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rapunzel-withthegoodhair · 2 years

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that summer in new york; mike faist x reader playlist

that summer in new york;

that summer in new york, you sang ella fitzgerald until the vinyl of the record went all static and scratchy. you cooked to etta james, spinning around the kitchen in your socks as if it was a dance studio. mike helped you slide the couches back across the wood floors of your living room and together, you made up dances to ‘mambo italiano’ and ‘johnny b goode’.

that summer in new york, you learned how to make pierogies and latkes and nalesniki. you knew you were never going to cook on screen, but you also knew your character was polish and only first generation american and loved how immersive it felt to be standing in your tiny loft in the village, windows open to let the sounds of the city in as you danced around the kitchen to ‘lazy mary’. when mike learns of this, he drops by regularly to eat the leftovers and sometimes, when he starts drawling in that mid-atlantic accent, you lose track of where your sense of self ends and your characters begin.

that summer in new york, you didn’t need to be on set or even at rehearsals every single day, but mike always asked you to come by to have lunch with him and you did when your schedule allowed it. one day he was nowhere to be found and you felt a little foolish picking at your chicken salad alone in the big theater everyone was rehearsing in. until mike and the other boys returned, all of them carrying roses they’d bought last minute out of the nearby subway station. you tried to fight it, but when he handed you his big red rose, you smiled so hard you couldn’t even see.

that summer in new york, you were in and out of three other shows in between rehearsals and filming for the movie. and it was chaotic and insane and overwhelming and exhausting. but you wouldn’t have traded the chaos for all the money or peace in the world. always on the move, always with somewhere to be, always with songs to learn or combinations to rehearse.

that summer in new york, you practically lived in your character shoes and it did a real number on your feet. you’re still not sure how you would’ve survived it without mike’s foot massages or the way he carefully wrapped your ankle when it sprained. you did your best to return the favor with back rubs and trigger point massages, though you’d quickly learned that you could only do those in private, with the deep groans it pulled out of him.

that summer in new york, you let your hair grow long and wore it in a ponytail with a bandana tied around your head. big, black shades hid your eyes and red lipstick gave you a bit of a pout. you liked matte lipstick normally, but gave it up when mike confessed how much he liked the way the red stayed on his cheek after you’d kiss him there.

that summer in new york, when your rent hiked a full $300 overnight, mike just shrugged. ‘move in with me’ he’d shrugged casually as if it were the obvious answer. as if he was just fronting you a metrocard and not an entire bedroom. you reminded him he only had one bathroom. ‘you worried I’m gunna steal your stage makeup, bambi eyes?’ he’d smirked in return. ‘relax…we’re not even the same skin tone.’

that summer in new york, when mike had his earpods in, he’d always hand you a bud and then his phone to adjust the playback. he was never sure how you knew your way around an equalizer so proficiently when you’d never mixed your own tracks, but he also knew no one else could possibly perfect the quality of a song like you. he always let you keep the bud, and you’d listen to the same music together in silence while walking through the battery or riding the green line uptown.

that summer in new york, every cast dinner felt like you were up on some hazy pink cloud because mike was always right next to you with his arm across the back of your chair. his fingers would play idly with the ends of your hair and somehow he always knew the exact moment you got chilly. you’d be just about to ask him for his jacket or his sweater, but you’d never get the chance, the warm material set around your shoulders with a shared look of understanding exchanged between the two of you. you’re pretty sure every waiter in the village is still annoyed at how loudly the lot of you would get when you’d break into song at the drop of a hat

that summer in new york, you tried to teach the new kid on set about spotting when you notice he’s letting his head move with his body as he spins. you feel bad and assume he must be getting sick to his stomach spinning for hours at a time without proper training on how to avoid getting disoriented. you try to teach him to breathe from his diaphragm rather than his chest. he doesn’t listen and when he throws up by the craft services table, you feel a little bad. until mike reminds you, they’ve got the best choreographers and coaches in the world working on this thing. If he wasn’t going to listen to them, he wasn’t going to listen to you either. he teaches you that every grown man is exactly where they want to be, even if they’re making themselves miserable - because miserable is a choice you can make too.

that summer in new york, you help mike pick out a necklace for his character. 'patron saint of lost causes' you explain when you help chain the st jude pendant around his neck. he likes the sardonic irony and in the vein of sticking to irish catholic traditions for his character, gets you a claddagh ring to wear around your own neck.

that summer in new york, you dance and you dance and you dance until you can't even breathe. until you fall to your knees on the floor. until you cry. until you're shaking. until you push past boundaries you didn't even know you could break and get to a place where you no longer feel your own body. you just melt into the music, into the lights, into mike who stays with you step for step and is just as lost in you too.

that summer in new york, you fill two whole notebooks full of lyrics. because no muse has ever lit such a fire of inspiration in you as he does...

#mike faist x reader #mike faist #c: riley reynolds #c: kataryzna wyzec

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rapunzel-withthegoodhair · 2 years

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So the Olympics have rekindled my obsession with Spinning Out and I'm curious what you think Justin Davis's zodiac chart looks like? I get strong Leo vibes with some water sign energy mixed in but I always love your zodiac and Justin Davis takes lol.

pls come off of anon so we can be best friends lmao

anyway Justin is a raging cancer (mommy issues anyone?) with more Leo (served with a steaming helping of daddy issues??) than he knows what to do with in his chart yes, hard agree. (with a tiny dash of libra??) (he whipped out that hunger games reference TOO fast try and tell me he doesn't read ya dystopian novels)

it's been years and I'm still in love with this man someone help

#justin davis #I've been mulling over this ask for days 'cause I just #fucking love him

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rapunzel-withthegoodhair · 3 years

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moonlight. darkside.

read moonlight. brightside. here (coming soon)

fandom: midnight mass summary: pisces man x cancer woman: they push each other's buttons, though with the best of intentions. an absorbing bond. he especially uncovers old burdens, healing in the process. cancer opens up too. sex is an escape... -from 'Sextrology' by Starsky & Cox (oneshot, complete) based on the midnight mass sleepover game - thank you @midnight-mess for your ask about father paul x cancer girl that inspired this. I tried so hard to be normal about this but... alas.

You’re always moody about something and Christianity is never least on the list.

Raised in church, you knew the Lord’s prayer before you knew your father’s first name.

