#midnight mass fluff

[blackberries45]

A Small Kiss Goodnight

Summary: A stormy night with friends has an unexpected visitor.

Word count : 1315

Warnings : None

Types(?) : Fluff / y/n (female)

Notes: I'm going to keep saying I'm not a writer. And my spelling is crap. And my grammer blows. But this is just a fluffy little fluff fluff because well, Father Paul.

******

Could you call a group of less than six people a party? The loudness from the laughter and the music sure made it feel like one. Your head was reeling from a long day and never fully warming up.

You had on your thickest pair of tights, ones Erin had recommended as soon as you landed on the island when she had seen you shivering to the bone. Although your dress was long sleeved and heavy material, you craved just being in bed under your favorite quilt while listening to the waves crash outside. The small storm had made everyone a bit edgy though so you reluctantly agreed to gather at Erin’s with the others to pass some time. 

“You look so bored! Do you need more to drink?” Erin had snapped you back to reality with her words and mischievous grin.  

“Oh sorry! Yeah, I’ll go get a refill” You grabbed your cup and headed toward the kitchen. 

As you passed through one door, someone else was greeted through the front. Riley had noticed Father Paul walking down the road and decided to open the front door and call out to him. 

“Hey Father. What are you up to tonight?” Riley asked with a furrowed brow. 

Father Paul walked towards the porch. “Riley Flynn! I was just on a walk to clear my head and see if any damage had been done. Seems things have quieted down now.” He had walked up the steps to see Riley in the light of the open door. 

“Well please come in.” Riley stepped aside and gestured towards the living room. Two other  heads turned, both with equally friendly smiles back at the slightly damp priest as he made his way in. “We are just having a chill night” Riley continued, “When the storm picked up a bit ago, we decided to play a few card games and stay together in case the power went out. Do you want something to drink?” 

“I’d just take some water but can find the kitchen. If you don’t mind me wandering in your home that is Erin” Father Paul said to Erin. 

“No Father, not at all. It’s just back that way,” she gestured over her shoulder. “Y/N is actually back there. That’s if she hasn’t fallen asleep. Maybe you can check on her for me.” 

“Gladly.” Father Paul beamed his smile again and headed towards the kitchen. 

In a hushed tone once Father Paul was out of ear shot, Erin leaned over the table. “This should be interesting,” she said, flashing that mischievous grin again. 

“Why?” Riley asked.

Erin looked around, noticing the faces looking back at her seemed puzzled. “Don’t tell me you guys haven’t noticed?” Again she looked quickly from face to face. “Oh come on! Seriously? Those two have a thing, mark my words. I think it's sweet and innocent, but they seem to find each other wherever they go. They have been taking a lot of walks together and sitting with each other on Y/N’s porch.” 

“Yeah, but” Riley replied back, “he's the town priest. There could be a lot of reasons. Y/N keeps pretty much to herself. I mean…can he even do that?” 

“He is still a man after all” Hassan said back, matter of factly. “Doesn’t mean they are doing anything. But being told not to is different than choosing not to on your own.” 

***

You were bent down, resting on your legs, staring into the fridge. Who knows how long you were there. All you could tell was that you had gotten rapidly much colder. Your mind was half asleep as you had tried to decide if you should go harder with the booze or lighten it up. 

“Hello” It was warm and friendly and startled the ever loving hell out of you. 

You jumped up and screamed, “JESUS CHRIST”, before coming to your senses. “I’m so sorry Paul! You scared me. I think I was zoning out there.”

“It's quite alright. My fault.” He reached out a hand to help steady you. 

“What are you doing here?” You were surprised to see him out and about this late at night and now especially to be here. “You are just as cold as I am” His hand felt like ice. 

“I was taking a walk. The storm had died down and I couldn't sleep. Actually happens rather often lately.” You noticed he had a slight blush with the last of his words. “I won’t stay long. Seems like you all are having a nice time.” 

It would be silly to deny that your stomach had gotten butterflies when you stood and fully took in that he was standing there with you. Now the thought of him leaving made those butterflies come crashing down. 

You had become increasingly close to the priest over the last few months. You would occasionally attend mass with Erin, just when you felt like you wanted something to do, but weren't Catholic. 

Your friendship with Paul, you seemed to be the only one to not call him Father, was a pleasant one. It was starting to border now however on flirtatious. It was a dangerous game, one you knew had no real ending or goal. You were well aware of his vows to the church and his beliefs but that made it that more fun. Lately though your heart had developed a false hope of something more. 

It seemed Paul had watched all of your thoughts flash behind your once again zoned out eyes. You hadn’t noticed how close he gotten to you or the coldness of his hands on your cheeks. It was mid his bending slightly down and placing his lips carefully on yours, that you finally came to. Just before he pulled back you had managed to kiss him back. 

“I’m so sorry” Paul quickly but quietly said as he dropped his hands and stepped back. The look of shock on his face most likely matched the look on your own. 

“Please don’t say that” you just as quietly whispered back. “It takes it away and I want to keep it” You smiled up at him the softest, most beautiful smile he had seen on you yet. He couldn’t help but to return one at you. 

After clearing his throat he finally said in a normal tone, blinking a few times to clear his head, “I came back here for water” 

“Oh! Let me get you a cup” You grabbed a cup and turned to the sink to fill it, handing it to Paul once it was full. 

“I think I’m going to go. It’s not because of you,” you saw his face slightly change to concern, “I’m just dog tired and think I’ve hit my limit” you started to back up slightly to the door while he took a sip, looking at you over the cup. 

“Goodnight Y/N” he said with a small grin. 

“Goodnight Paul” you said with a larger one. 

You walked back to the living room. “I’m beat Erin. I’m so sorry but if I don’t go home now, you’ll have to carry me home in a bit and that wouldn’t be good for the baby” you smiled at her sympathetically. 

It was clear from Erin’s curious face and how she kept looking from you to someone behind you, that Father Paul had followed you to the living room to rejoin the rest of them. “You know you can crash here! You can go home in the morning” she said, still looking back at Father Paul like she was trying to keep a date going. 

“It’s alright. Everyone have a good night” You slipped on your boots and threw on your sweater. As you opened the front door, “Night Y/N” followed you from the group. Goodnight Paul you quietly said in your head once more, skipping down the front steps.

[aesopsharpmybeloved]

Pine-ing For You

Father Paul has a little accident while trying to set up Christmas lights and you decide to get festive.

I got this idea while chatting with @aherdofbees​, and together we developed it to get our dear priest into quite the delicious situation. She made a 𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 illustration that goes with this fic. Go on, click the linkie and like and reblog, because it truly is amazing. 

Thank you so much for the inspiration Allison, I loved writing this!

NSFT/18+ GO AWAY CHILDREN

Pine-ing For You - 5.3K

tw: explicit sexual themes, consensual unprotected sex, body worship, smut with a lot of feelings™, attmepts at humour

Crockett Island may have seemed dull most of the time to the untrained eye, but after more than a year of living there you knew better. The people, while many of them a bit subdued, all had their little joys in life, their passions, and though they were wary of strangers that came into their little town at first, they were among the most kind and hospitable folks you had the good fortune to have met.

However, when Christmas rolled around, even the untrained eye could perceive the shift in atmosphere. It was a jolly holiday after all and the people indeed were slightly jollier. Little by little, decorations began appearing around the island. Many of them were small and decent, maybe just a wreath on a door, or an electric candlestick set in a window. Some were larger, Christmas lights on the roof, perhaps a little reindeer in the front yard. Few decorated more.

Some of these more festive looking places were the schoolhouse, which had student-made snowflakes in the windows, garlands on the windowsills, lights hung from the roof and even a charming wooden nativity scene in front. The Flynn house and The Greene house also breathed a gentle Christmas atmosphere to everyone who walked by. And then, there was Saint Patrick’s. Apparently, Monsignor Pruitt adored Christmas more than anyone else on the island and it showed. Dozens and dozens of various decorations were found in one of the storage areas of the church by Father Paul, who literally begged you to help him put them up. Which you were more than happy to do.

So now there were artificial swags at every corner of the small church, boughs of holly, wreaths, candles and another nativity set, placed right in front of the altar. This one was more detailed and painted, obviously made to be inside rather than face the weather conditions. And it was quite obvious Monsignor Pruitt took great pride in his decor collection. All that was missing were some Christmas trees.

—

Many residents of Crockett Island used artificial trees for their Christmas festivities, but there were still those who couldn’t imagine celebrating their lord’s birthday without a fine fir or a pine. One day, about a week before Christmas, a group of volunteers would gather on one of the larger fishing ships and set off to the mainland to pick out live trees for everyone on the island who wanted one. Ordering worked through simple paper forms, delivered to mailboxes by Dolly Scarborough. One would write down their name, preferred kind of tree, and its size. Filled out forms were then dropped off in the little town hall, along with the money for it. Unlike everyone else (including you) who ordered only one tree, Father Paul ordered three - two larger to be placed inside the church, one smaller for his rectory. He was, of course, among the volunteers going to actually pick the trees up.

They returned around eleven o’clock in the morning. You stood on the dock, looking at the fishing boat full of tied trees with a smile. Paul would be hauling the trees for Saint Patrick’s and the rectory first, with the help from Ed and Riley Flynn, and you convinced Sturge to help you carry the large pine tree you asked for to your home.

“Thank you again,” you said, walking next to him. You genuinely tried to help him carry it, but after a few minutes of very awkward walking and a few broken off twigs, the handyman simply threw the big tree over his shoulder and hauled it the rest of the way by himself. “Do you accept payment in gingerbreads?” you asked with a grin and raised eyebrows. Sturge thought for a while: “Yeah. But it will cost you.” “Oh? How much?” you chuckled. “I want the entire sheet.” You gave a whistle and made an amused ‘tsk’ sound: “Inflation these days…”

—

Two hours later, you stood at your kitchen counter, decorating gingerbreads with white chocolate. The pine stood tall and proud in your living room. It truly was a beautiful tree, healthy and dense, its herby scent, having already filled the room it stood in, was seeping through the rest of your house. You heard the front door open and shut, followed by some shuffling from the hallway.

“Hmm, it smells nice in here,” came a dreamy voice, making you smile. When footsteps began approaching the kitchen, you turned around to greet the priest. But then: “What are you wearing?” you asked, laughing softly. Father Paul was dressed in his skinny jeans, like usual. What wasn’t usual however, was the 'ugly Christmas jumper' instead of the black clerical shirt, its colour reminding you of his gold chasuble. There was a white nordic pattern on front, consisting of snowflakes and reindeers. It didn’t look terrible, but since you never before saw Paul wearing something like this, it kind of took your breath away for a moment.

“Do you like it?” asked Paul with a smile, pulling at his sleeves which you noticed were rather tight at the wrists. “It’s hideous,” you replied snarkily, making the priest chuckle and walk closer to you. He noticed the half decorated gingerbreads right away and was just about to reach for one when you lightly slapped his hand away. “Ouch. What was that for?” asked Paul, fake hurt in his voice. You giggled and wrapped your arms around his torso: “These are for Sturge, for lending me a hand with that tree.” “Oh I see,” replied your lover, understanding on his face, “will you make some for us, too?” You rolled your eyes and couldn’t help but smile: “Of course I will, have I ever neglected you?”

Paul pulled you close to press a soft kiss against your lips, claiming your entire attention. Therefore, you didn’t notice his hand slowly creeping up and onto the counter until it was too late, and one of the gingerbreads was snatched and promptly bit into by the father. “You scoundrel!” you smacked his chest, while Paul only laughed with his mouth full, “you’re lucky I love you.”

He swallowed his bite and batted his eyelashes at you: “it must be the sweater.” You smirked and squinted your eyes. “The jumper is hideous,” you repeated and Paul shook his head: “You really think that?” You didn’t. Taking him in once more, you had to admit that it did look rather flattering on Paul’s tall lean frame. “I knew it,” he said smugly, “you can’t lie to me, you like it.” “I don’t like it,” you tried once more, the corners of your lips turning up inadvertently. Paul took another bite of the gingerbread: “Hm, you love it.”

A few moments later, during which you picked at the soft wool of your lover’s jumper while he hummed appreciatively at the taste of your baking, you gave him a kittenish smile: “Since you’ve got nothing better to do right now than be a menace,” he opened his mouth in mock-offence before smiling cheekily, “you could go and start with the Christmas tree, what do you say?” “Hm,” he thought, “I thought we’d do it together?” Your arms encircled his waist again, pulling him closer and lifting your head to meet his eyes: “We will, but you could at least start putting the lights on. It’s a beast of a tree and I wouldn’t be able to reach the top, unlike a certain tall priest.”

He gave you a soft smile and pecked the tip of your nose, before brushing his lips against yours: “Very well.” You watched in curiosity, as his hands came up to rest on your hips and his eyes bore into your own. And then, in less than a second, he was scrambling away, another gingerbread in his hand. You gasped and stared after him, mischievous dark eyes twinkling at you until he rounded a corner. “Unbelievable!” you called after him.

—

You were pretty happy with your work, before you on the counter lay a sheet of nicely decorated gingerbreads of various shapes. Save for the two Father Paul stole right under your nose, but you supposed Sturge wouldn’t really notice that. You were in the middle of moving them into a container, when a dull thud sounded from the living room. “Paul? Is everything alright?” you called. A deafening silence was your only answer for several seconds and you started getting worried, when Paul’s sheepish voice reached your ears: “Um… A little help here, (F/N)?” You finished storing the cookies away, wiped your hands on a kitchen towel and made your way to the living room.

You couldn’t see the priest at first, but when you did, you began giggling uncontrollably. Paul was lying on his stomach very nearly under the tree, the christmas lights cord in his outstretched hand. His torso was bare and you could see the yellow jumper and white undershirt tangled around Paul’s arms, caught on one of the tree’s strong branches. He was looking at you abashed, his cheeks a little rosy with embarrassment.

You learned fairly early on in your relationship that for all of Paul’s amazing qualities, his skill as a priest, his knack for cooking, and his knowledge of your body as a lover, he was sometimes quite clumsy and very accident prone. A week wouldn’t pass without him bashing his little toe on some piece of furniture and you’d often find small bruises on his arms and legs, prompting him to sheepishly explain the cause for them. It was usually doors.

“I’m so sorry,” you said after you caught your breath and walked closer to him, kneeling by his side, “but what happened?” Father Paul released a huff and an adorable pout formed on his lips. “I wanted to turn on the lights. I got under the tree, on my knees, and tried to plug the cord into the socket. I couldn’t reach it though, and wanted to get out, try a different angle. But, um,” he paused, wetting his lips with his tongue, “I caught my shirt on a branch. I tried to untangle it, but couldn’t. So I thought I’d just try to take the shirt off, free it from the branch and put it on again. This is as far as I got…” The priest looked angrily at his hands, “the sleeves are too tight at the wrists, I can’t get my hands out! I mean, I tried yanking away, but the tree swayed rather nastily and I was worried it would collapse on top of me.”

“Wait,” you said with an amused grin, “are you really actually trapped? You can’t get out of there?” Father Paul 'tsked: “Yes. I am trapped under a Christmas tree. Can you help me?” You smiled softly at him and pet his hair. You proceeded to move forward, crawling under the tree yourself (mindful of any mischievous branches) and snatching the cord from Paul’s hand. You plugged it in and the living room was suddenly illuminated by multicoloured Christmas lights. You crawled back and sat leisurely on the ground, close to the priest’s head. Paul looked at you expectantly for a while, but after seeing you showed no intention to free him, a look of shock came over his face: "Wha- You're really going to leave me here?”

You once more moved your hand to his head, fingers carding through his dark hair: “'Leaving you' is the last thing on my mind,” you moved until you were lying down next to him, hand now coming to stroke his cheek and jaw, “but right now, I think I like you exactly. Where. You. Are,” you exaggerated each word, thumb moving to stroke the edges of Paul’s lips. “You look like an early Christmas present,” you purred, leaning your head on your free hand. Paul closed his eyes at the feeling of your clever fingers once again combing through the soft curls on the back of his neck. “Are you-... are you really trying to seduce me while I’m trapped under a Christmas tree?”

You giggled airily, tugging at the soft hair gently and delighting in Paul’s tiny little gasps: “Hmm, maybe… Is it working?” Paul’s head fell down to lean on his arms, his cheeks got even darker and in a quiet voice he replied: “A little.” You slowly scratched at his scalp, smiling lovingly each time he leaned into your touch. "Hey," you said then, prompting him to open his eyes and look at you. Your thumb found his lips again and you gave him a look he could read perfectly by now. 'Tell me you're not ok with this and I'll stop.' it said. Warmth spread through Paul's chest, followed by a gentle tingle of anticipation.

He pressed his lips against your thumb further in a small kiss, before smiling slightly and blinking at you coquettishly, and he too attempted to speak to you with his eyes: ‘I want this’.

You gave him one more gentle smile, before leaning back and looking at him appreciatively: “My, my, I must have been so nice this year, what a lovely present.” The priest chuckled into his arms: “Are you going to tear the wrapping paper off?” Your head cocked to the side, a wolfish grin on your face. One fingertip stroked along Paul’s earlobe, descending down upon his pulsepoint and feeling his increasing heartbeat. “Nope, I don’t do that, it’s no fun” you shook your head, “I always unwrap presents slowly, peeling the tape off and trying not to damage the paper. Sometimes I even stop midway, because the anticipation makes it so much better.

