#father Paul hill x oc

[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. =(

[theredofoctober]

Midnight Mass DARK AU Fic— GOD HAS MANY HANDS

Cross posted from AO3

Pairing: Dark!Father Paul Hill x OC

Synopsis: A nun moves to Crockett Island for mysterious reasons. Father Paul succumbs to new and wicked whims

TW/CW: non con, religious trauma, blood

Father Paul is a darker, somewhat OOC version of himself, though as close to Hamish's portrayal as I could make him in those parameters

Read beneath the cut

-

The nun had been avoiding Father Paul Hill since she'd first arrived from the mainland, sequestered, a cloister of one, in a cottage at the furthest edge of Crockett Island.

How she loved that house, in its cultivated solitude. Sometimes, when the nun played hymns on the piano over the draughts that jimmied the windows at night, she imagined herself the sole living person in existence, a single pulse—a single breath—in the dark.

But it wasn't enough; her thoughts were always with her, constant tenants that had followed her for thirty miles across open water, and would follow her under the earth, in time. As a good Catholic, the nun was meant to believe in the washing away of one's sins by God's will, that to repent was to be reborn.

Yet she had repented, and it only felt like running away.

The nun left her new home very little, only to collect her scant groceries from the single store, or as deliveries from the mainland, at the port. Still she hadn't entered the church, although it—the Lord's voice—called to her often, its song undulating through her in a constant wave. Yet the thought of the many eyes and whispering mouths attending each sermon repelled her with a strength she'd felt only at the precipice of night terrors— no, she couldn't go there. Not yet.

And no matter: the nun had her own fashions of private worship, leftovers from the convent of St. Aurelia. She could worship in her home, for now, and remain devout.

Father Paul, the priest on the island, did not seem to agree. Several times the nun had bumped into him whilst running errands, a surprisingly youthful figure in blue jeans and tousled hair, ignorant, it seemed, of his own dark good looks. He'd struck her as both quaintly awkward and charismatic, an artful combination that had likely won over the congregation as much as outward appearances.

The man seemed to spring up from grassy hillocks and rugged shoreline like a Shakespearian ghost, ever-ready with a warm greeting and, inevitably, a gentle enquiry as to when the nun would be attending mass. Did he know that she was coming, or was it mere chance that brought them together, again and again? God's will, Father Paul would likely declare, but the nun was less certain of that.

She'd noticed a particular darkness in the priest's eyes, a furtive stirring of old, untended pain, and new.

The priest had suffered in his life; that, or he was hiding something. The nun had no interest in exposing herself to such volatility, intriguing a man though life's ills had forged. She'd vowed to engage nothing and no-one that might disrupt her peace, and thus she'd nodded her way through every interaction, eyes lowered, thrumming desperately for some gap in the conversation to take her leave.

After that came the phonecalls. Most, after the first, went unanswered; the nun got into the habit of disconnecting the line when she began her day's work—the editing of religious texts for publication—and considered having the telephone uninstalled altogether when she was disturbed in the evening, as well.

It was a blessing that the nun rarely dreamed, for she was sure that the priest would find his way there, too, as he had her daily ruminations.

Thought after thought came in their torrents, all of Father Paul, all of him. He coiled inside her as if with many fingers, many hands opening every hole she had, making them his possessions. The image was sin and sickness, boiling at the perimeters of her mind, irrepressible. But the nun would repress it, she told herself, she would not fold under the fancied urgings of a man that didn't know her.

And he did not know her, no matter what he'd heard from the mouths of gossips, nor from enquiries with the tight-lipped secretaries of St. Aurelia, who would give not an inch, holding grimly to self-preserving discretion.

A few days after the priest's calls ceased there came a knock at the door, an imperious rap that seemed to invite itself in. Bev Keene, the unofficial church administrator, stood about the house for half an hour, wrinkling her nose at the living room decor, and smiling blandly over a cup of tea.

"I don't believe we've seen your face at Mass yet, Sister. Honestly, the whole flock has been expecting you. You don't want to disappoint them, do you? They're all so eager to welcome you to the congregation. Following God's own lessons, after all. 'The Lord watches over the sojourners; he upholds the widow and the fatherless, but the way of the wicked he brings to ruin'— Psalm 146:9'. Words to think on."

There was a clammy sense of shame in the air around Beverly, a bitterness she herself seemed indifferent to. One couldn't stand beside her and not feel unclean, riddled with the squirming discomfort of a child pulled up before their teacher. The nun made quiet attempts to usher the woman from the house, which Bev coolly evaded.

"You do know Father Paul has been trying to flag you down? You'd do well to visit the man. His hands are very full at the moment and he's still so keen to make time for you!"

Too much time, the nun thought, but she felt so harassed that it occured to her that if she acquiesced just once this campaign of polite coercion might come to an end.

So it was that she left her house, one night, and made the long walk to the church, turning around on herself several times as her resolve wavered, then ultimately trudging on.

The air was pale with silence, unstirred but for the crunch of the nun's sensible shoes on unturned stones, her feathered breathing. How easily the walking put her out of breath; perhaps it was the incessant choir of nerves she felt, not the journey, that so tired her.

The wind tugged, insistent, at the nun's veil, and she heard, on that breeze, a strange, sharp cry from far off. A scream, or the shriek of an owl— neither were so savage as this noise, as it seemed to her, a yell of killing triumph.

The nun drew a cross against the dark. Likely it had been nothing, but she'd always feared the unpredictability of nature, the omen of it. There was a certain paganism to the Catholic faith that nurtured superstition, and with the nun's anxieties already at their static heights, her walk took on the feeling of folk horror.

At last the church rose into view, as modest a structure as expected for such a small community. Still the nun stopped in the middle of the grass, taken, again, by a great surge of disquiet. Lights were on in the church, which was not unusual; there were late services that dragged on, and the priest or Bev Keene would sometimes linger afterwards to clean, or rearrange the pews.

But the yellow windows were of such an arid, malevolent hue, like sulphur in a bell jar, that by the time the nun reached the church doors she was trembling, her shadow a cave drawing on the wall.

Slowly, she opened the doors, sighing at the familiar scents of dust and incense. Home was in the smell of this building, more so even than in her own precious space; the nun stepped into the church, between the rows, and closed her eyes a moment, taking comfort where she could before dread quenched the feeling again.

"Ah, Sister! I wasn't sure you'd come by."

The nun sprung to her left, hands seizing the top of nearest bench. Father Paul Hill was coming down the aisle towards her, his lined face breaking into a smile that would have disarmed the Devil himself with its warmth.

"I'd hoped, Sister— prayed, I, ah, I even prayed on it, just a little. I hope you don't mind; I know that can seem a little off-putting, unanticipated goodwill after hardship, but there it is. Does that sound conceited? Maybe it does, unintentionally, of course, but the road to Hell, you know—"

The sudden flow of low, mildly stammering chatter arrested the nun, it being so benign that she could do nothing but stand limply in its swell. There was no flitting away through the doors again now, not when those soft, dark eyes were clipped to her face, now the priest's hand was reaching out to envelop her own. Cold, so cold, that hand, and yet somehow feverish at once.

Was he sick, this Father Paul, or was he, too, felled by trepidation?

"Would you like some tea?" asked the priest. "Or coffee, although it is getting late. There's a kettle and some clean cups somewhere in the backroom, I believe. I always make one, for meetings like this. Something about a hot beverage calms the soul."

Helpless, the nun let herself be ushered to a pew at the front of the church, bound in a swaddle of talk. She knew that there would be purpose beneath the niceties, and sure enough when Father Paul at last sat beside her, drinks in hand, the nun felt as if the jaws of some unseen trap had closed barbed teeth around her.

"I get the feeling you're not one hundred percent comfortable in God's house yet," said the priest. "I understand that. I do. All people of strong faith, we're tested daily, for the bettering of our souls. 'Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him'— James 1:2. All the more reason to seek support, to seek support and guidance, from those who offer it with open arms."

It was nothing the nun hadn't heard before. She sipped her tea with a quiet agony as still the priest yammered on, his voice hypnotic in its depth and repetition.

