#father paul x reader

[achillieus]

modern dating is embarrassing i want to meet someone the old fashioned way (he’s the local hot priest who will question god because of me)

[queerlilfae]

[nilla-bear]

[biohazzrds]

Midnight mass is unrealistic because if I had Father Paul preaching infront of me I would be giggling like a school girl in the pews…and growling.

[proverbsss]

eating you right (father paul hill/john pruitt x reader) -nsfw

(pt. 2 of "reading you right" linked here)

Father Paul Hill, Midnight Mass

reader(s): I am not responsible for how you see your own headboard following the consumption of this fic <3

notifs: paul hill wants to worship you!! ; reader turns the tables for a subby paul; reader's still down HORRENDOUS ; cunnilingus, hierophilia

Your legs are unsteady as John leads you to his bedroom by your hand.

"Haha, look at Wobbles try and make their way down my hall," Paul teases.

"You edged me on your boot," you complain sharply, though this of course is tinged with pleasure and the hope that his treatment will continue. The muscles in your pelvic floor are on fire and your hips burn.

"Mmm, technically you edged you on my boot," he quibbles, pleased with himself, "Can you make it to the bed yourself?"

Rather than answer verbally, you turn back to look at him. It's a tart, cursing look that John meets with yet another grin. Even so, it's now you begin to notice the usual signs of how wrecked he is. You were so caught up in your own delicious torment that you failed to clock Paul mirroring it. You might some of your get your own back yet.

He's comfortable with your routine of the last few days, starting to strip out of his jeans when you say, "Wait." His doe eyes flick over to you, questioning.

"I don't know…" you pick your words carefully, the neediness of earlier converting itself into a sadistic little impulse to tease. "I don't know if we want your pants off yet, right?"

Paul stops a minute. Makes his positively adorable thinking face. There's a reset somewhere in his eyes as he works out why you might have said what you said.

"We don't..?" he repeats, uncertain.

"Nah," you throw out, dragging the tips of your fingers along the foot of the bed. If this duvet could talk, it would already have plenty dirty to say. "I think we probably want you to keep them on and sit first."

Paul clears his throat. His chin dips to his chest a little. Gears recalibrated toward submitting and taking orders fire fast behind those pretty eyes. "Okay, yes." He sits, trembling a bit, on the edge of the bed.

"I'm gonna sit next to you, Father, and you don't move for a little bit. Okay?"

He nods. Good enough for now. Your underwear clings wetly to you under the sleepshirt you were just hiking up for him in the living room. You pull the hem of the shirt down, a bit demurely over your thighs. Paul watches every move.

"Still don't move, baby." You purr at him. He preens silently at the pet name. "Close your eyes." When his eyes are closed, you take his face into both your hands, fingers grazing his ears, the peach fuzz of his tapered sideburns. In a decisive, hushed moment you bring Paul's face to yours and kiss him. Deeply. First-time tier kisses, slow and curious and just beginning to use your tongue.

Paul half-laughs, shyly against your mouth. "Still no moving," you remind into his lips, and he nods "good boy. Good Father." Oh, he likes that very much.

You lick his bottom lip and enthusiastically he opens his mouth to invite you closer, hands scrunching at his sides in desperation to follow your instruction and not not not touch you.

You withdraw from the kiss after another moment, riled yourself and needing to catch your breath. Still you have enough command of yourself to make this all about him, about how pathetic and needy and perfect he is. You bat your eyes at Paul and smile.

"You probably want to make it up to me. How badly you made me need you before,"

Paul tilts his head uncertainly from side to side. A smirk flickers at the corner of his mouth.

"You wanna know how to make me feel good after that, Paul? You wanna know what I need from you?"

He nods again, thoughts boyishly absent from his eyes, his demeanor relaxed and yet so, so ready to do what he's told.

"Can we make that a yes?" you prompt gently.

"Yes." The huskiness in his voice is like a refresher to your thirst for him. You tingle all over with anticipation.

"Good. I'm going to lay back, and I want you on top of me." As you lay down on the soft bedcovers, you realize all the tension your muscles held kneeling on the ground and fucking yourself onto him, even now some melts away and you sigh contentedly. Paul crawls over you, tenderness and want in his eyes and it calls up a smile to your lips.

"What are you smiling at?"

"My little pet priest. Bet he'd do anything I'd ask him."

Paul lays his head down on your belly, happiness going a little fuzzy because of the attention you show him. His curls call out to your hands and you play with his hair. He's radiant. And for now he's yours. He's kissing your neck now, giggling in the crook of your shoulder, lips tickling your chin, your cheek, your ears. You luxuriate in all this for a moment, then tell him, "Give me your ear please, I'm gonna whisper what I want."

His back muscles ripple like a cat's under his shirt as he makes the necessary adjustment to put his ear up to your mouth. But he's too close, too fucking perfect, so you have to bite his earlobe with such exquisite access.

He groans, tenses in his upper body, and rolls his hips over yours. "That's. Not whispering," he complains.

"Shh, shh." you tell him, "You wanna know? Really?" He cocks his head enough for you to see him nod, his length getting easier to feel against your thigh. You reach a hand up in his and gently bring his ear to your lips, "I need you to eat me out like your life depends on it."

He moans, low in his throat, at just the thought of that.

"You want to do that for me?" That serious attention is in his expression again as he nods at you, starting to kiss his way down your chest. "Can you tell me using your words that's something you want?"

In addition to teasing the everloving fuck out of him, getting his consent turns you on more than anything. The thought of Crockett Island's well-mannered, mildly twitchy new priest so eager to touch you, taste you, have you that he'd kept you in his quarters for the last two days reminds you in a heady rush.

"I…" he lifts his head from your chest and blinks, not reluctant, but so fucking needy, "I want to eat you out." He nods quickly, lashes dropping over his eyelids. "Like my life depends on it."

"Good boy. Do it then, please."

His beautiful, hot mouth begins an eager assault of kisses across your chest, migrating down your belly. You arch your back. Usually you two take a little more time here, but there isn't any to spare. So quickly, so deliberately, Paul finds your clothed sex. He wants to touch you, and he wants you telling him that he can.

"Can I take these off you? Please."

You have nothing smart to say. You're no less eager to feel his tongue, his kisses, the vibrations of his voice where you're most sensitive. You nod, and he holds his gaze to your eyes for a beat before pulling your useless underwear off your legs, discarding them on the floor.

You think without meaning to of the word 'devotion,' used in religious terms to describe a supplication, an adoring, faithful, upturned look. It applies equally to the naked need written on Paul's face with his hands carefully spreading your thighs apart.

"Please let m--" he swallows, begins again, "Please may I worship you?"

"Fuck, Paul, yes, please."

And he may have dedicated years to seminary study, he may have pored with his hands wrapped around old books of his faith and volunteered his body in the service of a Christian God, but that tongue of his was made for sinning.

He starts by kissing gently around your cunt, soft, spellbinding little pecks that make your body jerk to close your legs. You still open up for him, gasping and squeezing your eyes shut with how good, how good, how earth-shatteringly good he feels. His tongue starts to lap at your clit and you do feel yourself drip a bit as he deepens the kiss of his mouth on you. Your mind pleasantly lets go of so much residual tension, of today, of every day before this moment with Paul kitten-licking between your wet lips.

Your hips buck as he sucks a little more intently at your clit and your hands lift up and knot themselves up in his hair. He lives for it as you start to fuck his face.

"Yes, yes, salvation is your fucking cunt, thank you--" he sputters out, certainly only half aware of what he's saying but so, so pleased to look up at you and find your face entirely lost in what he's making you feel.

"Here, here," he takes one hand that's left a few fingernail marks in your thigh and hurriedly covers the knuckles of your hand that's controlling his head, "Put me where you want me. Use me, please."

His mouth and your cunt make an obscene symphony together as you moan and arch toward him, trying to win back enough self-control to direct him the way he needs. He's doing pretty goddamn well on his own, you think and laugh to yourself, your calves shaking and heels digging into the bed. His nose bumps an especially sensitive square inch toward the hood over your clit, and his tongue grazes the inside of you. You see stars, the way the old expression goes, you literally see stars. You have to fight to keep your eyes open to how beautifully looks, you'll need this memory of your pleasure, his pleasure, you and he together, for all time.

Your hips are bouncing off his face rather quick and desperately and Paul is drunk with chasing your cum. He sees you biting your fist and between kisses and sucks he has to ask, "You need more? What do you need? Tell me. I worship you. I deify you. I need this," And like a madman he shakes his head to deepen the stimulation of his tongue hitting, soothing, exciting your clit.

"Oh, Paul!" you cry out and reach for his bedframe. "Oh fuck," you're curling into him and keening and he's humping his mattress outright. "Finger me. Fuck please, give me something to-"

Something to cum around, of course. You feel slicker and sluttier than you've ever felt as Paul obediently probes a finger inside your cunt. You fuck his hand, unabashed, so far gone, so trembly. And even the trembling is helping you get more contact out of his tongue, and he's not tired, his thirst is unmatched, the hand not fingering you finds that little arch where his nose bumped up against you before and spreads you the littlest bit open to lap at your clit.

You make a sound that's kind of a shriek and kind of a delighted giggle, and words something like "Ha-fuck, I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum on you--" fall out of your mouth. Paul moans, the pitch of his voice increasing in a way that sort of matches yours, nearly as desperate for your orgasm as you are. Nobody could be as desperate for this as you, however. No one in the history of fucking cumming has ever felt like this.

"Please," he sucks attentively at your clit and shakes his head again, a black curl plastered across his forehead, his gorgeous brown-green eyes searching you and seeing all of you, then closing again, a holy sight. "Please cum. That's it, please I want to drink you in, please--"

And your upper body accomodates for how powerfully you need to let go, the need for release screams out of your body and you almost hit the headboard, but Paul stops you, adjusts the hand that kept you exposed to him to grip your hip and pull you down to his mouth. Your body thrusts and bucks and arches of its own volition, you're just here, in this tear-you-apart pleasure of cumming on his tongue like no one's ever made you cum before. You're panting, your heart is racing, your blood is on fire.

"Enough-enough-enough fuck please---" you shake and beg and tug a little at his hair as he licks hungrily at you, but he's going to let you go when he's fully satisfied. Your voice continues to climb in whispers and shuddering gasps.

"Like my life," he makes a disgusting, gorgeous slurping noise over your wet needy hole, "depends on it." Like a man starved. Like a man crazed. How will you ever function again. You cry out as he drags his tongue up and down your slit, one last long articulation, before his hand finally relaxes on your hip.

Your eyes flutter as you remember suddenly to breathe, and Paul's hands glide up your leg as you sink them down back onto the bed.

"What did you just do to me?" You utter, mystifed, not fully with the thought as it escapes.

"You have no idea how intoxicating you are." He says, dead serious, if breathless and soaked in you. He sucks his middle finger clean. "None at all."

[chelseasdagger]

Restoring Faith

Father Paul Hill x Reader

Summary: You pay Father Paul one of your midnight visits and he finds himself struggling with his sworn devotion

Warnings: religious themes, sacrilege, smut, oral over clothes (m!receiving)

Author’s Note: This is a late birthday present for @chellestrash​ , my true love of my life, and I hope I’ve done this little idea you love justice :’) I’m absolutely positive I didn’t make it sounds as pretty as some of the other fics, but I hope it will be alright :)

Word Count: 4k

The cold air sends a shiver down your spine as the gravel crunches beneath your feet. Wrapping your arms around yourself tighter, you keep your head down to protect your face from the wind. You follow the path that connects the great big church to the smaller house just behind it, the trail only visible due to the moonlight pouring down from above.

You’re no idiot, you’re aware anybody could see your somewhat frequent visits to see him. However, you convinced yourself that it was okay to go, so long as you waited past midnight to take the trip. Whether it was actually a valid excuse was a whole other subject. One you didn’t particularly want to think of and potentially use to talk yourself out of doing this.

Stepping up the old, creaky stairs of the small porch, you give one last glance over your shoulder to the abandoned street the church faces. There’s not a person in sight and you raise your hand to knock on the wooden door.

It opens after a moment and you smile at the sight of the priest in front of you. He’s dressed completely in black, excluding the stark white collar that frames his neck. You can’t help your eyes from giving him a quick once over, taking in the dark button up shirt tucked into the form fitting slacks that drape down his legs. His voice calling your name brings your gaze back to his face.

“How…,” he trails off, craning his neck higher and looking past you, “how can I help you?” His greeting is stiff, and you know he’s worried about curious eyes possibly seeing you here. You can’t fight the way your lips pull into a smirk at the idea of him already getting nervous.

“I just had a question, Father,” you begin to explain, and notice him looking at you with cautious eyes. “Is that not what you said? That we can come to you and seek guidance? Ask questions about our faith?” You can admit that it was slightly unfair using his own words against him, but it works all the same. He bows his head before nodding once, silently stepping aside and allowing you to walk inside.

It’s the same as it always was, with the couch being the only real centerpiece to the room. The curtains are drawn closed on each of the windows and it gives the sense of seclusion from the rest of the small island. The three lamps that line the right wall are all lit, painting everything in a warm glow. You’ll never get over how welcoming his home was, how it provided a safe space when you needed an escape. 

The sound of the door clicking shut makes you turn around to face him. He’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest, slightly hesitant as he stays silent and waits for you to speak first.

“Nobody saw me, if that’s what you’re worried about,” you flash him a cheeky smirk. Paul responds wordlessly with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He steps further into the room, his arm brushing yours as he walks to the small, open kitchen area. 

“I haven’t seen you at Mass,” he finally breaks his silence. You watch as he grabs an empty glass from the drying rack beside the sink before filling it with water from the tap. “Can I get you anything?” he offers with wide eyes, motioning towards the cup in his hand.

“I was sick,” you pick the first thing that comes to mind, “allergy stuff since the weather is changing.” The lie rolls right off your tongue. You watch as he drinks his water down, fixating on the way his Adam's apple moves with each swallow. Giving yourself a mental shake, you answer his earlier question.