“I think I’ll start with the parts that are unwrapped already,” you purred into his ear and moved closer, both of your hands coming to rest on his shoulders while you pressed small kisses into his hair, lips moving down to brush against the nape of his neck. “Hm,” you sighed contently, “such a pretty neck, long and elegant, like a swan, almost regal,” you bit lightly at the beginning of his spine, making your lover release a short gasp, “so sensitive.” You moved lower, hands sliding across shoulder blades: “Beautiful golden skin, like honey, soft, and warm, and very sweet.” Father Paul could feel more hotness entering his already red cheeks. Your whispered praises always had a profound effect on him. He hid his face in his arms.

“Strong shoulders and back, muscles defined perfectly but gently,” you continued and now dragged your fingernails across the entire length of the priest's back, making him quietly groan in pleasure. You’ve never met anyone who didn’t like their back scratched, but Paul seemed particularly enraptured by it. You made sure to lightly graze every inch of the golden skin, finding all the right spots, all the while pushing hot kisses onto every single freckle you could see and connecting them with your tongue.

Paul couldn’t help but chuckle when he felt your hands give his clothed bum a squeeze. “Girls love a guy with a lovely arse, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” you whispered cheekily and gave the lovely arse another squeeze, “alright, let me see the other side of this present before I start unwrapping it further.”

You helped Paul carefully roll over and onto his back, his wrists, still bound by his own clothes, now crossed over one another. Dark hair peeked at you from under the priest’s arms, and his pink nipples looked like little pearls screaming for attention. And they weren’t the only thing craving attention. Paul’s erection was tenting the dark grey skinny jeans and his eyes fluttered when you ran a finger over it. You gave him a grin: “Sorry, I’ve always been a little impatient, but I promise I’ll try to be good.” Paul shuddered out a laugh, his breathing a little shallow: “I wouldn’t be mad either way.”

Slowly you put a leg over his waist and straddled your lover: “Now, where were we? Oh, yeah,” you leaned forward and took his face into your hands, thumbs caressing his brow. “Thick, expressive eyebrows… Dark eyes, so, so large. Like a dolly,” you leaned forward to press your lips against Paul’s eyelids, then pulled away again, “cute, well defined nose, perfect for kissing,” once more you made your point by pecking the entire length of your lover’s nose, making him produce a fluttery chuckle.

“Though, of course, your entire face is perfect for kissing,” you smiled at him lovingly and then your fingers traced the edges of his lips, “but most of all it’s your mouth. That perfect cupid’s bow. I see it, and I want to trap it between my own lips. When you smile, when you pout, when you do that adorable little mouth shrug… When you talk, to me, to your congregation. When your mouth is slightly open and I can see your upper teeth just peeking through. I always want to kiss you.”

You crushed your lips against Paul’s, teeth clashing and tongues moulding against each other. He groaned into your hungry mouth and wanted to curl his arms around you, but soon remembered he was bound and released a desperate sound instead. You only parted from him when the lack of oxygen threatened to take your consciousness away. A tiny string of saliva followed you for a bit, before it snapped and landed on Paul's kiss bruised lips. You kissed the slight cleft in his chin and playfully dipped your tongue into it.

The emotion in your eyes as you pulled back could have made Paul cry, you were looking at him as if he was the rarest jewel, the most fantastical treasure in the world, as if he was your sun and moon and stars. “You have no idea just how beautiful you really are, do you? Inside and out,” you whispered, hands returning to stroke the side of the priest’s face, which was once more getting hot. This time however, he couldn’t hide it and as he lay there, absorbing each and every one of your words, Paul realised he didn’t even want to hide. You leaned closer again, whispering against his open mouth: “So beautiful, so very pretty.” An involuntary moan escaped him.

You smiled against his mouth, then ducked your head lower, nibbling softly around Paul's jawline before descending upon his throat, teeth scraping over his Adam's apple right as he swallowed heavily. You shifted until you sat directly on his hips and rolled your own, rubbing against his constricted erection and making his head fall back, those fine lips opening wordlessly. He took large gulps of air, hands involuntarily trying against his restraints once more. “Soon,” you promised, rolling your hips again, “but do try not to move your hands too much. I really don’t want the tree to actually fall down on our heads. Can you imagine explaining that to Sarah, when we show up all bruised and battered?”

The priest made an unhappy little sound, but tried to keep his hands as still as he could anyway. You made your way down his chest, nuzzling your face into his soft skin and delivering soft kisses and playful bites every time you felt like it. Paul sighed when your lips reached one of his nipples. You circled the nub with your tongue before sucking it into your mouth and pinching it with your teeth lightly. You used your fingers to stimulate the other nipple in perfect synchronisation with your mouth, trying various techniques and listening to Paul’s shallow gasps and quiet groans for feedback.

After alternating between the two, now red and swollen, buds for several minutes, you decided to carry on with your adventurous journey across Paul’s exquisite body, and ran the tips of your fingers against his ribs teasingly. You grinned widely when your lover made a little jump, trying to get away from your touch now: “N-no, don’t,” he gasped, but it was pointless. You again stroked over his ribs and under his arms, and was soon rewarded with choked laughter. “A-angel, please… please don’t tickle me right now,” he begged in between chuckles. You giggled, but took mercy on him, climbing up to steal a kiss: “I’m sorry, love, I couldn’t resist.”

You sat back onto his thighs and gave the priest a reassuring smile after you laid your hands on his sensitive ribs again, this time your entire palms, intent on caressing him and bringing him pleasure. You stroked down, soon finding an obstacle in your way. Father Paul’s jeans looked so, so tight around his hard shaft it must’ve been painful, and you licked your lips as you made eye contact with him and rubbed the heel of your hand over his length. He shuddered and his eyes fluttered closed on their own. You repeated the motion, making your lover groan with pleasure.

“I think it’s time for me to unwrap my present,” you whispered huskily and waited for him to look at you. When he did, you sat even further away, all the way above his knees, and began making a show of popping open the button and torturingly slowly pulling his zipper down. Your fingers curled below the waistline on each side of the trousers and you tugged them down, little by little, revealing one, then two edges of his hip bone, protruding under his skin enticingly. You left the jeans bunched in the middle of his thighs and observed the priest amorously.

His hands, still crossed at the wrists above his head were balled into fists, fingers white at the knuckles. Paul’s face was flushed dark pink, with sweat gathering in his hairline, one drop of it having already rolled down his cheek. His lips were swollen from kissing. Well, his upper lip anyway, the bottom one was currently trapped between Paul’s teeth, but you presumed it’d be in a similar condition. He was breathing hard, his eyes dark with lust, and there was a damp spot on the front of his grey boxer briefs. You bowed to press a wet kiss just below his sternum, then lower, then lower again, relishing the soft tender skin of the priest's tummy.

You drew a circle around Father Paul’s belly button with your tongue and started pinching the area underneath with your teeth, teasing at the happy trail going down into his underwear. You looked up after reaching the waistband, catching your lover’s intense gaze. He whimpered softly when instead of going where he needed you the most, you bit into that tempting hip bone. “Please…” he whispered, feeling like he was going to go insane if you were to tease him much longer. Paul didn’t even realise his eyes were closed until your soft hand touched his cheek and he opened them again. You were smiling at him warmly, a look filled with tenderness. He willingly opened his mouth for you when you moved your hand to the back of his neck and kissed him soundly.

At the same time you finally pushed your hand under the waistband of his briefs and took a hold of his aching member. Paul moaned into your mouth in relief, his eyes shutting closed and eyebrows turning upwards. You fondled his manhood steadily, massaging it slowly with your thumb drawing little circles into the heated skin. He breathed hard against your mouth once he had to part for breath, and you stuck your tongue out to trace his lips before pushing it back between them. You were slow in your movements, yet Paul soon found himself nearing his peak.

“Wait,” he managed to get out and you let go of him right away. He tried to convey what he wanted with his eyes and, thankfully, you seemed to understand.  You climbed off of him, lying down by his side instead so you could make out some more. From his position, Paul now had some access to your neck and he immediately used this fact to his advantage, pressing sloppy kisses and bites against your pulse point while you massaged his scalp with your fingers. He attempted to duck his head lower, but was held back by his restraints. He gave you another pleading look and you started removing articles of your own clothing, as well as ridding him of the jeans and boxers entirely.

Once you were as naked as he (save for the jumper and shirt tangled on his arms), You climbed back over him, bracing yourself on one hand above his head and pushing your bosom level with his face. Wasting no time, Paul began kissing the sensitive skin, tongue darting out to circle your nipples and flick over them. Meanwhile, your other hand was between your legs, two fingers slowly moving inside your heat in a scissoring motion, stretching yourself. You rested your head against Paul’s, your content sighs fanning over the priest’s black hair.

Suddenly, Paul produced an alarmed sound and turned his head away. You immediately lifted yourself off him. “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?” you asked, your arousal now mixed with worry. He screwed his eyes shut before releasing a sheepish chuckle: “No, no, nothing like that. It’s just-... um, there is a pine needle getting somewhere it definitely should not be getting.” You started laughing quietly, Paul joining you shortly after. After you fished out the pine needle from under the back of his thigh and made sure there were no more pointy things threatening anything vital, you wanted to lean forward again, but Paul stopped you. “I want to watch,” he said. You smiled down at him and made a show of fucking yourself with your own fingers.

Once you felt sufficiently ready, you pulled your digits out and moved down Paul’s body, pushing your hips together. You rolled your hips a few times, the underside of the priest’s cock sliding through your wet folds. Using your now free hand, you reached behind yourself and guided your lover inside. Paul bent one leg at the knee and pushed his hips up to meet you halfway. Both of you choked out a small gasp. Despite your preparation, you needed a few moments to get used to Paul’s width.

You experimentally raised your hips before sinking back, trying to find an angle that worked the best for you. A few thrusts later, you felt a bolt of pleasure shoot through your spine and into your core, and grinned. You lowered yourself until your body was flush with Paul’s and carefully slipped your arms under his, hands coming to tangle into his hair. You connected your foreheads and looked into his eyes deeply as you started thrusting against him in that brilliant angle.

Paul’s laboured breathing and delicate moans blew across your cheeks, warming them more than the blood gathered there. You tilted your head to the side and let your lips connect in an uncoordinated kiss, keeping your eyes open. Paul’s hands were shaking from how much he wanted to reach out for you, all the while keeping in mind that was the only thing he couldn’t do, so he instead tried to convey all the ways he wanted to touch you in through his mouth, sucking on your lower lip, biting your tongue gently, licking a wet strip along your jaw.

Your movements sped up and the fire within you started burning brighter, every single thrust like a spurt of gasoline into a flame. You hid your face into Paul’s heated neck, feeling his heart hammering away at a rapid speed, sensing his groans and whimpers before actually hearing them. You wrapped yourself around him completely, as if willing your bodies to mould into one. The priest bent his leg a bit more, gaining better leverage to pound up into you, feeling his upcoming release nearing as well.

Once Paul heard your moans becoming more urgent, felt your walls beginning to flutter around him and saw your thighs trembling, he started nudging your head with his own, wordlessly attempting to make you look at him, reveal your face. He loved watching you fall apart, your face showing nothing but pleasure, raw, almost unhinged. It was a sight only he was allowed to see, nearly sacred. You raised your head with some difficulty and rested it back against his, your pupils blown wide and constantly disappearing and reappearing behind fluttering eyelids.

You were on the very brink, moments before plummeting down into the abyss, and your hips lost all sense of rhythm. “Come for me, angel,” Paul groaned and delivered a sharp thrust upwards, effectively shoving you over the edge. Your fingers closed in his hair harshly and a wave of pleasure exploded in your core, shooting into your veins like a drug. You gasped violently, releasing a series of short high pitched whimpers as your heat began pulsing around Paul’s twitching shaft. He continued thrusting into you, hitting that little bundle of nerves and effectively prolonging your orgasm.

You were blushing everywhere, sweating, trembling through heaps of bliss, yet a drunken smile bloomed on your face. Your unfocused eyes connected with Paul’s, their gaze intense and almost desperate. “S-so, ah, you’re so b-beautiful, Paul,” you managed to stutter out, and then only watched the fireworks go off in those nearly black orbs. They widened for a millisecond and then, as if a rope snapped, you could see Paul fighting to keep them even open. You would have almost thought he was in pain, with his hands trembling violently, his mouth opening into an ‘o’ shape to release a long moan, and his head tilting back.

Your walls were painted white, spurt after spurt of hotness spreading through your core. Together you shook through the aftershocks, slowly coming down your highs. You collapsed against your lover, trying to get your breathing under control once more. Several minutes of lazy kisses and whispered words of love later, Paul tried tugging his arms free once more, causing some more pine needles to descend upon your cooling bodies. You groggily climbed up his body until you were able to reach the treacherous twig and untangle it from Father Paul’s shirt.

The priest stretched his arms and proceeded to pull both his jumper and shirt off of him, tossing them somewhere to your left. Finally, finally, he was able to hold you and immediately did just so. “You were right,” he said quietly, voice hoarse, “it is a horrible sweater.” You giggled and let yourself slide down and onto your side, lying next to him. “I don’t know,” you purred, your hand coming to caress his cheek, “I think it’s starting to grow on me.”

You shivered slightly, your body having already cooled down from your previous activities, and reached for a blanket which was draped over your sofa. You threw it over the two of you and got comfortable in the father’s arms. “If there was an advent calendar of making love during Christmas time, this would definitely be there. Under the tree,” you mused, your voice light and airy. “Wonder what would be hidden under ‘24’,” replied Paul in the same manner, “making love after the midnight Mass?” You grinned into his neck, one of your hands slowly massaging his shoulder: “A lovely suggestion.”

“Still want to decorate the tree?” he asked after a while, pressing small kisses into your hair. You murmured something unintelligible and hid your face again. Paul chuckled lowly: “Okay, shower and a movie then?” “Yeah,” you breathed into his skin, “we’ll do the tree first thing tomorrow.” Paul hummed in agreement. You lay cuddled beneath the Christmas tree, the colourful lights dancing on your bare limbs and the smell of pine lingering sweetly in the air. “We could decorate the one in the rectory after. And bake those gingerbreads only for us.”

A giggle started blooming in your chest, soon turning into a full on laughter. “You really are unbelievable!” you bit into your lower lip and pulled back to look into his large eyes. They reflected the big genuine smile on Paul’s face perfectly: “I’ll even wear the sweater.” You shook your head and quickly crushed your lips against his. Absolutely unbelievable.

Thank you for reading, I hope you had a good time c: As always, you can find this story and all of my other stories over on AO3. Please, be sure to check out @aherdofbees​ tumblr as well, she makes the most spectacular art!

the first tags are sentences I had to restrain myself from using in order not to look like the last bits of sanity finally packed their bags and kissed me goodbye

@everythingbutresolved @agirlinherhead​ @rothko-mirror​ @littleredwritingcat​ @vintageglassheart02​ @thexhostess​ @fatherpaulsimp​ @blackberries45​ @daughterofaries​ @exorcise-my-demons​ sending kisses ××

[theelfmaid]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Midnight Mass (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt/Original Female Character(s), Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt/Reader, Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt/You, Mildred Gunning/Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt, Sheriff Hassan (Midnight Mass)/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt, Sheriff Hassan (Midnight Mass), Riley Flynn, Leeza Scarborough, Beverly Keane, Erin Greene (Midnight Mass), Mildred Gunning Additional Tags: POV Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt, Witch - Freeform, Witch and Priest, Goth - Freeform, Horror, Drama & Romance, Breaking Celibacy Vows, Death, Sensuality, Sex, Bottom Father Paul Hill | Monsignor John Pruitt, hot priest, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Human/Vampire Relationship, Magic, Falling In Love Summary:

In a peaceful and secluded town, Father Paul Hill arrives as the new priest. He meets Jane, the owner of the café "Mystic Brews." Despite their differences, a special connection forms, unleashing an unexpected romance filled with challenges and mysteries.

[everythingbutresolved]

St. Jude, chapters 1&2

Raise your hand if you, too, thought this was lost and gone in the WIP limbo 🙌. I'm as slow as my mom's tortoises, and hopefully equally long-lived so I'll get the chance to finish it.

“I was always hungry for love. Just once, to feel no fear, to be satiated, get my fill of Love so that there was no room for anything else. I want to love something. I want to love someone without having to apologize for it. Please don’t laugh”

John Michael Pruitt diary, St.Jude Seminar, September 1964

Characters: John Michael Pruitt (before Midnight Mass) / Original Female Character

Chapters: 2/?

Tags: # john is a fucking pine tree it’s canon #mention to nonconsensual sex #slooooooow burn #have hope #Irish deities #vaginal sex /#oral sex #and everything else #fluff #but also hopefully good smut #a lot of weird shit going on #this was supposed to be a one-shot smut #and now is a woman vs God(s) #I don’t know how it happened #also I'm not Irish so I hope this is not cultural appropriation I'm sorry

Tagging @agirlinherhead @littleredwritingcat @fatherpaulsimp @plainlo-inthemorning @agaroux and if you want to be added to the tag list lemme know because I have a shitty memory

[littleredwritingcat]

"Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you." ~ Matthew 7:7

Announcing my latest in response to the fabulous prompt from our own @fatherpaulsimp

Sometimes a writer just needs a little divine inspiration....so when you find yourself trying to scratch out a new novel for Bold Stroke Books (and, yes, you write *those* books) Erin tells you to take yourself to church.

Her suggestion is admittedly strange, and it doesn't make much sense - until the new priest passes your pew during the first mass you've ever attended...

Will go live tomorrow!

[aaluminiumas]

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

Life is scary. 

And probably senseless. 

I spend my days staring out the window, trying to remember something I can’t. I want to snatch a glimpse of anything I was deprived of. I feel that I am lacking a serious part of my life, but a block inside my head stops me—I can’t even begin to imagine what is locked and hidden beyond. My brain doesn’t latch onto the daily routine anymore. It erases new information in a matter of hours, if not minutes. 

