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vintageglassheart02 · 2 years

Note

I humbly request fic prompt #26:

“i wanna fuck you right against the glass so everyone can see how good you take it”

For Papa Miles. 😈

Against the Window

Beta read by the lovely @littleredwritingcat

Glorious gif by @putonyourbathingsuits

This is the first thing I've written in years. Please take it easy on me, haha. Without further ado, I bring you Miles smut. 3.2k words

"Will you relax for once? Have a drink and mingle," she replies , "and stop worrying about your shorts. You look great."

"l can't believe I let you drag me here," you groan to Alex, tugging at the short shorts you are wearing in an attempt to cover more of your exposed thighs. You hadn't expected this many people to be here when you allowed your neighbor and friend talk you into going to a "small get-together", which was obviously a very not small pool party.

You sigh and stop fidgeting for the moment and look around to see if you recognize any faces. "Is Hank even here? I thought you guys were done for good this time." You look at her watching as she scans the crowd herself, pulling you towards the shaded open bar by the ridiculously large pool.

"He said he and Mi--" she stops as she realizes her slip up and you pull your hand from her grip, placing it on your hip instead.

"Miles? Really?" You glare at her as you order a drink, forcing a smile at the bartender.

"Come on, give him a chance. He likes you."

"So that's what this is about then? Not you and Hank. You're trying to set me up with Miles. Again." You accuse, your voice raising higher than you intended and you noticed other party-goers beginning to stare. You wince and lower your voice as you take your drink. "And if he likes me so much why didn't he call after that night we spent together? He just ghosted me."

"I don't know. Try talking to him about it," she suggests. "He's a really great guy, actually. If Hank were half as considerate as Miles we would probably still be together."

"I don't think giving a woman the best orgasms of her life and then pretending it never happened is very considerate, Alex." You chug the rest of your drink and order another. You decide if Miles shows up you'll get to speak your mind and if not, well, you'll just get drunk and make the most of the night.

_______

Forty-five minutes and two drinks later you're sitting next to a guy who calls himself "Clint", though you're fairly sure that's not really his name, as he tells you about the time he "met Mike Tyson at a strip club and beat him in a round of poker." You resist the urge to roll your eyes and internally curse Alex for stranding you to go off with some guy she'd been flirting with since shortly after you'd arrived.

You chance a look around to see if you can spot your neighbor when instead you notice another familiar face - Miles - headed directly your way and he absolutely doesn't look happy, especially when "Clint" suddenly gets brazen and sets his hand on your knee.

Just as you're about to push this jackass' hand off of you, Miles slides up and slings an arm around your waist and shoots the man a glare.

"Thanks for keeping my woman company, but I'd advise you take your hands off before I do it for you," Miles says, pulling you closer. You nearly push him off of you, indignant that he thinks you can't take care of yourself. But then Clint backs off immediately, his hands raised in defense.

"Hey man, she didn't say she had a boyfriend." His words come out slurred and you wince as he stumbles out of his stool and mumbles something about "not looking for any trouble" as he heads towards the poolside.

Miles relaxes his grip on you but doesn't pull away entirely and you turn to finally look at him properly; his thick salt and pepper hair has grown since you last saw him and his beard seems a little thicker. What you notice most, with a deep blush, is his open button-down shirt revealing his tan, toned chest and stomach. When your gaze slides back up to his face, you notice he's looking at you as well, though instead of a blush, he's wearing a smirk.

Breaking out of your daze you push his arm off of you and take a step back, making his smirk vanish and his thick eyebrows draw together.

For a moment you're not sure what to say so you simply stare, anger and confusion obvious on your expression judging by his own silence.

Finally you speak: "What's up Miles? Here to fuck and run again? A little wham bam thank you ma'am? Once wasn't enough?"

He has the decency to look ashamed, clearly at a loss for words. "Can we just, I don't know, talk? Inside I mean; too many drunks out here."

Against your better judgement, you nod in agreement. No matter how angry you may be, something about this man is irresistible to you, so you find yourself following him inside and up a flight of stairs when the lower floor appears to be crowded as well.

Miles leads you to what appears to be an office, with sparse, expensive looking furniture and a lot of windows along the walls so that you can clearly see the party going on below. You consider sitting down but you don't know how much time you're willing to give him just yet, so you simply lean against a wall opposite the windows and wait for him to speak.

He paces for a moment, then stops in front of you and gives you a weak smile. "I know I fucked up. I've never been good at anything other than one night stands, so when I realized I actually cared about you I just... freaked the fuck out. I thought if I ignored it then it would go away--"

"For you, you mean. You obviously didn't give two shits about how I felt, did you?" You spit out the words as you poke him in the chest.

He glances down to where you're touching him and steps even closer, and you can now smell his aftershave and cologne, which has more of an effect on you than you like. "I'm an asshole, I know. But I want to do better. I want to try," he says, "with you." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and leans down to press his forhead to yours.

"Please, just... give me a chance."

The rational side of you knows you should shove him off of you, and run back downstairs; just call a cab and go home, crawl in bed and forget this night ever happened.

Instead it feels like you're glued to the spot, so close to him you're practically breathing the same breath, the warmth of his skin seeping through your clothes. Everything about him seems to overwhelm you; his scent, his broad shoulders and his deep brown eyes peering intensely into your own and you feel absolutely paralyzed with desire.

You open your mouth to respond, but you're not sure what you want to say, so you just look at him, feeling what little resolve you had left break. If this turns out to be another disaster, you'll survive. All you know now is how badly you want him. Right now.

You're both breathing heavy, staring at one another as if daring the other to make the first move. You slowly slide your eyes down to his mouth, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. That proves to be his breaking point, as he pulls you towards him, one hand on the back of your head, the other on your lower back. He crashes his lips into yours, his teeth clanking almost painfully with your own. Wasting no time, he slides his tongue into your mouth when you gasp, bringing your hands up to rest on his shoulders as his hands slide down your body and firmly squeeze your ass, forcing a moan from the back of your throat.

He pulls you firmly against the growing bulge in his shorts and you moan again, grinding into him to hear him groan your name. "You drive me crazy," he pants into your ear, his warm breath making you shiver, and you feel yourself getting wetter from the sensation.

The way this man affects you...

"Miles, please," you say, though you're not sure what you're begging for exactly.

"Please what, baby? Tell me what you want," he says, a taunting edge in his words.

"Just touch me," is all you can manage, dragging your nails down his chest making him hiss in response.

"Oh, I'm going to touch you alright." He slides his nose across your cheek, kissing his way across your jaw before leaving wet, open mouthed kisses down your neck as he slowly sinks to his knees in front of you, backing up just enough to look up at your heaving chest and lust-blown pupils .

"Take everything off," he demands. Something about his submissive position mixed with the authority in his commands makes you feel dizzy with lust. "Keep your eyes on me," he adds as though he can tell you're really into his game.

You bite your lip, feeling a blush rise across your cheeks as you slowly slip off your clothes starting with your shirt. Just as you're about to remove your panties he places his hand over yours. "Not yet," he says, his eyes traveling over your body. Your eyes flicker behind him self-consciously as his gaze slides from your face to your neck, to your breasts and abdomen, and he slowly leans in. "I told you to look at me,” he tells you, and his voice has shifted. All in all, you’ve always thought of Miles as a fairly laid-back guy, but in this moment, he sounds direct. Demanding even. The change in tone does something to your bones, and you can’t tell if you’re still standing upright, or sinking.

"You're gorgeous, perfect."

He presses his lips against your stomach, making you tremble as his beard tickles deliciously at the soft skin. Miles never breaks eye contact as he slowly kisses his way up, finally landing on your left breast and wraps his lips around your nipple, tugging lightly with his teeth and then firmly sucking it into his mouth.

"Oh, fuck!" You can't help but throw your head back at the sensation, and he grabs your waist as though he can tell you're about to lose your balance.

He stops all movement until you look back down at him at which point he tells you're a "good girl" and returns his attentions to your other, neglected breast. You thread your fingers into his thick hair and shiver as he drags moan after moan from your lips, his mouth kissing, nipping and sucking your breasts, collarbone and stomach.

Just when you think you can't take it anymore and you feel like screaming at him to stop the torture, he leans in and huffs a hot breath against your clothed pussy, and drags his tongue over the thin cotton barrier. "So wet already," he whispers, clearly able to see the wetness through the material. "I've hardly even touched you yet." Part of you feels embarrassed but that quickly passes when he begins dragging your panties down with his teeth.

He gently guides you over to the chair against the window and encourages you to sit and pulls your panties off your ankle, his eyes immediately landing where you're spread open and glistening. He groans as he licks his lips and leans in pressing his open mouth to your inner thigh, biting down just hard enough to sting and again you find your hands in his hair, tugging slightly which only seems to encourage him.

You look over at the open window, knowing that at any moment someone could look up and see what you're doing; what you're allowing Miles to do to you in a stranger's home.

You've never really considered yourself an exhibitionist, but at the moment the idea sends a thrill right through you, and you feel yourself growing even wetter at the thought of someone watching as Miles slides his head closer to your throbbing center, sliding his tongue over your thigh on his journey upwards.

Miles smirks as though he can read your mind, and he slowly slides his hands up your thighs before lifting them over his gorgeous shoulders.

"You think they're watching? I bet every man here wishes he could do what I'm about to do to you; make you come so hard you forget your own name." You glare at him, though his words seem to carry a hot jolt of distilled lust straight through you – like good whisky down your belly. Instead of wasting your energy with coming up with a witty retort, you grab his head and pull him closer. "So fucking do it then," you challenge. You feel his chuckle more than you hear it as he finally drags his tongue from your opening all the way to your clit, sucking briefly before pulling back and adjusting your thighs and placing his hands on your hips to hold you in place as he sets to work.

At first he runs his tongue up and down in lazy motions to tease, but soon he brings up his right hand to spread you open and before circling your clit in rapid pace. Your hands don't know where to land: his hair, your breasts, the armrests of the chair so you alternate, moaning his name, even louder when you feel him slide a thick finger into you, quickly followed by another. You all but shriek when he sucks on your bundle of nerves and curls his fingers to hit just the right spot and this time you tug his hair harshly, which seems to spur him on as he moans nearly as loud as you and sucks even harder, nearly to the point of pain. Your thighs are shaking, your toes are curled, your back is arched and you're almost there when... he pulls back, leaving you confused and more than a little angry.

"What the fuck, Miles?" You glare at him, even as he licks the remnants of you off of his fingers and leans closer to your face, his nose nudging yours.

"Don't worry, baby, I'm nowhere near done with you." You want to tell him to forget it, frustrated that he cut you off right at the threshold of what would have surely been an earth shattering orgasm, but then he slides of his shorts and your mouth waters at the sight of him. Long, thick and just curved enough to reach all the best spots.

"Come here," he says, stroking his cock as he watches you with hooded eyes. "I'm gonna take such good care of you."

You stand on shaky legs, and your eyes widen as he leads you towards the window, looking down at you with a question in his eyes. "Tell me how you want it," he presses his body firmly against yours as you try to process what he means.

"Wh-- what?" You think you know where this is going but you're still not sure how to say it.

Miles chuckles, slowly turning you around so that you can see the remaining party-goers drinking, swimming and laughing. He sucks your earlobe into his mouth, lightly biting down while reaching down to slide his fingers though your soaking wet folds. "I wanna fuck you right against the glass so everyone can see how good you take it. And I think you want that too," he adds.

There's no need denying it. There aren't too many people left -at least whom are conscious- but still, the thought of being watched thrills you in a way you never imagined. Without responding you place your hands on the window, arch your back and flash a grin at him, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

His already dark eyes turn nearly black as he growls, placing one hand on your hip to pull your ass closer to him and sliding two fingers into your heat with the other. "That's my good girl," he praises pumping his fingers hard and fast as you moan, watching as a man jumps into the pool and another laughs at his friend's antics.

Your attention is immediately returned to Miles as you feel him remove his fingers and immediately replace them with his much thicker cock. You yelp and scratch at the glass, hoping like hell it holds up because you're pretty sure you're about to get the pounding of your life.

"Oh fuck, Miles," you groan, readjusting your hands on the glass and trying to balance your legs enough to where you're not entirely leaning on the window. While being throughly fucked wouldn't be the worst way to go, you'd rather not fall through a window naked into a crowd of strangers in the process.

Miles moans your name, his face pressed into your neck as he praises how "unbelievably tight and wet" you are, his hand sneaking around to rub harshly at your clit as he slams into you harder and faster.

"You take my cock so well," he tells you, his voice raspy, "like you were made for it; like this little pussy was made just for me." His words make you clinch and he hisses, squeezing your hip and rubbing your nearly overstimulated clit even harder. You're absolutely certain that you're going to have bruises for days to come.

Your moans start to come out louder and you glance down outside, and you swear you see someone watching but you can't care when Miles reaches his free hand to wrap loosely around your throat.

The wet sounds of him pumping into you and his hips slamming into your ass are vulgar enough but when your moans turn to actual screams of his name, he places a hard pinch to your clit and your whole body tenses up before you fall apart in his grasp, his arm moving from your throat to wrap around your waist to hold you upright and to make sure you don't fall through the now fogged up glass. Your vision goes completely black as your toes curl and your hands reach back to tug at his curls as you thrash against him, nearly wailing at the intensity of your orgasm. He continues to pump into your spent body one, two, three more times, pulling your hips firmly against his as he spills inside you with a loud groan and a whisper of your name. "Fuck baby, you're amazing," he tells you, sliding out of you slowly, rubbing a hand down your back.

You turn to look at him, the post orgasm high flowing through you as you wait to see what happens now. Miles leans in and kisses your forhead, then your nose and smiles sweetly at you. "Now that we've given a bunch of strangers a show, you wanna go get dinner?" He asks, "or would it be breakfast at this time?"

You just laugh. "Actually I was thinking we could just go back to my place." You say, turning around as you hear commotion outside and notice a small crowd has formed to witness your activities.

"Encore!" You hear someone shout and you're sure you're blushing down to your toes.

"Yeah, let's get out of here," you say, "now."

#hamish linklater #miles (you can't say no)#hamish linklater x reader #miles x reader #smut #hamfam #go easy on me hamfam #i haven't written in so long #but my need for haim smut was so strong #i encourage you to objectify his characters too

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proverbsss · 8 months

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eating you right (father paul hill/john pruitt x reader) -nsfw

(pt. 2 of "reading you right" linked here)

Father Paul Hill, Midnight Mass

reader(s): I am not responsible for how you see your own headboard following the consumption of this fic <3

notifs: paul hill wants to worship you!! ; reader turns the tables for a subby paul; reader's still down HORRENDOUS ; cunnilingus, hierophilia

Your legs are unsteady as John leads you to his bedroom by your hand.

"Haha, look at Wobbles try and make their way down my hall," Paul teases.

"You edged me on your boot," you complain sharply, though this of course is tinged with pleasure and the hope that his treatment will continue. The muscles in your pelvic floor are on fire and your hips burn.

"Mmm, technically you edged you on my boot," he quibbles, pleased with himself, "Can you make it to the bed yourself?"

Rather than answer verbally, you turn back to look at him. It's a tart, cursing look that John meets with yet another grin. Even so, it's now you begin to notice the usual signs of how wrecked he is. You were so caught up in your own delicious torment that you failed to clock Paul mirroring it. You might some of your get your own back yet.

He's comfortable with your routine of the last few days, starting to strip out of his jeans when you say, "Wait." His doe eyes flick over to you, questioning.

"I don't know…" you pick your words carefully, the neediness of earlier converting itself into a sadistic little impulse to tease. "I don't know if we want your pants off yet, right?"

Paul stops a minute. Makes his positively adorable thinking face. There's a reset somewhere in his eyes as he works out why you might have said what you said.

"We don't..?" he repeats, uncertain.

"Nah," you throw out, dragging the tips of your fingers along the foot of the bed. If this duvet could talk, it would already have plenty dirty to say. "I think we probably want you to keep them on and sit first."

Paul clears his throat. His chin dips to his chest a little. Gears recalibrated toward submitting and taking orders fire fast behind those pretty eyes. "Okay, yes." He sits, trembling a bit, on the edge of the bed.

"I'm gonna sit next to you, Father, and you don't move for a little bit. Okay?"

He nods. Good enough for now. Your underwear clings wetly to you under the sleepshirt you were just hiking up for him in the living room. You pull the hem of the shirt down, a bit demurely over your thighs. Paul watches every move.

"Still don't move, baby." You purr at him. He preens silently at the pet name. "Close your eyes." When his eyes are closed, you take his face into both your hands, fingers grazing his ears, the peach fuzz of his tapered sideburns. In a decisive, hushed moment you bring Paul's face to yours and kiss him. Deeply. First-time tier kisses, slow and curious and just beginning to use your tongue.

Paul half-laughs, shyly against your mouth. "Still no moving," you remind into his lips, and he nods "good boy. Good Father." Oh, he likes that very much.

You lick his bottom lip and enthusiastically he opens his mouth to invite you closer, hands scrunching at his sides in desperation to follow your instruction and not not not touch you.

You withdraw from the kiss after another moment, riled yourself and needing to catch your breath. Still you have enough command of yourself to make this all about him, about how pathetic and needy and perfect he is. You bat your eyes at Paul and smile.

"You probably want to make it up to me. How badly you made me need you before,"

Paul tilts his head uncertainly from side to side. A smirk flickers at the corner of his mouth.

"You wanna know how to make me feel good after that, Paul? You wanna know what I need from you?"

He nods again, thoughts boyishly absent from his eyes, his demeanor relaxed and yet so, so ready to do what he's told.

"Can we make that a yes?" you prompt gently.

"Yes." The huskiness in his voice is like a refresher to your thirst for him. You tingle all over with anticipation.

"Good. I'm going to lay back, and I want you on top of me." As you lay down on the soft bedcovers, you realize all the tension your muscles held kneeling on the ground and fucking yourself onto him, even now some melts away and you sigh contentedly. Paul crawls over you, tenderness and want in his eyes and it calls up a smile to your lips.

"What are you smiling at?"

"My little pet priest. Bet he'd do anything I'd ask him."

Paul lays his head down on your belly, happiness going a little fuzzy because of the attention you show him. His curls call out to your hands and you play with his hair. He's radiant. And for now he's yours. He's kissing your neck now, giggling in the crook of your shoulder, lips tickling your chin, your cheek, your ears. You luxuriate in all this for a moment, then tell him, "Give me your ear please, I'm gonna whisper what I want."

