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fangirlinginspace · 29 days

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Ducan "Donut" Vizla🍩

Disclaimer: stories are fictitious and should not be taken literally, the behavior is entirely imaginative and the content may be inappropriate

Updated & repaired: 16/07/2023 (if a story won't load or something else, please message me and let me know)

MAIN MASTERLIST

JOIN US TODAY. BE A DUNCAN HOE!

Fluff🌺 Angst 🌩️ Smut❤️‍🔥

5/7 STORIES

5 Types Of Kisses🌺

MY HEADCANONS W/ OTHER CHARACTERS:

Speak In Flowers 🌺 Flowers speak their own words and show their actions. And your man loves to speak it out loud.

Visiting Your Hometown 🌺 how would your boy act when you drag him along to your hometown

Helping You To Accept Your Stretch Marks 🌺your boy helps you accept your beautiful stretch marks as they are...pure perfection

Explaining To Your Man Kdramas🌺I (V) wrote small drabbles that paired my favorite men and dramas that I absolutely love

Dating A Tattoo Artist 🌺 being a tattoo artist and your boyfriend being part of it

When Tough Times Occur 🌺Life itself can be a pain and with its obstacles, it can seem impossible to overcome it but that’s what makes us stronger as people.

Someone Rubs You The Wrong Way With... 🌺 how would your man protect you when someone doesn’t mind your business

Having A Shower ❤️‍🔥having a shower with your man sounds like heaven right?!

One Thing He Loves About You (Physically Or Mentally)🌺 the title spoils the ending a bit

No Nut November ❤️‍🔥in the glory of No Nut November, you make a bet with your liver saying if they fail you cuff them and use them to your liking but if you lose they get to fulfil one of their fantasies. And you are keen on it to make them lose, by any means.

ASKS

My Saviour 🌺protective! Duncan Vizla? Maybe they capture her and he’s ready to wreak havoc upon them? Hurt/comfort with a bit of makeup smut?

Taking Off Their S/O's Makeup 🌺 (Could you do Duncan vizla,the joker and whoever else you’d like.)taking off their s/o makeup after they come from a nightout because they are to drunk to do it themselves 💛

Stressed Student 🌺 can I request Duncan Vizla, the Joker, Victor Creed and what would they do if they see their s/o down because they're stressed due exams?

You Are My Protector 🌺 do you think he’d appreciate someone being gentle with him and spoiling him with compliments? I just imagine him getting a praise kink whenever his woman kisses his scars 😚💗

Worship Me 🌺 What about Duncan doing some exhausting teasing foreplay the whole day before having sex?😍😍

Kicking in the process... 🌺 Duncan Vizla x Pregnant Reader

October Drive ❤️‍🔥I think daddy Duncan deserves some smut, would you be an angel you are and write something, maybe some August heat car ride or smth!

Telling Him You Are A Virgin ❤️‍🔥 Ok here me out 😂 virgin X Duncan, she constantly flirts with him but doesn’t want a one night stand with him. It shocks him when she says she’s a virgin and only does long term

White Shorts VS. Duncan Vizla ❤️‍🔥Innocent girl + short shorts = very pent up Duncan = very rough sex

Period Sex ❤️‍🔥What do you think about Duncan smut while his girl is on period? I bet he's up to this shit👀👀

Duncan Pleaser ❤️‍🔥 Omg give us more swearing daddy Duncan pleasing his woman😍😍

Outdoor Quickie ❤️‍🔥hi there! I've come up with the idea for Duncan smut, IDK if you like it, but I give it a try🔞🔞how bout some outdoor quickie in winter? IDK if it's even possible in real life, but still! I very much appreciate all your imagines! you're doing great👍👍

Christmas Decorations 🌺 now here’s a little concept (you don’t have to write I just want to share lol) She is super excited for Christmas like REALLY excited she’s all over the house with decorations and at first when she asks him to help her he says no but I mean he can’t say no to her puppy eyes so he caves and they spend the whole afternoon decorating the house ✨💜✨💜✨

I Ain't No Snitch 🌺❤️‍🔥 can you imagine if one day she is kidnapped in order to get to Duncan so he has to find her and everything and when he finds her she’s all scared and crying so he gets all soft and protective 😭😭😭😭😭😭

No Bra ❤️‍🔥 some good old Duncan Vizla smut

Nightly Adventures ❤️‍🔥Lemme ask for some duncan vizla smut, daddy kink, dirty talk and pure filth? I feel like the character is underrated and has lots of potential!

Jingle My Balls ❤️‍🔥 How about some good ol' sexy time with Duncan Vizla! Ohhhhh maybe a holiday theme?? Like the reader wore idk a santa dress/elf dress and Duncan decides to jingle their bells??? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ya catchin my drift chief?? Im sorry this was cheesy

Daddy Kink Headcanon ❤️‍🔥 I was wondering if u could possibly do some Duncan Vizla with daddy kink (smut) headcaons plz it’s ok if u can’t tho 👌

Wedding Risks ❤️‍🔥 may i ask for more of it, maybe some inappropriate place/timing smut or public place or as you wish, cause it gives life :3

Brave 🌩️🌺 I have a request for Duncan! Maybe one of his old enemies gets ahold of his SO and uses her to lure him into a trap and all the angst but with a happy ending! I love your writing so much!! 💕💕💕

Departure ❤️‍🔥How bout some age gap angsty smutty fic w\Duncan Vizla? Like grey hair and wrinkles and stuff, cause kinks are kinks, you know🔥🔥🔥

First Timers ❤️‍🔥 May I request some Duncan smut, like first meeting him\first date stuff... like why wait for 2nd date when you're all head over heels :3

The Right Way To Wake Up ❤️‍🔥 How about some middle of the night/early morning wake up sex w/Mr Duncan Vizla💦💦

Road Trip ❤️‍🔥what about some road/car sex with Duncan?

Foreplay ❤️‍🔥May I request some NSFW Duncan headcanons like putting a condom on/undressing/arousing words, etc., stuff like that!

Mustache Ride I feel like Duncan's mustache gently massaging skin\clit while giving oral must be headcanon😍😍

Girl 🌺 What Would Duncan Vizla Think of having a chubby girlfriend?

Hand+Job ❤️‍🔥May I ask for Duncan receiving handjob or smth without penetration😍😍

Kisses Of Jealously ❤️‍🔥Thank you for all the Duncan fics, they are perfect😍 Let me request some steamy period smut with Duncan

Bathtub Mishaps ❤️‍🔥May I request some bathroom/bathtub Duncan Vizla smut? It should we very wet out there if you know what i mean💦💦

Leading Praise❤️‍🔥

Sinful Words What would you say about Duncan being daddy he is and talking dirty with his lover😈😈

Duncan Going To Town❤️‍🔥

NSFW Alphabet (VER 1)❤️‍🔥

NSFW Alphabet (VER2)❤️‍🔥

First Time Having Sex❤️‍🔥

Nightly Adventures ❤️‍🔥Lemme ask for some Duncan Vizla smut, daddy kink, dirty talk and pure filth? I feel like the character is underrated and has lots of potential!

Little Miss ❤️‍🔥

Fitting Punishment ❤️‍🔥

Comparisons ❤️‍🔥

Chubby!SO 🌺What Would Duncan Vizla Think of having a chubby girlfriend?

DRABBLES FROM MY🧠

Hands To Kiss🌺

Mother, Meet Duncan Vizla 🌺your mom meets your boyfriend

Jealousy Makes Him Silent 🌺

Duncan Saving You🌺

Duncan Learning Your Native Language🌺

Mornings With Duncan Vizla🌺

Making Out ❤️‍🔥

Dating Duncan Vizla🌺

First BJ❤️‍🔥

Tease ❤️‍🔥

Over The Edge ❤️‍🔥

Breathe 🌺Song fic- Breathe by Mako

DIFFERENT AUs

Professor Vizla (Professor!AU)❤️‍🔥Could you write a professor Duncan Vizla x reader smut... ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) And there is an age gap between them... Something like that... 🙈🙈🙈

Sins Of Ours (Priest!AU)❤️‍🔥 For Anon who requested it: I hope you like it, I have seen the trailer you suggested but I just changed the name because I’m a lazy bitch and haven’t found the name of the character Mads played so I changed it to Duncan. I hope that’s okay.

SHORT IMAGINE

Duncan Seeing You After A Long Time🌩️

Seeing Duncan’s Old Videos Of Him🌺

Waking Up Next To Duncan Vizla🌺

Duncan Coming To Your Home Needing Help🌺

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fangirlinginspace · 2 months

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fangirlinginspace · 2 months

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Back To December (Theo Dimas x Reader)

a/n: this is a squeal to Maybe You Are Prefect but like ur gurl didn't wanna keep the same title lmao word count: 912 warnings: fluff, first kiss, regret, miscommunication, nostalgic vibes

"So this is me, swallowing my pride. Standing in front of you, saying 'I'm sorry for that night.' And I go back to December all the time." - Taylor Swift

Theo was the man living in the apartment below me at the time. He had short, almost shaggy hair and always wore thick knitted sweaters, even in summer. Sometimes I would see him up and about, getting mail or riding in the elevator. Something about him, though, made me want to be around him all the time. He was so quiet and always smiled at me whenever he saw me. I knew him for a very long time ago; when we were teenagers. We were very tight-knit; I never wanted to judge him for who he was. He only wanted to help others.

Then, at a poorly Christmas-themed dinner party, after so many years, we met over again. I fell in love again, like the kind of love that only talks about in songs. But this time, he knew it, and he loved me back. And as the snow fell down as we hugged, he wrote on my back: "I love you too."

Since then, we haven’t seen each other much. Theo was hardly on the elevator or getting mail. I wanted to know if he thought of my words now in a different context. Maybe Theo thought I meant it in a friendly way. My own thought was he wrote it to prevent me from getting my feeling hurt. Either way, Theo didn’t feel the same. If he did, he would’ve done so much more. But I felt like I was being irrational, overanalyzing my weird feelings. So, any average person would do and go to the apartment. Knowing that Teddy would answer the door, I had no plans on what to say when I finally got up there. But I decided to go down the elevator and knocked on their door. Of course, Teddy answers.

