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roguelov · 2 years

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Laughter and Ruin

Summary: After a ravaging storm, the poor church of Crockett Island had gained a few leaks. So being one of the few construction workers still on the island, Beverly Keane asked if you could repair it. You agreed. It was better than nothing, and to be honest it got you a closer look at the newest member of the island: Father Paul Hill. So, what will happen after spending some time together? What will happen with this unusual tension building between the two of you?

Word Count: ~7.7k

Reader: Fem/afab

Warnings: Smut (oral (female!receiving), fingering, priest kink, praise kink, light exhibition kink, minor dirty talk, unprotected sex, riding, switch!reader), mutual pining

MINOR DNI/ 18+ ONLY

Banging.

A constant, grating, banging pounded violently somewhere off in the distance.

You groaned from the warmth and safety of your bed. You initially chalked up the banging to a loose piece of wood rapping against your home due to the fierce storm last night, however it was too consistent. It was rhythmic, a simple tune.

After a few more grueling minutes of banging, you had finally come to the unfortunate conclusion someone was at your front door. It was all but shortly confirmed when your name was shouted from the other side.

Fuck.

You rolled out of bed, and shuffled down the hall to the front door. The storm raged nearly all night and you - what felt like minutes ago - had just fallen asleep, only to now be awoken by a demanding stranger. Whoever they were, they were not your favorite person in the world at this moment.

More irritating knocking.

“I’m coming!” You shouted, and grumbled a string of curses under the next breath.

I swear -

You flung open the door.

To your surprise, Beverly Keane stood on the other side with her fist raised about to cause more commotion. Beverly was never your favorite person to begin with, so this irksome early morning encounter didn’t change much. The two of you were cordial at best, but never friends or even neighbors for this matter. So, to see her on your doorstep was a miracle in itself.

You leaned on your doorframe in your baggy, stained, clothes compared to her neatly pressed blouse, hand knit cardigan, and ankle length skirt. You crossed your arms, eyeing her curiously. “Morning, Beverly, what can I do for you?”

She lowered her fist and cleared her throat. “I’ve come to possibly ask for your assistance for a certain task.”

You cocked an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

Her lips thinned. “The church has some possible leaks. Early this morning, Father Paul had noticed some puddles and suspected it to be from holes in the roof. We were hoping you could give your professional opinion on them and fix them however you see fit.”

“And what about Sturge?”

Sturge was more of Beverly’s choice in these types of matters. Although he was a construction worker much like yourself, he also dealt - and you believed preferred - with managing all the boats of Crockett Island. While, you preferred the land.

“Yes, well, Sturge is a busy man dealing with the Bell and the Breeze. So, you are the next best logical solution to our problem.”

You hummed a faint ‘Ah’.

“So?” Beverly paused. Disdain flickered behind her beady eyes then asked, “Will you help?”

You weren’t a churchgoer, or very religious in general. You had an inclination that Beverly would rather swallow rusty nails, then deal with your apparent skepticism and the sin which trailed along behind you. Yet, here she was. She had swallowed those nails, put on a strained smile hoping you could help, while secretly praying you wouldn’t.

So, why would you say no, giving her that satisfaction?

“Yeah,” you answered swiftly, pushing yourself off the doorframe. “Give me like an hour to get dressed, get something to eat, get my things together, and I’ll be over.”

She smiled, that awfully pained one. “Great, the Father will be happy to hear it.”

“I’m sure he will. Later, Beverly.”

She simply hummed, spinning on her heel and walking off in a slight puff.

Shutting the door, you rubbed your temples and reluctantly began your day.

After your typical morning routine, you headed outside to your garage - or refurbished shed. It was no bigger than your bedroom, and somewhat cramped. But, it was enough for you, your work, and your hobbies. Opening up the double doors, you strolled in and yanked on the pull cord. A single bright light flickered on it the center of the room, and was quickly followed by a stream of soft orange glow. The top corners were strung with hanging lights, similar to fairy lights.

A smile tugged on your lips.

Your workshop.

You truly spent more time out here than in your own house; which was shown by the stack of dirty cups and plates left behind on your workbench. Wood chips and dust covered them as unfinished projects leaned up against the tower of dishes.

You turned your attention to the far corner of the shed to a bulky blue tarp. Walking the few short paces, you yanked it off revealing a golf cart underneath - one with a few modifications. Perfect for any weather: rain, wind, or sun. It was one of, if not the only, vehicle on this island. Most people walked to where they needed to go: to the general store, to the ferries, or to the church, that was it.

Not much to do, or explore, on Crockett Island.

Your cart had become a staple on the small island, from time to time it served as fun rides during community get-togethers or the go-to for helping lug around stuff. The backend had a trunk bed perfect for all activities but now was filled with tools, all of which was from your last job - helping redo the sign of the general store. Items you were honestly too lazy to put back in their proper places. But, not all the items.

You quickly scoured through your shed and piled other possible tools you may need as well as securing the ladder in place. You pushed open the double doors as far back as they could go, picked the keys off the nearby hook, and started it up. The cart rumbled to life. You backed out carefully, hopped off to shut the doors, then sped off down the dirt path.

You arrived at the church in what felt like seconds.

Tires kicked up mud as you parked out front. You looked around hoping to find the Father - or the newest one: Father Paul Hill, the temporary replacement for Monsignor Pruitt until his health returns. But, unfortunately, you doubted it. Pruitt had withered, and stories swirled about his deteriorating state of mind.

You sighed, and turned off the cart.

Better to start then wait around.

You grabbed your tool belt, and the ladder, then strolled over to the side of the church. You unfolded the ladder and extended it out, leaning it against the green tinted, once freshly painted white, wooden boards. You slowly climbed up and -

It slipped.

Your heart sank.

Luckily, it only slipped a few inches.

The rubber ends of the ladder slid across the still dewy grass; a quick settling.

Shaking your head, you let out a shaky breath. You cursed under your breath, and climbed - scrambled - up the ladder faster than before. However, up top, you paused. Inhaling the smell of the wet earth, you sighed loudly. A smile stretched over your lips. Spinning around, you were king of your own world. Nothing could touch you. Nothing mattered. Up high, the after storm breeze kissed your cheeks. It blew through your clothes and hair uplifting you. You closed your eyes, tilting your head back. The sunlight, through the moving clouds, warmed your chilly skin.

This.

This was one of the few perks of working in construction.

Opening your eyes, you lowered them to the roof, one that had seen better days. Time to work. You carefully treaded over the shingles to the back corner. You decided to work your way up, inspecting every inch and spot these leaks Beverly spoke of.

One there.

And there.

And -

A minor sinking feeling weighed in the pit of your stomach. Maybe, you should have told Beverly no. It wasn’t much work, but it would be busy, tedious work. Then again, you supposed being busy was better than no work at all.

After marking all the leaks and the areas for new shingles, you finally reached the front of the church roof. You carefully walked up to the edge, your fingers found purchase in the grooves of the tower for the church bell. A bell which hardly ever rang these days. You could recall on your hands alone the amount of times the brass bell rang, most of which were for funerals and the occasional rare wedding.

You casted your gaze up to the cloudy sky, watching as the grey clouds skated across it and taking the muggy cool air with it. Treetops, still bare and preparing for spring, swayed and bent. You cautiously leaned closer into the tower, trying to enjoy your world in the clouds.

Footsteps clapped.

Your eyes instantly dropped.

Father Paul climbed down the steps of the church, heading for the path.

“Hello, Father.”

Father Paul jumped and spun around. He looked left and right until he finally turned his gaze upward to you. You smiled down at him. He quickly matched your smiling, chuckling to himself. “I was wondering why I was hearing thudding earlier. I had forgotten Ms. Keane informed me you would be inspecting the roof today.”

Seeing how I didn’t know until this morning, it’s not a surprise.

“Yeah, just me up here. Not Santa or God knocking.”

He laughed, shaking his head.

In that brief moment, you had unknowingly decided you always wanted to hear his laugh.

Father Paul Hill was handsome with a kind, charming face. A face of a good hearted person, a face perfect for a priest. You only caught glimpses of him, but you knew the second your eye laid on him your heart was stolen.

Stolen by a saint.

A true tragedy.

“So,” he placed his hands on his hips, “what’s the damage?”

You hissed through your teeth. “Ooo, it’s going to be expensive. New roof, new everything, and it will cost you a lot of money.”

His shoulders dropped along with his smile. “Oh, well, I guess that should have been a given. It has been around for -“

“I’m joking!” You cut him off. His sullen face was a stab in your heart. You had hoped he caught into your sarcasm, and teasing tone, but he hadn’t. “I’m sorry, I was just messing with you, Father. It’s just a few small holes which is a pretty easy fix. I could get started tomorrow.”

His eyes lit up. “Oh, oh! That’s great to hear. Sorry, humor is not so prevalent in the church.” His lips twitched upward. Humor may be zapped from the church, but not from him, not entirely.

You snorted. “Right.”

“Ah, Father, have you made all the arrangements for the service?”

Both you and Father Paul turned your attention to Beverly approaching.

She glanced up at you, her smile tight. “(Y/N), how lovely it is to see you again. I bet the view from up there is one of a kind, especially on a church roof. Higher to God than anyone else here.” She clapped her hands in front of her. “So, what can you tell us about the roof?”

You opened your mouth, however, Father Paul answered for you instead. “Expensive, far, far more than either of us could have anticipated.”

He threw you a sly smirk. You had to bite back your smile. But, Beverly simply sighed with her usual frown. “Of course, it’s an old church, not a spring chicken like any of us here. I suppose we could funnel some founds -“

“Bev, I’m joking.” Father Paul interrupted. “(Y/N) said it is an easy fix and can start tomorrow.”

Beverly blinked. “Oh!” She then smiled widely with far too many teeth. “You are a trickster, Father Paul.”

She chuckled.

Father Paul rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly.

Beverly turned her beady gaze back onto you. “A quick repair, I hope?”

You best complete it quickly.

You smiled, almost sneering at her. “Yes, I can get it all done tomorrow, it’ll just be a couple of hours. I can make a call to Sturge to pick up a few things on the mainland for me and bring it back on the Breeze. The rest I can pick up at the general store or I already have it back at my house.”

“Perfect.” She looked back to the Father. “Well, if everything is good then I’ll be off. I will see you later, Father. And have a pleasant day to you, (Y/N).”

“See you around, Beverly.”

She nodded then walked off down the rocky path.

Back to her cave.

“Well, is there anything you need?”

Your eyes wandered back to Father Paul. His eager - always ready to assist - eyes bore up at you. Eyes of a priest devoted to the community. You smiled. Warm, and welcoming, so unlike the short one you gave Beverly. “Actually, yes.”

He perked up.

“Can you just hold the ladder for me? It slid a few inches earlier from last night’s rain and it’s probably okay now, but I don’t want to risk it.”

“Of course.” He rounded the church and you followed him from up on the roof. He latched onto the end of the ladder, peering up at you. “Okay, I got you,” he smiled up at you.

I got you.

Three simple words never made you feel so safe, so seen. Your heart flipped in your chest at its little innocent crush. You, however, quickly brushed aside those thoughts and feelings. Gripping the ladder, you made your slow, careful descent.

Father Paul watched for a moment, almost unsure where else to look. His heart skipped - a flutter, an ache. He quickly glanced away, finding interest in the damp grass, in the tiny water droplets, not in your body, not in -

“Alright, Father, you can back up now. I’m good from here.” He was jolted out of his thoughts and stepped back - two large steps. You hopped down the last steps and twisted around smiling at him. “Thanks for the help.”

“No problem.” His heart hammered, lodging into his throat. It pushed, and constricted his airways, similar to the sensation forming in his pants. A sensation he had long since forgotten.

Or tried to.

“Well, I guess I will be back tomorrow morning. Until then, Father.”

“… until then, (Y/N).” He mumbled.

He slowly retreated to his rectory, however he kept glancing back. He watched as you effortlessly folded your ladder, lifted it up, and hooked it to your cart. You were fluid like a dancer: spinning to pick up the tool bin, swaying your hips to scoot around edges, hopping to the tips of your toes to secure everything down.

It was hypnotic to watch.

He swallowed, pushing down old feelings.

You jumped into your cart ready to go. Yet, you couldn’t help it. You peered over your shoulder. Father Paul awkwardly stood on the porch, he gave a lopsided smile and waved. A warmth spread over your chest. You returned the smile - brighter and fuller than his - and waved goodbye before driving off.

Leaving you both excited for tomorrow to come.

The next morning, Father Paul leaned on one of the posts on his porch overlooking the scenery: low fog skirted over the ground; the sunlight streamed through the trees, not yet quite high in the pale clear sky. He clutched a hot cup of coffee, hugging it for warmth. He inhaled the steamy bitterness, and sighed deeply.

This was one of his favorite pastimes. To pause, to breathe, and to watch.

But, there was another reason. One he didn’t dare speak out loud.

He was waiting for you.