His back muscles ripple like a cat's under his shirt as he makes the necessary adjustment to put his ear up to your mouth. But he's too close, too fucking perfect, so you have to bite his earlobe with such exquisite access.

He groans, tenses in his upper body, and rolls his hips over yours. "That's. Not whispering," he complains.

"Shh, shh." you tell him, "You wanna know? Really?" He cocks his head enough for you to see him nod, his length getting easier to feel against your thigh. You reach a hand up in his and gently bring his ear to your lips, "I need you to eat me out like your life depends on it."

He moans, low in his throat, at just the thought of that.

"You want to do that for me?" That serious attention is in his expression again as he nods at you, starting to kiss his way down your chest. "Can you tell me using your words that's something you want?"

In addition to teasing the everloving fuck out of him, getting his consent turns you on more than anything. The thought of Crockett Island's well-mannered, mildly twitchy new priest so eager to touch you, taste you, have you that he'd kept you in his quarters for the last two days reminds you in a heady rush.

"I…" he lifts his head from your chest and blinks, not reluctant, but so fucking needy, "I want to eat you out." He nods quickly, lashes dropping over his eyelids. "Like my life depends on it."

"Good boy. Do it then, please."

His beautiful, hot mouth begins an eager assault of kisses across your chest, migrating down your belly. You arch your back. Usually you two take a little more time here, but there isn't any to spare. So quickly, so deliberately, Paul finds your clothed sex. He wants to touch you, and he wants you telling him that he can.

"Can I take these off you? Please."

You have nothing smart to say. You're no less eager to feel his tongue, his kisses, the vibrations of his voice where you're most sensitive. You nod, and he holds his gaze to your eyes for a beat before pulling your useless underwear off your legs, discarding them on the floor.

You think without meaning to of the word 'devotion,' used in religious terms to describe a supplication, an adoring, faithful, upturned look. It applies equally to the naked need written on Paul's face with his hands carefully spreading your thighs apart.

"Please let m--" he swallows, begins again, "Please may I worship you?"

"Fuck, Paul, yes, please."

And he may have dedicated years to seminary study, he may have pored with his hands wrapped around old books of his faith and volunteered his body in the service of a Christian God, but that tongue of his was made for sinning.

He starts by kissing gently around your cunt, soft, spellbinding little pecks that make your body jerk to close your legs. You still open up for him, gasping and squeezing your eyes shut with how good, how good, how earth-shatteringly good he feels. His tongue starts to lap at your clit and you do feel yourself drip a bit as he deepens the kiss of his mouth on you. Your mind pleasantly lets go of so much residual tension, of today, of every day before this moment with Paul kitten-licking between your wet lips.

Your hips buck as he sucks a little more intently at your clit and your hands lift up and knot themselves up in his hair. He lives for it as you start to fuck his face.

"Yes, yes, salvation is your fucking cunt, thank you--" he sputters out, certainly only half aware of what he's saying but so, so pleased to look up at you and find your face entirely lost in what he's making you feel.

"Here, here," he takes one hand that's left a few fingernail marks in your thigh and hurriedly covers the knuckles of your hand that's controlling his head, "Put me where you want me. Use me, please."

His mouth and your cunt make an obscene symphony together as you moan and arch toward him, trying to win back enough self-control to direct him the way he needs. He's doing pretty goddamn well on his own, you think and laugh to yourself, your calves shaking and heels digging into the bed. His nose bumps an especially sensitive square inch toward the hood over your clit, and his tongue grazes the inside of you. You see stars, the way the old expression goes, you literally see stars. You have to fight to keep your eyes open to how beautifully looks, you'll need this memory of your pleasure, his pleasure, you and he together, for all time.

Your hips are bouncing off his face rather quick and desperately and Paul is drunk with chasing your cum. He sees you biting your fist and between kisses and sucks he has to ask, "You need more? What do you need? Tell me. I worship you. I deify you. I need this," And like a madman he shakes his head to deepen the stimulation of his tongue hitting, soothing, exciting your clit.

"Oh, Paul!" you cry out and reach for his bedframe. "Oh fuck," you're curling into him and keening and he's humping his mattress outright. "Finger me. Fuck please, give me something to-"

Something to cum around, of course. You feel slicker and sluttier than you've ever felt as Paul obediently probes a finger inside your cunt. You fuck his hand, unabashed, so far gone, so trembly. And even the trembling is helping you get more contact out of his tongue, and he's not tired, his thirst is unmatched, the hand not fingering you finds that little arch where his nose bumped up against you before and spreads you the littlest bit open to lap at your clit.

You make a sound that's kind of a shriek and kind of a delighted giggle, and words something like "Ha-fuck, I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum on you--" fall out of your mouth. Paul moans, the pitch of his voice increasing in a way that sort of matches yours, nearly as desperate for your orgasm as you are. Nobody could be as desperate for this as you, however. No one in the history of fucking cumming has ever felt like this.

"Please," he sucks attentively at your clit and shakes his head again, a black curl plastered across his forehead, his gorgeous brown-green eyes searching you and seeing all of you, then closing again, a holy sight. "Please cum. That's it, please I want to drink you in, please--"

And your upper body accomodates for how powerfully you need to let go, the need for release screams out of your body and you almost hit the headboard, but Paul stops you, adjusts the hand that kept you exposed to him to grip your hip and pull you down to his mouth. Your body thrusts and bucks and arches of its own volition, you're just here, in this tear-you-apart pleasure of cumming on his tongue like no one's ever made you cum before. You're panting, your heart is racing, your blood is on fire.

"Enough-enough-enough fuck please---" you shake and beg and tug a little at his hair as he licks hungrily at you, but he's going to let you go when he's fully satisfied. Your voice continues to climb in whispers and shuddering gasps.

"Like my life," he makes a disgusting, gorgeous slurping noise over your wet needy hole, "depends on it." Like a man starved. Like a man crazed. How will you ever function again. You cry out as he drags his tongue up and down your slit, one last long articulation, before his hand finally relaxes on your hip.

Your eyes flutter as you remember suddenly to breathe, and Paul's hands glide up your leg as you sink them down back onto the bed.

"What did you just do to me?" You utter, mystifed, not fully with the thought as it escapes.

"You have no idea how intoxicating you are." He says, dead serious, if breathless and soaked in you. He sucks his middle finger clean. "None at all."

#midnight mass #father paul hill #john pruitt #monsignor pruitt #fic tag #thirsting hours #hamish linklater #father paul x reader #john pruitt x reader #my blabber #hamfam smut

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chelseasdagger · 10 months

Text

Restoring Faith

Father Paul Hill x Reader

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

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

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

Word Count: 4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, the Lord, He—,”

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

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

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

“Shall we?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y…You know I can’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Father.”

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

#father paul x reader #father paul fanfic #paul hill x reader #midnight mass fanfiction #midnight mass fanfic #hamish linklater fanfiction #hierophilia #as someone who grew up christian i did feel a lil guilty writing this #HOWEVER #he cute.#chelsea writes #happy birthday pea!

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mandowifey · 10 months

Text

Porogue.

Father Paul/John Pruitt x Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, P in V sex, unprotected sex, dry humping, mutual masturbation, lots of priest play, biting, pining, dom!Paul, semi established relationship, cum play, mentions of cervix, mentions of bite wounds.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

It's a storm to end all storms.

That was what Beverly Keane proclaimed at yesterday's service. The woman had a penchant for dramatics and often spoke with puritanical judgment. Folks were accustomed to the devout woman's manic ramblings, which meant she was never taken literally. However, when the Coast Guard reached out to warn the town to evacuate not but four hours before the storm was due to impact, Bev Keane stood, smug and proud.

"I had warned you, all of you."

Towns folk rushed towards the docks with their families, arms full of the few precious belongings they had. Sturge was helping them up the ramp and into the ferry, trying to explain that there was no need to panic. Dark waves sloshed and rolled under the boats. People were gasping and crying out below the blackening sky. Hysteria at its finest.

"You lot wrought this upon yourselves," sighed Keane, who stood on the dock, hands linked together. "Those of us who remained loyal to our faith, who filled the church every day and lived our lives devout and holy have no reason to fear. The Lord recognizes his own and will shephard us unto his raft to guide us through the storm."

Over half the population fled Crockett that dreary afternoon. Those who remained boarded their windows and hunkered down to ride it out. While the last ferry departed, Bev Keane smiled and turned to head back up the trail. Confident in the hopes that God would sort things out in the end.

° ☆ ° ☆ °

Candles warmed the room around you, while flashes of lighting illuminated the windows and caught your eye. When thunder clapped and shook the wooden frame of the rectory, you would suck in a sharp gasp and tense, which drew a low chuckle from the man above you. Rain impacts noisily against the glass windows, causing a steady hum.

"Relax."

A hand closes under your jaw and tips your head back, exposing the curve of your throat. Lips press against your skin, making you rumble and start to smile. "You are so strange," the words leave your mouth in a breathless sigh. "How can you not be at least a little afraid?"

He chuckles again, and you feel teeth graze your flesh. "I have much more important things on my mind." There was a pull to his words that brought moisture between your legs. Heat consumed you, twisting through your limbs and fogging your thoughts.

"Looks like you do too." His palm cups your mound. Embarrassment overtakes you as you realize you had soaked through your underwear. "Messy little lamb." Lips slotting together, the man kisses you with intensity. He parts your mouth with his own and scoops his tongue between your teeth. You can feel the way his nose pushes to your cheek and taste the remnants of the tea he had earlier.

Words fail you as you cave below him. The bed moves under you as he shifts your bodies and lays himself between your legs. Another flash of lightning, another gasp, this time it's for him. He presses the aching bulge against your core and leans his weight into you. You feel so small with his body caging yours, and the contact makes you simper.

"O-oh, P-paul,"

"I'm sorry?"

Paul's voice was lile velvet in your ears. Candlelight flickers in those obsidian eyes of his, and you watch his angular brows start to vex. Heat burned in your stomach, and you paw at the blankets beneath you.

"F-father, p-please."

A smile breaks the tension, and he drops his head down to gently kiss the middle of your forehead. He rumbles his praise against your skin, balancing himself on his knees and one hand while the other pulls your leg around his hip. You tilt and groan unabashedly as Paul starts to grind into you. The friction of his clothed cock pressing and sliding over your crease had your clit engoring with blood.

Head tilting back, your mouth hangs open as soft groans waft out. Paul was watching you, admiring every line in your face as he began bucking into you. Your body bounces, your cries coming out louder as he thrusts as though he were fucking you. The impact had you soaking more than before, leaking a spot on the blankets.

"U-uhn, hnn, p-please-" You felt frantic, desperately craving the Priest to bury inside and claim you as his. To carve through your insides and nestle himself in the furthest reaches of your cunt. The ache within your body called to him, your scent nearly driving the starving man mad.

"Patience is a virtue." Paul sat back against his legs before placing both large hands on your hips. Fingers gripped bruisingly tight as he hoisted you upwards against him, locking your pelvis to his so he could continue rutting. The man sighed, his eyes closing as he grunted and panted softly. Both of you mutually wind your bodies together in a frenetic desire.

Panting fills the empty space, and you're using the massive bulge between his legs to chase your release. Paul used you, too. His hands greedily squeezed and pulled you while his hips bucked to yours. "T-that's it." He gasps, his large thumbs pressing down into the front of your pelvis, causing a pleasant pressure inside of you that made you mewl.

Ravenous, the holy man watches as you fall apart. Chest heaving, skin flushed, and nipples showing through your tank top. "Look at you, little lamb," His voice purrs. "So beautiful, a spectacle to watch unfurl." Rolling his hips forward, Paul grinds his cock into your core and makes you whine. You are gradually rising now, the friction pushing you higher and higher. Smiling, he smoothed one large palm over your stomach as he moved it onto your breast. "Let me hear you." He pinches your pert nipple between his thumb and index finger, causing you to arch and cry.

"That's it, good girl."

Your face burns. Sweat builds in a thin layer on your skin as the sensation of bursting swells inside of you. Paul lifts off his legs to get a better angle and alternates slow grinds with firm, steady rocks of his hips. Each impact jostles your smaller frame, bouncing you under him and pushing cry after cry from your parted lips. "I-im g-gonna-" It was hurtling towards you full speed. You knew there was no use in trying to fight it. You could feel the burn of his eyes on your face, watching you as you fell apart.

"It's alright, my angel, let me see you."

Paul leaned over you, bucking himself against you just right. Your clit throbs, slick soaking through your panties and onto him as you gasp and jerk. Fireworks spark in your belly as the rush hits you. Your cunt clenches sporadically, your body shaking as you cum. Reaching your hands up, you curl your fingers into his arms, thighs shaking as he continues to grind against you. Paul coos, mesmerized by your face. When you rest back and relax, he leans and opens his pants to spring himself out.

With your head still spinning, you hardly notice him fist his cock. Eyes transfixed on your soaked underwear, the Monsignor inches closer and strokes himself against you. "S-such a messy lamb," his voice shudders with pleasure as his palm slicks across his length. "S-so beautiful." He sounds like he may cry, his dark eyes heavy with lids and lips parted. You look up at him, feeling your heart race at the sight. "P-please father, I need you to cum." Paul jerks, startled by your words and breath stopping in his throat.

That undid him. He bucked against his fist while you pulled your panties to the side. Whimpering and looking down, he groans as he cums. Hot, thick ropes spraying across your folds and fingers. You feel the heat as he drips inside your crease. "O-oh." He bucks one last time, a final spurt landing on your clit and dribbling downwards. Paul looks disheveled, breathless, as he settles down from his own high.

You were ready to speak when he dropped over you, impacting your lips with his own. Paul slips his large hand between your legs, using his nimble fingers to collect his cum and push it into you. You gasp, groaning into his starving mouth as he sinks inside your cunt to the knuckle. "Mh, p-paul-" He kisses your words and swallows them whole, adding a second digit which causes you to shriek into him. He pumps them inside of you, trying as hard as he can to reach your end with his seed.

Mouths and tongues lashing together, Paul slows his fingers right as you begin to buck against him. "So needy tonight," remarked the holy man as he licked over your kiss swollen lips. "I suppose you have been good enough to earn a little more. What do you say, my lamb?" His fingers curled inside of you, applying pressure to your gspot and bladder. Sparks flash behind your eyes, and your back lifts off the blankets. "Y-yes, p-please father Hill." You gasp, struggling to bring your eyes to his. The man flashes his teeth, and his eyes crinkle along the edges. His digits squelch inside of you as he begins to pump them faster.

"Since you asked so nicely." Paul nods, drawing his fingers out while you whine.

The loss of him makes your cuntache. Feeling no need to rush, Paul takes his time removing your sodden underwear and his pants. Carefully, he lays beside you and shifts you on your side, facing away from him. As he closes the distance between your bodies, you feel the cold press of his skin behind you. Paul lifts your leg and kisses behind your ear. "Keep this up for me, please." The delicate tone in his voice makes you throb, and you obey.

You feel the familiar prod of his cock and angle your hips back to make it easier for him. Paul guides his tip to your sopping opening and grunts with you as he presses inside. With a sudden snap of his hips, he submerges inside your heat and bottoms out. The stretch is immense, and you can already feel the tip nudging at your end. "G-god!" Your lip quivers and leg shakes, the muscle burning now.

As if he knew, Paul curls his frigid hand under your knee and holds your leg. Lips kiss at your shoulder as he starts liesurely rocking inside of you. The drag burning your cunt and making you whine. Eagerly, you shove yourself back against him, nearly sobbing each time he pushes fully inside and reaches your furthest depths. You're keening, whining, noisily falling apart for him as he rocks. Paul smiles against your skin, peppering you in soft kisses as he takes his time.

Thunder rattles the wooden frame of the rectory, but you hardly notice. Paul drives himself inside you faster now, spearing every inch of his aching cock deep inside your heat. More sparks are flying now, he's brushing everything right within you. You can hear him grunting and gasping behind you, his breath fanning your skin as he bucks his hips. His fingers dig into your skin as he plaps noisily against your ass. Paul grunts, his movements stuttering and becoming uneven.

It spurs something in you, and you fuck yourself back against him. "P-please, please!" You cry as he desperately stuffs himself inside you. Paul bites your shoulder, muffling his groan as he sinks to the hilt. You flutter around him, your abrupt orgasm taking you by surprise as you clench on his throbbing cock. Groaning louder, he bruises your skin as he empties directly against your cervix, the hot flood of his cum making you whimper and grind into him.

As he calms, he lowers your leg and pulls you into him further by wrapping his arms around you. Paul enjoys the rapid patter of your heartbeat, and he licks over the bitemark he left. You were melting, sinking back into him and closing your eyes as you smiled. "Thanks," you giggle, feeling him pause in licking you. "For distracting me from the storm. I think it helped quite a lot." His chest rattles with a soft chuckle. The two of you remained embraced while it continued to pour outside, safe and warm together from the storm.

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purplelupins · 15 days

Text

Lamb

Midnight Mass

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V

Father John Pruitt/Father Paul hill x fem!reader

Word count:12.3k

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

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

Notes:

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

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

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

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

Had you imagined it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hassan smiled a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Body of Christ.” He repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on.” He repeated, still calm.

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

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

But still he only stood and waited for Leeza.

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

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

Leeza was standing. Freely.

“Leeza?” Wade asked in disbelief.

A woman across from you fainted as she stood.

Your ears felt all prickly and your fingers felt numb.

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

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

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

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

“Amen.” She said, voice wavering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You felt your heart.

It hurt.

Ached.

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

It all seemed so…miraculous.

Such a God given gift.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How?

How…

How did he do that…

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

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

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

Faith…

Did you lack it?

Had you begun to loose it?

Were you so ungrateful?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be straightforward.

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

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

You took a tight breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. You weren’t expecting that.

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

You shook your head.

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

You let a tear fall as you held his gaze.

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

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

Another tear fell.

Then another.

Then many.

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

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

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

He squeezed your hands.

Had he been holding your hand this entire time?

You took slow shaky breaths until you could speak again.

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

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

You looked up at him, eyes starting to dry.

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

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

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

You nodded, and sniffled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So do you.” The man shrugged nonchalantly.

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

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

You pursed your lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cared for.

Seen.

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

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

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

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

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

Was there something in the air?

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

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

He was at a loss.

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

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

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

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

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

Was he alright?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes he is.” You said.

