18+

NSFW, my main is rainingpaint which is somewhat more sfw

[the-devils-magic]

[gr4cezc0nv1ct]

That Bruno Teacher!AU Fic was simply amazing, I really hope you make a series out of it 🙏 ! ( Loved how infatuated but guilty he was ahh )

begrudginglyalso requested by janadiamond.

Don’t Stand So Close To Me (18+)

Part 2

Teacher!Bruno Madrigal x Student!Fem!Reader

Modern Day!Imagine Non-Magic AU

Summary: After getting caught in the rain, reader gets a ride home with Bruno but ends up having to stay at his for a bit for the rain to settle

Warnings: Swearing, Agegap, inappropriate thoughts, teacher/student (STUDENT IS OF AGE), sir kink, maybe slight bimbofication if you squint, slight scent kink

Word Count: 2845

Italics will mostly be his direct thoughts or his imagination

Author Note: I definitely had a huge hand in the plot for this one in the comment section of the last part. I have also added a taglist, so if you would like to be in it, just comment it down below. This one is also significantly longer tjan the last.

(Part 1)

(I do not own this gif)

-

Bruno POV

Exams are coming up in a couple of months, so I have to start preparing my students with practice tests and revision. Just the other day, I had given them a practise test on what we had learnt at the beginning of the year.

While my students do revision questions I had put up on the board, I begin marking the tests. Getting through the first few was quick and easy. It was about the fifth paper when I hesitated.

Her paper.

I skim over the first page with her name written in beautiful handwriting. I graze my fingers over the dried ink, admiring her penmanship. I made sure to inspect every inch of the paper, not wanting to miss anything.

...Maths. Just maths, everything on there was maths.

What am I even looking for? This is her test paper, not a love letter!! Idiot!

I go back to the start, sighing and begin to actually mark her paper. I click my tongue a few times at the mistakes made on the paper. She seemed to be struggling with even the basic questions. 

I should have noticed this when teaching, but nooo, I just had to get distracted.

I give her a grade that's not a fail, but close to it. If she doesn't get help before the final exam, she won't pass. 

I sigh again before I look up to see her with a look I can only imagine being complete confusion. 

That poor girl. If she had a decent teacher, she wouldn't be in this problem in the first place.

I reluctantly go back to grade the rest of the test papers. 

I had managed to finish them all by the time classes were to be dismissed for the day. I go around the class, handing each of them their papers back. As they exit the class, I watched as Y/N shoved her paper in her bag, only getting the chance to look at the grade on the front before rushing out of the class.

Bus maybe?

I look out the window to see it absolutely pissing down with rain. 

I hope she's got an umbrella.

And with that, I go back to my desk, packing all my things into my bag and making my way out of the classroom. I pull out my umbrella as I make my way out into the rain. I have to rush to my car cause even with the umbrella, I was still getting wet. I struggle to get my keys out of my pocket and juggle my bag and umbrella. I eventually manage to get my car open and I toss everything in the back before hopping in the front. The second I turn the car on, I put the heater on, warming up the car. I removed my jacket before taking off. 

Not even two minutes into my drive, I spotted someone standing in the rain at the bus stop. They'll catch a cold in this weather. As I got closer, I was able to make out who it was. 

It's her.

I quickly pull up next to her. I roll down the window and there she is, wet- no, drenched. 

"Are you okay?"

Really Bruno...out of all the things you could have said…you ask if she's okay…idiot!

"Yeah! I'm fine, I just missed the last bus so I'm waiting for the next!" She had to shout over the rain. 

"The next bus won't come for other hours, is-is there anyone you can call?" I asked. 

She shook her head. 

Fuck, do something!

"Hop in, I'll take you home".

….AAHAHHHHHH!! SINCE WHEN HAVE I EVER BEEN THIS CONFIDENT!?! 

"It's fine! I don't want to bother you!" She yelled.

"It's pissing down, I'm not letting you stay in the rain," I say. 

She looked down the street before rushing over to my car. She quickly jumped in as I put up the window. Once she was in, she let out a relieved sigh while dropping her head back onto the seat.

"Thank you," she said, sounding out of breath.

I just give her a tight smile, before turning back to the road but before I could take off, she let out a small cry.

"I'm all wet! I don't want to ruin your car," she cried.

I look over at her and she had a slight pout on her lips. 

Fuck, she's adorable- Hey! Snap out of it! Get her a towel or something, you dick!

