#midnight mass fanfic

[chelseasdagger]

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!

[raccoonspooky]

Looking back, I should've been on my knees

RATED E! 6k Words. Father Paul x Fem Reader sort of? Or hallucination of "God?" Umm Father Paul x Faceless third person entity he's fantasizing about. Solo masturbation.

TW for mental instability, delusional behavior and blood drinking. Dude's jerking off with a corpse in the room. Full list of tags on ao3 Y/N device is not used in this fic.

Tags of note under the cut

Tags of note: Religious Imagery and Symbolism, Sacrilege, Guilt, Horny Delirium, Masturbation as a form of worship/prayer.

Salt dry, ocean wind glides through the empty church with a prayer on its breath. The litany is hollow, the words are rehearsed. Maybe the sentiment is echoed from this morning as if the word of god traveled out to sea but the wind pushed it back to the church… or maybe it’s something the ocean came up with all on its own.

Besides such empty delivery, the air is alive with the wind’s echoed praise.

The Monsignor knows the words, they've become a part of him over the years; and after a handful of new developments, he’s begun to associate taste with memory and comprehension. The world is bright and it flares brighter as the wind settles against worn pews to flutter ragged hymnals barely holding onto their cracked spines. With the wind’s closing Amen, it parts way for an older presence that begins to make its way through the church.

It ambles along slowly, taking its time to spread throughout every board and nail. Its sense of divinity turns chipped paint into a hallowed thing. Father Pruitt can feel His proximity before his attention directs toward himself.

In his office, oxygen seems to pull into itself until it cuts out entirely. His nearness is welcomed but the old building seems unable to compensate for the reverence it wants to give. Father Pruitt respectfully drops to his knees and angles toward the emanating warmth. He tilts his head up and his hands come together, tied together by hopeful adoration. Each inhale burns from the lack of oxygen in the room but faith comes with ache. Pain is an essential component of life, a blessing disguised as penance. Iron coats his tongue, it’s long since become paste at the corners of his lips. Somewhere beyond himself, he’s aware that someone lays still behind him, it’s only been a few moments since they took their last breath. They still linger, waiting and Father Pruitt is honored to be here for their transition. God wouldn't leave the faithful cold. He arrived with something incomprehensible, something winged and beautiful.

The Monsignor’s vestments are heavy at the edges, weighed down by bloodied sacrament. The Lord himself told Father Pruitt that he was ready to greet one of his chosen and thus he enacted His will. Their atonement was burdened thick with tar but he freed them of such weight. He consumed their guilt, drank their regret… and now, one of his flock walks without sin alongside God and his son. There’s salt rimming his eyes and his lashes soak up unfallen tears. A rod of iron expands in his throat and like in revelation, he will wield the scepter to show the world the power of an almighty god.

Some of his strength lingers here, it curls around his collar, reminding him of his place. The touch isn’t ungentle but it further steals his breath. He’s done well. The Lord rewards him with sparks of twinkling gold that erupts behind his eyes. The blood he swallowed meets his own and he’s made stronger for it, God’s light reaches inside of him and his body is made clean in his shadow. As a servant of God, he fights the pleasure that comes with subservience. The only pleasure he should want should come from devotion alone. This closeness, this sense of love, this is his reward. The Lord assigned him an angel to rescue him from the stray path he previously wandered and since then he’s been blessed with clarity.

Reborn and given purpose, Father Pruitt has never felt so alive. He has never felt so close. A lifetime of prayers left unanswered and now his God shares this very room. Spidery doubt and hidden cowardice were burned out of him when the Angel showed him His glory. He remembers laying on the ground, feeling dirt in his lungs. God was far from him then. Sure that he was to die, the Monsignor came close to renouncing all that he knew… and then the Angel cauterized his wound before it could fester.

With his head full of twisted, rambling thoughts and an old man’s regret, Father Pruitt wasn’t aware of how much of his light was lost to blind faith until the Angel taught him how to see. He stood on two legs out of reflex and memory. Much of this form of faith is cemented in ritual and Father Pruitt had long since forgotten who the ritual was for. He’d forgotten whose halls he was sheltered by. God was an abstract thing to the old man. God was made real by hope alone.

He was wrong of course. God is as real as he is. He’s here in this room and his presence expands into the Monsignor. It’s… exhausting, but too holy, too pure to look away from. His love is vast and unending and the Father will take the pain that comes with it because God has faith in him to endure.

“Feed.” The presence insists, looking down at him with grace.

In half a breath, Father Pruitt becomes a flurry of movement. Robes flutter heavily and his fingernails scrape against the wooden floor as he frantically scoops darkened blood into his hands. He licks his palms and messily sucks his fingers into his mouth but it’s not enough. His nose crushes against the ground and behind the taste of iron and God's watchful gaze is the bitter taste of dirt and earth.

On his knees, he drags himself through the rust and clumsily reaches for the lamb’s cold wrist. They’re not yet stiff, and he punctures their flesh with a garbled thanks. He didn’t dare to further mutilate one of God’s children without His approval. The flesh is satisfyingly weighty between his teeth, it promises nourishment but the Lord has not yet instructed him to bite and swallow. The lamb’s blood is too bitter, too coagulated in their veins. It’s gummy in his mouth and his throat protests swallowing. He nearly gags in discomfort and his tongue trembles as it drags over one of the lamb’s wounds, a weak hint of fresh blood keeps him from disobeying God’s insistence. Father Pruitt groans against their flesh, unsatisfied but aware. He is to taste his sin. He is to give his thanks and understand that sacrifice is necessary and never asked for lightly.

Shame is held at an arm’s distance only because of the presence in the room. He’s alive with purpose, able-bodied, and here to enact greatness. He’s sound of mind and his thoughts no longer weave around and through each other until he’s unsure of where he started. The Lord’s angel faithfully tells him God’s will, and he’s never felt so loved. It took a lifetime, but his prayers were heard. God showed himself and recalling the memory is too much to comprehend.

With his pupils blown wide and his mind buried in thanks, his body distances itself from his waking thoughts. His flesh awakes under the watchful eye of God, reminding him that despite his sensitivity toward the divine, he is still only a man. Blessedly mortal as any other. Time is an unforgiving concept. He’s spent so long unaware of how far he’d fallen. He’s a shepherd once more and his little church is attuned to so much beyond its old walls. His blood thrums with promise, the true word of god was made clear to him and he smears his index finger through the blood beneath him, smiling in awe to the above as he makes a cross over his heart. Pledging himself again and again.

Father Pruitt’s head bows and he recites the lord's prayer as a reflex. The shape of the words is branded into his very being, they slot into worn groves beneath his skin. He uses them to center himself toward a place of rest and the word Amen lingers in the air, made alive by the promise in his prayer. His hands separate from each other and he reaches to squeeze his throat. He swallows dryly, shaken by everything he just felt. He uses his wrist to wipe his mouth but all he does is smear blood across his cheek.

Coherence is blessedly kept out of reach as if the Lord wants him to take a moment just to feel. With a slow exhale, he listens to his alarmingly rapid heartbeat. His back hurts but only because he woke in a wound up ball of contorted limbs. Old ache ghosts over his limbs but it's phantom pain. For years, he became so used to suffering that now he finds it difficult to focus on anything besides the pain he once used to keep his head on straight.

Something itchy and raw wakes in his chest. Without the presence of divinity and the lead weight it blankets him with, he’s left to venerate the hunger that’s newly lodged within him. Without God’s presence, he is left wanting, left waiting for His next command. It’s not a burden, if anything it’s a reminder of his second chance with this all. Still, idle hands are twitchy and his emotions slip and slide all over the place while he’s too nervous to shelve them back to where they belong. He’s kept on edge, eager to serve but frustrated that sometimes it takes time for His will to flourish.

