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tropes-and-tales · 1 year

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unintentionally caressing each other with sheriff hassan? i’ve been dying for more of him 🥹

The very first touch between you and Hassan is a handshake. When he arrives on Crockett Island, he meets many of the inhabitants. He shakes a lot of hands. He notes the tight smiles, the wary eyes. The lone Muslim on a mostly white, mostly Catholic island. There’s guardedness there.

When you shake his hand, you look him square in the eyes. You grin at him, pump his hand. You make a silly joke about crime in his new jurisdiction, but the atmosphere is so tense that Hassan cracks a smile.

You have that knack, he’ll come to find: the ability to drain tension from a situation. The talent to soothe, to give comfort.

-----

You’re a touchy person, Hassan notices. You hug people, do this thing where you clasp their bicep, high up near the shoulder in greeting. You’re the type of person to steady yourself on another person if you’re laughing, which is Hassan’s favorite: he loves startling a laugh out of you, the way you brace yourself against him as you giggle.

You don’t seem to notice you do it. It’s not intentional, he thinks.

There’s a moment at a school board meeting when Bev tries to push an agenda of prayers in the morning class. Hassan prickles at the woman’s prejudice because of course she doesn’t mean any prayers other than Christian ones.

Back and forth the two of them argue, and Bev is so good at toeing the line of microaggressions. She doesn’t quite come out and accuse him of terrorism, but she nudges against it. Hassan feels his blood go hot with anger, but you’re the one who gently interjects that Crockett Island’s school is a public one. You’re the one that gently points out to Bev that prayer is prohibited, but a moment of silent reflection would be fine.

You’re the one who lays a soft hand on Hassan’s wrist as you speak. You’re seated beside him, crammed into a tiny school desk, and you reach out to touch him. You give him a gentle squeeze as if to say, “I’m here. I’m on your side.”

The warm touch of your fingers encircling his wrist…he swears he can feel his blood pressure ticking back down. Once the issue is settled and the meeting moves onto the topic of roof repairs to the building, you don’t remove your hand, and Hassan’s pulse thuds slow and steady as you hold him.

She doesn’t even realize she’s touching me, he thinks but he refuses to shift. He refuses to draw attention to it.

Hassan can admit it to himself: he likes the feeling of your hand on him.

-----

He never proactively touches you. He’ll hug you back, a stiff arm around your shoulders, but he doesn’t initiate. He’s not a touchy person like you, and what if he’s wrongly interpreting your touch as more than just friendly?

He’s happy with what he gets. A friendly hug from you can nourish him for an entire week of his usual lonely nights.

-----

You usually stop by the general store on Tuesday afternoons, and you usually stop by his office in the back of the building. You usually stand in his doorway and shoot the breeze with him, and it makes him feel almost like a native Islander—Crockett Island inhabitants are famous for their ability to stand in doorways (or sit on porches or stand on the sandy pathways) and bullshit with each other.

This Tuesday? He sees you enter the store, and the glimpse he catches makes him sit forward in his seat. You look…off. Tired? A little drawn and wan. Your bright eyes are missing their usual cheerful gleam.

He’s out of his seat and leaving his office when you crumple and fall.

He gets to you first. Karen, the owner of the store, reaches you second, and Hassan is already cupping your face, peering down at you as you slowly wake up.

“Wha—” you start to say, but Karen leans over, tells you that you passed out.

Hassan’s heart is in his throat, but this is well-trod ground for the people of Crockett Island. Karen knows what the score is—you have a blood sugar issue, and it’s paired with the fact that you often skip lunch. You’ve been getting dizzy since adolescence, passing out enough that people know what to do. Erin mentioned it once in passing, and Hassan had filed the fact away but never witnessed it until now. The older woman chides you gently, asks Hassan to stay with you, then goes to get Doc Gunning.

“Sorry,” you mumble from the floor.

“Don’t apologize.” He has one hand still cupping your face, and the other grips your hand. “Do you want to try to sit up?”

You nod. He gets an arm under your shoulders and helps you sit up. You scoot back a little until you’re leaning against the counter and Hassan kneels beside you.

