#midnight mass fanfiction

[strangererotica]

♰⛪︎♰

A New Eden

chapter one

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Father Paul Hill x Reader • Reader has moved back to Crockett Island after college and is living with her parents while she plans for the future. This story includes graphic sex, blood consumption, breeding, and just about everything else. Feast to your sacrilegious little heart’s desire, fellow heathens.

Sometimes, you’d swear he wanted to eat you. At least that’s how it felt when Crockett Island’s new priest, Father Paul Hill, would stare you down from behind the pulpit. You wondered what motivated his watching you so intently? What prompted him to single you out among the congregation, and why did he pay you extra attention during the week of your period? It was an odd pattern to notice, but once you did see it, you couldn’t un-see it. Father Paul seemed particularly preoccupied with you during the days you bled. This week is no exception. You’re seated beside your parents, like you are every Sunday evening. As Father Paul delivers his sermon, he finds himself struggling to focus on the message God is conveying through him. Because something else inside him, a darker spirit, is speaking a different message altogether. It’s a voice that craves, that won’t let him rest till its needs are satisfied. It’s the voice repeatedly directing Father Paul’s eyes between your legs, to the small gap where your thighs are parted just enough for him to see a crimson stain blooming on your panties.

He knew you were menstruating as soon as you entered the sanctuary. The sweet metallic scent emanating from you was stronger, more potent, than any of the other congregants attending mass that day. You weren’t even aware your period was starting; but your priest knew instantly. As the first velvet drop seeped from between your lips and into the cotton fabric of your panties, Father Paul knew. While he fought his urges as best he could, his gaze inevitably returned to look upon that tiny patch of blood, the Sacrament he craved. And even more powerful still, the man inside Father Paul could not resist a view between a beautiful woman’s thighs, a view he’d intentionally denied himself in pursuit of righteousness.

The words Father Paul preaches feel hollow on his tongue. He thinks he may as well be reading from a script rather than speaking from his heart. His heart is currently far from a state of grace. He can’t name a temptation in all his years that has proven more difficult to tame than the urge to leave the pulpit right now and kneel before you, burying his nose in the wet bed of your panties…to slide his tongue between your labia, licking your walls clean, hearing you whimper his name like a prayer. He craves the bitter sanguine flavor inside you; it’s the only sacrament Father Paul is concerned with at the moment. He no longer has a conscience to burden him, nor pride to lose: it’s all gone, evaporated like ashes scattered by the wind. As words of scripture leave his lips, all Father Paul can imagine is feeding at your source, rutting his face between your legs like a starving dog…lapping blood and cum from your walls till you’re begging him to stop, tugging him by his hair, clutching his face to your sex for more...

He manages to complete the sermon, his cock half-hard the entire time. When he finishes speaking, he hurriedly makes his way through the back of the church and stumbles out the door toward the rectory. Once inside, Father Paul immediately locks the front door behind him and yanks the curtains closed so no one can witness the pathetic lack of self control he’s about to display.

He immediately removes his chasuble and loosens the white collar around his neck with one hand, undoing his belt with the other. He lands back on the sofa and checks again that the curtains are fully drawn. Father Paul reaches inside his pants and wraps a hand around his cock. He removes a flask from his pocket (one which contains the Sacrament) and puts it to his lips. As soon as the syrupy elixir sinks over Father Paul’s tastebuds, his eyes drift closed. He gulps the blood from the flask in one hand, pumping his cock in the other…all while imagining the blood he’s consuming is yours. In Father Paul’s mind, you’re sprawled out on his bed, legs spread apart. Blood oozes like honey from between your lips, collecting in your pubic hair as it drips beneath you. Father Paul watches you play with yourself for his pleasure and his alone; in his fantasy, no other man may drink of you but him. He watches your pretty fingers dip between your lips and gently thrust in and out, a darker shade of red each time you remove them. He imagines himself giving in to his urges, climbing between your thighs like a feral animal consuming its prey.

In the privacy of the rectory, Father Paul tugs the neck of the bottle between his lips while in his mind, he’s lapping from the warm pool of blood between your thighs. He gurgles and chokes as he drinks too quickly, gulping the Sacrament as he mentally worships your cunt with his tongue. You weep his name interspersed with “Father,” and for a moment, he can pretend they’re the same thing, man of god and man of flesh, existing as one.

His climax jets out in bursts, semen spilling onto the dark hair trailing his stomach. Father Paul immediately slides to his knees beside the couch, seeking God’s forgiveness in prayer. A knock at the door startles him, followed by Bev Keane’s voice inquiring if he’s alright. He makes an excuse about his stomach, and it seems to satisfy Bev, who informs him that if he’s feeling up to it, the parishioners are waiting for his return.

He uses some tissues from the table to wipe his stomach clean, then hurriedly re-dresses in his priestly attire. As he makes his way back to the church, Father Paul notices the lights above him taking shape in the most beautiful ways. Halos, orbs of multi-colored light glow and flicker above him, fluttering like a heartbeat. All of his senses are buzzing, yet also at peace somehow. He approaches St. Peter’s and sees you leaving down the path with your parents. Admittedly, Father Paul is grateful for not having to face you right now. Not after what he just did in your name. He feels a stab of guilt but reminds himself that no one was actually hurt. There’s no way you could have imagined the depraved fantasies you inspire in your priest, nor the unholy means he’d taken to relieve himself because of you...

After saying goodbye to the remaining congregants and successfully sending Bev Keane on her way, Father Paul is relieved the church is empty. He walks casually between the pews, in no particular hurry to return to the rectory, the scene of his earlier indulgence. As he nears the front of the sanctuary, he senses it. Your scent lingers in the room like an unfinished prayer. The ache in Father Paul’s groin returns, his cock twitching against his pants. Because while his craving for blood is sated, his craving for you is not. The image of you sitting in the pew an hour or so ago, your pretty thighs parted, eyes gazing reverently up at your priest, plays out again in Father Paul’s mind. He feels like a pervert, like he’s in danger of losing control; but he can’t stop. He can’t stop himself from kneeling at the place you were sat, or from bowing his head as if to pray, though prayer is the last thing on his mind right now. The old wooden pew creaks under Father Paul’s weight as he leans over it, drawing a deep breath in, savoring you. The bulge tenting his pants is hard and leaking. He can’t be this weak, he tells himself. This ruled by the sins of his flesh and yet, despite his devotion to the faith, Father Paul guides his hand under his robe, seeking relief.

He closes a hand over his erection, groaning at the temporary relief it provides. He hates himself for his depravity, for acting like an animal, indulging every carnal instinct and desire. Father Paul presses his nose to the wooden pew, then dips his tongue out to taste you….

…FUCK, he has missed the taste of a woman’s body. With his hand around his cock, Father Paul visualizes the image of you, how pretty the little wet spot in your panties had looked earlier this evening. The only sounds in the church are the wet lap of Father Paul’s tongue and the soft rustle of fabric as he strokes himself. He ejaculates mostly inside his clothes, but some of his seed spills onto the floor. The weight of what’s been done sinks over the priest, consuming him. Panic overrides the high of his climax and his eyes dart around the sanctuary. What a disgrace to God and man his flock would find him, if they knew he’d polluted God’s house with the stain of his sin…

Father Paul uses the sleeve of his robe to quickly wipe up his cum from the floor. Thankfully, it seems that no one bore witness to his second shameful act of the day. A fleeting sense of relief passes through him but is quickly replaced with guilt. He rises and adjusts his clothing, patting out the wrinkles in his chasuble as if smoothing away the sins he just committed while wearing it. Father Paul leaves for the rectory, reciting prayers of repentance every step of the way.

.⊹ † ⊹ .✞. ⊹ † . ⊹. .⊹ † ⊹ .✞. ⊹ † . ⊹.

The taste of you on the church pew lingers on Father Paul’s tongue tonight as he prays. Every word uttered to God tastes like you, an ever-present reminder of his sin. Indulging in masturbation is dangerous for Father Paul, a stumbling block he considers particularly powerful. He’s had periods of intense sexual craving and indulged himself a few times over the years. But he does his best to keep those moments of indulgence few and far between because once he starts relieving himself with self-pleasure, he finds it almost impossible to stop. And a priest must be in control of his urges, able to quell his desires by the grace of God in prayer. He must not forget his calling. Because if Father Paul lost control even for a moment, it could jeopardize his respect in the community, and even end his priesthood.

He’s restless. He needs to move, to shake the familiar, dangerous temptation tugging in his groin. And, he needs to feed.

Father Paul drained the last of the Sacrament along with himself earlier that evening, coming for you. He’s craving again, both the angel’s Sacrament and yours. He envisions the way you must look laying in bed right now, asleep. Father Paul no longer needs sleep, not after the angel perfected him with the Sacrament. And in those long, endless nights, he is left alone with his temptations…with his needs. Tonight, Father Paul senses there won’t be any use in trying to deny those needs. Surely, the Lord must understand? His servant must feed, to satisfy the body’s needs, in order to serve. A priest can only give so much of himself without eventually taking something in return. At this point, with all he’s done for the community, Father Paul feels he’s owed a piece of them…but the only piece of anyone he wants is you…

…And so he walks, first along the coastline and then through the streets. Guided by faith or something more sinister, Father Paul’s steps eventually lead him to the street your parents live on. When he examines your bedroom window and finds it open, the priest is sure it’s a sign that God is working in his favor. Because if entering your bedroom in the middle of the night to feed wasn’t part of God’s plan, why would He have made it so easy for your priest to climb inside…?

.⊹ † ⊹ .✞. ⊹ † . ⊹. .⊹ † ⊹ .✞. ⊹ † . ⊹.

…Something stirs you awake, a sound coming from the direction of the window. Your eyes search the darkness, aided only by moonlight. Another sound forces your attention to the foot of your bed, which is blanketed in darkness. You stare into the void before you, trying to make out the source of the faint rustling sound you heard. Perhaps a bird or other small creature entered through the cracked window?

That’s when you notice that the window itself is no longer cracked; it’s wide open, as if someone from outside had slid their hand through the opening and-

-Another sound scratches out from the darkness and this time, you’re able to identify it as a footstep.

Someone is in your room with you right now. You want to scream, to tell your parents, but the door is behind the space where the intruder is standing. If they intend you harm (and what other motivation would someone have in a circumstance like this?) there’s no way you’ll reach the door before they reach you.

“Who’s there?” you ask through a trembling voice, straining to see. The silhouette of a man’s form appears at the end of your bed and while that alone would be frightening enough, it’s his eyes that have you frozen in place. Two glowing orbs stare across the bed at you from the darkness, more like a cat’s eyes than a human being’s. Yet the voice that speaks to you from the darkness is definitely human, and immediately familiar. Your priest is standing at the foot of your bed, watching you.

“Father Paul?” you begin, sitting up quickly. “What are you-?”

“-Shh, shh,” he coos, kneeling to rest on the bed beside you. “Don’t be afraid…” His voice is more seductive than usual, laced with something dark you’ve never sensed in him before. You’re sure you must be dreaming, so on instinct, you reach out to touch his thigh-and realize immediately, that this is no dream. Father Paul’s hand closes around your arm, drawing your wrist to his face. He inhales the scent of your pulse throbbing beneath your skin, the fulfillment of his need so close he can taste it. But it’s not enough. It wouldn’t be enough for him to drink at your wrist, knowing a far more tempting source is waiting between your thighs…

“Father,” you pant into the darkness, breathless with fear. “You’re scaring me.”

“No, no,” he murmurs consolingly, extending his hand to stroke your cheek. “You’ve nothing to fear from me, (Y/N). I promise.”

His words do little to calm the anxiety flooding through you, nor does his gentle touch ease the other feelings stirring your heart. Father Paul has been a source of your own temptation, ever since you first saw him. All those Sundays he’s spent gazing at you, his dark eyes penetrating yours like some kind of prey to be conquered, you’ve quietly yearned for him. In the privacy of your mind, you’ve entertained fantasies similar to the real situation you find yourself in now…your priest, with you in your bed, touching you with hands you already knew would be gentle, the touch of a man who in spite of his abstinence, you were sure could make love to you better than any other man had. It radiated from him, a raw sexuality, something primal made even more potent by his repression of it. A tension brewed inside Father Paul that you could feel every time your eyes met over the pulpit, when you followed his gaze to where it lingered between your thighs. It’s why you’d made a point of wearing shorter skirts every Sunday…a game of temptation, a terrible sin, playing with the dedication of a priest to his faith…

“Do. Not. Be. Afraid,” he whispers in the darkness, cradling your face in his palm, moving closer. Your heartbeat thunders against your chest and Father Paul places his hand over it, savoring the rapid beat of your pulse. The scent of you is intoxicating; he won’t be able to resist much longer. “I have-,” Father Paul struggles to find the words he desires to explain. “I have a need, (Y/N),” he tells you. “A longing…for something that can’t be explained by man’s understanding, but by God’s…” He pauses. “All things are made right by Him, (Y/N). We must lean not on our own understanding, but bend graciously to the will of our Heavenly Father who loves us…”

Your eyes are brimming with tears, because despite how terrifying this situation should be, you now find yourself in a state of peace…a peace so beautiful, so complete, it restores your faith. You watch with an open heart as your priest makes himself comfortable between your thighs, drawing back the quilt over your waist. He tugs away the crotch of your panties, gently spreading your wet lips apart with his fingers. Blood glistens on Father Paul’s fingertips in the moonlight and he watches it in awe a moment, before plunging his fingers between his lips. A desperate moan rises from his throat as he sucks your blood from his fingers, the hunger inside screaming for more, a primal demand that he is powerless to fight.

A filter of red washes over Father Paul’s vision, painting the room crimson. Lurched into the role of predator, he forces your spread legs against the bed and buries his face between them. Your back arches as his tongue extends inside you, a guttural sound churning up from your throat. Your cunt tastes like heaven in Father Paul’s mouth. He finds the cotton string of your tampon and tugs it out from inside you by his teeth. He lifts his face from your cunt, the soiled tampon dangling between his teeth like a cat and mouse. With a flick of his head Father Paul tosses the tampon aside and it lands on the floor beside your bed. He looks between your legs and that’s when he sees it…the vision from his earlier fantasy…blood seeping from you in a dark stream, pooling on the sheets beneath you. Dipping his face lower, he laps up the blood under you, sucking and slurping his way back to up to your clit. His hips grind forward, humping your mattress where his cock throbs against it. Father Paul is no longer gentle, completely overtaken by the raw, deviant need to consume. He takes what he wants selfishly, no longer aware of your pleasure or needs. He’s past it now, the forces at work in him unrelenting. The priest gives himself up to vile temptation, sinking his teeth into your delicate skin, making you cry in both pleasure and pain. He ruts harder into you, his stubble scratching your labia in his exertion. A mix of your cum and blood is smeared across Father Paul’s face, your thighs bathed red as if with communion wine. He feels a fire burning within him, the tension in his groin reaching a breaking point. He comes rutting into your mattress, filling the crotch of his jeans with semen.

And he’s weeping, softly sobbing into your cunt as the overwhelming bliss of God’s love washes over him, the realization that he is a part of fulfilling God’s divine plan. Consuming the Sacrament between your thighs, Father Paul has never felt closer to God, or further from the shame he expected to feel right now. Rather than guilt, the priest feels sanctified, renewed. A man lying in a puddle of his own semen should be the opposite of righteousness and yet, he feels completely at peace in his spirit. He continues to eat you, licking you clean and making you come harder than you ever thought possible. With the hunger of his spirit sated, the hunger of his flesh can feed freely. The man beneath the priest wants to feel you coming on his tongue like that again and again, to feel the tremble of your climax around his cock. And that’s when God’s wisdom speaks through him yet again, imparting a message that will reshape the world.

Father Paul climbs up your body, his wet face glistening in the moonlight. You smell your cunt and the tang of blood on his breath as he hovers over you, his arms encasing you. “This night, I tell you,” Father Paul begins, reciting a new word from the Lord. “You are my Mary, my vessel. And into this vessel I will empty my spirit.” He pulls your bottom lip downward, pressing his thumb against your tongue. Your hips are held in place by Father Paul’s weight as he presses his cock inside you. He buries his face in your shoulder, his tears wetting your skin, overwhelmed by the warm grip of a woman’s cunt spreading around him for the first time in years. It’s been so long, with only his hand as an occasional (poor) substitute. He’s forgotten just how heavenly it feels to be swallowed up in a woman’s pussy, to feel her supple curves flutter and suck around him as he strokes her.

Father Paul’s body and yours are one, joined together, blameless before God as Adam and Eve were naked and unashamed in the garden. He cups your face in his hands, uttering Scripture as his thrusts grow more intense: “Eat of my body-.”

“-Drink of my blood,” you pray up to him, pupils blown with lust and wonder that this man of god has chosen you. Father Paul’s body tenses over yours, his string of prayers becoming a whimper. “Flesh of my flesh,” he recites through a strained voice, his eyebrows knit.

“Blood of my blood,” you reply, finishing the scripture. Father Paul ejaculates inside you with a groan of relief, pumping your cunt full of cum. Each thrust spreads his seed inside your walls as if claiming you as property. God has already told Father Paul that you’re his. You belong to him, his own ‘Virgin,’ Mary to bring forth a New Jerusalem on Crockett Island. The members of St. Peter’s are going to see amazing things…miracles, even, as God works through you and Father Paul to heal Crockett Island.

“You will attend mass daily, during menstruation,” he tells you. “When the other parishioners have gone, I’ll bring you to the rectory and…”

“Feed?” you offer, and he smiles at your understanding.

“Yes,” Father Paul replies, and he leans down to kiss your forehead. “God has blessed you, (Y/N). Blessed art thou among women, as was the mother of Christ. You have been entrusted a holy duty, feeding me so that I may continue to feed the members of our church. Being called to fulfill God’s purpose is…well, it’s frightening, isn’t it?”

Father Paul squeezes your hand. “‘For God hath not given us a spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.’” The room is still and quiet as you lay together in the darkness. The weight of Father Paul’s body over yours is comforting, like the warm embrace of God. He looks past your bedside to the window, watching the darkness begin to lift across the water. “It’s almost sunrise,” he says, then realizes you’ve fallen asleep in his arms. He smiles as he watches you. How angelic you are right now, sleeping peacefully in the light of God’s grace. “It’s almost sunrise,” Father Paul repeats in a whisper, lightly pressing his lips to your forehead.

He rises from your bed as gently as he can, careful not to wake you, walking towards the window. He leaves your bedroom through it and begins his journey back to the church. Stars pulse above Father Paul when his eyes drift upward, the hum of providence all around him. Insects buzz from the trees along his path, the flicker of their wings a comforting drone that accompanies Father Paul home.

A verse accompanies him as well, a passage from Isaiah. He repeats it with a smile his whole journey back to St. Peter’s in the gradually fading darkness: “Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth…do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

“A way for this island,” he breathes, sinking to his knees in reverence before the altar. After a moment of prayer and contemplation, Father Paul leaves God’s house for the rectory. The sun rises on Crockett Island as he continues to pray…praying for guidance, wisdom, and especially, for more of you.

.⊹ † ⊹ .✞. ⊹ † . ⊹. .⊹ † ⊹ .✞. ⊹ † . ⊹.

[chelseasdagger]

Restoring Faith

Father Paul Hill x Reader

Summary: You pay Father Paul one of your midnight visits and he finds himself struggling with his sworn devotion

Warnings: religious themes, sacrilege, smut, oral over clothes (m!receiving)

Author’s Note: This is a late birthday present for @chellestrash​ , my true love of my life, and I hope I’ve done this little idea you love justice :’) I’m absolutely positive I didn’t make it sounds as pretty as some of the other fics, but I hope it will be alright :)

Word Count: 4k

The cold air sends a shiver down your spine as the gravel crunches beneath your feet. Wrapping your arms around yourself tighter, you keep your head down to protect your face from the wind. You follow the path that connects the great big church to the smaller house just behind it, the trail only visible due to the moonlight pouring down from above.

You’re no idiot, you’re aware anybody could see your somewhat frequent visits to see him. However, you convinced yourself that it was okay to go, so long as you waited past midnight to take the trip. Whether it was actually a valid excuse was a whole other subject. One you didn’t particularly want to think of and potentially use to talk yourself out of doing this.

Stepping up the old, creaky stairs of the small porch, you give one last glance over your shoulder to the abandoned street the church faces. There’s not a person in sight and you raise your hand to knock on the wooden door.

It opens after a moment and you smile at the sight of the priest in front of you. He’s dressed completely in black, excluding the stark white collar that frames his neck. You can’t help your eyes from giving him a quick once over, taking in the dark button up shirt tucked into the form fitting slacks that drape down his legs. His voice calling your name brings your gaze back to his face.

“How…,” he trails off, craning his neck higher and looking past you, “how can I help you?” His greeting is stiff, and you know he’s worried about curious eyes possibly seeing you here. You can’t fight the way your lips pull into a smirk at the idea of him already getting nervous.

“I just had a question, Father,” you begin to explain, and notice him looking at you with cautious eyes. “Is that not what you said? That we can come to you and seek guidance? Ask questions about our faith?” You can admit that it was slightly unfair using his own words against him, but it works all the same. He bows his head before nodding once, silently stepping aside and allowing you to walk inside.

It’s the same as it always was, with the couch being the only real centerpiece to the room. The curtains are drawn closed on each of the windows and it gives the sense of seclusion from the rest of the small island. The three lamps that line the right wall are all lit, painting everything in a warm glow. You’ll never get over how welcoming his home was, how it provided a safe space when you needed an escape. 

The sound of the door clicking shut makes you turn around to face him. He’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest, slightly hesitant as he stays silent and waits for you to speak first.

“Nobody saw me, if that’s what you’re worried about,” you flash him a cheeky smirk. Paul responds wordlessly with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He steps further into the room, his arm brushing yours as he walks to the small, open kitchen area. 

“I haven’t seen you at Mass,” he finally breaks his silence. You watch as he grabs an empty glass from the drying rack beside the sink before filling it with water from the tap. “Can I get you anything?” he offers with wide eyes, motioning towards the cup in his hand.

“I was sick,” you pick the first thing that comes to mind, “allergy stuff since the weather is changing.” The lie rolls right off your tongue. You watch as he drinks his water down, fixating on the way his Adam's apple moves with each swallow. Giving yourself a mental shake, you answer his earlier question.

“And I’m okay, thanks,” you decline his offer as you lean against the back of the couch. The priest says nothing but gives a solemn look your way.

“I’m… sorry to hear that,” he speaks gently into the quiet room. His dark, brown eyes look sincere, enforcing the truth behind his words. There’s a small pout on his lips and you’re not sure if it’s from your faux illness or if he can somehow sense that you’re not speaking the truth. Either way, he continues with the conversation.

“But I’m glad you’re feeling better. W-What can I do for you?” He sets his glass down on the small counter beside him. “You… um, mentioned seeking guidance? What about?” His eyes are focused onto yours and you find yourself only able to keep eye contact for a few seconds before his stare feels like too much. 

“Well,” you begin with a light laugh under your breath, “I just wanted to have you read to me again.” Your fingers toy with the thick seam of the couch cushion. “Is that okay? It just—it helps, is all.” You’re not certain the explanation makes a ton of sense, but there is truth behind it. His words help; it relaxes you to come and listen to him read, even if you don’t always find yourself secure in the faith you grew up with.

When you look up at him again, Paul is standing with a genuine smile on his face. It’s clear he likes hearing that he can help, and you feel a twinge of guilt shoot through your chest at how he genuinely enjoys what he does. It makes you being here that much worse, knowing how content and devout he is.

“Of course, I-I can do that,” he replies, his voice somehow even quieter than before. “Did you have a certain story you wanted me to read from?”

You think over his question for only a short moment. Deep down, you knew you could listen to him speak about even the most mundane things, including what he had eaten for breakfast. His voice was the thing to calm you, not the words he spoke.

“I don’t really care. Whatever you’d like, whatever we left off with,” you flash him a small smile. The priest nods only once before walking towards his bedroom, disappearing into the shadows of the small corridor leading to the door.

You let out a big breath of air you weren’t even aware you were holding in. Being alone with him felt good, it always did, but you couldn’t deny the guilt once again growing in your chest. Deep down, you knew this was wrong, but it always felt good when the guilt shaped to something else. Something stronger and impossibly difficult to ignore.

There’s only a small moment for self reflection before you hear his footsteps echoing out on the wood floor again. You glance towards the sound and find him returning back into the main room with the Bible wedged between his arm and his side. His fingers are busy, rolling the fabric of his long sleeve up to just above his elbow. As inch after inch of his skin is exposed, you find yourself unable to look away from the veins trailing up the inside of his arm.

He repeats his actions on the opposite side, gazing up at you from under the few strands of hair that have fallen out of place. Your lip finds its way between your teeth subconsciously, your own way of anchoring yourself and ignoring the need to tuck the loose curls back behind his ear.

“In moments where I truly begin to doubt my faith, I…” he trails off, fixing the last roll of his cuff over his forearm. He grabs the Bible and brushes his thumb over the raised letters as he continues, “I like to look back on the story of Job.”

You can’t even stop the exasperated sigh that leaves your body. He looks up at the sound, his head tilted slightly like a confused puppy.

“Job? Really, Father? I’m pretty sure that’s the opposite of restoring faith,” you curl your fingers to create air quotes over the last two words. Paul gives a small smile, lowering his head. He’s dealt with your opinions regarding faith and why God allows things to happen as He does.

“Maybe… maybe to some but I-I find that it’s a reminder,” his voice is quiet and calm, already slipping into his usual pattern of speech when he’s behind the lectern. He steps deeper into the living room and passes by you, making his way to the empty couch.

“A reminder to trust in Him even when we’re not sure of-of the path,” he finishes. You’re thankful he’s behind your back so he doesn’t see the way your eyes roll at his canned response. He must’ve seen the tension in your body though, taking note of the way your arms are still crossed over your chest, because he tries once more to get you to listen.

“You do remember that he was rewarded? In the end?”

“Yeah, but he went through hell to get it… hardly seems fair,” you answer him.

“Well, the Lord, He—,”

“If you say ‘Works in mysterious ways’…” you cut him off with a warning glare as you finally turn to face him.

Paul lets out a breathy laugh, staring down at the thick book in his hands. “I was only going to say that He doesn’t always…” he pauses for a moment, searching for the right words, “reveal His plans to us in a way that makes sense at the time. That’s all,” he finishes with a tight-lipped smile.

There’s a brief moment of silence that hangs in the air as you wait for him to move past this conversation. His quick inhale fills the room as he clears his throat quietly, his arm gesturing towards the couch.

“Shall we?”

“Of course,” you respond softly, your words tucked under your breath. He walks around to the front of the couch, his eyes fixed on you as you follow his path. He sits down as his fingers curl around the blue, knitted blanket that’s sprawled out across the cushion beside him.

“Here, let me—,” he doesn’t finish his sentence before draping it across the back of the couch. There’s a spot for you now, close enough that you knew you’d be touching him if you sat beside him. As tempting as the offer is, you find yourself shaking your head gently.

“Is-is something wrong?” he asks, his big, dark eyes searching yours. They’re wide and innocent, truly worrying that he overstepped. Once again, you’re reminded of how pure the man before you is; you nearly reconsider your original idea that made you seek him out tonight in the first place.

You shake your head as you stand in front of him, silently kneeling down and sitting on the floor. The priest’s expression instantly grows apprehensive. You flash him an innocent smile but his unsure glare never falters.

“I’ll just listen from here,” you tell him, trying to ease his worries. He looks hesitant but eventually swallows before opening the Bible. His long fingers splay out across the thin pages, turning them one after the other before finally stopping on a page.

He opens his mouth to speak, the words flowing effortlessly off of his tongue. His voice falls into the deep, rumbly tone that you only ever hear when he’s reading to you. There’s no audience, no image he has to maintain, and the words are so quiet it seems almost as if he’s reading to himself. You’ve always preferred these moments, when he appeared the most authentic he could be.

The more he reads the more comfortable you feel. Your body begins to relax and an idea strikes up in your mind. As he turns the next page, bringing in a deep inhale to continue the sentence, you let your head rest against his knee.

He immediately stutters over his words, repeating the same sound over and over. He never breaks his concentration though, and eventually pushes through and finishes the sentence. Not before flashing you a warning look as you rest your cheek against his leg, though.