"I should have a towel or something in the back," I said, reaching into the back and grabbing a towel from the ground. 

I handed it over to her and she had the cutest smile on her face. 

"You're a life saviour, sir!" 

Well fuck.

There goes my dick again, bloody hell. I can't help but look at her as she dries herself off. I can't help my gaze from drifting down to her breast as she dries her chest. Her shirt was clinging to her chest from the rain. I suck in a quick breath before turning back to the road. I roll up me sleeves, nervously.

I sure hope she doesn't see, otherwise, I'm fucked. 

"What's your address?" I asked, focusing on anything that might distract me. 

She told me her address.

"That's like a 40-minute drive from here," I say, relieved I had got to her in time.

"Yeah, it's okay if you don't drive me all the way, I can-" 

"No! U-uh, no, it's okay, I can take you," I said, having to calm myself down. 

"I-uh just really don't want to send you back into that rain, ya know,"

Wow, smooth Bruno……

"Thank you, Mr. Madrigal," she said, looking at me. 

My god, the way my name just rolled off her tongue, fuck.

It was about 10 minutes after I had picked her up and the rain had gotten worse. I could nearly see through the window with the rain sliding down it. I had to lean forward a bit, hoping that I would be able to see a bit better but nope! Still completely blind.

It's not safe to keep driving in this weather, I would never forgive myself if I got into an accident with her in the car.

"It's too dangerous to drive in this weather, are you okay with just stopping in at my house and letting it settle down a bit?" I asked, not wanting to make her uncomfortable. 

"Yeah, I think that might be best," she said, with her voice quivering a bit.

I look over at her and see her trying to hide the obvious fear on her face. 

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Y-yeah, just...can't see, ya know?" Laughing a bit after.

"Don't worry, okay, I won't let anything happen to you," I say.

A take a turn off the original route and head towards my house. Less than two minutes later, I pull into my drive and park the car. I reach into the back grabbing all my thing and handing my umbrella to Y/N. 

"You probably need it more than me, I'm already wet," she tried to argue but I was not having it. 

"I want you to take it," I say, a little more aggressive than I intended.

She took the umbrella with a little 'thank you'. We both look at each other, subconsciously counting down, before we shot out of the car and run to the door. She holds the umbrella over the both of us while I quickly open the door. We are both extremely relieved upon entering the house, internally thanking myself for pre-setting the gas fireplace in my house to turn it on before I got home. 

"Follow me," I say, making my way to the living room. 

It was only then that I realized what I had just done. 

Did I just invite the one person I should not be alone with into my house…

It feels as if someone had just punched me in the gut. 

Shit, I just have to act natural. That shouldn’t be too hard, right?

Yeah, no, I began freaking out immediately. I rush her to the fireplace and sit her down in front before I sprinted to get her a blanket. Once getting back, I quickly hand her the blanket and crouch down next to her, shaking a bit. 

“Is there anything I can get you? Do you need a shower or anything?” I almost spewed the words out of my mouth.

"No, thank you, I'm fine, really," she said, looking up at me with the biggest eyes.

She is so gorgeous looking up at me, so thankful for making her feel good- wait.

"Uh, sir, I had a look at the grade on my paper and was wondering if you could take me through the paper and my mistakes," she asks, slightly embarrassed.

"Uh, of course".

I sat down beside her as she reached into her bag to pull out the wrinkled paper. She smoothed it out a bit before handing it to me. I took the paper and opened it to the first page. 

"You see, here, you used the first formula instead of the third and you don't have all the information needed for that one, so that's why you couldn't finish that question," she nodded a little at my statement.

I take her through all the questions and explain the mistakes she made and what she should have done instead.

"I feel like an idiot!" She says, smacking her hand over her face. 

"No, it's okay! Plenty of the students had trouble with this test!" I try to reassure her.

She sighed as she dropped her hands. 

"I just really want to pass the test, sir," she mumbled.

The sadness in her voice absolutely broke my heart. 

This is my chance to be a better teacher for her. 

"Uh, how would you feel about tutoring sessions? If you'd like, I could help you".

"Really?" She had a little sparkle in her eye.

"Of course, we could start tomorrow if you'd like?" 

"Oh my gosh, thank you, sir! You are the best teacher I could have asked for!"

I highly doubt that.

"Just doing my jobs," I say with a tight smile, trying not to let her praises get to my head.

“No, really sir, it means a lot”.

I’m not gonna survive one week.

Before either of us could say another word, all the lights shut off.