It’s strange that you won’t quite meet his eye now. You scrub a hand over your face and stare down at your lap.

“You okay?” he asks. He squeezes your hand and he’s pleased when you squeeze him back with some strength.

“Embarrassed.”

“Why?”

You glance at him, offer a rueful smile. “Well, now you won’t think I’m cool.”

Hassan laughs. He eases his arm out from behind your shoulders, and he reaches out and brushes a bit of hair back from your face before his palm returns to cup your face. He isn’t aware he’s doing it; it’s second-nature, unintentional.

“Oh, I never thought you were cool,” he teases. He draws his thumb over your cheekbone, feels the flush his touch raises.

“Liar,” you reply, but your smile is more you now, less sheepish.

He could ask why you care what he thinks, but he doesn’t. He thinks he might know. He thinks that maybe his nights needn’t be lonely forever.

Hassan shifts until he’s sitting beside you, and he eases his arm back over your shoulders. He draws you against him, braces you against him. He bends his head close to your ear and chides you gently as Karen had: admonishes you to take care of yourself, to be more mindful of how you’re feeling. He sees you nodding, hears you promise that you will.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and he holds you tight until the doctor arrives.

#ask game #sheriff hassan #sheriff hassan el shabbaz x reader #hassan el shabbaz #sheriff hassan x reader #sheriff hassan imagine #sheriff hassan el shabbaz imagine #midnight mass #tropes and tales

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littleredwritingcat · 6 months

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“O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fire of hell, lead all souls to heaven, especially those who are in most need of Thy mercy. O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us…”

Father Paul is rocking back and forth, holding one of your hands with both of his own. He keeps repeating the prayer while Sarah tries everything she can to bring you back for the second time in an hour.

It doesn’t seem like an overdose. It doesn’t seem like an aneurysm or – or a heart attack. In fact, your heart is working at an incredible pace. And you’re burning up. And you’re bleeding. The nose is gushing a steady stream and blood is starting to trickle through the closed eyelids combined with tears and it’s coming out from your fingernails, covering the priest’s hands in thin rivulets.

Sarah has never seen this before.

And we're back!

Again!

To those of you who have held on this long - thank you. I know this fic has been slow to update, but I hope I'm crafting something that's high quality. I adore you, and you deserve that.

So, you know what this is all building to. Maybe not "how" just yet - but the inevitable is coming. *Of course* I mean a big fat confrontation between Sheriff Hassan and Monsignor "Liar Liar Pants On Fire"

This is where it all starts to get real, my loves. Hang on to your rosaries! From here on out, there's a dearth of sunshine and pop tarts till story's end.

Also, it should be noted that I have absolutely no medical training and your suspension of disbelief is going to have to kick in.

I'm a doctor but I'm not *that* kind of doctor.

Tagging some mutes and supporters new and old this time.

*mwah*

@everythingbutresolved @agirlinherhead @honey-tree-evil-eye @thenookienostradamus @prettyblondguys @girlwiththenegantattoo @midwestmisfit @rothko-mirror @jyngerpeach @chronic-ghost @yepthatsacowalright @lovepollution @ebiemidnightlibrarian @choosekindly @madsmilfelsen @purplelupins @daughterofaries @turbulent-protagonist @perpetual-fangirl900 @happyvintagegirl40 @vintageglassheart02 @p-e-r-s-e-p-h-o-n-e @labyrinthphanlivingafacade @

#midnight mass #hamfam #father paul hill #monsignor john pruitt #midnight mass fic #father paul x reader #hassan el shabbaz #sheriff hassan #sarah gunning #trigger warning for blood #things are fine until they're not #midnight mass fandom #thirst trap fic

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royalsunshinehotel · 2 years

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9:45pm (Hassan el-Shabbaz x f!reader, 18+)

Warnings: references to past violence, Social Media saves the day, thigh riding, loss of virginity?, reference to erotophobia, best friends to lovers, unprotected sex.

A year ago, Hassan el-Shabbaz had been shot in the line of duty. Those were his words, but you didn’t believe that cults fell under the jurisdiction of a small town Sheriff. You think of that night as little as possible, and each time you do, you shiver. An evening like this felt impossible back then, and you were here, living it.