It’s difficult to keep everything contained. He feels so much bigger than his body. He wants to show everyone the same light he saw. If everyone could just open their eyes, they’d find salvation and love unending. He’s made progress with some of the wary, he’s welcomed new members to the church… but he could do this all so much faster. Now that he knows God's love directly, he’ll do anything for more. He doubts nothing, questions nothing. Today, the Lord sensed his dry throat, and then a new face knocked on his office door. He freed them of their burden as the Lord instructed and Father Pruitt was nourished by their sacrifice. He felt their soul as it loosened from their flesh… and he was too weak to find no pleasure in it. To consume someone’s faith and take it into your own is indescribable. Its sanctity is meant for God alone, but as his servant, he’s allowed just a taste… just a tiny mouthful of something honest.

To the Monsignor, it proves that he’s doing something right. Honesty is the first virtue that has any meaning to it. Without honesty, there’s no goodness, no belief, or love. The lamb was startled at first, they struggled as he held them down. The taste of fear and pain burst across his tongue with his first bite but it was cleansed immediately with the incoming rush of delirium and then the closing sermon of bright, biting joy. Release. Weightlessness. After a lifetime of blind devotion, being able to taste the concept has Father Pruitt near feral for another hit. The mouth is a sacred part of one’s self, we use it to take communion and to speak with god. We consume his son’s blood and flesh. We are made sentimental creatures for the inherent desire to consume something beloved. Love twists into a set of teeth just as we shape words into worship with our tongues.

Regarding faith, Father Pruitt has never aligned with the idea that we as people are put onto this earth to suffer. He thinks perhaps that the pleasure he finds in servitude to God is something for him alone. It’s a sign that he’s using His gift for good. The body in the room isn’t pretty but God still came for them. His tongue still salivates, he wishes that he took things slower but he didn’t want the sacrifice to suffer. Their blood was complex, when he swallowed it trailed down his throat with legs like fine wine. He could’ve fed on them for hours, taking the time to pick apart the individual components of personality that flavored them in such a way… but he was a man of god. A man of faith. He wouldn’t take what wasn’t offered. The lamb deserved something quick in exchange for their sacrifice that God so wanted.

God asks us to listen. God asks us to obey and follow in his footsteps. He gave the world his son so the faithful could understand we can only do so much in our earthly vessels. We can love one another, and do good as we are able to— God only asks for what we are able to give. We aren't given bodies to be ashamed of them and push them past their mortal capabilities. God made man in his image, he did not give us the ability to think and feel as a punishment. What we do with our bodies is another thing entirely.

As to answer his thoughts, one of the Monsignor’s twitching hands finds his belt after awkwardly runching up his robes. This isn’t sin. This is worship. God gave him this body with all of its functions and he was awarded a glimpse of all that is good for a reason. His mind translates enlightenment in the only way he can understand. It turns something holy, something sacred into sensation rather than comprehension. Sin is not one thing or the other. It’s a fluid concept. The church is old and lost in its ways just like he was not so long ago.

Perhaps he’s a heretic, and such thoughts might've once sequestered him into a panicked, praying stupor… but he’s promised his very soul in exchange for the truth. No such heresy comes from worship. No such shame should come from pleasure found in servitude. Uneasy but determined, Father Pruitt decides that his faith has yet to wrong him. Wouldn’t he be distrusting God by questioning the morality of the way his body reacts to His word?

The noise of his belt buckle clinking against itself cuts through the heavy silence in the room. Some spell laid over him lifts with a promise to return and Father Pruitt thanks it for its mercy. He’s airy now, eager to offer himself in this way. This may as well be liturgical practice, this is… right. This is physical devotion and the same as self-appointed lashing or any other physical offering. Father Pruitt’s breaths are slow but heavy, he swallows dryly, and as soon as he’s fumbled his zipper somewhat undone, he shoves a blood-sticky, prayer-warmed hand into his waistband with a haggard breath of thanks. His cock is half hard, twitching to life and he can feel its pulse more than he’s attuned to his heartbeat. The first graze of touch has him gnashing his teeth.

At the edge of coherence, he’s aware that the blood is staining not just his soul. His vestment robes are soaked through, he’s yet to perfect the ritual but he’s sure that he’ll eventually get the hang of it. Blood has since streaked across the floor. Some drips steadily from the pool atop his desk and Father Pruitt resists cleaning the mess with his tongue. Kneeling in the worst of it, he’s sure that soaked denim is soon to cut into his skin. His hand was far from clean but he didn’t think twice about wrapping it around his cock. It swells as if to meet the blood on his hand and it only takes a few shy strokes until he’s fully hard, each awkward pump of his fist has his eyes nearly rolling back in his head. He’s unpracticed, unsure of what he likes, and in a lifetime before, he was beleaguered with too much shame to ever think of doing something like this.

A chuckle leaves him while he ponders whether or not someone a few hundred years ago assumed people would spend all day touching themselves if such pleasure wasn’t branded as a sin. Something so effortlessly taken, so effortlessly given could easily become wrong if one was to lose themself in unearned pleasure. But his body is a vessel of the Lord’s, he is nothing but a servant. He acts only by his Lord’s will. Even now, he mumbles thanks and prayer while his hand rapidly follows his words. Although they are patched together gracelessly, the sentiment is there. Father Pruitt hunches over, gulping down a breath as he works his cock with frantic, overeager strokes.

He thanks God for his grace, thanks God for his mercy. He asks that God may bring peace to those in need. He asks God for his congregation’s health and happiness.

So much of what he once knew as truth is now muddled with new realities. Stubbornly, he wonders if this is wrong. His hand slows and he forces himself to a stop even as his needy prick throbs with angry discomfort. He shouldn’t want anything besides what’s best for his flock, he shouldn’t feel so high-strung and on edge. Shouldn't this feel like worship? He wonders if he should feel calm, he wonders if he should slow down and perhaps acclimate to the sensation so he’s not panting like a dog… but all he can do is think of the first gush of wet blood that spilled into his mouth. Recalling the first swallow and the way the blood immediately awoke all of his senses to new heights forces a whimper from his throat and it clings to his bottom lip, making it tremble.

He decides that the same pleasure found in servitude to God is no different from the consuming want that emanates through him now. Father Pruitt sucks in a wet sounding breath and he shifts on his knees so he can better angle his hips. He fucks into his fist and the room balances on the closing note of a song. It hums with the same low note that lingers in the aftermath of an Amen. This is not selfish. This is not wrong. This is for Him. The Lord wants him to understand his miracle, this body is a gift… it is meant to be cherished.

The original sin was a gift. God allowed his first creations to ask questions, he made Eve a curious soul because she was a needed balance to Adam’s instinct to listen and obey.

Men were created to listen. Men were created to serve. Even with free will, Adam still chose to submit.

Everything is new and wonderful. Behind closed eyes, Father Pruitt sees only stars. An involuntary shudder builds in his ribcage and it escapes down his spine to find uneasy purchase atop his nerves. His hips cant upward, chasing his retreating fist and by now his breath has turned ragged, and his limbs feel loosely tacked on.

Buried memories awaken amongst the rapture and the crumbling relics speak long lost invocations in the language of heaven. He can’t understand them, but to hear something so ancient and otherworldly brings new wetness to his eyes. Like this he’s only a vessel of worship, he cannot speak or think clearly, he’s mindless and obedient to pleasure, seeking more to honor his Almighty. Mindlessly pumping his fist, Father Pruitt looks up and groans a pitched whimper.