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

You nodded, and hung up.

“Well?” Bev snapped at you.

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

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

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

He nodded and looked up that the distressed crowd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Glory be…” Came his whisper.

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

“Slowly, Father…slowly.” Someone said.

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

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

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

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

So silly really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That caught you off guard.

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

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

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

“I-well I just…-“

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

“Yes…”you admitted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another shift had begun around you. Off balanced.

You noticed it in small things.

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

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

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

Had you always been so pretty?

Vibrant.

A halo around your hair where the sun caught it.

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

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

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

Just a little.

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

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

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

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

As did his stomach. Painfully.

So hungry.

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

Past your house.

Your curtains were open again.

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

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

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

Now.

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

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

He mindlessly grasped the bottle of communion wine, and let it empty down the back of his throat yet it somehow wasn’t enough. He needed more.

More more-

“Uh…Father?”

Something deep inside John Pruitt unfurled then. It began to seep into his tissue and into his bloodstream. John turned, startled.

“Oh…Hello Joe.”

The following morning was a little bit of a slow one for you. You half considered calling the rectory just to see if there would indeed be Mass at all, but decided against it. You brushed your hair, and tied it back; grabbed any extra ingredients you needed for the morning and set off.

Even as you kneaded the doughs and whipped cream and stirred batter you found yourself lagging.

The walk to Mass was slow too.

Off kilter.

You took your usual seat, but your brows pinch together when you saw Ali sitting not too far from you. You looked to see if Hassan had come with him, but to only deepen your confusion, he was alone. You leaned forward a little in your pew, “Ali?” You murmured loud enough for him.

The boy jumped a little, but relaxed when he saw it was you.

“Come.” You smiled and patted the spot beside you, and he instantly looked grateful. Ali stood and made his way back to you, and you sent him another smile as he sat. You didn’t ask him why he was there, it wasn’t your business. You had always liked Ali- a sweet boy with good manners for the most part.

Then, you looked to the other side of the church, and noticed that Erin was missing. She never missed Sunday Mass. Never.

Something in your stomach curled tight.

An anxious feeling of anticipation.

Without the presence of Father Hill to envelope the church, you found yourself gazing around the building. You looked at the windows, and the pews until your gaze fell upon the wooden figure of Jesus crucified.

Had it always been so grotesque?

Were you worshiping a man? God was supposed to be a being that governed over everything…omnipotent…why would he descend to earth in the body of a man? Why would he need to if he created messengers like Moses and Noah and so many others…

Your mind began to spin out of control until you were starting to wonder what you were doing there.

The distress you felt only grew deeper when a half hour passed, and Father Hill still hadn’t made an appearance. You looked over at Annie, then even looked up at that back of Bev’s head as if she might have an answer written there.

Finally the woman had had enough and made her way to the rectory. You perched on your seat, waiting for anything to happen. It was nearly another twenty minutes that passed before Bev returned- faux smile already on her face as she took a spot upon the pulpit.

“Good morning!” She began, “Well I have to tell you it is such a delight to see this church so full every day, thank God. I'm afraid this morning though that we have to - well, I think we'll have to cancel Mass.”

You scrunched your brows in surprise. But then that feeling you had had inside you tilted again, a little more in the wrong direction. Twisting. You felt nauseated.

“Father Paul's bouncing back from a stomach bug, poor thing, and I just had to physically restrain the dear man and put him to bed, he was so determined to be here! He'll be back on his feet in just no time at all but this morning, at least, our dear Dolly Scarborough - come up here Dolly…” she encouraged Dolly to come up beside her, and while the good natured woman did, she was just as confused as the rest of the churchgoers.

There had certainly been times with Monsignor Pruitt when his health was hanging by a thread and Mass was cancelled but…Father Hill was in prime condition how could he still be so ill?

“Uh, maybe Dolly can lead us in singing, and some readings, and some prayer, and we can still celebrate together, like the Christians of old, who sang praises to God long before they had priests to lead the way. Uh let’s start with Hymn number 473, "Be Thou My Vision". Dolly, can you lead us?” Bev looked over to Andy who began to play his organ, and slowly everyone followed Dolly’s singing.

But then you watched as Bev began to leave again, this time accompanied by Sturge and Wade. They disappeared out through the vestibule, and you mentally snapped yourself back from trying to see what happened.

Your curiosity started to gnaw at you so badly you almost missed the cue to sit down.

Mass ended simply…or rather it deflated. A somewhat awkward shuffle out the door was the end of Mass that day. Murmurs and worries stares at the rectory as everyone filed out and meandered down the hill to Main street.

You glanced over to the rectory, and paused when you saw Bev exit. You moved a little back from the entrance along the side of the church to catch her.

“You’re sure Father Hill is alright?” You asked her as she strode to the back door of the church.

“Just fine. In need of a little more rest we think. Nothing to worry about.” She said a little more brightly than usual. You felt in your gut there was a lie in her words.

“Annie’s making a hearty stew tonight I could stop by and bring him some-“

“No!” She snapped, then softened a little when she saw how startled you were, “No, no he needs to be undisturbed today. Thank you, y/n. Bless you.”

You nodded slowly, and flicked your eyes over to the small building. You could have sworn you saw the curtain move.

“Alright, Bev…take care.” You said. Something was making your nerves itch under your skin. Like an internal fear response that you didn’t usually need.

A cord was plucked inside you.

A voice inside you telling you to leave.

It wasn’t that Bev had snapped at you, or that you felt she was hiding something. It was that St. Patrick’s had always been a place of peace and safety for you, and now you found yourself wanting to be far from it. You feet almost itching to run.

You didn’t run. But you did walk quickly. You wished you had taken your bike that day.

You cast one last look at the rectory. Sturge and Wade still hadn’t come out.

Your feet acted for you, and carried you away from the church. Away from that itch.

Once the general store came into view, you hesitated in going directly to your shop. Since Mass had ended early, you didn’t need to start deliveries yet; instead, you walked into the store, and towards the sheriffs office. You waved at the old man working at the counter- Gerald- and knocked on the officers door.

“Come.” Came his voice.

You opened the door, and sure enough, Hassan was seated at his desk, reading a paper from a file on his desk.

“What can I- oh.” He said, then stopped upon seeing you, “Y/n? Everything alright?” He was suddenly concerned at the prospect of you coming to his office.

Your eyes widened, “Oh- yes fine. Sorry um…I just… I don’t know if you want to…talk about it but…I saw Ali today. At Mass.”

Hassan sighed heavily, “Ah…yeah he…” he didn’t finish his sentence.

“Curious?” You asked.

But the man only sighed again, “I love that my son is interested in God and looking for him…but…” he started.

“But you already have God.” You finished for him.

He nodded, “He’s not praying with me anymore…we fight…he just…I can’t lose him.”

You nodded, “I know…I can keep an eye on him, if you’d like?” You offered a little weakly- you knew there wasn’t much you could do.

“Thank you…I don’t want to discourage him but …he’s not Christian. He knows why we’re Muslim and it’s…” he didn’t know where to start with the issue. “Bev Keene handed out bibles at school last week. Since then…” he look his head, “I think he mostly is interested in it because he wants to fit in.” Hassan sighed and rubbed his brow.

You nodded, “I’m sorry Hassan…this…this must be hard to watch. Doesn’t help that he’s a teenager. Teens are…difficult to reason with.”

He huffed out a bitter laugh, “I only pray that he returns to his faith.”

“God willing, he will.” You didn’t know how to comfort the man, but it seemed that just having someone there helped.

“Inshallah…” he muttered.

You tilted your head in question.

“Means “God willing.”…” he explained.

“Ah…” you said. Silence filled the office, and you clasped your hands. “There’s…have you thought about asking to be stationed somewhere else? Maybe somewhere with other Muslims? He might just be missing that connection…”

“I’ve thought about it…hard to uproot a kid again though.” He crossed his arms.

You wanted to help him. You really wanted to help. This man was alone, and was practically ostracized by the very town he was supposed to protect and serve. You were almost certain you were the closest thing he had to a friend, and you needed to say something.

“You know…I don’t really fully believe Jesus is God.” You blurted out.

He looked up at you then.

You flushed. You hadn’t meant for it to come out like that, “Sorry…I just…just because I go to Mass doesn’t mean I believe everything.”

“Aren’t you Christian?” He asked.

“I…used to be. It’s more of a habit that I go to church. Been going since I was a kid. But…when you first came here that was the first time I heard about Islam…properly. You don’t believe Jesus was god either right?” You asked.

He shook his head.

“He was just another messenger…prophet. I did some reading a while ago and I found that the holy trinity is actually a new thing in Christianity…and I began to wonder what else was “new” or what had been taken out…I guess I’m just trying to say that…Ali might look for God somewhere else but you never know…he might find that the church is flawed and just come right back to you and Allah.” You mused.

Hassan felt tears prick at his eyes. “Thank y/n…thank you.”

You smiled, and nodded, “I’ll um…I’ll leave you to it. Come by later. Lunch is on me.”

“You’re gonna make me fat.” He grumbled

“A little pudge is cute.” You shrugged as you opened the door.

“You’re a bad influence.” He shot back- his walls back up as the door to the outside opened- literally.

“Guess you’ll just have to lock me away, sheriff!” You chirped, and smiled, then closed the door.

But as you turned away and walked back through the shop, that smile faded away.

Everything was changing.

Fast…so fast. Hassan and Ali had been on Crockett for close to a year, and you had never heard Ali mention something about church.

You knew the miracle with Leeza had been drawing many people in, but you could still accept it as a miracle without changing your beliefs.

Did he just want to fit in?

Was he just curious?

Then you remembered how you had felt that morning as you waited for Father Hill. That feeling of trepidation that seeded in your navel and seared into your fingertips.

When you unlocked the door to your shop, you wondered if it was because there was nothing to distract you as you sat in the church. Everyday there was something to keep you busy- the doddering Monsignor or now the invigorating Father. Something to guide you. But once you were left with your thoughts…you started to think a little too much.

Now you weren’t stupid- far from it. You thought a lot. Constantly. But there was something pressing about sitting in that church. You almost felt like you had woken up when you had stood outside the rectory.

Nervous.

Yes you had felt…so nervous as Bev stood there with you.

You wondered if that was how lambs felt before they were taken for slaughter.

Oh what a gruesome thought…pull yourself together.

You were spiralling into the morbid.

Tomorrow would be better.

You focused on that. Yes. Yes tomorrow would be better.

GOOD FRIDAY MASS AT 8PM

E4STER VIGIL SUN MIDNIG-

You watched as Sturge finished with the H and T.

That chord in you struck again. You twitched. The dread in your stomach rolling around like a marble on a metal track.

Leeza stood beside you, confused as ever, “Wait…you're saying every night? No morning Masses at all?” She asked.

Sturge sighed, “Time being.”

Your brows scrunched up, but you schooled your expression when Leeza looked over at you. No need to let her see your worry.

“Father Paul probably just needs another morning or two to recover from that head cold- but he’ll be up and about tonight. Isn’t that right Sturge?” Wade tried to reassure the crowd as a good mayor should, but you knew Wade. And you knew something wasn’t right.

“Yessir, spoke with him myself this morning’…feeling’ much better.” Sturge agreed.

You looked over at the weathered man, and noted that he was off too.

Rehearsed.

You made Sturge a birthday cake every year and the extent of his appreciation was a “Thanks.” Sturge was never a man of many words, and defiantly wouldn’t over explain something.

Wade nodded now, “Dolly spoke to him too and he had a few things to say about Good Friday isn’t that right, honey?” He asked his wife.

You turned to the woman in question, and saw that she was looking somewhere else.

“Dolly?” You heard Wade say, but he trailed off

You saw what she was looking at, and you understood why. You had seen Mildred Gunning now a few times on your deliveries to her house, but seeing her up and walking outside made you stop short. Certainly you had noticed how she was practically aging backwards, but you had only assumed Sarah was trying a new treatment for her.

But this. The walk across the island was a half hour on a good day. And there she was in her Sunday best.

The crowd of islanders began murmuring amongst themselves, and began embracing the older woman. You held back just a little, though your practiced smile was on your face. Your eyes found Sarah beside her, and somehow you weren’t sure if you found solace or anxiety in what you saw there.

She had the same look on her face that you were hiding on yours under your smile.

It wasn’t grim, but it wasn’t joyous.

You slowly began back into town. You missed Mass. You missed that energy that the good Father Hill brought to the church. You missed-

You shook yourself.

Stop it.

What’s wrong with you?

Suddenly, that perfect little routine you had made for yourself for years…was crumbling. You no longer felt the peace you once did, and now it seemed you had to flip the routine completely.

Nightly Mass.

You pursed your lips.

“Have a minute?”

You turned and saw the Sheriff coming towards you as you unlocked your door.

You nodded and grinned softly, “Morning, sure thing.”

The two of you entered the little store and you closed it behind you.

“Everything okay?” You asked when Hassan stood quietly.

“You know that kid, Bowl?” He asked.

You blinked, “Sure I do. Bit of a troubled kid.”

Hassan nodded, “You seen him lately?”

You frowned, “Can’t say I have.”

“Alright…worth a shot. You’re the youngest one here aside from the kids so…just wanted to ask.” He sighed.

“I’m sorry…” you wrung your hands, “Have um…have you seen Joe lately?” You asked, suddenly remembering the quietness in the sheriffs office and lack of grumbled greetings.

At that the sheriff hung his head a little, “No…no but I need to speak to him…I’ll let you know if I find him.”

You took a breath in and held it a little to try and calm yourself, “Alright.”

“I’ll see you later, y/n. Don’t work too hard.” He murmured, as he opened the door.

“You too, Hassan.” You said a little absentmindedly.

He left you to your thoughts. With Mass cancelled again, you had far too much time to kill before you really needed to start deliveries.

You sat on your little stool behind the counter, and found a book Father Hill had lent you almost a week ago under your receipt box.

The Divine Comedy: Dante’s inferno.

You began to read. Too afraid to let your thoughts run rampant again.

Nightime wasn’t much better. You felt something pulling in you to go and visit the rectory. No one outside of the Scarboroughs, Sturge and Bev had seen the Father, and there was that nagging feeling in you that you needed to see if he was alright. Why couldn’t he just come out to tell everyone he was on the mend? What was there all this dancing around?

You stood on your porch, cardigan pulled tight around you as you fought with yourself internally.

Then, just as you went to take a step, a gust of wind pushed you back. You felt that anxiety strum within you once again. Your gut cried to you to not go, and with blood running cold, you went inside and shut the door.

You closed your curtains that night, and prayed to any God that would listen. You didn’t know why fear had rooted itself so deep within your heart, and somehow that frightened you more.

You were afraid.

So afraid.

Good Friday. You put on that dress your mom had gotten you last year for Christmas- she said it brought out your eyes. You grabbed a warm sweater, and socks, and left for Mass.

It was strange walking across the island as the sun set. You strode calmly, pushing that nagging feeling that sat in the back of your throat away.

“Y/n!”

You turned and saw Sarah and Mildred walking behind you not too far. You smiled, “Hello you two!” You chirped. You might have been suffering from an internal turmoil but you weren’t about to let them know.

“Sarah, Mrs.Gunning. Happy to see you both coming tonight.” You smiled and fell into step with them.

Mildred nodded, “It’s been years…” she mused, then stopped and held your arm, “You’ve been so good to us over the years, dear…Sarah’s been telling me and…I wanted to thank you.”

You waved her off and smiled, “Oh it was nothing. Happy to make your lives easier.”

“You have…really. Thank you.” Sarah nodded, a tight smile on her lips.

“You’re a good girl, y/n.” Mildred smiled gently.

You returned it, “Come on…hopefully Father Hill is well enough to preach today.”

The three of you walked the rest of the way, and you noticed how many times Mildred was stared at. She smiled and nodded when people looked, breaking any tension. Then as you walked up to the church, you saw Bev standing to greet the parishioners.

You smiled at her, though she looked straight past you to greet Mildred. You nodded to Sarah, and left them there to talk.

You took your seat, and not long after, the Gunnings took theirs directly in front of you. You wondered if that was where Mildred used to sit before she grew too ill.

Several more minutes passed, until you heard that low voice of the good father from the door of the church to begin service, “All rise for our processional hymn- number 139 in the red hymnal: At the cross , at the cross.”

You rose to your feet, and began to sing, but you couldn’t help but feel relieved that Father Hill was alright. It had been days since only a couple people saw him, and while you would never assume any deception from your elders…the secrecy seemed so strange.

“They took the body of Jesus, and bound it with the burial cloths along with the spices, according to the Jewish burial custom.” Dolly stood on the pulpit, reading from her bible. The church was full around you, and you found yourself slowly feeling at ease. You felt so silly for having been distressed.

“Now in the place where he had been crucified, there was a garden, and in the garden, a new tomb in which no one had yet been buried. So, they laid Jesus there because of the Jewish preparation day. For the tomb was close by. The Gospel of the Lord.” She finished.

“Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.” You and the other churchgoers answered.

Then as soon as Dolly stepped down, you found your eyes locked onto Father Hill as he took his place. You took a moment to take him in after it being a few days of not seeing him. Indeed he did look well- skin no longer waxy and pale. There was something else to his presence though, and you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. It almost felt like…home. What you came for. What you took comfort in.

That thought startled you.

“Good Friday. This is one of my favorite days of the year. The passion of our Lord. Just that word, “passion.” The word “passion,” it means a strong and barely controllable emotion. Barely controllable. That’s what Jesus felt when he gave his life for us, so that we might have life eternal. What a gift, told so beautifully in the Gospel of John. “Gospel” means good news! Good news on Good Friday. And yet, it’s a story of such profound suffering. What’s so good about that?” He paused to take in the filled church. You could see the pride he felt having brought the community together. You smiled a little.

“Jesus’s suffering in this story, it isn’t simply necessary. It is good. It is the price of eternal life. That suffering, he endures alone. At the Resurrection, he is alone. And then… Well… Ah, he has a few allies. And then more. A congregation. And then more and more people spread that good news. Tell that good story. And then, God has an army. What do they say in that commercial? Uh, “Be all that you can be.” Well, I mean no offense to the armed services, which are necessary and of course honorable, but that’s not all that you can be. In the Army, you’re fighting for God and country.”

You heard a few people murmur amongst you; admiration shining in their eyes as they listens to their preacher.