It isn’t entirely inappropriate and would even be seen as a normal, platonic gesture. But given his profession, you knew it was absolutely not appropriate. You don’t pull away however, just keep your body slumped against his leg.

He continues speaking the old words, his pronounced sentences dissipating into muttered whispers the longer he goes on. Admittedly, you felt special that this tone was reserved only for you; there was a faint flare of pride in your chest knowing that you were the only one to hear his words so rumbly it’s as if they never fully left his chest.

At some point though, you begin to grow bored of just sitting there and waiting for him to finish. Usually these late night reads brought your anxiety down enough just to fall asleep on the priest, leaving him in the most awkward position of not knowing how to convince himself any of this was okay. But right now, you’d rather have some fun.

Paul knew something was up the second he saw your hand reaching towards him out of the corner of his eye. The muscles in his leg immediately tense, you feel it from under your skin. But you don’t want to raise his suspicion so soon.

Stretching further towards the Bible in his lap, you spread your fingers and place both palms over each side. Once his view is completely shielded from the printed words, he immediately looks into your mischievous eyes.

“What—what are you doing?” he asks confusedly. His eyebrows are pulled together as he awaits your answer.

“Just wanted to see how much you knew,” you reply genuinely. You knew the man had poured over this book time and time again, searching for meanings deeper than the blatant lessons that were spelled out for the reader. It always sent a conflicting feeling coursing through you, the way he could recite word after word from memory as if he was the one who had conjured them up. Conflicting because you liked the reminder of how devout he was, and isn’t that just a multifaceted guilt trip.

Paul smiles at your youthful game, and mentally accepts the challenge. He parts his lips before the words fall from his tongue.

“And when the days of the feast had run their course, Job would send and sanctify them, and he would rise early in the morning and offer burnt offerings according to the number of them all,” he begins, never looking away from your face as he repeats them with no hesitation.

“For Job said, ‘It may be that my sons have sinned, and cursed God in their hearts.’” The priest can’t stop from chuckling at the end of his sentence, having looked at your own genuine, bright grin. “Thus Job did continually.”

Once he’s finished, he flashes you his own smile before glancing down at your hands covering the pages still. You slowly remove them, giggling under your breath at how he passed your unofficial test.

The priest licks his lips once before clearing his throat gently, continuing again with his reading. As the minutes pass, you find yourself not paying much attention to the actual weight of the words. You just focus on his muttering voice until you're reminded of how sweet his last stutter sounded. And because you just can’t help yourself, you’re determined to hear it again.

Snaking your hand up his thigh, you feel his body grow stiff all over again. That adorable stutter becomes prominent once more, his eyes quickly focusing on your fingers rubbing up the inside of his leg as he attempts to finish the paragraph. Trying to pace your plan, you curl your fingers around his thigh and give him a moment to get used to the feeling.

“What are you doing?” These words are the coldest he’s spoken all night, yet you stay silent and wait. It takes him longer this time to finally react, to give his consent in the smallest agreement possible. It’s so minuscule that anybody else wouldn’t have noticed, but you know him awfully more than you should.

Half a nod. That’s all it takes, and you let your fingers graze lightly over the black slacks. They're taught from how he’s sitting, and you can see the outline of his thigh through the stretched material. His voice shakes now, the tone less steady and sure, as he forces himself to keep reading.

You’ve got to admit he’s doing better than you thought. He doesn’t stop reading, you assume he’s just trying to focus on something else, anything but your hand moving between his thighs. You must’ve hit a sweet spot though, inching near the little alcove where his thigh meets his hip, because the next thing you hear is a shuddering exhale as he halts his reading. 

And there it is only a second later—the outline of his cock showing through the dark dress pants. It never took very long, although this time it seems even quicker than usual. He continues to grow there, until you can see the fabric straining to accommodate for his now swollen head. You’ve barely touched him and he’s already so responsive.

Now that you can physically see the effect you have on him, there’s truly nothing that can stop you. Sure the nagging guilt is still in the back of your mind, telling you that you shouldn’t do this, but you push it away as much as you can. He looks so tempting right now: the loose strands of hair falling into his face, his lip caught between his teeth as he suppresses his groans, the faint twitch his cock gives when he feels your finger lightly drag along the base of his length. You love seeing him this desperate for you.

Your one finger lightly tracing the length of him is truly all it takes for the first twitch to happen in his trousers. The sight makes your mouth nearly water and you finally curl your fingers around him properly. Your grip isn’t too tight considering it’s over two layers of clothes, but it doesn’t stop the choked grunt from finally escaping his lips.

Still you continue, leaning closer until your breath is fanning over the bulge. He feels it, you can tell from the way his fingers clutch the book that’s resting on his other leg. The veins in the back of his hand become more prominent the harder he grabs it. Every part of his body is conflicting itself; he wants it but he knows he shouldn’t.

Still you wait, staring up at him and silently asking again if this is okay. He doesn’t stall as much this time—his eyes squeeze shut tightly before nodding quickly again, forcing another inhale through his nose.

You don’t waste a second and quickly press your tongue flat against the outline of his tip. Slowly licking along the length, you watch his body reel from how hard his stomach clenches at the feeling. He begins to shut the Bible but you grab his wrist before it can close all the way. You shake your head slowly, attempting to convince him to keep it open.

“Y…You know I can’t.”

“I like hearing you, Father,” you mumble quietly in the room. He stares down at you with an expression you can’t quite describe. There’s no emotion on his face, but his eyes look pained, no doubt from the name you referred to him as. He hardly moves except for the shallow breaths that you can only notice because of how close you are to him.

Waiting for his reaction seems to drag on for hours before he finally sighs through his nose and opens the book. You notice the way his fingers shake as he smooths out the page before trying to remember where he left off. Your lips pull into a smile as you hear his strained voice fill the room.

Squeezing the base of his cock tighter, you drag your tongue across his tip again before wrapping your lips around it. The story is cut off with his deep grunt, and you hum around him at the pleasant noise. The priest has his head tilted back, staring at the ceiling as he tries to regain his composure.

You knew this was an awful, sacrilegious act you two were doing, but it doesn’t stop the heat growing between your legs. Leaning closer into him, you work your mouth on him faster, sucking harder through the fabric. His hand closest to you grips the edge of the seat as he seethes through his teeth.

Paul finally looks down at you, staring into your eyes that have never once left his face. You hold his gaze before glancing wordlessly to the book still in his hand. The whimper that he barely slips out is your new favorite sound, replaying it in your head as you shut your eyes.

“A-As long as… m…my breath,” he’s cut off with a shaky inhale. He tries to read aloud, but his voice trembles the entire time.

“Keep going, Father,” you pull your mouth away from the outline in his black trousers to encourage him. There’s a long, dark stripe along the fabric from your tongue, but another wet patch where the head of his cock is straining against the material.

“As long as my-my breath is in me, and t-the spirit of God is in my nostrils—,” he’s finding each word more impossible to speak. You never allow him to give up though, rubbing your hand over his thigh to support him.

“My lips will not speak f…falsehood, and my tongue will not utter deceit.” He manages to finish the paragraph before taking deep breaths, swallowing thickly and trying his damndest to not look at the sinful scene in his lap. But his body betrays him once more, twitching into your mouth when you hum sweetly around him as a reward for finishing what you asked him to.

Pressing your tongue right in the ridge under his swollen head, you hear a new sound escape his pressed lips. It's a guttural, raw twist of your name and it’s unexpected.

“Oh… Oh—Wait,” he tries to warn you but it’s much too late. His release happens without him realizing, his body moving while his mind doesn’t have a chance to catch up. When you feel him pulsing in your mouth you glance up at him and oh, what a sight it is.

He’s completely disheveled, biting down into his hand to muffle the noise he’s ashamed for anyone to hear, and the veins in his neck are protruding just above the edge of his collar. It’s not the first time you’ve seen him like this, but you always make sure to memorize the sight down to those details. To always keep the picture in your mind.

What really catches your attention though, is the stream of white bubbling up through the taught fabric around his sensitive tip. You didn’t realize he would have finished quite this fast, but you definitely don’t mind it. Squeezing the middle of his length tightly, you slowly slide your hand up, determined to get all of it out of him.

Paul’s thighs are beginning to shake from the sensation and you can only imagine how good it must feel for him. You stick your tongue out as you lap up the mess he’s made, and his thighs jolt to close around your body. His sensitivity to your every touch leaves a desire that burns hotly in the bottom of your stomach. You love the feeling of having power over him, admittedly too much.

Once he’s clean, you finally let go of him altogether and sit back on your legs. He’s left panting in awe as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. You wish you could see inside his head, try and understand what he’s thinking. But right now his dark eyes are glossed over and he looks as if he’s somewhere completely else.

“Thank you, Father.”

He scrunches his eyes shut tightly the second the words fill the air. It’s silent except for his panting as you rest your head on his knee once more. This time it is a platonic action, your way of showing him you’re there without words. And there you sit beside your priest in the small, old house behind the great big church, with the weight of everything that just happened.

[venus-haze]

Power in the Blood (Father Paul Hill x Nun!Reader)

Summary: There’s power in the blood. Father Paul knows this. Soon, you will, too.

Note: Female reader who's only referred to as "Sister," but no other descriptors are used. Also, the newspaper clipping isn't on the wall in this, for obvious reasons. I’ve been working on this fic in one way or another for about a year, but watching The Devils (1971) and Immaculate (2024) earlier this year as well as encouragement from my amazing friend @zaras-really-dreamless finally gave me the push I needed to finish it. Major visual inspiration from this scene in particular. Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 5.7k

Warnings: Major canon divergence. Angst, yearning, and unrequited feelings. Elements of Catholic mysticism. Sexually explicit content which involves dubious consent by way of religious manipulation, members of the clergy engaging in sexual acts, oral sex (f. receiving, but it's related to the stigmata and vampirism), blood play.

In retrospect, Crockett Island was the only place it could have happened. Desolation hung over the remote fishing village like fog in the early mornings, when you’d take your walks before the Monsignor awoke, and you heard the woes of the fishermen as they prepared to sail out for the day—oil spills, restrictive fishing laws, better paying jobs on the mainland but leaving everything they knew behind in exchange. Despite coming from the mainland yourself and otherwise alien to the ways of the dying village, your being a woman of the cloth on the largely Catholic (though predominantly non-practicing) island made the islanders trust you, consider you one of their own a bit more than they otherwise would have as you took on the burden of buoying their spirituality as the Monsignor’s health continued failing, and he could no longer fulfill the task himself.

You’d begged the diocese for help, hardly considered yourself equipped to care for the ailing priest and run a parish, however small, essentially on your own. But for a parish as small as St. Patrick’s, you were all the help the diocese would care to send. The letter you received in response to your detailing all of the things Crockett Island’s parishioners desperately needed boiled down to “wait until the old man kicks it.” 

You supposed it was a miracle the diocese even sent you there in the first place. Though most of the islanders took the arrival of a young nun like yourself as a breath of fresh air, Beverly Keane didn’t seem all too pleased to have her self-appointed position as number two at St. Patrick’s knocked down to number three. She seemed to settle down when it became clear you had no interest in engaging in petty politics in a church that barely counted three dozen people for regular Sunday mass attendance. 

The island’s social life, small as it was, interested you more. People were more open to receiving you as a friend than as a representative of the church, undoubtedly put off by Beverly Keane’s self-righteous fanaticism that veered into cruelty. You got to know the regular parishioners, like Erin Greene, who’d grown up on the island, left for some time, and returned pregnant yet eager to become a mother to her unborn baby. She taught at the island’s small school with Beverly, who encouraged you to take up teaching there, obviously hoping to bring a religious curriculum to the tax-payer funded public school. You declined. 

Besides Erin, and to your chagrin Beverly, who was convinced the two of you were compatriots of some kind despite how often you clashed, you found yourself spending increasing amounts of time with Sheriff Hassan. Despite dutifully filling an essential role in the community, he hardly seemed any closer to gaining acceptance despite a year on Crockett Island. 

The day he and Ali moved onto the island, you had a cold, and thus weren’t part of the unofficial welcoming committee. Your head pounded from the sinus pressure when Beverly brought the Monsignor back to the rectory afterward, and you barely heard what she said. You met Sheriff Hassan a few days later, when you were feeling well enough to shop for yourself and the Monsignor for the week. Among your expectations about Hassan Shabazz, his being handsome enough to make your breath hitch for just a moment before introducing yourself wasn’t on the list. But he was understandably weary of you, expecting the same horrendous treatment he undoubtedly received from Beverly. 

Over time, he found you were only interested in buying groceries and not in underhandedly converting him or Ali. You were both lonely outsiders to the island and found some solace in regular conversations about the mainland, or observations about the islanders, occasionally broaching the topic of religion, which had a comfortable place in the space you two shared in the general store, sometimes over a cup of coffee he’d brew for you. 

You admired him. His dedication to his son, the efficacy with which he performed his thankless job, and the unwavering faith he had in his religion, while yours had long lost its luster since you’d become Monsignor Pruitt’s live-in nurse in all but name. 

But the days became your own when the Monsignor made his trip to the Holy Land, ill-advised considering his health. When you voiced your concerns to the parish, your outsider status was paraded through the discussion by Beverly, who insisted you had no way to understand how much the trip meant to the Monsignor, and by extension, every good, practicing Catholic on the island. At the time, to your frustration, she had won. 

Besides, even if he were there, you weren’t sure a man on death’s door himself would have been able to give Mildred Gunning Last Rites. Torrential rain pounded against the rectory when you could barely hear the phone ring. 

You had picked up with a hesitant, “Hello?”

“Sister, it’s—it’s my mom. I think she’s—”

“Sarah, do you want me to come over and see her?”

“Yeah, she’d want that. Just be careful with the rain.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

Grabbing a flashlight, you had only half pulled on your raincoat when you hurried outside, in a near sprint to the Gunning house. You almost slipped and fell on the way there, and then you wouldn’t have been any good to anybody, and the last thing Dr. Sarah Gunning needed was to tend to a broken leg while her mother was on her deathbed.

The door was unlocked when you arrived, the house quiet and dark save for a few lamps left on.

“Sarah?” you called out.

She emerged from her mother’s room, eyes red. “I thought I was ready for this a long time ago, but being face-to-face with it…”

“Are you sure this is it?”

“As sure as I can be. She hasn’t been eating. There’s only so much I can do,” Sarah said, her voice breaking in despair. “Sister, I—she’d want you to be here. Even though she didn’t know you very much, I could tell she liked you.”

“Of course,” you whispered, giving her a hug before approaching Mildred’s bedside. 

Despite her labored breathing, she managed a kind smile when you took her weathered hand in yours and prayed the Our Father with as steady of a voice as you could manage. Then, you knelt, pulled the rosary from your raincoat pocket, and prayed until your knees ached and you nearly passed out from exhaustion at staying up so late. You almost thought you had dreamed it, the way she went, as peacefully as drifting off to sleep. It was only the cry of her daughter that pierced through your haze, and you struggled to your feet as you allowed Sarah privacy and called Sheriff Hassan over to certify the death, as was necessary for the burial Mildred would have undoubtedly wanted as a Catholic.

When the Sheriff arrived, about fifteen minutes after you called, you’d become acutely aware your nightgown had soaked through in the rain, and pulled your raincoat more closely over your body, ashamed you’d even forgotten such a detail in your haste.

“I should head back now,” you said. “I’m so sorry again, Sarah. You’ll be in my prayers. I’ll contact the diocese first thing in the morning."

She nodded. "Thank you, Sister."

“Do you need a ride back to the church?” Hassan asked. “This shouldn’t take long.”

You smiled, tempted by his offer, the prospect of spending more time alone with him. Instead, you shook your head. “Thank you, Sheriff. I think I can manage.”

Crockett Island was quiet the following day, when Annie’s son Riley arrived home for the first time in over a decade, following his four year prison sentence. You could tell through his polite greeting he had no interest in speaking with you further than his mother’s introductions. Fair enough.

Monsignor Pruitt was supposed to return that evening, but you had been calling the diocese to try to get confirmation that they could send a priest over to perform the funeral mass if needed. As usual, you got answering machines or the run around of being told to call different offices, none of which could apparently help you. 

When you returned to the rectory after visiting with Sarah Gunning, you noticed the light on in the distance. Beverly had planned to meet the Monsignor at the ferry and bring him home. In all honesty, you couldn’t believe he survived the trip, both there and back.

“Monsignor, it’s me!” you called out. “How was your trip? I’d love to hear about—” You froze when you came face to face with a priest. A priest who wasn’t the Monsignor. Younger, handsome, absolutely unexpected. “Hello. I–I’m sorry, who are you? Father—”

“I’m Father Paul, Paul Hill,” he said kindly. “The diocese sent me.”

“That was quick. I thought they’d been ignoring my messages.”

“Yes, I’m afraid the Monsignor became ill on his trip, and I’m here until he recovers. I hope you don’t mind, I went ahead and brought my things into what I assumed was his room.”

“Please, make yourself at home.” You hastily made a sign of the cross. “But the Monsignor…I don’t think the islanders could take another loss. I’m so sorry, you come here and your first mass is a funeral.”

“Funeral? For who?”

“Mildred Gunning, an elderly parishioner who had been ill with dementia for a few years, I believe. She passed away two nights ago,” you said. “That’s why I’ve been calling the diocese all day. We need someone to perform the funeral mass.”

His deep, brown eyes widened with all the terror of a deer being chased through the woods. “Are–are you sure?”

“Of course I am. I was there when she passed.”

“Did she suffer?”

“No, it was like she had fallen asleep,” you said softly, watching in wonder as tears fell from his eyes. “Father?”

“I’m sorry, Sister. These things affect me deeply.”

You put your hand on his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. “Can I make you coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, please,” he said, his voice empty, an almost far away sound to it.

“While that’s brewing, I’ll call Dr. Gunning, Mildred’s daughter, and let her know you’re here. I don’t think she’d want any deviation from the typical funeral rites. Her mother was quite devout.”

“Yes, I know.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “What was that?”

“Yes, I–I figured.”

He retreated into the Monsignor’s room. When you brought the coffee to him, he requested you leave it outside the door, which you found odd. Even more strange was having to tell Beverly that she missed the Monsignor’s arrival because he wasn’t arriving in the first place, and the diocese forgot to tell you that he’d become ill on his trip and Father Paul was serving as his replacement until he recovered. You privately figured the assignment would be more permanent, as yours had unexpectedly become.

Mildred Gunning’s funeral was held in St. Patrick’s Church less than a day later. A simple, solemn affair that saw the church nearly packed for the first time outside of Christmas or Easter. Mildred had lived and died on Crockett Island, everyone knew her in one way or another. Father Paul conducted the funeral mass as if mourning the Pope himself, and you were particularly struck by his grief, the way he nearly fell apart while giving the homily.

He fared no better at the wake that followed the funeral mass, held in the community center. Father Paul was utterly disinterested in speaking with any of the parishioners who tried to introduce themselves to him or sought solace and spiritual guidance in his presence. Thus, the burden once again fell on your shoulders, and you almost thought the diocese would have been better off ignoring your calls after all.

You sighed. You couldn’t let your cynicism get the best of you. It’d be entirely inappropriate for Father Paul to treat Mildred’s wake as a social hour. Besides, people with such deep empathy for others, especially someone they’d never met, were rare, as reminded to you by Beverly, who made her way over to you with a plate of cheese and crackers and a slight sneer on her face.

“I suppose it’s nice and all, but it’s not like he knew the woman,” Beverly muttered.

“He needs time to adjust,” you said. “This isn’t the best way to start out his tenure here.”

“Yes, well, let’s just hope he gets his act together soon.”

You could swear the diocese had you on some kind of blacklist, the way your calls to them went unanswered, letters returned with vague instructions and empty assurances. Father Paul had no idea how long they intended for him to stay on Crockett Island or the condition of Monsignor Pruitt. 

Your living in the rectory made sense when you were caring for the Monsignor, but with Father Paul fully capable of taking care of himself, you wanted to know if you’d be staying on the island, and if so, if separate arrangements would be made for your own housing. The island was too small, too chatty, for you and Father Paul to be living alone for too long before it was turned into something it wasn’t.

The bitter taste of married life settled on your tongue as you took up most of the responsibilities around the rectory while Father Paul moped . The old man could hardly help with cleaning, and you didn’t want him anywhere near the kitchen, but your new roommate was an able-bodied man who could spare to pick up some slack, couldn’t he?

“I made dinner, if you’re hungry,” you said, emerging from the kitchen and into the living room where he sat on the couch. “Just spaghetti and meatballs. The jar sauce from the store isn’t too bad. I usually add—”

“Red wine and oregano to it. I know.”

“Oh,” you said, taken aback by his statement. “I guess Bev told you. Not much of a secret recipe.”

“You’re pretty young for a nun,” he said, turning to you. “What made you want to give up a normal life for this?”

“It’s my vocation. For as long as I can remember, I knew this was what God called me to do. I never wanted another life.” You sat down next to him, sparing a glance around the room. “This is it for me.”

“Crockett Island?”

You conceded a small smile. “I was hoping for somewhere a little more exciting, but I think there’s a chance for something amazing to happen here.”

He shook his head. “That time’s long passed. Look around you, Sister. People are leaving in droves, and the ones who’ve stayed…it’s just too late.”

“Please, Father, I know this island may seem like it’s dying, and presiding over a funeral as your first mass here doesn’t help that, but the people still need guidance,” you pleaded, taking his hands in yours. You couldn’t contend with the diocese sending you to rot with the rest of the island. It couldn’t be for nothing. “The Monsignor is no longer well enough to fill that need, and I couldn’t do it on my own, but together, I think we can do something great if we try. This might be the island’s last chance to have life breathed into it again.”

“Sister—”

“I agree that Crockett Island is hardly a place anymore, but it’s somewhere to start, isn’t it? We couldn’t have been sent here without a reason.”

He swallowed roughly, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You’re right, Sister. I—Thank you.”

You smiled, relief washing over you at his words, at his assurance you wouldn't have to bring revival to Crockett Island on your own. 

Following your conversation with Father Paul, his attitude completely shifted. He was friendlier with the parishioners, taking extra time to spend with Leeza, offering to hold Riley’s AA meetings in the community center to save him a trip to the mainland, and, inexplicably, he liked Beverly, who’d changed her mind about Father Paul since the wake and warmed up to him. The only time he wavered was when he visited with Sarah Gunning, still grieving the loss of her mother and considering moving her practice off of the island.

He’d return to the rectory on those evenings quiet, morose, seeking the comfort you selflessly offered him. A warm embrace in which he’d bury his face in the crook of your neck. A hand to hold and squeeze in his own, intertwining his fingers with yours. Teetering on the brink of an intimacy you’d made vows against, you weren’t quite sure how to bring it up to him, not when he needed you, and you, him, to fill the hunger in your heart for a man you knew you could never have. 

You allowed the beast to live in you. Fed it. Nurtured it. Cared for it. Guarded it with a shameful protectiveness, shielding it from your regular confessions with Father Paul, in which uttering its name would make it real, and thus ripped away from you and destroyed. 

Ash Wednesday and the first week of Lent were resigned to a haze in your memory, hardly able to think of the beginning of the holiest time of the liturgical year without feeling sick. Not after the potluck. You were sure it had been Beverly, Sheriff Hassan was, too. You knew she was cruel, but to harm an animal, something so innocent…You couldn’t stand to be in her presence for long after that, and silently resented Father Paul for keeping her so close. But you supposed everyone had their vices. 

Yours came to a head in a dream, one that felt all too real, that you could hardly remember when you awoke apart from burning hands on your skin, lips pressed to yours, you and Sheriff Hassan in throes of passion. You laid in bed with a lump in your throat and aching between your legs. You hadn’t experienced a dream like that in…you couldn’t even remember.

The entire time you sat through mass, you thought you were going to be sick. You couldn’t concentrate on the readings or the homily. Taking the Eucharist felt wrong, and your hand shook when you brought the communion wafer to your lips when Father Paul handed it to you. Finally, when mass ended, and you were sure the church was empty, you approached him with trepidation.

“Father, I have something I need to confess.”

“Would you like to go to the confessional?”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to hide behind it. I need to be transparent and held accountable.”

He nodded. The two of you sat in a pew, facing each other as you crossed yourselves. 

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Three days,” you answered.

“What is it, Sister?”

“I’ve been having lustful thoughts, Father, about someone incredibly close to me, who I care deeply for. Instead of asking the Lord to take these feelings from me, I’ve been indulging in them, and last night I—I had a dream about him. A sexual one that I experienced physical pleasure from.” You were in tears, guilt wracking your body as you spoke. “I’m so ashamed. I should have been stronger. I’ve been sinning against God, exploiting this man in my heart when he’s done nothing to deserve such disrespect. Sheriff Hassan is—”

“Sheriff Hassan?” Father Paul’s gaze darkened ever so slightly, and you leapt to the sheriff’s defense in his absence.

“He didn’t do anything, Father. Nothing more than friendly smiles and kind words, never anything inappropriate. It was me, letting my lustful thoughts ferment instead of nipping them in the bud right away. He committed no sin. It was me.” Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

“Why him?”

You were silent for a moment. “He’s a good man.” Better than most you’d come across. Kind, selfless, just—the virtues that were few and far between among the men of the cloth you had met. Above all else, even when it was difficult, Hassan Shabazz was good. “I love him.”

“You don’t love him, Sister. Lust after him, yes, but you don’t know him, not enough to love him the way you think you do.”

With a shaky, reluctant sigh, you nodded. “Will you help me, Father?”

He took your hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Of course, it’s the least I can do after you helped me through the trial God set out for me when I first arrived here.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ll get through this together, Sister. Let us pray.”

The following Sunday, you tried to match the enthusiasm he had for ten o’clock mass that morning. You had gotten used to it by then, the way he always seemed to know something you didn’t or was aware of details about the islanders you weren’t keen to even after living there for two years. He was easy to trust, you supposed. 

Sitting in the wooden pew, you focused on following along with mass until the homily following the reading from the Gospel. Father Paul’s homilies were always a bit odd, cryptic, even. You assumed his faith was influenced by mysticism, and sought out books by the likes of St. John of the Cross and St. Francis in an attempt to better understand him. The way he spoke that day unsettled you, a fantastical fanaticism that felt out of place on Crockett Island.

Then, when it was time to receive the Eucharist, there was a solid minute where you were sure you had never hated anyone more in your entire life than you hated him. Telling Leeza Scaroborough to walk, goading the poor girl to step out of her wheelchair in an act of cruelty you couldn’t abide by. You got up from the pew, en route to smack him across the face when she did it. Leeza stood up from her wheelchair, and with tentative steps forward and tears of disbelief and hope in her eyes, she walked up to Father Paul and received the Eucharist.

Everything that followed was a blur, but you knew you were one of the few in attendance who hadn’t broken out into frenzied celebration. Something just wasn’t right. You found yourself hesitant to make eye contact with him when you took communion, and remained quiet even as mass ended, the cacophony of elated voices almost background noise to you.

“I’m sorry, everyone, but I need to speak to our dear Sister in confidence. I’m sure you all understand,” he said, murmurs of affirmation from the congregants who had crowded around him, except for Bev, who had a puss on her face at being excluded.

Father Paul ushered you into the sacristy, closing the door behind you.

“Is something wrong, Sister?” he asked.

“How can anything be wrong? Leeza Scarborough can walk again.”

“Yes, a miracle occurred in this very parish, right before our eyes, yet you seem…hesitant.”

You chewed on your lip before murmuring, “Seeing isn’t always believing.”

“You were the one who told me this island needed life brought back to it, who said we could achieve great things together. Now I’ve done that, by the grace of God Himself, and you have cold feet?”

“It’s not that.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“You know I do,” you said, trying to ignore the lump in your throat. “Maybe my faith is still weak—I’m still weak. I’m sorry, Father.”

“You’re not weak, Sister.”

“I think I’m going to get some air,” you said.

He nodded, distressed by your continued lack of enthusiasm. “Alright.”

Leaving St. Patrick’s through the side door in the sacristy, you tried to muster up the joy and faith you were supposed to feel, but found yourself coming up disappointingly empty. You had seen it with your very own eyes, and had been standing right there when Leeza walked for the first time in years. It couldn’t have been a trick, not orchestrated or premeditated, not by her. But Father Paul seemed so certain. Was his faith that much stronger than yours? Strong enough that he could be a true miracle worker, a vessel of God Himself on Crockett Island of all places?