The two of you needed this movie night. The movies were mostly awful, but sometimes you just wanted to sit next to him.

He was, and is, your responsibility.

Ever since you hitched a ride in Hassan's airlift back to the mainland, Ali had gotten the impression you were in love with his father.

You were, and you knew if a seventeen year old boy could see it, you hadn't been guarding your feelings as well as you thought.

But that couldn't matter right now. Hassan sets the bowl of popcorn down on the table, on your side of the couch. He'd been scowling for the past few days, his latest medical appointment had been that past Monday. He'd insisted on going alone, and you, his best friend, had said alright.

And of course, the one time you didn't ride the ferry with him, something happened. Technically, it wasn't your business, but he didn't keep secrets from you.

"Did you see Ali this week?" You ask, voice even. With effort, he turns to you.

"Yeah. He's doing good with school so far. Apparently going viral is good with the ladies." You raise an eyebrow, "his words, not mine."

"That's good, that's good. Now how are you?"

He grunts in response, not anticipating you swatting your hand on his arm.

"Somethings up, pal. Talk to me." You order and he gives you the side-eye.

"We can watch the movie at anytime...pal." He replies in a flat tone.

You say nothing

Hassan can't look at your face, because he knows your expression. Your making a pout, but your eyes are wide and soft. You started making this expression when you noticed how quickly he'd cave to you. But now you were worried. The two of you are supposed to be closer than this.

"I don't want to wreck the night."

"Hassan, tell me." You look like you're about to burst into tears, and he knows you well enough to know what your voice sounds like when that happens.

"I got released. This is as good as I'm going to get."

"but you're still doing physical therapy, right?" you question, silently begging him to look at you.

"I am. But I'm weak, and I'm old, and you'll be too polite to say your bored with me."

"That's the dumbest thing you've ever said Sheriff." Did he really think you could leave him after last Easter? You flash on that moment in the church where Hassan was pinned down, and you broke an Instagram live record streaming Father Paul and Beverly Keane poison the parish, and themselves.

"Hassan you got shot. Twice."

"Yeah, I was there. I've found peace with it, but I'm not what I was." What the fuck did that mean?

"You're not supposed to be, that's how guns work. And cults!"

"Okay, yes you're right. But I'm still fucking old. I don't want you to be my nurse!" His tone takes you by surprise. If you were about to cry earlier, you sure were now.

"Then how do you want me?"

Hassan takes your chin in his hand, angling your mouth to his. You gasp sharply, mind barely catching up with your mouth

Hm. Warm. Scratchy.

And as quick as he pulled you in, he pulls away.

"Please don't say anything," he asks, and all you can do is smile- a full, face cracking, sunbeam of a smile.

"Don't do that with your face," grumbles Hassan, trying to keep his so-called "cop-face", but masks were slipping, if not completely gone.

"Why?" You ask.

"I'll have to do this," he pulls you back in again, more fiercely this time, beard scratching your face. You feel winded, but it doesn't matter. You just want to be as close to him as possible.

Hassan feels the same, so when he moves you into his lap, you let him. You'd pictured yourself straddling him before, but the real thing is always better than a dream, you knew that too well.

When you smile, he has to follow suit, it's near impossible not to.

Your mouths slate together with ferocity as pressure in the room releases. Your thoughts, your plans, that had kept you so put together were floating out of your mind with a frightening speed.

It's not until you feel his teeth on your neck that you push him back.

"Hassan, I'm scared. I'm not- I don't do this." Your shaking in his grip, heart pounding in your ears. He moves his hands to your waist, bringing you down. You weren't scared of him, not really. This was just out of your realm of understanding. Only slightly, but still far.

"It doesn't have to be anything past this, we can stop."

"No. No I want more." You declare, Hassan's dark eyes going round looking at you.

"You want more?" He ask, looking you straight in the eye to see your response.

"Yeah." you shake your head for yes, and he grins for the first time in months.

"Let's try this. He says as his fingertips dig into you, helping your pelvis roll against his. Sparks make a home in your bones. The hardness beneath

"Did you like that?" You hold

"S'good." You whine. More, more more.

