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ebiemidnightlibrarian · 3 years ago

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Cornucopia | II — Castimonium III | Father Paul X Fem!Reader | English

SUMMARY | AO3 | MY MASTERLIST

Chapter Summary: Miriam goes to the Ash Wednesday Mass and the Crock Pot Luck, and feel that maybe her faith have some chance of redemption; She meets Hassan and tries to convince the good Sheriff to help her investigate the island. She drowns herself in a certain pair of brown eyes.

Chapter Title: Castimonium (/castīmōniae/; latin): abstinence; abstinence (sexual/from meat) for ritual; purity of morals; chastity.

Warnings: Slow Burn, Angst, Fluff, Mentions of Past Religious Trauma, Mentions of Xenophobia, Religious Imagery, Dialogues from the Show, Mentions of Blood, Minor Mentions of feeding your dog with inappropriate food, Minor Mentions of Animal Death, Minor Mentions of Alcoholism.

Word Count: 12.7K (Yeah, I know, this is HUGE)

Note: Skin, hair and body descriptions were purposely vague, everything has been handled as vague as possible so that everything can be read as a reader fic.

Again, English isn’t my mother language, so I’m sorry for any orthography or writing mistakes you might find.

A/N: I should have mentioned this in chapter 1, but anyway, let's see… Here's the thing, I was raised Catholic, but in name only, you know? Honestly, I've only been to church five times in twenty years, four seventh-day services and the opening of a family-founded chapel. That said, it's not like I've really suffered from religion, as I know some people have.

In general, Catholicism was only a thorn in my side during my teen years for a variety of reasons, so if the way the OFC deals with their faith seems vague, that's because I'm putting my point of view in theirs.

I have my share of childhood traumas linked to religion (just a few, mostly about my sexuality), but nothing that has made me completely abandon the feeling of faith has only made it numb. What I mean is that every part where I describe the OFC's reactions to Paul's sermon was my own, watching the series.

Having said that, I hope you enjoy this chapter. The next one might take a while to come out, but I'll do what I can to prevent that. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE AND KINDNESS!!

THE WOODEN FLOOR at the entrance to the Church of St. Patrick's creaked under her foot. The scent of incense, paraffin, and varnish filled Miriam's nostrils as soon as she entered the church aisle.

That was, in a way, familiar. So many people filled the varnished pews, sharing their faith as they waited hopefully for an answer to their prayers. Harper remembered walking into St. Agnes weekly, obediently sitting on the third bench from the left, praying for the day to come when she would get rid of that place.

Not the worst of memories, she rationalized.

Miriam walked calmly around the side of the church, she was slightly late, but it was clear that the mass had not yet started due to the incessant hustle. Scanning the people seated on the benches, the young woman looked for Erin Greene among the islanders. As soon as her eyes landed on the expectant mother, she felt an unwanted shiver run down her spine as she heard the voice of the last person she wanted to talk to.

“Well, I certainly did not expect to see you here, Miss. Harper.” Beverly Keane's squeaky, smugly sugary voice seemed to poke holes in the accountant's ears.

Slowly, Miriam turned to face the deaconess. With an equally sugary smile on her face, the young woman took a few steps closer. Her shrewd eyes returned to Bev, she was wearing some sort of white ceremonial clause, so long it almost swept the floor. The sunlight streaming through the church's glass windows cast a shadow against the deaconess. That strange detail unnerved another shiver down Miriam's back. Taking a deep breath, the young woman greeted the devotee.

“Good morning, Miss. Keane.” Greeted the accountant, her tone mimicking the sickeningly sweet tone the woman in white customarily used with her, the condescending timbre of someone confident in the certainty of being God's favourite. “In fact, it is not common for me to come to Mass, but I was so kindly invited by Father Paul. That I felt compelled to come and witness one of his much-lauded homilies.” Miriam gave a discreet emphasis when she mentioned the fact that she had been invited, an emphasis she knew the deaconess would not miss.

“I see.” The sugary smile Bev gave her faded and turned sour at the mention of the dark-haired priest. “I found it curious that someone who so openly despises Catholic dogmas should deign to set foot in a church of their own free will. Isn’t that just a guess?” The deaconess clasped her slender hands in front of her, a lopsided smile painting the freckles across her face.

“I assure you, Miss. Keane, that I didn't feel any burning on my heathen skin as I passed through the entrance arch,” the young accountant told her, a simple gaze brushing the orbs, as if innocently not noticing the sarcasm in the words.

Miriam normally harboured a demure tenacity in her responses to the deaconess, but this particular morning she felt especially astute. Beverly Keane grinned, not amused at the insult uttered, but still she didn't give up and very subtly tilted her neck, studying the robes the woman in front of her wore. A slight look of disapproval twisting her face.

Despite not wanting to, Miriam let her gaze stray to her own clothes. Her robes weren't flashy. She was slipping into a plain leaf green dress that stopped just past her knees, — knees that were covered in long, dark-coloured tights for the sole purpose of shielding her legs from the icy breeze. The cleavage she possessed mimicked the clothes that peasant women used to wear. It exposed her bust and shoulders, but she had remembered to cover them with a knitted shawl in the same colour, thick enough in case the weather changed. Or even in case she got some unwanted looks, such as the one the deaconess sent her.

She looked decent, nothing that could be considered vulgar, but obviously Bev had looked at her as if she were wearing a hooker's clothes. Arching an eyebrow, the young woman waited for the deaconess to utter the insult she so clearly wanted. Beverly pretended not to understand the questioning look sent her. The obvious trepidation pricked Miriam's patience.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, still using the condescending tone the deaconess used when addressing her. However, there was a hint of impatience in the words that escaped the young woman. The deaconess smiled.

With a deep inhalation, Miriam shoved her hands into the front pockets of her dress and glanced toward the organist as he began to play one of the hymns from the red hymnal. The murmurs and whispers that filled the church were suddenly silenced. That seemed enough to wake Bev from her silent judgment.

“None. Well, at least, coming to church, maybe, you don't rethink your faith. After all, Lent is a time of repentance.”, she said with a lopsided smile and a nod. The deaconess began to move toward her usual spot in front of the altar, each step firm, an irritating cockiness in the way she moved.

There was a clear contempt in the way she had pronounced the words 'repentance' and 'lent', but not a contempt per se, directed at the words, as if they represented something repugnant, but something more subjective, the disgust and decadent look were directed at the woman with whom she spoke. Miriam, at that moment, assumed that, definitively and utterly, she didn't like Beverly Keane. She also concluded that she was okay with the deaconess not liking her either. Mutual displeasure was indeed simpler to deal with than one-sided displeasure.

“Certainly Ms. Keane. Certainly…”, her exasperated whisper, was covered by the chorus of voices fervently intoning the anthem.

There weren't enough people to fill all the seats, but enough to allow Harper to feel a slightly agonizing feeling of claustrophobia. With steady strides, Miriam took her place beside Erin with a sigh. A knowing look was exchanged between them, the curly woman having spotted the small, disgusted interaction with the outrageous warrior of Christ. Handling her wrist, the pregnant woman turned the hymnal of a vibrant red between them so that both could sing the hymn.

Miriam felt an agony seize her breath, as if there wasn't enough air in that small nave, lit by the golden rays of morning. The melancholy lyrics weighed heavily on the woman's tongue. Taking a deep breath, she caught in her peripheral vision a purple figure beside her. A deep, smoky voice sounding beside her, the very words she chanted so dispassionately.

The priest had his chin resting on the tips of his long fingers, his forehead bowed to the central crucifix. Tiptoeing, the cleric climbed the short staircase that led to the altar, but not without first bowing to his Lord. The purple clause licked the floor as the priest bowed, and returned to hover low to the floor once he rose to his full height.

Miriam could smell the lemongrass and myrrh from the thurible in Warren's hands burning its way into her lungs. The entire devoted chorus of voices fell silent as the good priest took his place behind the pulpit, the organist having stopped playing just before each had taken their seats.

Affectionate warmth spread through Paul's chest as his eyes landed on the small female figure dressed in green. In a way, his awkward visit to the newcomer's abode had inspired him to improve his homily. The preacher in his mind hoped she would appreciate his words.

His dark eyes then darted from the accountant to the growing huddle of worshippers in front of him, honest joy pumping through his veins at the sight. Once again the word of God was becoming necessary and present in the peaceful lives of each one of those individuals of faith who prostrated themselves before him, and once again he would be the messenger of good news to the people of the Lord.

“It's great to see so many of you here today,” he began, his deep, rich voice reverberating through the church aisle effortlessly. “But I do have to ask, why not every Sunday?” The rhetorical question had a graceful air on his lips. His big brown eyes pierced the faces of the faithful in attendance, a little doubt in some of those who didn't usually show up on a weekly basis.

Harper listened to his words, curious to have proof of the validity of Erin's praise. Still, she was lost for a moment in the lighting coming from the window beside the pulpit, the faint gray light adorning the priest's thick black curls like a kind of halo. A silly smile curved her lips without her awareness.

“Christmas, Easter, I get that,” continued the man of God. “But there’s also always an uptick around the start of Lent.” His long fingers played briefly with the red ribbon that demarcated the pages of holy scripture. “Why’s that? What's so special today?” His hands forgot the marker and hovered in the air in front of him momentarily.

The young newcomer watched with unquestioning attention the subtle enthusiasm that hovered in every word uttered by the good priest. The way the man moved his hands, gesticulating as he spoke, and the expectant glint that gleamed in the dark pools of his eyes was almost youthful. Miriam saw a man passionate about his mission.

“Ash Wednesday, beginning of Lent. It's hardly a crowd pleaser.” His rich voice wore a chaste smile at the comment. Both hands rested on the pulpit, a deep inhalation followed, a pause. “The beginning of repentance, making amends for our sins.” Paul averted his eyes the slightest bit from everyone, his gaze wandering briefly to the Holy book in front of him.

There was a weight on his chest. Guilt.

“Sin,” looking up, the word slipped from the preacher's lips just as his orbs inconveniently fell on Miriam.

Harper caught the restrained look the good priest had sent her, the contrition of the word slipping into her mind like a fungus. Her serene expression was slightly disturbed by a confused little crease between her brows. She wondered if he did it intentionally, but the seed of insecurity shouldn't take root, not about this. She blinked a few times to clear her mind as she continued to listen to him.

“This darkness, this blackness that spilled into us.” His tone carries a strange shadow, as do his eyes, a glimpse of the demons guarded in his mind, his conscience heavy. “That darkness, we wear it on our forehead today.” A flick of his hand towards his forehead, a glance at the spot where dear Millie used to be.

The restless shadow that momentarily reflects in the priest's eyes does not escape Miriam's perception. A feeling of familiarity lodged in her chest. There was something about Paul that disturbed her, something she still couldn't name. The most beautiful flowers also have their thorns, the saying rips her mind. Maybe there was something in her soul that shared that thing in his brown eyes, but it was too early to tell.

“Just a smudge of it. Uh…” Paul trailed off for a moment, the scrape of a mournful voice in the back of his mind, derailing his thoughts.

His eyes seek focus on the small, reddened notebook he's jotted down his sermon in, the yellowed pages and the words written on them drowning out the angel's whispers.

“A smudge of death, of ash, of sin for repentance.”, another gesture of his pianist's hand, which soon returned to firm itself in the varnished wood of the pulpit. “Because of where this is all actually heading, which is Easter. Rebirth, resurrection, eternal life. Life that rises again.” There is a clarity in the way he pronounces the words, a timely sincerity that imparts serenity to those who listen. So many years on the job must have drained him, but since his miracle, his faith had been renewed, as had he.

The words are crystal clear, each one expressing a singular purpose, a chaste intention to reinvigorate the faith of those people who so often faced disgrace. Miriam allowed herself to look away from the messenger and pay attention to the way each believer absorbed the Word. The priest's booming voice continues his sermon.

“Even out of blackness, love rises again,” the resurrected messenger intones the words with conviction, a welcome musicality peppering an extra layer of vigor into his message. “Even out of sin. And this island, it will rise again.” A new wave of pure contentment is injected through his veins as he watches the emotional faces of those he has known so intimately for so many years.

Harper feels a brief excitement well up in her core, her long-forgotten faith moving ever so slightly, an affable hope ignited by the dark-haired priest's words.

“Even out of disaster, rebirth, restoration, eternal life.” As he utters those words once more, Paul almost breaks away from the uncertainty that he is right in his mission, the fire of his own faith rekindling mournfully. God chose him, gifted him, and the gift should be shared. “Jesus sees you.” His voice rises, his ebony orbs fondly studying each slightly refreshed face. “Sees you, best of all, and he sees you true.” He flicked his wrist again, gesturing to no one in particular.

Miriam looked closely at the faces of the islanders. Ed Flynn, who sat forward, was nodding with conviction, the scorching pride of his faith reflected in his drooping gaze. His wife, sweet Anne, had a bluish handkerchief pressed up to her nostrils, a fervent emotion pushing tears into her pale eyes. There was a passion contained in that sermon, realizing it spread a welcoming warmth in the newcomer's chest, the words moved something inside her. Looks like I still have some chance of redemption, don't I? She thought, her shrewd gaze straying to the crucified Jesus in front of the altar.

“Because, don’t forget, who did he seek out?” His tone had risen an octave, the lyrical excitement gradually taking hold of him. “Who did he turn to, to build his church? His apostles.”, the good cleric could no longer contain his own delight in recognizing the joy of belief in the teary eyes of those people. His people. “Jesus' first disciples, they were fishermen. One of his first miracles, right?” His hands, once restrained on the pulpit, now gesticulated expansively, like a conductor's ghost. The clause sleeves fluttering around him.

Harper's heart pounded with the passion of the words he spoke. She reflected on the weight that passionate homily had on the island's residents. It was certainly moving to watch these people nurture their belief so beautifully, even for her.

