Not me over here thinking about how John must have been damn near jumping out of his skin when Sarah was called to check up on him after he fainted.
Priesthood is lonely. That's the reason most former priests give for leaving. Not even falling in love. Most of them were just so lonely. Aside from a handshake after mass, nobody really touches you. And the last hug you ever recieve is usually from your parents.
The closest thing he's ever gotten to a hug from his daughter is when Sarah put the stethoscope to his back. And she's just doing her job. You see him wanting so badly to tell her then and there. He can barely contain himself. "Father Paul" has only spoken to her briefly in passing when bringing her mother communion. And yet he says "I'm proud of you, your mother and I are proud of you."
This man performed her sacraments. And the only time a father ever got to hold his only child is when he baptized her as a baby. When she was a child and still went to mass, he probably had to try so hard not to just weep in the confessional as Sarah, a little girl of seven, had her first confession. Or any confession after that. Every time he gave her communion was probably an effort not to stare too long.
Hell, given that at 13, you don't have much of a choice, she probably had her confirmation. And then somewhere along the way, she stopped showing up. He still sees Mildred, hell, they might still have their rendezvous, but being that distant from your daughter, your daughter who is tall and slender with dark hair, just like you, that's a unique kind of pain.
... I'm gonna say it.
Millie was probably on top when that baby was concieved.
Title: Burn Characters: John Pruitt, Mildred Gunning, George Gunning Pairings: John Pruitt/Mildred Gunning Rating: M Chapter word count: 2903
"John, what's the matter?" Mildred asked with concern, reaching to touch his shoulder.
It was the evening that she had heard of George's impending homecoming, but - as was now so routine - Mildred had still gone to John, although she didn't find him in his usual state.
It was the first time she could remember that he had not come to greet her the instant she snuck into the rectory via the back door. In fact, he didn't even stand at her presence, let alone hungrily claim her lips with his the way she had grown used to. Instead, he remained seated on the sofa, bible at his side and rosary in hand.
A reminder that heroforge.com exists and that I am a menace
Based on your likes and its just a random photo of Hamish Linklater with a cursed text.
pairing: father paul x reader
word count: just above 5k
summary: father paul abruptly visits you one evening
tags/warnings: 18 +, not sfw scene, blood, religion, losing religion, catholicism, death, and a quick reminder that the reader here is genderless and no gendered language is used even during the not sfw scene.
link to masterpost
An Evening Visit
For the next few days, you find yourself ruminating over your conversation with the priest. His words float around your mind like fireflies in a jar, each hitch in his voice, each breath, each curve of his lips that formed those beautiful consonants and vowels illuminating more and more meaning for you. You remember the heady look in his eyes when he asked you to attend confession with him, the darkness you had felt pulsating in the air between you, the wanting. You visualise the blush on his cheeks, the misstep in his words when your eyes had met, the nervousness he had displayed when you took communion, the way he had knowingly smirked at you when you insulted his talents, so confident and assured in his ability. The subtleties were endless.
But maybe you were over-analysing the situation. You had been known to do so, after all. When the both of you were teenagers, you were convinced that Riley Flynn was in love with you, when in reality, he only hung around with you for the closeness it brought him with Erin. But that was when you were younger and more selfish, back when the world revolved and you and you only. You didn’t think that you were imagining it this time. You knew, in fact, that he was interested in you. There was evidence for this.
For one, he wasn’t one for instigating conversations - a thoughtful loner at heart, you could tell because you were the same - but whenever he saw you, he made a point of speaking to you. The only other person he gave that sort of attention too was Riley, and you had a suspicion that was due to Riley’s trauma, not sexual attraction. Or at least, that’s what you hoped. Another piece of evidence was the phone call you’d had with Erin the night of that Sunday Mass. Your phone had buzzed so violently that night that it had taken you completely out of your work stocking the shelves of your bookstore. You checked it to find two missed calls and five texts all from Erin, asking with desperation about what had happened after she and Riley left you two alone. When you spoke to her, she noted the look in his eyes when he was speaking to you, the complete and utter lack of attention towards anyone else, the slight smirks you’d shared in flirtation. And when you gave her the details, she’d all but screamed with excitement. There wasn’t exactly much gossip on this heavily Catholic and conservative island, so flirting with a priest was pretty rousing news.