“And I’m okay, thanks,” you decline his offer as you lean against the back of the couch. The priest says nothing but gives a solemn look your way.

“I’m… sorry to hear that,” he speaks gently into the quiet room. His dark, brown eyes look sincere, enforcing the truth behind his words. There’s a small pout on his lips and you’re not sure if it’s from your faux illness or if he can somehow sense that you’re not speaking the truth. Either way, he continues with the conversation.

“But I’m glad you’re feeling better. W-What can I do for you?” He sets his glass down on the small counter beside him. “You… um, mentioned seeking guidance? What about?” His eyes are focused onto yours and you find yourself only able to keep eye contact for a few seconds before his stare feels like too much. 

“Well,” you begin with a light laugh under your breath, “I just wanted to have you read to me again.” Your fingers toy with the thick seam of the couch cushion. “Is that okay? It just—it helps, is all.” You’re not certain the explanation makes a ton of sense, but there is truth behind it. His words help; it relaxes you to come and listen to him read, even if you don’t always find yourself secure in the faith you grew up with.

When you look up at him again, Paul is standing with a genuine smile on his face. It’s clear he likes hearing that he can help, and you feel a twinge of guilt shoot through your chest at how he genuinely enjoys what he does. It makes you being here that much worse, knowing how content and devout he is.

“Of course, I-I can do that,” he replies, his voice somehow even quieter than before. “Did you have a certain story you wanted me to read from?”

You think over his question for only a short moment. Deep down, you knew you could listen to him speak about even the most mundane things, including what he had eaten for breakfast. His voice was the thing to calm you, not the words he spoke.

“I don’t really care. Whatever you’d like, whatever we left off with,” you flash him a small smile. The priest nods only once before walking towards his bedroom, disappearing into the shadows of the small corridor leading to the door.

You let out a big breath of air you weren’t even aware you were holding in. Being alone with him felt good, it always did, but you couldn’t deny the guilt once again growing in your chest. Deep down, you knew this was wrong, but it always felt good when the guilt shaped to something else. Something stronger and impossibly difficult to ignore.

There’s only a small moment for self reflection before you hear his footsteps echoing out on the wood floor again. You glance towards the sound and find him returning back into the main room with the Bible wedged between his arm and his side. His fingers are busy, rolling the fabric of his long sleeve up to just above his elbow. As inch after inch of his skin is exposed, you find yourself unable to look away from the veins trailing up the inside of his arm.

He repeats his actions on the opposite side, gazing up at you from under the few strands of hair that have fallen out of place. Your lip finds its way between your teeth subconsciously, your own way of anchoring yourself and ignoring the need to tuck the loose curls back behind his ear.

“In moments where I truly begin to doubt my faith, I…” he trails off, fixing the last roll of his cuff over his forearm. He grabs the Bible and brushes his thumb over the raised letters as he continues, “I like to look back on the story of Job.”

You can’t even stop the exasperated sigh that leaves your body. He looks up at the sound, his head tilted slightly like a confused puppy.

“Job? Really, Father? I’m pretty sure that’s the opposite of restoring faith,” you curl your fingers to create air quotes over the last two words. Paul gives a small smile, lowering his head. He’s dealt with your opinions regarding faith and why God allows things to happen as He does.

“Maybe… maybe to some but I-I find that it’s a reminder,” his voice is quiet and calm, already slipping into his usual pattern of speech when he’s behind the lectern. He steps deeper into the living room and passes by you, making his way to the empty couch.

“A reminder to trust in Him even when we’re not sure of-of the path,” he finishes. You’re thankful he’s behind your back so he doesn’t see the way your eyes roll at his canned response. He must’ve seen the tension in your body though, taking note of the way your arms are still crossed over your chest, because he tries once more to get you to listen.

“You do remember that he was rewarded? In the end?”

“Yeah, but he went through hell to get it… hardly seems fair,” you answer him.

“Well, the Lord, He—,”

“If you say ‘Works in mysterious ways’…” you cut him off with a warning glare as you finally turn to face him.

Paul lets out a breathy laugh, staring down at the thick book in his hands. “I was only going to say that He doesn’t always…” he pauses for a moment, searching for the right words, “reveal His plans to us in a way that makes sense at the time. That’s all,” he finishes with a tight-lipped smile.

There’s a brief moment of silence that hangs in the air as you wait for him to move past this conversation. His quick inhale fills the room as he clears his throat quietly, his arm gesturing towards the couch.

“Shall we?”

“Of course,” you respond softly, your words tucked under your breath. He walks around to the front of the couch, his eyes fixed on you as you follow his path. He sits down as his fingers curl around the blue, knitted blanket that’s sprawled out across the cushion beside him.

“Here, let me—,” he doesn’t finish his sentence before draping it across the back of the couch. There’s a spot for you now, close enough that you knew you’d be touching him if you sat beside him. As tempting as the offer is, you find yourself shaking your head gently.

“Is-is something wrong?” he asks, his big, dark eyes searching yours. They’re wide and innocent, truly worrying that he overstepped. Once again, you’re reminded of how pure the man before you is; you nearly reconsider your original idea that made you seek him out tonight in the first place.

You shake your head as you stand in front of him, silently kneeling down and sitting on the floor. The priest’s expression instantly grows apprehensive. You flash him an innocent smile but his unsure glare never falters.

“I’ll just listen from here,” you tell him, trying to ease his worries. He looks hesitant but eventually swallows before opening the Bible. His long fingers splay out across the thin pages, turning them one after the other before finally stopping on a page.

He opens his mouth to speak, the words flowing effortlessly off of his tongue. His voice falls into the deep, rumbly tone that you only ever hear when he’s reading to you. There’s no audience, no image he has to maintain, and the words are so quiet it seems almost as if he’s reading to himself. You’ve always preferred these moments, when he appeared the most authentic he could be.

The more he reads the more comfortable you feel. Your body begins to relax and an idea strikes up in your mind. As he turns the next page, bringing in a deep inhale to continue the sentence, you let your head rest against his knee.

He immediately stutters over his words, repeating the same sound over and over. He never breaks his concentration though, and eventually pushes through and finishes the sentence. Not before flashing you a warning look as you rest your cheek against his leg, though.

It isn’t entirely inappropriate and would even be seen as a normal, platonic gesture. But given his profession, you knew it was absolutely not appropriate. You don’t pull away however, just keep your body slumped against his leg.

He continues speaking the old words, his pronounced sentences dissipating into muttered whispers the longer he goes on. Admittedly, you felt special that this tone was reserved only for you; there was a faint flare of pride in your chest knowing that you were the only one to hear his words so rumbly it’s as if they never fully left his chest.

At some point though, you begin to grow bored of just sitting there and waiting for him to finish. Usually these late night reads brought your anxiety down enough just to fall asleep on the priest, leaving him in the most awkward position of not knowing how to convince himself any of this was okay. But right now, you’d rather have some fun.

Paul knew something was up the second he saw your hand reaching towards him out of the corner of his eye. The muscles in his leg immediately tense, you feel it from under your skin. But you don’t want to raise his suspicion so soon.

Stretching further towards the Bible in his lap, you spread your fingers and place both palms over each side. Once his view is completely shielded from the printed words, he immediately looks into your mischievous eyes.

“What—what are you doing?” he asks confusedly. His eyebrows are pulled together as he awaits your answer.

“Just wanted to see how much you knew,” you reply genuinely. You knew the man had poured over this book time and time again, searching for meanings deeper than the blatant lessons that were spelled out for the reader. It always sent a conflicting feeling coursing through you, the way he could recite word after word from memory as if he was the one who had conjured them up. Conflicting because you liked the reminder of how devout he was, and isn’t that just a multifaceted guilt trip.

Paul smiles at your youthful game, and mentally accepts the challenge. He parts his lips before the words fall from his tongue.

“And when the days of the feast had run their course, Job would send and sanctify them, and he would rise early in the morning and offer burnt offerings according to the number of them all,” he begins, never looking away from your face as he repeats them with no hesitation.

“For Job said, ‘It may be that my sons have sinned, and cursed God in their hearts.’” The priest can’t stop from chuckling at the end of his sentence, having looked at your own genuine, bright grin. “Thus Job did continually.”

Once he’s finished, he flashes you his own smile before glancing down at your hands covering the pages still. You slowly remove them, giggling under your breath at how he passed your unofficial test.

The priest licks his lips once before clearing his throat gently, continuing again with his reading. As the minutes pass, you find yourself not paying much attention to the actual weight of the words. You just focus on his muttering voice until you're reminded of how sweet his last stutter sounded. And because you just can’t help yourself, you’re determined to hear it again.

Snaking your hand up his thigh, you feel his body grow stiff all over again. That adorable stutter becomes prominent once more, his eyes quickly focusing on your fingers rubbing up the inside of his leg as he attempts to finish the paragraph. Trying to pace your plan, you curl your fingers around his thigh and give him a moment to get used to the feeling.

“What are you doing?” These words are the coldest he’s spoken all night, yet you stay silent and wait. It takes him longer this time to finally react, to give his consent in the smallest agreement possible. It’s so minuscule that anybody else wouldn’t have noticed, but you know him awfully more than you should.

Half a nod. That’s all it takes, and you let your fingers graze lightly over the black slacks. They're taught from how he’s sitting, and you can see the outline of his thigh through the stretched material. His voice shakes now, the tone less steady and sure, as he forces himself to keep reading.

You’ve got to admit he’s doing better than you thought. He doesn’t stop reading, you assume he’s just trying to focus on something else, anything but your hand moving between his thighs. You must’ve hit a sweet spot though, inching near the little alcove where his thigh meets his hip, because the next thing you hear is a shuddering exhale as he halts his reading. 

And there it is only a second later—the outline of his cock showing through the dark dress pants. It never took very long, although this time it seems even quicker than usual. He continues to grow there, until you can see the fabric straining to accommodate for his now swollen head. You’ve barely touched him and he’s already so responsive.

Now that you can physically see the effect you have on him, there’s truly nothing that can stop you. Sure the nagging guilt is still in the back of your mind, telling you that you shouldn’t do this, but you push it away as much as you can. He looks so tempting right now: the loose strands of hair falling into his face, his lip caught between his teeth as he suppresses his groans, the faint twitch his cock gives when he feels your finger lightly drag along the base of his length. You love seeing him this desperate for you.

Your one finger lightly tracing the length of him is truly all it takes for the first twitch to happen in his trousers. The sight makes your mouth nearly water and you finally curl your fingers around him properly. Your grip isn’t too tight considering it’s over two layers of clothes, but it doesn’t stop the choked grunt from finally escaping his lips.

Still you continue, leaning closer until your breath is fanning over the bulge. He feels it, you can tell from the way his fingers clutch the book that’s resting on his other leg. The veins in the back of his hand become more prominent the harder he grabs it. Every part of his body is conflicting itself; he wants it but he knows he shouldn’t.

Still you wait, staring up at him and silently asking again if this is okay. He doesn’t stall as much this time—his eyes squeeze shut tightly before nodding quickly again, forcing another inhale through his nose.

You don’t waste a second and quickly press your tongue flat against the outline of his tip. Slowly licking along the length, you watch his body reel from how hard his stomach clenches at the feeling. He begins to shut the Bible but you grab his wrist before it can close all the way. You shake your head slowly, attempting to convince him to keep it open.

“Y…You know I can’t.”

“I like hearing you, Father,” you mumble quietly in the room. He stares down at you with an expression you can’t quite describe. There’s no emotion on his face, but his eyes look pained, no doubt from the name you referred to him as. He hardly moves except for the shallow breaths that you can only notice because of how close you are to him.

Waiting for his reaction seems to drag on for hours before he finally sighs through his nose and opens the book. You notice the way his fingers shake as he smooths out the page before trying to remember where he left off. Your lips pull into a smile as you hear his strained voice fill the room.

Squeezing the base of his cock tighter, you drag your tongue across his tip again before wrapping your lips around it. The story is cut off with his deep grunt, and you hum around him at the pleasant noise. The priest has his head tilted back, staring at the ceiling as he tries to regain his composure.

You knew this was an awful, sacrilegious act you two were doing, but it doesn’t stop the heat growing between your legs. Leaning closer into him, you work your mouth on him faster, sucking harder through the fabric. His hand closest to you grips the edge of the seat as he seethes through his teeth.

Paul finally looks down at you, staring into your eyes that have never once left his face. You hold his gaze before glancing wordlessly to the book still in his hand. The whimper that he barely slips out is your new favorite sound, replaying it in your head as you shut your eyes.

“A-As long as… m…my breath,” he’s cut off with a shaky inhale. He tries to read aloud, but his voice trembles the entire time.

“Keep going, Father,” you pull your mouth away from the outline in his black trousers to encourage him. There’s a long, dark stripe along the fabric from your tongue, but another wet patch where the head of his cock is straining against the material.

“As long as my-my breath is in me, and t-the spirit of God is in my nostrils—,” he’s finding each word more impossible to speak. You never allow him to give up though, rubbing your hand over his thigh to support him.

“My lips will not speak f…falsehood, and my tongue will not utter deceit.” He manages to finish the paragraph before taking deep breaths, swallowing thickly and trying his damndest to not look at the sinful scene in his lap. But his body betrays him once more, twitching into your mouth when you hum sweetly around him as a reward for finishing what you asked him to.

Pressing your tongue right in the ridge under his swollen head, you hear a new sound escape his pressed lips. It's a guttural, raw twist of your name and it’s unexpected.

“Oh… Oh—Wait,” he tries to warn you but it’s much too late. His release happens without him realizing, his body moving while his mind doesn’t have a chance to catch up. When you feel him pulsing in your mouth you glance up at him and oh, what a sight it is.

He’s completely disheveled, biting down into his hand to muffle the noise he’s ashamed for anyone to hear, and the veins in his neck are protruding just above the edge of his collar. It’s not the first time you’ve seen him like this, but you always make sure to memorize the sight down to those details. To always keep the picture in your mind.

