#Monsignor Pruitt smut

[yeonjuns-beanie]

Blasphemous Rumours

Warnings: 18+, smut, hierophilia, sacrilegious acts, priest kink, fucking on an altar, suggestive themes in a confessional, riding a rosary(?...), hair pulling, biting, light blood play, exhibitionism, suggestive themes during mass, probably smth else but i don’t remember. nothing too crazy🧌. im debating on linking the playlist i wrote this to, but it would kinda get rid of the anonymity of this account…. ~nero :)

Father Paul Hill x female!reader

Word Count: 6.3k

You hated this fuckin ferry. 

You loved your family but you never understood why they never left that island. When you found your way out you left without a second thought. Vowing to never settle here again but that didn’t mean you’d never visit your family. Usually for the holidays you made your way back out here, but this time you just had a break in your schedule and wanted to visit. Wanting to visit didn’t trump the hatred you had for riding this fucking ferry though. 

To be completely honest you didn’t hate the ride itself but rather how the journey made you smell like a feeding bucket at Seaworld. The evening sun was gracing you with its last bit of warmth as it began to tuck itself behind the horizon. Against the cool mist of the water for a split moment, you almost understood the appeal of this lifestyle.

Almost. 

The ferry pulled up to the dock and your eyes fell on the shoreline meeting some abandoned nets and dried out seaweed. The seagulls' mews echoed as you exited the boat. Grabbing your bags you took a deep breath as your feet hit the sand and you began the trek up to your family home. 

Nothings changed. 

It’s been years and everything still looked the same. The houses, the people, hell even the smells were the same. It was uncanny. You saw the church in the distance and were relieved knowing that you could finally lay your bags down soon. As you passed the church your eyes landed on a relatively young man standing outside, a warm smile welcoming anyone that passed by. Styx-colored locks, a slender frame, and a face that looked ever so familiar. Pressing your lips together in a close-lipped smile and waved at him making a mental note to speak to him later. 

Your family’s house was only two doors down from the church and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t excited to see them. Knocking on the front door you eagerly waited to see who would see your face first. 

“Coming!” 

You heard faintly from the other side and you were greeted by the face of your mother. 

“Y/n! Oh, honey, it’s so good to see you!” 

She embraced you immediately, nearly squeezing the life out of you. 

“Hi, Mom.” You chuckled 

Over her shoulder, you saw your little sister, Briar, smirking at you trying her best not to laugh at your current situation. Your mom pulled you into the house motioning for you to come eat dinner as you arrived just in time. 

“Please, come eat. We’ll worry about your bags later. You came just in time to go to mass with us after.”

Mass? Why so late?

“Mass? Did you guys miss it this morning or something?” 

Washing your hands you turned around to face your family as you dried them. Before you sat down at the table your dad came from around the corner physically interjecting himself into the conversation as your mom spoke. 

“No, they happen—hi dear, they happen in the evening now. A new priest has been filling in for the Monsignor. Apparently, while he left for his trip to Jerusalem he fell terribly ill. Such a shame. But Father Paul is phenomenal! I think you’ll like him.”

Your mom looked at you with a knowing smile and you knew exactly what she was teasing you about. You rolled your lips around your teeth and began to eat, swallowing a sly comment. 

After you guys finished dinner, you fixed yourself for mass. Although you weren’t religious on your own time, you did it for your family while you were here. Plus, it allowed you time to wrestle with your feelings with Christ to see if it really wasn’t for you. Your relationship with God or whoever was out there was complicated. Wildly complicated. You knew in your heart that you were a formal sinner yet you lacked the guilt that should’ve come with that. 

If anything, you relished in it. You loved being entangled with the feeling of sin, it made you feel alive. You felt so strangled as a kid with religion, as if every move you made was under scrutiny so when you found the courage to separate yourself, you may have overindulged in things that were impious in nature. 

Just as you were this evening, clad in a low-cut tank top, a hoodie, jeans, and slip-on Vans. If you felt you didn’t belong in Crockett before, you definitely visually fit the part now. Looking like a complete foreigner in comparison to everyone else. You screamed city. From your clothes, and makeup, even down to the way you spoke. You tried your best to eradicate every trace of Crockett when you left but there was one thing you couldn’t scrub away. 

God. 

God always found a way to squirm His way around your brain and tether you to this island. 

“Y/n! You ready, honey?” 

“Yeah!”

Spraying yourself with a light perfume you walked out into the front room where your family was waiting for you. Filing out the door, the walk to the church was quick which was something you despised as a kid and you could feel those same feelings bubbling up as you neared its entrance. It was as if God was mocking you, knowing that you had such an internal feud with whether or not you believed, what was right and wrong, and if you even had a sliver of faith left within you. 

Sitting down in the pews next to your family, you felt at home once the incense filled your nose. The strange feeling of comfort washing over you as memories of your childhood flashed in front of you. The tottering organ that was moments away from wood decay, the massive crucifix in the center arch of the back of the church, and the haunting glow from the warm ambient lighting had you questioning yourself once again. You swallowed the thought, deciding that nostalgic comfort was weighing out your need for logic. 

You were pulled from your thoughts as everyone around you rose to your feet and the chimes of the bell echoed through the building. It was at this point that you realized how many people were stuffed into the pews. Mass was never like this as a kid. 

He’s either the hottest thing known to man or he’s sent from God himself. 

Anticipation settled in your stomach and you fought the smile that was begging to stretch your lips. You needed to know what it was. Maybe he was just a really good preacher, and you were being facetious–or maybe you just walked into the next Jim Jones story. Either way, your eyes were glued to the hallway counting the seconds to the procession. 

As everyone around you opened their book of hymns you were fixated on the white robe that exited the side door.  You didn’t recognize either of the altar boys and for a brief moment, you wondered where the last two poor bastards ran off to. But then your eyes fell on his. His stark black hair wasn’t as neat as it was earlier today when you were walking through town. A few pieces in the front dangled over his right eyebrow and his head was bowed slightly as he walked through the pews. 

Your mind was pulled away from fully taking in the man as you were distracted by how full the church sounded. When you were younger the hymns always sounded so hollow and weak, but tonight it resembled a traditional mass. Savoring the moment of repose you felt, you found it within you to appreciate the music resonating through the building finding it somewhat odd that they were singing a hymn that sounded so haunting. 

At His feet the six-winged seraph, cherubim with sleepless eye~

Your attention drifted back to the priest where he kneeled at the steps and then bowed his head at the altar. When his head raised to stare out across the pews you felt your eyes widen slightly at the sight of him. Your mom nudged your side, smirking when you turned to look at her. 

“Told you.”

You shoved your tongue in your cheek, swiping it across your teeth as you sat back down. Mass went by in a blink considering you were completely engrossed in the man in front of you rather than his preaching. At some point, you completely tuned out his biblical orations and resorted to the simple pleasures of imagining him and yourself in various scenarios in the church. 

In the pews, across the altar, across the altar with the front door open waiting for Beverly to waltz through, in the confessio-

“Honey, come. I want you to meet Father Paul.”

Your mom tapped you on your shoulder pushing you out of your trance of thoughts. Standing up, you smoothed out your top and took a deep breath in an attempt to shake out the tension in your shoulders you most certainly built up during your daydreaming. Walking out of the church you wondered why you were leaving if she wanted you to meet the man. You turned around and noticed that he was no longer at the altar either. Stepping out to the front, your questions were soon answered as a smooth voice sounded from behind you. 

“I see we have a new face in town.” 

Your mother butt in before you had a chance to speak for yourself. Laying her hand across the small of your back introducing you to the man you just spent the better half of an hour fantasizing about. 

“For a little bit, we do, yes! This is my daughter, y/n. She usually comes around for the holidays but we got lucky this time around. This used to be her home until about two years ago.”

You stuck your hand out, Father Paul grabbing yours with a firm grip and you couldn’t help the compulsion to stare at his hand for a moment before quickly finding your mind and smiling at him.

“Nice of you to step in for the Monsignor. My mom told me you’re his stand-in for the time being.” 

“Yes. I apologize seeing as I’m not who you expected, but I assure you he’s on the road to recovery.” 

As Father Paul spoke, you couldn’t quite place why he looked and felt so familiar. You were running through files of how you could’ve possibly known him but nothing was coming out concrete. 

“Oh! No need to apologize. I quite enjoyed your sermon, it was very similar to what I was used to growing up here. It’s as if he never left.” 

You chuckled out your last sentence and suddenly nerves found themselves coursing through your body as you maintained eye contact. You were committing his face to memory. Whether it be for personal reasons in the dead of night or to try and figure out where you knew him from. You’d wrestle with that later. Right now, you were just hoping that you weren’t being painfully obvious. 

You were. 

You were bordering a fine line of staring and eye-fucking him that your mother and sister were finding absolute humor in. Your eyes flickered back and forth between his clerical collar and his face trying to shake the thoughts that were circling their way around your head. 

“Well, I’m glad that I feel so familiar to you. I hope to see more of you during your time here with us.” 

He smiled at you with such sincerity you forgot about all the lust brewing for a second. His face held so many emotions but you couldn’t place any of them. 

“You will.”

You smiled back at him, your eyes holding something a little more heavy though. You were aware of the priesthood’s celibacy and something about knowing you couldn’t have him made the feeling that more intense. Although, you didn’t miss how it seemed the feeling was reciprocated while you looked at him. Father Paul spoke, breaking the silence that you two created. 

“Well, it was very nice to meet the rest of your family, Mrs. L/N, but I am afraid that I have some matters to tend to back in my rectory. You all have a very nice night.” 

His gaze lingered as he spoke, giving you the same treatment as you did moments before and it was making you squirm on the inside. His gaze was soft but so intense and the contrariety of it left your mind racing. While you and your family said a choir of goodbyes, you watched Father Paul walk away as your family made the way back to the house. Your sister spoke up, whipping you from your thoughts. 

“At this point, you should just tell him you want to fuck him.” 

Both of your parents exclaimed your sister’s name in shock but the two of you were left laughing. 

“Oh come on, I wasn’t that bad.” 

“Y/n, you might as well have been sucking his fingers in front of us.” 

As you guys walked back into the house your mom snickered as you genuinely asked for her opinion. 

“Was I being that obvious about it?”

She paused. 

“You could be…less obvious about it.” 

You groaned in embarrassment rushing straight to your room to avoid any teasing for the night. 

“Goodnight!” 

~*~

You couldn’t sleep. You opened your phone to check the time knowing full well that it was the middle of the night. You just wanted to see how late it was. 

3:33. 

Shit. 

You let out an exasperated sigh wiping your hand across your face. It was usually at this point in the night that your hand found its way in between your pajama pants and gently glided itself across your sensitive floret. Your hips jolted forward at the contact and as soon as that sensation spread through your body, images of Father Paul flickered in your mind. As your finger circled over your clit you found yourself reaching your climax faster than usual. As your orgasm flooded through your limbs, your chest heaved for air trying to calm the euphoria running through your veins. 

Pulling your hand from under the sheets, you let your arm drape across your eyes grappling with what you just did. But before you could really identify the problem with your actions, sleep weighed heavily on your eyelids. 

When you woke up, your middle of the night scandal was the first thing on your mind. 

How am I gonna look at him again? 

A string of questions ran through your mind leaving you mentally scattered but as you got ready for the day and saw your sister in the main room, it left the front of your mind. 

“Morning.” 

“Morning. You gonna go to church today?”

You shot your sister a look that was a mixture of embarrassment and a playful knowing. You two erupted into a fit of giggles that ended with you looking at her out of the corner of your eye. 

“Maybe.”

She watched you, impressed by your honesty, and nodded her head. Taking a sip of her drink she spoke through her swallow making her voice a little gummy. 

“Your best chances of seeing him are in the evening. For some reason, he’s stopped coming out in the day. Probably to avoid Bev. That woman would sew herself to his hip if she could.”

“Bev was up the Monsignor’s ass too, nothing out of the ordinary. I’ve never seen someone try to get so close to fucking God.” 

You both were laughing until you saw your mother emerge from the hallway and you halted the sound in your throats. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing. Just givin’ Bev shit for being Bev.”

Your mom laughed through her nose and shook her head at your antics and you were preparing for a small lecture. 

“So I take it you’ll be heading to the church tonight y/n? Typically we only go on Sundays now but I’m sure Father Paul would be ecstatic to see one of us a little more often.” 

Your family took great pride in taking the piss out of you and to be completely fair you made it quite easy. You rolled your eyes at your mother because even she knew you had lost touch with your faith, but now you had reason to find it–maybe. 

“I wasn’t planning on it but since Briar and now you have both greeted me with the question maybe I will. Build some rapport with the man.” 

“We both know you’d wanna build something more than rapport with him.” Briar chimed in. 

“I literally can’t even! You know…with him. It’s against their whole code. Don’t think I forgot. But also they like should come up with a code to not have hot priests, I’m just sayin.” 

They both just hummed in agreement still silently giving you shit. 

“You guys are terrible.” You laughed. 

~*~

You had all day to conjure up a scheme of how you’d find a way to get close to Father Paul and you finally decided on a plan while you were getting ready. 

Confession. 

Technically you didn’t need a priest for confession but it’d be nice to have someone listen while you were in the box. Everyone separated into their rooms for the day and you hoped that was still the case when you stepped out of the house. 

“Skirt’s a little long isn’t it.” 

You didn’t expect Briar to be sitting in the main room so her voice spooked you before you registered her words. 

“Yeah, but I think the side slits balance out the potential prude.” 

You shoved your leg out to the side showing off how the slit in the maxi skirt stopped at the middle of your thigh. Paired with a fairly tight black long sleeve and chunky boots, you were bordering on looking like a mortician. In your mind, being clad in all black hid not only you, but your true intentions from being so visible. The last thing you needed was being sniffed out through a choice of clothing, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t hopeful for an interaction. 

“I’ll be back.”

“Be safe.” Briar snickered

Stepping out into the cool night air, you were thankful to feel something other than the emotional heat from your family. It immediately soothed your nerves and you found yourself focusing more on your plan. With the church doors open, you noticed you saw nobody walking in and when you walked up the steps you were surprised to see the pews empty. It felt like you were intruding, like a fly buzzing around a dinner table. Your footsteps echoed in the empty building and you felt an overwhelming feeling to run out and forget about this elaborate plan. To sacrifice your need for affection and carnal satisfaction for a walk across the shoreline or to the general store. Just something else. 

Your eyes panned over to the confession box and you were wrestling with your gut feeling to stay. Maybe you should confess and get it off your chest…just not with him there. With disquieted uncertainty overcoming you, you took a step back to exit the church deciding that you’d come back another day, but when you expected your body to glide through the air, you stumbled into something solid instead. Whipping your body around you apologized profusely. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I was spaced out and didn’t hear anybody behind me I’m so-” 

And then you paused. As your eyes traveled up to meet the person you stumbled into your eyes caught the clerical collar. It was like a bullet lodged itself into your chest and you felt your limbs begin to grow cold from shock. You knew who lied above that collar and you had to find the guts to look at him in the eye. 

“It’s no trouble at all. Are you alright? You seem pretty startled.” 

Father Paul placed his hand on your shoulder looking down at you with genuine concern. You made the mistake of looking at him directly in the eye and you wished you didn’t. His deep brown eyes furrowed under his brow waiting for your response but you were entranced by him. Stuttering when you found your voice. 

“I, uh, yeah. I’m fine. I just was in my head about something.” 

Father Paul cocked his head slightly trying to figure out where to step with you. He narrowed his eyes for a moment and flickered back and forth between you and the confessional box. 

“I noticed you were quite focused on the confessional, were you looking to confess this evening, y/n?” 

You panicked. Backed in a corner, your mouth moved faster than your brain. It was too late before you could register the words flying out of your mouth. 

“Well, yes and no. I’ve been quite separated from my faith as of late but I’ve been struggling with…some intense internal issues that can’t be ignored now. I’m not sure if confession would make it better or worse and that’s why I was so engrossed in it.” 

“Well. We’re here now. If you’re comfortable, I can lead you through it.” 

You were hesitant. You worried that in your current state, you’d divulge too much, but maybe that’s exactly what you needed to do. To just get it all out of your system and bear the humiliation. You looked at him one last time and it was as if he was waiting for your compliance. He may as well have been extending his hand out to lead you to it. Closing your eyes and accepting this as a fated moment you inhaled a deep breath and nodded. 

“Okay.” 

Walking to the confessional, you got down on your knees, folded your hands in front of your mouth, and exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You looked through the latticed opening and made out a few of Father Paul’s features. A feeling began to pool in your stomach as you realized the dynamic of the situation you were in. Your mind swiftly moved into the gutter wishing you were on your knees for a different reason. 

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned–and will continue to do so.” 

You paused deciding one last time if you were going to bear all your bones here. Swallowing your pride, like a gun sounding the start of a race, you relieved yourself with zero guilt. 

“Being separated from my faith has left me in a deeply sacrilegious state. For the most part, I can ignore my thoughts, my taboo interests but since I stepped foot back on this island it's all come bubbling back up.”

You looked to see if Father Paul was looking at you but he stared straight ahead giving you his complete focus to your confession. 

“I find, grave desire in things I shouldn’t. Sexual hunger that I can’t displace somewhere else because I know the only reason it brews within me is because I know it’s wrong. Father, these feelings came back to the surface when I laid my eyes on you during Mass. I couldn’t help it. The feeling that pooled in the depths of my stomach and left me aching for something more. Forgive me, Father, for my boldness, but I fear that the only way I can feel relief is to…release.” 

You felt your breath quicken at how honest you were being but it was soon replaced by the feeling of of excitement. 

“I know it’s wrong but I…I can’t stop the feeling. This is all I can say, I’m sorry for my sins.” 

Silence. 

You felt like you sat in silence for an eternity waiting to hear his voice echo to your side, but you didn’t. Instead, you heard the pace of his breathing. You almost confused it for your own but you held your breath trying to calm your nerves and still it echoed. 

“Father…I. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any-” 

“Y/n. Come to the other side. 

As you rose to your feet, you heard the door on his side of the confessional click open. When you stood in front of the door, it was the first time this evening you found the courage to look him directly in the eye. There was a dastardly hunger swimming in his brown eyes. Like a predator stalking his prey, his aura was intense and left you frozen in front of him awaiting his command. His eyebrow slightly cocked upward and his hand raised, coaxing you towards him. You followed, pausing before you stepped inside his side of the box but he coaxed you forward with his voice so smooth and alluring. With little room, you were left to slot yourself in between his legs. 

Your breath hitched as you looked at him again and he patted his thigh with his hand that was wrapped in a rosary. Clenching around nothing, you made the swift decision to close his legs and straddle them instead of taking his knee. Letting your hands rest on his shoulders you stared him down. Nothing but salacity was radiating between your bodies and quickly you began to feel your desire rise into your face. Searching his eyes for any indication of his feelings you opened your mouth to speak but he occupied the silence before you. 

“I wondered if, you would find the courage to be truthful and I must say I’m struck by your honesty.”

Your heart nearly stopped. 

You fucked this up, bad.

“Father, I-”

“No need for any apologies. I’m glad you were so honest.” 

“You…you are?”

“Lying is a sin, so yes. But it relieves me of my own prurient conscience so that I may indulge in you free of guilt.” 

You weren’t paying attention to the movement of his body due to being so focused on his words, but when his words were punctuated with the rolling of his rosary-clad finger across your cloth-covered center, you were made very aware. Your cunt clenched around nothing and your body lurched forward unintentionally writhing over his hand. Your breath came out in shutters and your eyes, now hooded with lust, gazed into his own in a frenzy. 

His fingers kept gently teasing your bud through your panties and you couldn’t help the compulsion to ride in tandem with his movements. The beads of the rosary gifted you an unknown kind of pleasure that you knew would afflict your mind for the rest of time. It was a feeling that was near indescribable but the pleasure was too good to deny. You rested your head on his forehead, gripping onto his shoulders for some type of leverage. You bit the corner of your lip in an effort to silence yourself, but your ragged breathing was near that of an incensed bull. 

“If you did a better job of controlling yourself yesterday, I may have been fooled by your sheepish nature, but you just couldn’t quell this desire on your own, could you? You went home to seek some satisfaction but you found none, so you came here to plague me instead. Praying that I’d fix this ache within you. Am I right y/n?”

You went to respond but Father Paul’s finger slipped past the barrier of your underwear, leaving you to feel your arousal be spread across your puffy petals. A moan escaped your throat and the way it echoed off the confessional walls into the church made you shrink into his body. A pathetic attempt to hide from your lechery. Father Paul hummed, urging you to speak as he sank two fingers into your honeyed garden. Catching your breath, you found your words. 

“Y-yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Father~”

You brought your head up to look at him again, too dazed to even feel like this was real. As his fingers continued to roll themselves against your sweet spot, your breath quickened as your mouth stayed ajar looking for the courage somewhere in yourself to slot your lips against his. As he rolled his finger over your swollen bud, your body decided for you. Your lips danced in a sweat and lust-filled hysteria leaving your brain foggy with desire. You rolled your hips into his hand needing more of him and your sounds slowly increased in volume as you felt a bead of the rosary slide across your center. The feeling of the beads slightly grazing your sensitive lips brought you faster to the precipice of elation than you expected and you pathetically whined for your release. 

“I’m, I’m close, Father.” 

You expected him to speed up his ministrations, but instead, he removed his slick-ridden fingers from your garden and brought them up to his lips. As if his hand was dripping in myrrh, he sucked you off of his fingers and paused before he spoke. Ghosting his fingers across his lips, his tongue hesitantly licked the tips of them as he dragged his hand away from his face.

“If you’re going to be brought to rapture by my hand it will be done when all of me is inside of you.” 

Father Paul motioned you to stand up and you staggered out of the confessional with him not far behind. He grabbed your hand and dragged you down the center of the church pews up to the altar. Ripping the white cloth off the altar, Father Paul held his hand out before sitting you down on the altar. He caressed his hands down the curves of your body before toying with the waistband of your skirt. Looking down at you, you saw the fervor swimming in his irises. 