"Ah (Y/N)! What brings you here?" Teddy exclaims upon seeing my face.

"Where’s Theo? Is he home?" I asked.

Teddy looks behind him, "Well, I’ll check his room. In the meantime, you can come in and take a seat."

Teddy walks out from the hallways with Theo, his arms straight at his side.

"Can I speak to him… privately?" I cautiously ask, not knowing if he wanted to speak with me in the first place.

Theo looks to the ground as Teddy signs, asking him if he wants to. He nods his head slowly as he finally looks at me. Once again, going back into my mind, I’m finally being handed the ring he promised to get me all those years ago. The one I still wore on my hand. We walked back to the balcony. It was a lot warmer than it had been in December, and with the summer month inching closer, I didn’t think Theo would still be wearing the sweater.

"I’m sorry for that night." I signed somberly.

"Why?" Theo asked, resting his arms on the railing.

"I don’t think you understood what I told you that night."

Theo had this look in his eyes, concern in an almost unreadable way. He seemed upset by what I had just told him.

"I think I understood you very well. You love me." He sighs.

"How do you think I meant that, though?"

Theo pauses for a moment. "What kind of question is that?" He signs, his hands stiff.

"Like… I want to be clear about what I told you that night."

Theo sighed again, almost like I was acting childish. "It’s kind of hard to not be clear about a love confession."

What? My brain sits with itself, wondering how I made it clear to him. Theo was always the geek and book lover who never got romantic feelings, or at least, he never showed it. Other than Zoey, I never could tell if he liked another girl. If this wasn’t ASL, this would’ve been the part where I would become tired and uptight about this miscommunication.

"What does that even mean? Then you probably knew about all my weird feelings about you when we were teenagers."

Theo looks at me, his eyes soften. "Yes, I did."

When Theo and I’s parents were a lot younger, they used to go to movies every Sunday. Then, once my mother had me and Teddy had Theo, we all went to the movies together. Suddenly, I was graduating high school and moving into my college dorm. Seeing the films every Sunday stopped, along with seeing Theo and Teddy.

But I don’t think about that anymore. In my mind, it's still December. The lights hung up around the windows, and my mother talked with Teddy in front of the tree with bright red ornaments hanging neatly. Theo and I are outside, watching the snow fall as I move closer to him. Of course, I lied and told him I needed to be warmed by his body heat, but he knew I wanted him to kiss me.

"Then why didn’t you do more-"

My thought is cut off by a soft kiss from Theo. His lips tasted like a smooth vanilla chapstick, and his body radiated heat. The blood from the rest of my body ran to my face. I knew that Theo was bold but never this confident.

Theo pulls away, his eyes still as soft as before. Something told me that this kind of kiss was different. I’ve kissed umpteenth of men, but something about him made it feel different.

"Well… I was waiting for the right moment, and that moment was right now."

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fangirlinginspace · 2 months

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song doesn’t lie . I DO WISH I WAS HIS GIRL 𝜗𝜚

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fangirlinginspace · 2 months

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Sinnerman (Father Paul Hill x Reader)

Summary: You can’t even see your old life from Crockett Island, but nevertheless it weighs on your conscience like an anchor on the ocean floor. Father Paul Hill tries to pull the anchor up, only to sink your whole damn ship.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. Reader is a lapsed Catholic for plot reasons. I also played with the show’s timeline a little bit for this fic. Anyway, 10 years of Catholic school later and this is the result. Inspired by the Nina Simone song. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 7k

Warnings: Brief mentions of blood and violence. Reader’s morals are all over the place. Obviously a lot of Catholic themes (especially guilt) and imagery. Sexually explicit content between a member of the clergy and a lay person. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Unlike pretty much everywhere else in the country, houses on Crockett Island garnered very little interest. There were no frustrating bidding wars or last minute phone calls made to real estate agents. The available houses barely registered on the listings you scrolled through, some having been on the market for years. When you called about a two bedroom you’d never even stepped foot in, offering to pay upfront in cash, the agent on the other end of the line almost hung up on you, assuming it was a scam. No scam. You just wanted to disappear.

To the world, you were gone, a vapor who abruptly quit her incredibly well-paying job with a generous severance package. Painting was a hobby that got increasingly pushed to the backburner as you focused more on your career until you couldn’t remember the last time you touched a paintbrush. Of course, that wasn’t why you quit your job, but it sounded a lot nicer than the reason that ate you alive. You hoped that if you disappeared, the guilt that made its home in your gut would go away too. On Crockett Island, however, you were far from invisible.

Despite the unforgiving ocean wind that raged the day you arrived, you were met with nothing short of a welcome party. The mayor, his wife, the sheriff, and the elderly monsignor of the singular church on the island accompanied by a woman who constantly hovered. Nice enough people who greeted you with a mixture of delight and disbelief that you were moving onto the island instead of off. You shot yourself in the foot the second you mentioned you had been raised Catholic, as everyone but the sheriff extended offers to join them at mass that you awkwardly declined.

Sheriff Hassan gave you a sympathetic look when he left your new home, the last of the informal welcoming committee to do so. Get used to it, his eyes said. You almost asked him to stay for coffee if you could dig your pot out of whichever cardboard box you packed it in. You decided against it. On an island so small, coffee could turn into something else quickly enough.

It took a week or so to get into a comfortable routine. Wake up early, make coffee, take your time eating breakfast, then head out to some new part of the island with your art supplies in tow, only to be held up for fifteen to twenty minutes by someone inevitably stopping you to talk. Usually small talk, but you could tell a lot of people were just happy to have someone new to tell old stories to instead of regurgitating them to the same handful of people all the time.

Some days, when the fog made it almost impossible to see your outstretched hand in front of you, you’d find yourself drawn to St. Patrick’s, painting or sketching the church. The fog would inevitably roll away, and in the distance you’d see the monsignor, sometimes with Beverly and other times by himself. He’d always wave at you, though his face betrayed his confusion as to who you were. Poor guy. You thought the parishioners were crazy to send him over to Jerusalem.

The day after he left for his trip was another foggy one. You made your usual trek out to the church to draw. It was a nice, informal ritual. Spiritual enough for your tastes without the risk of bursting into flames if you stepped foot in the place. With the monsignor gone, mass wasn’t being held, and the area was quieter than usual. Not completely, though.

“You know, you’re always loitering outside of the church, but I never see you in it,” Beverly said while you were sketching the weathered wood building.

You kept your focus on the page you were working on, not sparing her a glance. “Not my thing.”

“At one point it was, though. You said it yourself on the day you moved in that you were raised in the faith.”

“Not my choice.”

Her lips pressed in a thin line, her voice strained, “Well, you’re always welcome at St. Patrick’s. I’m sure when the monsignor returns, he’d be overjoyed to see you in the pews. We all would.”

“Thanks for the offer.”

“Yes, well, have fun doodling.”

Your jaw clenched. Doodling. You shot her a glare over your shoulder when she walked away.

Luckily, you weren’t the focus of the islanders’ attention for much longer, because the Flynns’ son had returned home from prison on the mainland. A quiet guy who kept to himself despite Annie excitedly introducing you to Riley. You were polite, but didn’t pry. It seemed like he wanted to keep to himself too. Then, the following day, the parish was in a tizzy over the unexpected arrival of a new pastor, a temporary replacement for the aging monsignor. You didn’t know the old guy very long, but he wasn’t quite with it. Doubtful the replacement would be temporary. Maybe he said that to soften the blow of not being able to give their monsignor a formal goodbye.

You had mixed feelings about the new guy. The evening following his first mass on the island, Father Paul had sneaked up on you while you were trying to paint an old fishing bungalow. He startled you so bad that you jumped, arm jerking and leaving a green streak on the paper in its wake. He was nice enough, apologizing profusely for scaring you. Still, you felt the pit in your stomach that’d become somewhat more manageable recently threaten to engulf your psyche again when he said that Beverly mentioned you were a lapsed Catholic, because of course she would, and expressed disappointment at not seeing you at mass.

“You’ll be at the potluck at least?” he asked. “Sounds like a lot of fun.”

You laughed. “Yeah, the Crock Pot thing. I’ll be there.”

“Fantastic, maybe we can talk more then. I’ve bothered you enough, nearly ruined your painting.”

“Happy accident. I can make a tree,” you said.

“That’s a nice way to look at it, but really, I’ll be going now.” He smiled. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too.”

You caught his profile as he walked away, handsome in the golden hour. Setting your painting supplies aside, you grabbed your sketchbook and a pencil and began drawing. Maybe the guilt you felt was for finding a priest attractive and not the resurgence of your past sins. The word weighed heavy on your conscience. You could sleep better at night convincing yourself you’d made some mistakes. You could learn and grow from mistakes. Sins held magnitude beyond what you could manage on your own.

The day of the potluck, you slept in, only rolling out of bed an hour before it was supposed to start. When you walked over to the gathering, you felt that pit in your stomach causing you trouble again. The islanders’ devotion left a sour taste in your mouth, and seeing the physical embodiment of it in the form of ashen crosses on their foreheads didn’t help.

You made small talk and wandered around with your plate of food, taking a seat on one of the benches. One huge perk of living on the island was the fresh seafood and dozens of people who knew how to cook it all perfectly. Everything on your plate would’ve cost at least sixty dollars in a nice restaurant on the mainland. You got it all for your five dollar donation.

While tearing apart a piece of bread on your plate, you could hear hushed voices arguing to your left. They were either speaking louder or getting closer to you, but either way, you recognized Beverly and Father Paul’s voices.

“Her? Father, she doesn’t attend mass. The church should not be—“

“I’ve made up my mind, Bev,” Father Paul whispered loudly before waving you over. “Y/N, I have something I’d like to run by you.”

You gave him a hesitant nod as you got up from your seat, leaving your plate to walk closer to where he and Beverly were standing.

“I’d like to commission you to paint a mural on the west-facing wall, where the sun sets. I already discussed the idea with Monsignor Pruitt, and he raved about your talents.”

“Are you sure? I don’t wanna end up being the next monkey Jesus lady.”

He gave you an amused smile. “I’ve seen your work. You’re more than capable of what I have in mind.”