So, he had taken an interest in you, sure. But you doubted anything would come of it. Sadly, Father Paul seemed extremely dedicated to his craft and, at the end of the day, his heart was with God and that left no place for sexual deviance. The scenarios you envisaged daily would most likely never come to fruition and the best you were probably going to get was a flirtatious comment here and there, perhaps a wanting look or a brush of fingers; after all, there was nothing in the Bible that said flirting was a sin, at least that you knew of. The problem wasn’t his attraction to you, which you were almost a hundred percent certain existed, but his celibacy. Though you were sure that Monsignor Pruitt hadn’t been the most dedicated to that exact rule, you weren’t so sure about Father Paul. He seemed different, more passionate about his faith than the old Monsignor was. And you could understand that. It didn’t make it any less painful, though.
You decide it’s best to accept this as you’re closing up shop one evening, your hands mindlessly fiddling with the cash register. No matter how enjoyable it was to you, how tempting and gorgeous it felt, there was no point in continuing to flirt with him. If anything, it would only foster hope in your heart that one day, he might show a moment of weakness and kiss you. And you were sure his life would be easier if you didn’t cause him such a problem at Mass. It was a road that you felt you probably shouldn’t tread, not out of respect for God but out of respect for him.
You’re brought out of your thoughts when the bell above your shop door jingles. You weren’t expecting to see anyone tonight. There was a thunderstorm outside, one of those that turns the clouds a dark shade of grey and floods the drains within minutes, and everyone had been warned to stay inside past 6pm for the sake of safety - and so that Sherif Hassan didn’t have to get himself drenched saving you if you did get into trouble. It was half seven by now, past the closing hours for your little bookshop, and you wouldn’t be here yourself if it wasn’t for the fact you lived on the floor above.
A man lets himself in, closing the door hastily behind but not before a gust of wind fills your shop and knocks some books off of their display. You rush over to grab them and take to your knees, visions of possible water damage from the rain outside filling your brain. Having precariously collected the undamaged books into your arms, you shift your gaze to the man who caused this mess and find yourself blushing. It’s him, Father Paul, and you’re kneeling at his feet. Well, so much for keeping your distance.
“Jesus! Uh, I mean, jeez.” You correct your own blasphemy at the sight of him, your cheeks tinting a deep red when he smiles amusedly at your mistake.
He’s completely drenched, but it doesn’t look bad on him. He’s wearing the usual priest shirt and collar combined with some grey Levi’s and a zip-up hoodie over top. The shirt is clinging to his chest and you realise that he’s no bean pole, but there are muscles hiding beneath his get up - something you could do without knowing if you’re to stop yourself fantasising. His hair is limp with saturation and the curls fall over his forehead in beautiful ringlets and you wonder if anyone else has ever actually looked this good in the rain, or if he’d made some deal with God to forever be perfect. Raindrops are dripping from his forehead to his chin, rolling down the shape of his jaw and the length of his throat. His eyelashes are long and glossy, the tip of his nose a little pink from the cold, his eyes kind and striking at the same time. You’re entranced.
“No, it’s just me.” He jokes, his deep voice rattled from the cold.
He crouches, wiping his wet hands on the inside of his hoodie sleeves and takes some books from your arms, and when standing again, he offers his hand out to you. You study it for a moment, still flabbergasted by his appearance tonight, and the priest smiles warmly at you.
“I don’t bite.” He says, reassuringly. You wouldn’t mind if he did.
You take his hand then, allowing him to pull you up from your knees. His hand is warm and large and fills your heart with a pleasurable buzz as it wraps around your own, your fingers brushing against each other; the strength he possesses makes you feel weightless as he lifts you so easily to your feet. And when he releases your hand, it’s like all the light in your body, all the glow in your heart, fades back into dark nothingness, waiting patiently for the next time your skin cells meet his.
“I- I didn’t expect to see you here.” You stumble over your words as the two of you replace the display he’d ruined.
He smiles gently at you, “I didn’t expect to come here, either.” He says, a slight chatter in his teeth escaping with his voice.
“Shit, you must be freezing!” You realise and take his hand instinctually, leading him quickly up the stairs to your little flat.