“Now, I am going to offend you now, but it is the truth. God does not want you to fight for this country. The arrogance… of that. God has no country. There is one God for the world. And the lines we draw, and the treaties we draft, and the borders we close mean nothing to Him. No, don’t fight for a country. You fight for God’s kingdom. A kingdom which Jesus tells us has no flags or borders. God’s army.”

You felt your throat tighten and your nose prickle.

“Now make no mistake. It is a war. That’s what an army is for.So, as a congregation, as God’s army, how do we know how the fight is going? We can’t see it. We can’t radio HQ for a status report. All we have, all God gives us, is right here.” He pointed to his chest, “How we feel. That moral compass inside each one of us pointing due north to the Holy Spirit. Conscience. In the army of God, conscience is standard issue. There are many like it, but this one is mine. You may think that that’s a line from a war movie, but it isn’t. That’s actually the Rifleman’s Creed. And a creed is, by definition, not just a belief, but it is a religious one. ” You could feel yourself hang onto each word. Rapt.

“So, it is a war, and there will be casualties. And we must be soldiers. That is what Good Friday is about. God will ask horrible things of you. Horrible. Just look at what He asked of His own son. Just look at what Jesus had to endure today. We had to call it the “New Covenant,” because God’s will, while perfect, changes.God’s will dictates morality, and as God’s will changes, so does morality change. It changed with the New Covenant. It changed when Jesus came, and we must, as his army, shed the Old Covenant and listen only to that. You rely on that compass. Good Friday is only good. The Gospel of the Lord, so full of horror, is only good, because of where it is headed. The Resurrection. Today is only good because of what’s coming Easter, this Sunday. When Jesus is risen, and death itself is lain dead. What is otherwise horrible is good because of where it’s headed. Welcome to God’s army. Yeah, we’re gonna do great things.”

Your blood rushed in your ears as Father Hill finished.

You somehow felt refreshed…full. You supposed you needed that sense of belonging amongst the other islanders. But when you went to converse with the Gunnings, you were surprised to see them already shuffling out towards the door as soon as Sturge had opened them. You wondered if perhaps it was all too tiring for Mildred and they needed to get home soon.

You sighed, and stood to find Annie. She was there with Ed, but they seemed off too. “Hi Annie, Ed…any plans for Easter?” You asked as you joined them in the thinning crowd.

But then you saw the anxiety in the older woman’s eyes. You knew instantly that something was very wrong. “Annie?” You asked, putting a hand on her arm.

“Oh it…it’s nothing. You know me.” She waved it off, “We uh were thinking of having a nice family dinner. You’re welcome to come of course.” She forced a smile.

You waited patiently with a gentle nod until she told you what was going on. She always did.

“Riley…he- we haven’t seen him all day.” She finally said.

Your brows pitched in worry, “Oh I’m- I’m sorry…maybe he’s with Erin? They’re close right?” You asked, trying to keep their spirits up.

“Probably. Like I said it’s nothing.” She reassured you again, “Anyways, isn’t that the dress your mom got you? What was it…your birthday last year?” She changed the subject, and you let her.

“Christmas.” You smiled, “Thought I’d pull it out of the closet.”

“You look lovely. See you tomorrow?” She asked, already moving out and down the aisle with the remaining parishioners and pulling Ed with her.

“Most likely! You know me…always around.” You nodded, following after them.

“Take care now!” She called back, and her husband gave you a small wave before they disappeared down the stairs and onto the road.

Now left to your solitude, you felt butterflies take wing in your stomach. You sucked in a breath, and began down the stairs after saying goodbye to another few islanders you knew speaking to Bev. You stepped outside, head a little in the clouds when you nearly jumped.

“There she is. How are you, my dear girl?” Father Hill stood at the bottom of the stairs wishing each of his flock goodbye.

You looked up at him as you came to stand beside him. But he wasn’t as vibrant as he usually was. You noticed a certain darkness in his eyes…

Of course he looks like that he’s been sick for days

You mentally throttled yourself.

“I’m well, thank you Father. You seem better.” You smiled a little, though perhaps not as wide as usual.

He noticed.

“Yes…yes much, thank you. Everyone has been so accommodating with me…so helpful. Good people.” He mused.

You nodded, “They are.”

John could almost feel your pulse in his head as you gazed up at him- so docile. The light from St. Patrick’s spilled over you and lit you like a holy revelation. He could smell your skin from his place a few feet away…could tell that you washed your hair not too long ago. But despite the loveliness of having you so close, John knew something in you was shifting.

You were more…anxious. Looking for justification to trust.

Skittish but still coming to his presence so diligently.

Like you didn’t even know what you were afraid of.

No need to fear sweet lamb…I am with you…

You started to shift away from him then, but it almost seemed like he didn’t quite want you to go. His gaze still locked onto you. “I trust I’ll see you on Sunday?”

You laughed a little, “No, no I think I’ll skip it.”

His face seemed to fall for a moment, but when you didn’t stop smiling it clicked that you were joking. “Oh- yes…you’re kidding.” He smiled with you, “Please do come. It wouldn’t be the same without you.” Father Paul added earnestly.

You felt that tug in your chest just like when you had gone to the rectory to speak with him weeks ago.

You felt seen.

Appreciated.

“Well I…I’ll be there, Father. Rest.” You said, backing away, “Have a blessed night!”

John took a slow step toward you, but no more than that. He knew not to press his luck with your trust. Didn’t want to scare you off.

“And you, y/n.” He waved to you.

You turned and began your walk. But just as you had felt at home when Mass had begun, you felt a little empty as you walked away. You felt that tug grow more insistent the further you went; so much so that you turned before descending the hill to look back.

Father Hill was in discussion with Wade, but once you stood still, his head snapped to you.

You startled a little.

But it wasn’t so much the fact that he noticed you.

It was the strangest thing…you could have sworn you saw the light of the church catch his eyes and make them glint in the dark.

It happened so fast that you told yourself you just needed your day off. You were just tired.

You needed some sleep.

That was why you felt the contentment you had just been floating on start to drain away. That was why you felt so at ease when the Father spoke to you. Just tired.

You had no way of knowing then that it was the little bit of tainted blood in your system that was calling out to its patron. That it was humming around the others who shared the gift too…communicating internally with one another- somehow knowing that you’re like them.

By the time you were home, you felt as if the weight of the world was yours to uphold. Worry began to consume you as your thoughts swirled in the silence.

Riley was missing.

Joe was missing.

Pike was dead.

Bowl was missing.

You stopped brushing your hair for a moment. You hadn’t thought of the strange happenings like that before. Indeed there was quite a few. You had lived on Crockett your whole life you knew that the maximum a person could go missing for was a day and that was pushing it.

How long had Joe been missing…?

Your gut began to twist again, and you almost fell to your knees when you knelt to pray.

You didn’t know what was happening to you. To your home.

Fear began to encircle your heart, and you almost considered running back to the church to sleep on a pew.

You felt alone.

For the first time in a long time, you felt so very alone.

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

@littleredwritingcat @zaunite-leo @f4er1e-g1rl @purplemotif @vampyre-kin @professional-sinner @hamishlinklaters @spacechupss @pansexualpamandabear @ebiemidnightlibrarian @erialuna @nilla-bear

#midnight mass #hamish linklater #father paul hill #father john pruitt x reader #father john pruitt #forgive me father for i have sinned #father paul hill x reader #flanaverse #midnight mass fanfiction

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grooyyaa · 4 months

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POV: You bit your lip too hard and Paul kissed you to make it better.

AN: This is just a quick little blurb of something I thought about and wondered what would happen? I hope you all like this!! Full fic is in the works!

No warnings needed, only slight suggestive tones.

Paul was sitting on the sofa, reading his book as you looked around at the walls, the dishes that still needed to be cleaned. You would get round to them soon (not likely) as you took your bottom lip into your mouth and bit down. To your surprise, it was a lot harder than you intended.

“Fuck! What the..” You exclaimed, walking to the bathroom to look in the mirror.

Paul’s head lifted up from his book, as he got up and walked to the bathroom. He leaned onto the door frame as your lip was slightly bloody from the bite.

“What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?”

He waited for your response as he didn’t want to push you into answering him. You turned around and looked at him, his eyes went straight to your lips as his stomach started to turn.

“Yeah, just accidentally bit my lip too hard”

You walked past him, as he followed you. Even tho, it was only a very small amount of blood, he could smell it. Your blood had a different scent from others, it was probably due to the fact it was mixed with lust.

Paul sat next to you on the sofa as you played with your lip. The small amount of blood already dried onto your lips. He thought the tang could still be on your tongue and that made him move closer to you.

He placed his hand onto your chin, his thumb gently touching your lip. You leaned into his touch as he looked into your eyes, closing the gap between you. His lips attached to your bottom lip first then kissed you properly.

The kiss was so deep yet so soft like he was nervous. Maybe he was, as his bloodlust was craving your sweet taste in more ways than one.

“I was right.. the tang was still on your tongue. You taste.. I can’t describe but I know that I want more”

#hamish linklater #midnight mass #father paul hill #father john pruitt #monsignor pruitt #monsignor john pruitt #hamfam #priest kink #father pruitt #father paul hall scenarios #father paul x reader #father paul smut #father john pruitt x reader #john pruitt x reader #john pruitt

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grugruel · 6 months

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Lust for Vampyr

Pairings: Paul Hill x f!reader

MDNI/NSFW

Masterlist

Summary: A new handsome priest arrives at Crockett Island and youre desperate for his attention, but when he seems to be avoiding you, you do the only logical thing. Show up at his door

Word count: 3.8K

Warnings: Blasphemy, age-gap (reader over 20), oral sex (f! receving), pinv sex, rough sex, praise kink, slight thigh kink? Little bit of edging and cock-warming, tasting of blood (vampire shenanigans), PRIEST KINK.

Id never really found any interest in attending mass, despite my parents insistent attempts to drag me along. I had been watching the old monsignor preach for years now until he left for his pilgrimage, leaving a blank spot for a new priest to take his place.

Paul Hill had he called himself, and it was like lightning struck. All of a sudden I had a new fevor for the faith and although I had moved out long ago, my parents were thrilled to say the least. Little did they know though, that a fire had stirred within me. I started with innocent glances, admiring him from a far, telling myself it was just because of his enthusiastic way of preaching. But then getting a thing for his tall stature, big hands and stark black hair. He had me cleching my thighs together as I sat next to my parents in the church pews.

He made me want to confess my every sin to him and eventually I did, when I grew desperate enough. Just for the chance to hear him breath in that quiet intimate way I had begun to crave.

We had met briefly, just to introduce ourselves, but thats it. I wanted to talk to him more though, learn more about him. So I started lingering after mass, telling my parents to go on ahead without me just so I could get a word with the new father. But he usually dissapered into thin air before I got the chance, seemingly avoiding me like the black death.

Which Is how I ended up in my current situation. It was after the usual mass, I had dressed extra nicely tonight. I was standing in the cold on the fathers poarch, knocking on the rectory door in my fancy dress, black tights and mary janes.

I felt out of place, I know I shouldnt be here for this reason, I know I shouldnt have dressed nice in an effort to seduce a man of the church. Shame crept up my cheeks, coloring them a bright red. But I heard shuffling behind the door, then footsteps coming toward me and immedietly regretted my decision.

What was I doing? This is so stupid, hes going to send me away, direct me back to my parents like a lost child. My thoughts came to a sudden halt when the door finally opened, and there he stood. Father Paul.

He was in his regular black shirt and white collar, wearing his tight jeans. His eyebrows rose when he saw me, 'Ah' he sighed, as if expecting me but surprised none the less.

'Father.' I greeted, smiling faintly, 'Youre a busy man, you always disappear after mass, its hard to find time to talk with you.' I told him, he smiled apologetically 'Unfortunately yes, Ive had some urgent business to atend to lately, its taken up all my past time.' He explained as his gaze trailed down my body, eyes lingering on my thighs, 'I- uhm. . .' he shook his head, completley lost in thought when a particularly chilly breeze blew by. He shuddered, apparently noticing the cold for the first time, which managed to break him out of his trance and making him pay attention to my own shivers. Noting the goosebumps lining my arms and collarbones. He met my gaze again, hestitating slightly before moving out of the way 'Its freezing, please do come in.' He said, smiling cheapishly. 'Thank you.' I whispered as I passed him, intentionally brushing against his arm and hoping that he would catch a whiff of my perfume.

He closed the door behind us and made his way to the kitchen, 'Tea?' He asked.

'Yes please.' I answered and he smiled to himself, pleased with my manners. He gestured to the armchair in the middle of the room, 'Please, sit.' He urged me, then put a kettle of water on. I nodded and sat down, crossing my legs.

We waited on our opposite ends of the room, an akward silence settling over us. Finally though, the wistle of the kettle rang through the rectory and he made us two cups and sat down on the sofa opposite me. He handed me my cup and our fingers brushed as I took it, our eyes met, lingering on eachother. But he cleared his throat and looked away, 'So what brings you here?' He questioned.

I rested the cup in my lap as I tried to come up with an appropriate answer. 'We havent peoperly met, I suppose. . I simply wished to get to know you a bit better.' I said shyly.

He smiled, 'Well ofcourse, thats reasonable enough. Did you have any specific questions in mind?' He asked, sipping his tea.

I blanked completley, what was my plan here? 'I- No, not really. Uhm.' I stumbled ahead blindley.

He chuckled, 'Youre never this nervous in confessional are you.'

My face lit up in shame, averting my faze from him 'Well father, I suppose it gets easier in the dark.' I said, sipping my tea nervously.

He chuckled, 'I suppouse it would yes.'

I nodded gravely, looking back at him and found that his eyes had drifted to my body. It took me by surpise, but pleased me grately, 'Father?' I asked, trying to get his attention.

'Mmhm?' He hummed distantly, not taking his eyes off of me. Perhaps I wasnt so far off in coming here after all, my tights and skirt seemed to be working. Gaining some confidence, I uncrossed my legs and his gaze followed them intently. God, all he needed to was look at me and I was his, completley and utterly. In a sudden surge of brazenness, I let the cup rest in my lap again, clutched in my hands. Then spread my legs wider and slid the cup between my thighs, still in my grip, so that the view of my panties was blocked by that alone.

His bresthing stuttered, a made a sound that was barely a gasp. He rubbed his hands over his face and combed them through his hair in an effort to collect himself. But it did not work, he felt himself being affect by you, in the same way he was everytime he saw you. Which Is why he had to run off, why he had to keep his distance from you.

He sank further into the sofa, liftning his lap to adjust his position and then sat back down. I practically drooled at the sight, a tingling sensation pulsing through my core. I had to close my eyes for a few seconds, making an effort to think straight, at least until the feeling had calmed down and I could talk freely again. I moved my gaze back onto him and our eyes met, communicating with eachother, exchaning desires we could never say aloud.

Both a bit distracted by eachother, I decided to take the bull by its horns, 'Listen, father. I-' I began, but he shut me down instantly.

'Dont-' he said, holding his hand out to stop me, 'I know. . . I know.'

My mouth fell open in shock and I scrambled for an excuse, but I could not find the words. Shame tainting my tounge. 'Ive tried to stay away, but youre persistent. And I told myself that you must be a trial from god, tempting me, testing my faith.' he said, sitting up straighter and looking into my eyes.

'A trial that I will undoubtedly fail.' he confessed. Relief surged through me, he did want me. I reached out to lay a hand on his knee, but he jumped up, walking backward until he hit the kitchen counter. He leaned against it and crossed his arms, ensuring that they could not reach for me. He was fighting his urges, his own body was betraying him. I stood up, walking around to sofa to meet him, but he shook his head 'No, NO!' he shouted, making flinch in response to his sudden outburst.

'Im sorry, but this- this cannot happen.' He gestured between us, 'Whatever this is.' he sighed desperately and I stopped in my tracks, because I knew he was right. But he was just meters away from me, he was in my vecinity. Free to do with me however he pleased, if he pleased.

I whined at the thought, beacuse it could never happen. I grabbed the back of the sofa and bent down to rest my forehead against it, in a desperate attempt to collect my thoughts. A quiet complain reverberated through my body, "Why did it have to be a priest?" I bashed myself, a whine escaping me as I shook my head slowly. I slid forward, resting my elbows on the sofa so that my hands were free to hide my face. If only I could turn invisible, just disappear. But I was too painfully aware of his looming prescence to escape the moment, he kept a safe distance, occupied with battling his own thoughts.

I burned hot, terribly hot, my face ablaze from the shame of my indecent thoughts and actions, in stark contrast to my body which was only lubricated by them. Every single nerve-ending was tingling in reaction of what I craved.

I was trying, but failing very badly to calm myself, when there was movement in my peripheral, it happened so quickly that I was sure I had imagined it. But it was too late either way, because he had appeared behind me. All I noticed was a small gush of air and then he was pushed up against me, hips to ass and I involuntairily froze.

A shuddering gasp came form behind me as he lrt go of his restrictipns and his hands made contact with my skin, one hand moved to hold my hip while the other explored the dip of my lower back, testing its limits. He rubbed a few slow cicles with his thumb onto my skin, seamingly mesmerized by the goosebumps that rose. He stopped, for only a moment and then flattened his hand against the small of my back. He pushed downward with his palm and as if he'd found a hidden button, my back arched, and my breathing faltered. It was as if god himself had touched me and I had to bite my cheek to stop from moaning.

A low intake of breath could be heard from behind me, as if astonished by what he could accomplish. And as he kept the hand on my lower back pushed against me, he strengthened his grip on my hip and pulled me closer to him. When completley flush, I felt him again. But this time, there was an evident hardness in his jeans and I moaned reflexively, I couldnt help myself. How could I be excpected to? The priest of Crockett Island himself was hard, for me. How I did not scream and beg for him to tear me apart right there is beyond me.

He hissed in response to the friction that the thin fabric of my dress created against the rough fabric of his tight jeans. I tried griding against him with what little movement his hold allowed me, which earned me a displeased grunt and smack on the ass in punishment. I had to cover my mouth as another moan threatened to escape me.

Visions of everything I've dreamed of him to do to me flashed through my mind, things I've only ever imagined while touching myself. My entire skin was on fire as I tried to collect myself, scarcly succeding. I could only manage a single word.

'Father?' whispering it quietly, I turned my head a sliver, as far as I dared. It was enough to make out his disheveld state, chest heaving from supressing his heavy breathing, his usually perfect hair fallen in stressed strands over his forehead, his shirtsleeves carelessly folded and rolled up, showing his forearms. Such simple things drove me absolutley feral, I had to restrain myself from shaking in anticipation of his next move, barely daring to move in fear of him retracting from me.

