#tfw you can't even write your smut drabble well bc you're feral for the man you're writing about
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proverbsss · 1 year ago
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reading you right (father paul hill/john pruitt x reader) -nsfw
Father Paul Hill, Midnight Mass
prompt(s): "Me. You. Bed. Now." [from this post]
[Pt. 2 Out Now!! Linked Here :)]
anon: I had a normal amount of fun writing this, hope you enjoy :) i wanna do a pt. 2 because ofc i do,, honestly I got a lil hot n bothered lmao
notifs: paul hill is a tease!! ; shoe-grinding ; fluffy smut ; hierophilia ; you're father paul's dirty little secret ; denial ; reader begging ; reader's down HORRENDOUS ; terms used: good girl, slutty thing, pet
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"You've been lying there moaning for ten minutes." Father Paul chuckles, trying to focus on his reading.
You feel your leg twitch as you lay on your stomach, looking a bit dazed across the room. A giggle escapes you. In your mind's eye a constant stream of images plays- every dirty thing you’ve done with Father Paul in the last 48 hours, a rare weekend’s reprieve from prying Beverly Keane, sitting bedside with her sister or aunt or who-the-hell cares on the mainland. It was too easy to sneak into the house behind St. Patrick’s, and too goddamn pleasurable to leave after the first night. A delightful ease of domesticity has settled over the two of you. And you’re even more whipped for the Father than you were when this whole messy arrangement began.
"I can't help it-"
"It's understandable to whine like a whore while I'm still inside you, but cooing like that when I'm not even touching you is a little ridiculous." Smug, he licks his finger and turns a page. "A man's ego can only grow so big."
“What are you reading?” you ask, completely uninterested, and your voice betrays it. You might enjoy a good book now and again, but something worlds more tempting is sitting before you. In his jeans and tee shirt, only his glossy ankle boots remaining, Paul is a rare sight out of uniform, like something sent from heaven. Or Hell. Both, somehow.
“You asked me that fifteen minutes ago. Or did you forget already?” He shoots you a disapproving, but playful look. He can hardly resist you more than you can him. Hardly. There is that last smidgeon of reserve that Paul prides himself on. He can’t be bothered to think of you as a sin, because life’s become far, far more complicated in the last few months than any one man can hold in his head, and because it feels like paradise to touch you.
Caught in your inattention, you abandon the ruse of asking about his book. "You fucked me too good...." You whine.
"You're going to complain about it?" He laughs at you.
"You're laughing at me." 
"Of course I'm laughing at you," he admonishes. Not to be taken in by your wiles, Paul's eyes trace the paragraph he's started unsuccessfully three times.
"You whine before I fuck you, you whine while I fuck you, and you whine after I've fucked you. You're silly."
The vision renews itself in your mind of last night creeping around in here, your excitement waiting in the antechamber of St. Patrick’s late at night, Paul sneaking up on you in the dark and taking you in that muggy little den where they keep the wine and spare things. You want him to grunt against your ear like that again, to fuck you like he needs you in order to breathe.
"I'm not silly!" You gasp out. He hears the difference in your voice and scans your body with his eyes. Grinning. He licks his bottom lip and pretends the fool. “I want it, please, I want it, I don’t caaaare…” Your caterwauling would be annoying if it wasn’t so bone-deep genuine. Paul could probably keep you here forever as a pet, a secret from innocuous parishioners, visitors from all walks of life, and you’d be satisfied as long as he used you from time to time. Fed you.
“Oh, that’s undignified.” He smiles, turns the page and hopes he can pick up without the aid of the passage his mind simply refused to retain.
You get on all fours and start to crawl over to him. You tug on the leg of his jeans, utterly debased.
“You’re insatiable, you know that?” his tongue flicks and flutters around the word in a musical way that you know you could find better uses for. You nod. His voice. He could guide you anywhere with it. To make things worse, he imitates you. The facsimile of your lust in his voice is enough to make you jump him. “‘Father, I can't focus on my book....Father, please fuck me with your fingers, I can't without it, I need it...I told you pack things to stay because I imagined I’d be enjoying some downtime other than between my sheets.'"
You bite your lip, the adoring way you look up at him unfairly reminiscent of Biblical portraiture, the Madonna (too ineffably ironic), Saint Lucia, devout, suppliant little succubi. Paul’s heart breaks a little, and his cock twitches with interest, which he endeavors to suppress. 
“What’s that look for, child?” He plays up the religious bent of your dynamic, something that presses inexpressibly sinful and delicious buttons in your dirty mind. 
"I do need you."
You pout. Your words with Paul repeating them was enough to rev your proverbial engine. You shift just the littlest bit, yet the friction of the floor underneath you is enough to tease out a whimper. Not totally on purpose, but not totally by accident. John chuckles again. 
“Present tense?” He pretends to turn a page, but he’s not reading a damn thing now.
"I need you all the time you're not in me.” It’s filthy, but it feels true in these moments when all the thoughts are leaving your head empty. 
