#hassan x reader

[neimlise]

When the squad left (Y/n) unsupervised with Hassan

—

Hassan: Enough! How dare you mock me in such a manner!?

(Y/n): Well, how would you like me to mock you? I take requests.

[fortheloveoffanfic]

An Indecent Affair: The First Encounter

Sheriff Hassan x reader

Summary: On a rainy night after a town meeting at the school, the island's sheriff and English teacher act on mutual feelings.

Author's note: Look at me, back with a terrible title.

Warning: SMUT/NSFW, unprotected sex, a smidge of dom/sub dynamics, itty bitty bit of breeding kink.

Hassan chose Crockett because it's quiet; a sleepy little island four hours off the coast of the mainland, where the most serious crime was disorderly conduct by the town drunk. After his lengthy stint at NYPD came to a messy end and his wife's passing, it seemed like the perfect place to start afresh. He could reconnect with Ali and hopefully not face the same discrimination that he had in New York.

Of course, it only took a few months for Hassan to determine that he was wrong about both of those things. Ali is still upset about his life being uprooted and the people of Crockett have been less than welcoming.

Well, most of them.

He's managed to make one friend – sort of. Hassan doesn't actually know if Y/n would call herself his friend, but she's the closest thing he has to one.

She's also his son's English teacher, which is probably why she tries to make small talk when they bump into each other around town or waves at him when she passes him while he's making his morning rounds and she's jogging.

Jogging in a pair of tiny shorts and a tank top that usually seems a little too tight on her breasts, from her arsenal of skimpy workout clothes. Those moments usually make him extra grateful for the lessons of undercover work; being able to hide her effect on him with stoicism has been more of a blessing than he'd ever imagined it could be.

Because he sees the most exciting part of that boring little island when he's doing foot patrol at seven am.

If only Y/n knew what goes on in his head when he gets to his office with the image of her like that fresh in his mind. The light sheen of exertion making her skin shine, those tiny shorts hugging her ass while the top of breasts remain visible. She'd probably slap him in the face and call him a pervert – sometimes, Hassan wants to do it to himself.

But most times, he wants to bend her over his desk and –

“God,” he hears her huff as she stops to stand beside him just as after they've stepped out of the school, “It looks like it's gonna rain.”

Turning to look at her, Hassan furrows his brows. He heard what she said, but it takes another handful of seconds for him to process her words. Because of course his mind had been run amuck with lewd thoughts when it was her turn to speak at the meeting. She'd been saying something about wanting to encourage the children to read more by starting a book club, but she was saying it while dressed in tight, light wash jeans and a green, knitted sweater that doesn't make any effort to hide her curves.

“Oh,” he glances up at the grayish, milky sky, “yeah.” He wants to say more, but nothing else comes out.

“Figures tonight's the night I decided to walk.” And then, as if on cue, a drizzle starts up, “Great, great,” Y/n hastily adds.

“I can give you a ride,” Hassan hastily offers, the words leaving his mouth before he can fully think them through.

Caught off guard by his offer, Y/n stutters, “Uh…you don't have you – I wouldn't want to put you out –”

“You wouldn't be,” he threads his fingers through his beard and adds, “just…..doin’ my duty.”

Y/n huffs a quiet chuckle, just as the drizzle grows a little heavier. Thankfully, they're both still standing on the school’s front steps, where the roof extends far enough for them to stay covered. “The sheriff doubles as a taxi service?”

Cocking his lips into a half smirk, “protect and serve.”

Licking her lips, Y/n shakes her head. “Protect me from a head cold?” She giggles and his heart leaps a little. Though it isn't really the sound that rouses that effect, even if she does have quite a melodic laugh, its more knowing that she's laughing because of him.

“Pretty serious crime in my book,” he determines softly. She turns just in time for their eyes to meet; Y/n's laughter settles with a gentle hum and her smile softens. There's a glimmer in them that he doesn't think he's ever noticed before and it takes the sudden sound of thunder, like a whip cracking before a microphone, to snap them out of their little moment.

Shaking his head a little, Hassan swallows thickly and lifts his denim jacket over his head, leaving some room for Y/n to duck under it as well. “Shall we?”

“Yeah.” He thinks that's what she says, but it doesn't matter anyway because her stepping under the cover of his coat is enough of a response. That's probably the closest they've ever been, and it takes that proximity for him to realize that she's at least a foot shorter than him – which does nothing but fuel his dirty thoughts.

It would be so easy for him to back her up against a wall. Box her in, lift her off the floor and –

“It's locked.”

“What?” Despite his jacket over their heads, they're drenched by the time they get to his car.

“The door,” she grins, pulling on the handle for emphasis, “still locked.”

“Oh, shit. Yeah,” Hassan scoffs, using his free hand to rummage through the pockets of his jeans until he finds his keys. It doesn't take long for him to help her in and then get into his car after that. “Kinda defeats the purpose of offering you a ride, huh?” He jokes, tugging the door shut after clambering into the driver's side.

Y/n doesn't offer anything above a breathy laugh as Hassan gets the car started, and when he looks her way that time, Y/n hastily shifts her gaze to the road straight ahead.

She doesn't trust herself to keep looking at him, god knows she almost let impulse overrule better sense when they were standing outside of the school and then again when they'd just reached his car.

He's the sheriff. She teaches his son Shakespeare. It's wildly inappropriate and they are decent, professional people.

Which, arguably, makes the thought of it that much hotter. The tall, hunky, jaded sheriff and the young English teacher – the raunchy story writes itself.

And that's why she turns away when Hassan fixes his dark eyes on her while starting the car. Because she'll give in that time, and they're still in the school parking lot. Because the last thing she needs is the mayor, principal, a slew of parents and some of the other teachers witnessing her lunging for the sheriff.

Besides, she won't be able to bear the embarrassment of rejection. And she'd like to not have to walk through a storm.

The drive to her house, which is just one block over from Hassan and his son's, is racked with silence and a tension that Y/n figures is concentrated to her side of the car; every time she looks over at him, Hassan seems as cool and unaffected as ever. Wet hair matted to his brow, flannel shirt clinging to his broad frame and one hand firmly gripping the wheel while his other arm is casually draped along the edge of his door.

How dare he make something as mundane as driving look like foreplay?

“All good?” Hassan quips when he catches her eyes lingering.

“What?” She swallows thickly, feeling her cheeks heat up, “yeah. Totally. Good.”

“Good,” Hassan hums, returning his gaze to the road ahead as he turns onto her street. It's coming down in buckets by then, and Y/n is actually a little taken aback by how quickly the weather has deteriorated. It's been a little overcast all day, but that's hardly unusual for October and they haven't had rain in almost a month.

Y/n keeps her eyes trained outside the passenger window for the rest of the drive, which doesn't even last for very long after his last turn. When he stops at the curb in front of her house, a simple affair with exposed brick, a Dutch gable roof arched windows, Y/n doesn't get out immediately.

“Thanks for the ride,” she finally turns to him again.

Hassan nods stiffly, fingers absently tapping the bottom of the steering wheel, “no problem.”

“I owe you….like a coffee, or something,” Y/n offers, impulsively adding, “unless you'd rather I returned the favor right now.”

Immediately, she wants to kick herself for saying it, or even better yet have the ground open up below her.

“What?” Hassan rasps, head snapping up as he shifts in his seat.

“I….” Unable to gauge his reaction under his stoicism, Y/n tries to do some damage control. “I don't know why I said that,” she shakes her head hastily, “sometimes I just say….”

“Things you don't mean?”

“Really stupid things,” she huffs.

Hassan emits a slow hum. “What exactly does that mean?” He knits his brows, as if he's thinking really hard on the matter, “return the favor.”

Dragging her lower lip through her teeth, Y/n shrugs. She's already opened the can, best just let the worms out – or whatever would be a proper reconstruction of that phrase. “Whatever you want it to mean.”

He reaches over the consoul, the warmth of his large palm permeating the wet fabric of her jeans. “I've got some ideas,” his hand glides upwards, only stopping when his fingers are close enough to brush the area right under the zipper of her jeans.

“This is very inappropriate, Sheriff,” Y/n looks down at his hand on her thigh before panning her gaze back up to meet his.

“Then you could just say no,” he suggests.

Y/n means it; it is incredibly inappropriate. She'd never slept with a parent, but then again, a parent has never looked as good as Hassan el Shabazz.

“Oh fuck it.” Hastily unbuckling her seatbelt, Y/n leans over and grabs his face. As she presses her lips to Hassan’s in a heady kiss, he grips her hips and practically drags her into his lap.

“Shit,” he mumbles when her back hits the horn, “We can't –”

“What?” She breathes, words tumbling into his mouth.

“Well,” his words are barely making it out as their lips work hungrily, and when Y/n grinds against his crotch, Hassan groans loudly and squeezes her waist. “Not in here. I can…. barely…..fucking move.”