There’s a woman living downstairs. Stairs, actually, are a problem. She’s so insistent when it comes to the stairs, and I don’t understand why; normally she’s very kind and supportive. I just don’t know why she doesn’t want me to go back to my room.  This room is not my room. I don’t like it. It is hostile. And the trees scare me every night. I don’t like them either. But this woman doesn’t want me to go up the stairs and occupy my room. I wake up at night because I’m scared. I don’t like this room. I want to remember why this woman locked my room. 

“This way, father. Here.” 

The woman’s voice pierces the stuffy air of the room, and I notice a familiar figure drooping at the shoulders. Even though his posture and behavior changed significantly, I feel a spark of recognition. I do know this man. I’ve known him for years. 

“John?” 

The man freezes for a second. His black eyes seem almost obsidian; they stare back at me. His fingers twitch spasmodically. The woman doesn’t notice his reaction, she’s too preoccupied. 

“She… She, ah, takes you for Monsignor Pruitt,” the woman explains, squeezing out a polite smile. “Please don’t be offended.” 

 “I don’t ‘take’ him for Monsignor Pruitt,” I snap, “This is Monsignor Pruitt.” 

“Yeah, Mom. Sure.” The woman sighs and smiles at John apologetically. It somehow irritates me: she practically ignores me at this point, and John doesn’t contradict. Instead, he just nods in response, trying to conceal his real emotions: I know when he wants to avoid questions. I’ve seen it way too often. 

“No problem, no problem at all,” the priest replies, his face breaking into another smile, serving to calm the woman down. “I totally understand. Anyways, may I ask, if you don’t mind—”

“Sure. I was just about to leave. Have some business to attend to.” she interrupts and almost immediately disappears. 

John reaches to close the door behind her, then sits down beside my bed. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I just look at his face. He’s certainly younger than I recall, and a lot fresher, but I still can make out the crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. He used to smile a lot, I remember it clearly. For some reason, my deteriorating brain managed to scrape up images of him. 

Suddenly, he takes my hand and holds it, and I don’t protest. I can feel the warmth of his long fingers, he strokes my palm tenderly, and I see that there is a lot to say, but he simply doesn’t know how to start. It’s been a while. It’s been a while, and we have suffered irreparable damage. 

“Millie,” John utters quietly, finally regaining his composure. Despite his well-trained ability to stay collected in the toughest of situations, he’s still unsure of what he’s about to say. “I, uh, came here to help. You are… said to be a very pious lady, and I am… willing to perform all the necessary sacraments other people are introduced to. I will visit you as often as you need.” 

His hand loosens its grip. I already regret it, but I can’t respond: I don’t know if I can find the right words or if I am correct when it comes to my memories of him and our past. I no longer rely on myself; each time I become confident about my actions, my helpful neighbor darts to me to lecture me on something I’ve been doing wrong. I think I’m never right anymore. 

But him… I remember him well. Quite clearly, in fact. I doubt I’ll ever be able to forget this exceptional man. He was… different. People on Crokett Island have something in common: I don’t know what it is exactly but if you live here, you can easily predict their actions and words to a single sound at the end of the phrase. John was… different, right? That’s the word. The locals sometimes ridiculed him, called him odd, because he thought in ways we didn’t: his spiritualistic core prevailed over our materialistic state of mind. Obviously, this is why his preaching afflicted us all. Charmed, we visited every mass, which was an eye-opener for most. Engulfed in a cloud of frankincense, he once mentioned something I never pondered over: to be free from sin, you had to see thy neighbor with God’s eyes. I didn’t understand it at first, so he elaborated: people were cursed with a destructive urge to possess, subdue and oppress while God saw things clearly. His vision was not blurred by this desire to own. This thought remained in my head long enough, so I finally deduced that priests literally transferred God’s will and explained the motives we, ordinary people, could not… fathom. 

I shared this idea with John, and I deeply cherish the moment when I dared speak to him. Even though he looked busy, he found a moment to talk to me. I remember asking if God truly existed and how it was possible to be sure of His existence. 

He smiled at me. Not just the lips—his very eyes glowed. 

“I just know,” he said. “Everybody has difficult moments, and I am not an exception. As anyone, you may feel tempted to leave your faith. But eventually, you come to a conclusion.” 

“What conclusion?” 

“That He’s near.” 

You smiled again. And maybe it was the moment when I felt blessed. 

But this blessing turned out curse too, do you remember?.. I could barely hide it, skipped every mass I could, lied, avoided you. Stifled my feelings. Until you knocked at my door to see if I was fine. I was not. I couldn’t find an explanation to blind others, so they wouldn’t notice anything. I bet some of them were aware anyway.

“May I come in?”

I stepped aside, you entered. Waited for something, stared at me. I’d never seen you so troubled and agitated—not before, not after.

“Mildred… Millie.”

Your voice—coarse. My heart beat faster. I don’t, I can’t describe what I felt that day. I wanted to hear you out and run away. I wasn’t ready to listen, I wasn’t ready to speak, I was just transfixed.

“Millie, I think… I think I know why you don’t attend the masses. If this is so inconvenient for you, I can settle it. It is not normally done this way, there’s a specific procedure for—”

“Please,” I finally whispered. “No.”

We stared at each other for minutes, neither of us brave enough to move. Then I felt a faint spark guiding me and reached for your hand.

I know you remember.

It is a touch from the past. You always pressed my hand to your lips and kissed the knuckles. You could sit like this for ages, staring at me, your eyes gaining a lighter shade as the transcendental moonlight entangled in your lashes and broke into myriads of glimmering particles floating on the surface of your irides, spiraling down into the pupils. Eventually, I learned to do just the same, lying in bed, turning my head slightly to the side to see you better. I admired you so much that I couldn’t stop wondering how God allowed me to be with you. I looked at you, feeling so indescribably happy that I couldn’t even believe it was real. I was always afraid that it was an illusion and hurried to brush your raven hair off your forehead. As if reading my mind, feeling my momentary agitation, you touched my face, looking at me with infinite affection I never spotted in others. People on Crokett Island were not taught to be endearing, but… as I said, you were different. You were the man I’d been waiting my entire life.

With you, I learned to hate mornings as they brought separation. Reluctantly, you put on your shirt, adjusted the white collar, and I felt I was losing you. We didn’t even speak. I followed your gestures with my eyes, fiddled with my own fingers, trying to break through an invisible wall quickly erecting between us. Once I begged you to stay for a little longer, but you were soft and yet adamant: you had to run. I never had a chance to see what your eyes looked like in the dawning light—I’d harbor this memory in my heart just like many others: your fingers sliding across my collarbones, your quiet chuckle in my ear, the quickened breath, the warmth of your body lying next to mine. I always joked about a strong redolence of olibanum your shirt emitted. I closed the door and threw my arms around you, nuzzling into your neck. You kissed my head and hugged me back, whispering that we had eternity ahead of us. Then I realized I forgot to close the blinds, and you strolled to the kitchen. 

It was a perfectly normal life, wasn’t it? A perfectly normal life starting at night, when we always had to wait for another occasion. I still think someone knew. Or, maybe, everyone knew, they just respected you enough not to start a rebel. But you know it was never a sin for me. How could love be sinful? I never wanted to ‘own’ you, in your own parlance; I never wanted to possess you or subdue your personality. I loved you for what you were, and I was happy to just feel your presence. I asked if love was a sin. You never explained. You didn’t know the answer. 

Sessions with you proved invigorating. After the first one, I felt an unusual boost of energy as if the wine you’d given me renewed my blood and washed me from the inside. The drink did seem a little viscous, and I was slightly concerned about the flavor, somewhat sweetish, but I was ready to confide in you, after all, you never harmed me. I changed. Not only mentally but physically as well, and those changes were so galvanic and powerful that I needed quite a while to get accustomed to them. First off, it occurred to me that the woman downstairs was not a random nurse summoned by sympathetic neighbors. It was Sarah, my daughter. Our daughter. You chose the name, you… you were so happy. Your face literally beamed with joy, and… it faded immediately as soon as you realized. You looked at me, expecting something, and I wanted to implore, but my mouth went dry, and I couldn’t blurt out a word. In a moment, all my hopes and dreams turned into ashes. Yours too. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 

“She’ll never know,” I muttered so quietly that I could barely hear myself.

That was the end of everything. You were so kind, so understanding, so warm. What happened to you? I don’t recognize you. I still feel your presence underneath that dark, sinful shell, drilling into your flesh, devouring you. Something malignant was—is—residing in you. How did it happen? Why did you let it happen? Weren’t you dexterous enough to stop whatever was haunting you, ready to attack?..

“Millie,” you whisper quietly, looking at me, “You were never a sin. Nor was Sarah.”

Your hand brushes across my face, and it is the same gentle touch that lulled me to sleep. You are not leaving: you are staying with me for eternity, just as you promised.

I will not be able to see your eyes in the dawning light. But I hope your genuine smile will stay with me forever.

[wandasaura]

GOLD THATS IN YOUR EYES

summary — you’ve known natasha romanoff since she first defected to shield, but it’s taken you years to realize that you’ve loved her since then too

warning(s) — fluff, mentions of the ohio mission, hurt/comfort

prompt — finding excuses to be alone with each other x noticing their individual quirks

song — mood ring by kira kosarin

🌞⊹ ˚ . 18+, men/minors dni ⁺ 𓈒 ꒰🧺꒱ 🌷 ･ mommy maximoff ✧

Natasha Romanoff was not a very sociable person, in fact, she was quite the opposite. Most people would be surprised to learn that the infamous ex assassin was admittedly somewhat of an introverted homebody, preferring the chosen silence of isolation over bustling crowds where judgment ran wild. For a woman with such a bold way about her, she was admittedly rather soft. She was soft in the way she moved around the kitchen when nobody was around to watch her frolic through cabinets on the balls of her feet, arches deep and perfect, and heels exquisitely raised above the floorboards. She was soft in the way she spoke, too. Her words were always calculated, always direct, and blunt enough to be chalked up to dry humor, but if you listened closely, if you closed your eyes and let the weight of her spoken sentence weigh on your heart in the way she’d never intended for anybody to actually do, you’d notice the soft hitch to her tone that was endearingly Russian, and the way her nose twitched whenever she wasn’t sure how a comment would be received by the masses. Natasha Romanoff was a lot of things, but an arrogant agent was not one of them; not that she’d ever admit that. 

You supposed that she felt a crippling need to assert herself as if she were in a position of calculated authority. Some could say that she was in a stance of power, having been deemed not only a level six agent but also an Avenger by time she was twenty-nine, yet even with the moniker of being the only reformed Black Widow to escape Dreykov’s grasp, Natasha was never the authoritarian she prided herself on being when others were around. Granted, you were never one to challenge the way she raised her chin when she was at the center of a room full of men, and you were never one to comment on how her shoulders squared defensively whenever someone took a step to close for comfort. She radiated confidence and certainty, but beneath all of the hurt that she had turned into defensiveness, she was merely a woman that had been wronged and burned by every bridge she’d ever dared to build. You saw her as such, she knew that you did, so maybe that was why she never tried to act that way with you. It was an unspoken mutual understanding that all bets were off when fate brought you two together. 

Natasha Romanoff played a lot of games. She liked the challenge of breaking down her opponent before they had the chance to break her down themselves, but the second anyone got too close she pulled a mask over her features and her bleeding heart became a loaded gun. You’d never met someone so guarded in your life, and yet she placed all cards face up on the table whenever she got you alone. Natasha Romanoff was not the sick and twisted woman she allowed the general public to believe she was. She woke up screaming from nightmares bi-weekly, the rasp in her gravely tone not natural but consequential. She closed her eyes whenever she washed her hands in fear of the clear water becoming red with the blood of her innocent victims. She stepped only on the tiles that she knew were silent, scared to make ripples in the water and alert attention. People who didn’t know Natasha Romanoff would say she was something similar to the atrocities that occurred beneath the midnight sky, but you would say she was the shadow of sweet flowers that disappeared after sunset. 

You noticed every miniscule detail there was to know about Natasha Romanoff, but you know that she noticed every detail about you as well. She noticed the way you avoid going out in the rain when it’s cold, and how none of your socks ever seem to match even on missions. She noticed how you migrate down to the kitchen in the ungodly hours of the morning just to bake pastries for the team to eat at breakfast, usually cinnamon rolls or blueberry muffins with a crumb coating that Wanda particularly is a fan of, but eventually, she’d unraveled that your little habit wasn’t merely because you wanted to be hospitable toward the people you fought alongside with when extraterrestrial disasters fell to earth, but rather because your mind needed something to focus on when the nightmares of human travesties became too paralyzing and suffocating to handle alone in the dark. The first time her attention to detail became apart was a gloomy day in November, the leaves not all fallen from trees but the air frigid enough to belong in a barren January day. At that point, you’d fallen into a routine of going out for a run through central park each morning, always returning with not only a coffee for yourself, but one for her as well, but with the downpour of raindrops the size of nickels, you’d chosen the lower level gym as your route that day. Natasha wasn’t much a fan of the rain, but she never minded freezing temperatures. She found you in the debriefing room that early afternoon, her hair sodden and crimped from pallets of rain that fell overhead, but in her hands were two cuts of still steaming coffee from your favorite little cafe. She’d tried to say that she was just in the area, but you knew that she had gone out of her way to assure that at least part of your morning remained unchanged throughout the storm. 

Your relationship with Natasha had been an unspoken arrangement for as many months and years as you could remember, but recently things had changed. You’d always found yourself alone in a room, two friends existing within the same space naturally, but lately even that hadn’t felt so innocently charged, and you were as much at fault as Natasha was. The Russian lingered in the kitchen just to watch as you mixed together batter for muffins that Tony would eat half of, but you hung around in the lower level gym just to hand off a water bottle when she completed her workout. Any excuse either of you could grasp onto just to spend a few uninterrupted minutes together had been abused and properly overused, but there was no admission of feelings anywhere close to the tip of your tongue. 

There were some days that passed, even now years later, where when you looked at her beneath the kitchen lights, or against the punching bags, you only ever saw the broken woman that Clint had brought in from the KGB. She’d been merely a shell of herself at that time, fiery red hair matted with knots and the blood of her targets, face smeared with dirt and gunpowder. You hadn’t been on base when she’d been dragged in wearing heavy metal shackles and dehumanizing cuffs, but Maria had filled you in on everything prevalent regarding Fury’s newest asset. It had taken you three weeks to run into her when you returned, traumatized from the loss of your team and spiraling into shallow thoughts of death and finality, but from the very first moment you’d never seen her as a threat, and she’d never seen you as the lucky survivor that walked away from a raid. Her eyes were soft, softer than the wings of a newly hatched butterfly, and when she stood beneath the sunlight on the deck of the helicarrier, accent thick and sweet like the spring breeze that carried pollen beneath its current, you’d seen the daintiest twinge of gold within the green of her eyes. Maybe it was at that moment that you’d known you wanted to spend your entire life at her side, or maybe that had come much later, but what you’d definitely realized in that first month of knowing her, was that she wasn’t as complete as she wanted everyone to assume she was. There was so much despair and longing beneath her mask of confidence and casualty, so many agonizing emotions that she’d never fully overcome. There were times where you wondered what could be missing from her life that even now, deemed a hero and residing amongst people that just wanted to do good by the world, but you always circled back to the heavy acknowledgement that aside from you and Clint, nobody truly knew Natasha Romanoff. She’d spent her entire life beneath the thumb of power hungry generals, and when she’d gotten a taste of freedom and self identification, she’d conformed to be the woman that everyone else wanted her to be. 

Some days however, you saw someone entirely different beneath her eyes that still held specks of gold when the sun fell upon her the right way. You saw a woman that was confident albeit flawed, painfully witty although reserved enough to hide within the walls when she didn’t want to be seen fully. But sometimes when you looked at her, you saw a woman yearning to love in the fullest sense of the word, and that broke your heart the most. She had never been shown unconditional love, never been held softly yet tightly, never been allowed to love back. Natasha Romanoff had been taught that love was the greatest weakness any woman could surrender herself to, and yet she was finally at a point where she wanted to experience the tragedy of loving something temporary. Death was unavoidable, she’d learned that young, but love transpired through isolation even if it never felt entirely complete again. For the first time since you’d met Natasha, she wasn’t scared to submit herself to the experience of loving someone to a fault, even though it meant she could very well lose it all tomorrow. Even if it didn’t seem like it to others, you noticed the subtle ways that she made progress as the years progressed, and each time you looked at her and saw a willingness to explore emotions rather than suppress them, you wanted nothing more than to squeeze her tight and be the one to teach her how to love. 

“Hi.” Your voice was soft, delicate as it filled the otherwise silent kitchen. You’d heard her sneak up behind you minutes ago, but only now did it feel like the right time to greet her. She was close, but too far, pressed against the island in the middle of the kitchen whilst you stood beside the sink, hands full of strawberries that Tony had asked you to turn into something delicious. You’d rolled your eyes at the billionaire who had made a habit of soliciting you for pastries, but here you found yourself in the kitchen anyways, trading hours of sleep for muffins that would be gone by the early afternoon. “Wanna help me?” You laid the freshly washed strawberries on a clean kitchen rag, falling into the process of patting them dry without much thought or intention. All of this came so naturally now; she came so naturally now. 