"I know you must feel rejected, just now. Cast down, like Lucifer himself was, by his father, and likely hurt by the fall in more ways than one; just imagine, consumed though he was by wickedness, the Devil felt, as we all have, as we all do, the spurns and judgement of a loved one."

The priest reached out and touched the nun's arm lightly, making her splash tea over the rim of her cup in surprise.

"The convent of St. Aurelia. It was the only family you had, the community there, wasn't it? I understand your parents died when you were young, a tragic accident. My condolences. Though they know peace now it's never easy, a loss, losing, sometimes, the only people you cared to know. Gone, in a second, and suddenly you find yourself breaking bread with strangers. It's a strength, getting through it alone. I commend you for that."

The sheer compassion in the man's voice made the nun's eyes mist, but she merely blinked until Father Paul came sharply into view again. The nun stared down at his jeans, at a loose white thread she itched to pull free. Her eyes remained there as the priest talked, urging her towards the inescapable question.

"But then, there was another upheaval," he said. "You were asked to leave the convent, abruptly— suddenly, so unexpected. You'd lived there for so long, nearly ten years. It must feel like a betrayal— this, this departure, Eve out of Eden—"

A cool hand touched the nun's jaw, tipped her chin so that she was forced to gaze into the tunnelling black of Father Paul's stare. There was something ruthless in those eyes, the zeal of a man turned to madness by his own preaching. Yet soft, still, as salted butter, and the nun floated in that molten darkness.

"Tell me, Sister. Why were you asked to leave the convent of St. Aurelia?"

The nun broke free of the look, the encroaching hand, and the priest blinked, seeming, for a moment, embarrassed.

"This isn't confession, I know. I know that, but, uh, this opportunity, us meeting like this. It feels like time for truths—fears—to be addressed."

Attempting to rise, the nun shook her head, but it only took a meek gesture of Father Paul's hand for her to sink down again, her limbs hewn of iron weights. He looked at her with a sorrowed fascination, his tea going cold, barely touched.

Still he spoke in that low, lulling tone, still seemed so very amenable.

"I've watched you run away from me like a frightened lamb," said the priest. "Well, from everyone, but me, most of all. At first, I'll admit, I was a little hurt. Wondered what I'd done to scare you away when we'd barely spoken two words to each other. But I reflected on it, the puzzle of whatever was keeping a young woman like yourself—a woman of faith, with so much to give—in such isolation."

Father Paul set his cup down on the floor and folded his hands over his knees. Every motion, every gesture was compelling, as if conducting some strain of terrible music. The words were dangerous, he was, somehow. The nun wanted to stand up, make some clumsy excuse to leave, but she knew that she'd be drawn back, a helpless wave called in by the moon.

She didn't know why. All men were an obscurity to her, this one more than most.

"I thought about dropping in, at the cottage," said Father Paul. "But I didn't want to overwhelm you. Bev Keene did that on my behalf, I fear— sorry about that. Well-intentioned, but heavy-handed. I think she frightened you, her intensity—"

It was yours, the nun itched to say, your intensity, you wouldn't leave me alone—

But she couldn't open her mouth, could only listen as the priest burbled on.

"—Anyway, now you're here, I understand. God has allowed me that. Yes, God, I believe that, I really do. Your guilt, your shame is paralysing you, Sister. Shame that you were sent away from St. Aurelia's, so strong you came all the way to Crockett Island to hide from it. But you don't have to hide it, Sister, not with me."

Sunken into a cringing-self revulsion, the nun shifted back across the pew, putting space between herself and the priest. He inched towards her, his smile the pitying grimace of a doctor with a vicious syringe.

"You'll lose nothing by talking, if anything, you'll gain something. If you remember Psalm 32:5: 'I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the Lord.” And you forgave the guilt of my sin.' Your silence, your turmoil. You could be rid of it today, uh, tonight, this very hour, if you wanted to be. It's in your hands, Sister. That freedom. To feel clean again."

Father Paul was close enough that the nun could taste his breath on her face, make out every crease and furrow in his skin. She sensed, under his relaxed confidence, a tension, as before a cat springs. She saw it in the way his head turned too sharply, in the incline of his body over hers.

The priest's eyes were gelid, sinkholes in a slate pit. Coldly, the nun understood that she was being given no choice, that she must speak, feed whatever hunger for contrition stirred in the man's heart, or else sate some other appetite. Or another, still—

Father Paul's hand closed over the nun's thigh, and this time it didn’t tremble away from her. There was something sure, animal, in his touch, the way his fingers latched over warm flesh through the habit, seeking her skin like a caiman crawls to water.

"Please, Father," the nun began, her voice a tremulous whisper.

She stammered over those two words until they guttered to ash.

"What was it, Sister?" asked the priest, his tone rough with a broken kindness. "What did you do at St. Aurelia's that you're so ashamed of?"

His hand slipped the nun's skirt up her thigh with a tender ceremony, and she cried out, a juddering crow-caw of anguish. Father Paul's head tilted slightly, and for a moment there was a luminescence to that stare, the milky white of things seen only in caverns, deep underground.

"I wish things could be different," said the Priest, mournfully. "The telling of secrets. The unburdening of the soul. It's never easy. I wish that it could be. But the nature of growth, Sister, it's painful. Growing pains, they hurt, they always do."

The skirt was up, over the nun's knee, and she wanted achingly to run, to strike the man that touched her with such mercy, but instead she let him push her back onto the pew. The nun gazed up at him, seized by a dread of the inevitable, of the thing she'd known would come when a scent had been caught of her great sin.

"Father," she whimpered, and again could say no more; her mouth was as dry as wafer, her voice drier still.

This time, the priest made no answer. His fingers brushed the bare skin of the nun's thigh, the place behind her knee where a pulse beat with the miserable violence of the Deus irae. The black-silver eyes were fixed there, almost lidless in their lack of blinking, and the nun realised that the priest had bent down, bent in the mode of praying over the exposed limb, his sharp nose almost touching her skin.

Gone, suddenly, was the quizzical arch of those dark brows, all bumbling affability extinguished. Fronds of black hair sprung down onto the priest's forehead, and as he lifted the nun's leg high to press his face to her pulsepoint she saw a creature unhinged, not a man at all, or not entirely.

Pain broke like a cheap mirror across the nun's thigh, and she tried to scream, tried, and failed. The sound was thieved from her lungs as though by the hand of a ghost, as was her strength as she tried to kick, and did no more than dislodge, from her foot, the plain little shoe.

It hit the floor with a resounding thud, like a closed book, but the nun did not hear it, her focus narrowed on the keen, ruby artery of suffering the priest plucked out of her thigh.

His other hand was at her hip, not tight enough to hurt, but enough to hold her to him as he drank from the wound he'd bitten open as though she were a flask in a desert. Blood ran down her leg in sumptuous plenty, soaking her underwear, redding the white.

The nun's body was so stiff with pain and terror that her back and neck ached with the tautness of it. She clutched the side of the pew and muttered faintly to an ear she was abruptly certain did not exist.

"Spirit of our God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Most Holy Trinity, Immaculate Virgin Mary..."

"Yes," said Father Paul, his lips still touching the cut behind the pale knee. "If you won't confess, then pray, pray. There's absolution for us all, in one way or another."

His face was a slick of carmine, dripping its excess onto the nun's calf. As his stare met hers she saw, slowly, the intelligence come back to that primal hollow, something of humanity, although not much of it.

"We all sin, Sister, all of us, even I. God will forgive us, as he'll forgive us again, and again. This isn't the first time someone has touched you; now, at least, we'll be cleansed together, as one."

Was this how he justified his monstrous want, a forgivable sin? Or else the stepping stone to a greater good, the regeneration of a soul? He was lying to himself, as the nun had, in taking flight from her past; no wonder there were holes in her wings.

The priest crawled up her trembling body, shushed her, murmured nothings of consolation as his bloodied hands pushed the useless feather of her underwear aside, as he laid his face alongside hers, anointing her with cloying scarlet.