The worst part is how real you wanted it to feel. How you were always looking. Always so ready to truly find God. If he would just come out and let himself be found. You never believed in Santa. Or the Easter bunny or the tooth fairy or ghosts.

But when your parents taught you about God, you knew that had to be real. Because your children’s bible said so. And all the sing along VHS tapes were about Jesus’ love (or the casual murdering of Egyptian first born children…). Everyone at Sunday School is so sure. Most of all, when the cathedral parishioners lift their voice in song, you can feel the holy spirit light up the room. Yes, you think, it has to be real.

You’re three the first time you ride in an airplane. And you’re bouncing with excitement as you board. You just know you’re finally going to see angels today. You just know God will be up there waving to you, so happy to see you. But there’s nothing to greet you up there except clouds, so bright with sunlight they sting your eyes. You cry the whole plane ride to Florida, thinking God just didn’t want to see you. Thinking you’ve done something to upset him. After all, that’s how it works in your own house. Withholding affection and not telling you what you’ve done wrong is your mother’s favorite game to play with you.

Your parents get divorced when you’re seven and it’s a gnawing sickness that turns your stomach every time you ride the ferry to Crockett to see your mother. She tells you she’s happy here. But it smells like fish in every building and the library doesn’t have any good books. She still makes you go to church on Sundays. The chapel here is much smaller than the towering cathedral back home on Long Island. But just as Catholic.

The priest on Crockett is nice, you guess. He rambles a lot and smells of mothballs. You’re not even sure he can see you for all the milky cataracts in his eyes. But at least he never speaks of hellfire or supporting Israel in the fight against Palestine or condemning women seeking abortions or all the other things your father’s parish rallies around.

By the time you’re eleven you’re already asking too many questions. Why would God tell anyone not to seek knowledge? Why would he advocate for genocide? Why would he kill all the first born children of Egypt? Why then, after so much violence, would his ten commandments stay silent about rape? Slavery? Domestic abuse? Still you still go to church with your father. You kneel when you’re supposed to. Stand when you’re supposed to. Offer peace and put your father’s tithe in the little plate. But you don’t smile and you don’t sing. You sit and listen and read the wrong passages and try to untangle your confusion.

Fourteen sees you wearing all black, your pretty hair cut short and bleached blonde after someone told you that women were meant to wear their hair long as a natural veil before God. A stud is set in your nose. Converse sneakers on your feet. You go to church only because you have to. Only because it feels good to have something to be so angry about. You don’t kneel in prayer. Why should you kneel to anyone? Unworthy of whose love exactly? How abusive is this god? No wonder Lucifer said enough is enough.

Your mother told you her maiden name ‘Oliver’ was Scots-Irish. That it meant ‘olive branch’. It meant your family was peaceful. You do your own research and find out that her ancestors were Dutch before they were Scottish. And Saxon before that. In ancient German, the name was originally Ælfhere before being Anglicized beyond recognition. Elf warrior, it means. This is a proudly pagan name. Who are these ancestors that have been scrubbed from your history? Who in your bloodline was badass enough to earn such a moniker and who were the Christians that stole that history away from you?

Going back far enough, it’s a similar story on your father’s side. And you can’t help feeling like something has been taken from you. The gods of your ancestors should be a sacred birthright. Your anger only grows when you learn all the feast days of Christianity were stolen from pagans too. Jesus wasn’t born on December 25th. That was the major feast day of Rome’s Sol Invictus, celebrating the winter solstice. Easter had nothing to do with a real resurrection. It was the Vernal Equinox stolen from the goddess Eostre. Suddenly, your whole world tilts off its axis. And you’re just fucking angry all the time. Why had everyone lied to you?

Seventeen sees you with a driver’s license in your hand and the fights with your dad just get worse and your mom is in and out of the hospital. When every emotion gets to be so much you can feel them all wrapped around your neck, strangling you, you jump in your car and drive too fast with the music turned up too loud. You let yourself get lost in the only thing that’s ever felt like God, only now the hymns are replaced with moody punk pop. You scream the lyrics until your voice is gone. Let the windows down so you can feel the wind through your fingers. You drive and drive until you get lost and then piece your way back in the moonlight.

You throw yourself into the study of every faith you can find. In college you minor in religion, still just searching. Just hoping something will click.

Nothing does. But you spend even more time driving. After class you get in your car and you just take off. In any direction. No map, no destination. That’s the point. You need the freedom of not knowing what you’re going to do or where you’re going to end up or what you’re going to see. You find national parks. Little valley towns. You find farmland. And forests. Lakes. Sunshine. Rain. Snow. You find spring. Like you really notice and feel spring for the first time in your life. Because for the first time in your life, you’re really paying attention. No longer trapped inside four walls staring at stained glass. You are truly tuned in to the universe.

Feeling guilty, you give church one last try. There’s a gorgeous Catholic cathedral just a few blocks from your dorm and you wander in on Sunday morning. The sermon is about the miracle of ‘conversion therapy’ on the LGBT community. Sick to your stomach, you walk out halfway through. You’ve only recently realized you yourself are bisexual and the words had cut into your viscera like a hot knife.

Still you feel God’s disappointment in you and sit in your dorm with the bible your mother gave you on move in day. Feeling lost, you don’t even know where to turn. You lay the book open in your lap, trusting that whatever you’re supposed to read, the universe will find for you.

The book falls open to Deuteronomy and…

“And the LORD said unto me, Behold, I have begun to give Sihon and his land before thee: begin to possess, that thou mayest inherit his land. Then Sihon came out against us, he and all his people, to fight at Jahaz. And the LORD our God delivered him before us; and we smote him, and his sons, and all his people. And we took all his cities at that time, and utterly destroyed the men, and the women, and the little ones, of every city, we left none to remain: Only the cattle we took for a prey unto ourselves, and the spoil of the cities which we took. From Aroer, which is by the brink of the river of Arnon, and from the city that is by the river, even unto Gilead, there was not one city too strong for us: the LORD our God delivered all unto us.”

After that day, you never pick up the bible again.

Instead, you read Paradise Lost. The Mists of Avalon. The Red Tent.

You open up your laptop and rewrite Genesis from Lilith’s point of view. From Eve’s. From Lucifer’s.