“As long as it’s not that godless abstract nonsense,” Beverly interjected.

“Tell that to Alfred Manessier,” you said.

“I don’t know who that is.”

You scoffed. “He was one of the most celebrated modernist painters of the past century. He created some of his best works using St. John of the Cross’ Spiritual Canticles as inspiration.”

“See?” Father Paul interjected. “I can’t think of anyone better for the job. I made a mock-up, a crude sketch, really. I can show you when you have time to go over some of the details I have in mind.”

“Sounds good.”

“You haven’t given your price.”

“Why don’t we work that out afterward?” you said, not sure if you were even going to go through with this. “I am going to need supplies, though. Different paint and materials depending on the type of mural you had in mind.”

“Yes, of course, whatever you need, we’ll have Sturge bring it from the mainland.”

Not long after that, the festival ended on a heartbreaking note as Joe Collie’s dog died, was poisoned more like it, but there was no proof. You didn’t get much sleep that night. It didn’t matter. Early the next working, you were pulled from your half-slumber by a rapid knocking at the door.

Without thinking, you shuffled over, opening it to find Beverly standing on your front porch, less than impressed with your wrinkled pajamas and dazed expression at the sunlight in your face.

“Yeah?”

“Father Paul has time this afternoon to speak with you about the mural.”

“Okay.”

“Will you be there?”

“I guess, what time is it anyway?”

“Seven-thirty, I wanted to come by before the school day began. If you’re not serious about this, don’t waste his time.”

“Alright, I’ll be there around two.”

You didn’t wait for her to respond, shutting the door in her face and heading back to bed. If you woke up in time to make it to the church, you supposed you’d do it. When you lifted your head from the pillow later on and checked the time on your phone, it was a quarter after one. Damn. You were actually doing this.

The otherwise unassuming church seemed to loom over you as you approached. You sighed. It was just a building. Still, you hesitated outside of St. Patrick’s for a minute or so before building up the courage to walk inside. No hellfire or spontaneous combustion upon your arrival. Though, there should have been, with the way Father Paul was sitting on the steps leading up to the altar, legs splayed out in his jeans. Your mouth almost went dry. Suddenly his eyes were on yours. You panicked, dipping your hand in the font and making a sign of the cross with the holy water. That had to absolve you of thinking a priest looked hot for a split second.

He practically jumped up from where he was sitting, closing the distance between you with an excited smile and a folded up piece of paper that he handed to you.

He spoke animatedly and used sweeping motions in reference to the wall and what he wanted it to look like. “Call it divine inspiration, but I had a vision of an angel. It’s burned into my mind. It needs to be up here for the parish to see.”

You looked at his sketch, tilting your head as you took in the monstrous creature that resembled Nosferatu rather than an angel. Still, it wasn’t like artists regularly were commissioned to paint elaborate church murals anymore. You supposed the prestige of being able to say you did such outweighed the odd nature of his vision.

“I was thinking just on the wood wall here. That shouldn’t be too difficult, should it?”

“No, but I think for the best result, I’ll have to strip the existing paint off the wall and then prime it to paint over. That may take up to a week, depending on how much of the wall you want the mural to take up.”

Father Paul chuckled humorlessly. “Bev’s going to have a heart attack when she hears that. Why don’t you write a list of what you need, and I’ll give it to Sturge.”

You would have been surprised at how quickly he agreed if he weren’t so enthusiastic about his vision coming to life. He kept talking, rambling was more like it, about the angel and his vision. There was an air of conspiracy to his voice, almost as if he was telling you something that was meant to be kept between the two of you. His rambling was interrupted by Beverly’s appearance. You took the opportunity to slip out, claiming you promised your mom you’d call her to catch up before dinner.

By the end of the week, you had all of the supplies you needed, and Father Paul gave you free reign of the church when mass wasn’t going on. You hadn’t expected him to be such a big help in the preparations, figuring you’d be scraping the stripped paint off the wall yourself. It made the process go by faster, even though Beverly looked constipated every time she saw the bare wood wall in contrast to the rest of the church. Father Paul had to remind her it was temporary.

The hours spent with him felt almost natural, like you were talking to an old friend. At least, he was nice enough to let you ramble about art and the mural techniques you read about on your phone the past few days. Though, you didn’t miss his offhand comment about how so many great artists were Catholic. You wanted to clarify that you weren’t Catholic, not anymore. Besides, there were great artists of all faiths. The Catholic Church just had the money to bankroll some of the more prominent ones. Deciding it best not to stir up any unnecessary tension before you even started on the project, you let the comments roll off your back, not bothering to acknowledge them. Things were going great, otherwise. At least, they were until it was time for you to actually start painting.

That pit in your stomach started acting up again as soon as Father Paul told you that he went ahead and primed the wall already, so you could start painting the mural.

“I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure you’ll work better if I’m not breathing down your neck. Let me know if you need anything,” he said.

You smiled, giving him a silent nod as he left. Hesitation overtook you, soon followed by dread as you looked at the wall in front of you. There was no way to back out, at least not without drawing the ire of the growing number of devout islanders. You hadn’t witnessed Leeza Scarborough’s miracle, and as much as the skeptics tried to talk circles around it, you couldn’t think of any other explanation for what had happened. It scared you, how real the faith you were raised in felt here.

As soon as your brush touched the primed wall, you nearly passed out. It was a holy place, meant to reflect the power and glory of god. You didn’t feel worthy to alter it in such a significant way, as if you were Michaelangelo or DaVinci and not some corporate flunkie who only got such a big severance package because—no, you couldn’t think about it in this church of all places, not one where god seemed suffocatingly present. The brush then fell from your hand with a clatter that seemed to echo through the church, through your ears.

Father Paul spoke your name softly, tentatively, like you were a wounded animal. “Why are you crying?”

You weren’t sure how long you were in your fugue state of despair for him to find you like that. “I don’t think I’m the right person to do this. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s you. It has to be you.”

Shaking your head frantically as he approached you, you threw your hands over your mouth to muffle your sobs. He outstretched his arms, not forcing you to accept his comfort, but you felt inexplicably pulled to him, to the absolution he offered if you’d just accept it.

“Do you know what St. Teresa of Avila said about prayer?”

“What’s that?”

“She said that prayer is allowing yourself to be loved,” he said. “Pray with me.”

He took your hands in his, bowing his head and closing his eyes. You did the same, though you were unable to focus on his words, not when your mind was racing so much. Too loud, too overwhelming, you couldn’t take it.

In the middle of his prayer, you blurted out, “At my old job, my boss did a lot of illegal stuff, and I helped her cover it up because I knew if I did that I’d be set for life. Except it’s been eating me alive ever since. She offered me this huge severance package if I’d sign an NDA when I quit. I can’t–I feel like it’s gonna drown me one day.”

“What did you—surely it can’t be that bad.”

The cry you let out was akin to a howl. “Father Paul, I can’t—I’m a horrible person—“

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been—“ you paused. “I’ve never truly confessed in my life.”

He nodded, understanding and encouragement in his gaze rather than the judgment you expected.

“My boss was one of those cutthroat types. I admired her for it for the longest time, even when she got indicted. I used to work late nights, so I told her if she gave me a raise and a promotion, I’d testify that she was in the office with me on the days the prosecution had her doing some of the stuff she got charged with,” you said. “I thought it wouldn’t bother me. I’d been screwing people over to claw my way up the corporate ladder for years and learned how to shake it off, but this shit—it might as well be in my veins. Some people lost everything because of me, because I lied.”

You were hyperventilating, and all you could focus on was how tightly Father Paul was gripping your shoulders.

“The worst part is, I thought it’d make up for the emptiness. I spent so much time working that I pushed people away, and I wanted something to show for it. I’d give anything to feel that emptiness again,” you choked out. “I am sorry for these and all my sins.”

“It’s okay,” he whispered.

“No, it’s not.”

“It is. I promise it is. The bible shows us time and time again that god can use our past sins to glorify him, to show the power of forgiveness in the blood of Christ. You feel guilt, regret, and sorrow. That’s good. Your penance,” he said, pointing to the blank wall. “God brought you here knowing you needed absolution, while this church is on the verge of a renaissance. I don’t think something like this happened by chance.”

“Okay,” you breathed. “I—I’ll do it.”

You fumbled your way through the Act of Contrition, Father Paul guiding you through the short prayer you’d embarrassingly forgotten most of the words to. In his name, my god, have mercy.

“God, the Father of mercies, through the death and the resurrection of his son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the church may god give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” he said, making a sign of the cross over you.

You nodded, making a sign of the cross. “Amen.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin when he brushed his thumbs along your cheeks, wiping away the tear tracks that’d begun to dry. He smiled kindly, warmly, and you felt warm too. Taking a deep breath, you brought the paintbrush to the wall, making the first stroke of what would become Angulus autem Crockett Insulus, the Angel of Crockett Island.

Work on the mural went smoothly after the roadbump the first day, and you felt better than you had in months. The guilt that’d tethered itself to you for so long had vanished. You’d never received so many compliments on your art in your life. Suddenly dozens of people were admiring your work, regarding it with awe as if it were in a cathedral rather than a small fishing town’s wooden church. Erin even had you come to the school and teach an art class for the students. It helped that Father Paul took every opportunity to talk up your skills whenever someone would mention the mural.

While the lighting in the church was undoubtedly better during the day, you’d work at night sometimes, just to get an idea of how it’d look when no one was around to see it. The shadows that fell over Father Paul’s angel made it appear almost sinister. You wondered if it was something you could fix in the morning, soften it a bit to not be as harsh and imposing.

You almost laughed when you saw Father Paul standing in the door of the sacristy, knocking on the door frame as if it weren’t his church the two of you were standing in.

“I know it’s late, but do you want coffee? I’m about to brew a pot,” he said.

You smiled. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

“Door will be open, just let yourself in when you’re finished here.”

“Oh, in the rectory?”

“Yes, but if that makes you uncomfortable–”

“No, of course not. I’ll be there in a few.”

He made his leave, and you grabbed a paintbrush, noticing an odd, shadowy spot on the angel that wasn’t due to the lighting. You winced a bit. Your hand had started cramping recently. Of course carpal tunnel would catch up with you, working almost non-stop on an elaborate mural would do that.