He wanted to see you before he truly started his day. He wanted to see your smile, and how it reached your eyes making them crinkle. He wanted to hear your voice, and how it sang above all the other bland white noises. He wanted to be near you, to feel your presence, and how it warmed his body and soul.

He wanted to see his walking desires.

The one person who haunted his waking and sleeping mind. The one person who distracted him from his purpose, his path.

He itched.

He itched - like an addict - to get a glimpse of you.

He sipped his coffee, hoping it could soothe the itch - the need.

It didn’t.

It didn’t even compare.

He eyed his watch. He sighed, as his shoulders drooped. There were things to do, and he shouldn’t waste any more time. He spun on his heel, taking two steps towards the door.

Rocks and pebbles kicked up, bouncing and rolling across the path. The crunching grew louder and louder. Tires screeched to a grinding halt.

Father Paul whipped around. His fingers immediately retracted from the doorknob.

Your cart pulled up to the church, parking crookedly. You hopped out and stared up at the old church. A determined smile crossed your lips.

The Father’s heart skipped.

You, however, had yet to see him. So, you started to set up a workstation with a table and an assortment of tools and supplies. You grabbed the ladder and propped it against the church, giving it a good shake ensuring it would hopefully not slip this time.

You twisted back around.

A figure was caught in your peripheral vision. You glanced over. It was Father Paul. He stood on his porch, watching you. He was still in what you assumed to be pajamas: grey sweatpants, plain white shirt, and a muted blue cardigan pulled over his shoulders.

So domestic. So ordinary. Right then, he was a face that would get lost in a crowd. A man who woke up for work at a boring office job. Not a man who dedicated his life to faith.

Your heart fluttered at the rare sight. You waved at him, smiling.

He smiled, waving back.

Your eyes soaked in his appearance, one last time, before turning and getting to work.

Father Paul hungrily scanned you up and down, one last hit, and walked indoors.

You walked over to your cart, grabbed a pair of headphones then pressed play on your phone. Fast pace music, a heavy bass, flooded your ears shaking off the rest of your morning exhaustion. You bobbed your head along to the beat, smiling to yourself. You laid out a tarp at the side of the church for any debris. You clipped on your tool belt, hoisted a pile of shingles over your shoulders, and climbed up the ladder. Stepping onto the roof, you moved around setting yourself up.

The music uplifted you, it energized you.

It also trapped you within your own secluded world. You failed to notice a bump, or hear a bang.

Unaware of anything, you strolled over to the first leak and got to work. You removed and tossed the old shingles over the side into the blue tarp. You patched and fixed the roof underneath, then started laying out and nailing in the new shingles. A mindless task. One shingle, a few nails, another shingle, more nails - it was an easy pattern, an easy rhythm which matched your music. But, when you reached over you found nothing, you were one shingle short.

You sighed heavily, groaning internally.

You stood up and walked towards the ladder and -

You froze.

Where’s the ladder?

Carefully, you peered over the edge. The ladder in question was sprawled out in the grass like a drunken fool passed out after a rough night. You pinched the bridge of your nose.

Of course. Of fucking course.

You looked back down. You were way too high up. Even if you managed to dangle yourself over the edge - without damaging the roof more - you would still seriously hurt yourself. Fuck me. You crouched down, trying to peer into the Father's cabin. Maybe he is still home. You didn’t see him leave, but then again you didn’t notice knocking over the ladder.

You grumbled.

You couldn’t see anything from this high angle. All you saw was the bottom of the door and the porch.

You sighed, and pulled off your headphones. “Father?” You called out.

Nothing.

Your lips thinned. “Father Paul?” You shouted louder this time.

Seconds ticked.

Your nerves rose.

“Father Paul -“

The front door burst open. Father Paul, poor Father Paul, stumbled out wide eyed.

And halfway through his morning routine.

His raven hair was damp and slicked back. His typical attire - black button up and jeans - was half done. His sleeves were rolled up and the top few buttons were undone, exposing his chest speckled in water droplets, and a used face cloth was tossed over his shoulder. His face was hastily wiped clean, missing spots of shaving cream under his chin. Yet, his chin still sported a five o’clock shadow.

He was fresh out of the shower, and about to shave.

You almost felt bad.

Almost.

An intense heat spread over your chest to the tips of your ears.

Domestic just like before, but far from ordinary. It was scandalous - sinful. Like a behind the scenes picture no one should see, or it would shatter the illusion.

Your thoughts swirled widely out of control. Thoughts of watching him shave as you leaned on the bathroom door and him catching your loving gaze in the mirror, maybe you even offer to help when he missed a spot; thoughts of him in the shower then stepping out wrapping a towel around his waist and running his fingers through his wet hair as water drips down his back and chest; thoughts of you hopping into the shower with him and helping wash away the dirt and day away; thoughts of -

“- the problem?”

You snapped out of your thoughts. You peered down. He stood at the side of the church, glancing up at you. His eyebrows knitted together, and his eyes - those warm brown chocolate eyes - filled with concern. You cleared your throat, “I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t mean to …”

To what? Frighten him? Break him out of his routine? Have these lewd thoughts? You felt there was a lot to apologize for.

“Nonsense, don’t apologize, you called for me. So, what seems to be the problem?”

“It’s honestly not that big of a deal.” You sighed and joked, “It seems the ladder and I are fighting again. It doesn’t want to cooperate today.”

Father Paul looked around to see yes it was knocked over buried within the grass. He snorted. “So it seems.”

“Could you please just lean it back up against the church for me?”

He placed his hands on his hips, smiling up at you. “I will, but you should invest in a standalone ladder, one that can support itself.”

“I should, but good old reliable never steered me wrong before.”

“And yet here we are.”

You chuckled, “Yeah, I guess you got me there.”

He smiled, shaking his head. He walked over and picked up the dysfunctional ladder. He carefully placed it against the church, but he didn’t let go.

You smiled down at him. “You can let go. It shouldn’t fall this time.”

“And I’m not taking any chances.”

“Suit yourself.”

He did.

In the guise of being the generous helping hand, he stayed put. His fists tightened, the metal edges burying into his palms, as he watched you. His heart skipped - flew. It leapt out of its rusty cage and fluttered happily around. It was dizzying, more so than yesterday. And it was also wrong, he almost felt like a peeping Tom. But, disgust had no room in his heart.

Before you could speak, Father Paul gingerly stepped back giving you the space. You landed firmly on the ground, and spun around smiling at him. “Thanks … again.”

He smiled, tilting his head. “Anytime.”

The two of you shared a moment.

A moment of rising tension. It buzzed in your chest and over your skin. It crackled in the air, the beginning of an explosion - a ticking time bomb.

You, however, quickly stepped in, snipping the wires to defuse it.

Hopefully, the correct ones.

You tore your gaze away. “Right, well, I guess I’ll get back to work. I’ll holler again if I need anything.”

“Please do.”

You tried not to stare, tried to keep those sinful thoughts at bay. So, you simply smiled and nodded, afraid of your own voice at this moment.

Father Paul smiled back then turned around heading back inside.

You greedily drank him in with his back turned. His jeans were far too tight for a priest. He ducked inside, shutting the door behind him.

The thud of the door broke you out of your trance. You sighed, banging your fist against your head. As if to try and knock out these thoughts, these persisting thoughts. So, you instead put your focus back into your work.

Something the Father should also be doing. His to-do list only seemed to grow. Yet, when Father Paul finished his morning routine, he stood by his window watching you.

He watched as you glided around - floating with a hum in your throat; watched as you swayed your hips to your music; watched as you patted your forehead dry with the edge of your shirt granting him a glimpse of your body; watched as you stood on the roof staring off into the woods or up at the sky; watched as you drank your water and splashed yourself a bit to cool yourself off; watched as -

Watched as desire planted its intoxicating roots deeper within his heart.

Everything - everything - you did was captivating. He simply couldn't tear his eyes away. It was his own personal play, show, or movie he wouldn’t dare blink or glance away fearing to miss a single important detail.

You stood on the new patched roof with your hands on your hips. A proud smile wormed its way onto your lips. Your work was finally completed and flawless. Satisfied, you stepped down the ladder, tossing your headphones on your makeshift workbench. You grabbed your water, taking a long needed swig.

“Is it safe to say you completed your repairs?”

You turned, looking at Father Paul. You swallowed the last of your water, and placed it on the bench. “Yeah,” you breathed out.

“Impressive,” he glanced over to the church, “you accomplished it far quicker than I thought you would. But, I should have expected this from one of the best.”

Your cheeks warmed a little under his praise. “Yes, well, it was a simple fix.”

He smiled, softly. “One that I couldn’t fix. I would probably have made a bigger hole if I was up there.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Well, I don’t think I could talk for hours in front of a crowd every week. We all have our own strengths.”

He blinked, surprised by your comment, then chuckled. “Yes, I suppose you are right.”

You truly loved his laugh. The deep rumble, like the sound of angels blowing their trumpets.

“Actually, I have something to ask of you before you go.” He shuffled side to side. “I think there is a draft coming through the bedroom window, do … do you think you could take a look at it?”

You had nowhere else to be, so you nodded. “Sure.”

You followed the Father into the small cabin and into the back to the bedroom. Your mind tried to wander with distracting thoughts, but you focused on what the Father asked of you.

And not on where he slept.

You ran your fingers over the window, examining it while Father Paul hovered in the doorway.

There.

A breeze blew from the lower left corner.

“Yeah, I can feel a breeze right here but nothing a little caulk can’t fix. And lucky for you Father I have some with me.”

“A true miracle.” He joked.

You snorted.

You shot up and brushed by him - ignoring how your skin flared being so close - to go back to your cart to grab a tube of caulk. Walking back in, you showed him the tube with a triumphant smile. He laughed a little to himself.

Back in his bedroom, you crouched down to your knees in front of the window. Your fingers trailed along the edges, finding the correct spot. Here. Air whistled. A chill blew on the pads of your fingers. Lifting up the tube of caulk, you sealed off the corner.

“This should do the trick,” you said out loud. “And looking at this, I would keep an eye out for any more drafts. Maybe in a year or two someone should replace the frames, it looks like the salty air and weather in general has worn them down a bit.”

You temporarily set the caulk on the floor to inspect your work. Perfect. You turned to ask the Father if he needed anything else when you were met with darkness.

Well, darkness of jeans.

Your eyes trailed up.

Father Paul loomed over you. He bent slightly looking at your handiwork. His eyes dropped, connecting with yours. He smiled, “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind for Monsignor.”

Your breath hitched.

He was so close.

With you on your knees, in front of him, it sent a whirlwind of emotions rushing through you. Your mouth dried. Those thoughts from earlier happily returned.

Swallowing nervously, you slowly rose to your feet, all the while unable to break eye contact with Father Paul. He never stepped back. He only straightened his back giving you the thin room to stand.

A shared bated breath passed.

The tension returned; the explosion now imminent.

Your feverish heartbeat rang in your ears.

Say something.

Move.

Yet, all your reasonable thoughts vanished at the mere possibility of what could happen.

Then Father Paul’s eyes flickered. A quick jump, a flash to your parted lips. He was enthralled, fascinated by the plump curves.

The detonator stopped ticking, and was shortly followed by sweet destruction.

Like a coiled viper, Father Paul leapt. His hands cupped your face, fiercely pulled you in.

His lips meddled against yours.

You hummed, fluttering your eyes closed.

Your feet stumbled backwards and your back hit the wall. Like horny teenagers, both of your hands touched every part of each other’s body.

Father Paul broke the kiss - and you almost whined - but his lips quickly moved to your jaw and down your neck. Sighing, you craned your neck and bunched up the front of his shirt. His surprisingly nimble fingers unclipped your tool belt, sending it crashing to the ground with a thunderous bang.

That should have been the warning. That should have snapped each of you out of your haze.

Yet, it only fueled you both.

Like a dinner bell.

Father Paul nipped at your neck, enjoying your shallow breathy sighs. Your hands caressed his chest. You, however, were craving more. Lust was injected into your veins; all by a certain someone sucking and marking at your neck. But, his shirt and those pesky buttons were in the way. You tried to undo - tried, and tired, fumbling them with your shaky hand. Frustrated, you ripped open his shirt, sending buttons pinging onto the floor. Your cool hands ran over his hot skin. He hummed, nuzzling his face into your neck. Taking a low steady breath, his fingers greedily unbuttoned your pants. You pushed off the wall, forcing him back.

Clothes started to fly off.

You shimmied out of your pants and removed your shirt. Father Paul tossed aside his ruined shirt. He ripped off his belt and awkwardly kicked off his pants. It left you both only in your undergarments, but you could only be apart for so long.

You grabbed Father Paul’s face, bringing him in for another kiss. Far messier, more needy. He groaned. His hands splayed on your lower back, flushing you against his body. He was desperate to have you as close as possible. His hand inched up, following the curve of your back. His fingers easily unhooked your bra, and easily tossed it aside.