“I, um, I could actually just go for a hug. If it’s not too much trouble for the busy, Chef.” Her voice was hoarse, scratchy and thick as it fell onto your ears. Without the running tap, you could hear the quiet hitch in her breathing, wheezing exhales falling out into the space between your warm and yearning bodies. Your eyebrows furrowed, hands abandoning the strawberries in an instance. In all the years that you had known Natasha Romanoff, in all the years that you had seen her in the aftermath of a nightmare, she had never asked for a hug. You could count on one hand the amount of times you’d ever hugged her, and they’d all been for your own selfish reasons. You spun around to face her, palms dragging across your pajama bottoms and riding the water that clung to your palms so you could embrace her fully. 

You hadn’t spared her a single glance when she’d first entered, wanting to give her the chance and time to make herself known by her own judgment and comfortability, but now that your eyes traced the delicate shadows across her face, you could make out the unbridled tears brimming in her eyes. She was ghastly pale, a fitful sleep indicative by the deep bruising beneath her eyes. You’d never seen her so distressed, but for a single second you thought about how she’d chosen to seek you out instead of trailing down to the gym and bullying a punching bag like she’d gotten into the routine of doing. 

“Can I touch you?” You asked carefully, not wanting to make any sudden movements and spook her back into her shell of isolation. This was progress, and selfishly you wanted any excuse to pull her in close and hold her tight. When she nodded, a weak and fragile incline of her head, you closed the gap between your bodies and melted into her chest. She held you protectively, like she’d needed to feel you to ensure that you were safe and real. A single hand reached up to cradle the back of your head, and her lips found a home on the crown of your head as she inhaled your scent deeply. “You know you can always ask for hugs. Not just because you had a nightmare, but whenever. I mean that.” 

Natasha cleared her throat, though she simultaneously tightened her grip around your waist as if whatever she wanted to say would be enough to make you either run away or disappear entirely. You didn’t comment on it, letting her have the time she needed to get her thoughts in order. You grabbed onto her sleep shirt, tight fists bunching up the material and holding it possessively. Natasha felt the motions, felt the way the cotton shirt hugged her belly tighter now that most of the slack was taken up by your grip, and you smiled softly against her chest when you felt her breath out evenly.  “Today’s the day we left Ohio.” She started, and immediately your head shot up to search her blue eyes. You’d heard little about Ohio, even littler about the little blonde haired sidekick Natasha found herself protecting for three years, but you knew that what had happened had ruined her. You knew that something as little as moving away was never as simple as it sounded for her. “It was spring break. I left without being able to tell anyone I wouldn’t be coming back. They- They ripped Yelena out of my arms. I– I will always come back for you. You’re the first place that has ever felt like home outside of Ohio. I just– I needed to tell you that I’ll always come back to you.” 

“I will always come back for you.” You meant every word that you said, but you could see a cloud of disbelief hanging over Natasha’s gaze as she let your eyes meet again. There was something different about ehr now, something softer and smaller than you’d ever seen. It wasn’t unpleasant, but you couldn’t bear the thought of her so distraught, you especially couldn’t bear the thought of what she had looked like at only eleven. She’d been so young and the world had been so cruel, you just wanted her to know that she was loved, and she was cherished now. She wasn’t just another soldier anymore. “Nat, can I kiss you?” 

She froze for a minute, arms slackening around your waist as she stared deep into your eyes, an onset of fresh tears threatening to fall from her own, but before you could withdraw your question, before you could backtrack and excuse your vulnerability as simply being exhaustion, she was pulling you impossibly close, settling both of her hands on your cheeks as she cupped your face and settled her forehead against yours. Her touch was familiar and foreign at the same time, a coming of age to all the daydreams you’d fallen into with her at the center of them all. You’d thought about this moment for months, thought about how her calloused palms would feel against every inch of your skin, her she was always cold but not uncomfortably so. Now, beneath the kitchen lights and her greenish-gold gaze, you realized that you’ve wanted her since the very first moment you met her. “I thought you’d never ask.” Her lips, still impressionable with sadness, curled upward into a smirk, but you didn’t waste a second to kiss it away and show her the truth about love and connection. 

Natasha Romanoff had kissed more people then she could keep track of, but never had any of those intimate encounters come voluntarily. For so many years her life had been a means to the mission, but she was free now. Finally, she was entirely free. In so many ways, more than you could even contemplate, you were her first, and desperately you hoped that you would each be each other's last.

[minisugakoobies]

It's You - Choi San | 3 AM

Pairing: San x Reader Genre: smut, crack, fluff, angst, roommates to lovers, BFF’s Lil Bro!AU Series Rating: M (18+) Drabble Warnings: sneaking around, sloppy making out, lots of cuddling and kissing, honestly this is super soft, drunk San is a whole different type of menace, a little angst on OC's part, pet names deployed as weapons (baby) Word Count: 2.1k Disclaimers: SFW, obviously I don’t own ATZ - they just inspire me

Summary: He was only supposed to be a temporary roommate. Your best friend’s little brother, crashing on your couch for a few weeks. That’s it. How did this happen?

A/N: This started with talking about drunk San with @minttangerines and @kiestrokes, and then @moni-logues made me miss this couple, so boom! New vignette! I should warn you that I wrote this over the course of 2 days, entirely between the hours of midnight and 5 am because I've been staying up wayyyy too late to watch the Coachella livestreams (can we talk about Chellateez?! because holy shit!), so it's probably a mess and it's unbeta'd, so… blame any typos or incoherency on my fucked up sleep schedule! 🥱

Lyrics are from "Moondance" by Van Morrison, inspired by that one toktoq of San singing that song, which absolutely killed me.

Taglist is open! Reblog, comment, or send me an ask to be added! You can also send me any ideas/thoughts you might have for a future scenario - who knows, it might end up in a drabble! 💕

It’s You Masterlist 🐈‍⬛ ATZ Masterlist 🐈‍⬛ Main Masterlist

It’s three in the morning, and you’re wide awake, at your desk, working frantically on an article whose deadline is mere hours away. For not the first time tonight, you curse your natural inclination towards procrastination and scrub your hand down your face, wishing you’d chosen a different career. 

There’s some noise outside your door and you realize San must be home. He’d been down at the Blue Bird with Hongjoong, drinking and hanging out with Wooyoung as he bartended. From the way San’s shuffling around, it sounds like Woo had been his typical kind self and given San more generous pours than he should have. A loud “oof” resonates, and you hear the armchair scrape the floor a bit, as if he were setting it back in its place. You wince, hoping he didn’t wake his sister, who has an early shift and needs to be up at dawn.

“Noona. Nooooooona.” Tap tap tappity tap. “Are you up? I can see - I can see your light.” 

San raps on your door, calling out to you in a voice that’s hushed but maybe not quite as quiet as he thinks it is. From his spot on your bed, Nero lifts his head off his paws at the sound, then blinks at you with his bright green eyes. 

“I know. He’s loud as fuck, isn’t he?” With a cluck of your tongue, you quickly hop up and open the door. San must’ve been leaning against it, because suddenly you’ve got a mountain on top of you, a loose-limbed one at that, eagerly but clumsily wrapping its arms around you. “San!” 

“Hiiiii,” San coos into your shoulder, where he’s buried his face. You shudder slightly as his breath tickles your skin exposed by the tank top you wear, and stagger away from the door enough to close it quietly as you can, not an easy task to do given the giant mass of man hanging his dead weight on you. 

“You know, your sister is sleeping just on the other side of this wall,” you remind him, but he doesn’t respond, too busy lathering the column of your neck with tiny kisses. “San. Come on, sit down.” 

With some stumbling from San and a not insignificant effort on your part, the two of you make it over to your bed. Your attempt at coaxing San into a sitting position fails miserably as he promptly splays on his back, pulling you on top of him. Nero hops off the bed in a huff. 

You go down like a sack of flour, not a gram of gracefulness in your fall, but San appears not to notice when your chin bounces off his sternum or your knee rams his thigh. He sighs contentedly, wrapping his arms around your back, tucking you against him.

“Mmmm. So nice,” he murmurs, resting his cheek against the top of your head. 

It’s three in the morning, and you need to finish this damn article. Except that right now, your body is telling you that what you really need is to stay exactly where you are. Because the minute the warmth of San’s embrace surrounded you, your stress melted away. The steady rise and fall of his chest calms you, makes your own breathing slow. You close your eyes, nestling closer to him, sliding your own arms around his waist. You could so easily fall asleep like this. 

But he can’t sleep here. 

“San. San, are you awake?” 

“I’m awake,” he replies, but with closed eyes, which doesn’t really give you a lot of confidence in his response. “I am,” he insists when you shake him, rolling his head away, but he still doesn’t look at you.

“Don’t fall asleep,” you warn him sternly. “I mean it!” 

San smiles, the one that tells you that he knows you’re going to give in to him, which is the smile you tend to see him flash the most often, because you’re weak for him and always giving in. But this isn’t one of those times when you can indulge him. No matter how much you want to. 

“Wish you’d come to the bar tonight. Wanted you there.” 

You knew that. He’d told you as much when he’d texted earlier. Unfortunately, you had to turn him down for the sake of remaining gainfully employed. He’d tried to convince you otherwise at first but finally said he understood. And then sent you a series of sad selfies, each one more pathetic than the last, lips puffing to an extreme. Because he understands the power that pout holds over you.

It’s embarrassing how bad you’re down for this man.

San’s fingers dance idly down your spine, and you sigh, eyes slipping shut again as you speak. “Believe me, I would’ve rather been there with you.” 

He hums, fingertips quickening their light minuet. He mumbles something into your hair, low and unintelligible from the way his lips are smushed against your head, so it takes you a few seconds to realize he’s not talking, he’s singing. 

“... marvelous night for a moondance, with the stars up above in your eyes…” 

“San,” you begin, but before you can warn him not to get any louder, he does so anyway, raising his beautiful voice a little, starting to get into it. 

“A fantabulous night to make romance, 'neath the cover of October skies…”

“Shhh!” Your shushing is cut short by your giggling, as you clap a hand over San’s mouth. “Oh my god, now is not the time for this!” 

This is one of San’s more notable habits - when a song gets stuck in his head, you’ll hear him singing it for days, just walking around the apartment humming the melody or, if he has an audience, belting out the lines. He knows how much you love his sweet tenor. Another fact about you he’s filed away to devastate you with at the most opportune times.

Like when you need to kick him out of your bed. 

He continues singing despite your hand pressing on his lips, slurring the words directly into your palm. His eyebrows are working overtime, top half of his face playfully conveying whatever lyrics are being smothered against your skin. He’s so ridiculous, so over-the-top, even at three in the morning when anyone else would be exhausted, like you felt before he walked into your room, since his energy is infectious and perked you up better than the multiple cups of coffee you downed in your desperate attempt to stay awake. That’s San for you - he’s always giving you something when you need it - his time, his help, his energy. 

So you decide to give him something back, and replace your hand with your mouth, drawing him into a tender kiss, imbuing it with all those things you feel but never say. His muffled singing becomes a hum becomes a moan, at first surprised, then pleased. One of his hands drops to your thigh and with a bit of urgent tugging, he maneuvers you on top of him, chest pressed to chest.

His kissing is only the slightest bit sloppier when he’s been drinking, wetter from his tongue caressing yours with somewhat less skill than usual, but it’s never bothered you. You like seeing this side of him, looser with his inhibitions, with whatever holds him in place - or holds him back. One day you’ll ask him to show you more, when you’re both sober. 

And when things are different. Less… ambiguous between the two of you. 

If you reach that point. 

“Noona.” San whispers, thankfully pulling you from the heavier thoughts threatening to sink you right out of the moment. You open your eyes to look at him as he pecks your cheeks.  “I like kissing you.” 

You grin, letting your forehead knock against his. “Yeah, I kinda noticed.” 

“Aren’t you going to say it back?” The look he gives you would melt the hardest of hearts. This is why you’re not afraid to be needy with San. There’s no reason to be, not when he’s just the same. 

“I like kissing you too,” you declare, kissing the tip of his nose, laughing at the way his eyes cross as he follows your lips. “But now’s not the time for that, either.” 

“Then what time is it?”

Laughing, you gently guide him into a sitting position, keeping your arms looped over his shoulders. His lust is morphing into sleepiness, eyelids drooping as he gazes at you, and your heart goes so soft at the sight of him. 

“It’s time for you to go to bed.” 

“Okay,” he chirps, immediately flopping onto his back again. 

“Ohhhh no, not here. You gotta go. I still have to finish my work, and you…” The words stick in your throat. You can’t be here. You don’t want to say them. You want him to be here. Tonight, and tomorrow, and on and on. 

But that’s a conversation for another time. Not three in the morning.

“You have to go,” you groan, sliding off the bed and grabbing his arms, less gentle and more insistent this time. “Come on, get up!” 

San lets out a whine of protest. “But baby, why can’t I stay here?” 

Oh, he would drop a ‘baby’ now, slipping it in so casually, so naturally, like there’s nothing unusual about him calling you that. As if it’s not something new he only started doing the other day, happening maybe a handful of times since. 

Since the two of you have been doing this undefined thing, there’s really only been one unspoken rule. You sleep in your bed, and he sleeps on the couch. Even on the nights when Haneul’s working the late shift, or she’s over at Jongho’s. You never know if she’ll come home early, so you don’t risk it. It’s just easier this way.

Doesn’t mean you like it, though. 

“Because. If Haneul catches you coming out of here - “

The sound of a door opening makes you freeze right down to your tongue, leaving your sentence unfinished. Your head swivels towards your own door. A pair of feet pad down the hall, getting closer, then fading away, until you hear another door being closed. The bathroom. 

“Noona.” 

You turn to find a sober-looking San staring at you. He reaches out, hands settling on your hips, holding on to you as you stand between his legs. Clinging again. 

“She’s in early today, right?” 

The two of you probably know Haneul’s schedule better than she does. You nod.

“Then I’ll just stay in here. She’ll think I never came home.” 

He makes it sound so simple. So reasonable. He’ll stay here until she leaves. Why didn’t you think of that? Is it because you don’t like thinking of San with someone else, even if said person is an imaginary person who exists solely to provide an excuse that will allow you to get what you want? And if you get what you want now, it’s only going to hurt more when you can’t have it anymore?

Yeah, that’s probably it. 

“I don’t know…” you bite your lip.

“Come on,” he wheedles, drawing you into his lap again, cupping your face with both hands. “Let me stay with you. Don’t you want me?” 

And there it goes, the last remaining bit of your resistance. 

“Okay.”

San seems a little shocked, face lighting up in delight, and you wonder if it’s at how quickly you agreed, or that you agreed at all. Maybe both.

“But we have to be quiet. So, you know…” You trail off, gesturing wordlessly. 

“No moondancing?” He emphasizes the word heavily, lifting a brow, and you roll your eyes but grin as well.

“Right, none of that.”

“Just cuddles?” 

As if he needs to ask. You nod. “But I’m not coming to bed until I finish my work.” You reclaim your seat at your desk, folding your arms over the back of it, trying to give the appearance of someone with a solid backbone, since yours is apparently made of pudding. 

“That’s okay,” San says, already tugging his shirt off, then his pants, until he’s only in his boxer briefs. He peels back your comforter, sliding into the soft sheets, and again the action is so natural, so normal, like he does this every night, that something in your chest constricts. “I’ll just wait for you.” 

Your first thought is that you should inform him that he’s going to be waiting a while, but then again, maybe he won’t. 

You’re feeling suddenly inspired. 

(It’s three in the morning, and you’re falling in love.)

If you liked this fic, please consider reblogging! Likes do not help it get seen by other readers. 💕

Taglist: @sweetnspicy-noona @krystal-a @jennylychee @hiefisch

© 2023-24 by minisugakoobies. Crossposted to AO3. Please do not copy or repost. I do not allow translations of my work.

[lixie-phoria]

━━ ⟡ new year's day ꒱

kissing your boyfriend under the fireworks was straight out of a fairy tail, complete with the pre-climax angst and a tooth-rotting happy ending

felix x gn!reader / warnings - fluff!! / 0.6k words / a/n - happy new year loves 🫶🏼 I'm sorry this is so rushed I wrote it in 15 minutes 😭

"the audacity of that boy," you curse, eyes scanning frantically through the crowd for any sight of a familiar mop of dyed blonde hair, but in vain.

"two more minutes!" someone cheers, and the crowd bursts into a fit of ecstatic chatter and anticipation.

you stand alone, fists anxiously clenching by your side as you try to calm down. felix had been right here, literally 30 seconds ago. but you made the mistake of looking away for a fraction of a second and he was gone. just like that. vanished into thin air.

"pick up pick up pick up," you mutter as you bring your phone to your ear, chewing at your lip anxiously.

you get directed to voice mail.

he was going to get it when you found him.

"60 more seconds! start counting!"

felix couldn't have chosen a worse timing to leave you alone, really. it's your first new year as a couple, and he'd been so excited to kiss you under the fireworks at midnight. he had suggested the entire date. and then he disappeared a minute before the big moment.

"I can't believe this," you whisper to nobody in particular, slinking away to the back of the crowd unnoticed.

curse him and his short height. you would never find him in this mass.

you just hoped he was alright at least.

30 seconds.

nearly everyone is with their partner, the air filled with excitement. your heart falls into a bottomless pit of anxiety.

15 seconds.

the sky is dark, waiting to be lit up at any moment now.

this is ok, you think unconvincingly. maybe something important came up.

you try calling him again. voicemail, again.

3.

2.

1.

the first cracker goes off in a burst of colours, painting the night sky with strokes of purple and gold and pink. it leaves you awestruck, the shades reflecting on the waters of the Han River.

"happy new year!"

but the voice doesn't come from the crowd. it comes from behind you, and you whip around to see your boyfriend standing there with the giddiest smile on his face, bouncing on the balls of his feet. and in his hands is the biggest bouquet of flowers you have ever seen, flowers of all shades and shapes.