What really catches your attention though, is the stream of white bubbling up through the taught fabric around his sensitive tip. You didn’t realize he would have finished quite this fast, but you definitely don’t mind it. Squeezing the middle of his length tightly, you slowly slide your hand up, determined to get all of it out of him.

Paul’s thighs are beginning to shake from the sensation and you can only imagine how good it must feel for him. You stick your tongue out as you lap up the mess he’s made, and his thighs jolt to close around your body. His sensitivity to your every touch leaves a desire that burns hotly in the bottom of your stomach. You love the feeling of having power over him, admittedly too much.

Once he’s clean, you finally let go of him altogether and sit back on your legs. He’s left panting in awe as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. You wish you could see inside his head, try and understand what he’s thinking. But right now his dark eyes are glossed over and he looks as if he’s somewhere completely else.

“Thank you, Father.”

He scrunches his eyes shut tightly the second the words fill the air. It’s silent except for his panting as you rest your head on his knee once more. This time it is a platonic action, your way of showing him you’re there without words. And there you sit beside your priest in the small, old house behind the great big church, with the weight of everything that just happened.

[mandowifey]

Porogue.

Father Paul/John Pruitt x Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, P in V sex, unprotected sex, dry humping, mutual masturbation, lots of priest play, biting, pining, dom!Paul, semi established relationship, cum play, mentions of cervix, mentions of bite wounds.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

It's a storm to end all storms.

That was what Beverly Keane proclaimed at yesterday's service. The woman had a penchant for dramatics and often spoke with puritanical judgment. Folks were accustomed to the devout woman's manic ramblings, which meant she was never taken literally. However, when the Coast Guard reached out to warn the town to evacuate not but four hours before the storm was due to impact, Bev Keane stood, smug and proud.

"I had warned you, all of you."

Towns folk rushed towards the docks with their families, arms full of the few precious belongings they had. Sturge was helping them up the ramp and into the ferry, trying to explain that there was no need to panic. Dark waves sloshed and rolled under the boats. People were gasping and crying out below the blackening sky. Hysteria at its finest.

"You lot wrought this upon yourselves," sighed Keane, who stood on the dock, hands linked together. "Those of us who remained loyal to our faith, who filled the church every day and lived our lives devout and holy have no reason to fear. The Lord recognizes his own and will shephard us unto his raft to guide us through the storm."

Over half the population fled Crockett that dreary afternoon. Those who remained boarded their windows and hunkered down to ride it out. While the last ferry departed, Bev Keane smiled and turned to head back up the trail. Confident in the hopes that God would sort things out in the end.

° ☆ ° ☆ °

Candles warmed the room around you, while flashes of lighting illuminated the windows and caught your eye. When thunder clapped and shook the wooden frame of the rectory, you would suck in a sharp gasp and tense, which drew a low chuckle from the man above you. Rain impacts noisily against the glass windows, causing a steady hum.

"Relax."

A hand closes under your jaw and tips your head back, exposing the curve of your throat. Lips press against your skin, making you rumble and start to smile. "You are so strange," the words leave your mouth in a breathless sigh. "How can you not be at least a little afraid?"

He chuckles again, and you feel teeth graze your flesh. "I have much more important things on my mind." There was a pull to his words that brought moisture between your legs. Heat consumed you, twisting through your limbs and fogging your thoughts.

"Looks like you do too." His palm cups your mound. Embarrassment overtakes you as you realize you had soaked through your underwear. "Messy little lamb." Lips slotting together, the man kisses you with intensity. He parts your mouth with his own and scoops his tongue between your teeth. You can feel the way his nose pushes to your cheek and taste the remnants of the tea he had earlier.

Words fail you as you cave below him. The bed moves under you as he shifts your bodies and lays himself between your legs. Another flash of lightning, another gasp, this time it's for him. He presses the aching bulge against your core and leans his weight into you. You feel so small with his body caging yours, and the contact makes you simper.

"O-oh, P-paul,"

"I'm sorry?"

Paul's voice was lile velvet in your ears. Candlelight flickers in those obsidian eyes of his, and you watch his angular brows start to vex. Heat burned in your stomach, and you paw at the blankets beneath you.

"F-father, p-please."

A smile breaks the tension, and he drops his head down to gently kiss the middle of your forehead. He rumbles his praise against your skin, balancing himself on his knees and one hand while the other pulls your leg around his hip. You tilt and groan unabashedly as Paul starts to grind into you. The friction of his clothed cock pressing and sliding over your crease had your clit engoring with blood.

Head tilting back, your mouth hangs open as soft groans waft out. Paul was watching you, admiring every line in your face as he began bucking into you. Your body bounces, your cries coming out louder as he thrusts as though he were fucking you. The impact had you soaking more than before, leaking a spot on the blankets.

"U-uhn, hnn, p-please-" You felt frantic, desperately craving the Priest to bury inside and claim you as his. To carve through your insides and nestle himself in the furthest reaches of your cunt. The ache within your body called to him, your scent nearly driving the starving man mad.

"Patience is a virtue." Paul sat back against his legs before placing both large hands on your hips. Fingers gripped bruisingly tight as he hoisted you upwards against him, locking your pelvis to his so he could continue rutting. The man sighed, his eyes closing as he grunted and panted softly. Both of you mutually wind your bodies together in a frenetic desire.

Panting fills the empty space, and you're using the massive bulge between his legs to chase your release. Paul used you, too. His hands greedily squeezed and pulled you while his hips bucked to yours. "T-that's it." He gasps, his large thumbs pressing down into the front of your pelvis, causing a pleasant pressure inside of you that made you mewl.

Ravenous, the holy man watches as you fall apart. Chest heaving, skin flushed, and nipples showing through your tank top. "Look at you, little lamb," His voice purrs. "So beautiful, a spectacle to watch unfurl." Rolling his hips forward, Paul grinds his cock into your core and makes you whine. You are gradually rising now, the friction pushing you higher and higher. Smiling, he smoothed one large palm over your stomach as he moved it onto your breast. "Let me hear you." He pinches your pert nipple between his thumb and index finger, causing you to arch and cry.

"That's it, good girl."

Your face burns. Sweat builds in a thin layer on your skin as the sensation of bursting swells inside of you. Paul lifts off his legs to get a better angle and alternates slow grinds with firm, steady rocks of his hips. Each impact jostles your smaller frame, bouncing you under him and pushing cry after cry from your parted lips. "I-im g-gonna-" It was hurtling towards you full speed. You knew there was no use in trying to fight it. You could feel the burn of his eyes on your face, watching you as you fell apart.

"It's alright, my angel, let me see you."

Paul leaned over you, bucking himself against you just right. Your clit throbs, slick soaking through your panties and onto him as you gasp and jerk. Fireworks spark in your belly as the rush hits you. Your cunt clenches sporadically, your body shaking as you cum. Reaching your hands up, you curl your fingers into his arms, thighs shaking as he continues to grind against you. Paul coos, mesmerized by your face. When you rest back and relax, he leans and opens his pants to spring himself out.

With your head still spinning, you hardly notice him fist his cock. Eyes transfixed on your soaked underwear, the Monsignor inches closer and strokes himself against you. "S-such a messy lamb," his voice shudders with pleasure as his palm slicks across his length. "S-so beautiful." He sounds like he may cry, his dark eyes heavy with lids and lips parted. You look up at him, feeling your heart race at the sight. "P-please father, I need you to cum." Paul jerks, startled by your words and breath stopping in his throat.

That undid him. He bucked against his fist while you pulled your panties to the side. Whimpering and looking down, he groans as he cums. Hot, thick ropes spraying across your folds and fingers. You feel the heat as he drips inside your crease. "O-oh." He bucks one last time, a final spurt landing on your clit and dribbling downwards. Paul looks disheveled, breathless, as he settles down from his own high.

You were ready to speak when he dropped over you, impacting your lips with his own. Paul slips his large hand between your legs, using his nimble fingers to collect his cum and push it into you. You gasp, groaning into his starving mouth as he sinks inside your cunt to the knuckle. "Mh, p-paul-" He kisses your words and swallows them whole, adding a second digit which causes you to shriek into him. He pumps them inside of you, trying as hard as he can to reach your end with his seed.

Mouths and tongues lashing together, Paul slows his fingers right as you begin to buck against him. "So needy tonight," remarked the holy man as he licked over your kiss swollen lips. "I suppose you have been good enough to earn a little more. What do you say, my lamb?" His fingers curled inside of you, applying pressure to your gspot and bladder. Sparks flash behind your eyes, and your back lifts off the blankets. "Y-yes, p-please father Hill." You gasp, struggling to bring your eyes to his. The man flashes his teeth, and his eyes crinkle along the edges. His digits squelch inside of you as he begins to pump them faster.

"Since you asked so nicely." Paul nods, drawing his fingers out while you whine.

The loss of him makes your cuntache. Feeling no need to rush, Paul takes his time removing your sodden underwear and his pants. Carefully, he lays beside you and shifts you on your side, facing away from him. As he closes the distance between your bodies, you feel the cold press of his skin behind you. Paul lifts your leg and kisses behind your ear. "Keep this up for me, please." The delicate tone in his voice makes you throb, and you obey.

You feel the familiar prod of his cock and angle your hips back to make it easier for him. Paul guides his tip to your sopping opening and grunts with you as he presses inside. With a sudden snap of his hips, he submerges inside your heat and bottoms out. The stretch is immense, and you can already feel the tip nudging at your end. "G-god!" Your lip quivers and leg shakes, the muscle burning now.

As if he knew, Paul curls his frigid hand under your knee and holds your leg. Lips kiss at your shoulder as he starts liesurely rocking inside of you. The drag burning your cunt and making you whine. Eagerly, you shove yourself back against him, nearly sobbing each time he pushes fully inside and reaches your furthest depths. You're keening, whining, noisily falling apart for him as he rocks. Paul smiles against your skin, peppering you in soft kisses as he takes his time.

Thunder rattles the wooden frame of the rectory, but you hardly notice. Paul drives himself inside you faster now, spearing every inch of his aching cock deep inside your heat. More sparks are flying now, he's brushing everything right within you. You can hear him grunting and gasping behind you, his breath fanning your skin as he bucks his hips. His fingers dig into your skin as he plaps noisily against your ass. Paul grunts, his movements stuttering and becoming uneven.

It spurs something in you, and you fuck yourself back against him. "P-please, please!" You cry as he desperately stuffs himself inside you. Paul bites your shoulder, muffling his groan as he sinks to the hilt. You flutter around him, your abrupt orgasm taking you by surprise as you clench on his throbbing cock. Groaning louder, he bruises your skin as he empties directly against your cervix, the hot flood of his cum making you whimper and grind into him.

As he calms, he lowers your leg and pulls you into him further by wrapping his arms around you. Paul enjoys the rapid patter of your heartbeat, and he licks over the bitemark he left. You were melting, sinking back into him and closing your eyes as you smiled. "Thanks," you giggle, feeling him pause in licking you. "For distracting me from the storm. I think it helped quite a lot." His chest rattles with a soft chuckle. The two of you remained embraced while it continued to pour outside, safe and warm together from the storm.

[roguelov]

Laughter and Ruin

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

Word Count: ~7.7k

Reader: Fem/afab

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

MINOR DNI/ 18+ ONLY

Banging.

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

More irritating knocking.

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

I swear -

You flung open the door.

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

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

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

You cocked an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

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

“And what about Sturge?”

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

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

You hummed a faint ‘Ah’.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure he will. Later, Beverly.”

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

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

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

A smile tugged on your lips.

Your workshop.

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

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

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

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

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

You arrived at the church in what felt like seconds.

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

You sighed, and turned off the cart.

Better to start then wait around.

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

It slipped.

Your heart sank.

Luckily, it only slipped a few inches.

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

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

This.

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

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

One there.

And there.

And -

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

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

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

Footsteps clapped.

Your eyes instantly dropped.

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

“Hello, Father.”

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

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

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

He laughed, shaking his head.

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

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

Stolen by a saint.

A true tragedy.

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

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

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

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

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

You snorted. “Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She chuckled.

Father Paul rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly.

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

You best complete it quickly.

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

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

“See you around, Beverly.”

She nodded then walked off down the rocky path.

Back to her cave.

“Well, is there anything you need?”

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

He perked up.

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

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

I got you.

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

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

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

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

Or tried to.

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

“… until then, (Y/N).” He mumbled.

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

It was hypnotic to watch.

He swallowed, pushing down old feelings.

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

Leaving you both excited for tomorrow to come.

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

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

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

He was waiting for you.

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

He wanted to see his walking desires.

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

He itched.

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

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

It didn’t.

It didn’t even compare.

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

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

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

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

The Father’s heart skipped.

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

You twisted back around.

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

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

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

He smiled, waving back.

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

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

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

The music uplifted you, it energized you.

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

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

You sighed heavily, groaning internally.

You stood up and walked towards the ladder and -

You froze.

Where’s the ladder?

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

Of course. Of fucking course.

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

You grumbled.

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

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

Nothing.

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

Seconds ticked.

Your nerves rose.

“Father Paul -“

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

And halfway through his morning routine.

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

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

You almost felt bad.

Almost.

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

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

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

“- the problem?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And yet here we are.”

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

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

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

“And I’m not taking any chances.”

“Suit yourself.”

He did.

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

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

He smiled, tilting his head. “Anytime.”

The two of you shared a moment.

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

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

Hopefully, the correct ones.

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

“Please do.”

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

Father Paul smiled back then turned around heading back inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And not on where he slept.

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

There.

A breeze blew from the lower left corner.

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

“A true miracle.” He joked.

You snorted.

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

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

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

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

Well, darkness of jeans.

Your eyes trailed up.

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

Your breath hitched.

He was so close.

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

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

A shared bated breath passed.

The tension returned; the explosion now imminent.

Your feverish heartbeat rang in your ears.

Say something.

Move.

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

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

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

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

His lips meddled against yours.

You hummed, fluttering your eyes closed.

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

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

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

Yet, it only fueled you both.

Like a dinner bell.

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

Clothes started to fly off.