The last thing you wanted to do was take a break on the progress you’d made. Father Paul’s enthusiasm was infectious, and you didn’t want to lose the inspiration you were running on to bring his vision to life.

Taking a step back, you frowned. The shadow over the angel almost looked worse. You set your brush down, figuring you’d have a better idea of what to do with a fresh set of eyes in the morning.

You kept your supplies on a plastic tarp to avoid getting paint elsewhere, and so it could be easily moved out of the way for mass. From what you’d heard, there was a full house every Sunday, and daily mass actually had decent attendance. You could remember seeing only Beverly, Annie, and Leeza making their way into the old church for the early morning services during the week.

The lights were off in the sacristy, and you took a few tentative steps toward it. You knew there was a door through there that led out back toward the rectory, but something in you hesitated at entering that part of the church. Instead, you walked out the main doors and around the building.

There was an eeriness to the lone house not too far off in the distance. You’d learned from your time on the island that lighthouses were meant to warn incoming ships that they were nearing cliffs or rough waters, not so much welcoming them in as advising them to stay at arms’ length, be aware and alert. The light that shone from the rectory gave you a similar impression.

You walked up to the small house, finding the door open for you. A staticy oldies station played in the living room, Father Paul leaning against the kitchen counter as he waited for the coffee to finish brewing.

“All of this stuff is so old. Radio barely picks up any reception,” he said bashfully.

“It has its charm. This whole island does. I feel like I’m really starting to be part of things.”

“You are!” he exclaimed. “Our resident artist. Everyone’s wondering when they’ll see you at mass.”

“Maybe next Sunday,” you said unconvincingly.

“I think you’ll be impressed at how different it is from what you remember growing up with. Things are changing—for the better,” he said. “How do you take your coffee?”

He grabbed a mug from the cabinet, older and chipped with a faded ‘Crock Pot 2003’ printed on it. He poured the coffee, preparing it to your liking and handing you the mug. You followed him over to the kitchen table, taking the chair next to him rather than on the other side of it.

The radio became the slightest bit clearer a few notes into Dusty Springfield’s version of Son of a Preacher Man. It was one of those songs you grew up hearing, but never truly understood the lyrics until you got older and really listened.

“You know, growing up, I didn’t know Protestant pastors could get married. I thought they were like priests where that wasn’t allowed,” you said. “Do you think it makes that much of a difference? Not being married, or even romantically involved?”

He paused, furrowing his eyebrows before giving you the non-convincing answer of, “It allows me to devote myself to God and focus on my congregation.”

“Yeah, but the Catholic Church is so pro-family, saying all that crap about not using contraception. Why not lead by example? Isn’t it natural to do that?” you asked, stopping yourself before you could go on talking about pregnancy with a priest. “I overstepped, sorry.”

“No, they’re good questions. I’ve thought about them myself.”

“Have you ever wanted to have your Sound of Music moment? Y’know, how Julie Andrews just says ‘Fuck it’ and gives in to her feelings for Christopher Plummer?”

He huffed out a laugh. “Maybe not Christopher Plummer specifically, but in more or less words, yes.”

“Do you ever feel lonely?” you asked softly.

He didn’t speak, only reaching over to squeeze your hand. The suddenness of the tender gesture sent a shock through your system, and you could feel your heart skip a beat. Whoever was the late night DJ at the oldies station must have had it out for you as Roy Orbison’s Only the Lonely started to play.

You squeezed his hand in return. “So do I.”

He stood up, murmuring something about refilling his cup. You kept your slight grip on his hand, standing up from your seat at the table. You shouldn’t have even been thinking about it, not when you’d finally rid yourself of a guilty conscience. The corners of his lips quirked up, and he tilted his head slightly, a silent inquiry as to what you were going to do next.

You kissed him. You kissed a priest, and it didn’t even feel wrong. Father Paul pulled you closer by your entwined hands, releasing it when your chest was pressed against his. He was a bit clumsy, but you’d have been surprised if he weren’t. You opened your mouth for him the slightest bit, feeling his tongue on your lips, inside your mouth, a hesitancy behind his actions still.

Pulling away from him, you caressed his cheek. You couldn’t absolve any guilt he may feel, but you could keep it at bay, only if for a night.

“I want this, Father,” you assured him. “I want you.”

His eyes searched your face for any indication that your words weren’t sincere, and finding none, he pressed his lips to yours with more confidence than before. Still, you took the lead on deepening the kiss as he became more comfortable with how you felt, his nose brushing against the soft skin of your face. His hands held onto your hips, fingers digging gently into your jeans. Your tongue gently swiped at his lips, and he opened his mouth, allowing you access.

Your lips curled into a smile when you finally pulled away, but only to divert your attention to his throat. His breath hitched upon feeling your hand on the side of his neck, thumb pressing into the base of his throat. You bit into the crook of his neck, sucking and biting the same spot until he made a pained noise of protest.

“Don’t worry, Father. I won’t leave a mark,” you whispered, proud of the way he reacted to you, to your touch, feeling his length pressing against you through his pants.

You kissed his neck again, gentle this time, though you slid your hand from his neck, down his torso, to his crotch. Palming him through his pants, you lifted your gaze to see his eyes hooded, head tilted back a bit. He was still holding back, you could tell that much, so you squeezed a bit, feeling his cock twitch against the fabric, his hips involuntarily thrusting.

“Bedroom,” he choked out to your surprise.

Your hands were still on him, groping his crotch, his ass, the softness of his belly as he clumsily led you to the small, sparsely decorated bedroom. He kissed you again, barely managing to shut the door behind him. He moaned into your mouth as you began unbuckling his belt, unzipping his fly and relieving some of the pressure from his hard cock.

His passivity didn’t last long after that. He pushed you onto his bed, lustful determination in his eyes as he undressed you, hesitating just a moment when he reached your panties. As soon as his fingers hooked beneath the waistband, it was like a switch flipped. You watched as he rid himself of his clothes, your fingers teasing your wet pussy when he pulled off his clerical collar and unbuttoned his shirt.

You laid back as he climbed on top of you, allowing him to take the lead. He fondled your breasts, his thumbs brushing your sensitive nipples, making you gasp.

“You’re so soft, honey,” he murmured.

You smiled. Honey. Too sweet for you, what you were doing. Taking one of his hands, you guided it down to your pussy, making him feel your wetness, velvety between your folds. “Softer,” you whispered.

“Fuck,” he groaned, sliding his index and middle fingers inside you.

He pumped them in and out, almost cautiously before you lifted your hips for more. His thumb brushed your clit, rubbing it as he curled his fingers drawing a ragged moan from you. A groan escaped his lips as he felt your pussy clench around his fingers, wet and wanting for something more.

“Father, I need you,” you moaned. “Inside me—I—“

You choked out a gasp as he slid his cock inside you, your pussy clenching around his length as he thrust into you. He pressed your hands into the bed, intertwining his fingers with yours, loving and intimate. You whimpered beneath his intense gaze.

“You’re so good,” he whispered, his voice a bit husky. “Feel good. Take me so well.”

A harsh thrust, and you cried out, throwing your head back on his pillow. He kissed your open mouth, greedy for you. He released your hands, and you immediately grabbed at his forearms, digging your nails into his skin as your body began to tense up before its release.

“I’m close. Father–fuck–I’m gonna—“

“Let go, honey,” he moaned. “I’m there too.”

He came inside you, his cock pumping his cum into your pussy, his thrusts sloppy as he hid his face in the crook of your neck. Your orgasm followed the brief, scandalous realization that you’d let a priest cum in you. Tangling your fingers in his dark hair, you tugged at it as you rode out your orgasm on his cock, not as hard, but still buried inside you.

After a few moments, he pulled out, lying down next to you. His eyes didn’t show any regret or guilt, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

He traced your features with his fingertips, softly, mindlessly, as if he were in a haze until he whispered. “How long have you wanted to do this?”

“Since golden hour.”

“Golden hour,” he repeated softly

“When you first came to see me, I was working on the painting of the fishing hut at sunset. Artists call it golden hour, when the natural light is perfect, like liquid gold.”

“I think I’ve always wanted to, it’s come and gone in waves, but it’s always been there. You—you’re something else.”

“You’ve done this before,” you said, an observation, not in judgment.

He closed his eyes, exhaling as if he were about to make a confession to you. “You asked me earlier if I ever wanted to have my Sound of Music moment. I did. I should have. That mural you’re painting, the angel. It’ll make things right.”

The church bell chimed its midnight tune, and you sighed, reminded of where you were, who you were with. “I should go.”

He gave you a sad smile. “I’m sorry. I wish things were different, that you could stay and—“

“Hey, it’s alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You hastily threw on your clothes and gave him one more kiss before cracking open the front door. Glancing around briefly, you didn’t see anyone else around, and slipped away into the night. The overwhelming guilt you expected to feel never manifested. Instead, you felt almost giddy at the thrill of what you and Father Paul had just done.

When you returned home, you let out a laugh in disbelief. You had no expectations of it becoming a regular thing, that it’d even happen again, you having sex with Father Paul. The subtle intimacy that had coiled around your relationship with him from the start had only magnified with this. Perhaps once was all you needed, but you secretly hoped it’d devolve into something far more torrid.

Bright and early the next morning, you woke up feeling light, almost wanting to chalk up the past night to an unusually vivid wet dream, if it weren’t for the ache between your legs. You decided to detour from the church for the day, opting to work on something else temporarily while you were in a great mood. A smaller part of you worried things would be awkward with Father Paul. He didn’t seem guilty or regretful when you left, but he still had plenty of time to overthink.

You ran into Father Paul as he was leaving the Gunnings’ house, an odd expression on his face as he looked back at the place briefly.

“Would you mind coming by the church later tonight?” he asked. “I have something—it’ll be easier to explain there.”

“Yeah, of course,” you said. “See you later, Father.”

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, you sat at the docks, sketching portraits of the fishermen as they came and went. They were all so expressive, their weathered skin and deep lines in their faces betraying the decades of hard work they did. You’d heard from the islanders how difficult things had become for the fishermen between the oil spill and restrictions on what they could catch. Still, the ones who recognized you from St. Patrick’s smiled, stopped and talked to you despite being busy. Maybe you really would go to mass on Sunday.