“My sweet lamb, is this alright?”

You nodded and he slotted himself in between your legs feeling his bulge at your center. Depraved and corpulent lust washed over your body and your fingers fumbled with his belt, unfastening it with haste. You looked up at him and his face was closer than you expected, the heat radiating off of your bodies leaving a mist of humidity between you. You palmed him through his jeans and an inviscerated moan crawled out of his throat. The sound urged your body to move faster, the need to have him inside of you becoming near unbearable. 

He kissed you again, insatiable ardor all that you could taste. The feeling trickled down your body leaving goosebumps across your soft skin and a river seeping through the fabric of your panties that slowly painted the apex of your thighs. He tapped your thighs and you took it as a sign to lift your hips. In a swift motion, your skirt and underwear were left in a pool by the altar. Father Paul removed himself from his sweater, throwing it in the pile of sacrilegious cloths that served as a visual reminder of the desacralization that was about to take place. He left his button-up to cling to his chest and he moved his jeans and underwear down to the middle of his thighs, leaving him with his fervid cock on full display. 

You kicked your boots off your feet, the thud echoing a little bit louder than you intended. With your feet now free from their confines, you wrapped your legs around Father Paul’s legs, bringing him as close as possible. Your hand slithered between your bodies and varnished the tip of his cock in your amatory nectar. Your moans harmonized in synchrony and you gazed into his lust-blown eyes seeing nothing but black and you were sure yours were the same. He asked silently one last time for consent and you nodded slightly before he entered you. 

The stretch of his cock was something you felt only one could dream about. It filled you perfectly and you knew you wouldn’t last long. Your head dipped back in zeal, relishing in the feeling that was rushing in waves over your form. When your head tipped back up, your eyes met the enlarged crucifix that hung in the center of the back wall. For a reason unknown to you, locking eyes with Jesus as you desecrated His holy house made a pang of carnal hedonism tangle in your sexual daze. 

Your hands webbed themselves in Father Paul’s hair gripping at his strands and pulling his face into the junction of your neck and shoulder, feeling his breath heat up your skin. You felt his mouth open and drag itself across the side of your neck. A slight chill graced the parts where his spit marked his territory. You felt his breathing get heavier and all of a sudden you felt his cock slip out of you and he picked you up from the altar, turning you around and kicking your feet into a perfect V shape. He bent your body over the altar and slowly pushed himself back into you, the new angle making you cry out in complete perverted passion. 

His thrusts were deep and pointed making sure that you felt every inch of him drag in and out of your seraphic labyrinth. Just when you felt that the feeling couldn't get any more intense, his hand entangled itself into your hair and pulled your body up, flesh against his chest. His thrusts became rougher and you could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke. 

“Feel good, my dove?” 

You were fucking yourself back onto him, any coherent thought on the brink of leaving you amidst your ardent pleasure. 

“S-so…so good, Father. Shit.”

You were running out of air, your body paying more attention to the dam that was about to burst within you. 

“Better than your hand?”

“Uh-huh”

Your eyes were rolling back in pleasure and were hooded as you looked back at him. He gingerly guided your body back down to the altar and removed his hand from your hair, slowly tracing his hand down your back. Both of his hands grabbed your hips and the feeling had you crying out as his tip kissed your cervix. You felt his body lean over yours as he moved your hair away from your neck. His breath was sticking to your neck before a whisper ghosted over your ear.

“I’m sorry, but trust me right now.” 

He licked from the base of your neck and then you felt him pierce your skin with his teeth. In your licentious stupor, you just moaned out at the contact not fully registering that his teeth were sinking into your flesh or the fact that footsteps were echoing through the church. 

“Father, you weren’t in your rectory so I assumed this would be second best to find you-oh…” 

Bev.

Her grating voice almost brought you out of your daze, but Father Paul resorted to slow, deep thrusts as he kept he kept sucking your neck. When he lifted his face from your neck you felt a warm liquid trickle down your skin and pool towards your collarbone before landing on the altar. You lifted your head, your body weak and wracked with pleasure. You could barely make eye contact with her as your eyes were so hooded but you heard her voice resonate through the building once more. 

“Haresis Dea.”

Your head dropped unable to focus on her and your body rolled back into Father Paul’s, needing more of him as your orgasm was slowly fading back into your body. As you moved against him, his hips slowly began to thrust back into your sloppy cunt as Bev waited for some semblance of an explanation. 

“God has chosen her. He has chosen to consecrate this union, this nocturnal metamorphosis with lascivious intent because she is the last piece. God has willed it this way and has chosen her.” 

Father Paul bent down to lap at your neck again and his hips regained their momentum. You pushed yourself up from the altar and wrapped your arm around the back of his neck lapping at the blood that was dribbling down his chin.

“Very well.” 

And you heard Bev’s footsteps walk out of the church, the main doors closing behind her. Father Paul picked you up again, turning your body back around to face him. There was a certain ferality that wasn’t in his features before that had you clenching around his cock. With the doors shut, you both let your moans reign loose, a salacious cacophony filling the air. Your eyes scaled up the wall again and you came face to face with Jesus as a pool of heated arousal settled in your lower stomach begging to be set free. Your head knocked back in avidity and you didn’t see him slice a small cut in his wrist. 

When his thumb found your enflamed bud, you brought your head forward and he placed his bleeding wrist against your lips. As a wave of sexual delirium washed over you, your mouth hung open and he urged you to suck on his wrist. The metallic taste flooded over your tongue as your orgasm heightened your senses. Father Paul kept fucking you through your high until he reached his own, his cock painting your labyrinth a warm alabaster. He pulled his wrist away from you as you both were trying to calm down your breathing. 

Both of your mouths now covered in a drying garnet hue, you found yourself pressing your lips against his once again, unable to satisfy this ache completely. He chuckled as you both pulled away. 

“Easy, my dove.” 

You nodded, placing your hands flat against his chest. 

“Let’s get you dressed and then walk to the rectory, hmm?” 

Licking your bottom lip and locking it behind your teeth, you nodded as you slowly made the return back to your body.  

© yeonjuns-beanie

[strangererotica]

LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION ✞​ ⛪︎

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Monsignor John Pruitt / Father Paul Hill x Reader | Blasphemy! Heresy! Anal! | Reader has a kink for pain & blood (kinda) | oral sex (f receiving) | pussy worship | a sprinkle of dacryphilia | religious guilt ofc | a smidge of angst |

“Inviting you to the rectory had been a sin, yes…but inviting you into his bed had been a bigger one. Laying you back against the mattress, the bottom of your skirt naturally drifting aside, revealed the outline of your pussy through soaking wet panties and John, all man, no longer priest, had never been so hungry…”

“Father,” the priest prays, hands clasped at his chin. “If it be Thy will…take this cup from me.”

His voice is a whisper in the dim light of the sanctuary, candles flickering around him like accusatory tongues. The weight of his sin is heavy, the scent of your body still on his breath. He struggles to wrench the image of you from his mind, to focus entirely on the things of God. But what sight could be more holy than that of your body spread before him, your soft cunt weeping gently against his tongue?

He casts his voice to Heaven like the prayer of a wounded soldier on the battlefield of sin, yearning for mercy, expecting none. “Forgive me, Father,” Monsignor John Pruitt prays. “For I fear I am losing control…Make my will like Yours, oh God…Lead me not into temptation, but guide my steps that they may lead to You…”

His stomach twists with guilt, his prayers stunted by an uncharacteristic lapse of faith. For what kind of loving God would demand abstinence of his servant, while simultaneously thrusting a woman like you, temptation incarnate, into his life?

“I fear-.” The priest pauses, searching his heart for the words God already knows. “-I fear I am lost, Lord. Lost not to the pleasures of my flesh….but of hers…”

Rain pelts the outside of the old church. A storm is blowing over Crockett Island, raging no less than the storm inside Monsignor Pruitt’s heart. He sits quietly in the Lord’s presence, patiently waiting for wisdom, for a sign. But the only divinity he can focus on is the one he tasted between your thighs…

Worst of all, Monsignor Pruitt worries that for another taste of your body, he’d be tempted to abandon his priesthood and the God whom he speaks for altogether. It’s fantasy, however. A world where St. Patrick’s pastor can fuck you free of public scorn is impossible, and he knows it. He’s been the voice of God for the island’s faithful so many years now, they’ve become family to him. He can’t abandon them now for the sake of his own carnal needs…but God, how he longs to…

It began innocently enough, as every sin does. You’d come to him seeking help, and rather than guide you through the healing of your own sexual sin, your priest had made himself a part of it. You were too soft for him to deny, too pure even as you recited to him the details of your impurity. The sorrow in your voice had spoken to his core, to his heart as a priest. He’d originally sought only to help you, but over the course of your meetings together, he’d only helped himself to fantasies of your body.

Bringing you back to the rectory was Monsignor Pruitt’s first mistake. Meeting you in the church had been perfectly suitable, perfectly safe. No one had bothered the two of you, not even the ever-present Bev Keane. When the impulse to invite you back to the rectory at the end of your last meeting had struck the priest, he should have repented right then. He should have quelled his urges with prayer, rather than guide you through the back of the church and down the path to the rectory.

All of that was past, now. There was only the cleanup of his sin left to manage, both figurative and literal. He was still wearing your cum on his face, his nose and chin bearing evidence of his sin. Monsignor Pruitt had steadfastly denied himself the pleasures of sex for so long-too long, considering how easily he’d indulged in the sin of you…

…And yet, nothing about your encounter with the priest had felt wrong, not truly. You’d come to Monsignor Pruitt for guidance on how to resist sexual temptation, and he had absolutely failed you in that respect. But the sex itself, the union of your souls in such an intimate act, had felt far from wrong. The priest had tried to convince himself (and perhaps God as well) that because he didn’t penetrate you, the weight of his sin might be less. He wanted to believe he could still minister to the people of Crockett Island while maintaining a double life, one where his duties as priest and his needs as a man could simultaneously be fulfilled.

He hadn’t meant to kiss you…not your pretty, cherry-stained lips, and certainly not the other places his mouth had wandered. As the storm rages on outside the church, Monsignor Pruitt sits silently in the confessional booth, willing impure thoughts of you from his mind. But before he was a priest, he was a man. And the man inside him finds it difficult to keep his hand from wrapping around the bulge throbbing below his belt, as memories of your time together flood his thoughts…

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱ ✞​ ⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The first meeting between you and Monsignor Pruitt had been innocent, as far as you could tell. There’s no way you could have known that while describing the sexual cravings that plagued you, your priest was becoming aroused. With his legs crossed and a Bible positioned on his lap just so, he was able to conceal the physical effect your words were having on him. The Bible never left his lap, and when he rose from his chair to see you out, he’d kept it held in front of his groin, making it seem so natural you hadn’t questioned it. By your third meeting, you’d confessed that some of your fantasies that caused you the most guilt involved one man in particular who lived on the island.

“I feel especially dirty for these fantasies,” you’d confessed. “Because of the man they involve.” Jealousy had taken up residence in the priest’s heart, knowing there was one man on the island in particular that you lusted for. And there was no way it could be him, certainly not. He was your priest, your mentor, a literal Father figure. Whoever this man was, the one you longed for, Monsignor Pruitt despised him.

“Who-,” he’d asked, then stopped himself. “I’m sorry. That was intrusive of me. I don’t mean to pry.” Monsignor Pruitt had cleared his throat as if clearing away words he was afraid to speak. “There’s a man on the island you want, very much. That’s all I need to know. Please. Continue.”

“I can’t tell you who he is,” you’d said. “Because I…well, I wouldn’t want to embarrass him, Father.”

Monsignor Pruitt smiled warmly, a gesture to hopefully ease your nerves and distract you from how flustered he was becoming. “This is our third meeting,” he’d said. “Please, call me John.”

It was wrong. Wrong for him to make that allowance, wrong to blur the line between priest and parishioner, between shepherd and lamb. But you accepted, a sweet smile on your face that the priest had taken to mean his ruse of ‘normalcy,’ was working.

“Alright John.” Calling Monsignor Pruitt by his name had felt exciting, forbidden in a way. It filled you with a sense of hope, whether false or otherwise, that something more could develop between you and your priest. But that was a conversation you weren’t ready for, though you hoped to reach the topic of your crush on Monsignor Pruitt eventually.

“So, this man on the island,” John had said. “Is he someone you know? Or is this more of a ‘watch and yearn,’ kind of situation?”

Your cheeks flushed, a nervous warmth building inside you. “It’s…there’s definitely yearning,” you’d told him. “He’s someone I can never have, Father.”

“I see,” your priest had nodded, taking a sip of his coffee before continuing. “So, this man is married, I take it?”

“In a way,” you’d replied. “He’s very dedicated to the people who depend on him.” You’d smiled faintly to yourself, wishing there could be true transparency between you and your priest. “It’s one of the reasons I admire him so much, Father. He is a good man, a genuinely good man. So, having these disgusting, dirty thoughts about him causes me a lot of guilt.”

John Pruitt didn’t know who the man was, but God he hated him. To be wanted, lusted after, longed for, by YOU, was a prize few men deserved. You were precious, a delicate flower begging to have its petals torn. And in spite of his calling, Monsignor Pruitt wanted to be the man who tore your petals to shreds…

“Remember,” he’d told you, wishing to remove the pain of your guilt. “Sinful thoughts remain only thoughts until we entertain them with action. Action is where sin lies, (Y/N).

“…And, by confessing my sin, I can be forgiven?” you’d asked. “That’s how this all works, right?”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱ ✞​ ⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

That’s how it’s supposed to work, the priest thinks, his hand working over his stiff, leaking cock. He aches, in his heart and spirit but nowhere more so than his groin. Tasting you on his breath, Monsignor Pruitt imagines all the other filthy things he wants to do to your body. Licking between your thighs would be enough for him forever; but if he had the chance, if his path in life allowed it, he imagines how it would feel to have that little cunt swallow more than just his tongue and fingers. He’d drag the head of his cock between your slippery folds so slowly, the pace would drive you both insane with waiting. He might even make you cry a little, just so he could lick away your tears after forcing himself inside you…

The old wooden seat of the confessional booth creaks softly under Monsignor Pruitt’s weight as he fucks himself harder, tightening his grip, imagining it’s you. He hasn’t even worn your throat, or your ass, or your pussy around his cock yet… YET. That’s a dangerous word, isn’t it? It’s a promise unfulfilled, a land where anything is possible. YET can get you into more trouble than it’s worth sometimes, but Monsignor Pruitt knows he’d risk any consequence, even a taste of Hell, for one more taste of YOU…

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱ ✞​ ⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Your fourth meeting together had picked up right where the third left off: discussing your shame over desiring the man you couldn’t have. John Pruitt had sat across from you in a simple folding chair, just like the one you’d occupied. In one hand he held his coffee, the other resting on the Bible balanced on his lap. You noticed a darker countenance about him, his eyes oddly cold. Also unusual was his voice, the way he seemed short with his responses and hardly asked any questions.

“Is something wrong, John?” you’d asked after awhile of observing him. “Are you alright?”

He blinked back at you a couple of times in silence, trying to arrange the mess of thoughts in his mind into a palatable response.

“I’m well,” he replied softly, his eyes crinkling in that familiar, warm grin that made your heart burst. “But I have some…concerns.” His jaw tensed slightly. “About transparency…honesty, (Y/N).” You felt your heart sink a little, fearing the worst: that you’d gone too far, revealed too much, said something that offended Monsignor Pruitt.

“…If I’ve said something, I apologize-.”

“-Well no,” he interrupted, his tone becoming sharper. “It’s what you haven’t said, (Y/N). Weeks now, we’ve been meeting here. And just when I think you might be reaching a point of growth, of-of honesty, you shrink back into the comfort of denial. You’re denying me, (Y/N)!”

Monsignor Pruitt’s words came to an abrupt pause, and you were grateful for it. He was leaning forward in his chair now, a few strands of hair hanging loose over his forehead. His energy was intense, almost frightening. His speech was impassioned in the way he sometimes sounded behind the pulpit, caught in religious fervor…dark eyes wide, lips parted in rapid breath that had you distracted for more reasons than fear.

“Father-,”

“John,” he corrected.

“…John,” you began tentatively, your voice breaking. “If you want to stop seeing me-if you want to stop our sessions, just tell me-.”

“-I want them to last forever,” Monsignor Pruitt confessed, the air leaving his lungs in a breath of defeat. It was a confession, as real as any other that occurred in God’s house. Now it was your turn to be silent, as once the priest found his words, he was unable to stop them: “I want you, (Y/N)…God forgive me but I…crave…you…” You watched him crumbling, this man of God baring his soul to yours. “All of the things you speak of in your fantasies, I want to make them real for you. Every orgasm you deny yourself in pursuit of righteousness, I want to give you a hundred more…And whoever this man is, that leads you to touch yourself, I hate him. I hate him because I want to be him. You want him, you crave him as I crave you-.” He chuckled humorlessly. “-And I don’t even know his name. I loathe him, and I couldn’t identify him if I saw him on the street.”

You felt fulfilled, as if something had been taken from you but replaced immediately with something better. Was this even real?

“…I suppose,” he continued after a moment of silence. “My concern is not so much with your lack of transparency, but with mine.”

Monsignor Pruitt sat back in his chair, the metal creaking under his weight. “I have sinned, (Y/N),” he said. “I’ve lied to you, lied by omission. By not revealing how your words-how you-affect me. Knowing full well that in doing so, I’m jeopardizing everything I’ve built my life around. I shouldn’t be confessing this to you at all but God help me, it’s the truth, and I want you...” The tears lining your lashes finally fell, a drop spilling down each cheek and landing where your hands were folded on your lap. “John,” you began. “The man I want…he’s you...”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱ ✞​ ⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Wind and rain pummel the outer shell of St. Patrick’s. The priest’s eyes are closed tightly, his head leaned back against the confessional booth and he’s so. fucking. hard.

He squeezes his erection tightly in his fist, imagining instead that it’s your pussy, your throat-any and all of your holes he longs to defile, to feel you stretch open at his entry, to watch you gape when he pulls out just to stuff you full again. Precum blooms at his slit and he wants to spread it on your lips, to place it on your tongue like a sacrament. He wants to see your eyes go red and watery as he holds your nose to his stomach, his cock buried so far down your throat that air becomes a luxury.

He wants to drown between your thighs, to never stop licking the abundant, delicious nectar that spills from inside you and melts on his tongue…to suck your pretty little clit till you’re screaming, begging him to stop, feet pounding against his shoulders in protest and pleasure, your body contorted like something possessed. He wants to flip you onto your stomach and breach the tight barrier of your ass, to fuck you till you bleed just like you confessed wanting to bleed in your fantasies…to use you, as you’ve confessed wanting to be used…to make you come so hard you forget your name and his…

Heavy wind rattles the bones of St. Patrick’s around Monsignor Pruitt, God’s power raging in full display outside but inside, he is overcome with unholy need. His tongue dips out to taste you, tasting a memory and nothing more. He grinds himself up into his fist, as if you’re straddling his lap and taking every inch of him like the good, good girl you are. His forehead is sheened with sweat, the heat of the confessional booth no match for the heat of his sin. Lightening cracks outside, as if God Himself is issuing a warning. But the priest cannot stop his hand, or the lust that guides it up and down his shaft…

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱ ✞​ ⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Inviting you to the rectory had been a sin, yes…but inviting you into his bed had been a bigger one. Laying you back against the mattress, the bottom of your skirt naturally drifting aside, revealed the outline of your pussy through soaking wet panties and John, all man, no longer priest, had never been so hungry…“Oh my God,” he’d murmured dreamily, gazing at your pussy as if in a state of worship. “You’re absolutely perfect.” His warm breath ghosted over your lips and your hips keened instinctively towards his mouth. He watched your pussy tremble beneath him, your perfect little clit peeking out above two plump lips. With a delicate stroke of his fingers, John teased your labia apart. There was a devotion in his touch, a reverence in the way he awed at the sight of your lips parting around his fingers, as if he were parting the gates of Heaven instead. Keeping your labia spread, he sank his mouth over your mound, suckling your clit between his lips in deep, languid tugs. You wriggled against the bed, hips twisting under the priest’s ministrations. He’d denied himself the taste of a woman too long, and your taste…John Pruitt didn’t think he’d ever tasted a woman that could compare. You were like caramel and cream, the sweet musk of brandy lingering at the bottom of a glass. You were heaven in his mouth, warm and comforting…a taste of the divine, melting on John’s tongue like milk and honey…

His cock stood erect against his stomach, restrained by his clothing. Denying himself the relief of touching himself felt like an appropriate admonishment, considering the grave sin he was committing. Although deep in an act of blasphemy, the position of his body could be mistaken for a man in prayer. Knelt by the beside, your legs draped over his shoulders, John looked up from between your thighs framing his face. Your eyes were as hungry as his, an intensity burning behind them that stirred something primal and repressed in John. He wanted to claim you, to make you his…to feel you come so hard around him that no other man could ever replicate what he’d given you. He could have plunged his cock inside you right then. The look in your eyes, staring him down like willing prey, told him you wouldn’t object. But there were some things John couldn’t do…that he mustn’t do…and putting his sin inside you, making it yours, was a path he wouldn’t allow himself to cross.

The priest’s tongue and fingers explored what he forbade his cock explore, licking and stroking you to your peak time and time again. You gripped handfuls of his hair, his sheets, the fabric of this sweater, anything you could get your hands on to brace yourself as your body ascended on John’s tongue. He lapped and sucked at the glory within you, worshiping your cunt like the idol it was to him. Slippery fluid gushed out around John’s face and ran down your thighs, soaking the disheveled sheets under your ass. He knew he was sinning but sin had never felt this good before, this fulfilling. In consuming you, he fed himself…and he had no intention of ever going hungry again.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱ ✞​ ⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

He watches in a trance as semen jets from his tip and lands on the inside of the confessional booth, spattering the panel facing him. The storm outside roils as the storm inside John Pruitt calms. He feels a sense of ease, a peace that surpasses all understanding, settle over his shoulders. The weight of his sin feels oddly absent, nothing like he’d anticipated. Hope springs anew in him, as if perhaps this absence of remorse is the sign he was waiting for? If God doesn’t judge him, Monsignor Pruitt wonders, then who can?

