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becoming-pathological · 4 months ago

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sacramentum

FANDOM : midnight mass (2021) PAIRING : father paul hill x afab!fem!reader RATING : explicit 🔞 WORDCOUNT : 17.3k

Reader POV. Seeking peace and a sense of self, you pack up your life and move to a small fishing village in the Pacific Northwest.

You're not prepared for what you find there.

Read on AO3 here.

🔔 Only including an excerpt of the first thousand or so words under the cut, as Tumblr formatting hates longwinded porn!

Canon-divergent. Takes place in an alternative version of Episodes 1-4.

Blasphemy and filth fueled by religious guilt and repression. Hierophilia. Reader is agnostic and has no prior ties to the Catholic Church. Mutual pining (but make it weird). Having horny thoughts about a priest (and Christianity in general). Lots of yearning and pondering. Second person.

⚠️ Canonical animal death is mentioned. Blood-laced communion wine is given to the reader without her knowledge. Implied/referenced drug addiction (if you tilt your head slightly to the left). Age gap (20/30-something malaise and mental unwellness featured throughout). Dubious consent and coercion. Reader has no idea what she's gotten herself in for. Honestly, neither does he. ⚠️

When the smut rolls around: Body worship and oral (reader receiving). Soggy sub-leaning behavior from Peepaw Monsignor Father Paul. Because we deserve it. Weird sensory overload vampire sex. Lots of religious themes and motifs.

What can I say? 'Cause this is his body, this is his love. Such selfish prayers and I can't enough. Or whatever.

And I will pour upon you clean water, and you shall be cleansed from all your filthiness, and I will cleanse you from all your idols.

And I will give you a new heart, and put a new spirit within you: and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and will give you a heart of flesh.

Ezekiel 36:25-26

The thing in the grass sees you far before you see it.

Later, you’ll find yourself wondering just how long it was watching you. It doesn’t really matter. Long enough.

Right now, you’re trying to count. It shouldn’t be that hard. Part of you knows that, but the other part doesn’t seem to be paying attention. Your brain does that sometimes—slips a bit, gives up halfway through.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6—

You’ve gotten to seven again when you finally catch a glimpse of it. It’s barely much of anything, just a flicker of movement in your periphery. By that point, it’s already making its way towards you. The grass rustles furiously as it moves, tunneling its way into your full attention. You watch curiously as a head erupts out of the stalks.

It’s a cat.

The realization comes with a sting. Spitting a curse out, you drop the knife. The price of your distraction bubbles to the surface of your finger, bright red and angry. A few drops of it speckle the orange slices you’ve been cutting.

Out the window, the cat is still watching you.

A thought flashes wryly in your mind. If you’re trying to make a habit out of injuring yourself, you might want to schedule it around the ferries. You imagine it coming from the cat, doused in unimpressed feline judgment.

Rinsing your hand off under the tap, you inspect the damage. It’s nothing to be worried about—just a shallow cut—but those were the ones that bled the most. Even now, you could see a fresh bead of red blooming on your skin.

Popping one of the tarnished oranges in your mouth, you head to the bathroom to fish in the medicine cabinet. The bandages you have aren’t big enough for the gash, but you lay one on top of it anyway, smoothing the edges out.

You’ll be more careful next time.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6—

It makes sense that your favorite is what throws off the count. Seven was a good number. The best number, really. Lucky.

You’d chosen to move on the seventh month of the year, seven years into a job that was only as good as it was good enough. You’d been fine. Managing. Navigating adulthood seemed to amount to nothing more than days spent playing connect-the-dots between headaches, shaking ibuprofen into your palm.

Throughout it all, seven had been there, tucked into addresses, stamped onto licensed plates—seemingly assigned to you in particular.

In this sea of banality, there was a small thrill to the idea of something that existed solely for you.

Overhead, the sky is an icy blue, darted through by clouds that look like wrung out dishtowels. Making your way down the front steps, your bag thumps dully against your thigh.

You’re thinking in numbers again. Counting steps, doors.