Your stomach reminded you that you’d missed lunch, so you headed back to your house to get something to eat and look over your work from the day. Tonight. Father Paul wanted you to meet him at the church, but didn’t give a time, just at night, after dark. You wondered what he was going to tell you. Surely if it were about the two of you having sex, it could be said privately in the light of day.

Around nine o’clock, you left home again, heading for the church. It was dark. The rectory too. Was he even there? You walked up to the building, opening the front door to near pitch black. For some reason, you stood there, not bothering to call out for him.

The only light in the church came from the sacristy. Your eyes were drawn to your mural for a moment. Somehow, the angel looked like it was enrobed in shadows, far more sinister than when you’d started painting it. Your attention was soon returned to the sacristy. You could hear shuffling, low murmuring, and something almost like a strong gust of wind. Your brow furrowed. Maybe some of the local kids sneaking communion wine.

You took a cautious step toward the illuminated room, and for the first time in years, you truly prayed to god that none of the old wooden floorboards would creak and give you away. Not that you deserved his favor, having repented of your sins and then turning around and sleeping with a priest. The light only grew brighter as you approached, your heart in your throat as you peered into the room where the priest and altar servers would prepare for mass.

Father Paul stood in front of the communion wine. Your eyes were glued to the creature by his side. It looked like it could hardly fit in the room between its height and the width of its wingspan. Huge, imposing, sickeningly pale. It opened its mouth, razor-sharp teeth in full display.

You nearly gasped at the realization of what it was. The angel from the mural. Monstrous, otherworldly in a way that made you want to vomit. Surely even Beverly would regard something like that as demonic. In either shock or self-preservation, you weren’t screaming, though your brain was howling for you to leave. Get the fuck out of there while you still could.

Father Paul looked inexplicably calm around the thing, comfortable, even. You didn’t know how. There was no way you could ever look at something like that and consider it holy. You held your breath as you retreated, internally begging god for enough mercy to get out of the church alive. A floorboard creaked just as you got to the door. You ran.

The cool night air stung your eyes as you bolted down the unpaved roads, too afraid to look back and see if you were even being followed. Aside from a few porch lights, the island was pitch black. All you needed to do was make it home, and you’d be safe. No. You needed to get the fuck off of Crockett Island. Then you’d be safe.

You may have been a shitty person and an even shittier Catholic, but you knew things like this weren’t acts of god. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing all along, a power-hungry false prophet intent on turning the whole island to fit his corrupted vision of holiness.

With a final push of adrenaline pumping through your veins, you sprinted to your house in the distance. As soon as you got inside, you locked the door, pushing one of the kitchen chairs in front of it. Realistically, it wouldn’t do much to stop the angel if it were coming after you. At least you could say you’d done something.

Grabbing your suitcases from under your bed, you opened them on top of your comforter, considering what to pack. You wouldn’t be coming back to Crockett Island. Soon enough, there wouldn’t be anything to come back to. You could tell as much. That thing you saw, the monster in the mural, it couldn’t mean anything good for the islanders. They deserved some kind of warning, even if they didn’t believe you.

You paused for a moment. Your mural was their warning. They could see the grotesque angel materializing for themselves, and they praised it, full of wonder and awe. A voice in the back of your mind said it wasn’t enough, it was a cop-out, another way to shirk responsibility for your actions, falling into old cycles all over again. You drowned out the voice with a bottle of wine you’d kept around for cooking, and shoved clothes and painting supplies in your suitcases in your half-drunk stupor.

Pale, golden light filled your bedroom as the sun rose. With a shaky breath, you looked around your house for the last time. In the weeks you’d been living on Crockett Island, it’d become a home. You should have known it was all too good to be true.

The suitcases in your hands made your fleeing the island appear less conspicuous, going on a short trip with the intention of returning rather than abandoning the community that had taken you in, leaving them at the mercy of the creature that was waiting to pounce.

You bought a round-trip ticket for the Breeze’s morning voyage back to the mainland. Round-trip. As if you’d be coming back.

“Father Paul know you’re headed back to the mainland?” Sturge asked, helping you with your bags.

He’s just a priest. It’s none of his business, you wanted to snap back. Instead, you gave him a small smile. “Yeah, my mom’s come down with pneumonia. I’m gonna help her around the house for a week or two.”

“Late in the season to get pneumonia.”

“Her immune system isn’t great.”

“Maybe bring her on over to the island. Miracles happening here every day.”

You knew your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I think she’d really like that.”

As you watched the island shrink on the horizon, the guilt that settled back in your gut felt comfortably familiar. Maybe you weren’t meant for absolution.

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fangirlinginspace · 2 months

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fangirlinginspace · 2 months

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This man is sooooo 😩

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fangirlinginspace · 2 months

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₊˚⊹ ❤︎ my standard is rivi ‹𝟹

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fangirlinginspace · 6 months

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Father Paul NSFT Headcannons

Pairing: Father Paul | Monsignor John Pruitt x reader (Midnight Mass)

A/N: I am literally insane, and I am literally feral. No thoughts, only Father Paul and Hamish Linklater. I am going to hell and you are all coming down with me. Writing this made me literally dizzy. Dedicated to the very lovely @jacknives who helped flesh out many of these HCs in unhinged twitter convos <3 I would not be back writing without you

Warnings: Sexual content, 18+ ONLY, minors DNI. Millie, who's Millie? Reader is written as gn! but also includes talks of menstruation (if it doesn't apply to you, or makes you uncomfortable just ignore! there are tw before the HCs including blood), blood kink, this is incredibly sexual. Feedback is always appreciated, trying to really get the feel for this character.

✧ He asks you to pray with him before the act. The irony is not lost on you -- almost like this will cancel out the evenings sins. Both your knees on the wooden floor beside his bed, hands clasps together. Your heartbeat roaring in your ears. Quietly mumbling under his breath, his wooden rosary wrapped around his fingers. The same ones that will be inside you in due time.

✧ Obsessive about making you feel comfortable and gets genuinely upset if you demean yourself. If you attempt to cover yourself up, or ask for the lights off Paul will insist for you to reconsider. He has a serpents tongue for such a holy man.

✧ "God has made you in His perfect image. Meticulously crafted from dust. I want to see you as He intended. To deny yourself is to deny God, is that what you really want? Show me. Show me all of you. And I will show you all of me."

✧ The kindest, sweetest, most affectionate lover that has ever graced the face of this Earth. He sees you as his own personal deity; and angel sent directly from God to reward him for years of devotion. The Catholic guilt eats at him from time to time, constantly there in the back of his head. But, the way your bodies intertwine perfectly together, how his cock deliciously stretches you out like it was made for you and you alone. It could never feel like a sin to him. And if God Himself made pleasures this strong, who is Paul to deny it?

✧ You have to be reasonably quiet. God knows that if anything sounds off or suspicious Bev will rear her nosy head into your private life. He'll use his mouth to quiet moans threatening to escape from you.

✧ Paul is a quiet lover to begin with. His noises consisting mostly of flushed, broken moans that get caught in his throat. He is quite talkative though. His mouth on yours, panting in between hushed praises.

"You can take it, just a few more inches. I got you. You're so strong for me. My good angel..."

"Look at me, please. I - oh god - I want you to look at me when you cum."

"I-I can't control myself when you touch me like that. Don't stop."

"Can you feel me inside of you? How deep I am? You take me so well."

"Tell me what you want from me. Tell me where you need me the most."

✧ Enjoys giving more than receiving oral; for Adam was also tempted by the delicious apple betwixt Eve's thighs. What he lacks in skill he certainly makes up for enthusiasm. He uses the flat part of his tongue to drink from you, your taste the holiest of nectars. He loves your reactions to his ministrations too. How your thighs squeeze around his head, your nails digging into his scalp. You can feel the heat radiating off of his ears, flushed pink. Paul especially loves when you pull on his thick, black locks. The perfect combination of pleasure and pain.

✧ The way he looks when he hovers over you, member thrusting into your hot core is almost indescribable. Sweat starts to curl his neatly styled hair, pieces becoming unruly and sticking to his forehead. The way his eyebrows furrow together in concentration, eyes half lidded in bliss. He will often forget his own strength. The angel blood which courses inside his veins has not only returned his youth, but given him a whole slew of other newfound abilities. His knuckles turn white as he holds onto the headboard of the bed, snapping the wood beneath his hand.

✧ Other times it manifests itself in bruises across your body - a bite too rough, a grab too strong. Being the sweetheart he is, Paul will profusely apologize for them when the post coital bliss had dissipated. But you love them, because they are proof that he was there. That you were in his bed. That his hands, his mouth, his body touched your skin. That he belongs to you, and you alone. Even if no one else knows.

✧ Loves it when you take the reins too. How his baritone register reaches up to a whine, breathy and high pitched moans as you edge him. And how delicious it will be later, smirking to yourself at mass while thinking about how easily you make him come undone. Watching this confident man deliver his sermon, know that he will be on his knees begging you to bring him the sweet release he craves just hours from now. If only the town knew...

✧ [tw // blood mention] It takes every ounce of his being to not give in to his most primal urges during sex. The mixture of pheromones and your natural scent makes his eyes glaze over, almost putting him into a trance. He'll bury his face into the side of your neck, leaving fresh bruises created by his mouth in his wake. How easy it would be to sink his canines into the soft flesh there, finding your pulse point. The sickeningly sweet concoction of iron and honey across his tongue, how he'd imagine your blood to taste.

This is your body, broken for the forgiveness of sin.

✧ [tw // blood mention] He will break this rule only sometimes. If you are someone who menstruates, he will have a strong fascination with period sex. As long as you are comfortable with it, of course. The disgusting need to see you covered with blood immediately makes his pants tighten just at the thought. While eating you out, the combination of your unique taste mixed with the tang of blood turns him into something you barely see. Your soft spoken pastor becomes an insatiable lust-driven demon.