Even the more skeptical congregants present, like Erin and Riley, had bared witness to it. Could attest to what had happened just as everyone else had, as you could. As a nun, you were undoubtedly expected to believe, be among the most fervent of Father Paul’s advocates. Beverly wasted no time in declaring the act a miracle worthy of the Vatican’s attention. Your faith still wavered despite what should have been undeniable proof. 

You’d lost track of how long you’d been walking around the island, but the sun was beginning to set and you realized you were tired and hungry. The general store wasn’t much farther of a walk from where you ended up while mindlessly wandering, and so you made the trek into town, telling yourself you were getting a few groceries for yourself and Father Paul. Really, the only person you knew you could speak to without judgment would be in there.

When you entered, Hassan greeted you with an emotional distance you expected. He probably figured you’d be among the dozens of people eager to relay Leeza’s miracle to him, underhandedly attempting to invalidate his own faith. 

Grabbing a jar of sauce and a box of pasta, you brought them up to the counter. Your mouth was dry while he rang up the groceries, but you couldn’t help asking, “Have–um–have you seen Leeza recently?” 

He nodded, his lips pressed in a thin line. “Walked right in here and bought a Twinkie earlier.”

“Amazing, how it happened.”

“I know about what happened to Leeza. I don’t believe what happened to Leeza.”

“Neither do I.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t?”

“It doesn’t sit right with me,” you said. “It felt more like a show was being put on than a miracle. I don’t think she had anything to do with what happened, but he had to have done something. He was so sure she would walk, and I just felt angry, betrayed that he’d make a spectacle in mass. In all honesty, Sheriff, my faith has been wavering for a while, but this didn’t make it any stronger.”

“It makes me feel a little more sane to hear you say that.”

“Well, if anyone can get to the bottom of this, I’m sure it’s you.” You smiled, taking the bags of groceries from the counter. “Have a good night, Sheriff.”

“You too, Sister.”

Walking back to the rectory, you wondered if anything would be able to make you change your mind about actually bearing witness to a miracle.

Father Paul hugged you as soon as you walked through the door. “I was about to send out a search party for you.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you, Father. I just needed time to think.”

He looked at the grocery bag in your hand. “And to see the Sheriff.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Sister, something incredible is happening here. I need to know you’re on my side,” he said, his urgency striking you like lightning. 

“I am. I want to be. Please just be patient with me. This is—it’s a lot to process.”

“I can’t do this without you,” he said softly, caressing your cheek. “I need you.” His gaze fell to your lips.

“I should start on dinner,” you whispered, pulling away from him.

“Let me, you cook enough for me already,” he said, taking the bag from you. He pulled out the jar of sauce. “Red wine and oregano, right?”

You nodded. “That’s right.”

“Make yourself comfortable out here. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

The following half hour or so was unbearably tense, and you could hardly focus on the book sitting in your lap, The Dialogue of Divine Providence, while he cooked. The two of you ate in near silence, and you retired to your room early, falling asleep almost as soon as you changed into your nightgown and crawled into bed.

Burning pain seared your limbs when you awoke in the middle of the night, the pungent scent of iron assaulting your nose, and for a moment, you thought you were dying. You reached over to the lamp on your nightstand, your arm heavy as you moved it. With trepidation, you pulled the cord, a phantom sensation in your hand as you did so. 

Soft, white light from the bulb illuminated your beside. Lifting your hands to your face, you let out a panicked whimper at the gaping wounds in your palms, gently bleeding crimson and flowing down your arms to your nightgown. The fabric around your torso was blotched with blood, each tinge of pink becoming red with every ragged breath you took. You tried kicking at the covers, but found it excruciatingly difficult, and to your horror, discovered identical wounds to the ones in your hands through both of your feet.

Your hands shook as you screwed your eyes shut, telling yourself it was a dream, and that when you opened your eyes, the blood would be gone, the wounds healed. Except the pain was all too real, pulsing in your wounds, tears stinging your eyes as you choked out a sob. Your simple bedroom, with little more than a bookshelf, desk, chair, and crucifix on the wall, threatened to suffocate you as your panic set in.

A groan pulled from your lips as you pushed yourself out of bed, your legs nearly giving out beneath you. The strange sensation of your bare feet on the wooden floorboards made you feel dizzy, or maybe it was blood loss. Each step forward was more agonizing than the last, but you needed help. You needed someone else to see you, a witness to what was happening. 

“Father Paul!” you cried out from the doorway, your voice hoarse and low, barely carrying across the hallway. “Father, wake up!” Mustering what strength you could, you threw yourself against his bedroom door, your closed, bleeding fist erratically banging against it. “Father, please!”

“Sister, what’s going—” 

As soon as he opened the door, you collapsed into his arms, sending him stumbling backward with the sudden burden of your body on his. He looked at you, gaping at the blood that covered you—and him. 

“Father?” 

“I should call Dr. Gunning.”

You shook your head frantically. “Don’t! Not yet.” 

“What happened?”

“I woke up, and I was like this.” Your bleeding hands clenched around the hem of your nightgown, keeping it at your thighs. “I’m too afraid to look.”

“May I?” he asked, his own hands shaking as his fingers brushed the blood-drenched fabric.

Staring at him for a moment, reckoning with the further vulnerability you were about to display to him, you breathed a soft, “Yes.”

He pulled your nightgown up, the fabric sticking to your skin from the congealed blood. You stared at the ceiling as he lifted the garment over your head, too embarrassed and mortified to acknowledge your body bare before him. His fingertips brushed your torso, and you moaned. In your horror, you looked down to see deep, fresh wounds on your sides.

“Oh my God.”

“Do you know what this is, Sister?”

Tears blurred your vision as you shook your head. “It can’t be stigmata. I’m not pure enough, not devout enough. He’d never—”

“Of course He would. He saw you needed faith, a reminder of His love for you, and look at you now,” Father Paul said with hushed fervor as he took in the state of you. “You’re beautiful.” He kissed your forehead, then pressed his lips to each of your weeping palms, and then your feet. 

Desire twisted in your gut at the sight of him beneath you. He kissed your feet again, a terrifying hunger in his gaze as he brought his lips higher up your legs, his hands brushing your skin with a reverence you felt unworthy of receiving. 

You watched as he dipped his fingers into one of your side wounds and then brought the digits to his mouth, tasting your blood from them. With a ragged breath, he brought his face to your torso. His tongue plunged in the valley of your wound, lapping up the blood that gently flowed from it. A moan tore from your throat, pleasure rolling across your skin as if you truly were a vessel for the divine. Surely it was the same sensation that inspired St. Teresa of Avila’s eroticism, a mystical ecstasy that saw her driven out of villages and cloister herself in search of the purest, incorporeal love.

Except before you knelt a man of God whom you could reach out and touch, eagerly devouring your flesh as if able to find salvation in your blood. His teeth grazed your skin, eliciting a shudder that echoed through you like a worn-out hymn. Words failed you, the pleasure you received from his ravenous consumption of you overtaking the pain from your wounds. 

Holding his head against your side wound, you wanted more, the feeling of him indulging in you. Taste and eat. Everything you felt and saw was in shades of violently blossoming red, deeper and deeper with each curl of his tongue and brush of his fingertips, his unadulterated worship, his veneration for you, serving as the flowing cup of God’s grace and mercy.

Rapturous bliss hummed through you like an ecstatic prayer, pulsing in your wounds on your hands, feet, and sides. You felt like he was part of you, a mystical union between yourself and him.

But just as high as he’d taken you, you quickly came down. The gravity of the situation, of what he’d done, what you’d let him do, weighed on your conscience more heavily than any illicit feeling you’d ever harbored toward Sheriff Hassan.

Father Paul took your face in his hands, eyes glistening with a joyous faith you no longer envied. “Your own miracle, Sister. Do you see it now?”

“You did this to me?” you asked in distressed horror. “You—Who are you?”

“Not me, Sister,” he said. “Here, let me show you. You’ll understand everything. I think you’re ready.”

He held out his hand, and despite everything in you screaming otherwise, you took it.

[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 𝔗𝔦��𝔢𝔯𝔢

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. =(

[aesopsharpmybeloved]

Pine-ing For You

Father Paul has a little accident while trying to set up Christmas lights and you decide to get festive.

I got this idea while chatting with @aherdofbees​, and together we developed it to get our dear priest into quite the delicious situation. She made a 𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 illustration that goes with this fic. Go on, click the linkie and like and reblog, because it truly is amazing. 

Thank you so much for the inspiration Allison, I loved writing this!

NSFT/18+ GO AWAY CHILDREN

Pine-ing For You - 5.3K

tw: explicit sexual themes, consensual unprotected sex, body worship, smut with a lot of feelings™, attmepts at humour

Crockett Island may have seemed dull most of the time to the untrained eye, but after more than a year of living there you knew better. The people, while many of them a bit subdued, all had their little joys in life, their passions, and though they were wary of strangers that came into their little town at first, they were among the most kind and hospitable folks you had the good fortune to have met.

However, when Christmas rolled around, even the untrained eye could perceive the shift in atmosphere. It was a jolly holiday after all and the people indeed were slightly jollier. Little by little, decorations began appearing around the island. Many of them were small and decent, maybe just a wreath on a door, or an electric candlestick set in a window. Some were larger, Christmas lights on the roof, perhaps a little reindeer in the front yard. Few decorated more.

Some of these more festive looking places were the schoolhouse, which had student-made snowflakes in the windows, garlands on the windowsills, lights hung from the roof and even a charming wooden nativity scene in front. The Flynn house and The Greene house also breathed a gentle Christmas atmosphere to everyone who walked by. And then, there was Saint Patrick’s. Apparently, Monsignor Pruitt adored Christmas more than anyone else on the island and it showed. Dozens and dozens of various decorations were found in one of the storage areas of the church by Father Paul, who literally begged you to help him put them up. Which you were more than happy to do.

So now there were artificial swags at every corner of the small church, boughs of holly, wreaths, candles and another nativity set, placed right in front of the altar. This one was more detailed and painted, obviously made to be inside rather than face the weather conditions. And it was quite obvious Monsignor Pruitt took great pride in his decor collection. All that was missing were some Christmas trees.

—

Many residents of Crockett Island used artificial trees for their Christmas festivities, but there were still those who couldn’t imagine celebrating their lord’s birthday without a fine fir or a pine. One day, about a week before Christmas, a group of volunteers would gather on one of the larger fishing ships and set off to the mainland to pick out live trees for everyone on the island who wanted one. Ordering worked through simple paper forms, delivered to mailboxes by Dolly Scarborough. One would write down their name, preferred kind of tree, and its size. Filled out forms were then dropped off in the little town hall, along with the money for it. Unlike everyone else (including you) who ordered only one tree, Father Paul ordered three - two larger to be placed inside the church, one smaller for his rectory. He was, of course, among the volunteers going to actually pick the trees up.

They returned around eleven o’clock in the morning. You stood on the dock, looking at the fishing boat full of tied trees with a smile. Paul would be hauling the trees for Saint Patrick’s and the rectory first, with the help from Ed and Riley Flynn, and you convinced Sturge to help you carry the large pine tree you asked for to your home.

“Thank you again,” you said, walking next to him. You genuinely tried to help him carry it, but after a few minutes of very awkward walking and a few broken off twigs, the handyman simply threw the big tree over his shoulder and hauled it the rest of the way by himself. “Do you accept payment in gingerbreads?” you asked with a grin and raised eyebrows. Sturge thought for a while: “Yeah. But it will cost you.” “Oh? How much?” you chuckled. “I want the entire sheet.” You gave a whistle and made an amused ‘tsk’ sound: “Inflation these days…”

—

Two hours later, you stood at your kitchen counter, decorating gingerbreads with white chocolate. The pine stood tall and proud in your living room. It truly was a beautiful tree, healthy and dense, its herby scent, having already filled the room it stood in, was seeping through the rest of your house. You heard the front door open and shut, followed by some shuffling from the hallway.

“Hmm, it smells nice in here,” came a dreamy voice, making you smile. When footsteps began approaching the kitchen, you turned around to greet the priest. But then: “What are you wearing?” you asked, laughing softly. Father Paul was dressed in his skinny jeans, like usual. What wasn’t usual however, was the 'ugly Christmas jumper' instead of the black clerical shirt, its colour reminding you of his gold chasuble. There was a white nordic pattern on front, consisting of snowflakes and reindeers. It didn’t look terrible, but since you never before saw Paul wearing something like this, it kind of took your breath away for a moment.

“Do you like it?” asked Paul with a smile, pulling at his sleeves which you noticed were rather tight at the wrists. “It’s hideous,” you replied snarkily, making the priest chuckle and walk closer to you. He noticed the half decorated gingerbreads right away and was just about to reach for one when you lightly slapped his hand away. “Ouch. What was that for?” asked Paul, fake hurt in his voice. You giggled and wrapped your arms around his torso: “These are for Sturge, for lending me a hand with that tree.” “Oh I see,” replied your lover, understanding on his face, “will you make some for us, too?” You rolled your eyes and couldn’t help but smile: “Of course I will, have I ever neglected you?”

Paul pulled you close to press a soft kiss against your lips, claiming your entire attention. Therefore, you didn’t notice his hand slowly creeping up and onto the counter until it was too late, and one of the gingerbreads was snatched and promptly bit into by the father. “You scoundrel!” you smacked his chest, while Paul only laughed with his mouth full, “you’re lucky I love you.”

He swallowed his bite and batted his eyelashes at you: “it must be the sweater.” You smirked and squinted your eyes. “The jumper is hideous,” you repeated and Paul shook his head: “You really think that?” You didn’t. Taking him in once more, you had to admit that it did look rather flattering on Paul’s tall lean frame. “I knew it,” he said smugly, “you can’t lie to me, you like it.” “I don’t like it,” you tried once more, the corners of your lips turning up inadvertently. Paul took another bite of the gingerbread: “Hm, you love it.”

A few moments later, during which you picked at the soft wool of your lover’s jumper while he hummed appreciatively at the taste of your baking, you gave him a kittenish smile: “Since you’ve got nothing better to do right now than be a menace,” he opened his mouth in mock-offence before smiling cheekily, “you could go and start with the Christmas tree, what do you say?” “Hm,” he thought, “I thought we’d do it together?” Your arms encircled his waist again, pulling him closer and lifting your head to meet his eyes: “We will, but you could at least start putting the lights on. It’s a beast of a tree and I wouldn’t be able to reach the top, unlike a certain tall priest.”

He gave you a soft smile and pecked the tip of your nose, before brushing his lips against yours: “Very well.” You watched in curiosity, as his hands came up to rest on your hips and his eyes bore into your own. And then, in less than a second, he was scrambling away, another gingerbread in his hand. You gasped and stared after him, mischievous dark eyes twinkling at you until he rounded a corner. “Unbelievable!” you called after him.

—

You were pretty happy with your work, before you on the counter lay a sheet of nicely decorated gingerbreads of various shapes. Save for the two Father Paul stole right under your nose, but you supposed Sturge wouldn’t really notice that. You were in the middle of moving them into a container, when a dull thud sounded from the living room. “Paul? Is everything alright?” you called. A deafening silence was your only answer for several seconds and you started getting worried, when Paul’s sheepish voice reached your ears: “Um… A little help here, (F/N)?” You finished storing the cookies away, wiped your hands on a kitchen towel and made your way to the living room.

You couldn’t see the priest at first, but when you did, you began giggling uncontrollably. Paul was lying on his stomach very nearly under the tree, the christmas lights cord in his outstretched hand. His torso was bare and you could see the yellow jumper and white undershirt tangled around Paul’s arms, caught on one of the tree’s strong branches. He was looking at you abashed, his cheeks a little rosy with embarrassment.

You learned fairly early on in your relationship that for all of Paul’s amazing qualities, his skill as a priest, his knack for cooking, and his knowledge of your body as a lover, he was sometimes quite clumsy and very accident prone. A week wouldn’t pass without him bashing his little toe on some piece of furniture and you’d often find small bruises on his arms and legs, prompting him to sheepishly explain the cause for them. It was usually doors.

“I’m so sorry,” you said after you caught your breath and walked closer to him, kneeling by his side, “but what happened?” Father Paul released a huff and an adorable pout formed on his lips. “I wanted to turn on the lights. I got under the tree, on my knees, and tried to plug the cord into the socket. I couldn’t reach it though, and wanted to get out, try a different angle. But, um,” he paused, wetting his lips with his tongue, “I caught my shirt on a branch. I tried to untangle it, but couldn’t. So I thought I’d just try to take the shirt off, free it from the branch and put it on again. This is as far as I got…” The priest looked angrily at his hands, “the sleeves are too tight at the wrists, I can’t get my hands out! I mean, I tried yanking away, but the tree swayed rather nastily and I was worried it would collapse on top of me.”

“Wait,” you said with an amused grin, “are you really actually trapped? You can’t get out of there?” Father Paul 'tsked: “Yes. I am trapped under a Christmas tree. Can you help me?” You smiled softly at him and pet his hair. You proceeded to move forward, crawling under the tree yourself (mindful of any mischievous branches) and snatching the cord from Paul’s hand. You plugged it in and the living room was suddenly illuminated by multicoloured Christmas lights. You crawled back and sat leisurely on the ground, close to the priest’s head. Paul looked at you expectantly for a while, but after seeing you showed no intention to free him, a look of shock came over his face: "Wha- You're really going to leave me here?”

You once more moved your hand to his head, fingers carding through his dark hair: “'Leaving you' is the last thing on my mind,” you moved until you were lying down next to him, hand now coming to stroke his cheek and jaw, “but right now, I think I like you exactly. Where. You. Are,” you exaggerated each word, thumb moving to stroke the edges of Paul’s lips. “You look like an early Christmas present,” you purred, leaning your head on your free hand. Paul closed his eyes at the feeling of your clever fingers once again combing through the soft curls on the back of his neck. “Are you-... are you really trying to seduce me while I’m trapped under a Christmas tree?”

You giggled airily, tugging at the soft hair gently and delighting in Paul’s tiny little gasps: “Hmm, maybe… Is it working?” Paul’s head fell down to lean on his arms, his cheeks got even darker and in a quiet voice he replied: “A little.” You slowly scratched at his scalp, smiling lovingly each time he leaned into your touch. "Hey," you said then, prompting him to open his eyes and look at you. Your thumb found his lips again and you gave him a look he could read perfectly by now. 'Tell me you're not ok with this and I'll stop.' it said. Warmth spread through Paul's chest, followed by a gentle tingle of anticipation.

He pressed his lips against your thumb further in a small kiss, before smiling slightly and blinking at you coquettishly, and he too attempted to speak to you with his eyes: ‘I want this’.

You gave him one more gentle smile, before leaning back and looking at him appreciatively: “My, my, I must have been so nice this year, what a lovely present.” The priest chuckled into his arms: “Are you going to tear the wrapping paper off?” Your head cocked to the side, a wolfish grin on your face. One fingertip stroked along Paul’s earlobe, descending down upon his pulsepoint and feeling his increasing heartbeat. “Nope, I don’t do that, it’s no fun” you shook your head, “I always unwrap presents slowly, peeling the tape off and trying not to damage the paper. Sometimes I even stop midway, because the anticipation makes it so much better.

“I think I’ll start with the parts that are unwrapped already,” you purred into his ear and moved closer, both of your hands coming to rest on his shoulders while you pressed small kisses into his hair, lips moving down to brush against the nape of his neck. “Hm,” you sighed contently, “such a pretty neck, long and elegant, like a swan, almost regal,” you bit lightly at the beginning of his spine, making your lover release a short gasp, “so sensitive.” You moved lower, hands sliding across shoulder blades: “Beautiful golden skin, like honey, soft, and warm, and very sweet.” Father Paul could feel more hotness entering his already red cheeks. Your whispered praises always had a profound effect on him. He hid his face in his arms.

“Strong shoulders and back, muscles defined perfectly but gently,” you continued and now dragged your fingernails across the entire length of the priest's back, making him quietly groan in pleasure. You’ve never met anyone who didn’t like their back scratched, but Paul seemed particularly enraptured by it. You made sure to lightly graze every inch of the golden skin, finding all the right spots, all the while pushing hot kisses onto every single freckle you could see and connecting them with your tongue.

Paul couldn’t help but chuckle when he felt your hands give his clothed bum a squeeze. “Girls love a guy with a lovely arse, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” you whispered cheekily and gave the lovely arse another squeeze, “alright, let me see the other side of this present before I start unwrapping it further.”

You helped Paul carefully roll over and onto his back, his wrists, still bound by his own clothes, now crossed over one another. Dark hair peeked at you from under the priest’s arms, and his pink nipples looked like little pearls screaming for attention. And they weren’t the only thing craving attention. Paul’s erection was tenting the dark grey skinny jeans and his eyes fluttered when you ran a finger over it. You gave him a grin: “Sorry, I’ve always been a little impatient, but I promise I’ll try to be good.” Paul shuddered out a laugh, his breathing a little shallow: “I wouldn’t be mad either way.”

Slowly you put a leg over his waist and straddled your lover: “Now, where were we? Oh, yeah,” you leaned forward and took his face into your hands, thumbs caressing his brow. “Thick, expressive eyebrows… Dark eyes, so, so large. Like a dolly,” you leaned forward to press your lips against Paul’s eyelids, then pulled away again, “cute, well defined nose, perfect for kissing,” once more you made your point by pecking the entire length of your lover’s nose, making him produce a fluttery chuckle.

“Though, of course, your entire face is perfect for kissing,” you smiled at him lovingly and then your fingers traced the edges of his lips, “but most of all it’s your mouth. That perfect cupid’s bow. I see it, and I want to trap it between my own lips. When you smile, when you pout, when you do that adorable little mouth shrug… When you talk, to me, to your congregation. When your mouth is slightly open and I can see your upper teeth just peeking through. I always want to kiss you.”

You crushed your lips against Paul’s, teeth clashing and tongues moulding against each other. He groaned into your hungry mouth and wanted to curl his arms around you, but soon remembered he was bound and released a desperate sound instead. You only parted from him when the lack of oxygen threatened to take your consciousness away. A tiny string of saliva followed you for a bit, before it snapped and landed on Paul's kiss bruised lips. You kissed the slight cleft in his chin and playfully dipped your tongue into it.

The emotion in your eyes as you pulled back could have made Paul cry, you were looking at him as if he was the rarest jewel, the most fantastical treasure in the world, as if he was your sun and moon and stars. “You have no idea just how beautiful you really are, do you? Inside and out,” you whispered, hands returning to stroke the side of the priest’s face, which was once more getting hot. This time however, he couldn’t hide it and as he lay there, absorbing each and every one of your words, Paul realised he didn’t even want to hide. You leaned closer again, whispering against his open mouth: “So beautiful, so very pretty.” An involuntary moan escaped him.

You smiled against his mouth, then ducked your head lower, nibbling softly around Paul's jawline before descending upon his throat, teeth scraping over his Adam's apple right as he swallowed heavily. You shifted until you sat directly on his hips and rolled your own, rubbing against his constricted erection and making his head fall back, those fine lips opening wordlessly. He took large gulps of air, hands involuntarily trying against his restraints once more. “Soon,” you promised, rolling your hips again, “but do try not to move your hands too much. I really don’t want the tree to actually fall down on our heads. Can you imagine explaining that to Sarah, when we show up all bruised and battered?”

The priest made an unhappy little sound, but tried to keep his hands as still as he could anyway. You made your way down his chest, nuzzling your face into his soft skin and delivering soft kisses and playful bites every time you felt like it. Paul sighed when your lips reached one of his nipples. You circled the nub with your tongue before sucking it into your mouth and pinching it with your teeth lightly. You used your fingers to stimulate the other nipple in perfect synchronisation with your mouth, trying various techniques and listening to Paul’s shallow gasps and quiet groans for feedback.

After alternating between the two, now red and swollen, buds for several minutes, you decided to carry on with your adventurous journey across Paul’s exquisite body, and ran the tips of your fingers against his ribs teasingly. You grinned widely when your lover made a little jump, trying to get away from your touch now: “N-no, don’t,” he gasped, but it was pointless. You again stroked over his ribs and under his arms, and was soon rewarded with choked laughter. “A-angel, please… please don’t tickle me right now,” he begged in between chuckles. You giggled, but took mercy on him, climbing up to steal a kiss: “I’m sorry, love, I couldn’t resist.”

You sat back onto his thighs and gave the priest a reassuring smile after you laid your hands on his sensitive ribs again, this time your entire palms, intent on caressing him and bringing him pleasure. You stroked down, soon finding an obstacle in your way. Father Paul’s jeans looked so, so tight around his hard shaft it must’ve been painful, and you licked your lips as you made eye contact with him and rubbed the heel of your hand over his length. He shuddered and his eyes fluttered closed on their own. You repeated the motion, making your lover groan with pleasure.

“I think it’s time for me to unwrap my present,” you whispered huskily and waited for him to look at you. When he did, you sat even further away, all the way above his knees, and began making a show of popping open the button and torturingly slowly pulling his zipper down. Your fingers curled below the waistline on each side of the trousers and you tugged them down, little by little, revealing one, then two edges of his hip bone, protruding under his skin enticingly. You left the jeans bunched in the middle of his thighs and observed the priest amorously.

His hands, still crossed at the wrists above his head were balled into fists, fingers white at the knuckles. Paul’s face was flushed dark pink, with sweat gathering in his hairline, one drop of it having already rolled down his cheek. His lips were swollen from kissing. Well, his upper lip anyway, the bottom one was currently trapped between Paul’s teeth, but you presumed it’d be in a similar condition. He was breathing hard, his eyes dark with lust, and there was a damp spot on the front of his grey boxer briefs. You bowed to press a wet kiss just below his sternum, then lower, then lower again, relishing the soft tender skin of the priest's tummy.

You drew a circle around Father Paul’s belly button with your tongue and started pinching the area underneath with your teeth, teasing at the happy trail going down into his underwear. You looked up after reaching the waistband, catching your lover’s intense gaze. He whimpered softly when instead of going where he needed you the most, you bit into that tempting hip bone. “Please…” he whispered, feeling like he was going to go insane if you were to tease him much longer. Paul didn’t even realise his eyes were closed until your soft hand touched his cheek and he opened them again. You were smiling at him warmly, a look filled with tenderness. He willingly opened his mouth for you when you moved your hand to the back of his neck and kissed him soundly.

At the same time you finally pushed your hand under the waistband of his briefs and took a hold of his aching member. Paul moaned into your mouth in relief, his eyes shutting closed and eyebrows turning upwards. You fondled his manhood steadily, massaging it slowly with your thumb drawing little circles into the heated skin. He breathed hard against your mouth once he had to part for breath, and you stuck your tongue out to trace his lips before pushing it back between them. You were slow in your movements, yet Paul soon found himself nearing his peak.

“Wait,” he managed to get out and you let go of him right away. He tried to convey what he wanted with his eyes and, thankfully, you seemed to understand.  You climbed off of him, lying down by his side instead so you could make out some more. From his position, Paul now had some access to your neck and he immediately used this fact to his advantage, pressing sloppy kisses and bites against your pulse point while you massaged his scalp with your fingers. He attempted to duck his head lower, but was held back by his restraints. He gave you another pleading look and you started removing articles of your own clothing, as well as ridding him of the jeans and boxers entirely.

Once you were as naked as he (save for the jumper and shirt tangled on his arms), You climbed back over him, bracing yourself on one hand above his head and pushing your bosom level with his face. Wasting no time, Paul began kissing the sensitive skin, tongue darting out to circle your nipples and flick over them. Meanwhile, your other hand was between your legs, two fingers slowly moving inside your heat in a scissoring motion, stretching yourself. You rested your head against Paul’s, your content sighs fanning over the priest’s black hair.

Suddenly, Paul produced an alarmed sound and turned his head away. You immediately lifted yourself off him. “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?” you asked, your arousal now mixed with worry. He screwed his eyes shut before releasing a sheepish chuckle: “No, no, nothing like that. It’s just-... um, there is a pine needle getting somewhere it definitely should not be getting.” You started laughing quietly, Paul joining you shortly after. After you fished out the pine needle from under the back of his thigh and made sure there were no more pointy things threatening anything vital, you wanted to lean forward again, but Paul stopped you. “I want to watch,” he said. You smiled down at him and made a show of fucking yourself with your own fingers.