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

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

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

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

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

You moaned, threading your fingers through his hair.

He smiled, eager to hear such noises.

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

He chuckled.

His eyes flickered up.

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

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

He smirked.

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

You whined.

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

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

His mouth dove in.

You moaned out his name.

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

You bucked your hips.

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

You tugged on his hair, chanting his name.

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

And oh, how he wanted you.

But, he also wanted to savor this.

He pulled away from you.

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

His finger slipped inside of you.

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

His smile widened.

However, a light knocking cut through all the pleasure.

Tap, tap, tap.

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

When was it shut?

The front door creaked open followed by footsteps.

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

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

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

Beverly Keane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good day, Beverly.”

The door softly clicked closed.

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

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

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

You wanted to curse at him.

You wanted to scream.

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

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

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

You were the temptation for Father Paul’s demise.

It empowered you, it thrilled you.

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

You moaned, bucking your hips.

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

You whined at his praises, at his buttery words.

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

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

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

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

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

His words, his touch.

It pushed you over the edge.

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

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

He removed his fingers.

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

You had it wrong earlier.

No.

You were not the temptation for Father Paul.

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

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

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

You gasped.

He chuckled, his eyes lit with sin.

He did it again.

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

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

Your heart skipped.

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

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

You smirked.

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

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

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

He moaned, followed by a string of curses.

Not very Fatherly.

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

You opened your eyes, looking down at him.

He was still smiling.

A warmth bloomed over your chest.

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

You sat back, smirking at his dumbfounded face.

You rolled your hips.

Paul stuttered out a moan.

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

You wouldn’t.

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

He shivered.

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

Paul thrusted up again.

“Fuck,” you moaned.

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

Paul moaned as you rocked your hips.

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

You did.

He whimpered. “Fuck.”

You did it again, and again, and again.

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

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

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

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

You shivered.

Your walls fluttered around him, a final warning.

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

Heavy breathing filled the now quiet space.

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

He wanted to see you like this indefinitely.

To hear such sweet melodies.

To see you every day and every night.

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

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

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

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

Yeah, he was temptation.

The best kind.

[grugruel]

Lust for Vampyr

Pairings: Paul Hill x f!reader

MDNI/NSFW

Masterlist

Summary: A new handsome priest arrives at Crockett Island and youre desperate for his attention, but when he seems to be avoiding you, you do the only logical thing. Show up at his door

Word count: 3.8K

Warnings: Blasphemy, age-gap (reader over 20), oral sex (f! receving), pinv sex, rough sex, praise kink, slight thigh kink? Little bit of edging and cock-warming, tasting of blood (vampire shenanigans), PRIEST KINK.

Id never really found any interest in attending mass, despite my parents insistent attempts to drag me along. I had been watching the old monsignor preach for years now until he left for his pilgrimage, leaving a blank spot for a new priest to take his place.

Paul Hill had he called himself, and it was like lightning struck. All of a sudden I had a new fevor for the faith and although I had moved out long ago, my parents were thrilled to say the least. Little did they know though, that a fire had stirred within me. I started with innocent glances, admiring him from a far, telling myself it was just because of his enthusiastic way of preaching. But then getting a thing for his tall stature, big hands and stark black hair. He had me cleching my thighs together as I sat next to my parents in the church pews.

He made me want to confess my every sin to him and eventually I did, when I grew desperate enough. Just for the chance to hear him breath in that quiet intimate way I had begun to crave.

We had met briefly, just to introduce ourselves, but thats it. I wanted to talk to him more though, learn more about him. So I started lingering after mass, telling my parents to go on ahead without me just so I could get a word with the new father. But he usually dissapered into thin air before I got the chance, seemingly avoiding me like the black death.

Which Is how I ended up in my current situation. It was after the usual mass, I had dressed extra nicely tonight. I was standing in the cold on the fathers poarch, knocking on the rectory door in my fancy dress, black tights and mary janes.

I felt out of place, I know I shouldnt be here for this reason, I know I shouldnt have dressed nice in an effort to seduce a man of the church. Shame crept up my cheeks, coloring them a bright red. But I heard shuffling behind the door, then footsteps coming toward me and immedietly regretted my decision.

What was I doing? This is so stupid, hes going to send me away, direct me back to my parents like a lost child. My thoughts came to a sudden halt when the door finally opened, and there he stood. Father Paul.

He was in his regular black shirt and white collar, wearing his tight jeans. His eyebrows rose when he saw me, 'Ah' he sighed, as if expecting me but surprised none the less.

'Father.' I greeted, smiling faintly, 'Youre a busy man, you always disappear after mass, its hard to find time to talk with you.' I told him, he smiled apologetically 'Unfortunately yes, Ive had some urgent business to atend to lately, its taken up all my past time.' He explained as his gaze trailed down my body, eyes lingering on my thighs, 'I- uhm. . .' he shook his head, completley lost in thought when a particularly chilly breeze blew by. He shuddered, apparently noticing the cold for the first time, which managed to break him out of his trance and making him pay attention to my own shivers. Noting the goosebumps lining my arms and collarbones. He met my gaze again, hestitating slightly before moving out of the way 'Its freezing, please do come in.' He said, smiling cheapishly. 'Thank you.' I whispered as I passed him, intentionally brushing against his arm and hoping that he would catch a whiff of my perfume.

He closed the door behind us and made his way to the kitchen, 'Tea?' He asked.

'Yes please.' I answered and he smiled to himself, pleased with my manners. He gestured to the armchair in the middle of the room, 'Please, sit.' He urged me, then put a kettle of water on. I nodded and sat down, crossing my legs.

We waited on our opposite ends of the room, an akward silence settling over us. Finally though, the wistle of the kettle rang through the rectory and he made us two cups and sat down on the sofa opposite me. He handed me my cup and our fingers brushed as I took it, our eyes met, lingering on eachother. But he cleared his throat and looked away, 'So what brings you here?' He questioned.

I rested the cup in my lap as I tried to come up with an appropriate answer. 'We havent peoperly met, I suppose. . I simply wished to get to know you a bit better.' I said shyly.

He smiled, 'Well ofcourse, thats reasonable enough. Did you have any specific questions in mind?' He asked, sipping his tea.

I blanked completley, what was my plan here? 'I- No, not really. Uhm.' I stumbled ahead blindley.

He chuckled, 'Youre never this nervous in confessional are you.'

My face lit up in shame, averting my faze from him 'Well father, I suppose it gets easier in the dark.' I said, sipping my tea nervously.

He chuckled, 'I suppouse it would yes.'

I nodded gravely, looking back at him and found that his eyes had drifted to my body. It took me by surpise, but pleased me grately, 'Father?' I asked, trying to get his attention.

'Mmhm?' He hummed distantly, not taking his eyes off of me. Perhaps I wasnt so far off in coming here after all, my tights and skirt seemed to be working. Gaining some confidence, I uncrossed my legs and his gaze followed them intently. God, all he needed to was look at me and I was his, completley and utterly. In a sudden surge of brazenness, I let the cup rest in my lap again, clutched in my hands. Then spread my legs wider and slid the cup between my thighs, still in my grip, so that the view of my panties was blocked by that alone.

His bresthing stuttered, a made a sound that was barely a gasp. He rubbed his hands over his face and combed them through his hair in an effort to collect himself. But it did not work, he felt himself being affect by you, in the same way he was everytime he saw you. Which Is why he had to run off, why he had to keep his distance from you.

He sank further into the sofa, liftning his lap to adjust his position and then sat back down. I practically drooled at the sight, a tingling sensation pulsing through my core. I had to close my eyes for a few seconds, making an effort to think straight, at least until the feeling had calmed down and I could talk freely again. I moved my gaze back onto him and our eyes met, communicating with eachother, exchaning desires we could never say aloud.

Both a bit distracted by eachother, I decided to take the bull by its horns, 'Listen, father. I-' I began, but he shut me down instantly.

'Dont-' he said, holding his hand out to stop me, 'I know. . . I know.'

My mouth fell open in shock and I scrambled for an excuse, but I could not find the words. Shame tainting my tounge. 'Ive tried to stay away, but youre persistent. And I told myself that you must be a trial from god, tempting me, testing my faith.' he said, sitting up straighter and looking into my eyes.

'A trial that I will undoubtedly fail.' he confessed. Relief surged through me, he did want me. I reached out to lay a hand on his knee, but he jumped up, walking backward until he hit the kitchen counter. He leaned against it and crossed his arms, ensuring that they could not reach for me. He was fighting his urges, his own body was betraying him. I stood up, walking around to sofa to meet him, but he shook his head 'No, NO!' he shouted, making flinch in response to his sudden outburst.

'Im sorry, but this- this cannot happen.' He gestured between us, 'Whatever this is.' he sighed desperately and I stopped in my tracks, because I knew he was right. But he was just meters away from me, he was in my vecinity. Free to do with me however he pleased, if he pleased.

I whined at the thought, beacuse it could never happen. I grabbed the back of the sofa and bent down to rest my forehead against it, in a desperate attempt to collect my thoughts. A quiet complain reverberated through my body, "Why did it have to be a priest?" I bashed myself, a whine escaping me as I shook my head slowly. I slid forward, resting my elbows on the sofa so that my hands were free to hide my face. If only I could turn invisible, just disappear. But I was too painfully aware of his looming prescence to escape the moment, he kept a safe distance, occupied with battling his own thoughts.

I burned hot, terribly hot, my face ablaze from the shame of my indecent thoughts and actions, in stark contrast to my body which was only lubricated by them. Every single nerve-ending was tingling in reaction of what I craved.

I was trying, but failing very badly to calm myself, when there was movement in my peripheral, it happened so quickly that I was sure I had imagined it. But it was too late either way, because he had appeared behind me. All I noticed was a small gush of air and then he was pushed up against me, hips to ass and I involuntairily froze.

A shuddering gasp came form behind me as he lrt go of his restrictipns and his hands made contact with my skin, one hand moved to hold my hip while the other explored the dip of my lower back, testing its limits. He rubbed a few slow cicles with his thumb onto my skin, seamingly mesmerized by the goosebumps that rose. He stopped, for only a moment and then flattened his hand against the small of my back. He pushed downward with his palm and as if he'd found a hidden button, my back arched, and my breathing faltered. It was as if god himself had touched me and I had to bite my cheek to stop from moaning.

A low intake of breath could be heard from behind me, as if astonished by what he could accomplish. And as he kept the hand on my lower back pushed against me, he strengthened his grip on my hip and pulled me closer to him. When completley flush, I felt him again. But this time, there was an evident hardness in his jeans and I moaned reflexively, I couldnt help myself. How could I be excpected to? The priest of Crockett Island himself was hard, for me. How I did not scream and beg for him to tear me apart right there is beyond me.

He hissed in response to the friction that the thin fabric of my dress created against the rough fabric of his tight jeans. I tried griding against him with what little movement his hold allowed me, which earned me a displeased grunt and smack on the ass in punishment. I had to cover my mouth as another moan threatened to escape me.

Visions of everything I've dreamed of him to do to me flashed through my mind, things I've only ever imagined while touching myself. My entire skin was on fire as I tried to collect myself, scarcly succeding. I could only manage a single word.

'Father?' whispering it quietly, I turned my head a sliver, as far as I dared. It was enough to make out his disheveld state, chest heaving from supressing his heavy breathing, his usually perfect hair fallen in stressed strands over his forehead, his shirtsleeves carelessly folded and rolled up, showing his forearms. Such simple things drove me absolutley feral, I had to restrain myself from shaking in anticipation of his next move, barely daring to move in fear of him retracting from me.

But he never moved and everything was quiet apart from his shuddering breaths, a result of him fighting his most carnal desires. I wanted to touch him, to caress his beautiful face, to feel his skin under my fingers, and although I loved the shallow feeling my impact had on him, I wanted it deeper. So despite my better judgement, I straigthened my arms and moved to stand up and turn to him. But he quickly stopped me, grabbing a fistful of my hair and thrust my body forward into the sofa, my hips colliding with the back of it as he shoved my face into the pillows, cushioning the force of it.

He hadnt wanted me to see him like that, as if I saw him it would all become real. His desires, his unholy thoughts, his betrayal of god. But I did not care, I had crossed that point a long time ago.

'Father, please.' I begged, voice muffled by the pillows. And there was a slow realisation in his movements as he loosened his grip on me and stepped back. Confusion crowded my already full mind, as he began rubbing the back of his head in distress, turmoil brewed inside of him.

'Im so sorry' he whispered. Oh. . . Poor father, he mustve thought I was begging him to stop. 'Please forgive me, I dont know what came over me. I would never want to hurt you, please know that.' he rambeled, meeting my eyes, begging for for my forgiveness.

I stood up, shaking my head in dissmissal as I made my way to the light switch, turning it off, darkness enveloping us. I searched for soothing words to reassure him, 'You could never hurt me father, im yours.' I said and made my way through the darkness to him, trying to locate him from memory, I reached out blindley in an effort to avoid colliding with something but he met me half way, seeing my struggle.

I did not question it as he laced his fingers with mine and led them to his chest, making my heart skip a beat. I slowly traced my hands upward until I felt his face, enjoying everything my working senses had to offer me. His scent and the feeling of his soft shirt and skin. I placed my hands on either side of his face, cradeling him 'Take me now, in the dark.' I said carefully and stod on my tiptoes.

I leaning into him and as he did not retreat, I kissed him once, tenderly. 'Nobody but us will know' I whispered against his lips, then moved to kiss his jaw, feeling him relax under my touch.

'We will repent in the morning' I assured him and then quated myself, '"It gets easier in the dark"' I found his hands, and moved them to my breasts 'Take me now.'

This time, father Paul did not hesitate. He squeezed my breasts as he met my lips forcefully, kissing and biting me like a starved man. One of his hans dove behind my back, while the other found purchase under my ass. He hoisted me up into his arms in one quick motion, I gasped, surpised by his strength.