Snorting a chuckle, Y/n finally pulls away. Her chest is racked with heavy breaths and she's still gripping a fistful of dark blue flannel on one hand. “Fair. Wanna come in?”

“Do you even have to ask?” He shoots back, kissing Y/n hard one more time before she clumsily stubbles out. She leaves the door open for him and jogs up the short, paved path to the front steps.

Under the protection of the porch, and with the aid of the light she'd left on before leaving home, Y/n rummages through her small purse, finding them right as Hassan starts taking long strides towards her. She gets the door open just as he reaches her. Not waiting for them to get inside, Hassan snatches her hips again and crushes his mouth to hers.

Y/n stumbles backwards into the house, blindly discarding her purse as Hassan kicks the door shut. When he shoves her against the closest wall, she elicits a quiet oof that he eagerly muffles.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” He probs, trapping her between his firm body and the cool wall.

Smiling through slower kisses, Y/n's lithe fingers travel down his front to grab his crotch, the size of the bulge there making moisture pool in her center. “I think I've got a pretty good idea.”

“Yeah?” The word is a hoarse whisper as Y/n undoes the button and zipper of his jeans, “that's not even half of it, babygirl.”

Dipping her hand into his boxers, she gasps as she closes her hand in around his impressive girth. “What else?” She croons, using her thumb to spread around a bead of precum.

Lowering his head to lay his lips on her neck, Hassan alternates between pressing feverish kisses to her soft skin and nibbling on the area around her pulse. Simultaneously, his rough hands dip under the hem of her sweater, first flattening to rove the dip of her waist before journeying upwards to knead her breasts through her bra.

“Better if I show you,” he declares after tugging his teeth away from her neck. Making short work of pulling the sweater over her head, Hassan reaches for the button on her jeans, handling it so roughly that it pops right off, the soft sound of it hitting the floor drowned out by their heavy breathing.

“You're wearing a skirt the next time we see each other,” he warns while peeling off her pants and underwear. When they reach her ankles, Y/n can't seem to kick them off fast enough, her shoes getting lost in the hurry.

Hassan's jeans and boxers don't make it past his knees before he's grabbing the back of her thighs and hoisting her up. Y/n’s legs immediately hook to his hips and he barely lets a second go to waste before sliding into her.

“God!”

“Fuck!”

Their unison exclamations are accompanied by his vice grip on her hip tightening enough to leave bruises and her nails sinking into his shoulder blades. He fills her so completely that it burns and Y/n swears she can feel him in the lower part of her stomach.

But she wants more.

“Move. Please,” she whines desperately.

Eager to comply, Hassan stirs a steady pace of rough, controlled thrusts. With each roll of his hips, he removes himself almost completely before driving back into her. Every time their hips connect, Y/n swears he's hit something no one else has ever touched and she can't help the pitched yelp that breaks her lips, combating the sound pouring rain and rolling thunder.

Gripping the back of his neck, she cups his cheek with her other hand, urging his face closer. His tongue swirls around hers and she completely relinquishes any remaining semblance of control.

Reaching between them, Hassan presses his thumb to the bundle of nerves between her thighs, rubbing it in vigorous circles and effectively adding to the growing pressure in her stomach.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Hassan encourages when her legs start stiffening. “That's it babygirl,” he praises when her hips buck enthusiastically, “I wanna feel…..just like that,” he grunts through clenched teeth when Y/n finally pulses around his length. “Fuck!”

Hassan's release is on the heel of her, generous ribbons of his hot product drenching her walls. There's a stutter in the drilling motion of his hips, but he still manages to ride out their highs with an almost assaulting pace.

And then, when they're done, he slumps forward, his weight pinning her to the wall.

Despite the coolness provided by the storm raging outside, their both sweaty and there's a stifling heat surrounding them. Her legs are as good as jelly, and when Hassan gingerly detaches himself from her, the only thing keeping Y/n upright is his steadying, one handed grip. With his free hand, he reaches between her sore thighs; collecting the bits of silky moisture in curled fingers before slipping them between her folds.

“Shit,” Y/n hisses, leaning her head to his chest, which is somehow still guarded by his wet shirt.

“What?” Hassan prompts.

“I'm not on…..anything,” she admits. In the moment, it was the furthest thing from her mind, and even now, she's more concerned about his reaction than what it might mean for herself.

In fact, there's an odd sense of satisfaction that accompanies the thought of risking it all for the sheriff – knowing that of all the women he could chose from the island, the mainland or wherever the fuck he wants to, she's the one that he fucked brainless, and there won't be any denying it.

But that's something that she doesn't want to think about right now.

“Really?” She can practically hear his smirk and it forces her to loll her head back so she can try to make out his expression in the dimess, only illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning. “Then maybe we should see what happens if we do that again.”

[staticbleeding]

‧⁺✧(˶´⚰︎`˵)⁺‧Masterlists‧⁺✧(˶´⚰︎`˵)⁺‧

Gravity Falls Stanford ⛧°。 ⋆Waiting on the Stars⋆。 °⛧ Stanley

House of Wax Bo Vincent Lester ⛧°。 ⋆Headcanons⋆。 °⛧ Nick

Michael Myers

Scream Stu Billy

Midnight Mass Father Paul Riley Flynn Sheriff Hassan

The Quarry

Travis Hackett

+ more later

[tropes-and-tales]

unintentionally caressing each other with sheriff hassan? i’ve been dying for more of him 🥹

The very first touch between you and Hassan is a handshake.  When he arrives on Crockett Island, he meets many of the inhabitants.  He shakes a lot of hands.  He notes the tight smiles, the wary eyes.  The lone Muslim on a mostly white, mostly Catholic island.  There’s guardedness there.

When you shake his hand, you look him square in the eyes.  You grin at him, pump his hand.  You make a silly joke about crime in his new jurisdiction, but the atmosphere is so tense that Hassan cracks a smile.

You have that knack, he’ll come to find:  the ability to drain tension from a situation.  The talent to soothe, to give comfort.

-----

You’re a touchy person, Hassan notices.  You hug people, do this thing where you clasp their bicep, high up near the shoulder in greeting.  You’re the type of person to steady yourself on another person if you’re laughing, which is Hassan’s favorite:  he loves startling a laugh out of you, the way you brace yourself against him as you giggle.

You don’t seem to notice you do it.  It’s not intentional, he thinks.  

There’s a moment at a school board meeting when Bev tries to push an agenda of prayers in the morning class.  Hassan prickles at the woman’s prejudice because of course she doesn’t mean any prayers other than Christian ones.  

Back and forth the two of them argue, and Bev is so good at toeing the line of microaggressions.  She doesn’t quite come out and accuse him of terrorism, but she nudges against it.  Hassan feels his blood go hot with anger, but you’re the one who gently interjects that Crockett Island’s school is a public one.  You’re the one that gently points out to Bev that prayer is prohibited, but a moment of silent reflection would be fine.

You’re the one who lays a soft hand on Hassan’s wrist as you speak.  You’re seated beside him, crammed into a tiny school desk, and you reach out to touch him.  You give him a gentle squeeze as if to say, “I’m here.  I’m on your side.”

The warm touch of your fingers encircling his wrist…he swears he can feel his blood pressure ticking back down.  Once the issue is settled and the meeting moves onto the topic of roof repairs to the building, you don’t remove your hand, and Hassan’s pulse thuds slow and steady as you hold him.

She doesn’t even realize she’s touching me, he thinks but he refuses to shift.  He refuses to draw attention to it.  

Hassan can admit it to himself:  he likes the feeling of your hand on him.

-----

He never proactively touches you.  He’ll hug you back, a stiff arm around your shoulders, but he doesn’t initiate.  He’s not a touchy person like you, and what if he’s wrongly interpreting your touch as more than just friendly?

He’s happy with what he gets.  A friendly hug from you can nourish him for an entire week of his usual lonely nights.

-----

You usually stop by the general store on Tuesday afternoons, and you usually stop by his office in the back of the building.  You usually stand in his doorway and shoot the breeze with him, and it makes him feel almost like a native Islander—Crockett Island inhabitants are famous for their ability to stand in doorways (or sit on porches or stand on the sandy pathways) and bullshit with each other.

This Tuesday?  He sees you enter the store, and the glimpse he catches makes him sit forward in his seat. You look…off.  Tired?  A little drawn and wan.  Your bright eyes are missing their usual cheerful gleam.

He’s out of his seat and leaving his office when you crumple and fall.  

He gets to you first.  Karen, the owner of the store, reaches you second, and Hassan is already cupping your face, peering down at you as you slowly wake up.

“Wha—” you start to say, but Karen leans over, tells you that you passed out.