“Woah! What happened?” she asked, frightened by the sudden light change.

“Must be a power cut,” I say, standing up  to look out the window to see all the street lights off too. 

This weather is really testing my patience.

“How long do you think it will be like this?” she asks.

“I say at least another hour or so”.

I sighs a little.

“Come, sit down,” she scoots over a bit.

“W-what?” 

“Sit with me, you’re probably cold,” she said, patting the spot next to her.

She was right, I am cold.

I slowly approach her, not wanting to get too close. I lower myself, in front of the fireplace, next to her. 

Calm down, Bruno, it’s not a big deal.

That’s when she scoots a bit closer to me.

Fuck! fuck! fuck! fuck! fuck! fu-

“Are you married?” she suddenly asked.

That caused me to chock on my own saliva.

“Wh-aT?” my voice cracked.

“Are you married? Or seeing someone?” she asked again, as if it was nothing.

It probably way nothing, I’m just over dramatic.

I couldn’t speak, so I just shook my head. 

“Really?! How come?” 

“I-I don’t know, I guess no one really wants me”.

Wow, way to go and sound all desperate and lonely.

“I find that hard to believe, I’m sure you could get anyone you want”.

My face heats up, and it’s not from the fire.

Not when the person I want is my student.

The room goes quiet.

Come on, man, keep the conversation flowing!

“Are you seeing anyone?”

...You dumbfuck.

“No,” she answered, looking into the fire.

“Oh”.

OH!? OHH!? 

“What?” she giggled a bit.

“It’s just that-”

Don’t say it.

“I thought-”

Shut up!

“a beautiful girl like you-”

Don’t you dare!

“Might be dating someone”.

Do I have a death wish or something?

“Beautiful?” she looked at me with puppy eyes.

“W-well, yes,” I mutter, nervously.

She quickly looked away, her cheeks reddening a bit.

“Thank you,” she almost whispers.

We sit there, in silence, for a little bit. I then out of the corner of my eye watch her head start to droop a bit. When I turn to look at her, she falls onto me. My heart is completely freaking out.

Is she okay?! What happened?!

I don’t know how it took me that long to realise she just fallen asleep but man, my heart. 

“Uhh, Y/N?” I call quietly, not wanting to disturb her. 

She didn’t move, just snuggled in closer to me. I look down at her face, squished up against me. 

Well that one way to go into cardiac arrest.

What I’d give, just to kiss her once.

I slowly let my arms wrap around her body, moving her gently into a more comfortable position. I lay back on the coffee table behind me and stare into the artificial flames with the girl I’ve been infatuated by in my arms. 

⌛

It was around 8PM by the I woke up with her still in my arms.

I must of dozed off.

The light had come back on and the rain outside had significantly calmed down. I turn back to her about to wake her up but when I get a good look at her, everything in my body is telling me to let her rest. 

But I can’t, It’s wrong.

I slowly sit up a bit before lifting her off of me. I didn’t want to wake her while she was still on me, it was to save both of us from embarrassment.

“Hey, Y/N. You need to wake up now,” I whisper.

She tosses around a little, resisting me pleas. 

“Y/N”.

She begrudgingly lifts her head a little, a tired, pouty face. 

“You have to wake up now, the rain has calmed down”.

She sits there for a bit, trying to process my word. 

“What time is it?” she asks, rubbing her eyes.

“8ish, I’ll take you home now”. 

“Okay,” she said, as she slowly stood up and began a packing up all her things.

My heart sunk.

I don’t want her to leave.

“You got everything?” I asked.

She nodded and we went to the front door.

We rush to the car, avoiding the rain as much as possible. And with that, I take her home.

⌛

“Here we are!” she exclaims, much more awake than she was 20 or so minutes ago. 

“Thank you, sir. For everything,” she gives me the most delicate smile. 

“Of course, I’ll uh see you tomorrow,” I bid my farewell.

“See you tomorrow, Mr Madrigal, thank you!” 

She jumped out of the car and ran to the door. Before she entered, she turned back and waved. 

And there goes my bloody heart again.

I wave back and watched as she entered her house. 

⌛

Here I am again. In bed. Jerking off.

I can’t help the moans from spilling out of my mouth. I just couldn’t help myself. I had the blanket that she was wrapped in up to my face, trying to draw out all the scent I could get from it. My moans only grow louder at the smell. 

This time, she would be covered in drool, completely mind-fucked as I would ram into her cunt from behind. We would be on our side, with her pressed against my chest and a leg hanging over mine.