He soon guided you over to his bed. The back of your knees hit the edge and sent you tumbling backwards. You flopped onto the springy mattress, staring up breathless at Paul.

And he looked down at you like you were his meal.

He crawled over top of you, stealing another kiss. Painfully short, but still so sweet. He then followed a downward path. His lips down your neck, down your collarbone, and down the valley of your breast. Smirking, he moved and wrapped his lips on one of your nipples, swirling his tongue around it.

You moaned, threading your fingers through his hair.

He smiled, eager to hear such noises.

His lips ghosted over your skin to the other breast so it may receive the same treatment. You hummed, tightening your grip into his hair. And ever so slightly, you nudged him downward.

He chuckled.

His eyes flickered up.

You bit your lip, unable to hide your excited smile.

Maintaining eye contact, he continued to kiss down your body, down your stomach, over your hips, and where you wanted him most. His hot breath blew over your clothed core, sending shivers down your spine. “Fuck,” you whispered.

He smirked.

One of his fingers hooked around your underwear and slowly slipped them off, throwing them into the pile. He peppered delicate kisses up your inner thigh, and jumped to the other side missing where you needed him.

You whined.

He nipped at your thigh, marking a place only he was allowed to be. Your fingers tangled into his hair, yanking on those dark locks. He groaned. His eyes peered up at you. You squirmed, and wriggled. You whispered a plea - a prayer.

Paul couldn’t deny you - or himself - any longer.

His mouth dove in.

You moaned out his name.

His tongue slipped between your wet folds, instantly addicted to your taste. He devoured you, devoured you as if it was his last supper.

You bucked your hips.

His hands latched onto your hips, holding you down as he ate you out. He hummed, and moaned, sending toe curling vibrations throughout your body. He threw one of your legs over his shoulder, burying himself further. His nose rubbed against your clit, bringing about such dizzying pleasure.

You tugged on his hair, chanting his name.

He moaned. He could and will get drunk on this, drunk on your taste. Worst of all, he will always want to hear how his name tumbled off your lips. He loved how it rolled off your tongue, loved how you whimpered, loved how every sound you made was a fuel to a growing fire. Even now, the tent in his boxers was painful. Every moment, the smallest twitch against the rough fabric, sent pleasure through him.

And oh, how he wanted you.

But, he also wanted to savor this.

He pulled away from you.

You whined. You were so close. You cracked open your eyes, peeking down at him. His lips and chin glistened. His wonderfully pink lips curled into a giddy smile, his eyes twinkled like a child given an early Christmas.

His finger slipped inside of you.

You moaned, arching your back as your hands now clenched the bedsheets.

His smile widened.

However, a light knocking cut through all the pleasure.

Tap, tap, tap.

Your heart dropped into your stomach. Your head snapped over to thankfully - and surprisingly - find the bedroom door pulled almost all the way closed, just the tiniest sliver left opened. You could only see the corner of the desk, and the adjacent windowsill but nothing more.

When was it shut?

The front door creaked open followed by footsteps.

The Father, however, was undeterred. His movements were a constant rhythm, a slow unwavering beat.

You threw your forearm over your mouth, muffling any noises from slipping out.

Footsteps crept closer to the bedroom door. A shadow passed over the crack. “Father? Father Paul, are you in here?”

Beverly Keane.

Paul stared directly at you as he spoke. “I’m sorry, Beverly, but I’m a bit indecent at the moment.”

“Oh!” Her footsteps retreated back to the front door. “Apologies, Father. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“That’s okay, Beverly.” His thumb swiped over your swollen clit. Your body reacted, grinding down on his thick fingers. Yet, you viciously bit down on your forearm preventing any moans from escaping.

The front door creaked again. But, it did not shut nor did you hear her footsteps fade away. Beverly hovered in the doorway, clearly still in need of something. “I’m so sorry for barging in, but I was hoping you may have any insight about the repairs and (Y/N), has she finished yet?”

Paul’s once sweet, charming smile shifted into a devilish smirk. His eyes locked onto your shaking frame, desperately trying to hold it together, while his fingers were buried deep inside of you. He curled his fingers. You dropped your hands, twisting them into the sheets as you bit down on your lip about to draw blood.

“No, she hasn’t.” His eyes sparkled with such mischief.

“Of course.” Beverly replied, with a knowing - I had expected this - tone.

“It will get done,” Paul answered quickly. His voice was so soothing, and so calming. Oh, how lies easily spilled off his silver tongue. Especially for one devoted to faith. “She ran to the general store for one thing she had unfortunately forgotten, and will be returning shortly.”

“Right.” She only sounded convinced because of the Father’s words. “Again, I wish to apologize for intruding, I will be on my way now. I will see you later, Father.”

“Good day, Beverly.”

The door softly clicked closed.

You squeezed your eyes shut, still biting your lips as you tried to listen to Beverly’s fading footsteps and not the wet sounds or encouraging hums from Paul. His fingers curled and -

Your mouth fell open, unleashing a wanton moan. “Fuck.”

“I’m impressed,” Paul hummed, stroking your walls and feeling as they clenched nearing your release. “Not a single peep out of you when we had a guest.”

You wanted to curse at him.

You wanted to scream.

But, you couldn’t muster anything with his fingers still inside of you. Not when he moved faster, not when he whispered praise, not when he watched you hungrily. You were at his mercy.

“I’m curious,” he said nonchalantly, watching as his fingers continuously disappeared inside of you, “what would you have done if Miss Keane saw us? Hide? Run? Deny it … let her watch?”

You whimpered. You didn’t like Beverly, but the idea of her finding you in bed with the Father sent a course of excitement through your veins.

You were the temptation for Father Paul’s demise.

It empowered you, it thrilled you.

Paul smirked. He knew it turned you on, watching as you shivered and squirmed. He licked his lips, “Personally, I believe she would combust, it would be utter blasphemy in her eyes. And yet -“

You moaned, bucking your hips.

“- how could such sweet sounds be blasphemy? This is divine, this is heaven sent, this is a culmination of God’s intervention and work.” He let out a shaky breath. “And you, my dear, are God’s finest work … so beautiful … so lovely.”

You whined at his praises, at his buttery words.

“My dear, will you please come for me?” His thick fingers pumped in and out, curling and caressing you - edging you. “I want to see it.”

You wanted to - god you wanted to, just for him. You grinded down on his fingers as pleasure filled you.

“Yes, just like that,” Paul cooed. “God, so beautiful, so elegant.”

His thumb curled around your clit in a constant rhythm. You gasped, burying your face into the sheets. You cursed and moaned. “Paul,” you whined.

“I’m here, oh please, be good for me.”

His words, his touch.

It pushed you over the edge.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you arched your back and fired out his name as you gushed over his fingers. Stars. Brilliant bright stars erupted behind your eyelids. Bliss, heavenly bliss, coursed through you.

Paul beamed, gently working you through your orgasm. Your chest heaved as you gulped for air. All of this was his doing, all of this was because of him.

He removed his fingers.

You whimpered at the loss of sensation. Your mind swam, still foggy in the hazy bliss. Faint movement rustled; the bed creaked and dipped. Cracking open your eyes, Paul crawled back on top of you. Your heart jumped into your throat.

You had it wrong earlier.

No.

You were not the temptation for Father Paul.

He was the temptation. He was the devil in disguise, he was the serpent whispering in your ear.

He smiled down at you. He bent down, kissing you softly. You humming lovingly. Your hands cupped his face, your thumb gently stroked his cheek.

He then, without warning, teased your entrance with the tip of his cock.

You gasped.

He chuckled, his eyes lit with sin.

He did it again.

You bit your lip, suppressing the lewd moans from escaping.

“Please,” he dropped his head, whispering into your ear, “I want to hear you.”

Your heart skipped.

But, you also wanted to hear him, to hear his moans. You wanted to see him fall apart, you wanted to see bliss washing over his features. Most of all, you wanted to pleasure him, to give back what he gave to you.

Thrilled by the idea, you hooked your leg over his waist and flipped him - quite easily - over. Paul flopped onto his back, his arms thrown out to the sides with his usual combed back hair dangling in front of his face. His eyebrows shot up.

You smirked.

In this new position, you took control and lowered yourself onto him, watching as his surprise melted away to pleasure. His eyes fluttered close, and his mouth hung open. His hands latched onto your waist as his fingers dug into your hips to find grounding in this high.

You moved languidly. Enjoying how he craned his neck back, seeing his veins pop in his neck, and how his lips - perfect and eloquent - fall open into a blubbering incoherent mess.

Your hands rested on his chest, and you rose and slammed down.

He moaned, followed by a string of curses.

Not very Fatherly.

You smirked to yourself, and continued to move up and down. He whispered your name, strained on his lips. You closed your eyes, letting your own pleasure take control. You tossed your head back as you bounced on his cock. He lazily opened his eyes, a tired smile stretched over his lips. Your back arched, your head tilted up to heaven. It was like a renaissance painting, the perfect depiction of lust. “Divine.” He mumbled.

You opened your eyes, looking down at him.

He was still smiling.

A warmth bloomed over your chest.

You leaned down and kissed him. You slowly pulled away, leaving a thin space between the two of you. “You are the one that is divine,” your thumb ran over his bottom lip, “divine and ravishing, and the best kind of temptation there is.”

You sat back, smirking at his dumbfounded face.

You rolled your hips.

Paul stuttered out a moan.

You knew you loved his laughter, but you might love his sweet moans more. Paul’s nail dug into your hips. “Good god, please don’t stop.”

You wouldn’t.

You moved with new vigor. Every one of his moans and pleas stoked the fire burning inside of you. He soon met your pace and thrusted up. You leaned your hands on his chest, moaning. Your nails scraped down his chest, leaving faint red lines carved into his perfect skin.

He shivered.

You bounced on his cock faster listening to the wet noises and skin smacking together. It was all nearly drowned out by your racing heart, by the intense hum of soon to be all-consuming pleasure, by the high pitched creaking of the old bed springs.

Paul thrusted up again.

“Fuck,” you moaned.

You moved faster, wishing to reach your end and his. Your legs began to shake, yet Paul’s steady hands guided you along, kept you moving. He groaned, his cock twitched inside of you. He whispered hastily, “Please, don’t stop, god you’re doing so good. I’m -“

Paul moaned as you rocked your hips.

“God, please do that again,” he begged.

You did.

He whimpered. “Fuck.”

You did it again, and again, and again.

Paul gasped. He couldn’t hold it back much longer. He was nearing his end. “I … I can’t last much longer.”

You reached a hand and cupped his face gingerly. You smiled softly, “Good.”

You bit your lip and used the last of your energy. You pounded yourself against him. He moaned, and easily matched your pace. You wanted to collapse into him. To let his body, his flesh, his mind, his soul consume you.

“God, you are beautiful,” he muttered, “please I want to hear you one last time.”

You shivered.

Your walls fluttered around him, a final warning.

He whispered your name over and over like it was his only prayer. You moved once, then twice, and then he finally fell. He cried out your name, forcing your hips down and bruising them in the process. Your walls clamped down around him. You moaned loudly, as more heavenly bliss filled you. Fuck. Your movements now slow, and weak, as you ride out your combined highs. Until finally, you stopped exhausted, yet with his cock still buried deep inside you.

Heavy breathing filled the now quiet space.

Paul stared up at you. Your head was still bowed forward as you catched your breath. He licked his lips. His thumbs rubbed soothing circles on your hips, guiding you back down to earth.

He wanted to see you like this indefinitely.

To hear such sweet melodies.

To see you every day and every night.

To always touch you and hold you knowing you were his and his alone.

He licked his lips, a little nervous, as this seed of hope and want began to bloom. He cleared his throat, “You know, I think the sink is also broken if you wish to come by tomorrow. It drips constantly.”

You lifted your head. You stared at him, stared into his pleading eyes. And you simply couldn’t help it. You laughed. You laughed wholeheartedly, shaking your head. “I see the church still hasn’t taken your humor yet.” You bent down, hovering over him. Your lips skimmed over his, “I’ll be here.”

“Good.” He smiled and pulled you down for another kiss.

Yeah, he was temptation.

The best kind.

#midnight mass #midnight mass smut #father paul hill #father paul x reader #father paul smut #monsignor pruitt #monsignor pruitt x reader #afab!reader #fem!reader #smut #midnight mass imagine #father Paul imagine

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nilla-bear · 4 months

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#rahul kohli #midnight mass #sheriff hassan #perpetually suspicious sheriff #I wish he would've decked Bev in like episode 1 #imagine how short MM would've been if he did #like knock some sense into that insane ass woman #he's so fine though fr i need him #my screencaps

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everythingbutresolved · 1 year

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🫥🫡

😮‍💨🤷🏼‍♂️

😰👮

😟🩸

#midnight mass #bev keane #raley finn #sheriff hassan #father paul hill #hamish linklater #hamfam #imagine these three having an A.A. meeting #with Father Paul zoning out #midnight mass recap

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rego-mem · 1 year

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Little things to bright my mood.

