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slashbitch2 · 6 months ago

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Sinful Thoughts- Midnight Mass

Characters: Bev Keane, Father Paul/Monsignor Pruitt

Mike Flanagan's characters are just so interesting that I couldn’t resist writing a little something (expect more as I rewatch all other shows lol.) So here are two short n sweet pieces on Bev Keane and Father Paul.

TW: blasphemy but also like im not religious so idk, swearing, panic attack? Internalised homophobia, mans like a vampire idk how to label that, blood n injury !!

Proverbs 1:7 “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge.”

Beverly Keane had always hated your guts. It made total sense. You weren’t very religious, only attending church on special occasions, and even then, each sermon was a struggle to keep yourself awake. You drank and had fun, flitting between the island and the mainland living your oh-so-sinful life free of repentance.

The only thing that kept you tied to Crockett Island was your parents, who owned the only culinary establishment on the island. It was a simple restaurant that extended from the back of your house, rustic wood interior and a gathering of tables which mostly remained unoccupied. Each dish was cooked in your kitchen, and the door between the two remained usually unlocked, and so the restaurant was as much a home to you as your actual house.

The busiest time was always Friday evenings, in which the majority of the island’s community would flood into the already cramped room in search of drinks rather than food. Without these Friday nights, your family would’ve gone bankrupt years ago. And the island knew this, and thus the island descended. It was routine, one you were grateful for. At 7 pm each day, that door would swing open, a queue of familiar faces following the leader inside.

Whenever you returned home, your parents would insist that you help out, not that you minded, there wasn’t much else to do on Crockett.

The buzz you felt within the room was a rare occurrence on the island. You wove in and out of groups who would stop you to request another drink, or to catch up with how you were doing. Your feet ached from constantly carting drinks from the kitchen to the main room, and your voice was sore from maintaining repetitive conversations above the general volume level, yet you wouldn’t change it for the world.

“Yes, Mrs Scarborough I have missed this. How’s Leeza doing?”

It was so perfectly predictable.

“No, I’m afraid I’m only staying for the week, Mrs Flynn.”

“Such a shame! I knew you couldn’t stay Warren’s babysitter forever, but it feels like we barely see you anymore, Y/N.”

The same conversation over and over.

“Yes, Joe I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Predictable and easy.

“Of course, upon returning to the island, you neglect to join us for Mass.”

Her voice caused you to halt in your tracks, a tray of drinks balancing tentatively on the palm of your hand, the other free to gently nudge people out your way. And yet, Beverly Keane had planted herself directly in front of you.

You swallowed back your mild irritation at her intrusion. “I only got here this afternoon, and unless you’re planning on opening the church doors at midnight, I’m afraid it’ll have to wait.”

Beverley opened her mouth to say something else, but you beat her to it.

“Now, is there anything I can get for you, or are you simply enjoying my company.”

She faltered for a moment, the crease between her brows deepening. “No.” Clutching the coat folded over her arm closer to her chest, she stepped aside.

Normally, you revelled in your ability to rile her up, aggravating her self-righteous attitude to no end. Daresay you looked forward to your inevitable run-ins with Beverly Keane. Yet there was something subdued about her posture today, lacking in how quick she was to surrender.

You smiled at her. Not your usual gloating nor forced politeness, but a genuine smile, and who were you to criticise the concern that might’ve laced your expression.

This didn’t seem to help as her face darkened before she retreated further into the comfort of the crowd, leaving you with the distinct impression that you had done something wrong. The people of this island were outwardly simple beings, relishing their monotonous routine and bragging about the confined safety of their existence, but internally, to survive in such a place like this, each person was a complex puzzle piece fitting together to form Crockett.

And Bev didn’t just survive here, she thrived.

So, God forbid you found her intriguing. It couldn’t be helped.

Upon returning to the kitchen to collect the next round of drinks, you paused to knock back a shot of whiskey, savouring the way it warmed your chest. It had been part of your terms that while working for your parents, you were allowed to drink. They didn’t mind as long as you could stay on your feet, and nobody was here to leave any kind of TripAdvisor review, so there were rarely any consequences to your increasing inebriation.

While you bustled about the room, tending to customers and cleaning empty glasses, you found your gaze seeking her out every time: Beverly, in the corner, chastising Sarah Gunning, likely for her lack of faith, or talking to Wade Scarborough in hushed tones, conspiring about something. On your fourth trip into the heart of the restaurant, you sensed the weight of someone’s eyes burning into your back. Placing down the last two glasses of this round, you swivelled around as you stood up, and there she was, unsurprisingly staring at you with undisguised judgment.