You drive again. Further this time. And sometimes, it’s days before you return to your dorm. You watch bees buzz around peach blossoms. And you feel the sun reaching down and sinking into the leaves. You smile so hard as everything just clicks into place. This is what you’ve been searching for. This is fucking it. God isn’t in a book or a cathedral or at an altar. God is the way sunlight travels 93 million miles through space just to sink into these leaves. And the tree can only stretch a couple dozen feet in the air to meet it “halfway”. But it tries anyway. And the sun never withholds affection in retaliation. It just keeps loving.

Just folds its energy down into this tree. Down into these roots. Into your skin. God isn’t separate from you, hovering in the distance ready to strike you down. God is in you. In everything.

As above, so below As within, so without As the universe, so the soul

You start a past lives journal so you can piece together all the clues you’ve been collecting. You spend whole days in the Barnes & Noble café pouring over astrology and numerology and name magic and manifestation.

You learn how to reclaim all the power you were told was only in God’s hands. You walk barefoot under the full moon and learn how it recharges you. You lean into the knowledge that you’re a night creature, just like owls and foxes, and let yourself stay up all night writing. You feast on starlight. Pearls aren’t just pretty, they share your vibration, so you wear them everywhere you go.

You join a coven. Attend burn ceremonies. Honor the real feast days, the ones the church tried to take away from you. Commune with the gods of your ancestors. And it’s like the cornerstone of your foundation has finally been set. All of this just feels right.

But the anger never really goes away. Nobody knows how to hold a grudge like a cancer girl. What else are these crab claws for anyway?

///

Now a successful author, your life feels lightyears away from a childhood spent kneeling in pews. You don’t even recognize Crockett Island. You haven’t been here in a decade. Maybe longer? But your mother begged you to come home. Your mother who is always sick. Whose bedside you are always running to. Who seems hellbent on making sure you never really get to live your own life. You resent her as much as the church and had every intention of telling her no. You’re still trying so hard to set boundaries. To draw a line around yourself and force everyone else to stay on their side, no matter how deep the guilt trips go. But when she’d facetimed you and told you she was being discharged from the hospital because of some miraculous recovery from the thousand ailments she’s always had...when you’d seen her… she'd looked so young. Her gray hair turned blonde again. Blue eyes sparkling. Wrinkles faded smooth over rosy cheeks. She looked your age.

Growing up, you were always the ugly duckling. But you’re beautiful now. The kind of beautiful that makes people stare when you walk by. Fashionable too, even by Manhattan’s impossibly high standards. And maybe that’s not supposed to matter. But it does to you. Because you had to find those things yourself. Your mother never taught you about makeup or how to dress nicely. She never taught you how to be charming or kind or lovable. You’d had to earn that with your bare hands. You’d climbed the stairs to your penthouse apartment from the ground floor up.

So Paul doesn’t even recognize you at first, when you wander inside the chapel. You can’t picture yourself attending Sunday mass. But you hadn’t been able to stay away. The curiosity was too much. And you feel like Eve in the garden sitting under the tree of knowledge, just staring. Just hungry to know.

“My mother looks...different. She says it was you. That you visited her in the hospital...What did you give her?”

Maybe it’s this tiny detail that gives you away. Maybe it’s your eyes, fixed on his.

“You’re Lynn’s daughter, aren’t you?” A faint smile of recognition flickers across his mouth. You don’t trust him, not for a second. And you hate how disarming this whole sweet, small town priest thing is supposed to be. Fuck off, you think. With your cardigan sweater and tight jeans and long bangs in your sad eyes. Doesn’t matter how pretty you dress it up, I can smell you a mile away. Peddling lies. Just like the rest of them.

“How do you know that?”

“You look just like her.” He laughs as if it’s obvious. And you take a small step back.

“I didn’t a couple of months ago. What have you been giving her?” He follows your movements as easily as if this is a dance.

“I could give some to you. Seeing is believing, right? But I doubt it would prove anything. I just can’t imagine there would be much of a change to see. You’ve really blossomed, haven’t you? And I don’t just mean the novels you’ve published. They’re immaculate. I’ve read them...But it’s you. You’ve come into yourself completely. I’m so proud of you.”

“Do I...know you?” Your heart is beating so fast and when his eyes drop to your neck, it’s almost like he can see your pulse. Smell your adrenaline.

A shaft of moonlight falls through the chapel windows. As you take another step back, he follows and steps right into it. And that’s when you see his eyes all lit up. Human eyes can’t do that, you remember because you’d researched it for one of your novels. We don’t have the layer of film in our eyes necessary to reflect light that way.

“Are you still searching for God?” His voice is softer now. Nearly a whisper. “I remember you sitting in my pews...burning with anger. Like a pot of water just boiling over. I can take all that away.”

“Maybe I like my anger.” You find the courage to snap back. You’ve never been able to keep your mouth shut when pushed. Did he say ‘my pews’? This can’t be Father Pruitt...Father Pruitt was old and senile and…

“Because you have nothing else to wrap yourself up in at night. You know, it doesn’t have to be that way.”

It pisses you off that he just knows. All the money and the clothes and the cars and the designer perfume and the lower east side penthouse… they’re wonderful. But you’re lonely. You always have been, whether in a relationship or not. Surrounded by friends. You’re still the princess who locked herself in her own ivory tower.

Doesn’t matter how pretty you dress it up, I can smell you a mile away. You hear him whisper in your mind like he can read yours and your knees nearly give out. Backed up against the altar, you have nowhere else to run. Near enough now to caress the back of one finger along your collarbone, you gasp at how cool his touch feels.

“Your worst fear… it’s turning into her, isn’t it? And you keep it wrapped up so tight inside yourself it makes you sick. Not just the hospital visits. No, it's the poison. The cruelty. The demons inside her. I can take it all away. If you don’t grow old… you can’t turn into her, can you? I can make sure you always stay you. As perfect as you are right now.”

The wide eyed flicker of vulnerable hope that wells up in your eyes is all he needs to see.

Your body crumples into his as his teeth sink into your neck. And the pain is blinding at first. Fingers curling into his sweater, you feel tears falling heavy on your lashes and wonder if you look like a weeping madonna.

He lays you on the altar. Bites his own wrist until blood flows freely from his veins. You’re too weak to refuse and truthfully, you don’t want to. If you’re going to die, you might as well let yourself be the little monster you’ve always wanted to be. Death has never scared you anyway. Take me away from this place, you think. Please let me be reborn as a star or a wolf. Something that has no idea what a political election is. Something with no concept of clocks or stock prices or bell curves or dated signatures.