“The nets are empty, fishermen desperate. Jesus said, 'Put out into deep water and let down your nets for a catch’, and when they pulled up those nets, amounts of fish.”, the smile that painted his face and his voice singing was capable of lighting up an entire city. “He sees you.” In his voice was a relentless conviction, bringing tears to the eyes of the children he had seen grow up. “Oh yes, he sees you, brothers and sisters, and he will resurrect this island, and he will fill your nets.” Hope gleamed in the parishioners' eyes. Looking forward to having your prayers finally heard.

Paul felt nourished. Nourished by the love of God, and he now had his heart warmed by the love of his parish.

“It’s great you’re here today, but please keep coming back.”, the presbytery pleaded in its lilting voice, a polite plea for them not to lose faith. “Those doors, they’re always open, as the gates are always open. You just bring yourself. God will do the rest.”, the good priest wished his beloved parishioners to remain resolute. Blessings would come. “As Psalm 60 tells us, ‘God, You have rejected us, You have broken us down, You have been angry. Restore us again.'” His ebony orbs rose to the heavens, emphasizing his speech.

They'll need your faith intact for what's to come, a voice similar to his, — but not his —, whispered in his mind. God's chosen must show that faith is to be rewarded, another rather more sullen voice covered his own thoughts for not less than an instant. A chill ran down his spine and there was a heaviness in his chest.

Suddenly, there was a slightly overwhelming energy in the church. Miriam could feel the constricting of air in her lungs, the cosy warmth that had covered her chest evaporated into an awkward feeling, an uncomfortable heaviness, one that only she seemed to cherish. A shiver snaked through her back and she shifted uncomfortably against the old wooden bench. She averted her eyes to the red hymnal in front of her, one hand running involuntarily over the white coats of her rosary.

“Do you know what psalms are? They're songs.” Paul turned his gaze to the believers listening to him, their orbs reflecting a now dimmed glow. “The word psalm from the Greek psalmoi. It means ‘music’.”, the bows that his hand executed, slightly waved his clause, giving the impression of being the slender fan of a blue bird. “Songs of prayer. Songs of praise.” The musicianship had found its way back into his voice. “That's who we are. That's who we must be.” As a true and experienced preacher, Paul presided over the mass hypnotically, everyone's eyes fixed on him and his persuasive words.

Each small pearly dimension marked its spherical shape in the young woman's fingers. A deep breath of closed eyes, and she returned the orbs to the cloth man at the altar. Miriam no longer felt the strange sensation, as suddenly as it came, it was gone in the musicality of the priest's voice, leaving in its wake a strange feeling of disturbance, the kind you get just after hearing an abnormal noise in a house where only you reside.

“That’s what it means to have faith,” a deep breath, and then his eyes dropped to the figure in green once more. “That in the darkness, in the worst of it, in the absence of light and hope, we sing.”, An involuntary smile paints his face at the end of the sentence. “‘Restore us,’ we sing to the sky. And He will, my friends. He will.” Averting his gaze from the huddled female form in the background, he turned his gaze to the open Bible, the shimmering glow of the gold-edged pages soothing his mind, drowning out the voice and the weight of his gift. “That same hand that dealt you your hardship, that same hand will make you whole.” And with the same serenity with which it began, his homily ended.

There was a long silence after the sermon ended. Each parishioner absorbed the good priest's refreshing words in silence. And for what felt like the first time in months, Miriam's mind was completely and utterly silent. There was no paperwork, no cat corpses, no anxiety, no grief. Just a sepulchral silence in her awareness.

She remembered those moments of strange peace. As much as she harboured a contempt for the way she had spent her years in St. Agnes, Miriam had bittersweet memories of her times of solitude in the boarding school's small, dark chapel. However, this time, a feeling of familiarity blossomed. Her mind fast-forwarding to the Sundays her mother took her to church, her youthful self little interested in the old abbot's words. She recalled with a slight frown that on the way home, Lyanna had made a point of explaining to her every parable the abbot had quoted during his sermon.

The gloomy notes of the organ suddenly pulled her out of her mournful reverie, along with Erin's harmonious voice murmuring her name. Looking up, — having blinked a few plaintive tears away —, Miriam paid attention around her. A line of parishioners had quickly formed, up ahead, at the head of the line, was Father Paul. The purple clause demarcating his presence. He patiently blessed with a blackened cross the forehead of every link in that chain of faith.

“Are you okay?” Erin asked with her brows drawn together in her typical maternal concern. Harper smiled weakly, and nodded, stroking the expectant mother's hand that was touching her forearm.

“Yes, just,” the woman considered her words, it would not be appropriate to fill the expectant young woman of hopeful eyes with her melancholy. She shook her head once more, purging some unwanted thoughts. “… taking it all in. You were right to sing him praises.” A simple smile curves her full lips, and Erin gives her a look that says, “I told you so.”

Both women rose from their seats and positioned themselves in the row of sinners. On instinct, Miriam wraps herself more tightly in her shawl. The smoky voice of the black-haired priest creeps into her ears, reverberating through the damp-swollen woodwork of the church and back again, in a ghostly echo.

“Ben, remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

With each step closer to her blessing, a disconcerting tightness crept into her chest. Since the visit the good priest had paid her, Miriam had not seen him in the days that followed, the unspoken tension that had built up on the day in question never being undone. Besides, against her better judgment and self-control, her restless mind began to trouble her with at least profane images about the black-haired priest.

“Fiona, remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

Impure thoughts in the house of God? You will burn if he touches you. A cruel, childish voice scratched at her brain. Having the main agent of such thoughts so close to her could certainly provoke an unconscious reaction in her, something that would give her away. This particular line of reasoning sent an embarrassed shudder through her body. Calm down, it's just a blessing, it's not like you're going to combust. An irritating voice whispered in her mind, giving her some reason. Her tense shoulders cause a numb throb in her neck.

The next step was taken, Erin prostrated herself in front of the vicar, her delicate hands clasped under her chin in reverence. Taking a deep breath and straightening her posture, Miriam felt the priest's voice vibrate within her bones.

“Erin, remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

Once the pregnant woman took a step to the side, crossing herself, and returned through the pews to her place among the parishioners. Miriam inhaled deeply, taking a step forward. The green-clad woman kept her eyes down on her black boots, the same mud-stained boots she'd acquired the first day she set foot on that island. The wooden floor looked worn and unkempt beneath her small heels. The distance is less than a step between her and the priest.

“Miriam, remember you are dust…”, his resonant voice trailed off. He had his fist raised to the height of her forehead, yet he stopped, his thumb dipped in dark ash flush with the skin of her forehead, but never touching. Paul wanted to look her in the eye when he blessed her.

A doubt scratched the surface of her mind. Why did he stop? An inconvenient blush crept up the newcomer's cheeks as she reluctantly lifted her shy gaze from the wood floor to the priest's warm ebony irises, she prayed her eyes wouldn't give her away.

Paul was staring at her tenderly, a stubborn lock of black hair hanging disobediently in front of those huge eyes of his. Harper inhaled deeply as she faced him, a dizzying sensation lapping at her skin. The woody scent of sandalwood, myrrh, and something minty like mint filled her lungs abundantly, the scent intensifying as the cloth man moved, tracing his thumb across her forehead, smearing her with the mark of sin.

“And to dust you shall return.”, a warmth covered the words that flowed from the priest's well-designed lips. He lowered his fist, his brown orbs about to engulf the woman in front of him. Paul studied her face, wanting to keep the sight of the lovely blush that covered her cheeks to himself. “Bless you, child.”, he uttered in a subtly knowing tone, after a moment of silence.

Their gazes held for a few moments longer than would be considered appropriate. Miriam lowered her eyes, a trembling hand crossing herself, her face so hot it felt like it was burning. Her heart in her chest resembled a caged sparrow, a heavy breath later, she found her voice.

“Amen.”

The mass did not take long to end after the blessing. In a way, there was a general anxiety on the part of all those present to be early to the end of the service so that they could enjoy the community event for a longer time.

Miriam felt her hands damp in her pockets. A few minutes had passed, her heartbeat had slowed, and as she got up to leave, she hoped Erin hadn't noticed how the measly touch on her forehead had disconcerted her. With a deep breath, she composed herself, eager to leave the oppressive environment she was in. Before she could even set foot outside the church, Harper felt the weight of a hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, what a good thing to see you here, Miss. Harper!” Wade said with a smile on his face. Miriam turned, the tension in her shoulders causing a small, fleeting cramp in her neck.

There was an awkward moment when Miriam's eyes landed on the mayor. He looked slightly younger than she remembered, it looked like even some of the gray hairs that had sprouted at his temples and coloured his moustache were gone. The accountant blinked a few times. No, it's all in your head, maybe he just figured it out how to paint them naturally. Anyway, that wasn't the only reason she felt uncomfortable in the politician's presence.

Her investigation into Crockett Island's financial woes turned out not to be limited to just the 'Bev Keane Money Laundering Center' — as Joe had kindly dubbed it. In fact, according to her most recent information there were years of fiduciary fraud going on, on the Island, and not coincidentally, such fraud had started in the records of the year that dated Wade Scarborough's first election as mayor. It was ridiculous how often this sort of thing happened in small towns. After all, if there are no opponents you are always sure to be elected, then there is no reason to worry about having your illicit activities discovered.

Miriam's gaze shifted from the mayor to the two figures behind him: Dolly and Leeza. She wondered if the Mayoress knew her husband was corrupt. She felt sorry for Leeza, after all she would be the most harmed if Dolly knew, and they were both arrested.

“Good morning, Mayor Scarborough. Mrs. Scarborough, Leeza.” Miriam disguised her concern with her best friendly tone and greeted everyone. The young woman in the wheelchair had a bright smile on her face as she waved at the accountant.

The youthful glint in Leeza's eyes returned to Dolly, to whom she whispered something indistinct and expectant. The bespectacled woman nodded, watching her daughter make her way happily towards the altar boys and young Ali. They all smiled in an excitement that only youth can provide.

Harper looked back at the mayor a moment later, her orbs having followed Leeza.

“It's a great thing to have you here,” Dolly said, taking a few steps closer, her slender fingers pushing the clear stem of her glasses back to where they slipped. Miriam kept a thin smile on her lips, not wanting to let her contempt for the mayor's actions show on her face.

“It was a beautiful homily indeed, I haven't heard anything this refreshing since Christmas.” Wade's voice sounded slightly choked, as if he'd cried at the priest's words not long before he addressed her.

“Yes…”, an almost imperceptible blush stained the young woman's skin at the unwelcome memory of the light touch left on her forehead. “Father Paul has a gift for words.” Her voice was serene, but there was an affection that reached only her eyes. She admired how eloquent the man was, of that there was no doubt.

“I'm glad to hear that.”, the priest's booming voice sounded, as if he had been evoked with the mere mention of the name, Paul appeared behind Dolly, Erin followed him and in her beautiful face she had a shrewd look at Miriam.

The expectant mother turned to her lodger with a smile, casting a suggestive look between her and the clergy. Erin said goodbye to the good priest, Dolly, and the mayor, walking with an even more suggestive smile away from the group. The couple did not take long to leave either, both holding hands in calm strides in the direction where their offspring had gone.

Harper's cheeks felt hot, but she didn't let the feeling of self-consciousness overwhelm her this time. Keeping her back straight, she took the remaining steps to exit the interior of the church. A fresh breath of air filling her lungs with the smell of sea air and burnt lemongrass. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the calm for a moment, the warmth of a body beside her bringing her back to the present.

“So you came.” There was a smile curving the priest's lips, a gentle warmth once more spread through his being at the sight of her.

Paul kept his hands clasped in front of his body and studied carefully the way the accountant's face had softened, her hair held on the sides by bobby pins releasing a few strands that caressed the young woman's face. He looked down momentarily for fear of being caught staring when she turned her eyes to him. He scolded himself for his childish behaviour and looked up at the fair that began ahead, around the city's founding monument.

“I said I would.”, she replies with a shy smile, taking a hand out of her pocket to adjust some unruly strands of her hair that had escaped her bobby pins. “I don't say this just to please you, since lying isn't really my thing, but…”, Miriam pondered her words and turned fully to the priest, an absolutely serious look in her eyes. “It was the best sermon I ever heard,” she declares seriously. The accountant smiles as she sees him smother a laugh, a rosy colour covering his cheeks.

“I'll be spoiled if this continues.”, Paul nods, laughing at the ridiculously serious tone she gave the sentence. For a moment, he really feared he'd let her down. His own smile widens when he sees her smiling at his foolishness.

“I'm serious,” a female hand rises dramatically towards her chest to emphasize her speech. “You almost converted me.”, she says with a smile, seeing him bite his lip and shake his head a little at the affirmation. “Almost. There was very little left.”, Her sweet voice has a humorous tone, and she symbolizes with her hands the little that was missing for her so-called ‘conversion’.

“It's a pity my plan to bring this sheep back to the fold has failed.” There is a subtlety in the pronunciation of the words, a delicate sarcasm coupled with the unconvincing way in which it was spoken.

“More luck next time, Father.”, she murmurs with a half smile. There's a biting timbre to her voice, a slight sarcasm. Taking a deep breath, she shoves her hands in her pockets again. An icy breeze makes her shiver.

He lowers his eyes for a moment with a slight smile, turning back to face her a little later. There was an unusual beauty about the young woman, a melancholy that crept into her features, as if there was a strange pain that kept her always at bay, her overworked mind taking her to a dark place, away from the present, away from him.

She looked a lot healthier since the last time he saw her. In the shinier, flowing locks of hair, her skin had a healthier tone, and her lips looked more flushed and smoother than ever. A heretical memory crept through the meanderings of his mind, and he cringed in the slightest. Lust is your new virtue? Will you shame God by breaking your vows, Father? Paul shudders at the dark whisper that pollutes his mind.