"I won't judge you, Sister," he said, "if you find pleasure in this. It's normal, in fact, quite normal, the exhilaration of meeting the Lord with the truth bared—"

"Please, God, help me," said the nun, and the priest's irises shifted with that bestial madness, the sheen of lust and religion and killing made one in those terrible eyes.

He kissed her mouth as his fingers breeched her tightness, chaste, at first, then with the passion of a hunter in the night, the covenant of the unholy. His thumb danced her clitoris with the skill of knowing, and the nun had enough presence of mind to be surprised by that before her thoughts were dashed to cinders.

"They tried to cleanse you of this need, in St Aurelia's, didn't they, Sister?" asked Father Paul. "Tried, and failed with the futility of man to erase the very need of man to trespass. I saw it in your eyes: you're young, and on fire with it. I'll burn, with you, a while."

The nun lay under him like a saint carved into marble, as though his touch didn't move her at all. Presently the fingers left, and as fabric rustled another hardness, another piercing thing struck deep, the nail in Christ's palm, the suffering of Job—

"God," she screamed out, and there was so much love in Father Paul's eyes as he moved upon her that she could see scarcely believe that he was within, his cock the spear in the side of Christ, tearing the red scraps of her faith asunder.

It seemed to last the length of three great days, each thrust a thundering violence. Yet still the priest muttered his prayers and maddened sweetness, still kissed her brow with an angel's pure lips as she suffered beneath him. He wanted to bite her again, she felt it; he was starved of that which he had taken.

But it was as if he didn't dare, as if this carnality was the closest he could allow himself to taking such communion again.

"God, forgive us our sins," breathed the priest, against the nun's ruined veil, its wimple crushed and smeared with garnet death. "That we might begin again tomorrow anew. Amen."

He stilled, arcing away from the nun, his groans deep and low. She wished to feel nothing, only the agonies of unhappiness, but even in this God had no mercy; as the hated organ pulsed within there was an answering ripple through her own flesh, the spasms of a joy thrust upon her.

They lay together, a moment, clinging, the devout before some terrible miracle. Then, slowly, the priest gathered himself upright, looked at the blood on his hands and upon the woman. Abashed, he helped her sit; she didn't stop him, allowed him to smooth down her habit, give back the fallen shoe.

"I— I apologise, Sister," said Father Paul, in tones of genuine regret. "I seem to have forgotten myself. God moves me in strange ways, as of late, and I don't dare question His might and wisdom. I'd advise you against that, too. Questioning, I mean. He placed you here for a reason, I feel that completely."

Dully, the nun let him speak, the impossibility of answering a colossus between them.

"It's a pity you feel this way," the priest murmured. "I'd hoped to salvage your trust in God's plan, but I see that will take time. That's okay. We've got plenty of that, on Crockett Island."

He helped the nun to her feet, both of them unsteady in the waning crisis of frenzy. There was a lunacy in the moment, how a kind of performance fell into place between them, a play of being decent and ordinary people.

"Come to the rec center, if there's anything else you need to work through," said the priest. "I'm thinking of offering counselling there, in the evenings. Might, ah, could do you some good."

The nun beheld him with an abstract, distant terror, thinking—a sin, another sin—that she would rather carve out her own throat than be alone with this man once more. But rather than say so she only nodded, a coward's sort of kneeling.

"Yes, Father," she whispered, and stumbled out of the church, down to the beach.

She wanted to keep walking, into the ocean, under the cleansing black of the waves. But again the nun failed her resolve, and tottered on, a broken seabird trailing the shoreline, until the lonely cottage emerged in the distance.

[jupiterpiss]

Father!

Father Paul Hill x Fem!OC

Author’s note— This is just an intro to a series I’m coooking up. This does take place some time in the late 1970’s early 80’s.. so keep in mind. Mildred Gunning doesn’t exist sorry folks :(( I got no description cause idk what to say.. anyway enjoy!

Warnings— Mention of pregnancy, vomiting, got some people to proof read but there could be some mistakes (I made this at 1 am), oh and descriptions of a hot priest

She feels like vomiting.

Her stomach churns and twists violently, like the waves that crash not too far from her, the sound tuning into a distant static noise she desperately tries to comfort herself with. Her girls aren’t too far away, running about as high-pitched giggles leave their lips, cheeks rosy and eyes bright as the morning sun as they play.

She’s unsure of what they’re playing, ‘tag’ she supposes, but she can’t pay much mind to it as another wave of nausea rolls through her. Her hands squeeze down harshly onto her thighs, framed bent over as she prepares herself for her breakfast to leave her. Though, it seems quite stubborn.

“Madeline,” she starts, blowing a huffed breath as she tries to compose herself, “Honey,” she tries again, though her calls to her daughter fall upon deaf ears.

Kids, kills them to listen to any sort of authority figure.

She attempts a deep breath but fails, instead gagging and coughing, “Jesus, Maddie-” she tries once more, but doesn’t get to finish her speech. Luckily enough, she gets a loud “yeah?” from her eldest daughter, her small hands pushing back any free strands of hair over her small face.

“Honey, oh je- okay,” she decides trying is useless, and instead remains helpless. She’s sure she’s a sight to behold for all those attending mass this morning, her gagging like a cat with her two little girls running around paying her little mind as they fight each other with sticks. Better then them running around naked and her crying, she supposes. Something her poor mother went through when she was little. Fourth of July wans’t the best time in her household that year.

“Hey? You okay?” A voice calls out, a sweet one. Feminine. She reconzies it as one of her fellow neighbors. Reconzises a flash of black hair and light skin, can guess the rest of the woman’s features that she has engraved into her brain after years of living just two doors down.

She only nods, “Yeah, fine, uh, just gonna’ vomit is all,” she explains, desperate to land a horrible joke that only crashes and burns. Worth the try she supposes.

The neighbors nods slowly, unsure, “okay.. You sure?”

She nods again, “morning sickness, usual pregenat lady stuff, it’s fine.”

They nod, seeming to understand. It wasn’t unusual after all, early trimester meant a one way ticket to the toilet for a few weeks. With that they slowly walk away, going up the steps of mass as they watch her with concern etched in their soft features.

The sun is beaming done on her, seemingly sucking up small amounts of help the breeze brings as she desperately tries to ease the clench of her stomach. She wishes the sun away, hopes a cloud goes over it because what the hell sun? Don’t you see i’m dying here?! It seems the sun, or God, had heard her mindless calls because suddenly the sun is gone, vanished out of air.

She looks to the shadow casted across the grass just above her, expecting to see just dim light but instead sees a figure, a tall one at that. She pays no mind to it, instead giving a small head shake, “it’s okay, I’m okay, just a small dizzy spell,” she explains.

“If being hunched over the grass is ‘okay’, I’m scared to see what is ‘great’”, a low voice jokes, timber and soft. She only laughs, brows rising momentarily before dropping again. She slowly tries to move around, going to face him as she attempts to stand to her full height.

“I’m fine,” she says slowly, trying to reassure the collared man before her (though it’s weak), “It’s okay, just a little morning sickness is all.”

He hums at that. “Seems it.”

“No one ever quite prepares you for the amount of times you’ll be tasting your eggs and bacon when pregnant,” she attempts at another joke, “good to go back for secon-” she cuts herself off as another rush of nausea rolls through her.

“I’m sorry,” she slowly doubles down, setting her hands back on her knees, “ I’m sure mass is about to start, you should go-”

“No, no it’s okay, mass can wait. Much more important matters at play here” he bends down with her, crouching as he hands her a cup of water. A part of her takes note that if he already have a glass of water in hand, he had taken notice of her state much earlier, but she casts the thought aside.

She gulps some down, hoping the liquid would push down her rising early meal, “Thank you.”

He gives a curt nod in return, “‘Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is your power to act.’ Proverbs 3:27. It’s best to make sure you keep hydrated, especially with child.”

“Ah, just a cup of water, but thank you, Father,” she gives a soft smile, slowly trying to straighten out her back from her hunched state

“Think you’ll be okay?” He tilts his head, big brown doe eyes looking up at her in concern, a small frown tugging at his lips. Her brow twitches.