“Yes, God.” He thinks. “I am yours, I am yours.”

His tongue feels oily, it can’t find its place in his mouth. He wants to give his thanks but the noise that pushes past his teeth is tangled up in its afterbirth and it struggles to make itself known. His soul swells with love, he’s made pure by this bloodied baptism. He understands it now. This hunger. He’s a newborn babe, brought screaming into the world. A lifetime of devotion made him pure once again. He’s without sin. He should be without guilt. Unashamed, Father Pruitt easily falls headfirst into a memory that he once kept secret from the lord. The memory is wet and tight, his breaths are shared with another’s and her lips feel so right against his.

Maybe this love wasn’t his to take, but he’s never regretted it. He’s never regretted her. Even now, the memory is only a wisp of what once was, but being able to recall anything of it is more than he could wish for. His knuckles scrape against denim and his movements pick up speed. Caught in a mess of prayer and thanks, the Monsignor hiccups while half swallowing a moan.

The presence inside of him blends the memory of her with the tinge of iron and fear. He remembers being so afraid of what he’d done, but not afraid enough to stop. She was everything in that instance of broken resolve. She was the universe itself. She was God and all things holy. She trembled around him, crying out to God and he selfishly commanded her to say his name instead. The command was strong only because it was backed by regret. He knew that this was unforgivable, he knew that no penance or no amount of hail Mary’s could amount to the weight of what he’d already done.

You cannot commit half a sin.

Close as they were, he wished to be closer. He wanted to shed her of her modesty and hide beneath her skin. He wanted to take her flesh for his own, anoint it in oils and make her holy so he had some excuse for the way he felt. He wanted to become some permanent piece of her because he was unable to rid himself of his devotion to God. She’d never push his faith, she would never have been able to claim him as he claimed her and the unfair trade burned him like a hot iron. Couldn’t he offer her just a piece of himself? After years of unshaken faith, couldn’t he give her something worth keeping? As the church is one with the body of Christ, partaking in his flesh and blood —couldn’t he offer her some minuscule, unimportant piece of himself?

From that first sin and all the subsequent moments of stolen love, John —Not the priest. Not Father Pruitt, Not God’s devoted parishioner—, wanted to see her soul. He wanted to see the thing he’d given everything for.

He found love in a sense of shame. He had no right to fuck his guilt into a woman chosen for him by God. He should’ve listened. His love was a desperate, aborted thing. Barely alive and stolen from his Lord, he gave handfuls of both to each party when neither wanted anything to do with his sickly worship.

You cannot worship out of fear. You cannot form shame into love.

Christened again, he understands with an old man’s regret that it’s natural to be afraid. He was blind to the gift he was given back then, he rejected a woman who loved him and rejected the God he so loved because of self-appointed shame. He lived the rest of his life a broken old fool, but he’s seen the light now. He can lead his congregation to salvation, just like the Angel who gave him a second chance at life. He’ll take their burden. He’ll take their guilt and their shame. He can handle it. Even now, there’s an ache inside of him that demands it. Even now, he’s hungry.

Rather than recoil, he chases the feeling. Acceptance is all it wants. It wants to be heard. It wants to be known.

This want, this hunger— It’s all part of His plan.

In shameful instances of the past, there were moments of resentment. God blessed him not only with forgiveness but also with the inability to harbor the concept of resentment any longer. He’s never known a love so unending. He’s never known something so bright, so vast. He feels it in his veins, the blood circulating through him is the same as liquid gold.

Faith tells him when to sleep and what to dream. It forces his lips as he speaks his sermons. Inside of him is something ancient and divine and he is so honored to hold such privilege. He doesn’t mind the ache of constant hunger. God tells him to consume mortal sin and feel it burn as it goes down his throat. It won’t corrupt him. His conviction is imbued into his bones, into his soul. When he is hungry, the Lord will provide. The sky is cracked open and he can see everything there ever was. It’s simple in its complexity. Everything is one centered breath, time itself exists in the span of a single heartbeat.

We exist out of love. God sees us wholly and without sin. He sees the perfect version of who we are meant to be because we came out of His imperfection. In the end, we are memory and devotion in its purest form. To love and be loved is our only purpose in life and Father Pruitt has been afraid for so long that he held a finite source. He held an unfair reserve over his heart, offering only part of himself to the woman he loved and the Lord who blessed him with such a feeling.

Containing multitudes, he understands that God wants him whole. He’s not a fractured mess of a man who once was. The air around him is perfectly, succinctly still. Each exhale feels almost rude. The room is severe, he looks up and waits for a sign. He wants to beg for direction.

“Please,” he begs the empty air and his voice weakens upon the crest of a gasp. He swallows and manages a firmer plea, but the air remains still. Looking up doesn’t seem to offer him anything, so Father Pruitt shuts his eyes. His hand acts on its own accord and his fist loosely settles around his stubbornly devoted cock. Blood lingers on his taste buds though he’s sure that the taste is long gone. He wonders if it’s a reminder or if it’s a promise of more.

In his mind, real as anything else— his hand slowly skims up someone’s bare calf. His touch is reverent, his head is bowed. He wants to look up at her, but he doesn’t need to look to know who she is. He hasn’t seen her face as it was in so long. His eyes are adjusted to the dark and looking up seems wrong, she didn’t ask him to look. He has a duty to perform, he can’t blind himself now. She’s naked in all of her glory and the universe narrows down until all he can see is her parting legs.

He waits for no direction, with her spread like an offering he understands his place. He is to bow before her holiness and he is to worship as God commands him to. This isn’t a test, this isn’t a cruel memory. He can smell her blood as it circulates beneath her skin. She’s real and she’s here. She reaches between her thighs to spread her lips— showing him everything he never deserved— and he stumbles forward to bury his tongue in her folds.

Unsure if she’s an embodiment of the Lord, one of his angels, or one of his memories given life once more… The Monsignor decides that they’re all the same. He decides he doesn’t care and he’ll take what he is given. His head is bowed as if in prayer, one hand holds her calf while the other words his cock. His tongue strokes through her folds and she’s decadent. She’s his as he is the Lord’s. Her skin is so soft in his hands, she’s otherworldly and the world itself. He has no purpose but to serve, to taste, and feed. God asks so little of his children. He gives and he gives and the Father is fed and loved for it. He could stay here forever, he could kneel and rot to nothing happily like this.

Was this… a reward? Was this God’s favor? He struggles for an answer but the closer he gets to the truth, the further he strays from the task at hand.

“Stay with me.” She commands, voice soft but words piercing. Fingers tighten in his hair and his previous curiosity mutates into his instinct to serve. She’s given him so much and the worship she asks for is so easy to give. So close to divinity, he’s barely able to breathe while refusing to part from her body. Devoted to his worship, his nose slots beside her clit as he curls his tongue between her lips. He’s so full of love but she urges him to take another mouthful.

Her pleasure drips wetly down his chin. Wet and warm like blood. Sweeter though. There’s no struggle, no initial fear. She tastes of heaven itself and Father Pruitt holds her hips still, tracing his thanks with his tongue as she writhes against his assault. She twists on her altar, back contorting as he sucks on her clit and Father Pruitt wonders if she’s to be prayed to or to be prayed for. She’s all movement, difficult to hold onto, and difficult to comprehend.