Hassan’s heart is in his throat, but this is well-trod ground for the people of Crockett Island.  Karen knows what the score is—you have a blood sugar issue, and it’s paired with the fact that you often skip lunch.  You’ve been getting dizzy since adolescence, passing out enough that people know what to do.  Erin mentioned it once in passing, and Hassan had filed the fact away but never witnessed it until now.  The older woman chides you gently, asks Hassan to stay with you, then goes to get Doc Gunning.

“Sorry,” you mumble from the floor. 

“Don’t apologize.”  He has one hand still cupping your face, and the other grips your hand.  “Do you want to try to sit up?”

You nod.  He gets an arm under your shoulders and helps you sit up.  You scoot back a little until you’re leaning against the counter and Hassan kneels beside you.

It’s strange that you won’t quite meet his eye now.  You scrub a hand over your face and stare down at your lap. 

“You okay?” he asks.  He squeezes your hand and he’s pleased when you squeeze him back with some strength.

“Embarrassed.”

“Why?”

You glance at him, offer a rueful smile.  “Well, now you won’t think I’m cool.”

Hassan laughs.  He eases his arm out from behind your shoulders, and he reaches out and brushes a bit of hair back from your face before his palm returns to cup your face.  He isn’t aware he’s doing it; it’s second-nature, unintentional.  

“Oh, I never thought you were cool,” he teases.  He draws his thumb over your cheekbone, feels the flush his touch raises. 

“Liar,” you reply, but your smile is more you now, less sheepish.    

He could ask why you care what he thinks, but he doesn’t.  He thinks he might know.  He thinks that maybe his nights needn’t be lonely forever.

Hassan shifts until he’s sitting beside you, and he eases his arm back over your shoulders.  He draws you against him, braces you against him.  He bends his head close to your ear and chides you gently as Karen had:  admonishes you to take care of yourself, to be more mindful of how you’re feeling.  He sees you nodding, hears you promise that you will.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and he holds you tight until the doctor arrives. 

[cosmichorrorsarestillnicerthanme]

The last one was amazing I really appreciate it! Could I ask you to do a hurt/comfort for Nightingale, Medusa rider, Serenity? Like where the master is comforting them from fear or insecurities and gets hugs/cuddles/fluff please?

YOUR WISH IS MY COMMAND!

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort

Characters: Florence Nightingale (Berserker), Medusa (Rider), Hassan Of Serenity (Assassin)

Nightingale

Nightingale knew she was a… difficult person to love.

She was a Berserker after all.

A Berserker with an obsession.

An obsession with cleanliness and healthiness.

An obsession that would drive her insane if she didn’t follow.

But you still loved her despite all that and how difficult she could be.

It was something she couldn’t understand, but loved about you nonetheless.

Even still, Nightingale had bad days.

Day’s where her obsession would take hold of her.

And on those days you would take care of her, ensure that she didn’t go overboard.

And when those days ended you would hold her as she managed to regain control of herself.

It made those days far more enjoyable than they would’ve been otherwise.

Medusa Rider

Medusa was aware she was… weird about her height.

To be expected it was something that was caused by her sisters.

But you were helping her with it.

Always praising her, always telling her how beautiful she was.

It was something she could never take much of before losing her composure.

But she would be lying if it didn’t make her feel wonderful.

Still, even with your words and actions, she was always afraid that you would choose someone smaller than her “Big” self.

She knew that was just an irrational thought that never wanted to leave.

But she was still afraid of it nonetheless.

And on the days this fear got the better of her, you could easily tell.

And the two of you would spend the day together, reading, watching TV, or whatever Medusa wished to do.

All the while, you would hold her and she would hold you as you whispered sweet nothings into her ear.

Serenity

Serenity was so deathly afraid of touching you.

She knew that her Poison wouldn’t affect you but no matter what, every time you held her.

She would always ask herself “Is this the last time? Will my Poison body finally kill you?”

And each time she would be happily disappointed.

Still, it was something that was always in the back of her mind.

The other Hassan’s comforted her about it in their own way, including the Great Founder.

And most of the time she could ignore the urge to run away and sob in the corner from fear.

Most of the time.

Not all of the time.

And on the day’s she couldn’t fight that urge, you were there, offering your hand to her, ready to pull her into your embrace, ready to tell her that she had nothing to fear, and that as long as you lived, she would always have someone to hold her, no matter what happened to her.

[aesopsharpmybeloved]

No More Hiding

Things get a little uncertain for Father Paul and you, after you are caught red handed by no one other than Beverly Keane.

Requested by anonymous

I'm back and I am healthy (almost). I got a bit out of practice, so this may be a little wonky, but I hope you'll forgive me :) Also, please check out this post, I am open to some nsft Father Paul content, teehee.

No More Hiding - 3.7K

tw: suggestive themes (mention), humanising Beverly Keane, cheesy as heck, a lot of triple dots

What is it with priests on Crockett Island? Beverly thought, gravel crunching underneath her feet as she walked away from Saint Patrick’s church hastily. Bev Keane was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them - she was aware there was some funny business going on with the young priest who arrived on Crockett almost a year ago and that writer lady, but she could never be entirely sure. Until today, that is. Bev felt a fresh wave of anger as she remembered the scene she witnessed no more than ten minutes ago.

—

How could she have forgotten her bag? Bev shook her head at herself. She went home after wrapping up the daily mass on Saturday, and when she tried to reach into her handbag to pull out the keys to her home, she froze. There was nothing hanging on her shoulder. How did she not notice? In her head she suddenly saw the image of her bag, sitting on a table in the back of the church, entirely forgotten. With a sigh and an eye roll, Bev turned around and began walking towards Saint Patrick’s again.

She entered through the back door, and immediately saw her canvas bag, exactly where she’d left it. After grabbing it, Beverly was just about to go home again, but then:

A giggle.

A soft, feminine giggle sounded from the main room of Saint Patrick’s. Curious as to what’s going on there, The teacher crept towards the door leading to the front and put her hand against the handle. Very, very slowly, she pushed it and pulled the door open, just a little. She peeked out. The sight before her shook her to the core and Bev felt fury immediately settling in.

Sitting in a pew closest to the altar was Father Paul, still in his green chasuble, and next to him was (F/N)(L/N). Which, Beverly supposed, would be fine, if the priest (the PRIEST for goodness sake!) wasn’t currently pushing his tongue into her mouth and her hands weren’t messing up his raven hair. The teacher was frozen to the spot as she watched the two people exchanging passionate kisses, sometimes producing soft pleasured hums. What finally snapped Bev out of her shock was the sight of Father Paul’s hand settling on (F/N)’s knee, before pushing her skirt up as it moved forward onto her thigh.

Beverly pushed the door open all the way and coughed loudly. With malicious satisfaction she watched the couple practically jump away from each other and turn their heads in her direction, their eyes widening in horror. “B-Bev?!” yelped the priest, his face turning red, as did the young woman’s. “T-this- this isn’t what it looks like!” his hand, which left the girl’s thigh was now outstretched towards Beverly in a surrendering manner. Despite the furious storm within her, the teacher felt strangely calm as she took calculated steps towards the couple.

“Father, if you insist on indulging yourself in breaking your holy vows, it’d be nice if you had at least enough respect not to do so in God’s house,” she said, her voice cold as ice, her expression stony. The priest coughed: “Bev I-...W-we were just-” “ Don’t! Don’t… ” the teacher hissed and began walking off through the front of the church,clutching her bag in a vice grip. She shut the door with a bang.

Father Paul watched Beverly leave and winced as the old wooden doors banged shut. You then saw him wilt before your eyes. He put his elbows on his knees and placed his face in his hands. Your own hand found his shoulder and began stroking it, trying to comfort him, despite knowing that not even your touch would be able to comfort him now. Still, the priest leaned into your hand and soon raised his head to hide his face in your neck instead. You slowly stroked the hair at the nape of his neck.

“We’re screwed,” said Paul against your skin, his voice soft and tired. “Yeah,” you whispered back.

—

Bev’s idea of going home was long forgotten as she stalked across Crockett Island, glaring daggers at everyone who dared as much as acknowledge her, the teacher was seething with rage. What was it with priests on Crockett Island? She knew the old Monsignor Pruitt hadn’t exactly been celibate either, and that the island’s doctor Sarah Gunning had been the result. She found out during one of Monsignor’s episodes, when he’d weep softly and call for Mildred, apologising for not having been there for her. For their daughter.

Back then, she acknowledged this, not knowing how she felt about it. On one hand, the Monsignor went against his vows, sired a child who was then raised by a different man, and obviously never stopped lusting for said man’s wife. On the other hand, what was there to be done now? The Monsignor was old and frail, dementia claiming his mind little by little, and Mildred Gunning? Well, she was in no better state. George Gunning was long gone and Sarah was a grown woman, who grew up in a happy family with a loving mother and father, blissfully oblivious she was the illegitimate child of their local priest.