“M-m-m!” she would struggle to even whine.

“What was that darling? Talk properly”.

“M-More!” 

“More what?”

“M-more p-please, s-sir!” she’d manage.

The thought of her desperate, incoherent whines filled my brain, making it harder for me to hold back. 

I’d reach down with my hand to rub her clit and this would make her go ballistic. She would be so sensitive for me.

“Shit!”

I pump my cock faster in my hand, bucking my hips up at the same time. As I near my orgasm, I breathe in more of the blanket, trying to get every last bit of her I can get. 

“F-fuck!” 

My cum shot out of my dick and landed all over my stomach. A keep stroking, however, to get every last drop out.

It took me about 5 minutes just to calm down from that. And there I was covered in my own, perverted cum.

This time, I really need to shower. 

After a quick wash down, I make my way back to my bed, as miserable as ever. 

Why can’t I hold myself back around her? It’s wrong to feel like this.

And then I remember her smile when I offered to tutor her. That damn smile.

“Fuck me”.

-

Author Note: I will write this part also in the reader's POV because that was also requested in the previous parts comments. Also, if there are any kinks or anything like that that people would like to be added, feel free just to say down in the comments as well, because the next chapter (after the reader POV) will contain the real stuff ;)

I hope you had enjoyed this part and look forward to the next.

taglist: elfwoodfae diannaey rennaisancebaby

[aherdofbees]

[misssmeat-deactivated20251019]

Concept: you waking me up from an afternoon nap by pulling my hair tight in your fist and pushing your cock down my throat before I’m even fully aware of what’s happening.

[copiasforeskin]

When You Open Your Hand, They Are Filled with Good Things | Father Paul/Reader

For @welcometothecrockpot for the Hamish Linklater secret Santa thing. I'm so very sorry it's so late; had a couple of weeks where just everything happened at once in the worst way. Anyway, I'm actually planning to do a second part that picks up where this leaves off so things aren't so one-sided, I just didn't want you to have to wait even longer, and this one was already over 2k words.

Pairing: Monsignor John Pruitt | Father Paul Hill/Reader*, Monsignor John Pruitt | Father Paul Hill/You*

Features: Blood play/kink (associated tw for self-harm), prayer kink, priest kink, handjob

Summary: When you turn up for your nightly chat with Father Paul, things take a couple of unexpected turns.

Word Count: 2522

AO3 link

*I didn't deliberately make this gender-neutral, but it largely is. There's mention of lubrication in the context of arousal, but that's about it.

You force yourself to maintain a leisurely pace as you approach the rectory, your traitorous heart fluttering and undermining your attempts to convince yourself your nightly visits are driven purely by a desire for friendship. The last thing you had expected when you moved to the increasingly deserted Crockett Island was to develop a crush on the community's priest. Even less predictable was discovering the object of your affection was a vampire--although he seemed strangely oblivious to the actual nature of his condition. Oddly enough, his being a priest feels like the bigger obstacle to anything happening between you.

When you finally reach your destination, it's clear from the moment he opens the door that something is off. Father Paul smiles at you and invites you in, just like he usually does, but he seems agitated. His typically sweet, comforting smile is tight, and his movements are stiff.

"Is this a bad time?" you ask.

"No, not at all! Sorry, I'm just a little"--you don't miss his brief grimace--"tired."

Instead of joining you on the small sofa, he remains standing, choosing to lean against the counter farther away from you. You're silent for a moment, trying to decide on the best way to persuade him to tell you what's wrong, when his stomach rumbles loudly in the increasingly tense silence.

"Father. When was the last time you ate?"

"I'm sure there are much better things for us to discuss. I managed to get a copy of that book you mentioned last time."

Your chest aches seeing him so obviously suffering, and before you even know what you're doing, you say, "Let me help."

He shakes his head, dropping the reassuring smile in favor of a more serious expression.

"I can't do that. I could never hurt you. I couldn't ask that of you."

You're about to protest when he suddenly doubles over with a heart-wrenching cry, arms wrapped tightly around his abdomen.

"Father, please. I'm offering. You can't function like this."

Father Paul looks up at you, his face pinched with pain as he considers. More than anything, you wish you could wrap a blanket around him and hold him close to you.

He hesitates. His eyes linger briefly on your neck, his gaze hollow. Hungry. Finally, he meets your eyes.

"If I start," he says gravely, "I don't know how hard it would be for me to stop."

"I trust you," you tell him, surprised to find that you genuinely mean it.