As darkness edges in at every corner of your vision, you willfully slip into it. You’ve never wanted anything so badly.

But then you wake up.

On instinct, you touch your neck. The bitemarks have healed. The blood has been washed away. You don’t know where you are but it doesn’t really matter…nothing matters except...God, you’re so fucking thirsty. You’ve never been so thirsty in your life. And it hurts. Tears prick in your eyes from the ache as you try to swallow against the pain and you squeeze your eyes shut as it throbs through your entire body. You’d rather have your neck torn into a thousand times than feel this.

Standing, you have to reach out for the bedside table to keep from falling over. Your hands shake as you go for the glass of water there. Tears are streaming down your cheeks as you drink. This is not thirst as you’ve ever felt it before. You’d swear your gums are shrinking, pinching the nerves in the roots of your teeth. But the water is like sand in your mouth. Why is the moonlight so bright? The lights are off but the whole room seems to sparkle. Even the dust is lit up blue-white, the slates of moonlight falling through the window glaring like headlights.

Holding a hand up to shield your eyes, you nearly fall to your knees. But strong arms catch you just in time. As if he can feel your thirst in his own mouth, Paul reaches up to bite his wrist again. Your senses flare when you catch the scent of blood in the air. On the altar, it had tasted metallic. Awful. Now, as he holds his punctured wrist to your lips, it’s like sliding into a hot bath after a month in the wilderness. Steaming coffee after trying to kick the habit. Gripping his wrist, you drink like a greedy toddler until he has to tug your mouth back with a firm grip in your long hair. Gods, he tastes like the canyons stars are born in. Like the interstellar winds that birth galaxies.

“Alright, little one… come up for air…” His chuckle sounds different now. No longer menacing or dangerous. The depth of his voice is tender over your ears, as if he’s speaking to a baby bird who fell out of her nest. Smoothing the hair back from your face, it doesn’t seem to phase him at all that his blood is all over your lips and chin. That it’s now smearing across his thumb and wrist and up into your hair.

You watch his wrist heal in fascination, then slowly pull back to find his eyes, gleaming in the moonlight like a wolf's. You’ve never seen anything so beautiful. The stars pale in comparison.

Somehow, you can feel the way his heart pounds harder in his chest when he looks at you. And the rush of endorphins running through him like a new mother holding her infant for the first time.

“I’m still thirsty.” You pout a bit, somehow instinctually aware that he’ll understand what you need. That he’ll fix this problem for you. Like a duckling knows to follow its mother. Dropping a kiss to your forehead, Paul nods and helps you stand up on your own again.

“Let me take care of you, little one.” He pulls his cardigan off and wraps it around your shoulders.

You never go back to Crocket Island again. Sometimes, you send your mother postcards from the cities you hunt in, assuring her you're perfectly fine. Happy even. There's always a little blood on them, but it's never yours.

#story: moonlight. darkside.#my writing

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rapunzel-withthegoodhair · 3 years

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bury me

fandon: midnight mass pairing: hassan el-shabazz x OFC reader warnings: nsft / smut / size difference kink / age difference kink (18+ OFC) summary: Graveyards aren’t really supposed to be a meetcute. But there he was, all 6’4” and crying silently into a bouquet of white roses. [completed] ***please don't interact if you're under 18 thank you***

You’d been visiting your dad. You really hadn’t known him. Not really. You were born just before 9/11. He’d only held you for two weeks before the towers fell.

Still, you came here to talk to the man often enough that you felt close to him. The idea that graveyards were meant to be creepy had always confused you. The same warmth some kids felt when they remembered their dad teaching them to ride a bike, you felt here.

Crossing the grass, you wander over to him. Offer up some tissues from your purse.

His voice is wet with tears as he thanks you. He tells you about his wife and pulls you in for a hug when you tell him your dad’s badge number. Turns out, they would’ve served in the same precinct if the timing had been right. Ironic, how the thing that ended your father’s career is what kick started his.

He tells you his son is with his aunt for the weekend, happily letting his brain fry over a PS4 console. You laugh and invite him over for coffee.

The sky is dark by the time you reach your loft. Wind blustering up in angry gusts against your windows. The Nor’easter every weather forecaster has been excited about for the last three days is finally delivering on its promise.

You’re careful with the coffee grounds as you measure out a little more than necessary. Your mother always taught you to make coffee strong.

After hanging up his coat and setting his boots by the door, Hassan wanders into the kitchen. His hand nearly covers the breadth of your slender back as he brushes it down your spine. Just for a moment. Almost gentlemanly. Almost hungry for more.

Your big brown eyes flicker to his as he leans back against your counter, facing you. Outside the rain starts to fall in heavy sheets. You know it would make more sense to just flip the lights on. Instead, you decide to light a few candles.

Once you push start, the scent of coffee grounds mingles with the toasted vanilla of your candles and the whole apartment starts to smell like a café.

Wordlessly, you close the space between you both. With your boots by the door, he towers over your short frame. Not at all threatening. More like an old oak tree cradling you protectively in its shadow.

You brush one small hand over the worn down flannel covering his ribs as if he’s yours to touch. With your heart pounding so loud in your chest, you think he must be able to hear it too.

Fitting his hands to the curve of your lower back, Hassan tugs you flush against his warm body. His breath tickles as his nose skims across your forehead. Then buries into your mass of curls.

His lungs expand around a deep breath as he drinks in the notes of your perfume. Chestnut and cinnamon and burning wood.

“Hmm,” He muses, relaxing back against the counter. “You smell even better than the candles.”

A smile tugs at your mouth, your head already dizzy. As you lean up on your toes and curl your fingers into the open collar of his flannel, you feel his grip fist around your sweater. The kiss is soft at first. Then hungry. Wanting.

The apartment is tiny and he shuffles you backwards easily until your legs hit the mattress and you’re both laying diagonally across the blankets.

Carefully, your legs curl around his hips. Fingers lose themselves in his thick hair. You gotta admit, something about the grey streaks you find there make your stomach tighten with excitement. Knowing he’s so much older than you, being able to feel how patient and experienced he is in every kiss. All of it makes you ache, right down to the marrow in your bones.

Neither of you in much of a rush, you take your time. Savor the feeling of each other’s bodies so close. The weight of him on top of you. The heat that’s only growing. Every little brush of friction and massaging caress of your tongues.