He walked me to the armchair, setting me down in it and kneeling in fornt of me. He spread my legs with his strong hands, and laid them on each thigh, squeezing hard. His hands slid up my thighs until they met the hem of my dress. He met my eyes, asking for reassurance and I nodded enthusiatically, giving it to him. He continued moving his hands upward, the dress catching on his wrists and follows his movements. He leaned closer, kissing a trail along the inside of my thigh until he came to my core. He ripped my thights open and moved my pantied to the side, and as he already had me go-ahead, he dove right in. I gasped as he made contact with my core, his tounge thrusting inside of me. Tasting my very being, he moved one of his hands to my clit, attacking it feverishly as the other stayed squeezing the soft flesh of my thigh. He was feral, and I loved it. He hummed as he ate me out, absolutley loving every second of it. My moans became needy and high pitched as I grabbed his hair to shove closer, he did not protest. I came hard and fast, closing my eyes as white light blinded my vision, making me dizzy. As I opened my eyes again the room was spinning, and the father sat proud infront of me grinning. 'Youre doing so good, my girl.' He said and rose up to kiss me, I could only manage a smile. To lost in pleasure to do anything else.

He picked me up and walked me to the sofa, laying me down on top of it and puttin almost all of his weight on me. He rested his forearm close to my head, letting it support his weight and tangling his hand in my hair, grabbing it and gently pulling my head to the side. While the other hand traced down my shoulder and lowered the strap of my dress, to gain easier access to my breast, then kneading it greadily. His lips moved from my mouth and kissed their way down to my neck, sucking and licking at that tender spot above my collarbone. I moaned reflexively, which only spurred him on further. His hips were moving against mine, enthusiastically and rythmically with the rest of his body. Our closeness made his clothed erection rubb against my core perfectly. I moved my legs to stradle him, tightening the grip and bringing him even closer to me, then rutting my hips against him. The friction was delicious and that paired with the fathers delerious assault on my neck, his breath hot against my skin and his moans vibrating through me, had me close to coming undone right then and there.

My hands had found their way to his back, scratching and pulling at the fabric, but it wasnt enough. I moved my hands to unbutton his shirt, but struggled due to our position. I grew tired and greedy from not succeeding, so I removed his colar and tore his shirt open, yanking it down his shoulders, but did not manage to get it further. Displeased about ruining his shirt, he bit me, once, hard enough to draw blood. I gasped and he stopped, removing his hand from my breast and slid it to my neck, coating his fingers in my blood. Stunned silence had settled over us, apart form our unanimous labored breathing. He brought his fingers to his lips, tasting my blood and it was like he became a whole other person. If lust had not driven him before, it did now. I found it strange, but was to mesmerized by the moment to question it. He stood up, resting one knee on the sofa between my legs and began unbuckling his belt. I bit my lip from anticipation, the sight driving me mad, he looked positively devine. 'Have you done this before?' He asked me, I nodded my head in response, 'Have you, father?' He did not answer, his eyes were just drinking me in.

'Touch yourself.' He ordered, and I wasted no time. I moved my hands down my body, lifting the skirt of my dress with one hand and shoving the other down my panties, sliding it inside me to wet it then circling my clit in slow deliberate motions.

'Oh. . . ' he shook his head, 'Good girl' he praised in a shallow whisper, he looked at me like I was no longer a test from god, but a gift. He moaned as I touched myself, surely I was a sight in itself, my breast out, the skirt shoved up over my thighs and hips and my chest heaving from breathing heavily as he was towering over me. His tussled hair and shirt pulled down beneath his shoulders, exposing his chest and collarbones, his veiny hands working his belt. I closed my eyes as I felt myself coming close, and the sound of him drove me further. The belt buckle clanging, a zipper opening and the rustling fabric of clothes falling to the floor was erotic in a way I never could have suspected. White dots were specking the darkness of my eyelids, and a spring was tightening deep in my stomache. My breathing became frantic as I envisioned the father inside of me. I was a second away, when he snatched my hand out of my panties and I whined in frustration, the specks darkened and I felt moving around me.

I opened my eyes and he was below me, stark naked, holding my hand to his face and licking my slickness from my fingers much like he had done with my blood. 'Beautiful angel, you taste divine.' He sighed.

I moved the hand he was holding the caress his face 'Please father, I cannot wait any longer'. And he odded, sliding his hands under me and lifting my hips to pull my dress upward, once he'd done that I sat up to help him pull the dress over my head. He then lowered himself on top of me, pushing me back into the sofa and resuming his previous position.

'Im yours, only yours father.' I whispered and he kissed me tenderly as his hand traced down my body, feeling every curve on the waw down and pulled my panties to the side. He lined himself up with my entrance, teasing my opening by sliding himself through my folds. My breath caught, 'Please, please, please.' I whined desperstley, begging seemed to be the only thing I was capable of around him.

He suddenly slid inside and we gasped in unisome, our eyes met and we stayed like that for a while. No one moved, no one talked, we just admired eachother silently while he let me adjust to his size. He raised his eyebrows, as if asking for consent and I nodded eagerly, pecking him on the lips. He slid out of me completley, confusing me terribly and I desperatly clung my arms around his shoulders, burrying my hands in his hair to make him stay. But he only chuckled in response and kissed my arm lovingly, then slammed back into me. Setting a brutal pace, almost knocking the air out of my lungs.

I could not tell whos moans belonged to who, but amidst the frenzy he gave me a few short kisses on the lips in reassurance, then nuzzled his nose against my cheek and moved his forehead to the crook of my neck, whispering against my skin 'Youre doing so good, sweet girl.' His sweet words were a stark contrast to his hard, fast thrusts.

A few hours ago I was nervously getting ready for mass, dressing nicely in hope of the new priests approval, and now hes ballsdeep inside me.

He moved his hand to my clit, rubbing it in fast circles. I covered my mouth with one hand as a scream threatened to escape me, while the other tore into his back, leaving long red scratch marks and he hissed into my neck. Enjoying every part of the pain and pleasure mixing with eachother.

He straigthened his arm to sit back anf change position, but never relenting his pace. He raised my hips onto his thighs, placing one hand on my waist in a grip that will be leaving bruises on my skin, and pushing the other hand down on my abdomen while still circling my clit with his thumb. His thrusts hit that spot inside me that made my toes curl and it all became quite overwhelming, about to push me over the edge.

'Im- Im close' I managed inbetween breaths and he hummed, nodding as his own movements became irregular. I grabbed onto the cushions for dear life as I was tipping over the edge, electricity sparked between us, and all of a sudden I felt thunder tearing through me and he collappsed on top of me. His thrusts slowed down, allowing me to ride through my high.

'Good girl' he sighed and kissed my forehead as his ruts came to a stop and pride surged thorugh me.nHe stayed inside me, laying comfortably with me as oour breaths calmed together. I could feel his seamen sippering out of me, and I loved it. Because it was him.

'Will you stay with me tonight?' He asked.

'If you'll have me.' I answered, smiling as he kissed my lips.

[cxffeereid]

POV: You bit your lip too hard and Paul kissed you to make it better.

AN: This is just a quick little blurb of something I thought about and wondered what would happen? I hope you all like this!! Full fic is in the works!

No warnings needed, only slight suggestive tones.

Paul was sitting on the sofa, reading his book as you looked around at the walls, the dishes that still needed to be cleaned. You would get round to them soon (not likely) as you took your bottom lip into your mouth and bit down. To your surprise, it was a lot harder than you intended.

“Fuck! What the..” You exclaimed, walking to the bathroom to look in the mirror.

Paul’s head lifted up from his book, as he got up and walked to the bathroom. He leaned onto the door frame as your lip was slightly bloody from the bite.

“What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?”

He waited for your response as he didn’t want to push you into answering him. You turned around and looked at him, his eyes went straight to your lips as his stomach started to turn.

“Yeah, just accidentally bit my lip too hard”

You walked past him, as he followed you. Even tho, it was only a very small amount of blood, he could smell it. Your blood had a different scent from others, it was probably due to the fact it was mixed with lust.

Paul sat next to you on the sofa as you played with your lip. The small amount of blood already dried onto your lips. He thought the tang could still be on your tongue and that made him move closer to you.

He placed his hand onto your chin, his thumb gently touching your lip. You leaned into his touch as he looked into your eyes, closing the gap between you. His lips attached to your bottom lip first then kissed you properly.

The kiss was so deep yet so soft like he was nervous. Maybe he was, as his bloodlust was craving your sweet taste in more ways than one.

“I was right.. the tang was still on your tongue. You taste.. I can’t describe but I know that I want more”

[ihavemanyhusbands]

The Wine of Your Blood

Father Paul/Monsignor Pruitt x Fem!Reader

Also on AO3

As usual, thank you to G <3

Summary: After Father Paul's transformation, he is tormented by a hunger only you can quell.

WC: 5.1k words

Warnings: 18+ ONLY!, vampirism, blood drinking, religious imagery and symbolism (I'm not a religious expert tho I grew up catholic, sorry if I used wrong terms), canon divergence, hierophilia, corruption, graphic depictions of sex and some violence, unprotected sex (do not try at home), cunnilingus, ummm let me know if I missed anything pls!!

------------

The silhouette was there again, shrouded in a thick fog that rolled in from the tempestuous sea. It was tall and statuesque, like the guard of some mythical place – monstrous and terrible. Golden light blazed behind it, flickering like an ardent flame. Or like a beacon, slicing through the night’s darkness and calling you home.

You could not see its eyes, and yet you could feel the prickle of an assessing gaze. The siren-like lure was undeniable, and for a moment you could understand why sailors jumped into the sea with total abandon. 

But you were not afraid. You’d seen this apparition for various nights now, like an omen, even if you didn’t really believe in that sort of thing.

The real questions were: What was it presaging?

And why, especially, did it feel so inevitable?

————-

You awoke, as you often did in the late fall, to a gentle rain. As the day progressed, you knew it would grow in intensity, but for now, there was peace and quiet.

You stared at the drops trailing down your window like glistening tears of melancholy. The milky white early morning sky was the same as it ever was, casting a thin, watery light on everything.

When you finally pulled yourself out of bed, you peeked into your grandmother’s room to find her still out, snoring softly. Her breaths no longer sounded like wet, raspy gurgles, which made you sag with abundant relief. 

Sarah had diagnosed her with a mild case of pneumonia the previous week, but even so you knew things could turn for the worse on a whim. Your grandmother was nearing ninety, and while she had always been a sturdy woman, her body could only take so much now.

For a minute, you were seriously starting to consider getting in touch with the new priest, Father Paul, once again to talk last rites. For your grandmother’s sake, you wished Monsignor Pruitt could have performed them, but he was still recovering in the mainland.

But that all would be a problem for another day, given that she was doing much better. 

Still, she had adamantly refused to miss mass, and while she wasn’t strong enough to leave the house, Father Paul had been gracious enough to swing by for a house visit on Sunday.

He seemed like a fine man, soft-spoken, amiable, and welcoming. Not to mention, he had quite a charming way about him, especially when he laughed. Perhaps you shouldn’t be taking notice of that, but you couldn’t help it, despite how conflicted you felt in his presence.

There was something vaguely familiar in his dark eyes you couldn’t place — something that seemed far older, perhaps wiser, but definitely weathered. At times, prolonged eye contact with him seemed daunting, but you attributed it to your general wariness of strangers.

He hadn’t been at Crockett for very long, but you appreciated the effort he seemed to be making with everyone on the island, but especially with your grandmother. There had to be some way you could repay his kindness… perhaps in the form of a homemade treat.

You padded over to the kitchen to make some coffee, rummaging through the cupboards to see if you had all the ingredients to make some banana bread. 

You spent the rest of the morning cooking, your grandmother’s small house warm and permeated with the sweet, enticing smell of baking bread. You got ready after that, making sure your grandmother ate some breakfast and took her medicine before you headed out. 

Gravel crunched under your rain boots as you trudged over to the Monsignor’s house, where Father Paul was currently residing. You nodded in greeting at passerby, stopping only to spare a few words with Leeza Scarborough, who was on her front porch reading.

When you arrived at the house, the curtains were drawn and there seemed to be no lights on inside. You frowned in slight confusion, given that it was past noon. Perhaps he was out and about, but with so few residents on the island, you surely would have seen him.

You stepped up onto his porch, hesitating for a moment before knocking on the door.

“Father Paul?” You called tentatively. 

No answer. You tried knocking again, waiting for another few minutes.

When you were about to give up, you kneeled to set down the tupperware, and the door suddenly opened to reveal Beverly. Her eyes widened slightly upon seeing you there and you quickly straightened.

“Oh, Beverly,” you said as a form of greeting. “Sorry, just wanted to drop something off for Father Paul. As a thank you.”

She cleared her throat, hands clasping in front of her. “I’m afraid Father Paul has fallen ill and is currently indisposed for visitors…”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you said sympathetically, further confused by the slight worry you felt at the news. “I can just give this to you, then. I’ll talk to him when he’s better.”

“How nice of you to do this,”  Beverly smiled tightly, eyebrows raising just a little. “I’m sure he’ll really appreciate it, though I’m not sure if his stomach will be able to take it right now… Oh, I just hope it doesn’t go bad.”

You gave her a wry, uncomfortable smile in return. “It’s the thought that counts, right? Erm… I’m just glad he’s got someone to take care of him.”

“He’s in good hands, I assure you,” she nodded. “Mine, and the Lord’s, of course.”

You nodded in return, starting to back away slowly. “Right. Well, can you tell him my grandmother sends her regards?”

“Of course, I will let him know. Good day now.”

And with that, she shut the front door. You shook your head and let out a sigh, glancing only once back at the house as you walked away.

—————

For once, the night was clear. The stars and the waxing moon were visible, keeping you company as you stepped off your porch. The air was fresh and crisp, smelling faintly of petrichor. 

You stretched a little as you looked up at the sky, thanking whoever was up there for letting the rain cease for the time being. It seemed like forever since you’d last been able to go out for a nighttime jog, no one around to talk to or look presentable for. It was the perfect time to clear your mind, now that a huge weight had been lifted off your shoulders. 