"surprise!"

you can barely register what he's doing until he pulls you closer, the bouquet squished between your bodies as his lips meet yours halfway.

fireworks of your own go off behind your eyes as you melt into the kiss, smiling when he groans at the sensation of you tangling your fingers in his roots.

he's here.

you deepen the embrace, ignoring the crinkling of the paper and the fireworks going off in the sky.

he's here, and it's perfect, just as you had imagined it would be.

"sorry I left. wanted this to be worth it," he mumbles, finally pulling away, bashfully handing you the bouquet.

"felix i-"

it's so pretty. you gap at it as the colours of the fireworks paint the flowers in mixed hues.

"happy new year, angel. I love you."

there's very little you can do to stop yourself from throwing yourself at him again, your lips a tangle of love and desperation.

he tastes like the brownies you both had baked that afternoon to bring to the site. he probably ate a few when he went back to the car to get the bouquet. you giggle at the thought. so predictable.

"I love you too, lixie. happy new year."

he's here. he's yours. and it's all you want.

©lixie-phoria, 2024

tags : @foxinnie8 @hamburgers101 @starlostlaiba @jiisungllvr (send an ask to be added/removed)

[jksarchives]

MY HOME, MY COMFORT

PAIRING: jungkook x reader

GENRE: cardiologist doctor jungkook, angsty-fluff

TAGS/WARNINGS: emotional, grief, mass casualties, mention on death of children

WORD COUNT: 2k (excl. synopsis)

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯! 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘯𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦!

𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗖𝗧𝗟𝗬 𝗡𝗢 𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗚𝗜𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗦𝗠 𝗢𝗥 𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗦𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡

SYNOPSIS;

Jungkook, 35, is a cardiologist with a little over a decade of experience in the field.

From a young age, he displayed incredible intelligence, consistently topping his classes and achieving excellent grades. However, it was his empathy and passion to help others that truly shaped his path into medicine.

Now, as a practicing cardiologist, Jungkook is known for his dedication to his patients and his commitment to give people a second chance to live the life they deserve.

You, 34, and Jungkook have been together for almost 18 years — since high school to be specific.

From the early days of medical school to the demanding hours of residency and beyond, you have always been his rock, his confidante, and his pillar of strength. You both shared everything together. But, perhaps most importantly, you were there for him in his darkest moments, offering comfort and sincerity during his panic attacks and moments of doubt.

Despite his expertise in the medical field, Jungkook is not completely immune to the stress and pressure that come with his profession, nor when things don’t always go right.

𐚁₊⊹

────

As the clock struck midnight, a sudden gust of wind howled outside, carrying with it the powerful force of the thunderstorm. The occasional flashes of lightning briefly illuminated the room, casting eerie shadows on the walls.

As the thunderstorm intensified, the wind grew fiercer, and its force was too much for the windows to bear. With a forceful push, the window flung open creating a loud thud, and the curtains danced wildly in the chaotic gusts.

The forceful intrusion of air startled you awake, and your eyes shot open. Before you could fully comprehend anything, a deafening clap of thunder rumbled through the room, rattling the windows and causing your heart to pound in your chest.

Breathing heavily, you quickly moved to close the windows, trying to shut out the storm's ferocity that had invaded your peaceful moment of rest. You then went and sat back down on the bed, your hands clutching the blanket tightly as you tried to calm your nerves.

You glanced at the clock hanging on the wall in front of you, it was well past midnight and your thoughts immediately went to your husband who still wasn’t home.

Grabbing your phone from the nightstand, you checked for any messages and missed calls from him, but there were none. You tried to call and message him, but each attempt went unanswered, and a sense of unease settled in your chest.

It was unusual of him.

Knowing how worried you get about his whereabouts, he was always sure to keep you updated if he was running late or if he was working extra hours. But seeing your phone empty from his calls or messages left you in a pool of anxiety.

You tried to distract yourself, thinking that he might have taken shelter somewhere due to the storm. Perhaps he was at his friend’s house until the weather improved.

But the lack of communication left you feeling uneasy, and your mind began to imagine worst-case scenarios. And outside, the storm intensified, rain hammering against the windows and thunder roaring like an angry beast.

“Where are you Jungkook?” you mumbled to yourself with a trembling voice as you paced around the room. Your worry was growing each passing minute and your heart was restless.

You knew the intensity of his job and how emergencies could keep him at the hospital beyond his usual working hours. You understood the unpredictable nature of his work, but tonight, something felt off.

Just when you felt you could no longer bear the uncertainty, the sound of his car pulling up outside brought a glimmer of relief to your heart. You rushed to the window, peering through the rain-soaked glass as you saw the familiar headlights of his car.

As you hurriedly made your way downstairs, you could hear the rattling of the doorknob, and the door swung open abruptly, startling you. In he walked with slow staggering steps, completely drenched from head to toe, his hair tousled against his forehead.

As he shut the door behind him and dropped his bag, you rushed to him and pulled him into a tight hug, ignoring the fact that he was soaking wet.

“Are you okay? Why didn't you message me that you were going to be late? I was so worried” you said as you peppered his neck with kisses.

But instead of responding, Jungkook gently pushed you away, his eyes distant and pained.

You stared deeply into his eyes, they were red and puffy like he had been crying for a while. His lips were dry and pale, and his body cold. His demeanour was different, unlike his cheery one. He looked grief-stricken, regretful, defeated.

You didn’t know what exactly happened, but you could feel your heart heavy, like you could physically feel the sadness he was radiating.

“Baby, are you okay? What’s wrong?” you asked as you cupped his face with your warm hands, your voice soft yet concerned.

But, again, he gently pushed you to the side and made his way upstairs.

You decided to follow him. Upstairs, you found him in your shared bedroom, slowly taking off his stained white shirt, revealing the dark patches of blood. Your heart sank further, and you walked to him, wrapping your arms around his waist.

“Please, talk to me” you pleaded, tears welling up in your eyes.

But no answer.

You knew he was hurting about whatever that had happened during his shift, and you wanted to be part of his grief — and be there for him throughout.

“I’m just tired, it’s been a long day” he finally answered.

You knew he wasn’t telling you the entire truth, but you didn’t want to push him any more. So you gave him space, and allowed him to open up to you when he’s ready.

“It’s okay. Let me put your clothes in the laundry, and you go have a shower” you said, pulling away.

Jungkook hummed before stripping himself off, leaving him in his boxers. He handed you his wet clothes and went to his wardrobe to grab a clean towel and night clothes.

After putting his clothes in the laundry, you decided to join him in the shower. You knew he needed your comfort more than anything even though he was quiet.

Opening the door to the bathroom, you walked inside and began undressing yourself. Now completely naked, you opened the door to the shower room and stepped inside. There you saw him standing with his arm and head leaned against the wall as the water above showered over him, lost in thoughts. The water splashed against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine, but you continued.

With a tender touch, you slowly wrapped your arms around his torso, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. And in seconds, you felt his tense body relax. You stood together under the warm water, enveloped in a cocoon of love and trust. You could feel his racing heartbeat, and you knew he needed to let it all out.

“Talk to me baby” you whispered gently, your voice barely audible over the sound of the shower.

For a moment, there was silence. But slowly, he turned around to face you, and he looked into your eyes with his puffy ones. The water continued to fall, masking the sound of his breathing and the unspoken emotions that filled the air.

“I’m all ears” you muttered, reaching your hand out to cup his face.

And just like that, the floodgates opened, and he began to sob as he pulled you into his arms, his tears mingling with the water streaming down his face. His chin resting on your shoulder, he cried and cried. You held him tighter, offering a comforting presence.

It was a rare moment of vulnerability. Jungkook had always been an outgoing person that always spread positivity whenever he went. Seeing him cry like this, you knew something had happened that struck his heart.

“Talk to me about it honey” you encouraged him, your eyes watering as you felt your heart torn for him.

“I f-failed Y/n, I f-failed to s-save her” he cried.

Your heart sank at his words, and you hugged him tighter as you softly caressed the back of his head.

“There was a road traffic collision involving a school bus and a truck. The emergency department was packed and busy, everyone was rushing to save the children. I was the lead for my team, and I’ve never felt so anxious and pressured in my life Y/n. These were children I was dealing with, they were all vulnerable. They were bloody, and some of them were barely recognisable because of the extent of their injuries. Their precious lives were then in my hands and I was scared, but I couldn’t show it” he said.

“Me and my team did our very best, we took no break and focused on reviving the children. But I f-failed. Their tiny bodies were too fragile and weak to hold on to such kind of pain. Only three out of the twenty children survived. I failed Y/n, I failed to save them no matter how much I tried. I’ll never forgive myself for it” he continued, crying louder in anguish as he hugged you tighter.

Your eyes slightly widened in realisation.

You remembered watching the news earlier about the accident, and you remembered feeling your heart sink to the pit of your stomach looking at the ruins of the bus.

As you listened to him intently, your heart broke for the loss of young lives and the emotional toll it was taking on him. His dedication to his profession was one of the things you admired most about him, but it also meant that he often carried the weight of life and death on his shoulders.

Tears streamed down your own face, you tried to remain strong for him.

“Hey,” you said as you pulled him away, “what happened was very tragic, but it’s not your fault, okay?” you began, cupping his face.

“You’re only human, and you can't save everyone no matter how much and how hard you try. You can't blame yourself for the things that are beyond your control” you told him.

He looked at you, and you could see the raw pain in his eyes.

“But I'm supposed to be their saviour, their protector. I should have done more, tried harder” he grieved.

“Babe listen,” you began, placing your index finger under his chin and lifting his head slightly.

“You’re not a God my love” you softly said, “you have dedicated your life to healing, and you've made a difference in so many lives. But you're allowed to feel sad and overwhelmed when you can't save everyone. It doesn't make you any less of an amazing doctor or person” you told him.

Jungkook closed his eyes, shaking his head as he choked on his cries.

“The hardest part was delivering the news to their parents. Their cries, their screams…it was hard Y/n. I feel like I failed them too” he sobbed as he pressed his forehead against yours.

“No, you haven’t failed my love. You did your best, you gave your all. But you can’t control everything, you can’t fix everything and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you failed, remember, you’re just a human” you said.

You could feel his sorrow, and you knew that words alone couldn't heal his wounded soul. In the moment of brief silence, you tenderly kissed his shoulder, his neck, and his cheek, hoping your touch could offer some solace, some comfort amidst the storm of guilt he was experiencing.

As you both stood under the soothing water, he stayed hugging you by the waist, finding solace in your embrace as he buried his face deeper in the crook of your neck. You held him tight, wishing you could take away his pain and bear it for him.

“It’s not your fault” you kept whispering in his ear as his cries slowly turned into sniffles.

You knew that healing from such pain would take time, but you were determined to be there for him every step of the way.

“You did your best and that’s all that matters” you caressed his cheeks with the pads of your thumbs.

As his cries subsided, you leaned in and pressed a tender kiss on his lips, followed by another, and another.

“I love you, and I truly admire everything that you and all the lives you continuously save. You might not be able to save everyone, but you’re still a hero” you smiled at him, leaning in and pressing another kiss on his lips.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you baby, thank you. Thank you for always listening to me and being there for me, it means a lot” he said, giving you a small smile.

“I love you” he then said, your lips soon meeting in a long passionate kiss, expressing the depth of your connection and love for each other.

Pulling away, he stared deeply into your eyes, and you couldn’t help trace your fingers over his sharp features.

“I’ll always be here for you” you whispered.

Together, you continued to wash each other, a tender and intimate act that spoke volumes about your love and bond. The water washed away not only the physical dirt but also the emotional burdens he carried throughout the day.

𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧𝗦 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗩𝗘𝗗

@𝗷𝗸𝘀𝗮𝗿𝗰𝗵𝗶𝘃𝗲𝘀 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟰

©️

(insta: jeonjkfiles)

[aesopsharpmybeloved]

No More Hiding

Things get a little uncertain for Father Paul and you, after you are caught red handed by no one other than Beverly Keane.

Requested by anonymous

I'm back and I am healthy (almost). I got a bit out of practice, so this may be a little wonky, but I hope you'll forgive me :) Also, please check out this post, I am open to some nsft Father Paul content, teehee.

No More Hiding - 3.7K

tw: suggestive themes (mention), humanising Beverly Keane, cheesy as heck, a lot of triple dots

What is it with priests on Crockett Island? Beverly thought, gravel crunching underneath her feet as she walked away from Saint Patrick’s church hastily. Bev Keane was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them - she was aware there was some funny business going on with the young priest who arrived on Crockett almost a year ago and that writer lady, but she could never be entirely sure. Until today, that is. Bev felt a fresh wave of anger as she remembered the scene she witnessed no more than ten minutes ago.

—

How could she have forgotten her bag? Bev shook her head at herself. She went home after wrapping up the daily mass on Saturday, and when she tried to reach into her handbag to pull out the keys to her home, she froze. There was nothing hanging on her shoulder. How did she not notice? In her head she suddenly saw the image of her bag, sitting on a table in the back of the church, entirely forgotten. With a sigh and an eye roll, Bev turned around and began walking towards Saint Patrick’s again.

She entered through the back door, and immediately saw her canvas bag, exactly where she’d left it. After grabbing it, Beverly was just about to go home again, but then:

A giggle.

A soft, feminine giggle sounded from the main room of Saint Patrick’s. Curious as to what’s going on there, The teacher crept towards the door leading to the front and put her hand against the handle. Very, very slowly, she pushed it and pulled the door open, just a little. She peeked out. The sight before her shook her to the core and Bev felt fury immediately settling in.

Sitting in a pew closest to the altar was Father Paul, still in his green chasuble, and next to him was (F/N)(L/N). Which, Beverly supposed, would be fine, if the priest (the PRIEST for goodness sake!) wasn’t currently pushing his tongue into her mouth and her hands weren’t messing up his raven hair. The teacher was frozen to the spot as she watched the two people exchanging passionate kisses, sometimes producing soft pleasured hums. What finally snapped Bev out of her shock was the sight of Father Paul’s hand settling on (F/N)’s knee, before pushing her skirt up as it moved forward onto her thigh.

Beverly pushed the door open all the way and coughed loudly. With malicious satisfaction she watched the couple practically jump away from each other and turn their heads in her direction, their eyes widening in horror. “B-Bev?!” yelped the priest, his face turning red, as did the young woman’s. “T-this- this isn’t what it looks like!” his hand, which left the girl’s thigh was now outstretched towards Beverly in a surrendering manner. Despite the furious storm within her, the teacher felt strangely calm as she took calculated steps towards the couple.

“Father, if you insist on indulging yourself in breaking your holy vows, it’d be nice if you had at least enough respect not to do so in God’s house,” she said, her voice cold as ice, her expression stony. The priest coughed: “Bev I-...W-we were just-” “ Don’t! Don’t… ” the teacher hissed and began walking off through the front of the church,clutching her bag in a vice grip. She shut the door with a bang.

Father Paul watched Beverly leave and winced as the old wooden doors banged shut. You then saw him wilt before your eyes. He put his elbows on his knees and placed his face in his hands. Your own hand found his shoulder and began stroking it, trying to comfort him, despite knowing that not even your touch would be able to comfort him now. Still, the priest leaned into your hand and soon raised his head to hide his face in your neck instead. You slowly stroked the hair at the nape of his neck.

“We’re screwed,” said Paul against your skin, his voice soft and tired. “Yeah,” you whispered back.

—

Bev’s idea of going home was long forgotten as she stalked across Crockett Island, glaring daggers at everyone who dared as much as acknowledge her, the teacher was seething with rage. What was it with priests on Crockett Island? She knew the old Monsignor Pruitt hadn’t exactly been celibate either, and that the island’s doctor Sarah Gunning had been the result. She found out during one of Monsignor’s episodes, when he’d weep softly and call for Mildred, apologising for not having been there for her. For their daughter.

Back then, she acknowledged this, not knowing how she felt about it. On one hand, the Monsignor went against his vows, sired a child who was then raised by a different man, and obviously never stopped lusting for said man’s wife. On the other hand, what was there to be done now? The Monsignor was old and frail, dementia claiming his mind little by little, and Mildred Gunning? Well, she was in no better state. George Gunning was long gone and Sarah was a grown woman, who grew up in a happy family with a loving mother and father, blissfully oblivious she was the illegitimate child of their local priest.

However, it was different now. God, Bev wished she hadn’t forgotten her bag in the morning. Suspecting something fishy is going on is better than actually knowing it - makes it easier to ignore. But now she knew. She knew Father Paul, a priest who was supposed to be Crockett Island’s spiritual leader, image of morality and virtue, was fornicating with a heathen, a faithless woman, who like a succubus seduced the holy man to sin.

Bev was already forming a plan in her head, a plan to inform the dioceses about the blasphemy happening right there in God’s house, if not to outright get the priest excommunicated, to at least stop this illicit affair. But then she heard a sound behind her, a girl’s high-pitched laughter. She turned around.

What she saw made her stop. It was Leeza Scarborough, laughing and squealing as she drove circles around Warren Flynn on his own bicycle. The youngest Flynn was looking at her fondly, his gaze filled with pride: “I told you you could do it!” Oh… Leeza regained the feeling in her legs during one of Father Paul’s sermons. Since then, she came out of her shell so much, yet she still remained a good, devoted Christian, never missing a single daily mass. She was smiling and laughing more, but still she prayed harder than anyone else. She even found it in her heart to forgive Joe Collie, the man who crippled her in the first place! Beverly would never!