His cock leaks into his palm and each pump of his fist is slick. He is only a parishioner right now, his throat is bare, clerical collar forgotten somewhere beyond this place. The sin of his making whispers that he wants more. Behind the curtain of humility and faith… he wants to bury himself inside of her so deeply that her body will mold to his. He wants to lay her before God himself so as to show his Lord what devotion he’s willing to give. He wants no separation between their bodies, he wants no separation from his Lord. If God would give him this for just an instance, he would linger on this earth for the rest of eternity guiding all who wander toward the Almighty's light. He’d be kept alive only by the memory of something perfect.

The Angel who commands his heart promises that he is worthy of such love. He’s submitted, he’s given everything he is and more. He could take what he wants, nothing would punish him for it. Her pussy drips that much wetter, she grinds against his face, begging so sweetly. She only wants his worship, she already owns his soul…

Abruptly, she comes apart, unravels beneath his tongue and Father Pruitt groans along with her. He pulls away from her cunt only to look at what she’s become. This gift is his strength. This gift is his weapon. Take His body and drink His blood. This gift is the broken love he once gave to her and his Lord and it is returned to him in abundance, kept fat and happy by God who thrums with awareness beneath his skin. The ache of being begins to burn. Father Pruitt hisses behind his teeth as a ray of sunlight streaks across his back from a high window.

It ties him to his body and he’s thankful for the pain. He would’ve stayed wherever he was, licking her cunt for all of eternity if not for the earthly reminder of his flesh. Clarity pulls him from the depth of worship and he’s not allowed a moment to mourn the loss of his vision. She retreats with grace, her footsteps fade toward the sacred place she calls home inside of him. He’s taken his fill. He’s served righteously and he won’t ask for more. A younger version of him might’ve begged, but Father Pruitt knows better than to question God’s will. The Lord washed his palette clean.

The church’s next service will serve his blessed blood as communion and they will be made stronger because of his worship.

This is His will.

“You’ve done well, Father.” God’s voice is feminine and kept soft.

Father Pruitt takes her praise with all the grace he can summon. He wants to snatch it from the air and stuff it down his throat, he wants to bury his face in it and fuck it into a wet mess. All he’s ever wanted to be is worthy. All he’s ever wanted to be was seen.

An ethereal touch forces his eyes open. She crooks her finger beneath his chin as if to lift his gaze toward her unseen face and ghostly fingers settle on the side of his face. She’s so real. He can sense her somewhere. Whoever she is, a memory or some asset of God…he doesn’t care. Her touch is so soft, so divine, and otherworldly that it pulls an unbridled moan from his chest. Burdened by earthly gravity, it spills to the floor like incense smoke, curling at the edges and cleansing the curdled and blackened mess he kneels in.

His soul was never his to begin with. She doesn’t ask him for worship, nor does she ask him for bloody sacrifice. Her guidance is freely given, so gently laid that he feels as if he’s shrouded by sheer feathers. Her form isn’t here, not in this room in a physical sense, and yet somehow she is. She’s with him. Inside of him. A part of him. His belief has never been based on physical senses and he’s lived long enough to know that there is so much more beyond what he can see. He can almost hear the musical tone of her laughter, of her happiness found in his belief. Her wings constrict, holding him close and shielding him from the world. She asks him to let go. She asks him to breathe. Fingers tighten at his throat, and he’s reminded of who he breathes for.

He is owned as he is loved.

The sense of ownership builds until it finds the ends of his mortal body. It stretches thin after that, pulling beyond until it has nowhere else to go. The whisper comes again and she tells him to let go. He doesn’t need to hold on so tight. Wherever he begins and ends doesn’t matter to her. Father Pruitt inches toward embarrassment, feeling stupid for worrying over such a concept for so long and the presence only holds him closer in response.

There’s no slamming edge to his orgasm, the presence he feels it’s expansive and somewhere beyond himself. Torn from his body, he’s unaware of the pitched moans he whines into his empty office, he’s unaware of the way he bites the side of his thumb to keep quiet. His cock surges and holy light fills him up from the inside as thick white dribble arcs against the inside of his robes. He lurches forward and he’s forced to catch himself with his free hand. Startled, he yelps when his palm slaps against slimy wet sludge. The texture is so similar to his cum that he recoils, he’s pulled back into his body with an abrupt shove and Father Pruitt nearly falls face forward once again with the sudden shock of coherence.

With wild eyes, he whips his head around, looking for her even though he can feel the emptiness of her unsaid goodbye. The air in his lungs is too thin, his heart is too fast. His dick feels rubbed raw and he wipes his palms on his thighs, groaning with discomfort as he puts himself back together.

John can still feel her on his skin. He can taste her on his tongue. He knows exactly where her presence left and he accepts her loss just like any other day. She’s needed elsewhere and he knows to let her go. Others are in need, others love her just as he does.

His mind and body are that of his Lord’s and he has work to do. With an awkward stretch, Father Paul manages to force his legs into working order and he stands with pins and needles swarming his calves and feet. His back aches, and he leans backward in an attempt to pop a stiff joint. His eyes meet the still gaze of the vacant body pushed into a corner and he sees no recognition upon their face. They’re beyond him now. With her. With God and his angels. Safe in transport toward the kingdom of heaven. He wonders if they saw her too, he wonders if they felt just a smidgen of what he felt beneath her touch.

Did they see her face? Did she smile as she held them in her arms to absolve them of sin?

Gently, he removes his vestment robes, and as respectfully as possible, he covers the body as if swaddling an infant. He closes their eyes with an accompanying prayer. He tells them that they’re beautiful, he tells them that they’re loved. He prays for God to soon wash their soul clean so that they may leave this world holy and pure as Mary’s blessed son.

Father Paul doesn’t tell them that their blood was sweet with sin. He doesn’t tell them that he no longer can tell the difference between all that is Holy and that he’s beginning to rethink the reality of heaven.

Thanks for reading! Woof this dude is going through it.

I wanted to write something "Short" for my boo @ventiswampwater but idk how to write short i guess haha.

Let me know your thoughts!!

#poki writing #I forgot i didnt tell tumblr anything abt this fic #midnight mass #midnight mass fanfic #monsignor pruitt #father paul #father paul x reader #father pruitt x reader

[ebiemidnightlibrarian]

🌹 have another! ❤

Right now, my dear!

This is a little draft of a scene of one of the next chapters of Cornucopia (my lil father paul wip), this part was one of the first things I wrote of that wip, so I hope you enjoy it!

She slams her back on the switch and the lights go out, all she can see are his eyes, gleaming like a wild dog's orbs in headlights. Those bright, cold eyes, showing a thousand shades of red and gold that followed her everywhere. Tears pushed up from the waterline of her eyes, pure fear seeping behind the wetness of her orbs.

John is staring at her in the pitch black they were engulfed in, silver coins that gleamed in the dark, focusing on the blinding, swift glow of her veins. Her heartbeat was so fast that the smell of her blood coursing through her veins, under her skin, was almost enough to intoxicate him. He came closer, less than a step between them. Miriam was panting so hard, he could feel her breath rattling against his face. The fervent touch of his hand cradles her face, a shiver at the realization of his closeness shuddering through her body, the gentle touch soothed her.

That was John, her John, not the thing that stalked her in the dark. His thumbs caught the hot tears that ran down her cheeks. She soon realized that she had covered his hands — so large in comparison to hers — with hers. The name slipped from her trembling lips.

"John…?" it sounded almost like a sigh over her ragged breaths.

She had never called him by his name, his name. She had always referred to him as, Father Paul, Father and you. Even when she found out who he was, she continued to call him just that, sometimes adding the occasional "Monsignor". But never John. Until that moment, he had never been John to her. Just John. Hearing his name, his real name, escape those lips so inviting, broke the last link in the chain that bound him to caution. In one fluid movement, John Pruitt let his mouth taste the salt of her lips. Hot, hungry lips meeting trembling, panting lips.