He removes a handkerchief from his pocket and cleans his semen from the confessional booth. Upon exiting, Monsignor Pruitt enters into the soft light of the church. And in spite of the storm’s chaos outside, there is peace here, serenity…stillness…

…Until suddenly, you’re there, standing in the church’s doorway, your head framed like a halo in a burst of lightning from the storm. John Pruitt takes in the sight of you, your hair and sundress saturated with rain and clinging to your body, your pupils blown, cheeks and chest flushed with arousal…You’re breathless in the exertion of walking through the storm, pert nipples straining against the thin fabric concealing them. Your priest gazes at you from across the sanctuary, candlelight flickering against his dark hair, in the pools of his dark eyes, like starlight. You both rush to each other at the same time, his steps longer and quicker than yours, catching up to you first and caging you up in a fervent embrace. His lips crash over yours, lips and tongue and teeth all challenging yours for dominance. Your hands climb his back and cling to the sleeves of his shirt, your own wet clothing seeping rainwater into his, like a baptism you share together.

John presses his knee between your thighs, letting you grind against him. Desperate moans spill from your lips into his, soft sobs of need as you release all guilt and shame inside his kiss. Your priest is holding you so tightly, you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. He only breaks away long enough to tug you toward the altar, and lay you flat against it. The curves of your ass are visible in the wet transparency of your dress and he takes full advantage of their bounty, gripping the rounded mounds of your hips and tugging you against his erection. You grunt at the impact, of feeling the size of him pressed to your body for the first time, your back arching, ass extended into your priest for more. He gathers up the loose fabric of your dress around your waist, revealing the perfect mounds of your ass to him. Your panties are absent, he observes, still on the floor of the rectory where he helped you out of them. Rain from the storm beats at the window beside you, thunder rolling in the distance as John rolls his hips against your ass.

His cock is poised between your cheeks, pointed upward at your back as he slowly humps into you. His hands are wrapped around you from behind, your breasts clutched firmly in his strong yet delicate grip. His eyes are closed, forehead resting against your shoulder as he strokes, himself and you, edging his desire and yours till you both feel as if you’ll combust. He pulls back just enough to grab his cock at the base and guide it between your legs, massaging your lips with his tip. You whimper and tremble beneath him, his stomach pressed to your back, and all John Pruitt can think about right now is how badly he wants to sodomize you on this altar, in God’s house.

He drags himself between your lips, allowing your slick to cover him before guiding his tip up between your asscheeks, restraining himself at the tight barrier of your hole. He wants to ask if you’re alright with this, if you’re ready for this-but he doesn’t have to. You arch your back and your asshole puckers around his tip, inviting the priest in. He curses over your back because Christ how was he blessed enough to deserve this, to deserve you? This dirty fucking goddess beneath him, as filthy as she is pure, heart and body willing to let him have his way with her as he desires?

You lay your cheek against the pulpit, hair spilling over it like an altar cloth, or an angel, John thinks. He braces your hips, easing his own forward. Your body stiffens at the sting of being stretched as he enters you. His stomach is pressed to your back, the warm weight of his body cradling yours like a cocoon. The priest senses your struggle, can feel it in the way you’ve gone rigid against him. “Shh, shh,” he consoles you, his voice a low, seductive growl. “You’re doing so well for me, angel. Doing so well for me…”

Part of your confession to the Monsignor had involved your desire for pain, to be hurt during sex. He’d remembered and used this information later, stroking his cock to some of the most depraved thoughts he’d ever had about a woman, starring you. Now, he had the opportunity to hurt you, to make you cry just like he’d wanted. His hand glides down your back and across your cheek, his eyes gazing over your hair as it drapes the altar. You’re so divine, an angel against his body and he can’t find the will in himself to hurt you. Easing back his hips till he’s no longer inside you, John spats a wad of saliva onto your hole. He watches your rim gape at his exit, then pucker as his spit lands against it. He positions his tip against your asshole, rubbing in a small circle to help ease you open. The stiff, spongy head of his cock massaging your hole sends a jolt straight to your clit. “Keep doing that, Father,” you breathe, and something about hearing you refer to him that way when he’s inside you bent over the altar, awakens something feral inside of him.

He’s using every bit of restraint he has to keep from impaling you right now (although he knows a dirty little thing like you probably wouldn’t protest if he did). But John does restrain himself, massaging his tip just inside your asshole, gradually sinking deeper. Soft sucking noises emit from the space he rubs you, joined with your breathy grunts and the rain pelting down outside. With his free hand, John grips your hip in a vice, small crescents dug into the skin by his fingernails. When you push back on his cock, he takes this as his cue to go deeper. Still using as much restraint as he can manage, John sinks his cock carefully, slowly, stopping when he feels you flinch and buck.

“Good girl-good girl,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “That’s my good girl. Taking me so deep, aren’t you?” He drags his hips back slowly and you feel every inch, every vein and ridge of his cock as he eases back in, and out, and in again, building pace till his hips are crashing against yours, pummeling your ass across the altar. The burn is exquisite; you feel him in your stomach. Drool dangles from your wide-open mouth and puddles on the altar, your cheek rutted against it with every thrust of John’s hips. The wet sound of his skin smacking yours echoes off the sanctuary walls, his rapid pace matching the candle flames flickering around you. His head falls forward and rests against your shoulder, halted exhales washing your skin in heat, in the moisture of his breath. The front of John’s clothes are soaked with rain from being ground up against you, his body joined so completely with yours they’re inseparable. He feels a deep, familiar ache in his core, but it’s never been this strong, never as powerful as he feels it now. He knows he’s going to come soon, and it’s likely going to be the hardest he’s ever come in his life. He reaches around in front of you and presses his fingertips to your clit, rubbing you aggressively. Cum splashes to the ground around John’s hand as he brings you to orgasm, your juices spraying his feet and the altar equally.

Your cries of ecstasy are the holiest psalm he’s ever heard, the purest prayer he’s ever born witness to. With a shout he comes, a desperate cry of relief and absolution as he empties his guilt into the warm cove of your body. You shudder against him, and it may as well be the flutter of an angel’s wings on his skin. He cradles you across the altar, his stomach to your back, holding the answer to his prayers in his arms. When his cock has softened inside you, John draws back slowly and carefully slides out of you. He glances around for something to clean you both up with and his eyes land on the purificator beside the communion chalice. Disregarding the sacrilege of it all, he takes the cloth and kneels behind you, gently wiping between your legs and between the cheeks of your ass. He cleans himself lastly, removing the combination of fluids your sex created.

He notices a streak of red on the cloth, and brings your attention to it. A contended smile spreads over your face as you realize, and the words leave your lips in a breathy sigh: “You made me bleed.” He leans forward and gently takes your chin in his hand, drawing you closer. His dark eyes are filled with the words he doesn’t need to say, of promises for more moments like this to come. His voice is barely above a whisper as he presses his lips to yours, and says: “Forgive me.”

[radawaycunt]

Baptismus Sanguinis

Monsignor Pruitt x Vampire!FemReader

Also on AO3

Summary: After John turns you into a vampire, you take it upon yourself to remind him he doesn't have to worry all the time.

WC: 3.2k words

Warnings: SMUT 18 + ONLY, vampirism, hierophilia, blood drinking, blood kink?, unprotected sex (don't do it at home), biting, one instance of choking, slight exhibitionism, outdoor shenanigans, mentions of death, let me know if I missed anything!

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The last thing you smelled was the salty breeze blowing in from the sea.

The earth beneath you was cool and damp from the previous night’s rain. Fog hung low to the ground, blanketing everything in a spectral sort of silence. The moon did not show her face, but the sky was clear and glittering with stars. Your unseeing gaze was fixed upon it, eyes half-lidded.

John watched over your prone form anxiously, hands clasped in silent prayer. Your mouth was still stained with the blood you had spit as you convulsed in the grass. He’d held your head in his lap as it happened, fearful that you might hurt yourself further.

It seemed ironic to worry about that as you were dying. But the gash at his wrist knitting itself back together reminded him it wouldn’t be for long.

Still, ridding himself of the guilt of witnessing your death was a Sisyphean task. It had been his doing, after all, even if it was at your behest. 

Even more shamefully, a part of him couldn’t deny how much he wanted the aftermath – an eternity together. Two creatures prowling the boundless night, with nothing left to separate you. Least of all, the mortal coil.

He couldn’t remember how long his transfiguration had taken, only that he had awoken frantic and terrified, like a feral beast before it met the yoke. He didn’t want it to be that way for you, but all he could offer was some solace when the moment came.

The wind picked up once again, rustling the tree tops and stirring the fog. He clutched his rosary tighter, his desperation growing. If his heart still beat, it would be waging a war against his ribcage.

The atmosphere was charged as if a lightning storm was approaching. Suddenly, a ripple passed through you, like a collective spasm of muscles. Your eyes closed, your brow furrowing deeply, and two tears of blood ran down your cheek.

“Oh,” he said breathlessly, a whimper of profound relief stuck in his throat. He could weep with joy in that moment, ceaselessly repeating thank you, thank you, thank you….

He wiped the tears away with his thumbs and your eyes opened. Your pupils were blown wide, the scleras a monstrous red. He didn’t wince, for even then you were his beautiful miracle, his dark star. 

You assessed him with a certain detachment, nostrils flaring as you scented blood.  Once you seemed to realize what was in front of you — but not who — you lunged, sinking your fangs into his shoulder.

He grunted in pain and surprise, holding you fast. Still, mindlessly ravenous, you managed to drink from him. Just a small taste though, for he firmly but carefully pulled you away from him. You panted, mouth stained crimson, trying to blink away the dreamy haze his blood had plunged you into. 

He couldn’t help himself, pulling you to meet his lips. You returned the kiss hungrily, dragging your tongue over his. The coppery taste in his mouth was like an aphrodisiac, burning up in his loins. But he had to pace himself, and he had to make sure of something first. 

“Do you recognize me now?” He breathed, pulling away just enough to look at you. 

You nodded slowly, your gaze finally clear and focused. “I’m sorry. The hunger, it was just…”

“All there was?”

Again, you nodded, a hint of shame crossing your face. He squeezed your arms reassuringly, leaning his forehead against yours. 

“Thank God,” he sighed, shoulders sagging. “I… I was scared that maybe I’d lost you.”

“You know I’d find a way to crawl back,” you said, making him chuckle. “Did I hurt you?”

“Nothing I can’t endure.”

Twilight was fast approaching, the first gray tendrils of early morning creeping in. You could feel your exhaustion growing, and the instinct to find a dark place to rest made you anxious.

“We should get out of the open,” you said, reluctantly pulling away from him.

“One moment,” he said, clasping your hand. “Take a look around you.”

And so you did, sweeping your gaze over the forest surrounding you. You found you needed no light to see perfectly, every little detail come to life. The rippling blades of grass, the grooves and misshapen patterns on the tree trunks, and the faintly crystalline spiderwebs clinging to their branches. 

You could hear a small animal rustling in the foliage nearby as if it were right next to your ear. Above you, bats chittered and flew to and fro in the shadows. And beyond that was the soft thrum of their steadily beating hearts.

You closed your eyes and turned your face towards the sky, deeply inhaling the ozone smell of an incoming storm. For a brief moment, you let your mind go blank, ignoring the threat of the rising sun and the fact your own heart had stopped beating altogether.

The world was a vivid symphony of experience. Your mortal life, in comparison, had only had a certain muted charm to it, and it was then that the enormity of his gift struck you.

“It’s so beautiful,” you murmured.

“Yes,” he agreed, but he was looking at your awestruck expression, seeing it all again through your eyes. “And that’s just the beginning of it.”

You bowed your head in gratitude, smiling softly as he kissed your temple. The scent of him was intoxicating, imprinting itself in your mind. It made you want to put your mouth to his flesh once more.

As if reading your mind, he stood up, extending his hand towards you. “Come, my sweet, let’s get you properly fed.”

You perked up immediately, taking his hand. You were radiant when you rose – like a shaft of moonlight, eyes luminous with new, preternatural life. You thought the world was beautiful now, but it was nothing in comparison to you.

He felt like he could burst, unable to remember ever smiling so much. God continued to reward his faithfulness, blessing your union with eternity. He felt the urge to sink back to his knees and kiss the soft earth that had seen you reborn, but instead, he took you home.

—--------------------------------

“Pace yourself. I don’t want you to get sick.”

You smiled teasingly, taking the cup from him. “Have I ever told you that you fuss too much?”

He chuckled, sitting across from you on an armchair. “Countless times. Though I hope I’m nowhere near Beverly’s level. Her benevolence can be quite…”

“Annoying?” You offered.

The way he held back a smile by pursing his lips told you he agreed, but he cleared his throat. 

“I can’t be too harsh on her, seeing how she has so willingly donated sustenance for tonight.”

You looked down at the blood swirling in your cup and wrinkled your nose. The smell was still powerfully enticing, but knowing the source…

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Beggars can’t be choosers, my darling.”

With a little sigh of resignation, you brought it to your lips and drank. It took all of your willpower not to down it all right then and there, opting instead for just the semblance of composure. You licked your lips and raised your eyebrows at him pointedly. 

“Good girl,” he said with an indulgent grin. “Nice and slow.”

Just to be petty, you stuck your tongue out at him, making him laugh.

“Not like we have a stash or anything,” you grumbled.

John had taken care of everything before turning you, going so far as to travel to the mainland for blood samples. He’d wanted you to take it easy and adapt to your new form for a couple of days. He simply couldn’t let you starve, already knowing how hard it was to feed on Crockett Island. 

He raised an eyebrow, but his smile stayed. “I cannot say for sure, but I feel like you’ve only become brattier.”

“And it’s only my second night,” you said with a smirk, glancing towards the window. “Can we go out yet?”

“The sun’s only just set! We’ll go in a few hours, when everyone’s asleep.” He said, gesturing towards your cup. “Finish that first, why don’t you?”

You bit back a retort, deciding to give in for the time being, if only because you really were hungry. In the meantime, as you looked at him glancing back at the bible on his lap, a plan began to formulate in your mind.

He was so used to being extra careful with you, constantly fretting over your well-being. You wanted him to be able to let go completely, without having to worry about any deadly consequences. After all, human frailty was no longer an issue.

When you were done, you went to the kitchen to wash the cup, but not without licking it clean first. It was while you were lapping at it that an idea suddenly came to you. You glanced over your shoulder to make sure John was still absorbed in his reading and, as quietly as you could, you snuck a blood bag out of the fridge.

To pass the hours, you kept yourself busy, trying not to tremble from anticipation. He found the silence a little suspicious, eyeing you from time to time, but you always met his gaze with a little smile. That only made him even more suspicious. 

When the time came, you stood behind him and put your hands on his shoulders. You bent so that your lips were right next to his ear.

“Kill the lights, John. It’s nearly midnight,” you murmured, moving to his other ear. “Hardly seems proper for a priest to be up so late. Wouldn’t you say?”

He suppressed a shudder at your nearness, closing his bible and setting it aside. He reached up to take one of your hands and kissed the inside of your wrist. He noticed your grip tightening a little on his shoulder, as if urging him on. In response, he lingered there, stroking his cheek gently against your palm.

Of course, he knew this was only stoking that flame within you, but he was curious to see how far he could get before it fully consumed you. Teaching you patience had been an arduous affair, but for you, he would always endure it.

“I can even help you, if you want, ” you offered as he kissed the tips of your fingers.

He let go of your hand as you leaned away, pulling the chain of the lamp standing beside the couch.

“Feeling restless, aren’t you?” He said as he stood up, an amused twinkle in his dark eyes. “What’s got you so worked up?”

You shrugged with a cryptic smile, only partially giving into his game. At least now you knew he was in a playful mood, and perhaps that could be used to your advantage. Luckily, not that many lights were on anyway.

Slowly, he started walking around the room and shutting off the lights one by one. You moved counterclockwise across the room, as if the two of you were at a standoff, inching closer to the front door.

You shut the porch lights off and opened the door, the chirruping of crickets greeting your ears. You took a step backward as if daring him to stop you, and he halted in his steps. You held each other’s gazes, an electric tension stretching between you. Your eyes flashed silver in the partial dark as you slipped your hand behind your back. 

John scented the familiar metallic tang that made his head swim. He felt his senses sharpening and his muscles tensing, readying for something that seemed inevitable. It wasn’t until your arm was raised that he saw what you were holding, and only a moment later crimson cascaded down your neck and chest.

Unable to hold back, you messily poured some into your mouth, excess dripping down your chin. So much like a lioness right after a successful hunt.

“I guess you’ll just have to catch up to me,” you said, and took off down the porch steps and towards the forest. 

He immediately ran after you, spurred on by his prey drive, his thunderous footsteps right on your trail. You laughed, giddy and strangely alive, like your heart could start beating again at any moment. 

You were surprised at your newfound agility, swiftly avoiding obstacles on your path, but you purposely tried not to run too fast. You could hear John’s panting breaths and almost felt them at the nape of your neck.

In a small clear patch nestled by the trees, you felt his arms envelop your midsection. Both of you tumbled to the ground with you on your back, John's legs pinning your sides.

He had a wild look in his eyes, fixating on the blood covering you, his mouth twisted in a slight snarl. You were smiling triumphantly, but then you gasped as his hands took hold of your shirt and promptly tore it apart.

Immediately, he dove towards your bare chest, intent on licking you clean. His tongue traced patterns that made you shudder and arch your back. You clung to his hair, tilting your head back to give him more access to your neck. 

It was a natural instinct at that point, and you wondered how his bite might affect you now. He gripped your chin with one hand as he licked up the column of your throat, but he did not use his teeth. Perhaps this was his way of teasing you, a little revenge for the outrageous stunt you had pulled.

“John,” you sighed, but it sounded like a plea. 

“M’not done yet…” he murmured against your skin, licking that spot near your ear that made you whimper.

With his free hand, he trailed his fingers up your ribcage and cupped one of your breasts. He squeezed it lightly, thumb teasing your nipple until it became a hardened peak. Your back arched further, but his thighs kept you from moving too much.

He continued his delicious torture unhurriedly, like the night was eternal. The arousal and blood frenzy had you near feral, but when you tried to get some on your fingers to bring to your mouth, he pinned your wrist down.

“Ah, ah,” he chided lightly. “You’ll take what I give you when I give it to you. I don’t reward brats just like that.”

“So you’re going to punish me?” You asked with a sly grin.

Instead of responding, he stuck two fingers in your mouth to silence you. You sucked on them greedily, moaning. He chuckled at your wantonness, fingers retreating to clutch your jaw again, turning your head to the other side. 

You writhed under him and he adjusted his position, sliding one of his legs between yours, his knee at the apex of your thighs. Your hips bucked, but your frustration grew at the lack of proper friction. You bared your teeth and he kissed the corner of your lips, grinning smugly when you tried to kiss him properly.

“You must be pretty desperate,” he said. “Have I ever told you how lovely you are like this?”

“John, I swear…”

“You swear, huh? To what? To whom?”

You swallowed hard. “Just, please… Can’t you touch me?”

“I am touching you.”

You growled in frustration but he cut you off by licking your upper lip. Unfortunately for him, his plan backfired, for at the first taste of your lips he caved in. He kissed you, his tongue invading your mouth. 

You moaned at the taste, the blood smearing between you driving you wilder. You raked your nails down his back, partly ripping his shirt. You were too consumed by him for surprise to really register, but it still didn’t escape your notice.

Well, you were certainly not going to complain about your new vampiric strength if you could do things like this.

“Let’s get these off now, shall we?” He said,  already tugging at the waistband of your jeans.

You wriggled out of them, and he pulled away to discard his own pants. While he was distracted, you tackled him onto his back. He blinked in surprise but you smiled like the cat that got the cream.

“Allow me,” you said, undoing it the rest of the way. 

He shifted his hips to let you pull them down, His cock was straining against his briefs, twitching when you bent down to lick it over the fabric. 

“You’re on thin ice,” he said, but his voice was ragged with desire. 

With a mischievous chuckle, you took them off, his erection resting against his lower abdomen. Slotting your legs next to his hips, you kept eye contact as you spat on your hand and reached down to stroke his cock. 

He groaned low in his throat, bucking into your hand. The head was slick with precum, and you teased more out by running it up and down through your folds.

“Who’s all worked up now, hmm?” You teased as he gripped your hips tightly, trying and failing to keep his composure.

But before he could voice any complaints, you lined it up with your cunt’s entrance and sank down on it. The two of you breathed out fuck at the same time when he bottomed out.

You placed your hands on his chest for leverage as you began to rock your hips. His hands seemed to guide you, but he let you set the pace. 

You watched him begin to unravel with pleasure, his crimson stained mouth slack and eyes heavy lidded. 

When you gyrated your hips, you felt your clit brush against his skin, making you go faster. You leaned down to kiss him as he helped you bounce on his cock, both of you chasing your climaxes.

His moans became louder, more inhibited, and you knew that he was getting close. You pulled back so you could see him get there, already close yourself. 

One of your hands slid up his chest and came to rest on his throat, fingers squeezing the sides just tight enough to make him gasp.

And it was then that his hips bucked up and his brow furrowed, a stuttering groan leaving his lips. You felt warmth in spurts inside of you as he came, and you ground your hips all the while.

As soon as he recovered a little from his ecstatic daze, he grabbed your wrist and sank his teeth into it. With a cry, your body spasmed violently as your orgasm hit you with the intensity of a free fall.  Only he tethered you to the earth, but just barely, and it was then you understood why the French called it la petit mort.