"Nothing to be afraid of, it's just me, right?"

If your mind had been clear, you would have had him explain every move he made.

"Maybe next time," you think, not questioning that there would be a next time. What you don't realize is that your words were out loud. Hassan was in something of a tailspin thinking about next time.

But he can't let himself go down that rabbit hole. He needs to kiss you until all the thoughts that made your brows furrow disappeared. You

"Hm?"

"Stand up a second," he orders, voice raspy. You obey. Hassan quickly and quietly pulls down your pajama pants, helping you step out of them.

"Use my leg." He says, and you don't quite know what he means, until he pulls you back down into his lap. He makes the same movement as before, only grinding your clit against a muscular thigh. You gasp at the contact, sending electric shocks through your body.

If you had been in a clear frame of mind, you would have worried about the growing wet patch, or that he was uncomfortable with your full weight on top of him, but he rolled you down on him again before you could verbalize your concerns.

"Hassan," It's too good, I don't know what to do. You want to say, years of feelings bubbling up.

"I know, I know." He couldn't know! How could he possibly know how angry and scared he'd had you. How dare he be the hero!

"Good girl, always so good." He praises softly, and your body takes over your mind again.

Rolling, you finish with a sad little whimper, leaning as far into him as you can. He's warm and steady and soft, and you hum in satisfaction,

"Feeling alright, sweetheart?" He asks, moving your hair out of your face.

"More." You set your face into an expression you hoped would come across as stern, but it wasn't. Pulling away from his warmth, your hands take a life of their own. You palm Hassan through his sweatpants, making his breath hitch, before wandering below the waistband and pulling him free.

Is this what people do? Is this how it's always supposed to feel?

It would almost be embarrassing how quickly you lined him up with your heat. If it was anyone else, but it wasn't. It's Hassan.

"Steady, just like that." He coaxes, grabbing your hips and making you slow down. Instinctively, you lean your forehead down against his.

Hassan had many dreams about what it might be like to have you stretched out on his cock like this. For a moment, just a moment, he wishes he'd kept up with drawing do he could capture your sweet little face, trying so hard to be brave, to take all of him that you could.

"Still scary?" He questions as you nuzzle into him.

"No." You hide your face in his shoulder as he rests his palms on your waist.

"Nice and slow." He coaches, but it doesn't last long. There was a shift in you that he didn't

He feels you lose a colorful nail digging into his shoulders, as you meet him halfway, instinct taking over. You're surreal. You're so calm and composed, and here you're grinding into him like an animal, chasing something you couldn't reach by yourself.

Hassan thinks, "Go on, take what you need. Take everything I have and I'll thank you for it."

You flutter around him, and Hassan gapes up at you. Your teeth catch his lower lip as your sheriff makes a strangled sound, trying with everything he had, to keep himself under control.

"Where?" He asks, and it takes you a full second to respond, lost to him and yourself.

"I'm on birth control." Hassan exhales, helping to bounce you a few final times before bringing you as close as he can, feeling you squirm and clench down around him.

The sound that leaves your mouth is a sound you have never made before, but it's not your fault.

The knot in your belly snaps, the levee breaks, the high wire you'd been walking has evaporated beneath your feet, and you were falling.

You take him with you, all the way down. The heat between your legs feels addictive, and correct. Fuck the consequences, the two of you deserved this.

You shiver and shake as he holds you steady. Your pussy still throbbing around him, despite his softening cock. The squelching and gasping the two of you make doesn't feel real.

None of this feels real, but then again, Easter had been a once-in-a-lifetime traumatic event, why couldn't he keep you here, like this.

Hassan had many dreams about what you would look like filled with him. Youre delicate, worn out, just as exhausted. Here you were, a more beautiful picture than he ever would have been able to dream up.

Hassan keeps you wrapped around him on the couch. He wanted to ask what you meant by "I'm scared." If it had something to do with last Easter, he'd have to introduce you to his therapist. If you'd overcome a phobia to have him like this, he'll have to make it up to you tenfold.

Though it's not like that would take any effort. The moment he set foot on this island, you had him. It was just a law of nature.