There was a moment's pause. He rested his forehead against hers and inhaled deeply of her sweet scent, the tip of his nose running over her tear stained cheek. The touch was enough to drive away any feelings of uncertainty or fear, and for her to throw her rationality out the window. She tangled her fingers in the black curls that hung at the back of his neck and pulled him to her, so quickly that his teeth sank against her lower lip, and then blood.

#nice people 💙 #ebie's wips #ebie talks #ebie asks #ebie answer #cornucopia #hamfam #thank you for the ask! #💙💙💙 #midnight mass fanfic #john pruitt #father paul x reader #father paul #ebie's writing

[multific]

New Resident

Sheriff Hassan x Reader

Words: 880

Warning: Sexual themes

A/N: This is an AU where Hassan doesn't have a son and is a widow.

Crockett Island was a place you never thought you'd live. It was quiet and isolated from the rest of the world. You were used to the big cities, growing up in one yourself, you never thought you'd live in such a place.

The one thing that motivated you was the price of the little house you had your eyes on. 

One day while scrolling through the apartment options, you saw a perfect little house for the same price as a couple months of rent in the big city.

You figured not many people would want to live there so, you had time to think it all through and with technology and home office growing into the huge thing as it is today, after a few chats with your bosses, you bought the house.

It was a two bedroom house, with a gorgeous view and even a small garden. You already had so many ideas on how you want to decorate it.

Even your neighbors were kind. 

This would be a great place to live.

Even if your first impression wasn't good of Beverly Keane, you didn't let that get you down. The woman was bitter and probably never even had an orgasm. She wanted to invite you to the church but you said no, you had enough on your plate as it is, you went on with your day as best as you could, ignoring her.

You just knew she was going to be a big issue, but you were one that didn't let people walk over you without a word.

"So, you'd be the new resident, welcome to Crockett Island." you looked at the man talking to you from the porch of the store, you assumed he was the sheriff. A very sexy sheriff. And the little gold star was a proof of his position.

"Nice to meet you, Sheriff. Nice to finally meet someone who doesn't want me to go to the church. Was it St. Peter's? Is that really the only thing to do here?"

"St. Patrick's, and  didn't you read the brochure when you moved here? It says, "Boredom and kind neighbors, move here if you dare.""

You lightly laughed at his joke.

And that was the start of your relationship with the sexy Sheriff Hassan. 

Constant flirting and bickering as if you were children in grade school.

But you loved it, you enjoyed every second of it.

"She is staring at us again." you said during a picnic which was held on the island, you baked a couple muffins and everyone was enjoying themselves. Even the Sheriff came over to you, taking a muffin as he complimented you, that's when out of the corner of your eye, you saw Beverly looking at you yet again. 

She had some serious issues that's for sure.

"Let her. She's just jealous I'm with you and not her." that made you laugh.

"You seriously think she would want you? That racist piece of shit?" you looked at Hassan as you laughed.

He really liked that about you, you always spoke your mind, didn't even filter your words.

"Well, I bet that's why she keeps on walking around your house."

"I knew it! I felt someone watching but I figured it might just be the seagulls. She is peeping around my house?" you knew it had to be intentional, your home was no where near hers nor was it close to the church.

"I have seen her a couple times yes."

"Wow. Okay, good for her, what a weirdo. What's she trying to see anyway?"

"Maybe she wants to catch us."

"Ooooh, now it makes sense. She wants to see your dick! That pervert." It was Hassan's turn to start laughing like crazy, he nearly even chocked on the muffin he was eating.

"Don't be loud now." he said as if he was telling off a child.

"Why? Don't you want to people know just how big you are, Hassan?" you smirked and this time you saw a change in his it, it was lust no wonder, you basically yelled for the entire Island to hear.

Even if you never spent a night with him, you knew how to tease him.

Hassan looked around but only Beverly kept staring at the two of you, the others were busy minding their own business.

"How do you know its big?" he asked with a quiet voice as he leaned closer to you.

"I know it, you are big man, it has to be." you put on an innocent smile as you leaned in as well. "Take me out on a date, or rather come over to my place, let's make some dinner and then you can prove me right."

"So you wish to give a show to Bev?"

"Might as well, she already hates my guts and I only moved here three months ago. She can have her show and we can have a good time. Can't wait for her to call me a whore."

"You are not a whore."

"No, I'm your whore." you said with another smirk as someone came over and asked you for a muffin.

Hassan shook his head, you were something else for sure.

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~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

#sheriff hassan x reader #hassan x reader #hassan imagine #hassan imagines #sheriff hassan imagine #sheriff hassan imagines #midnight mass #midnight mass imagine #midnight mass fanfic #midnight mass fanfiction #sheriff hassan x you #sheriff hassan #netflix series fanfic #netflix series #x reader #x you

[aaluminiumas]

Mary Magdalene

It's been a while since I wrote ANY fanfic, so I'm kind of trying to find my way out of my writer's block.

Please don't be shy to let me know what you think!

#midnight mass fanfic #midnight mass #beverly keane #bev keane #samantha sloyan #flanaverse #hamish linklater #monsignor pruitt #father paul hill #fanfic #fanfiction #hamfam

[crvptidgf]

true pain is liking a character from a show that has little to no no fics/no people thirsting for the same person on tumblr😓🤞🏻

#true pain #i cant take it anymore #so unfortunate #flanaverse #midnight mass #the midnight club #anne with an e #anne with an e fanfic #the conjuring #michael langdon #netflix #good girls netflix #netflix cancellation #the society #so unfair

[leavethekettleon]

saw a post that said "haunting of hill house is about family" and like yes sure but i would argue

that it is about grief? and how never talking about that grief - which they say repeatedly in the show "DAD NEVER TALKED" - is what causes it to fester and harm.

that post also said that Bly was about love and like YES but what if it is actually!!! about regret?! and how never saying things or a dream that cannot happen will haunt you?

i think midnight mass is about faith like that post says yes but.. isn't it also about betrayal? betrayed by your faith, betrayed by your community, betrayed by the deity you thought could save you?

... that triptych is probably my roman empire (along with lord of the rings and things Picard has said)

#the haunting of hill house #the haunting of bly manor #midnight mass #mike flannigan #THAT GUY #anyway #kettle screaming #fanfic thoughts

[aesopsharpmybeloved]

Father Paul's lips: an appreciation post

#midnight mass #father paul #father paul hill #hamish linklater #hamfam #ive been here for a while tho #it is a lips appreciation post #but im well aware we appreciate everything about father paul #posting this while proof reading a new fanfic 👀 #yes i want to kiss that cupids bow #and be honest: dont we all? #imagine trapping it between your lips #sucking it in #giving it a light bite #and feeling him gasp into your mouth

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Masterlist

Hello hello finally got around to making a masterlist, hope yall enjoy

Masterlist Key

🥰=Fluff

🫣=Smut

🥲=Angst

Hannibal

Hannibal: An ethical issue

Triple Frontier

Santi/Frankie: Two is better than one🫣🥰

Saltburn

Oliver: The birthday boy🫣

One Piece

Luffy: Love bites 🫣

Usopp: Shoot your shot 🫣 (request)