The Faith >> Midnight mass pipeline is real.

Honestly, I collect slightly fucked up priests like they are Pokémons (and then send them all to therapy)

#faith the unholy trinity #john ward #midnight mass #paul hill #john pruitt #honestly how should I tag this guy?#my art #you can't even imagine amount of pathetic priests in my blorbo collection

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oddishblossom · 1 year

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Do you remember a few days before you left town? We grabbed a rowboat and we towed out far, smoked a pack of cigarettes, and watched the sun come up… Will you do that with me now?

MIDNIGHT MASS

Erin & Riley’s Last Sunrise

#midnightmassedit #midnight mass #horroredit #mikeflanaganuniverse #thehauntingsource #netflixedit #riley flynn #erin greene #mike flanagan #my gifs!#midnight mass spoilers #death tw #flashing tw #alright take two #this set was a pain to color #the boat scene was actually the first set i wanted to make back in november #but the original footage is so dark and grey and ahhh it took me forever to get it to look the way i imagined #i really am super fond of this scene :)

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aesopsharpmybeloved · 1 year

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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

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sweetlytempests · 2 days

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i appreciate that the starbreaker fandom (and the jace stans specifically) all looked at the finale and said "well if brennan is gonna let this perfectly good twink go to waste, we'll take him." now he's ours and i think that's beautiful.

#starbreaker #jace stardiamond #brennan clearly went for the best comedy angle with jace and porter both and that's valid and it was great for what it was. but.#brennan have you considered the DRAMA? the ANGST? the inherent homoeroticism of divine worship?#have you seen 'midnight mass' brennan?#have you ever read a CLAMP manga brennan #'they're just dumb and incompetent and also jace is mind controlled' that's great but have you considered the tragedy of a doomed romance #have you considered what would happen if you willingly chose to follow a man down a dark path and let him cut your chest open #and put a magic rage crystal in it so you can help him achieve godhood that you truly believe he deserves #could you imagine how much more narratively satisfying it might've been if they'd actually been smart and maybe even achieved their goals #it's okay brennan you don't have to consider anymore because we got you. we got you. we'll do it for you #don't worry

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angelyuji · 11 months

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what romance trope would they have?

characters: miguel o’hara, matt murdock, father paul hill, peter parker (any live action), natasha romanov, regulus black, harley quinn [all x gn!reader]

warnings: angst... idk... none really lol kinda cute too kinda idk im insecure about my writing

this is non-yandere sawry guys, also when i started this, i started with miguel so his kinda almost ended up being the shortest cuz i got inspiration halfway through lol and also mixed styles of writing for each character becuz the one thing i am not is consistent.

each character is written in order as listed above saur if you're looking for characters near the end of the list, you're gonna have to scroll... sorry

miguel o’hara: unrequited love

miguel had been on a mission on another earth when he had seen you. you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. with one glance, he had felt things he hadn’t felt since… since he lost everything. he came to see you every day, never talking to you, but watching you from a far. he knew better than to disrupt your life, he knew better than to disrupt the timeline. he watched and loved and protected you, like a guardian angel.

“you’ve been watching that screen for a long time.” jessica comments, giving miguel a knowing stare.

“it’s nothing.” he’s short with her. he knew she’d get it, but she would also try to talk some sense into him. he knows that it can’t happen. everything he touches, he ruins.

“miguel. i don’t know what you’re doing, but as your… friend, i know that this isn’t healthy.” jessica places a hand on his shoulder, he brushes her off.

“i’m not doing anything that needs to be worried about. i’ve sent you a mission.” he hears jessica sigh before leaving him alone in solitude.

he felt better knowing that he was protecting you and keeping you safe, but he knew that it would end. even with the sense of foreboding lingering in the back of his mind, he fell deeper and deeper for you. for your kindness, for your beauty, for your silly laughs and stupid jokes. he loves you more and more with every visit. but then he saw it, he saw the end.

“hey parker.” you pull your earth’s peter into a hug, miguel imagines that it was him.

“i love you.” you tangle your hands in peter’s hair as you both kiss, miguel imagines that it was him.

“i know you’ll always protect me, peter.” peter wraps an arm around your waist and you both fly through the city, miguel feels himself shatter.

he watched as you met peter parker, he watched as you fell in love, he watched as you stopped needing him. he knew that it was never meant to be, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

matt murdock: right person, wrong time

you and matt clicked the moment you met. after bumping into you walking out of a coffee shop, he felt sparks the moment you touched. you relentlessly apologizing to him, pressing a handful of napkins to the stain on his shirt. he barely felt the pain, focusing on your touch. with that one moment, everything fell in place. every moment with you felt magical, he wanted to be with you for the rest of his life, and your quiet moments together, daredevil doesn’t exist, only you and matt. but as your relationship progressed, it was getting harder for matt to keep daredevil a secret: canceling dates, sneaking out in the middle of the night, giving you shitty excuses for his mysterious bruises. he knew you don’t believe him, but he knew you loved him enough to trust that he would tell you the truth in time. he wanted to tell you so bad, but when he wakes up in the morning, hearing your peaceful breathing, your soft skin pressed against his, he holds back. all he wants is to tell you, but he knows that to keep you safe, you must remain oblivious. but he can see the lies weighing on you. he knows you stay up at night waiting for him, he can see the worry ruining your health as you fuss over his injuries. so he let you go. it was hard, letting you sob and scream, fighting the urge to comfort you. he felt his heart shatter as you packed your things. you were the love of his life, but he doesn’t deserve you, not yet.

father paul hill/john pruitt: forbidden love

you were new to the small island, new to the church. you had caught his eye when you had left sunday mass the moment the eucharist had been given. from the corner of his eye, he had seen bev frown as you leave the church. he had put it out of his mind, of course, focusing on mass.

“are you new?” he had seen you walk in with a dog on a weekday, while he was writing his sermon inside the sacristy. with his interest piqued, he walked out. you looked up at his voice and he felt his heart stop. you were beautiful. two paws launched themselves onto his chest and he stumbled backwards, falling to the floor. you raced over, frantic.

“oh my god, father, i’m so sorry. i didn’t think anyone was here so i had let go of his leash.” you frantically explain, trying your hardest to pull your big dog off of him. john paul couldn’t help, but laugh as the dog licked at his face.

“it’s fine, (y/n). it’s very… friendly.” he chuckles as you manage to wrestle the dog off of him. once your dog had settled down, you both sat down on a pew near the back. your dog had jumped into both of your laps. “you’re new, right? i saw you at sunday mass, but i hadn’t recognized you.”

“oh, yeah, father. i just moved here. just like you.” you let out a small laugh.

he bumped your shoulder with his, “guess we’ll have to help each other out then.” from that point on, he noticed that you had been coming around the church more often. soon, he was dropping by your house for dinner and wine once the town goes quiet. both of you sit on the couch, watching some movie that you had picked. he enjoyed every movie you pick, loving every interest you have. you set a plate full of pasta in front of paul and poured him a generous amount of wine. paul felt his eyes drift to your face as you watched the movie. he noticed every little detail about you: the way you bit your lip in concentration, the way your hands gripped the couch in suspenseful moments, your eyes welling up and your lips quivering when the scene gets sad. you turn and paul quickly turns away, feeling his face burn. he feels the cold touch of your hand on his cheek. he looks back and you smile, your eyes trail from his eyes to his lips.

“father, w-will you kiss me?” you stammer and he feels his heart stop. you take his silence as rejection and your eyes shine, “i’m so sorry, father paul, i didn’t me-” he presses his lips against yours as he pulls you into his lap. from that moment on, his daily dinners turned to something more secretive, more taboo. he felt like he was betraying everything he had been taught, but how could your touch be sinful if it feels like an angel’s. every wink, every secret smile, every late-night escapade, his heart had never raced like this. he knew that it could never be, his soul would always belong to god, but he lets himself get fooled by his heart. especially if it means he can feel your skin against his every night.

peter parker: friends to lovers

you had been friends with peter since freshman year. you had been with him through everything: every heartbreak, every broken friendship, every death. you gave him a safe haven after spider patrols. you hadn’t thought of peter as anything more of a friend till he saved your life. you had gotten mugged and peter had jumped in, in that moment, you felt something wash over you. you couldn’t place the feeling till you saw him the next day. peter had pulled you into a hug and you felt your stomach flip.

“i’m so glad you’re okay, god (y/n).” he mumbled into your hair.

you feel your heart beat faster, hyper aware of his arms around you. you laugh, trying to sound normal, “thank god spiderman was there.” he pulls away and laughs.

“yeah, yeah. sorry i couldn’t stick around though. you can’t be too careful.” he bumps his shoulder against you and you felt the butterflies in your stomach rage. since then, you became more aware of the quick touches, the secret glances, the subtle flirting. at first, you really thought it was in your head.

“i really don’t think it’s on purpose.” you frown, recounting to your friend about your feelings.

“you don’t seriously believe that, do you?” they look at you, eyebrow raised. you look back, doubtful. they groan, “oh my god, (y/n), you guys have been so weird around each other for like two months now. everyone has noticed. i mean, you remember when we went to go see a movie last week?”

“i’ll buy it for you, don’t worry. go save our seats.” peter smiles at you. “everyone else is also inside, so just save me a seat.”

“but, i don’t want you to be standing out here alone.” you frown, looking around. the concession area was almost empty as most people were already inside, waiting for their respective movies to start.

“i’ll be okay, what’s a movie without our food.” he winks and gets into the line. he shoos you off. you wait for peter in the theater, your friend sits in his seat.

“hey, peter’s sitting here.” you whisper.

they laugh, “he’ll be fine if he’s away from you for a couple of hours.” peter walks in, hands full with popcorn and icees. he walks over and stops, he gives you a look and you shrug.

“move down, guys.” he calls to the rest of your group. everyone moves down, but your friend stands their ground.

“peter, there’s a lot of seats, pick one.”

“i want to sit next to (y/n).” he shrugs. your friend gives you a shocked look and you shrug again. they roll their eyes and moves down. peter sits down and hands over your things. as the movie went on, you could feel peter’s arm lightly touch yours, his foot bump into yours. at one point, you can feel him staring at you, but when you look over, his eyes are on the movie. your heart raced, but you grabbed his hand and entwine your fingers. he looks over and you can feel your face burn.

“i know it looks like he likes me, but what if he doesn’t? he hasn’t said a word to me since then. like no surprise visits, no texts, nothing.” you groan and lean your head against the table. your friend hums, but doesn’t respond. the next week, peter showed up at your door.

“i need to be honest with you.” peter sighs. you let him in and he steps in, looking around awkwardly. you gesture to the couch and peter sits down. “look, (y/n), i just feel so- i don’t know. i have to say this, but i don’t want to- to ruin what we have, you know?” peter stumbles through his words. you don’t say anything, heart in your throat. you can feel dread, ‘he knows how i feel, he’s uncomfortable. oh my god, i ruined our friendship.’ you feel like throwing up and tears well in your eyes. “hey, hey, hey. what’s wrong? why-” he puts a hand on your arm, eyebrows furrowed in worry.

“i’m sorry, peter, i know i must have made you uncomfortable during the movies. god, i don’t even know what came over me. i just really, really, really like you. i-i’m so sorry, peter. i’ve ruined everything.” you break down, and peter gets up and kneels in front of you.

“(y/n), baby, no, please don’t cry.” he pulls you into a hug and you feel worse, how can he comfort you when you’ve messed up your friendship? how can he sit there and treat you like you’re a good friend? “i like you too, that’s-that’s what i wanted to say. i thought…” you pull away, in shock. “i thought i ruined everything, but i guess,” he laughs and looks up at the ceiling, “i guess we’re both kinda stupid, huh.” you sniffle, letting out a mix of a sob and a laugh. he laughs and you notice the tears in his eyes.

“yeah, i guess we are.” you cup his face with both hands and pull him into a kiss.

natasha romanov: office romance

you’ve been working at S.H.E.I.L.D for a 6 months and natasha has had her eyes on you for 6 months. at first it started harmlessly.

“hello agent romanov, i’m (y/n) (l/n). director fury told me i’d be handling your cases from now on.” you keep a neutral face as you address her, and she smiles.

“good to meet you, agent (l/n). i’m glad to know that my cases are in such good care.” she looks you up and down, you quirk an eyebrow before smiling. you stick a hand out and nat examines your face. she smiles before shaking it, “i think we’ll make a good team.”

you let go of her hand, “i think so too.”

she doesn’t really know when friendly interactions turned flirty. it was so easy to talk to you, easier than the others. you were just so… patient, so understanding. she hadn’t felt this way about someone in a very long time, but it was just so easy with you.

nat trailed her fingertips along your arm, she had pulled up a chair next to you as you sat in your office. “what’s our next case?” you ignore her, but don’t make any effort to move away from her antics. “(l/n).” she whispers into your ear. you look over, eyebrow raised. “case?”