Speaking of Joe Collie, Bev only now realised she was standing a short distance away from the general store, where said man was currently chatting up their Muslim sheriff. After Leeza forgave the town drunk, he… he actually stopped drinking. He began attending the AA sessions Father Paul started, along with Riley Flynn, and while Bev was sure he was bound to relapse, to her utmost surprise he actually stayed sober since then. He looked a little different, his clothes were cleaner, his hair and beard neater. He even started working again, on one of the fishing boats. He looked like he dropped a few pounds too. The biggest change was his face. He too was smiling more.

Bev bit her lip, deep in thought, reminiscing of the past year. Since Father Paul came to the Island, there was a change in atmosphere. After Leeza’s recovery, it was like a religious renaissance had happened. The church was usually nearly full on Sundays and more people started attending daily mass as well, Bev had to start ordering more than double the usual amount of communion wine and hosts, and even had to get some low-gluten wafers after several inquiries. Some of the people who moved away after the spill actually came back to their old homes, because the fishermen began returning from the sea with full nets of fish and crabs, just like they used to many years ago. The community was blooming.

The teacher looked around. In the gazebo of Crockett Island’s little park sat Riley Flynn with Erin Greene and her daughter… Their daughter, essentially. The child wasn’t Riley’s, yet he treated her as his own, loved her as his own blood. He moved into the Greene home and Annie even mentioned once that Erin was in the middle of divorcing her ‘nasty work of a husband’ so she could marry Riley instead, so they could become a proper family once and for all. The little girl, whom Riley Flynn was currently bouncing on his knee, had two godparents, and since only one of them had to be a practising catholic, it was Ed Flynn and the other was nobody else than (F/N)(L/N).

(F/N) had also started to help out in the school, taking upon herself some of Erin’s classes so the woman could focus on her little girl. The children actually really liked her. Bev would often hear laughter from the other classroom and most of the kids left it with a smile on their faces. When she wasn’t helping Erin, she was usually helping someone else, assisting Sturge in some maintenance work, helping Annie with inventory in the general store, even joining the Flynn men for a few fishing trips! Bev saw her once at the docks, and had to admit the young woman looked quite the natural in her work clothes.

Her previously malevolent intentions turned into conflicting thoughts. Beverly had to sit down. In a much slower pace, she finally walked home. Bev’s home wasn’t exactly filled with many decorations or personal effects. There were a few photos here and there, of her parents and her, when she was a little girl. There was a photo with Monsignor Pruitt, where she was bracing him by the arm, smiling into the camera. The older priest had his hand gently placed against hers, a kind smile on his own face. Bev rather missed the old man.

Despite the fact that the Monsignor too succumbed to the temptation of flesh, he never stopped being a good priest. And a good man. He never once refused to offer a helping hand, he was always ready to be of support. He was a rock for Beverly when she lost her parents, much too early. She could rely on him when she was all alone, when she had nobody else. Maybe that’s what really drove her to church so much… Most things in her house were of religious theme, verses were framed on her walls, there were crucifixes placed throughout the entire home, Bev only had records of gospel music laid by the old record player which belonged to her mother.

Beverly sat down in her armchair, the room so quiet  one could hear a pin drop. The truth was that Father Paul, despite his immoral indulgence in carnal desires, was still a good priest. He took care of his parish, took care of his flock. Always ready to help and provide support… just like the Monsignor.

And (F/N)? Beverly scoffed unhappily. As much as she wasn’t fond of the girl and the fact she seduced a holy man, she had to admit that (F/N) was… a part of Crockett Island now. She came when everyone else left, this was her home, and the people accepted her as their own. She was popular. Beverly was not, she was aware of that. She knew that most people only tolerated her because she played such a big part in the church, and because she taught their children. She didn’t have friends, or a family, but she had this. And that was good enough for her.

However, if she were to… if she were to report Father Paul Hill to the dioceses, if she managed to actually get him out of Crockett Island… She probably wouldn’t be tolerated anymore… No, Beverly would be hated . There was a big possibility the people would be more willing to accept an uncelibate priest whom they adored, rather than have this beloved priest taken away. And God knows who’d take his place then? If it came down to taking sides, Bev had no qualms that people would actually take hers and not Father Paul’s. She’d then drop lower than Joe Collie, who was slowly but surely gaining more sympathy ever since he became sober. She’d be the town pariah. Not Joe, not Riley, but Beverly .

She put her face into her hands. Was she going to actually ignore this? Was she really just going to let them continue committing sins? Then again… everyone sinned, didn’t they? To sin was human after all, and the heavenly father forgives all those who try to make amends. And Father Paul and (F/N)(L/N)... they made amends constantly by all the work they put into this small community… The teacher sighed deeply. She supposed she could try to just … ignore it. She didn’t agree with what they were doing, but she could ignore it, for the sake of everyone else… Speaking of everyone else, Beverly wondered who else knew of this little affair. Erin Greene? Possibly, her and (F/N) were joined at the hip. And if Erin knew, then Riley Flynn maybe knew as well. Who else?

It was decided then. Bev looked up and released another deep sigh. In a way, she felt… lighter? Calmer? What was with this feeling of acceptance? She should still be angry, she should be hating every moment she allows this to continue, but she just wasn’t. In a way, she was… content. It was better for Crockett Island if Father Paul stayed, and, well, Bev reluctantly supposed it was better if (F/N) stayed too. She didn’t even realise the corners of her lips were turning up slightly. Sighing for the last time, she got up from her chair and walked to the record player. Maybe there were still some of her mother's old records somewhere, Bev thought, maybe she could use some non-gospel music for a little change.

—

Any day now, you and Paul expected some nasty letter from the dioceses, or maybe a surprise visit from the bishop. Or a phone call, inquiring whether it was true that the priest was in a forbidden affair with a woman.. But nothing happened. You haven’t really discussed what would happen to your relationship, because the thought was too terrifying, but you became so much more careful about it. You didn’t dare to touch one another unless you were in the rectory or your house, doors locked and curtains closed. You wouldn’t hold each other’s hand during walks, you didn’t feel safe expressing any physical affection even in front of the friends who knew of your relationship.

It sucked, not being able to snuggle up to the priest when you were outside in the woods, definitely alone, but unwilling to take any risks. You missed his warmth, the smell of him when he held you close, you missed the stolen kisses. You wouldn't even go to the Uppards, even though you’d never be caught there, especially by Beverly. It sucked.

On the other hand, you learned how to show affection in public through other ways. Like a deep look into each other’s eyes and a single slow blink - like a quick peck on the lips. A smile and head slightly cocked to the side - an ‘I love you’. It wasn’t the real thing, but it was lovely nonetheless. A week passed, then two and… nothing. No letters, no phone calls, no visits. In fact, it was very quiet. The priest served his homilies as usual, Bev helped him as she always did. She talked to him and treated him the same as ever, as if she never caught the two of you, as if it had all been a bad dream.

Yet, the two of you remained cautious, always checking over your shoulder. By the third week, you were going mad. As you lay in your bed, mind for once calm and quiet after a tender lovemaking, with Paul drawing little patterns on your bare back with his fingertips, you suddenly spoke: “We should talk to her.” “Hm?” asked Paul, and turned his head a little to look at you. “To Bev,” you clarified. Paul sighed and closed his arms around you. “Why?” he asked finally. You adjusted yourself in his hold and rested your chin on his collarbone to look into his eyes: “Well, it’s been a while. If she told someone, the dioceses… they would’ve been here by now, wouldn’t they? Or call, at least? She’d be smug about it, I think. But she’s, you know… normal. Well Bev-normal anyway.”

Paul nodded and closed his eyes. “Hm… That’s going to be very uncomfortable,” he said at last. You pulled yourself up to press a kiss against his perfect mouth, making him smile softly. “Yeah… but we’ll face it together.”

—

It was… very very awkward. You were sitting on the uncomfortable metal chairs in the recreation centre, you and Paul next to each other, Beverly Keane opposite of you. You were so nervous. The priest grabbed your hand, which was gripping your knee painfully, in silent support. Bev frowned for a bit, but didn’t say anything. You took a deep breath, it was now or never. “Miss Keane, we wanted to talk to you about what you saw in Saint Patrick’s some time ago. There’s no point in lying. What you saw was exactly what it looked like, Father Paul and I, we… we’re lovers. And have for a long time.” Paul nodded next to you and squeezed your hand tighter.

Beverly nodded as well: “I’ve gathered as much. Why are we here?” You swallowed in nervousness and took a breath to answer, but Paul beat you to it: “You are a very devout woman, Beverly. I am breaking my vows. Yet, you still… help me in church, you treat the two of us the same… You didn’t tell anyone?” Bev’s eyes were piercing, you felt quite tiny under her scrutinising gaze. Finally, she looked down at her hands which were neatly folded in her lap: “No, I didn’t… Not really for your sake, though. I don’t approve of this. I didn’t tell anyone because… Crockett Island relies on you, Father. And, to a certain amount, on you as well (F/N)(L/N). I will keep quiet about this… However, you must know that if I… caught you, someone else will too, eventually. So you may, at the very least, attempt to be… decent.”

You bit your lip. Bev was right, it was only a matter of time before the relationship would be found out. But then again, you didn’t think there were that many people left to find out. Over the months, you received more and more knowing looks, from both friends and acquaintances. One time a woman named Betty, who ran the island’s teeny-tiny beauty salon and attended Sunday masses pulled you aside to tell you what a lucky woman you were, having a good looking man like that. In fact, the only person you were seriously hiding your love from was currently promising she’ll keep her mouth shut about it. It was nearly surreal.

After some more awkward and uncomfortable talking, during which you revealed to Beverly that your relationship began after the Easter vigil (by which she was surprised, since she suspected something was going on much earlier), you parted ways in a rather civil manner. As you left the rec centre, Paul took your hand in his right away, leading you to the woods for a stroll. You smiled and leaned into him, thankful to feel his warmth again.

Over the following weeks, you settled back into your routine, except you were way more relaxed. Someone saw you holding hands, or sharing an embrace and a kiss from time to time, but they never once commented on it. Well, most of the time. One time you pressed a kiss to Paul’s cheek when you thought you were alone, in front of the general store, just to hear a wolf-whistle behind you. “Knew it,” came Joe Collie’s voice, as he left the shop and walked away jovially, Pike following behind him with a wagging tail. “He didn’t know shit,” said sheriff Hassan, leaning against the doorframe, “I knew, though.” You stuck your tongue out at him, making Paul chuckle.

—

Hard to believe it had been a year already, you thought as you stood by the gazebo, a sooty cross drawn on your forehead. There were more people attending the Crock Pot Luck this year, as the town’s population grew slightly. You observed them fondly, feeling at peace. Feeling utterly home. One year ago exactly, you were sitting at one of the tables, sipping wine and chatting with Father Paul. Back then, you only ever allowed yourself to think of him in secret, today he lived in your mind rent-free and you were far from being mad about it.

Speaking of Father Paul, a pair of long arms wrapped themselves around your waist from behind and soft lips brushed against the back of your neck. You smiled and put your hands over his. He came around, keeping one arm around you and pulled you close for a real kiss. And what a kiss it was, sweet and passionate at the same time, and it filled your heart with utmost joy. When you pulled back, you noticed a number of people looking at the two of you. Some of them had a knowing expression and a smile on their faces, some were wide eyed, but said nothing. Others simply returned to minding their own business. Bev Keane was one of the latter. You smiled at your lover and he mirrored you.

“No more hiding, huh? You asked quietly. His smile grew: “No more hiding.” You stroked his smooth cheek. “The secrecy was kind of thrilling though,” you teased. The priest chuckled, “we can do a little bit of hiding, as a treat,” he promised. You giggled airily and pressed one more kiss to his lips before grabbing his hand and leading him to one of the tables.

No more hiding.

Hello again! Hope it wasn’t that horrible lol. You can check out this story and the entire series on AO3. Thank you for being patient with me <3 

Tagged: @i-was-ok-then-i-saw-hamish​

I will feed you a sugarcube and scratch your head for feedback ;-;

Also, please, if you're on insta, go and report account named 32181045, who hacked Hamish's account, got Hamish deleted and gloats about it in their stories.

[acowardinmordor]

Continuing from This, but definitely not resolving anything yet.

You Left Me, You Miss Me

Part One - Part Two - Part Three

----

Steve’s eyes watered and he pinched his lips tighter, restraining his reaction. But he didn’t break. He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He refused. 

Robin crammed the next marshmallow into her cheek, barely managing to get her lips back together around the mass of sugar fluff, and kept the game going. 

First one to swallow, chew, laugh, or fail to fit the next marshmallow would lose. 

They hadn't decided what the winner was going to get, but neither of them were willing to lose. Even in stupid games they invented while exhausted and tipsy and giggly after midnight. 

He had Robin, and that made the rest of it easier to bear. 

Painless? No. 

But he didn’t spend his days wallowing in agony and crying into pillows. It ached the way a bruise did; a constant dull throb in the background, and only vivid if something smacked into it. He’d walked off worse. He carried deeper scars. He could grin and laugh and act like it was normal on the rare times he saw the others. 

And he could grin and laugh and be normal around Robin. 

She’d taken a gap year, and was planning to clear some gen ed credits at a community college in the spring, then make new choices. Steve was planning to follow her. 

That was what had them drinking and shoving marshmallows in their faces. She chose a place closer to Indianapolis, they’d called around and had a list of places they might be able to rent, and while any and all ice cream shops were forever banned, there were plenty of places where they could work. 

Steve nodded to acknowledge her successful marshmallowing, and reached for another of his own. 

It was the seventh. 

It was ambitious.

It did not go well. 

An hour later -- after a burst of giggling gave both of them utterly disgusting, half-choking, half-spitting marshmallow down themselves fits -- they changed into new pajamas, washed faces, drank water, and ate a few chips to chase off the sugar coating their tongues, they curled up in Steve’s bed. 

“We should drive up tomorrow,” Robin mumbled. 

“We have work. Birdie.”

“Ugh, fine. Thursday. We both have Thursday off.”

“Sure. Thursday."

"We’ll go find a place to live so we can get out of this town.”

“Anything’ll be better than here.”

“You sure you don’t want me to go over and--”

“Nah, it’s fine Robs. It happens. We’re gonna go live something better.”

“Damn right we… are…” She trailed off as she fell asleep, laying across his chest. 

It wasn’t the end of the world. He knew, in graphic detail, what that was like. This was life. This was kids growing up and finding friends that fit in better. This was all of them letting go of the desperate grip on each other that shared trauma had caused.

This was healing. 

Steve was a bit part in the movie of their lives. An extra who wandered in to keep them safe, sent on his way when the danger passed. It wasn’t their fault that they meant more to him than he did to them. The whole definition of who he was, and who he wanted to become changed because of them. They were everything for him, and he'd give everything to them.

He wished there was something he could give them, but the closest he could manage was departure.

He wasn’t mad at them, so he never let Robin see how it broke his heart. She’d have grabbed his bat and started hunting. She knew they weren’t inviting him around as much. She knew they were being distant. She knew that Steve tried at first, then stopped. She knew he was upset, she just didn’t - couldn’t - know how much. 

It wouldn’t do any good. 

And in a few weeks, top of the new year at the latest, they’d be living in Franklin, Indiana, assuming they didn’t decide last minute to move into the city itself. He would close the book on this part of his life, and start a new one. One where the guy he used to be wasn’t a permanent stain, and he could make friends without tragedy pushing them together.

He'd never find anyone else like Robin, but maybe he could have friends who would want to keep him, just because they liked him.

---

Part Three

there will be more. don't know when. and I'm so bad at Tag lists that I just don't do them anymore. sorry ducklings.

ps if someone has a suggested name so I can tag these blips of story, that'd be great.

[void-wolfie]

Look At The Stars. Look How They Shine For You.

summary: you surprise tara with a midnight date.

pairings: tara carpenter x gn!reader

tw: none, just fluff

words: 1.05k

a/n: threw this together in the middle of the night, not the best writer either, don't judge me too hard

Tink. Tink. Tink.

You were about to throw another pebble when the window finally slid open revealing your girlfriend in her pajamas, clearly not expecting company.

"y/n, what the hell are you doing?" she was whisper-shouting, trying not to wake the whole neighborhood from your antics.

"Come on, there's something I wanna show ya." She didn't move, and you were starting to wonder if this was a good idea, "Please?"

She sighed, rolling her eyes, though you thought you could make out a small smile, "Give me five minutes,"

You silently cheered, going back to wait by your truck.

"Where we going, babe?" Tara asked sleepily from the seat next to you.

The minute she settled into the passenger seat she was already half asleep, but you didn't mind. It was the middle of the night after all. You threw on some quiet music and focused on the road.

"Do you trust me?"

A small, tired smile, "I trust you."

You intertwined your fingers with hers, bringing her hand up to your lips to kiss her knuckles, "Thank you,"

Trust doesn't come easy, you know that, especially for her. You were simply happy that out of all the people to let in, she chose you.

You slowed to a stop, putting the truck in park before turning it off. Looking over to your right you noticed Tara had dozed off, huddled against the car door fast asleep.

Part of you felt bad for dragging her out of bed in the middle of the night. But you were too excited to listen to that part of you.

You grabbed the blankets and pillows from the backseat, tossing them into the truck bed and laying them out on the blowup mattress nice and neat.

When you were finally satisfied you went to the passenger side of the car, gently opening the car door.

"Tara, love, we're here."

She groaned a bit, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, "Where's here?"

It was all empty fields and grass as far as the eye could see, the faint outline of trees and forest just off in the distance.

"A bit of land my family owns, come on, I wanna show you something."

She turned to look at you with a sleepy smile, dazed and only half awake, "What could you possibly have to show me at 2:30 in the morning?"

"Can't ruin the surprise now, can I?"

