dynamic in the booth, along with the throb between your thighs.

Father Adrian drags you closer, encouraging your knees to straddle his legs. He hums at the position, admiring the way you look perched on his thigh. His lap is taut, muscles lithe beneath your body, and that delicious length bobs against your stomach like a tempting and sinful invitation.

Your breathing goes ragged when he pulls away from your chest, hand snaking between your bodies to fist at his length. A whimper leaves your throat when he glides the tip through your folds, collecting the wetness so he can slide over your clit.

“So wet for me,” he purrs, though his tone is not one of reprimand, but of desirous approval. “Leaking down my cock like a filthy whore. Is there something else you need to confess?”

He presses the very tip into your entrance; not enough to feel more than the pressure, but enough to drive you nearly insane with desire. You squirm, hips desperately seeking out any more friction, but his arm wraps tightly around your waist, holding you in place. “Ah, ah. What is your confession, little dove?”

Your cheeks burn, wondering how he can see directly through you to the deepest circle of your innermost private thoughts; you get the distinct sense that he can read your mind like a diary. “I—I’ve had a crush on you for a long time.”

Father Adrian’s mouth curves up into a smile against your collarbone. He rewards your vulnerability with another dip inside you, this time just the slightest bit deeper. “Is that so?”

“Mmhmm,” is all you can manage with how unbearable the teasing is; you’re sure you’ll burst any second now—from the blasphemy or the insatiable need for release, you aren’t sure.

“Think about this?” he asks. “Did you think about sitting on my cock while I was up there giving the homily?”

Now you’re confident he can read your filthy thoughts—maybe that’s what he’s doing with his intense gaze, peering into your soul. Hot shame blankets your body, conflicting with the sheer pleasure you feel at his tip probing gently against your most sinful area. This isn’t why you sought out the church, but since the opportunity presented itself, you’re accepting is as a sort of divine intervention.

A sharp slap to your ass pulls you out of your thoughts, the sting sending delicious shock waves through your body. “Answer me.”

Your voice lowers to a whisper. “Thought about sucking you off on the pulpit.”

“Is that all?” He gives another lift of his hips, pressing himself another inch inside.

“I—I’ve thought about you while I touch myself,” you confess, the last part of your sentence scarcely more than a whisper.

“Self pleasure,” he comments with a hum. “That’s a sin, you know.”

The irony dripping off of his words is almost enough to make you laugh. He doesn’t give you time to respond, though, pulling himself completely out of you so abruptly that your whimper echoes off of the wooden interior of the confession booth. A punishment for your sin.

Father Adrian stills, looking up at you, perched half-naked in his lap, his erection glistening with your own arousal bobbing at your entrance. “I have a confession, too.”

His intense stare returns, and this time you feel like he might swallow you whole if you let him. The heat between your bodies is sweltering; your pussy throbs with want. His mouth makes a sloppy path up your neck to the base of your jaw before his lips tickle the shell of your ear as he whispers, “I’ve thought about you while I touch myself, too.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he’s pressing back into you, sheathing himself inside you completely this time. The surprise elicits a cry, what can only be described as a pornstar moan, your hands clutching at his shoulders for support for where your legs tremble with the pleasure. He pulls out, no longer in the mood for teasing when he thrusts upward again with a groan.

“So tight,” he grunts out. “Good girl.”

With the help of his hands, you begin to ride him, sliding up and down his delicious length. Your breasts bounce in front of his face, giving him an eyeful while you seek out more pleasure. It’s wrong, so wrong, and yet the pleasure is something you've never felt before, the forbidden nature of the act elevating the ecstasy that comes with it. Maybe Lucifer was onto something.

“Give me your hands,” he commands in a low voice. He collects your wrists together, holding them in place behind your back and giving you another expectant eyebrow raise. “Keep riding it, baby.”

And you were taught that when your Father tells you to do something, you do it. Your legs carry you up and down, pistoning him in and out of your aching pussy. Low sighs fill the booth, accompanied by his soft grunts that you yearn to keep pulling from his gorgeous mouth. Your mind trails to how much you shouldn’t be doing this, and every time, as if he can sense it, his free hand grips at your ass in encouragement; a silent command to keep going.