But he never moved and everything was quiet apart from his shuddering breaths, a result of him fighting his most carnal desires. I wanted to touch him, to caress his beautiful face, to feel his skin under my fingers, and although I loved the shallow feeling my impact had on him, I wanted it deeper. So despite my better judgement, I straigthened my arms and moved to stand up and turn to him. But he quickly stopped me, grabbing a fistful of my hair and thrust my body forward into the sofa, my hips colliding with the back of it as he shoved my face into the pillows, cushioning the force of it.

He hadnt wanted me to see him like that, as if I saw him it would all become real. His desires, his unholy thoughts, his betrayal of god. But I did not care, I had crossed that point a long time ago.

'Father, please.' I begged, voice muffled by the pillows. And there was a slow realisation in his movements as he loosened his grip on me and stepped back. Confusion crowded my already full mind, as he began rubbing the back of his head in distress, turmoil brewed inside of him.

'Im so sorry' he whispered. Oh. . . Poor father, he mustve thought I was begging him to stop. 'Please forgive me, I dont know what came over me. I would never want to hurt you, please know that.' he rambeled, meeting my eyes, begging for for my forgiveness.

I stood up, shaking my head in dissmissal as I made my way to the light switch, turning it off, darkness enveloping us. I searched for soothing words to reassure him, 'You could never hurt me father, im yours.' I said and made my way through the darkness to him, trying to locate him from memory, I reached out blindley in an effort to avoid colliding with something but he met me half way, seeing my struggle.

I did not question it as he laced his fingers with mine and led them to his chest, making my heart skip a beat. I slowly traced my hands upward until I felt his face, enjoying everything my working senses had to offer me. His scent and the feeling of his soft shirt and skin. I placed my hands on either side of his face, cradeling him 'Take me now, in the dark.' I said carefully and stod on my tiptoes.

I leaning into him and as he did not retreat, I kissed him once, tenderly. 'Nobody but us will know' I whispered against his lips, then moved to kiss his jaw, feeling him relax under my touch.

'We will repent in the morning' I assured him and then quated myself, '"It gets easier in the dark"' I found his hands, and moved them to my breasts 'Take me now.'

This time, father Paul did not hesitate. He squeezed my breasts as he met my lips forcefully, kissing and biting me like a starved man. One of his hans dove behind my back, while the other found purchase under my ass. He hoisted me up into his arms in one quick motion, I gasped, surpised by his strength.

He walked me to the armchair, setting me down in it and kneeling in fornt of me. He spread my legs with his strong hands, and laid them on each thigh, squeezing hard. His hands slid up my thighs until they met the hem of my dress. He met my eyes, asking for reassurance and I nodded enthusiatically, giving it to him. He continued moving his hands upward, the dress catching on his wrists and follows his movements. He leaned closer, kissing a trail along the inside of my thigh until he came to my core. He ripped my thights open and moved my pantied to the side, and as he already had me go-ahead, he dove right in. I gasped as he made contact with my core, his tounge thrusting inside of me. Tasting my very being, he moved one of his hands to my clit, attacking it feverishly as the other stayed squeezing the soft flesh of my thigh. He was feral, and I loved it. He hummed as he ate me out, absolutley loving every second of it. My moans became needy and high pitched as I grabbed his hair to shove closer, he did not protest. I came hard and fast, closing my eyes as white light blinded my vision, making me dizzy. As I opened my eyes again the room was spinning, and the father sat proud infront of me grinning. 'Youre doing so good, my girl.' He said and rose up to kiss me, I could only manage a smile. To lost in pleasure to do anything else.

He picked me up and walked me to the sofa, laying me down on top of it and puttin almost all of his weight on me. He rested his forearm close to my head, letting it support his weight and tangling his hand in my hair, grabbing it and gently pulling my head to the side. While the other hand traced down my shoulder and lowered the strap of my dress, to gain easier access to my breast, then kneading it greadily. His lips moved from my mouth and kissed their way down to my neck, sucking and licking at that tender spot above my collarbone. I moaned reflexively, which only spurred him on further. His hips were moving against mine, enthusiastically and rythmically with the rest of his body. Our closeness made his clothed erection rubb against my core perfectly. I moved my legs to stradle him, tightening the grip and bringing him even closer to me, then rutting my hips against him. The friction was delicious and that paired with the fathers delerious assault on my neck, his breath hot against my skin and his moans vibrating through me, had me close to coming undone right then and there.

My hands had found their way to his back, scratching and pulling at the fabric, but it wasnt enough. I moved my hands to unbutton his shirt, but struggled due to our position. I grew tired and greedy from not succeeding, so I removed his colar and tore his shirt open, yanking it down his shoulders, but did not manage to get it further. Displeased about ruining his shirt, he bit me, once, hard enough to draw blood. I gasped and he stopped, removing his hand from my breast and slid it to my neck, coating his fingers in my blood. Stunned silence had settled over us, apart form our unanimous labored breathing. He brought his fingers to his lips, tasting my blood and it was like he became a whole other person. If lust had not driven him before, it did now. I found it strange, but was to mesmerized by the moment to question it. He stood up, resting one knee on the sofa between my legs and began unbuckling his belt. I bit my lip from anticipation, the sight driving me mad, he looked positively devine. 'Have you done this before?' He asked me, I nodded my head in response, 'Have you, father?' He did not answer, his eyes were just drinking me in.

'Touch yourself.' He ordered, and I wasted no time. I moved my hands down my body, lifting the skirt of my dress with one hand and shoving the other down my panties, sliding it inside me to wet it then circling my clit in slow deliberate motions.

'Oh. . . ' he shook his head, 'Good girl' he praised in a shallow whisper, he looked at me like I was no longer a test from god, but a gift. He moaned as I touched myself, surely I was a sight in itself, my breast out, the skirt shoved up over my thighs and hips and my chest heaving from breathing heavily as he was towering over me. His tussled hair and shirt pulled down beneath his shoulders, exposing his chest and collarbones, his veiny hands working his belt. I closed my eyes as I felt myself coming close, and the sound of him drove me further. The belt buckle clanging, a zipper opening and the rustling fabric of clothes falling to the floor was erotic in a way I never could have suspected. White dots were specking the darkness of my eyelids, and a spring was tightening deep in my stomache. My breathing became frantic as I envisioned the father inside of me. I was a second away, when he snatched my hand out of my panties and I whined in frustration, the specks darkened and I felt moving around me.

I opened my eyes and he was below me, stark naked, holding my hand to his face and licking my slickness from my fingers much like he had done with my blood. 'Beautiful angel, you taste divine.' He sighed.

I moved the hand he was holding the caress his face 'Please father, I cannot wait any longer'. And he odded, sliding his hands under me and lifting my hips to pull my dress upward, once he'd done that I sat up to help him pull the dress over my head. He then lowered himself on top of me, pushing me back into the sofa and resuming his previous position.

'Im yours, only yours father.' I whispered and he kissed me tenderly as his hand traced down my body, feeling every curve on the waw down and pulled my panties to the side. He lined himself up with my entrance, teasing my opening by sliding himself through my folds. My breath caught, 'Please, please, please.' I whined desperstley, begging seemed to be the only thing I was capable of around him.

He suddenly slid inside and we gasped in unisome, our eyes met and we stayed like that for a while. No one moved, no one talked, we just admired eachother silently while he let me adjust to his size. He raised his eyebrows, as if asking for consent and I nodded eagerly, pecking him on the lips. He slid out of me completley, confusing me terribly and I desperatly clung my arms around his shoulders, burrying my hands in his hair to make him stay. But he only chuckled in response and kissed my arm lovingly, then slammed back into me. Setting a brutal pace, almost knocking the air out of my lungs.

I could not tell whos moans belonged to who, but amidst the frenzy he gave me a few short kisses on the lips in reassurance, then nuzzled his nose against my cheek and moved his forehead to the crook of my neck, whispering against my skin 'Youre doing so good, sweet girl.' His sweet words were a stark contrast to his hard, fast thrusts.

A few hours ago I was nervously getting ready for mass, dressing nicely in hope of the new priests approval, and now hes ballsdeep inside me.

He moved his hand to my clit, rubbing it in fast circles. I covered my mouth with one hand as a scream threatened to escape me, while the other tore into his back, leaving long red scratch marks and he hissed into my neck. Enjoying every part of the pain and pleasure mixing with eachother.

He straigthened his arm to sit back anf change position, but never relenting his pace. He raised my hips onto his thighs, placing one hand on my waist in a grip that will be leaving bruises on my skin, and pushing the other hand down on my abdomen while still circling my clit with his thumb. His thrusts hit that spot inside me that made my toes curl and it all became quite overwhelming, about to push me over the edge.

'Im- Im close' I managed inbetween breaths and he hummed, nodding as his own movements became irregular. I grabbed onto the cushions for dear life as I was tipping over the edge, electricity sparked between us, and all of a sudden I felt thunder tearing through me and he collappsed on top of me. His thrusts slowed down, allowing me to ride through my high.

'Good girl' he sighed and kissed my forehead as his ruts came to a stop and pride surged thorugh me.nHe stayed inside me, laying comfortably with me as oour breaths calmed together. I could feel his seamen sippering out of me, and I loved it. Because it was him.

'Will you stay with me tonight?' He asked.

'If you'll have me.' I answered, smiling as he kissed my lips.

#paul hill #father paul hill #father paul #hamish linklater #midnight mass #father paul smut #paul hill smut #john pruitt #monsignor pruitt #john pruitt smut #priest kink #paul hill x reader #father paul x reader

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professional-sinner · 1 month

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My sharing a bed trope Father Paul fic is live! You can find it on ao3

Enjoy!!!

Father Paul x fem reader

#this is my 3rd fic ever so im sorry for the quality 😭#hierophilia #priest kink #blasphemy kink #midnight mass #father paul hill #hamish linklater #father paul x reader #father paul x fem reader #this was also WAY longer than i expected

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chellestrash · 1 year

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Mercy for the Sinner

Paul Hill/John Pruitt x GN!Reader

Summary: Description of one of the many nights you spent at the little wooden house next to the town church.

Warnings: 18+, uh oh, smut, explicit in some places but pretty basic stuff, priest kink, hierophilia, catholic guilt, prayers, corruption

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: Alright sooo...I know this won't be everyone's cup of tea so if it’s not yours just...move on thank youuu. First Paul fic so might be shit but I couldn't let it just sit in my head I wouldn't be able to do anything, so yeah. Enjoy! Thank you @chelseasdagger for proofreading like alwaaays!

You let a loud moan slip past your lips as you feel yourself loosing balance. Grabbing the headboard behind Paul, you steady yourself on top of him. With your fingers gripping the wooden frame, you feel your body tightening around him.

His fingers press into your body as you rock slowly on top of him. His grip makes you feel wanted, makes you feel needed in that place, that moment, like he doesn't want you to leave. Maybe he will, later. Once this is over, once he’ll rethink what happened between you two again. Once the deep desire and longing present at this moment wears out. Maybe then he’ll ask you to leave, tell you that you should, you have to, you can't stay here, you… he, he can't risk people seeing you here. The house is too close to the church, too close to the main road, it's too close to… people.

So maybe then, but not now. Not right now, not at this moment when no matter what he keeps telling himself, with every single fiber of his body he could feel how much he needed and wanted this. Needed and wanted you.

Rolling your hips back on top of him, you feel your lips part. Your head falls back and his hand traces up your back, almost to your neck. A gasp and another loud moan falls from you, and his fingers dig deeper into your skin as he pulls you in closer.

Paul watches you move on top of him, his head tilted back slightly, his eyes fixed on you. His mouth falls open as if he was to say something, but he decides against it. Fighting with his own thoughts, he turns away, glancing up at the ceiling the moment your eyes open and search for his gaze.

“It's okay, no one knows.”

Your words are quiet and gentle. Your hand now rests on his cheek as you turn his face to look at you again. You see his eyes dance around your face, lingering at your lips but never quite making it up to your eyes. You slowly lift your hips up on top of him, feeling his length slowly dragging out of you. You bite down on your lower lip, attempting to muffle the moan now stuck in your throat. Paul lets out a shaky breath, pushing his hips up slightly, chasing the feeling of your body around him, silently affirming you that he still wants this. His fingers dig into your hips as he pulls you back down on top of him, slowly helping you get back to the previous pace. The gentle hands of the priest reassuringly guide you to keep fucking yourself on his cock. Cupping his face in your hands, you catch the glimpse of his gaze, you catch the second his dark brown eyes fix on yours and for a moment, for a short second you’re his, you hope, you pray? You pray for the kiss, knowing it won't happen, you still wish for it.

The priest battles his own thoughts, fighting the urge to kiss you, the normal, human need for affection. The longing for closeness of another being, and the knowledge, the awareness of his sins. Wrapping his arms tightly around you, he suddenly pulls your body closer to his, nudging his face into your neck. It feels almost like an escape, from the choice from the decision, from your eyes. Your hips buck slightly against his body the moment you can feel his warm lips against your shoulder. Your arms wrap around his back, your hand pushing into the curls at the back of his neck.

Paul moves his hips underneath you, pushing harder inside you with every thrust, your bodies gradually beginning to move at the same pace, the same tempo. A whine slips past your lips when you feel his tip right under your stomach, the way he feels inside you, the way you can feel him so deep within you, makes your fingers wrap tightly around his pretty curls. With his every move, you tug at them a bit harder, each of his thrusts followed by a quiet grunt.

He curses himself in his mind for it all. Not for the act alone, but more so for the fact that if you were to stop right now, walk out and leave, promise him it wouldn't happen again, he'd beg you to stay. The worst part is that he's sure you know it. You can tell by the way he holds you close, the way his hands never leave your body, the way his cock reacts to the movements of your body.

“Almost there, almost there, Father.”

His body tenses up at the way you use the title so freely, like it doesn't mean anything, as if it simply doesn't matter. The warmth between his legs feels impossible to fight back now. His heart beats faster, his whole body tensing up as the feeling gets closer and closer.

“I-God,”

His eyes widen at his own words.

“It's okay.”

You reassure him quietly.

“It's okay, Father, it's okay.”

Biting into his lip, he fights another moan as his hips raise up one more time to push further inside you. You twitch, clenching around the priest when his legs shake slightly, his stomach tenses with eyes shut tightly. You talk him through the climax, like you always do. Praising the way it feels inside you, the way he attempts to hold it back for you.

The couple of drops of sweat shine in the warm lamp light, the few strands of hair stuck to his forehead. His fingers dig deep into your thighs as he helps you with the pace again moments after. Paul did this every time, every time he accidentally finished first, never wanting to leave you unsatisfied or to feel like someone else could’ve done the job better.

You rest your head against Paul's body now and feel his hands on your back. It's bizarre how gentle and how innocent the closeness feels at that moment as you both attempt to calm your bodies down. The images of his body under you slowly fade as the overwhelming silence, so familiar to you now, fills the small bedroom once again. It's not a bad thing, it wasn’t the wrong decision, you tell yourself. You repeat it in your mind like you do each time you two meet, each time this happens. Your guilt doesn't stand in your way. The church, the faith, the people on the island, throughout your life you managed to get your own perspective on this, understand what's important to you, what values you believe in. But you know, you know and understand it's not the same for the man lying in the bed with you right now.

Despite the gentle touches, despite the way his arms wrap around you to hold you so close to him, you know he's somewhere else, somewhere far away now. Overthinking, overanalyzing… possibly regretting the choice he made to see you again today. Maybe, maybe that’s it, but this wasn’t your decision alone. It was a mutual agreement, just like it always was. You glance up slowly, shifting your gaze from the droplets of rain falling down the small bedroom window to the face of the priest.

Paul holds you in his arms, craving the feeling of another person so, so close to him. His body slows down now, his chest rising and falling less drastically, his thumb slowly brushing over your back. His mind is racing, of course it is, he's unable to stop. He feels the guilt growing in him with every second, every minute passing. He wonders, he asks himself how he let this happen again, how was this possible and why, of God, why did he need you so badly. He glances down when you enter his mind and your eyes meet for a brief moment before he turns away quickly. He shouldn't have done this, he shouldn't have broken like this, he shouldn't have let you break him like this again. The wave of regret washes over him when his heartbeat slows down again. Your body weighs heavy on top of him, skin to skin, and the realization of his choices, his weakness, slowly fill up every little part of his body. He should pray, ask for forgiveness, pray and tell you to leave, to fight the urges that lead you back to him and him back to you time after time.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Your quiet voice cuts through the silence filling the small house like a knife. There's a sharp pain in his chest when your words reach his ears and he swallows hard, closing his eyes.

“Don’t.”

You feel his fingers grip your arm tighter to a point where it hurts slightly, a pleasant sensation you choose not to point out at this time and spare him the details. Looking up slowly, you bite the inside of your cheek, carefully considering your options. Your eyes scan his face; his dark, now slightly curled hair is pushed back, only a couple stands still on his forehead. His deep, dark eyes running from your now oh so innocent gaze, the few droplets of sweat running down the side of his face. You rest your head against his chest again, his eyes back on you the moment you look away, and he knows you can tell he's watching you carefully. Your fingers draw small patterns on his ribs as you choose to continue the confession.

“My God.”

You whisper and he gasps almost silently.

“My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart.”

You recite the prayer from memory.

“In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against You, whom I should love above all things”.

You pause, glancing up and watching as he listens with his head resting against the bed. His eyes are shut tightly, his lips parted.

“I firmly intend, with Your help, to do penance, to sin no more.”

It's funny how easy the words come to you. How difficult it is to forget the prayers you've been through since childhood, how with the passing of time, for you, they've lost the meaning they used to carry. And the meaning they still have for him.

“... and to avoid whatever leads me to sin.”

Your hips move back on top of him again, and you feel his hand at your side. His touch follows with a quiet grunt he didn't quite manage to fight back.

“...my God…”

His cock twitches underneath you and he curses his own body in his mind, his shaky inhale interrupting your words. But he doesn't stop you.

“...have mercy.”

You finish the prayer and rest your chin on your arms crossed on top of his chest. With your face now turned to him, you watch his face, waiting for his reaction. The priest spends a moment in silence, his eyes closed. His thoughts slip from him, the images of you plaguing his mind. His Adam's apple bobs slightly as he slowly recalls his part of the prayer, the confession.