He stumbles a little as you pull him along, like this was the last thing he’d expected to happen, but makes it up to the second floor of your building unscathed. You’re so focused on getting this man warm that you don’t take a moment to feel the way your hands slot together, the way he shifts your fingers so that they’re intertwined with his, the difference in size, your wrists colliding ever so gently with each steep step up. And you’re glad you don’t: you have to keep yourself together now, right? It’s the best thing for the both of you if you just ignore the way the little hairs on your hand stand on end and the warmth of his skin and the tightness of his grip and just the fact that you’re taking him upstairs to the one place you didn’t let anyone go.
Leading him inside, you notice his eyes wandering around the room and feel the embarrassment put colour in your cheeks and a tightness in your throat. Your flat was definitely one of a single woman on Crockett Isle. A collection of your favourite books lined the dark green walls, much alike to your set up downstairs, but they were less neatly placed here, with some falling over and others so well read that they wouldn’t stand on your bookshelf at all. There was washing up in the sink from the day before and your cat, Lucifer, was sitting up on one of the counters, cleaning himself vigorously. The rest of your place was just a little messy, the type of messy you get when you’re a generally tidy person but who’s going to see this place anyway? Perhaps you will leave a few sets of clothes on a chair in the corner of the room and a used hairbrush face-up on the coffee table. It wasn’t like you’d been expecting him to turn up tonight.
You set him down on the sofa, a thankfully well-kept part of your home, and run to the bathroom to grab a thick towel. Giving it a sniff, you decide it’s clean enough to give to him for his head and make your way back over to his place on your sofa. In your home. In your sacred place. How ironic that it had been so thrilling to be an intruder in his home, his sacred place, standing before him, before his congregation and making him purposefully vulnerable; but now the situation was flipped, it was unbearably uncomfortable.
When you return to Father Paul, he is sitting on the edge of the sofa, his hand reaching out to your curious Lucifer that seems to have taken an apprehensive interest in the priest before him. After a moment of tense staring occurs between them, the Father’s eyes kind and inviting, Lucifer allows him to pet his head and of course, he would be the only man that Lucifer had ever taken a liking to.
“What’s its name?” The priest asks as he leans back into the sofa and casually accepts the towel from your hands. He begins to rub his hair dry, his eyes still linked with yours, and you have to forcefully stop your mind from wandering toward visions of him exiting the shower, not enough towels to dry his hair and his body at the same time.
Instead, you think about the name you’ve chosen for your cat, half as a fuck you to your devout and controlling late parents and half as tribute to Tom Ellis, and decide against telling the truth.
“He’s called Lucy.” You lie, feeling your fingers twitch and goddammit, he was right. You did have a tell. The priest furrows his eyebrows a little, an amused smile crossing his lips, and you feel the need to lie more in the hopes that he’ll leave it alone. “Cats don’t care about gendered names.”
“Absolutely not, of course.” He says, a little sarcasm in his tone, a little pride filling his smile as your eyes dart around the room uncomfortably. You hate him for it: hate him for the way he can make you feel vulnerable with just a look, but it also attracts you more than anything else in the world ever has.
“Have you any other clothes I could borrow?” He asks, a touch of innocence in his voice that you can’t tell whether is real or not. “I’d be eternally grateful. It was really coming down out there.”
And, of course, you did just as he asked. You go to your bedroom and find some old clothing: a pair of grey joggers your ex boyfriend left behind and a big tshirt you often wore for comfort in the evenings. The tee was from a horror convention you’d visited on the mainland once and had a large print of Nosferatu on the front. Ironically, you thought, this may be the one iconic vampire reference the priest would actually get. Who hasn’t heard of Nosferatu, after all?
“Hey,” You shout from your place at your closet doors, wondering if you should pick up some boxers too. Surely, he wouldn’t derobe that much. Perhaps you were just being hopeful. “How come you came here anyway? I haven’t had a chance to ask, with your big, clumsy entrance and all.”
He laughs, the noise muffled a little. You smile to yourself proudly at his genuine laugh but it quickly drops from your lips as you enter the living room again, cosy clothes in hand. The priest’s back is facing you, his shirt and collar removed and placed carefully on the coffee table. You feel a hitch in your throat at the sight.