In amongst the crowd, shadows engulfed her, the low lighting of the restaurant only able to reach the shining silver cross hanging from her neck. It shone so brightly, as if it were glowing, and yet this wasn’t what captured your attention. Instead, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from hers, unwavering with a simmering hatred, the passion of which stole your breath away. Your cheeks burned, the whiskey you had been slowly sipping at suddenly rising from the pit of your stomach to your chest.

You felt sick. You needed air. To escape from this cramped environment. To escape her.

Abandoning your post, you pushed past everyone and back into the kitchen, muttering a soft apology to your mother as you excused yourself momentarily. You picked up your leather jacket en route, memory guiding your movement to the backdoor. You threw it open and stepped out into fresh air, taking a gulping breath, and bracing a hand against the external wall of your house.

One thing you missed about Crockett was the constant presence of the sea. It was always near enough to hear each tide crash against the sand, carrying with it the promise that as each wave washed inland, it too would return to sea. Now, with each push and pull of the surf, you breathed in and out, feeling your chest loosen and cheeks begin to cool.

Rather than panicked, you now merely felt foolish at your reaction. Embarrassed. You had let Beverly get to you, something you swore to never let happen. She was a rude bitch. Not just to you, but everyone. A thorn in the side of Crockett. An expected antagonist to your every decision. But she was also part of the routine you had grown to love, a routine that signified you were home. As commonplace as the smell of salty air that invaded your nose, as irritating as the seagulls that cried overhead. She was part of the life you were accustomed to on Crockett- and yet wholly unpredictable.

Unlike the sense of calmness that pervaded home, Beverly brought conflict, like the storms that occasionally frequented the island, washing oddities upon the shore. She was wreaking havoc in your mind even now, despite the sea breeze lulling you into a sense of security. It seemed that you couldn’t escape her, though you tried.

You shivered, wrapping your arms around your form. It was getting colder each evening, emphasising that winter was fast approaching. Soon, you would leave the island, not returning until Christmas, when the cold would tighten its grip upon your home. Festivities would overtake all else during this month, the church confirming its place in the centre of the community with Beverly at the helm and- ah, shit. Your thoughts had drifted back to her so easily.

The sudden desire for the bitter taste of tobacco crossed your mind. It wasn’t something you often indulged in; a bad habit ditched upon arriving at the mainland, but being here was different- and often difficult, so a packet of cigarettes was always your first purchase after stepping off the ferry. Your hands fumbled about your jacket pocket, finding the crumpled packet and lighter. You lit one of the cigarettes, bringing it to your lips and taking a long drag, watching the dry, grey smoke seep out of your nose and into the dark nighttime air.

“That’s a terrible habit.”

The sound of a voice from behind you startled you out of your subconscious state.

It was Beverly, of fucking course it was. Who else would it be? She was standing in the doorway, warm light from your house radiating out all around her, like a halo.

“Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you. You are not your own. So, glorify God in your body.” She announced to the empty sea air as if she were talking to the whole congregation. “That’s from Corinthians 6:19-20, not that you would understand.” Beverly sniped when you didn’t immediately respond.

You sighed and brought the cigarette back to your lips, not finding the effort to deal with her sense of self-righteousness. “I didn’t come out here for a lecture, Bev.”

“Then why are you out here?” She asked casually, as though you were friends, as though you routinely shared anything personal with the woman.

Instead of answering, you fired back, “Why did you?” instantly regretting the harshness of your tone.

Bev shuffled on the spot, standing up straighter, if that were possible. “I wanted to order a drink.”

The absurdity of her response made you scoff, incredulous at the poor excuse. You took another drag from the cigarette to make her sit in the silence, broken only by the crashing waves and the muffled sounds of human activity from inside. “You can wait.” You muttered, loathing the churning sensation in your stomach, which worsened as you saw Bev shift closer out the corner of your eye.

“That’s not very professional.” She pulled a face of mock disappointment, though you saw right through the act. “Am I mistaken or are restaurants meant to have servers?”

“My parents manage without me most the year, I’m sure they can manage an extra ten minutes.” You replied through gritted teeth.

Bev tutted, turning out to stare at the sea. “No, it’s fine I don’t want to be a bother. They seem busy enough.”

You rolled your eyes. She was just trying to get under your skin as always, to make you feel bad for taking a break. What you couldn’t understand, though, was her reluctance to head back inside. She was standing next to you now, staring straight ahead, lost in thought but saying nothing. You even noticed she was shivering, having forgotten to bring her coat out with her.