She looked at you like she was contemplating it.

"It involves blankets and cuddles," you said, knowing she'd cave in an instant for that.

"Carry me?" She made those adorable little grabby hands at you, and you couldn't help but fold. She was too cute not to.

"Alright." She wrapped herself around you like a koala to a tree, her tiny frame hugging you like she never wanted to let go.

You dropped down the tailgate and set her on the edge. It was only a matter of seconds before she turned around and cocooned herself into the mass of blankets.

You kicked off your shoes before climbing in and joining her. She wrapped herself around you once again. You noticed she had stolen your hoodie, the one you keep in your truck just in case. You didn't mind, if anything, you loved how she looked in it.

"So, you kidnap me and take me out to the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, all cause you want to cuddle in the bed of your truck?"

"Kinda.” You were nervous, scared that maybe she’d think this was all stupid. But you shrugged those worries off, she wouldn’t be out here if she didn’t want to spend time with you, “You just can't see the stars this good in the city."

That caught her attention. She never thought to look up, too distracted by the sight of you and the idea of sleep.

She wouldn't admit it out loud, but you were right. You just don't see stars like this in the city. There was nothing quite like it. She could easily look at them for hours.

In the city, you're lucky to see a few stars in the sky, maybe a constellation if it's a good night and there's not much light around. But out here, you could see them all. Stars glittered across the night sky by the millions.

You looked at her to see her staring at the sky above. It made your heart melt a little.

"See those stars right there, the ones that look like an hourglass," you pointed out the constellation, getting a small nod in response, "That's Orion, the hunter. Greek mythology says that he died when he stepped on a scorpion, and the gods felt bad, so they put him in the stars with his two dogs."

"Those stars right there, the ones that kinda look like a stick figure dog, that's Canis Major, the big dog, he's one of Orion's hunting dogs."

"And that one there, the one that looks like a funky trapezoid and a backwards question mark, that's Leo, the lion. According to mythology, he was killed by Hercules in a series of tasks that the gods gave him."

She glanced over at you, watching you gaze at the stars. She found it...enchanting. You looked at the stars like they held the answers to the universe. The stars seemed to shine that much brighter reflecting off your hazel eyes.

"How do you know so much about the stars?"

"My mom taught me."

"I'm sorry."

"It's ok." You pressed a kiss to the top of her head, pulling her ever so slightly closer, "She would've loved that I brought you out here."

Your mom passed away when you were young. You didn't have many memories of her, the few you did you held onto for dear life. When you were little she'd bring you out here and teach you about the stars and constellations. Sometimes, she'd even bring that telescope hidden up in the attic and point out distant galaxies or even the occasional planet.

Those were some of your favorite memories.

"We don't have to stay out here if you don't want to." You murmured, not knowing if she was bored or not.

"It's ok. It's beautiful."

"I'm glad you like it."

[espinosaurusrexex]

All the Words I Can't Say

College!SteveRogers x Female!Reader AU

summary: Steve can't help it. He is just so enchanted that all he ever draws is you. Too bad he will never actually talk to you, though - that's too scary. But Bucky always says he has to face his fears some day...

a/n: I have a playlist for College!SteveRogers. It was originally for another fic I’ve written, but apparently I can’t not imagine him awkward and love struck in any college universe. So this serves as a general College Stevie AU vibe :) 

word count: 2.6k

warnings: awkward, love-dazed Stevie, fluff?, swearing, and so sorry (but it's giving slight stalker vibes... it really wasn't my intention he's just so obsessed)

･ﾟ✫* 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 | 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒗𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ｡✭･ﾟ･

He dreams in color. They are the words he can’t say, painted on a canvas.

Blue fades in clear water. Like a feeling warming you for a second, a spark. It’s beautiful, Steve thinks. He loves it when his brush does it. He feels like a wizard when the pigment dissolves into the clear again - as if it had never been there before. Hidden in the masses of molecules, disguised only as long as it stays in its entity. Not too much - too much is never good. 

Another drop lands in the water, but now it starts to taint in washed color. Steve still loves it - it’s still magical. But there is something he loves even more. And it’s right there in front of him - not really. But almost. Depicted in oranges and browns, purples and blues, yellows, greens and reds - your eyes stare back at him with adoration. And Steve’s heart skips. Then it clenches and stops. It always does that... when the admonition flashes in his mind. 

It’s not real.

He has to remind himself too often. But he can’t help it. It’s too comforting to live in his fantasies - warm and safe - all he ever needed. Now it hurts with every stroke he dares. It’s not like he hasn’t done it dozens of times before. A notebook filled with sketches hidden beneath the mattress in his bedroom serves as proof of this. It never does anything other than remind him of what will never be a reality, though. You in his arms, you with love painted on your face for him. 

His thumb strokes over the dried paint on the canvas but a part of his finger still smudges it. Damn it, he hasn’t checked his fingers. Now there’s purple on your face, out of place and destroying - but daring all the same. It looks quite beautiful beneath your eyes, makes them shine brighter, makes your smile softer somehow. 

Steve sighs. The purple streak is going to stay for now. He washes his brushes out in the sink, recapping the bottles of paint scattering the studio he’s in. And before long, he flicks the lights off and locks the door. Professor Potts gave him the key for ‘when he needed to let it all out again’. He needs to show her some work soon.

It’s dark out when he reaches the path to his dorm. Stars shine as bright as they can against the unrelenting city lights. It’s hopeless. Just like Steve’s track of time when he paints you, the stars don’t stand a chance. It’s well over midnight when Steve unlocks his room. Bucky would be up. He has been out, drinking with Sam. But even if he would have stayed home, he probably couldn’t sleep... like always. So, Steve doesn’t bother being quiet. 

“Another late-night date with the canvas?” The brunette peers over his phone, though his eyes hold concern for Steve. He has told him hundreds of times before. Go out. Meet people. Don’t dig yourself deeper into this hopeless crush. But Steve never listened. He likes his hopelessness. And, besides, even if he tried to get over you, he knows it wouldn’t be possible. 

His smile finds the ground before he disappears into the bathroom where his sunken eyes stare back at him. He would be dreaming about you tonight - he always does when he paints you. And he looks forward to it, too. 

❁ ❁ ❁

You pass by him once again. It’s weird, because Steve swears he’s smiling, but his mouth won’t listen. He looks like an idiot. If only he could talk to you - Yeah, no. that isn’t an option. Because just thinking about it makes his heart go crazy fast. It’s scary because you’re so beautiful. And he knows he shouldn’t size himself down to leagues and scales, but how can he not when literally all of college is all about it? Bucky says he should grow some balls and ask you out or leave it be. But here’s the thing: he can’t leave it be - and he can most definitely not talk to you. It’s too scary - too foreign.

His brush dips back into lilac. He embraces the smudge now. Hated it for a while - but then it grew on him. Now it needs more shades. His tongue darts out as he tries to precisely draw along the curve of your cheekbone. He gets a little excited and his hand wants to shake, but he can hold it steady, he has practiced it enough.

Now another stroke. And another. Steve finds amusement in the color pouring onto his canvas. The smudge might have been the best mistake he’s ever made. Then again, there are no mistakes in painting. Accidents are meant to happen. They show the painter what their mind wants to see. 

“Is that... me?” Steve’s hands go flying and the brush throws purple all around him.

Oh no. Code red code red code red - that’s a fucking code red!

You just stand there as Steve flinches with the wooden brush hitting the floor, paint sprinkles covering your face - stunned, silent. This is a nightmare. He’s holding his breath. Really, there’s nothing he can do but hope he won’t pass out from the way your eyes bore into his wide and shocked. Though there is a softness in them still. You’re not angry - at least he doesn’t think so. Maybe, if he’s still a little longer, he’ll just disappear. 

That doesn’t happen. Obviously. Because god hates him.

His mouth opens, but there is not a sound formed by his tongue. He should apologize - he needs to apologize. God, but your eyes look too pretty with the purple accentuating your skin. He’s not even mad about it. He could look at it forever, look at you forever. Not that he doesn’t already do exactly that for the majority of his day. But still. 

“Are you okay?” You blink out of your trance and now Steve is panicking even more. “No need to apologize, by the way, I’m fine. Just got caught in a paint grenade.” Your eyes wander down your body and now Steve can see the fine blotches of lilac seeping into your shirt. It's white - shit. 

“I-” He’s trying, he really is. But something isn’t working up there. He just short circuits - wires smoking and all. It’s a complete mess. No wonder he can’t talk. And then your pretty gaze - he just needs to feel it and he’s melting away and, oh shit did you just see the painting? There are several stages of disaster but on a measure from failing a test to your mom dying, this is a six on the Richter scale. Why can’t he just say something?

He opens his mouth again and a weird noise escapes his tongue. What the fuck was that? By the look on your face, he can tell you’re just as surprised. But then your shoulders sag and you sigh.

“I shouldn’t have startled you like that, that was my fault. But this,” your gesture towards your shirt, “this is yours.” He swallows thickly, you seem to be really mad about that shirt. “You really speared nothing but that canvas.”

Now his body turns to the project propped up behind him. The canvas, right. You stare back at him, and now that you actually stand so close before him, he’s impressed at how lifelike he made your portrait. He’s surrounded by you, staring him down, but somehow your presence calms him. One last look at the purple smidge beneath your painted eyes and the breath returns to his lounges. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says when he spins back to you.

A small smile is placed on your lips and it reminds him of the series of sketches he made while you were laughing with your friends the other day. “Oh, so you can talk.”

“Sometimes,” he mutters to himself but he’s sure you’ve heard it. He turns to look at the painting again as he curses his carelessness. He can’t even stop you when you step forward to have a closer look at the artwork yourself. It’s too late now, anyway.

You reach forward but halt just in time. Unlike Steve, you didn’t smear the paint on your fingers all over the piece. “It’s very good.” 

Of course, it is. He puts everything in his paintings. All the things he can’t say. And, as he just noticed, that’s a whole lot.

“Thank you.” It’s small but it slips past his lips with ease. He never likes to accept compliments, but it’s different when you give them. He seeks your approval, especially now that you have caught him shamelessly reaping a piece of your privacy with his obsession.

Your eyes sway to him and then back to your portrait, and Steve is enchanted by the way your skin looks when the light hits it just right. He makes a mental note to draw you like this when he gets home - that is if you haven’t forbidden him to do so anymore. But who is he kidding? He’ll do it anyway, it’s an addiction.

His feet take him closer to you, and soon he’s gazing over your shoulder from a foot away, watching you watch the painting that’s looking right back at him. He’s trapped in the gaze he created and it’s taunting him: This is a mess. Then why doesn’t it feel messy?

Steve is so close to you, he can smell your shampoo, the faint remnant of the perfume you put on this morning, probably. It’s intoxicating, it draws him in and he can’t take his eyes off of you. His fingers are itching to touch you. He can imagine his hand moving your collar away to trail kisses from your shoulder to your collarbone - stop it, Steve. His face is heating up and his hands clench beside his body. 

“How long have you been working on this?” You spin around now suddenly, those lively eyes stare back at him, more intense - more real than he’s used to. And Steve can’t handle it, but his body isn’t looking away either. 

“Not that long,” he whispers as his focus lands on a moderate splatter of lilac beneath your eye. It’s not a lie, he’s memorized your features. Steve doesn’t even register your answer, he’s fixated on that little purple drop of color on your skin. It has a hold on him, he can’t do anything. 

“Why are you staring like that? Do I have something on my face?” It’s a silly joke, but Steve can’t tell you that you do. It would risk you swiping it away. And he can’t have that. Not when he wants to do it himself. He can’t do that, though, the purple spot is mocking him. And then, suddenly, like a bystander, he watches his hand move towards your face. He can’t stop it, it’s like an accident - he just needs to look, but he can’t do anything about it either. 

When his thumb finally makes contact with your skin, the world around him freezes again. There you are, so close before him, he’s touching your face, and it’s nothing like he thought it would be. He’s calm - so calm. Why is that? What is wrong with him?

Steve can hear your breath hitch when his fingers settle beneath your ear, his thumb resting next to the droplet of paint. He can finally feel his heart beating again, it’s getting faster now. He moves to wipe the lilac from your face, but he’s betrayed once again. The paint leaves a smudge beneath your eye and Steve is having flashbacks from the night before. 

Now you look just like his painting - his vision mixed with the perfect reality presented before him and he’s not sure, he can handle it. The world seems to spin when you take his hand from your face and look at the color on his finger. Then your eyes flick back up and his gaze locks with yours. Is this really happening? It feels so surreal.

The moment takes over Steve’s brain. It’s like he’s in one of those movies Sam likes to watch. There should be some piano queued in a second and then the main characters lean in to finally kiss in the rain. This won’t happen here, this is reality. But somehow, Steve isn’t so sure about it as soon as he thinks it.

Your eyes are still staring into his, wide, and it’s as if you’re not quite sure what’s happening either. If you feel anything like him at the moment, you must be captivated by the atmosphere that has been built around you. Steve is sure it can’t just be his big fat crush on you. It’s something new, something that just happened - the moment you took his hand in yours. 

Oh wow, you are leaning in. Panic surges up his spine. He can’t do it, not like this. This isn’t supposed to happen. You’re the princess and he’s the rat living in the peasant’s walls. But suddenly you're lips connect with his and it’s so simple, so effortless. He’s questioning everything at this point. Maybe you’re a witch and he’s a black cat. You are a little wicked, after all. And the way this feels - you and him - it’s like you belong together.

The hand that is still holding his guides him to your waist where it’s placed with promise. Steve can feel the paint transferring to the white cotton beneath his fingers but he’s too busy trying not to faint. He has done this before. He knows how to kiss, but he feels like a toddler with training wheels now that he gets to actually taste you. When your hand snakes around the back of his head, however, he regains consciousness. Your fingers press into his skin and he finally moves his lips in unison with yours. He can taste the minty aftertaste of gum on your tongue when he dares to explore it and he’s sinking into you like melted chocolate. Your breath tickles his cheek and when he pulls you a little closer to him, a surprised huff escapes your kiss. 

Then your hand slips from his neck and pushes gently against his chest. He pulls back, dazed eyes staring back at you. He’s yearning for more, whatever this was, and he’s chasing to stay in the universe you catapulted him into for a second longer. 

Your gaze travels over to the portrait again, then back to him and your thumb grazes over his sweater. “You owe me a new shirt.”

“Anything you want.” It’s a husky whisper in which his eyes stay fixated on the movement of your lips. He would say yes to about anything right now. His brain is mush. 

“It’s a date, then.” It looks like you want to nod, but you’re still staring at him with those tranced eyes - Steve can’t get enough of it.

He swallows thickly. “Okay.”

And then you just smile and leave him standing there, longing for a second more of your presence. But you have turned the corner faster than he can register and that’s when reality is setting back into his brain. It’s like he is snapped out of a vivid daydream, but he can still taste the mint on his tongue and he still has the purple smear on his finger. This was real, this actually happened. 

His eyes get caught on the painting once more. Intensely staring back at him with mockery: You’re an idiot. He knows that.

“Shut up,” he whispers to the drying paint on the canvas as he moves to pick up his brush again. But now that he has had the real thing, his drawings don’t do you justice anymore. 

I know it's a little weird, but I like it. I hope you do, too. You are welcome to share your thoughts - reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. 💙

Wanna be added to the taglist?

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[grugruel]

Masterlist

Personal favs = ⭐️

Angst = 🎭

Fluff = 🎀

Smut = ❗️

I've labeled my fics, newest to oldest. Just to keep track of how my writing improves! I cringe when re-reading anything before 7😭

Arthur Morgan (RDR2)

Saint, or Sinner. ❗️🎀 XII

Big Iron | bounty hunter!Arthur Morgan x outlaw!f!reader❗️XIV

Benedict Bridgerton (Bridgerton)

The Artist and the flower ❗️🎀 XX

Bucky Barnes (MCU)

An Affair to Remember | collegue!bucky❓️I

Bad News | dbf!bucky

- Part 1 | Baring Throats❗️🎭⭐️ VII

- Part 2 | Cold Thoughts❗️🎭 VIII

Let the Light in | priest!bucky❗️🎭🎀⭐️IIX

Little bit | roommate!bucky❗️🎭 XI

Movement | mob!bucky ❗️ XIII

Save A Horse | cowboy!bucky❗️🎀 X

The Girl Who Cried Cowboy | dbf!cowboy!bucky❗️🎭⭐️ XV

Wicked Game | cop!bucky❗️IX

Cooper Howard/The Ghoul (Fallout)

His little killer ❗️XVII

Say it again ❗️🎀 🎭 ⭐️ XVIII

Quiet on Set | pre-war!Cooper Howard ❗️ XIX

Father Paul Hill (Midnight Mass)

Lust for Vampyr ❗️ III

Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty)

In progress

Silco (Arcane)

The Game❓️ II

William Afton (FNAF)

Fun at Fazbear's❗️ IV

Horrific findings, sweet nothings❗️🎭⭐️ V

Princess❗️ VI

[porcelainseashore]

Ghosts from the Past (2)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Agent! Leon Kennedy x Dancer! Informant! Fem! Reader

Summary: 7 years after leaving behind everything you’ve known, you’re suddenly thrust into facing a ghost from your past, Leon. Navigating where you stand with him brings up old memories, painful truths and countless questions. At the same time, you have to deal with a bunch of strange occurrences at your dance company. Set after Resident Evil 4 Remake.