You started down the gravel road, the wind whistling in your ears. Your legs kept a steady rhythm, the old houses of all your neighbors whizzing past your field of vision. You passed by the school and the convenience store, winding away from the main town area towards the harbor. 

The moon’s reflection made the black waves glitter, endless, ominous, and hauntingly beautiful. You stopped for a moment near the pier, looking beyond the water at all the distant lights of the mainland. So close, and yet so far. 

Sure, you yearned for all the mainland had to offer – an entire world that wasn’t just bite-sized, predictable, safe. But you could not yield to those selfish fantasies, not while someone who gave you so much throughout your life now required your help. You closed your eyes and breathed in the salty breeze.

Perhaps someday…

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

The familiar voice made you almost jump out of your skin. You whirled around to find Father Paul a few feet behind you, raising his hands to show he meant no harm. Maybe you’d been so distracted that you hadn’t heard him approach, but it still felt eerie.

“Oh, I’ve startled you, I’m so sorry,” he said with a nervous chuckle. 

You placed a hand on your chest as if to placate your racing heart. “It’s okay, Father. I just wasn’t really expecting to see anyone, is all.”

“Especially not the priest, right?” he raised an eyebrow, which made you huff in amusement.

“Guess I just thought you didn’t come out at night.”

He smiled lopsidedly, looking down and clearing his throat slightly. “You know, I think I’m becoming more partial to nighttime. I guess you could say I’m an insomniac.”

“All that weight on your conscience?” You said as he approached, standing next to you. 

“Something like that,” he sighed, now looking off into the distance. “Thank you for the bread. It was delicious.”

You shrugged it off modestly. “Grandma’s recipe. I’m just glad she’s right as rain again. Maybe… Your prayers helped. It’s what she insists on, anyway.”

He shook his head, a loose dark curl brushing his forehead. “That’s much too kind of her.”

You assessed his profile for a moment. “How are you feeling, Father? You were out for a few days, too.”

“I definitely needed some fresh air. Now, I’m much better,” he said with a smile, meeting your gaze. “I could not stay cooped in that house any longer. I’m really looking forward to our next mass.”

You said nothing, unsure of how to respond. Despite the fact that you’d grown up religious, you weren’t really practicing anymore. Sometimes you’d accompany your grandmother to sermons, but you often tried to find excuses to skip them.

So far, you had only been to one of Father Paul’s, and you had to admit there was something rapturous about his speeches. They were not only engaging, but the passion behind them was sort of infectious. You even caught yourself leaning forward in your seat, which you quickly corrected. 

It only added to the confusion of how you felt about this man, but such a mystery was undeniably alluring.

“Will you be joining us?” He asked. “No pressure if not, but it’d be nice to see you there.”

“Ah, is that what this is? You’re trying to convert me or something?”

“You’re very clever,” he observed, his grin broadening. “But no, that's not all it is. Part of it, sure, but I don’t want you to miss out on something really special.”

You couldn’t help the slight blush that spread across your cheeks, your heartbeat suddenly spiking once again. His easy, confident smile faltered for a moment, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. The bestial hunger that had been tormenting him for days, rendering him weak and sickly, flared inside of him. 

“T-think on it, but like I said, no pressure on my part,” he added quickly, gasping a little as if he lacked air.

You nodded, failing to notice how he slowly clenched and unclenched his fists. His muscles were taut with self-restraint, rooting him to the spot. Luckily, you moved first, taking a step back. 

“Alright, thank you for the invite. Um…I should probably finish my jog and head back home,” you said, gesturing behind you. “Don’t get in too late, Father. You don’t want to catch another cold.”

————

Despite the fact that he was a passionate speaker, you had never seen Father Paul so worked up. 

He started by speaking about eternity and how hard it was to visualize it. The fire inside him was stoked as he spoke of God’s gifts, his miracles and his mysteries. How they were something tangible, something within reach of every grasping hand… even if one couldn’t understand them.

Then the fire turned into a feverish glint in his eyes, his skin paling considerably. He stumbled over his words, pausing to keep nausea at bay. Sweat broke out across his forehead, and he dabbed at it with a handkerchief. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just a little dizzy spell, but I’m fine now.”

Still, he braced his hand on the pulpit. You noticed Beverly was also leaning forward in her seat, ready to spring to action if need be. That was all the confirmation you needed that something was wrong.

But for a moment, as he continued talking, things seemed to settle. You relaxed in your seat, folding your hands on your lap.

“No abstracts. No colorful exaggerations. No. ‘Rebirth’, ‘Second chances’, ‘E-eternal li…’”

His eyes rolled to the back of his skull as his words faded into a shuddery exhale. He collapsed onto the floor, thudding heavily down the steps as the panicked voices of the congregation rose in volume.

Beverly reached him first, of course, but you knelt at his side only moments after. You hadn’t even registered you were running until you got there, cradling his head in your hands.

And even if he was unconscious, you could’ve sworn he leaned closer to your touch.

—---------

It was an audacious plan, you knew that well enough. Still, that clarity didn’t stop you from attempting to go through with it. 

As soon as Sarah Gunning arrived to attend to Father Paul, Beverly had kicked everyone out, holding firm even as you insisted you wanted to stay. Her stubborn will was infuriating, but perhaps also commendable, in a way. You had to bite back a few bitter words as you left, but that didn’t mean you intended to stay away.

You waited for her to leave Father Paul’s house, which didn’t happen until after the sun had set. Even when you couldn’t hear her receding footsteps any longer, you waited a few more minutes before approaching the front door. 

You raised your fist to knock, but the door suddenly opened to reveal a haggard-looking Father Paul. There were dark crescents hanging from his eyes and his skin was so pale it was almost translucent. 

For his sake, you held back from gasping, but he could still see worry written across your features.

“It’s like you knew I was coming,” you said with a small smile. 

“Keen senses,” he said softly. “Would you like to come in?”

You hesitated, despite the fact that a ‘yes’ was on the tip of your tongue. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Gave us a real scare earlier.”

He swallowed hard, closing his eyes for a moment as if staving off an ache deep within him. In the dim light, you noticed the corners of his lips were a dark red. For a moment you wondered if he’d been drinking the sacramental wine.

“It may not seem like it but… better,” he said, mustering a small smile. “I fear I-I may owe you an explanation.”

“Oh, Father Paul, you don’t…”

“Please, I insist. I can make us some tea, if you’d like,” his voice dropped into the faintest whisper. “Just, stay. Please.”

The desperation in his voice gave you pause. You searched his face for the answer to a question you didn’t dare ask, and perhaps you deluded yourself into believing you found it. 

You nodded, crossing the threshold and taking off your shoes. You heard him shuffle about in the kitchen, and you wrung your hands nervously as you glanced around the small, austere rectory. 

This was wholly improper, you knew, but you felt a magnetic sort of pull towards him that was getting harder to resist. It was easy to deny it at first, brushing it off as curiosity and excitement over having a newcomer on the island. 

Most were wary, but you… you wondered if he could be your link to the rest of the world. Your appetite for that dream was only whetted, closer to your fingertips than ever.

“Water’s boiling,” he said as he came into the living room. “Sit, please, make yourself comfortable.”

Obediently, you did as told. There was a palpable tension in the atmosphere that made your skin prickle. He sat across from you, gripping the armrests of the chair as he adjusted himself, unable to find a comfortable position.

“I have to insist that you owe me no explanation, Father. I just worry about your… condition,” you said.

“It’s no ordinary ailment. I think you’ve sensed that already, haven’t you?”

You nodded, unsure of where he was going with this, but willing to listen. 

He continued. “You have witnessed miracles here on the island. Things that you can’t explain and yet are so clear to your eyes. Were you listening to my homily earlier?”

“Yes, Father,” you said, even if you’d only been half-listening. 

But he was speaking the truth, if Leeza Scarborough was any indication. She had risen from her wheelchair just a few days prior, no longer in need of it. Since then, you’d seen other changes around Crockett, some of them more subtle than others. 

You clasped your hands on your lap to keep from moving them. “You mean to say you’ve brought about these miracles?”

He smiled patiently, indulgently. In this light, his eyes seemed darker than you’d ever seen, like two chasms you could get lost in.

“No, not me. God. I am merely a vessel for His glory, and all of the gifts He wishes to impart on us,” he said, leaning forward slightly and resting his forearms on his knees. “On you in particular.” 

“Me?” You blinked, genuinely surprised. “What sort of gift?”

“The gift of life anew. Rebirth. A holy transfiguration, if you will.”

His gaze was fixed on the way your throat worked as you swallowed hard, on edge despite your curiosity being piqued.

“You see, I was visited by an angel. Larger than life, with a greater wingspan than even an albatross. It was utterly magnificent… as well as horrifying. I was afraid at first, of course, for we all fear things that are unknown to us. I was on the brink of death regardless, but see me now, restored, in my prime!”

You frowned, a myriad of questions on the tip of your tongue, but then Father Paul doubled over, clutching his stomach. His dark brows were furrowed from the influx of pain and you instinctively rose to help, but he lifted a hand to stop you.

“But to be reborn, the old self must be destroyed, and thus… and thus it is not an easy road to walk,” he rasped.

You knelt beside him, concerned and abundantly confused all at once. “What do you need? How can I help you ease this pain?”

He looked at you from the corner of his eye, pleading, desperate. Like a wounded animal, almost. You wondered if he, too, might bare his teeth in warning.

“There is this hunger inside of me that I cannot seem to dispel. I-I fear it threatens to consume me,” he swallowed hard, straightening into a sitting position once more. “God asks terrible things of us sometimes, but I cannot help but think this is a test of my strength. My will.”

“I want to help,” you said softly, so softly, daintily placing a hand on his knee. 

But his ears were keen, as he’d said, and he heard you perfectly fine. Still, his eyes – glazed over in pain and hunger and desire – searched yours for any sign of doubt. Instead, he found resolve, as well as a very clear distress at seeing him suffer so much. 

Oh, pious, gentle little lamb. What a good heart you had. The idea that your blood might taste just as sweet made his head spin, his beastly hunger lashing out inside of him.

His hands cradled your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone ever so slightly. You found yourself leaning into his touch, too entranced by him to think objectively about the morality of the whole thing. The charge in the atmosphere changed into something more taut, all too close to snapping.

“You do not know what you are offering,” he said, holding fast to his self-restraint even as his mouth watered. 

“Maybe you could show me, then.”

A slight chuckle escaped his lips at your eagerness, one of his hands leaving your face to pat his thigh. “Come, would you like to sit here? Perhaps I shall whisper it in your ear.”

You started to lift yourself, but then hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Sure as I’ll ever be of anything, my dear,” he assured, his smile momentarily taking on a certain edge, like that of a wolf’s.

You situated yourself on his legs gingerly, closer to his knees, but he brazenly grabbed you by the hips and pulled you closer. You gasped, a tingle forming between your shoulder blades and slowly crawling down your spine.

“You’re so warm,” he murmured, closing his eyes as he relished the feeling, his arms circling your waist to keep you from squirming. “I hope you didn’t catch a fever from me.”

“I-I didn’t realize this was the sort of hunger you were referring to, Father,” you said tremulously, more heat sparking in your lower abdomen.

He traced his nose against the bare skin of your arm. “Not quite, but it’s making your heart race, isn’t it?”

You couldn’t help the blush that crept to your cheeks, silently willing your heart to slow as it hammered insistently against your ribcage. Tenderly, he brushed your hair off your shoulder, exposing your neck. Instinctively, you tilted your head back, showing more of it. 

He hummed in approval, licking his lips. “Here, just a little taste first.”

He grabbed one of your hands, bringing it to his face. He kissed the tip of your index finger before taking some of it into his mouth. His inky black eyes held your gaze as you suddenly felt a painful prick on your digit that made you gasp once more. 

He groaned softly, holding your wrist as he lapped at the thin rivulet of blood. The mere sight paralyzed you for a moment, but it’d be a lie to say it didn’t make your cunt throb. 

And to make matters worse, the small rush of shame that followed this realization only seemed to turn you on more. Without thinking, you raked your free hand in his hair, tugging his head towards you. 

“Do it,” you rasped, your tone dangerously close to begging. “Please.”

“God bless you,” he said deliriously, clasping you tighter against his chest. “Oh, God bless you. I-I want to make it good for you, too.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in and letting out another weak sound at your dizzying warmth. You shuddered and he scented a small note of fear as you tightened your grip on his hair. He shushed softly, soothingly, his lips ghosting over a quivering vein.

When his teeth first pierced the sensitive flesh, you let out a pained mewl as all of your muscles seized. Then — as fast as it had come — the pain vanished and you went slack against him. Stars danced in your vision as you felt the vibration of his groan against your throat.

Every single one of your nerve endings was alight with pleasure, which only seemed to grow in intensity.

Without you really noticing, your hips rocked back and forth, clothed cunt dragging against his leg in short, desperate movements that made your eyes roll to the back of your skull. He gripped one of your hips tightly, guiding your movements with urgency.

In the kitchen, the kettle started whistling loudly just as an orgasm hit you like a freight train, rattling your very bones. You felt yourself melting in a way you never had before, toeing the line between life and death. You’d have gladly gone to heaven in that moment – or hell, for that matter – if fate so decided. He held you steady throughout, running a soothing hand up and down your spine.

Just when exhaustion began to creep in from the blood loss, he painstakingly pulled away, his mouth stained crimson. He looked drunken and dazed, like he was caught in between dreams. But he also seemed less frail, and definitely more alert, pupils fully dilated. 

“Thank you,” he breathed, gazing at you adoringly. Reverently, even. 

Diligently, he lapped at the weeping puncture wounds. His lips left a smear behind as he kissed your collarbone, hands ripping at your blouse to expose more flesh. Panting, you tried to undo the buttons of his shirt with shaking fingers, but he stopped you.

“Lovely, eager thing. We’ll get there. Let me take care of you first,” he murmured against your sternum. 