Slowly, you undo the buttons of his flannel and help get the material untucked from his jeans. Your hands drag up his chest, squeezing his shoulders before feeling over them, pushing the flannel away in the process.

Distracted by your hands, Hassan nuzzles along the sensitive skin of your neck. Burrows his face in the pocket of heat between your skin and the thick curls that blanket it. The way his mouth latches against your neck, sucking gently, leaving a trail of light marks, draws a gasp from your lungs. Makes your hips tilt and your spine arch in pleasure.

“Ohhh… mmhmm…” Nodding your encouragement, you squirm under him. Shifting enough to help him get your body free of the turtleneck sweater and tartan miniskirt you’d been wearing.

To do so, he must untangle your legs from around his middle. But he doesn’t mind, because it gives him the pleasure of looking you over. Soaking in every perfect inch of you.

“You’re so fucking beautiful it hurts…” The words come mumbled against your lips, because he can’t really stay away from you for that long.

His jeans come next and you can’t help yourself from retaliating after all his teasing. Though only in part for revenge. Curiosity is ravaging your mind. And it does not go unrewarded.

Caressing over the bulge in his boxer briefs, you feel a moan of surprise slip out of your throat. God, he’s so thick. You didn’t even know a man could be made so thick. You know you’ve never felt anything like that… but now you really want to. Need to.

Fingers brushing down his muscular chest, you push gently at his briefs. Take him in your hand. And the sounds he makes as you touch him. The way he trembles as if he’d forgotten what it was to be held.

His big brown eyes find yours in the semi dark of your room, one forearm resting on the bed as you start to guide him. The vulnerable hitches of his breath match the softness in his eyes as his knuckles brush a lock of hair from off your cheek. Lips hovering near yours, he’s not quite kissing you. But somehow sharing the same heavy, erratic breathing feels even more intimate. Reaching down, Hassan uses his free hand to tug your thigh up around his waist so you have proper leverage.

Though after a few moments of struggling, he arches an eyebrow at you.

"You've done this before, right?" Nose knocking yours gently, he flashes you a playful smirk.

Sighing in defeat, you roll your eyes and nudge at his shoulder once he's released from your grasp.

"Not with someone as..." A blush darkens your skin and you bite your lip. The twitch that draws out of his cock isn't lost on you, though you refrain from comment. A shy sort of hush falls over your voice as if you're scared of being caught. "As big as you."

Brows lifting, his head quirks. Those weren't the words he was expecting. But he's more than happy to see your needs met. If he's honest... he really enjoys the thought of guiding you a bit. Of taking this slower than a random hook-up might normally afford.

Dropping a soft kiss to your forehead, he nuzzles your skin. Reaches between the two of you to grip your wrist and press it back into the sheets beside your head.

"I'm gunna take care'f you darlin', hmm?"

Letting go of your hand, his touch travels south, knuckles caressing the soft skin just above your folds. A gasp seizes your throat as he feels over your entrance, teasing against it. Then he’s spreading your slick heat around and the sudden friction against your clit makes your fingers fist around the blankets.

“Ahhh…” Crying out softly, you grasp at his bicep. His eyes stay fixed to your every reaction, savoring each shudder and little moan. It makes his insides burn to know he’s the reason you’re coming undone.

Purring softly, you shift into his touch, chasing the friction, desperate for more. And maybe it’s been a while for him (you’d clocked the year of death on that headstone pretty easily), but his skill still rivals all the university boys your own age that have tried in vain to please you. God, none of them even come close.

His mouth catches yours just as he’s bringing you to the edge, and your cries are muffled into a firm, passionate kiss. The wet heat of your cum pools around his fingers and he pulls away from your kiss only to taste you. The sight of his thick fingers, glistening with your pleasure is enough to make your toes curl. But then he’s sucking the sticky sweetness off as if it's honey and wasting any would be a criminal offense. And you tremble just a bit watching him, only half from the aftershocks.

With his free hand, he smooths your hair back from your face. Drops a few soft kisses across your forehead and temple and cheek.

“Good girl…” The low rumble of his voice is enough to make you needy all over again, despite the satisfaction he’s already given you.

His touch caressing lower again, the light brush of his fingers around your neck tickles. Still covered in the lace of your bra, he gives your breasts a gentle squeeze. Feeling around along your slender back, Hassan unsnaps the material easily and helps you toss it away. Something about the heat of his bare chest to yours feels primal. Makes you almost feral as he kisses you again.

“Take a deep breath for me, baby girl.” He watches you carefully, nodding when you follow orders promptly.

Slowly, two fingers press inside you. Deeper. Deeper. And deeper still. When he’s buried to his knuckles, you feel his fingers curl just enough to stretch you a bit. In so doing a gentle pressure finds your g-spot and your chest caves hard in response.

“Holy...fuck… just like that…” Head pressing back into the mattress, you can’t help squirming under him. The pleasure is so fucking overwhelming that no matter how badly you want to keep looking up at his perfect face, you can’t stop your eyes rolling back. When his thick fingers start a slow but firm rhythm, you feel your thighs begin to tremble in seconds. Fucking hell, he knows what he’s doing.

“S’that good, baby girl?” Free hand sliding into your curls, he cradles your head to his shoulder. Tips his own enough so you can feel his breath tickling over the shell of your ear. “S’that what you need?”

Arms curling up around him, your fingers press into the muscle of his strong back until your nails go white.

“Yes...fuck, yes...don’t stop…”

You can feel the smirk of satisfaction on his lips as he nips at your earlobe. His fingers thrust a bit firmer, a bit faster. And your cries turn to guttural moans. Your mind goes blurry at the edges, everything melting into a searing white heat. Even in this foggy state of mind, it’s not lost on you that you’re so wet now the sheets are a mess. That you’ve completely soaked his fingers. But he seems to enjoy it, so you let yourself enjoy it too.

Thrusting his fingers harder, you nearly scream as the pressure to your g-spot sends your whole body into shivers.

“Right there, right there....don’t stop!” Your pleas fall desperate and breathless. And in vain.

Just before you can finish, Hassan pulls his fingers free. A wicked smile pulls at his mouth the second you start keening for more.

“Like a hungry little kitten you are, hmm?” Nuzzling between your eyes, he drops a kiss there. Grips himself and brushes his cock through your now drenched folds. “So greedy, baby girl…”

You nod eagerly in agreement, pupils blown wide with an insatiable feral need.

“Mmhmm… fuck, please?”