Miriam took a step down the steps of St. Patrick, and the glimpse of movement was enough for him to force himself to deviate from that train of thought.

His watchful eyes then capture the rather distant figure of Sheriff Hassan, he is approaching slowly, one hand smoothing the back of his brown neck as if to expunge the tension from his shoulders, the other tucked in his pocket. Harper seems to notice him too, as she takes another step closer to the lawman.

Spread the word… You still have a flock, Father, forget about the straying sheep, the voice of the messenger sent by the lord scratched in his mind. The good priest blinked once hard and watched as Hassan approached. The whispers getting angrier in his mind.

“Good morning, Father Paul,” greeted the policeman with a restrained wave, his black eyes turning in the accountant's direction. “Miriam.”

Harper waved back at him, a patient, suddenly tired smile curving her lips. With her hands still in her pockets, she turned to the priest, her gaze dropping before meeting him, an almost imperceptible blush staining her cheeks.

“Well, I-” Miriam is suddenly interrupted by the squeaky voice of a very prim Bev Keane from inside the church. She no longer wore her ceremonial robes and seemed energetic to introduce her pastor to the local customs.

“Oh! Father, finally.” Her freckled face flashes a cheek-splitting smile for Paul, but as soon as her green eyes fall on the newcomer and the sheriff, she stiffens.

“Well, is there a problem, Sheriff?” she asks, stepping in front of the priest, putting herself in the path between him and the muslim policeman as if she were a shield against the two heathens ahead.

“None, Bev. I'm here to see the event. I saw Ms. Harper, and I took the opportunity to speak with her. We have some things to talk about.” Hassan spoke in a calm tone, exchanging a knowing look with the accountant, hands on hips, at the sudden appearance of the deaconess.

“Exactly.” Miriam began, amending the good sheriff's line. “And I was talking to Father Paul, but I don't want to rob him of his duties. Well…”, she casts a glance in the direction of the purple-clad cleric. “See you later, Father. Ms. Keane.” A restrained nod to both of them and she walks towards the festival, seeing Hassan follow her with a glance over her shoulder. “Having fun?” she asked the lawman with a smile. He snorted briefly.

“The food doesn't look bad,” he begins, taking his hands off his hips and tucking them into the pockets of his blue jeans, shrugging. “The greengrocers don't have anything very different, you know, antiques, flowers, handmade candles… Ali made me buy something in each one of them. He even made me buy a bar of green tea acne soap.” He pulls a brown paper wrapper from a jacket pocket and displays it briefly before putting it back.

“Ali seems like a good boy. Give him a break, he's just wanting to participate.”, Miriam says with a smile curving her lips. She looks up from the unkempt lawn to look around, taking in her surroundings.

The sun is no longer shrouded by heavy rain clouds, its golden rays barely shining, glistening in the white tents of the small greengrocers arranged around the town monument. Flowers, soaps, handmade candles and antiques dot each one. The devout residents of that tiny island crowded among the tents, smiling, drinking and eating to the tune of a local folk band called 'Timmy & The Whack Shack'.

Miriam recognized the lead singer, he was at mass right behind her. A laugh escaped her nose. Hassan looked at her questioningly for a moment as they made their way to the liquor store. He followed her gaze and smiled weakly.

“No cars, or digital files, or any technology that didn't become obsolete in the nineties, but still… They have a folk band. A fucking folk band living right here in Crockett. This is amazing. I'm stuck in a David Pinner book!” Harper exclaimed, raising her eyebrows with an incredulous laugh, earning the looks of a few people who heard her outrage.

“Wonders never cease.” muttered the sheriff, exasperated.

Without delay, as they approached the small makeshift wooden counter, — where a large aluminium barrel rested —, blue drink tickets were handed to them, restrained greetings were extended to the sheriff. Politely, Hassan declined his notes and Miriam accepted hers, even though she had no intention of using them.

Her peripheral vision caught the squat, gangly figure of Joe Collie, hunched over one end of the counter, his scraggly beard and gray-blended moustache drowned in a beer glass. Hassan and Harper exchanged a worried look. As the sheriff walked away to have a few words with Joe, Miriam was more interested in the diligent animal playing with something in the grass.

When she got close enough, Miriam frowned as she saw Pike muzzle a piece of bread. The sausage had rolled away on the grass, and the dog was still lying down, trying to reach the pink chunk of meat. Lowering herself onto the grass, the accountant gained the animal's gleeful attention. She caressed his cheeks and the middle of his ears with one hand, while with the other she picked up the intact piece of bread and sausage. Before the dog could snatch her hand, she walked over to a dustbin next to a bench and threw the thing away.

Miriam had had a dog a few years ago. A huge tricolour fur Bernese named Bento. Harper loved him madly and loved stroking his long, shiny fur, but like anyone who had just had their first dog, she didn't have much of a sense of what he should or shouldn't eat. She would often give him some of her pasta during lunch, after all, Bento seemed to like it so much that it felt cruel not to share her food with her best friend. Over time, obviously, the animal's silky fur started to lose its shine and softness, and poor Bento started to have dandruff and hives due to his improper diet.

Shortly afterward, Lenz informed younger Miriam that she should never feed her dog with flour. The habit of avoiding this kind of food around dogs acted naturally on her, convincing Pike not to eat it.

Harper grimaced, wiping her hand of the dog's saliva from the back of the hem of her dress. Once she approached the dog, it wagged its tail, having risen from its comfortable spot on the fresh grass, only to nearly knock the woman over as it gleefully leapt on her.

“Hello, Pike.”, she smiled widely, balancing again on the small heels and stroking the animal's big head eagerly. “You shouldn't eat wheat, boy, it will make that beautiful fur of yours fall out.” Her voice held a sweet tone, as if Pike was actually a mischievous child and not a dog.

Bento was quite different from Pike, instead of being so gangly and playful, the Bernese was quiet and sleepy, but she decided to like Pike as much as she liked Bento.

She ran her fingers over the creature's thick, glossy fur, scratching with her nails, chin, and ears. When she stood up, Miriam took a few steps closer to Joe and Hassan, both of whom were watching the interaction without much interest.

“What did he have?” Joe asked, his voice still slightly choked, but this time from the alcohol. The dog happily approached its owner, sat proudly and diligently beside him, and received a caress on the chin.

“Someone must have dropped a hot dog. He was snooping around, but I managed to throw it away before he ate.” She gestured briefly towards the trash can.

Hassan stared at the animal gaily prostrate next to him, its big pink tongue hanging out, dripping saliva, almost in a smile.

“Don't let him eat anything that has wheat or sugar, it will make him sick.” Seeing Joe's brows knit, she decided to complete it. “My brother-in-law is a veterinarian, he told me the same thing when I had a dog.”, she pointed and reached into her pocket again.

“I'll remember that.” whispered the animal's owner. With this new information, the stocky old man turned his attention to his nearly empty beer glass with a wave.

Gesturing at the dark fur-covered creature, Miriam sat down on the nearby bench. Pike trotted interestedly toward her, ears pricked, attentive, as he sat on the accountant's feet, his long tongue darting out to lick his own muzzle as the woman began scratching her nails behind his ear.

Having finished his conversation with Joe Collie, Hassan walked over to the newcomer and sat down beside him.

“You don't have a brother-in-law,” he murmured to her in his deep, husky voice. “Actually you don’t even have a brother… or a sister.” She smiled, her discerning eyes very intent on the animal between her thighs.

“No, but I consider Abel my brother, which in turn makes his husband my brother-in-law,” she explained tersely, never taking her eyes off Pike. “It doesn't matter,” concluded the accountant, finally leaning back on the bench, shoulder to shoulder with the sheriff.

“Fair.” There was a pause, the soft air in the policeman's dark eyes fading. “What did Abel say about the files?” he asked, crossing his arms and leaning closer to Miriam. His black orbs watched people farther away, making sure no one but them was listening.

Miriam took a deep breath, it was obvious that her peace would only last for a short time, after all, problems just don't solve themselves.

The day after the priest's unexpected visit, Miriam found part of the documentation that implied fiduciary fraud, the fraud that had arisen during the tenure of the current mayor of Crockett. This new information added an extra headache for the accountant, and she ended up emailing her cousin with the prints of the documentation. Abel, like the good lawyer he was, asked if there were any reliable law enforcement officers on the island that she could talk to. Thus, Hassan ended up being abruptly introduced into this situation.

It wasn't enough for Bev to persecute him and his faith, now he had confirmation that she had taken advantage of poor, deranged Pruitt's plight to steal money from the construction of the Recreation Center, overpricing the materials. Besides, less than a day ago, he'd discovered that not only Bev but the mayor had been looting the island's resources.

“It's enough to subpoena them, but I don't have the legal power to do that.”, Miriam says with a sigh, blinking slowly in Hassan's direction. She stared at him for a moment, hoping he would understand what she was asking of him.

“What exactly are you asking me for?” the good sheriff asked, a stern look on his face, dark brows drawn together tightly.

“I'm asking you to investigate. See if there's anything else we missed. There's a limit to what I can do, and I've already reached it.”, she looks him in the eyes heavily, there's a raw honesty in Miriam's voice. She doesn't seem happy to ask him to put himself in the line of fire, but she does anyway.

“Investigate, exactly what? Bev? The Recreation Center? City Hall and Mayor? My God, Miriam. Even St. Patrick?” Hassan shifts uncomfortably against the damp-swollen boards of the bench, his voice low, subdued, as he again traverses the surrounding area.

No intruders in sight.

He takes a deep breath, seeing the disgusted look traced on his companion's face.

“Did I ever tell you why I moved here?” he asks, turning a sideways glance at the blackened stain at the accountant's feet.

“No, I don't think so.” Miriam's voice trails off in response, tiredness digging into her words. She runs her fingers through her hair and pulls the shawl closer to her body, an uncomfortable feeling welling up in her chest.

“Didn’t tell anybody, now that I think about it.” A contemplative bitterness covers the sheriff's husky voice. He continues, his timbre taking on a dry tone. “It’s almost as if nobody asked.” He gestures with a strong hand briefly, then goes back to wrapping it around his biceps.

Suddenly, Miriam realizes that this will not be an easy conversation.

“You know, I was, um, 21 when the Towers went down.”, Hassan says, his voice getting lower and regretful. “Watched it on TV in my dorm room just weepin’” he continued, looking at the beaming faces of the children. “When I was a kid, I wasn’t religious at all, really. But I went to the mosque that day, because they had a blood drive, and the line went for blocks.” A flick of his strong wrist illustrated his speech.

Harper felt that initial embarrassment rise in her chest.

“I wanted to help. I wanted to protect this country.” Another wary look around and the sheriff continued, his disappointment reflected in the way his thick brows drew together. “So I moved to New York and enrolled in NYPD training. Now, some of my friends, they weren't happy.” A frown formed on his lips as Hassan shifted uncomfortably in the seat, glancing peripherally at the woman listening to him.

“‘The NYPD is against us,’ they’d say. But I’d tell them, 'No. You're wrong.'” A pause, a sigh, and the next breath of air brings with it the scent of lavender and cedar. “‘I’ll show them they don’t have to be afraid of us. I'll show them who we are.'’” Uncrossing his arms, Hassan sits more properly, now facing Miriam.

Harper couldn't look at him intently, so she stared at the small flaw he had in one eyebrow. She should have better considered what it would be like to ask for something of that scope from the good man who cooperated so much with her. She should have considered his position in that den of bigotry.

“So I worked my way up.” the sheriff gestured, his breathing steady but almost imperceptibly panting, exhausted. “You know, traffic, and translating and transcribing wiretaps, then Vice” He's gesturing with his brown hands, punctuating his words until he stops, looking away from her to his son.

“I get married. Ali is born, and I’m promoted again. Detective now.” Hassan turns his eyes heavy with weariness to the huddled figure beside him and sighs. “Top-Secret Security Clearance for the Joint Terrorism Task Force. I'm helping the FBI fight terrorists.” With another flick of his wrist he gestures, conviction in gesture and words.

“We’re taking collars. You know, petty stuff, pot, parking tickets and leaning on them hard if they’re Muslim.” There's disgust in his voice as he leans back in his seat. “‘You know, we’ll drop the charge, help you out. You go to the mosque and listen. ’” A sneer breaks out on his lips at the following words.

“I thought we were supposed to be fighting terrorists.” Another sigh, this time one of disappointment. “Not flipping some pothead student in Queens to spy on Americans.” Hassan clears his throat and takes a deep breath, his dark orbs flashing around again as a girl with blonde braids and flowers in her hands walks past them.

Miriam feels the need to say something, but bites her tongue, shifting uncomfortably in the seat, because she wouldn't know what to say. So she just takes a deep breath and wraps herself more tightly in her shawl, one hand snaking down to the damn beads. She looks away from watching a giggling Erin chatting with a withdrawn Riley to a depleted lawman beside her.

“So I complain. Gently…”, a male hand raises a single index finger, in a representative gesture, before the sheriff's deep voice completes. “One time.” Hassan has a palpable disappointment etched in his features. “Everything changed.” There was another pause, an indignant silence. “I was surveilled by other cops. I mean, they even had an official file on me.” Hassan took a deep breath, one hand running through his black hair that was starting to gray wearily.

“And not just me. See, like, after the Towers, Muslim officers were promoted fast. Especially if we knew the language, like, linguistic knowledge, cultural knowledge. We were very desirable for that.” The man's weary gaze focused on some uninteresting fixed point just at the accountant's feet. “But it started to occur to them, with so many of us on the force, elevated to positions of real authority, what if that had been our plan all along?” His normally serene expression twists into a frown.

“What if we were interlopers? What if we were infiltrators? What if we were double agents? And they fucking panicked.” The curse ran emphatically across the cop's bearded lips. “Internal Affairs was suddenly all over us. We were being followed. We’re being recorded. Civilians too. Surveilled at mosques, cafes.”