With the whiskey warming your gut, and the cigarette bringing heat to your chest (though you suspected it wasn’t the sole cause) you no longer felt the chill on the breeze. You exhaled, steeled yourself, and spoke. “You’ll catch your death out here. Do you want my coat? If you’re staying that is.”

Beverly frowned, but the expression didn’t hold her usual frustration or judgment, rather she appeared confused.

It didn’t take much knowledge of Crockett to guess that Beverly wasn’t one to receive such acts of kindness or chivalry often. She had never been well-liked, starting way back at school. She was a few years older than you, and amongst the few young residents attending classes each day, you heard the reputation she held. Beverly Keane has not a friend in the world except those who have no choice but to be nice to her in church, according to anyone you would ask.

“Sure.” Beverly didn’t utter a thanks or spare a smile as you slipped the jacket off your shoulders and passed it over to her. You watched her put it on, your heart admittedly fluttering at the sight. It was so mismatched in comparison to her modest, traditional woollen cardigan.

She stayed staring at you, eyes dark and piercing like she was trying to guess what you’d say next. You didn’t know either, feeling rather adrift in the moment.

“I was sorry to hear about Monsignor Pruitt taking ill on his travels.” There were many riskier things you could’ve said, but you decided to choose the safest option. “I’m sure it’s not the same without him?” You prompted, desperate for her to say something, anything to end the tense silence that had descended.

“It isn’t. They’ve sent a replacement until he recovers.”

You quirked an eyebrow, curious. It wasn’t often the island saw new arrivals. “How’s he doing?”

“Settling in fine,” Bev answered concisely, unwilling to divulge the tendency to gossip that seemed to afflict the community- yourself included.

You made a mental note to ask your parents about the new minister later.

“Are you…” Bev began, then trailed off, as though she were fighting an internal battle whether to pursue a civil conversation with you or not. She cleared her throat. “Is it nice being back on Crockett?”

You had to stifle a laugh at the awkwardness lacing her voice. “I guess so.” For lack of better words, you decided to test how far you could push this newfound civility. “I just ended a long-term relationship, so it’s nice to have that distance from her.”

A muscle in Bev’s jaw twitched, though she didn’t dare to look in your direction. There was a longer pause before she said anything, and you could practically see the gears turning in her head. “It’s not my place to judge who you choose to spend your time with- only God can judge,” she added quickly. “But perhaps some relationships are better left behind, on the mainland.”

You snorted, admiring her ability to avoid what was truly bothering her, but decided to push the topic further. “No need to be jealous. No one ever makes it to Crockett unless it’s serious.”

“I’m not!” The simple statement had been sufficient to rile her up, face flushed and mouth agape as she struggled to hold back whatever it was that she really wanted to say. “What on Earth would make you think I’d be jealous of your sinful existence!? It sickens me that you would even suggest that I-”

“Woah.” You held up your hands playfully. “Calm down, I’m only joking.”

She glared at you, and where you would usually find it intimidating, now it was only amusing to have sparked such a reaction from her.

Your amusement died as she started hurriedly removing the jacket, chucking it at you like it had burned her.

You dropped your cigarette to catch it. “Hold on!”

“I’m going back inside.”

“There’s no need to-“

“And I don’t want to hear any more of your perverted allegations-”

“Wait just a minute. I wasn’t suggesting anything.” You tried quickly to amend, instinctively stepping in front to block her path, and accidentally bringing yourself much closer to her in the process. Close enough to count every freckle dotted across her skin, to see how her hair glowed orange in the warm light emanating from your living room window.

“Move.” She growled.

“I’m sorry.” You replied instead. “That was stupid of me to say. It’s none of my business how you think of my love life.”

You said the wrong thing, again as she moved towards the door, and thus closer to you. “I don’t think anything of it.” She spat, disgusted by the very notion.

Now staring at Beverly with barely a foot between you, you noticed not only details that distance would not permit, but the way her chest was rising and falling heavily, that prevailing dark look in her eyes, which flickered down to your lips and then back up to meet your gaze and softened ever so slightly. Her mouth was downturned as usual, but her lips looked cold and colourless, and oh how you longed to warm her up.