You collapsed next to him, both of your chests heaving as you stared up at the tree canopy and the barest hint of the stars above.

“Can you go again?” You asked between pants.

He laughed in disbelief. “Can you?”

“I sure can.”

“Insatiable,” he mumbled towards the sky, then turned his head to look at you. “I have to admit… that was fun.”

“Good,” you smiled, taking his hand. “‘Cus we’re only just getting started.”

With an amused shake of his head, he kissed the tip of your nose. If eternity was filled with this — with you — then he could never complain.

------

[proverbsss]

eating you right (father paul hill/john pruitt x reader) -nsfw

(pt. 2 of "reading you right" linked here)

Father Paul Hill, Midnight Mass

reader(s): I am not responsible for how you see your own headboard following the consumption of this fic <3

notifs: paul hill wants to worship you!! ; reader turns the tables for a subby paul; reader's still down HORRENDOUS ; cunnilingus, hierophilia

Your legs are unsteady as John leads you to his bedroom by your hand.

"Haha, look at Wobbles try and make their way down my hall," Paul teases.

"You edged me on your boot," you complain sharply, though this of course is tinged with pleasure and the hope that his treatment will continue. The muscles in your pelvic floor are on fire and your hips burn.

"Mmm, technically you edged you on my boot," he quibbles, pleased with himself, "Can you make it to the bed yourself?"

Rather than answer verbally, you turn back to look at him. It's a tart, cursing look that John meets with yet another grin. Even so, it's now you begin to notice the usual signs of how wrecked he is. You were so caught up in your own delicious torment that you failed to clock Paul mirroring it. You might some of your get your own back yet.

He's comfortable with your routine of the last few days, starting to strip out of his jeans when you say, "Wait." His doe eyes flick over to you, questioning.

"I don't know…" you pick your words carefully, the neediness of earlier converting itself into a sadistic little impulse to tease. "I don't know if we want your pants off yet, right?"

Paul stops a minute. Makes his positively adorable thinking face. There's a reset somewhere in his eyes as he works out why you might have said what you said.

"We don't..?" he repeats, uncertain.

"Nah," you throw out, dragging the tips of your fingers along the foot of the bed. If this duvet could talk, it would already have plenty dirty to say. "I think we probably want you to keep them on and sit first."

Paul clears his throat. His chin dips to his chest a little. Gears recalibrated toward submitting and taking orders fire fast behind those pretty eyes. "Okay, yes." He sits, trembling a bit, on the edge of the bed.

"I'm gonna sit next to you, Father, and you don't move for a little bit. Okay?"

He nods. Good enough for now. Your underwear clings wetly to you under the sleepshirt you were just hiking up for him in the living room. You pull the hem of the shirt down, a bit demurely over your thighs. Paul watches every move.

"Still don't move, baby." You purr at him. He preens silently at the pet name. "Close your eyes." When his eyes are closed, you take his face into both your hands, fingers grazing his ears, the peach fuzz of his tapered sideburns. In a decisive, hushed moment you bring Paul's face to yours and kiss him. Deeply. First-time tier kisses, slow and curious and just beginning to use your tongue.

Paul half-laughs, shyly against your mouth. "Still no moving," you remind into his lips, and he nods "good boy. Good Father." Oh, he likes that very much.

You lick his bottom lip and enthusiastically he opens his mouth to invite you closer, hands scrunching at his sides in desperation to follow your instruction and not not not touch you.

You withdraw from the kiss after another moment, riled yourself and needing to catch your breath. Still you have enough command of yourself to make this all about him, about how pathetic and needy and perfect he is. You bat your eyes at Paul and smile.

"You probably want to make it up to me. How badly you made me need you before,"

Paul tilts his head uncertainly from side to side. A smirk flickers at the corner of his mouth.

"You wanna know how to make me feel good after that, Paul? You wanna know what I need from you?"

He nods again, thoughts boyishly absent from his eyes, his demeanor relaxed and yet so, so ready to do what he's told.

"Can we make that a yes?" you prompt gently.

"Yes." The huskiness in his voice is like a refresher to your thirst for him. You tingle all over with anticipation.

"Good. I'm going to lay back, and I want you on top of me." As you lay down on the soft bedcovers, you realize all the tension your muscles held kneeling on the ground and fucking yourself onto him, even now some melts away and you sigh contentedly. Paul crawls over you, tenderness and want in his eyes and it calls up a smile to your lips.

"What are you smiling at?"

"My little pet priest. Bet he'd do anything I'd ask him."

Paul lays his head down on your belly, happiness going a little fuzzy because of the attention you show him. His curls call out to your hands and you play with his hair. He's radiant. And for now he's yours. He's kissing your neck now, giggling in the crook of your shoulder, lips tickling your chin, your cheek, your ears. You luxuriate in all this for a moment, then tell him, "Give me your ear please, I'm gonna whisper what I want."

His back muscles ripple like a cat's under his shirt as he makes the necessary adjustment to put his ear up to your mouth. But he's too close, too fucking perfect, so you have to bite his earlobe with such exquisite access.

He groans, tenses in his upper body, and rolls his hips over yours. "That's. Not whispering," he complains.

"Shh, shh." you tell him, "You wanna know? Really?" He cocks his head enough for you to see him nod, his length getting easier to feel against your thigh. You reach a hand up in his and gently bring his ear to your lips, "I need you to eat me out like your life depends on it."

He moans, low in his throat, at just the thought of that.

"You want to do that for me?" That serious attention is in his expression again as he nods at you, starting to kiss his way down your chest. "Can you tell me using your words that's something you want?"

In addition to teasing the everloving fuck out of him, getting his consent turns you on more than anything. The thought of Crockett Island's well-mannered, mildly twitchy new priest so eager to touch you, taste you, have you that he'd kept you in his quarters for the last two days reminds you in a heady rush.

"I…" he lifts his head from your chest and blinks, not reluctant, but so fucking needy, "I want to eat you out." He nods quickly, lashes dropping over his eyelids. "Like my life depends on it."

"Good boy. Do it then, please."

His beautiful, hot mouth begins an eager assault of kisses across your chest, migrating down your belly. You arch your back. Usually you two take a little more time here, but there isn't any to spare. So quickly, so deliberately, Paul finds your clothed sex. He wants to touch you, and he wants you telling him that he can.

"Can I take these off you? Please."

You have nothing smart to say. You're no less eager to feel his tongue, his kisses, the vibrations of his voice where you're most sensitive. You nod, and he holds his gaze to your eyes for a beat before pulling your useless underwear off your legs, discarding them on the floor.

You think without meaning to of the word 'devotion,' used in religious terms to describe a supplication, an adoring, faithful, upturned look. It applies equally to the naked need written on Paul's face with his hands carefully spreading your thighs apart.

"Please let m--" he swallows, begins again, "Please may I worship you?"

"Fuck, Paul, yes, please."

And he may have dedicated years to seminary study, he may have pored with his hands wrapped around old books of his faith and volunteered his body in the service of a Christian God, but that tongue of his was made for sinning.

He starts by kissing gently around your cunt, soft, spellbinding little pecks that make your body jerk to close your legs. You still open up for him, gasping and squeezing your eyes shut with how good, how good, how earth-shatteringly good he feels. His tongue starts to lap at your clit and you do feel yourself drip a bit as he deepens the kiss of his mouth on you. Your mind pleasantly lets go of so much residual tension, of today, of every day before this moment with Paul kitten-licking between your wet lips.

Your hips buck as he sucks a little more intently at your clit and your hands lift up and knot themselves up in his hair. He lives for it as you start to fuck his face.

"Yes, yes, salvation is your fucking cunt, thank you--" he sputters out, certainly only half aware of what he's saying but so, so pleased to look up at you and find your face entirely lost in what he's making you feel.

"Here, here," he takes one hand that's left a few fingernail marks in your thigh and hurriedly covers the knuckles of your hand that's controlling his head, "Put me where you want me. Use me, please."

His mouth and your cunt make an obscene symphony together as you moan and arch toward him, trying to win back enough self-control to direct him the way he needs. He's doing pretty goddamn well on his own, you think and laugh to yourself, your calves shaking and heels digging into the bed. His nose bumps an especially sensitive square inch toward the hood over your clit, and his tongue grazes the inside of you. You see stars, the way the old expression goes, you literally see stars. You have to fight to keep your eyes open to how beautifully looks, you'll need this memory of your pleasure, his pleasure, you and he together, for all time.

Your hips are bouncing off his face rather quick and desperately and Paul is drunk with chasing your cum. He sees you biting your fist and between kisses and sucks he has to ask, "You need more? What do you need? Tell me. I worship you. I deify you. I need this," And like a madman he shakes his head to deepen the stimulation of his tongue hitting, soothing, exciting your clit.

"Oh, Paul!" you cry out and reach for his bedframe. "Oh fuck," you're curling into him and keening and he's humping his mattress outright. "Finger me. Fuck please, give me something to-"

Something to cum around, of course. You feel slicker and sluttier than you've ever felt as Paul obediently probes a finger inside your cunt. You fuck his hand, unabashed, so far gone, so trembly. And even the trembling is helping you get more contact out of his tongue, and he's not tired, his thirst is unmatched, the hand not fingering you finds that little arch where his nose bumped up against you before and spreads you the littlest bit open to lap at your clit.

You make a sound that's kind of a shriek and kind of a delighted giggle, and words something like "Ha-fuck, I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum on you--" fall out of your mouth. Paul moans, the pitch of his voice increasing in a way that sort of matches yours, nearly as desperate for your orgasm as you are. Nobody could be as desperate for this as you, however. No one in the history of fucking cumming has ever felt like this.

"Please," he sucks attentively at your clit and shakes his head again, a black curl plastered across his forehead, his gorgeous brown-green eyes searching you and seeing all of you, then closing again, a holy sight. "Please cum. That's it, please I want to drink you in, please--"

And your upper body accomodates for how powerfully you need to let go, the need for release screams out of your body and you almost hit the headboard, but Paul stops you, adjusts the hand that kept you exposed to him to grip your hip and pull you down to his mouth. Your body thrusts and bucks and arches of its own volition, you're just here, in this tear-you-apart pleasure of cumming on his tongue like no one's ever made you cum before. You're panting, your heart is racing, your blood is on fire.

"Enough-enough-enough fuck please---" you shake and beg and tug a little at his hair as he licks hungrily at you, but he's going to let you go when he's fully satisfied. Your voice continues to climb in whispers and shuddering gasps.

"Like my life," he makes a disgusting, gorgeous slurping noise over your wet needy hole, "depends on it." Like a man starved. Like a man crazed. How will you ever function again. You cry out as he drags his tongue up and down your slit, one last long articulation, before his hand finally relaxes on your hip.

Your eyes flutter as you remember suddenly to breathe, and Paul's hands glide up your leg as you sink them down back onto the bed.

"What did you just do to me?" You utter, mystifed, not fully with the thought as it escapes.

"You have no idea how intoxicating you are." He says, dead serious, if breathless and soaked in you. He sucks his middle finger clean. "None at all."

x

I now have a ko-fi! Consider checking it out to support my addiction to cold brew coffee, or commission something special all your own 🖊️

[grugruel]

Lust for Vampyr

Pairings: Paul Hill x f!reader

MDNI/NSFW

Masterlist

Summary: A new handsome priest arrives at Crockett Island and youre desperate for his attention, but when he seems to be avoiding you, you do the only logical thing. Show up at his door

Word count: 3.8K

Warnings: Blasphemy, age-gap (reader over 20), oral sex (f! receving), pinv sex, rough sex, praise kink, slight thigh kink? Little bit of edging and cock-warming, tasting of blood (vampire shenanigans), PRIEST KINK.

Id never really found any interest in attending mass, despite my parents insistent attempts to drag me along. I had been watching the old monsignor preach for years now until he left for his pilgrimage, leaving a blank spot for a new priest to take his place.

Paul Hill had he called himself, and it was like lightning struck. All of a sudden I had a new fevor for the faith and although I had moved out long ago, my parents were thrilled to say the least. Little did they know though, that a fire had stirred within me. I started with innocent glances, admiring him from a far, telling myself it was just because of his enthusiastic way of preaching. But then getting a thing for his tall stature, big hands and stark black hair. He had me cleching my thighs together as I sat next to my parents in the church pews.

He made me want to confess my every sin to him and eventually I did, when I grew desperate enough. Just for the chance to hear him breath in that quiet intimate way I had begun to crave.

We had met briefly, just to introduce ourselves, but thats it. I wanted to talk to him more though, learn more about him. So I started lingering after mass, telling my parents to go on ahead without me just so I could get a word with the new father. But he usually dissapered into thin air before I got the chance, seemingly avoiding me like the black death.

Which Is how I ended up in my current situation. It was after the usual mass, I had dressed extra nicely tonight. I was standing in the cold on the fathers poarch, knocking on the rectory door in my fancy dress, black tights and mary janes.

I felt out of place, I know I shouldnt be here for this reason, I know I shouldnt have dressed nice in an effort to seduce a man of the church. Shame crept up my cheeks, coloring them a bright red. But I heard shuffling behind the door, then footsteps coming toward me and immedietly regretted my decision.

What was I doing? This is so stupid, hes going to send me away, direct me back to my parents like a lost child. My thoughts came to a sudden halt when the door finally opened, and there he stood. Father Paul.

He was in his regular black shirt and white collar, wearing his tight jeans. His eyebrows rose when he saw me, 'Ah' he sighed, as if expecting me but surprised none the less.

'Father.' I greeted, smiling faintly, 'Youre a busy man, you always disappear after mass, its hard to find time to talk with you.' I told him, he smiled apologetically 'Unfortunately yes, Ive had some urgent business to atend to lately, its taken up all my past time.' He explained as his gaze trailed down my body, eyes lingering on my thighs, 'I- uhm. . .' he shook his head, completley lost in thought when a particularly chilly breeze blew by. He shuddered, apparently noticing the cold for the first time, which managed to break him out of his trance and making him pay attention to my own shivers. Noting the goosebumps lining my arms and collarbones. He met my gaze again, hestitating slightly before moving out of the way 'Its freezing, please do come in.' He said, smiling cheapishly. 'Thank you.' I whispered as I passed him, intentionally brushing against his arm and hoping that he would catch a whiff of my perfume.

He closed the door behind us and made his way to the kitchen, 'Tea?' He asked.

'Yes please.' I answered and he smiled to himself, pleased with my manners. He gestured to the armchair in the middle of the room, 'Please, sit.' He urged me, then put a kettle of water on. I nodded and sat down, crossing my legs.

We waited on our opposite ends of the room, an akward silence settling over us. Finally though, the wistle of the kettle rang through the rectory and he made us two cups and sat down on the sofa opposite me. He handed me my cup and our fingers brushed as I took it, our eyes met, lingering on eachother. But he cleared his throat and looked away, 'So what brings you here?' He questioned.

I rested the cup in my lap as I tried to come up with an appropriate answer. 'We havent peoperly met, I suppose. . I simply wished to get to know you a bit better.' I said shyly.

He smiled, 'Well ofcourse, thats reasonable enough. Did you have any specific questions in mind?' He asked, sipping his tea.

I blanked completley, what was my plan here? 'I- No, not really. Uhm.' I stumbled ahead blindley.

He chuckled, 'Youre never this nervous in confessional are you.'

My face lit up in shame, averting my faze from him 'Well father, I suppose it gets easier in the dark.' I said, sipping my tea nervously.

He chuckled, 'I suppouse it would yes.'

I nodded gravely, looking back at him and found that his eyes had drifted to my body. It took me by surpise, but pleased me grately, 'Father?' I asked, trying to get his attention.

'Mmhm?' He hummed distantly, not taking his eyes off of me. Perhaps I wasnt so far off in coming here after all, my tights and skirt seemed to be working. Gaining some confidence, I uncrossed my legs and his gaze followed them intently. God, all he needed to was look at me and I was his, completley and utterly. In a sudden surge of brazenness, I let the cup rest in my lap again, clutched in my hands. Then spread my legs wider and slid the cup between my thighs, still in my grip, so that the view of my panties was blocked by that alone.

His bresthing stuttered, a made a sound that was barely a gasp. He rubbed his hands over his face and combed them through his hair in an effort to collect himself. But it did not work, he felt himself being affect by you, in the same way he was everytime he saw you. Which Is why he had to run off, why he had to keep his distance from you.

He sank further into the sofa, liftning his lap to adjust his position and then sat back down. I practically drooled at the sight, a tingling sensation pulsing through my core. I had to close my eyes for a few seconds, making an effort to think straight, at least until the feeling had calmed down and I could talk freely again. I moved my gaze back onto him and our eyes met, communicating with eachother, exchaning desires we could never say aloud.

Both a bit distracted by eachother, I decided to take the bull by its horns, 'Listen, father. I-' I began, but he shut me down instantly.

'Dont-' he said, holding his hand out to stop me, 'I know. . . I know.'

My mouth fell open in shock and I scrambled for an excuse, but I could not find the words. Shame tainting my tounge. 'Ive tried to stay away, but youre persistent. And I told myself that you must be a trial from god, tempting me, testing my faith.' he said, sitting up straighter and looking into my eyes.

'A trial that I will undoubtedly fail.' he confessed. Relief surged through me, he did want me. I reached out to lay a hand on his knee, but he jumped up, walking backward until he hit the kitchen counter. He leaned against it and crossed his arms, ensuring that they could not reach for me. He was fighting his urges, his own body was betraying him. I stood up, walking around to sofa to meet him, but he shook his head 'No, NO!' he shouted, making flinch in response to his sudden outburst.

'Im sorry, but this- this cannot happen.' He gestured between us, 'Whatever this is.' he sighed desperately and I stopped in my tracks, because I knew he was right. But he was just meters away from me, he was in my vecinity. Free to do with me however he pleased, if he pleased.

I whined at the thought, beacuse it could never happen. I grabbed the back of the sofa and bent down to rest my forehead against it, in a desperate attempt to collect my thoughts. A quiet complain reverberated through my body, "Why did it have to be a priest?" I bashed myself, a whine escaping me as I shook my head slowly. I slid forward, resting my elbows on the sofa so that my hands were free to hide my face. If only I could turn invisible, just disappear. But I was too painfully aware of his looming prescence to escape the moment, he kept a safe distance, occupied with battling his own thoughts.

I burned hot, terribly hot, my face ablaze from the shame of my indecent thoughts and actions, in stark contrast to my body which was only lubricated by them. Every single nerve-ending was tingling in reaction of what I craved.

I was trying, but failing very badly to calm myself, when there was movement in my peripheral, it happened so quickly that I was sure I had imagined it. But it was too late either way, because he had appeared behind me. All I noticed was a small gush of air and then he was pushed up against me, hips to ass and I involuntairily froze.

A shuddering gasp came form behind me as he lrt go of his restrictipns and his hands made contact with my skin, one hand moved to hold my hip while the other explored the dip of my lower back, testing its limits. He rubbed a few slow cicles with his thumb onto my skin, seamingly mesmerized by the goosebumps that rose. He stopped, for only a moment and then flattened his hand against the small of my back. He pushed downward with his palm and as if he'd found a hidden button, my back arched, and my breathing faltered. It was as if god himself had touched me and I had to bite my cheek to stop from moaning.

A low intake of breath could be heard from behind me, as if astonished by what he could accomplish. And as he kept the hand on my lower back pushed against me, he strengthened his grip on my hip and pulled me closer to him. When completley flush, I felt him again. But this time, there was an evident hardness in his jeans and I moaned reflexively, I couldnt help myself. How could I be excpected to? The priest of Crockett Island himself was hard, for me. How I did not scream and beg for him to tear me apart right there is beyond me.

He hissed in response to the friction that the thin fabric of my dress created against the rough fabric of his tight jeans. I tried griding against him with what little movement his hold allowed me, which earned me a displeased grunt and smack on the ass in punishment. I had to cover my mouth as another moan threatened to escape me.

Visions of everything I've dreamed of him to do to me flashed through my mind, things I've only ever imagined while touching myself. My entire skin was on fire as I tried to collect myself, scarcly succeding. I could only manage a single word.

'Father?' whispering it quietly, I turned my head a sliver, as far as I dared. It was enough to make out his disheveld state, chest heaving from supressing his heavy breathing, his usually perfect hair fallen in stressed strands over his forehead, his shirtsleeves carelessly folded and rolled up, showing his forearms. Such simple things drove me absolutley feral, I had to restrain myself from shaking in anticipation of his next move, barely daring to move in fear of him retracting from me.

But he never moved and everything was quiet apart from his shuddering breaths, a result of him fighting his most carnal desires. I wanted to touch him, to caress his beautiful face, to feel his skin under my fingers, and although I loved the shallow feeling my impact had on him, I wanted it deeper. So despite my better judgement, I straigthened my arms and moved to stand up and turn to him. But he quickly stopped me, grabbing a fistful of my hair and thrust my body forward into the sofa, my hips colliding with the back of it as he shoved my face into the pillows, cushioning the force of it.

He hadnt wanted me to see him like that, as if I saw him it would all become real. His desires, his unholy thoughts, his betrayal of god. But I did not care, I had crossed that point a long time ago.

'Father, please.' I begged, voice muffled by the pillows. And there was a slow realisation in his movements as he loosened his grip on me and stepped back. Confusion crowded my already full mind, as he began rubbing the back of his head in distress, turmoil brewed inside of him.

'Im so sorry' he whispered. Oh. . . Poor father, he mustve thought I was begging him to stop. 'Please forgive me, I dont know what came over me. I would never want to hurt you, please know that.' he rambeled, meeting my eyes, begging for for my forgiveness.

I stood up, shaking my head in dissmissal as I made my way to the light switch, turning it off, darkness enveloping us. I searched for soothing words to reassure him, 'You could never hurt me father, im yours.' I said and made my way through the darkness to him, trying to locate him from memory, I reached out blindley in an effort to avoid colliding with something but he met me half way, seeing my struggle.