He tore any garment that stood in his way fervently, until you were practically naked in his lap. Your back arched, taut as a bow, as he continued leaving sanguine kisses in his wake. He hauled you into his arms with preternatural strength as he stood up. Instinctively, you wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you into his bedroom, laying you down on the bed gently. 

There, standing over you, he seemed every bit the statuesque figure that plagued your dreams.  His eyes glinted in the half-dark,  reflecting the moonlight spilling in through the window. He sank to his knees as if preparing for prayer, his grin hungry as he hooked his arms around your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the bed.

“Come here, little lamb. My most precious sacrifice. My hunger for you has not nearly been sated,” he said, licking his lips. “I am yet to make a feast of you.”

A kiss on your navel that had you shaking all over again. If you had come so hard without so much as a caress, you couldn’t imagine the delirium of his mouth where you ached for it most. Perhaps then, you would truly cross the line for good. 

He discarded the last garment covering you, revealing your glistening, slippery cunt for his appraisal.  He made an agonized sound, ducking his head immediately to kiss your inner thigh. The tip of his tongue traced your skin just a little bit, getting a taste of your divine essence. 

He knew then and there that he was utterly lost; That he would no longer know a  greater devotion than this. What a perfect altar for him to worship you, the cradle of your thighs.  It took all of his willpower not to sink his teeth into your femoral artery and drain you further, until all of your blood mingled with his. 

Another day, perhaps, when you’d recovered some.

Instead, he finally licked a long, languid stripe through your soaked folds. With a low moan, his mouth latched onto your overly sensitive bundle of nerves, making your entire body jerk. He gripped your thighs harder as you squirmed, your fingers burying in his dark curls and holding on for dear life.

You hadn’t expected him to be so good at it, but then again, it was a night of surprises. Not that you could ever complain, anyway. Your wanton moans only encouraged him further, his lips and tongue and even the slightest graze of his teeth making you buck and arch on the mattress. 

Once more, you felt a tidal wave begin to form, making your breath come out in sharp little exhales. But you didn’t want to let go again quite yet, at least not like this, with so much distance between your bodies.

You resorted to pleading, attempting to pull his head back. “F-Father wait, please, I want—”

“Don’t hold back from me,” he urged hoarsely, between licks. “Come on, give me one more. I’ll reward you doubly, I promise.”

You began to protest once more, but with an expert swirl of his tongue, the wave finally crested. Violently crashing against the rocks of your sanity. Your eyes searched for heaven again at the back of your head, mouth falling slack in rapture. He made sure you rode it all the way through, softly murmuring praises.

You lay there spent, chest heaving with great, deep breaths. He chuckled, both amused and inexplicably fond at the sight of you so undone. He pulled back to make quick work of his clothes, smears of dry blood further darkening his black shirt.

“I fear you might be turning me into a glutton,” he said, removing his collar and setting it down on the nightstand. 

Your eyes trailed his fingers as he unbuttoned his shirt, and you gave him a weak, teasing smile. “You are not the only insatiable creature here, Father.”

“I see that now,” he grinned, his canines all too sharp. “What a great gift He has bestowed upon me, bringing you here.”

His jeans were next to go, merely kicked to one side, and his body slid over yours in a warm embrace. Then finally, mercifully, his lips found yours in a slow, searing kiss. It was the last piece missing from the puzzle that connected you; The last nail on the coffin of your fate.

You tasted yourself on his tongue,  moaning into his mouth as you cupped the back of his head. Ankles crossed behind his back, pressing down, silently urging him closer. He guided himself into you, moving slowly so you could get used to the stretch. There was a growl low in his throat as he bottomed out, and his kiss became fiercer. Possessive, even.

The only sound in the dimly lit room was that of flesh slapping together lewdly as he quickened his pace, your sharp breaths and wistful sighs. The way he whispered your name like a prayer as he nearly dissolved with passion. It was then that you broke the kiss, tilting your head to the side as his lips chased yours in a dreamlike, desperate state. You shifted, baring your throat for him to ravage once more.

“Just like this,” you murmured, eyelashes fluttering over your cheekbones as you readied yourself. “I’m yours.”

“Only a little more,” he promised, kissing the base of your neck before tracing his way up with his nose. 

A gasp, and then you were submerged in that languid, morphine state. Ecstasy hit him like lightning, and he was no longer able to hold back. He trembled against you as he came, crushing you tighter to him, buried to the hilt. You felt heat flooding you as he sealed the puncture wounds again, lips finding yours right after.

He rolled off of you only to tuck you both in, drawing you close and kissing the top of your head. His onyx eyes scanned your beatific features, wonder and amazement written all over his own. 

“The night suits you, my dear,” he said, wiping strands of your hair away from your sweat-dotted face. “Perhaps it would be less lonesome with you around...” 

He seemed truly vulnerable in that moment, smaller, entirely human. Eyebrows pinched together in consternation, lips pursed with some guilt at his actions. You snuggled even closer, leeching off his body heat. If anything, seeing this side of him, complex and familiar in a way you instinctively understood, reassured you.

“Will you take my hand and guide me through it?” You asked, voice low and wistful.

He nodded, lacing his fingers through yours. “Through the valley of the shadow of death and beyond. There is still so much for you to see,  and the gift of time is at our disposal. Isn’t that a lovely thought?”

Yes, yes it was. Comforting enough to finally drift into dreams of the stars beyond the horizon.

[professional-sinner]

I really want to write a Father paul mini fic with the one bed trope. It's my guilty pleasure, but imagine him being respectful but then waking up cuddled together and he's hard 😮‍💨

[always-andromeda]

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐋, 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐃

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✯ Father Paul Hill x Fem!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ✯ 2925

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 ✯ taboo au + "Everything I've done...every atrocity, it's been for you."

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ✯ okay, I haven't exactly finished a piece in a good while. so this one is sort of serving as a warm-up and if it's terrible (which I have a good feeling it is lmao), I'm gonna have to ask y'all to be gentle on me. I've loved this man for a while now and this is sort of experimental. tl;dr: I am a sensitive little baby right now so treat me as such.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ smut (minors, do not interact), obviously a pretty massive gap in both age and power, depictions of blood and death, could be read as dub con at first (if you squint really hard) but firmly lands on the side of full con, a lot of religious mumbo jumbo (lmao let's ignore the fact that I know almost nothing about Catholicism <3), so much blasphemy, oral (female receiving), a twinge of sub!Paul, and that's all I can think of!! let me know if more is needed!!

(mdni banner template credit goes to @cafekitsune!!)

Behind closed eyelids, all you saw was darkness. And through that darkness came white hot agony. It was practically blinding as it shot up your spine before detonating in your brain. Those little fragments of pain speckled across the inside of your skull.

You wanted to scream, hurl, cry, something. Anything to physically release the intense pain assaulted your nerves. But you wouldn't be granted that mercy. No.

For now, your suffering was confined to this unending darkness. For now, you waited in the void of your own being for the tragedy to subside.

For weeks you anxiously waited for the return of Monsignor Pruitt from his mission trip. Though spending your afternoons looking after the dementia ridden clergyman wasn't exactly your idea of a good time, it was far better than slumming it with Beverly Keane. After all, you were 99% sure that whatever Bev heard managed to make its way all around the island.

Crockett Island was a melting pot of rumors. By now you'd heard the stories; the mythology of the island's residents had woven together to form a complex tapestry. And the longer you stayed, the more you realized how little you desired to be a part of it all.

But you didn't have a choice. Whether you liked it or not, Crockett's citizens had already spun your narrative.

Everyone knew how your mother had taken you away from the island at the ripe age of five years old; saving you the heartache of being raised by an alcoholic father. Part of you had always been grateful for it despite how tough it had been being raised by a single mother who hardly had anything to her name. Yet you couldn't help the guilt that poured into your lungs like cement whenever someone mentioned how much your father had suffered before he died.

Because that was the only way you would've gone back to the island that lived in the shadows of your memory: death. And upon meeting Monsignor Pruitt, it became clear that death would also be the only way you'd want to leave.

The relationship that had bloomed between you and him was a humble one. He'd offered to talk you through your grief which you'd promptly denied. Though you attended services, you weren't much for religion and you weren't about to embrace it fresh off of the death of a father who was practically a stranger. It felt disingenuous.

Finding God is reserved for real tragedies, right?

You'd asked the question like it was a joke.

Monsignor Pruitt had merely tilted his head before replying in that lilting, raspy voice of his: Depends on what you think qualifies as a tragedy.

With a quick eye roll, you'd written the answer off as one of those unbalanced moments of his. Over the course of a few months, you'd become well acquainted with them. Going to services and keeping him company was something to do. Something other than rifling through decades of your father's clutter and further entangling yourself with the community. Something other than being reminded of your own wasted potential.

Strangely, the monsignor felt less like an all seeing eye and more like...a friend. And now, faced with his "temporary" replacement, you were finally certain of what qualified as a tragedy to you.

From the moment Father Paul had addressed the church, you were unsettled. He may have been perfectly kind and personable enough, but his mannerisms edged on the uncanny valley. It was the way he spoke during sermons and how that tone rarely changed during one-on-one conversations. Though he couldn't have been older than thirty, he often held himself as if he'd been around the block more times than anyone could fathom. It was easy to chalk it up to his nature. Of course the man of God had an eerie way of making you feel like a puny mortal.

But Monsignor Pruitt had never made you feel like that. You couldn't brush the thought of the old man out of your mind.

Every time Father Paul attempted to placate your worries, it only pushed you deeper into the depths of distrust. Somehow you just knew he was lying.

And for all of Father Paul's wisdom and mystique, he wasn't a good liar. His tone would shift as he glossed over your concerns with a quick reassurance that Monsignor Pruitt was recovering just fine on the mainland. When you felt brave enough to press him for more, he'd wring his hands or squeeze them into fists. Almost as if he had to physically stop himself from reprimanding you. After all, who were you to question him?

When your eyes finally opened, your vision was overwhelmed by the light. Softly, slowly, the light haloed around the head of a figure that carefully came into view. As your sight sharpened, you quickly realized who stood over you. 

The man you held the most wariness for was kneeling over you. His long face wrought with concern, the alarm bells were already blaring in your muddled mind. But as much as you tried to force the air from your lungs to scream, you could only let out a pathetic, strangled squeak.

That was when he spoke. His voice shook with what sounded like uncertainty, "You mustn't overexert yourself. You're still coming back. But don't worry, you'll be yourself again soon. All in due time."

No matter how much you tried to speak, to move, neither of the actions came to you. All you could do is watch as Father Paul pulled your paralyzed body into his arms and cradled you. And as the potency of your helplessness settled in, you vaguely felt tears prick at your waterline. 

Normally, you would've rather died than allowing yourself to cry in front of someone, especially in front of the father. This time you couldn't control the few tears that slid freely down your cheeks, landing on the father's hand where he gripped your still aching shoulder.

He noticed them immediately and let you out of his grasp long enough to stare into your glossy eyes.

You couldn't quite decipher the intent behind the softness of his gaze. But somehow it was enough to allow the nausea that had slowly been rising in your chest to subside.

Father Paul raised a hand to cup your face. His thumb carefully stroked your cheek, sweeping away the wet trails left by your despair. And whether it was from your sensitivity or the intimacy of the act, you didn't know. But your skin shivered. 

As you gradually regained the feeling in your body, you realized that the first thing you felt after the pain was him. The inherent warmth of his embrace. And in some fucked up way, it was comforting. Feeling like prey, you blinked back the rest of your tears and allowed yourself to soak up as much of him as you could; anything to get rid of the dull pain that plagued your nerves.

You noticed there were tears brimming his own eyes as he smiled softly. "There, you mustn't cry. You've been so brave and in return you've been blessed."

It was then that you began to regain enough cognizance to question what was happening.

Flashes of memory played each time you blinked.

That damned question had been on the tip of your tongue again.

So you found him in the recreational center. There he’d been, on his knees, praying fervently.

Hopefully you're praying for the monsignor's return.

You regretted the words almost as soon as you'd said them. Because as soon as Paul turned, he gave you that dark look that rarely graced his features. This time he hadn't even tried to hide it with his usual discretion.

He merely stared right past you with his eyes wide and pleading. 

You hadn't had the chance to see the thing that attacked you fully. But you felt its teeth at your neck. You felt your own blood dripping from your neck in such a thick stream that the dizziness came almost as soon as you hit the ground. You felt the rough, pale skin of the creature as it smothered you, greedily devouring every ounce of your life.

Of course you were surprised to find yourself lying on the sheets of Paul's bed in his modest home, but that shock was the least of your worries. How were you still alive?

He told his tale as your body mended itself. You didn't know how much time passed. All you knew is that you were enraptured with the sticky sense of dread that was growing in your stomach as he spoke.

You were acutely aware of just how much it sounded like a sermon. How, whether he was aware of it or not, he was pulling out every stop in the preacher's handbook to try and convince you. And if he didn’t sound so convinced himself, you would swear this was deliberate manipulation. But nothing else could possibly explain his youthful appearance and all that he knew. He could recite your history right back to you despite the fact that you’d never once trusted him nearly enough to give it. Only the monsignor knew your deepest fears and your darkest secrets. But this wasn’t your monsignor.

Father Paul was some new beast; an amalgamation of the sweet old man you’d once known, the deceptive preacher who took his place, and some other supernatural force that you couldn’t quite name.

Though you’d only caught half a glimpse of the creature, you attempted to express your terror. That only spurred him on further as he contended that when an angel of the Lord appeared to the shepherds upon the birth of Jesus, it deliberately told them to not be afraid.

But none of that explained himself. None of it allowed you to comprehend how Monsignor Pruitt could've shed decades of life; how the old man could now stand there, blood drying on the bottom half of his face, and look at you as if you were something he could have.

You didn't have to ask. You knew by then that when the creature had had its fill of your blood, Father Paul had pulled the scraps of you away for himself. The thought hit you dangerously and made something deep inside you rumble. Like a natural disaster, this had unearthed a litany of complications that you never could’ve anticipated.

“We are at a crossroads," Father Paul said gently before letting his conviction surge again, “Now, you once said that finding God was reserved for those experiencing tragedy, correct?”