So you do, giving in to the sinful pleasure, feeling that delicious, bubbly warmth rise in your body. The bundle of nerves that brushes against his pelvis with every rock of your hips is sensitive, aching to be touched.

“Father,” you manage to say, voice shaky, “may I touch my clit?”

Attentive eyes land on you, a small smirk gracing his face at your question. “You close? Gonna gush all over me?”

You nod, not trusting anything more than a desperate whimper to come out. He doesn’t answer, and you swallow your huff of frustration.

“You may not,” he finally says, and this time you do whine like a petulant child. Your release is so close, just over the horizon, and your only instinct is to chase it.

“But I can.”

Father Adrian releases your hands behind your back, freeing up his extra hand to snake between your bodies. One palm trails heat over your stomach, your sides, your breast, while the other finds a home at the place where you two connect. With slow, steady intention, he presses the pad of his thumb against your clit, circling it while your hips resume their pace.

In an instant, the temperature between you grows to a scorching heat, white hot pleasure radiating from where he touches you. Your movements become more frantic, your release finally a tangible distance away, edging ever nearer.

“Fuck, Father, don’t stop,” you pant, using the sound of your skin against his like a metronome, counting down the strokes until you reach euphoria.

And he doesn’t, keeping his diligent, steady strokes of your clit until your body shudders and the world around you shatters. Your hips falter, trembling with the force of the orgasm that rips through you, a loud cry echoing against the walls inside the booth. “Oh, God—”

A buttery, liquidy warmth fills you as your climax courses in violent tidal waves, eventually subsiding. Once your vision returns and your breath slows back to normal, you look down at Father Adrian, whose hand has stilled along your pelvis. A self-satisfied smirk rests on his face. You can feel him, still achingly hard inside you, twitching when you roll your hips over him again for good measure.

“Can I help you with that, Father?”

The thought of him coming inside you, filling up your bare pussy—oh, God, you just fucked your priest raw—makes you shiver, but before you can even suggest it, his arms are lifting you off of him. He slips out of you, a sigh of disappointment huffing out of you at the loss.

“On your knees.”

They’re wobbly, but you obey. It’s your original praying position, only this time, Father Adrian remains sitting on the bench, his erection soaked in your cum standing proudly in front of your face. His hand grips himself loosely; the sight makes your mouth water.

“Open wide, baby.”

You do as you’re told, and a few strokes later, hot spurts coat your tongue and your cheeks while he lets out a low, guttural groan. He pants long after the cum on your cheek drips down while you swallow the salty liquid on your tongue. “Good girl.”

The next moments are uncertain but not quite awkward as he tucks himself back into his pants. Glancing down at you, he collects a drop of cum from your cheek with his finger, feeding the last bit of it to you. “Can’t waste it.”

You suck the digit, quickly swallowing the last drops of him. Then, he offers his hand to you, pulling you up on shaky legs.

“Feeling better?”

All at once, you realize you haven’t thought about Rob since you first walked into this booth. Father Adrian wiped his memory clean, sanitizing it and putting guardrails around it so you can look back and observe, but don’t linger.

You nod. “Thank you, Father.”

He smiles, pulling back the velvet curtain to let you out first. “I’ll tell you a secret: sometimes the best cure is sin.”