However, it was different now. God, Bev wished she hadn’t forgotten her bag in the morning. Suspecting something fishy is going on is better than actually knowing it - makes it easier to ignore. But now she knew. She knew Father Paul, a priest who was supposed to be Crockett Island’s spiritual leader, image of morality and virtue, was fornicating with a heathen, a faithless woman, who like a succubus seduced the holy man to sin.

Bev was already forming a plan in her head, a plan to inform the dioceses about the blasphemy happening right there in God’s house, if not to outright get the priest excommunicated, to at least stop this illicit affair. But then she heard a sound behind her, a girl’s high-pitched laughter. She turned around.

What she saw made her stop. It was Leeza Scarborough, laughing and squealing as she drove circles around Warren Flynn on his own bicycle. The youngest Flynn was looking at her fondly, his gaze filled with pride: “I told you you could do it!” Oh… Leeza regained the feeling in her legs during one of Father Paul’s sermons. Since then, she came out of her shell so much, yet she still remained a good, devoted Christian, never missing a single daily mass. She was smiling and laughing more, but still she prayed harder than anyone else. She even found it in her heart to forgive Joe Collie, the man who crippled her in the first place! Beverly would never!

Speaking of Joe Collie, Bev only now realised she was standing a short distance away from the general store, where said man was currently chatting up their Muslim sheriff. After Leeza forgave the town drunk, he… he actually stopped drinking. He began attending the AA sessions Father Paul started, along with Riley Flynn, and while Bev was sure he was bound to relapse, to her utmost surprise he actually stayed sober since then. He looked a little different, his clothes were cleaner, his hair and beard neater. He even started working again, on one of the fishing boats. He looked like he dropped a few pounds too. The biggest change was his face. He too was smiling more.

Bev bit her lip, deep in thought, reminiscing of the past year. Since Father Paul came to the Island, there was a change in atmosphere. After Leeza’s recovery, it was like a religious renaissance had happened. The church was usually nearly full on Sundays and more people started attending daily mass as well, Bev had to start ordering more than double the usual amount of communion wine and hosts, and even had to get some low-gluten wafers after several inquiries. Some of the people who moved away after the spill actually came back to their old homes, because the fishermen began returning from the sea with full nets of fish and crabs, just like they used to many years ago. The community was blooming.

The teacher looked around. In the gazebo of Crockett Island’s little park sat Riley Flynn with Erin Greene and her daughter… Their daughter, essentially. The child wasn’t Riley’s, yet he treated her as his own, loved her as his own blood. He moved into the Greene home and Annie even mentioned once that Erin was in the middle of divorcing her ‘nasty work of a husband’ so she could marry Riley instead, so they could become a proper family once and for all. The little girl, whom Riley Flynn was currently bouncing on his knee, had two godparents, and since only one of them had to be a practising catholic, it was Ed Flynn and the other was nobody else than (F/N)(L/N).

(F/N) had also started to help out in the school, taking upon herself some of Erin’s classes so the woman could focus on her little girl. The children actually really liked her. Bev would often hear laughter from the other classroom and most of the kids left it with a smile on their faces. When she wasn’t helping Erin, she was usually helping someone else, assisting Sturge in some maintenance work, helping Annie with inventory in the general store, even joining the Flynn men for a few fishing trips! Bev saw her once at the docks, and had to admit the young woman looked quite the natural in her work clothes.

Her previously malevolent intentions turned into conflicting thoughts. Beverly had to sit down. In a much slower pace, she finally walked home. Bev’s home wasn’t exactly filled with many decorations or personal effects. There were a few photos here and there, of her parents and her, when she was a little girl. There was a photo with Monsignor Pruitt, where she was bracing him by the arm, smiling into the camera. The older priest had his hand gently placed against hers, a kind smile on his own face. Bev rather missed the old man.

Despite the fact that the Monsignor too succumbed to the temptation of flesh, he never stopped being a good priest. And a good man. He never once refused to offer a helping hand, he was always ready to be of support. He was a rock for Beverly when she lost her parents, much too early. She could rely on him when she was all alone, when she had nobody else. Maybe that’s what really drove her to church so much… Most things in her house were of religious theme, verses were framed on her walls, there were crucifixes placed throughout the entire home, Bev only had records of gospel music laid by the old record player which belonged to her mother.

Beverly sat down in her armchair, the room so quiet  one could hear a pin drop. The truth was that Father Paul, despite his immoral indulgence in carnal desires, was still a good priest. He took care of his parish, took care of his flock. Always ready to help and provide support… just like the Monsignor.

And (F/N)? Beverly scoffed unhappily. As much as she wasn’t fond of the girl and the fact she seduced a holy man, she had to admit that (F/N) was… a part of Crockett Island now. She came when everyone else left, this was her home, and the people accepted her as their own. She was popular. Beverly was not, she was aware of that. She knew that most people only tolerated her because she played such a big part in the church, and because she taught their children. She didn’t have friends, or a family, but she had this. And that was good enough for her.

However, if she were to… if she were to report Father Paul Hill to the dioceses, if she managed to actually get him out of Crockett Island… She probably wouldn’t be tolerated anymore… No, Beverly would be hated . There was a big possibility the people would be more willing to accept an uncelibate priest whom they adored, rather than have this beloved priest taken away. And God knows who’d take his place then? If it came down to taking sides, Bev had no qualms that people would actually take hers and not Father Paul’s. She’d then drop lower than Joe Collie, who was slowly but surely gaining more sympathy ever since he became sober. She’d be the town pariah. Not Joe, not Riley, but Beverly .

She put her face into her hands. Was she going to actually ignore this? Was she really just going to let them continue committing sins? Then again… everyone sinned, didn’t they? To sin was human after all, and the heavenly father forgives all those who try to make amends. And Father Paul and (F/N)(L/N)... they made amends constantly by all the work they put into this small community… The teacher sighed deeply. She supposed she could try to just … ignore it. She didn’t agree with what they were doing, but she could ignore it, for the sake of everyone else… Speaking of everyone else, Beverly wondered who else knew of this little affair. Erin Greene? Possibly, her and (F/N) were joined at the hip. And if Erin knew, then Riley Flynn maybe knew as well. Who else?

It was decided then. Bev looked up and released another deep sigh. In a way, she felt… lighter? Calmer? What was with this feeling of acceptance? She should still be angry, she should be hating every moment she allows this to continue, but she just wasn’t. In a way, she was… content. It was better for Crockett Island if Father Paul stayed, and, well, Bev reluctantly supposed it was better if (F/N) stayed too. She didn’t even realise the corners of her lips were turning up slightly. Sighing for the last time, she got up from her chair and walked to the record player. Maybe there were still some of her mother's old records somewhere, Bev thought, maybe she could use some non-gospel music for a little change.

—

Any day now, you and Paul expected some nasty letter from the dioceses, or maybe a surprise visit from the bishop. Or a phone call, inquiring whether it was true that the priest was in a forbidden affair with a woman.. But nothing happened. You haven’t really discussed what would happen to your relationship, because the thought was too terrifying, but you became so much more careful about it. You didn’t dare to touch one another unless you were in the rectory or your house, doors locked and curtains closed. You wouldn’t hold each other’s hand during walks, you didn’t feel safe expressing any physical affection even in front of the friends who knew of your relationship.

It sucked, not being able to snuggle up to the priest when you were outside in the woods, definitely alone, but unwilling to take any risks. You missed his warmth, the smell of him when he held you close, you missed the stolen kisses. You wouldn't even go to the Uppards, even though you’d never be caught there, especially by Beverly. It sucked.

On the other hand, you learned how to show affection in public through other ways. Like a deep look into each other’s eyes and a single slow blink - like a quick peck on the lips. A smile and head slightly cocked to the side - an ‘I love you’. It wasn’t the real thing, but it was lovely nonetheless. A week passed, then two and… nothing. No letters, no phone calls, no visits. In fact, it was very quiet. The priest served his homilies as usual, Bev helped him as she always did. She talked to him and treated him the same as ever, as if she never caught the two of you, as if it had all been a bad dream.

Yet, the two of you remained cautious, always checking over your shoulder. By the third week, you were going mad. As you lay in your bed, mind for once calm and quiet after a tender lovemaking, with Paul drawing little patterns on your bare back with his fingertips, you suddenly spoke: “We should talk to her.” “Hm?” asked Paul, and turned his head a little to look at you. “To Bev,” you clarified. Paul sighed and closed his arms around you. “Why?” he asked finally. You adjusted yourself in his hold and rested your chin on his collarbone to look into his eyes: “Well, it’s been a while. If she told someone, the dioceses… they would’ve been here by now, wouldn’t they? Or call, at least? She’d be smug about it, I think. But she’s, you know… normal. Well Bev-normal anyway.”