“Mhm,”

He keeps her gaze before slowly going back up to his full height, towering over her like a massive tree, and giving her one last look before looking over to her two little girls. They’ve stopped playing tag now, too focused on ripping grass out of the ground.

“Madeline, Kateylin, go inside please,” he calls out softly, pulling the girl’s attention towards him. They don’t protest nor think twice about listening to the priest, taught to never question a man with such authority before they’re running towards the mass.

He looks over to the pregnant woman again, eyes soft as he holds out a hand, willing her to grab it. She does, giving him an appreciative smile before he brings her along to mass as well, going up the steps slowly as a means to not stir her motion sickness too much.

“You act as if I’m about to burst,” she teases.

“Looked as if you were back there,” he pokes back, canines poking out as he smiles at her and his smile only seems to widen when she gives a soft chuckle.

He leads her to her usual seat in the small church, the same appreciative smile on her soft lips as she looks up at him and takes her seat beside her daughters, with her usual soft expression. The one reserved for him, the same one she held for her husband at one point long ago. That has long passed however, the look is now only for him.

He steps away, going to the front. It’s there he takes a moment to look at everyone in the church, take in the sight of it. For everyone there God has brought in for him to care after, to care for and guide. He looks at the watchful eyes of those who seek the Lord in his own, faces filled with hope and eyes bright.

He looks over to the pregnant woman one more time and it’s then that sun seems to sweep through the windows just perfectly. She’s glowing, he’s sure of it. Whether it’s the sun, the pure love that emits from her or from the child that grows within her, she’s glowing nonetheless. He’s sure that a hallo is around her head, and can almost trace it out with his eyes. A pure angel.

An angel inside the church he helped build, in the town he was helping flourish. The same angel growing his child, that fostered two little girls that surely weren’t his but he was certain to grow into angels just as their mother.

He calms himself then, feels himself too focused on the matter of what’s to come rather than what’s here now.

He takes a deep breath, then begins mass.

[girlwiththenegantattoo]

I've been on the writing struggle bus for quite sometime (6 months and counting) and as of a month ago I've experienced a four tire blowout. However, thanks to the lovely @littleredwritingcat (sincerely, you've kept me from giving up) I've been able to put this out into the world. This piece is an attempt to shake off my smutt writing cobwebs so I can finish my JT fic.

This doesn't really have a plot. Jade shows up on Father Paul's porch covered in blood because she just fed for the first time.

TW: porn without plot, mentions of blood, praise and dirty talk, smutt nothing but the smuttest smutt.

The Curious Task of Explaining Hunger

Paul looked up from his bible to see Jade hesitantly emerge from his bedroom. Dressed in a plain shirt and sweatpants two sizes too big, she was now clean and appeared to be a little less freighted. Giving an assuring smile Paul stood and gestures for her to join him in the middle of his kitchen.

“I know how terrifying this all must be.” Rubbing the back of his knuckles against her cheek Paul tilted his head. “It's so hard to explain it all in words but if you let me I can do it in other ways?”

Jade leaned into his touch as a sigh of relief fell from her lips. The action making her desperate need for comfort more evident. Giving an unsure nod Jade glanced up to find Paul’s brown eyes fixed onto hers but he’d gone completely still. It wasn't until he removed his hand that a wave of panic finally prompted her to speak.

“Yes! Yes, please…help me understand.”

Quickly returning his hand Paul lifted the other and caressed either cheek with a tenderness Jade wasn't used to. “The pain you felt in the beginning was from hunger, but I see you already figured that part out.” His hands drifted down from her face to settle at the top of her hip bone as he continued. “And as I'm sure you're also aware, just like everything, the hunger starts somewhere around here.”

Splaying his fingers Paul's thumbs took their place on Jade’s navel as another expectant look covered the usual soft features of his face. It took standing in silence for a moment before Jade realized just what that look was for.

“What…what happens if I ignore it?” The question earned her a soft smile as Paul received what he needed to confidently move forward.

“That my dear is something you really don't want to find out.” Moving his thumbs, Paul's hands continued their journey upwards and under the borrowed white shirt. After reaching her armpits he made quick work of removing it.

Taking a step back Paul mumbled something Jade couldn't quite hear as she stood awkwardly in a black bra and gray sweatpants she'd rolled at the top. Despite her efforts it did little to keep them from resting loosely, low on her waist. Without another word, Paul picked Jade up with ease, carrying her to the small mahogany table as ardent lips wandered down her neck. Using the tip of his nose he then traced the path of her jugular vein back up.

“This hunger will cause a spike in your heart rate just like it is now but that's what keeps you determined. It lets you know you're still alive.” Sitting Jade down ever so gently it was now time for him to explain the rest.

“Lay back for me, my little dove.”

Stepping into the space between her legs Paul bent over to unhook her bra as he moved to kiss the spot just below her earlobe. Whispering now, Paul spoke against the shell of her ear, “Once you give into the hunger…everything will feel so much better for you.” Straightening back up, Jade watched with rapt attention as Paul got to work on undoing the buttons of his black shirt. His own need now apparent by the erection that strained against the tight confines of his jeans.

Freeing the last button under his clerical collar Paul removed the white tab to reveal a toned physique adorned with tan skin. The sight catching her by complete surprise. Sitting up to feel, she was met with a silent shake of Paul’s head while his palms worked their way up her stomach, finding their place of rest on her ribcage, just below her breast. “Let me take care of you. You've been through so much tonight.

Laying back against the table Jade’s disappointment was made clear by the sullen look she gave.

“There. Where were we now?” Feigning a moment to recollect Paul watched in selfish satisfaction as she began to squirm. “Ah!...After the blood runs down and settles so exquisitely in your stomach you’ll start to feel a tingle like this.”

Sliding his hands upward, Paul cupped each breast, palming the delicate globes and outlining her areolas with his thumbs. An action of which causing Jade to take a sharp intake of breath.

“Yes, yes just like that.”

Removing one hand Paul replaced it with his mouth, taking a pert nipple between his lips. Applying slow swipes and tender nips Paul used his thumb and forefinger to gently roll and tug on the other. She sang so beautifully for Paul then. Each ministration pulling out a higher note. Enraptured by the sounds, Paul pulled away to fervently remove her oversized pants.

Jade must have ditched her underwear with the rest of her blooded clothes because now she laid before him fully bare. Murmured praises fell from Paul's lips like prayers as he swore an angel of beauty was chosen just for him that night. When a sudden look of vulnerability pulled Paul from his trance he realized Jade tried to cover herself with hands spread and arms over any skin she could reach. Running the pads of his fingers up the outside of her thighs he tried for a statement of assurance.

“No need for that. You certainly have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Resetting, Paul placed each of Jade's knees in a firm grip. With his thumbs rested on the inside of her thighs he waited for the tension in Jade's body to gradually ease. Feeling Jade had relaxed enough Paul gave a proud smile.

“There you go,” he cooed. “You're doing so well.”

Rotating his grip, Paul began to run his palms up the inside of Jade's thighs, pushing ever so slightly to widen the space between her legs when he stopped just before her sex. “Look at you. So gorgeous and willing to learn.” Gripping the inside of her left thigh Paul used his right hand to cover Jade’s mound. Glancing up into needy eyes, he swiped his thumb through her wet fold. Whining loudly Jade couldn't help the soft jerk of her hips.

“As time passes those tingles will turn int-”

“Father Paul?” Jade interrupted, now perched on her elbows with a shaking voice. “Can we skip to the part where it feels the best?”

The effort it took Paul to exhibit self control finally became much too atrocious and he was now more than happy to oblige. Jade watched in hazy excitement while his massive hands tugged at the leather around his waist. The jingling of its buckle only added to the wetness between her slit. In one haste movement Paul's jeans and boxer were pulled down just above his knee, freeing his aching cock. Returning his lips to the soft skin of her neck, Paul kissed another tantalizing trail up to Jade’s ear. Speaking in an amorous whisper Paul reached a hand between them to grab his cock, lining himself up with her entrance.