✧ [tw: blood mention] Drinking the angel's blood straight from the cruet while taking you from behind, his thrusts sloppy and erratic. Blood running down the side of his mouth, his eyes wild. Your head looking over your shoulder, mouth agape as he pours the remaining contents directly onto the curvature of your back. He is an animal, and this satisfies the craving inside him as he licks it off of you.

✧ Once you are both fully spend and fucked out, he doesn't want to separate from you. He lets you catch your breath, both your hearts returning in sync. His large hand, pushing stray hairs off of your face and grazing his thumb against your cheek. You can still feel his heartbeat inside of you.

"Don't move, I want to stay like this."

✧ His cock still buried deep inside you, arms wrapped around your waist as you both drift off. Warmth. Comfort. Protection. Together you are one until the morning light. In which this perfect solitude will be once again washed away. From lovers back to secrecy in the blink of an eye.

Paradise lost.

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fangirlinginspace · 6 months

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I'm blushing and I've got the butterflies because of this man: father paul appreciation post

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fangirlinginspace · 7 months

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A master list of my Midnight Mass Father Paul x reader fanfictions that are happening in an alternate universe where there are no angels, no vampires, everyone lives/nobody dies, Paul Hill isn’t John Pruit, etc.

One Shots:

Less Than Holy - 7.6k words

Teen and up, fluff, friends to lovers, slight hurt and comfort

More Than Sinful - 7.1k words

Explicit, smut and fluff, first time, f/m intercourse

(Early In The Morning) Our Song Shall Rise To Thee - 3.6k words

Explicit, smut and fluff, established relationship, f/m intercourse

NSFT Alphabet

Explicit, headcanon alphabet, f/m intercourse (among other things)

Just You Wait - 4.8k words

Explicit, smut and fluff, established relationship, f/m intercourse, slight femdom

Pine-ing For You - 5.3k words

Explicit, smut and fluff, christmas smut, established relationship, f/m intercourse

The In-Between - a series of short stories:

The Late Night Visit - 1.2k words

The Broken Alarm Clock - 1.1k words

A Trip To The Mainland 1.3k words

Of Care And Comfort - 3.9k words

May I Have This Dance? - 1k words

A Sweet Tooth - 2.7k words

Convince Me - 0.6k words

No Need To Make A Wish - 3.2k words

That’s Gonna Leave A Scar - 3k words

See You Very Soon - 4k words

Of Homilies And Crosswords - 4.1k words

Ever Patient, Ever Kind - 2.5k words

A List of Headcanons

Pirate Priest, or Halloween on Crockett Island - 5.1k words

The First Storm - 4.5k words

No More Hiding - 3.7k words

Whisky Business - 4k words

In The Morning Light - 1.8k words

Teen and up, fluff, mutual pining, hurt/comfort

NSFT Emoji prompts

explicit, smut, fluff, established relationship

You can also find this collection on AO3

If you have a fun idea or a prompt, my inbox is open…

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fangirlinginspace · 7 months

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I’ve read too many midnight mass’ fics

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fangirlinginspace · 7 months

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Behave.

Authors Note: Hey gang, I’m going to Hell! Why don’t you join me! It was only a matter of time that I would write about this sonofabitch. Got plans for a story but wanted to write a short, get a feel for the Father. This has been sat in drafts for while, but writing mojo is slowing coming back!

Mini description: Sexy times with Father Paul.

Pairing: Father Paul Hill x f!reader

Warning: Sex, naughty sex with a priest, cunnilingus, p in v, swearing, dirty talk, reader is a brat, dom themes if you squint, fingering, priest kink, gagging, mentions of being tied up with a belt.

Rating: E X P L I C T.

Word Count: 1,770.

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“Oh fuck Paul,” she gasped as her grip tighten on the bed sheet. “Feels so good!”

Paul chuckled against her cunt as he sucked her clit, one of his long fingers being knuckle deep inside her.

“Language.” Paul purred as he added another finger into her wetness.

“Guess I’ll have to go to confession later”, she sighed, as the painful intrusion turned pleasurable. “Get on my knees and beg forgive-AH!” Her reply cut off by an extra hard suck on her clit from Father Paul.

“So eager to be on your knees again?” he questioned, knowing the answer anyway. Paul returned to sucking and licking her sensitive pearl.

The very thought of her, this angel, this temptress, on her knees again before him. Begging to be forgiven for the absolutely sinful things she’s done.

His cock, now tenting in his tight jeans, rubbed deliciously against the demin. He had to fuck her soon or another pair of jeans had to quickly be washed. Trying to explain to Bev Keane why he was wearing his track suit trousers, and not his smart jeans, when he was conducting AA was not a conversation Paul wanted.

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fangirlinginspace · 7 months

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The night Father Paul removed his collar (… again)

Warning: PRIEST SMUT. No minors, please.

A Father Paul x f/reader oneshot. Reader is visiting her friend Erin on Crockett Island, when a certain tall dark stranger catches her eye.

I’m going to hell for this, but here we are. Oh, and it’s my first time writing smut, so please bear with me when the writing gets rough (so many puns intended). Hope you enjoy!

The music event at the recreation center had been a roaring success ...

At some point in the evening, it had seemed like all 127 souls of Crockett Island had descended on the rarely used building to sway in tune to the one local and two small mainland bands, that had set up on stage, to laugh and drink with neighbors and family, shoot shy glances at old and new flames, and almost completely forget about the financial hardship plaguing the community in recent years.

Originally, it had been yours and Erin’s idea to plan something festive to invigorate the town outside of the annual Crock Pott which had been severely affected this year by the brutal death (scratch that, bloody murder) of Joe’s poor dog. But as soon as you had pitched the idea to Father Paul - hoping he would allow the use of the rec center - the new priest had happily involved himself in the practical aspects of the planning.

Not surprisingly, that witch-bitch of a busybody Bev had voiced her outrage at the suggestion of dancing and - gasp and horror! - drinking anything but altar wine on the church’s (kind of) premises, but Father Paul had stood his ground, respectfully polite as ever but firm in his resolve to further acquaint himself with his parishioners’ lives.

“A savvy PR move indeed”, you had whispered to Erin as you left Father Paul’s humble abode (“shack”, as you had dubbed it) and your friend had in turn playfully swatted at your arm. “He’s just being nice, y/n. Besides, I thought you’d cherish the opportunity to get to know our new Monsignor in less … formal surroundings”. At this, she had shot you a knowing look and a mischievous smile, and you had shared a naughty giggle on the way back to her place.

You had only known Erin for a few years, having met her through mutual friends during the time she lived on the mainland with that toxic boyfriend of hers, but paying her a visit on her old home turf had turned into a seriously delightful few weeks of holiday. The change of pace and scenery from your all-too hectic life as a marketing manager in New York was sheer bliss.

Erin was wonderful, fun company, but meeting the island’s latest, mysterious resident that fateful Sunday in church had been a most unexpected added perk to the whole Crockett experience. And you weren’t even remotely religious. It was Erin who had talked you into joining her, and there he’d been in front of the congregation, looking every bit the perfect prototype of the tall, dark stranger most women (and quite a few men) dream they’re going to meet at some point in their life. Usually without the catch of the collar, though.

His sermon had been impressively passionate, his energy magnetic. You had not been able to take your eyes off him and, though the church was full, more than once it had seemed like his lingered curiously on you as well. At no point had you regretted wearing that slightly too low-cut t-shirt you had thrown on at the last minute before leaving Erin’s house, mainly to tease her and to enjoy the few disapproving looks from elderly church goers when you sauntered into the holy house, long, wavy hair falling around your shoulders, a few brushes of mascara in place. It had been hate at first sight when the witch-bitch saw you.

(Oh, you were here to make an impression alright. Perfectly allowed when on vacation, right?)

After the sermon, you and Erin had said your hellos to the Monsignor as he bid the attendees a good day outside, and a distinct, fuzzy feeling had begun to spread through your veins as you had looked up into his open, deliciously handsome face. You and him had traded increasingly quick-witted repartees for just a bit longer than the usual meet’n’greet, and he had found your candor about being a non-believer decidedly charming. Perhaps even intriguing, judging from the way he had held your gaze. As you finally left, you had thought you saw his eyes dart over your body (thank heavens for skinny jeans), and Erin had been quick to point out your grin as soon as you were out of earshot.

Needless to say, you had felt inspired to go back to church after that day, even showing up at a few daily masses. The first time, Father Paul had looked genuinely surprised to see you, and you had become acutely aware of how few people were in attendance - just Leeza, the teenage girl who had once gotten shot in a horrible accident, and the ever-present, ever sour-looking Bev (what exactly was her job, other than scaring single women away from her darling Monsignor? You didn’t know, didn’t care). It had felt intimate, and when you had taken communion (because hot man right there so why not), you had had to fight the urge to let your tongue subtly flick against the Monsignor’s fingers so close to your mouth.

Instead, you had maintained eye contact with him throughout, and when his voice had faltered slightly, the whole scenario had taken on an air of the scandalously erotic in your mind.

After that, the idea of an event - a proper nighttime party with Father Paul in his civil attire of jeans and that hot black shirt - had taken form. Thankfully, Erin, bless her, had been all game. She hadn’t been back on the island for long, but you could tell she was growing antsy. Also, she had interests of her own longing to be nursed with a bit of letting loose – she had told you of Riley as soon as you got here.

Now, at half past midnight and with the party coming to an end, you send Erin off to walk home with her childhood sweetheart (how nice it had been to see him relax a little in public). You, however, stay to help Father Paul tidy up a bit. It just happens like that. He doesn’t leave and neither do you. There’s something unspoken hanging in the air, your body is warm and happy from dancing with Erin, and your head is buzzing from the impromptu cocktail making earlier.

During the evening, you had moved closer and closer to him, like players on a chessboard sizing each other up with each step. You were wearing the only really sexy dress, you had with you, but had paired it with white Converse in a conscious decision not to go overboard. Even so, Father Paul had straight up stared at you when you walked in with Erin, and the rush of self-esteem from knowing you had commanded the priest’s attention felt like a drug.

You were not the only one who had courted Father Paul’s attention, however, and for the first hour or so, you had watched from across the room as people eagerly greeted him and made small talk. Of course, he had been unfailingly kind to each one, but you had caught the way his eyes would often look up and search for you in the crowd. Every time he found you, he’d give you little smile and you would feel the butterflies in your stomach flutter restlessly.