The entire situation described brought the bitterness of bile onto the accountant's tongue, and a shiver of discomfort unnerved her spine. Pike stood up, sitting up and leaning his big head against the woman's covered knee. Miriam ran her fingers over the animal's ears, staring straight ahead.

“And suddenly I’m out of plain clothes, and I’m back in uniform. Night shift, street beat.” There was an indignation that never left his words, the pain spiked in his tone. “And more and more, I realize that I've lost their trust.” Hassan shrugs wearily. “I roll with it. I keep my head high.” Harper watches the sheriff's bearded chin lift with pride.

“Dignity.” Hassan's voice is raw, bitter. Miriam looks up from the panting dog at her feet to look into the good sheriff's black eyes. There was something reflected in them, a pain, an agony, but also something she knew all too well, grief.

“Dignity is a word my wife uses.”, the good cop's gaze drops, for a moment he just stares at his own hands folded in his lap. “‘Show them dignity. ’” The pain of loss punctuates his words, and Harper feels something tighten in her chest. “And then she's diagnosed.” Hassan's voice drops, almost fails, and Miriam can't look him in the eye.

“And she's robbed of her dignity so fast.”, his words escape in the form of a pained whisper. “And then she’s gone. And I couldn't…”, his controlled tone breaks into something choked, packed with grief. “Ali and I get as far away as we can. And I find this gig. This little island.” Hassan takes a deep breath, lifting his dark eyes back to Miriam, and he realizes she's finally looking at him, a sad furrow marring her forehead.

“So sleepy, it could be dead. No elections, no staff. Just a tiny room at the back of a grocery store, and a bunch of fishermen without a notable incident of intentional violence in almost a century, and I beg for the post.” speech. “Dignity.” He punctuates the word in a firm voice. “Ali is bored to tears. But he's safe.” Looking around, he makes a small nod towards the smiling boy next to Ooker.

Harper straightens up and looks in the direction of young Ali Hassan. The boy was sweet and dedicated, he always carried a bright smile and an infinite desire to help and cooperate. He wanted to belong to that small community without realizing how bad it would do him, how much it would contaminate him. The accountant sighs, lowering her eyes and turning her melancholy orbs to the sheriff.

“And I still think I could maybe move the world that one millimeter. You know, maybe here’s where we make a difference. Not in the big city, but in this tiny village.”, the policeman gestures around, his tone low and controlled to avoid being heard over the music. “Win over the fucking PTA and call it a victory for Islam.”, impetuously he throws his hands up emphatically.

“So I don’t intimidate. I don't overshare or overstep or intrude in any way.” Hassan's tone is cautious, and Miriam knows there's nothing to argue about. So she resigns herself to scratching Pike's head and calming the anxiety. “Miriam, I don't even carry a gun.” He gestures vaguely to the empty holster on his belt, his expression softening for a slight second.

“And still…” he looks around, his tone even lower, before continuing. “Beverly Keane and a few others too look at me like I’m Osama bin-Fucking-Laden.” Miriam looks away once more and feels her cheeks burn with the disgrace of her request. “And you’d like me to investigate them?” it is a rhetorical question, she knows, and guiltily she drops her gaze to the floor, turning as he does, both of them, shoulder to shoulder.

Miriam bites the inside of her cheek and considers her friend's words.

“I'm sorry.”, she says in a low whisper, not meeting his eyes, her fingers playing with the black fur of the dog that was staring at her. “I will not insist that you do this. But I ask that you just consider nominating someone you trust to do this for you. Please.” She hears an exhausted sigh beside her and decides to add. “If it's still complicated, and I know it is, just keep your distance and if someone asks, say that I hired the person and that you didn't know anything, you know, blame the newly arrived and nosy accountant.” weak laugh that escapes the grieving policeman. “I guarantee everyone would believe it.”, Miriam shrugs, letting her eyes roam over the faces of the people around her.

Hassan turns to her from his seat on the bench, his pointed gaze fixed on the accountant's serious profile. When she realizes he's staring at her, she does the same to him, pure and absolute conviction in her features. The sheriff takes a deep breath in silent agreement.

“I think I might know someone, but I need to check if she's still available.” Hassan muttered, folding his hands in his lap. “Otherwise, there's nothing else I can do.”, the sheriff completes between one breath and the next, his dark eyes focusing on Joe's intoxicated figure.

“Thank you,” she murmured in a gentle tone, patting the officer's thigh reassuringly.

For a moment, most of the tension in Miriam's shoulders is gone, and both friends share a comfortable silence.

The sugary scent of candy floss, lavender, cedar, and sea air fills the young woman's nostrils, and she feels calm for a moment. She closes her eyes and absorbs the distant bass of the small band's music. A loud snore from Pike abruptly reminded her of where she was, and jointly awoke something else.

“And the cats? Any news?” Miriam asked suddenly, turning her head on the back of the seat and staring at Hassan's tired profile as he sighed.

“The vet mentioned something about an unusual thing at the autopsy.” He knits his brows together in an effort to remember exactly what it was. “According to him, it wasn't just the laceration that caused the death of all those cats, it looks like something drained the blood from the bodies, completely.”, the dark-bearded man makes a strange face as he says those words, almost as if it makes no sense put them together in a sentence.

A pair of glowing eyes flashes through Harper's mind. With a shake of her head, she pushes the dark memory to a corner of her mind. Taking a deep breath, she ignores a shiver that enervates up her spine and lays her head back on the back, her eyes turned to the mingled immensity of the celestial above.

“Well, at least that explains why there was no blood on the beach despite the biblical amount of bodies.”, she mutters with a frown, gesturing minimally around. The mere memory of the putrid stench of the bodies made her stomach churn.

“Speaking of the bible…” Hassan glances for a moment at the slender cleric approaching them. The sheriff is silently amused as he watches his company's posture stiffen in realization.

Harper takes a deep breath and watches the man of the cassock approach in the distance, he no longer wears the purple clause, but his typical set of boots, jeans, black button-down shirt and cardigan. The mere glimpse of his lush curly mane unnerved a flurry of butterflies beneath her skin.

“Are you staying here?” she asks the dark-haired sheriff in a low voice, her posture straight, her eyes never leaving the tall figure that stood out among the islanders. She blinked after a moment and saw him nod toward old Joe Collie and his glass that never seemed to be empty.

“Just a little longer. I want to make sure he doesn't see any giant-albatross chasing him again.”, he muttered, crossing his arms in a tighter posture with the cleric's proximity.

Miriam reacted to his comment with a noise close to a laugh and nodded in agreement as she stood up. A knowing look was all that ran between the two of them before the pastor's melodic voice filtered into their ears. Tucking her hands into her pockets, she watched the two men.

“Morning again, Sheriff.”, the priest waved one hand briefly at both of them while the other dangled hidden behind his back. His ebony eyes flicker briefly to the woman with a slightly embarrassed smile.

Miriam absorbed the awkward silence between the three of them, biting the inside of her cheek to contain her embarrassment. The good priest seemed to sense the uncomfortable silence he had unintentionally caused, and offered to correct it.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, I-” he started, taking a half step back. His rich tone was abruptly interrupted by Miriam's serene speech.

“Oh no. It's not interrupting, we're done.” She turned to Hassan and nodded. “Give me news about your friend.”, Miriam used her most worried tone, just in case she needed to elude some questions from the parish priest.

The black-haired sheriff nodded and ran a strong hand between Pike's furry ears, briefly losing interest in the interaction between the priest and the accountant.

“Want to go for a walk?” Paul asked, turning to the young woman, a hopeful glint in the dark pools of his eyes. She shrugged and whispered a 'sure', contained, a wave of heat rising up her neck.

Taking a few steps closer to the stocky man who was intently focusing on his drink, Harper asked:

“Joe, do you mind if I take Pike for a walk? He looks bored.”, she added with a smile, casting a gentle look at the animal, who promptly glanced at her upon hearing his name. Joe looked her up and down for less than a moment and nodded.

“Make yourself comfortable, he already got used to you.”, Joe shrugged, watching his canine friend trot towards the woman with childlike glee once she called out to him.

“Come on, Pike.”, she called to the big dog, who happily trotted towards her. Rising from her crouched position, Miriam casts a glance at those left behind and nods to the priest who was watching her with his hands behind his back.

Soon they began to walk shoulder to shoulder. Pike wagged his tail and made his diligent patrol a few steps ahead.

Paul looks at his companion's features for a long moment before taking a shallow breath and extending the hand he'd hidden behind his back toward her, unpretentiously, it took a minute for her to register the gesture. Between the preacher's long fingers is a flower. But not just any flower, it was a gardenia. Miriam wondered if he knew what each white petal of those meant. Secret love, how appropriate. She bit her lip to hold back her laughter.

She runs her fingers over the white petals and picks it up as if it were made of glass, a bubbling blush rushing to her cheeks as her fingers brush the bare tips of his.

“Why the flower?”, she asks, glancing at him before she can hold her tongue. Paul has both hands shoved in the pockets of those damn tight jeans as he shrugs and looks around, a serene look on his features. There's a tenderness in his dark eyes that blows tender heat into her throbbing chest as he looks at her.

“I don't know…” he says, a simple smile curving his well-designed cupid's bow. “A thanks. Maybe I just want you to feel comfortable with me,” he says casually, as if the gesture itself isn't short of priestly manners.

Miriam smiles slightly at the answer, but she can't help but tease him about it.

“Oh, and why is that, Father?” she asks, twirling the short, hairy stem of the flower between her fingers. Paul could feel the smile in her words, the slight teasing in her use of his title. The elder takes a moment to find his words.

“It's just… you usually seem so nervous, so overwhelmed…”, near me. He catches the words on his tongue before they leave his mouth, stubborn heat covering his face. Paul simply gestures with one hand for nothing in particular and goes back to hiding his hands in his pockets. “I just want to fix this.” He looks at her briefly, an expectant look well hidden in his eyes.

A nasal understanding noise escapes the woman, and she lets her eyes roam around her surroundings before responding in a restrained way.

“You’re very kind. Thank you.”, her tone is sweet and soft, like the hum of a bird, and it nurtures an unquestionable affability.

A simple smile curves the corners of Paul's lips as they stare at each other for a short moment, studying each other. Then immediately turn their eyes to the path in front of them.

The crackling of the still icy grass beneath their feet is continually drowned out by the laughter and excited voices all around. Miriam sinks into the sweet scent of the flower bud in her hands, a scent almost as intoxicating as his own. Thinking about it carries her to the disturbing moment when their bodies were pressed together in her kitchen. The way she could feel the heat of his skin even under his clothes. The way he tightly wrapped his arm around her waist to keep her from collapsing, how it felt a little too tight to be unintentional or meaningless. Harper felt herself almost shiver as she remembered how his thick black lashes had so seductively darkened those kind, half-closed eyes.

Her mind was pulled from its blasphemous spiral by the priest's rich tone as he waved to Melinda in her flower shop. Paul turned his attention back to her.

“…so, how are you feeling on your first crock pot luck?” he asks, a chaste smile painting his lips, a dark brow arched in curiosity. The good priest watches her huff a faint laugh as he lifts his head and looks up around.

“Well, it's your first one, too. I believe we both have to answer that. However, I suppose your response will be much more enthusiastic than mine.” This time there was a vague exhaustion bubbling under each word, but still she shot him a weak smile.

“Oh… having a bad day?” he asks in a compassionate tone, his features empathetic to the heralded difficulty. When Miriam glances at him for a second, he has his brows drawn together and his eyes squint at the sun, her mind crawling with images again, and she almost gasps.

“Not exactly, but I've received news that won't make my week any easier.”, the young woman blurts out in a weary murmur. She feels an uneasy bubble piercing her brain as her gaze rests on Bev's rigid, impertinent figure a few steps away.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Paul murmurs, his hand lightly stroking Miriam's back in a comforting way. The cleric feels his companionship shudder under his fingertips.

“Laws of the trade, I suppose,” she whispers, correcting her shallow breathing with a sigh. Her shrewd eyes fell on Beverly Keane's judgmental gaze, who glared repulsively at the diligent animal trotting between Paul and Harper. “Tell me, Father Paul, have you noticed something wrong with your books?” The question runs through the woman's lips once the deaconess is out of reach.

Paul stares at her confused for a moment, and runs a hand through his curls as he crumples to the floor. Miriam notices and stops her steps soon after, facing him.

“What do you mean?” the cloth man asks, tilting his head slightly and watching the accountant approach a few steps, so she doesn't need to speak above a whisper.

“Sorry, I should have been more specific.”, she stops staring at him for a moment. Miriam lets her free hand run along the back of her neck, the tips of her nails scratching her skin weakly as she scolds herself for not being clearer. “I mean, have you noticed anything wrong or weird with the church bills since you arrived?” the young woman rephrases her question, looking around slightly just in case Bev is lurking.

“To be honest, I don’t know, Bev always does the maths…”, the priest is dumbfounded at the perception of the frivolous suggestion of the question. Paul wonders what antics Bev was up to as he drowned in the dark. Certainly nothing good.

“If I may, Father, I believe you should look for yourself, just as a matter of conscience. If you find something wrong, I'd be very grateful if you let me know.” Harper watches in her peripheral vision as Pike circles some plant near the cemetery and relieves himself on it. She turns to look at him. “I'm facing some problems as an accountant. So many things wrong on such a small island…” she rambles, turning the gardenia in her fingers as if it were a hypnotic circle.

“I'll be more attentive, I promise.”, the black haired man forms, briefly touching the woman's forearm with his fingertips, triggering a shaky sigh from her. Forcing himself not to get caught up in that detail, Paul stares at the grass floor for a moment or two. “But why not ask Ms. Keane?” the good priest asks, his gaze still squinted against the blinding glare of the sun.