“hmm,” you flip through the stacks of manila folders on your desk. “nothing for this week, so you can go get some beauty sleep, nat.” you smile and turn back to your paperwork.

“maybe you should come over tonight, (l/n).” nat smiles at you, mirth twinkling in her eyes. you look away, smiling wide, and decide to indulge her.

“i don’t think that’s very appropriate, agent romanov, i mean what would people say?” you act as if you said something scandalous. nat bites her cheek to fight a smile before leaning in to press a kiss to your neck.

“i don’t know, baby, but i think they’d kill to be me.” she mumbles into your neck, playfully biting you.

regulus black: rivals to lovers

you were the first one to raise your hand, first to make potions right, first to turn your tests in. regulus black hated you. you were a stuck up, know-it-all, whose only purpose for existing was to piss him off. you’d smirk at him when you get the answer before him, when he gets it wrong. and he especially hates that stupid laugh you have when you see that your test scores were higher than his. regulus black hated you. and what makes it worse is that his parents loved you. you were so respectful and good when they were around, hooking your arm with his, smiling and laughing, making his heart beat faster, and his stomach turn. regulus doesn’t really know when that happened. when your stupid face started seeming less stupid and more… pretty. when your ugly laugh was more amusing than annoying. and he doesn’t like thinking about it. you and him? you’ve been enemies since the first year, and even as fifth years, you’ll continue to be his sworn enemy.

“reg?” your angelic irritating voice brought him back from his daydream. he had been sitting under a tree near the whomping willow, reading a book. he looks up to see your face, crouching down in front of him.

“what?” he looks back at his book, you huff and pull his book out of his hands. “(y/n)!”

“listen to me! ...please.” for the first time since he met you, you sounded utterly pathetic. he bites back a gleeful smile.

“fine. you are holding my book hostage, i might as well listen, for its safety of course.” he rolled his eyes and leaned back against the tree.

you sit down onto your knees and laugh and regulus feels like grinning, “of course, for your book’s safety.” you rip a couple blades of grass out of the ground and bookmark his page. he feels his heart jump, but clears his throat. “you know how the parkinson’s are holding another winter gala during the break?” you look at him with your dazzling eyes, he nods, “well, i was wondering if you wanted to go with me… as my date?” he straightens, eyes widening before he narrows them, examining the hopeful look on your face and your wringing hands.

“are you joking with me right now?” he scoffs, leaning back, feeling a twinge of hurt.

“no! no, listen, i’ve really liked you… since maybe the third year? i don’t know, i know we haven’t been the nicest to each other, so i understand if you don’t want-”

“well, i never said that.” he interrupts you, your eyes shine and regulus fights the urge to kiss you. “and i’m fine with putting a pause on our… rivalry.” he rolls his eyes, feeling his face burn in embarrassment. you drop the book onto the ground and toss yourself onto him. regulus starts to shout, but he feels your arms wrap around him.

“thank you, thank you, thank you! i’m so excited!” you hug him tighter and regulus relents quickly, hugging you back. he buries his face into your shoulder, squeezing you against him.

“yeah, yeah, you don’t have to be so excited.”

harley quinn: partners in crime

you met Harley while shoplifting at the jewelry store she was robbing. she had a gun pointed right at you when she paused.

“oh. my. gosh. you are absolutely…” she pauses, tilting your head, before squealing “adorable!!!” she grips your face in her hands, gun still cocked. you feel true fear spreading through your body. “absolutely adorable, we should be friends!” she swings an arm around your shoulder before ordering the jeweler to give her everything. then in one blink, you were in her apartment (lair?) and making out on her couch. you became the planner and she became the plan-ruiner, she did the real action and you were the getaway driver, she brought you the money and you made sure to keep everything off of batman’s radar. even if the plans you make go sideways cause of harley, you couldn’t find it in yourself to get mad. you fell in love. she always made sure to protect you from joker and batman, putting herself on the line when shit hits the fan. she’d never let anyone hurt you, she’d rather be in danger before you.

“angel-cakes! let’s go get some sandwiches from that place near the bank, i’ve been dyinggg for an egg sandwich.” she jumps onto the couch, tossing her legs into your lap.

“you planning on getting some money from the bank?” you start rubbing her feet, as a reflex, eyes still on the t.v.

“no, silly, i just want a sandwich.” she pulls her feet off and twists herself to get her head in your lap. you smile and play with her hair.“alright, let’s go get some sandwiches and some money.” harley shoots up and leaves a big, wet smooch onto your cheek.

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tropes-and-tales · 1 year

Note

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” you mumble from the floor.

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

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

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

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

“Embarrassed.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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bloodyknucklesforme · 1 year

Text

Christmas Traditions | 141 x Reader

Idc if it's not December yet, it's Christmas time. Might do a part two with Alejandro, Rudy, Konig, and others (need to do research on non-UK Christmas traditions)

John Price

Christmas is the only time of the year he can truly get away from work and he makes sure to get as far away as possible. He's rented a little cottage as north in Scotland as he can get.

You drive a car full of stuff up on the 20th, he allows 10 minutes of Christmas music per hour on the road.

He cuts down a tree for you, even if it's not totally legal to do so.

Most of the ornaments are yours, he never decorated before meeting you. He likes watching you stretch to reach the higher branches and will pick you up by the waist if need be. He likes putting the star on top.

You mostly spend your time together in bed or by the fire.

He's a splurge when it comes to gift-giving, a couple small gifts and then something big like a kitchen-aid mixer or something else expensive you've been wanting.

Spends Christmas night dancing with you even if he has two left feet.

Wishes he didn't have to leave on the 27th

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

He likes going out of the country for Christmas. Doesn't want to be in London, especially after Picadilly.

You almost miss your flight, running through the airport.

The location is always a surprise.

This year it's Gibraltar.

You have a nice hotel overlooking the ocean

Spend time at the beach and Christmas market.

The two of you spend Christmas eve watching old movies and drinking wine.

You love the trips but hope next year he'll bring you to meet the family. Maybe give you a ring too.

Matching Pjs, tea and biscuits is how you spend Christmas morning

John 'Soap' MacTavish

He's the one that buys the matching pjs.

Loves Christmas more than anyone else in the group

Takes you up to Scotland to meet the family even if you've only been dating for a couple months. His mom refuses to let him miss it.

Sings songs the whole drive up

Apologizes profusely for having to leave for midnight mass with his mom, and will hold your hand the entire time if you choose to go.

His mom barely leaves the two of you alone so any 'alone time' is in the car.

Not the best at gift giving, he watches you and his mom walk around the market and buys whatever you pick up. You have a lot of funny phrase mugs now.

Teaches you the proper way to pronounce "Nollaig Chridheil" (Merry Christmas in Scots)

Drags you outside when it snows to either build a snowman or pelt you with snowballs

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Wouldn't even realize it was Christmas if it wasn't for you

He kind of panics because he didn't plan anything or get you any gifts

Lots of last-minute shopping.

Gets a little charlie brown type tree. You're both taller than it but make orange slice ornaments and a popcorn garland. It makes the flat smell incredible if a little buttery.

He can put up with one movie so pick carefully. He might fall asleep but he's still wrapped around you.

You fall asleep on the couch as the little spoon and wake up the next morning with a stack of presents by your little tree. He's somehow still behind you.

Traditional English breakfast and tea Christmas morning

You got him a bracelet with your name and the date you met stamped on it, even if he can't wear it in the field it's always in a pocket.

You can convince him to go with matching socks but nothing more

He's just glad the two of you are together and will try to do whatever tradition you want if it makes you happy.

#I love giving Soap my catholic guilt #he doesn't believe might never have believed but god damn is he going to take his mom to midnight mass #He's a mommas boy #Truly #If anyone knows more about Mexican or Austrian Christmas traditions lmk #cod mw22 #cod imagines #john price x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #I just love christmas #my imagines #Let's see if my English heritage and my high school obsession with British vlogmas has made his accurate

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roguelov · 2 years

Text

Hand of God

Summary: It’s late, and your thoughts are spiraling out of control. So, you decide to take a walk. A walk which leads you to the rec center where an AA meeting is taking place. But, will the thoughts be silenced for long? And what will happen if Father Paul reaches out to help, will you accept it?

Word Count: ~5.7k

Reader: Afab

Warnings: Smut (priest kink, praise kink, fingering), mentions of alcoholism and overwhelming thoughts (nothing specific)

MINORS DNI/ 18+

Damn it.

They were back again tonight.

Fear. Depression. Anxiety. Rage. Self-Loathing.

They have barged in as they do almost every night, right at the exact moment when the last bit of sun vanished behind the horizon, to tease and torment. To scream in your ears and drown out every other thoughts or feelings that remotely brought you an ounce of comfort or joy. To gleefully drag you down into unknown depths of yourself you had yet to explore.

For a long time, you had a simple trick to silence them, one that instantly worked: alcohol. But, it wasn’t a solution. No, it was a mere bandage on the gaping wound. So, you learned to cope. AA meetings, therapy, exercising, yoga and meditation, hobbies, you’ve done it all. And it worked, you started to live again - not survive.

The problem - the biggest one that no one cared to mention - was they never truly went away. Those volatile emotions lingered in the deepest, darkest recesses of your mind. You thought it was over. But, it never was or will be. They only became dormant, giving you a false sense of security.

Cope.

That was all you could do.

But, tonight they were back.

And they were loud, they were demanding.

Laying in bed, you squeezed your eyes shut and plugged your ears.

Silence. Please, I just need silence.

But, they didn’t relent.

You huffed, and ripped off your sheets. In your light grey sweatpants splattered with old paint stains - another hobby you tried and failed at - and the oversized black shirt - that had faded to an off dark navy from its countless washes - you grabbed a jacket, shoved on worn down boots and darted out your front door.

Away. You just needed to get away.

You stumbled down your porch steps, and sped off into the night. You didn’t care where. You didn’t even mind the chilly air - the clawing remnants of winter fighting to stay. You just simply couldn’t get away from your house’s confining walls fast enough.

Zipping up your jacket, you flicked up the collar bracing yourself against the cold. You shoved your hands into your pockets and followed the rocky path. Even in the moonless night, you easily kept on the path. You walked it thousands and thousands of times, you knew every pebble, and every bend. Sighing, your spiraling thoughts tried to settle. It tried to shift more outwardly, than inward, to the biting cold worming its way under your clothes, to the late frost nipping at your fingertips and the tip of your nose. Your thoughts called out for your need for heat and survival.

But, those voices still lingered, still whispered against the night breeze.

Fuck.

You marched, following the winding path past houses and their sleeping hosts, skating around the surrounding ocean, and soon towards the church and the rec center. An inviting light from the rec center bled out into the darkness. Of course, a few candles were lit in the church, but you were never the religious type.

You paused, staring at the light. Curious, and with nothing else to occupy your mind, you changed course. Your footsteps softly padded against the sidewalk, silenced by the constant sound of waves crashing and nocturnal animals sprinting in the nearby thickets.

The front door was cracked open, almost as if beckoning you to come in.

Or as if fate, or God for that matter, was guiding you here.

You peered through the slim crack.

Two men, Riley Flynn and Father Paul Hill, sat somewhat uncomfortably across from each other in metal collapsible chairs. Just the two of them in this vast space made to serve the community. It was jarring, and a bit unsettling.

Why just them? Why those two?

Then it clicked: the new AA chapter of Crockett Island.

Your face scrunched up. This was not how you wanted your night to go. Taking a step back, you turned away. But, the voices purred, pleased by this cowardice act. You clenched your fists, gritting your teeth. AA meetings were not new to you. You had your fair share of staring at unfamiliar faces and spilling secrets not even your family knew of.

The voices were right. You were a coward.

But, not for tonight.

For however long it may be, they will be silenced, and for a short-lived moment you will be you again and not this shell - not this husk.

Knocking, you pushed open the door all the way. You poked your head in. Both men snapped their attention over to you. “(Y/N)?” Riley perked up, practically relieved to see another face.

You stepped into the warm building gently shutting the door behind you. Swallowing down your nerves, you said, “I’m sorry, but, uh, is there room for one more?”

Father Paul smiled, somehow overjoyed by all of this. “Of course, please, grab a chair and join us.”

You shuffled over and took a chair off the rack. Under the men’s watchful gaze, you awkwardly walked over, placing the chair between them creating a triangle rather than the typical circle in these meetings. You plopped down, desperately avoiding their eyes. It felt as if they were staring through you, tearing you apart for your secrets.

Riley cleared his throat. “I, uh, I didn’t know you had a uh -“

“Drinking problem? That I too was an alcoholic?” You cut him off with a bit more venom than intended.

Riley dropped his head, muttering, “Yeah.”

Your shoulders drooped down. “I’m sorry that was … yeah I’m sorry. But, yeah I did, well I guess I still do. Everyday is a battle as you probably know, and I still struggle to keep the demons at bay. Some days are easy and some like tonight … not so much.”