Paul nodded and closed his eyes. “Hm… That’s going to be very uncomfortable,” he said at last. You pulled yourself up to press a kiss against his perfect mouth, making him smile softly. “Yeah… but we’ll face it together.”

—

It was… very very awkward. You were sitting on the uncomfortable metal chairs in the recreation centre, you and Paul next to each other, Beverly Keane opposite of you. You were so nervous. The priest grabbed your hand, which was gripping your knee painfully, in silent support. Bev frowned for a bit, but didn’t say anything. You took a deep breath, it was now or never. “Miss Keane, we wanted to talk to you about what you saw in Saint Patrick’s some time ago. There’s no point in lying. What you saw was exactly what it looked like, Father Paul and I, we… we’re lovers. And have for a long time.” Paul nodded next to you and squeezed your hand tighter.

Beverly nodded as well: “I’ve gathered as much. Why are we here?” You swallowed in nervousness and took a breath to answer, but Paul beat you to it: “You are a very devout woman, Beverly. I am breaking my vows. Yet, you still… help me in church, you treat the two of us the same… You didn’t tell anyone?” Bev’s eyes were piercing, you felt quite tiny under her scrutinising gaze. Finally, she looked down at her hands which were neatly folded in her lap: “No, I didn’t… Not really for your sake, though. I don’t approve of this. I didn’t tell anyone because… Crockett Island relies on you, Father. And, to a certain amount, on you as well (F/N)(L/N). I will keep quiet about this… However, you must know that if I… caught you, someone else will too, eventually. So you may, at the very least, attempt to be… decent.”

You bit your lip. Bev was right, it was only a matter of time before the relationship would be found out. But then again, you didn’t think there were that many people left to find out. Over the months, you received more and more knowing looks, from both friends and acquaintances. One time a woman named Betty, who ran the island’s teeny-tiny beauty salon and attended Sunday masses pulled you aside to tell you what a lucky woman you were, having a good looking man like that. In fact, the only person you were seriously hiding your love from was currently promising she’ll keep her mouth shut about it. It was nearly surreal.

After some more awkward and uncomfortable talking, during which you revealed to Beverly that your relationship began after the Easter vigil (by which she was surprised, since she suspected something was going on much earlier), you parted ways in a rather civil manner. As you left the rec centre, Paul took your hand in his right away, leading you to the woods for a stroll. You smiled and leaned into him, thankful to feel his warmth again.

Over the following weeks, you settled back into your routine, except you were way more relaxed. Someone saw you holding hands, or sharing an embrace and a kiss from time to time, but they never once commented on it. Well, most of the time. One time you pressed a kiss to Paul’s cheek when you thought you were alone, in front of the general store, just to hear a wolf-whistle behind you. “Knew it,” came Joe Collie’s voice, as he left the shop and walked away jovially, Pike following behind him with a wagging tail. “He didn’t know shit,” said sheriff Hassan, leaning against the doorframe, “I knew, though.” You stuck your tongue out at him, making Paul chuckle.

—

Hard to believe it had been a year already, you thought as you stood by the gazebo, a sooty cross drawn on your forehead. There were more people attending the Crock Pot Luck this year, as the town’s population grew slightly. You observed them fondly, feeling at peace. Feeling utterly home. One year ago exactly, you were sitting at one of the tables, sipping wine and chatting with Father Paul. Back then, you only ever allowed yourself to think of him in secret, today he lived in your mind rent-free and you were far from being mad about it.

Speaking of Father Paul, a pair of long arms wrapped themselves around your waist from behind and soft lips brushed against the back of your neck. You smiled and put your hands over his. He came around, keeping one arm around you and pulled you close for a real kiss. And what a kiss it was, sweet and passionate at the same time, and it filled your heart with utmost joy. When you pulled back, you noticed a number of people looking at the two of you. Some of them had a knowing expression and a smile on their faces, some were wide eyed, but said nothing. Others simply returned to minding their own business. Bev Keane was one of the latter. You smiled at your lover and he mirrored you.

“No more hiding, huh? You asked quietly. His smile grew: “No more hiding.” You stroked his smooth cheek. “The secrecy was kind of thrilling though,” you teased. The priest chuckled, “we can do a little bit of hiding, as a treat,” he promised. You giggled airily and pressed one more kiss to his lips before grabbing his hand and leading him to one of the tables.

No more hiding.

Hello again! Hope it wasn’t that horrible lol. You can check out this story and the entire series on AO3. Thank you for being patient with me <3 

Tagged: @i-was-ok-then-i-saw-hamish​

I will feed you a sugarcube and scratch your head for feedback ;-;

Also, please, if you're on insta, go and report account named 32181045, who hacked Hamish's account, got Hamish deleted and gloats about it in their stories.

[littleredwritingcat]

“O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fire of hell, lead all souls to heaven, especially those who are in most need of Thy mercy. O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us…”

Father Paul is rocking back and forth, holding one of your hands with both of his own. He keeps repeating the prayer while Sarah tries everything she can to bring you back for the second time in an hour.

It doesn’t seem like an overdose. It doesn’t seem like an aneurysm or – or a heart attack. In fact, your heart is working at an incredible pace. And you’re burning up. And you’re bleeding. The nose is gushing a steady stream and blood is starting to trickle through the closed eyelids combined with tears and it’s coming out from your fingernails, covering the priest’s hands in thin rivulets.

Sarah has never seen this before.

And we're back!

Again!

To those of you who have held on this long - thank you. I know this fic has been slow to update, but I hope I'm crafting something that's high quality. I adore you, and you deserve that.

So, you know what this is all building to. Maybe not "how" just yet - but the inevitable is coming. *Of course* I mean a big fat confrontation between Sheriff Hassan and Monsignor "Liar Liar Pants On Fire"

This is where it all starts to get real, my loves. Hang on to your rosaries! From here on out, there's a dearth of sunshine and pop tarts till story's end.

Also, it should be noted that I have absolutely no medical training and your suspension of disbelief is going to have to kick in.

I'm a doctor but I'm not *that* kind of doctor.

Tagging some mutes and supporters new and old this time.

*mwah*

@everythingbutresolved @agirlinherhead @honey-tree-evil-eye @thenookienostradamus @prettyblondguys @girlwiththenegantattoo @midwestmisfit @rothko-mirror @jyngerpeach @chronic-ghost @yepthatsacowalright @lovepollution @ebiemidnightlibrarian @choosekindly @madsmilfelsen @purplelupins @daughterofaries @turbulent-protagonist @perpetual-fangirl900 @happyvintagegirl40 @vintageglassheart02 @p-e-r-s-e-p-h-o-n-e @labyrinthphanlivingafacade @

[earlgreydream]

free use with sheriff Hassan (midnight mass)

cw: implied consent, degradation, light spanking

a/n: i'm a flanaverse whore, so i had to <3

the house smelled like soup, a storm brewing outside, threatening all the inhabitants of the tiny island. you’d been ordered to stay inside, left in your small house near the beach, waiting for the sheriff to come home from securing the marina.

you’d barely seen hassan all week, the interruption to your active sex life making you agitated. you were a pent-up ball of sexual frustration, so much so that the night before you’d told your husband that you’d be happy if he fucked you over the table while he went about his routine. you didn’t care, you were simply desperate. with the storm, the new monsignor in town, and beverly terrorizing the island, hassan had been rather neglectful of your needs, coming home late at night and practically passing out as soon as he sat down.

you were stirring the pot of soup when the sound of the front door alerted you of your husband's arrival, his heavy footsteps in the foyer. you called out a greeting, but didn't move away from your task, assuming that like always, he would be right back out the door or straight into the shower before crashing for the night.

you never blamed him, he was a good sheriff, something important in the unsettling island where evil was often lurking.

"hassan!" you gasped, nearly dropping your spoon as his hands suddenly found your waist, muscular body towering over yours.

"make sure it doesn't burn, doll," he murmured, fingers wrestling open the button on your jeans.

hassan yanked down your waistband, baring you in the kitchen, in front of the window, where any of the local parish could walk by and see if they were being particularly nosy. he didn't care, hassan was drunk on the need to be inside of you, heavy and aching with arousal.

"what are you doing?"

"you said you were so desperate to be fucked I didn't need to ask. knock it off with the attitude and bend over for me," he answered firmly, holding your jaw in his hand, waiting for you to obey.

you leaned forward, resting your elbow on the counter as he kicked your feet apart, salivating as your wet sex came into view. a gasp escaped your lips as your hips were knocked forward against the edge of the counter, hassan never having any restraint on his force, nearly knocking your pot over.

you were so suddenly full and despite knowing that he had told you to keep cooking, you blindly shut off the stove as your vision tunneled, your husband making you cockdrunk in seconds.

"can't listen, can ya?" he slapped your ass, the loud crack rattling through the kitchen and the sting spreading through your skin.