Once you felt sufficiently ready, you pulled your digits out and moved down Paul’s body, pushing your hips together. You rolled your hips a few times, the underside of the priest’s cock sliding through your wet folds. Using your now free hand, you reached behind yourself and guided your lover inside. Paul bent one leg at the knee and pushed his hips up to meet you halfway. Both of you choked out a small gasp. Despite your preparation, you needed a few moments to get used to Paul’s width.

You experimentally raised your hips before sinking back, trying to find an angle that worked the best for you. A few thrusts later, you felt a bolt of pleasure shoot through your spine and into your core, and grinned. You lowered yourself until your body was flush with Paul’s and carefully slipped your arms under his, hands coming to tangle into his hair. You connected your foreheads and looked into his eyes deeply as you started thrusting against him in that brilliant angle.

Paul’s laboured breathing and delicate moans blew across your cheeks, warming them more than the blood gathered there. You tilted your head to the side and let your lips connect in an uncoordinated kiss, keeping your eyes open. Paul’s hands were shaking from how much he wanted to reach out for you, all the while keeping in mind that was the only thing he couldn’t do, so he instead tried to convey all the ways he wanted to touch you in through his mouth, sucking on your lower lip, biting your tongue gently, licking a wet strip along your jaw.

Your movements sped up and the fire within you started burning brighter, every single thrust like a spurt of gasoline into a flame. You hid your face into Paul’s heated neck, feeling his heart hammering away at a rapid speed, sensing his groans and whimpers before actually hearing them. You wrapped yourself around him completely, as if willing your bodies to mould into one. The priest bent his leg a bit more, gaining better leverage to pound up into you, feeling his upcoming release nearing as well.

Once Paul heard your moans becoming more urgent, felt your walls beginning to flutter around him and saw your thighs trembling, he started nudging your head with his own, wordlessly attempting to make you look at him, reveal your face. He loved watching you fall apart, your face showing nothing but pleasure, raw, almost unhinged. It was a sight only he was allowed to see, nearly sacred. You raised your head with some difficulty and rested it back against his, your pupils blown wide and constantly disappearing and reappearing behind fluttering eyelids.

You were on the very brink, moments before plummeting down into the abyss, and your hips lost all sense of rhythm. “Come for me, angel,” Paul groaned and delivered a sharp thrust upwards, effectively shoving you over the edge. Your fingers closed in his hair harshly and a wave of pleasure exploded in your core, shooting into your veins like a drug. You gasped violently, releasing a series of short high pitched whimpers as your heat began pulsing around Paul’s twitching shaft. He continued thrusting into you, hitting that little bundle of nerves and effectively prolonging your orgasm.

You were blushing everywhere, sweating, trembling through heaps of bliss, yet a drunken smile bloomed on your face. Your unfocused eyes connected with Paul’s, their gaze intense and almost desperate. “S-so, ah, you’re so b-beautiful, Paul,” you managed to stutter out, and then only watched the fireworks go off in those nearly black orbs. They widened for a millisecond and then, as if a rope snapped, you could see Paul fighting to keep them even open. You would have almost thought he was in pain, with his hands trembling violently, his mouth opening into an ‘o’ shape to release a long moan, and his head tilting back.

Your walls were painted white, spurt after spurt of hotness spreading through your core. Together you shook through the aftershocks, slowly coming down your highs. You collapsed against your lover, trying to get your breathing under control once more. Several minutes of lazy kisses and whispered words of love later, Paul tried tugging his arms free once more, causing some more pine needles to descend upon your cooling bodies. You groggily climbed up his body until you were able to reach the treacherous twig and untangle it from Father Paul’s shirt.

The priest stretched his arms and proceeded to pull both his jumper and shirt off of him, tossing them somewhere to your left. Finally, finally, he was able to hold you and immediately did just so. “You were right,” he said quietly, voice hoarse, “it is a horrible sweater.” You giggled and let yourself slide down and onto your side, lying next to him. “I don’t know,” you purred, your hand coming to caress his cheek, “I think it’s starting to grow on me.”

You shivered slightly, your body having already cooled down from your previous activities, and reached for a blanket which was draped over your sofa. You threw it over the two of you and got comfortable in the father’s arms. “If there was an advent calendar of making love during Christmas time, this would definitely be there. Under the tree,” you mused, your voice light and airy. “Wonder what would be hidden under ‘24’,” replied Paul in the same manner, “making love after the midnight Mass?” You grinned into his neck, one of your hands slowly massaging his shoulder: “A lovely suggestion.”

“Still want to decorate the tree?” he asked after a while, pressing small kisses into your hair. You murmured something unintelligible and hid your face again. Paul chuckled lowly: “Okay, shower and a movie then?” “Yeah,” you breathed into his skin, “we’ll do the tree first thing tomorrow.” Paul hummed in agreement. You lay cuddled beneath the Christmas tree, the colourful lights dancing on your bare limbs and the smell of pine lingering sweetly in the air. “We could decorate the one in the rectory after. And bake those gingerbreads only for us.”

A giggle started blooming in your chest, soon turning into a full on laughter. “You really are unbelievable!” you bit into your lower lip and pulled back to look into his large eyes. They reflected the big genuine smile on Paul’s face perfectly: “I’ll even wear the sweater.” You shook your head and quickly crushed your lips against his. Absolutely unbelievable.

Thank you for reading, I hope you had a good time c: As always, you can find this story and all of my other stories over on AO3. Please, be sure to check out @aherdofbees​ tumblr as well, she makes the most spectacular art!

the first tags are sentences I had to restrain myself from using in order not to look like the last bits of sanity finally packed their bags and kissed me goodbye

@everythingbutresolved @agirlinherhead​ @rothko-mirror​ @littleredwritingcat​ @vintageglassheart02​ @thexhostess​ @fatherpaulsimp​ @blackberries45​ @daughterofaries​ @exorcise-my-demons​ sending kisses ××

[radawaycunt]

Baptismus Sanguinis

Monsignor Pruitt x Vampire!FemReader

Also on AO3

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

WC: 3.2k words

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All there was?”

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

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

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

“Nothing I can’t endure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s so beautiful,” you murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

—--------------------------------

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

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

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

“Annoying?” You offered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“John, I swear…”

“You swear, huh? To what? To whom?”

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

“I am touching you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed in disbelief. “Can you?”

“I sure can.”

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

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

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

------

[ao3feed-midnightmass]

After All He Stayed

by always_andromeda Prompt: taboo au + "Everything I've done...every atrocity, it's been for you." Words: 2926, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 1 of Haunted Hoedown 2023 Collection Fandoms: Midnight Mass (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: F/M Characters: Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt, F!reader Relationships: Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt/Reader, Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt/You Additional Tags: Smut, Age Difference, Blood, Death, Dubious Consent, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Light Dom/sub April 11, 2025 at 04:49AM Read it on Ao3 » https://archiveofourown.org/works/64607272 ✞ Don’t forget to leave kudos and comments to let the author know you enjoyed their work ✞

[pondslime]

sacramentum

FANDOM : midnight mass (2021) PAIRING : father paul hill x afab!fem!reader RATING : explicit 🔞 WORDCOUNT : 17.3k

Reader POV. Seeking peace and a sense of self, you pack up your life and move to a small fishing village in the Pacific Northwest.

You're not prepared for what you find there.

Read on AO3 here.

🔔 Only including an excerpt of the first thousand or so words under the cut, as Tumblr formatting hates longwinded porn!

Canon-divergent. Takes place in an alternative version of Episodes 1-4.

Blasphemy and filth fueled by religious guilt and repression. Hierophilia. Reader is agnostic and has no prior ties to the Catholic Church. Mutual pining (but make it weird). Having horny thoughts about a priest (and Christianity in general). Lots of yearning and pondering. Second person.

⚠️ Canonical animal death is mentioned. Blood-laced communion wine is given to the reader without her knowledge. Implied/referenced drug addiction (if you tilt your head slightly to the left). Age gap (20/30-something malaise and mental unwellness featured throughout). Dubious consent and coercion. Reader has no idea what she's gotten herself in for. Honestly, neither does he. ⚠️

When the smut rolls around: Body worship and oral (reader receiving). Soggy sub-leaning behavior from Peepaw Monsignor Father Paul. Because we deserve it. Weird sensory overload vampire sex. Lots of religious themes and motifs.

What can I say? 'Cause this is his body, this is his love. Such selfish prayers and I can't enough. Or whatever.

And I will pour upon you clean water, and you shall be cleansed from all your filthiness, and I will cleanse you from all your idols.

And I will give you a new heart, and put a new spirit within you: and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and will give you a heart of flesh.

Ezekiel 36:25-26

The thing in the grass sees you far before you see it.

Later, you’ll find yourself wondering just how long it was watching you. It doesn’t really matter. Long enough.

Right now, you’re trying to count. It shouldn’t be that hard. Part of you knows that, but the other part doesn’t seem to be paying attention. Your brain does that sometimes—slips a bit, gives up halfway through.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6—

You’ve gotten to seven again when you finally catch a glimpse of it. It’s barely much of anything, just a flicker of movement in your periphery. By that point, it’s already making its way towards you. The grass rustles furiously as it moves, tunneling its way into your full attention. You watch curiously as a head erupts out of the stalks.

It’s a cat.

The realization comes with a sting. Spitting a curse out, you drop the knife. The price of your distraction bubbles to the surface of your finger, bright red and angry. A few drops of it speckle the orange slices you’ve been cutting.

Out the window, the cat is still watching you.

A thought flashes wryly in your mind. If you’re trying to make a habit out of injuring yourself, you might want to schedule it around the ferries. You imagine it coming from the cat, doused in unimpressed feline judgment.

Rinsing your hand off under the tap, you inspect the damage. It’s nothing to be worried about—just a shallow cut—but those were the ones that bled the most. Even now, you could see a fresh bead of red blooming on your skin.

Popping one of the tarnished oranges in your mouth, you head to the bathroom to fish in the medicine cabinet. The bandages you have aren’t big enough for the gash, but you lay one on top of it anyway, smoothing the edges out.

You’ll be more careful next time.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6—

It makes sense that your favorite is what throws off the count. Seven was a good number. The best number, really. Lucky.

You’d chosen to move on the seventh month of the year, seven years into a job that was only as good as it was good enough. You’d been fine. Managing. Navigating adulthood seemed to amount to nothing more than days spent playing connect-the-dots between headaches, shaking ibuprofen into your palm.

Throughout it all, seven had been there, tucked into addresses, stamped onto licensed plates—seemingly assigned to you in particular.

In this sea of banality, there was a small thrill to the idea of something that existed solely for you.

Overhead, the sky is an icy blue, darted through by clouds that look like wrung out dishtowels. Making your way down the front steps, your bag thumps dully against your thigh.

You’re thinking in numbers again. Counting steps, doors.

Salt hangs in air, blasted back against the faded paint of the buildings. Husks of them sit like dried-out cicada shells, brittle and abandoned. With no one to fill them, they seem to blur into the backdrop of the island—stationary outcroppings of the land, just as still as the boulders along the beach.

Here and there, whispers of chimney smoke curl into the air. They were stubborn declarations of life—made by equally stubborn people. Each came from families that felt as old as the ground under your feet, generations on generations whittled down over time. Their faded American flags jut out from front porches, battered folding chairs sitting in overgrown yards. They were here to stay, for better or for worse.

You shiver. There’s an unmistakable chill present in the air, making you regret leaving your gloves at the house. The wind stings your face as you turn the corner. It’s cold out here and it’s only to grow colder still. You wonder if you’ll ever get used to it. You hope you will. After all, this was home now.

For-ever, for-now? You weren’t quite sure yet.

Months into your assumed ownership of the house, unpacked boxes still sit in your living room. Your walls are still bare. The wind chimes you bought are languishing in a plastic bag under the sink. It’s hardly much of a home, but you’ll get to it, you will. That line of thinking works for a bit, but promises of tomorrow have the habit of extending into the next week, and then the week after that. Now, it all just felt like a vague hint of eventually, bookended with maybe.

You weren’t sure why you’d thought that moving here would imbue you with some great sense of motivation. The whole place seemed antithetical to that sort of thing. Things just moved slower out here. It was difficult to feel rushed. Whatever urgency Crockett might have had was just as weatherbeaten and tired as the houses that lined the road. You look at them as you walk, balling your hands into fists and shoving them into your coat pockets.

There are small victories, though, you remind yourself. Minor progress. Finally having run out of clean clothes, you’ve had to give up living out of your suitcase. Your hand was forced, of course, but it was something.

You change direction, stepping off the path.

Down at the edge of the shore, someone is walking slowly along the water.

Your eyes alight on a large piece of driftwood, bleached bone white on the sand. You’d claimed it as your own a few weeks in—easy to do on a beach as lonesome as this one. Sitting down, you pull out your book, giving the cover a cursory glance before opening it. It’s the same one you’ve been starting-stopping-starting again the entire time you’ve been here.

You’re a few paragraphs in, fingertips starting to numb in the cold, when the distraction hits. The words feel tired, on this, your thousandth time attempting to read them. Your eyes slip down the page, scrambling the letters into a cluttered mass of black scribbles.

Twisting your head away from the incomprehensible blur, you find yourself staring at a beached boat. It sits lopsided on a tangle of long yellow reeds, windows coated with a thick sheen of sand. A bent fishing cage sits on its bow, sea grass collecting under it. Despite the debris, it’s difficult to gauge just how long it might have been marooned for. After all, everything eventually ended up looking like that out here.

You can just about make out a number painted on the side of the hull, faded and dull.

7.

“Pardon me, young lady.” Startled out of your thoughts, you look up. An elderly man stands in front of you, clutching his hat in his hands. He’s the one you saw down by the water when you arrived.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” The breeze upsets his hair, whipping white strands of it around his head. “I hope you’ll give grace to a very old man if he’s incorrect.”

You came here for isolation and you’re finding anything but. People seek you out, they want to know you—or rather, know of you. Where you’re from, how long you’re planning on staying. Why you chose this place, out of all the places.

“No, you’re right.” You give him a polite smile, closing your book. “I just moved here.”

“May I?” He gestures at the space on the log next to you.

“Absolutely.”

You watch with anticipatory concern as he slowly shuffles forward. He lists to the right, carefully bracing his hand on the wood. With a groan, he finally lowers himself down beside you.

“Would you do me the privilege of telling me your name?” he asks. “Young lady of whom I’ve never met?”

You tell him and he gives a decided tut, as if he’s committing it to memory.

“What’s yours?” you ask.

He seems to consider the question deeply, his brow creasing in concentration. Letting out a breath, he drums his fingers absently on his knee.

“John,” he finally says. “There’s a whole lot of—” he gestures vaguely out in front of him, his mouth pulling into an unimpressed frown. “—hoopla after the John. Before the John, too. But you know, I, uh, I can’t be bothered with all that today. Today, well…” his words trail off. “Today I’d very much like to be John. Just John.”

“You’ve got it, Just John.”

“A young lady with a sense of humor,” he chuckles. You follow his gaze as it drifts back to the ocean. Gulls dip and dart in the air above the waves, barely more than specks of white in the distance. “Now that’s something quite special.”

The silence that settles around both of you is a tranquil one, full of the rush of waves and the chirps of bird song. He’s very still beside you, staring out at the water. The moment hangs, extends. He blinks slowly, mumbling something under his breath. You almost feel as if he’s forgotten you’re there.

You wait. Eventually, you lower your eyes, flipping your book open. You manage to get to the end of the chapter before he speaks again.

“I must confess, I did have ulterior motives for coming out here today,” he says conversationally, as if no time has passed. “If I’m to be perfectly frank, young lady, I’m quite the suspicious character.”

“Is that true?” You look over at him, raising your brows.

“Oh, yes,” he replies brightly. Lowering his voice, his tone takes on a playfully conspiratorial edge. “I’m on the run today, actually.”

“From the law?” You smile.

“Sometimes it does feel like that,” he sighs. “No. My pursuers are, um, very kind people. Quite well-meaning.”

“So why’d you run?” You stuff the book back into your bag.

“They try to stop me from taking my walks.” He shakes his head. “But I won’t. Not on days like this. Not while I’m…here. I’ve been having less of these, truth be told.”

You watch his face.

“That’s a secret, by the way,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have those, but I do.”

“I feel like everyone does.”

John hums out a noncommittal noise, shifting beside you on the log. Fishing in the pocket of his coat, he pulls out a small metal tin. You glance over at it as he cracks the lid open. It’s filled with an assortment of chalky-looking candy. Selecting a peppermint from the top, he raises it slowly to his lips.

“Don’t get old,” he says, extending the tin towards you. His hand trembles a bit with the effort. “Live as long as you can, but don’t get old.”

“I’ll try my best.” You nod, plucking out a piece of bright yellow candy.

“Very good.” He smiles gently over at you. “Enjoy.”

You pop the candy into your mouth as he snaps the tin shut. It’s lemon, sugary and just a touch stale. The taste is a nostalgic one. It slots in perfectly with everything else about him, ubiquitously grandfatherly.

“Thanks, John.”

“See, John sounds right, doesn’t it?” He exhales deeply, turning back to the ocean. “You’re very welcome.”

You return home. You count and then recount. You think about secrets and count them too. You’re not sure if you have seven anymore.

For all intents and purposes, you had disappeared. You were fairly professional at it. People cared initially, but the longer the gulf grew, the less they did. It was a blameless thing.

You always had a foot out the door of your own life. Self-sabotage and self-preservation were things you fumbled for in the dark. You always grabbed the wrong one, but you never noticed until it was too late.

Another blameless thing. They felt the same at first.

You imagined the lives you had vanished out of as gulls, bobbing at the surface of the water. They barely flew, those birds—just opened up their wings and let themselves be caught by the wind. It was the only sensible thing to do in response to something so inescapable.

You unlatch the window and crack it open. You breathe, you think, you count.

It was possible that the people you’d known weren’t the gulls at all. Maybe that was just you, a resident of nowhere in particular. Living in moments you’d just happened to end up in, ambivalent to a future that might exist past your next meal. It was an unfortunate thought.

Or maybe you aren’t any of those things. The thought came in a flat, unimpressed voice—the one you’d imagined for the cat outside your window. It’s gone now, but you can still picture those eyes. Amber, wide and unblinking.

It was correct, of course. You weren’t the parasitic maw in the shape of a bird, nor the wind that carried it. You couldn’t be. It was a hollow triumph to know that you were just a person and had always been one.

If you were anything, you wish you were the ocean. Impartial and vast and beautiful. Since you weren’t, you settle for filling your lungs with the salt of her exhale.

Read the rest on AO3 here!

[medianoctemissa]

Sitting in the pew, I bow my head to pray. The morning Mass had just ended, and I could see Father Paul standing by the altar. His usually slick back hair is now slightly disheveled, his eyes darker. He’d caught my eye during confession a few weeks ago. I wondered if he noticed my gaze lingering a moment too long. Perhaps he thought it was a look of mutual understanding, a shared secret whispered in the hushed sanctity of the confessional. He called me over to him, his hand brushing my shoulder, sending a shiver down my spine. He led me to his rectory, the air thick with the scent of old books and incense.

“I remembered during confession, you mentioned your love of Edgar Allan Poe.” He said with a smile. He grabs a small book off the shelf and extends his arm out to me. I walk over to him, heart pounding in my chest, and take the book from his hands. The Fall of the House of Usher. “This is my favorite book!” I exclaimed, too enamored in the old pages to notice Father Paul had moved closer now. Maybe a little closer than a priest should get to someone. I smile at him and notice his face is a bit more serious than it was moments ago. Slowly, he reaches a hand up to my cheek, caressing it softly.

CLICK THE LINK BELOW TO READ MORE 💖 🙏🏼

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63029098

[mazuru7]

Just Finished Midnight Mass and I have some (a lot) of feelings...

Finished watching Midnight Mass in two days and three days later it's still on my mind (along with fanfics in the works...)

Firstly, I like the setting of Crockett Island; it has this calming beauty about it with a clear sense of isolation. The houses on the island are small, fitting because they're on an island but the chippings and the bits of dilapidation on the house's exterior is a nice touch. I don't know if the chippings are an effect due to the salty beach air or whatever, but the dilapidation does show the poverty of the Islanders.

Warning I am going to ramble about characters while also adding headcanons for future fanfics...

As an atheist myself, I did like how they went about Riley's character, granted, Mike Flanagan is atheist too. I'm just glad he wasn't a God's Not Dead or a PureFlix stereotype about atheists. I loved his relationship with Erin and maybe because I've been watching a lot of decentering men content and just being emotionally unavailable and unimpressed with getting into a relationship but I liked how he wasn't jealous or had audacity about Erin being pregnant with her ex's baby. He just accepted it and still loved her. (Ugh, in an AU, he would be stepdad, the dad who stepped up). But even though he was an atheist, he respectful of the community's religion.

Me and a lot of other atheists while we don't believe in God, we can see why others do. It brings them peace and even joy and it let's them be apart of something. Hell, sometimes I'm jealous of those who has love and faith in their God. And just like Riley, I research other religions, I even watch Christian TikTok of TikTokers who don't fit into what "Christians" (you know the type) believe are good people. I watch a femme pastor who uses they/she pronouns, a Christian Witch, and Jegaysus. They have the historical and cultural and the linguistics understanding of the Bible, and I appreciate that as someone who wasn't taught that.

But anyway about Riley, what I love the most is his end. Tragic and beautiful. He didn't want to hurt anyone after turning, more than likely thinking he doesn't want to kill someone again like he did to Tara-Beth; he spent his last moments with the woman he always loved, but just like how the Islanders found peace and forgiveness with each other and by each other and God, like how John/Paul found peace and forgiveness with and by Millie while holding Sarah, Hassan and Ali found peace with Allah, Riley found peace and forgiveness within himself. And THAT is just as important as someone finding peace and forgiveness through religion.

And speaking of Erin, let's talk about her. I was sad that she lost her baby, she was so happy to become a mother (she would've been a better mother than her own). Her relationship with Riley is so sweet. I liked that she was quote unquote what "Christianity" (society too) would see as a "fallen woman." She left her Catholic community, she partied and was wild, she got a divorce, was going to be a single mother, but she was still and kind and compassionate person. Which side note, that whole "born from the dust, return to dust" thing can be applied to, I think, to her and Riley, they were from the Island, left, and returned.

Another side note, this, to me, think of the parallels to her and Millie, which in turn causes parallels to John/Paul and Riley. From what Millie talked about from what she was doing in her youth in the Uppards, "Boys and booze," and seeing how old she was and how the societal expectations of girls were (and honestly, still is), Millie too, had a bit of an adventurous side (well, adventurous as she could since she never left the island and was surrounded by her catholic isolated community) and she was called "the mother of whores" by Bev (who we'll get to). She had an affair with a priest.

So, Erin and Millie, being seen as "fallen women," but still being so kind and compassionate, and loving and having small support systems (Erin from Riley and his family, Millie from her daughter) and being brave and strong (Erin left her abusive ex, she literally uses herself to distract the vampire long enough to slice its wings and using the hurt "the clipped wings" trauma her mom did to her to save others, Millie in front of the whole congregation proclaims that her and Sarah will *never* go back into St. Patrick's when John/Paul was up there talking all sorts of wild shit and SHOOTS him, the man she loved, IN THE HEAD, to stop him when he goes all Jim Jones on his congregation. (I love John/Paul, but honey...no).

Both women were "fallen women" who were loved deeply by the men who loved them even when they were apart; who, at least at a certain time, were seen as, what society (Christian and the like) thinks are good men - John/Paul a priest, Riley the "Prodigal Son" (until they fucked up. John/Paul literally brought a vampire to the island and lead to its destruction and Riley killed a girl and was an alcoholic. Both were cast to side - Riley in beginning of the show by many and John/Paul by the end of it by many too. But at the end that didn't matter, because they had the women they loved with them at their ends).

Unlike Bev who uses and manipulates people and does terrible shit to get attention and power and was seen by those who she manipulated as a "good woman," she was abandoned at the end and died alone and a coward, Erin (and Millie), the "fallen women" had love and compassion, they were genuinely loved by those that truly mattered to them and they were saviors, Erin clipping the vampire's wings and Millie forgiveness to John/Paul.

Erin's speech at the end didn't make me cry, but made me feel deeply. You go, Erin and even though I'm iffy on my belief in an afterlife, I hope she's with her baby and Riley.

Now we'll talk about Bev Keane...*sigh.*

Bev, Bev, Bev; I love to hate her, I love the actress that just makes her hateable. She's like the actress who played Umbridge. Such good acting that you just hate them because they're real people who we've met. Granted, I've never really met anyone like Bev, but I've been around judgemental Christians, few in my family and a lot in the church my grandparents went to (non-denomination) just saying some shit about the queer people and Harry Potter (which granted that book should be judge, not because of concept of magic as a whole but it was written by a bad person).

But anyway, Bev got on my nerves the first time she just lets herself into the rectory (someone take away her keys and get her away from poison), because I raised to respect people's houses and it would just irritate me if someone just walked into my personal space especially without warning. Like girl, get out of John/Paul's ass and go home 🙄. Pike the dog was right to bark at you.

Bev's whole thing was about obtaining power and she could do that since the place they were on was an island. If she pulled this shit on the mainland, then yeah, she would have like-minded people listening to her, but she would have a lot of people argue with her and a lot of those people would have facts. But barely anyone on the island opposes her until the end. Sheriff Hassan, rightly, was concerned for the Bible being passed around the school, Bev with no knowledge of Islam or anything thought she knew better but when he corrects her, she freezes, has an "Oh, shit" look in her eyes while the rest of the PTA look actually interested and nodding, learning in what Hassan is saying about his religion and how there are similarities between Islam and Christianity, how Muslims love Jesus and study the Bible too, but Bev shoots that down, taking power by bastardizing scripture, something she does and something familiar to the community.

She doesn't want her faith and inconsequentially herself, even though how she believes is terrible, to have a connection with another faith, another person, that she deems as beneath her. Which is impossible because Islam came after Jesus and Jesus is a prophet in their eyes too, and before Christianity, there was Judaism and Jesus and his disciples were Jewish. Now I want to know how Bev feels about Jewish people, probably not in a good light, and probably refuses to acknowledge that Jesus wasn't white.

This just goes with the theme of not asking questions, not seeking knowledge, just blindly following. Bev takes advantage of that, and lets be honest, what average person actually learns the historical, cultural, and linguistics of the Bible to actually understand the scripture and unravel that what the institution has taught them wasn't right?

...Not that many, right? And you would think as a teacher, Bev would like to learn but doesn't.

I've seen posts around here saying that Bev wants to be John/Paul's Mary Magdalene to his Jesus. I've looked up about Mary Magdalene (love her by the way) and I can see the comparison even in an ironic way when I'll talk about the pop culture persona of Mary Magdalene and what I think is Bev's internalized misogyny and her obsession with Erin and what I think was jealousy of Millie.

Mary Magdalene was a close confidante to Jesus to the point that we today speculate that they probably had a romantic relationship. I, personally, just think that had a spiritually close bond that didn't have or need romance. It was Mary who told the people (while the men where hiding behind close doors) that Christ has returned. Bev sees John/Paul "resurrect" and goes on about spreading the gospel, granted when she figured out who Paul actually was, she was about that whole "he has returned!" thing, but was full on into it when he came back to life. And Bev and Paul do have a relationship, it's fucked up, Bev uses him for his high position and wants to be close to that proximity of power, but Paul uses her too; the island didn't know that he was Monsignor Pruitt, he was a new face to them, therefore not having a relationship with them and even when he is performing miracles, it's Bev telling the people what to do and he lets her because that'll further his plans and he knows what kind of influence Bev has.

But there's also this weird, inkling sense of care underneath. You can make the argument that Bev was just using him and discarded him at the end, that Paul was using her for his goals, but the way she rushed to him when he fainted and held his face, how she immediately wanted to take care of him, how she made him homemade soup, and how she held him when he "resurrected." She looked genuinely upset, thinking that he died but her instinct was to hold him, caress his face, connect their foreheads, whispering to him while crying and being genuinely happy that he was alive. Mike Flanagan on his tumblr said that Bev had feelings for the younger Monsignor.