“This part is what makes you forget all of that discomfort the hunger caused.”

Driving his hips forward Paul buried himself between Jade’s tight walls immediately stilling when she let out a shattered breath.Though he gave her a moment to adjust to his size, he himself struggled with the building pressure of having the warmth of a woman wrapped around his length. Needing a distraction Paul kissed Jade's lips for the first time that night. Diverting in their softness she parted hers slightly, allowing his tongue to slip inside. Craving more friction Jade tightened her legs around Paul’s waist and began to buck her hips.

“I know, I know my Dove. Just let me stay like this in you for a little bit.”

Paul hoped his huffed words would calm her; however with a catch of breath Jade unintentionally clenched around him proving they clearly had the opposite effect. Bringing his lips to the shell of her ear Paul spoke again, this time in a lower, commanding voice. “Just relax for me dear, we're almost there”. Giving a soft nip to her earlobe in thanks for her cooperation, Paul lowered his lips to the side of Jade’s neck as he drew his hips back. Slower now, he pushed forward deciding it was best to set a steady pace. Seeing that her back started to arch off the table he finally added a little force to his thrust.

“After the tingling subsides you'll feel a sensation like building pressure low in your core.”

Quickening his pace the lewd sounds of slapping wet skin carried a deep moan from the back of Paul's throat. Switching the angle of his hips he pulled Jade down to meet every thrust, watching in transfixion as she wither when after hitting a particular shallow spot Jade let out a loud shout.

“That's it. Give in to it, you don't have to be afraid.

With a breathy moan Jade threw back her head as she started to flutter around Paul’s length. Snaking his right hand to cradle the back of her head Paul bent back down and placed his forehead lovely against hers. With a guttural moan it only took three more exquisite punches of his hips. Chuckling through his nose Paul reveled in the sight of Jade hooded eyes and the feeling of a gentle hand running through his hair signaling a job well done.

“And that my little dove, makes you want to experience it all over again.”

[purple-fig]

Chapter 1: Sandstorm

You may have made a mistake.

Standing straight was becoming a challenge. The dips in the sand were like fox holes, tripping you despite your unmatched agility and you found yourself raising your hand in front of you to recover your equilibrium. Not that you could see that far. You would have seen your sapphire ring glimmer if you were anywhere else in the world but in this goddamned sandstorm.

The howling wind against your sensitive hearing was near deafening and despite the two layers of navy saree protecting your eyes you felt sand settle on your lashes. For a moment you entertained the thought of closing your eyes and letting the Sandman work his magic. You were weary for the first time in a long time.

Instead, you forced your eyes to remain wide open. You may have been dumb enough to wander into the desert on a whim with only a map and compass – both of which the storm has rendered useless - to guide you, but you were not stupid enough to be buried alive.

Is that what happened to it ? Did it seek shelter like you are now?

It mattered not. Unlike it, you would persevere like you always have and put an end to this nightmarish quest.

You made slow progress until you caught a faint whiff of blood. How very odd. What would a human be doing this far into the desert? Perhaps you were closer to civilization than you thought. It was not what you initially sought, but it certainly piqued your curiosity and appetite. Your most basic instincts heightened instantly; your limbs were lighter, faster, and more focused. You needed no stars or moon to guide you. You followed what you knew best, your own personal gravitational pull; blood.

Continue reading:

[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

[phantombunnyman]

I watched Midnight Mass in a day and then forced my mom to start watching it (we’re on episode 6 now) and I made my boyfriend watch it all in one night (he loves me)

I fear my oc x canon will not be canon compliant for this one 😔 (yes, implying that my other oc x canon ships ARE canon. deal with it) but that’s okay… It’s okay Millie we can share…

[copiarion]

Uncensored version of Father Paul and Sister Lilith on my Twitter @/arion_afterdark or on pillowfort 😘

https://www.pillowfort.social/Cardinal_CopiArion

[littleredwritingcat]

Y'all. Y'ALL. Dinner is served!

We got us that winning combo of dark! motives Father Paul and a traumatized new parishioner. Delicious recipe is delicious.

This is promising to be a marvelous piece.🥵

[swindlefingrs]

Linden Wood Icons: Chapter 5

Rating: T Words: 1.5k Characters: John Pruitt, Beth Magnusson, a cigarette

Beth stands on the water’s edge, her bare feet in the lapping waves. Her overalls are pulled up above her wide calves, but soaked dark up to her knees. The spring breeze tugs at her ratty black t-shirt and tousles her chestnut hair. John knows the shape and the shift of her by now.

It’s infatuation, the fluttering inside of his stomach as he steps closer. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. He knows this by now. If what he feels for Millie is a hearth of dense, hot coals, then this is sparks under the kindling and he doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to put down the flint.

[ continue reading on ao3 ]

[thevalleygh0ul]

I had a vision,, Father Paul my beloved 😩🙏

Inspired by this post from this amazingly talented artist!!

vampire: My darling, my eternal flame, my heart's joy taken human form... you simply must drink water your blood tastes like shit.

[paradlselost]

CRIMSON.

JOHN SEED X FEMALE DEPUTY

Sort of a dump, I was really debating on just publishing this as a WIP but I was halfway through the smut and decided to just finish it. Not my best, but I tried to go for a more canon accurate John, which means he’s a major freak in this sorry :/

I mentioned it in the fic but didn’t go too deep, I kinda love toying with the idea of a more selfish deputy - humanizing them. If I were to ever write a longer fic with more of an oc-ized version of the deputy would anyone read? Let me know.

I probably won’t post about John Seed or FC5 for a little while after this. I have ideas for a Black Noir (my bbg) fic and then a Father Paul Hill one from Midnight Mass cause I love religious trauma as y’all can tell. I do also like indoctrinated!deputy so maybe maybe eventually I write about that.

2.7k words

content warnings: mentions of cutting into flesh. smut — dubcon, choking, blood play (John being a freak sorry), dryhumping, oral (m receiving), fingering, debauchery in a house of God.

She should’ve known from the start, when the crackle of her radio sounded, interjecting her music with his voice; that this request was nothing but trouble. But rage had blinded her, wrath seeped into every pore in her body, selfishness.

It was never the Deputy’s plan to become the symbol for the resistance, even after the blades of the helicopter stopped, and smoke and fire billowed out from the engine. Even after Dutch saved her and enlisted her help, and despite the stories from countless other resistance members, she only really had one prerogative; save her friends. 

Hudson, Pratt, Whitehorse. Trapped in the claws of the cult, it was her duty to get them back, and despite the help she had been giving to the resistance, those were the only three people she cared about.

He knew this, stalking her like a cat preparing to pounce, he watched every facet of her life from the moment she ventured into Holland Valley that he could. A selfish little thing, ripe for his obsession.

John Seed was a proud man, bold and brave as he had so eloquently begged Jacob to put in his song. His pedestal as a Herald inflated his ego, the knowledge that without him Eden’s Gate wouldn’t have prospered nearly as much fueled his narcissism, which is why he surrounded himself with only the peggies who would do anything for him.

He isn’t sure whether new members are supposed to pledge their lives to him and the cult, but it sounds so sweet when the floor pools with the blood of their atonement and he coaxes those little words from his new followers' lips. His tongue is coated in silver, he loves this new power, and she threatens to take that from him.

He knew she wouldn’t be as proactive if he crooned to her that he had a resistance member or two, and she would swing in guns blazing if he claimed to have Hudson right beside him. So, instead he played on her curiosity, that little nudge in the back of her mind that forced her to seek him out whenever he called. Like a moth to a flame.

“Fuck you, Seed!” Voice so filled with venom it might’ve burned a hole in the floor, he tilted his head at her profanity, a sadistic grin playing on his face.

Hope County was filled with little white churches, chapels with steeples that attempted to reach to the heavens above. She assumed they were much more lively before, now most were barren except on Sundays, when the peggies who could not fit onto Joseph’s compound would listen to him under random roofs of God.

This. He chose to be under the white ceiling specifically, to call her into the thing she had been fighting against. To hear her screams echo against the chipped painting that decorated the walls, for her blood to be stained on the old wooden floorboards.