"you... said not to burn it," you answered through clenched teeth, being dangerously snide with him.

he fucked into you hard, his fingers dropping off of your clit, taking away the extra pleasure he had awarded you. hassan tugged your hair back, connecting your lips in a fiery kiss as your back pressed to his chest.

"been missing your smart little attitude," his voice was deep, but his tone loving beneath.

"please, fuck me all night," you begged against his lips, desperately rocking back against him.

[gerardway-is-my-babygirl]

Nothing worse than going on ao3 and finding the character x reader tag and seeing absolutely NO fics with a m/m category what the fuck man

I just checked another character x reader tag from the same fandom and there are 182 F/M FICS AND 14 FUCKING M/M ONES WHAT THE FUCK?!?!!??!?

[mariamariquinha]

Maria’s Fic Recommendation

Soooo since I’ve been writing my stuff, I think it’s more than fair to share some of the most amazing things I’d read or I’m reading now. Probably forgot a lot of them, which I apologize!

Oh, I may add that I don’t write to a few characters on it, BUT I truly appreciate these works below. Enjoy! (And thank you for all those amazing writers making good and beautiful content. You are the best! ❤)

(here we go)

-------------------------------

Baubles of stolen kisses by @brandyllyn (Richard Alonzo Muñoz)

Cerebral by @laters-gators (Nathan Bateman)

Relative Dating by @youvebeenlivingfictional (Indiana Jones)

Homestead by @youvebeenlivingfictional (Benoit Blanc)

You Want me To? by @youvebeenlivingfictional (Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon)

The Warmasters’s Wife by @youvebeenlivingfictional (Gurney Halleck) 

Healing hands by @cheesybadgers (Colonel Horacio Carrillo)

Old Habits Die Hard by @cheesybadgers (Colonel Horacio Carrillo x Javier Peña) 

In Another Life by @cheesybadgers (Esteban) THIS THING HERE IS LIKE... A GEM! LAURA KNOWS IT BUT I’LL REMIND YOU ALL THAT WE’RE TALKING ABOUT A MASTERPIECE. 

Objectos de Deseo by @massivecolorspygiant (Colonel Horacio Carrillo) 

Black Lace and Wine by @nocturnal-milk-dud (Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon)

Slow Hands by @drabbles-mc (Angel Reyes)

Lunch Break by @tropes-and-tales (Bishop Losa)

Human touch by @tropes-and-tales (Sheriff Hassan)

I Got a Bone to Pick With You by @placeinthemiddleofnowhere (Frank Castle)

A Problem of Communication by @dunefeather (Gurney Halleck)

A Flirtatious Game by @supernovafeather (Duke Leto Atreides)

arise, ascend by @zinzinina​ (Boba Fett)

[neimlise]

Soap: It’s dark in here

(Y/n): Don’t worry dude, I got this.

(Y/n): *shines a light on Hassan’s head*

*The light proceeds to bounce on Hassan’s head, which causes to light the darkest corners*

Hassan, flabbergasted:

Graves:

Alejandro:

Ghost:

Soap:

Shepherd, putting a hand on his head:

—

Based on this

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Closing the Distance

Sheriff Hassan x Reader

Author's Note: I'm sorry its bad. I'm sorry this is the first I've written in this fandom. Just sorry all 'round.

Summary: Devastating news brings Sheriff Hassan and his neighbor closer together.

Warnings: Mentions of terminal illness, grief and death, brief mentions of SMUT

Crockett is small. Small enough for someone to walk from one end to the next in less than a day, small everyone to know each other by name, small enough for gossip to spread faster wildfire. It's part of why Hassan keeps his head down and his nose out of everyone’s business; small towns are close knit, they stick together, and he's already an outcast. So unless someone is explicitly breaking the law or being a public nuisance, Hassan keeps his distance. 

Even if it's hard sometimes. Even if his cute neighbor brings over dinner for him and Ali when she cooks extra or waves at him when he's getting into his car in the morning while she's having coffee on the porch. Even if he does find himself wanting to prolong their conversation when he bumps into her while picking up groceries. Hassan keeps his distance, because even if Y/n has only lived on the island for a year longer than he has, she is not an outcast.

From the bits and pieces he's been able to pick up, Y/n’s mother grew up there and then their family spent most of her summers as a child on the island. In the same quaint house across the street from his, with weather beaten porch steps, a white French door guarded by thin yellow curtains and a kitchen window that faces the street. She moved there just after her grandmother passed and her grandfather fell ill. Everyone knows her, everyone likes her, not that he can blame them – even Bev likes her, though he doubts the feeling is mutual. And that's why Hassan keeps his distance; even Y/n isn't one of them, she's one of theirs. 

So he keeps his distance.

Until he gets home from work one Friday evening just in time to see Y/n walking Sarah to her car. Before she gets in, they spend another couple minutes talking and while he doesn't want to sit in his car and stare, there's something about the dimness in her expression and the invisible weight pressing her shoulders into a solemn, downward curve that holds him there. Hassan can't recall ever seeing her like that – tired, sure, it would be impossible to be a caregiver and not feel the strain of it. But this evening is different, it's more than tired. He recognizes that look; that was how he looked when his wife reached her end. 

Hassan waits until Sarah drives off before getting out of his own car. Y/n is still standing on the sidewalk, arms hugging herself and eyes cast in the direction of the receding car. She isn't dressed to be outside, denim shorts and a thin band tee are hardly enough to combat the October chill, especially when it's been raining on and off all day, and that's how he knows she's probably avoiding heading back in. And he simply can't stand to retreat to his own house when she's looking like she's about to fall apart. 

So Hassan calls out to her. 

“Hey neighbor,” it's just enough to beckon her attention, and his tone, he hopes, gives nothing away. 

“Sheriff,” as Y/n turns to him, she tries to smile but her lips quiver and the effort doesn't reach her eyes. “Hey,” her voice cracks ever so slightly and he suddenly feels guilty about intruding on what might have been a private moment. “How are you?”

Of course she asks how he's doing when she's the one on the verge of tears. 

“Doin’ alright,” he shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “you?”

Before anything leaves her lips, which she's pressed into a thin line, Y/n nods stiffly. “I'm….” She sniffles and Hassan steps closer until he's standing where Sarah's car had been parked. “I'm okay,” she manages softly, adverting her gaze to their feet. 

He doesn't know what prompts him – his urge to comfort her or the fact that he'd wished someone had done that for him – but Hassan reaches out to lay a hand on her shoulder, and gives it an affectionate squeeze. “You sure?”

And he swears that's like slipping the pin out of the grenade. Or more accurately, throwing a pebble at a cracked window; the tiny thing that shatters something already so fragile. 

A sob tumbles past her lips and without thinking, he pulls her against him. She's small enough for her head to settle against the center of his chest while he smooths his hand over her hair. Hassan knows all too well that now isn't the time for him to marvel at how well she fits in his arms, like they're two puzzle pieces just snapping into place. Despite his efforts though, the thought lingers in the back of his mind.

“He's dying,” she cries, words muffled as she keeps her face pressed to his chest, “He's dying and there's nothing else I can do for him.”

Her words make him hold her tighter, as if he's trying to keep her pieces from scattering. “I'm so sorry,” is the only thing he offers. All other words of sympathy and comfort feel wrong in the moment, so they stay like that and Hassan holds her until loud cries turn to slow tears. In fact, it isn't even him that pulls away – if it were up to him, he'd hold her until the next morning, longer if she needs it. 

“God,” wiping her cheeks hastily, Y/n sniffles, continuing bashfully, “Sorry about that. I bet you're never gonna ask anyone how they're doing ever again.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” he counters dismissively, “is there anything I can do?” 

Her smile, though genuine, is small and sad. “You've already done a lot,” Y/n assures him, “but maybe you could come in for coffee? If you have time,” she adds hastily.

He really had meant to come home and make dinner, hopefully get Ali to tell him about his day, but there's half a pizza in the fridge and he's pretty sure his son is gonna make up an excuse to not have dinner with him, the way he does every evening. Besides, he doesn't want to leave Y/n alone and another half hour can't hurt. “Coffee sounds good.”

Despite being embarrassed about her little meltdown, Y/n is enormously grateful that Hassan agrees to come in for coffee – and it's not even because of that silly little school girl crush she's been nursing since the day they met. It's because when it's just her and her grandfather in the house, she can hear his laboured breathing even in the rooms furthest from his bedroom and she's hoping that talking to the sheriff will distract her a little. 

For just a few minutes, Y/n wants to pretend that the man who's wrapped up in some of her fondest memories isn't slipping away and Sarah hasn't just told her to start making arrangements. 

His steps are soft as he follows her into the kitchen, and it takes getting there for her to remember that she's left a tray with food and medication on the table. “Shit,” she hisses softly, going to collect it off the small table.