And after Riley's death while he is grieving, Paul softly touches and caresses Bev's cheek. There is care underneath that fuckery. And I speculate their relationship before Canon. Bev is the only one with keys to hid rectory. Why is that? Was it because when John was starting to get dementia, she was given the keys to help him? Seeing how old he was, in his 80's, he had to have known Bev FOR YEARS; I'm going to use the actress's age for simplicity sake, which is 45 and we know that she was raised on the island. Her mother was the teacher and Joe Collie knew her since grade school, so that means more than likely (likely, I headcanon) that John/Paul watched her grow up. So, she has always seen him as an authority figure, a powerful figure, but not a romantic figure, yet. Through the eyes of a child, adults are gross (and seeing the kind of person she is, she had to learn that from somewhere, so I'm guessing her mother and I can see her mother being like, "we're not going to talk about your body or sex) and by the time she was an adult, 21, he would be in his 60's, still not attractive to a young person.

But John/Paul comes back de-aged, around her age, attractive, with power, but he needs her connection and influence, yeah, she's going to be attracted to that. But then here comes Millie, John's love and mother of his child, you can see at the last episode, Bev put the pieces together, she looks more hurt than angry to me. But instead of cursing John/Paul, she insults Millie. You can say she did it to hurt him to insult his love, but societal and in circles of religion, it's easier to blame and insult the woman than a man, a man with power, even though she discards him when he wasn't useful, told her to stop, and didn't have her in his heart. She still called Millie "the mother of whores," which is wild because pop culture sees Mary Magdalene, the woman Bev is supposed to mirror, as a whore.

Mary Magdalene wasn't a whore, even if she was, that's okay. Jesus hung around them, but there's still that negative connotation about sex work. Pope Gregory XIII in the 6th century combined Mary Magdalene, Mary of Bethany, and the anonymous woman from Luke 7:37, *"...And behold the woman in the city which was a sinner..."* to diminish women's role in Bible. We don't know who this woman is and from my quick research, in Jesus: A Life in Conflict, Crossley and Myles point out that the term "sinner" in the gospels does not have a sexual connotation but in fact refers to "exploitative rich people". They persuasively argue that the "sinner woman" was actually one of the core group of affluent women that were supporting the Jesus followers "out of their resources."

And Bev did that whole money laundering thing, so that with what you will...

So, here's Bev mirroring Mary Magdalene, one of Jesus's confidante and pop culture's hoe, she does help John/Paul and desires him but doesn't act on it because that's not what "good Christian women" do and she has an image to uphold, she looks down on the quote unquote "fallen women" Erin and Millie who are actual good Christian women. Kind and compassionate and was all about love. I think Bev was jealous, Erin lived life (even if she had an abusive mom and ex-husband) and Millie got with a hot priest who still loves her all the while Bev stayed on a boring island, seeped in poverty and the only power she obtained was through manipulation while not being powerful enough like a priest because the Catholic church doesn't really ordain women, I mean there are 200 ordained women priests in the States, but they weren't ordain in the traditional way and I don't think, maybe, more than likely that the institution sees them as real priests.

Oh, God, imagine Bev as a priest...

When Annie Flynn basically said that Bev couldn't stand the thought of God loving anyone else than her, I was thinking, "Oh, it's what Sara Raztresen said on TikTok..." Christians like Bev, I think now, are so and viciously and ferociously insecure in their own existence, their importance, and general standing in the world that they cling to some sort of outside force to validate their own existence. Projecting her own insecurity as faith...

It was really ironic that Bev met her end beside the two people she looked down on the most, Hassan and his son while digging in the sand screaming, alone without love, peace, and no forgiveness. I do love to hate her.

Minor stuff before we get into two hot men and cutie pie who I want to write fanfics of with headcanons, my personal feelings, and rambles...

All of the couples in this show are so cute and as a mainly Canon x Oc writer, I was shocked that I loved all of the couples. I can count on one hand of Canon couples who I don't see making Ocs for. Utena x Anthy (Revolutionary Girl Utena), Maomao x Jinshi (Apothecary Diaries), Darcy x Elizabeth (Pride and Prejudice), Mitsukuni "Honey" Haninozuka x Reiko Kanazuki (OHSHC)...

Uh...

I'll think about it...

Anyway, love the couples. Ed dancing with his wife, them finding each other at the end 😭. Annie calling out Bev was so good and her leading the singing when everyone made their peace, like what Paul said, in times of darkness, we sing. Although I do side-eye her a bit when she said she was glad that Ali "left that behind," and I'm pretty sure she meant Islam.

But everyone making peace and forgiving each other was just beautiful.

Sarah is my wife. She was just so loved by her parents and I just love that fact that she's just accepting the weird shit going on. Like her mom is just de-aging and her bio, true dad is a priest. She's just going with the flow and I liked how smart she was and nobody made a big deal of her being gay. Maybe some did internally but it wouldn't be a good idea to piss off the only doctor on the island. But when she spat out the blood given to her by Paul, rejecting it, even shaking her head no, she knew what would happen and didn't want that. If she was going to die, she was going to do it as a human.

Leeza's speech to Joe Collie was powerful and I hope this was a good representation of disability for disabled people, I can't say anything about it, because I'm not disabled (although I'm 90-95% sure that I'm autistic) and I do like with her and her mom Dolly that we got black Catholic representation. She was brave and badass too at the end.

Joe Collie deserved better, loved his bluntness. I loved that Riley related and cared about him. I wanted that friendship to blossom, dammit! His and Hassan's relationship I enjoyed. Pike deserved better too, he was a good boy. And I, personally, think that it's ironic that he, a dreg in Crockett Island's community, an outsider, someone Jesus would've fought for, literally got sucked dry, ate, killed by Father Paul, someone who represents the corrupted institution.

And now here we are where I babble about two hot guys and a cutie pie who I'll write fanfics of. And these fanfics will deal with and have intersectionality, especially with black women.

I been a nasty girl, nasty, I been a nasty girl, nasty, I been a nasty girl, nasty, I been a nasty, nasty, nasty...

This fine ass mfcker🫦 the reason I watched this show.

This man is clearly still grieving over his wife, he still wears his wedding ring which I just learned muslim men are prohibited from wearing gold and is allowed for women for spiritual reasons. He said that before he met his wife, he wasn't religious and Ali said that he became Muslim (or something along those lines) because of his wife. So, I imagine her having such an influence on him that he took religion seriously. From what him and Ali were talking about when discussing about the miracles, he talked about how kept her faith, even when she was withering away from cancer. He probably admired the way she worshipped and kept her faith.

Despite their disagreements, Hassan and Ali have something they can agree on, whenever Hassan tells Ali to kiss his mother's picture, Ali does so without question. That tells me he misses her too, I mean he is a child that lost his mom, that is something painful to go through. To me, it felt like Hassan was more upset over the possibility of Ali leaving his faith because it would feel like slap to his wife's memory. (And honestly, just me, I got a forced conversion fear feeling, but that's just me because if you know the history of Christianity and forced conversions...ick).

Hassan just wanted to protect his son and keep him safe, keep him away from the Islamophobia he experienced but he ironically brought him to a place where it's isolating and the Islamophobia is still happening, just on a small island. He didn't want to rock the boat and cause problems to people who just ready to jump him and attack. But honestly, it didn't matter if he didn't fit the stereotype or did, he wasn't respected some people because of who he was. And as a black person, this reminds me of respectability politics which has its own issues but still...

At the end, he did what did before arriving at Crockett Island, protecting people and got to do what he missed, praying with his son.

Fanfic Idea, probably an AU where vampires don't exist or follows Canon, I don't know yet, but anyway, black revert muslim Aaliyah Ambroise has been husband hunting for awhile and job hunting after she quit being a history professor for personal reasons. She and her friends go to a Muslim singles event (I decided it was a skating event) where she meets Hassan who's just there to support a friend. They surprisingly hit it off and afterwards she gets a job as a teacher on Crockett Island where she meets Hassan again.

This will have an older woman, 39-40 years old and on the thicker side in terms of body, hijabi fashion, a revert, a black woman, topics of ageism, misogyny, racism, colorism, stereotypes, toxic family, women's health issues (Aaliyah has endometriosis), finding love after losing a partner and connecting with a future stepson.

Since we did Hassan, we'll do cutie pie, his son, Ali.

He just wanted to fit in, to belong and I've been that only black kid in a classroom of white kids and it was so awkward especially when we had to talk about slavery, so I can guess how it was being the only Muslim kid. I do wonder if he had friends on the mainland when his dad and him went to mosque on Fridays, and maybe that made him feel connected or awkward because these are friends you only see on Friday while thinking about possibly choosing to go the Christian God.

But anyway who else felt so offended when Bev called him 'Boy' at the last episode? I did, I lurched. That was when he realized that it didn't matter, he didn't matter to these people, they just wanted him to be a sheep, and maybe Bev felt this condescending superiority for taking away Hassan's son from him. I've seen "Christians," you know the type, how they behave when they convert someone, there's this air of arrogance...ick.

But I'm so happy that Ali was the one to burn the last safe space on the island, realizing and coming to terms with that these people will never accept him, no matter what. And he dragged his dad east where mecca is pointed at, the beach is calm, the sun is rising, and he's leading the prayer, something his dad and him did together. And at the end, he's holding on to his dad as he burns, accepting Allah back in his heart. I've seen Muslim paintings of them on fire, but golden fire and as he burns he looks like something holy. Have you ever seen what a halo looks like in Islamic art?

Yep, looks like fire.

But anyway, fanfic idea of Ali. New girl Yelena Spinoza, she insists of being called "Lena," moves to the island to care for her grandma and she doesn't even try to fit in. She's a afro-russian-cuban Jewish girl and Goth, but from the few instances where they do talk, Ali finds her quite charming.

This will be more of a teen romance, first love type story, puppy love, school drama, food, antisemitism, racism, misogyny, health concerns (Lena is celiac), reconciliation between family, learning to accept yourself, finding who your real friends are, and a grandmother who knitted a black blanket with the star of david for her Lenochka, because that's what Goths like, right?

And now we're getting to this man who started everything...

Mummy don't know daddy's getting hot, At the body shop, doing something unholy, He's sat back while she's dropping it, she be popping it...

God, he's such a slut.

So much has been said about this man already and I agree with a lot of them, so I'll keep this brief. Although I will say, that while I do love the Islanders, their refusal to see that old man John was sicker than he was, riddled with dementia, sending him away by himself to Jerusalem, reminds me of the "Let God handle it" blind faith I heard when I was a child and not get any professional help. Granted that costs money, then granted again, get John, Leeza, Joe, the Shabazz's...get all of the traumatized people some actual help.

But anyway, this man has caused so much shit and I love him. Everything he did was for love, he cared so much, and wanted the life he didn't have with Millie and Sarah. But that was his downfall, the desperation, he wanted to help the islanders and the intensity of his feelings caused Crockett Island to burn. Very Shakespearean.

This main was still grieving over his sister Alice, he became a whole priest to understand why did she die, especially in a horrible way. How could that be God's plan? He couldn't accept that things can just happen for no reason and that there doesn't need to be a reason behind everything. Life can just suck. He couldn't accept that because, to me, that'll mean Alice's death meant nothing, that she meant nothing, which further means that his death will mean nothing, he means nothing, and that just means death means nothing and life means nothing. How could that be God's plan? Why make people? Why let them suffer? There *has* to be a reason for him.

He might be a calm person, but he feels intensely. He can hold in his irritation, staring on and moving his fingers, but damn, when he explodes...he screams at Riley when trying to gaslight him, his first response when Sarah is shot is to throw himself on Struge and strangle him, that was instinctual, and he screams "WHERE ARE YOU?!" outside of the rec center after pacing like a fiend needing a fix, wondering where his "angel" was (ironically happens after an AA meeting with Riley and Vampirism has been used as a metaphor for addiction).

This man felt so much, his stubbornness, his refusal to see the "angel" is a monster (once again, the theme of not asking questions and blindly going along with it) and it wasn't until the end, he realized his huge mistake. But at the end of everything, he doesn't ask for God's forgiveness, he throws away his clerical collar, becoming the father he wanted to be, and ask for Millie's forgiveness because that's who mattered to him the most and she, their relationship, their daughter wasn't a sin. How could love be a sin?

Now, here's my fanfic idea, it's 1967, pre-canon, when John Pruitt becomes the new priest for Crockett Island and the welcoming committee is one person because he was brought to them early. And from that moment, him and Lydia Mangiaracina were connected.

This is more of a forbidden love story between a priest and a lay woman, midwifery, fertility issues, medical fears, Island gossip, historical events, singing/music (especially opera), racism, misogyny, ableism (Lydia has a limp), societal pressures, war, herbs and witchcraft (African-American hoodoo and Sicilian stregheria, because that's her heritage).

So, yeah, those are my two cents, my thoughts, feelings, and future fanfics, and I'm done rambling.

[strangererotica]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[purplelupins]

Lamb

Midnight Mass

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Father John Pruitt/Father Paul hill x fem!reader

Word count:12.3k

Summery: An entire life of being a good girl was a difficult cross to carry...especially in a tiny town with 127 residents on a good day. You kept the town fed and spirits as high as you could, but when a new face steps off the afternoon Breeze, things around you start to change; you don't even know you're in the eye of the storm.

Warnings: nsfw, reader is religious, religious symbolism, ideology, explanations and general conversations of religion, age gap (like this man is 80 technically and he watched reader grow up, and can remember reader as a little girl so if that’s creepy to you then go no further), stalking, manipulation, murder (hello have you seen the show?), drinking of blood, hunting of a person, grief, description of animal death, reader is described as blushing, character death, non consensual help showering, guilt and god maybe more but I think that’s it…this is not really a fix it fic

Notes:

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You were never a fan of when Beverly was given the opportunity to lead worship. You never felt fully untuned- half of the time it felt more akin to a scolding lesson in school than a reminder of Him. She liked to highlight “them and us” between believers and non believers of Crockett. Somehow she always managed to spin things into belittling those who didn’t attend church, and those days were always a little…tense. This was a time of worshiping and remembering God, not a time of a hierarchy.

“Here we are again. Back to normal. Funny how the pews empty back out once everyone has their ashes, isn’t it?” She paused as if to ridicule the non-churchgoers.

You pursed your lips as she continued, and found yourself looking at small details around the church. Chips in the paint, the crosses, the windows, Father Paul gazing at you-

Startled, you looked back to where you had just been looking and sure enough you caught the Father flicking his eyes away just in time as he bowed his head. You stared at him for a moment, but he was fixated on the rosary in his hand.

Had you imagined it?

You kept your eyes down for the rest of the morning, and ridiculed yourself for thinking the Father would look at you. Why would that be a thought that entered your mind? You didn’t even stop to speak with him after church.

If you had looked behind you, however, you would have seen the Father’s forlorn gaze flickering to your form during his conversations- distracted. He turned back to the islander he spoke to and flashed them a tight smile as they moved on and he spoke to the next person, but John felt a hollowness in his gut, and he wasn’t certain it was from hunger.

Even that night when John went for a stroll down the island like he used to, he stopped several yards from your house and forced himself to turn around. He muttered prayers under his breath the entire way back to the rectory, and knelt before the cross on his wall for another hour before he slept.

“Sheriff? Sheriff!” You yelled as you stepped off your bike at the marina the next morning. You needed a couple things from the Mainland, and had a short list you hoped Hassan would be able to get for you during his time there for his Friday prayer.

The man turned, hand on his hip, “Morning to you too.”

“I have a favour?” You gave him your best puppy dog eyes and clasped your hands in front of you.

Hassan rolled his eyes and huffed but you could tell it was a show, “Out with it.”

“I’m just out of a couple things for the shop and you can get them all at this store- I wrote the address down and the list and it’s close to the mosque you go to! Please? There’s some cash in there too.” You held an envelope out hopefully.

He stared at you for a long moment, then slowly took the paper from you, “This isn’t going to be a habit right?”

“Thank you! Thank you thank you, I promise it won’t.” You bounced.

He fixed you another look, but you knew he was smiling a little under that moustache.

“You’re the best!” You called to him when you hopped back on your bike, “Oh! This is for you.” You reached into the basket and retrieved a brown paper bag.

Hassan smiled a little.

“One muffin and a berry tart.” You returned his smile.

He relented. “Fine, fine. I’ll be back this afternoon.” He grumbled.

“Have a safe trip!” You called, “And hey, you really should wash that jean jacket, Sheriff or it might walk away on its own one day!” You quipped and began pedaling away.

Hassan shook his head. He liked having you around. You were a breath of fresh air amongst the stale islanders, and he hoped he could call you a friend one day.

You knew you were cutting it close for Mass, so you sped your way across the island and up the hill to St. Patrick’s where you were happy to see still a few people filing in. You laid your bike down beside the church and jumped up the steps to go and find your spot. One of the perks of a small town was every person had their spot that they sat in- you never had to fight over it.

Your shoulders deflated slightly when Bev took her place atop the pulpit and began the service. “Our responsorial psalm today is Psalm 27. “The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom then shall I fear?”.”

“The Lord is the strength of my life, of whom then shall I be afraid? When evildoers came upon me to eat up my flesh, it was they, my foes and adversaries, who stumbled and fell. Though an army should encamp against me, yet my heart shall not be afraid. And though war should rise up against me, I will put my trust in Him. One thing I have asked of the Lord, one thing I seek, that I may dwell in the house of the Lord, all the days of my life.” Her reading was simple and dry. You found your eyes glazing over, waiting for the Fathers homily.

Then you mentally slapped yourself. This was a time of worship, it didn’t matter if it was boring. You had grown used to the vivid approach he always took during Mass. You laughed a little to yourself when you thought you were a little addicted to it.

As if someone could become addicted to a preacher…don’t be ridiculous.

You remained seated, and watched as Father Paul approached Leeza first for the Eucharist. You liked that he carried on the tradition of serving her first since the accident, even though he wasn’t there. The amount of respect and care he had for the islanders was so selfless.

“Body of Christ, Leeza.” The good Father murmured just as he always did. So gentle.

“Amen.” She said, cupping her hands out.

Silence fell over the church then. You felt confusion fill you when he stopped just a couple steps away from her, and then even took a few steps back.

“Come on. Body of Christ.” He repeated, beckoning her with the wafer.

“Father, what are you doing?” Wade chuckled nervously.

You looked over at Erin, and she had the same look of slight horror that you did. What was he doing? Surely he didn’t think this was a joke.

“Body of Christ.” He repeated.

“What are you doing?” Wade asked again with more of a bite.

Leeza directed her chair to move forward, but Father Paul only stepped back further.

“No. No.” He muttered, and stepped up the stairs of the pulpit.

The worshipers around you began to murmur. You felt pressure start to build in your chest. Anxiety and ire weighing heavy in your stomach the longer he stood there out of her reach. Was he sick? What was he doing?

“Come on. Body of Christ.” Now his voice echoed in the space as he called the girl up to him. Relentless.

“No, stop it.” Erin snapped as she stood, “That’s cruel.”

“Come on.” He repeated, still calm.

Dolly got up and knelt by her daughter, trying to comfort her, “Leeza, honey.” Then she looked up at the pastor and her eyes were like ice, “What is wrong with you?”

“Father Hill enough.” You spoke- emotion making your voice shake.

But still he only stood and waited for Leeza.

You watched Wade stand with his family, each person growing more and more defensive and outraged, “If this is a joke, Father, it’s not funny. I…”

But then, it was as if all air had left the church- all sound gone too. You didn’t know what it was that you were seeing, and you were terrified to blink lest it go away. All horror you felt sunk into the Earth and your head felt light.

Leeza was standing. Freely.

“Leeza?” Wade asked in disbelief.

A woman across from you fainted as she stood.

Your ears felt all prickly and your fingers felt numb.

You could still remember when the accident had happened. How devastating it had been. Hell you used to walk with the Scarboroughs some nights when they went as a family.

Dolly was a mess for almost a year…now they only managed.

Leeza took a step, and then another, and then she was stepping up the stairs and you felt tears start to well in your eyes as you stared up in shock. You couldn’t blink.

“Body of Christ.” Father Hill said once more, and placed the wafer in Leesa’s hands.

“Amen.” She said, voice wavering.

You released a breath, and tore your eyes from Leeza to look up at the Father. He was watching her with such kindness and pride in his eyes as she turned and walked into her parents arms.

Who was he? How could…how could he have known?

Murmurs filled the church as people praised God and crossed themselves.

But you could only see how Father Hill began to sway and cough. He caught himself on the alter, but then pushed himself towards the back door into the vestibule. Your blood began to run cold with worry as he almost ran out of view.

You would have run after him yourself if Bev hadn’t.

Your head was spinning and you felt disconnected from your body.

You didn’t know what to think or do, so you wordlessly walked to Leeza and embraced her. She held you and wept into your shoulder.

You felt your heart.

It hurt.

Ached.

You walked with the Scarboroughs into town to see Dr. Gunning, and kept quiet to let them speak to one another. Disbelief and awe coloured their words as they encouraged their daughter.You kept one arm under Leeza’s while Wade had the other; they talked, and talked until your face hurt from smiling, and you were helping her up the steps to the doctors house.

It all seemed so…miraculous.

Such a God given gift.

Once Leeza was inside safely, you quietly backed out and waved them off. You began your way to your shop, and the entire walk was within a blink of an eye. You might have looked calm and thoughtful from the outside, but oh your mind was churning.

How? How? You could still remember seeing Leeza for the first time after the accident. How broken her and her family was.

You remembered all the specialists they saw and all the visits they made to the mainland. How some visits left them hopeful but most left them even more lost and helpless than the last.

You knew they barely afforded groceries now because of the bills.

Now, you didn’t know if you should weep out of joy or fall to your knees and vomit. It was as if someone you loved had risen from the dead…certainly it was wonderful but somehow you felt a little weary.

Perhaps it was years of empty promises after the oil spill…

You didn’t even remember doing deliveries that day. But somehow you finished them. News travelled quickly- by the time you had been halfway through people were talking to you about little Leezas recovery. You didn’t remember talking much, only saying what a miracle it was. You were back at your shop, just hopping off your bike when you realized you had completely spaced out the entire time.

How?

How…

How did he do that…

It seemed as if something had taken root in the island and had begun changing the chemistry of everything attached to it. First the good moods, now Leeza was walking down Main Street like nothing had happened.

But then when you walked home, you realised how deeply you were dissecting the wonderful event. You wondered if you had become a sceptic without even knowing. Were you so cynical to Gods powers that you questioned his will?

You sat on the edge of your bed, staring down at the rosary in your hands. The little cross glinted in the darkness.

Faith…

Did you lack it?

Had you begun to loose it?

Were you so ungrateful?

You felt tears prickle at your eyes but you refused to let them fall. You needed guidance, not tears. With a heavy heart, you sunk to your knees and began to pray.

It took a full week for you to muster up the courage to ask the Father for an appointment later on Saturday afternoon. Your day to yourself, and your time to relieve your consciousness. Your day to work on yourself.

Which was why you stood on the rectory’s doorstep, fidgeting.

A part of you told you that you were being needy. Selfish. That you just needed to get your head on straight and that you didn’t need to worry the Father with you being self-centred. That if this had been Father Pruitt you wouldn’t have bothered but for some reason you were more willing to see Father Hill.

You knocked, and didn’t have to wait long before the door was being opened. Father Hill stood there with a welcoming smile, “Right on time.” He said, “Come in, y/n.”

You nodded and quietly entered the small house. It felt so strange to be there alone with him. Not uncomfortable just…odd. Like you were somewhere you shouldn’t be.

“Sit, please.” He gestured to the couch, and dragged a chair over from his desk over to sit in front of you.

You perched on the edge, and folded your hands in your lap, “Thank you, Father…I- I know I was a little vague when I asked you to do this…but if I’m honest I’ve always disliked the confessional booth. I’m um…a bit claustrophobic.” You admitted.

He chuckled a little and shook his head, “No apology needed. Sometimes that anonymity that comes with a confessional isn’t right for every confession. I told you I was here when you needed and I meant that.”

His honesty and understanding put you a little at ease. Your nerves were still very much there, though. There was no backing out of this now, so you took a deep breath.

“Have you…have you ever had difficulties with faith, Father?” You asked, eyes flickering to his white collar for half a second.

John admittedly was not expecting that from you. If the implications were that you were having difficulties with faith, then he was surprised. Regardless, he nodded.

“Certainly…we’re all human, even me, and we are made to have ups and downs no matter how dedicated we are to our Lord.” He said gently, resting his elbows on his knees.

You stared back at him, hard. You knew you were ridged. You hadn’t opened up to a soul about this turmoil you had begun to feel, and you hoped to God that Father Hill was the right person to hear you.

You clenched your hands against each other, and put your trust in him.

“I think…I think I’ve become…” you swallowed again when your throat became tight.

Be straightforward.

“I think I’m losing my faith, Father…” you pursed your lips, “It might sound silly for me to say that because you see me at church every day and I’m committed to the community, but I think that I’ve been losing my true love for my faith for a long time…” you whispered. Hearing it out loud made tears start to well in your eyes. You didn’t know why exactly, though perhaps it was the sense that you had failed yourself, your family, your community and your God.

“I’m here with you, y/n…keep going.” He took your hand, and gazed at you, encouraging you.

You took a tight breath.

“It’s just always been a part of my life- getting up and going to Mass and praying before bed and reading the Bible and being a good girl who doesn’t ask too many questions and puts everyone else first and keeps her head down…” you could feel tears start to fall.

“I never really thought about it but…it’s been a couple years now and…it just gets heavier and heavier and I don’t want that burden.”

You bit at your bit as you let everything out, “I read a lot. The internet connection out here is horrible but I’ve done a lot of research on the Bible to try and deepen my understanding and I just find myself tripping over questions, and holes that don’t have answers…things that have been added only a few hundred years ago and things that have been forgotten or omitted…I’ve never even mentioned this to anyone…I think they would assume I was joking because it’s just…a part of who I am. Who I’ve always been…”

You slowly looked back up to Father Hill, and found him watching you patiently. Non-judgemental, just waiting for you to have your time.

John slowly reached out and took your hands in his. You were hanging onto his every move, and he took your silence as a cue to speak.

“Ma-may I?” He asked, and you nodded, “This isn’t about God.”

You blinked. You weren’t expecting that.

Father Hill started again, elaborating,“You feel you’re losing your faith, but I think what you’re losing is yourself. Your sense of self…so much of having faith is endurance and I know you have that. You have faith, young lady and I know you won’t let anything take it from you. You know how I know?” He asked you.

You shook your head.

“Because you’re afraid.” He whispered, his large thumb rubbing your knuckles gently.

You let a tear fall as you held his gaze.

“Because you came here. Luke said “His mercy extends to those who fear him.” And I think that is exactly what will happen for you. I think your fear of God is just a testament of your faith. And I believe you will be granted a great mercy.”.”He said passionately, “But I think what you are truly going through is a need for guidance in yourself.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Perhaps a full minute.

Another tear fell.

Then another.

Then many.

Until you couldn’t see and your cheeks were soaked.

“Shh…shh, that’s okay, I’m with you…shh.” He cooed to you, “I’m here to help…” the Father scooted a little closer.

You nodded, trying to get a hold of yourself, “Sorry-I’m sorry-“

He squeezed your hands.

Had he been holding your hand this entire time?

You took slow shaky breaths until you could speak again.

“I love everyone here…and I do love my life here. It’s simple and fairly easy…but…I can’t help but feel I’m missing something. Like I pretended to be some expectation for so long that now it’s become me and I don’t know how else to be. But realising it is so much worse than just living that way. Delusion is an amazing thing.”

Father Hill sat still for a moment as he thought. “I think being honest will help that turmoil you feel. Nothing too out of your comfort zone but…just enough that you feel truer to yourself…I have been where you are…many years ago. Just as many have.” His voice lulling you into a state of calm.

You looked up at him, eyes starting to dry.

“I had an older sister…” he said gently, “She passed when I was 8…and her death was why I began to look at God and his divine plan and that was where I found my faith. I questioned why and how her death fit into everything and how her death was justified by Him and…in that quest to grieve and find answers, I found some, but I also found God. You are on a similar journey right now and you will find what you’re looking for. It might even be given to you when you least think it will come to you…it may even hurt at first but in time I think you might grow to see it as a revival.”

His words settled into your head, and you sat in comfortable silence for a few moments. One last tear fell, “Thank you, Father Hill.” You smiled.

The older man reached up and gently wiped that last tear away and patted your hand, “For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you…” he murmured.