You stand and cross the room quickly. He flinches slightly as your hand cups his face tenderly, his body tensing still more. Somber brown eyes regard you carefully, silently gauging your resolve.

"Okay," he says finally.

"Okay," you repeat definitively, immediately running through everything you'll need in your mind. "Where do you keep your knives?"

"The drawer beside the refrigerator. And the glasses are in the cabinet above the paper towels."

"If you drink from me directly, you can stop when you've had enough, and we won't waste any more than you need." Something about seeing him in pain and knowing you can fix it has you feeling so focused. Determined.

He starts toward the sofa, but you stop him.

"No offense, but you really need better furniture. I imagine we'd be more comfortable on the bed, if you wouldn't feel too weird there."

You couldn't say whether the faint blush you see is real or imagined, but he changes course, leading you instead into the bedroom.

The two of you sit awkwardly on the edge of his bed for a moment. You've certainly fantasized before about getting Father Paul into bed, but this really was not what you had in mind. You shake yourself from your thoughts and look over to see his mind seems also to have wandered. His distant expression disappears the instant you speak again.

"How would you like to do this?" you ask.

After a little experimentation and fumbling, trying to determine the most comfortable arrangement for both of you, you settle in sitting side by side against the headboard, your body turned in slightly to face him.

"This is intimate," he notes wryly, failing to fully mask his own embarrassment and anxiety.

He does succeed in making you laugh, and for a fleeting moment, not for the first time, you convince yourself that there's something more than just friendly affection in the way he watches you. A brief but comfortable stillness follows, interrupted by the sound of his stomach and an accompanying wince.

You look to him one last time as you pause, the blade just barely kissing your bare forearm. Paul's ravenous gaze is fixed on that meeting of flesh and steel. His stomach rumbles audibly once more, and without another thought, you press harder, sharply sucking in a breath as warmth spills over your skin.

Before you can even offer, Father Paul takes your arm and raises it reverently to his lips. His tongue darts out briefly, catching a stray drop of blood before it can fall to the sheets. And then he is feeding on you in earnest, gently sucking the small, clean cut where the knife pierced your flesh.

The pain fades, and you find a glowing, pleasant feeling permeating your body in its stead, starting in your arm and washing slowly over you. You feel lucid, level-headed, but...calm in a way you're not convinced is entirely organic. Whatever the reason, you feel good, almost like you've slipped into a warm bath.

Paul moans softly against you, and you feel that warmth beginning to pool between your legs. You allow your gaze to wander, attempting to distract yourself from the sight of his mouth working purposefully against you. Your plan backfires as you find yourself fixated instead on the growing bulge that his vexingly snug jeans do absolutely nothing to conceal.

Without reclaiming your forearm, you turn your body, now facing him more fully. Your free hand unconsciously settles at the back of his head, toying absently with the curls there. His resulting moan has you squeezing your thighs together in an effort to quell the burgeoning ache between them. You have to do something.

"Father?" Your voice sounds simultaneously too loud and too small in the relative silence of the room.

He does not answer.

"Father Paul?" you ask a little louder, gently tugging his hair.

His whine as he pulls away goes directly to your core.

"Sorry." He licks his reddened lips, eyes focused earnestly on your face. "What is it? Was I hurting you?"

His pupils are absolutely blown, making his already dark eyes appear almost black. Half of your mind is shouting, "Priest!" But the other half just wants to push him back onto the bed and ride him until he's repeating your name like the most fervent of prayers.

Your fingers are still threaded through his hair, and you realize just how close you currently are to holding him. If you wanted to, it would be so easy to press your forehead to his, or to kiss him, and you find you really, really want to.

An uncomfortable little shift of his hips--a vain attempt to alleviate the increasing tightness of his jeans, and no doubt one he'd hoped would escape your notice--shakes you from your train of thought and breaks what little resolve you had to begin with. You just have to offer to help. Not because you've dreamed of it since you first laid eyes on him, of course. You simply don't want him to be uncomfortable. That's what you tell yourself, and you almost believe it.

"You're not hurting me. Just uh"--your face heats as you brace yourself for the inevitable rejection and ruination of your friendship-- "would you like some help?"

Paul looks even more adorably puppy-like than usual when he cocks his head slightly to the side in confusion.

You glance pointedly down at the bulge in his pants.

"Oh." He turns bright red and avoids your gaze.

A fresh wave of shame and arousal wash over you. Of course he doesn't think of you that way. He's a priest.