I did not question it as he laced his fingers with mine and led them to his chest, making my heart skip a beat. I slowly traced my hands upward until I felt his face, enjoying everything my working senses had to offer me. His scent and the feeling of his soft shirt and skin. I placed my hands on either side of his face, cradeling him 'Take me now, in the dark.' I said carefully and stod on my tiptoes.

I leaning into him and as he did not retreat, I kissed him once, tenderly. 'Nobody but us will know' I whispered against his lips, then moved to kiss his jaw, feeling him relax under my touch.

'We will repent in the morning' I assured him and then quated myself, '"It gets easier in the dark"' I found his hands, and moved them to my breasts 'Take me now.'

This time, father Paul did not hesitate. He squeezed my breasts as he met my lips forcefully, kissing and biting me like a starved man. One of his hans dove behind my back, while the other found purchase under my ass. He hoisted me up into his arms in one quick motion, I gasped, surpised by his strength.

He walked me to the armchair, setting me down in it and kneeling in fornt of me. He spread my legs with his strong hands, and laid them on each thigh, squeezing hard. His hands slid up my thighs until they met the hem of my dress. He met my eyes, asking for reassurance and I nodded enthusiatically, giving it to him. He continued moving his hands upward, the dress catching on his wrists and follows his movements. He leaned closer, kissing a trail along the inside of my thigh until he came to my core. He ripped my thights open and moved my pantied to the side, and as he already had me go-ahead, he dove right in. I gasped as he made contact with my core, his tounge thrusting inside of me. Tasting my very being, he moved one of his hands to my clit, attacking it feverishly as the other stayed squeezing the soft flesh of my thigh. He was feral, and I loved it. He hummed as he ate me out, absolutley loving every second of it. My moans became needy and high pitched as I grabbed his hair to shove closer, he did not protest. I came hard and fast, closing my eyes as white light blinded my vision, making me dizzy. As I opened my eyes again the room was spinning, and the father sat proud infront of me grinning. 'Youre doing so good, my girl.' He said and rose up to kiss me, I could only manage a smile. To lost in pleasure to do anything else.

He picked me up and walked me to the sofa, laying me down on top of it and puttin almost all of his weight on me. He rested his forearm close to my head, letting it support his weight and tangling his hand in my hair, grabbing it and gently pulling my head to the side. While the other hand traced down my shoulder and lowered the strap of my dress, to gain easier access to my breast, then kneading it greadily. His lips moved from my mouth and kissed their way down to my neck, sucking and licking at that tender spot above my collarbone. I moaned reflexively, which only spurred him on further. His hips were moving against mine, enthusiastically and rythmically with the rest of his body. Our closeness made his clothed erection rubb against my core perfectly. I moved my legs to stradle him, tightening the grip and bringing him even closer to me, then rutting my hips against him. The friction was delicious and that paired with the fathers delerious assault on my neck, his breath hot against my skin and his moans vibrating through me, had me close to coming undone right then and there.

My hands had found their way to his back, scratching and pulling at the fabric, but it wasnt enough. I moved my hands to unbutton his shirt, but struggled due to our position. I grew tired and greedy from not succeeding, so I removed his colar and tore his shirt open, yanking it down his shoulders, but did not manage to get it further. Displeased about ruining his shirt, he bit me, once, hard enough to draw blood. I gasped and he stopped, removing his hand from my breast and slid it to my neck, coating his fingers in my blood. Stunned silence had settled over us, apart form our unanimous labored breathing. He brought his fingers to his lips, tasting my blood and it was like he became a whole other person. If lust had not driven him before, it did now. I found it strange, but was to mesmerized by the moment to question it. He stood up, resting one knee on the sofa between my legs and began unbuckling his belt. I bit my lip from anticipation, the sight driving me mad, he looked positively devine. 'Have you done this before?' He asked me, I nodded my head in response, 'Have you, father?' He did not answer, his eyes were just drinking me in.

'Touch yourself.' He ordered, and I wasted no time. I moved my hands down my body, lifting the skirt of my dress with one hand and shoving the other down my panties, sliding it inside me to wet it then circling my clit in slow deliberate motions.

'Oh. . . ' he shook his head, 'Good girl' he praised in a shallow whisper, he looked at me like I was no longer a test from god, but a gift. He moaned as I touched myself, surely I was a sight in itself, my breast out, the skirt shoved up over my thighs and hips and my chest heaving from breathing heavily as he was towering over me. His tussled hair and shirt pulled down beneath his shoulders, exposing his chest and collarbones, his veiny hands working his belt. I closed my eyes as I felt myself coming close, and the sound of him drove me further. The belt buckle clanging, a zipper opening and the rustling fabric of clothes falling to the floor was erotic in a way I never could have suspected. White dots were specking the darkness of my eyelids, and a spring was tightening deep in my stomache. My breathing became frantic as I envisioned the father inside of me. I was a second away, when he snatched my hand out of my panties and I whined in frustration, the specks darkened and I felt moving around me.

I opened my eyes and he was below me, stark naked, holding my hand to his face and licking my slickness from my fingers much like he had done with my blood. 'Beautiful angel, you taste divine.' He sighed.

I moved the hand he was holding the caress his face 'Please father, I cannot wait any longer'. And he odded, sliding his hands under me and lifting my hips to pull my dress upward, once he'd done that I sat up to help him pull the dress over my head. He then lowered himself on top of me, pushing me back into the sofa and resuming his previous position.

'Im yours, only yours father.' I whispered and he kissed me tenderly as his hand traced down my body, feeling every curve on the waw down and pulled my panties to the side. He lined himself up with my entrance, teasing my opening by sliding himself through my folds. My breath caught, 'Please, please, please.' I whined desperstley, begging seemed to be the only thing I was capable of around him.

He suddenly slid inside and we gasped in unisome, our eyes met and we stayed like that for a while. No one moved, no one talked, we just admired eachother silently while he let me adjust to his size. He raised his eyebrows, as if asking for consent and I nodded eagerly, pecking him on the lips. He slid out of me completley, confusing me terribly and I desperatly clung my arms around his shoulders, burrying my hands in his hair to make him stay. But he only chuckled in response and kissed my arm lovingly, then slammed back into me. Setting a brutal pace, almost knocking the air out of my lungs.

I could not tell whos moans belonged to who, but amidst the frenzy he gave me a few short kisses on the lips in reassurance, then nuzzled his nose against my cheek and moved his forehead to the crook of my neck, whispering against my skin 'Youre doing so good, sweet girl.' His sweet words were a stark contrast to his hard, fast thrusts.

A few hours ago I was nervously getting ready for mass, dressing nicely in hope of the new priests approval, and now hes ballsdeep inside me.

He moved his hand to my clit, rubbing it in fast circles. I covered my mouth with one hand as a scream threatened to escape me, while the other tore into his back, leaving long red scratch marks and he hissed into my neck. Enjoying every part of the pain and pleasure mixing with eachother.

He straigthened his arm to sit back anf change position, but never relenting his pace. He raised my hips onto his thighs, placing one hand on my waist in a grip that will be leaving bruises on my skin, and pushing the other hand down on my abdomen while still circling my clit with his thumb. His thrusts hit that spot inside me that made my toes curl and it all became quite overwhelming, about to push me over the edge.

'Im- Im close' I managed inbetween breaths and he hummed, nodding as his own movements became irregular. I grabbed onto the cushions for dear life as I was tipping over the edge, electricity sparked between us, and all of a sudden I felt thunder tearing through me and he collappsed on top of me. His thrusts slowed down, allowing me to ride through my high.

'Good girl' he sighed and kissed my forehead as his ruts came to a stop and pride surged thorugh me.nHe stayed inside me, laying comfortably with me as oour breaths calmed together. I could feel his seamen sippering out of me, and I loved it. Because it was him.

'Will you stay with me tonight?' He asked.

'If you'll have me.' I answered, smiling as he kissed my lips.

[cxffeereid]

POV: You bit your lip too hard and Paul kissed you to make it better.

AN: This is just a quick little blurb of something I thought about and wondered what would happen? I hope you all like this!! Full fic is in the works!

No warnings needed, only slight suggestive tones.

Paul was sitting on the sofa, reading his book as you looked around at the walls, the dishes that still needed to be cleaned. You would get round to them soon (not likely) as you took your bottom lip into your mouth and bit down. To your surprise, it was a lot harder than you intended.

“Fuck! What the..” You exclaimed, walking to the bathroom to look in the mirror.

Paul’s head lifted up from his book, as he got up and walked to the bathroom. He leaned onto the door frame as your lip was slightly bloody from the bite.

“What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?”

He waited for your response as he didn’t want to push you into answering him. You turned around and looked at him, his eyes went straight to your lips as his stomach started to turn.

“Yeah, just accidentally bit my lip too hard”

You walked past him, as he followed you. Even tho, it was only a very small amount of blood, he could smell it. Your blood had a different scent from others, it was probably due to the fact it was mixed with lust.

Paul sat next to you on the sofa as you played with your lip. The small amount of blood already dried onto your lips. He thought the tang could still be on your tongue and that made him move closer to you.

He placed his hand onto your chin, his thumb gently touching your lip. You leaned into his touch as he looked into your eyes, closing the gap between you. His lips attached to your bottom lip first then kissed you properly.

The kiss was so deep yet so soft like he was nervous. Maybe he was, as his bloodlust was craving your sweet taste in more ways than one.

“I was right.. the tang was still on your tongue. You taste.. I can’t describe but I know that I want more”

[darlingdekarios]

sanctification.

EXPLICIT. 18+ ONLY. - 7,081 - FATHER PAUL HILL/JOHN PRUITT X F!READER

content: the vampire kind of age gap, heavy catholicism and prayer, sacrilegious behavior, inappropriate use of prayer, corruption, smut [f receiving oral, unprotected intercourse], blood mentions/consumption, reader insert [reader is written to fit into canon and has a christian background, sorry if that doesn't work for you!]

"Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart."

The warmth in his eyes had engulfed you from the moment they found yours from across the vibrant green of the spring grass, freshly fragrant with a recent rain, mixed with the familiarity of salt water. His attention was pulled from you by one of the many who needed him, a welcome reprieve from the intensity of his gaze.

With your attention on the band and on observing the people around you quietly, you missed when he joined at your side slowly – at the edge of the grass, away from everyone.

“‘He was despised and rejected by men, a man of deep sorrows who was no stranger to suffering and grief. We hid our faces from him in disgust and considered him a nobody, not worthy of respect,’” his voice was smooth, easy – once his focus was on you there was nothing else in his sight.

“Are you calling me a loner, Father?” your voice was beautiful to him, a perfectly tuned piano, the most delicately strung harp, the sound of an angel’s wings. He found himself breathless first, then eager for more – eager to submerge himself in your attention.

“I believe we have that in common,” he soothed, eyes sparkling with honey gold as the sun made an appearance through the clouds. “Christ was an outcast – he loved outcasts, took them in, built communities with them. In a way, us just standing together this way honors his love. We’re both new, both outcasts, both watching from a distance and hoping no one notices.”

A smile threatened to spread across your face, the corners twitching upward slightly in amusement – you tried to hide it by facing forward again.

“You noticed me, so I suppose my plan failed,” you replied, eyes landing on the band once again to busy your gaze away from him. It didn’t last long – when a small, barely audible laugh left his lips your eyes snapped to him like a moth to a lamp. “Is it normal for priests to tarnish hopes and dreams at small island potlucks?”

He was even more handsome when he smiled, the laugh that fell from his far more beautiful than any song sung in any house of worship.

“Forgive me, curiosity got the best of me,” the sincerity in his voice just couldn’t be faked, the honesty spreading so deep throughout him it glowed from his eyes. “I thought it would be polite to introduce myself. We haven’t had the chance to meet just yet, no matter how small the island is.”

Exchanged names flowed freely, the unease of being around someone in such a position fading as his gentle disposition lulled you into comfort. He leaned back against the bench, noticeably relaxing as he realized just how unpretentious you were and how tranquil a moment with you could be.

“I hear that you’re here to clean out a family member’s home,” he continued, now refusing to remove his gaze from yours to study every flash of emotion your eyes offered. “My condolences for your loss.”

“‘A gossip betrays a confidence, so avoid anyone who talks too much.’”

Open surprise passed over his features, his lips falling apart briefly as his mind searched for a proper response. It was your turn to offer him a full smile now, amusement at his shock causing his cheeks to heat up slightly – no matter how foolish it made him feel. The last thing he’d expected was for you to quote scripture to him.

“My father always did warn me about Beverly Keane,” you offered an explanation when his silence lingered two beats too long, eager to fill the silence. “No one died. He just moved to the mainland and didn’t want to make the trip back.”

Relief lifted from his chest at your words, a light smile brightening his features again. “But you’re not quite ready to leave the house.”

“I enjoy the fresh air,” you admitted, thankful there was someone on the island who seemed to have an interest in knowing the truth about you – not just whatever his mind decided to make up. “I didn’t grow up here because my parents separated when I was young. I lived with my mother, on the mainland.”

“But your mother taught you scripture, it seems?” the genuine curiosity to his tone could only be described as adorable. Already you found your mind wondering if he was truly the type of rare person who became more endearing with every passing second spent in his presence.

“You’re awfully nosy, Father,” the subtle playful tone behind your words created a newfound fluttering in his stomach.

“No, not nosy,” he defended, shaking his head and breaking the eye contact to look forward again. You followed his gaze back to the band, taking the opportunity to smile to yourself. “I’ve been told I’m easy to talk to. I like knowing new people.”

Anyone knowing you on Crockett Island was the last thing you’d intended with your time here, but if he insisted, it would be an insurmountable task to take.

“I think that’s supposed to be the whole point of what you do,” when you turned to look at him again, he was eager to meet your gaze – like he’d been waiting for the moment to look at you again. “Talk to people. Give them comfort. Give them answers. Make them feel…connected. Like one very important piece to a huge puzzle.”

“But you don’t come to service,” it was a statement – far more unjudgmental than you’d expect from someone like him.

“I do not.”

“Could I convince you?” he questioned, angling his body toward yours more to demonstrate his full devotion of attention. “If you feel a call to the Church today…Sunday, any day…answer it. I’d love to give you comfort, too. To show one more person their piece to the puzzle.”

His eyes were impossibly earnest – you didn’t know honesty like this still existed in the world. Even the mental vision of him disappointed made a needless guilt swell in your chest, pushing you to say anything that would keep him smiling at you.

“I’ll listen for the call,” you confirmed, the anxiety ridden from you when he only looked happier. You stood to take your leave, taking a few steps before leaving him with more playful words. “We’ve got pretty shitty reception out here on the island though.”

You threw a look over your shoulder to watch him smile again.

“Then I can only hope to see you again soon.”

You did start to feel a call to the Church almost immediately, but not out of any true interest in rekindling religion within your soul—because he had permeated your every thought from then forward. Within the day it was impossible to ignore the desire you felt to see his smile again—to feel the rapture of his attention again.

You found yourself drifting in the late evening as the sun finished its descent for the night, the cool air raising goosebumps on your skin as you wandered the island with seemingly no destination in mind. It was your heart, however, who guided your feet—straight to the towering white walls of St. Patrick’s.

It was as if he’d known. He stood on the wooden steps despite the light drizzle that had started, his fingers laced together in front of his waist. The lamplight above the door flickered once, then steadied. The soft haze of mist blurred the edges of the world around him like a dream.

He offered you that warm smile again, the one you’d been avoiding…the very one you were uncertain why you’d been avoiding now.

“You should come in out of the rain before you catch a cold,” he called to you like a siren, a pleasant feeling nestling in your chest again at his voice.

“I think you know that’s a myth,” you called back, noticing your feet had already carried you several steps closer. You paused again, unwilling to concede so easily, eyes wearily taking in the structure of the building before you. “But…I am cold.”

“Please, just until it passes,” the concern that flooded his voice was unmistakable—he made no effort to cover it, felt no shame in feeling it. He did realize, though, how being so near to you again when it’s all that had been on his mind since you’d left—alone no less—presented a new challenge.

“That could be hours,” you stated, though you stepped closer so the old wood of the building could block some of the wind.

“I’ve been told I’m easy to talk to,” he offered again, tone softening into that playful edge. “My sermon for today is done. It will just be us as friends talking.”

You glanced back up at the building, your bottom lip pulling between your teeth briefly as trepidation overtook your mind.

“No, I should…just head back to the house, really,” you stated, taking a step backward—a step away from him. He quickly regained the ground by descending the steps, concern flashing on his features—pulling his eyebrows together in a soft furrow.

“You shouldn’t be out late,” he said, voice low and serious. You returned your full attention to him, eyes seeking out the familiar calm of his face in the horrid weather. “Alone.”

You raised an eyebrow upward, an incredulous and amused smile stretching across your face. You stepped closer again, close enough to not need to shout over the falling rain.

“Are you trying to tell me that Crockett Island is dangerous, Father?” you questioned with that coveted tone, your head tilting to the side to accentuate your mock confusion. “If you want to spend time with me so badly, you can always just ask.”

Something about him was off—so very off, two contrasting expressions filling his features. Confusion, guilt, shame…desire, need, excitement, hunger—they all coursed through him now as his doe eyes looked into your very soul, an unholy war being fought in his mind as he decided on the path forward.

“If it’s the Church that’s not calling to you just yet, maybe the recreation center,” his offer was cautious, his unwillingness to present his solution in a negative light saturating his words, ensuring that you felt he meant nothing indecent.

Any other church recreation center in any other place would have been just the same as the church it was erected for—truly, you supposed this one was no exception either…maybe even worse if the rumors about it were true. And yet, the doors to the John Michael Pruitt Recreation Center seemed to beckon you toward it, a sense of familiarity and security seemingly woven into the wood used to build it.

Or maybe it was truly just his smile that had you under his control.

“Yeah,” you conceded, nodding and pulling your arms tighter around yourself. His eyes flashed over the spots of rain on your skin almost like he could see each one, using them to map the expanse of your skin before he'd ever truly touched you. “Yeah, that sounds a lot better.”

“You take the keys and let yourself in,” with little regard for himself he walked forward, passing you the keys despite the rain that was now starting to pour. “I’ll go to the rectory and get you something dry to wear and meet you there.”

The streets were empty, save for the whisper of the wind and the occasional rustle of leaves. The evening was damp, the air thick with the scent of wet stone and the distant promise of rain. The island felt quieter tonight, as if it too was holding its breath, waiting for something. The old church at the end of the road stood like a solitary sentinel, its silhouette sharp against the sky, the tall spire reaching up as if trying to touch the darkening heavens. You hadn’t meant to come here tonight. It was almost an impulse, a quiet call that you couldn’t ignore.

Your thoughts were tangled, like the knots in your stomach that had been there since the day you first met him — Father Paul. He had been so distant in the days and nights you had visited since that first night, so cold in a way that felt deliberate, like a wall he had carefully constructed between you two. And yet, you couldn’t shake the feeling that beneath that careful detachment, something else simmered. Something he didn’t want to admit, not even to himself.

His presence in the recreation center had become a distant, almost unattainable thing, and it gnawed at you in a way that was almost painful. Every glance, every moment you shared had been more electric than the last, but then he’d pulled away, retreating into his silence as if that was the only thing that would keep him safe.

But you weren’t safe. You weren’t sure if you ever had been.

That’s why you came tonight.

There was a tension in the air that you couldn’t explain, an undeniable pull to this place. You hadn’t come for solace or for answers, not directly. But maybe you needed both. The question had been haunting you for days — why had he shut you out? What was it that made him keep his distance, even when everything between you seemed to tell a different story?

You stepped inside the church, the heavy wooden doors creaking softly as they closed behind you, and it seemed for the first time all over again you felt the weight of his absence — felt the silence of the space without him there. The church was bathed in the low, flickering light of candles, their flames dancing like ghosts in the dark corners of the nave. The smell of incense clung to the air, mixing with the earthy scent of stone and wood. The space was quiet, but it wasn’t still. The air vibrated with something you couldn’t name.

And then you saw him.

Father Paul was standing near the altar, his back to you, his shoulders tense in the dim light. He was alone, the soft murmur of his prayers almost indistinguishable in the vastness of the church. The way he stood there, so still and yet so consumed, drew you in. You felt an almost magnetic pull toward him, one that was both comforting and terrifying.

You stood frozen in the doorway, watching him, your heart beating in your chest like a drum. He hadn’t noticed you yet. There was a space between you both, a chasm that seemed impossible to cross. It was like he was still holding you at arm’s length, even though you were here, standing in the same room.

You hadn’t come to confront him, but now that you were here, you knew that confrontation was inevitable. What had changed? Why had he distanced himself from you when everything else felt so right?

You stepped forward, the soft echo of your shoes against the stone floor breaking the silence. Your heart raced as you moved closer to him, each step heavier than the last. You didn’t know what you would say, or even if you would speak at all. The questions were too many, tangled in your chest like a knot that refused to loosen. But you needed to understand. You needed to know.

His head turned slowly when he heard you approach, and his eyes locked onto yours. There was a flicker of surprise in his gaze, but it was quickly masked by the familiar coolness you had grown to know in the times you'd passed on the island in these last days. He didn’t say anything at first, and neither did you. There was no need for words. The air between you was thick with unspoken tension, with things both of you had refused to acknowledge until now.

He cleared his throat, and the sound was a signal, an invitation to speak, but he didn’t offer anything more. The distance between you both, the invisible wall he had built, was still there, standing tall between you. But the thing was, you could feel it crackling — faltering under the weight of your presence. The yearning, the need, was in the air. Neither of you could deny it any longer.

“I didn’t think you would come,” he finally said, his voice low and hesitant, as though he were testing the waters. “I didn’t think you’d want to face me after…” His words trailed off, leaving a silence that spoke louder than anything he could have said. He was afraid. You could hear it in the way his voice wavered, the way his eyes avoided yours for a moment, as if he were afraid you would see something he wasn’t ready to reveal.