“It's alright if you have to take that up,” Hassan says, halting in the doorway, “I can wait or….”

“No,” Y/n shakes her head as she empties a small bowl of rice cereal into the trash before grabbing a smaller bowl of applesauce to do the same with that, “This is from breakfast. He wouldn't eat it. Didn't eat dinner last night and….” When her voice starts shaking, Y/n stops herself and sets the dishes in the sink. Washing off her hands, she fixes her attention on the coffee maker. It's a nice one, the kind that comes with a milk frother. It's one of the few things that she'd brought from her apartment in the city to make life in Crockett a little more comfortable. “How do you take it?” She asks, slipping a mug into the designated place. 

“Black, two sugars,” he returns, now standing near the table with his hands stuffed into his pockets. He makes the space look small, Y/n thinks, and on a regular day it's one of the things she fancies about him. He's so big, capable of being incredibly imposing and yet the only thing she ever feels in his presence is safe. And it's not because of his uniform or the fact that he's a man of the law, it's because there's a softness about Hassan that makes her yearn to be close to him. 

It doesn't matter what everyone says about him, Y/n just doesn't see it. He doesn't say a lot, probably even less to her than everyone else on the island, but there's a kindness in his very rare smile and a sadness in his eyes that she wishes she could help with.

“We can talk about it, if you want,” Hassan offers as Y/n stirs two teaspoons of sugar into his coffee.

When Y/n turns to hand him the ceramic mug, she encourages him to sit before returning to the machine and it takes a couple minutes more to sort her thoughts out enough to address his suggestion. “I don't know if there is anything to talk about,” she admits, thumb nail flicking the edge of the tile countertop, “I knew he was terminal when I got here. It was never a matter of if, it was when. But now that its….when, I feel like it's too soon, you know?”

Hassan nods, and she knows that his agreement isn't just surface level empathy – she's heard about his wife from the gossipy folks in town. “I keep reading about all these people who grieve their parents, spouses…. grandparents before they die, because they know it's happening,” Y/n goes on, and at this point, she's rambling in hopes of making sense of her experience, “but it was never like that for me. Until now. I mean I knew he was gonna….” She can't even bring herself to say the words. 

“But you didn't think it would be like this,” it's like he's taken the words right out of her mind when he says them. “You thought he'd just go to sleep one night, it would happen and then it would be over.”

“Yeah, exactly,” collecting her mug, Y/n assumes the chair closest to Hassan, “but this is so different. He's in pain, he won't eat, barely drinks water. I know that it's best for him, so he can be…..at peace again,” her eyes start welling up again, and much to her surprise, he reaches over and rests his free hand over. Y/n can count one hand the amount of times he's touched her. Four times. 

He shook her hand when they first met and the three other times had happened that very evening.

Admittedly, it's a little confusing; she's spent so long convinced that he doesn't like her that it's hard to believe that him sitting in her kitchen isn't anything more than pity. But that hug didn't feel like pity and the sincerity in his eyes doesn't feel like that either. His thumb is caressing the side of her wrist, the roughness of his finger contrasting with the softness of his skin. 

“I understand,” he determines quietly, “I know it doesn't help-”

“It does, you have no idea how much you've helped. Just by being here.” Y/n leans in a little, and Hassan cups her cheek. 

“You shouldn't have to go through this alone,” he ghosts the apple of her cheek, “you're there for everyone, someone should be here for you.”

Her hand slides down the back of his forearm, stopping near his elbow. “I'm….” She goes to say glad, but its the wrong word, “grateful it's you. So thank you.”

“‘Course,” Hassan hums, before searching her eyes when she inches closer, “What?”

Y/n knows she's taking a pretty big risk, he's never shown any interest in her like that and she isn't quite sure that her next request has anything to do with her feelings for him. But she asks anyway. “What if I wanted to forget….just for a little while.” She leans in closer, and that time, he does too.

They're so close that Y/n can smell bits of Crockett's salty air mingling with a very subtle cologne. So close that it just takes a couple inches forward on her part for their lips to meet. He tastes like coffee, and his gray flecked beard scratches her face in the most enthralling way. Surprisingly, he reciprocates; his other hand reaches for the back of her neck as he deeps the kiss. 

Clumsily, Y/n fumbles out of her chair and into his lap, his worn jeans rubbing against her exposed thighs. The chair scrapes along the hardwood floor when he tries to get it a couple inches away from the table, but neither of them pay any mind to the noise. His large palm inches down her back to eventually slips under the hem of her t-shirt while Y/n starts fiddling with the top button of his uniform. 

“Y/n,” he mumbles her name as she pops the second button. Her reply is a hum and an attempt to press her lips to his a bit harder. The bulge in his jeans is firm against her thigh, encouraging her to suggestively grind against his crotch. “Y/n,” that time, Hassan tears his lips from hers and swiftly grabs both her wrists in on his hands, while the other stays firmly on her back – on the outside of her t-shirt. 

“You don't want to?” Because of course, on top of overwhelming grief, she has to deal with the shame rejection after she tries to jump her neighbor's bones.

“Trust me,” he heaves, glancing down between them. She can still feel his hard on through his jeans and the thought of what it might feel like without restraint causes her to shift in anticipation. “I want to. But I don't think you want to,” and before she can get an argument in, he cuts her off, “At least, not like this.”

Hassan lets her wrists go in favor of cupping her face with both hands. Leaning in until their foreheads meet, he sighs heavily. “Whatever this could be shouldn't start because you're running away from feeling something difficult.”

“I'm not-” she tries to argue, but her voice breaks, “you’re right.”

“Just….give yourself some time. And when this is over, and you're really ready – and if you still want this – I'll be waiting.” That time, when their mouths meet, the kiss is more gentle. It isn't fueled by passion or haste, it's a promise. 

When the break, Y/n slides out of his lap and goes to lean on the lip of the sink. Hiding her face in her hands, she groans loudly, “God,” she bemoans, “I feel so stupid.”

A weaker spot in the old floor creaks ever so slightly as Hassan stands and closes the short distance in a couple long strides. “Don't be,” he weans her hands off her face, holding them so he can caress her knuckles, “honestly, if you weren't crying thirty minutes ago no one would be able to pry me off you.”

His words rouse a quiet chuckle and Y/n spends another handful of seconds staring at their joined hands. “I'm gonna hold you to that,” she affirms quietly.

Hassan gives her hands a squeeze, “I'd hope so,” he glaces backwards at the window. It's starting to get dark out and there are a couple lights on over at his place, signaling that Ali is home. “I should…”

“Of course,” Y/n nods, “Yeah.”

His hands gently cup her neck and she curves her fingers over his wrists, thumbs absently stroking his skin. “If you need anything,” he lowers his head, so close the tips of their noses are almost touch, “you know where to find me.” 

After a bit of hesitance, Hassan kisses her one last time before finally letting her hands go and turning to leave. In the doorway, he turns to offer her a short wave and sad, lopsided smile before continuing towards the front door. Meanwhile, Y/n lingers at the sink, toying with her nails even as the front door clicks shut. Through the window, she watches Hassan cross the street and stroll up the front before disappearing into his house. 

And just like that, she can hear the wheezing again, and the sound of it causes her to elicit a shuddered breath. Despite her talk with the sheriff, Y/n is still unnerved by what may come within the next few days, but for the first time she isn't entirely unsure of what comes next. For a while, she'd been wondering what would come after; her grandfather is the only thing tying her to the island, but the thought of going back to the city is unnerving. Maybe now she won't have to though, at least, not for a little while longer. 

[blueberry-fiction]

Picture Perfect

Sheriff Hassan x fem!reader

Waves lapped loudly at the edge of Garry Point Park Beach and, in the same fashion, retreated back into the ocean whence they’d come, leaving behind a thick coat of sticky foam spat up from the darkened, choppy water that was only now coming into view on the horizon. Some mornings, when the wind blew in just the right direction, the smell of sizzling bacon and fresh brewed coffee would drift down to the shore from the diner a few blocks over and mingle deliciously with the salty ocean air, blanketing the scene in the warm aroma. This morning was not one of those mornings. No, today the chilly autumn air was thin, crisp, and carried with it the threat of a storm that was scheduled to hit Crockett Island in just two days' time.

The alarm on Y/n's wristwatch chirped twice to signal the time, but she looked down to confirm anyways out of habit. 6:28 AM. Perfect. Not even a moment later, as if summoned by the chirping of her alarm, thin wisps of golden sunlight began to creep out from their slumber and peek out over the wave caps on the horizon. Bright streams of yellow and orange danced across the dark, watery landscape and gleamed brightly into Y/n's eyes from where she watched on the shoreline, her worn leather boots settling a little further into the damp sand beneath her.