Rather abruptly you realised that it had been too long since either of you had spoken, and while you longed to fill this silence, you found yourself with nothing to say. All you could do was simply stare at her, and more shockingly, she was letting you. No snide comments or snarky remarks, just her eyes, fixed on your face. Waiting. Holding her breath. You couldn’t be the one to end this tension, you both knew that. It had to be her. She had to show you she was certain. She had to-

Beverly closed the distance, lips pressed anxiously against your own. She caught you off guard, and it took a second before your eyes fluttered shut. And then there it was, that feeling again, the burn in your cheeks, the churning in your stomach like the push and pull of the tide. But this time accompanied by the gentle sway of her face in front of yours as she didn’t dare reach out to pull you closer. Her lips were chapped and cold, but soft and chastely seeking out yours. It occurred to you then and there that she probably hadn’t kissed anyone before, and a newfound determination took hold of you.

As she went to pull away, you encircled your arms around her waist, and she let out something that sounded like a gasp. Enticing her closer, you parted your mouth to close over hers, gently sucking her bottom lip, and feeling as she practically melted against you. Cold hands cupped your cheeks, her thumb stroking along your hairline. It was tender, daresay, loving, and over way too quickly.

Beverly was quick to come to her senses and jerked away from you, though her hands stayed holding your face for another beat or two. Her eyes were shining with an open vulnerability, one you longed to soothe, but knew better than to try.

“Bev, I-“

Suddenly the air around you was cold, not in the pleasantly refreshing way you had earlier sought, but cold and empty. Similarly, that dark tenderness in Beverly’s eyes has morphed now, into something akin to hatred, prickling across your skin like jolts of electricity. Your hands dropped from her waist, and she immediately replaced that prior distance between you.

“Y/N Y/L/N, don’t you ever, dare come near me again.” She spat. “Do you understand me?”

You found your mouth inexplicably dry, the words unable to make it past your throat. You nodded instead.

In response, Beverly bolted, leaving only the resounding slam of the door as she fled back to the restaurant. Yet, despite her urgency to escape your presence, you knew this wasn’t over.

PART TWO

Ecclesiastes 12:13 “Fear God and keep his commandments.”

On Crockett Island, there were just two places where someone such as yourself could be truly and totally honest: screaming your deepest secrets into the unmoving, grey sea, or at confessional.

The only problem was that your deepest darkest secret involved said priest hearing said confession, so that wasn’t really an option. And, you see, it wasn’t your only problem either.

Problem number two: the guilt eating you alive from said unmentionable confession.

Even if you were to sit inside the confessional, you could hardly think about him, let alone speak aloud what was bothering you. You didn’t know how to say it, afraid that the moment you voiced your guilt, God might strike you down, banish you from church- or worse, that Father Paul might. And herein lay the route of all your problems: you were a little too fond of Father Paul. He was the deepest darkest secret, your unmentionable confession. You were enamoured with the priest.

How could you not be?

He was the young, new arrival on the island.

The very second he stepped through those doors, you were hypnotised, revitalised, a changed person, one might say, and this was before he opened his mouth and delivered the most moving sermon you had ever heard. And so, you tried to absolve your guilt in other ways, mainly by praying as often as you could and avoiding Father Paul.

Unfortunately, on an island as small as Crockett, this wasn’t always possible.

Earlier in the day, you had bumped into him at the general store… then bumped into a shelf stacked high with products which came crashing down all around you… and finally finished off the most embarrassing interaction of your life by stumbling over your words of assurance that ‘yes, you were fine, and no, he wasn’t at fault at all.’ You were simply insanely smitten by him, though you abstained from saying that last part.

After spending the remainder of your day regretting such a moment, you decided to venture to the church and confess your sins directly to God himself. Remove the confessional part, the middleman, if you will, and confess to the sky above.

The sky was darkening by the time you had summoned up the courage to venture out to the church, the building perfectly deserted for your private confession. As you kneeled down in one of the many empty pews, hands clasped together and lips silently forming blasphemous words, only the sound of the wind whistling outside the church answered your prayers. “Forgive me, God, for I have sinned.”

The whole church was dark and vacant. And silent, most importantly.

“I know this isn’t how these things are supposed to go, but… well…”

Your knees ached against the solid wood floor, a stark reminder that you were not here for the comfort of your God, rather to face your guilt.

“I don’t seek absolution, in fact, I believe that would be impossible.” You chuckled to yourself, awkwardly, as if to avoid voicing what you dared not to dwell on. “But instead, guidance, and the strength to do the right thing.”

Glancing downwards at your hands, you imagined the small gap between them to hold your secret, and thus tightened your grip, reluctant to let it escape.