Sanji: Forbidden fruit 🫣

Good omens

Crowley: To love and be loved

Crowley X Aziraphale: Together

The last of us

Joel:A way to quiet the mind🫣

Joel and Tommy: Sharing is caring🫣

Joel: The things we do for those we love🥰

Joel: Tough guy act🥰🫣

The Marauders

Remus lupin: Late night whispers🥰

Remus Lupin:Bloddy Boggart🥰🥲

Remus Lupin : Mirror of erised🥰

Remus Lupin: The bet🥰

Sirius Black: The older brother pt1 🥰🫣

Sirius Black: The older brother pt2🥰🫣

Remus Lupin: The reunion🥲🥰🫣

Marvel

Eddie Brock: When you love something, you protect it🥰

Eddie Brock: Late night confessions🥰

Matt Murdock: When the world went quiet🥰

Matt Murdock: Safe and Sound🥰

Frank Castle: Spaghetti and Meatballs🥰🫣

Frank Castle: Dead Man walking🥰

Frank Castle: Bloody Savior🥰🫣

Frank Castle: The secrets we keep (request)🥰

Star Wars

Cassian Andor: Rescue Mission🥰

Cassian Andor: Hold me even if your hands are bloody

Poe Dameron: Stubborn to a fault🥰

Din Djarin: Another day🥰🥲

Din Djarin: Yours🥰

Din Djarin: Guilty Pleasure 🫣

Arcane

Slico: Revelations (There are 5 parts)🥰

Silco: The agreement (There are 2 parts)🥰

Silco: Unlikely alliance

Viktor: Guardian angel🥰

Viktor: Slow dancing in the dark (there are 2 parts)🥰

Midnight Mass

Sheriff Hassan: The new sheriff in town🥲

Sheriff Hassan: So this is the end🥰🥲

Avatar

Lo'ak: Reborn🥰

Neteyam: Reckless Behaviour🥰

Stranger Things

Eddie Munson: A helping hand🥰

Wednesday

Tyler: Not a monster, just done monstrous things

Xavier: Unrequited love🥲

Morbius

Milo(Lucian): I see red🫣

Milo (Lucian):You belong to me🫣

Milo(Lucian): Eternal (request)

#joel fanfiction #pedro pascal joel miller #joel tlou #joel the last of us #joel x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #pedro pascal smut #the last of us fanfiction #lo'ak x reader #lo'ak sully #avatar the way of water #avatar x reader #avatar fanfiction #avatar #eddie fanfiction #eddie munson #eddie brock #eddie #eddie x reader #fanfic #smut tag #the marauders #midnight mass #marvel #mauraders #matt #the maruaders

[flanaganfilm]

do u read fanfics of ur works or just in general

Okay I've heard a lot about these fanfics but I haven't really explored them yet - where is the best place to go? I heard some of them can get a little... um... well let's just say I've heard some things lol

I am honestly very curious. Recommendations welcome!

#fanfic #haunting of hill house #the haunting of bly manor #midnight mass #the midnight club

[bardocksheadband-fanfics]

God of my Need, a Nashuri Midnight Mass AU, has been completed ✨

#nashuri #namor x shuri #namuri #fanfiction #seaprincess #fanfic #fanfic writing #nashuri fanfiction #nashuri fanfics #midnight mass

[thoughtless-aroma]

i don't understand how ppl can read fanfic in public. put a good fic in front of me and im actively convulsing, foaming at the mouth, and throwing my phone across the room hard enough to knock out a large toddler

#fanfiction #fanfic #hannibal nbc #midnight mass #saw 2004 #sawposting #marvel #mcu #daredevil

[inej-ruination-ghafa]

bigger than the whole sky - g.h

midnights masterlist | the great war | paris

summary: the one where you admit your feelings for Gale and then the world falls apart

wordcount: 4.0k

warnings: mass bombings, death, mass murder, the bombing of District 12 was similar to a genocide so beware of that

“Can I ask you a question?” You looked up at him, lifting your head up from his shoulder. 

He nodded and you were silent. How did you ask him if he still loved Katniss even if she was in the games again? How do you find out if he loves you back? You wished you could put up more of a fight, ask him the truth but you couldn’t do it. 

“Do you still wish you could-“ you stopped yourself, rewording again in your head. You couldn’t just ask him if he still loved her like that, “Do you think Katniss could make it out?” 

He nodded, “I do,” there was silence after that and to you, that answered both of your questions. 

If you could, you would spend your whole life sitting on that hill with Gale, watching the sun set across the meadows. He had asked you to run away with him only a year earlier and this part of you wished that you had gone with him when he asked. 

You never liked Gale. Throughout your entire time at school, he was the most annoying person to you and you only ever talked to him when Katnis did. 

She was your best friend, the other half of you and you two would go out into these woods whenever you could. She was good at hunting and you were relatively good at the dressing and then selling it. 

Around three years ago, she had invited Gale out into the woods with you and since the moment that he caught you from falling into the river, you had become inseparable; you’d learnt that he wasnt as annoying as you had always assumed. 

Before the 74th Hunger Games, you had realised your crush on Gale. You had ignored it, buried it down into your chest so that nobody else would know. You knew he had feelings for Katniss and so you left it alone. 

When she went into the games the first time, you had become inseparable with Gale, more so than ever before. Now, as she was in it again, you leant on one another. You don’t remember who you were before him. 

“We should go,” you said, stopping your reminicising as you looked at him. You were getting lost in situations and circumstances and the small chance that maybe he had feelings for you to. You couldn’t allow yourself to think like that. 

Since Katniss went into the 75th games, the peacekeeper prescience had increased and neither of you felt safe on the hill anymore. 

He nodded, standing up and offering his hand for you. He pulled you up and you stumbled a little bit, bracing yourself on his chest. 

You looked at him, eyes slightly wide. You were so close you could kiss him here, kiss him in the isolation of the meadow. A part of you wondered whether his eyes actually did just flick between your lips and your eyes or if your love was blinding you. 

You muttered a thank you before pulling yourself away. You knew where he stood, you knew he loved Katniss and you knew he wouldnt kiss you back if you did it. 

So instead, you looked away, tears burning behind your eyes as you thought of it. 

The walk back to the square was slow. The entirety of District Twelve were feeling the effects of the games. There were peacekeepers everywhere, they were blocking the black markets and people were starting to starve. 

You spotted Gales family in the crowd and the two of you walked over, his arm wrapped round you to keep you close - he knew how much you hated the crowds. 

Hazelle, his mother, gave you a warm smile as the two of you joined the crowds that were watching the games. It was mandatory at this point, to watch the games as it came to its end. The sun was setting over Twelve but within the games, it was pitch black. 

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest as you watched the games unfold. Katniss had just been presumably attacked by Johanna in the woods and you gasped alongside all of the other members of Twelve. 

You looked up at Gale and you could see the fear in his eyes. You could feel your stomach sink; you hated the way that he looked at her. 

It was sick. You knew that it was wrong. You shouldn’t envy a girl who had been put into the games twice within two years but you wished he would look at you that way, with that adoration in his eyes. 

You reached down, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. He squeezed it back, a signal that you two had developed over the years to make sure that each other were okay when silence was mandatory. 

There was silence over District Twelve as they all watched the games on the big screen. The only noise that could be heard was the commotion of the games and the sound of Peacekeepers clicking their guns into place. 

It was silent as you all watched Katniss wrap the coil around her arrow and aim it at the sky. You could hear Gales breath hitch in his chest as she shot the arrow into the force field that surrounded the games. 

The lights cut out. 

Everyone looked at one another as they wondered why the feed in the games had cut out? What was going on? Why did Katniss do that? What was going to happen next? Every single thing she touched turned into ashes, it all fell apart in her hands and now she had taken control. If this was an act of rebellion, you would be proud of her. 

Everyone was asking themselves the same questions about the commotion in the games and so were the Peacekeepers as they looked at one another, all of them listening to some sort of comms message in their headsets.