Curiosity killed the cat. She was stupid enough to venture into his trap, falling to the ground when hit hard enough over the head, and now she was stupid enough to attempt to fight off the peggies that held either arm.

“Such profanity. You’re in a house of God, Deputy, mind your tongue.” He scolded her as if she was a misbehaving child, as if everything she had ever done could be chalked up to that. A spoiled rotten brat.

His fingers danced over the tools he had brought with him, his trusty tattoo gun being at the top, but an assortment of knives he also deemed fit for this occasion. Oh, the blood she would spill for him, he became giddy at the thought.

“Get off of me-! Woah woah woah- hey stop!” Yelping, she still attempted to fight off the peggies that held her arms, she shied away when he advanced toward her, tattoo gun in his hands. He had tried this before, she knew what he was doing.

“No one here to help you now, Wrath. Don’t try and fight, your atonement will hurt much less if you cooperate.” He was too calm for this situation, a practiced art he had been through hundreds of times. It was a skill, making people spill their most intimate secrets, a skill he had perfected.

The Deputy was a fighter, through and through, though John could understand Jacobs words. She was weak without her companions, without pastor Jerome stealing her from her atonement, or Nick Rye strafing his armed convoy, she was nothing now - and it was almost endearing to him.

With her hands bound, she resorted to spitting that same venom that she held in her words, marking his perfect face with her saliva. He grimaced, wiping it off his cheek before it trailed down to his beard, pretty blue eyes flashing with that same bloodlust that dictated his every waking moment.

It was shocking to even the peggies that held her when he grabbed her by her throat, pinning her to the ground and straddling her hips. His hands shook with anger - the same wrath that he deemed consumed her now making an appearance in himself. Two sides of the same coin, two heads of a snake.

Her head ached now, body feeling as though it was echoing. A second blow to the back of her head that surely would’ve knocked her out if the pain of his tattoo gun wasn’t keeping her grounded. She didn’t know how fast he had ripped her shirt, or how long it would take for him to carve her skin, but she was reduced to pained whines and pleas for him to stop.

And he relished in the noises she made. The blood that covered his hands and trickled down her chest wasn’t an unusual sight for the herald - but her being the one under him made it all the more exciting. His Deputy, his wrath, his perfect rival. The peggies that stood above him now didn’t matter, and what are they to him anyways? Expendable followers he could use, the Deputy was everything.

“Yes yes, c’mon, keep pleading…” How could he help it? Her eyes half lidded as she looked up at him, hands no longer bound by the peggies now loosely grabbing the wrist that held the tattoo gun in an attempt to stop him. She looked so pathetic under him, so why shouldn’t he grind himself against her when his pants were so uncomfortably tight?

Her words didn’t quite reach his ears, not as he waved his followers out - who hurriedly scrambled in embarrassment. The old church was silent, save for her soft sobs and his intense breathing. His hand still placed over her neck made her choke on her words, which only fueled his desire. He could crush her windpipe, her life rested in his hands, and maybe he would’ve if the nagging reminder that she was the only way he was getting into New Eden wasn’t playing in the back of his head.

His ticket, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t have some fun with her.

He removed his hand from her neck as he finished carving into her pretty skin. WRATH, her own personal scarlet letters. He hummed, looking down at her with lustful eyes, fluttering between hers and the blood that pooled on her chest and trickled down her body to the wooden floor below.

She hated the feeling that bubbled in her chest as the pain subsided, now only a dull ache danced with the look he gave her, how he rubbed the tent made in his pants against her. No doubt, a mark had been left on her neck - his handprint, a reminder. The world felt silent at this moment, when she should've pushed him off.

Selfishness. Prioritizing that small ache he gave her over what she should be doing. Finding anything to act as a weapon against him.

But she didn’t, not as his head lowered and she was greeted with his perfectly slicked back hair, shaking hands reaching to play with a strand. A soft grumble came from his throat, tongue lapping at the blood that trickled down the valley of her chest, tasting what he had drawn out of her.

“What are you doing-?” Her voice was soft, he barely heard it over the ringing in his ears. Too long had he been subjected to resorting to his hand when he thought about her, or messing up his silk pillowcases with his pretty ropes when she teased him over the radio. He had her under him, he wasn’t going to let her go now.

“Shh.” His voice was more scolding then he meant it to be, his tongue traveling from the blood he lapped at down to her budding nipple. He wasn’t gentle, and why should he be? After everything she had messed up for him, he felt it justified to bite down on her pretty flesh, pulling at the bud as much as he wanted.

He relished in the pretty, pained moans that fell from her lips, how her back arched into it. Two sides of the same coin, both reveling in whatever pain was brought to them.

The Deputy’s head tilted back, allowing him a chance to latch onto her neck as a vampire would, smearing the blood on his lips all over her pretty skin. He bit, marking her with his teeth over the forming bruises from his handprint. His hands, decorated in the crimson from his hold on the tattoo gun traveled down her body, painting her in her own red.

He slipped his hand below the rough fabric of her jeans, being met with a contrast, soft and delicate and slightly damp. A soft grumble left his lips at the feeling; which were still pressed against her pretty neck. He felt the way her breath hitched as he ran digits over her most delicate areas. Being so close to her neck, he felt how her muscles tightened and how her breath hitched in her throat.

Lifting her hips to meet his tattooed fingers, a small admission of need. She bit her bottom lip to suppress the noises that tempted to fall from her lips - not wanting to give him the satisfaction. They were still enemies, still rivals, at least to her. 

John on the other hand seemed to be on cloud nine, relishing in how she moved against his hand, grinding herself through the fabric of her underwear. He bit down once more, slipping her out of her jeans and grabbing her hips, sitting up and pressing his pelvis against hers.

“John- John cmon…” Head thrown back, panting as she grabbed at the blue silk of his top. He tilted his head down at her, a sadistic smirk playing on his features.

He always took what he wanted, no matter who it was, and the Deputy was no exception to this. To him, it was God's Grace that placed them both here, that gave him the opportunity to rut his hips against hers.

The bulge in his covered jeans met her underwear, fucking himself against her covered cunt. He leaned down overtop of her, panting against her ear. Hot breath on her neck, the sounds of his soft moans mixing with his heavy breaths, and of course his restricted cock grazing just over her clit every couple of thrusts, it was enough to make any girl's eyes roll back.

He stopped, only for a moment, but long enough for her to let out a needy whine, lifting her head to see what he was doing. Tattooed fingers worked the EG belt off, letting his pants pool at his ankles. He wasted no time once they were off, underwear meeting underwear as the outline of his dick was much more pronounced.

“Fuck fuck, put your head back. Fucking-… good girl.” He groaned out, one hand leaving her hips and grabbing at her pretty hair, pulling her head back against the cold wooden floor of the church. She ached, head pounding and echoing from the injuries earlier - but the feeling of him fucking himself against her needy cunt kept her grounded.

In this moment, she needed him, needed this feeling to not pass out.

He tilted his own head back, sweat casting a slick sheen over his skin. A hand dipped against the drying blood on her chest, gathering what he could over his fingertips before bringing them to his lips, sucking on the bloodied digits. He groaned around his fingers, muffling the moans that threatened to fall.

The head of his cock strained against the blue fabric of his boxers, hips thrusting sloppily against her as his hand tightened on her hips, leaving pretty marks in his wake. One thrust, another thrust, and finally another before white pooled at the head, spurting out of the tiny holes in his underwear.

Panting, he finally moved his fingers out of his mouth, cleaned off the blood and tilted his head down at her almost mockingly; he got to finish, the cum that leaked from his underwear dripping down onto hers, and she didn’t get to. He relished in that, that power he had over her.

“H-hey! Not fair!”

“Oh, Deputy. Come here, maybe I’ll let you get off.”

He grinned as he stood up, fixing himself before moving back onto one of the pews, watching her scramble over to him. He had her eating out of the palm of his hand as she kneeled in front of him. Her head pounded harder, eyes a little woozy.