“Well, it’s good that you’re here with us,” Father Paul said with a chirper smile.

You wished you could conjure up a smile for him, but you couldn’t. Not now. You sighed, removing your jacket, then leaned back on the uncomfortably hard chair. “Thanks.”

“How long?” Riley asked, now looking at you.

You crossed your arms. “Almost five years sober, or I will be, come early summer.”

Riley nodded.

Father Paul smiled at you, “That’s good, you should be proud.”

“I am.”

He cocked his head. “You don’t really sound like it.”

“I’m sorry, I … I’m just not in the best headspace right now, but I am … I really am.” A smile twitched on your lips. It was a journey, still is, and you intended to see it through till the end.

Not wanting to sit in the pressing silence, you spilled into a story - a random more cheerful story of your youth - quickly feeding into this temporary distraction. Riley smiled, thankful for your presence, and added his own chaotic childhood stories. It all soon devolved from there.

Story after pointless story.

All the while, Father Paul watched you both, a silent third party. His hands were clasped together in prayer, fiddling with his rosary. Pride and joy buzzed in his chest. Two souls have been connected and now aided each other in their troubling times - a miracle, if he said so himself especially given your both utter lack in faith.

But, there was another reason. Another reason for why his chest hummed, another reason for why he smiled so brightly.

And as he watched the two of you, his thoughts drifted and so did his eyes.

They drifted down your face, over your cheekbones, to your parted lips, and then to your jaw, studying how the harsh overhead lights reflected off your angles.

His eyes drifted down further to your exposed neck, and the way you tilted your head listening to Riley’s tale. The Father was completely fascinated by your soft neck, and the surge of temptation which followed to mark and bruise, and draw out such beautifully sinful noises from you.

Then his greedy eyes drifted even lower to your baggy off black t-shirt. With your arms crossed, it accentuated your chest - your breast. He swallowed, shifting in his seat. No bra. You, however, paid no mind to it. And, given your clothing - shirt and sweatpants - you clearly had no intention of coming here beforehand; so Father Paul would chalk it up to either you were unbothered or forgetful. And, oh dear lord, when you moved, arching your back trying to find comfort in these hard rigged chairs, he could see your nipples slightly poking through the cotton fabric.

And still his eyes drifted lower, because there was more room to fall. Your legs were crossed with your mud caked boots pointed out, sometimes bouncing nervously or to a tune trapped in your head. You constantly fidgeted, crossing, uncrossing, and spreading your legs. Oh, Heavenly Father, the priest thought, if he could he would drop to his knees in a heartbeat just to bury his face between your thighs.

His eyes wandered back up.

You laughed lightly, shaking your head. A smile, small and almost unsure to be there, tugged across your lips. Riley chuckled along with you as he finished his story.

Father Paul clutched his beads.

Father Paul hardly spoke, and if he did he only pushed the conversation a little forward. You and Riley mostly carried it, Riley more than you. You suspected he was relieved to be talking about anything other than religious verse Father Paul might spout.

Yet, it was all winding down.

The only tell of passage of time, in this dark hour, was the faint ticking of the wall clock. You swore hours upon hours had passed, but it turned out to be less than one whole hour.

Riley yawned, stretching his legs out.

Father Paul chuckled. “I suppose it is late, it’s best we end this meeting for today.”

“Yeah, I guess, you’re right.” Riley huffed, getting to his feet. He picked up his chair, then looked at you waiting for you to follow.

You threw him a tight lipped smile, but stayed put.

Riley shrugged to himself and said his goodbyes, taking his chair to hang back on the rack.

Father Paul eyed you curiously for a second before standing up and walking Riley out. Their low mumbling bounced in the empty space, yet you couldn’t decipher a single word.

Sighing, you closed your eyes and tipped your head back.

It was starting again. Those damn voices.

“Are you okay?”

You cracked open your eyes. Father Paul stood at your side with a concern etched into his face. “Yeah,” you muttered.

“You don’t sound so sure of yourself.”

You laughed once, and leaned forward bracing yourself against your knees. Your eyes directed onto the recently mopped floors, and not on the Father’s insightful gaze. “I just need a minute. You can go, I promise I’ll lock the door behind me.”

It’s not like much stealing or breaking in happens in this tiny isolated community anyway.

You expected him to leave. Hoped, in a way, he would. Instead, a chair scraped across the floor. You quickly glanced up to see Father Paul back in his chair, now turned facing you head on. He leaned forward, mimicking your slouched posture. His rosary still entangled in his hands.

“Would you like to talk about whatever is afflicting you? You know I am here for you.”

Your eyes couldn’t tear away from the dangling cross. When you spoke it was quiet and dejected. “I don’t really want to hear any bible verses, I’ve heard plenty, and to be honest, I don’t think anything you say Father would help.”

Father Paul dropped his gaze to his hands. He absentmindedly rolled a bead between his thumb and forefinger, an old anxious habit. He huffed through his nose, smiling more to himself. He pocketed the beads into his cardigan. “Okay then,” he leaned back in his chair, “right now I’m not a priest. I’m just a concerned friend.”

You lazily dragged your eyes up, secretly taking him in, and locked with those hypnotically kind chocolate brown eyes. Eyes you dreamt about nearly every night since his surprising arrival.

He tilted his head, smiling softly at you. “So? What’s bothering you?”

The voices were not silenced, an unruly crowd shouting for your attention. However, a new one - a sinfully familiar one - started to take center stage. The new voice purred, absolutely elated in this changing development, and pointed out how close he was, how alone you were with him, how beautiful he looked, how -

Goddamn it.

The Father, as one would suspect, could not help you, not in this changing situation. Not with your demons. Not when this new voice was in the forefront of your mind.

You shook your head, standing up - jumping to your feet. “I’m sorry, I should just go.”

Get out. Get out before you do something stupid.

Grabbing your jacket, you darted off. However, you only got halfway to the exit when he spoke again.

“Please, let me help.”

You froze.

His sweet velvet voice, one that usually commands and guides, was a whisper in such an empty hollow space. And he pleaded - begged to be of service to you.

Peering over your shoulder, he sat on the edge of his seat staring unwaveringly at you. You gripped your jacket, and sighed, “Father -“

“Paul,” he interjected. “I told you I was a friend now, not a priest.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “Paul. I don’t think you can help me.”

“Just let me try. What do you want? What do you need right now?”

You almost scoffed. Twisting around, you faced him with a sad smile. “What I want is fairly simple, but very hard to obtain.”

“Which is?”

“To forget.”

“Forget what?” His eyebrows knitted together.

“Everything,” you breathed out. “I don’t want to think about anything, for just one moment I want to forget it all.”

The pains, the sorrows, the anger, the desperation, the guilt - all of it. You didn’t want to dwell on any of it.

So.

How could he help?

How could this man make you forget?

He couldn’t. It was your only logical conclusion.

Yet, the priest had a thought, a thought which always stirred when he saw you, a thought which flared since you stumbled in tonight. “Come. Sit.” He licked his lips, sitting back in his chair. “Please.”

You tightened your grip on your jacket.

Go home.

Stay.

You obeyed his simple command. You were too morbidly curious and hopeful about his possible solution. Your feet carried you over to him, pulled in by his captivating presence. You draped your jacket back across your chair. You moved ready to sit down -

“Not there.”

You blinked, furrowing your brows.

Paul leaned back in his chair with his legs spread apart, gazing up at you. He patted his thigh. “Here.”

Your body tensed up. Your heart, however, leapt into your throat. It fluttered, danced, flipped, sang, etc. Dizzy with a tidal wave of emotions, you whispered, “What?”

Father Paul wasn’t oblivious to it, to your attraction, oh no far from it.

He will admit, more to himself, that in the beginning he assumed your nerves were due to his profession. Most people walked on eggshells around him as if he held their damnation in the palm of his hand, or viewed his absolute devotion as nonsensical. But, those thoughts were swiftly put to rest when he caught you staring.

Always staring.

At a town event, the one of many, eyes burned into the back of his skull. Confused, he spun around and instantly locked eyes with you. You casually played it off, smiling at him then glanced away. Yet, you were undeterred. You continued to eye him hungrily, believing he was completely unaware of it.

Oh, how wrong you were.

And you simply didn’t comprehend the full scope of it. You failed to see how he returned the gesture. With your back turned, or when talking to friends, he drank you in - much like tonight - drank in the obvious temptation that you were.

So, no, he wasn’t oblivious. He knew of your attraction since the beginning.

And he reciprocated it.

Tenfold.

“Sit,” he repeated, snapping you out of your daze. “You want to forget? Then sit.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. No matter how desperately you craved this. “You really want my dirty sweatpants on you?” You joked, trying to hide your nerves and steadily climbing heartbeat.

He chuckled. “I can assure you it’s perfectly fine. And if anything I fear that I am the one that might smell. I was on my feet all day; and I know I reek of incense.”

You laughed through your nose.

He was right. Your pants may be covered in old, determined to stay, paint stains, but you were also curled up in a scalding hot shower a few hours prior wanting, and hoping, to wash and burn away those voices and thoughts.

It didn’t work. Obviously.

He cocked his head. His eyes dragged up and down your body, then reconnected with yours. “Well?”

Your heart flipped in your chest.

Yes. God, yes.

But, you quickly shook your head. “I’m sorry, I can’t you -“

“Have already made you forget about all your worries,” he pointed out. “Have I not?”

You closed your mouth.

He had.

But, how could you think of anything else? How could you process anything with him sitting in front of you asking you to do things you’ve only dreamt of?

“You are thinking only of here and now and not of anything else, so if it is that simple then please sit.”

You almost hated how he was right.

Almost.

You closed your eyes, inhaling and exhaling loudly. Opening your eyes, you met his calm, inviting ones. Yet, something flickered behind those sweet brown eyes. Worry? Mischief? Concern? Lust? It was indecipherable.

“Okay,” you whispered.

You straddled his legs, his knees more accurately, sitting as far away as you could even with this close proximity. Your hands dangled loosely at your side, unsure where they should go. Your heart pounded in your chest. A fire bloomed over your chest and to the tips of your ears.

This is ridiculous. Why am I doing this? And - and -

He tilted his head back a little to gaze into your eyes as you nearly loomed over him. A smile, so kind yet so dangerous, danced over his lips. His eyes held the key to both your salvation and damnation. “See? Not so bad.” He smiled up at you. “But, if I may …”

He bounced his legs.

Inhaling sharply, you toppled forward. Your bodies collided. Your hands flew up, bracing yourself on his shoulders. His sturdy hands latched onto your hips, keeping you in place, keeping you on his thighs and over his -

Don’t think about that - fuck don’t -

“I got you,” he hummed. He laughed at your wide eyes, and completely shocked expression. Smiling, he reached up, brushing his fingers over your cheek. “Better.”

You shivered.

Paul truly couldn’t bite back his smile and amusement. Sin or not, oh how he dreamt of moments like this. His thumbs rubbed hypnotic circles on your hips, putting his spell over you.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, trying to ground yourself in this new reality.

“Now, if at any point you want me to stop, just say so.”

Swallowing, you let out a low shaky breath and nodded. Reason had finally left. You wanted this, wanted to stay like this for an eternity, wanted to fall into depravity with him as your guide.

“Good,” he purred.

His hands snuck under your shirt, and started wandering up your back.

You immediately sighed, dropping your head forward and letting yourself get lost in his touch.

His calloused, slightly cold, fingertips sent waves of goosebumps over your skin. He slowly began to map out your curves, feeling how your body molded into his firm hands. He was trying to learn and understand what your body needed, to know where to touch to silence your thoughts and focus solely on him.

His blunt nails scraped down your back.

A soft groan rumbled in the back of your throat.

He slipped out one hand, leaving a chill across your hot skin. Using his index finger and thumb, he tipped your head up so you looked directly into his soothing eyes. He smiled. Your eyes were already glassy as lust poured into your veins. His thumb gently ran over your bottom lip.

Your tongue nearly chased over it.

“Please,” he muttered, his eyes dropped to your lips. “Do not be afraid to touch me, use me as you wish.”

Your hands unfurled and carefully, hesitant and unsure, glided down his chest inch by inch. The perfectly ironed dress shirt bunched and crumbled under your wandering hands. His eyes fluttered closed. A blissful sigh escaped his lips. Your hands moved back up his chest, stopping near his neck. You locked onto his starch white celery collar.

“I told you I was a friend now, not a priest.”

Your eyes slowly peered up at him. Opening his eyes, he met your questioning gaze and nodded. You swiftly tugged on it, on his symbol of faith, letting it fall to the floor. Reinvigorated, you undid the top of his buttons. Your hands eagerly ran over his chest, over his warm skin. With a single finger, you followed the curvature of his body and muscles. He shivered. Your hand paused, landing over his heart. It pounded, hammering excitedly against your palm. You smiled, a small one. Your hands trailed back up and curled behind his neck. Your fingers buried and weaved into the ends of his neatly combed back raven hair. Your nails gently scratched against him.