“Strength to ignore any sinful thoughts I have about…”

The floor creaked anxiously while you shifted about. As uncomfortable as you felt, this was necessary. You would force out the words if that’s what it took.

“About…”

You were interrupted as the doors to the church swung open on their hinges, smashing against the wall and startling you with a loud bang. The torrent of noise didn’t cease as the wind, now howling, swept its way into the building. The weather was worsening outside, yet that wasn’t what concerned you. Unclasping your hands, you swivelled around on your knees to see who had disturbed your solitude and were met with the object of your simultaneously, sinful desires, and most dreaded imaginations.

Father Paul stood in the doorway, his dark coat billowing around him as the wind tugged at its edges. He hurriedly grasped the handle of the door, and battling against the gusts forcing their way inside, pushed backwards until it slammed shut once more. He leant back, out of breath, a dark figure in contrast to the light wooden walls. His eyes, unnaturally sharp and piercing, scanned the empty church before they landed on you, still kneeling in front of the pew. For a beat, neither of you moved, as though the beginnings of the storm raging outside had stilled time within the sacred space.

Father Paul didn’t look surprised to see you in the slightest, though you couldn’t say the same at his intrusion. While the church was a sanctuary from the weather outside, it couldn’t provide shelter from the emotional turmoil within you.

“Oh.” He seemed suddenly to remember that you shouldn’t be here, face morphing into confusion as he stepped forward, boots echoing against the hollow air. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

You were mesmerised as he approached, tracing the light rain that coated his jet-black hair, and soaked his clothes. To have Father Paul summoned so suddenly, as you were repenting for your feelings towards him was almost unsettling. You weren’t sure whether this could be classed as an act of God, or merely incredibly unfortunate timing on your part.

Father Paul continued to walk forward, stopping next to you. A flickered expression crossed his face, a blink and you would’ve missed it kind of quick, but uncanny- so uncanny that a chill crept its way up your spine.

“No!” You exclaimed, remembering that you ought to respond eventually. “I’m the one that should be apologising, Father.”

“Whatever for?” He asked, expression unreadable and tone casual as he regarded your posture.

Feeling insecure, you slowly stood up, joints creaking from the cramped position. “It’s a rather odd time to be here.” You swallowed hard and smiled, rooted to the spot under Father Paul’s curious glare.

He studied your face, frowning, giving you the distinct impression that he knew more than he let on. That, perhaps, he knew exactly what you were apologising for.

“In God’s house, there is no odd time.” He answered. “You are always welcome here, Y/N.” There was a concern to his voice, genuine and gentle, which only made the guilt gnawing within you more intense. How could you confess to anyone but yourself that the mere sight of him made you question everything you thought you knew, everything important to you, even your faith?

“Thank you, Father.” You nodded, your head remaining bowed as you enjoyed a respite from the intensity of his proximity. To spend time with him felt wrong, and yet, you couldn’t escape the need for more. “I had better get home before this weather gets any worse.”

As the words left your mouth, you risked glancing up at him and were met with the striking impression of anger.

Pure, unadulterated anger. Or no, rather, hunger. An expression of longing you previously would have hoped to have seen reciprocated, yet now felt so violently unsettled by. His brow furrowed, and he stepped closer, a comforting- possessive hand reaching out but stopping short of touching you. “No, stay.” Father Paul implored. “The storm is meant to clear within the hour, and I could use some company.”

You found your mouth inexplicably dry, and simply nodded, accepting his suggestion despite the unnerving energy that seemed to radiate from him. Perhaps, you were just being foolish, and what you felt was a result of your ungodly thoughts rather than any kind of sinister nature to Father Paul. That must be it.

“Let us pray together. “He gestured to the empty pew beside you. “I cannot be the reason for your prayers being left unfinished.”

You chuckled and moved further in, allowing Father Paul to shuffle into the confined space, effectively trapping you. And yet, his body was warm and steady, pressed up against you closer than it needed to be. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to move away, nor deny the jolt of something- guilt, desire, fear, whatever it was, as it deepened the tempest raging inside of you. This was morally wrong. You couldn’t truly repent when you were so enjoying his company.

Turning your focus forward, you reclasped your shaking hands, trying to ignore the way his presence clouded your mind. Though you couldn’t stop your eyes from darting across, just for a brief beat, but long enough to see his hands mirroring your own in prayer- his fingertips stained a deep red, dried blood underneath his nails.

You gasped. “Father, your hands! Are you alright?” Your arms fell to your side, futile, your gaze locked on the crimson staining his skin, checking to see any visible injuries.