“Poor baby, rest your head, sweetheart.” He teased, a sadistic grin on his face as she nodded and rested against his thigh, looking up at him with those pretty eyes of hers. He couldn’t help himself, not if she looked so pretty right there in his grasp. 

He tangled his fingers in her hair, watching her confused expression as he moved the blue fabric off of his legs, dick springing up as it was freed from the confinement of his underwear. Guiding her head over it, watching her part her pretty lips to suck on his leaking tip.

Milking his cock, swallowing the spurts of salty seed that spilled onto her tongue. She drained him for all he’s worth, looking up at him as he ran his fingers through her hair. He was soft and gentle in this moment, noises falling from his lips that told her how good she was doing. She shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be sucking off John Seed of all people.

He grinned as he watched her, once he was satisfied with the way she suckled on him, he grabbed her chin and pulled her off of him. Guiding her up to her feet, he let her loom over him. She wasn’t intimidating like this, he didn’t know if it was because he had just fucked her over their clothes or because she was relying on him for an orgasm, but she seemed almost adorable.

His lips found her neck once more as she leaned against him, nuzzling her head into his shoulder. He forced her to stand, to spread her legs to allow his fingers to feel the now wet fabric of her panties. He hummed in satisfaction, moving them aside and tracing a finger over her slick folds.

A soft gasp left her lips, grabbing onto his shoulder and attempting to move back to look him in the eye. He grumbled, forcing her in that same position as he bit down on her neck, pushing a finger inside of her at the same time. He loved the moans that fell from her lips as he pumped a digit deeper inside of her.

Another finger stretched her out, deep enough to hit those nerves that made her legs tremble. She whined, shaking against him and propping herself up as he continued to pump in and out of her. He pulled away from her neck for only a moment, watching the way she buried her face against him and laughing softly.

He added one more finger before her legs fully began to tremble, grabbing onto his shoulder. Pumping more, fully reaching those nerves, which caused her to spasm around him, her orgasm flooding around his fingers. She rocked against him once or twice, chasing her high.

“Look at you, Deputy, needing me. Did I make you feel good? Use your words.”

[venus-haze]

Battie’s 1-year celebration🔮

July is a year since I started posting fics on here, and I want to spend the month celebrating! Thank y’all so much for your support and kind words over the past year, it means a lot to me🖤

I’m reopening headcanon requests and (limited) fic requests! This will last until either the end of the month or I start feeling overwhelmed lol🫠

Fandoms and guidelines below the cut! Please read carefully before requesting.

Fandoms:

Slashers

Baby Firefly

Bo Sinclair

Candyman/Daniel Robitaille

Chop Top Sawyer

Father Paul Hill

Harry Warden/The Miner

Mickey Altieri!Ghostface

Otis Driftwood

Severen Van Sickle

SPM2!Driller Killer

Thomas Hewitt

Vincent Sinclair

The Boys

Billy Butcher

Black Noir

Homelander

Mother’s Milk

Queen Maeve

Soldier Boy

Starlight

Guidelines:

Only request one character and concept at a time.

Please try to be specific with your request. If your request is too vague, I'll probably ask for more details.

Don’t send your request multiple times. If you’re concerned I haven't received your request, send an ask first.

I will write (this isn’t an exhaustive list, feel free to ask about something that’s not here if you wanna check!)

Yandere

Noncon/dubcon

AUs (depending on the concept)

Generally dark content

NSFW/explicit content

Fluff or angst - I’m going to be really selective because I don’t like watering down fucked up characters 

Plus size reader - I’d prefer not to write about overly insecure plus size readers, just a personal thing

Major character or reader death

Mommy/daddy kink

Breeding kink

F/F pairings

I won’t write (for various reasons, please don’t ask me to elaborate if I haven't):

Incest

Pregnancy or parenthood, unless the character already canonically has child 

Polyamory - I'm not poly, and it's not something I'm personally interested in writing about

Underage/age regression/age play

Piss kink/scat

ABO

Overly specific or descriptive readers - I'm more interested in writing for specific situations

❌ “[Character] reacting to a reader who dresses in coquette/goth/dark academia aesthetic.”

❌ “[Character] with a bimbo reader” 

❌ “[Character] with a reader who’s shorter than them”

Specific mental illnesses or neurodivergency

Original characters (OCs) x canon characters

I'll add onto this as needed! I also may reject requests I don't click with or feel like I'd be able to do well.

I'm willing to try writing M/M pairings (x reader or canon characters), but if I feel like I can't, I'll try redirecting you to another blog with requests open!

[deathmybride]

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ these violent delights | davos blackwood (part 4) *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 ❤️‍🔥| Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 ❤️‍🔥

ship: davos blackwood x fem!oc

warnings: 18+ explicit smut at the very end of the chapter

summary: cersha and davos sleep rough in the wilds between stone hedge and riverrun.

word count: 1788

a/n: I accidentally smuttified the end of this one?? i must be in heat. who knew my first published smut would be of glorified extra davos blackwood? I hope Kieran feels special...

The song that Davos sings in the middle of this chapter is a slightly edited version of Gone the Rainbow by Peter Paul and Mary.

Even with the oaken cane Cersha had salvaged from her mother's possessions, the first few days were a struggle for Davos. They made little headway and found no inns to rest in, nor palfreys to barter for, and Davos slipped and scraped his hands more than once. On the first night, they shared a meagre meal of the last of that morning's rabbit, and two small morels each, and laid down on the floor of an empty stable with their backs pressed together in cold, hungry silence. Cersha woke first, as she always did, and found she had turned over in the night and had curled herself around him. If he had noticed, he made no attempt to show it when he stirred, and they walked on.

On the second night, they were without shelter, but had come far enough that Cersha deemed it safe to light a fire. They sat at the edge of a tributary stream of the Tumblestone, and she entertained her companion by tickling brown trout. Spirits were high and they ate well that night on fish and cress, and warmed themselves by the fire.

"The gods are smiling on us tonight." She remarked, watching the curves of his face touched by orange light and how he sat with his injured leg stretched out beside him, and the other tucked up under it.

"Which gods?" He mused with a teasing smirk.

"The old and the new." She tossed a green leaf into the fire and watched it crackle and twist. "They dance together in the flames, and bless our strange union."

"Do they now? Aren't we... disturbing the order of things?"

"Is it not high time they were disturbed?"

"Mayhaps."

They fell back into silence. Davos picked his teeth with a fish bone, and Cersha noted the habit.

"You said you're a singer."

"Ah." He ducked his head, blushing. "I'm alright."

"You said there's no-one finer." She reminded, enjoying how he squirmed.

"Allow me a white lie here and there, my lady. Besides, my brother Bailey plays the lute. I can't sing without him."

"Oh, please." She begged, wide eyed and earnest. "Just one song. I caught you this trout-"

"Tshh!"

"I saved your life, I treated your wound, fed you-"

"Alright, alright!" He groaned. "I'll sing for my supper."

"Thank you." She whispered, leaning in eagerly. He took a moment to think, then straightened his back.

"This is a song the milkmaids sing back home. Some say the passages are in the Old Tongue and have survived since the First Men ruled the Riverlands; or it might just be nonsense, I don't know." He cleared his throat and went on in a soft, clear voice.

Shule, shule, shule-a-rule

Shule-a-rak-shak, shule-a-baba-kule

When I saw my sallie-babbie-beal

Come bibble in the boo-shy-lorey

Here I sit on Buttermilk Hill

Who could blame me, cry my fill

Every tear would turn a mill

Jonny's gone for a soldier

I sold my flax, I sold my wheel

To buy my love a sword of steel

So it in battle he might wield

Jonny's gone for a soldier

Oh my baby, oh, my love

Gone the raven, gone the dove

Your father was my only love

Jonny's gone for a soldier

Shule, shule, shule-a-rule

Shule-a-rak-shak, shule-a-baba-kule

When I saw my sallie-babbie-beal

Come bibble in the boo-shy-lorey

She did not notice the wetness of her face until Davos cringed away at the sight of it.

“Don’t go soft on me now, Bracken.” He muttered gruffly, averting his eyes as if her tears frightened him.