Salt hangs in air, blasted back against the faded paint of the buildings. Husks of them sit like dried-out cicada shells, brittle and abandoned. With no one to fill them, they seem to blur into the backdrop of the island—stationary outcroppings of the land, just as still as the boulders along the beach.

Here and there, whispers of chimney smoke curl into the air. They were stubborn declarations of life—made by equally stubborn people. Each came from families that felt as old as the ground under your feet, generations on generations whittled down over time. Their faded American flags jut out from front porches, battered folding chairs sitting in overgrown yards. They were here to stay, for better or for worse.

You shiver. There’s an unmistakable chill present in the air, making you regret leaving your gloves at the house. The wind stings your face as you turn the corner. It’s cold out here and it’s only to grow colder still. You wonder if you’ll ever get used to it. You hope you will. After all, this was home now.

For-ever, for-now? You weren’t quite sure yet.

Months into your assumed ownership of the house, unpacked boxes still sit in your living room. Your walls are still bare. The wind chimes you bought are languishing in a plastic bag under the sink. It’s hardly much of a home, but you’ll get to it, you will. That line of thinking works for a bit, but promises of tomorrow have the habit of extending into the next week, and then the week after that. Now, it all just felt like a vague hint of eventually, bookended with maybe.

You weren’t sure why you’d thought that moving here would imbue you with some great sense of motivation. The whole place seemed antithetical to that sort of thing. Things just moved slower out here. It was difficult to feel rushed. Whatever urgency Crockett might have had was just as weatherbeaten and tired as the houses that lined the road. You look at them as you walk, balling your hands into fists and shoving them into your coat pockets.

There are small victories, though, you remind yourself. Minor progress. Finally having run out of clean clothes, you’ve had to give up living out of your suitcase. Your hand was forced, of course, but it was something.

You change direction, stepping off the path.

Down at the edge of the shore, someone is walking slowly along the water.

Your eyes alight on a large piece of driftwood, bleached bone white on the sand. You’d claimed it as your own a few weeks in—easy to do on a beach as lonesome as this one. Sitting down, you pull out your book, giving the cover a cursory glance before opening it. It’s the same one you’ve been starting-stopping-starting again the entire time you’ve been here.

You’re a few paragraphs in, fingertips starting to numb in the cold, when the distraction hits. The words feel tired, on this, your thousandth time attempting to read them. Your eyes slip down the page, scrambling the letters into a cluttered mass of black scribbles.

Twisting your head away from the incomprehensible blur, you find yourself staring at a beached boat. It sits lopsided on a tangle of long yellow reeds, windows coated with a thick sheen of sand. A bent fishing cage sits on its bow, sea grass collecting under it. Despite the debris, it’s difficult to gauge just how long it might have been marooned for. After all, everything eventually ended up looking like that out here.

You can just about make out a number painted on the side of the hull, faded and dull.

“Pardon me, young lady.” Startled out of your thoughts, you look up. An elderly man stands in front of you, clutching his hat in his hands. He’s the one you saw down by the water when you arrived.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” The breeze upsets his hair, whipping white strands of it around his head. “I hope you’ll give grace to a very old man if he’s incorrect.”

You came here for isolation and you’re finding anything but. People seek you out, they want to know you—or rather, know of you. Where you’re from, how long you’re planning on staying. Why you chose this place, out of all the places.

“No, you’re right.” You give him a polite smile, closing your book. “I just moved here.”

“May I?” He gestures at the space on the log next to you.

“Absolutely.”

You watch with anticipatory concern as he slowly shuffles forward. He lists to the right, carefully bracing his hand on the wood. With a groan, he finally lowers himself down beside you.

“Would you do me the privilege of telling me your name?” he asks. “Young lady of whom I’ve never met?”

You tell him and he gives a decided tut, as if he’s committing it to memory.

“What’s yours?” you ask.

He seems to consider the question deeply, his brow creasing in concentration. Letting out a breath, he drums his fingers absently on his knee.