Hazelle grabbed the boys tight, Rory was about thirteen and Vick ten but it didnt stop her from being worried about them. She looked over at the two of you, wondering if there was some plan that you knew about and she didn’t.

gale just shook his head. None of them knew what was going on.

Posy, his five year old sister, tugged onto his trouser leg and he looked down at her. She was so young to have to watch this all unfold and now something was really wrong, he didnt want her getting caught up in anything. He picked her up, holding her against his chest, her head tucked into his shoulder. 

You reached over, brushing a hand over her hair and she looked at you with a smile. She had no clue what was going on, only that something was clearly wrong. 

“What are we going to do?” You said quietly as you leaned over, looking up at him. 

He shrugged. Gale was so confused, “She’s rebelled, we’re all in trouble,” he replied, pursing his lips when he saw a Peacekeeper walk past. 

The commotion was starting to turn to chaos. The members of District twelve were beginning to yell and ask for answers, wondering why their heroic Katniss would do something like this. They needed answers or this would soon become a mob.

Thats when he walked on stage, Head Peacekeeper Thread. 

You could see Gale visibly tense up at the sight of him. You would never be able to remove the image of him tied up to that post, getting whipped over and over again out of your head. It was the worst thing you had ever seen and it had happened to the man you loved. Now the man responsible for it was parading around town, destroying the soul of your beloved district. 

He tapped the microphone before speaking into it with his gruff and unkind voice, “Everyone back to your house!” He yelled out.

The crowd went silent at the mans demand. This was proof that something had gone wrong in the arena and everyone had a guess what it was; an uprising. 

”Now” he commanded and everyone started to disperse. 

You followed Gale and his family home, Hazelle didn't want you to be alone in that hostel you were staying at with all of those people in the dodgy side of town. 

Everyone was silent as they walked towards their houses. There was an air of something and you could tell that there was a tension. Nobody had any answers and the Peacekeepers basically locking them in their houses made people anxious. 

She sat in the living room of Gales house, unable to sit down. Your best friend was in that arena and nobody had any clue what was going on and it made you sick to the stomach. Then the thought of Gale worrying about her made her ill too and she grabbed onto the mantelpiece, looking at the only ever picture of their full family before the mining accident. 

“You okay darling?” Hazelle asked and you turned around, putting on a smile. 

“Just stressed, but everyone is,” you shrugged, trying to seem positive. 

She nodded, “This is bad, isn’t it?” You could hear the fear in her voice and you wished that there was something that you could say to calm her nerves but this was really bad. 

With hesitance, you nodded your head, “Let’s just wait, we dont need to jump to conclusions,” you said before excusing yourself. 

You walked into Gales room and sat down on his bed. A smile came to your face as you looked at the picture that rested on his bedside table. It was the only picture that the two of you shared and it was from the party thrown for all nineteen year olds when they aged out of the games. You both had the widest grins on your faces. 

“Thats my favourite picture in the world,” he stated. 

A bitter feeling soaked through your chest as you put it back, eyes landing of the one of him and Katniss and Prim, “I thought that was,”

Gale didnt seem to get the hint because he just shrugged it off, sitting down nect to you, “Nah, you’re too pretty in that one,” he teased. 

“Gale,” you chastised. He knew that you hated it when he complimented you but he always did it anyway. 

He always assumed that you must have been self conscious and didnt like the compliments for that reason. It was actually because it hurt too much when he would compliment you, like the words burnt a hole in your chest because you knew that he didnt love you like you wanted him to. 

It was wrong to be thinking about that, to be jealous of your best friend just because of some guy, especially in the situation you were in right now but you couldn’t help the way it bubbled up in your chest. He made it worse as he placed his hand on your shoulder, trying to reassure you it was okay.

“If she rebelled-“ you started to say. 

He cut you off nearly immediately, “She did, she finally rebelled,” there was a sense of pride in his words and there it came again, that wave of bile in your throat.

”Fine,” you spat the words out and he instantly noticed how cold you were being, “This is bad Gale. She’s got us in trouble. They might kill us for knowing her,” 

Like any best friend would, he sensed your worry and reached down, grabbing your hand and squeezing it once just like he had when you were watching the attack. It would normally calm you down but all of your emotions were heightened and you didnt even realise what you were doing before you tugged your hand away. 

He muttered your name and you stood up, hands covering your stomach like you were trying to fight away the sickening feeling. 

“What’s going on?” He asked. 

You shrugged, turning away from him. You couldn’t even look at him. There was some part of you that could see the end coming and it was trying to tell him how you felt. You had to use all of your strength to push those words down. 

You shook your head, “I’m scared,”

You couldn’t see him but you knew that he had stood up because there was a loud noise of a spring creaking that always came from standing up off of his old bed. 

“What’s going on?” He repeated the question, this time more forcefully. 

The tension was rising in the room and you could feel your head pounding. You couldnt bring yourself to turn around and look at him, have a normal conversation like a civilised human. You knew that if you turned around and looked into his gorgeous eyes that you would fall apart, spewing out all of the feelings that you had been burying in the last year. 

“Leave it Gale, its not worth it,” your voice was less aggressive now, just quiet. You had a lot to pine about, all of these years you pined over him and now knowing you could tell him was breaking your heart. 

“If we’re gonna die then you might as well tell me,” he stated. 

He was right and you hated that. This might be your last time to ever tell him and even then you couldnt bring yourself to say it. You felt the shame of cowardice bubbling up in your chest. 

You could live without saying those words. You’ve got a lot that you’ve lived without over the years but something in you told you that you should say it. You couldn’t spend the rest of your life, however short it is, wondering what should’ve been. And if it’s not meant to be, then it’ll be over anyway, 

“Don’t make me do it,”

He placed a hand on your shoulder, “Just tell me,” he spun you around and you squeezed your eyes shut so you didn’t have to look at him. 

He could see the tear that had slipped down your cheek and he knew that this was big. He muttered a please, soft and begging compared to your argument. You could only imagine what his family was thinking as you yelled - you two always argued but never yelled. 

You opened your eyes hesitantly, watching as his eyes softened, “I love you,” you whispered, so only he could hear. 

The Peacekeepers may be planning the end for them. They may be planning to round everyone up and shoot them, you didn't know. But at least you would die knowing that he knew how you truly felt. 

His hand recoiled, and his eyes went wide. Horror washed over you. He didn't feel the same. This is what you had been fearing this whole time, that you would tell him how you felt, and he wouldn't reciprocate your feelings. 

There was silence in the village, no sound of children crying, couples arguing. Silence. All that you could hear was the blood rushing to your head as you realised what mistake you’d made. 

You closed your eyes shut, arms wrapping around yourself as you tried to hide away from his gaze as he worked out what to say next. 

“Say it again,” he asked. 

Your eyes fluttered open, confused. When you looked at him, he had a smile on his face, and you were confused. 

With a shake of your head, you looked down at your feet, blinking back tears, “Don’t mock me,” 

you had never been so vulnerable in front of anyone in your life. Your heart was shattering at the idea that you might die and this would be the last thing that had ever happened to you. 

He walked over and you could see his feet appear in your vision. His hand came out, two fingers under your chin to tilt your head up so that you were looking at him. His eyes softened when he saw the tears spill down your cheeks. 

He repeated the sentiment again, “Say it again,” 

“I love you,” you whispered, even more quiet than before. 

There was silence in the room and he broke it with a laugh, “I love you,” he replied before you could scolded him for laughing, “Thats what you were so scared of saying?” He laughed again, “I thought it was obvious that I was madly in love with you,” 

Your eyes widened and you hit his chest, hand staying there, “Obvious? No, I thought you loved Katniss?” 