You nodded, and sniffled.

“I’ll make some tea.” He said, and stood after one last reassuring look at you. Somehow his calm seeped into you and your body welcomed it like it was made to. Your shoulders were relaxed as was your jaw. You felt at peace with having gone to him.

John needed a moment away from your proximity. It was a miracle he could keep his composure as you sat there- shooting pains rocked his stomach as hunger brutalized his body.

“I noticed St. Patrick’s has been fuller…” you murmured, wanting to direct attention from you.

“Ah- yes well it seems little Leezas recovery has reawakened the faith of many.” He agreed, regaining a steady voice.

“The island has had a religious revival Father,” you said as he returned with two cups of tea, “The only thing that’s changed…is you.” You looked up from the cup in your hands to gage his reaction. It had indeed been something you noticed, as had many people especially after Leeza…

He tapped the edge of his cup as he took a seat beside you on the couch.

You tried to give him the nudge to speak just as he had for you, “You don’t know what it was like before…I haven’t seen people so engaged in sermons before. You…you have a true gift. You have helped to resurrect this island, Father Hill.”

“I’m glad you see it that way.” He smiled a little.

“You help people everyday.” You turned to look at Father Hill directly.

“So do you.” The man shrugged nonchalantly.

Your nose scrunched a little, “Not really…I try to support my community, but I don’t know about helping.”

“No- no. You do, don’t deflect- you do,” Father Hill shook his head, “You know you do too but you’re so used to it that it’s second nature. That’s a blessed attribute to have.” He insisted, “Especially since things haven’t exactly been easy here since that oil spill. I can only imagine…”

You pursed your lips.

“It’s been…difficult. It’s better now but it was horrible for a long time. I just…” you looked down at the warm liquid in your cup, “I believe you can’t wait for life to be easy before you decide to start helping the people you love.” You muttered.

John felt his heart tug- this time not out of pain. It was a tug of sorrow. As he gazed at this young woman beside him he began to feel as if the two of you were kindred spirits of some kind. You both shared a look, and John found that he had come to understand you a little better, and he began to understand why you were the one he saw first that day on the dock.

You parted ways with the Father sometime later into the evening. It had been a little odd how he had almost ushered you out as soon as he had noticed the darkness outside. He had said something about not wanting a young woman like you being outside at night. You had almost laughed at how old he had sounded.

John had caught the tug of your lips that you hid by ducking your head down. He liked that you smiled around him- that you weren’t afraid…

It would make everything so much easier. You are already to receptive to his guidance…

You left the rectory that night feeling as if something had taken root in you too. Perhaps it was the Fathers spirit of hope settling into your sinew and melding with your blood that had you feeling a little more…looked after.

Cared for.

Seen.

You felt as if you truly were not alone. Like he was always with you even as you walked home.

After your confession, you found yourself bumping into the Father often in town. On a few occasions he walked you home after your working day was done if he happened to be in the area, and you even stopped by the rectory to borrow a book. You found a deep solace being near the preacher, and in your need for a cure to your listlessness, you didn’t even stop to think if you were following his word or God’s.

His sweet, compelling, passionate words that seemed to evoke such a vivaciousness in you.

You started bringing batches of baked goods on Sundays too. Nothing extravagant, but something for the worshipers to enjoy after. There was something in you, pushing you to do better, but on your own terms. Doing it for your own pleasure and not the pleasure of others.

You noticed how that laughter from the potluck was now a common thing. Smiles were normal. You heard people joking, and going for evening walks and morning jogs. Kisses and hugs.

Was there something in the air?

But while you were enjoying your new outlook on life, John could not be more worried for you. It had been two weeks now that he wasn’t able to give you the sacrament. He had tried once more after your first comment but he heard you say something to Bev about it.

Certainly you had a little of the gift in you…but it wasn’t enough. Perhaps a tablespoon. Only enough to make you feel a little brighter, but not enough to…to change. Revive.

He was at a loss.

But the more he prayed, the more he came to realize that perhaps it wasn’t your time. It would come. He knew it would. It had to. And when it did you too would be blessed…even if he was the one to bless you himself.

“Three weeks ago, when we began this journey of repentance, I asked those of you were here to keep a few words in mind. Rebirth, second chances, eternal life. That's a lot to wrap your head around, isn't it? I can barely visualize next week, let alone eternity, But, I mean, for most of us, eternity, it’s an abstract. It’s a metaphor, a colorful exaggeration. When we’re waiting for something we want, it takes forever.We sit in traffic for an eternity. Abstracts, metaphors, colorful exaggerations. To us, maybe, but not to God. Not to Him. ..” he said thoughtfully, “And it shouldn’t be for us, either. Communion, the transformation of bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. A metaphor? No,” he slapped the pulpit, “God tells us. Miracles, walking on water, rising from the dead. Abstracts? No.” He slapped it again, “God tells us. Eternal life, a colorful exaggeration?”

You heard Wade say “no”, and the verbalisation made you jump a little. No one usually spoke.

“No? That’s right. You call it out.God’s gifts are as tangible as the ground beneath our feet,” he stomped the pedestal, and you jumped again.

“And His covenant, it’s not abstract. No. It’s a contract, scrawled in flesh, inked in the blood of the martyrs. And yet, try as we might, we cannot visualize, we cannot mentally picture the rewards promised…” you noticed him fan himself for a moment, and you were suddenly snapped from your trance.

Was he alright?

“Well, if you’re here seeking to know answers to the unknowable, it’s incumbent upon me to tell you that I have none. And if you want to know why or how God’s will shapes the world, brothers and sisters, so do I. I don’t have all the answers. Nobody does. What I do have though, and what God gives us plentifully, are mysteries.God gives us miracles very rarely, here and there, but mysteries?…”

Your worry began to grow when the Father stopped all together. He seemed to adjust himself where he stood, though somehow he still didn’t seem quite right.

“Sorry. Um…As… adults, we tend to dislike mysteries. We… We feel uncomfortable not knowing.No. To be a child. To look with awe and wonder, and live with staggering honesty. To be guiltless, light as air. To bend softly as the word of God sweeps…” he speech began to grow almost wandering. As if he wasn’t entirely lucid…almost like the old Monsignor-

John felt his stomach twitch with pain as he stood before his growing flock. He could barely see let alone think as his body seemed to betray itself.

“I’m very sorry. I’m…Sorry, I’m just a little bit tired today. A tiny dizzy spell. It’s passed. I’m fine. Sorry. I’m very sorry. Um…The more that we know, the less we bend. The more brittle we become, the easier to break. Like some would say this island broke. Was broken. But I am here to tell you…the resurrection, body and soul, the redemption, body and soul, the miracles waiting for us here on Crockett Island. Not metaphors, not abstracts, not colorful exaggerations, no. Rebirth, second chances. Eter…”

You watched in horror as Father Hill tumbled to the ground with a thud. There was a rush to help him, but your mind seemed to click into gear when you quickly grabbed one of the phones left on a pew and dialled Dr. Gunning’s office.

She barely got a word out before you; your voice shook as you spoke quickly, “The- Father Hill- he’s collapsed, please come up to the church, Doctor.” You rushed out.

“Calm down, calm down, is he breathing?” She said, calm as ever.

You stood quickly and rushed over to the crowd. Without a thought, you knelt beside the Father and placed your ear on his chest.

“What on earth-“ Bev started to ask, from her spot beside you, but you didn’t pay attention as you sat up again and put the phone to your ear.

“Yes he is.” You said.

“I’ll be there soon. Get him some air if he wakes up.” She sighed.

You nodded, and hung up.

“Well?” Bev snapped at you.

You blinked, “Dr. Gunning- She’ll be here soon…water- uh can- can someone get some cool water and a towel please?” You tried to think of anything you could do to help in the meantime.

Someone started to go, but it seemed Bev wanted to be involved. “I’ll get it.” She huffed and disappeared from your side.

Wade crouched beside you, and checked over Father Hill. He looked over at you and you gave him a reassuring smile. “I think the Father could use some air, Mr.Mayor.”

He nodded and looked up that the distressed crowd.

“It’s alright everyone. If he could get some room please? He needs extra air…Sturge could you open the door please?” Wade asked.

The man in question nodded and did as he asked while the townspeople began to disperse.

Bev returned a moment later and you took the cloth from her and dampened it from the bowl of water.

“Thank you…” you mumbled, then very gently began to dab at Father Hill’s forehead, then at the skin peaking out from his chasuble around his neck.

A few minutes passed with Beverly fussing in the background, but slowly you noticed his colour returning, and eyes start to flicker until they opened slowly. You felt relief fill you up and you sighed.

John gazed up at you and he swore there was a halo surrounding your head as you sat over him. Your brows scrunched in worry, but your watchful eyes gazing down at him.

“Glory be…” Came his whisper.

You looked down at him and wiped his brow once more. The man blinked a few more times then went to sit up, but several hands rushed to keep him down.

“Slowly, Father…slowly.” Someone said.

You helped the Father rise up to sit, and dabbed the back of his neck. “You passed out Father.” you said.

“I’m sorry- so sorry…” he nodded. grinding his teeth slightly when a wave of pain hit him, “I’m…uh not sure what’s wrong with me today.” He said as humorously as he could, though both he and the islanders knew there was nothing to joke about.

Even as you watched Sturge and Wade help him into the rectory with Sarah and Bev, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something gravely wrong with him. Not that you have ever exactly noticed anything…but certainly there were times where he seemed to almost clench, and work through a minor pain- covering it with a cough or stretch. Things that were so barely there you wouldn’t even think twice.

While that day was your day to yourself and the shop was closed, you found that you were listless. Worried, curious. Fretting.

So silly really.

You mindlessly baked a batch of muffins, and remembered halfway through how much the Father liked them. On more than one occasion he had stopped by to purchase a few.

You put a few in a container, and set out on your bike across the island. You hoped he was doing well… if he didn’t answer you were content with just leaving them on his stoop, though you found yourself wanting to see for yourself that he was alright.

You leaned your bike by the church, and strode over to the rectory. It was still afternoon, and you hoped you could catch him before he went to the Gunnings. You thought it was so sweet that he did that for Mildred.

You knocked, and waited. It was quiet for a long moment, then the door opened slowly. Father Hill stood before you disheveled. His top button was undone, collar missing, and his hair looked to have been brushed back with his fingers.

“Oh- y/n please…come in.” He moved aside.

You looked to the side then slowly walked into the small home. It was cozy and simple. It felt warm. “I’m so sorry for bothering you father…I’m sure you’ve had plenty of people coming by to check on you…” you trailed off, looking for a spot to but the container down.

“Nonsense…I was hoping you could come actually…” he said quietly, gingerly perching against the edge of the kitchen counter, “I wanted to thank you.”

That caught you off guard.

You blinked, and shook your head, “What for?”

“For extending that helping hand of yours to me. It was a joy to be helped by you. A blessing- you are a uh, a blessing.” Father Hill stared back at you like he meant every word he said and more, though you couldn’t help but notice the slightly delirious stare he had.

You hadn’t expected anything like this when you had set out to drop off the muffins still in your hands, but you found yourself growing warm at his praise.

“I-well I just…-“

“Just what? Did what anyone would do?” He cut you off, smiling a little wearily.

“Yes…”you admitted.

“And did anyone else do what you did?” He prodded, head tilting so slightly to the side.

You looked down, then back up at him, and shook your head.

“And now you come here again to my aid with something that is not a casserole you see you truly are just wonderful.” He smiled a little more, and you did too, and laughed.

“Ah… the Crockett islanders at their finest. If ever you’re sick you will have at least a few of those in your fridge by night fall.” You joked, though it was true, “I- um I remember you liked those muffins that I made last week and I was worr- I made some extra and thought you might like them.” You caught yourself.

“Thank you, dear girl…” he said, but winced when he went to say something else. You placed the container down on the counter beside him and gently put your hand on his arm.

“Father? Are you feeling dizzy?” You asked.

“I- I am just a little…” he admitted, blinking a few times to get through the fog.

“I’ll help you to your room. Rest for a while, alright?” You took his arm and slowly directed him to the back of the rectory where you assumed he slept.

“I’m fine…just tired.” He tried to reassure you.

“I’m sure you are Father.” You walked him to the edge of his bed, and sat him down, “Rest. I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“You’re a good girl, y/n, thank you. You’ve made this adjustment blessedly easy.” He told you, staring up at you.

You saw something in his weary gaze then. You didn’t know what it was. But you somehow noted it in your mind.

You squeezed the hand of his that held yours, “Rest, Father. God willing, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Father Paul nodded, “You will.” He smiled weakly.

You released his hand, and gave him a small wave before leaving the small house. You felt sorry for the man being all alone there, but you were sure Bev would be by to pester him soon if she hadn’t already.

Then as you picked your bike up, you heard the crunching of gravel under shoes. You looked up to see the very woman. “Hello Bev.” You called to her.

“Ah, y/n. I do hope you haven’t bothered Father Hill too much.” She smiled tersely.

“Not at all. Just dropped off something that wasn’t a casserole.” You smiled a little more genuine.

“Well, thank you for your contribution. Very kind.” With that she turned and began to walk past you. You half considered telling her he was resting, but you knew it wouldn’t deter her. You sighed, and peddled away.

Another shift had begun around you. Off balanced.

You noticed it in small things.

Not necessarily bad, but not especially good. Less and less wildlife hummed around the bushes and trees, and you noticed how there was such a divide between the attitudes of church goers and non. Conversing with someone who didn’t attend now felt like a bucket of cold water in comparison to those who you saw regularly. Like there was a bubble around the parishioners. And you weren’t certain you liked that.

Your worry only deepened when you went to Mass the next morning only to see that it would be candelled that day. A frown tugged at your mouth, though you tried to not think too much about it. The Father was ill, you knew that. It was nothing else but that.

It wasn’t as if you knew that the very man was dodging the gaps in the curtains to look out at his flock returning to their homes and jobs without their daily Mass. And of course there you stood- a worried look muddling your beautiful face.

Had you always been so pretty?

Vibrant.

A halo around your hair where the sun caught it.

John watched you back away from the church, though he saw you clench and unclench your hands and look to and from the church to the rectory. You wanted to check on him. Such a dutiful lamb.

Something visceral in him made him nearly open the door and call you inside. Beckon you to him. Just as he felt that need there was an ache in his mouth like he needed to bite, hard. A side affect to…to dying he supposed. He put his trust in God but this hurt was unbearable.

John prayed and wept and doubled over as he accepted and waded through the pain. The bulk of it finally subsided by the evening. It seemed almost as if as soon as the sun had gone down his body relaxed.

Just a little.

Enough to make himself look presentable, and step out from his front door no matter how nervously.

Like his body knew he was safe with the sun down. No more burns.

As he strode across the island, John found himself marvelling at the new-found beauty around him. Living halos of light around the stars, and lamplights. Colours and smells and sounds he had never experienced. He could almost feel the earth breathe.

Seeing Millie in her home that night was something special. She remembered him. Saw him. He could have weapt just by seeing the look of recognition on her face. Feeling her hands hold his and that smile. John’s heart ached.

As did his stomach. Painfully.

So hungry.

John hurried along after the little reprieve with Mildred, but found himself taking a little detour. He didn’t mean to; his feet just took him that way. Just a little bit of a longer walk home.

Past your house.

Your curtains were open again.

John found himself walking a little closer, something enticing drawing him in. He stood just outside your window. You were just getting ready for bed…he could almost smell you; all fresh from the shower.

John sighed, then winced when another surge of hunger punched his stomach. That ache he had felt in his jaw returned tenfold, and he felt his vision start to fade.

There was nothing to do but get back to the rectory. Quickly. John employed his long strides and muttered prayers under his breath. He needed to be away. Hide. There was no preparation for this next phase of revival. He wasn’t ready. This deep carnal hunger was eating away at him. He needed more of the sacrament.

Now.

He needed help. John paced the rectory, and felt his nerves and veins and muscles and tendons tugging at him, begging him for nourishment. Feed me, Father, feed me.

“Angel of God my, guardian dear to whom Gods love commits me here…”

He mindlessly grasped the bottle of communion wine, and let it empty down the back of his throat yet it somehow wasn’t enough. He needed more.

More more-

“Uh…Father?”

Something deep inside John Pruitt unfurled then. It began to seep into his tissue and into his bloodstream. John turned, startled.

“Oh…Hello Joe.”

The following morning was a little bit of a slow one for you. You half considered calling the rectory just to see if there would indeed be Mass at all, but decided against it. You brushed your hair, and tied it back; grabbed any extra ingredients you needed for the morning and set off.

Even as you kneaded the doughs and whipped cream and stirred batter you found yourself lagging.

The walk to Mass was slow too.

Off kilter.

You took your usual seat, but your brows pinch together when you saw Ali sitting not too far from you. You looked to see if Hassan had come with him, but to only deepen your confusion, he was alone. You leaned forward a little in your pew, “Ali?” You murmured loud enough for him.

The boy jumped a little, but relaxed when he saw it was you.

“Come.” You smiled and patted the spot beside you, and he instantly looked grateful. Ali stood and made his way back to you, and you sent him another smile as he sat. You didn’t ask him why he was there, it wasn’t your business. You had always liked Ali- a sweet boy with good manners for the most part.

Then, you looked to the other side of the church, and noticed that Erin was missing. She never missed Sunday Mass. Never.

Something in your stomach curled tight.

An anxious feeling of anticipation.

Without the presence of Father Hill to envelope the church, you found yourself gazing around the building. You looked at the windows, and the pews until your gaze fell upon the wooden figure of Jesus crucified.

Had it always been so grotesque?

Were you worshiping a man? God was supposed to be a being that governed over everything…omnipotent…why would he descend to earth in the body of a man? Why would he need to if he created messengers like Moses and Noah and so many others…

Your mind began to spin out of control until you were starting to wonder what you were doing there.

The distress you felt only grew deeper when a half hour passed, and Father Hill still hadn’t made an appearance. You looked over at Annie, then even looked up at that back of Bev’s head as if she might have an answer written there.

Finally the woman had had enough and made her way to the rectory. You perched on your seat, waiting for anything to happen. It was nearly another twenty minutes that passed before Bev returned- faux smile already on her face as she took a spot upon the pulpit.

“Good morning!” She began, “Well I have to tell you it is such a delight to see this church so full every day, thank God. I'm afraid this morning though that we have to - well, I think we'll have to cancel Mass.”

You scrunched your brows in surprise. But then that feeling you had had inside you tilted again, a little more in the wrong direction. Twisting. You felt nauseated.

“Father Paul's bouncing back from a stomach bug, poor thing, and I just had to physically restrain the dear man and put him to bed, he was so determined to be here! He'll be back on his feet in just no time at all but this morning, at least, our dear Dolly Scarborough - come up here Dolly…” she encouraged Dolly to come up beside her, and while the good natured woman did, she was just as confused as the rest of the churchgoers.

There had certainly been times with Monsignor Pruitt when his health was hanging by a thread and Mass was cancelled but…Father Hill was in prime condition how could he still be so ill?

“Uh, maybe Dolly can lead us in singing, and some readings, and some prayer, and we can still celebrate together, like the Christians of old, who sang praises to God long before they had priests to lead the way. Uh let’s start with Hymn number 473, "Be Thou My Vision". Dolly, can you lead us?” Bev looked over to Andy who began to play his organ, and slowly everyone followed Dolly’s singing.

But then you watched as Bev began to leave again, this time accompanied by Sturge and Wade. They disappeared out through the vestibule, and you mentally snapped yourself back from trying to see what happened.

Your curiosity started to gnaw at you so badly you almost missed the cue to sit down.

Mass ended simply…or rather it deflated. A somewhat awkward shuffle out the door was the end of Mass that day. Murmurs and worries stares at the rectory as everyone filed out and meandered down the hill to Main street.

You glanced over to the rectory, and paused when you saw Bev exit. You moved a little back from the entrance along the side of the church to catch her.

“You’re sure Father Hill is alright?” You asked her as she strode to the back door of the church.

“Just fine. In need of a little more rest we think. Nothing to worry about.” She said a little more brightly than usual. You felt in your gut there was a lie in her words.

“Annie’s making a hearty stew tonight I could stop by and bring him some-“

“No!” She snapped, then softened a little when she saw how startled you were, “No, no he needs to be undisturbed today. Thank you, y/n. Bless you.”

You nodded slowly, and flicked your eyes over to the small building. You could have sworn you saw the curtain move.

“Alright, Bev…take care.” You said. Something was making your nerves itch under your skin. Like an internal fear response that you didn’t usually need.

A cord was plucked inside you.

A voice inside you telling you to leave.

It wasn’t that Bev had snapped at you, or that you felt she was hiding something. It was that St. Patrick’s had always been a place of peace and safety for you, and now you found yourself wanting to be far from it. You feet almost itching to run.

You didn’t run. But you did walk quickly. You wished you had taken your bike that day.

You cast one last look at the rectory. Sturge and Wade still hadn’t come out.

Your feet acted for you, and carried you away from the church. Away from that itch.

Once the general store came into view, you hesitated in going directly to your shop. Since Mass had ended early, you didn’t need to start deliveries yet; instead, you walked into the store, and towards the sheriffs office. You waved at the old man working at the counter- Gerald- and knocked on the officers door.

“Come.” Came his voice.

You opened the door, and sure enough, Hassan was seated at his desk, reading a paper from a file on his desk.

“What can I- oh.” He said, then stopped upon seeing you, “Y/n? Everything alright?” He was suddenly concerned at the prospect of you coming to his office.

Your eyes widened, “Oh- yes fine. Sorry um…I just… I don’t know if you want to…talk about it but…I saw Ali today. At Mass.”

Hassan sighed heavily, “Ah…yeah he…” he didn’t finish his sentence.

“Curious?” You asked.

But the man only sighed again, “I love that my son is interested in God and looking for him…but…” he started.

“But you already have God.” You finished for him.

He nodded, “He’s not praying with me anymore…we fight…he just…I can’t lose him.”

You nodded, “I know…I can keep an eye on him, if you’d like?” You offered a little weakly- you knew there wasn’t much you could do.

“Thank you…I don’t want to discourage him but …he’s not Christian. He knows why we’re Muslim and it’s…” he didn’t know where to start with the issue. “Bev Keene handed out bibles at school last week. Since then…” he look his head, “I think he mostly is interested in it because he wants to fit in.” Hassan sighed and rubbed his brow.

You nodded, “I’m sorry Hassan…this…this must be hard to watch. Doesn’t help that he’s a teenager. Teens are…difficult to reason with.”

He huffed out a bitter laugh, “I only pray that he returns to his faith.”

“God willing, he will.” You didn’t know how to comfort the man, but it seemed that just having someone there helped.

“Inshallah…” he muttered.

You tilted your head in question.

“Means “God willing.”…” he explained.

“Ah…” you said. Silence filled the office, and you clasped your hands. “There’s…have you thought about asking to be stationed somewhere else? Maybe somewhere with other Muslims? He might just be missing that connection…”

“I’ve thought about it…hard to uproot a kid again though.” He crossed his arms.

You wanted to help him. You really wanted to help. This man was alone, and was practically ostracized by the very town he was supposed to protect and serve. You were almost certain you were the closest thing he had to a friend, and you needed to say something.

“You know…I don’t really fully believe Jesus is God.” You blurted out.

He looked up at you then.

You flushed. You hadn’t meant for it to come out like that, “Sorry…I just…just because I go to Mass doesn’t mean I believe everything.”

“Aren’t you Christian?” He asked.

“I…used to be. It’s more of a habit that I go to church. Been going since I was a kid. But…when you first came here that was the first time I heard about Islam…properly. You don’t believe Jesus was god either right?” You asked.

He shook his head.

“He was just another messenger…prophet. I did some reading a while ago and I found that the holy trinity is actually a new thing in Christianity…and I began to wonder what else was “new” or what had been taken out…I guess I’m just trying to say that…Ali might look for God somewhere else but you never know…he might find that the church is flawed and just come right back to you and Allah.” You mused.

Hassan felt tears prick at his eyes. “Thank y/n…thank you.”

You smiled, and nodded, “I’ll um…I’ll leave you to it. Come by later. Lunch is on me.”

“You’re gonna make me fat.” He grumbled

“A little pudge is cute.” You shrugged as you opened the door.

“You’re a bad influence.” He shot back- his walls back up as the door to the outside opened- literally.

“Guess you’ll just have to lock me away, sheriff!” You chirped, and smiled, then closed the door.

But as you turned away and walked back through the shop, that smile faded away.

Everything was changing.

Fast…so fast. Hassan and Ali had been on Crockett for close to a year, and you had never heard Ali mention something about church.

You knew the miracle with Leeza had been drawing many people in, but you could still accept it as a miracle without changing your beliefs.

Did he just want to fit in?

Was he just curious?

Then you remembered how you had felt that morning as you waited for Father Hill. That feeling of trepidation that seeded in your navel and seared into your fingertips.

When you unlocked the door to your shop, you wondered if it was because there was nothing to distract you as you sat in the church. Everyday there was something to keep you busy- the doddering Monsignor or now the invigorating Father. Something to guide you. But once you were left with your thoughts…you started to think a little too much.

Now you weren’t stupid- far from it. You thought a lot. Constantly. But there was something pressing about sitting in that church. You almost felt like you had woken up when you had stood outside the rectory.

Nervous.

Yes you had felt…so nervous as Bev stood there with you.

You wondered if that was how lambs felt before they were taken for slaughter.

Oh what a gruesome thought…pull yourself together.

You were spiralling into the morbid.

Tomorrow would be better.

You focused on that. Yes. Yes tomorrow would be better.

GOOD FRIDAY MASS AT 8PM

E4STER VIGIL SUN MIDNIG-

You watched as Sturge finished with the H and T.

That chord in you struck again. You twitched. The dread in your stomach rolling around like a marble on a metal track.

Leeza stood beside you, confused as ever, “Wait…you're saying every night? No morning Masses at all?” She asked.

Sturge sighed, “Time being.”

Your brows scrunched up, but you schooled your expression when Leeza looked over at you. No need to let her see your worry.

“Father Paul probably just needs another morning or two to recover from that head cold- but he’ll be up and about tonight. Isn’t that right Sturge?” Wade tried to reassure the crowd as a good mayor should, but you knew Wade. And you knew something wasn’t right.

“Yessir, spoke with him myself this morning’…feeling’ much better.” Sturge agreed.

You looked over at the weathered man, and noted that he was off too.

Rehearsed.

You made Sturge a birthday cake every year and the extent of his appreciation was a “Thanks.” Sturge was never a man of many words, and defiantly wouldn’t over explain something.

Wade nodded now, “Dolly spoke to him too and he had a few things to say about Good Friday isn’t that right, honey?” He asked his wife.

You turned to the woman in question, and saw that she was looking somewhere else.

“Dolly?” You heard Wade say, but he trailed off

You saw what she was looking at, and you understood why. You had seen Mildred Gunning now a few times on your deliveries to her house, but seeing her up and walking outside made you stop short. Certainly you had noticed how she was practically aging backwards, but you had only assumed Sarah was trying a new treatment for her.

But this. The walk across the island was a half hour on a good day. And there she was in her Sunday best.

The crowd of islanders began murmuring amongst themselves, and began embracing the older woman. You held back just a little, though your practiced smile was on your face. Your eyes found Sarah beside her, and somehow you weren’t sure if you found solace or anxiety in what you saw there.

She had the same look on her face that you were hiding on yours under your smile.

It wasn’t grim, but it wasn’t joyous.

You slowly began back into town. You missed Mass. You missed that energy that the good Father Hill brought to the church. You missed-

You shook yourself.

Stop it.

What’s wrong with you?

Suddenly, that perfect little routine you had made for yourself for years…was crumbling. You no longer felt the peace you once did, and now it seemed you had to flip the routine completely.

Nightly Mass.

You pursed your lips.

“Have a minute?”

You turned and saw the Sheriff coming towards you as you unlocked your door.

You nodded and grinned softly, “Morning, sure thing.”

The two of you entered the little store and you closed it behind you.

“Everything okay?” You asked when Hassan stood quietly.

“You know that kid, Bowl?” He asked.

You blinked, “Sure I do. Bit of a troubled kid.”

Hassan nodded, “You seen him lately?”

You frowned, “Can’t say I have.”

“Alright…worth a shot. You’re the youngest one here aside from the kids so…just wanted to ask.” He sighed.