Warnings: 18+ Swearing, Recreational Drug Use, Alcohol, Eventual Smut, No (Y/N), Canon-Typical Horror and Violence, Blood, Injury, Torture, Infection, Medical Experiments, Psychological Trauma, Nightmares

Content: Post-Resident Evil 4, Exes to Lovers, Partners to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lack of Communication, Romance, Fluff

Author's Note: This chapter is a lot more dialogue-heavy to set up the scenes for the next ones. It was originally going to be angstier, but my heart wouldn’t let me. Oops. I hope you still like it though.

AO3 Link

Chapter 2: Baptism

Outside the embassy, Leon hailed for a cab to get to the bar. The journey there was in complete awkward silence, except for the occasional question raised by the cab driver, who quizzed you on why you were headed to such an unsavory place. Somehow he could tell that Leon didn’t quite belong and cautioned about certain areas being unsafe for tourists. Leon just snorted in response, while you laughed inwardly at the irony of his cover story, where he was meant to be your American tourist friend embarking on a Eurotrip.

To be honest, it really wasn’t as bad as people made it out to be. Berlin was a smaller city and felt safer than New York. However, you still carried around that Swiss Army knife Leon had won and given to you back in the day wherever you went, just in case. You ran the tip of your finger along its metallic surface in your pocket. The world could be cruel to little girls after all.

As you exited from the cab, you were greeted by a lively, eclectic neighborhood, sprinkled with night markets, kebab and shisha shops, independent art spaces and late night bars. The buildings were noticeably more rundown than Mitte, the district you had traveled from, and the community a lot edgier. With both of you now dressed casually, you had no problem blending into the midnight crowd.

You swung open the doors of an unmarked establishment and found yourselves shrouded in thick wafts of cigarette smoke upon entering. Leon frowned, coughing as he swatted the air in front of him. Even though you were used to smoking being allowed pretty much everywhere in Germany, your eyes still watered as you pressed up against and squeezed past the mass of bodies in the dimly-lit, dingy bar. The smell on your clothes and hair would take days to get rid of later. It was noisy and chaotic, with nearly every inch of the space occupied by chatty, drunk customers, some more boisterous than the others. You were lucky to find a small, rickety table with two precarious-looking stools at the extreme corner of the room.

Setting your coat and day bag down on one of the stools to claim it, you folded your arms, turned to Leon and remarked, “So… an agent, huh?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Whiskey first. Then, we’ll talk.”

You rolled your eyes at his standoffish reply, wondering what his problem was. After all these years where he had led you to assume he was dead, and with the circumstances both of you had found each other in, this was the kind of attitude he took with you? A prickling feeling of agitation grew in your chest as you pushed past him, storming towards the bar in annoyance.

Upon approaching it, you breathed out a sigh of relief when you saw that you knew the bartender who was on shift tonight. He usually popped a little extra into your drinks whenever he sensed you had a shitty day. Tonight was no exception.

“Zwei doppelte Kurze Whiskey.” (Two double shots of whiskey.) You raised two fingers at him to spell out your order.

He grunted out an acknowledgement as he got to work, filling two empty glasses with the fiery amber liquor, one glass topped up significantly more than the other.

“Macht er dir Probleme?” (Is he giving you any trouble?) He asked, without looking up from pouring the shots. It seemed like he had noticed your little commotion with Leon from just before.

“Aktuell nicht,” (Not for now.) you answered guardedly.

At this point, Leon had caught up to you, watching as the bartender placed the glass with more whiskey on the counter top in front of you and the one with less before Leon. 

Leon huffed at the slight and shook his head. “I’ll take the bottle too.”

The bartender eyed him suspiciously as he plonked the whiskey bottle on the counter loudly, like there was an unspoken competition going on between them.

“Here,” Leon mentioned coolly, sliding a couple of euro bills along the counter to pay for all the drinks. “Keep the change.”

You sighed at the childish display before you, giving the bartender an apologetic look as you took your glass without a word, and settled in at the small table you had informally reserved earlier. The people around you were far more interested in drinking than any conversation you were about to have. Occasionally a fight started, but those responsible were easily cleared out by the staff. 

There should be no issues with privacy here, you thought, as you downed your first round of drinks simultaneously with Leon.

The sharp alcohol burned your throat, warming you from the inside. You noticed Leon wincing as he brought the glass to his cut lip, finishing its contents in one clean gulp and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Did he get hurt in the field? You wondered, but chose not to question it, instead pouring yourself another shot as Leon did likewise.

Frustrated by the ongoing silence between the two of you and Leon’s seeming reluctance to speak, you decided to break the dead air, stating sarcastically, “Anything else you need before we get started? Room service? A hot bath, perhaps?”

He threw back another shot, twisting his lips into a wry smile. “Hm, don’t tempt me.”

“Leon, what happened? All these years… I thought you had died.” You were getting tired of this game and wanted an honest exchange for once.

“I did,” he replied softly.

“Huh?”

Averting his gaze quickly, he shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “It doesn’t matter.” 

But you wanted answers. You needed to know what had been haunting him too. “It does to me.”

You reached out to him cautiously, but just as your fingers ghosted the back of his hand, he moved it away, his voice turning cold as ice. “Look, I don’t know what you’re expecting, but it’s been a long time-”

His reaction took you by surprise as you interjected defensively, “Yeah, I can count.” 

A long time? If anyone should be able to comprehend that, you were more than qualified.

“I’m not the same guy you used to know back then,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard you.

“And I’m not the same girl you knew either,” you countered, in a mixture of anger and confusion. He was talking to you like he was blaming you for something. It wasn’t fair and you weren’t going to put up with it anymore. “Stop avoiding the question, Leon.”

“Still as stubborn as hell though,” he muttered.

Your blood boiled at his non-answer. “Is this some kind of joke to you?” You seethed, raising your voice. “I mourned you. The past 7 years. I heard nothing. Your parents heard nothing.” You emphasized each point, taking another shot afterwards to calm your nerves. Your face scrunched up in response to the harsh bite of the liquor. “And now this?”

He paused for a moment, fiddling with the empty glass in his hands, before hesitantly responding, “I got out of Raccoon City. Then, the government asked me to work for them.”

You caught the drift of what he was implying when he stressed the word ‘asked’, like it wasn’t by choice. But you didn’t understand what hold they had on him.

“That’s all you need to know.” Placing his glass back down on the table, he took a swig from the bottle itself this time. The few sentences he gave you had taken a toll on him.

“Why? How did they-”

“The rest is classified,” he snapped through gritted teeth, as a form of warning not to push it any further.

You slumped back in your chair in defeat, realizing that you weren’t much closer to understanding him and what he had gone through.

“Why did you join Silje’s company?” Leon questioned out of the blue, his tone filled with resentment, so much so that you bit your lip in reflex as guilt seeped into your heart.

“After you… die-disappeared, I-I didn’t know what else to do.” You cast your eyes downwards, your voice choking up with emotion as the memories you had suppressed came flooding back, like a gaping wound in your side. 

“I had to leave. Everything just-” you paused, clenching your fists so hard that you could see the imprints of your fingernails against your palms. “-reminded me of you.”

At this, his stony gaze faltered slightly and a look of despondence slowly spread across his face. 

“You could have gone anywhere else, but you just had to choose her, didn’t you?” He uttered somewhat accusingly. “You really shouldn’t get involved in this.”

“A bit too late for that,” you argued. Did he think you couldn’t hold your own?

“You can still walk away,” he offered.

Shaking your head, you peered back at him defiantly. “I’m not leaving you.”

“That’s what you said last time,” he retorted bitterly, his brows etched together in a frown. “Look at how that turned out.”

Your mouth ran dry, and it felt as if you had been given a tight slap across your cheek. 

So this was what it was all about? He still faulted you for what happened in the past? The most troubling thing was that you had nothing to say to that. You truly held yourself accountable for whatever that had gone wrong.

“Is this why you want to get rid of me?” It came out as a bare whisper.

He shrugged impassively, unable to meet your eyes like he was hiding something. “It’s just better this way.”

Your mind was going round in circles as you were put on the spot. However, something inside you kept rebelling against what Leon had to say. You couldn’t abandon him again. Not like this, even though he claimed it was the better route to take. Didn’t he once tell you to trust him to make his own decisions? Then, he should offer you the same courtesy. You weren’t about to throw in the towel and give up now.

So instead of running away like he expected you to, you pushed back. “No.”

Leon narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“I said no,” you repeated again resolutely. “We have a job to do. I’m helping you to infiltrate this base whether you like it or not.”

His lips were drawn into a thin line as he brooded quietly in the corner, but he continued to hear you out.

“Once that’s done, we can go back to our own separate lives if you want,” you stated. “Just like how it was.” 

A fair compromise. Although deep down you hoped it wouldn’t mark the end of your interactions with Leon. Well, you’ll cross that bridge when you come to it.

After a while of considering your suggestion, he agreed warily, “Ok.”

His gaze was impenetrable while both of you drank in silence. At some point, you decided to call it a night, since you had an early start with him tomorrow to go over your next plan of action. It was drizzling when you came out of the bar, the water droplets falling on your face like a baptism of a new chapter. You had made your bed, now you had to lie in it.

As Leon called for another cab to take him back to where he was staying, you left without a word, walking on your own to the nearest U-Bahn station. He watched you until you were just a tiny speck in his vision, lost amongst the sea of people and glowing street lights.

━━━━━━━━━━━

You and Leon were standing in front of the dining table of his service apartment, a mess of papers sprawled across every surface. He rested his curled fingers under his chin, eyeing the diagrams and notes scribbled on the sheets like a hawk, analyzing them for any obvious patterns.

He picked up a report that you had drafted recently. “So Silje told you all of this?”

You yawned and sipped at the instant coffee Leon had offered you when you had arrived. It was a couple of hours earlier than when you were normally up, as you’d have to head over to the theater to train after this meeting. You had pushed away whatever thoughts you had resulting from the conversation with Leon last night to the back of your mind, in favor of professionalism. Afterall, it wasn’t your first rodeo pretending things were fine, and neither was it Leon’s.

“Some of it, yes. Though in her own way of speaking in riddles,” you explained. “The rest I had overheard or tailed her without her knowing.”

“Are you sure you weren’t spotted?” It sounded like a mixture of concern and him questioning your abilities, the latter of which irritated you a little.

“If I was, would I still be standing here?” You stated brusquely.

“Fair enough.”

You pointed at the blueprint map again, tracing the outlines of your markings with your fingers as you explained, “From what I gathered, the site has two main sections beyond the theater space. The upper levels are easily accessible, but shaped like a labyrinth. I haven’t explored everything yet, but if my gut feeling is right, I would say that the entrance leading further down might be all the way over here.” You tapped at the red circle with a question mark drawn on the map.

“The lower levels are only accessible via keycard. Obviously Silje has one, but there must be others too,” you reasoned. 

“That said, I’ve seen her bringing in the same man more than once. Business type, probably in his 60s, speaking German with a Swiss accent.” Then, you proceeded to describe his outward appearance in further detail.

“Silje always passed him off as being part of the company board. I doubt it though,” you shrugged.

Leon hummed in response, and the corners of his mouth turned slightly upward, as if he was trying to hold back a smile. It was the first sign of approval he showed you since you had reconnected.

As he thumbed through the rest of the papers, he cocked his head to the side, tapping his fingers on the table absentmindedly. “One thing I don’t get from this is why she’s confided in you.”

You nipped your lip, swallowing anxiously, as you were afraid of disclosing what you might have committed yourself to. 

“She wanted to offer me a gift,” you whispered.

“A gift?” He tensed up noticeably at the word. “Did you accept?”

“Um… yes?” You replied uneasily, but tried to persuade him that nothing else had happened yet. “She only told me it would come soon.”

The drumming of his fingers on the table stopped abruptly, as he gripped the edge of it, clenching his jaw as he spoke, “Why the fuck would you do something like that?”

“I-I thought it would help,” you stuttered, caught off-guard by the sudden shift in his mood.

“What exactly has Bergmann told you about this case?” He hissed.

“That Silje was suspected of harboring some bioterrorists.”

You flinched as he cursed a second time loudly, before muttering a quick, “Excuse me for a minute.” With that, he darted out of the room into the hallway to make a call.

So here you were, left alone without answers again. The secrecy surrounding the entire mission and Leon’s erratic behavior was starting to grate on you, but there wasn’t much you could do about it.

Past the hallway, out of sight and earshot, Leon had connected with Hunnigan on comms.

“Leon,” she greeted. “Any news?”

“Our old friend, the Plaga,” he stated. “Seems like our suspicions might be right.”

“You have the source to back that up?” She asked out of habit, even though she already knew the answer.

“I went through the documents. I’m not 100%, but it’s close.”

He detailed an abnormality that stood out during the investigations. “A few days ago, some people on site experienced temporary psychotic episodes where their veins turned black, but reverted back to normal after.”

“That’s aligning with whatever intel we’ve already picked up. It could be a new strain of the Plaga,” he concluded.

Hunnigan nodded. “We’ll require a sample for the labs when you’re in the base. Anything you need me to do?”

“Run some files on any surviving Los Iluminados members. Focus on trade routes with Germany,” he requested. “The informant mentioned Silje entertaining a particular ‘business partner’ on a regular basis.”

“On it.” She typed away furiously at a computer keyboard off-screen.

“Another thing,” Leon commented. “Why wasn’t the informant told about the real nature of this situation?” 

“That was under Bergmann’s discretion.” 

He scoffed derisively. “She’s putting her in danger. The informant has no idea what she’s risking here. Silje just offered her the ‘gift’ and you and I know what that means.”

“Leon, you know the rules,” Hunnigan sighed sympathetically. “We don’t really have much say in this jurisdiction.”

“What do you mean? She reports to HQ!”

“Yeah, and they’ve given her free reign,” she explained, without batting an eyelid.

“In-fucking-credible.” He rolled his eyes.

“You need to press on. The informant has the best chance of getting you in,” she reasoned, giving pause and contemplating her next choice of words before speaking. “I would suggest not getting too attached to her.”

“I’m not,” Leon deadpanned, despite the look on Hunnigan’s face, like she didn’t believe him. 

“At the rate this is going, she may not be around long enough to do her job,” he clarified.

“You know we have a cure for that,” she rebutted. “The girl will be fine.”

He pursed his lips, changing the subject. “Hm, just send me the updates later.”

With that, he shut off his comms device and headed back into the living room, only to be accosted by your snide remark, “Let me guess, another convo that’s classified?”

His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Not quite.”

“Whatever Bergmann has been feeding you is bullshit,” he began. “We’ve been suspecting that the theater is being used as a front for developing a new batch of bioweapons they’re about to ship into the US.”

Your eyes widened at the newfound information. The whole time you had assumed that Silje was just providing a safehouse, not a full-on experimentation chamber. But with the recent events that had occurred, you should have considered it earlier.

“So the labs must be underground.” He thumped the pad of his index finger on the sketchings of the lower levels of the site on the map. “And they’re not just hiding people down there.”

Casting over a solemn glance, he revealed, “I’m telling you this, because you need to be careful.”

“And stop making deals you shouldn’t be making,” he warned.

You let the words sink in. “I see,” you nodded slowly. “Thanks, I… appreciate that.”

“The minute you feel something is off, or your veins start to darken, you contact me straight away and get the hell outta there. Understood?”

“Ok, I will,” you promised.

On the one hand, you were grateful that Leon had the courtesy to inform you about what you were getting into, but on the other, you were scared of what was to come. You had heard about the Terragrigia Panic and the B.O.W.s that devastated the floating city a year ago. The gruesome scenes were splashed across the news for weeks. Would the same happen here?

As if he could read your mind, Leon placed a hand on your shoulder to reassure you. “I won’t let them get you.”

“I trust you.” You said it as if it was clear as day.

His eyes bore into yours and his hand made its way towards your cheek, but stopped short in midair, a hair’s breadth away from touching your skin. Then, it fell to the side as he turned away, like he was ashamed of what had just transpired.

You cleared your throat in awkwardness, trying to recall the next point on the meeting agenda. Ah yes, Till.

Till was a fence you got to know from the parties you frequented. He was a friend of a friend of a… you got the idea. At first, you bought your drugs from his minions in the clubs, but then became a regular client of his the moment you started your informant career.

“As requested, I’ve arranged a meeting with Till.” You grabbed your day bag from the seat you had left it on. “He operates out of a nightclub that has a pretty strict door policy. So you’ll have to look the part.”

Leon raised an eyebrow. “Which would be?”

You sighed, unsure of how this would go down. “Um, your usual black get-up will do,” you mentioned tentatively. Unzipping your bag, which unveiled a sneak peek of its contents, you peered back at him. Here goes nothing. “So are you a more of a latex or leather kind of guy?”

What you would have given to permanently capture the look of shock on Leon’s face.

“Are you fucking serious?” He blurted out.

Perhaps you should make the decision for him then. Giving him a once over, you identified a common theme with his casual leather jacket and fingerless gloves. 

“I’m guessing leather,” you discerned, rummaging through your bag for a studded harness and tossing it over to him.

He caught the chunky material in his hands, looking at it with apprehension whilst shaking his head.

Fishing out a translucent, black crop top, you displayed it in front of Leon as you walked over to him. “Maybe over this and a pair of leather boxers.”

He grimaced. “No.”

Well, he sure wasn’t making your job easy. “I’ll be doing most of the ass-kissing at the door,” you argued. “You just have to wear this and keep your mouth shut.”

Please go along with it, you prayed. There was only so much magic you could pull to get him in at the club door.

Examining the outfit you had picked out for him gingerly, he muttered, “Jesus Christ, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

At least he wasn’t protesting any further.

“I’ll meet you there at 4 in the morning on Sunday,” you reminded him. “You’d better have something substantial to trade with.”

“That’s the least of my concerns right now,” he grumbled, to which you snickered in amusement before departing for the theater.