“Ah…”, she laughs, stepping to the side, making her way towards Pike. An almost bitter laugh escapes her as she tucked a strand of her flowing hair behind her ear. “I'm sure you've heard her opinion of me in her confessions.”, she comments when he places himself side by side with her again. Now it was his turn to laugh.

“I can't say, priest-confessor secrecy.” There is an air of laughter that covers his words as he responds, a sardonic smile on his lips. Paul watches Miriam nod grimly with dramatic seriousness, and it only makes him smile more.

“Um…sure…”, the young woman murmurs, enjoying the simple, comfortable intimacy between them.

Like it or not, the newspaper clipping she'd seen in the rectory from time to time crept into her mind, whether she was in the presence of the good clergyman or alone. Obviously, she'd already heard that ridiculous rumour that every person has at least seven doppelgangers around the world, but good God! She had never seen such a stark resemblance before. Every little mark or crease in his features reminded her of old Monsignor. The more Harper studied him, the more she had an almost dizzying certainty that the two men were somehow connected, almost like an intuition.

“You still have the weird habit of staring at people, don't you?”, Paul had caught her staring at him with his peripheral vision. Once again, she had that clinical, analysing look at him. She knows, get rid of her. The messenger's voice whispered in his mind, but he muffled the noise by focusing only on her.

“You really look like him,” the woman whispers, her intent eyes studying the priest's features. He felt a chill at the puzzled tone she used.

“Who?”, the priest pretended not to know who she was referring to, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end at the mere possibility of her wondering who he really was. However, he always guarded himself so that fear didn't show on his features.

“Pruitt.”, she says as if it's absolutely obvious. There is a break. “If I hadn't been told he's about 100 years old, I'd say you're twins.”, Miriam shakes her head as she reads without much interest the writing at the entrance to the cemetery.

“He’s not that old, he’s more like he's eighty-year-old.”, he argues with a soft smile, a tiny pinch of offence in his voice.

“Sometimes I suppose he could be your father.”, she laughs at her bullshit, shaking her head, and he feels a shiver run down his spine. “You look ridiculously alike.” Harper looks at the good priest for a long moment after that. Paul is suddenly interested in a tombstone epigraph.

“Same person at different stages of life, maybe.” He blurts out his own mind a little too far away as he reads the name 'Alice Mary Pruitt' almost erased on the lichen-covered concrete. Miriam looks at him confused as he runs his long fingers over the headstone. Strange thing to say.

Suddenly, Paul seems to wake up from a dream. Back straight, he shoves his big hands in his pockets and starts walking out of the morbid, melancholy graveyard he knew so well. Once Miriam was close enough, he asked, trying to sound uninterested.

“I see you're close with Joe Collie.” There's a subtle suggestion beneath the words that he knows she won't miss. The good priest glances at her when he sees her sigh.

“I wouldn't say that, but I believe we're friends, somehow.”, she suggests with a shrug. The accountant's sly gaze looked him over from head to toe in an attempt to dig up his intentions.

“I think you should know that Flynn's oldest son, Riley, had a problem with alcohol,” the priest begins, his steps calculated to keep her close, as if he's telling a secret.

“Yes, I heard about something like that.”, the woman says. Of course, she knew about Riley's alcoholic issues, by God, she shared a house with Erin, it would be impossible for her not to know about what happened to poor, withdrawn Riley Flynn. However, she wouldn't make it so clear that she knew, not without first knowing the priest's agenda.

“Well, so he doesn't have to waste a whole day on a trip to the mainland. I volunteered to lead an AA here in Crockett,” the dark haired priest's rich voice begins. Even before all the words escape his lips, Harper already knows what he's going to ask for. She sighs. “I know I might be being invasive by asking you this, but you know it would do him good to go. I'm not asking you to tie him up and throw him in there with me. Just suggest it to him.”

Paul is subtle in his request. There is a chaste, compassionate tone to his words, one that would warm Miriam's cheeks if she weren't pondering the meaning of his words.

“You could do that yourself…”, the accountant counters, looking at the man in front of her with a tired look. She really wouldn't mind, but under the current circumstances, she's too exhausted to have this conversation with Joe.

“He doesn't know me, and besides, Joe Collie harbours a sharp contempt for much of the congregation. But not for you. Please, just try,” he argues, those damn puppy eyes pleading so gently. She releases a defeated sigh.

“Alright…”, there is a long pause in which they both look at each other, the cleric looks at her expectantly. “I can do that.”, the accountant confirms, running her slender fingers through her hair slightly messy from the wind and starts walking towards the fair. Before she takes another step, he wraps a warm hand around her wrist.

“There's one more thing I'd like to ask.” This time Miriam shows no reluctance, her rational brain too paralysed by the touch of him in her wrist to argue, she nods. “I wonder if you wouldn't like to show up at the rectory once in a while. Just to talk.”

Of all the things Paul Hill could say to her right now, this was certainly not what she expected. With a confused look and brows drawn together in uncertainty, she takes a step closer to the priest. His pianist's fingers tickling almost imperceptibly against the skin of her wrist almost made her gasp. With what's left of her self-control, Miriam stabilizes her shallow breathing.

“I feel like there's something bothering you,” he began in his rich, booming voice, making her shiver in her bones as he took a step closer to her. “I just want you to know that you can count on me if you need to talk. I really appreciate our conversations, and I think it would be good for you to unload what bothers you so much. Don't think I'm offering Catholic redemption, I'm not asking you to come to confession, that's not it.”, the man is silent for a moment, his mind working to give him the right words.

He still hasn't let go of her wrist. Paul can feel the heart beating of the woman's pulse against his fingertips, realizing it spreads an inconvenient heat at the base of his spine. Miriam felt the blood boil under her cheeks, she could almost feel every breather of his breath against her eyelashes.

“I just think you’re overworked. And I want you to know that you can count on a friend to vent to whenever things feel too… oppressive.” There is a long pause. The good priest runs his fingers from the woman's racing pulse to the palm of her trembling hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “What I'm offering is just a cup of tea and someone to talk to…” for the first time she really looks him deeply in the eyes, getting lost in those puddles of chocolate.

He has such kind eyes, she remembers thinking when she'd first seen him at church, nearly a week ago. It was still true, but now, after some time together, she could see beyond kindness. There was a darkness in those eyes, pain, guilt, grief, and so many other things she still couldn't name. Miriam wanted to touch him, touch his face, feel the warm skin under her fingers and hold him, until she drowned in those eyes and discovered every little secret hidden in them.

“Father Paul!”

Before she could even think of answering him, a voice called out to him in the distance, and he smiled at her one last time, hopefully. Slowly releasing her hand. The marks around his eyes turned that affable smile into something that made her knees tremble.

“No need to answer now. Just keep it in mind. See you soon, Miriam.” Father Paul said goodbye, and the way her name sounded melodic in his voice crumbled every little resilient nerve in her body, if it were humanly possible she would have turned into a puddle, right there in front of his feet.

Harper was silent for a long moment and felt her cheeks burn.

Pike's tearful bark brought her gaze back.

“Come on, boy, let's take you back to your dad.” Gently, she snapped her fingers a few times and considered making her way to the drinks stall, where a probably drunk Joe Collie was waiting.

However, she didn't move, scrutiny fixed on the cleric's slender figure while her mind could only ask her: Who is this man?

Taglist:

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

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

Here's a Google form, where you can tell me where you want to be tagged.

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outwicked · 3 years ago

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ok so i left tumblr back in 2016 but midnight mass and stupid father meow meow brought me back to this cursed site and now i’m writing fanfiction again

As the island's only preacher for at least eighty years, John Pruitt - now Paul Hill - knew many if not all of the faces that lived on Crockett, having baptised most of the babies and officialized many of the weddings (one in particular still a sore spot for him even after all these years) and he was certain, even in the scary depths of dementia, he could remember the faces even of those who left to the mainland and would return eventually, just like Riley Flynn did; but not this one. This one was new.

just a little snipped of a big one i'm planning but i'll post everything eventually (and inconsistently) along with a few oneshots, if u want to be tagged lemme know! 🤗🤗🤗

#oof big commitment here #but goddamn i love this man i need to wRITE #pls be nice to me im sensitive and in love <3 #father paul x reader #monsignor pruitt x reader #midnight mass fanfiction #father paul hill x reader #****#father paul x oc #father paul x original character

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littleredwritingcat · 2 years ago

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And We're Back!

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

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

“So,” you ask softly.

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

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

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

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

Also, also - Bev Keane remains unpleasant.

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

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

#monsignor pruitt x reader #monsignor john pruitt #midnight mass fic #midnight mass fandom #oc x john pruitt #john pruitt/father paul hill x reader #thirst trap fic #erin greene #super pissed off erin greene #burglaring!#the angel!#open windows and pettiness!#sex-starved lizard brain!#potato the cat would like you to know that she's very hungry and also over it.#scarlet letter action

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testsubject24601 · 2 years ago

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More self indulgence? I think so yes. How else am I to repent if I don’t sin a little first?

#father paul #midnight mass #hamish linklater #john pruitt #Oc x canon #self insert #paul hill #monsignor pruitt #my art #sketch #wip #hierophilia

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justfanficccc · 3 years ago

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Blessed are the Meek

Father Paul x Reader

WARNING: nsfw smut/n0n consensual bl00d drinking?/blasphemy/Funeral shit

VIIII

Communion

“on the night he was betrayed, he took the bread, gave it to his disciples and said, ‘Take this, it is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.’"

You never did ask him about Leeza, you didn’t want to bother him with your doubt. While you sat next to him in the dark you realized you didn’t care. Not really anyways. Leeza could walk, and that was a miracle in itself. Paul would never use it as leverage to gain something, Bev maybe. But not Paul. And if he believed it was God then so be it. You decided it was a happy coincidence and will leave it at that. You were able to have him agree to the Funeral Mass and eulogy the last Sunday you had seen him, but you were worried since the night you spent watching over him was the last you had heard from him. Since he had been in such bad shape drifting in and out of consciousness you wondered if he remembered what you had asked of him. He would wake up in a cold sweat grasping for something to cling to and you had been there to caress his hair and let him fall asleep in your arms. You finally left his side on Monday morning, he had woken up and seemed a bit better, not needing you to hold up his weight like the night before. He still looked awful and before you left that morning he had promised you he would go see a doctor. You knew he was lying, his brows turned up slightly as he spoke to you. “I will call Dr. Gunning today, I promise.” He said as he brushed his thumb across your cheek. His words sounded like sweet honey even when he wasn’t being honest.

Saturday morning you wake to find Anne lying next to you in your bed, the nostalgia of it almost hurts. It reminds you of when you were both small and she would sneak into your room at night. She has always been easy to scare. Even if she was your older sister you felt she needed to be protected. She'd always been shorter than you with the anxiety of a small chihuahua. Without protest, you had always invited her in and held her close to you. You may not always get along but nothing would ever come between the two of you, nothing would ever keep you from having her back.

You roll out of bed quietly, trying not to wake her. Moments like this are few and far between, silence between the two of you that isn't caused by an argument is rare. You watch her as she snores loudly, chuckling quietly to yourself. You don't want her to wake up, knowing how upset she will be that she's another day closer to burying your father.

Leaving the house today you don't know where you’re going, but you feel you need to get out of the stuffy old house. The air is cold as it hits your nose and travels to your lungs. Maybe you can go check on Paul? No, he is fine. Bev is probably taking much better care of him than you could. She’s been up his ass since he arrived here so you’re sure she is very excited to tend to the sick man.

Maybe you can go to the convince store and try to spark up another conversation with the handsome Sheriff? You cringe to yourself as the realization hits you. You are just trying to stop thinking of Paul again. Same as what you did with Riley.

You keep walking until the morning air turns warmer, you’ve reached the outskirts of town, the beach is rocky and uneven here. You reach out into the crashing waves. They hit the sharp rocks beneath your feet, the water is cool and foamy. It smells like fish and salt. “God I wish you could be here with me dad, you would have loved this view.” You speak softly as the water comes and goes through your fingers. You feel the familiar stinging in your eyes but aren’t sure if it's tears or the saltwater-filled air.

“Hey! I’ve been calling for like a week, where have you been?” A harsh voice calls to you loudly over the crashing waves.

You stand up slowly and wipe the salt water-drenched hands onto your jeans. Taking a deep breath you stand up slowly watching your balance on the rocks. You turn around to find Riley standing behind you, hands in his pockets. A worried and angry look cast across his face.

“I’m sorry…I’ve been busy with the whole funeral thing and…” You’re almost yelling now so he can hear you over the loud ocean.

He puts a hand out signaling you to stop.

“You don’t have to bullshit me.” His eyes closed as he speaks.

“Riley I-I had a great night the other night but I-“ you’re trying to be as fragile as you can as you speak, walking towards him carefully stepping over the protruding stones.

“But what? It was a mistake? An accident?” He cocks his head as he questions you, still yelling though you are only a few feet away.

“You know, I’ve heard it all before.” His brows are pointed downwards as he frowns.

“But I didn’t think id hear it from you.” He shakes his head and closes his eyes.

You sigh and cross your arms around yourself contemplating your next words carefully. You don’t want to upset him, he's a friend. Maybe the only friend you have here other than Paul. Do you want to mess that up?

“Riley I wasn’t going to say anything like that.” You lie, you were going to tell him that it was a mistake. That you just went along with it because you were lonely.

“I just, I wanted to take it slower than that.” You can’t believe you’re doing this, it's wrong, you shouldn’t be leading him on. But you don’t want to lose him, don’t want to lose the only sane friend you’ve found here.

He looks up at you through his eyelashes in confusion and embarrassment, his hand scratching the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry, I just thought since you weren’t answering you-“

You walk closer to him, grabbing his free hand.

“Riley, you are the only person on this goddamn island I can stand, ok?” This is partially the truth. You know you will only be here for maybe another month or two max, and will probably never see him again after that. Yes it is horrible and yes you will probably break his heart but you can’t right now, you need him.