“I’m sorry…” you wrung your hands, “Have um…have you seen Joe lately?” You asked, suddenly remembering the quietness in the sheriffs office and lack of grumbled greetings.

At that the sheriff hung his head a little, “No…no but I need to speak to him…I’ll let you know if I find him.”

You took a breath in and held it a little to try and calm yourself, “Alright.”

“I’ll see you later, y/n. Don’t work too hard.” He murmured, as he opened the door.

“You too, Hassan.” You said a little absentmindedly.

He left you to your thoughts. With Mass cancelled again, you had far too much time to kill before you really needed to start deliveries.

You sat on your little stool behind the counter, and found a book Father Hill had lent you almost a week ago under your receipt box.

The Divine Comedy: Dante’s inferno.

You began to read. Too afraid to let your thoughts run rampant again.

Nightime wasn’t much better. You felt something pulling in you to go and visit the rectory. No one outside of the Scarboroughs, Sturge and Bev had seen the Father, and there was that nagging feeling in you that you needed to see if he was alright. Why couldn’t he just come out to tell everyone he was on the mend? What was there all this dancing around?

You stood on your porch, cardigan pulled tight around you as you fought with yourself internally.

Then, just as you went to take a step, a gust of wind pushed you back. You felt that anxiety strum within you once again. Your gut cried to you to not go, and with blood running cold, you went inside and shut the door.

You closed your curtains that night, and prayed to any God that would listen. You didn’t know why fear had rooted itself so deep within your heart, and somehow that frightened you more.

You were afraid.

So afraid.

Good Friday. You put on that dress your mom had gotten you last year for Christmas- she said it brought out your eyes. You grabbed a warm sweater, and socks, and left for Mass.

It was strange walking across the island as the sun set. You strode calmly, pushing that nagging feeling that sat in the back of your throat away.

“Y/n!”

You turned and saw Sarah and Mildred walking behind you not too far. You smiled, “Hello you two!” You chirped. You might have been suffering from an internal turmoil but you weren’t about to let them know.

“Sarah, Mrs.Gunning. Happy to see you both coming tonight.” You smiled and fell into step with them.

Mildred nodded, “It’s been years…” she mused, then stopped and held your arm, “You’ve been so good to us over the years, dear…Sarah’s been telling me and…I wanted to thank you.”

You waved her off and smiled, “Oh it was nothing. Happy to make your lives easier.”

“You have…really. Thank you.” Sarah nodded, a tight smile on her lips.

“You’re a good girl, y/n.” Mildred smiled gently.

You returned it, “Come on…hopefully Father Hill is well enough to preach today.”

The three of you walked the rest of the way, and you noticed how many times Mildred was stared at. She smiled and nodded when people looked, breaking any tension. Then as you walked up to the church, you saw Bev standing to greet the parishioners.

You smiled at her, though she looked straight past you to greet Mildred. You nodded to Sarah, and left them there to talk.

You took your seat, and not long after, the Gunnings took theirs directly in front of you. You wondered if that was where Mildred used to sit before she grew too ill.

Several more minutes passed, until you heard that low voice of the good father from the door of the church to begin service, “All rise for our processional hymn- number 139 in the red hymnal: At the cross , at the cross.”

You rose to your feet, and began to sing, but you couldn’t help but feel relieved that Father Hill was alright. It had been days since only a couple people saw him, and while you would never assume any deception from your elders…the secrecy seemed so strange.

“They took the body of Jesus, and bound it with the burial cloths along with the spices, according to the Jewish burial custom.” Dolly stood on the pulpit, reading from her bible. The church was full around you, and you found yourself slowly feeling at ease. You felt so silly for having been distressed.

“Now in the place where he had been crucified, there was a garden, and in the garden, a new tomb in which no one had yet been buried. So, they laid Jesus there because of the Jewish preparation day. For the tomb was close by. The Gospel of the Lord.” She finished.

“Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.” You and the other churchgoers answered.

Then as soon as Dolly stepped down, you found your eyes locked onto Father Hill as he took his place. You took a moment to take him in after it being a few days of not seeing him. Indeed he did look well- skin no longer waxy and pale. There was something else to his presence though, and you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. It almost felt like…home. What you came for. What you took comfort in.

That thought startled you.

“Good Friday. This is one of my favorite days of the year. The passion of our Lord. Just that word, “passion.” The word “passion,” it means a strong and barely controllable emotion. Barely controllable. That’s what Jesus felt when he gave his life for us, so that we might have life eternal. What a gift, told so beautifully in the Gospel of John. “Gospel” means good news! Good news on Good Friday. And yet, it’s a story of such profound suffering. What’s so good about that?” He paused to take in the filled church. You could see the pride he felt having brought the community together. You smiled a little.

“Jesus’s suffering in this story, it isn’t simply necessary. It is good. It is the price of eternal life. That suffering, he endures alone. At the Resurrection, he is alone. And then… Well… Ah, he has a few allies. And then more. A congregation. And then more and more people spread that good news. Tell that good story. And then, God has an army. What do they say in that commercial? Uh, “Be all that you can be.” Well, I mean no offense to the armed services, which are necessary and of course honorable, but that’s not all that you can be. In the Army, you’re fighting for God and country.”

You heard a few people murmur amongst you; admiration shining in their eyes as they listens to their preacher.

“Now, I am going to offend you now, but it is the truth. God does not want you to fight for this country. The arrogance… of that. God has no country. There is one God for the world. And the lines we draw, and the treaties we draft, and the borders we close mean nothing to Him. No, don’t fight for a country. You fight for God’s kingdom. A kingdom which Jesus tells us has no flags or borders. God’s army.”

You felt your throat tighten and your nose prickle.

“Now make no mistake. It is a war. That’s what an army is for.So, as a congregation, as God’s army, how do we know how the fight is going? We can’t see it. We can’t radio HQ for a status report. All we have, all God gives us, is right here.” He pointed to his chest, “How we feel. That moral compass inside each one of us pointing due north to the Holy Spirit. Conscience. In the army of God, conscience is standard issue. There are many like it, but this one is mine. You may think that that’s a line from a war movie, but it isn’t. That’s actually the Rifleman’s Creed. And a creed is, by definition, not just a belief, but it is a religious one. ” You could feel yourself hang onto each word. Rapt.

“So, it is a war, and there will be casualties. And we must be soldiers. That is what Good Friday is about. God will ask horrible things of you. Horrible. Just look at what He asked of His own son. Just look at what Jesus had to endure today. We had to call it the “New Covenant,” because God’s will, while perfect, changes.God’s will dictates morality, and as God’s will changes, so does morality change. It changed with the New Covenant. It changed when Jesus came, and we must, as his army, shed the Old Covenant and listen only to that. You rely on that compass. Good Friday is only good. The Gospel of the Lord, so full of horror, is only good, because of where it is headed. The Resurrection. Today is only good because of what’s coming Easter, this Sunday. When Jesus is risen, and death itself is lain dead. What is otherwise horrible is good because of where it’s headed. Welcome to God’s army. Yeah, we’re gonna do great things.”

Your blood rushed in your ears as Father Hill finished.

You somehow felt refreshed…full. You supposed you needed that sense of belonging amongst the other islanders. But when you went to converse with the Gunnings, you were surprised to see them already shuffling out towards the door as soon as Sturge had opened them. You wondered if perhaps it was all too tiring for Mildred and they needed to get home soon.

You sighed, and stood to find Annie. She was there with Ed, but they seemed off too. “Hi Annie, Ed…any plans for Easter?” You asked as you joined them in the thinning crowd.

But then you saw the anxiety in the older woman’s eyes. You knew instantly that something was very wrong. “Annie?” You asked, putting a hand on her arm.

“Oh it…it’s nothing. You know me.” She waved it off, “We uh were thinking of having a nice family dinner. You’re welcome to come of course.” She forced a smile.

You waited patiently with a gentle nod until she told you what was going on. She always did.

“Riley…he- we haven’t seen him all day.” She finally said.

Your brows pitched in worry, “Oh I’m- I’m sorry…maybe he’s with Erin? They’re close right?” You asked, trying to keep their spirits up.

“Probably. Like I said it’s nothing.” She reassured you again, “Anyways, isn’t that the dress your mom got you? What was it…your birthday last year?” She changed the subject, and you let her.

“Christmas.” You smiled, “Thought I’d pull it out of the closet.”

“You look lovely. See you tomorrow?” She asked, already moving out and down the aisle with the remaining parishioners and pulling Ed with her.

“Most likely! You know me…always around.” You nodded, following after them.

“Take care now!” She called back, and her husband gave you a small wave before they disappeared down the stairs and onto the road.

Now left to your solitude, you felt butterflies take wing in your stomach. You sucked in a breath, and began down the stairs after saying goodbye to another few islanders you knew speaking to Bev. You stepped outside, head a little in the clouds when you nearly jumped.

“There she is. How are you, my dear girl?” Father Hill stood at the bottom of the stairs wishing each of his flock goodbye.

You looked up at him as you came to stand beside him. But he wasn’t as vibrant as he usually was. You noticed a certain darkness in his eyes…

Of course he looks like that he’s been sick for days

You mentally throttled yourself.

“I’m well, thank you Father. You seem better.” You smiled a little, though perhaps not as wide as usual.

He noticed.

“Yes…yes much, thank you. Everyone has been so accommodating with me…so helpful. Good people.” He mused.

You nodded, “They are.”

John could almost feel your pulse in his head as you gazed up at him- so docile. The light from St. Patrick’s spilled over you and lit you like a holy revelation. He could smell your skin from his place a few feet away…could tell that you washed your hair not too long ago. But despite the loveliness of having you so close, John knew something in you was shifting.

You were more…anxious. Looking for justification to trust.

Skittish but still coming to his presence so diligently.

Like you didn’t even know what you were afraid of.

No need to fear sweet lamb…I am with you…

You started to shift away from him then, but it almost seemed like he didn’t quite want you to go. His gaze still locked onto you. “I trust I’ll see you on Sunday?”

You laughed a little, “No, no I think I’ll skip it.”

His face seemed to fall for a moment, but when you didn’t stop smiling it clicked that you were joking. “Oh- yes…you’re kidding.” He smiled with you, “Please do come. It wouldn’t be the same without you.” Father Paul added earnestly.

You felt that tug in your chest just like when you had gone to the rectory to speak with him weeks ago.

You felt seen.

Appreciated.

“Well I…I’ll be there, Father. Rest.” You said, backing away, “Have a blessed night!”

John took a slow step toward you, but no more than that. He knew not to press his luck with your trust. Didn’t want to scare you off.

“And you, y/n.” He waved to you.

You turned and began your walk. But just as you had felt at home when Mass had begun, you felt a little empty as you walked away. You felt that tug grow more insistent the further you went; so much so that you turned before descending the hill to look back.

Father Hill was in discussion with Wade, but once you stood still, his head snapped to you.

You startled a little.

But it wasn’t so much the fact that he noticed you.

It was the strangest thing…you could have sworn you saw the light of the church catch his eyes and make them glint in the dark.

It happened so fast that you told yourself you just needed your day off. You were just tired.

You needed some sleep.

That was why you felt the contentment you had just been floating on start to drain away. That was why you felt so at ease when the Father spoke to you. Just tired.

You had no way of knowing then that it was the little bit of tainted blood in your system that was calling out to its patron. That it was humming around the others who shared the gift too…communicating internally with one another- somehow knowing that you’re like them.

By the time you were home, you felt as if the weight of the world was yours to uphold. Worry began to consume you as your thoughts swirled in the silence.

Riley was missing.

Joe was missing.

Pike was dead.

Bowl was missing.

You stopped brushing your hair for a moment. You hadn’t thought of the strange happenings like that before. Indeed there was quite a few. You had lived on Crockett your whole life you knew that the maximum a person could go missing for was a day and that was pushing it.

How long had Joe been missing…?

Your gut began to twist again, and you almost fell to your knees when you knelt to pray.

You didn’t know what was happening to you. To your home.

Fear began to encircle your heart, and you almost considered running back to the church to sleep on a pew.

You felt alone.

For the first time in a long time, you felt so very alone.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

@littleredwritingcat @zaunite-leo @f4er1e-g1rl @purplemotif @vampyre-kin @professional-sinner @hamishlinklaters @spacechupss @pansexualpamandabear @ebiemidnightlibrarian @erialuna @nilla-bear

[chelseasdagger]

MASTERLIST

*includes gender neutral and female readers (uses female pronouns)

you can also check out these stories on ao3 if you prefer :)

FRANK CASTLE

Teacher (18+) - series (work in progress)

Fall From Grace

Clean (18+)

Immoral (18+)

ETHAN SAWYER

I’m on Fire (18+)

Unwind (18+)

All in My Mind (18+)

SAM ROSSI

In Fluorescent Light

Orange Glow (18+)

MIKEY BERZATTO

Behind the Red in My Eyes

FATHER PAUL HILL

Restoring Faith (18+)

JOEL MILLER

Alone and Forsaken (18+)

[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

[error4343]

Tear in the shape of a house / Chapter 1: Closed cabinets

AO3 links: ENG, UKR

Fandom: Midnight Mass

Summary: Every building carries a story. From the beginning of construction until the last nail is corroded, they collect the motives, memories, and emotions of those who visit their walls.

Although the recreation center of his own name is still quite new, it has already managed to collect enough stories to answer John Pruitt's question.

Tags: Memory Loss, Temporary Character Death, Canon Divergence

Note: this is translation of my own fic "Забуття, що має форму будинку". Huge thanks to @anne0png and Gobie (mobulamoon on Pixilart) for help with English version!

***

Full of light and warmth - it was a beautiful day to return.

After chilly March, Crockett’s residents welcomed sunny days with almost pious reverence. Little ones were roaming the streets in small flocks, the elderly gathered out onto porches, berths and workplaces, happier than they had been in the months prior. Be it out loud, in their minds, or just in their hearts, they all welcomed the yearly miracle - nature’s rebirth. 

Rebirth. Monsignor loves spring exactly for it. Watching forests once again fill with color and the meadows with rodents; it was easy to believe that, after death, Christ's body was also filled with life again.

But as much as Pruitt loved the miracle of spring, as the years passed, it became harder for him to recognize it. Memory and attention were letting him down over and over, until the seasons’ changes became one grey-blue mess, doomed to end with snow, cold, and darkness. 

Today was different. 

When he got off the ferry, he met spring as an old friend and welcomed her in the same way as everyone else. His restored memory was eagerly memorizing the surroundings: movements of wind, seagulls, and motor boats; the smells of ocean and hard work; sounds of people and water; touches of sun on skin; his own joy and serenity. 

How nice it is to come back home. How nice it is - to come back. 

***

Walk from the marina to the church wasn’t long, but it was tiring. While he and Sturge were carrying the coffer to the rectory, John tried his best to look over the surroundings. It didn't go well - their cargo was heavy and didn't let him look away for too long. Despite it, he managed to catch glimpses of the town. Newly abandoned houses, new boats near yards, new-old rubbish, metal, garbage. In summary Crockett island was changing its form, but wasn’t changing its nature. 

They’re passing the streets, go by wobbly pallet walkway, finally emerging from shrubs into near-church territory and-

“Oh, that’s interesting”. On the church clearing, Monsignor is greeted by a new, unknown building. White and with dark green roof, big one (for island’s scale) - it rests near his own shack. Beside the entrance a sign with backlights reads “Recreational center of Monsignor John Michael Pruitt”. John barely had time to read it before Sturge impatiently dragged him further. Something about the name bothers him, but he can't think about it right now. Not with coffer in hands.

Thoughts about the sign disappear as soon as they step onto the porch of his own house. John politely declines further assistance and bids farewell to his helper. He drags his priceless luggage inside, hastily opens its locks.Three knocks on the lid - "We're here," - three in response - "Good". Pruitt waits patienetly by the coffer for a minute, but his companion obviously won’t leave before dusk.

..Well from the affairs of the saints to affairs of the household then. The air is stale and feels thick with dust and the smell of wood. It’s clear that no one has opened windows in his absence.

As far as he can remember, his house had always been well aired. In best of the years, when he had looked after the rectory by himself only (including opening windows), it had been a real bachelor's den, a state of controlled chaos with a pennant of his favorite baseball team on the bedroom wall, next to the mass schedule. Over the years, however, the youthful passion in the interior was replaced by mature calm. The mass schedule became unnecessary and the pennant was replaced by pictures of seabirds.

The last change was initiated by Beverly. Like many changes later. Truth to be told, over the years there was more and more Bevs’ influence on this place. She even began to open windows by herself. Thanks to Keane, the chaos disappeared, pedantic order began to reign in the "den", and the keys were now kept in the same place. Oh yes, keys, she always reminded him where he had put them. Even then, Pruitt suspected that these were the very first robins, the ones old people are so afraid of. He should have told her when it first started, but was afraid to do so. And when finally he told her - it was too late.

Lost in his memories, Pruitt goes to open the window, but it won’t budge. It’s locked. For sixty-something years of his service, no thief has dared to steal from the priest. Have things gotten this bad during his “absence”? However, the next guess sends an unpleasant chill down the spine. No, it’s not to keep everyone out. It’s to keep someone in. He returns to the entrance of the house and examines the door more carefully. He’s proven correct in his guess. Two new locks adorn the door now. Moreover the outside lock is clearly much newer. From the front door, he returns to the living room and tries to open the cupboard. Then another and another. To no avail; everything sharp, fragile, and important - securely locked.

The situation in his bedroom is slightly better - most of the drawers with personal belongings are unlocked. All except a large cabinet on the right side of the bed. "Documents," - memory kindly suggests. Only the bathroom remains to explore, but he doesn't want to go there. The cabinet behind the mirror is definitely open, and in it sits his medicine all with complicated Latin names. He can’t even remember what they mean; a gloomy reminder to be forgotten. 

After he finishes his inspection, John sits on the bed and looks before him. Joy of returning has vanished, and for its replacement came a disgusting feeling in his throat - mixture of sadness, anxiety and inexplicable resentment. While travelling, he figured out that watching the course of his illness would be unpleasant, but only now did he fully realize it to the fullest.

Memory mercilessly rewound the film. Frames flashed with unexpected clarity, as if someone had turned on a movie projector. This particular film (or rather, a fragment) was strange and surreal. It had no beginning or end, only a middle.

He remembered blinding white in a pitch black sky. And snow. Snow... Why was it snowing in the spring? "Why?" Monsignor asked in confusion, staring at the snowflakes. Snowflakes did not answer - only kept falling from the sky, flashing with white in the electric light. Only cold and emptiness surround him. 

Just him, the lantern, and night.

But how could this be? He remembered so clearly the feeling of spring that day in his always-well-aired house. He remembered the greens around him, the little mouse in fresh grass. So why was it snowing now, in the spring? ...Is it even spring? And why is it so cold then? Why is it so damn cold?

"Why?" he sobbed out loud. He didn't understand what he meant: why is it snowing or why he doesn't remember why it's snowing. Pruitt felt like a child whose parents left him with extremely difficult homework. He felt bitter, sad and hurt. Hurt to tears. And he couldn't help but cry. He didn't even understand it himself - just felt hot tears of despair rolling down on cold cheeks. All the while he looked at the lantern. Only at the lantern.

Because there was no other light in that world. There was no spring, no rebirth, no life at all. Only snow, the lantern and darkness. Endless, horrific darkness.

***

He should take a walk. No, not like that, he must take a walk. Somewhere, anywhere. It doesn’t matter where, just away from the rectory.

Thanks to muscle memory, his feet took a familiar path even before he realized where he wanted to go. From the clearing to the pallet walkway, along the walkway to the west and to the central square. As his house disappeared behind the bushes, the sadness started to let go of him a little. And with each step towards the square, it let go of him more.

By the time he arrived at the main square, he felt much better. John slows his pace and looks around. Now, instead of the vile lump in throat, another feeling is simmering in his chest - a soft but insistent old man’s sentimentality.

His service to Crockett began here. It was winter, but he was shaking more from anxiety  than from the cold. Sheriff, may God rest his soul, smiled warmly and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don't be afraid, " he said  “in six months or so you'll become just like all of us”. And he wasn't lying; a year later he became familiar enough with island folk to be welcomed at local festivities (which, by the way, were much more frequent back then). At one such celebration on a warm July night, a girl would’ve asked him to dance. In a linen blue dress, a little tipsy, Millie giggled at her foolish behavior (inviting a priest to dance? how rebellious!). John couldn't refuse her. He could only think to himself, as they clumsily swayed to the rhythm, how beautiful she is. God, how beautiful she is.

After that was another year full of memories. And another after that, and more, and more, and so many, many years later. Until he started forgetting his keys. Until he found himself in the square, among the darkness, cold and terrified, dared to look only at…

The lantern. The same one. It stands almost at the end of the square.

Pruitt freezes before it and stares, waiting for awful lump of feelings to return. But it doesn’t. Instead a memory, like a defense mechanism, pulls more and more good memories out from dusty closets of his mind; how he once met Millie under that lantern and led her out of the square somewhere far from prying eyes, how countless children greeted him under its electric light and he asked if their parents really let them walk so late, or some other such trifle, one of hundreds of thousands, individually imperceptible, but together which make up his memory. 

He suddenly catches himself looking at the streetlight again and laughs quietly. It’s like they say you can't teach an old dog new tricks. But there's no need. All these moments and the people connected to them are what he came back for.

***

Armed with sentimentality like a spear, John moves on.

Although he was in much better spirits, something still remains unresolved. Dementia had taken away his ability to both remember old and make new memories, which is why he now has a "hole" in his memory. What's worse, the "size" of said hole was unknown to him.

But this task was easy to solve, he just has to find the people he remembers, which is a good half of Crockett’s adult population. Less than ten minutes passed before he noticed familiar faces, a married couple with two children on a walk. Pruitt cheerfully greets them and introduces himself by his new name, who he is, for what he’s for on the island, and asks questions to which he already knows answers (who has the keys to the church, who administers the local parish, etc.) Once the ice breakers are done he smoothly moves onto more personal topics.

All the while John tries his best to recall what exactly he remembers about these people.

The couple had moved to Crockett three years ago (as far as he could remember). Both children had been born here, the eldest was born two years after the move and the youngest was born a year later Family went to church occasionally, mostly on holidays. Normally John hardly remembered people outside the congregation, but he did remember these because of their youngest, a boy named Marco. Unlike most children who would cry out during baptisms, Marco was quiet. Instead, he was so squirmy that the father had to help the elderly Monsignor hold his son during the ceremony.

Marco wasn’t a two-month-old stubborn baby anymore, he had grown up a bit. The whole time his parents were talking to the new priest, Marco was looking at the stranger with shameless curiosity. He clearly wanted an opportunity to talk with the adults, so John gave him one. “And how old is the boy?” -  he asks with a slight smile, turning his gaze to the child  - a silent approval to talk. “Three years old, Father!” - Marco responds even before his parents could even hear the question. “Almost a grown up,” Father Hill answers in a serious tone, nodding solemnly to show the boy the importance of his answer. Because it really was important.

The conversation soon comes to an end. The couple kindly, albeit falsely, promises to attend church more often. The eldest daughter impatiently drags her parents to the coast. However their youngest seems determined to actually make true on the promise. After saying goodbye John turns the corner somewhere between the houses, onto a barely visible path away from human eyes. He needs a few minutes alone to process what he just heard.

Marco is three years old now. The last thing John remembers about him is his baptism. He’s missing three years worth of memories…

***

Pruitt didn’t even realize he had walked the entire island in a day. When he finally decided to return home, the sun was already touching the horizon and trees were casting long shadows. The evening breeze rustled softly through plants and wires, caressing his hair warmly and tenderly, like a lover who had been waiting for him for a long time.

Monsignor, unfortunately, was too busy to pay attention to this tenderness. He was going through dates, names, surnames, and locations in his head while returning home. Today alone, he had counted about a dozen empty houses that had previously been inhabited. It wasn’t difficult to find the reason why - he just had to stand by the marine for half an hour and listen closely.

So, he doesn't remember last year’s oil spill either. It was bad, really bad.

Pondering all the possible and impossible consequences of this event, he finally reaches the church clearing and, unexpectedly for himself, finds himself in front of the recreation center of his own name.

Now, having read the sign again, he realizes why it has puzzled him this much this morning. There was something very ironic about naming a health resort after a deeply ill old man. Whoever decided on the name clearly learned their sense of humor from God.

He looks at the building. The building, he imagines, is looking at him back. It’s strange to personalize inanimate objects, but when you’ve served the same buildings for so many years, the new ones aren't just unknown, but strangers. Time to get acquainted then.

The doors to the center are unlocked. Once inside he’s greeted with the smell of fresh renovation, something he hasn't smelled in the last ten years. Linoleum instead of the usual wood, folding chairs against the wall, unusually bright lamps under the ceiling, and something resembling a stage sits at the far end of the room. Judging by the repair supplies stacked on a table near the entrance, the building was new not only to him, but to the whole island.

Pruitt walks to the center of the room. It’s so large, and there are so many chairs. You could easily seat all the island’s inhabitants here. He closes his eyes and loses himself in thought. What led the island to build the center? What?

He imagines the following. A year ago, in what month he had yet to discover, an oil spill occurred. For the locals it’s almost a death sentence. Those who have some wealth, connections, or at least a suitable boat leave. The island's already fragile economy collapses, long-standing ties between friends and families are broken, parents send their children as far away as possible in search of a better fate, the young leave their old, the old die contemplating the destruction. 

At this moment of despair, he should have come out of hiding. He should have told them that God does not give people more than they can bear, or that He works in mysterious ways, or whatever else - the main goal was to comfort, to give hope that tomorrow will come. 

But he stayed hidden. A year ago he was just as scared, if not more. Scared and alone in the darkness. A terrible darkness that even with a lantern no light or spring or life could come forth.

And what do people usually do when they’re left without hope? That's right, they go looking for it at the bottom of the bottle. That's probably why the center was built. Pruitt opens his eyes and exhales nervously. If everything is really as he imagines, then he has a lot of work ahead of him.

But at the same time, he could still be wrong. He still needs to learn so much, clarify, re-clarify, check and double-check... And he has to start somewhere. "And this is where I'll start," he mentally concludes.

Although the center was a "newcomer" on the island, John feels that the history of its emergence could answer many questions for him. As following events would prove, he wasn’t wrong.

[radawaycunt]

Through the Veil of Darkness

Also on AO3

Pairing: Father Paul/Monsignor Pruitt x Fem!Reader

Summary: Inspired by the myth of Eros and Psyche -- two souls that meet in the darkness find ways to love without seeing each other… even if the darkness conceals more than just appearances.

WC: 6.5k words

Warnings: MINORS DNI this fic is 18+, vampirism, accidental vampire hypnosis kinda?, sleepwalking, blood drinking, some mentions of violence, hierophilia, fluff with eventual smut, some angst, unprotected p in v, ummm I think that's it but lmk if anything else!

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

“Love looks not with the eyes.”

— William Shakespeare.

————————

First, you felt the balmy ocean breeze slicking your skin. The not-so-distant roar of the waves reached your ears and you tasted salt on your lips all too vividly, piercing through the fog of your unconscious state. Whatever it was you were dreaming of dissolved like seafoam on the sand, leaving behind the nebulous blue darkness of your eyelids.

Consciousness returned to you unhurriedly, weighing down your limbs until you were fully aware of them. A tingling sensation ran up your spine, and your eyes fluttered beneath the lids. You opened them to find more darkness, but you could immediately tell you weren’t anywhere near your bedroom. 

It was a moonless night, with only the pinprick lights of the stars to accompany you. You could feel the damp earth beneath your bare feet, a chill threatening to seep into your bones, but you had nothing else to cover yourself with. 

There was no fear at first, though, only a mild curiosity – a sort of compelling that you couldn’t ignore. Your eyes adjusted slightly to the darkness, allowing you to better see the silhouettes of the pine trees huddling close together in front of you. Behind you, there was the incessant roll and pull of the waves, spraying over the rocks as they crashed against them. 

In all the years you’d had sleepwalking issues, you had never strayed so far from home. What’s more, you didn’t feel entirely there, but instead in an in-between place, like you were an outside witness to yourself. You couldn’t help but stare at the water, vast and unfathomable. Had it been the sea that called to you in dreams? 

No, that didn’t feel quite right. But then, what was it?