“God, the father of mercies.”

He starts, his voice barely a whisper, as if he worries that God himself might be listening. You shift on top of him and Paul swallows hard. His eyes now open but again, they never find your gaze, focused on something far behind you.

“God, the father of mercies…”

He repeats, and you kick your feet in the air slowly, waiting for him as he closes his eyes with a quiet sigh.

“...through the death and the resurrection of His Son has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins…”

He pauses for a second, your eyes never leaving his face, his hand resting on your back, thumb gently brushing over your skin.

“Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace.”

Another pause, and you watch him fight with himself, doubting his own words and the power and meaning behind them.

“And I absolve you… from your sins… in the name of the Father, and, and of… the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen.”

You mumble quietly and give him a brief moment of peace before pushing your tongue against his chest. You lick a stripe right from his nipple up, up over his neck before kissing the side of his jaw. The priest swallows hard, inhaling sharply through his teeth before brushing his hand over your hair.

“Rest.”

He instructs, and for once, you listen.

“Am I forgiven, then?”

“Don't. Don't ask me that when you know the answer. God can not forgive us for our sins if we, his children, don't regret them. Regret, is the foundation of penance, of forgiveness. If you lack regret for your sins, for your choices, for this…if you lack that feeling within you, God can not help you.”

How could you regret it?

“Do you regret it, father?”

“Yes.”

His eyes finally meet yours.

“But I don't enough to be forgiven for this.”

There's not enough regret, instead there's longing, the need and the desire for more. The feelings have been present in the back of his mind ever since he got to feel you for the first time. There was regret, anger and guilt, but it was never, never enough to push him away from you. Always too much and never enough.

#paul hill #john pruitt #Paul hill x reader #john Pruitt x reader #midnight mass #midniight mass fic #hamish linklater #father paul hill #monsignor john pruitt #Paul hill fic #john Pruitts fic

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droogiesanddiscourse · 1 year

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"Hellfire."

Pairing: Monsignor John Pruitt x F!Reader

Summary: You are called first to receive everlasting life from the angel's blood during Easter Vigil.

Warnings: Spoilers for Episode 6 of Midnight Mass and all the content that comes with it. Language. Taking some liberties with how the angel's blood works uhhh hehe. Millie who's that AU. Going off of the stream of consciousness / dream-like writing I am trying so hard to stay out of my head and just write what comes.

"Brothers and sisters,” Monsignor Pruitt concludes. “On this most holy night I come to you with good news. Not only the good news of the resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ who arose to forgive us of our sins after three days in the tomb. But, also the resurrection of ourselves."

He clasps his hands together in makeshift prayer, eyes sparkling an unfamiliar orange glow that you've never seen before. That of a feral black cat's eyes bouncing back light. The ones that hunt on the outpost of the island, all teeth and heat and hunger and sex and wild and and and--

Visions of nocturnal holiness.

"I ask you. Trust in me. And God will reward your loyalty heavily. Know that I would not ask of the ultimate sacrifice of your life if I did not have utmost faith in our God for the miracle he is about to bestow tonight."

The silence within the church is deafening. Not a soul rises for his offer, parishioners stunned to their seats. His eyes scan, searching for a familiar face. Finally focusing on yours.

“Please. [“____”]," his voice like liquid honey calls to you, echoing through the church. "I call upon you to take the plunge first, my sweet child. Show the good people of Crockett Island that there is nothing to fear. That there is paradise waiting for us all tonight."

He leaves his pulpit, descending down the steps towards you. His arm reaches out, using his slender fingers to beckon you to him with a "come hither" motion. White vestments flowing, covering his human visage as he moves, billowing out like an angel's wings.

Devils were once just fallen angels. Symbols of purity be damned.

He notices your trepidation.

"One moment of pain, perhaps. But an eternity of youth and love and worship in His name. We have been given a tremendous gift, sister ["____"]. Be brave.”

Beverly Keene remained tucked in the upper corner of the church, stirring the choice of death for this evening. She's always been a witch in your eyes; now the harsh comparison rings true more than ever as she concocts a deadly potion of sickeningly sweet liquid.

The smell reminds you of too hot summers and running against the shoreline as the waves lap against your ankles and buying popsicles at the general store and sticky raspberry juice running between your fingers. Familiar memories and tastes intermingled with rat poison.

“And so Jesus rose from the tomb, trampling down death. As will we. I am with you, and you are with me. There is nothing to fear."

Don't drink the kool-aid, the old adage goes.

But you wonder how vanilla and raspberry taste mixed together.

Jonestown redux is standing before you, with his hand outstretched for you to take; his body backlit by the illumination of hundreds of candles. You look up at him through your lashes, lips slightly parted. Your eyebrows upturned and eyes reposed.

"Monsignor. Forgive me, but I cannot," you swallow hard. Back yourself from that cliff, you have one leg dangling over the edge now! "For I have not taken communion as my sins have been too weighty, too difficult to ever be forgiven. I believe I did not deserve the body and blood of Christ at that time, which is selfish of me. Forgive me.”

John almost considers this for a moment, his thick eyebrows furrowing together as he stares down at you.

"There is no resurrection for me. I will die,” you state bluntly. Your words are finally registering.

Back away back away, make distance between the cliff.

But he smiles, against your expectations. A tight lipped smile, his eyes kissing at the corners when his cheeks raise. Missed by the miracle of reversed age, not reaching the crows feet that reveal only when he's truly happy.

"My angel. You've taken more than enough of my seed in your womb, and down your throat. The blessing is already inside you."

His hand grazes your cheek, and Hellfire reigns down as the finality of his reveal sets in across the room. Hot and prickling at the back of your neck. High pitched buzzing of bees in your ears. Whore of Babylon comes to Crockett Island. Mary Magdalene weeps. Hundreds of eyes descend upon your form, fragile and ready to break at a moment's notice.

Hell has a special place reserved for you for tasting the most unholy fruits. You wear guilt like a halo.

John positions his index fingers and thumb underneath your chin, tilting it upwards. Your eyes dart away, unable to face him. For sure your very skin would burst into flames if you stared too long.

"Look at me," he demands. "Look at me, angel. Do not be ashamed.”

Oh, you’re more than familiar with this position.

Your eyes tilt back, big and yearning and scared yet wanting more. More of John, more of his smell on your bedsheets, more of his fingers in your mouth more of the salty bitter taste of his skin more breaking the boundaries between heaven and hell more more more more flesh more blood no sin no death no guilt.

Hell has a special place reserved for you in due time.

But real hell is living without him. You slip your hand into his, rising from the pew.

The church is silent, conversations about your unforgivable sin now hushed to murmurs. Somewhere in the distance you hear the gentle song of night crickets that intermingle with your delicate footsteps across decades old wood. A resounding creak and moan of the floorboards that echoes through the small church that makes it become an entity of its own, ready to swallow you whole.

Someone is crying, quietly muffled pathetically behind a cloth. A woman blesses herself using the sign of the cross as you pass.

A dead girl walking, and this is the sound of your funeral march.

Your toes bump into the first step leading up to the chancel. Guiding you by your waist, John spins you to face the congregation. Expressions of the crowd are unreadable.

Are you Joan of Arc or a witch about to be burned at the stake?

Blasphemy, blasphemy stood before your friends, family, acquaintances.

A light. The vision of John blocks you away from their watchful eyes as he stands before you, cupping your face within his hands. Your eyes lock together. Gently, he presses a chaste kiss to the center of your forehead. Lips just barely ghosting over your flesh. You tremble before him.

Bev stands behind you, both arms outstretched forward, bent at the elbow. You’re smart enough to realize she’s ready to catch you for when you involuntarily start seizing, your body putting up its final fight against the poison coursing through its veins.

Life. Death. Rise.

A sob starts in your larynx, unable to burst fully to the surface The warmth of his hands removed from your face, now reaching for Bev's as he takes the small plastic solo cup of juice from hers into his.

"I am with you," he whispers as he holds the cup up to your lips. "As you walk through the valley of the shadow of death I am with you, and you will come out on the other side anew. Whole. Pure as a reward for your devotion to Him."

Raspberry and vanilla threaten to break the seal of your lips, the cup tapped against it. His other hand snakes his way up your back, weaving his fingers within your hair. The digits tug against your locks slightly, tilting your head back.

"Open."

Saliva gathers at the back of your throat.

You can't, you can't, you can't.

You cannot dare to lose the chance to miss another one of those too hot summer days where the children of Crockett island throw their books haphazardly into their backpacks basking in their first hours of summer vacation and the salty water clinging to your hair making it curly and sticky raspberry juice dripping between your fingers–

But oh the visions of him with and the way he whimpers into your neck when he thrusts into you, his hot mouth on your pulse point, the way his hand pin down your wrists forcing you to stay still. Murmured praises and bedroom hymns whispered as the moonlight coats both of your bodies in a ghostly blue glow. Was it truly ever living without him? No more hiding no more secrets you are his and he is yours. A boundary death cannot even cross–eternity is a beautiful thing to imagine.

A tear slips out of your eye, rolling down your cheek. The pad of John’s thumb gently rubs it away. Sympathy for the condemned.

"Drink."

And you do.

#father paul hill x reader #monsignor john pruitt x reader #midnight mass #hamfam #father paul x reader #monsignor pruitt x reader #hamish linklater x reader #hamish linklater imagine #Caitlin loses their damn mind over the fucking hot ass priest cant keep living like this I am literally so insane and feral #please send help #Caitlin go to hell challenge (real)#a/n: rat poison supposedly tastes like vanilla so that is where the reference comes from if that was confusing at all

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ebiemidnightlibrarian · 19 days

Text

ℌ𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔏𝔦𝔫𝔨𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐮𝐥 𝐇𝐢𝐥𝐥 | 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐏𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐭

𝑪𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒖𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒊𝒂 | 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒖𝒍 𝑯𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑾𝑰𝑷 [𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕-𝒇𝒊𝒄]

[𝑬𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉] [𝑷𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒆]

Crockett Island is a very calm and peaceful place. Just like a beautiful and imposing oak, and just as the oak, the island hides a rotten inner, putrefied secrets just in plain sigh waiting the perfect time to fall apart. Sometimes the broken things can be fixed easily by the right person.

𝑬𝒗𝒊𝒍 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒖𝒍 𝒙 𝑷𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅!𝑵𝒖𝒏!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝕾𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝕴𝖓 𝕸𝖞 𝕲𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖓 𝕾𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒔 𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒔 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒖𝒍 𝑯𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑬𝒙𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒖𝒎 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒏 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒖𝒍 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑵𝒐𝒍𝒊 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒆 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒖𝒍 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐰 𝐊𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞

𝑨 𝑭𝒓𝒆𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝑺𝒍𝒊𝒑 | 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒘 𝑲𝒊𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

ᎷᎪᎩᏴᎬ Ꮖ ᏟᎾᏬᏞᎠ ᎻᎾᏞᎠ ᎩᎾᏬ ᏚᎬᎡᏆᎬᏚ

𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑺𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒚𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅 | 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒘 𝑲𝒊𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑨 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒔 | 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒘 𝑲𝒊𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞

𝑰𝒇 𝑰 𝑮𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝑴𝒚 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝑻𝒐 𝒀𝒐𝒖 | 𝑩𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑶𝒏 𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕] | [𝑬𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉]

After being dumped by Sophie, Brice became bitter. Decided to focus on his work, running the fortune of his family, he lets the flower that grew on his chest wither and rot. Months pass and a great ball is coming. He’s invited by one of his colleagues, and after a huge pressure of his sister Caroline, he decides to go. There he meets a clever widow, duchess Kathryn Artherton. And the feelings he battled to bury are taking control once again. Will they be able to open their hearts once again and give a chance for love?

𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐡 𝐓𝐲𝐥𝐞𝐫

This character has only dark fics. Exclusively Dead Doves. Be aware.

𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝑾𝒂𝒚 𝑶𝒓 𝑨𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 | 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑻𝒚𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

Adelaide knew it was only a matter of time before he found her again. She dreaded the arrival of that day every morning and every night. She avoided this moment as much as possible, changed states, changed her name, and locked herself in a cottage far away from it all. However, John Tyler was free and missing. And when she received the news in that particular morning, she knew he was coming for her. After all… She was his first.

𝑺𝒉𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓 | 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑻𝒚𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑵𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑶𝒏 𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

“You’re a wolf!” Esther’s voice still echoed in the young nurse’s mind. “You’re a wolf!” She heard the old lady screaming at her. Thomasin could hear her clearly. She felt the hot, swollen tears run down her temples, getting lost in her hair. She felt the excruciating weight on her, the strength of the noose that held her wrists, the deep voice whispering her name. “You. are. a. wolf.” She should have listened.

𝐀𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐊𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐲

𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏’ 𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒅 | 𝑨𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒘 𝑲𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒙 𝑺𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕-𝒇𝒊𝒄]

𝑴𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝑭𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒚 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑨𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒘 𝑲𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑬𝒙-𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝔒ℭ'𝔰

𝑯𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒚 𝑮. 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒕𝒕

𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑳𝒖𝒏𝒂𝒆 | 𝑾𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒘𝒐𝒍𝒇! 𝑯𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒚 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒕𝒕 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑶𝒏 𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 [𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕-𝒇𝒊𝒄]

𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔨𝔰

𝔗𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱

@stardustandgunpowder @liesandghosts @girlwiththenegantattoo @midnight-mess @un-kiss-de-breakfast @ledzeppelindeanmon @jyngerpeach @hungrhay @agirlinherhead @aherdofbees @littleredwritingcat

#matthew kimble x reader #matthew kimble x ofc #father paul x ofc #father paul x reader #john tyler x reader #john tyler x ofc #andrew keanelly x reader #andrew keanelly x ofc #brice catledge x ofc #hamish linklater characters #hamish masterlist #ebie's masterlist #ebie's writing

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everythingbutresolved · 1 year

Text

💝🎄 Kneel 🖤🎁

Foreplay for us doesn’t start in the bedroom.

You, absentmindedly dressing before working,

I, walking through the parish garden in bloom.

I dig my teeth in my palm until it’s hurting.

Remembering our first meeting like it is the very same day.

You asked if I was allowed to be your friend.

I told you I would be there for you and I told you again today.

A thousand wild horses couldn’t stop me from wanting you in the end.

I said something stupid and your laughter hit me like a a wave of bubbles.

It was that moment you had my heart on a silver tray.

A man’s delight turns quickly in another man’s troubles,

Nevertheless blue skies appeared were there was only grey.

A God's servant with a sorrowful face,

Yours is the hand that so firmly grasps

Our lips pressing together in a slow pace,

As mine open and close on the pew with tight clasps.

Knocking at my door under the light of a new moon,

I begged you to have mercy and leave me alone with my needs.

Your gentle body cradled mine like a spoon.

The leap of faith was a rosary of pleads.

In my dreams I explored each one of your curves.

The trembling of my fingers was ignored that night.

Every inch adores as it deserves.

Learning how and where do you like me to indulge and bite.

Peeling our selves a little further with each open button,

Breath synchronizing in accelerated rhythms.

Lying down among moanings we were gluttons .

Loosing concept of time or holy theorems.

Soon the adoration leaves room for the smut.

My fingers find your core, your knees all the way up.

You quickly discover I’m uncut.

While my hands hold your legs like stirrups.

Obscene words the tongue employs.

This angel that got me in chains.

Did you have fun of me? Am I now one of your toys?

Deeply seated inside you my mind can’t tolerate games.

Night after night, perfecting my skill set,

Welcoming every request and begging for another,

Your flesh and my skin must not forget,

The blasphemy of taking pleasure from your priest, your lover.

You left a trail of kisses on my face

and you bite my lips again.

I whisper you to move faster.

I don’t know how this is a sin

Forgive me Father 'cause I won't abstain

Merry Christmas 💕 @littleredwritingcat @jyngerpeach @ebiemidnightlibrarian @agirlinherhead @plainlo-inthemorning @supplanther @aherdofbees @girlwiththenegantattoo @waytkayt @rothko-mirror @i-was-ok-then-i-saw-hamish @apbajs

#oh oh oh #merry christmas fam #hamfam #a little smut #over the holidays we write smut #father paul #smutty poem #hamish linklater #midnight mass #father paul x reader #just a little smutty #for you Fam 🖤

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proverbsss · 7 months

Note

I miss ur fics 😔

gah anon I appreciate the love and I hear you ! part 3 of my father paul series is pretty close to being finished.... so like last time, here's a teaser to tide yall over < 333

_______ nsfw, AFAB reader, hierophilia, dom!paul________

“No—” Paul surprises you, taking his lips off your breast and scolding you, “No, I let you get away with it before. Hand off mouth. I’d like to hear how well I’m doing,” then when you hesitate, his voice gets a little brusquer. His eyes almost seem to—glow? “Off mouth.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and try and get some part, any part of him, against your needy cunt. Paul laughs and lets you chase the substitute for real authentic friction, and the laugh reverbs on your tit, against your tummy.

“Please…” your voice is unsteady as you beg. “Please more please more please—”

“More? I wonder what you mean…More of my mouth?” You whine. Somewhere between now and that instant several moments ago when you looked down and saw Paul Hill, tongue out and face wet with your juices, shaking his head and humming obscenely into your clit—whatever was left of your conscious cognitive abilities left your body on his lips.

“Please-” you don’t know if increasing the severity of the plea will get across the message you need it to, but desperation is one of few resources left to you, you might as well try it. ______

i'm pushing to post this week, fingers crossed! <3

#midnight mass #hamish linklater #father paul hill #john pruitt #fic tag #monsignor pruitt #father paul #paul hill #hamfam smut #my blabber #asks #father paul x reader

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chronic-ghost · 2 years

Photo

He regarded you with light disdain but also something that resembled weariness, a tiredness that didn’t seem to fit the wealth exuded by his clothes. He carried something, some sadness.

The spirits whispered, shellshock. And then, heartbreak.

But you shook your head.

“Mr. Catledge, please be careful.”