They fell into an awkward patch of quiet, broken only by her sniffles as she wiped furiously at her face, willing herself to be still. They stole glances at each other, gazes darting like minnows in the dark, until they met in the corners of their eyes. Davos looked away first, face creasing in discomfort, and made out that he was stoking the fire with a nearby stick. She watched the sparks dance against the black stones of his eyes. She shuffled closer. He glanced at her cagily. A heartbeat passed between them. She leaned in and laid a kiss on his cheekbone, warm from the fire. A stray tear splashed onto his face and rolled down his jaw as if it were his own. He tensed for a moment as she pulled away, baffled, but softened at the sight of those tears over spilling against the Bracken girl’s command. He pulled her to him without a second thought, and she wept into his chest as he kissed her hair.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered like a prayer. “He was just a boy.”

“So were you.”

They laid down together that night, her ear at rest above his heart and his chin on her head, arms knotted about each other, and when they woke they walked on arm in arm.

It seemed the gods were truly smiling on them, as by the next dusk they found a small inn by the King’s Road where Cersha could trade in her mother’s coin. It seemed the coming war had already touched the inn; a hearty supper, breakfast, and a single room to board in cost them a gold dragon. Another gold dragon bought them a pair of geldings; a bay and a chestnut, half-brothers the innkeep claimed, born on the same day, and never two palfreys had such love for one another. A silver silenced the innkeep’s prying after their histories.

“That miser’s been fleecing you, sweetling.” Davos remarked as he reclined on the hay-filled mattress, covered only by his smallclothes.

“Sweetling? You’re sounding awfully familiar tonight, Blackwood.” She said drily, untangling her hair with her fingers. “Asides, are you not happy to have a roof over your head?”

“I just think we could afford to stretch our coppers.” As if to punctuate his point, he stretched, arching his back and settling with his arms folded behind his head. Cersha tried to ignore the way her thighs clenched with the same rhythm of the muscles flexing in his torso.

“Mayhaps you should do the bartering then, O Davos the Wise.”

“I’m just your half-wit step-brother, remember?” He crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue, earning a fit of giggles from his companion. “You’re laughing!” He exclaimed. “Actually laughing! Properly!”

“Hush!” She turned away to hide her face and busied herself plaiting her hair back. “We really must think of a better cover story.”

“I’ll say.” He sniffed. “Are you nearly done? I’m getting lonely.”

“Yes, dear.” She rolled her eyes.

She felt his eyes burning into her as she undressed, laying her cloak over the stool in the corner and slowly, deliberately unlacing her dress. She let it fall to the floor, and stepped delicately out of the folds of linen. As she turned to him, her eyes demure and dove grey, she noted the pinkness of his tongue as it darted to the corner of his lip. His eyes, like chips of dragonglass, scraped her wiry body up and down, lingering on the curve of her hips and the suggestion of breasts beneath her slip. Still, he made no move to touch her as she settled down beside him, a fact that surprised him most of all.

“Are you sure your bandage is comfortable?” She asked. Her mouth suddenly dry, she took her cup from the splintery milk crate that served as a nightstand and sipped. “I didn’t tie it too tightly?”

“Aye.” He blinked in sleepy exasperation. “Maester Cersha.”

“You’re too kind.” She tapped the scar on his puggish nose with her forefinger, giggling as his face crinkled from the sensation as he swatted her away. “Good night, crow boy.”

“Night.”

She leaned over and blew out the candle. They laid in darkness and silence unbroken but for their breaths, a question hanging between them. It was Davos who asked it first. His fingers found her side, stroking the soft linen of her smallclothes. She replied, her hand crossing the space in the dark to find his uninjured thigh. The skin there was smooth and his hips lifted in response to her touch. He grunted softly as she ran her knuckles up to his hipbone, brushing painfully close to his heat. His own hand wandered up her stomach, feeling for curves and soft places to press into. Her lips found his shoulder, then shifting closer, his neck. She pressed kisses there like flowers on the back page of a tome, feather-light and chaste, a show of inexperience. Davos shivered, and it surprised him. No woman’s lips had ever felt so sweet.

When she pulled away, she nudged his cheek with her nose, asking silently for more. He responded with a light huff against the lingering pain, and propped himself on his side, one hand coming to rest on her collarbone while the other brushed the length of her arm, past her shoulder, and grazed against her cheek. They were close, breathing as one with lips so close to touching.

“I would not defile you, my lady.” His thumb found her lip, betraying his words, his aching morality.

She whined wordlessly and parted her lips, her tongue reaching instinctively to lap at his thumb. With a groan, as if in annoyance, he slid it into her mouth. Instinctively, she began to suck the tip. That place between her thighs throbbed, and she said a silent prayer to the Maiden to close her eyes. His thumb was thicker and longer than her own, and as he began to slide it deeper, pumping slowly in and out, it nearly made her gag. His free hand pressed gently on her neck, collaring her. In the deprivation of sight, she grew bold, and reached for that strange, hard thing beneath his smallclothes. He gasped at the touch, panting as her fumbling grasp found its away around the head. His hips rocked as he thrusted into her hand, finding some release from the engorged ache in the friction of the fabric.

“Sinful girl.” His voice came low and gravelly as he pressed down on her tongue, forcing her mouth open as he dragged his thumb from her lips, painting a trail of wet down her chin. “Have you known men before?”

She shook her head, mewling as she tried to grasp the concept of speech in the whirlpool of her mind.

“My sweet filly.” He whispered and kissed her forehead tenderly. “Tell me to stop. Say its not me that you want.” She whined, shaking her head more forcefully. “Or else tell me to be gentle, but say it. Aloud.”

“I want you, Davos Blackwood.” Those were the only words her addled mind could hold onto.

“Then you shall have me.”

Thanks to @aemondslove @disillusioned-phantasma @anaviieiraaa @deepestlovert @flordiakilos @kitty2694 @kpopfanfictionfantacies @sometings @nikkilsworld @gladiatorgladiator @borislava17 @oshun22 @spider-stark @marvelenthusiast10 @itsyagirl01 @disillusioned-phantasma for your reblogs and comments! I'm doing it for you guys :)

[agirlinherhead]

Dust, Part 2. (Pt1)

"Who are we being now? Father Hill? I've seen him. Something else? I think I've seen that too."

He feels mocked, taunted.

"How about John Pruitt, I'd love to meet him."

To Dust we return.

AO3 Here.

[littleredwritingcat]

And We're Back!

You roll onto your back, releasing your knees. They’re shaking off nerves just enough to spread themselves out across the dusty floorboard when two hands gently reach under the bed and drag your boots forward – and then you’re looking up into the face of a sweaty, stupefied priest.

The corners of John’s mouth tuck into the rest of his cheek, lips going straight. There’s an apology at the back of your throat, but there’s nothing to feel sorry for. He’s the one with the delusions that will probably get everyone on the island killed.

“So,” you ask softly.

“On a scale of one to Nero watching Rome burn – how off-the-charts disastrous are things about to get for me?”

Sometimes, waging war doesn't go to plan - especially when you've pissed off your cousin and you have no idea how to burgle a priest.

Also, something awfully big is making a habit of landing on Crockett's roofs.

We desperately hope the inhabitants of the island have good homeowner's insurance.

Also, also - Bev Keane remains unpleasant.

Note: Screen capture of John Paul Pruitt Hill in graphic provided courtesy of simply.hamish on IG!

@everythingbutresolved @agirlinherhead @honey-tree-evil-eye @plainlo-inthemorning @thenookienostradamus @thegentlestmaenad @thenookienostradamus @thecorgimademedoit @waytkayt @prettyblondguys @girlwiththenegantattoo @midwestmisfit @rothko-mirror @jyngerpeach @chronic-ghost @yepthatsacowalright @supplanther @lovepollution @ebiemidnightlibrarian @choosekindly @agirlinherhead @then-i-saw-hamish @in-between-the-cafes @droogiesanddiscourse @madsmilfelsen @purplelupins @daughterofaries @slenderverse