“Oh, no, no…” Father Paul raised his hands before him to calm your panic, bringing that horrifying red into better light. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from it, yet what it signified, you couldn’t understand.

“I’m not hurt.” He smiled, reassuring, your gaze finally relinquishing its hold as you calmed down and looked up at him. He appeared genuine in his reassurance, and perhaps, if you squinted, flattered by your concern for his wellbeing.

“What…that’s blood… What happened?” You stuttered out.

“Just an accident. It really is none of your concern.” He brushed off your worry as if it were nothing, like the weight of it wasn’t pressing down on your chest, making it hard it breathe in the accompanying tension you felt around Father Paul. You were held captive by it all.

“I should…” You flickered between his impassive expression and the stained blood, fighting an internal battle of your own. “I’ll get you something to wash up.”

Before you could stand, the lights blinked and then stuttered out, plunging the church into an abrupt darkness. The storm outside had grown stronger, the wind crying and rain pelting against the walls with relentless force. In this darkness, you felt Father Paul’s presence even more acutely, his breath warm against your face as he leaned in close.

“No, stay,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”

You were certain. You had no other choice, and thus remained still, unmoving.

Father Paul was staring at you now. In the shadows of the unlit church, you could just about make out his face, his features darkening with the lack of light, and something more, something unspoken. In spite of the gloominess that the power cut had plunged you both into, his eyes seemed to shimmer, a picture of innocence- but it should be impossible, with no light source to reflect off of. In fact, they practically glowed, holding a temptation that, perhaps, wasn’t yours alone to carry. A shared burden of lust.

You edged closer, if only to look deeper at this unnatural phenomenon, hypnotised by the way his iris shone. He echoed this movement, closer to you, and then again, and again, until he was too close for you to focus on anything except his lips. But this was wrong. You squeezed your eyes shut; to take a breath, to regain your composure, to try and escape the hold Father Paul ruled over your senses. But what you hadn’t anticipated in all your sinful hopes and secret daydreaming, was how soft his lips would be as they hesitantly sought yours out.

Father Paul kissed you, so softly, his breath fanning across your face as he sighed. You leaned further, giving in to temptation, savouring the touch. His hand rose to your face, warm but firm, as you fell into his hold. Any thoughts of repentance slipped away from your mind, replaced by a feeling that you hoped would never go away. It was blissful. Nothing existed except you and him.

The solid wooden floor beneath your legs melted away, your cramped positioning becoming somehow not cramped enough. You wanted to be impossibly close, to lose yourself in the embrace.

A sharp pain against your bottom lip dragged you out of this state, followed by a metallic taste filling your mouth as you gasped, tried to pull away from Father Paul. The pain on your lip was hot and white, soothed unsuccessfully as his tongue lapped at the cut. You were uncomfortable, you tried again to pull away, but at some point, his arm had snaked its way around your waist, holding you against him: trapping you. Despite the blood pooling in your mouth, Father Paul was kissing you more fervently, his grip tightening like he couldn’t let you go.

You whined, unable to speak up as he pushed you backwards, his hands firmer and firmer against your cheeks. Gone was the softness, the hesitance, replaced only by discomfort.

Finally, you pressed against his chest with more force than should be necessary, and he parted, falling back into the dark mass of his coat, splayed all around him like a pool of blood. It matched the dark liquid that now coated his lips and oozed down his chin. Your blood.

He had bitten you.

Jumping to your senses, you scrambled to your feet, observing the pure hunger that had taken over Father Paul, afraid that should you look away, he might pounce. Your chest was rising and falling at such a rapid pace that you could hardly control the way your body shook. Tremors reverberated through your mind, as all else screamed at you to run.

Suddenly, a static click and light flooded the church. Your eyes slammed shut, your vision adjusting from near-pitch black to a blinding warmth which penetrated your eyelids in an amber hue. Blinking a few times, you forced yourself to look back at Father Paul, who had raised an arm to cover over his eyes, clearly struggling with the change in lighting as the power returned. But to your utter dismay, this newfound light confirmed your worst fear: your own blood smeared all around his face.

When you needed it most, light had been returned to the church, and thus your senses had returned too. So, before temptation could make itself known to you once more, you turned and ran and didn’t look back.

reminder to self to proofread this at some point lol

#midnight mass #monsignor pruitt x reader #father paul hill x reader #father paul x reader #bev keane #beverly keane #bev keane x reader #beverly keane x reader

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