His back is slender, muscular. The curved line of his spine is gorgeously crafted from the base of his neck to the small of his waist. His hair curls cutely around the top of his neck, a few damp locks laying prettily against his perfect skin. His back muscles are gorgeous, and you see them shift beautifully under his skin as he places his collar atop his wet black shirt. The hem of his boxers peek out above his jeans and you feel yourself salivating at the sight. But no, this is wrong. He trusts you, clearly, enough to undress in front of you. How many people could say that about the priest of Crockett Island? You doubt even Beverly Keane, the woman constantly at his side, has seen him like this.
He turns to face you and you get a look at the front of his torso. His clavicle is perfectly shaped, collar bones prominent and pushing forward through his skin. His shoulders are broad, broader than you’d ever noticed in that slimming black shirt he always wore, and his throat is long and slender and veined. His abdominal muscles are impressive for a priest and you find yourself wondering how he possibly has the time to work out between studying the good book and giving captivating sermons. His arms look as if they were carved by angels, from the joints of his shoulder to the curve of his biceps to the blue veins in his forearms and prominent wrist bones.
A light tint of pink blooms through his cheeks as you look at him, a humble smile cast over his lips, that takes you out of your trance. You react awkwardly, slapping a hand over your eyes and holding out the clothes you’d gathered for him, your entire face warming within seconds.
He’s laughing again and you chew the inside of your lip as he approaches you, still topless (at least, you assume) and takes the clothes from your hands. “There’s no need to do that.” He says, your fingers brushing against his and sending electricity through your veins. “God has said that we should not be embarrassed of our genuine form, you know. To know that one is nude is to be ashamed of what he’s created for us. It’s laid out pretty clearly in Genesis, actually.”
“Sounds perverted to me, but that’s God for you.” You joke, hand still firmly placed over your eyes.
He stifles a laugh, “Perhaps he should’ve accounted for people’s ability to lust over a simple torso, hm?” And he’s flirting with you again, making it known that he is more than aware of the effect he has on you and more than comfortable with it. He likes it.
“Listen, I never asked you to turn up at my house and strip. That was all you, Father.” You shoot back.
And how could you not? Maybe this was morally wrong, maybe you shouldn’t have initiated such a coy and coquettish relationship with a priest, but it had already begun. The sins had already been committed and you were already going to Hell, if it existed. What was stopping you from enjoying the way down?
“And you never even answered my question. Why did you come? It’s not like you to make house visits to heathens. Millie Gunning, sure. But me?” You interrogate.
You feel him move closer to you, then, and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. Your breath hitches as his fingers meet the hand on your face, pulling it away and allowing you to see him again.
He suits the clothes, actually. It’s a nice change from the usual buttoned up priest look, or god forbid the whole costume. He almost looks like a regular guy, if it weren’t for all those ethereal qualities he had. He’s stood before you, so close yet too far away to mean anything, his ass nonchalantly resting against the back of your sofa. And you already know that the idea of his ass touching your furniture was never going to leave your mind.
He doesn’t release your hand, allowing your entwined fingers to swing loosely between you both. “I came to see you.” He says. Your brow furrows, an expression that simply says ‘no shit’ forming on your features. “Well, that’s kind of it. I wanted to talk to you.”
Your heart is beating a little faster, your attention drifting between the hand you have linked with his and his lustrous deep-brown eyes. “And you decided that it just couldn’t wait until the storm was over?” You say, feigning confident humour.
His mouth quirks into a light half-smile, his eyes genuine and vulnerable. “I guess not.” He says. “You see, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since last mass. I’ve been distracted. I even misquoted the Bible to little Leeza and had her correct me. Me! Her priest!”
“God forbid.” You say facetiously, playfully. But he’s serious. His eyes are linked with yours, showing an intensity you’d only seen him use during sermon. That captivating look of passion, of want and need. “I mean - I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to… Well, I didn’t think I’d have that much of an effect on you, honestly. If I’d have known, I wouldn’t have flirted with you. I’m-”
He cuts off your rambling. “It’s not that. I could tell from the moment you walked into my church you had less than holy intentions with me.” He says candidly and your throat tightens as he grasps your hand harder. “I just didn’t expect to feel the same way.”
“Father, I-” You begin to apologise but he cuts you off again, this time with his lips.