Your sheriff tells you that he loves you, quietly, pressing the words into your shoulder. The two of you stay still, listening to the bugs hum outside.

#rahul kohli #midnight mass #hassan el shabbaz #hassan x reader #sheriff hassan x reader #smut #deadass took me two months to write sorry bestie #bruh this isn't very capital-N Nasty but I hope it suffices

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chellestrash · 2 years

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🎉 @chelseasdagger ‘s birthday icons!! 🎉

#HAPPY BIRTHDAY PEA #frank castle #sam rossi #ethan sawyer #jim hopper #eddie munson #shane walsh #matt murdock #hassan el shabbaz #icons

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daincrediblegg · 2 years

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oh yeah forgot to tell y'all I made the good sheriff too 🥰🥰🥰

#midnight mass #the sims 4 #rahul kohli #sheriff hassan #hassan el shabbaz #at this rate I'm just gonna make the whole of crockett island lmao

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nocturnal-milk-dud · 6 months

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IT'S SPOOKY SEASON AND I COULD NOT BE MORE EXCITED FOR YOUR SPOOKY COME BACK

can I please request Hassan and 30 Days of Night? I wanna smash two of my faves together 🖤

I finally finished something!!! Yay! Also you were insane for this...but I should've seen it coming

My Hands Won't Keep You Safe

Pairing: Sheriff Hassan el-Shabbaz x Reader

Warnings/notes: blood; violence; I was overwhelmed by all the directions I could've gone with this but I ultimately wanted "soft"; it's actually pretty tame but I LOVE IT

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 1368

Your hand rests in Hassan’s and you try not to think about how you can feel his blood moving under his skin. Or how you can hear every heartbeat in the room.

“What are we going to do?” you had asked.

“Whatever you want to do,” he’d replied.

The others all wanted you dead, still do probably, but you had been the only one to hear the scream, the only one to run out into the night and bring her back alive.

They’d pulled the girl away from you and tried to bring an ax down on your neck. Would have if Hassan hadn’t put himself in the way.

A wave of nausea passes over you and you rest your head against the bars. Your skin is clammy from a sickly, burning heat, the epicenter the cut on your neck. You pass your tongue over your teeth, feeling the unnatural sharpness of them. The keen tangy smell of sweat hits the back of your throat but there's something else, something richer and sweeter coming to the surface. You look over to where Hassan is sleeping uncomfortably just on the other side of the bars and all you see is fire. He's bright and warm and for a moment you think the sun has come several days early. You want to reach out to him. You want to sink your teeth into him and taste the sun. You clench your eyes shut and cover your face.

“Are you hungry?” You look up at the sound of a gentle voice. The small girl with blood crusted in her hair is standing on the other side of the bars, holding a granola bar in her hands. You give her a smile that’s more like a wince, and shake your head, even though you’re starving. She tugs awkwardly at the sleeve of her jacket and the action catches your eye. So does the small trickle of blood working its way down the back of her hand.

“Are you okay?” you ask, but you already know the answer. It comes to you through your nose. Something smells off, you don’t know any other way to describe it. The girl doesn’t answer, doesn’t get the chance to.

“Get away from there.” It’s Roberta, an older woman who always spared you a kind smile, which makes the scowl she gives you that much more painful. Roberta takes the girl by the arm, guiding her away from the cell door. You watch Cliff–the man who came at you with the ax–take their place, his brow furrowing, nostrils flaring, knuckles white around his weapon.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Cliff says. “Those things are tearing this town to pieces and we’re supposed to sit here and wait for this one to turn? No. No, I’m not gonna do it.” Hassan slowly pushes himself to his feet, towering over the agitated man.

“What are you doing, Cliff?” he asks, his tone almost conversational.

“C’mon, Sheriff, look at them!” Cliff says, as if that’s all the argument he needs–and maybe it is. “They're a ticking time bomb! For Christ’s sake–they already look just like those things!” You turn away at the feeling of eyes on you.

“I’m not interested in unnecessary bloodshed here,” Hassan simply states.