“Well, I’m glad I was wrong then.”

You two walk the island for most of the afternoon. You enjoy his company, the conversations you two share. He holds your hand while you stroll down the damp path towards your home. You can feel your stomach flip as you approach the small town, the church looming in the distance. You pray that when you walk past the rectory Paul won't be watching you out of his window. Finally reaching home you give Riley a chaste kiss on the cheek, you can see him blush as you pull away and smile sweetly at him. Wishing you could feel the same for him as he does you.

Anne sits at the dining room table clutching the small black box in her hands, she hasn’t changed from her pajamas and barely notices as you walk in the door.

“Oh, Annie.” You pull your jacket off and quickly cross the room with arms already outstretched. She doesn’t look up to you, just sobs quietly into the crook of your neck.

“I-I just can’t believe he's going to be gone.” She says quickly as she takes another deep breath and lets out a low howl into you now crying harder.

“I know Anne, I know.” You press your cheek into the top of her head, shushing her gently as you pull her closer to you. She cries for what seems like an hour, her cries are loud enough you know the neighbors can hear. You don’t care, if they have a problem with it they can take it up with you.

“Father Paul called.” She says catching her breath still mumbling into your shirt.

“What did he say?” You pet her head as you ask trying to hide your interest.

“He need-needed to ch-change the time fo-for mass tomorrow.” She says crying in between breaths. Your eyes squeeze into a glare and your brows furrow.

“What? To when?”

“Seven p.m.” she blurts out as she wipes her tears on your shoulder.

“Ok, that’s ok right?” She nods her head slowly. You wonder what could be so important that he had to move the time for the funeral. There’s no one else he has to bury, you grow increasingly more irritated as you sit at the table comforting your sister. You two sit like this for the rest of the night, and when you decide to go to bed you insist she sleeps in your bed tonight. You say it's for her but know you need her just as much as she needs you right now.

The daylight fades from the sky fast, it's Sunday. You wish you could just leave, ignore your responsibilities and take the ferry back to the mainland. You let Anne borrow your long black dress and you both laugh at the fact that she is borrowing clothes from you to wear to church. You choose a shorter black dress. Form-fitting with a turtleneck, pairing the dress with a pair of black tights and some black high tops. You catch Anne glaring at your shoes but she quickly brushes it off, too mentally exhausted to argue with you tonight. You two walk slowly to the church, Anne carrying the small black box.

“You know, I appreciate you doing all of this for me.” She sniffles as she speaks.

“It’s nothing, really.” You place a supportive hand on her back. She looks up at you with tears resting in her eyes.

“Let’s get this over with” you grumble as you approach the small white building.

The pews fill quickly, the entire town seems to be here tonight. Sad eyes rest on the partitioner's faces as they greet you both at the door. Some offer hugs or solemn words. You thank them the best you can while watching your sister the whole time. Making sure she is still ok, she’s barely spoken since you’ve arrived at the church, her gaze barely leaving the ground. Finally, the clock hits 7 and you rejoice as you can both take your seats at the very front of the church. The small black box containing whatever’s left of your father sits on the alter, most of the time there would be a whole casket ordained with a huge bouquet and religious symbols. But this was just a box, dust.

You hear him before you see him as the church fills with music the piano singing your dad’s favorite song.

“Ave, Maria, grátia plena

Maria grátia plena

Ave, ave Dóminus

Dóminus tecum”

You hear him singing as he passes next to you. He kneels next to the small box, holding himself there as he watches the crucifix above him and mumbles a small prayer. He looks at you quickly, an odd look. As his eyes catch yours you can see the reflection of a candle burning in them. They flicker back to the pulpit. He looks much better, seems a lot healthier. He walks slowly to the left of the altar, he seems to float while wearing the chasuble his feet hidden. In moments like these, you don’t see him as a human, he holds so much holiness as he speaks. His whole body emanating the power of the lord. You shake your head quickly trying to get him out of your head. Mass goes smoothly, his eyes still catching light every time they land on you. You swear he looks better than you remember but just assume it's because you’ve missed him so much. As church ends you breathe a sigh of relief. “It’s almost over,” you think to yourself. The final hymn plays and you watch the congregation file out of the building. You pull yourself up from the pew and hold a hand out to help your sister up, she takes it and gets herself up slowly. She walks to the altar, kneels, and signs the cross. You stand there watching her, wishing you could find the kind of comfort she has in God. When she finishes she gently picks up the box and turns to you.

“Come on, almost done.” Your mouth turns up on one end in a small grin.

She grabs your hand as you walk towards the exit. She’s upset, visibly so. Her steps turn to stomps as you leave.

In the dark, it's hard to see what is happening. The only light is from the windows of the church and the moon. Father Paul stands to your left. His arms and hands reach out as he prays, one hand is holding a rosary the other holding his bible. Your sister stands to your right, crying quietly and holding onto your dad’s ashes for dear life. You press your hand into your sister’s as Paul prays over the small hole. Before finishing the rosary he reaches out his hand and wraps it around yours, he feels warm. No, he feels hot, is he still sick? The rosary presses into you as he tightens his grip.

“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”

“Amen.” You hear yourself say it before you can think about it. Father Paul squeezes your hand again as you say it.

Your sister doesn’t budge, you can feel her apprehension.

“Anne it's time.” Father Paul says quietly after waiting in silence for a few minutes.

You both shoot him an angry look as to say “she can take as much goddamn time as she needs.” His forehead wrinkles and he nods his head quickly and apologetically.

“Anne if it's too hard for you I-“

“No, I can do it.” She spits out under her breath.

Father Paul watches her closely, his eyes large and worried-looking as always.

“I love you daddy” she whispers as she gives the box a small kiss. She kneels and presses her head into the black container.

She finally places it into the hole slowly, so carefully like it is made of glass. You press your hand onto her back and she breaths sharply.

“Anne, it's gonna be ok.” You say quietly as she cries into the hole. She picks herself up quickly, brushing off the dirt on her knees.

“Is that it?” She’s pissed off now. Not sad. She wants this to be over. You can see that the sadness of grief has been replaced by exhaustion and anger.

“Yes, we can finish up if you-“ Father Paul is cut off by Anne spinning around and stomping away.

“I guess dramatic exits run in the family.” You whisper to him trying to break the awkwardness of the moment.

“Sturge can fill the hole,” Paul says quietly, rubbing his fingers across the leather on the worn book.

“She will be ok, she just needs time.” You assure him.

“Can we talk?” You blurt it out as soon as your sister is far enough away not to hear you.

“Of course.” He hasn’t looked at you since mass, he keeps his eyes away from you as you walk slowly towards the rectory.

“What did Dr. Gunning say? Anything serious?” You sit on the small sofa in his living room. Your hands resting on your knees that are pulled tightly together. The dress you chose doesn’t allow any wiggle room so you try your best to be as ladylike as possible. Even after the strange night you had shared you still feel you have to be modest around him. He comes to your side, handing you a small cup of tea on a saucer plate. He sits next to you but keeps his distance, at the complete opposite end of the couch.

“I’m fine, just a flu bug is all.” He sips his tea, it's noticeably darker than yours with a red hue to it, almost like communion wine. His eyes flicker again as he looks at you, it's so strange. They almost look like cat’s eyes when you shine a light at them in a dark room, reflective and bright. You don’t remember them ever being so dark.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

He nods at you while you sip your drink. This is awkward, it's not like the other night. You are 100% sober and clear-headed and it makes it hard for you to feel comfortable. Paul watches you in the quiet, his eyes moving from your hand clasping the cup to your neck, keeping a close eye as you swallow. He seems on edge, cold and distant.

“Are we going to talk about it or-“ he chokes on his drink, cutting you off.

“I'm sorry, I just…I'm confused and you didn’t call. I guess it's a bit different than a normal one-night stand.” Your eyes grow large as you speak the feeling of nervousness bubbles in your stomach and chest. Fuck why did you bring it up?

He moves closer to you, scooting ever so slightly as he places his cup on the floor next to him. His face meeting yours now only a foot away, he takes his hand off of his knee and barely rests it on top of your thigh, his body now turned to face you.

Fuck fuck fuck I can’t do this sober. You think to yourself.

“I would like to, um, confide something in you” his long fingers grip your leg slowly, his eyes grazing your neck then trail up to your jaw and lips. You can feel yourself swallow hard as he scans you diligently.

“I have been given something.” His hand travels up to the top of your thigh now on the hem of your dress. He keeps his dark eyes on your mouth as his fingers loop under your dress to tease the knitted material.

“God has given me something.” His eyes close as he breathes heavily, uneven and deep.

“It’s like I can feel him…moving inside of me.” You barely listen to his words as he plays with the fabric between his fingers. His fingertips brush the soft part of your inner thigh.

“Paul, I-“

He reaches his free hand up to your collar bone, wrapping it around the side of your neck. He leans in so slowly, he is taking his time, contemplating his next move.

His nose brushes against your jugular, his hair tickling your cheek. You can’t breathe, not because his hand is around you but because if you exhale you know you’ll let out a pathetic sound.

“I can save you, I can give you this gift.” He breaths into you. His words are so soft you can barely hear him. Laying a sweet kiss onto the side of your throat.

“Please” you whimper out now letting yourself breathe. After hearing the word his hand frantically pulls up your dress and practically rips the tights as he pulls them down. He doesn’t leave your side, his face still pressed into your neck.

He pulls your lace panties to the side quickly and presses only the tip of his finger between your folds.

He moans softly as he feels you.

“You feel heavenly, sweet girl.” You let out a louder cry as he kisses your jaw. His eyes closed as he works his fingers slowly.

“I want to enter into communion with you.” He whispers into your ear, your eyes now squeezed shut as you grip the couch beneath you. You have no idea what he’s saying, your mind is shut off. Any words that come out of his mouth at this point are erotic. You want to reach for him, feel his warmth in your hand. You know he wants you as well, his length is practically begging to be set free under his tight black dress slacks. You can all but see the head of his cock pulsing underneath.

He kisses your neck again softly and guides himself down to his knees in front of you, his hands wrap around the bunched-up fabric of your pantyhose and he pulls them down. He doesn’t completely remove them as one ankle is still tangled up in the nylon black fabric. He watches your face as he uses his fingers to guide your legs open. His eyes are black, absorbing the light from the kitchen. He looks like an animal, a predator, and god you want him to ravage you whole.

He bows his head pressing his lips to your inner thigh, his eyes still locked on yours.

He mumbles something into your thigh, his hot air on your skin. He’s praying into you. The feeling of guilt and pleasure build up in you, all he would have to do is brush your clit once and you’d finish. His hands explore your thighs and hips, grabbing at them like they may disappear if he doesn’t hold tight enough. His head finally nuzzles in between your legs and you feel him let out a moan as he presses his mouth and nose into you. He lifts his head to see you watching him, a grin spreading across his face. He seems to enjoy feeling you squirm under him. At first, he just dips his tongue into you, savoring it like it's his last meal.

“Better than wine.” He hums and before you can respond he's lapping at your swollen parts. You grab tightly on his hair, wrapping the jet-black locks in between your fingers. You pull tightly as he sucks on you, the pleasure is too much to bear. He doesn’t stop though. If anything it has just amplified the thirst he has. His fingers shock you as they enter, they curve up and press into your velvet insides. His face is moist and hot with your wetness. You can feel it burning inside of you, the familiar pressure cascading down your stomach into your core. He doesn’t stop even when your legs buckle around him, he wants this to last. Even after you finish he stays between your legs, gently licking and kissing your most delicate parts and admiring his messy work. His fingers trail down your leg, fingertips petting your inner thigh. He stops on a spot right below your groin, his eyes now so reflective you can see yourself in them. He presses his free hand under your knee and raises your leg to his mouth. He looks feral, hungry. You assume he’s going to try for another so you lay back on the couch and push yourself towards him, humming as his teeth nibble at your soft skin.

“This is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. Happy are those who are called to his supper.”

You grin, the thought of him thinking of you as holy as communion. Before you have a chance to reply you feel a sharp bright pain coming from your thigh. It burns so deep you swear he has broken skin. But no, not him. He’d never hurt you. You squeeze your thighs together trying to push him away. He doesn’t budge, his mouth hooked onto your leg.

“No, it hurts.” You mumble and reach for his head to try to push him away.

The pain becomes too much and you cry out, your eyes snap open and you look down mortified watching as Paul tears into your flesh with his teeth.

“Paul! Please, it hurts!” You scream in agony, trying to break yourself away from him clawing at his arm. His head lifts up to you, his eyes glossed over and fuzzy. His hands grip the sides of your body holding you in place. His face is covered in your blood.

He must’ve hit an artery, you feel yourself grow weak as the sticky red liquid pours onto the floor.

“Shhh- Little lamb, I am giving you a gift.” He presses his face back into the wound, completely ignoring your screams. The light in the room starts to fade, your vision foggy and warped. He feeds on your blood for mere minutes before you feel yourself growing cold, your body drained. Your vision is gone, only small pinpricks of light flash inside of your eyelids. You can barely feel him get up and hover over you, his knees pressing into the couch on either side of you.

“Drink from it, all of you. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins” you hear him whisper to you, his voice sounds shaky and uneven.

“Drink, drink, drink.” You hear as the hot iron-tasting liquid fills your mouth.

#fanfic #father paul hill #midnight mass #monsignor pruitt #ao3 #slow burn #strangers to lovers #monsignor john pruitt #father paul x oc #father john pruitt #father meow meow

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eddiemetalheadmunson · 3 years ago

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THE DYING OF THE LIGHT, CHAPTER VI: IN FLAMES

TW: brief sexual/non-sexual non-consensual elements towards the end of the chapter (not in the typical sense, just being cautious). graphically described intentional self harm (unrelated to mental illness). graphic depictions of blood and consuming it.