Your heart skipped a beat as the reality of the situation slowly sank in, the beginnings of anxiety dancing in your sternum. You glanced around, but you didn’t really have a sense of direction without being able to see clearly. Still, it was a good idea to get as far away from the water as possible, just in case. 

You walked slowly, your hands raised in front of you uncertainly. When you reached the treeline, you realized it would be impossible to navigate through the thick foliage in your current condition. Your best bet would be to wait until morning came…

You couldn’t help a small whimper as dread sank to the pit of your stomach like a stone. You wrung your hands agitatedly, mind starting to scramble for another solution. How long until twilight? You wondered. Should be able to see a little better by then, right?

“A little lost, are we?” A low voice suddenly said, nearly making you jump out of your skin.

You froze in place, fear unleashing itself in hot and cold flashes all over your body. You hadn’t even considered that you wouldn’t be alone out there. For a terrible moment that temporarily halted time, it occurred to you that you might be dead. 

But a violent somersault in your chest made you finally inhale sharply, reassuring you that you were very much alive – and very much vulnerable. The voice had sounded like it was close by, but you couldn’t be sure which side. Still, you could feel a heavy gaze on you, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Your own voice was tremulous as you asked. “Who’s there?” 

You heard the foliage gently rustling a little too close for comfort, a snapping twig nearly making you bolt like a spooked deer. The harsh pounding of your heart was like a dinner bell that had him salivating like a Pavlovian dog. All of his senses urged him to leap forward and secure his meal, but his body was tense and rooted to the spot.

He silently chastised himself, holding on tight of his self-control. It was precisely because of his nature that he did not reveal himself to you, but he could see you clear as day. In fact, he had seen you wandering out there, slow, deliberate steps leading you in his direction. 

He hadn’t been conscious of his compelling you, but he still did not fully understand all the new gifts that had been bestowed upon him. He thought it was perhaps due to the dangerous hunger stirring in his gut, an instinctual blind search for his next meal. He swallowed hard before continuing.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said soothingly, his voice still barely above a whisper. “Trust me, I realize how this must seem, but I’m just here to help.”

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, considering this. “How come you don’t have a flashlight with you?”

“Oh, er, I… guess I just forgot one. Silly me, didn’t cross my mind,” he said, and it partly sounded like he was admonishing himself for the slip-up.

You took a small step back, apprehensive but trying not to show it. You figured it was best to stay on his good side, just in case, but putting up a front didn’t mean you would be so trusting.

“I suppose I should count myself lucky that you were out searching for lost souls…” you said, a sarcastic edge to your tone.

He let out an amused breath. “Couldn’t sleep, more like. I saw you out on the road and followed to make sure you were safe. I’ve heard it’s wiser not to wake up sleepwalkers.”

“Deal with them much, do you?”

“No, you happen to be my first one.”

You hummed in thought. The whole thing was so bizarre that you couldn’t entirely believe you weren’t still dreaming. Somehow though, despite your general standoffishness, the fear seemed to be dissipating. Perhaps it was better just to go along with it for the time being. 

“So… Will you tell me who you are?” You asked.

“Do you always ask so many questions?” He countered, stalling.

“Valid ones, yes.”

His hesitation was palpable in the following silence. Your heart rate was slowing down, though, which was a good sign. Some tension left his body in a long exhale, but he still wasn’t sure what to say.

“Just think of me as…” He trailed off. 

“My guardian angel, of sorts?” You offered.

He couldn’t help a faint smile, which you couldn’t see but you could hear as he said. “Of sorts, yes.” 

You let out an amused huff, deciding not to press it. Crockett Island was a rather small place, so you figured you’d find out your savior’s identity soon enough. A gust of wind blew in from the water and you crossed your arms tightly over your chest to try to fend off the chill.

“Well then, angel,” you said, trying to keep your teeth from chattering. “Will you help me get home before I die of hypothermia?”

“Yes,” he said, and you heard rustling once more, growing closer. “Hold out your hand.”

“What for?”

He merely chuckled in response, and you pursed your lips. Perhaps it was a little silly, but how could he expect you not to ask so many questions? 

You swallowed hard and flexed your fingers, not knowing what to expect. Slowly, you reached a shaky hand out, your skin prickling with hyperawareness. For a moment, you thought you wouldn’t feel anything at all — That he might just be a fear-induced hallucination to get you through the worst of it. 

But then you felt his cool, steady hand wrap around yours, making you gasp.

Your heartbeat spiked once more, but it was short-lived. Still, he held his breath as he drew you closer, so you could actually feel his physical presence. He saw your eyes widen and your lips part slightly, perhaps in marvel, or alarm, or a combination of both, but it was a charming look all the same. 

“Stay close and just follow me,” he said. “I’ll let you know if there are any obstacles.”

You bit back any further questions on how he would be able to do that, instead just humming in assent. He couldn’t help another chuckle at this, sensing it must have taken a great effort.

The walk through the woods was awkward and halting at first, but soon the two of you found a rhythm. He kept to his word, patiently leading you around anything that came up on your path. 

Once, he even had to lift you off a larger boulder, his hands securely gripping your waist. He didn’t even grunt with effort, as if you were light as a feather. Your face felt hot and you were glad he couldn’t see you getting flustered… Or at least, that’s what you thought. He had the strangest urge to cup your face and swipe his thumb over the soft skin of your cheek to feel its warmth.

Instead, he took your hand again and kept going. There was the faintest glimmer of light in the distance, through a small gap in the trees. You thought your mind might be playing tricks on you again, but as you continued, it grew in brightness, and you let out a little laugh of relief. 

“Almost there,” he said. “There’s a break in the trees just up ahead.”

Excitement made you go faster, walking by his side and eventually surpassing him. The world beyond the forest became more and more visible, as if you were passing through a tunnel leading out of a nightmare. You nearly tripped over a large rock in your haste, yelping in surprise, but he swiftly caught and steadied you.

“Careful.” He chuckled. “Eager to leave me behind, are you?”

“What are you talking about?” You asked, still walking ahead. “Aren’t you going to walk me back to my house?”

“Er… Not quite. This is as far as I can take you.”

You reached the break in the trees, glancing back over your shoulder and realizing that he truly wouldn’t follow you any further. He hadn’t emerged and you couldn’t even see his silhouette amongst the trees. You frowned, your momentary relief melting back into confusion. 

“Can’t you at least come out into the light?” You asked. “I’d like to see what my savior looks like.”

For a moment, he said nothing, watching you from his spot further in. He chewed on his thumbnail anxiously, trying to think. Already the night had a strange quality to it, but the consequences of him revealing himself – and therefore what he was – would be very much real. And besides, the sun’s rising was imminent, and he had to get back to the rectory before that happened. 

“Afraid not,” he said finally. 

“Why?”

“Some things are best left as mysteries,” he said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

You hummed noncommittally, biting back the urge to continue being stubborn. The sky was just beginning to lighten on the horizon, tinting it a deep red. A part of you wanted to stay and watch the sunrise, but exhaustion was beginning to weigh on you. It would be a little silly to keep questioning him at that point, anyway. Things would regain their normalcy once again in the daylight, and all you had to do was go back to sleep until then. 

“Well, thank you for helping me,” you said defeatedly, trying to stifle a yawn. “I would say I owe you one, but I’m not even sure if we’ll ever meet again…”

“Maybe in another dream,” he said, the smallest note of sadness in his tone. 

You smiled faintly, and for the briefest second, you thought you saw a pair of eyes reflecting a hint of light through the foliage. “Maybe, indeed.”

—————————

It rained for a whole week after that night, the dense showers droning on at all hours of the day. The sound of it lulled you into a state of reminiscence, going over what happened over and over again. The finer details had become foggier, slipping through your fingers slowly as time passed.

Sometimes they were clearer in dreams, like a beacon calling you back out into the night. You even woke up to find yourself standing on the porch once, one foot already on the steps. After that, you made sure to set up extra precautions around the house so you wouldn’t end up walking right out into the downpour. It was one thing to get lost when the weather was mild, but you didn’t think you’d be so lucky in harsher conditions. 

You spent some of those days researching angels and other sorts of spiritual figures, but all that influx of information – oftentimes filled with contradictions or addendums – only served to confuse you further. There were even forums with accounts of people supposedly having similar encounters, but somehow you still felt like you were dealing with something else entirely. After a time, you figured that trying to find answers on the internet was likely a worthless pursuit.

Even in dreams, you were unable to conjure what he might look like, this angel of yours. You hadn’t told anyone else about the encounter, not only for fear of seeming like you were losing your mind, but also because it was kind of nice to have something just for yourself. 

You wondered if somehow, he’d been keeping an eye on you since you’d returned home. The idea was both titillating and unnerving, since you weren’t sure which answer to that question would be better. But of course, it was impossible he’d be anywhere nearby in such conditions.

Gradually, without you noticing before it was too late, the storm worsened. Lightning streaked the bruise colored sky, the low rumble of thunder following soon after. The wind howled furiously, battering at your windows, and it wasn’t long before the lights went out. 

Plunged in that nearly cavernous darkness, you had a slight sense of déjà vu, your skin prickling slightly once more. You didn’t move at first, listening instead for anything out of the ordinary. But there was nothing, of course, and you were still very much alone. 

With little options left, you sighed heavily and slowly made your way to your room to try to get some sleep. With the storm raging on, it wasn’t that hard, and before you even realized it, you passed out. There were no dreams then, only a blissful unconsciousness where the hours ticked by unnoticed.

When the storm finally abated, you woke up to silence in the middle of the night. When you tried to switch on your bedside lamp, you found that the power was still out. You wondered what time it was as you threw open your window to let in the fresh, lingering smell of petrichor. 

You leaned against the windowsill and the first verdant lungful of it seemed to revitalize you, the cool breeze caressing your face. There was another smell, too, so faint you couldn’t really place it. Something metallic. Copper, maybe?

The only sound was that of the wind rustling the trees as it rushed past. Then suddenly, you heard the squelch of wet leaves as someone took a step. Immediately, all of your senses were alert. Your eyes scanned the dark outdoors, but you saw nothing but vague silhouettes.

Another step to your left side, closer than before, and you leaned a little further out the window. The metallic scent seemed to grow a little stronger, and you thought you heard a breath. A small tinge of fear nearly made you shudder, but it was at the uncertainty more than anything else. 

Could it really be…? 

There was only one way to find out.

“Hello, my angel. Seems like you’ve found me again,” you said to the darkness, unable to help smiling a little. “How did you manage it this time?”

A moment of silence passed, in which you weren’t sure if you’d even get a response. Then, you heard him clear his throat.

“Let’s just call it a stroke of luck,” he said, humor in his tone. “Missed me much, dear somnambulist?”

“I was curious when our dreams might intersect again…” you said, skirting the question. “What about you? Couldn’t keep away?”

“So it seems,” he said, the words softer than you’d expected. You could swear he was smiling, too. “Now, don’t go interrogating me again, alright?”

“Oh, you’re not fair. I have so many questions I wanted to ask.”

“Such as?”

“Such as… Why won’t you let me see you?” you said, deciding not to beat around the bush. “Surely you’re not one of those monstrous beings from biblical times, are you? I would think it would be easier to tell if you were…”

He chuckled, but the word monstrous still gave him pause. Oh, if only you knew. The angel he had met back in that ancient cave had been something magnificently horrifying to behold, but though he was now of that ilk, their physical differences could not be greater.

Even so, the acts he’d committed since his transfiguration were far from saintly. He wondered how you would react if you found out the truth… and he found that he did not really want to know the answer. 

“The dark just suits me better,” he said simply, watching as you pursed your lips in annoyance. “You’ve been trying to envision me, hm?”

“To no avail…” you muttered, but then an idea struck you. “Come closer, will you?”

“What for?” 

“Well, if I can’t see you, then maybe I could just trace your features with my fingers instead,” you said. “Maybe that’ll help improve my imagination.”

He swallowed hard, torn between wanting to cave in immediately and wanting to be sensible. He was already craving you deeply — had been absolutely tormented by it for days, even — so he didn’t entirely trust himself not to get too lost in the smallest touch. 

He wanted you, he couldn’t lie to himself about that, but he also wanted to eat you. It was quite the conundrum… but of course, he wouldn’t let himself do the latter.

“I’m not so sure…” he said finally.

“You can touch mine too, if you’d like. That’d make us even.” You offered, unable to ignore a small tingle of anticipation.

Tentatively, you reached out a hand, both in a placating and inviting manner. You heard him shift his weight, but after a moment, he stepped closer. He took your outstretched hand and helped guide it slowly towards his face, cupping his cheek. He inhaled slowly, closing his eyes and keeping himself still. 

His skin was soft as if he had just shaved the previous morning, but you could feel the very beginning of stubble regrowing. Your fingers moved up to his cheekbone, slowly tracing underneath his eye until you found his nose. 

The tip of your index finger gently went down the bridge of it, and he exhaled with amusement as you tapped the tip of his nose. You smiled, not daring to go lower at that moment, but instead moving back up and feeling his full eyebrows, his lightly lined forehead, and his eyelids.

Then finally, you moved towards the junction where his ear met his jaw, tracing its outline downwards. You found he had a dimple on his chin, which you immediately found charming. There was also a small rough spot near it where something had dried and crusted. 

You didn’t really pay it any mind though, as you were too distracted by how close your fingers were to his lips. There was a small sound in his throat that told you he was just as aware of it. 

He tilted his head sideways and brushed his lips against your palm delicately, but with a hint of desperation. He kissed every single one of your digits and you, nearly breathless, swiped your thumb slowly over his bottom lip. Unconsciously, you leaned in closer, his breath intermingling with yours. 

“I’m starting to think you’re not an angel at all…” you whispered.

“Maybe not,” he said. “Unless that’s what you want.”

Desire made you all too bold, immediately saying, “What I want is to kiss you right now.”

And he didn’t need to be told twice, his mouth immediately melding with yours. His lips were full and softer than you’d expected, his kiss slow and exploratory like he was holding himself back. You threaded your fingers through his hair, which was damp with condensation, and pulled him even closer.

Your tongue slipped into his mouth and he nearly lost his wits entirely. He had already fed, but hunger rose like a tidal wave within him. His hands cupped your face, his tongue dragging over yours. It was like being kissed for the first time all over again, because it felt like nothing you had previously experienced.

You pulled away for air, your faces still inches apart. Your heartbeat was still pounding like a symphony in his head, nearly hypnotizing him. He could spend all of eternity right there, in that perfectly crafted heaven of a moment. 

“Do you want to come inside?” You asked, lightly curling a strand of hair at the back of his head around your finger. “I can unlock the front door.”

That seemed to slightly shake him out of his daze, and he licked his lips nervously. 

“I… do. I really do, more than anything,” he said slowly, still returning to himself as he fought against his instincts. “But the sun is coming out soon.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I’m afraid I’m not.”

“This isn’t your way of getting me to beg you to stay, is it?”

He chuckled despite himself. “We both know you wouldn’t need to beg.”

You sighed, but conceded with a hum. “When will I see you again?”

“Tomorrow night… or I guess tonight, technically,” he said, taking your hands as he pulled back and kissing them. “Leave the lights off, I’ll be here as soon as I’m able.”

—————————————————

And he kept his word, returning when the shadows had deepened enough. A soft knock at the front door announced his arrival, and you quickly brought him inside.

You were getting better at navigating in the darkness, so leading him to your room wasn’t such an arduous task. There, you melted into his embrace, breathing him in – something smokey, like incense, with traces of juniper and copper. You could get lost in it, given the chance. 

“You know,” he said between kisses. “I don’t believe I had the opportunity to see you for myself.”

“Well, I’m all yours now, and I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

You heard his breath catch at that, making you smile impishly. Even if he was actually able to see you, he repeated the same sacred ritual of anointing your features with his fingers, his hands trembling slightly. But his fingers dared to go lower, tracing down your throat. He felt it work as you swallowed hard.

His ravenous mouth found yours again, unable to help himself. He had you against the wall, his body flush against yours. His knee was inching between your legs, but he seemed in no rush to move things along, his hands remaining in place.

You slid the straps of your tank top off your shoulders, inciting him to get a feel of your clavicles next. His lips ghosted over your jaw, tilting your head sideways to give him more access to your neck. For one delirious moment, his lips parted and he almost let his teeth graze over the sensitive skin of your throat, but he stopped himself. 

“May I?” he asked, referring to the thin piece of fabric that just barely covered your chest.

“Yes,” you breathed, barely able to find your voice. 

He pulled it down slowly, revealing even more. He made a desirous sound as you arched your back invitingly, silently giving him permission to touch, as well. You took his wrist gently and guided his hand, a small hum in your throat as it made contact with one of your breasts.

“Good lord,” he whispered roughly. “I… What are you doing to me?”

“I just thought you’d want to get a proper look, is all,” you said. “I have nothing to hold back from you.”

He nearly fell to his knees then, still partially in disbelief that this was happening. Your trust was not a gift he had been expecting, but the enormity of it rocked him. He couldn’t just take advantage of that, having already hidden so much from you. His fingers splayed over your sternum as he thought, enjoying what could be the last moments of your warmth.

“I… must make a confession first,” he said, swallowing hard. “I am not what you think I am.”

“Oh?” you prompted, intrigued even if you’d thought you were past that for the moment. 

“I am not an angel, that much is true, but I am not just a human, either.”

You frowned, unsure if he was just pulling your leg. “Okay… What then?”

It was his turn to grab your wrist, bringing your hand back to his face. His lips parted, and you felt your index finger against his canine. A small, quick movement of his head and you felt a sharp sting that made you gasp. His lips wrapped around your digit, where a bead of blood had formed, and realization sunk in like a stone to the bottom of a lake – heavy, and yet slow. 

“Oh…” you said breathlessly. “Oh. You’re, um, you’re not going to… Are you?”

“No, no, I won’t hurt you,” he said hastily as you pulled your hand back. “But I cannot lie and say a part of me doesn’t want to… Though I will not let myself.”

You didn’t move, trying to finish processing the revelation as a million thoughts raced through your mind. You hadn’t noticed anything strange when you’d felt his face, but you weren’t entirely sure if he was able to change his features. Could vampires even do that?

“Are you afraid?” he asked, the barest hint of hurt in his tone.

You realized you werent, but maybe you were still numb with shock. Perhaps a part of you even expected something like this, given the circumstances of your meetings.

“I should be, shouldn’t I?” You said, partially to yourself.

He let out a sigh of what seemed to be relief, and it was then you also realized you were still willing to give him a chance, foolish as it may be. But that would be contingent on his being completely truthful with you going forward.

 You wrung your hands together, antsy. Curse your tender heart, and what consequences it may bring!

“Can I see you, then?” You asked. “I deserve that much, at least.”

Your floorboards creaked as he shifted his weight. “Yes, though I think you’ll find this is not my only confession.”

“Two for one,” you murmured, half-heartedly joking. “Have you been… fearing it might drive me away for good?”

“Yes. Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t kicked me out yet.”

You hummed pensively, further moved by his sincerity. “I’m more open minded than you might think, but don’t push your luck.”

He let out an amused huff, stepping back to give you space. You partially pulled your shirt back up, holding it in place with one hand.

“I am completely at your mercy,” he said thickly as you reached blindly for your bedside lamp.

“And I yours.”

You finally found it and switched it on, repeatedly blinking at the sudden change. And so you saw him, lean and tall, with locks of jet black hair that matched his equally dark eyes. His handsome face was actually familiar, but it was not one you had ever greeted up close… Well, at least not in the daylight.

“You-you are the new…”

“Priest,” he finished for you, nodding. 

Your eyes widened some and you tried to cover yourself up more. “And you’re really, um…?”

“Proof that there is something higher than ourselves,” he said, sighing once more. “At least, that’s how I try to think of it.”

“I was going to say vampire, but I guess you’re not really wrong there.”

You slumped down on the edge of the bed, unsure of how to proceed. It was strange to see that he was made of flesh and blood instead of just mysticism and starlight, but there was a certain comfort in his solidity. Even knowing what — and who — he was, it was more reassuring than the uncertainty of darkness.

Thrilling as that may have been before, the change in circumstances brought about a different type of thrill that you couldn’t very well deny. You just had to organize your thoughts first.

“I’m really sorry, I never meant to deceive you,” he said, gingerly sitting down next to you. “I… never even thought we would get here, to this moment. I thought I would become a distant fantasy that you’d eventually forget.”

“But we just couldn’t help ourselves, could we?” You said, looking over at him and studying his features more closely. “I mean, really, I’d have walked right out into that storm for you to find me again, I don’t have any doubts about that. I… still think I would.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle and the two of you shared a lingering look that held a certain tenderness. Then you bit your lower lip in contemplative hunger, the fluttering feeling in your lower belly not having simmered out.

“What about your vows?” You asked.

“I believe it’s much too late for those, seeing as I’ve irreparably broken them already,” he said without a hint of remorse, steadily holding your gaze. 

“Can I ask you something else?” 

“Anything.”

“You said a part of you wanted to hurt me…” You swallowed hard. “How would you do that?”

His cheeks visibly reddened as he averted his gaze momentarily. You even thought he looked ashamed, perhaps guilty, but you couldn’t be sure it was just that.

“Well, I, um,” he began, but you stopped him by placing a hand on his arm. 

“I want you to demonstrate,” you said softly. “Gently, if you can.”

To his immense surprise, he noticed that trust hadn’t entirely left your eyes. You were a little more guarded, yes, but you were still clearly willing to render yourself vulnerable for him. Perhaps as a way to test him as well, he realized, immediately unwilling to let himself fail.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded.

“Then you might want to turn off the light for that,” he murmured. 

“You don’t want me to look at you while you do it?” 

“It’s not that.” He licked his lips, glancing down at your lips, and then lower. “I just want you to be able to feel things better, is all.”

You suppressed a shiver that threatened to violently jolt through you. Reaching for your bedside lamp once again, you looked at him one last time before the two of you were plunged in darkness once again. Your heartbeat kicked up again. 

“Lie back,” he said, half request and half command.

You did as told, propping your head against your pillow as he stood up. The mattress shifted under his weight as he slowly crawled over you, his breath close to your face. With his nose, he nudged your chin upward, exposing more of your throat. 

“I would start here, where I think you are most tender,” he whispered against your skin, his teeth just barely grazing the side of your neck, then kissing away the phantom of pain that you momentarily imagined. “Oh, I would make such a mess of you.”

He moved to the other side of your neck, his lips barely breaking contact. Then he moved down to your clavicles, making you arch your back again, eyes fluttering closed. He left some love bites in his wake, and you found yourself clutching his arms if only so you wouldn’t become unmoored. 

“This just so happens to be in my way, so… Got to get rid of it,” he said, hooking his fingers over the top of your shirt and pulling it down hastily. 

He made a desirous sound, cupping your breasts in his hands. Your heart seemed to leap against the palm of his hand, an incitation if there ever was one. The flames of his desire were stoked, exponentially growing.

“Hmmm, or maybe I would take my time ravaging these,” he husked, saliva pooling on his tongue. “How could I not?”

Your fingers squeezed his arms urgently, feeling on the edge of pure, exquisite agony. His tongue then circled around one of your nipples, the light pinch of his teeth sending electricity to your core. You exhaled sharply, knees drawing together in search of some friction. It made you hunger for more, but you knew he was being deliberate. 

You threaded your fingers through his hair, and for a moment he thought you might pull his head back, but you did the exact opposite, holding him in place. There was a low, wanton groan in his throat.

His body slid downwards as he began to trail his lips lower. The way he was kissing your body felt like he was holding himself back from actually biting into you, but in that moment, you wouldn’t have minded being devoured. He hiked up your legs to rest on his shoulders, fingers tracing the supple skin of your inner thigh.

“Ah, but here’s another tender spot that could become quite messy,” he rasped, warm breath fanning over your navel. “I have to admit, I’ve been tempted by this one the most. It’s really taking all of my self control, you know?”

“I w-wonder why,” you choked out, half attempting humor but failing with a squirm of your hips. “I think this is far more torturous than whatever you had been fantasizing about…”

“But it excites you, doesn’t it?” He said, a smug edge to his tone. “I can smell it.”

You were about to grumble a retort, but dexterous fingers glided over the soaked fabric of your pajama shorts, where you were aching most. He saw your head drop back against the pillow, biting into your first to keep from making a debauched noise. 

“Oh, God….” you breathed out shakily.

“Not quite my name, but it’ll do for now,” he murmured, his tongue teasing the spot where the fabric clung to your inner thigh, mere inches away from fully revealing you.

Your knees drew close around his head. “I-I don’t think I can take it anymore.”

“Oh, but we were just getting started… Can’t I enjoy my meal properly?”

You extended your arms to invite him back into your embrace, needing more of him melding against you. “Please.”

“Alright, alright, we’ll have time enough for that, then,” he said, but the slightest tremble in his voice told you he was just as eager. “Lift your hips.”

You complied as best as you could, and he slowly peeled your shorts off like he was unwrapping his favorite candy. His mouth watered once more, totally enraptured at the sight of you fully bared for him. You were the true angel in his eyes, soft gazed and supplicant. Did that make him the serpent that was meant to lure you away from Eden? 

No, he told himself. He would give you nothing but paradise, whatever form it might take. Forever and ever, amen.

You heard the soft rasp of his zipper and one of his hands came to rest on your leg when you tried to lower them back onto the mattress. 

“No, keep those up,” he instructed, voice thick with desire.

The rustle of fabric and the clink of a belt as he undid his pants, shoving them down his legs. Your body jerked at the contact of warm, velvety flesh against your slick folds. Your brows furrowed together and your mouth fell slack wantonly at the realization. A rough sound behind his teeth as he coated himself in your slick, the delicious friction an immediate addiction. 

“Yes, just like that…” He notched himself against your entrance, slowly pushing in as he leaned more of his weight on you, practically folding you in half.

His mouth found yours again, a shuddery exhale against your lips as he made you feel every single inch that claimed you. You gripped his arms again, lifting your head if only to lean your forehead against his, wishing you could hold his gaze. Perhaps you already were, through the veil of darkness. 

You were nearly shaking from all the stimulation, pleasure coursing through you like the most delectable warmth. His hips rolled against you like the cresting waves of the sea, an all consuming power within each movement. Nothing had ever felt more right, and you doubted anything ever would again, if it wasn’t with him. 

“Don’t stop,” you begged him, ecstasy beginning to ascend in a spiral up from your navel. 

“Never,” he vowed, panting. 

His hips pressed against yours, pelvis grinding against your sensitive clit. Almost instinctively, you offered him the inside of your wrist, trying to bring it closer to his lips. You knew he was close, and you were more than willing to give him what he so wanted. He tried to protest, but you shook your head and quietly insisted. 

He planted an apologetic kiss on your pulse and squeezed your hip before his teeth cleanly pierced through your flesh. The pain was sharp and white hot, but it only lasted for a moment before pleasure replaced it once more. The full, robust taste of your life’s essence filled his mouth like the finest ambrosia.

A few more thrusts and your muscles tensed, your belly flipping like you were in a free fall. Your soul felt as if it was flung out of your body as you came, clenching down on him. His moans were ragged and muffled as he followed after you, rocking into you through every aftershock.

Then, mercifully, he let you wrap your legs around his waist, not in a hurry to separate from you but making sure you were more comfortable. He sealed the wound with his tongue, cleaning the smears of crimson left behind. You pulled him in for another kiss, something slower and more reverent, like a pact being made. Your head swam as if you had drunk the sweetest of wines, and you slackened into the mattress.

“Well, I’ll be your every meal, if that’s what you want,” you said as you pulled away for air, making him laugh. 

“You’ve ruined me. I cannot possibly taste anything else now,” he said, knuckles gently tracing your cheek in adoration. “It wasn’t too painful, was it?”

“No, I can endure it,” you said reassuringly, biting your lip as you gathered courage to speak up again. “So, does that mean… You’ll stay this time? Even when the darkness vanishes?”

He laced his fingers through yours, squeezing reassuringly and kissing the back of your hand. “As long as you’ll have me… Anything else is unthinkable.”

You reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, feeling as he leaned into your touch like he couldn’t get enough of it – enough of you. The feeling was mutual, and it was a comforting thought that at least as shadows, you were indistinguishable from each other.

“Yeah, I think I’ll keep you around.” You smiled, luminous as all the stars in the sky, the culmination of everything he’d ever dreamed of. “After all, I need my guardian angel looking after me.”

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