“Unnecessary?” Cliff scoffs. “Way I see it, we’re just getting ahead of things, and you’re afraid to admit I’m right.” A tighter, more threatening circle had formed around Hassan as Cliff spoke and Hassan eyes each haggard, hungry survivor carefully.

“They aren't hurting anybody, and that girl is alive because of them, or have you all forgotten?” There’s a pause as the entire room seems to let go of the breath it’s holding. You hear a sound like the scuttling of rats.

Cliff opens his mouth to speak, but you shush him, hearing something land on the roof of the building next door. Hassan crouches down, his face close to the bars.

“What is it?’ he whispers.

“They’re surrounding us,” you reply, your voice just as quiet. Hassan turns to talk to the others, his hand outstretched in a calming gesture, but before he can get a word out, Cliff strikes him in the side of the head with the ax handle. Hassan’s head bounces brutally off the metal bars and he collapses limply to the floor. You cry out before you can think better of it, and reach out to him. Cliff brings the ax down and you recoil before he can strike your arm.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says to the others, and when some hesitate: “what? You wanna stay with someone who’s gonna gamble with your safety? Who’s gonna risk your lives for one of them?” He gestures to you with the butt of his ax. “Get going, we’ll make for the general store like we planned.” You try to catch the attention of those with doubt in their eyes, those who know you, who care for Hassan, who don’t want blood on their hands. You try to tell them it’s not safe, but none listen. They all leave, one by one, wind and snow blustering in behind them. Cliff hangs behind, and you watch as he searches Hassan’s pockets and belt. He comes up with the cell keys and dangles them triumphantly before you. Without taking his eyes off you, he pockets them and leaves, not bothering to close the door.

The scent of blood is overwhelming.

“Hassan?” You lay down on your stomach and reach through the bars, giving Hassan’s body a soft shake. Your hand moves to his face, turning his head towards you. A patch of blood stains the right side of his head and face, but his heart is still beating.

Soft growls make you stop breathing, and your eyes rest on the back door Cliff left open. Snow scatters across the floor, the wind wailing like a ghost. Another threat you can do absolutely nothing about. Cliff means to make you watch Hassan die–one way or another. Your stomach sits in a tight knot and you want to throw yourself against the cell door.

You carefully drag Hassan as close to the bars as you can, his arm resting in your lap, the skin of his wrist exposed. Those creatures will not have him. The cold will not have him.

Screams shatter the night, followed by the animalistic shrieks of the creatures. Something bolts past the open door and your body tenses. Hassan still hasn’t woken, and you glance at his slack face. When your eyes return to the door a figure waits there. It stands motionless, shrouded in the thick darkness. Your grip on Hassan tightens. You run your tongue over your lips.

You bring Hassan’s wrist to your mouth, but you’re suddenly not sure if you can do it.

The figure passes over the threshold, ushered in by the wind.

"Forgive me," you whisper.

The figure moves soundlessly, taking their time. Your teeth brush at his soft skin.

You can’t break it. Your mouth is frozen, your eyes open in a wide, desperate panic, your breathing frantic. You can’t do it. You have to do it.

A hand reaches through the bars. A small hand, holding a set of keys. You let go of Hassan. You can make out the little girl in the lamplight now. Her eyes are like yours. Her mouth is bloody. You glance at Hassan, worried she’ll turn her hungry attention to him, but she doesn’t seem interested. She just shakes the keys at you, and they jingle sharply.

You let yourself out quickly and go to Hassan, taking him in your arms. His eyes open slowly, as if they’d rather stay closed.

“I have to get him somewhere safe,” you say to the girl. “I have to–” you look down at the wet, warm spot of blood on your hand, the sunlight coming from Hassan’s head wound, and your mind empties, your mouth waters, your stomach aches, your whole body seems to wake up and reach for it. You clamp down on your tongue with your needle teeth and smear the blood on your pants.

“I have to get him somewhere safe,” you repeat, hauling the semi-conscious Hassan to his feet.

#spooky season #spooky season fic #30 days of night #midnight mass #sheriff hassan #rahul kohli #acrossthesestars

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habibialkaysani · 2 years

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happy father’s day to my fictional collection of dads ONLY: including but not limited to james flint, tenzin, joe west, tonraq, john diggle, david singh, j’onn j’onzz, jefferson pierce, clark kent, pat dugan, hassan el shabbaz and of course, the oldest of the lot, nicky di genova.