He smiles one of his private smiles. His eyelids crinkle as he reaches up to scratch his cheek. "Let's not be pornographic, huh?"
"I wanna fuck again..."
"What else is new?"
"You've ruined me." He looks at you then like you’re something to eat. The book is shut and put down. You have your beloved hot priest’s attention. His eyes ask, smoldering, what will you do now you have it?
“You have my boot. Or aren’t you smart enough to get yourself off.” His tone shifts and a shadowy, serious dominance settles in his countenance. Every behavior, every quirk of his expression, curve of his smile, owns and owns you. He may plead and beg to bury his head between your thighs from time to time, on one occasion he may have shown up at your door, his satchel a deceptive front for rope and ribbon, which you were to restrain and blindfold him with. Life’s too short for dynamics that don’t shift and change like the tides. But in this moment, this energy, you are his. And he intends to impress that upon you.
You gape at him just a moment, heady lust clouding your already addled brain. Then slowly, carefully, you adjust your position, grab the upper part of Paul’s calf, and hoist your lower body up onto his shoe, your pelvic bone bumping his shin. Any hesitations or embarrassment that linger in you drown in the deeper, sweeter excitement of feeling some real friction as you roll your hips. Oh. God.
This might be the senseless, reckless need talking, but fuck. Just the sensation of the toe of his shoe right between your thighs, exactly where you need it, makes you feel a little bit crazy. You look up at him in awe, and thank God he’s not picked up his book again but instead is sitting comfortably, his gaze dropped low to watch you, his groin thrusting the tiniest bit forward at nothing, too much nothing. He groans, and you chase your pleasure like a thing possessed.
Words slip out of your mouth without a shred of logic behind them, and Paul tells you to repeat yourself. He bites his bottom lip as he watches you. “Hello? Still a brain in there?"
“I said you make me so sensitive,” you mumble, finding a new groove in the contour of his shoe, where it meets his ankle, and leaning on his knee, shaking, groping for his thighs, all involuntarily. Your dripping, dripping on his shoe, and the thought of how uncivilized that is makes Paul bite his fist.
"Uh huh, so it's all my fault, then."
"Yes..."
"Yes, 'what'?"
"Yes it's all your fault, Father."
“It’s my fault you’re going to cum on my shoe?”
You whine again. Your soul’s leaving your body, want spreads through every inch of your body, intense and blinding, high, so high.
“C’n I cum, please, can I cum?” You pant, feeling his hands wrap around yours, warm and loving. 
“Look at me, pet.” He orders. You obey. His irises envelop you. You steady yours on them, trying to get a grip, breath filling your belly and leaving your parted lips in rapid gasps. “No.”
Your brows shoot up in surprise. Disappointment isn’t the word for it, desire lets itself out as a sound. You slow down, somewhere in a high place you hear him say:
“Stop grinding, slutty thing. Your Father told you ‘no.’”
You sink against him, laying your head on one of his thighs. He kisses the top of your head, and murmurs, “Good girl. Good girl, good.”
Fireworks are setting off under your skin, your thighs are trembling, every bit of you is sticky. “That wasn’t easy, I bet.” He says, voice condescending and sweet, but every bit as needy as you are. You make another noise in response. 
“I’m not done with you, you know,” he takes your chin into one of his hands, lifts your head. He kisses you again, with a fierceness that just sharpens your feeling. “I’m not even close to done with you.” He rests his in your neck, kisses you once, twice, up your jaw, on your cheeks, the ear he can reach. He bites your earlobe and almost hisses, “Me. You. Bed. Now.”
[Pt. 2 Out Now!! Linked Here :)]
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proverbsss · 1 year ago
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tiger baby (john pruitt x reader)
it's international tiger day so naturally i picture a haim character calling his partner 'tiger'
Monsignor John Pruitt, Midnight Mass
notifs: NSFW, reader's body is AFAB, John calls you "my girl" once
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"Don't fuss now, I'm headed somewhere I think you'll really like" John's kisses almost burn on your skin, and the moment he lifts his head to look at you, you're missing his teeth on your nipple. He loves making you feel good, lives for the way you melt into delirium as your brain shuts off for him. But he also loves to tease.
His elbows are on either side of your torso, John is painfully slow in making his way down your body. "Here?" He asks, planting a gentle kiss on your ribs. His gorgeous golden-brown eyes are full of mischief. He's just as lost in you as you are in his touch. "Hmm...here?" He guesses again, wrong on purpose that the soft skin of your lower abdomen is where you really need him.
"John, John, please-" you whine, surprised into a gasp by the sudden change in his grip on you, his hands dive under your legs and spread your knees wider apart. Basking, he lays his head on your thigh a moment and just looks at you.
"I'm being bad, aren't I?" He murmurs wrily, lips grazing your inner thigh without quite kissing. "I'm being so bad and mean to my girl."
You whine in agreement, squirming and trying to persuade his mouth to land a little higher, a little deeper. You're breathing a bit like an animal too.
"Okay, tiger baby, okay..." he says, loving and needy at the same time. "I'll give it to you, you don't have to whine..."
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