But you weren’t afraid. No, you were tired of the uncertainty, the distance. You were tired of pretending like nothing was there. You had come here because something in you had known it was time. Time to face whatever it was that had been building between you even in absence, time to see if he was as trapped in this web of longing as you were.

“I had to know,” you said, your voice surprisingly steady despite the storm of emotions crashing inside you. You took another step closer, drawn to him by some invisible force, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “Why did you shut me out?”

His eyes widened, and for the briefest moment, you saw something — something vulnerable, raw, and almost desperate in his gaze. He opened his mouth, perhaps to say something, but no words came. His chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, and you could see the battle waging inside him, a conflict that had no easy resolution.

“You don’t know what this is,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. But you could hear the strain in it, the edge of something he didn’t want to admit. His eyes dropped to your lips for a brief, lingering moment before he forced himself to look away.

“I know what it is,” you said, the certainty in your voice surprising even yourself. “And I know what you want. So why fight it?” You took another step, closing the last bit of space between you two. “You can’t keep running from this, from us.”

For a long moment, there was only silence. You could feel the tension in the air, thick enough to cut. His hands clenched at his sides, and his breath caught as if he were holding onto some last shred of control. But that control was slipping away, and you both knew it.

Without a word, you reached up and placed your hand gently on his chest. He was so close, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. You were so close to crossing a line neither of you had dared that night before.

He hesitated, just for a moment, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to find something — an answer, maybe, or a reason to stop. But all he found was the same yearning, the same hunger, reflected in your gaze.

“I don’t know if I can stop anymore,” he whispered, his voice trembling with something that was both fear and longing.

That was all you needed.

You closed the space between you, your lips finding his in a kiss that was both tentative and desperate. It wasn’t like anything either of you had expected. It wasn’t gentle or slow. It was hungry, urgent — a kiss that spoke of days of silence, of wanting and waiting, of everything that had been left unsaid between you two.

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, his lips deepening the kiss as if he could lose himself in it. And in that moment, you didn’t care about the consequences. You didn’t care about the rules or the lines you were crossing. All you cared about was the feeling of his lips on yours, the rush of emotions that poured between you both in a single breath.

It was as if the church itself held its breath, as if the world stopped spinning around you and the only thing that existed in that moment was him and the kiss that had been inevitable all along.

A week passed again then before you would see him again. While he continued to be respectful enough in the rare moments the two of you passed one another in the streets, the expression he wore was marred with guilt — with endless turmoil. The space between you grew heavier with each day, filled with silence where once there had been quiet conversations. The recreation center, once a sanctuary where you found solace in one another’s presence, now felt like a ghost of its former warmth. The nights were long, and though you still found yourself drawn to the place, it had become a place of absence, a reminder of something unfinished.

For those first few nights, you would sit there, alone in the stillness, the faint hum of the building filling the air as you waited for him, for the spark of connection you’d shared. But he never came. And you were left with nothing but the echoes of your own thoughts, the quiet ache of something unspoken lingering like a shadow you couldn't shake.

Each day you passed St. Patrick’s Church, a tightness in your chest grew with every step. His absence in your life once again left a vacuum where once his presence had been so certain. The briefest glimpse of him in the street only deepened the confusion, and yet he avoided your eyes. He was avoiding you. Not just physically, but emotionally — his distance palpable, like a wall he had built between you.

And so, you waited. For a sign. For something. Anything. But the silence was deafening.

Then, finally, after days of feeling like a prisoner in your own longing, you slipped through the back doors of St. Patrick’s Church late one evening. You’d timed it perfectly, knowing the last person had left — Bev Keane, as it happened — and the church would be empty. You moved through the familiar walls in quiet resolve, each step bringing you closer to him, to answers that were long overdue.

There he was. Standing in front of the altar, lost in thought. His face was a mask of surprise when he saw you, eyes widening for a moment before narrowing with something almost like regret. The moment seemed to stretch, the distance between you unspoken but thick, the weight of all that had transpired hanging between you like a heavy curtain.

“I…” He stumbled over his words, unsure how to break the silence, his gaze flickering with a mix of shock and something else. Guilt? Fear?

“I’m just here to pray,” you said quietly, your voice steady despite the whirlwind inside you. His eyes flickered with confusion — perhaps even fear — as if he wasn’t certain of your intentions. He’d avoided you for a week. A whole week. What was left to say?

He didn’t respond immediately, standing there frozen like a deer caught in the headlights. It was as if, in the absence of your presence, he had forgotten the most basic thing about who he was. A man of faith, a man of responsibility.

Instead of sitting in one of the pews like you might have normally done, you moved toward the altar, positioning yourself there with intent. It was a gesture of reverence, but also of quiet defiance. You weren’t waiting for him to act anymore. You were here for yourself, for answers only you could find.

You knelt, the stone cold under your knees, your heart beating steadily. Your prayer was quiet, but the words were heavy with meaning:

“Lord, do not hold this sin against them, for You are full of mercy and compassion for all. Please give me the grace to forgive so as to imitate Your perfect love. Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. Lord, Jesus, Son of the Living God, have mercy on me, a sinner. Amen.”

You rose slowly, your gaze meeting his without hesitation, your voice calm but steady.

“Who do you pray for?” he asked, his voice strained, almost too quiet.

“For us,” you replied, each word carrying the weight of a truth you couldn’t ignore. “Though I think it’s unnecessary.”

His expression faltered, guilt flashing across his face. “I behaved out of selfishness the last time we were together,” he confessed, his voice breaking with the honesty of the admission.

You met his eyes and held his gaze, unwavering. “What we feel and know to be true is biblical. What is lust if not for the purest form of appreciation for God’s creation?”

The words hung between you, thick with the charge of everything you hadn’t said before.

He was standing so close now, but there was a chasm between you, a divide that had grown wider in the days of silence. The air between you was charged, the unsaid things more powerful than anything that could be spoken. His lips were so close, and yet the space between you felt infinite.

“If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

And then his voice, a low murmur, as though a barrier between you had finally shattered:

“Your lips drip nectar…”

You hadn’t registered him reaching for you until the pad of his thumb gently swept across your bottom lip — the same lip still tender from the kiss that haunted you both. The touch was reverent, almost sorrowful. As though, through it, he was both worshiping and mourning something already lost.

A quiet gasp slipped from you, unbidden. Your eyes lifted to meet his, wide with the ache of longing and something deeper — something close to surrender. You weren’t sure what you were pleading for. More of the warmth that had sparked between you in that lonely recreation hall? More of the closeness that had since turned to cold silence? Or simply more of him — this man who should not have been yours?

His eyes searched yours in silence, desperate for an answer to the question he couldn’t bring himself to ask. The weight of everything he bore — his collar, his calling, the guilt pressed like thorns into his brow — trembled behind his gaze. And yet he could not let go of you. Even now, when he had tried so hard.

You spoke, voice like a whispered confession against the silence.

"My beloved is mine, and I am his; he grazes among the lilies. Until the day breathes and the shadows flee, turn, my beloved, be like a gazelle or a young stag on cleft mountains."

The words came slowly, like prayer. His thumb stayed pressed against your lip, transfixed by the motion, as though committing each syllable to memory. You saw it then — the way his jaw tensed, how his breath hitched. He had thought about you every day of that silent week. Thought about how your mouth had felt against his. Thought about it so much it had begun to eat him alive.

And now here you were again, close enough to touch but just far enough away to be unbearable. To feel only his finger, not his mouth, was a torment of his own making — a penance with no absolution in sight.

His voice was low when he spoke again, rough with desire he tried to bury beneath piety. "Scripture from your lips are like words from a serpent in Eden…"

The words were cruel, but his tone betrayed him — so gentle, so full of mourning that it sounded more like a confession than a condemnation. "Too tempting to be pure. Honey and milk…"

The sentence dissolved in the air. He didn’t finish it.

Your eyes searched his again, as if you could reach inside him and find the answer buried beneath all that guilt and duty. If he wouldn’t say it, you would draw it from him piece by piece.

“We are already forgiven,” you said softly, barely above a whisper, as though afraid even the walls might judge you. But the truth of it steadied you. “He loves us despite. He sent His son to die for all of our sins. This one included.”

Your hands had found his torso now, though you didn’t remember reaching. The contact grounded you both in something real — more real than the veil of guilt or the dogma that wrapped around his shoulders like a too-heavy cloak.

And then he breathed it out — so softly it could have been prayer, or surrender, or both.

“Honey and milk are under your tongue…”

This time when he kissed you, it wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t restrained.

It was hunger and shame and need and reverence all at once. A breaking open. His hands cupped your face like he was afraid you might disappear. Your fingers clutched at his shirt, as though anchoring yourself to the moment before heaven and hell tore it away.

And the kiss was not soft. It was fervent — born of too many nights spent in lonely silence, too many days pretending not to ache. His mouth moved over yours like he’d been starved of it, and maybe he had. Maybe you both had. The guilt didn't vanish, but it folded into the kiss — made it sharper, sadder, more sacred.

His breath came fast between kisses, like each one might be the last. Like he feared God would tear him away mid-breath.

You broke only for a moment, foreheads pressed together, the warmth of his skin grounding you both.

"This isn't holy," he whispered.

"It is," you replied, breathless, steady. “You feel it too. That this isn’t just desire. It’s devotion.”

And with that, he kissed you again — not despite the guilt, but through it.

His mouth was on yours again before your breath had fully returned — this time more urgent, almost desperate. There was no patience left in him, no restraint. The dam had broken, and everything he had held back for too long came spilling out in the way his lips pressed hard against yours, the way his hands slid down to your waist to pull you closer, like he needed to feel the full weight of you to believe you were real.

You gasped into his kiss as his fingers clutched at you, trembling with the fear that this — this sacred, sinful closeness — might be snatched away at any second. His touch was everywhere, devouring and worshipful, as though your very skin were scripture he had longed to memorize. His mouth moved hungrily against yours, tongue sweeping over your bottom lip, tasting what had tormented him for nights alone in the dark, begging forgiveness he hadn’t truly wanted. Not if it meant giving this up.

The kiss deepened, heat blooming between you like the flare of a lit candle in the dark — sudden, wild, undeniable. It was more than longing; it was starvation. The taste of you ignited something that had been burning low in him for far too long, fanned now into flame. He made a sound low in his throat, something raw and almost broken, and it thrilled you to feel how undone he had become.

You clung to him, one hand tangled in his collar like you might tear it off, the other gripping the back of his neck as you tilted your head, opening your mouth wider to him. And he took it — took you in fully, breathlessly, helplessly. His tongue brushed yours, slow at first, then urgent. You kissed like you were trying to claim something holy between you, something lost and only now found.

There was nothing innocent left in it now. Only need. Need sharpened by guilt, sweetened by the taste of belief.

Your back met the edge of the altar, and he didn’t stop — his hands braced against the stone on either side of you, caging you in without touching more than he had to, as if that last step would tip him fully into sin.

Or maybe he was already there.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his lips swollen, eyes dark with longing and something almost like fear. His voice was hoarse, trembling like a man who had just broken his vows in thought, word, and now deed.

“I’ve already fallen,” he whispered. “God help me…I don’t want to stop.”

And still, he kissed you again — because you were already in his arms, because desire had never felt more like a kind of prayer.

Because, in this moment, loving you — craving you — felt like the only thing left that was true.

His words were gone, wrung from him like water from cloth. What remained was breath and heat, the trembling of his hands as they slid down your sides, reverent and unsure, like he was still waiting for a voice from heaven to stop him.

But none came.

You reached for his collar again, the same one you'd clung to before, only now your fingers moved with purpose. Each button undone felt like a sin and a blessing. His breathing grew ragged as you pushed the fabric from his shoulders, revealing the skin beneath—pale and warm and marked by the weight he carried.

Still, he said nothing, only watched you with wide, burning eyes as though trying to memorize every moment before it was taken from him.

You stepped back just slightly, only enough to begin lifting the hem of your own shirt. He made a sound — tiny, pained — like someone witnessing a miracle he wasn’t sure he deserved. His hands came to yours, stopping you gently, and for a moment you thought he might pull away again.

Instead, he helped you.

Carefully. Slowly. As if you were something holy.

The cool air kissed your skin as your top fell away, and his gaze followed its path to the floor. His fingers, still shaking, reached out — hesitant at first, then surer as they touched your waist, your ribs, the dip just below your breastbone. He explored you like scripture, each contact laced with awe and caution.

“This is wrong,” he said again, but softer now. Weaker. His voice was crumbling, unraveling.

“It’s only wrong if it’s empty,” you whispered, guiding his hand up over your heart. “But this…this is full.”

And then he kissed you again — harder this time, less controlled. There was hunger now, a heat that had simmered for too long beneath the surface. His mouth moved from yours to your jaw, to the line of your throat, where he lingered, murmuring fractured prayers against your skin.

“Sanctify us, Lord…in fire or in grace…let it mean something…”

Your breath caught when his hands found your hips and lifted you, setting you down gently on the edge of the altar. Stone cold against your thighs, it shocked you both into stillness for a breathless second.

He paused, forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling.

“If I do this,” he whispered, “I don’t know how to come back.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulled him closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Not tonight.”

The sound that left him wasn’t words. It was too raw, too full of everything he’d been holding back. He kissed you through it — messy and open-mouthed and hungry, like he could drink your breath, your heart, your soul.

And in that moment, the world fell away.

There was no church, no shame, no sin.

Only you.

Only him.

Only the truth of your bodies and the fire they kindled together.

He lowered you gently onto the cool altar stone, kissing away your shiver before he moved to kneel between your legs. The gesture alone undid something deep in your chest — this man, once too devout to meet your gaze for long, now on his knees in supplication before your body like it was sacred.

His soft lips brushed against your inner thigh, and your breath caught. He didn’t look away — not even for a second. His eyes, so full of reverence, locked onto yours as he pressed kiss after kiss up the delicate skin of your leg. Gone was the trepidation and shame. What remained was devotion. Adoration. Worship.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, guiding him closer, though he didn’t need the encouragement. He lingered there, savoring the goosebumps he drew from you, as though each was a miracle.

One of his hands slipped from your waist. Two fingers — steady, careful — parted your folds. He exhaled softly, circling your soaked entrance, spreading the slick arousal he found there with a touch so tender you could have wept. His eyes flicked downward to watch, his breath hitching.

Then back to you.

He paused — checking your face, searching for doubt. You gave him none. Only aching, radiant need.

The glow you wore was not just lust. It was love. The kind that didn’t ask for permission. The kind he had tried to bury under vestments and hymns, and which now shone brighter than anything else in the room.

You were the living proof of his God’s perfect creation.

“Glory be,” he breathed, nearly in awe. He withdrew his fingers and bent forward, tongue trailing a slow, reverent path from your entrance to your clit. His lips closed around it in a soft suck, and the appreciative hum that rumbled in his chest sent tremors straight through your body. You moaned aloud — no longer careful to keep it quiet. It was a psalm of its own.

As he pulled away, a blissful sigh left his lips, his eyes falling closed for a heartbeat.

“Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive, from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

The irony of the prayer wasn’t lost on either of you — but neither of you laughed, for it was not the kind of irony that demanded it. This was sacred. This was terrifying. This was the most human either of you had ever felt.

“…And the two will become one flesh,” you whispered as he rose to hover over you once more. “So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.”

And with that, the last of his restraint gave way.

His hands moved over you as though memorizing every curve, every reaction. The fire in him had found its oxygen, and now it blazed. He pressed into you with infinite care — just the tip at first, eyes locked on yours. He entered you with a gasp — his and yours tangled together in the silence of the sanctuary, a sound almost too intimate for words. The stretch of him was as real as your breath, your heartbeat, your sin. He sank deeper with a strangled groan.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careful either. It was desperate, breathless, wrapped in the ache of all those nights spent alone, the ache of loving something you're told you must not touch. He buried his face in your neck, and you in his shoulder.

“Say you forgive me,” he choked against your skin.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you whispered, voice breaking. “This…is love.”

“You are my private garden, my treasure, my bride,” he murmured as his hips pressed flush with yours. “A secluded spring…a hidden fountain.”

His forehead dropped to yours, breath shaking as he began to move inside you — slow at first, then building, each stroke drawing gasps and shivers from your skin. You moved together like you'd been made for it.

His breath trembled with every thrust, his grip on your hips bruising, anchoring, pleading. As if each movement might atone for the last, or damn him further.

Your hands gripped his shoulders as you arched into him, meeting each movement with your own. There was no resistance now. Only aching, breaking need. He kissed you again — wet and open-mouthed and unholy in the best possible way.

“Who is this who looks down like the dawn,” he choked, “Beautiful as the moon, bright as the sun…”

“Far more precious than jewels,” you returned, lips ghosting along his ear.

Your bodies moved like a litany, rhythmic and consuming. You felt his sweat dripping onto your skin, and with each thrust, you climbed higher — closer to something wordless.

“Let the morning bring me word of Your unfailing love,” you gasped, clutching at him as the tension inside you coiled tighter. “For I have put my trust in You…”

“Show me the way I should go…” he moaned, hips stuttering slightly, “For to You I entrust my life.”

His thrusts faltered, the rhythm stuttering as the pressure built between your bodies — overwhelming, divine. He pressed his lips to your neck, breath ragged, reverent.

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

And then, a sharp pain — a bite, clean and deep. Your gasp wasn’t of fear but release, your body trembling as he drank from you, his tongue laving the wound even as his hips surged forward.

He drank like it was sacrament. And you let him, arching into the pain, the pleasure, the communion. There were questions to ask, burning like an inferno in your instincts — they would have to come in the aftermath.

When he finally collapsed into you — his forehead against your collarbone — you felt his lips brush your skin as he whispered something that might’ve been your name.

Or maybe a prayer. Not that there was much a difference to him in this moment.

And then there was no more scripture. Only you. Only him. Only the breathless release that ripped through you both, shaking you to your cores.

He came with a guttural cry, burying himself deep as your own orgasm crashed over you — your nails sinking into his back, your cries echoing off old stone.

He collapsed against you. Spent. Shaking.

You lay together in silence, your chest rising beneath his, his lips brushing your shoulder like a final benediction. Not a word spoken, but the air between you was thick with what had passed — sacred, terrifying, real.

And somewhere in the flickering shadows of the sanctuary, a candle guttered in its holder, its flame mirroring your own —

Fierce. Beautiful. And never meant to last forever.

masterlist.

[sephirothsplaything]

𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊

A Midnight Mass Fanfic

PARING: BLACK OC X PRIEST JOHN/PAUL HILL

TW: Dark themes, Sacrilegious, sexual themes, overall freakydeakyism, heavy religious trauma, obsessive themes, actually triggering

❝ɢᴏᴅ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ɪɴ ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴡᴀʏꜱ .❝

❝ ʜᴏʟʏ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ, ɪ ᴀᴍ ꜱᴏ ꜱɪᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴛᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ.❝

𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄. A woman looking for a life completely opposite to her own. Something foreign to what she had previously known--- To be free from it all.

𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐔𝐋 𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋. A servant of the highest calling. His job is to simply fulfill the will of God. He will change her. He will

【Ｈｕｎｇｒｙ　Ｗｏｒｋ】

P A R T O N E - GENESIS

chapter one- begin again

[ebiemidnightlibrarian]

𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖙𝖎𝖙𝖑𝖊 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝕾𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖎𝖓 𝕸𝖞 𝕲𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖓

𝔖𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔱𝔲𝔰 𝔖𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔦𝔰

𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌 Dark! Father Paul x Fem! Reader (OFC)

𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖊 When Erin leaves Crockett to have her baby, the teaching position becomes vacant in the dominical school, so the Town Council decides to call in someone from the mainland to fill in the vacancy left behind.

Lydia Hatcher accepts the proposal without thinking twice, when she catches the Breeze she meets a mischievously handsome man to which she feels immediate attraction. The same happens to him, but what she doesn't realise is that he has way more planned for her than she might conceive.

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊𝖘 AU — Canon Divergence; Dark fic; Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 Rape/Non-con Elements, Gaslighting, Angst, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Catholic Guilt, Canon-Typical Violence, Mild Gore, Non-canon Character Death, Use of Biblical passages as a way of gaslighting, Attempted Murder, Poisoning, Extremely Dubious Consent, Suicidal Thoughts, Stalking, Dom/sub Undertones, Smut, Distorted Ideals of Romance, Obsessive Behaviour, Horror, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Religious Fanaticism.

𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖘 WIP

𝔈𝔵𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔲𝔪 ℭ𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔢𝔫

𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌 Dark! Father Paul x Fem! Reader (OFC)

𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖊 Nothing here yet :)

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊𝖘 AU — Canon Divergence; Dark fic; Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 Rape/Non-con Elements, Past Rape/Non-con, Distorted Ideals of Romance, Non-Canonical Character Death, Mild Gore, Animal Death, Blood Drinking, Murder, Coercion, Stockholm Syndrome, Catholic Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Canon-Typical Violence, Gaslighting, Dubious Consent, Dom/sub Undertones, Horror, Pregnancy Kink, Smut, Angst.

𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖘 TBA

𝔑𝔬𝔩𝔦 𝔗𝔦𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔢

𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌 Dark! Father Paul x Fem! Reader (OFC)

𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖊 Nothing here yet :)

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊𝖘 AU — Canon Divergence; Dark fic; Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 Rape/Non-con Elements, Past Rape/Non-con, Distorted Ideals of Justice, Non-Canonical Character Death, Mild Gore, Blood Drinking, Murder, Coercion, Stockholm Syndrome, Religious Fanaticism, Cult, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Canon-Typical Violence, Gaslighting, Dubious Consent, Dom/sub Undertones, Horror, Attempted Murder, Smut, Angst, Major Character Death.

𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖘 TBA

More notices to be added if needed. Let me know when something requires to be added to the warnings/tags, I’ll probably forget something.

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗'𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊

First of all, I feel that I require to warn you that English isn’t my first language, so might happen you find some writing mistakes, I also don’t have a beta reader, again I’m sorry for any errors. If you feel comfortable, you can tell me about them, so I can fix it.