Buckle up, kids. This chapter gets intense. Hope you enjoy! ♥

keep your confessions, ‘cause babe, i’m no saint / we’re playing with fire, but i like this game / and i know your devils; i know them by name / when you look my way, oh, i’m not afraid.

✟ LISTEN TO “IN FLAMES” BY DIGITAL DAGGERS HERE.

✟ PREVIOUS 5 CHAPTERS CAN BE FOUND HERE.

She’d hardly slept a wink since the night of the storm.

A week has passed and she still feels no closer to understanding or fully believing the story the priest had told her in his little living room as both of them faced each other from opposite sides of the room, a charged energy hovering between them. All she’s been left with is a terrible feeling of unease, as if he’d passed off the weight of his impossible predicament and set it upon her own shoulders. She staggered with its weight when he spoke of stumbling upon a cave-like structure in the middle of the Judean Desert during a terrible sandstorm, and what lurked inside of it defied all rational belief. Something ancient. Something that certainly wasn’t mentioned in any scripture she’d ever come across.

She could see it in Father Paul’s eyes; the almost desperate attempt to explain it to her, but mostly to his own self, as something holy. A miracle, a gift, given to him as a direct message from God that spoke of prophetic divinity and an army of God’s holiest apostles.

An angel. That’s what he’d called it.

Forgive me, Father, for I believe you’re full of shit.

The last time she’d dipped a toe into religion, however shallow the waters of her attempt may have been, she couldn’t recall ever coming across anything like the terrifying winged creature he described to her in graphic detail. Demons could fit the description, she supposes, but why then would it bring someone back to life after killing them? Why would it shave off decades from an aging body and mind and let that restored body just walk free?

There was no lack of war, murder, rape and incest in the bible, sure. The slaughter of newborns and plagues and the drowning of millions, absolutely. Angels that both inspired terror and awe, yes – but the last she’d heard, they didn’t rip people’s jugulars out of their throats and somehow trick death, the only thing guaranteed to us from birth, into becoming everlasting life.

That weight on her shoulders had her knees buckling when he then confessed that he’d brought it back with him. He’d brought this fucking...thing here to Crockett Island, so he could share its “gifts” with others. Apparently, he’d already begun to do so, though he didn’t specify how. She humored him out of pure morbid curiosity at first, the skin of her wrists still tingling from where he’d gripped them to pin her down, asking him how old he was before he came across this supposed messenger of God. He saw right through her – saw that she thought him out of his mind and in need of serious help, and that she didn’t believe a single word coming out of his mouth.

It rattled her, seeing the momentary despair that flashed within his eyes at her sarcastic inquiries, but still, he answered every question. Eighty-nine years he’d walked the earth when the angel turned back time and forced him to drink its blood. By the end of her interrogation, he was sitting with his head back against the wall, eyes closed, looking utterly defeated. The color still hadn’t returned to his pallid face, and even though she’d been across the room, she remembers seeing the tight clench of his jaw and the stiffness in his posture, as if he was still in quite a bit of pain.

It made her take pause, going against every individual instinct that was frantically waving a red flag within her mind to leave this be. Leave this be, get on one of the ferries and go home. Even still, that flutter of ambiguity kept beating its wings inside of her, keeping her from totally discrediting him until she’d learned more.

Learned more of what? Haven’t you learned enough? He’s obviously not in his right mind.

But she couldn’t. And she was hung up on trying to understand why that was.

She barely knew him. She had no reason to trust him, man of the cloth or not. But she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t acknowledge the fact that this was different than any other relationship she’d ever had with a man. She’d never felt a connection so strong happen so effortlessly; there was something about this Priest that had a hook in her. So, she asked him for time. It yanked at her heart, the way his head had jerked up to look at her with such glaringly apparent hopefulness that she’d bit her lip and turned away from him, resolved to at least try not to run straight to the Sheriff after what’d happened that night.

Seven days ago, a priest had rescued her from a storm and then attacked her in his home.

Seven days ago, he’d bared his teeth down at her while his eyes glinted like that of a wolf, preparing to dine.

Seven days ago, her life stopped making what little sense it’d managed to make before Father Paul had brushed his lips against her skin; one hand fisting itself in her hair and the other gently tilting her head to the side as she presented her neck to him like a lamb come to slaughter.

Maybe he really was a wolf in sheep's clothing. It fit in a morbidly ironic way. Priest or wolf, both were keeping an eye on the flock, seeking out that one little black sheep that foolishly strayed too far. The only difference between them was that a priest hunts for lost souls to guide them back to the light. A wolf hunts for lost souls to devour them. The thought sends a shiver down her spine.

Which one is he, then? Is all of this worth the risk?

It was, and very much still is, enough to run like hell. She huffs a laugh that carries only the driest of humor and rubs her palms against her eyes in frustration. She suddenly feels very alone on her couch after yet another day has gone by without any online interest towards her Great Grandfather’s property online. She slams her laptop shut and tosses herself back into the couch cushions with her arms crossed, stewing.

She’d inherited enough money to stay here for at least a year to try and sell the house, but she hadn’t anticipated it taking more than a few months. One month in and she has nothing to show for it. She has a brief realization that if it doesn’t sell, it’ll most likely be bulldozed due to its age (and let’s be honest, its ghastly location isn’t doing her any favors, either).

That’s not going to happen. I have time. I won’t abandon this place.

This resolution does nothing to solve the obviously much more pressing matter she’d recently stumbled across. She’s had the nagging feeling since waking this morning that she should go to Father Paul, knowing that he'd most likely assume she wanted to be left alone to take everything in that he’d told her that night. He wouldn’t be wrong. Her mind was at war with itself, still battling against both skepticism and belief. If he was being genuine and somehow all that he confessed to her was the truth, she’d be standing by doing nothing to help, watching this island of people get picked off one by one by whatever it really was that had made itself at home here. She thinks of Pike’s leg that day on the beach, how something had torn into his skin in an attack so swift she never even caught a glimpse of it.

Slapping her hands down on her thighs, she nods to herself resolutely and decides to meet the challenge head on, hoping beyond hope she won’t pay the price for it. She quickly runs a brush through her long red hair, leaving it down to provide some extra warmth against the still windy island, and throws a big hoodie on over the black tank and dark gray leggings she’d been lounging about the house in all morning. After swapping her Hello Kitty boot slippers with her pair of white converse shoes, she steps out into the chilly evening, locking up the house before she begins her walk to Father Paul’s house.

The wind whipping through her hair feels rather nice considering the last time she’d felt it, it was accompanied by pelting rain and an impromptu dog rescuing mission. She snorts at the memory of plowing into Joe and realizes then that she hadn’t checked up on them both since the storm, too caught up in her own absurd predicaments to even brave leaving the house. She makes a mental note to visit them later today now that she’s finally crawled out of her coffin to be a part of society again. She’d practically made it through an entire show on Netflix in that time...something about a haunted mansion that scared the hell out of her and had her bawling like a baby by the end. One line in particular had her unraveling, and the ache of missing her parents and wishing she’d spent more time with her Great Grandfather while he was here was brought to the surface of her mind. A character from the show who’d passed away was explaining to her family, who were all still alive, how time doesn’t work the way people think it does. And there was something about confetti...

She’s lost in thought as she approaches the house, but promptly resurfaces from her deep inner dialogue when she sees that the front door is open, letting golden light from inside spill across the porch. She slowly walks to the opening and hears the sound of scuffling, and without thinking twice, she runs into the house, freezing on the spot as her eyes fall upon Father Paul holding Joe in a tight grip that could almost pass as a tender embrace. Except Joe was struggling against him, babbling about leaving and obviously panicking at the unwanted contact. Fear bubbles up inside of her as she runs to them in a split moment decision, attempting to shove herself between them.

“Stop it, Father! Just stop! Let him go – now!” She yells, both of them freezing on the spot for a moment before Father Paul’s arms slacken just enough for Joe to instinctively push him in the chest hard enough for him to stumble backwards, barely catching himself from falling. Joe turns to her, eyes wide and expression completely dumbfounded, but before he can speak, she shakes her head, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath to gather herself.

“You need to leave, Joe. Now. I’ll be fine. Please...just go,” she says as she fixes her gaze on Father Paul, that same expression of shock and fierce regret from the night of the storm slowly saturating his features while his eyes flit rapidly between her and Joe.

“Like hell am I gonna leave ya’ here! You didn’t see what he just – “

“Joe. As a friend, I’m asking you to go home. Give Pike some pets from me. We’ll figure all of this out tomorrow, okay? Please...” she reasons, turning to face him, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder for reassurance.

He seems at war with the decision, and she can’t help but chuckle fondly before gently tugging him towards the door, remembering the last time she was pushing him towards his home in the pouring rain. He gives Father Paul a look that brooks no misunderstanding about what will happen should he hurt her, then turns to look her in the eye warily.

“I’ll be stoppin’ by your house to check on ya’ in the morning, then,” he grumbles with a resigned sigh, slowly backing out of the door, but not before looking at Father Paul again with blatantly obvious distrust.

“It’s a deal. I’ll make sure to have a pot of coffee going, then.”

He almost cracks a smile at that, but instead he accepts defeat and departs, casting his eyes back to her several times as she stands in the doorway before he’s far enough away that she knows he’s really going home. She closes the door with a soft click, taking in a deep breath before turning to face him with arms crossed and back leaning against the door.

He’s on the floor near the fridge with his long legs bent and his elbows perching upon his knees, holding his face in his hands despairingly. Almost as if he’s hiding from the world. Hiding from her.

She decides without hesitation that she’s done dancing around the insanity of everything that’s happened in the last week and lifts her chin defiantly, marching over to him and crouching down to eye level, gently pulling his hands away from his face. He hisses through his teeth and then groans, yanking his arms away from her to grasp her shoulders, keeping her at a full arm's length away.

“I don’t have the strength. Not today. You need to go. I can’t — Lily, please, just leave,” he whispers hoarsely, and she can feel the muscles in his forearms coiling tightly beneath her fingers as she grips them.

“Why do you keep doing this, Father? Why does it keep happening? I’m not leaving until you give me some fucking answers.”

He does look up at her now, blinking several times as if he’s astonished that she cares enough to ask after what she’s just witnessed, but his expression soon twists into one of bitter despair.

“Didn’t I... I thought I told you last week...did you not understand? Of course you didn’t, you’d never come near me again if you did. I should’ve known not to hope –” he mumbles, his voice growing weaker and his posture sagging. When she doesn’t respond, giving him a moment to collect himself, he clears his throat lightly and opens his mouth to finally speak. She cuts him off before he can venture too far inside of his own head.

“Paul? Enough of the bullshit. Only the truth from here on out, no matter how – well, no matter what it is. I’m really trying, here. I’m scared shitless, but I’m trying.”

He lifts his head and his beautiful, dark brown eyes lock onto her green ones, making her pulse quicken the way it always does when he so much as looks at her. Tentatively, he manages a small smile that resembles more of a grimace, and lets his grip fall from her shoulders to lift one hand, pinky out, between them.

A surge of affection runs through her as her mind plays through scenes from last week before everything took a drastic turn for the worst. How he’d been there for her and listened to her. Held her hand as she told him things that she’d never shared with anyone else before. Saw the genuine care shining in his eyes as they concentrated on only her.

She smiles at him, and this time it comes as easily as it did before things went South seven days prior. She lifts her hand for him and he takes her pinky firmly in his own, sucking in a tight breath the moment her skin makes contact with his in a way that sends an unexpected jolt of heat through her veins. Her heart skips a beat when she looks into his amber eyes again, and there is something dark there, just beyond the sparkling flecks of gold that catch the light.

He grits his jaw and drops her hand, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. She instinctively puts a little more space between them and then sits cross-legged on the floor with him, hands patiently clasped in her lap. She’s not sure what to expect. But she knows it won’t be anything she’s ever dealt with before. She hardens her resolve and lets him take the time he needs.

He was there for you. You can be there for him, too.

“I haven’t had the angel’s sacrament for weeks, now. It feels as if my body is... is eating itself from the inside out. The hollowness is so sharp and so constant. But it’s...tolerable. The pain, I mean. But the desire – the compulsion that feels as natural as breathing when it gets this strong, is becoming impossible to ignore. Lily, I... I fear I’m going mad.”

Lily swallows hard, trying to understand how the angel’s “sacrament” has anything to do with him assaulting her and Joe. She understands the compulsion he speaks of, however. She knows it intimately and walks hand in hand with it every day. Perhaps what he’s actually experiencing is addiction to...whatever it is this angel is supplying him with. It would explain his delusions and his willingness to harm others, things that she somehow knows aren’t his true characteristics. No, he was a good man. Of that, she was sure.

Can’t he just...ask for more of this supposed sacrament, then?

He chances another glance into her eyes and quickly ducks his head down from her gaze when he sees her obvious confusion. The silence goes on for a while until she can’t take it anymore. She has to know. But as she lifts her head and opens her mouth to speak –

“Blood. I need blood, Lilith. I don’t...I don’t eat the way I used to. I don’t drink the way I used to. I don’t live the way I used to. And I become more terrified by the day that the angel has abandoned me. That God has abandoned me. That I’ve failed to spread this precious gift He bestowed upon me to share. And now... well, I’m afraid I’m rather lost,” he chokes out the last of his words, and she’s startled to see that he looks as if he’s barely holding back tears. It breaks her heart, which is beating rapidly now at his rather terrifying confession.

“Okay. Okay, so... you need blood to... to what, to drink? Father, that’s – that’s not possible... and if it was, it doesn’t sound like a gift to me,” Lily quietly replies, eyes cast downwards and brows furrowed in deep thought.

It didn’t make a damn bit of sense. He’d basically just told her he was a fucking vampire. The Twilight books drift across her mind and she has to hold back the nerve-induced laughter bubbling up from her chest. Now was not the time to become hysterical.