Title: a brief, fragmentary, and most imperfect record of specters few have seen

summary: late summer. 1927. The absurdly wealthy Catledge siblings return to Pittsburgh after the older brother suffered heartbreak after a particularly public end to his engagement to the medium, Sophie Baker. They return quietly and Brice hopes that the monotony of embracing his father’s company can bring some stability back to his life. Until a girl from nowhere emerges from the smoke of a train and quite literally falls into his arms — and immediately predicts his untimely murder. Despite his insistence that he is done with pretty mediums, she comes with her own secrets he can’t seem to ignore. Is this girl the real thing or just another con artist? And if she really can see the dead, what will she see in him? Will she be one of the few who can see his specters for what they really are?

pairings: Brice Catledge/Reader

category: M/F

rating: M

archive warning: depictions of violence, tw for discussions and depictions of domestic abuse/violence, survivor’s guilt

tags: reader has psychometry, references to WW1, 1920s tennis matches, cable girl adventures, meet cutes at the train station, library sex, making out on beaches, angst but happy ending!

playlist for the fic: the ghost of you

fanart for the fic: thank you 🤯 to @aherdofbees for this BEAUTIFUL PIECE!

(AO3 Links: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9)

Read the next chapter below!

Chapter 9: aris moriendi

T W O W E E K S A G O

The fire crackles behind the thick metal grate, the arch of night just beyond its midpoint outside the crimson drapes. On the oak desk, the tumbler’s nearly empty, the ice melted and whiskey watered down beyond recognition. Were it not for the faint flicker of flames, the room would be in total darkness.

He sits and stares and knows it’s becoming an obsession. In the light of day, he would not call it that. Even now that word is wrong, but in the spiral of darkness his mind follows, it’s the only word that lingers there. Drawings of her have now grown so numerous, they liter the floor. The latest hovers in the flames, her smile, her cheeks consumed by a faint red edge before transforming into black ash.

It’s not obsession, he muses. He knew what that felt like and this isn’t it. Sophie was obsession, infection, an infestation – and this girl was none of those. No, instead, it is an external force drawing him to her, instead of internal. Like space dust attached to a comet, he feels dragged along by something greater than himself – something that humbles him and makes him feel more powerful than any creature alive. His chest roars with it.

In some way, he knows she feels it too. Haunted by inevitability.

In one of his better moods, his father had taken the family to the British Museum when he was just a child. While Caroline had shown interest more in the anatomy wing, he had been taken with great fascination by a giant, smooth circle made of stone. The whole thing was concave, the very center disappearing into a small hole, and with a free shilling from his father, he watched with rapturous delight as the shilling spun round and round, whistling as it went, down the sides until it looped tightly before disappearing entirely.

The effect itself was marvelously entertaining, but when a second shilling was added, his child's mind almost couldn’t comprehend: no matter when a second coin was added, no matter how long they raced in parallel, they would also disappear together.

Ghostly ashes of a dozen sketches curl up beneath the fire. He thinks about those coins and the duality of physics, long into the night. Long after the fire swallowed up the logs and died, satisfied and full. He remembers the loops, the shrill rush of the metal against the stone, the blur of children’s hands as they lunged forward to try and snatch the coins as they spun. But they missed each and every time. Each and every time, the coins spun and spun and spun until they overlapped, their ringing loud, and consumed each other, a single silver blur where once there were two.

*~*~*

N O W

It was nearly two in the morning when the party on the island finally came to a close. After some lazy packing that consisted mostly of smaller items being thrown into anything that could carry them and every open champagne bottle was raced to be finished, Caroline had taken the wheel of the boat and drove them back to the mainland. In a monumental act of self-discipline, she had stopped imbibing hours ago, seemingly content to dance and eat and drink nothing heavier than water from the metal pitchers. She was still red-faced, though more from the sun than being a giddy drunk, as she announced that it was time for the magic to end.

“We, unfortunately, all must wake up from this lovely dream!” The crowd of beautiful people at her feet groaned and booed. She nodded sagely. “Yes, yes, it is quite terrible, but we tempt the eye of the gods if we misbehave too long without reprimand. We must not burn too hot or bright lest we burn out!”

“Impossible!” yelled one of the redheads spread out beneath a white towel over the sand.

“Tis true, my loves!” Caroline scolded, her beauty only magnified by the light of the lanterns on the cooling sand, the echo of waves adding music to her voice. “Wake up and face the consequences.”

Consequences, you thought darkly as the spray of foamy water brushed over your face as the boat raced along the black waves. What did Caroline Catledge know of consequences?

Hopefully, nothing.

Nothing at all, you begged to an indifferent universe – neither she nor her brother would ever know how close you got to destroying their lives, if there was any kindness in the elementary make up of this existence. Because the instant you touched land, you decided firmly and resolutely, you would disappear from their lives. Consequences from Tom be damned.

And it seemed Brice knew it.

He said nothing when you walked back to the party silently, over the hill and down the dark lane back to the beach. You couldn’t quite look straight at him, out of fear of what you might say or do, so he did it all for you. He pressed the cup of his hand gently around your wrist and when you allowed that, he slid forward and held your hand. Held it, then squeezed it the longer you let him touch you. Like a fire consuming treeline after treeline, he touched more and more of you until, as the boat carried the party home – its passengers sun-warm and skin flushed with the bubbles of champagne – he folded himself around you where you stood at the bow of the boat, in the darkness of the night. He pressed a worried kiss to your hairline as if he knew you would float away the moment he let go. Fear never made him frantic, as though speed would only burn the matchsticks faster, but instead more assuredly, his movements weighted and steady. To smother and embrace.

Despite the wind, the air was thick with words he didn’t say and words you couldn’t bear to hear.

Your skin went colder and colder the longer the boat soared across the black lines of water, the moon bright and prying as if the party was in fact being watched by some otherworldly being. Soon your cheeks began to sting and your teeth chattered and Brice lended more and more of himself to you; both arms around your shoulders, his chest, his hips, all aligned with yours as more and more of you turned to cold stone.

You were jostled, a grim awareness of touching land again, then a bustle as you were transferred from the boat to a warm car, the dull echoes of the party all around you and yet nothing affected you. Nothing made its way in until it was too late.

You blinked and the smell of algae was replaced with pine and gravel. From water went rolling hills and the spark of the city in the distance, until the road ran long and dark and the drive went into the countryside. To an earthy grave.

Through all of this change, through your skin melting from porcelain to ivory to steel, finally back to flesh in the back of this warm, dark car, his hand never left yours and it was this, amongst the rush and crash of chaos, amongst the years of hiding and the loneliness of being misunderstood, you finally could tell him.

“Brice,” you murmured against his shoulder, now covered in dark blue wool instead of a wetsuit. His breathing changed slightly, as if waking up from a shallow sleep. “Brice. I have to tell you something.”

“What is it, darling?” Where the moonlight did not fall, where your lap and his must have been but instead were intertwined in the darkness, you felt him gently squeeze your hand where he held it in his.

With a deep breath, you searched for his face, then his eyes, his features smudged in the absence of light. He smelled faintly sweet, the ghost of champagne smearing the inside of his mouth, and of lake water, of comfort and warmth. You wanted nothing more than to curl up inside him, inside that broad chest, and tell him because there would be consequences – of this you were absolutely sure – but at least you would have the strength of courage on your side to look him in the eyes and tell him every horrible thing you had done, were about to do but your love, your undying love stopped you because even putting him in an ounce of pain, you’d rather be boiled alive.

Swallowing and sitting up out of his arms, you took his sleeve between your fingers, wondering if there would be any sense to what you were about to say or if it would just come out in a triumphant stream like a fire hydrant with the cap knocked off.

You opened your mouth –

And a strange noise came out of it.

“We’re here, Mr. Catledge,” said the cabbie. The car slowed to a stop and the noise continued, grew louder.

For a single moment that seemed to stretch on through time and infinity – a moment that was forever perfect and still and uninterrupted or tarnished – the mansion behind you lit up Brice Catledge, his face achingly, hauntingly beautiful in the golden luminosity. Every dark line of his lips, every generous curve around his nose, the fine hairs of his brows, the lush pink of his cheeks – it was all incredibly yours if you could just take it. And in the center of this face, this angelic face, he stared straight ahead at you, with nothing but adoring love beaming from his gaze.

Love in that moment was as palpable as moonlight. As if designed by magic.

And then came the eclipse.

“Strange, isn’t it, Mr. Catledge. That the police should be here so late.”

The car door opened, the siren still screeching behind you, and you almost tumbled onto the ground, were it not for Brice grabbing your forearms.

His shadow was unmistakable, though you had only caught it once before. In the grimy shadows of a room in the basement of the police station.

“So glad you joined us here, miss,” Detective Robinson said, his voice as heavy as concrete. “Makes things easier. You’re under arrest.”

*~*~*

The vaulted ceiling of the foyer had never been so bright, your eyes fluttering to adjust from the darkness outside to the intense white light, as if you were under the pointed and unforgiving gaze of a doctor’s operating theater. One of the bully police officers behind you harshly knocked against your shoulder the instant you had taken a second to let your eyes adjust. Keep moving, his scowl seemed to say, as if you were some sort of flight risk.

But then again, perhaps you were. The emotions had been washed clean from your body and a pounding ache was beginning just above your left eyebrow. What kind of person were you when put on trial?

If it was half the person you were on a good day, then the officer had every right to grip you roughly by the elbow.

“I demand an explanation.” Brice rounded on Robinson the moment he entered the foyer, a finger raised. “You cannot just show up on my property and make outrageous demands.”

If the detective was bothered or ruffled by seeing a man who was moments away from starting a physical brawl, he appeared completely unbothered by it.

“Can I smoke in here?” he asked.

Brice flushed red as Caroline came around the two guards at the front, her hair still windswept.

“You absolutely may not,” she snapped, her eyes red and dry. She made no attempt to be modest and hide her swim pajamas from the leering policemen. “You’re ruining my birthday party.”

You could see the smeared black mascara under and around her eyes. The flush had sunken low in her cheeks and her hair had lost that smooth, glossy shine. She looked wind-swept, a little blurred, but fierce-eyed, as if her eyes were two black stones at the bottom of a rushing river.

You couldn’t even begin to look at Brice. So, as the bright lights adjusted to your eyes, you realized there were more people in the foyer than you originally saw. Your eyes met his moments before he opened his thin mouth.

“Mr. Catlege, Ms. Catledge, I deeply apologize for this intrusion. This was not how I intended for any of this to happen, but these things are outside of my control.” Peeling off the wall like a leech letting go after it had its fill, Mr. Crock slid up next to Detective Robinson. He was grinning in a way that seemed to split the lines on his face wide open, the faint white hair powdering his face like pile on the body of an insect.

“Mr. Crock, what are you doing here?” Brice asked. Despite the redness from the sun, his skin had a damp pallor to it that made your stomach twist.

The grin on Crock’s face slipped, a wholly different expression taking over his lean features. His shoulders hunched a bit, and that waxy mouth turned downwards.

“Oh, Mr. Catledge, none of this brings me any joy to tell you any of this. Please know if there’s anything my family can do for you, just ask.”

Brice’s brilliant beautiful mouth thinned to white line and the muscle in his cheek twitched. For a fraction of a second, you could have sworn his gaze jumped to you before remaining steadfast on Crock, then to Robinson.

“Alright, that’s enough. It’s very late and I’m very tired. There’s only a few hours remaining of my sister’s birthday and I’d like to celebrate it with my family. If you can’t explain why you made such a horrendous claim out on my front lawn, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

While Crock had sobered up, those sickly lips still twisted downwards, Robinson’s expression hadn’t changed. His hands deep in his navy slacks, his salt and pepper mustache twitched once before his steel gray eyes fell on something down the hall, behind the wall, and he nodded.

There was a shuffling, as if clumsy feet were dragged across a marble floor, and three men stumbled out into the foyer. Two of them were exactly like the men at your side: wide, square-jawed, built like pugilists made to fight mountains, and wearing officers' uniforms. Indistinguishable from one another, you didn’t recognize either one, but the third one, the one in between, hand-cuffed and glowering, was –

“Tom,” you breathed and it felt like your last. The air was sucked from your lungs in a single devastating punch. Your two worlds had collided, finally, intensely and sickeningly, and you were standing in the crater, smoke rising from the ground.

You could feel the blood draining from your face.

“Who the hell is this?” Caroline sighed, as if all of this was simply an inconvenience, a stumbling block between her and her plush, feather-down mattress on the second floor.

Brice stared at your husband, more confused than irritated with that straight line between his eyebrows. Oh God, he hadn’t figured it out yet.

Crock slid forward, his eyes downcast. “Sir, madam, if I may, I hope to bring you some clarity, if not peace.” He somehow managed to sound sincerely contrite.

Brice nodded, the corners of his eyes tightening. “Go on, then.”

“As a long time friend of the family and someone who saw your own father as a brother, not only a business partner, I only wanted the best for you Catledge children . . . which is why after learning your new acquaintance claimed to be another psychic, I had her looked into.”

Both Caroline and Brice erupted into outrage.

I thought I told you to leave it alone!

Crock, you have finally gone too far!

How dare you!

You had no right to do that!

“Let him speak.” Robinson cut through both of them without moving in his position. His slate gray eyes were fixated on something on the floor, but his voice was as loud as a shotgun. The siblings stared at him, eyes wide.

Brice swallowed. It was dawning on him that something wasn’t right.

“I know now it was a breach of privacy,” Crock continued, wincing as though burned. “But believe me, I did it with the best of intentions. And you should know I found something. Something you should know. She’s in debt. Massive debt.”

You blinked, slowly as though concussed.

For the first time all night, you really looked at your husband. A purple ring swelling over his eye, his shoulders hunched and hands bound behind him, you had never seen such an expression on his face. It was as if the thing that had been Tom had closed up shop and left the building. There was nothing in his eyes. No fear, no guilt, no sadness, no remorse. He was selling you up the river and he didn’t feel a damn thing about it.

He had taken loans out in your name, you realized in that elegant, glorious foyer. His greed had exceeded far beyond what you had ever expected.

Have you ever thought about doing some good with your gifts?

Hey, my buddy Rob is coming over today, why don’t you show ‘em what you can do, eh?

Oh, doll, I’ve lost my hat. Can you find it for me?

You were ruined. In every sense of the word.

“Gambling debts, a mile long.” Crock went on, shaking his head. “Collectors began calling in early summer. The bank was foreclosing on the house next week. To say she was desperate wouldn’t be justice.”

Next week. Tom’s deadline. Everything lined up. All of it happened without you having the faintest idea.

“Desp– ,” Brice began but then stopped as if his throat closed. He still didn’t see it. “Desperate to do what?”

Crock turned towards him, as if he were the only person in the room, his eyes soft, and you saw how big men like the Catledge elder might have confided in him. “Mr. Catledge, has she asked you for any money?”

The light. The first thing that changed about his face as the understanding struck him, was the light in his eyes.

It faded.

Then he went bone white. The color of teeth.

“Just as I suspected.” Crock nodded sagely, sadly, gleefully. “But it wasn’t going to be enough. She didn’t have the time to ask for all the money required to pay off the debts. Asking for an amount all at once like that would be suspicious. No, a conwoman like her knows when to play her hand and she couldn’t risk it. But she was desperate. Time was short so she had to resort to more . . . aggressive measures. Detective, if you please.”

Robinson glanced up, as though remembering there were other people in the room. His fingers twitched to his jacket pocket, where his pack of cigarettes sat, but he left them alone. Instead, his hand went back to his pocket and retrieved his notebook. He flipped, casually, unhurried, until stopping on one of the last pages.

“At twenty four hundred hours, a Mr. Bramley reported a break-in to the police and five minutes past the midnight hour, a patrol car was dispatched to investigate. Upon arrival, the officers on the scene identified a broken window in the first floor office and the bottom drawer of an oak desk had been cracked open with a crowbar left at the scene. Further investigation of the grounds found the perpetrator hiding in the nearby woods. Perpetrator was identified as Tom Beauford with the evidence still on his person.”

Every muscle in your body locked up. Every breath was low and shallow. The corners of your vision blurred.

You had told him exactly where to find it. It had been your plan but he couldn’t wait. Not with the collectors. Not with the bank calling.

You had told him exactly where to plunge the knife.

“Detective, please show Mr. Catledge the evidence.”

Robinson lifted his gaze and something softened for a moment before he reached back into his pocket for something smaller than his notebook. Smaller than a box of cigarettes.

It arched as it left his hand before landing squarely in Brice’s lap. He caught it and stumbled, as if it weighed a thousand pounds. He slipped on the marble, backwards, until he caught the low wooden bench by the back of the knees and he crumpled onto the flat seat. He stared at the small box as though he expected it to catch fire.

“Further investigation concludes that Tom Beauford is listed in the Hall of Records, amongst birth and marriage licenses, as her husband. Married four years this May.

Robinson dropped his gaze to you and snapped the booklet shut with finality.

And there it was. All out in the open. They had some things right, but the rest of it was wrong. So very wrong, but it was there.

All exposed.

You searched and clawed and begged to find your voice. You swallowed. His name was the first word that came to you.

“Brice.”

He didn’t look up. He just . . . flinched.

“Brice–,”

Crock coughed, a dissatisfied sound. “Now you understand why we arrested her on the front lawn. They clearly are working together to not only rob you of your money, but swindle you of your engagement ring. Now if you’d be so kind as to share how much she asked for and we can add embezzlement charges as well.”

The first sound he made wasn’t a word but a sound, softly, barely audible. Nothing more than a groan, low from the back of his throat, as though something had dislodged with him. A rib. An organ. Displanted. Ruptured.

And then came his words.

“No.” His elbows rested on his knees, his face obscured by his curls. He held the box loosely with his fingers. “No. This . . . came to an end before either of us said anything we’d come to regret.”

Crock tutted then waved at the detective as if he were ordering around a servant. “Well, we’ll address that bit later. But for now, let’s allow the Catledges retire for the evening. Robinson, round up the criminals and take them to the station.”

Thick hands clasped your upper arms and the pressure startled something in you, breaking loose the voice you couldn’t find earlier.

“Brice, please –,” you gasped.

Again, he flinched. The arch of his shoulders went taught, then loosened, then went tight again.

“I don’t want to press charges.”

Crock stilled. Robinson lifted his eyes again. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not . . .” Brice swallowed. Every word he spoke was labored, rough, as though he had to dig it out from the pits of his guts. “Let them go. Both of them. I’m not pressing charges for the break-in or the attempted robbery. I’m – I’m not . . .”

“Brice.”

But that wasn’t you. Caroline, sun-drenched and narrow, crossed the marble floor, her eyes fixated on her brother, before freezing. She stood mere feet from you.

“How much?”

Crock was losing control of the situation and it was clear he had no idea how that happened. “How much is what, dear girl?”

“How much are the debts?”

“Well over ten grand,” Robinson said. His expression had changed. Curiosity breached his thick brows. Like a shark smelling blood.