“You ready for all of this now, baby girl? Did we get you worked up just right?”

“Yes...fucking yes...I need you. I’m ready and I fucking need you. Please?” God, you’re practically in tears and it’s so pathetic and you can tell you can just tell he’s enjoying being the one to undo you so completely.

Merely for the sake of torturing you, Hassan hovers over you a few seconds longer. Then without a word of warning, pushes inside. Slowly but all at once. Eyes rolling back hard, you have to bite his shoulder just to muffle the scream of blinding pleasure that follows.

His own groans run deep through his chest and you can feel him shudder in your arms.

“How are you so...tight? ...Ahh…”

For a moment, you’re both still. Just trying to catch your breath. Trying to adjust to one another. Then, you guide him down into a deep kiss, rolling your hips up against his own. He gasps at the sudden pleasure, practically purring as you do it again. Grasping one of your wrists, Hassan presses your hand back into the bed. Pins you down with a roll of his own hips.

From there, it’s almost a competition. Both of you grinding and working the other over, breathless from your attempts. Growling as he starts to thrust, you drag the nails of your free hand firmly down his back. Savoring the hiss that he gives up in return.

His mouth latches to your throat in retaliation, eager to leave marks across your soft skin. Imagining the boys that must check you out all across New York, his toes curl at the thought of them seeing the bruises left across your neck. At anyone backing off, assuming you must be taken. And he knows he can’t really claim you. At least, not this soon. But he likes the thought of trying that feeling on anyway. The feeling of being selfish with you, of having you all to himself.

Teeth dragging across his shoulder, you try to muffle the cries as he thrusts harder. Your whole body is shaking as he bottoms out inside of you, over and over again. Jesus Christ, you’ve never been filled up so full before. Taking him once would’ve been enough to ruin you for all other men. But to take thrust after thrust like this...the blinding pleasure of it is relentless.

“I’m gunna finish inside of you, baby girl.” He growls in your ear, the words a warning, not a request. And honestly, you’d forgotten to even mention protection before this moment. And you know this is fucking stupid, because you don’t really sleep around ever so why would you bother with contraceptives? But you think you might cry if he were to pull out.

Nodding quickly, you pull back to find his eyes, wanting to watch him come. Stealing a breathy kiss or two, his hips give you a few more deep, rough thrusts. The explosion of ecstasy ripping open his insides leaves the look in his eyes so fucking weak. Between that vulnerability and the feeling of him filling you up with his seed, you have no hope of holding on.

Burying your face in the heat of his neck, you whimper and whine and claw at his skin hard enough to leave marks.

“Fuck!” The feeling of your orgasm squeezing him like a molten vice is nearly enough to make him come a second time.

Still shaking, he rolls onto his back. The soft groan that follows tells you his spine and arms must be aching just as badly as your thighs. But it’s a satisfying ache. One you hope doesn’t fade too soon.

His arms stay wrapped loose around you, keeping you cradled to his chest. Kissing softly through the beads of sweat along his shoulder, you nuzzle at him. Both of you are still trying to catch your breath, but you can’t help just wanting to touch him. Taste him for as long as he’ll let you. If he minds, he doesn’t say so. Just lays in the quiet with you, brushing his fingertips up your spine and down your arms like he’s trying to trace you into his memory.

You like that he doesn’t rush to scoot out from under you. That he doesn’t grab his clothes and mutter something about calling you when he doesn’t even have your number. He’s nothing at all like the boys your age you’ve hooked up with who all took maybe five minutes and didn’t even ask if you’d finished.

Nosing into your curls, he takes a deep breath of your post-sex scent and smiles fondly to himself.

“I don’t wanna leave…”

“Well, you still haven’t had your coffee…” Resting your chin on his chest, you give him a mischievous smile.

“Coffee sounds...nice.” He eyes you as if he’s not talking about coffee at all. "Cream...lots of sugar..."

“Mmhmmm…” Nodding in agreement, you feel a grin take over your face as you lean up enough to catch his mouth in a soft, slow kiss. Somehow the tenderness there is just as intense as any bitemark or scratch you exchanged while he was fucking you senseless.

#sheriff hassan x reader #hassan el shabbaz x reader

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rapunzel-withthegoodhair · 3 years

Text

Come Away To the Water

Come away little light, come away to the darkness To the ones appointed to see it through In the shade of the night we'll come looking for you Come away little lamb come away to the water Come away little lamb come away to the slaughter Give yourself so we might live anew

fandom: midnight mass pairing: Father Paul x 2nd person OFC (Helena Belleforest) summary: "That's my job. To know the people in my community." “You mean the sheep in your flock.” “Especially the little black ones that like to wander off.” His voice is so tender. You wonder if Jesus spoke with this same tenderness. You think, if he did, you would've defied Rome for him too.

updates: read book II here. & book III here & book IV here & book V here

(playlist)

April 2021

New York is burning.

And the stars are singing. The moonlight is vibrating inside of your chest.