You nodded sagely. 

Father Paul grasped your trembling hands in his own, “Have you not experienced one of life’s greatest tragedies? The ending of it? You fell right over the edge of life and before the waters of death could claim you, He brought you back. Hebrought us together.”

You shook your head in defiance.

“This was meant to happen. This was part of His plan, for our faiths — our lives — to be renewed.”

With your throat still stiff and dry, you croaked angrily, “There was nothing wrong with my life! There was nothing that needed to supposedly be renewed!” 

He raised his voice suddenly, “Why did you come to this island?”

“Because my father died.”

“A father who was no better than a stranger to you,” he recalled your own words quickly. If the monsignor had been wise, Father Paul was as sharp as a knife, taking his jabs at you with complete accuracy. “You didn’t have to come here. You didn't have to make friends with a crazy old man. By the grace of God, you were led here. You were led here so you could be shown this truth; this gift. And you are denying this gift."

You had to admit that your draw to Crockett had been strange. At first you'd attested it to some childhood curiosity. But you'd deliberately put off taking care of your father's run down property, instead opting to spend time walking in the light of Pruitt. In truth, his companionship had been a breath of fresh air. 

Though the people of Crockett adored him, it was always tinged with pity. You'd never pitied him; only admired him for his wisdom and his resilience. 

Paul's expression softened as he held your face in his hands. "Everything I've done...every atrocity, it's been for you." That was when you saw the edges of his wisdom begin to lift and fall away like a second skin he'd crafted over his own vulnerability.

Underneath it...he was simply a man. A man who wanted to save you. 

“Let me give you more. Let me show you how you can trust me," he whispered.

The first kiss inspired an odd mix of emotions in your chest. There was the coppery tang of dried blood on your tongue, strong enough that it took everything in you not to flinch away from his hold on you. But you remembered his reference to the angel and the shepherds.

Do not be afraid.

So you continued, deepening the kiss with a turn of your head. And for all of the worldly experiences Paul had, you became acutely aware that this sort of connection was not among them.

Whether there'd been any true romantic feelings for the aging monsignor, you couldn't quite say. But your fondness of him had transferred to the man before you. Granted, the transfer wasn't smooth, but it was there nonetheless. Somehow it was stronger than ever as he took your hand and brought it to his lips. The kiss he pressed against your palm was slightly tacky with your own half dried blood still lingering.

You brushed a lock of his wavy, dark hair back so you could properly meet his gaze. With the shroud of time having fallen away from his features you could see just how handsome the man was. It was a hesitant sort of attractiveness; as if the banner of God had prevented him from seeing his full potential.

He'd fed on your life and made himself new. And the thought of your monsignor living on in that small way...all because of you? The electric twinges that sparked in your chest were almost too much to bear.

Without fear you devoured him in another kiss. Quickly the mood turned from reverent to ravenous as Paul attempted to keep up with your fervency.

He couldn't remember the last time sin had overpowered his sense of morality. Because he knew in the traditional sense, this was pure sin. No matter how wrong he believed it might have been to let his hands roam your figure, in his bones it was a temptation that finally felt correct. There was none of that hesitance or shame or fear that he'd felt before. The pendulum had shifted on morality and he knew exactly what he needed to do.

Hardly a moment was spared as he tore into the long skirt and the underwear that had kept you modest for far too long. Perfect beauty like this had to be cherished.

So that is what he did. Planted firmly between your legs, he stared up at you with eyes that gently pleaded for permission; for salvation. With your own half lidded eyes, you nodded before spreading yourself open for him.

Like a flower, you bloomed beautifully and Paul groaned at the sight. He could practically feel the thrumming pulse before him as it waited to indulge him. His hot breath teased you and made sparks dance right beneath the surface of your skin. Still you stayed in place, patiently allowing him time to drink in the sight of your folds already puffing and glistening with slick.

Quietly, you heard him mumble something that you only caught the tail end of.

“–forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

It wasn't too long after that when his tongue found a home in that tight, warm crevice. Your hand knitted itself into his dark hair as you searched for something to ground yourself from the overpowering sensation. Something about this new condition of yours heightened every aspect of pleasure.

If you were in your right mind, it would make sense logically considering you'd felt the unbearable pain of your spine shattering and being put back together again. But this was overwhelming in the entirely opposite direction.

You experienced the pleasure on a cellular level as your climax rushed through your limbs. You seemed to feel the vibrancy of every emotion and atom that comprised your being. Nothing was spared from the glory of this blessing. Not your spasming cunt as it contracted around Paul's blessed tongue. Not your heart that was firmly on the track of restoration. And not your mind as it all at once fell apart in time with your quivering thighs. Blood pulsing, every single one of your pores felt more alive than ever as you finally embraced the higher power that had been waiting for you in the shadows all along.

At that moment, you believed it all. From the Angel to Father Paul's divine transformation to the euphoric paradise that enveloped your entire being...it was all real. And most of all, it was all yours. Thanks to the father's grace and generosity, you would create paradise with him. And that seemed possible. After all, with his head between your thighs, you’d both already created one.

[rosaline-black]

Father Paul:

[nilla-bear]

thinking about father paul but in a domestic setting way.

like you’re in a secret relationship bc uh hello he’s a priest duh, but he comes over at night and stays until the sun is about to rise. he’s sitting on the couch and you’re laying down with your head in his lap and he’s running his fingers through your hair while he reads a book or the Bible. sometimes he’ll read out loud to you and when he notices you’re starting to doze off he’ll watch you for a while, and those moments are when he thinks about leaving the priesthood the most (even more than when he’s buried inside you) because he loves you and he wants everyone to know it, but he puts that thought away for now. He’ll get to it one day.

Eventually he’ll carry you to your room and lie down with you, holding you as close as possible until you’re both asleep and you stay that way until he has to leave again.

[proverbsss]

reading you right (father paul hill/john pruitt x reader) -nsfw

Father Paul Hill, Midnight Mass

prompt(s): "Me. You. Bed. Now." [from this post]

[Pt. 2 Out Now!! Linked Here :)]

anon: I had a normal amount of fun writing this, hope you enjoy :) i wanna do a pt. 2 because ofc i do,, honestly I got a lil hot n bothered lmao

notifs: paul hill is a tease!! ; shoe-grinding ; fluffy smut ; hierophilia ; you're father paul's dirty little secret ; denial ; reader begging ; reader's down HORRENDOUS ; terms used: good girl, slutty thing, pet

"You've been lying there moaning for ten minutes." Father Paul chuckles, trying to focus on his reading.

You feel your leg twitch as you lay on your stomach, looking a bit dazed across the room. A giggle escapes you. In your mind's eye a constant stream of images plays- every dirty thing you’ve done with Father Paul in the last 48 hours, a rare weekend’s reprieve from prying Beverly Keane, sitting bedside with her sister or aunt or who-the-hell cares on the mainland. It was too easy to sneak into the house behind St. Patrick’s, and too goddamn pleasurable to leave after the first night. A delightful ease of domesticity has settled over the two of you. And you’re even more whipped for the Father than you were when this whole messy arrangement began.

"I can't help it-"

"It's understandable to whine like a whore while I'm still inside you, but cooing like that when I'm not even touching you is a little ridiculous." Smug, he licks his finger and turns a page. "A man's ego can only grow so big."

“What are you reading?” you ask, completely uninterested, and your voice betrays it. You might enjoy a good book now and again, but something worlds more tempting is sitting before you. In his jeans and tee shirt, only his glossy ankle boots remaining, Paul is a rare sight out of uniform, like something sent from heaven. Or Hell. Both, somehow.

“You asked me that fifteen minutes ago. Or did you forget already?” He shoots you a disapproving, but playful look. He can hardly resist you more than you can him. Hardly. There is that last smidgeon of reserve that Paul prides himself on. He can’t be bothered to think of you as a sin, because life’s become far, far more complicated in the last few months than any one man can hold in his head, and because it feels like paradise to touch you.

Caught in your inattention, you abandon the ruse of asking about his book. "You fucked me too good...." You whine.

"You're going to complain about it?" He laughs at you.

"You're laughing at me." 

"Of course I'm laughing at you," he admonishes. Not to be taken in by your wiles, Paul's eyes trace the paragraph he's started unsuccessfully three times.

"You whine before I fuck you, you whine while I fuck you, and you whine after I've fucked you. You're silly."

The vision renews itself in your mind of last night creeping around in here, your excitement waiting in the antechamber of St. Patrick’s late at night, Paul sneaking up on you in the dark and taking you in that muggy little den where they keep the wine and spare things. You want him to grunt against your ear like that again, to fuck you like he needs you in order to breathe.

"I'm not silly!" You gasp out. He hears the difference in your voice and scans your body with his eyes. Grinning. He licks his bottom lip and pretends the fool. “I want it, please, I want it, I don’t caaaare…” Your caterwauling would be annoying if it wasn’t so bone-deep genuine. Paul could probably keep you here forever as a pet, a secret from innocuous parishioners, visitors from all walks of life, and you’d be satisfied as long as he used you from time to time. Fed you.

“Oh, that’s undignified.” He smiles, turns the page and hopes he can pick up without the aid of the passage his mind simply refused to retain.

You get on all fours and start to crawl over to him. You tug on the leg of his jeans, utterly debased.

“You’re insatiable, you know that?” his tongue flicks and flutters around the word in a musical way that you know you could find better uses for. You nod. His voice. He could guide you anywhere with it. To make things worse, he imitates you. The facsimile of your lust in his voice is enough to make you jump him. “‘Father, I can't focus on my book....Father, please fuck me with your fingers, I can't without it, I need it...I told you pack things to stay because I imagined I’d be enjoying some downtime other than between my sheets.'"

You bite your lip, the adoring way you look up at him unfairly reminiscent of Biblical portraiture, the Madonna (too ineffably ironic), Saint Lucia, devout, suppliant little succubi. Paul’s heart breaks a little, and his cock twitches with interest, which he endeavors to suppress. 

“What’s that look for, child?” He plays up the religious bent of your dynamic, something that presses inexpressibly sinful and delicious buttons in your dirty mind. 

"I do need you."

You pout. Your words with Paul repeating them was enough to rev your proverbial engine. You shift just the littlest bit, yet the friction of the floor underneath you is enough to tease out a whimper. Not totally on purpose, but not totally by accident. John chuckles again. 

“Present tense?” He pretends to turn a page, but he’s not reading a damn thing now.

"I need you all the time you're not in me.” It’s filthy, but it feels true in these moments when all the thoughts are leaving your head empty. 

He smiles one of his private smiles. His eyelids crinkle as he reaches up to scratch his cheek. "Let's not be pornographic, huh?"

"I wanna fuck again..."

"What else is new?"

"You've ruined me." He looks at you then like you’re something to eat. The book is shut and put down. You have your beloved hot priest’s attention. His eyes ask, smoldering, what will you do now you have it?

“You have my boot. Or aren’t you smart enough to get yourself off.” His tone shifts and a shadowy, serious dominance settles in his countenance. Every behavior, every quirk of his expression, curve of his smile, owns and owns you. He may plead and beg to bury his head between your thighs from time to time, on one occasion he may have shown up at your door, his satchel a deceptive front for rope and ribbon, which you were to restrain and blindfold him with. Life’s too short for dynamics that don’t shift and change like the tides. But in this moment, this energy, you are his. And he intends to impress that upon you.

You gape at him just a moment, heady lust clouding your already addled brain. Then slowly, carefully, you adjust your position, grab the upper part of Paul’s calf, and hoist your lower body up onto his shoe, your pelvic bone bumping his shin. Any hesitations or embarrassment that linger in you drown in the deeper, sweeter excitement of feeling some real friction as you roll your hips. Oh. God.

This might be the senseless, reckless need talking, but fuck. Just the sensation of the toe of his shoe right between your thighs, exactly where you need it, makes you feel a little bit crazy. You look up at him in awe, and thank God he’s not picked up his book again but instead is sitting comfortably, his gaze dropped low to watch you, his groin thrusting the tiniest bit forward at nothing, too much nothing. He groans, and you chase your pleasure like a thing possessed.

Words slip out of your mouth without a shred of logic behind them, and Paul tells you to repeat yourself. He bites his bottom lip as he watches you. “Hello? Still a brain in there?"

“I said you make me so sensitive,” you mumble, finding a new groove in the contour of his shoe, where it meets his ankle, and leaning on his knee, shaking, groping for his thighs, all involuntarily. Your dripping, dripping on his shoe, and the thought of how uncivilized that is makes Paul bite his fist.

"Uh huh, so it's all my fault, then."

"Yes..."

"Yes, 'what'?"

"Yes it's all your fault, Father."

“It’s my fault you’re going to cum on my shoe?”

You whine again. Your soul’s leaving your body, want spreads through every inch of your body, intense and blinding, high, so high.

“C’n I cum, please, can I cum?” You pant, feeling his hands wrap around yours, warm and loving. 

“Look at me, pet.” He orders. You obey. His irises envelop you. You steady yours on them, trying to get a grip, breath filling your belly and leaving your parted lips in rapid gasps. “No.”

Your brows shoot up in surprise. Disappointment isn’t the word for it, desire lets itself out as a sound. You slow down, somewhere in a high place you hear him say:

“Stop grinding, slutty thing. Your Father told you ‘no.’”

You sink against him, laying your head on one of his thighs. He kisses the top of your head, and murmurs, “Good girl. Good girl, good.”

Fireworks are setting off under your skin, your thighs are trembling, every bit of you is sticky. “That wasn’t easy, I bet.” He says, voice condescending and sweet, but every bit as needy as you are. You make another noise in response. 

“I’m not done with you, you know,” he takes your chin into one of his hands, lifts your head. He kisses you again, with a fierceness that just sharpens your feeling. “I’m not even close to done with you.” He rests his in your neck, kisses you once, twice, up your jaw, on your cheeks, the ear he can reach. He bites your earlobe and almost hisses, “Me. You. Bed. Now.”

[Pt. 2 Out Now!! Linked Here :)]