“John,” he finally says. “There’s a whole lot of—” he gestures vaguely out in front of him, his mouth pulling into an unimpressed frown. “—hoopla after the John. Before the John, too. But you know, I, uh, I can’t be bothered with all that today. Today, well…” his words trail off. “Today I’d very much like to be John. Just John.”

“You’ve got it, Just John.”

“A young lady with a sense of humor,” he chuckles. You follow his gaze as it drifts back to the ocean. Gulls dip and dart in the air above the waves, barely more than specks of white in the distance. “Now that’s something quite special.”

The silence that settles around both of you is a tranquil one, full of the rush of waves and the chirps of bird song. He’s very still beside you, staring out at the water. The moment hangs, extends. He blinks slowly, mumbling something under his breath. You almost feel as if he’s forgotten you’re there.

You wait. Eventually, you lower your eyes, flipping your book open. You manage to get to the end of the chapter before he speaks again.

“I must confess, I did have ulterior motives for coming out here today,” he says conversationally, as if no time has passed. “If I’m to be perfectly frank, young lady, I’m quite the suspicious character.”

“Is that true?” You look over at him, raising your brows.

“Oh, yes,” he replies brightly. Lowering his voice, his tone takes on a playfully conspiratorial edge. “I’m on the run today, actually.”

“From the law?” You smile.

“Sometimes it does feel like that,” he sighs. “No. My pursuers are, um, very kind people. Quite well-meaning.”

“So why’d you run?” You stuff the book back into your bag.

“They try to stop me from taking my walks.” He shakes his head. “But I won’t. Not on days like this. Not while I’m…here. I’ve been having less of these, truth be told.”

You watch his face.

“That’s a secret, by the way,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have those, but I do.”

“I feel like everyone does.”

John hums out a noncommittal noise, shifting beside you on the log. Fishing in the pocket of his coat, he pulls out a small metal tin. You glance over at it as he cracks the lid open. It’s filled with an assortment of chalky-looking candy. Selecting a peppermint from the top, he raises it slowly to his lips.

“Don’t get old,” he says, extending the tin towards you. His hand trembles a bit with the effort. “Live as long as you can, but don’t get old.”

“I’ll try my best.” You nod, plucking out a piece of bright yellow candy.

“Very good.” He smiles gently over at you. “Enjoy.”

You pop the candy into your mouth as he snaps the tin shut. It’s lemon, sugary and just a touch stale. The taste is a nostalgic one. It slots in perfectly with everything else about him, ubiquitously grandfatherly.

“Thanks, John.”

“See, John sounds right, doesn’t it?” He exhales deeply, turning back to the ocean. “You’re very welcome.”

You return home. You count and then recount. You think about secrets and count them too. You’re not sure if you have seven anymore.

For all intents and purposes, you had disappeared. You were fairly professional at it. People cared initially, but the longer the gulf grew, the less they did. It was a blameless thing.

You always had a foot out the door of your own life. Self-sabotage and self-preservation were things you fumbled for in the dark. You always grabbed the wrong one, but you never noticed until it was too late.

Another blameless thing. They felt the same at first.

You imagined the lives you had vanished out of as gulls, bobbing at the surface of the water. They barely flew, those birds—just opened up their wings and let themselves be caught by the wind. It was the only sensible thing to do in response to something so inescapable.

You unlatch the window and crack it open. You breathe, you think, you count.

It was possible that the people you’d known weren’t the gulls at all. Maybe that was just you, a resident of nowhere in particular. Living in moments you’d just happened to end up in, ambivalent to a future that might exist past your next meal. It was an unfortunate thought.

Or maybe you aren’t any of those things. The thought came in a flat, unimpressed voice—the one you’d imagined for the cat outside your window. It’s gone now, but you can still picture those eyes. Amber, wide and unblinking.

It was correct, of course. You weren’t the parasitic maw in the shape of a bird, nor the wind that carried it. You couldn’t be. It was a hollow triumph to know that you were just a person and had always been one.

If you were anything, you wish you were the ocean. Impartial and vast and beautiful. Since you weren’t, you settle for filling your lungs with the salt of her exhale.

Read the rest on AO3 here!

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