And you're flying so high, you can nearly brush your fingertips to heaven…

~~~

February 2021

The rain is kind enough to wait until you make it onto your front steps to start its gentle beat against your fogged up windows.

Your grandfather's windows. Were his. Are yours.

Past tense is the hardest thing to get used to.

You weren't even sad about his passing. Bev Keane had looked at you like you were heartless when you came back for the funeral, only to shed no tears. But the truth is, his body was ailing and he was 93 years too old and all you could see was a ball of energy trapped inside this eroding vessel. The life stretched too thin across his bones. Didn't that energy deserve to be free? Scattered among the stars. Reunited with the universe.

You knew you'd never see him again. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But somehow that made your time with him all the more special. Wasn't that what made life sacred? The fleeting, fragility of it.

And as a parting gift, he'd left you this yolk around your neck. The god damn lighthouse of Crockett Island.

You'd spent all your summers here before NYU. A few Easters and Thanksgivings too. After university started, it was hard to go back. Hard to convince yourself to keep exploring an island you'd wandered the circumference of a thousand times when you could discover someplace new. Chicago. Quebec. Virginia. You'd travelled as much as you could. Made some really amazing friends. Even been accepted into a midwifing apprenticeship in Maine that had been due to start upon your graduation from pre-med.

But the universe had other plans. Calling you back across the water to the Crock Pot. You couldn't say you hated it here. You just felt...stuck. Every second like quicksand, threatening to swallow you whole if you didn't get out soon.

Knock, knock, knock.

There it is. Right on time. The townsfolk come to arrest their local witch for not attending mass that morning. Six days on the island and these people are already going to be the death of you. Dragging in a deep breath, you set your groceries on the table and stride back towards the door. You can just picture what awaits you on the other side. Pitch forks and torches and Beverly fucking Keane ready with the noose.

'Well, better to get this conversation dead and buried now than let the tension drag on.'

The door opens swiftly and as the cold wind rushes inside, a set of warm, big brown eyes disarms you immediately. No pitchforks in sight.

"You must be George Belleforest's granddaughter." A rain-soaked man smiles down at you, arms folded across his chest as he shivers in the rain. "You look just like the pictures I've seen of your grandmother."

The white collar and priest's shirt confuse you as much as his raven black curls and cupid's bow mouth. Just enough to throw your manners into disarray and for a good fifteen seconds, the poor man is just left standing there taking on water. The whole time, your eyes stay trained on his. You could swear you've met him before. Everything in your bone marrow is screaming, you know him. But from where? Surely, you'd remember a man with eyes so kind.

Finally, he clears his throat and you fall back to earth.

"Forgive me, father. Come in, come in..." Stepping aside, you usher him into the kitchen and offer him a tea towel so he can wipe the rain off of his face. "I don't think we've been introduced."

"Father Paul Hill." His voice is so warm, softer than the rain outside. "I'm filling in for the Monsignor. Oh, he's fine. Just recovering on the mainland from a long trip... I've been told there are three Belleforest grandchildren so forgive me if I guess wrong... Helena?"

Surprise flickers across your face. You haven't been to mass on the island since you were eighteen. The fact that Father Pruitt would remember you enough to tell this man who you were... and in such detail that he could pick you out from your older sister. Suddenly you feel guilt for not coming back to the island these last few summers. You hadn't imagined that your absence would be noted. But apparently, you were wrong.

"That's correct." Your eyes stay trained to him even as you turn to do up the locks on the door. "Can't say I've ever been introduced to myself before."

You notice his eyes crinkle in amusement as he bends to add another log or two to the fireplace. If anyone else had tried to make themselves so at home, your instincts would prickle. But not with him. You feel almost as if he's sharing his home with you.

"You know, you're the first person I've seen lock their door here." His pretty mouth twitches and you can't help but notice how the firelight seems to enjoy flickering across his face.

"Long Island tradition." You smile in return, moving to the stove to set a kettle on. You figure if he's here you might as well make him some tea. Sure, you gave up the opiate of the masses years ago. Doesn't mean you have to make an enemy of the man. "I was lucky enough to grow up just outside of Queens. And everyone locks their doors there."

"City girl, hmm?" He muses, hands in the pockets of his jeans as he lingers near the fire. "Is that why I didn't see you this morning at Mass?"

'We're doing this already, huh? Alright, father. You asked for it.'

"Y'know...I was going to make you tea and everything." Flashing him a playful smile, you earn a chuckle out of him. Slowly, he sets his bag down on a nearby chair and wanders closer to the kitchen.

"Oh no." Laughing low in his chest, he starts to empty your grocery bags. Carefully, his hands set out the sugar and milk and coffee you'd picked up in Montauk. There's a graceful sort of care in the way he folds your paper bags after they're emptied. Like he's folding origami for a child. "Have I overextended my welcome already? Please accept my apologies."

"Accepted…They do have churches on the mainland, you know." You muse back at him, a buoyant smile still on your features so he knows you're not angry. You don't mind talking about your fall from grace. As long as he doesn't mind hearing about it. "Not everyone in the city is a heathen."

"Ahh." Bobbing his head in understanding of your tone, he moves to put your milk away in the fridge. "Just you then."

Eyes narrowing playfully, you smolder a gaze in his direction. It's hard to keep a smile off your face entirely, but you try. Still, you think, this guy is kinda fun. It's been a minute since anyone's really gone toe to toe with you. You wonder how long it's been for him. In more ways than one...

"Oh, but you, me and the devil makes three, sweetheart."

"So, the rumors Ms. Keane has been whispering are true then?"

"I knew she was telling everyone I was a witch." That bitch.

"Are you not?"

"I'm..." Shaking your head, you drag in a breath. "I mean yes. And no. It's not like I sacrificed a baby and made a pact with the devil."

"Well, I hadn't imagined that was what had happened, but now that you've put that image in my head..."

Rolling your eyes, you can't help the breathy laugh that bubbles up. You're thankful he's making this easier than anyone else in the congregation would've.

"I do look very pretty on a sacrificial altar." Of course, now you're just pushing your luck. But you've never really been a good judge of when to stop.

"I don't doubt it. You're a very pretty girl." His eyes stay on yours, unwavering. You can tell he isn't afraid of this conversation. Isn't upset it's happening or interested in condemning you. He's just...talking to you. It's kind of nice. It's really nice. You can see why he became a priest. No therapist has ever made you feel so at ease.

"So, am I to be thrown in the water to see if I'll float or drown?"

"Nothing of the sort Miss Belleforest, I assure you." Folding his arms across his chest, Paul shrugs and glances out the windows at the rain that's only grown angrier outside. "You're new here. I'm new here. I thought... we should get to know one another. That's my job. To know the people in my community."

“You mean the sheep in your flock.”

“Especially the little black ones that like to wander off.”

Your head bobs in a slow nod. He’s not wrong. And his voice is so tender. You wonder if Jesus spoke with this same tenderness. You think, if he did, you would've defied Rome for him too.

"Would you like some tea?"

"Please."

~~~

two days later

The basket of muffins in your hand feels funny. Is this something people still do? Will Beverly even let him keep them? You wouldn't be surprised if the woman taste tested all his food.

Knocking gently at his door, you pray to the goddesses that this isn't weird. The witch bringing the priest cranberry orange muffins.

When he opens the door, his smile is warm enough to dissipate your doubts like the morning sun clearing a fog.

"Miss Belleforest. How lovely to see you. What's all this?"

"For you." You hand the basket over and watch his face brighten as he folds a corner of cloth back to inspect his gift. "A thank you, for not burning me at the stake."

"All that sarcasm, you got that from the city too?"

"Oh, all of it. No sarcasm on the shelves here. I've checked. But they were having a sale in Montauk, so."

Shaking his head, he rests a hand on the top of your spine and turns to usher you inside.