Initially, this story was planned to be a 2nd person reader fic, but I turned into a 'character x OFC'. However, don’t worry, dear grasshopper, as everything has been handled as vague as possible so that everything can be read as a reader fic.

If you desire to be tagged use this Google form to inform me, please, so I can keep it organized =)

This series has a playlist on Spotify, you can find it here, or just by searching for ‘the blood you spill in my garden’ in the search bar.

THIS IS A DARK FANFICTION! Be aware that you will find descriptions at least unpleasant for the more sensitive, if these obscure topics are not your thing man, don’t read, seriously DON’T READ!

If you, dear reader, have decided to ignore all warnings about this story, you are on your own, I am not responsible for anything you find. By the way, minors, this is obviously not for you!

𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

@stardustandgunpowder, @liesandghosts, @pruitts-tight-fucking-jeans, @girlwiththenegantattoo, @dreams-madeof-strawberrylemonade, @sterwild, @thegardenarcher, @snapessecretdiary, @judarspeach, @hungrhay, @midnight-mess, @ledzeppelindeanmon, @novywhere @un-kiss-de-breakfast @vivi-venus

If your name is striped, it’s because Tumblr don’t let me tag you for some reason. =(

[yeonjuns-beanie]

Blaphemous Rumours Preview

HEYYY!!!!! i’ve crawled out of my hole. not quite sure how active i’ll be on here but ive got a pretty solid story with this one. i’m almost finished, but i wanted to draft a preview to kind of bring some life to my account again!

You rested your head on his forehead, gripping onto his shoulders for some type of leverage. You bit the corner of your lip in an effort to silence yourself, but your ragged breathing was near that of an incensed bull.

“If you did a better job of controlling yourself yesterday, I may have been fooled by your sheepish nature, but you just couldn’t quell this desire on your own, could you? You went home to seek some satisfaction but you found none, so you came here to plague me instead. Praying that I’d fix this ache within you. Am I right y/n?”

You went to respond but Father Paul’s finger slipped past the barrier of your underwear, leaving you to feel your arousal be spread across your puffy petals. A moan escaped your throat and the way it echoed off the confessional walls into the church made you shrink into his body. A pathetic attempt to hide from your lechery. Father Paul hummed, urging you to speak as he sank two fingers into your honeyed garden. Catching your breath, you found your words.

“Y-yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Father~”

You brought your head up to look at him again, too dazed to even feel like this was real. As his fingers continued to roll themselves against your sweet spot, your breath quickened as your mouth stayed ajar looking for the courage somewhere in yourself to slot your lips against his. As he rolled his finger over your swollen bud, your body decided for you. Your lips danced in a sweat and lust-filled hysteria leaving your brain foggy with desire. You rolled your hips into his hand needing more of him and your sounds slowly increased in volume as you felt a bead of the rosary slide across your center.

~*~

the rest is cumming soon :D

here it is!

© yeonjuns-beanie 2024

[strangererotica]

“Listening to you confess, his identity as priest faded under a cloud of lust, till he was no longer a priest at all but merely a man, a man sitting beside a young woman whose sexuality he sensed could swallow him whole…”

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI ✞​ Father Paul Hill x Virgin!Reader ✞​ Age gap (I lost my virginity at 21, so I imagined Reader to be around that age because it just made sense to me) Blasphemy, some dark fantasies from Father Paul, vaginal fingering, dacryphilia, squirting, all that good stuff. 😊♥️

You’re seated sideways on his lap, legs dangling against his. Thankfully (or perhaps tragically, in terms of sin) Father Paul’s side of the confessional booth is roomy enough to hold the two of you.

What had begun as a tearful admission to your priest has turned into something far different. The rest of Crockett Island, and maybe God himself, would call your actions with Father Paul unholy…yet you can’t remember feeling closer to God than you do right now…

You’d sought Father Paul’s absolution, as you often did, for giving in to sexual urges. The desire to touch yourself, and your battle to resist it, had brought you to the confessional multiple times. What you didn’t know was that your priest, a man of god you’d revered and trusted your entire life, was stroking his cock in the compartment next to you while listening. Each time he heard the door beside him open, he hoped your warm, sweet scent would follow. How he longed for you, this anonymous member of his flock, dreaming of you despite knowing nothing of how you looked. He didn’t need to know.

Your voice alone was beautiful enough to bring him to orgasm, that sweet, angelic voice. Hearing you utter such filthy, sinful words, Father Paul’s pretense of holiness crumbled. An angel’s voice confessing the most sinful secrets stirred a dark pool in Father Paul’s groin that he couldn’t resist. The soft, desperate sound of your whimpers and sniffles as you cried aroused a particularly dark beast inside him, making him wonder, fearfully, if he wanted to hurt you? He imagined those tears running down your cheeks, your eyebrows knit together in discomfort, as he stuffed your throat to capacity. Father Paul wondered if, in all his years of priesthood, you might be the one woman to not only divert his moral compass, but shatter it completely? Hearing you confess, his identity as priest faded under a cloud of lust, till he was no longer a priest at all but merely a man, a man sitting beside a young woman whose sexuality he sensed could swallow him whole. He’d tried to resist you, as he did all temptation. Denying the urges of his flesh had always been a struggle for Father Paul, a battle he waged daily.

For all the admiration of his adoring congregation, Father Paul knew he was far from perfect. He was cracked, flawed, as much as the chipping paint and weathered beams of his church. At the heart of it all, beneath his robes and collar, he was just a man, vulnerable to the same lusts and temptations as any other. And you had proven yourself his most powerful temptation yet. Under the guise of ‘offering full transparency before God,’ Father Paul would subtly coerce you to reveal the darkest depths your fantasies reached, the ones you felt the most guilt for having. As you described straddling a pillow and rubbing your clit against it, Father Paul imagined exactly what you’d look like doing it. Every now and then, you’d hear his breath hitch as he asked you to continue. He’d pump his cock as you recited, through a timid, penitent voice, all the sinful thoughts you’d had about men lately.

“When you say men,” Father Paul had queried. “What sort of men are thinking of?” He’d paused, before adding “what type of man makes you come, in your fantasies?”

“A dominant man, Father,” you’d replied. “A man who’s in full control of me, who doesn’t let me forget it.”

“You want to be punished?” Father Paul asked, and for a split second, it almost sounded like he was propositioning you.

“I…I think I do,” you answered. “Punished for not only touching myself to these fantasies, but for having them in the first place.”

The guilt behind your admission temporarily reached past Father Paul’s own war with his flesh. That tremble of anguish in your voice was familiar to him; he’d heard it on the lips of so many before you. “The scripture tells us all have sinned, (y/n),” Father Paul reminded you. “All of us, without exception.” The priest was silent a moment, his hand pausing temporarily around his erection. “God doesn’t judge you for your desires, and neither do I.”

His voice remained calm and at ease, filled with the gentle authority you loved and trusted him because of. “The ways in which Satan tempts us are manifold,” Father Paul continued. “But it’s the actions we take in response to these temptations that determine our state of grace, (y/n)…” The irony of his words were not lost on the priest beside you. “But in God’s infinite grace, we can take comfort in knowing He will never allow Satan to tempt us beyond that which we are able to resist.”

A tiny seed of hope took root in your heart at hearing Father Paul’s words, the certainty with which he preached. “And from such infinite wisdom,” Father Paul continued. “I believe He has shown me a solution to your conflict. To the struggle which brought you here today.”

Silence settled between you briefly; the only sounds you heard were the soft creaking of wooden booth around you, and the gentle thump of your own heartbeat. “I need you to do something for me, (y/n),” Father Paul said after a moment. “And it may sound unorthodox, but I assure you, if you trust me-if you trust God, and I know you do-.” You nodded behind the screen separating you. “-He will tame these desires, these urges. Step out of the confessional booth, (y/n).”

At first, you assumed you’d misheard Father Paul. He repeated his previous words, with an additional request: that when you exit the booth, you enter it again on the side where he was seated. Your cheeks heated visibly, even in the dim light of the confessional booth. Your priest patiently awaited your response. As the door of your compartment opened, Father Paul tucked his erection back inside his pants. Despite having explicit sexual fantasies, you’d probably never seen a man’s genitals in real life; he didn’t want to frighten you.

The door pulled back with a quiet creak as you opened it. The sight of you made the throbbing ache in Father Paul’s pants even more uncomfortable. Because standing before him was a woman he’d been secretly lusting after for years. God how he’d prayed it would be YOU. Sunlight spilled through the sanctuary windows and rested at the back of your head like a halo, threading your hair in strands of gold. Your cheeks were flushed scarlet, lightly glistening with sweat. A primal energy sizzled from your pores; the air around you smelled like sex. Your priest’s hungry eyes bathed over you, top to bottom, his jaw slack with desire. Of all God’s creations, Father Paul was certain you were the most beautiful. “To God be the glory,” he uttered reverently, lifting his hand to cross himself. He then reached for your hands, taking them in his. Your touch was so small inside Father Paul’s as he guided you into the booth and onto his lap. And that’s how you’d ended up here, seated on top of Father Paul’s thighs. He cups your cheek in his hand and tilts your face to his. The woodsy scent of his aftershave washes over you as he draws your lips to his in a kiss so sweet, so gentle, it betrays the sin of what you’re doing. Being this close to Father Paul feels like a dream, like the answer to a forbidden prayer. Because what you haven’t confessed to Father Paul is that he is the man who occupies your fantasies, the man you imagine when you make yourself come.

You’ve dreamed of this moment, of this closeness to him. You’ve wondered what it would feel like to have his hands on you like this, gliding down your back and around your waist, slipping between your thighs and lingering at their destination: the soft, smooth lips only you have touched before him. Father Paul kisses tenderly along the curve of your neck, your cum slicking his fingertips as he delicately spreads your labia. You buck when his touch reveals your clit. Father Paul’s jaw tightens in restraint when he sees how sensitive you are, how badly you need his fingers there. He feels how swollen your clit is as it flutters against his fingertip and in the darkest part of his mind, he imagines what it would be like to force his fingers inside too quickly, too roughly, till you’re begging him for mercy.

“You’re crying now,” Father Paul observes. His voice is dreamy, detached as he speaks, almost consoling you. “Although, not for the same reason you were before…” His cock stiffens against your ass as you whimper. “…This is different, isn’t it (Y/N)?” Your stomach flutters; it’s the first time you’ve heard your name leave Father Paul’s lips outside of mass. Soft, wet noises coo up from the space Father Paul’s hand is kneading you. “Now,” his warm breath kisses your ear. “This next part may hurt just a little but remember, the path to salvation is rarely painless.”

Father Paul bounces you on his knee just a little, shifting your weight on his lap for better access to your hole. He’s murmuring words of encouragement to you, massaging your clit in wet circles, his eyes never once leaving yours. It’s such a connection, such an intense intimacy, you feel your heart might burst. Father Paul groans behind his teeth, a feral declaration of his own need. The pressure of your wet cunt on his lap has his cock impossibly hard; he knows that if you were to shift just the right way, he’d likely ejaculate into his pants.

“Do not be afraid,” he instructs, his fingers journeying lower. His touch teases at your entrance, preparing you. After a moment of gently massaging your parted lips, Father Paul carefully inserts his index finger just inside you. The sensation of being entered is so new, so unusual. You’ve only ever rubbed your clit when masturbating, and Father Paul’s hands are so much bigger than yours. He glides his finger further, pausing when you inhale sharply at the sting. “Shh, it’s alright,” your priest consoles you, a kind smile on his face. “I’m right here with you; you’re doing so well…” He massages his finger inside you in a small circular motion, easing your walls apart with the reverence of a man opening Heaven’s gate. The stinging is replaced by a dull ache, one you recognize from touching yourself, but more intense this time. Father Paul feels it too, feels your still-unexplored walls clench lightly around his finger. God how he’d love to bury his cock inside your tight cunt all at once, to split you open on him and him alone, stealing that treasure from any other man that would follow him. He’s making a mess of his slacks, precum leaking into the fabric and smeared by your ass wiggling on top of him.

You can’t keep still, despite Father Paul’s requests that you do. It all feels too good, too new, and you bury your face in his shoulder, weeping softly. Your cunt squeezes rhythmically around Father Paul’s fingers; he uses his other hand to guide your face to look at him, asking “are you going to come for me, (y/n)?” The look in your glossy, tear-filled eyes confirms what he already knows: you’re coming right now.

Breathy grunts mixed with sharp whines of pleasure spill from your lips as you buck on Father Paul’s hand. He clasps his other hand at the back of your head, fingers threading your hair in a gentle grip. The sounds of your climax pour from the confessional booth and through the sanctuary, reverberating off the old walls of the empty church. Father Paul’s tip leaks with need as he listens to your cries, their song more beautiful than any hymn or scripture ever could be.

You kick into the sides of the confessional booth, the old wood creaking in protest. Even if you were aware of the movements your body is making, you wouldn’t be able to stop them. And your priest wouldn’t want you to. His warm cheek is pressed to yours, soothing words of encouragement leaving his lips against your ear. Your scent is everywhere, the warm musk of your pussy dripping down his pants as he fingers you. The soft floral scent of your shampoo fills Father Paul’s nose where he’s buried his face against your hair, which is still slightly damp from this morning’s shower. A burst of liquid gushes around Father’s Paul’s hand, trickling down your thighs and saturating his pants. He comes immediately when the warmth of your climax seeps through his boxers and onto his cock. How many nights has your priest spent alone, in the privacy of the rectory, making himself come to the thought of this very moment? How many nights has he asked forgiveness from God for touching himself yet again to thoughts of you, a woman whose identity he could only guess at before today?

Father Paul’s cum mixes with yours as you become pliant, your arms wrapped around his neck going slack. He carefully removes his hand from between your legs, not wanting to overstimulate you. The whole point of this demonstration was to quell the urges inside you by relieving them. If he were to accidentally stir even more lust within you, well, what kind of priest would that make him?

As the high of your climax fades, the reality of all that’s occurred sinks your heart like a weight. “Bless me, Father,” you whimper into his chest, hiding your face in shame. “For I have sinned-.”

“No, (y/n),” Father Paul interjects. “You haven’t.” The authority in his voice tells you he means it. “You came to me in honesty, with a pure heart. Seeking counsel from God and in His wisdom, He revealed an answer to your prayers.” His voice is quiet yet powerful, the way you hear him speak to the congregation every Sunday. “God tells us we are the Body of Christ, to act as His hands and feet,” Father Paul continues. “He used me today, to help you. There is no sin in anything you’ve done here.”

As your absorb Father Paul’s words, the weight of your conscience lifts and you realize what a mess you’ve made all over his lap. “I’m sorry I got you wet,” you apologize, to which the priest chuckles, his arms tightening around you. “Don’t be,” he insists. “Think of it like a baptism.” ✞​

[radawaycunt]

Hellooo! I absolutely adore your writing. It hits me in the chest 😮‍💨. It’s beautifully descriptive and sensual, and it’s unique. It’s not like majority of fanfic out there. Very refreshing for me im glad i found your page :)) anyway I was wondering if you would do a Monsignor Pruitt x Reader smut where Bev Keane walks in on them bc she uses her key to Monsignor’s cabin. 🤭 Then reader and Pruitt kill her when she starts lecturing them or something. It’s up to you :).

Hiiii!!! Omg thank you soooo much im sobbing 😭😭😭 this means the entire world to me!!!❤️ ❤️❤️

I'm gonna have to make this one extra saucccyyyyyy.

———

John hadn't noticed her at first. He was deep in the throes of desire, absorbed by the sight of your form draped across his lap. One hand on the swell of your ass, the other cupping your aching, desperately needy cunt.

You noticed, though.

It should have been more mortifying to have her catch you like this, holding his rosary in your teeth. One strike, one bead. You better keep count, or else I’ll have to start over.

“M-Monsignor!” She gasped, but her voice was like a harpy’s shriek in your ears — a terribly unwelcome intrusion. “What in Heaven’s name is going on!?”

John finally looked at her, but he was beyond shyness or modesty. His eyes didn’t even seem like his own. He curled his lip in annoyance, the flash of his teeth a silent warning for her to stay back.

“We’re busy, as you well see,” he said. “Leave your keys and go. We’ll discuss your continuous intrusions of my privacy later.”

“B-but this is— and what about he—”

“Now, Beverly. I’ve got no patience for this impertinence.”

She hesitated but stood her ground, lips pursing. “Monsignor, I’m afraid I must insist that—”

“If you don’t leave right now, I’m gonna let him rip your throat out,” you said, frustration turning to rage. “God knows how much we’d both like that.”

Blanching, completely aghast, she tossed the keys on the ground and slammed the door in her haste. You could barely relax before tensing once more, feeling John’s hands return to you.

“Don’t worry, I’ll still deal with it later,” he murmured, his voice raspy and low and not entirely human. “As for you, well… it seems I’ve lost my count.”

———-

[proverbsss]

reading you right (father paul hill/john pruitt x reader) -nsfw

Father Paul Hill, Midnight Mass

prompt(s): "Me. You. Bed. Now." [from this post]

[Pt. 2 Out Now!! Linked Here :)]

anon: I had a normal amount of fun writing this, hope you enjoy :) i wanna do a pt. 2 because ofc i do,, honestly I got a lil hot n bothered lmao

notifs: paul hill is a tease!! ; shoe-grinding ; fluffy smut ; hierophilia ; you're father paul's dirty little secret ; denial ; reader begging ; reader's down HORRENDOUS ; terms used: good girl, slutty thing, pet

"You've been lying there moaning for ten minutes." Father Paul chuckles, trying to focus on his reading.

You feel your leg twitch as you lay on your stomach, looking a bit dazed across the room. A giggle escapes you. In your mind's eye a constant stream of images plays- every dirty thing you’ve done with Father Paul in the last 48 hours, a rare weekend’s reprieve from prying Beverly Keane, sitting bedside with her sister or aunt or who-the-hell cares on the mainland. It was too easy to sneak into the house behind St. Patrick’s, and too goddamn pleasurable to leave after the first night. A delightful ease of domesticity has settled over the two of you. And you’re even more whipped for the Father than you were when this whole messy arrangement began.

"I can't help it-"

"It's understandable to whine like a whore while I'm still inside you, but cooing like that when I'm not even touching you is a little ridiculous." Smug, he licks his finger and turns a page. "A man's ego can only grow so big."

“What are you reading?” you ask, completely uninterested, and your voice betrays it. You might enjoy a good book now and again, but something worlds more tempting is sitting before you. In his jeans and tee shirt, only his glossy ankle boots remaining, Paul is a rare sight out of uniform, like something sent from heaven. Or Hell. Both, somehow.

“You asked me that fifteen minutes ago. Or did you forget already?” He shoots you a disapproving, but playful look. He can hardly resist you more than you can him. Hardly. There is that last smidgeon of reserve that Paul prides himself on. He can’t be bothered to think of you as a sin, because life’s become far, far more complicated in the last few months than any one man can hold in his head, and because it feels like paradise to touch you.

Caught in your inattention, you abandon the ruse of asking about his book. "You fucked me too good...." You whine.

"You're going to complain about it?" He laughs at you.

"You're laughing at me." 

"Of course I'm laughing at you," he admonishes. Not to be taken in by your wiles, Paul's eyes trace the paragraph he's started unsuccessfully three times.

"You whine before I fuck you, you whine while I fuck you, and you whine after I've fucked you. You're silly."

The vision renews itself in your mind of last night creeping around in here, your excitement waiting in the antechamber of St. Patrick’s late at night, Paul sneaking up on you in the dark and taking you in that muggy little den where they keep the wine and spare things. You want him to grunt against your ear like that again, to fuck you like he needs you in order to breathe.

"I'm not silly!" You gasp out. He hears the difference in your voice and scans your body with his eyes. Grinning. He licks his bottom lip and pretends the fool. “I want it, please, I want it, I don’t caaaare…” Your caterwauling would be annoying if it wasn’t so bone-deep genuine. Paul could probably keep you here forever as a pet, a secret from innocuous parishioners, visitors from all walks of life, and you’d be satisfied as long as he used you from time to time. Fed you.

“Oh, that’s undignified.” He smiles, turns the page and hopes he can pick up without the aid of the passage his mind simply refused to retain.

You get on all fours and start to crawl over to him. You tug on the leg of his jeans, utterly debased.

“You’re insatiable, you know that?” his tongue flicks and flutters around the word in a musical way that you know you could find better uses for. You nod. His voice. He could guide you anywhere with it. To make things worse, he imitates you. The facsimile of your lust in his voice is enough to make you jump him. “‘Father, I can't focus on my book....Father, please fuck me with your fingers, I can't without it, I need it...I told you pack things to stay because I imagined I’d be enjoying some downtime other than between my sheets.'"

You bite your lip, the adoring way you look up at him unfairly reminiscent of Biblical portraiture, the Madonna (too ineffably ironic), Saint Lucia, devout, suppliant little succubi. Paul’s heart breaks a little, and his cock twitches with interest, which he endeavors to suppress. 

“What’s that look for, child?” He plays up the religious bent of your dynamic, something that presses inexpressibly sinful and delicious buttons in your dirty mind. 

"I do need you."

You pout. Your words with Paul repeating them was enough to rev your proverbial engine. You shift just the littlest bit, yet the friction of the floor underneath you is enough to tease out a whimper. Not totally on purpose, but not totally by accident. John chuckles again. 

“Present tense?” He pretends to turn a page, but he’s not reading a damn thing now.

"I need you all the time you're not in me.” It’s filthy, but it feels true in these moments when all the thoughts are leaving your head empty. 

He smiles one of his private smiles. His eyelids crinkle as he reaches up to scratch his cheek. "Let's not be pornographic, huh?"

"I wanna fuck again..."

"What else is new?"

"You've ruined me." He looks at you then like you’re something to eat. The book is shut and put down. You have your beloved hot priest’s attention. His eyes ask, smoldering, what will you do now you have it?