“Bramley, my check book if you please.”

In the folds of her linen pants, her fists trembled.

There was a shuffling, the trample of feet, and then the old butler handed over a pad of yellow square notes. The shakes in her hands were gone as she wrote something, furiously scribbling. And with a tear that sounded like the clap of thunder, she yanked the check free and, without warning, slammed the check into your chest with the force of a full shove. You stumbled, your ribs aching, into the two officers behind you.

“Caroline,” you croaked.

You had never seen anger like that before. Never in your parents, or even Tom. It was more anguish than anger. More devastation than ire but it came out just the same.

“Think of it as payment. In exchange, we never, ever have to see you again.”

Sounds came to you as if you were underwater. Distant. Low. Wavering at the edges.

Everything happened so quickly after that.

Robinson peeled off the wall and the officers took you by the arms again. Caroline ran to her brother’s side but the shoulder of the giant man next to you blocked your vision before she got to him.

“No, wait–,” here at the end, you tried to speak. “Caroline – Brice, please let me explain–”

The cold night air hit you like a slap in the face as the officers dragged you out onto the front porch. Your joints felt swollen, numb but you pushed back.

“Stop. Let me talk to him. I need to – get your hands off me – Brice!”

It took the two men, one grabbing your feet and the other holding your chest back to take you to the police car waiting outside. You could feel yourself becoming hysterical but you didn’t care. Couldn’t.

“Put me down! Brice, please, I have to – let me just – let me go!”

The door slammed shut and you scrambled to the window. You fought the door handle but it’d had been locked from the outside. You wanted to scream, yanking furiously, panicked against the handle with a feverish intensity. Your sweaty palms streaked across the window as the car lurched into motion.

“Brice, n-n-no, Brice,” you hiccup, fighting against the restraints. “No, p-p-please, let me out. I can’t do this to him. He can’t think that I –,”

Those slate gray eyes pinned you in the rearview mirror.

“Doesn’t matter what he thinks. He just wants you gone.”

*~*~*

Outside, a storm raged. You sat at the edge of your marital bed, in the house Tom purchased for you both after you had gotten married. It all smelled the same. Same hot patches, and cold spikes in the air. Not thing had changed and yet . . .

Lightning flashed, the sound of thunder shaking the thin walls and copper pipes, the white light spilling over the ridges and valleys of the body next to you. Tom, with his swelling black eye, was silent when the pair of you left the car, silent when he let you both back into the house, silent as you both went to bed and fell asleep. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t touch you. You moved around him, as if you were vapor. As if you were a ghost.

As if you never meant anything in the first place.

His back was to you, obscuring his face, but you don’t sleep next to someone for years and not know when they were awake.

“Tom.” Rain slapped the glass windows, like anxious claws. “Tom. I have something to tell you.”

His body didn’t move, didn’t change.

“I’m leaving you. I’m leaving you and I’m telling you this time because you’re not going to follow me. Do you understand?”

Another thunderclap and you thought you saw him turn but it was just the rain reflecting on the scratchy gray blanket over his shoulders.

“Where are you going to go?” He asked almost softly, almost surprised.

At one point, he knew. And he knew what it meant to take you away from that place. And he knew what it meant to go back.

The door to the phonebooth clicked beneath a grumble of thunder as warm rain poured over the crest of your forehead and down your cheeks, your neck, your shoulders. Hands empty of anything that were yours, you sat down on the concrete step, streaming water slipping off your eyelashes and into your mouth. The night was dark, the torrential downpour obscuring the faint yellow light coming from the windows of the townhouses on the block.

Are you alright? Did you sleep in your clothes?

You can hear Emily’s voice, bright and loud, and there’s such an ache in your chest for the boarding house you nearly stop breathing.

I’ll tell the other girls to say the same, if they see anyone. Come, inside, dinner’s almost done.

You would have given anything to sit at Martina’s table – the smells, the taste of her fresh cooking, the sound of indulgent laughter. Those girls, that place – it had been a refuge, a place of strength when you felt helpless. When you couldn’t imagine your life being any different from where you came.

Now, the memories kept you seated, despite your soaking wet clothes and the wavering sense of drowning beneath the outpouring, kept you from going back into the dark and the gray blankets. You shuddered from the cold and from the ache in your chest.

If things were ever going to change, they had to get better right now, right at this very moment. Whatever was ahead, it was unknown, but at least it wasn’t what was behind you.

Soldiers from the war often spoke of a phantom limb, pain existing from a loss of a thing that was no longer there. There was something within you that had been irrevocably severed but you still felt it. There but not there. Even the ghosts in your head never felt this close.

In fact, they had been remarkably silent for the past day and a half. There was space inside your head and for a moment you wished there wasn’t. At least with them, you carried someone with you. At least with them, you weren’t completely alone.

A glistening shadow emerged in the night. A long black car turned round the corner, its lights flashing like the eyes of a snake, and when it stopped by the phone booth, you opened the door and got in.

*~*~*

T H R E E W E E K S L A T E R

Breakfast with your parents was a silent affair.

Outside, birds chirped and the gardener snipped back any fly-away leaves, sculpting perfect hedges – startling in their uniformity. Down the long front lawn, a car rolled by, the tires treading loudly on the gravel as it went by the front iron gates. You waited, your breath in your chest, for your mother to stand up, sigh with the same intonation as a burst balloon, and slam the heavy curtains shut. Too much light was bad for your mother’s condition, the doctor claimed only ever in writing. What that condition was exactly was as much a mystery to you as why she let in so much of the outside world today while she was eating.

Your mother liked the dark, the sounds that muffled things made, and her rituals. Since returning home, you had been expected to respect and immediately become a part of those things and like muscle memory, you eased back into it. Tom had always been so appreciative of how quiet you were. He too didn’t like a lot of noise.

Lost in your thoughts, your hand slipped and the spoon swirling your morning tea clinked once against the side of the tea cup. Like the twitch of a tiger’s tail, your mother’s gaze snapped away from her bloody red grapefruit to you; things that made noise became the focus of her attention.

“Sit up straight, darling, you’re slouching.”

You adjusted in your seat and the dress she selected for you dug into your back.

“What are your plans for today?” she asked and delicately drank her tea, her head balanced on some imaginary level. She asked despite having arranged your tutor herself.

“Etiquette lessons until one,” you said, head down and staring at the single bit of dirt on your mother’s linen table runner. “Then classics study with Ms. Abigail, and finally practicing piano until dinner.”

“Good.” She frowned as her eyes roamed your face, as if picking out a prized cow from a herd. “We shall also have the stylist come by tomorrow. When’s the last time you got a haircut? Your split ends are ghastly.”

“Yes, Mother.” You knew not to eat until she was finished.

She drank from her cup again, elegantly pleased, and she nodded. “Isn’t it lovely that everyone is back home again? It’s almost as if you never left, dear.”

This was how it was going to be. Every day of your life. You were safe, high up in your ivory tower, away from everyone and everything. But that was a prison of its own. A prison you chose and designed yourself.

You purposefully dig the dress into your back. “Yes, Mother.”

Across the table, your father makes his presence known by flourishing the day’s paper and clearing his throat.

“Veronica,” he began, addressing your mother, in his usual bored drawl, “did you hear that that Catledge boy got his car blown up?”

The world lurched and for a moment you thought you were going to projectile vomit across the breakfast linens.

“That’s the second attempt on his life, isn’t it?” He asked of no one. “Quite shocked they managed to miss him again. Surprised the Catledges don’t just go back to Europe until this whole nasty business just blows over.”

You grabbed a fork to steady yourself, to feel something cold over your heated skin.

“What else does it say?” You blurted out. Too much and your chest would explode. “Do they have any suspects?”

Your father’s frown met you over his newspaper, as if just now realizing you were there. He opened his mouth to respond but your mother cut him off.

“Can we not talk about violence at the breakfast table? It gives me such a headache.” And there came the sigh that had been hanging over all morning. “Ah, dear Eustice, my pills, right away.”

The maid stationed at the door silently went out as the housekeeper, Mrs. Winters, came in. She bowed appropriately.

“Ma’am, there’s a doctor MacIntosh here to see you. Says you had an early morning appointment.”

Beleaguered and sighing, your mother nodded as your father folded up his newspaper, expectantly. He stood and helped your mother to her feet.

“Your mother is trying a new doctor,” he said again to no one, but you were the only other person in the room. “This one has some experimental treatment out of Australia.”

Your mouth dried up. No. There was no way. No possibility that it could be –

But that red hair was unfortunately unmistakable. Mac, the very same one as all those Catledge parties, with her tweed jacket, bowler’s cap, and brilliantly intelligent blue eyes. She shook hands with your father first, whose eyes nearly bugged out when he saw a woman in pants, before gently taking your mother’s limp rag of a hand and cupping it over her own.

“Good morning, sir, and ma’am. So sorry we have to meet under these circumstances. But I can assure you and your family that –,” As she spoke, she glanced, full of genuinity, to your father, your mother, and then to you. She stopped in the middle of her sentence, eyes wide as if she had just been slapped.

Your mother, irritated she stopped being the center of attention for a moment, stood up right and looked over her shoulder at you.

“Do you know my daughter, Dr. MacIntosh?”

You both responded; “No.” “A little.”

Mac recovered herself and her smile softened her shocked face. “Only a little. I think we saw each other at a social event, here or there. No matter. Let’s get you situated on the couch.”

You couldn’t stop staring. Mac was in your house. Mac who was with the Catledges’ frequently. Spoke to them. Probably had seen Brice since the car explosion –

Your heart nearly wrenched itself out of your chest and you stood up. All three sets of eyes fell on you and again your mother glared at you for the competition.

“Uh, can I help?” You asked. There came a flicker of understanding in Mac’s eyes, before she turned and patted your mother’s hand.

“What a kind daughter you have, ma’am. If it would be alright with you, I could use some assistance preparing your medicine.”

With a groan as though gripped in the throes of agony, your mother nodded and leaned back on the couch, her hand over her eyes and your father tutted, dabbing her brow with his napkin.

Glancing at the door, Mac picked up her case and motioned for you to follow. Astutely, she walked with ease and knowledge directly to the servants kitchen – a smaller room where servants were allowed to prepare their own meals and eat outside of on-duty hours.

You followed her, your heart in your throat, as she shut the door behind you.

How perfectly stupid you had been. Maybe she wanted you alone to yell at you because of what you had done to her friends. Maybe she wanted to accuse you again of murder, because clearly crime was something you were comfortable with and –

Mac dropped her bag and in two swift steps enveloped you in such a tight hug it made your knees buckle.

“Oh, sweet thing, I am so sorry.”

The heady combination of genuine compassion and sorrow obliterated any resistance you had left and your eyes filled with tears that burst out the corner of your eyes. You tightened your hold on her the harder you cried.

You had cried so much that first week. You laid in bed, curled up, sobbing, feeling as though you were going to choke on your heart. It wasn’t until days later you realized your mother hadn’t bothered you. No one, for better or worse, came in to check on you. It was the nicest thing your mother had ever done.

When you could literally feel your skin drying out from all the tears you shed, you had gone and asked your mother’s handmaid for a new dress and the next morning your mother arrived with an itinerary to keep you busy and that was the end of it. But this – Mac and her kindness and her compassion and her belief in you – this pushed you over the edge again.

“Mac – Oh, God, Mac – what have I done?”

“Shhh, none of it was your fault, lovey.” She petted the back of your head. “I heard all about it the next day and knew it was wrong. The things they accused you of, I knew you couldn’t do it.”

“He didn’t even press charges, Mac!” You sobbed into her shoulder. “Why would he do that if he b-b-believed them?”

Mac tutted and pulled back, offering you a handkerchief from her pocket. She patted your cheek, her blue eyes soft, as you wiped your eyes. “I think the answer to that is a bit more complicated than you might think.”

Your heart dropped, the idea too ridiculously painful to contemplate, but so wonderful you thought you might burst out of your lungs. In your emotional state, the spirits swooped in, chattering and yelling. They had come back full force in the past few days, and you hadn’t even left the room until your mother’s attendant came back with new gloves – the old ones were unwearable, according to your mother. The force by which they pounced made you dizzy and Mac, noticing you swaying on your feet, took you by the shoulder and had you sit at the small wooden table.

“How – how is he, Mac?” You sniffed, shoving off the dizzy spell as Mac got you some water from the tap.

Her face fell, worry shifting to something deeper. “Not good, darling. Not good. Last week I got a call from George, asking if I’d come do a wellness check on him, but when I got there, he refused to see anyone. After that, no one’s been around at all, to see any of them. You drive by, and it sometimes looks like no one lives there anymore. I’ve tried to share ‘round to the gossips that it’s just because of the second attempt on his life, that they’re closing ranks for safety, but . . .”

She returned and handed you the glass. The water looked slippery and thick. You set it down, swallowing dry air in the back of your throat. She sat across from you and rubbed her eyes with her fingers.

“I know all of that was cooked up by that weaslly little Crock. He’s always been a dirty brown-noser–,”

“Mac!”

“Well, it’s true! But, darling, I really must know,” she leaned forward and took you by the hands, “are you really married to that man, Tom?”

You swallowed, then nodded, then shook your head. “I was. My parents and their very expensive lawyer managed to annul the marriage without his signature last week. But it wasn’t difficult, given they could not find any evidence that the marriage happened in the first place.”

“But it was in the Hall of Records.”

“But no license. Nothing with his signature or mine on it.” You shrugged, wiping your eyes with the back of our hand. “I suppose someone recorded it, but apparently it didn’t hold up to legal snuff. It doesn’t matter anyway. Brice thinks my husband and I tried to swindle him.”

Mac sat back, her eyes narrowing. “Does Brice know you’re here? That you’ve left Tom?”

You shrugged again and sniffed. “I can’t imagine he would. I never told him about my parents, who they were. For all he knows, we’re blowing his family money on even more gambling. Besides, I don’t know what he would do if he did know, that I was here.”

She watched you, a frown on her face smeared between pity and sorrow. “Like I said, I think it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

She stood and began to take several vials out of her bag. She traded the liquid back and forth between them before shaking one of them and handing the vial to you.

“Now, give this to your mother three times a day. Should help with the headaches, numbness, and malaise.”

You held it up to the light. “What is it?”

Mac grinned subtly. “Brand new regiment called a placebo.”

You laughed, the sound wet, despite your eyes being dry. She grinned gently, her blue eyes going soft again, as she put a hand on your cheek.

You could almost hear the music, taste the sweet drink on your tongue, feel the rush of bodies on the dancefloor the night of the fundraiser in the garden. You and Mac had laughed for what felt like hours and there was something soothing having her touch you, stand before you, knowing it was all real and not some beautiful dream. You closed your eyes and leaned into her palm.

“Don’t give up, darling.” She said softly, fiercely. “It’s not all lost. He’s grieving because he’s been lied to – they all are – but not by you. He doesn’t want you to give up on him, I know it.”

“Mac, I broke his heart,” you cried, your eyes wet again. “I did the one thing he swore would never happen again.”

“What happened between you two, it takes two people.” Your heart swelled and your eyes opened. She smiled again. “He doesn’t care about the past. Only the future. Only one with you in it.”

“So what do I do, Mac?” You gasped, pleading. The hand that held the tissue shook. “How do I change things?”

“You fight, dear girl. You fight.”

*~*~*

You watched Mac’s car drive away down the lane from your window. The instant she was gone, you yanked off your gloves and strode towards your bed where the doctor’s handkerchief laid. You snatched it up and the immediate force of the psychic connection brought you to your knees. You gasped at the pain of the images rippling through your skull.

Mac picking up groceries from the local boy at her back door.

Mac drinking something of lemon and vodka.

Mac touching the face of a beautiful girl across from her in a dark club.

“No–,” you snarled, clenching the cloth in your hands tighter. “No–,”

Mac blotting the skin of a dying man in his elegant bedclothes.

Mac wiping her mouth after a meal at a hotel on the edge of the ocean.

Mac sitting –

You ground your teeth as you grasped the memories with an iron fist and pulled them back from your skull. They held on in strands, memories and sensations and feelings all rushing to drive a wedge between you and sanity the longer you held onto the cloth.

“NO!”

Your grip slipped and the pain knocked you onto your back.

They had all come true. It was three in the morning on day three of the deluge when you realized every image you had seen the morning on the train platform had come to pass. And they had all involved moments with you and Brice. They had all come to pass. All, except for one.

Mac’s memories were half-formed now, stifled, as they tried to cram their way in. The spirits shuddered and groaned around you, shrieking above the gloom, desperate to be heard.

You focused on one voice, a single voice – a single smell you inhaled on the front steps of a beautiful mansion. In front of a beautiful man.

Lords of England. Cigars. Whiskey. An elegant glass.

You clawed into that memory like it was a lifeline.

Music, then. Soft music played to a woman who meant a great deal to the smoker. A man who by conflicting accounts was either a great man or a great father but he was not both, but still he lingered. Still he watched out for those who he loved – and you knew them – yes, you know his son –

Gasping, head feeling like it was about to split open, slowly you sat up, the handkerchief still clutched in your fist.

The roar of memories slowed as you concentrated on one singular sensation; the Lords of England smoke.

And then a memory of your own.

Soft, brown eyes. A drop of curly hair across a wide brow. A smile. God, a smile that made you light up.

An anchor. Amidst the chaos and the noise and the pain, you had found an anchor.

With a grin, your chest still heaving and your head spinning, you looked down at your hand. Still you held Mac’s handkerchief. There was some noise, yes, but now you could watch her go about her day as though you stood just behind her. Call to you any memory she made while she kept this bit of cloth on her person.

The spirits were quiet, subdued into control. A river running in the back of your mind. You could pay attention to it or not if you wished.

Swallowing, you stood up and got water from the pitcher. Drinking slowly, you checked the locks on your bedroom door again.

With a sigh you tossed the handkerchief on the bed and sat at your desk while you finished your water. When the sweat had cooled, you stood up and prepared yourself for the dark wave to come crashing down. And you would do it, time and time again until you no longer had to drag yourself out.

This time would be different. This time you would practice and practice until you no longer drowned beneath the weight of your gift.

Because you had an anchor.

Because you had him.

Your fingers flinched as you reached out.

Again.

#brice catledge #brice catledge x reader #brice catledge/reader #brice catledge x you #brice catledge/you #hamish linklater #magic in the moonlight

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