With the music getting louder, and the dance floor becoming more crowded, you had finally decided to try and steal the priest away from his flock, when one of Erin’s old classmates had blocked your way and blatantly tried to hit on you with some inane story about the largest crab he ever caught (clearly, some people had started the party early). You had stood there for a bit, talking shit to see if Father Paul would notice the way ‘Brian’ leered at you, and sure enough: Suddenly the handsome Monsignor had been next to you, effortlessly joining the conversation, much to Brian’s dismay.

Soon it had just been Father Paul and you talking, constantly leaning in to hear each other better over the music.

His breath hot in your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

Your shoulder grazing his chest.

Arms touching when people bumped into you and pushed you closer.

Then, your back flush against him as you turned to clap after one of the band performances, the cheering crowd around you shielding how you lightly, boldly rubbed yourself against him. You had felt his breathing change, felt your short dress pressed against the front of his grey (slim, oh so wonderfully slim) jeans.

The little colored lamps lighting up the venue had seemed too bright.

In any other setting, at any other party, you would have known exactly where this was heading. The heat was unmistakable. But with him? A priest? You know it’s forbidden fruit, but the thoughts of seducing him makes your body pine for his touch with painful fervor. There’s something about him - like he’s harboring a deep, dark secret. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Jesus, you feel like a character in a YA novel.

What would it be like if he grabbed your hips with those big hands of his, backed you up against one of the tables, kissing your neck and spreading your legs with one of his knees, then laying you down while he towered over you, running his hands up your thighs and under the hem of your dress…?

Your vision nearly blurs while you gather empty glasses and cups from the tables, confetti crunching under the soles of your shoes. Somewhere behind you, he’s stacking chairs. You hear the door close shut with a metallic clang. The last party goers must have left.

Suddenly the lights go off and the interior of the rec center is bathed in nothing but pale blue moonlight coming through the high windows. You turn and expect to see Father Paul by the light switch next to the door, but instead you nearly squeal as he’s somehow right there beside you. Very close beside you. You look up at him (he’s so tall!) and even in the semi-darkness, you can tell that his eyes are burning with a new intensity.

“You certainly made sure I noticed you tonight, didn’t you y/n?” His soft voice sounds uncharacteristically hoarse. You hold his gaze. “Yes… Father”. You can’t help calling him that, it’s just too sexy. He looks like he’s making an effort to stay composed, but his breathing is too fast.

“Don’t think, I don’t know what you want. I know very well. But you also know that I can’t possibly give it to you”, he says, his hungry eyes betraying his wavering resolve as they move down your body. “This has been a very pleasant evening, talking to you, but you know I can’t …” he repeats, more to himself than you.

Instinctively, you close the short distance between your bodies and crane your neck up at him. You still don’t touch him, but your face is so close to his, your breaths are hot on each other’s lips. He licks his as his eyes linger on your mouth. “You’re actually trying to seduce me… no woman has ever been so shameless to attempt to …”.

This is a kiss me position if there ever was one, but making the move feels suddenly hazardous. You wouldn’t be able to bear the rejection if he pushed you away, and you’re not fully certain yet he won’t.

Shaking, you take a step back again, and turn away. You will your breath to steady itself and try to focus on the moon outside the windows. “I will not touch you, Father, if you don’t want me to. But if I stay here, with you, I might not be able to control myself …”

You’re at once both surprised and not at all when strong hands take hold of your bare upper arms from behind. He pulls you to him. Your back is up against his heaving chest, and your brain is swimming. He moves his hands slowly down your arms to your waist. Is this really happening?! He holds you gently at first, anticipating your reaction. Then, as you don’t move away, his grip becomes firmer, more possessive, and you can feel his erection grinding into you as his hands begin to explore your body.

When a moan escapes your lips, he grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls your head back. You think your legs are going to give out when he buries his face in your neck, and his mouth touches your skin just below your ear. “How badly do you want me to take you, right here, right now?” he whispers, and heat pools between your legs. Your core is already throbbing with need. Your panting makes him tighten his grip on your hair. “I want to hear you say it, y/n”, he drawls.

“I want you so bad”, you moan. “Please just… touch me”. Without a word, he spins you around, lifting you up off the floor. You wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck, and he carries you across the room, sitting you down on the edge of the stage. Standing between your legs, his hands cup your face and he leans down and captures your mouth in what may be the hungriest kiss anyone has bestowed on you in all your lifetime. It feels more sizzling than you could ever have imagined, and when he slips his tongue into your mouth, all the while his thumbs caress your cheeks, you realize with total clarity that this is not a man who’s never had a woman before. There is experience at work here. And therefore, most certainly a story.

Someone else did seduce him then, or …?

Your mind can’t hold the thought for long, though, as he deepens the kiss and lets a hand wander down your spine. Not just wander – carefully unzipping your dress. Very, very smooth move. The zipper ends just above your panties, and you tremble when his fingers make contact with the exposed skin of your lower back. Your nails dig into his shoulders, and he chuckles darkly, without breaking the kiss.

This is happening. It’s very much happening.

Both his hands move to grab under your thighs, and you gasp into his mouth when he pulls you roughly against the bulge in his pants. You try to grind against him, desperate for things to move along even faster, now, but when you reach for his belt, he takes hold of your wrists and pins them behind your back with one hand. “I didn’t say you could touch, did I?” he breathes heavily. His face is too close for you to see his expression, but before you can worry if he’s about to call off the whole thing, he kisses you again while his other hand moves between your legs. His fingers brush against the already soaked fabric of your underwear, and his thumb easily finds your swollen clit, applying just enough pressure for you to throw your head back and moan loudly. “Shh, little one”, he chides you, and you bite down on your lip. “You will stay quiet, or I’ll have to think of a way to silence your sinful sounds”.

There is a new, very devilish edge to his voice that matches the slightly dangerous glint in his eyes. Where did this man come from? How much self-control must it take to repress that kind of carnal urges during the day if this is what he truly craves? Not only does it feel like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, he now also appears to have cast all reservations aside in anticipation for what’s to come. He has obviously enjoyed sex in the past. Which means he might be as good at it, as you had fantasied about when you opened your mouth for him during communion.

“Beg for it, y/n”. He smirks down at you. “Tell me what you want me to do to you, and then beg me for it”. You twist against his hold on your wrists, but his grip doesn’t falter in the slightest. In fact, it doesn’t seem like he’s using any strength at all. God, he’s strong.

His thumb rubs against your clit, and with his thigh he edges your legs further apart. You almost mewl with lust. It wouldn’t take much more for him to make you come undone right here and now. “Well … ?” He’s waiting. You swallow. All evening, you had felt like the one in control, egging him on. Now he’s firmly in charge. Perhaps he was all along.

As sexually open-minded as you are, dirty talk has never been your forte. But that is sure as hell not going to ruin this moment, so you decide to just go with it. He wants your honesty, he’ll get it.

“I want you to pull my underwear down and feel how wet I am for you…” You marvel at how dark his eyes have become. He looks downright feral, with locks of that thick, black hair falling in front of his face and his lips slightly parted. Like he’s ready to attack. The ministrations of his thumb between your legs nudge you to continue.

“I want you to slide your fingers into me, stretching me, while you unbuckle your belt … ” His breathing intensifies in a way you find most encouraging, despite your awkwardness at spelling out your desire.

“Then I want you to free your cock, and slowly rub it against me … before you turn me around and bend me over the stage”. Your words are nothing more than a breathless whisper now, his thumb is working you to a point where coherent speech will soon be impossible. “I want you to take me, hard. I want you to punish me for tempting a priest…”

You look him straight in the eye. He removes his hand from under your dress and instead grasps your chin in a hold that’s almost too rough. It makes you even wetter. “Oh, I will punish you, little one. Have no doubt that I will”, he purrs, eyes unblinking. “I will make sure your legs can barely hold you when you walk to mass tomorrow. Because you will come to church, just as you will kneel before me and take communion when I ask you to. You will repent for your sins in any way I see fit, do you understand me?”

“Y-yes, Father”, you whisper, not quite sure if you should be scared of him or yourself for being so insanely turned on by him commanding you.

“And…?”

“Please”, you beg. “Please just fuck me”.

He lets go of your chin and wrists. He doesn’t speak when he turns you around and bends you over the stage. Different order of events from what you described to him, but you’re not about to protest if he wants to move straight to the main course. Your panties are pulled down, quickly, unceremoniously, your dress bunched up around your waist. When two fingers touch your slick folds, you realize he’s still intent on toying with you first, and as he slides them into you, you gasp loudly at the overwhelming sensation. Not because it hurts – you’re far too wet – but because you’ve wanted this for so long, he might as well be administrating electric shocks to you.

He moves his fingers slowly in and out of you, and within minutes you're whimpering pathetically for him to give you more. But he drags out his ‘torture’, curling his fingers against that magic spot inside of you and working you right to edge, before pulling out again and starting over. It goes on for what feels like a very long time, and you’re so close and blind with lust you want to scream at him when, finally, you hear him unbuckling his pants, and the head of his cock rubs against your entrance. His free hand takes hold of your hair again, and when he pushes into you, he pulls your head back at the same time. You moan much, much louder than you should as he fills you to the brim (the size of him makes you thankful for the warm-up act), and a deep growl rumbles through his chest while you clench your walls around his length.

He grips your hips with both hands when he begins to move, and you claw at the wooden floorboards of the stage, not finding anything to hold on to – or bite into – when his thrusts become deeper, harder. There is a fierceness to his movements, a need for dominance you would never have expected from the mild-mannered man at the altar, but somehow you know he won’t hurt you.

When he slips a hand around you to find your clit again, and strokes it with fingers covered in your wetness, your gasps become too much for him. “As much as I enjoy your sounds of pleasure, we cannot have anyone hearing us, hmm?”, he says matter-of-factly, slowing his thrust. Before you can guess what he intends to do, there is a ruffling of clothes and, while still moving inside you, he leans forward and stuffs something between your teeth. You feel fabric, but it’s weirdly stiff and-

No.

He hasn’t.