#me.txt #the flash #legend of korra #black sails #arrow #supergirl #black lightning #superman and lois #stargirl #midnight mass #the old guard #i can't believe i found my real dads after all these years

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ao3feed-midnightmass · 15 days

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Late Morning

by royalsunshinehotel You had met Hassan el-Shabbaz some months before, when he had to ‘bring you in’ for decorating the side of your house with a mural. Bev Keane insisted it would “lower property value”, and it was “nothing more than graffiti”, and you had the sneaking suspicion that the sheriff only put you in his car so he could drive the two of you away from Crockett’s most popular resident. Words: 2618, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Midnight Mass (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M Characters: Sheriff Hassan (Midnight Mass) Relationships: Hassan x Reader April 10, 2024 at 09:10PM Read it on Ao3 » https://archiveofourown.org/works/55118008 ✞ Don’t forget to leave kudos and comments to let the author know you enjoyed their work ✞

#ao3feed-midnightmass #midnight mass #midnight mass fanfiction #ao3 #ao3feed

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napoleon-usher · 3 years

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MIDNIGHT MASS – Book VII: Revelations

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tropes-and-tales · 1 year

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Oh my gosh, more prompts! 🤗

Because I watched it recently, may I request “you can kiss me, you know” OR “come back to bed” with the one and only Sheriff Hassan?

Hassan grew up and lived in the city for most of his life, so he’s not prepared for a lot of the realities of island living.

The quiet, for example. The darkness, for another. Crockett Island is so small and sparsely populated that Hassan has to relearn how to fall asleep without the ceaseless sound of traffic and city noises.

There’s also the proximity to nature. In the city, it was often easy to pretend that nature was a tame thing, something to bind up in manicured parks. On the island, nature can be fierce and unpredictable and right outside his door.

Like the storm rolling across the tiny island. Hassan stands at his bedroom window, watching it. Lightning flashes leave blue-white afterimages floating behind his eyelids The lightning bursts illuminate the sheets of rain drumming from the sky, the wind bending the scrubby trees nearly in half. The first roll of thunder woke him up, but you?

You grew up on Crockett Island. You don’t wake when the storm starts, but you stir now—he hears the rustling of the sheets, the sleepy groan you make—and then you wake.

A moment later, he hears the soft thump of your feet hitting the floor, and a moment after that, he feels your arms slide around his bare waist.

“Enjoying the show?” you ask, and your voice is sleep-rough, smoky.

“Never had storms like this in the city.”

“You did. You just never noticed because there wasn’t as much sky. It got blocked out by all the buildings.”

He hums in agreement. He gets an arm around you, then gently pulls you to him until you’re tucked under his arm and against his side. He turns his head to drag his nose through your hair, to take in the familiar scent of you.

You stand together at his window and watch the storm. When a particularly close-sounding peal of thunder booms, he jumps and it makes you laugh.

“Tough guy sheriff scared by a little rain?” you tease, and you draw your fingernails along the naked skin of his side, making him squirm at the ticklish sensation.

“I’m not scared of anything,” he replies, and he drops his voice, makes it gruff to sound tougher. You laugh again.

“Duly noted, Sheriff.” You release him, and you tilt your head up to him with your lips pursed until he grins, bends his head, and kisses you.

“Come back to bed,” you add. You do a cute pirouette as you spin away from him, back towards the bed. Hassan watches you in the half-light of the bedroom, takes in the sight of you in his discarded t-shirt, your hair mussed and wild.

Another crack of lightning startles him from his reverie, and he—taller, with longer legs—takes a few strides to catch up to you. He scoops you into his arms, your surprised squeal ceding to laughter as he carries you the rest of the way and then unceremoniously dumps you onto the bed. He dives right in, follows you down and cages you in with his arms as he arches his body over yours. He dips his head and kisses you again, this time with more intention.

Maybe he’s a little scared of the storm. He’s not used to such wild weather right at his door—but island living has its upsides, like weathering the storms…in bed…with you.

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