Transfixed completely by the technicolor display jumping to life before her, she’d all but forgotten all about the camera dangling from around her neck and her entire purpose for being at the beach this early on a Saturday. As quickly as she could, Y/n carefully removed the old camera from its weathered pouch, slid the lens cover aside, and found her frame. “Now if I could just focus the damned thing...” she mumbled quietly under her breath.

Y/n considered herself a semi-professional photographer, but this particular camera was new to her. Until very recently it had belonged to her mom and, much to her frustration, it had an extremely sensitive focusing ring. Unlike Y/n, her mom had been a fully professional photographer, teaching herself almost all of what she knew about the art from this very spot on Garry Point Park Beach. Also unlike Y/n, her mom had been one of the few life-long islanders that the shopkeepers in the center of town liked to remember so fondly whenever Y/n stopped for a few groceries or to fill up her gas tank- A couple even went so far as to hang a portrait of her mom up on their walls after the funeral. Most importantly to Y/n though, her mom had been a loving role model and an incredible mentor. Her old camera, on the other hand, was not so loving.

To familiarize herself with it, Y/n made a habit of waking up early to snap a few pictures of the sunrise from a sleepy cove at the southern end of the beach near her mom's, er-her's now, house. She'd found a photo of the cove in the house on her very first day here and scouted it out the next morning, camera in hand, attempting to capture as many shots as possible while simultaneously avoiding any potential onlookers that may distract her from her learning process. Lately though, Y/n's artistic progress seemed to have plateaued thanks to her especially sensitive camera and, even worse, four days ago she realized she'd been noticed by someone.

In his defense, Hassan was one of the least threatening island residents who could have witnessed Y/n’s new early morning routine, but even from a distance he could sense that she didn't welcome his presence there by the way she positioned herself just outside his line of vision now.

Four mornings ago, when Hassan had been running a few minutes ahead of his typical schedule and, by chance, caught a glimpse of her making her way toward the mouth of the cove through the hazy morning light, she'd looked up toward the road in time to notice him there, leaning comfortably against the side of his car, and stopped dead in her tracks. Hassan's usually stern face had broken into a small smile and he'd lifted his hand to offer up a friendly half-wave as a sign that he meant no harm, a gesture Y/n hadn't returned.

Instead, he'd noticed the way her body went completely rigid when his eyes lingered curiously on her shadowy figure in the moments that followed. His smile faded, lips settling into a hard line. "She must have known she wasn't the only person out here" he'd thought then.

Had she not realized that this too had been his morning ritual? Albeit, not to fiddle around with a camera, but just to carve out a few solitary moments of tranquility from his day before hurling himself back into playing Sheriff on Crockett Island. And now here she was on a Saturday, too?

Hassan shoved his hands deep into the front pockets of his blue jeans and, looking down, clumsily kicked at a pebble on the side of the road where he’d parked his car only a half hour earlier to watch the sunrise himself. If anything, he thought, he should be the one annoyed with her, not the other way around. After all, he had been visiting this shoreline most mornings for the last two years since becoming the town's new Sheriff, whereas Y/n had just moved onto Crockett Island three weeks ago. He should be annoyed by her sense of entitlement, he thought.

Curiously though, he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but quiet fascination at the sight of the new photographer in the morning's dim yellow light as she slowly climbed the grassy path that led toward the road where he stood leaning against his car, a smile gently tugging at the corners of his mouth.

X

[tropes-and-tales]

Oh my gosh, more prompts! 🤗

Because I watched it recently, may I request “you can kiss me, you know” OR “come back to bed” with the one and only Sheriff Hassan?

Hassan grew up and lived in the city for most of his life, so he’s not prepared for a lot of the realities of island living.

The quiet, for example.  The darkness, for another.  Crockett Island is so small and sparsely populated that Hassan has to relearn how to fall asleep without the ceaseless sound of traffic and city noises.

There’s also the proximity to nature.  In the city, it was often easy to pretend that nature was a tame thing, something to bind up in manicured parks.  On the island, nature can be fierce and unpredictable and right outside his door.

Like the storm rolling across the tiny island.  Hassan stands at his bedroom window, watching it.  Lightning flashes leave blue-white afterimages floating behind his eyelids  The lightning bursts illuminate the sheets of rain drumming from the sky, the wind bending the scrubby trees nearly in half.  The first roll of thunder woke him up, but you?

You grew up on Crockett Island.  You don’t wake when the storm starts, but you stir now—he hears the rustling of the sheets, the sleepy groan you make—and then you wake.

A moment later, he hears the soft thump of your feet hitting the floor, and a moment after that, he feels your arms slide around his bare waist.

“Enjoying the show?” you ask, and your voice is sleep-rough, smoky.  

“Never had storms like this in the city.”

“You did.  You just never noticed because there wasn’t as much sky.  It got blocked out by all the buildings.”

He hums in agreement.  He gets an arm around you, then gently pulls you to him until you’re tucked under his arm and against his side.  He turns his head to drag his nose through your hair, to take in the familiar scent of you.

You stand together at his window and watch the storm.  When a particularly close-sounding peal of thunder booms, he jumps and it makes you laugh.

“Tough guy sheriff scared by a little rain?” you tease, and you draw your fingernails along the naked skin of his side, making him squirm at the ticklish sensation.

“I’m not scared of anything,” he replies, and he drops his voice, makes it gruff to sound tougher.  You laugh again.

“Duly noted, Sheriff.”  You release him, and you tilt your head up to him with your lips pursed until he grins, bends his head, and kisses you.

“Come back to bed,” you add.  You do a cute pirouette as you spin away from him, back towards the bed. Hassan watches you in the half-light of the bedroom, takes in the sight of you in his discarded t-shirt, your hair mussed and wild.  

Another crack of lightning startles him from his reverie, and he—taller, with longer legs—takes a few strides to catch up to you.  He scoops you into his arms, your surprised squeal ceding to laughter as he carries you the rest of the way and then unceremoniously dumps you onto the bed.  He dives right in, follows you down and cages you in with his arms as he arches his body over yours.  He dips his head and kisses you again, this time with more intention.

Maybe he’s a little scared of the storm.  He’s not used to such wild weather right at his door—but island living has its upsides, like weathering the storms…in bed…with you.

[cosmichorrorsarestillnicerthanme]

Hey, since you’re doing the prompts thing, would you mind doing #45 with Serenity and Shuten Douji (if you write for her) please?

~ 🧀 anon

Glad to see you🧀 anon! Hope this was to your liking

NOW YOUR WISH IS MY COMMAND!

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Serenity

“W-why? Why do you trust me? Why?” the assassin muttered into your chest as tears began to flow down her face.

“Why do I trust you? The answer should seem obvious I think, it's because you're a kind person, someone who has it in their very nature to put others before themselves. Yet no one has been willing to give you that same kindness. I don’t think that's particularly fair, do you?” You asked the assassin while pulling her closer into you.

“M-my poison, my body, all of it, it's all fatal… I could kill you in an instant if the blessing that allows you and I to be like this was to fail… yet you still hold me, you still cater to every one of my desires for contact. I don’t understand it, humans want to preserve their lives, it is hewn into their being, so why do you not run from me? Why do you not avoid me?” Serenity cried, almost shouting into your chest.

You sighed as you ran your hand through her hair before pulling her away from you and forcing her to look you in the eyes as you gently wiped the deadly tears from her poison skin.

“It's because I trust you Serenity, it doesn’t matter how you could kill me if the blessing you and I share was to fail, even then I would still trust you, I would still love you. No matter what.” You told the distraught hassan with conviction your voice.

Serenity was quiet for a moment before finally speaking as the distance between your face and hers closed.

“It’s just like The Great Founder say’s, I truly am one of the most foolish of his successors, because I believe you.”

Shuten Douji

“Do you trust me?” The oni asked you from across the table, a surprisingly serious expression upon her face. One that seemed to tell you that she wasn’t asking you out of a desire to tease but because she wanted the truth, she wanted you to answer that question honestly and without any doubt of your answer.

“Against my better judgment, yes.” You responded after a split second of deliberation. You knew you shouldn’t trust Shuten, she was an Oni, a creature that was naturally evil by nature and even then she was a particularly mean one amongst her own kind. Still, in spite of all that, there are few you would ever consider trusting in the same way you trusted her.

“Why?” Shuten asked simply while she raised the cup of sake to her mouth, her eyes boring into you.

“I couldn’t tell you, all I know is that if someone was to ask me who I would be willing to put my life in the hands of, your name would be the first one that would come to mind.” You answered her honestly.

“Then you are a fool.” Shuten told you with a frown as she lowered her cup, her eyes still glaring into your own.

“But then again, so am I. After all, if someone was to ask me the very same question your name would be the first one to come to my mind as well.” Shuten admitted with what looked like a blush on her face, and not one from her drink either.

[marsconer]

antiheroine and the answer will be an echo are the duality of man