He hummed, craning his neck. Licking his lips, and losing part of his patience, his hand cupped your cheek and finally drew you in. It was soft, sweet even, as you both tested the water. Just a simple kiss. With one hand still trapped under your shirt, he ran a finger down your spine. You arched your back to the delicate touch.

You exhaled deeply.

More. You needed more.

Your fingers curled, then forcibly yanked on his hair. He gasped. His lips parted. The opportunity you needed. Your tongue slipped in, exploring his mouth, tasting your own personal forbidden fruit.

Paul moaned.

Oh, how wonderfully sinful it was.

He tilted his head, deepening the kiss. His tongue soon fought back desperate to have a turn. He begged to have a taste of temptation.

So, you willingly gave yourself over.

His hand fell from your face, and down your neck. Two fingers rested over your pulse. He smiled against your lips. Your heart rate matched his own chaotic one. His hand moved farther and farther, then snaked back under your shirt. His hands roamed all over your body, while his mouth - his oh so surprisingly expert mouth - left you in a mind numbing haze.

Fuck.

Your skin ignited - burned. His touch was fire against your needy skin, a fire far hotter than the nine circles of Hell itself. Your nerves screamed - sang an enticing new melody with Paul as your composer. Your heart hammered erratically, the resounding drumbeat, in your ears. So much so, you couldn’t hear the faint whimper humming in the back of your throat.

Paul pulled away, painstakingly slow, still savoring your lips.

His heavy panting was a lovely accompaniment.

Desperate, wanting, craving for more.

You took this moment to study him.

His head slightly bowed forward, chin tucked to his chest. A low muttering passed over his swollen lips. A prayer, if you had to guess. His eyes flickered up. Oh, how they sparkled with awe. Yet, when his eyes fell back to your lips, they instantly darkened, fueled by lust and sin.

Fueled by you.

He leaned in, hovering his lips over yours. “Divine,” he whispered, “absolutely divine.”

His hands reached up, cupping your bare breasts.

“Fuck,” you mumbled, dropping your forehead onto his shoulder.

He chuckled. It echoed directly in your ear, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. His lips skimmed past your ear, and to your neck. He peppered gentle butterfly kisses up and down your neck. His hands, however, were more wicked in comparison. They cupped and kneaded your breasts, playing with them as he pleased. You bit your lip, moaning. You squeezed your eyes shut, falling apart to his touch. His thumb and finger pinched your perked nipples.

You moaned, loudly and unabashedly. And without thinking, acting only on your needs, you bucked your lips.

He groaned.

His lips curled into a devious smile across your skin. He opened his mouth, placing a kiss in the crook of your neck. You hummed, craning your neck. His teeth barely grazed over your skin. You muttered a string of curses under your breath. He nipped, blemishing your unmarked skin. Only to quickly soothe any pain with the flat of his tongue. He repeated the process, all over. All the while, he still teased your breasts.

You squirmed, moaning and whining - turning into a complete mess by a hand of God.

“Good, you’re doing so good for me,” he mumbled.

“Paul,” you whined, as pleasure coursed through you at his subtle praises.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I got you. Just keep focusing on me.”

What the hell was he talking about? How could you not? What other possible things could you be thinking of when he was here giving you your heart’s deepest desires?

One of his hands slid down your body, and began to fiddle with your elastic waistband. He picked at it. Picked once, then twice. He waited for any signs to tell him to stop, to tell him no.

But, none came.

Instead, he was encouraged.

“Please,” you begged, lifting your hips.

He smiled, “Okay, I hear you.”

His hand easily slipped into your pants. His knuckles grazed, tantalizingly slow, over your damp clothed core. You buried your face into his neck, and tightened your grip in his dark locks. Instantly, you tried to grind your hips into his hand, but he moved away before you could experience just an ounce of pleasure - of relief.

You whined.

Embarrassment, or shame, should have flooded your senses. Yet, it didn’t. All your thoughts were on your wants and needs.

On him.

You need Paul, desperately.

“Shhh,” he cooed, “I’m here.”

His fingers pushed aside your underwear. A single finger swiped through your wet folds - a quick fleeting touch leaving you a wanting mess.

“Fuck,” you hissed.

He did it again, this time slower and more deliberate.

You wanted to beg and plead. You wanted to say his name. Hell, you almost wanted to pray. But, any and all words were lodged in your throat.

He, thankfully and finally, slid his finger in.

Just one.

He started slow. Easy, gentle pumps as he learned your body.

You clung to him.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, I got you. Oh, you’re doing so good for me,” Paul breathed out.

Oh, he was losing his mind.

Your breathy moans was the sweetest, most beautiful, hymn he ever heard. Your body, sculpted perfectly by God, ached for him. Your walls fluttered around him - around his one finger pleading for more. And he wished, prayed to be the best utmost service to you. His movement - each tame pump - became faster and more demanding.

Oh, he wanted more from you.

For Heaven to hear your beautiful songs.

So, he added another finger.

You arched your back, craning your head back as your mouth fell open. The fluorescent lights haloed around you. Your ragged breathing mixed with the sloppy wet noises of his fingers sliding inside of you. Your body acted on its own, grinding down on his deliciously full fingers.

Paul beamed.

That.

That was exactly what he wanted to see.

His lovely angel.

You dropped your head, staring at him.

His eyes shined - twinkled with glee - watching as you drowned yourself in pleasure. Your hands, still entangled in his hair, yanked him forth. You kissed him feverishly, devouring him. He hummed against your lips.

His thumb rubbed your clit.

You broke the kiss, pressing your forehead into his as a moan escaped your swollen lips. Opening your eyes, his dark brown ones - the color of the welcoming immovable earth - were now a black void filled with desire and blasphemy.

He sucked you in, wanting you to fall from grace.

As if you truly cared.

He circled your clit again.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you whimpered, bucking into his hand.

He let out a shaky breath. “God, you’re doing so great.”

Your heart skipped. At every praise, every encouragement, it was dizzying. The way his voice wrapped around you. It was the only voice you could focus on. The only voice to guide you through the dark.

It was spellbinding, enchanting and soothing.

A calming, sweet deliverance from evil.

Yet, it was cut with the sinfully wet noises of his fingers buried deep inside of you.

He moved faster, ferociously working you to your release. He wanted to see it. He wanted to see how you would fall.

“Paul,” you grinded down on his fingers, “fuck - I’m close.”

“Good, good,” he hummed as his fingers slid in and out of you relentlessly. “Eyes on me.”

You opened your eyes, staring back into the void.

His fingers pounded into you.

You had to force yourself, using all your strength, to stay upright. You just wanted to collapse into him. To fall apart, to let your senses be overwhelmed by him. His free hand cupped your face, helping you to keep your eyes on him. He leaned in, kissing you softly. You melted.

His thumb flicked over your swollen clit.

You gasped.

He curled his fingers, beckoning you, calling you to fall.

Your walls clenched around his fingers. “Paul,” you moaned.

His fingers curled again, loving the sweet delectable noises you made. His thumb constantly rubbed your clit, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. Your forehead fell onto his. You hungrily chased your high and started to ride his fingers.

“Good, you’re so good - god you are truly divine.” He mumbled, straining to keep his composure. “I’m here, I got you.”

His words sent you tumbling over the edge.

You finally fell.

Your walls clamped around his fingers. Your lips fell apart with a silent moan. Bliss. Heavenly bliss coursed through you. Paul continued to whisper encouraging words. His fingers slowly worked you through your orgasm. You cursed under your breath, as it started to become too much.

Too much pleasure.

Too much sin.

He smiled, and finally stopped. Yet, his fingers were still buried deep inside of you.

Your heavy breathing filled the silence. You desperately tried to catch your breath. However, Paul slowly removed his fingers. Your breath hitched. A whine sounded in your throat - weak and tired.

He eyed his soaked fingers. He licked his lips. He looked up at you, while you lazily - with half closed eyelids - tilted your head in confusion. Your mind was cloudy, still in utter bliss. Maintaining eye contact, he raised his two fingers up and into his mouth. Your eyes widened. Your heart lurched into your throat. Oh dear lord. He hummed in delight. His tongue swirled around savoring your taste.

Your eyes locked onto his mouth. His spit and your juices covered his fingers and mouth. “Fuck, I thought you were a priest.” You muttered in disbelief.

He smirked. Saying nothing, he only cleaned himself and popped out his fingers. “So,” he adjusted himself in the chair, his hand resting back on your hips, “better?”

You blinked. Then it dawned on you - the reason for this once in a lifetime opportunity. The voices, and thoughts, had been silenced. You laughed once, smiling somewhat sorrowfully to yourself. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Your eyes dropped down to the obvious tent in his pants. It rubbed against you. You had to suppress a moan. “Don’t worry about me,” he said, gaining your attention. “This was about helping you.”

You wanted it.

Your body ached for how it would feel, how he could fill and stretch you. But, you didn’t want to push it. If he said not to worry, then you will take his word for it. You reluctantly moved off of his lap - Paul had to stifle a groan - and turned to grab your jacket.

Best to make a quick exit now.

Paul watched you intensely. Just like you, he wanted more. But, he was a patient man. He still had self-control, despite every fiber of his being screaming at him. To pin you against the wall, to fall to his knees and worship your body, to feel your bare body against his, to always hear your beautiful breathy moans.

He shivered, trying to reel himself back.

You looked at him as you tugged on your jacket. His hair usually slicked back, now pointed in odd directions. His top buttons were undone and exposed the top of his chest, and the tent strained against his tight jeans wishing to break free. He wasn’t the epitome of faith and celibacy.

No, right now he was just a man.

Like he said, for tonight, and probably for tonight alone, he wasn’t a priest.

Your eyes fell to the celery collar discarded on the floor. You shook your head, “Well, goodnight, I suppose.”

In and out. And forget this ever happened.

You spun around to leave.

“You know if you ever need my help again, you know where to find me.” His soothing voice called out. “My door is always open.”

As are the gates, he thought in a knee jerk reaction.

You peered over your shoulder. His eyes connected with yours. He was serious. A warmth, a giddy buzzing, spread over your chest. Maybe tonight was not a crazy chance, but the start of something forbidden. A smile spread over your lips. “Right, of course.”

He licked his lips. Your taste still lingered on his tongue, and he craved more - his new little addiction. “Maybe I’ll even see you in church.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “One miracle at a time.”

He smiled. “Right. Well, I wish you goodnight and I hope to see you soon.”

“Oh, you will.”

#midnight mass #midnight mass smut #father Paul hill #father paul x reader #father paul smut #monsignor pruitt #monsignor pruitt x reader #father paul imagine #midnight mass imagine #afab!reader #smut

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fortheloveoffanfic · 1 month

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Closing the Distance

Sheriff Hassan x Reader

Author's Note: I'm sorry its bad. I'm sorry this is the first I've written in this fandom. Just sorry all 'round.

Summary: Devastating news brings Sheriff Hassan and his neighbor closer together.

Warnings: Mentions of terminal illness, grief and death, brief mentions of SMUT

Crockett is small. Small enough for someone to walk from one end to the next in less than a day, small everyone to know each other by name, small enough for gossip to spread faster wildfire. It's part of why Hassan keeps his head down and his nose out of everyone’s business; small towns are close knit, they stick together, and he's already an outcast. So unless someone is explicitly breaking the law or being a public nuisance, Hassan keeps his distance.

Even if it's hard sometimes. Even if his cute neighbor brings over dinner for him and Ali when she cooks extra or waves at him when he's getting into his car in the morning while she's having coffee on the porch. Even if he does find himself wanting to prolong their conversation when he bumps into her while picking up groceries. Hassan keeps his distance, because even if Y/n has only lived on the island for a year longer than he has, she is not an outcast.

From the bits and pieces he's been able to pick up, Y/n’s mother grew up there and then their family spent most of her summers as a child on the island. In the same quaint house across the street from his, with weather beaten porch steps, a white French door guarded by thin yellow curtains and a kitchen window that faces the street. She moved there just after her grandmother passed and her grandfather fell ill. Everyone knows her, everyone likes her, not that he can blame them – even Bev likes her, though he doubts the feeling is mutual. And that's why Hassan keeps his distance; even Y/n isn't one of them, she's one of theirs.

So he keeps his distance.

Until he gets home from work one Friday evening just in time to see Y/n walking Sarah to her car. Before she gets in, they spend another couple minutes talking and while he doesn't want to sit in his car and stare, there's something about the dimness in her expression and the invisible weight pressing her shoulders into a solemn, downward curve that holds him there. Hassan can't recall ever seeing her like that – tired, sure, it would be impossible to be a caregiver and not feel the strain of it. But this evening is different, it's more than tired. He recognizes that look; that was how he looked when his wife reached her end.

