Criminal Minds Oneshots

Confession (Foyet/Reader)

"Open your mouth," he says.

He places the cracker on my tongue and the tip of his thumb grazes my teeth as he retracts his hand. He then holds the chalice to my lips and tilts my head back, letting the wine flow into my mouth. I go to swallow, but he keeps my mouth pried open. He leans over me and spits into my open mouth before pushing my chin up, all while making eye contact with me.

"Now, you can swallow."

I do as he instructs and that's when the depravity of this situation hits me. A serial killer that is acting as a priest just spit in my mouth and I loved it.

"Just as I thought: you're as fucked up as I am," he laughs wickedly. "You want to hurt people and you want to get hurt, just like me. Will you let me teach you, Y/n?"

Now, his entire demeanor has changed. There is no trace of the good-natured priest I first met. There is slime practically dripping off of him and his formerly soft edges could now cut me just as efficiently as his blade.

"Please, sir, teach me how to be like you," I plead.

"There's the enthusiasm I'm looking for." His smile is sickening but, despite it, I am drawn in. "I started off by stabbing myself, you know?" he says. "I've got scars all over, but you're much too pretty for that. We're going to try something a little unconventional."

"Like what?" I ask innocently.

"I have to introduce you to a new faith. One where the only body and blood you consume is mine, where I am the one you get on your knees and pray for, where I am the only god you need, understand?"

He combs his fingers through my hair and holds onto it tightly, enough to make me wince. He notices my discomfort and he tugs again just to see me squirm.

"Yes, sir, I understand."

"Good girl," he smiles.

He takes the knife from his pocket again and hands it to me. I grasp it just as hesitantly as I did the first time, and from the corner of my eye, I can see him laughing at me.

"Usually, I don't like women like you. They're weak, pathetic little whores that are good for nothing but a quick fuck. They're disposable, but you're not. You may be the only other person in this world that understands me, and if you prove to be useful, I'll keep you around," he says as he strokes my cheek.

"How do I prove my worth to you, Father?"

He takes my hand and guides me to my feet. Even now that we are standing on the same level, I still feel inferior to him.

"You're going to use this knife on me. You're going to treat me like you would all the others that make you angry." He notices my worried face, and adds "There's nothing you could do to me that I haven't already done to myself, gorgeous."

He takes off his top, leaving his chest bare but still clothed on the bottom half. His lower abdomen is covered in light pink scars and I can't stop myself from reaching out to touch them. Some are jagged, some are smooth, but they all have the same texture of scar tissue underneath.

"You could be in one of these paintings," I whisper.

"I'm just the canvas; you are the true artist," he says as he wraps his hand around mine, the one that is holding the knife. "Draw whatever you'd like, just make it pretty."

He guides my hand to the center of his chest and presses in. It's not a stab like he previously did to himself, rather a shallow slice that barely draws blood. As I watch the skin split, my hand begins to tremble.