Yes, he has. Father Paul, devout Monsignor of Crockett Island and direct line to God has used his collar to silence you. Even as a non-believer, you’re so shocked at his sheer audacity, you almost come from the obscenity of it all. “This will be our little secret, okay?”, he whispers into your hair, and it sounds like he’s smiling.

Oh, what you wouldn’t give to be able to see his face right now! Expect you wouldn’t want him to stop fucking you either.

He picks up the pace again, more determined now, and when he resumes rubbing your sensitive bundle of nerves, it doesn’t take long before you come so hard, you think you’re going to pass out. He may not be able to make you see God, but Father Paul just summoned the entire Milky Way down to Crokcett Island for your explicit pleasure.

And yes, the collar muffles your scream.

“Good girl, good girl … ” he mumbles between ragged breaths, still slamming into you while you ride out your climax, until his own rhythm becomes uneven. When he spills himself inside you, he only just about stifles his own sounds before he lets himself collapse onto you.

For a long while, both of you just lie there panting, his chest hot and sweaty against your back. He must have unbuttoned his shirt all the way at some point, probably when he removed the collar. Oh God, the collar… you reach up to remove it from your mouth and pushes it away to the side. You’re afraid you’ll start laughing hysterically if you look directly at it.

Father Paul’s still breathing hard. Strong as he is, he must have used up his energy after all. Unless he’s spent from holding himself back from being too rough with you, a tiny voice pipes up in your head. You see his dark, strangely otherworldly eyes before you again. For a brief moment, he had looked like he couldn’t decide between drinking you up or fucking your brains out. Or just doing both.

Yes, your mind has definitely entered YA fantasy land. So much for being a sensible grown-up with a tiny little priest kink.

When he finally pulls out of you, he smooths your dress down, quickly tucks himself away, and carefully takes your elbow to help you to your feet. He even finds your panties and hands them to you as if they were a delicate handkerchief, and not some inexpensive H&M lace thingy (he probably doesn’t know what H&M is). His silence and gestures are all politeness and light touches in comical contrast to how he took you just moments before, telling you to repent for your sins while burying himself in you.

He’s even evading your eyes, you notice with a mix of perverse amusement and real fear that he’s already having regrets.

You wriggle into your underwear and find your trainers across the room where you must have dropped them when he carried you. You’re sure your hair is as mess, and your face is bright red, but you feel pretty bloody amazing. He wasn’t lying when he said he was going to make your legs all wobbly though. You’re struggling to walk straight, and from the heat still between your legs, you know you’re going to be sore tomorrow. You haven’t been fucked this hard in a very long time, and you reckon there’s a fair chance he will have left marks on your hips from where his fingers dug into you.

You look over at him as you’re kneeling and tying the lace on one shoe, and it’s as if he has completely changed back to his unflappable church self. Gone is the danger and the hunger, and as he stares into space while buttoning his shirt, he seems oddly detached from his surroundings. Is he muttering to himself? You can’t tell in the low light.

Please, don’t let him be praying for forgiveness. You can feel his cum soaking through your panties as you stand up.

“Father … um, Paul?”

Calling him ‘Father’ suddenly feels quite weird. He turns to you as you near him, and a brief shadow passes over his face. Then he shakes his head lightly and smiles with genuine warmth in those sweet, doe-like eyes (seriously, is he some catholic version of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?).

Before you can wonder if he’ll be okay with you touching him, he reaches for your hand and pulls you to him. His arms wrap around you, and you tilt your head up to smile at him. “That was seriously great. You are seriously great”, you say, and he chuckles and kisses you on the mouth. It’s a chaste kiss, compared to what went before, but he stays there long enough for you to feel the muscles in his arms start to flex with what may or may not be lust building again. When he pulls away, you feel your heart constrict in a way that is bound to make everything messy from now on.

You take a deep breath.

“I know what you are and what your obligations are, but I don’t want this to be a one-time thing on a night I had three cocktails and cornered you at a party”. There, said it.

He raises an eyebrow.

“You cornered me, did you?” he drawls slowly, dropping his voice in a way that gives you goosebumps. There it is again – a flash of that seductive cheekiness that tells you he used to be quite different from the genteel Monsignor, Bev tries to boss around during the day.

He winks at you, and for some reason despite everything you have just done with him, you blush like a schoolgirl. His smile grows wider.

“Paul, tell me this wasn’t a huge mistake”, you press on, needing him to give you some clue to what on Earth he’s thinking. He brushes a strand of hair out of your face, and gently tucks it behind your ear.

“This shouldn’t have happened”, he begins, and your heart sinks. Immediately picking up on your expression, he quickly puts a finger to your lips to stop you from interrupting. “But, now that it has, it doesn’t feel like a mistake. You don’t feel like a mistake”. He kisses you again while lightly tracing his fingers down your throat. Your pulse is racing so fast he must surely feel it. “This is … complicated for me, to say the least. And I honestly don’t know what to do precisely, but I do know that I don’t want this to be the last time I hold you in my arms”.

Now it’s your turn to kiss him, standing on tiptoes to press your lips to his. You’re so giddy with relief, it truly boggles your mind. How are you feeling so much for this man you hardly know?

“Let’s keep this between us for now, alright, while I try to get my head straight?” he looks at you for confirmation and you nod.

“So, do you still want me to come to mass tomorrow?” You smirk at him, and let your hand wander down his chest, southbound … He grips your wrist just before you reach the waistband of his jeans, and shakes his head at you. He’s still smiling though. “Haven’t you had enough for one night, woman?” His voice slides to husky mid-sentence and his eyes … his eyes are changing yet again.

Without responding, you grab his shirt and drag him with you, until you’re backed up against the wall. You reach for his face and pull him down to you in another kiss, opening your mouth to invite him in. He hesitates for a beat, then kisses you back with more force, his tongue finding yours. Sore you may be, but your muscles clench with lust again, and you arch your back to push your breasts up. It’s about time he showered them with some attention. He takes the invitation, and lavishes kisses on your throat, continuing down to your chest. “You… ” he looks up as he peels one of the straps of your dress off your shoulder, “will get me into so much trouble, I fear”.

You laugh and ruffle his hair (it’s just as soft as it looks).

“Then I guess you’ll just have to try extra hard to show me the error of my ways … Father”.

“I guess so. Perhaps you shouldn’t come to church tomorrow after all …” Now the smirk is back in his court.

“No? I thought you wanted me to kneel before you?”. You bite your bottom lip and give him an innocent look that earns you another chuckle.

“Oh, I do. And you will. But in your case, I think it might be necessary with a private daily mass. I do that, you know, for special cases”.

“And I’m a special case now?” You already feel slightly delirious with desire at the thought of him coming to your – well, Erin’s – house to see you. Erin’s at work at the school during the day, as he well knows.

He nods seriously. “You are. We have a lot of work ahead of us”.

And with that, he pulls down the other strap of your dress, and you forget whatever sassy comeback you might have had for him.

///

It’s almost four in the morning when you walk through the front door of Erin’s house, but to your surprise, her and Riley are sat on the couch, drinking tea. They stare at you. You close the door behind you and catch a glimpse of yourself in the hallway mirror. There ought to be a mug shot of you under ‘Walk of shame’ on Wikipedia.

“Err, so, did you two have a good night…?” you start, but Erin has already recovered and is now almost jumping up and down on the couch. Riley is looking from her to you and back again, utterly confused.

“What. Did. You. Do??!” Erin squeals, a huge grin on her beautiful face. You cannot help smiling like an idiot but try to pull it together.

“I just helped Father Paul tidy up a bit, alright? Shame on you and your sinful line of thought”. You imitate Bev’esque outrage.

“Rrrright!”, Erin sniggers. “You and the good Monsignor just did some … tidying up. Is that what the kids in Manhattan call it nowadays?”

At that, Riley finally comes to.

“Wait, what? What?!” he splutters, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. “You and Father Paul?? Like, just now? Did you … did you just deflower the Monsignor?!” He dissolves into mad giggles, and you remember that he’s not particularly religious either.

“Honestly, you two are being incredibly childish right now”, you say, trying your best not to laugh with them and failing miserably. There was no way you would have been able to keep this from Erin anyway.

“Oh, this is good stuff, good stuff!” Riley is wheezing. “And I have my first AA meeting with him tomorrow afternoon! I was dreading it, but now I can’t wait to see what you have done to that holier than holy face of his!”

“Riley!”, you hiss at him, though only half-serious, “Don’t say a word, okay?! I will literally kill you if you so much as raise an eyebrow at him!”

But you cannot keep a straight face. Especially not as Erin, too, is practically sobbing.

“Oh, y/n, I knew having you over would be more entertaining than anything that has happened here in ages! Thank you from the bottom of my heart for setting your inner Samantha loose on the unsuspecting citizens of Crockett Island”, she gasps for air in between laughs, and exchanges a naughty look with Riley. “And especially for corrupting our dear Monsignor who, in all fairness, did look like he was in dire need of some … release”.

Both her and Riley collapse in hysterics like a couple of teenagers.

“Yes, well, just doing my bit for the community, you know”, you counter back. “And oh, Erin, just so know, I might even be taking up daily mass regularly from now on. The home version, that is”.

“Oi, lady of the scarlet letter, if you have sex with the priest on my couch, you’re buying it!” Erin exclaims, wagging a pointed finger at you. Riley nearly falls off said couch.

“I can’t promise anything!” you say, winking at them both. “But now, I’m off to bed, okay? Who knew that finally opening yourself up to a priest could be this … fulfilling?” The way the two of them are howling, you feel like a slutty standup comedian. Thank God Father Paul isn’t around to witness the performance.

“Go, y/n, please! My pregnant bladder can’t cope!”

You blow them both a kiss and head upstairs to the guest room, ready to lie awake until the sun comes up obsessing over every tiny detail of what happened tonight.

Some time after crawling under the covers, you hear Erin say goodnight (good morning?) to Riley by the front door. Their affectionate, animated voices make you smile in the dark. You’re so happy for them.

Hopefully Riley won’t give Father Paul a hard time tomorrow.

Thank you for reading!

In the mood for more? You can check out my other Father Paul smut fics here:

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