Hassan waits until Sarah drives off before getting out of his own car. Y/n is still standing on the sidewalk, arms hugging herself and eyes cast in the direction of the receding car. She isn't dressed to be outside, denim shorts and a thin band tee are hardly enough to combat the October chill, especially when it's been raining on and off all day, and that's how he knows she's probably avoiding heading back in. And he simply can't stand to retreat to his own house when she's looking like she's about to fall apart.

So Hassan calls out to her.

“Hey neighbor,” it's just enough to beckon her attention, and his tone, he hopes, gives nothing away.

“Sheriff,” as Y/n turns to him, she tries to smile but her lips quiver and the effort doesn't reach her eyes. “Hey,” her voice cracks ever so slightly and he suddenly feels guilty about intruding on what might have been a private moment. “How are you?”

Of course she asks how he's doing when she's the one on the verge of tears.

“Doin’ alright,” he shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “you?”

Before anything leaves her lips, which she's pressed into a thin line, Y/n nods stiffly. “I'm….” She sniffles and Hassan steps closer until he's standing where Sarah's car had been parked. “I'm okay,” she manages softly, adverting her gaze to their feet.

He doesn't know what prompts him – his urge to comfort her or the fact that he'd wished someone had done that for him – but Hassan reaches out to lay a hand on her shoulder, and gives it an affectionate squeeze. “You sure?”

And he swears that's like slipping the pin out of the grenade. Or more accurately, throwing a pebble at a cracked window; the tiny thing that shatters something already so fragile.

A sob tumbles past her lips and without thinking, he pulls her against him. She's small enough for her head to settle against the center of his chest while he smooths his hand over her hair. Hassan knows all too well that now isn't the time for him to marvel at how well she fits in his arms, like they're two puzzle pieces just snapping into place. Despite his efforts though, the thought lingers in the back of his mind.

“He's dying,” she cries, words muffled as she keeps her face pressed to his chest, “He's dying and there's nothing else I can do for him.”

Her words make him hold her tighter, as if he's trying to keep her pieces from scattering. “I'm so sorry,” is the only thing he offers. All other words of sympathy and comfort feel wrong in the moment, so they stay like that and Hassan holds her until loud cries turn to slow tears. In fact, it isn't even him that pulls away – if it were up to him, he'd hold her until the next morning, longer if she needs it.

“God,” wiping her cheeks hastily, Y/n sniffles, continuing bashfully, “Sorry about that. I bet you're never gonna ask anyone how they're doing ever again.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” he counters dismissively, “is there anything I can do?”

Her smile, though genuine, is small and sad. “You've already done a lot,” Y/n assures him, “but maybe you could come in for coffee? If you have time,” she adds hastily.

He really had meant to come home and make dinner, hopefully get Ali to tell him about his day, but there's half a pizza in the fridge and he's pretty sure his son is gonna make up an excuse to not have dinner with him, the way he does every evening. Besides, he doesn't want to leave Y/n alone and another half hour can't hurt. “Coffee sounds good.”

Despite being embarrassed about her little meltdown, Y/n is enormously grateful that Hassan agrees to come in for coffee – and it's not even because of that silly little school girl crush she's been nursing since the day they met. It's because when it's just her and her grandfather in the house, she can hear his laboured breathing even in the rooms furthest from his bedroom and she's hoping that talking to the sheriff will distract her a little.

For just a few minutes, Y/n wants to pretend that the man who's wrapped up in some of her fondest memories isn't slipping away and Sarah hasn't just told her to start making arrangements.

His steps are soft as he follows her into the kitchen, and it takes getting there for her to remember that she's left a tray with food and medication on the table. “Shit,” she hisses softly, going to collect it off the small table.

“It's alright if you have to take that up,” Hassan says, halting in the doorway, “I can wait or….”

“No,” Y/n shakes her head as she empties a small bowl of rice cereal into the trash before grabbing a smaller bowl of applesauce to do the same with that, “This is from breakfast. He wouldn't eat it. Didn't eat dinner last night and….” When her voice starts shaking, Y/n stops herself and sets the dishes in the sink. Washing off her hands, she fixes her attention on the coffee maker. It's a nice one, the kind that comes with a milk frother. It's one of the few things that she'd brought from her apartment in the city to make life in Crockett a little more comfortable. “How do you take it?” She asks, slipping a mug into the designated place.

“Black, two sugars,” he returns, now standing near the table with his hands stuffed into his pockets. He makes the space look small, Y/n thinks, and on a regular day it's one of the things she fancies about him. He's so big, capable of being incredibly imposing and yet the only thing she ever feels in his presence is safe. And it's not because of his uniform or the fact that he's a man of the law, it's because there's a softness about Hassan that makes her yearn to be close to him.

It doesn't matter what everyone says about him, Y/n just doesn't see it. He doesn't say a lot, probably even less to her than everyone else on the island, but there's a kindness in his very rare smile and a sadness in his eyes that she wishes she could help with.

“We can talk about it, if you want,” Hassan offers as Y/n stirs two teaspoons of sugar into his coffee.

When Y/n turns to hand him the ceramic mug, she encourages him to sit before returning to the machine and it takes a couple minutes more to sort her thoughts out enough to address his suggestion. “I don't know if there is anything to talk about,” she admits, thumb nail flicking the edge of the tile countertop, “I knew he was terminal when I got here. It was never a matter of if, it was when. But now that its….when, I feel like it's too soon, you know?”

Hassan nods, and she knows that his agreement isn't just surface level empathy – she's heard about his wife from the gossipy folks in town. “I keep reading about all these people who grieve their parents, spouses…. grandparents before they die, because they know it's happening,” Y/n goes on, and at this point, she's rambling in hopes of making sense of her experience, “but it was never like that for me. Until now. I mean I knew he was gonna….” She can't even bring herself to say the words.

“But you didn't think it would be like this,” it's like he's taken the words right out of her mind when he says them. “You thought he'd just go to sleep one night, it would happen and then it would be over.”

“Yeah, exactly,” collecting her mug, Y/n assumes the chair closest to Hassan, “but this is so different. He's in pain, he won't eat, barely drinks water. I know that it's best for him, so he can be…..at peace again,” her eyes start welling up again, and much to her surprise, he reaches over and rests his free hand over. Y/n can count one hand the amount of times he's touched her. Four times.

He shook her hand when they first met and the three other times had happened that very evening.

Admittedly, it's a little confusing; she's spent so long convinced that he doesn't like her that it's hard to believe that him sitting in her kitchen isn't anything more than pity. But that hug didn't feel like pity and the sincerity in his eyes doesn't feel like that either. His thumb is caressing the side of her wrist, the roughness of his finger contrasting with the softness of his skin.

“I understand,” he determines quietly, “I know it doesn't help-”

“It does, you have no idea how much you've helped. Just by being here.” Y/n leans in a little, and Hassan cups her cheek.

“You shouldn't have to go through this alone,” he ghosts the apple of her cheek, “you're there for everyone, someone should be here for you.”

Her hand slides down the back of his forearm, stopping near his elbow. “I'm….” She goes to say glad, but its the wrong word, “grateful it's you. So thank you.”

“‘Course,” Hassan hums, before searching her eyes when she inches closer, “What?”

Y/n knows she's taking a pretty big risk, he's never shown any interest in her like that and she isn't quite sure that her next request has anything to do with her feelings for him. But she asks anyway. “What if I wanted to forget….just for a little while.” She leans in closer, and that time, he does too.

They're so close that Y/n can smell bits of Crockett's salty air mingling with a very subtle cologne. So close that it just takes a couple inches forward on her part for their lips to meet. He tastes like coffee, and his gray flecked beard scratches her face in the most enthralling way. Surprisingly, he reciprocates; his other hand reaches for the back of her neck as he deeps the kiss.

Clumsily, Y/n fumbles out of her chair and into his lap, his worn jeans rubbing against her exposed thighs. The chair scrapes along the hardwood floor when he tries to get it a couple inches away from the table, but neither of them pay any mind to the noise. His large palm inches down her back to eventually slips under the hem of her t-shirt while Y/n starts fiddling with the top button of his uniform.

“Y/n,” he mumbles her name as she pops the second button. Her reply is a hum and an attempt to press her lips to his a bit harder. The bulge in his jeans is firm against her thigh, encouraging her to suggestively grind against his crotch. “Y/n,” that time, Hassan tears his lips from hers and swiftly grabs both her wrists in on his hands, while the other stays firmly on her back – on the outside of her t-shirt.

“You don't want to?” Because of course, on top of overwhelming grief, she has to deal with the shame rejection after she tries to jump her neighbor's bones.

“Trust me,” he heaves, glancing down between them. She can still feel his hard on through his jeans and the thought of what it might feel like without restraint causes her to shift in anticipation. “I want to. But I don't think you want to,” and before she can get an argument in, he cuts her off, “At least, not like this.”

Hassan lets her wrists go in favor of cupping her face with both hands. Leaning in until their foreheads meet, he sighs heavily. “Whatever this could be shouldn't start because you're running away from feeling something difficult.”

“I'm not-” she tries to argue, but her voice breaks, “you’re right.”

“Just….give yourself some time. And when this is over, and you're really ready – and if you still want this – I'll be waiting.” That time, when their mouths meet, the kiss is more gentle. It isn't fueled by passion or haste, it's a promise.

When the break, Y/n slides out of his lap and goes to lean on the lip of the sink. Hiding her face in her hands, she groans loudly, “God,” she bemoans, “I feel so stupid.”

A weaker spot in the old floor creaks ever so slightly as Hassan stands and closes the short distance in a couple long strides. “Don't be,” he weans her hands off her face, holding them so he can caress her knuckles, “honestly, if you weren't crying thirty minutes ago no one would be able to pry me off you.”

His words rouse a quiet chuckle and Y/n spends another handful of seconds staring at their joined hands. “I'm gonna hold you to that,” she affirms quietly.

Hassan gives her hands a squeeze, “I'd hope so,” he glaces backwards at the window. It's starting to get dark out and there are a couple lights on over at his place, signaling that Ali is home. “I should…”

“Of course,” Y/n nods, “Yeah.”

His hands gently cup her neck and she curves her fingers over his wrists, thumbs absently stroking his skin. “If you need anything,” he lowers his head, so close the tips of their noses are almost touch, “you know where to find me.”

After a bit of hesitance, Hassan kisses her one last time before finally letting her hands go and turning to leave. In the doorway, he turns to offer her a short wave and sad, lopsided smile before continuing towards the front door. Meanwhile, Y/n lingers at the sink, toying with her nails even as the front door clicks shut. Through the window, she watches Hassan cross the street and stroll up the front before disappearing into his house.

And just like that, she can hear the wheezing again, and the sound of it causes her to elicit a shuddered breath. Despite her talk with the sheriff, Y/n is still unnerved by what may come within the next few days, but for the first time she isn't entirely unsure of what comes next. For a while, she'd been wondering what would come after; her grandfather is the only thing tying her to the island, but the thought of going back to the city is unnerving. Maybe now she won't have to though, at least, not for a little while longer.

#sheriff hassan #rahul kohli #sheriff hassan x reader #midnight mass #sheriff hassan imagine #rahul kohli imagine #fanfiction

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thegroundhogdidit · 5 months

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interpreting riley as transmasc is so fucking funny because to me that means that he socially transitioned on a whim as a kid and the entire town just. forgot he was ever a girl. he's an altar boy now. bev asks "didn't you have a daughter before" and the flynns just shrug and shake their heads

#i just imagine that it was the most casual transition anyone has ever done #riley gave himself a bad haircut to force his parents to let him buzz it and then he was a boy. and that was that #riley flynn #midnight mass #trans #i don't think he even changed his name tbh

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papasmistakeria · 1 year

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Hamish Linklater suddenly seeing a bunch of people drawing his character interact with an 8-bit pixelated blue stickman holding a cross from a video game he’s never even heard of:

#midnight mass #faith game #faith the unholy trinity #paul hill #john pruitt #john ward #hamish linklater #papas mistakeria special #also could work vice versa btw #airdorf suddenly seeing john ward drawn with the vampire priest from midnight mass #then again it's funnier if it's hamish cause he has no knowledge of technology #hamish pls never get a tumblr I will immediately delete my tumblr account if u do #imagine waking up one day. it's been 2 years since midnight mass and your character that was thirsted over faded into obscurity #then suddenly it's back cause a bunch of people who liked this 8-bit horror game decided the main character would beat up your character #i stand by what i said; if there's a Faith live action remake they should cast Hamish Linklater as John Ward #im sorry but why does hamish have this perpetual look of confusion 💀

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droogiesanddiscourse · 1 year

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"Hellfire."

Pairing: Monsignor John Pruitt x F!Reader

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

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

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

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

Visions of nocturnal holiness.

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

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

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

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

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

He notices your trepidation.

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

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

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

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

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

But you wonder how vanilla and raspberry taste mixed together.

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

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

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

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

Back away back away, make distance between the cliff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life. Death. Rise.

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

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

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

"Open."

Saliva gathers at the back of your throat.

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

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

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

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

"Drink."

And you do.

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

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