When she looks up at him, he’s studying her. His expression is pained, but a small, affectionate smile accompanied by a tenderness in his eyes makes him look more like himself than he has all night. She can’t stop herself; she shuffles forward on her knees and tentatively reaches out her hand. His smile promptly fades, and she sees the fear in his eyes now as they bore into hers with intensity. She swallows nervously and doesn’t miss the way his eyes dart down to watch her throat work as she does.

Steeling herself, she places her hand gently upon the side of his face, her palm cupping his cheek. He sucks in a ragged breath at the skin-to-skin contact and jerks as if he’s been slapped. Afraid that she’s somehow hurt him, she moves to pull her hand away but he snatches her wrist as fast as lightening and returns her hand to where it had been, keeping his own hand on top of hers to pull her closer yet. He’s obviously at war with something inside of himself, and as she looks at his face that’s scrunched up with effort and his eyes that are squeezed shut tightly, something within her shifts.

She believes him. Or, is certainly starting to. The realization astonishes her, rendering her momentarily frozen in shock. She doesn’t know why; the same reason she doesn’t know why she even came here tonight after everything that’d happened between them. Father Paul has proven to be as terrifyingly deep and as breath-takingly beautiful as the ocean, and the further down she swims, the harder it becomes to resurface. The less she even wants to. It feels as if an instinct that had been sleeping quietly inside of her for years was awakened the night she looked into his eyes. An instinct to trust him.

An instinct to have faith.

She knows what she has to do. What she’s willing to do, for him. Seeing him this way tears at her in a way she can barely withstand, and if she can offer him some relief, she’s certainly going to try.

“Father... would it help if – well, if I gave you some of mine?”

His eyes snap open, pupils dilating, and there it is again. That iridescent, predatory gleam in his eyes that fill her with a visceral fear that snakes its way around her heart, squeezing it tight. It’s the same hair-raising, instinctual terror that comes with being the prey.

A sheep caught in a wolf's stare.

He squeezes his eyes shut again, dropping her hand and gently, but firmly pushing her away by her shoulders.

“Don’t,” he croaks, shaking his head back and forth as if he’s trying to shake the offer from his mind.

“I’m just trying to – “

“STOP IT, LILITH! Just... just go! Leave! Now.”

She stares at him in shock, tears prickling in her eyes at how much it hurts for him to cast her away like she means nothing to him. Like she didn’t just offer him her actual fucking blood. Anger flares inside of her, sizzling through her veins and hardening her resolve.

“No,” she replies, sounding much braver than she actually feels. She tries to keep herself from fidgeting nervously.

He slowly lifts his head from his hands. A vein in his forehead throbs with barely contained self-control and the look in his eyes may as well have been a slap to her face. He looks as if he’d love nothing more than to eat her alive.

Before she can weigh her chances of survival, he’s crawling towards her with an unnatural speed and pinning her beneath him, holding both of her wrists in one large hand above her head with a strength that shocks her considering how weak he appeared just seconds ago. She feels one of his legs in between hers, his knee dangerously close to nudging against her core. Though her heart is beating wildly, she feels that instinctive tug in her stomach telling her to stay calm.

Have faith. He won’t hurt you. Have faith.

His free arm holds him up as he curls himself in on her like a predator until he’s merely inches from her face, their noses almost touching.

“Is this what you want? Are you so eager to die that you’d gamble your life this foolishly?” He hisses, his breath fanning across her face. She wills her heart to steady itself, and takes a deep breath, in and out, before allowing her eyes to flutter open and face him.

His usually tender gaze has been razed by something feral inside of him, eyes glinting in a way that would be rather beautiful in any other scenario but this one. The grip on her wrists tightens a fraction when she nervously licks her lips, and her heavy breathing causes her chest to brush against his with every inhale. She refuses to look away, knowing that if this is going to end with her throat still in intact, she couldn’t show weakness. This is obviously the worst the craving has been, and she knows that he’s right; it is a gamble. But she’s not going to give up on him.

“Father... it’s okay. I’m here. Let me help you,” she whispers gently, watching as his body shudders above her in restraint. He shuts his eyes again, his forehead etched with lines from the inner battle he’s fighting and allows his head to hang low for a moment.

“I can help you. We have to do it my way, though, okay? You’ve got to get ahold of it. This isn’t you, and you know it. If you’re going to surrender to something, let it be my words. You can do this. Please, Father...”

His grip spasms against her wrists, making her grit her teeth together at the sharp sting that follows. Something between a sob and a frustrated groan rips itself from his throat, and she can feel now that he’s actually shaking in his effort to hold back.

“Don’t give into it. I know how hard it is. Trust me, I know. But I have faith in you,” she tells him firmly, only able to see his head of curly raven hair from this angle. He lifts his head to look at her, tears swimming in his amber eyes and his lip curled in what appears to be an agonizing effort to not begin tearing into her flesh.

His grip loosens slightly on her wrists and she feels the instant relief of her blood flow rushing back into her numb hands. He doesn’t completely let go, so she, as gently as possible, wiggles one hand free to slowly but steadily push some of his hair back from his sweaty forehead, coming to rest against the side of his face.

“I trust you, Father.”

This proves to be his Achilles heel. His body seems to give up the fight entirely as his body sags onto her, knocking the breath from her lungs. He quickly pushes himself off of her with shaking arms to flop down on his back next to her. He’s panting hard, as if he’s just finished a race, and brings a clenched fist to his forehead in what she can already tell is all-consuming guilt. They can’t waste any more time. He’ll have to save the self-loathing for later.

She pushes herself up and stands, her own legs feeling rather wobbly after quite possibly skirting death, and reaches a hand out to him. He looks up at her, expression saturated in all of the apologies no doubt brewing in his mind behind eyes that shine with regret.

“Come,” she gently requests, feeling the nerves she’d conquered earlier with the aid of adrenaline start to come creeping back to the surface of her mind.

He swallows and eyes her hand warily for a beat or two, but then takes it, allowing her to help hoist his weak form into standing.

“Sit.” She gestures towards the couch and doesn’t wait for a reply, turning to start opening drawers in the tiny kitchen area until she finds some knives. All of them are far too blunt, so she continues to carefully dig through the silverware until she sees the silvery glint of a small paring knife. Her heart stumbles clumsily inside of her chest as she picks it up, feeling doubt for the first time since she’d walked into the house that night. She glances back at him and his head is hung low, shoulders slumped as if he’s too weak to even sit up straight on the little couch. His hair is a mess, curtaining his face and blocking his expression from view.

She sighs, and decides, setting the knife down on the counter to yank her hoodie off, leaving her in only a thin, black tank top. A shiver courses through her body at the chill of the house as she balls up the hoodie and sets it on the counter, exchanging it for the little knife. She gives her mind no more time to dwell before pressing the blade against the skin of her pale forearm so that it sits horizontally; high enough from the tender veins of her wrist to stay alive and low enough to hopefully produce enough blood flow to satiate his need. She takes a deep breath in, letting her eyes close, and presses down firmly, sliding the blade through her fragile skin as quickly as she can. She lets the knife fall from her shaking hand, watching as the incision begins blooming a bright red. It’s almost pretty, in a morbid way. When she turns to check on him again, he’s staring at her piercingly with darkened eyes, his back now rigid and straight, and every one of his six senses zeroed in on only her.

She almost runs. Almost.

He’ll end up accidentally hurting someone if you don’t go through this.

She finds herself walking around the coffee table to sit next to him, his locked stare never wavering in a profoundly unnerving way. She tentatively sits down, pulling her legs beneath herself to sit on, and turns to face him, her arm now dripping her lifeblood onto the rug below.

“Father. You have to stay in control. For me, please, please try and be strong. Promise me. Promise you won’t hurt me,” she demands shakily, alarm bells ringing shrilly in her head that maybe she’s gone too far this time. Maybe she’s had just a bit too much faith in him. She’s not ready to die. Not yet.

He looks at her, however, and within the strain of desperate need coursing through him is a glimpse of the man she knows and trusts, just beyond the hunger. He can only manage to jerk his head forward in one terse nod before he’s reaching for her arm. She meets him halfway, and he grips her arm tight with both hands, yanking on her roughly to close the distance between his mouth and her skin. His lips are soft and warm against her arm, but she can’t hold in the small whimper of pain from the sting of his tongue darting out of his mouth to lap at the bleeding wound.

His eyes slide closed in reverence while he laps at her gently, as if he's trying to savor the way she tastes, then outright moans in apparent ecstasy. Lily turns her face away from him to try and discourage the thoughts that are rapidly surfacing from the deepest parts of her mind. After a few moments his head starts bobbing deliberately with the motions of drinking and releasing – letting the blood replenish itself on her arm again before he dips back down to consume it. Her head is spinning and she feels a sharp pang of guilt when she realizes that his actions have her heart practically pounding inside of her chest, while her free hand digs into the fabric of the couch for purchase. The steady rhythm of his suckling sends pulse after pulse of heat searing through her veins and directly into his hot mouth.

She turns away from him again in utter self-disgust, but it does very little to slow the molten gold inside of her veins from slowly slipping downwards until she’s squeezing her thighs together. What started as a simmering heat pooling in her lower stomach is now directing its path between her legs in a steady current, making her bite down on her lip to keep herself from accidentally moaning aloud. She shivers as his teeth slide into the crease of the cut at its deepest point, causing her to suck in a tremulous breath at the pain of new skin tearing beneath his sharp, white canines. His following rapturous whimper turns into a long, low groan, causing goosebumps to erupt across every inch of her body as fresh blood springs forth under his teeth. She feels as if she’s on fire, burning hotter with every blissful sound he makes and every lap of his warm tongue that continues to slide across her tender skin. She lets him continue to take what he needs as the minutes inch by, her desire and guilt mounting in tandem with every passing second.

What the hell is wrong with me? What would he think of me of he knew?

She chances another glance up at him after a spike of fear reminds her that she needs to keep ahold of the situation and stop him from going too far. The periphery of her vision has started to soften, the light of the room bending in an odd way that has her squinting, as if trying to stare through a dense fog. The blurry border of her vision is slowly closing in, leaving a smaller and smaller window of sight, while, her hands have started to tingle and numb. The sensation quickly begins to creep into her arms and legs, and she concurs rather suddenly that she has to end this; she’s on the verge of blacking out.

“Father, I... I really need you to stop now...” She gently requests, and begins tugging her arm to free herself from his grasp only for him to respond by yanking her back beneath his mouth again and suctioning more firmly onto her skin.

Oh, no...no no no.

“Father Paul. Listen to my voice – you promised me. Let me go, right now, or – or I might die. Please, Paul, you’re stronger than this,” she says as firmly as her rattling nerves allow, pulling her arm back with more force than her first attempt. Without so much as looking up or slowing down, the arm that’s closest to her quickly shoots out to snake around her waist, roughly yanking her body against his own and shifting her until she’s straddling his lap.

Fresh panic sizzles through her body as she squirms above him, trying to use her knees that are resting on the couch on either side of his thighs to push herself away. He easily thwarts the feeble attempt, his arm wrapping itself around her back possessively to lock her into place against him as he stretches her injured arm upwards, his mouth still feverishly feeding off of her dwindling life force.

Her head feels as if it weighs a hundred pounds while a ringing noise invades her ears, as if her body is trying to alert her that this might be the end. She shakes her head rapidly, trying to clear her mind of the terror slowly snaking itself through her entire body and wills herself to conjure up a wave of adrenaline-induced strength. She pushes against the couch again, thighs straining as her free hand pushes against his shoulder with all of her might. Just as she begins creating some space between them, he lets out a frustrated groan, slightly muffled from his mouth remaining latched to her arm, and promptly jerks her back down onto his lap with an animalistic grunt.

Her frenzied heart almost stops mid-beat at the sensation of her center being pressed down firmly against him, causing her to yelp in startled disbelief when she feels the unmistakable hardness of what must be his erection. Even with her senses becoming muddled and her energy steadily waning, nothing can hold back the choked moan that escapes her lips when he roughly bucks his hips up from beneath her to grind his clothed cock against her sensitive core. Her head is fuzzy with slowly dwindling consciousness and rapidly growing desire, and her heart is stuck somewhere in between, beating like a drum from the attack on both her body and her mind.

Get ahold of yourself! You’re going to fucking die if you don’t stop him!

Without another thought, she takes her free hand, rears it back, and slaps him across his face as hard as she possibly can. His head snaps to the side from the force, leaving him blinking dazedly and her wincing at the tingling pain that’s erupting within her hand. He’s still holding onto her arm, but his mouth is finally off of her now, and she feels hope course through her as he turns to gaze at her in bewilderment. She watches him grapple with his slowly returning stages of cognizance, his expression morphing into one of shock at realizing she’s perched upon his lap so intimately, then concern as he studies her ashen face and heavily-lidded eyes trying to stay open, then sheer appalment as he looks down and sees her bloody forearm still clutched so tightly in his hand that his knuckles have turned white.

She tries to stay alert as she fades, or just stay awake at the very least, but she feels the dark blanket of unconsciousness start to wrap itself tightly around her. Her body is both too hot and too cold, and her arms and legs feel as if they’re filled with static from her body fighting against the looming darkness.

“Lily?! What did – how – what did I – ?!“

He’s abruptly silenced when her far too heavy head starts falling towards him and knocks their foreheads together with a dulled “thunk”, causing her to giggle a bit in her delirious state. He gently takes her face in his hands and helps guide her head onto his shoulder, quickly wrapping his long arms around her securely as her body begins sagging sideways with fatigue. She hums contentedly at the warmth he always seems to exude, as if the sun lives in the lining of his skin, and snuggles into him closer. The muffled sound of his frantic voice floats in and out of her awareness as her consciousness starts to drift into the ether, while her eyes finally lose the battle of staying open any longer. Deeper down she floats, smelling both him and the coppery scent of her own blood before an ocean of oblivion opens itself up and swallows her whole.

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