He shook his head, “Back then. But she’s got Peeta, and she doesnt love me. Never will. You’re not my second choice, I just didnt see it back then. You’re all Ive ever wanted,”

You couldn’t stop yourself from leaning up and smashing your lips against his. His hands moved to your back, holding you close against his. One hand trailed up your spine, nestling in the back of your head as he manoeuvred your head slightly so that the kiss could be deepened. 

For a second, you forgot all about the awful things that might happen and the fears for the rest of your life now that Katniss had destroyed the Games. You just stayed in this moment, allowing yourself to hold him tight. 

You pulled away from him, the moment having been interrupted by the loud noise that ricocheted throughout the village as all of the engines pulled out at once. The sound of the truck engines all igniting at the same time made you both look at one another in panic. 

There was a sinking feeling in your gut that had been getting progressively worse throughout the evening and now, as you rushed to the window and drew back the curtain to see the armoured trucks vanishing into the distance, it got worse. 

The fear for your best friend was still echoing in the back of your mind but now, as you realised that they were all leaving, the panic set in. 

You and Gale shared a worried look, “They’re leaving,” you mumbled, almost to yourself. 

He nodded. There was a silence in the room as you both stood by the window. You both knew what was going on and what this all meant and the adrenaline started to pump through your body. 

Gale leaned over, pressing one more kiss against your lips like it would be the last time that he would ever get to do it. 

 “We have to go, now,” he said and you agreed. You both knew what was gong to happen. 

You rushed into his little sisters room, shaking Posey awake, “What’s wrong?” She asked, mumbling through sleep. 

You didnt know how to explain it to her, “We’re just going on a little walk, grab your favourite teddy,” you said and she nodded, picking up the little teddy bear her father had given her.

“I’m sleepy,” she mumbled, holding her arms out. You couldn’t deny her and so you picked her up, hauling her into your arms. 

When you walked out into the kitchen, you could see Hazelle packing some backpacks full of all of the food that they owned with canisters of water attached. The boys were helping; they were at the age where they could realise what was going on in the world, and they knew what would happen if they weren't fast. 

“Where’s Gale?” You questioned, looking around. 

“Him and some of the other men are trying to pull everyone out of bed and to the forest,” she explained, walking over and pressing a kiss to Poseys head, “You should help him,”

You nodded your head in agreement, settling the little girl down onto the sofa before promising to come back. You started to rush through the village, knocking on all of the doors that werent closed. 

A lot of them had already started packing, but there were a few who weren't. She could see Mr and Mrs Wentworth closing their door, telling one of Gales friends from the mines that he did not want to go. 

You looked around and noticed just how many people were refusing to leave, and that’s when you realised that if everyone did not get out soon and start heading to the forest, then there would be nobody left. 

In the far corner of the village, she could see Gale arguing with a young woman with a baby. You rushed over, a hand on his shoulder. 

“Please tell this man that I will not leave. The Capitol will not kill us, hes crazy,” she demanded, her baby screaming now. 

“Miss, we have to leave, they will kill us,” you tried to reason. 

She scoffed before turning around and shutting the door to her house. 

You looked up at Gale and checked your watch. It had been 5 minutes since the trucks pulled out, “We need to go,”

he nodded. You both knew that this was going to be bad if they stayed for too long. The other men from the mines were rounding up as many people as they could but some didn’t believe and some were too scared of the forest to go with them there. 

“I’ll go grab the last group over there, and I’ll meet you out there at our spot,” he promised. 

You shook your head, “We’re not splitting up,” 

”We have to,” he said, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips, “I love you,” he rushed off into the distance, and you knew this was it. You had to go now. 

You spotted Katniss’ mother and Prim in the distance and you rushed over to them, “Let’s go,” you said. 

“Will they really bomb us?” Prim asked. 

“I think so, kid,” you replied. 

You watched as Gales family came out of their house with some supplies, and then you knew you had everyone you needed. You stood up on a box and looked out at the group. 

“Everyone, please follow me to the forest. Don’t be scared, we will be safe out there,” you called out and as you walked, you looked behind you. 

You were disappointed at the lack of people there, maybe only four hundred or so. There were so many people in Dsitrict Twelve that werent coming. 

It was chaos. Your group were heading towards the forest and everyone else to the main road, thinking they could find help there. You knew the Captiol would let everyone die. There would be no survivors if they got caught. 

You and your group reached the border, and that’s when you saw the bombers flying over. You escorted everyone out, helping the young girl and her baby sister through the cracks through, lending a hand to the elderly couple.

the group walked up to the hill, and your heart was pounding as you watched them start to bomb the Distirct. Then you looked around. 

Gale was missing. 

Your heart was pounding in your chest as you realised that he was gone. He was gone, and you didn't know where he was. He might still be in there. 

You were about to start panicking when you saw another group head up the hill, and you ran into his arms, holding him tight. You flinched at the sound of the bombs, but it was safe here, they didnt know they were here. 

“I thought you were dead,” you muttered, helping him up the hill to his family. 

He chuckled, “Coudnt get rid of me that easily,” he joked. 

You shook your head, grabbing his hand and holdng it as you stood at the top of the hill. He squeezed it when he felt you tense up at the sound of the bombs. 

Everyone watched as the bombers circled around, bombing down the main road at those that were trying to run to safety. 

A tear slipped down your cheek as you watched them all die in the explosions. None of you could have done anything to help them and bring them back. You looked up at Gale, and he pulled you into his side. You watched a tear slip down his cheek at the sight of all of those who died. There were no words in the aftermath of the bombing. The knowledge that everyone had died weighed heavy on their hearts. 

915 from District Twelve. You were the only ones who made it out alive. The war had just begun. 

#gale hawthorne #gale hawthorne x reader #gale hawthorne x you #gale hawthorne fanfiction #hunger games #the hunger games #hunger games fanfiction #thg fanfiction #gale hawthorne x y/n #gale hawthorne self insert #gale hunger games #hunger games gale #hunger games fanfic #gale hawthorne angst #tw mass murder #liam hemsworth #liam hemsworth x reader #mj 1000 followers celebration #midnights celebration

[aaluminiumas]

Millie's Diary

No updates (yet), just fiddling with the platform I barely know.

I'll be releasing my NSFW John/Millie fanfic soon (I hope), so here's something to warm you up. Yes, I know I posted it already but as a long wall of text, so I'm trying to come up with a better option.

Looks much better, huh?

#midnight mass #midnight mass fanfic #millie x john #john pruitt #father paul hill #millie gunning #mildred gunning #hamfam #hamish linklater #alex essoe #fanfic #fanfiction

[shotofstress]

Been thinking on writting little fics (promps, AUs, OCs, etc) like drabbles or ficlets to learn how to write and also just for fun.

#shot of stress writting #disco elysium #doctor who #dark academia #hades game #a plague tale requiem #penny dreadful #midnight mass #watchmen hbo #death stranding #our flag means death #ofmd #what we do in the shadows #wwdits #assassin's creed #sherlock holmes #lokius #true detective #jonathan strange and mr norrell #the green knight #loki #fic request #fic writing #fic prompt #fanfic #my fic #good omens #spn fic

[befooremoonrisee]

if you think about it vampirism in twilight and midnight mass represent the same thing, but in opposite sides of the spectrum.

while twilight portrays vampirism as some kind of religious salvation, midnight mass portrays it as a manifestation of fanaticism

#just some random thoughts #or just me overthinking #i know that stephenie meyer pirtrays alwo vampirism as a curse #but what do you expect of a straight mcr fanfic? #twilight #vampires #vampcore #midnight mass #mike flanagan