He moves forward, his large hand cupping your neck and presses his lips against yours, hard. You’re taken aback at first, your eyes wide and heart close to stopping, but soon relax into it, your lips parting and allowing his mouth to meld with your own. He’s a better kisser than you expect of a man of faith and you find yourself smiling into the kiss as his now free hand finds your waist, holding on desperately but still restraining from touching anywhere else. It’s cute, sure. But you want more. You want all of him and this moment of weakness might be your only chance.
Your smile grows as you find his hand with your own, taking it and placing it on your ass, encouragingly. There’s a hitch in his breath, a faint noise escaping his lips, and it seems this is all too much for the priest’s level of restraint. He moves both of his hands to your ass, holding on tightly as he pulls you into him and off of the floor to reach his height. Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers finally able to tangle amongst those curly locks at the base of his head, and your legs wrap around his small waist. You give yourself over, ready and willing to do whatever the priest wants with you, and he wants. Oh, he wants you.
Your lips move against each other gorgeously, decadently. His desperation is unyielding as he parts his lips further, allowing his tongue to explore your own and oh God, it’s good. You feel yourself getting excited as you kiss him more and more and more, your hips desperate to grind against his own. You feel his cock hardening beneath the joggers you lent him just moments ago, poking at the underside of your thigh, and you don’t know if you can contain yourself much longer.
You pull away from the kiss, breath heavy and mind flustered. You press your forehead against his own, looking into his deep-brown eyes. “You’re sure you want this?” You ask genuinely, despite your own wants and desires. He nods, an animalistic quality in his movement, lips parted and reddened and gorgeous. And you grin as you kiss him again, his feet clumsy as he carries you to your bedroom.
He manages to get you to the bed without any casualties, though you’re surprised considering he’s never been here before, and places you at the end of the bed, his frame towering over you. You hold his face as you kiss him deeply, but he’s no longer interested in your lips, pulling away and pressing his face into your neck, licking and kissing at the skin of your throat, his breath hot and wet in the most delightfully unbearable way. You feel yourself getting overwhelmed there and then, but hold yourself together, pulling him by his shirt to follow you up the bed. He crawls with you as you shift towards the headboard, his lips still making love to your neck and palms making dents in your bed covers. He begins to bite at your neck, to suck hard, and the heat in your veins erupts throughout your body as he marks you. That will be a difficult one to explain to Erin, you think.
Once his mark is complete, he lifts his head from your neck and begins to take off the Nosferatu tee you lent him. You let your hands roam over his striking shoulders, to his shoulder blades and back around to his biceps. He shivers under your touch, his eyes closing and a light moan escaping his mouth. You smirk boldly when he looks at you again and his cheeks tint, embarrassed. To level the playing field a little, you remove your own tee, pulling it off over your head with ease and throwing it across the room. He lets out a pleasurable sigh when he looks at your body, taking the time to lean down and kiss at your torso, from your shoulders all the way to the hem of your pants. You allow him to take this at his pace; as, you assume at least, you are the most experienced here. Your body is his to explore, to play and experiment with as much as he’d like to, and you’re willing to take all the time he needs. It’s not like you’re complaining about any of this, anyway.
After a few moments of drenching your skin in kisses and licks, you cup his face in your hands, bringing him back up to press your lips against his again. Your mouths meld together and you explore his back with your hands, the curvature of his spine, the prominent bones of his hips, the gentle stream of warm sweat trickling from the base of his neck down to his pants. He’s moaning as he kisses you, loud enough to send vibrations through your skin, and you lap it up, the proud smile never fading from your lips.
Feeling his cock ever growing in those borrowed joggers, you decide to encourage the next step by grinding up into his crotch. He rips his lips from your own when you do so, breathing heavily and scrunching his eyes closed in a sort of frustrated pain. For a moment, you worry that you’d pushed him, that this was all about to end because you ground into his cock just once, that you’d ruined it all. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, the priest kneels back on his heels, legs parted over your body, and begins to pull off the remainder of his clothing. You watch as he pulls away the joggers, revealing an extremely strained impression of his cock against his boxers, and you kick off your shoes and socks in anticipation of what was to come. He pulls his boxers off, releasing his length into the room, and you’re all of a sudden just a little hasty. It’s big, something you should’ve expected considering his height, and you find yourself gulping audibly.
“Is something wrong?” He asks, eyes genuine and kind, and it relaxes you to see his nervousness.