Taglist (message or comment to join!): @lam-ila @ashloveshockey @cellythefloshie @smileysvech @senditcolton

@fallinallincurls

[victoriajanssen]

Nebula Award Finalists for 2024 works:

Nebula Award for Novel

Sleeping Worlds Have No Memory, Yaroslav Barsukov (Caezik SF & Fantasy) 

Rakesfall, Vajra Chandrasekera (Tordotcom)

Asunder, Kerstin Hall (Tordotcom) 

A Sorceress Comes to Call, T. Kingfisher (Tor; Titan UK)

The Book of Love, Kelly Link (Random House; Ad Astra UK)

Someone You Can Build a Nest In, John Wiswell (DAW; Arcadia UK)

Nebula Award for Novella

The Butcher of the Forest, Premee Mohamed (Tordotcom)

The Tusks of Extinction, Ray Nayler (Tordotcom)

Lost Ark Dreaming, Suyi Davies Okungbowa (Tordotcom)

Countess, Suzan Palumbo (ECW)

The Practice, the Horizon, and the Chain, Sofia Samatar (Tordotcom)

The Dragonfly Gambit, A.D. Sui (Neon Hemlock)

Nebula Award for Novelette

The Brotherhood of Montague St. Video, Thomas Ha (Clarkesworld 5/24)

Katya Vasilievna and the Second Drowning of Baba Rechka, Christine Hanolsy (Beneath Ceaseless Skies 4/18/24)

Another Girl Under the Iron Bell, Angela Liu (Uncanny 9-10/24)

What Any Dead Thing Wants, Aimee Ogden (Psychopomp 2/24)

Negative Scholarship on the Fifth State of Being, A.W. Prihandita (Clarkesworld 11/24)

Joanna’s Bodies, Eugenia Triantafyllou (Psychopomp 7/1/24)

Loneliness Universe, Eugenia Triantafyllou (Uncanny 5-6/24)

Nebula Award for Short Story

The Witch Trap, Jennifer Hudak (Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet 9/24)

Five Views of the Planet Tartarus, Rachael K. Jones (Lightspeed 1/24)

Why Don’t We Just Kill the Kid in the Omelas Hole, Isabel J. Kim (Clarkesworld 2/24)

Evan: A Remainder, Jordan Kurella (Reactor 1/31/24)

The V*mpire, PH Lee (Reactor 10/23/24)

We Will Teach You How to Read | We Will Teach You How to Read, Caroline M. Yoachim (Lightspeed 5/24)

Andre Norton Nebula Award for Middle Grade and Young Adult Fiction

Daydreamer, Rob Cameron (Labyrinth Road)

Braided, Leah Cypess (Delacorte)

Benny Ramírez and the Nearly Departed, José Pablo Iriarte (Knopf)

Moonstorm, Yoon Ha Lee (Delacorte; Solaris UK)

Puzzleheart, Jenn Reese (Henry Holt)

The Young Necromancer’s Guide to Ghosts, Vanessa Ricci-Thode (self-published)

Nebula Award for Game Writing

A Death in Hyperspace, Stewart C Baker, Phoebe Barton, James Beamon, Kate Heartfield, Isabel J. Kim, Sara S. Messenger, Naca Rat, Natalia Theodoridou, M. Darusha Wehm, Merc Fenn Wolfmoor (Infomancy.net)

Elden Ring: Shadow of the Erdtree, Hidetaka Miyazaki (From Software)

The Ghost and the Golem, Benjamin Rosenbaum (Choice of Games)

1000xRESIST, Remy Siu, Pinki Li, Conor Wylie (Fellow Traveller Games)

Pacific Drive, Karrie Shao, Paul Dean (Ironwood Studios)

Restore, Reflect, Retry, Natalia Theodoridou (Choice of Games)

Slay the Princess -- The Pristine Cut, Tony Howard-Arias, Abby Howard (Black Tabby Games)

Yazeba's Bed & Breakfast, Jay Dragon, M Veselak, Mercedes Acosta, Lillie J. Harris (Possum Creek Games)

Ray Bradbury Nebula Award for Outstanding Dramatic Presentation

Doctor Who: "Dot and Bubble" by Russell T. Davies (BBC)

Dune: Part Two by Jon Spaihts, Denis Villeneuve (Warner Bros)

I Saw the TV Glow by Jane Schoenbrun (A24 Films LLC)

KAOS by Charlie Covell, Georgia Christou (Netflix)

Star Trek: Lower Decks Season 5 by Mike McMahan (Paramount+)

Wicked by Winnie Holzman, Dana Fox (Universal Pictures)