"Have you checked under the pews? I heard sometimes there's little bits folded up and stuck under there."

He closes the door behind you, but he doesn't lock it. You wonder where he's from that the instinct to lock a door behind him isn't ingrained deep. Some Quaker town in Pennsylvania maybe? Or perhaps he really just has that much faith in god.

"Well, I'm fairly certain I'll burst into flames if I try. But if you find anything?"

"I will let you know." His smirk spreads all the way to his eyes as he moves to grab two plates out of the cupboard. Unlike you, Paul doesn't need to reach on his tiptoes to reach. But his tall frame still looks beautiful moving gracefully about the kitchen. "These smell delicious and I'm starving. Thank you. Will you stay and have one with me?"

Glancing around, you offer him a single nod as your fingertips skim the back of his couch. Intrigued, you pick up the book laying open and page down on the seat. It's a bit invasive, sure. But he'd made himself at home in your abode. Surely, you're welcome to do the same.

"The Book of Enoch..." Your brows tug together. You know this scripture well. It's one of your favorites. Descriptions of all the Nephilim and Inferni, including the archangels. Every single one of them. Even Samael. It’s some of the most horrific and interesting mythology ever written. It's also not accepted as canon by the Vatican. "This isn't in the King James version..."

"Oh, they've updated the bible since your last mass. It's now the Prince Charles version."

Rolling your eyes hard, you laugh softly, figuring you walked into that.

"Ahh, momentary lapse. You're the priest. I'm the heathen. No need to tell you what you already know."

"You sound very familiar with the bible for someone who doesn't believe in it."

"The best cure for Christianity is to read the bible...Mark Twain."

His head tips to the side as he wanders back with muffins and milk. You can practically hear the gears turning in his mind as he takes his seat beside you.

"And that's what happened to you?"

Dragging in a deep breath, you realize that he's not going to let this go. He actually genuinely wants to know. It's also in this moment that realize: you've never fully articulated the way it felt like cutting a limb off to slowly pull yourself away from every worldview you'd ever inherited from your parents. And you have no idea how.

"I..." How do you wrap a decade of desperate searching and confusion and questioning up into a polite little sentence? "I don't feel anything. When I get on my knees to pray. I don't feel anything. And you have to understand, I feel...everything. When winter melts into spring I can feel that. When ducks cross the road I check in my rear view mirror for them. When I look up at the stars, it's like, they're saying they miss me. Like they're waiting for me. I have names for the tadpoles growing in my father’s backyard. I call the moon sister. When... the sunlight reaches down and the trees reach up and they... come together. I can feel that. But when I sit in church...it's just emptiness."

"God isn't just inside those four walls. He's everywhere."

"Careful, Martin Luther. You might just start a whole new division of Christianity with that thesis."

"You make it very difficult to have a serious conversation, you know that right?"

"Is it my eyes? I've been told I have very distracting eyes."

Taking a slow sip of his milk, it's a moment before he replies. "...You do."

Wetting your lips, you glance down at your muffin. Pick off a bit of the sugared top and pop it in your mouth. You try hard not to think about all the shitty dates you've sat through the past six years. All the sorry excuses for boys you've wasted time on. You try so hard not to think about how you never had this much chemistry with any of them.

"You’re right, you know. God is everywhere. It’s in everything. It’s in everyone. The problem is, that’s not what the bible teaches.”

“What does the bible teach?” He says it so softly, as if he really doesn’t know. Like he’s dying to peel his way past all your dry wit and swim around in the depths beneath.

“That...women were created to serve men. That men are separate from animals, made to rule over them. That humans are separate from the universe. That God is… some distant entity outside of ourselves. Outside of the earth. Somewhere else.”

“I think you know your holy trinity better than that, Miss Belleforest.”

“Ah, that pesky Holy Spirit. Is that where we’re going?”

“It is. Holy Spirit is the part of the God that’s in everyone. In you, even. That is the presence of God among us. When we sing as one in his name, it is Holy Spirit in the room with us. When we bake muffins for our neighbors, it is Holy Spirit what nudges our kindness and opens our hearts.”

“Not if our neighbor is tall and handsome and we bake those muffins with sin our hearts.” Your eyes are big and almost innocent as you sip your own milk. The man beside you nearly chokes on his next nibble of muffin and you can’t help but giggle. “Honesty is a virtue, father.”

“So I’m told.” He eyes you right back as if you’re a menace. And you are. And you’re proud of that. "I've also heard love thy neighbor is a commandment, so. I'll take your honesty as devotion."

"This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me. And, lest we forget: In speaking of a new covenant, he makes the first one obsolete. And what is becoming obsolete and growing old is ready to vanish away. Don't come at me with the Old Testament laws when you chose the team that specifically threw that part out." For a long while, Paul just looks at you. Almost like he's really seeing you for the first time. Which is a bit odd, since you only met on Sunday. But neither of you is very normal, so you chalk it up to mutual weirdness and take another bite of muffin.

"So what exactly was it that you read that...how did you put it? Cured you of Christian faith?"

Swallowing hard, your eyes close. You can still remember the moment. Sitting in your dorm room, a bible in your lap, feeling sick to your stomach.

"Remember, oh Lord, the children of Edom in the day of Jerusalem; who said, rase it, rase it, even to the foundation thereof. Oh daughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed; happy shall he be, that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us. Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones." Even now, four years later, your chin trembles and you can feel tears well up in your eyes. Because you know what came next. You know of the genocide that was celebrated as a holy cleansing. "How could I ever love a god like that..."

Beside you, you can feel Paul's lungs expanding around a deep breath of air. He sets down his milk and his muffin on the coffee table before scooting closer across the couch. When his arm curls around your shoulders, it's warm. Heavy. Comforting enough that your curl towards him on instinct.

"The world can be...cruel. And harsh. We cannot be so surprised that it's creator can be as well." His voice is heather soft. The whisper of the ocean waves through your bedroom window at night.

"So we rejoice in that cruelty?"

"No. Never. But we respect it. The old gods were the same, Helena. You know this." It's hard to argue with him when he's right. So you take a deep breath and burrow your nose in his cardigan and think about how he smells of incense and fire smoke and your favorite old book.

Outside it starts to rain again.

#father paul x reader #midnight mass #reblogging for the update

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rapunzel-withthegoodhair · 3 years

Text

Come Away To the Water

updates: read book II here. & book III here & book IV here