“Definitely not.” You say, nodding towards his length. “Someone up there has blessed you, Father.”
He smiles then, bashful and humble in the hottest way possible, and bites his bottom lip. “Are you always going to call me that?” He asks and you grin playfully as you grasp the back of his head and pull him into you again.
You work at your own pants as he kisses you, unbuttoning and pulling them off hastily. You throw them to the side and go to take off your underwear when he beats you to it, pulling the fabric away slowly and painfully. Once both of your clothes are gone, he parts your thighs with his hands and settles himself between your legs. The pace of your breath heightens, your heart rate racing as he encourages your legs around his waist, pulling your body as close as it can be to his and finally entering you.
And you see stars. Your head falls back against the pillow as he rocks his length into you, your eyes closing as he fills you up. The insides of your eyelids are covered in glowing stars, pulsating in time with his thrusts, and you know that if you were to die in this moment, you would die happy, drifting off into whatever came after death with a lightness in your heart that you’d never felt before.
You moan carnally, gripping his shoulders with all of your strength and digging your nails in to form crescent-shaped scars in his skin. He’s groaning, his breath heavy as he rests his face in the shallow dip of your collar bone, his mouth hot and wet against the skin of your throat as he bites and sucks more markings there. He uses one hand to steady himself, the other to slip under the back of your head, his fingers tangled in your hair as he holds you, and you don’t remember the last time you’d been treated so tenderly whilst feeling such a pain in your abdomen as his cock slipped deeper and deeper inside of you.
It feels so good that you begin to get close before him, your moans increasing in volume and pace until that gorgeous load of endorphins shoots throughout your veins, leaving you buzzing with electricity and pleasure from head to toe. You want him to feel the same, to understand exactly what he’s given to you, and so you begin to rock your hips harder in tandem with his, picking up the pace and tightening yourself around him. His groans become animalistic, his grip on your hair and the bedsheets beside you tightening until he can’t hold on any longer, and you let him finish inside of you, catching his body with your own as he flops forward, exhausted and exhilarated.
You didn’t know that sex could feel so good, that the feel of another person’s skin could be that sensual, that it could be so exciting, that your want for his blood and skin and teeth and tongue could hit you so deep down in the pit of your stomach. He was everything you’d ever longed for and more, and you'd been given him, and maybe God was real after all, because something had to be behind the craftsmanship of the man lay atop you, his skin slick with sweat and cum trickling deep inside of you.
The priest breathes deeply into your neck, catching his breath slowly. You wait patiently for his recovery, your arms wrapped around him and fingers painting soft, tender circles along his shoulders. When he’s able to breathe again, he lifts himself up and pulls out of your body, his body leant over yours in all its God-given glory.
You feel liquid trickling from where he’d bitten your neck and place your palm against it, lifting your hand to your face and noticing that it's not sweat or drool, but blood. It’s then that the pain sets in from his markings, his biting and sucking at your neck.
“Jesus, Father. I didn’t know you were into that stuff.” You play down the severity of the situation, joking to cover your immediate sense of worry.
But he doesn’t seem to share your panic at all. In fact, he’s smiling at you and there’s something different about him. His eyes are glazed over and glassy, a hint of yellow in his pupils, a darkness in his soul… it’s almost animalistic. He bites your neck hard and everything suddenly goes black.
i just finished watching Midnight Mass and… my priest kink has been reawakened 🛐
I've decided to rewatch midnight mass and its definitely not cause it has one of hottest cast ensemble ever
Okay so I had like a fic idea, and anyone can write or add to it
Basically y/n accidentally leaves her diary at the rectory when she went to help him or something. And father Paul reads it, he sees that she’s got a big crush on him and he reads all the dirty parts etc. But he writes back to her in red ink so it stands out from the black ink. So she’d have an entry and he’d respond to it all flirty and dominant like. But instead of him returning it to y/n, he gives it to Erin so when y/n opens it she’s all shocked. Just a thot ™️
The Church watching us with this stupid dumbass vampire priest like
Y’know if I was moronsexual Monsignor Pruitt would be screwed
Pruitt: And then the word came to me, and that word was ‘Angel’! :D
Me, already ripping my clothes off: You fucking kidding me John
God watching the things happening on crockett island