“You have my boot. Or aren’t you smart enough to get yourself off.” His tone shifts and a shadowy, serious dominance settles in his countenance. Every behavior, every quirk of his expression, curve of his smile, owns and owns you. He may plead and beg to bury his head between your thighs from time to time, on one occasion he may have shown up at your door, his satchel a deceptive front for rope and ribbon, which you were to restrain and blindfold him with. Life’s too short for dynamics that don’t shift and change like the tides. But in this moment, this energy, you are his. And he intends to impress that upon you.

You gape at him just a moment, heady lust clouding your already addled brain. Then slowly, carefully, you adjust your position, grab the upper part of Paul’s calf, and hoist your lower body up onto his shoe, your pelvic bone bumping his shin. Any hesitations or embarrassment that linger in you drown in the deeper, sweeter excitement of feeling some real friction as you roll your hips. Oh. God.

This might be the senseless, reckless need talking, but fuck. Just the sensation of the toe of his shoe right between your thighs, exactly where you need it, makes you feel a little bit crazy. You look up at him in awe, and thank God he’s not picked up his book again but instead is sitting comfortably, his gaze dropped low to watch you, his groin thrusting the tiniest bit forward at nothing, too much nothing. He groans, and you chase your pleasure like a thing possessed.

Words slip out of your mouth without a shred of logic behind them, and Paul tells you to repeat yourself. He bites his bottom lip as he watches you. “Hello? Still a brain in there?"

“I said you make me so sensitive,” you mumble, finding a new groove in the contour of his shoe, where it meets his ankle, and leaning on his knee, shaking, groping for his thighs, all involuntarily. Your dripping, dripping on his shoe, and the thought of how uncivilized that is makes Paul bite his fist.

"Uh huh, so it's all my fault, then."

"Yes..."

"Yes, 'what'?"

"Yes it's all your fault, Father."

“It’s my fault you’re going to cum on my shoe?”

You whine again. Your soul’s leaving your body, want spreads through every inch of your body, intense and blinding, high, so high.

“C’n I cum, please, can I cum?” You pant, feeling his hands wrap around yours, warm and loving. 

“Look at me, pet.” He orders. You obey. His irises envelop you. You steady yours on them, trying to get a grip, breath filling your belly and leaving your parted lips in rapid gasps. “No.”

Your brows shoot up in surprise. Disappointment isn’t the word for it, desire lets itself out as a sound. You slow down, somewhere in a high place you hear him say:

“Stop grinding, slutty thing. Your Father told you ‘no.’”

You sink against him, laying your head on one of his thighs. He kisses the top of your head, and murmurs, “Good girl. Good girl, good.”

Fireworks are setting off under your skin, your thighs are trembling, every bit of you is sticky. “That wasn’t easy, I bet.” He says, voice condescending and sweet, but every bit as needy as you are. You make another noise in response. 

“I’m not done with you, you know,” he takes your chin into one of his hands, lifts your head. He kisses you again, with a fierceness that just sharpens your feeling. “I’m not even close to done with you.” He rests his in your neck, kisses you once, twice, up your jaw, on your cheeks, the ear he can reach. He bites your earlobe and almost hisses, “Me. You. Bed. Now.”

[Pt. 2 Out Now!! Linked Here :)]

I now have a ko-fi! Consider checking it out to support my addiction to cold brew coffee, or commission something special all your own 🖊️

[theelfmaid]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Midnight Mass (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt/Original Female Character(s), Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt/Reader, Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt/You, Mildred Gunning/Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt, Sheriff Hassan (Midnight Mass)/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt, Sheriff Hassan (Midnight Mass), Riley Flynn, Leeza Scarborough, Beverly Keane, Erin Greene (Midnight Mass), Mildred Gunning Additional Tags: POV Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt, Witch - Freeform, Witch and Priest, Goth - Freeform, Horror, Drama & Romance, Breaking Celibacy Vows, Death, Sensuality, Sex, Bottom Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt, hot priest, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Human/Vampire Relationship, Magic, Falling In Love Summary:

In a peaceful and secluded town, Father Paul Hill arrives as the new priest. He meets Jane, the owner of the café "Mystic Brews." Despite their differences, a special connection forms, unleashing an unexpected romance filled with challenges and mysteries.

[deathrecs]

there’s just something so perfect about mixing poetic and flowing prose when writing about religion or religious characters. weaving in metaphors to have double meanings that fit so wonderfully.

i am in absolute awe of this, honestly. i feel like writers who create for midnight mass, more specifically for father paul, have this absolutely beautiful and gut wrenching writing style that fits his character well.

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐋, 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐃

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✯ Father Paul Hill x Fem!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ✯ 2925

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 ✯ taboo au + "Everything I've done...every atrocity, it's been for you."

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ✯ okay, I haven't exactly finished a piece in a good while. so this one is sort of serving as a warm-up and if it's terrible (which I have a good feeling it is lmao), I'm gonna have to ask y'all to be gentle on me. I've loved this man for a while now and this is sort of experimental. tl;dr: I am a sensitive little baby right now so treat me as such.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ smut (minors, do not interact), obviously a pretty massive gap in both age and power, depictions of blood and death, could be read as dub con at first (if you squint really hard) but firmly lands on the side of full con, a lot of religious mumbo jumbo (lmao let's ignore the fact that I know almost nothing about Catholicism <3), so much blasphemy, oral (female receiving), a twinge of sub!Paul, and that's all I can think of!! let me know if more is needed!!

(mdni banner template credit goes to @cafekitsune!!)

Behind closed eyelids, all you saw was darkness. And through that darkness came white hot agony. It was practically blinding as it shot up your spine before detonating in your brain. Those little fragments of pain speckled across the inside of your skull.

You wanted to scream, hurl, cry, something. Anything to physically release the intense pain assaulted your nerves. But you wouldn't be granted that mercy. No.

For now, your suffering was confined to this unending darkness. For now, you waited in the void of your own being for the tragedy to subside.

For weeks you anxiously waited for the return of Monsignor Pruitt from his mission trip. Though spending your afternoons looking after the dementia ridden clergyman wasn't exactly your idea of a good time, it was far better than slumming it with Beverly Keane. After all, you were 99% sure that whatever Bev heard managed to make its way all around the island.

Crockett Island was a melting pot of rumors. By now you'd heard the stories; the mythology of the island's residents had woven together to form a complex tapestry. And the longer you stayed, the more you realized how little you desired to be a part of it all.

But you didn't have a choice. Whether you liked it or not, Crockett's citizens had already spun your narrative.

Everyone knew how your mother had taken you away from the island at the ripe age of five years old; saving you the heartache of being raised by an alcoholic father. Part of you had always been grateful for it despite how tough it had been being raised by a single mother who hardly had anything to her name. Yet you couldn't help the guilt that poured into your lungs like cement whenever someone mentioned how much your father had suffered before he died.

Because that was the only way you would've gone back to the island that lived in the shadows of your memory: death. And upon meeting Monsignor Pruitt, it became clear that death would also be the only way you'd want to leave.

The relationship that had bloomed between you and him was a humble one. He'd offered to talk you through your grief which you'd promptly denied. Though you attended services, you weren't much for religion and you weren't about to embrace it fresh off of the death of a father who was practically a stranger. It felt disingenuous.

Finding God is reserved for real tragedies, right?

You'd asked the question like it was a joke.

Monsignor Pruitt had merely tilted his head before replying in that lilting, raspy voice of his: Depends on what you think qualifies as a tragedy.

With a quick eye roll, you'd written the answer off as one of those unbalanced moments of his. Over the course of a few months, you'd become well acquainted with them. Going to services and keeping him company was something to do. Something other than rifling through decades of your father's clutter and further entangling yourself with the community. Something other than being reminded of your own wasted potential.

Strangely, the monsignor felt less like an all seeing eye and more like...a friend. And now, faced with his "temporary" replacement, you were finally certain of what qualified as a tragedy to you.

From the moment Father Paul had addressed the church, you were unsettled. He may have been perfectly kind and personable enough, but his mannerisms edged on the uncanny valley. It was the way he spoke during sermons and how that tone rarely changed during one-on-one conversations. Though he couldn't have been older than thirty, he often held himself as if he'd been around the block more times than anyone could fathom. It was easy to chalk it up to his nature. Of course the man of God had an eerie way of making you feel like a puny mortal.

But Monsignor Pruitt had never made you feel like that. You couldn't brush the thought of the old man out of your mind.

Every time Father Paul attempted to placate your worries, it only pushed you deeper into the depths of distrust. Somehow you just knew he was lying.

And for all of Father Paul's wisdom and mystique, he wasn't a good liar. His tone would shift as he glossed over your concerns with a quick reassurance that Monsignor Pruitt was recovering just fine on the mainland. When you felt brave enough to press him for more, he'd wring his hands or squeeze them into fists. Almost as if he had to physically stop himself from reprimanding you. After all, who were you to question him?

When your eyes finally opened, your vision was overwhelmed by the light. Softly, slowly, the light haloed around the head of a figure that carefully came into view. As your sight sharpened, you quickly realized who stood over you. 

The man you held the most wariness for was kneeling over you. His long face wrought with concern, the alarm bells were already blaring in your muddled mind. But as much as you tried to force the air from your lungs to scream, you could only let out a pathetic, strangled squeak.

That was when he spoke. His voice shook with what sounded like uncertainty, "You mustn't overexert yourself. You're still coming back. But don't worry, you'll be yourself again soon. All in due time."

No matter how much you tried to speak, to move, neither of the actions came to you. All you could do is watch as Father Paul pulled your paralyzed body into his arms and cradled you. And as the potency of your helplessness settled in, you vaguely felt tears prick at your waterline. 

Normally, you would've rather died than allowing yourself to cry in front of someone, especially in front of the father. This time you couldn't control the few tears that slid freely down your cheeks, landing on the father's hand where he gripped your still aching shoulder.

He noticed them immediately and let you out of his grasp long enough to stare into your glossy eyes.

You couldn't quite decipher the intent behind the softness of his gaze. But somehow it was enough to allow the nausea that had slowly been rising in your chest to subside.

Father Paul raised a hand to cup your face. His thumb carefully stroked your cheek, sweeping away the wet trails left by your despair. And whether it was from your sensitivity or the intimacy of the act, you didn't know. But your skin shivered. 

As you gradually regained the feeling in your body, you realized that the first thing you felt after the pain was him. The inherent warmth of his embrace. And in some fucked up way, it was comforting. Feeling like prey, you blinked back the rest of your tears and allowed yourself to soak up as much of him as you could; anything to get rid of the dull pain that plagued your nerves.

You noticed there were tears brimming his own eyes as he smiled softly. "There, you mustn't cry. You've been so brave and in return you've been blessed."

It was then that you began to regain enough cognizance to question what was happening.

Flashes of memory played each time you blinked.

That damned question had been on the tip of your tongue again.

So you found him in the recreational center. There he’d been, on his knees, praying fervently.

Hopefully you're praying for the monsignor's return.

You regretted the words almost as soon as you'd said them. Because as soon as Paul turned, he gave you that dark look that rarely graced his features. This time he hadn't even tried to hide it with his usual discretion.

He merely stared right past you with his eyes wide and pleading. 

You hadn't had the chance to see the thing that attacked you fully. But you felt its teeth at your neck. You felt your own blood dripping from your neck in such a thick stream that the dizziness came almost as soon as you hit the ground. You felt the rough, pale skin of the creature as it smothered you, greedily devouring every ounce of your life.

Of course you were surprised to find yourself lying on the sheets of Paul's bed in his modest home, but that shock was the least of your worries. How were you still alive?

He told his tale as your body mended itself. You didn't know how much time passed. All you knew is that you were enraptured with the sticky sense of dread that was growing in your stomach as he spoke.

You were acutely aware of just how much it sounded like a sermon. How, whether he was aware of it or not, he was pulling out every stop in the preacher's handbook to try and convince you. And if he didn’t sound so convinced himself, you would swear this was deliberate manipulation. But nothing else could possibly explain his youthful appearance and all that he knew. He could recite your history right back to you despite the fact that you’d never once trusted him nearly enough to give it. Only the monsignor knew your deepest fears and your darkest secrets. But this wasn’t your monsignor.

Father Paul was some new beast; an amalgamation of the sweet old man you’d once known, the deceptive preacher who took his place, and some other supernatural force that you couldn’t quite name.

Though you’d only caught half a glimpse of the creature, you attempted to express your terror. That only spurred him on further as he contended that when an angel of the Lord appeared to the shepherds upon the birth of Jesus, it deliberately told them to not be afraid.

But none of that explained himself. None of it allowed you to comprehend how Monsignor Pruitt could've shed decades of life; how the old man could now stand there, blood drying on the bottom half of his face, and look at you as if you were something he could have.

You didn't have to ask. You knew by then that when the creature had had its fill of your blood, Father Paul had pulled the scraps of you away for himself. The thought hit you dangerously and made something deep inside you rumble. Like a natural disaster, this had unearthed a litany of complications that you never could’ve anticipated.

“We are at a crossroads," Father Paul said gently before letting his conviction surge again, “Now, you once said that finding God was reserved for those experiencing tragedy, correct?”

You nodded sagely. 

Father Paul grasped your trembling hands in his own, “Have you not experienced one of life’s greatest tragedies? The ending of it? You fell right over the edge of life and before the waters of death could claim you, He brought you back. Hebrought us together.”

You shook your head in defiance.

“This was meant to happen. This was part of His plan, for our faiths — our lives — to be renewed.”

With your throat still stiff and dry, you croaked angrily, “There was nothing wrong with my life! There was nothing that needed to supposedly be renewed!” 

He raised his voice suddenly, “Why did you come to this island?”

“Because my father died.”

“A father who was no better than a stranger to you,” he recalled your own words quickly. If the monsignor had been wise, Father Paul was as sharp as a knife, taking his jabs at you with complete accuracy. “You didn’t have to come here. You didn't have to make friends with a crazy old man. By the grace of God, you were led here. You were led here so you could be shown this truth; this gift. And you are denying this gift."

You had to admit that your draw to Crockett had been strange. At first you'd attested it to some childhood curiosity. But you'd deliberately put off taking care of your father's run down property, instead opting to spend time walking in the light of Pruitt. In truth, his companionship had been a breath of fresh air. 

Though the people of Crockett adored him, it was always tinged with pity. You'd never pitied him; only admired him for his wisdom and his resilience. 

Paul's expression softened as he held your face in his hands. "Everything I've done...every atrocity, it's been for you." That was when you saw the edges of his wisdom begin to lift and fall away like a second skin he'd crafted over his own vulnerability.

Underneath it...he was simply a man. A man who wanted to save you. 

“Let me give you more. Let me show you how you can trust me," he whispered.

The first kiss inspired an odd mix of emotions in your chest. There was the coppery tang of dried blood on your tongue, strong enough that it took everything in you not to flinch away from his hold on you. But you remembered his reference to the angel and the shepherds.

Do not be afraid.

So you continued, deepening the kiss with a turn of your head. And for all of the worldly experiences Paul had, you became acutely aware that this sort of connection was not among them.

Whether there'd been any true romantic feelings for the aging monsignor, you couldn't quite say. But your fondness of him had transferred to the man before you. Granted, the transfer wasn't smooth, but it was there nonetheless. Somehow it was stronger than ever as he took your hand and brought it to his lips. The kiss he pressed against your palm was slightly tacky with your own half dried blood still lingering.

You brushed a lock of his wavy, dark hair back so you could properly meet his gaze. With the shroud of time having fallen away from his features you could see just how handsome the man was. It was a hesitant sort of attractiveness; as if the banner of God had prevented him from seeing his full potential.

He'd fed on your life and made himself new. And the thought of your monsignor living on in that small way...all because of you? The electric twinges that sparked in your chest were almost too much to bear.

Without fear you devoured him in another kiss. Quickly the mood turned from reverent to ravenous as Paul attempted to keep up with your fervency.

He couldn't remember the last time sin had overpowered his sense of morality. Because he knew in the traditional sense, this was pure sin. No matter how wrong he believed it might have been to let his hands roam your figure, in his bones it was a temptation that finally felt correct. There was none of that hesitance or shame or fear that he'd felt before. The pendulum had shifted on morality and he knew exactly what he needed to do.

Hardly a moment was spared as he tore into the long skirt and the underwear that had kept you modest for far too long. Perfect beauty like this had to be cherished.

So that is what he did. Planted firmly between your legs, he stared up at you with eyes that gently pleaded for permission; for salvation. With your own half lidded eyes, you nodded before spreading yourself open for him.

Like a flower, you bloomed beautifully and Paul groaned at the sight. He could practically feel the thrumming pulse before him as it waited to indulge him. His hot breath teased you and made sparks dance right beneath the surface of your skin. Still you stayed in place, patiently allowing him time to drink in the sight of your folds already puffing and glistening with slick.

Quietly, you heard him mumble something that you only caught the tail end of.

“–forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

It wasn't too long after that when his tongue found a home in that tight, warm crevice. Your hand knitted itself into his dark hair as you searched for something to ground yourself from the overpowering sensation. Something about this new condition of yours heightened every aspect of pleasure.

If you were in your right mind, it would make sense logically considering you'd felt the unbearable pain of your spine shattering and being put back together again. But this was overwhelming in the entirely opposite direction.

You experienced the pleasure on a cellular level as your climax rushed through your limbs. You seemed to feel the vibrancy of every emotion and atom that comprised your being. Nothing was spared from the glory of this blessing. Not your spasming cunt as it contracted around Paul's blessed tongue. Not your heart that was firmly on the track of restoration. And not your mind as it all at once fell apart in time with your quivering thighs. Blood pulsing, every single one of your pores felt more alive than ever as you finally embraced the higher power that had been waiting for you in the shadows all along.

At that moment, you believed it all. From the Angel to Father Paul's divine transformation to the euphoric paradise that enveloped your entire being...it was all real. And most of all, it was all yours. Thanks to the father's grace and generosity, you would create paradise with him. And that seemed possible. After all, with his head between your thighs, you’d both already created one.

[cor-obscenum]

Fanfiction masterlist

I'm a nameless Sister of Sin who just loves the human heart and the way it expresses emotions when words can't... So I write fanfiction about the many inhabitants of the Ministry and the little jewels that beat inside their chests.

Minors, please do not interact, for your own good. Yes, I know not all of my fics are 18+, but be aware that this is a kink blog intended for adults.

Solo Ascolta il Mio Cuore

Pairing: any Papa Emeritus x GN reader

Summary: noticing you've had a bad day, Papa comforts you the best way he knows.

Contents: SFW, hurt/comfort, cuddling, ear stething

Behind the Grucifix | Part 1 | Part 2 |

Pairing: Cardinal Copia x GN reader

Summary: you and the Cardinal want to have some fun, but it's hard to do it in the hallways of the Ministry. Maybe if you go somewhere more private...

Contents: NSFW, making out, ear stething, body worship (M receiving), massages, oral sex (M receiving)

The Kiss of Life

Pairing: Papa III x GN reader

Summary: grieving the death of your beloved Papa, you decide on a desperate measure: you will try to resuscitate him. But will it work?

Contents: SFW, magic rituals, a little angst, cardiopulmonary resuscitation, stething

A Man's Heart

Pairing: Papa IV x GN reader

Summary: Copia has accepted that his life is going to end soon. But you are struggling to accept it.

Contents: SFW, mention of character death, angst, hurt/comfort, ear stething

Your Hand Against Mine

Pairing: Swiss x Dewdrop

Summary: Swiss and Dew have feelings for each other, but don't know how to confess them. Until one night, when Swiss notices something interesting about the guitarist.

Contents: SFW, friends to lovers, hand kink, feeling heartbeats

Breathe With Me

Pairing: Papa III x male reader

Summary: noticing you're having a panic attack, Terzo comforts you the way you love to be comforted.

Contents: SFW, panic attacks, hurt/comfort, hugging, ear stething

You can always reach me

Pairing: Frater Imperator x GN reader

Summary: you admit it, you have a problem: you push people away when you feel like they're abandoning you. But then you miss them.

Contents: SFW, hurt/comfort, abandonment issues, Copia being a romantic charmer

There will be no tenderness

Pairing: Swiss x Aurora

Summary: Swiss wants to try something different in the bedroom with Aurora. More specifically, he wants her to torture his heart.

Contents: NSFW, dark cardiophilia, femdom Aurora, latex kink, medical kink, stething, quintessence use, heart arrhythmias

I'll violate you (in the most sensual way)

Pairing: Terzo x reader

Summary: you're a virgin, he's experienced. You're just a Sibling of Sin, he's Papa. And both of you are EAGER to open your arms and drown in lust.

Contents: NSFW, smut, loss of virginity, nipple play, body worship (mutual), oral sex (reader receiving), PIV sex, aftercare, pillow talk, love confessions, ear stething

Dirty little secret

Pairing: Dewdrop x Rain

Summary: Dew finds Rain's stethoscope on his suitcase. Rain freaks out.

Contents: SFW, stething, platonic stething

I'll save you

Pairing: Papa V Perpetua x reader

Summary: it seemed like a normal day performing a ritual at the Ministry, until you started feeling very unwell. Who was there to save you?

Contents: SFW, mild whump, reader has hypothermia, cuddling, ear stething

Step-Papas

Pairing: none

Summary: after retirement, the Papas decide to fill their time caring for some of the most vulnerable members of the Clergy: ghoul kits.

Contents: SFW, fluff, the Papas being surrogate dads to kits

John 13:23

Pairing: Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt x Mildred Gunning

Summary: The world is ending - at least in Crockett Island. But Mildred wants answers, and she decides to confront the man she's once loved.

Contents: SFW, rated T, fluff and angst, Biblical history, cuddling, ear stething

Gluttony

Pairing : Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt x reader

Summary: you pay a visit to your beloved priest after he goes out hunting only to find out he has... Overindulged. You decide to help with that.

Contents: NSFW, smut, belly kink, feeding kink, belly rubs, oral sex (M receiving), hand jobs, ear stething