"We shouldn't..." he says, trying to convince himself as much as you.

When he sees your look of hurt and rejection, an expression of realization passes over his face, as if it hadn't occurred to him that you were offering because you wanted him every bit as desperately as he wanted you.

"You want this? You want me?" He stares at you in that unique way he always does, his gaze making you feel both very exposed and entirely safe.

"Very much," you admit, a little more honestly than you probably should, but when you've already decimated your friendship, what do you have to lose?

For the second time tonight, you hear a soft, but resolute, "Okay."

The two of you stare at one another for a moment, disbelieving having found yourselves in a situation you'd both dreamed of but never considered remotely possible.

Paul clears his throat quietly.

"Should I"--his hands collide awkwardly with yours as you simultaneously reach to unfasten his jeans.

"Sorry," you say in unison.

You laugh softly, and he smiles warmly, and you've never felt more safe or certain. You retreat, allowing him to undo his jeans as you cradle your injured forearm to your chest. He leaves his underwear on--tight, black briefs, you note--but pushes his pants down his legs and discards them before relaxing back against the headboard.

"Were you finished, or"--you gesture awkwardly at your forearm--"do you want to continue while I, uh..."

"Would you mind?" he asks, not quite meeting your eyes.

To your surprise, you find your arm already healed. You file that away to process later (you're sure you'll have a lot of processing to do by the time this is over), and focus instead on what you need to do right now in order to help the person you care about. The knife doesn't sting any less the second time, drawing a quiet hiss from you. Paul gratefully accepts your offered forearm, making a soft contented noise in his throat as he tastes you once again.

And now there's the matter of his other...problem. You've spent far more time than you would ever admit imagining this moment: how he would look, the sounds he would make, how he would feel in your hand. You fight the urge to rush things as much as you'd like, reasoning that you don't know when, if ever, someone last touched him like this. Instead you start off in more neutral territory. Paul tenses very slightly as you slide your hand up the outside of his thigh, bringing it to rest momentarily on his hip.

"Okay?" you ask.

At his slight nod, you cup him gently through his underwear, drawing from him a needy whine, muffled against your arm. You begin lightly rubbing, further warming him up as you mentally prepare yourself to finally touch the man who's occupied your fantasies since the moment you met. His hips tilt up into your touch, and at last you take hold of one side of his waistband. He quickly gets the hint and, without releasing your arm, helps you with the other side.

A fond smile flits across your face as his cock springs out hard enough to smack against his belly, leaving behind a glossy patch of precum. His cock is every bit as perfect as you imagined, the tip flushed and glistening with evidence of his arousal. You take him in hand, savoring his moan as you begin stroking, your hand gliding in a slow, smooth rhythm. The angle is a little awkward at first, allowing him to continue feeding on your forearm while you stroke him with your other hand, but you take his hardening still more in your grip as evidence that you must be managing well enough.

"Does that feel okay?" you ask.

His answering moan sends a fresh gush of wetness between your thighs, and you squirm, wishing you had a hand free to take the edge off of your own arousal. But the feelings coursing through you as he feeds on you and slowly comes undone by your hand are too intoxicating to give up. Instead you focus on mapping out the spots and movements that elicit the strongest reactions. You quickly find that rubbing just under the head with your thumb is enough to make him forget he's supposed to be multitasking.

"How's your stomach? Do you need me to stop so you can concentrate?" You slow your movements as you await his answer.

It takes an extra beat of adorably dazed silence for him to actually parse what you're asking, but when he does, he releases your arm completely and says, "Please don't stop."

You couldn't possibly deny him anything, not when he looks pleadingly at you as though you hold his very salvation in your hands. And perhaps you do. All too happy to continue, you slowly increase your pace until you find one that makes his thighs quiver slightly with the effort of keeping himself from squirming or thrusting into your touch.

Paul's trembling increases steadily until finally his head falls to your shoulder, and he begins softly under his breath, "Glory to God in the highest. And on earth peace to men of good will."

The sound of your precum-slicked strokes is infinitely more obscene when juxtaposed with Paul's quiet, desperate prayer.

"We praise You. We bless You. We adore you. We glorify You. We give You thanks for Your great glory."

He gasps quietly as your palm strokes over the tip of his cock, and his voice becomes breathier, more frantic.

"O Lord God, heavenly King, God the Father almighty. O Lord Jesus Christ, the Only-begotten Son. O Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of the Fa--Oh, fuck... Of the F-Father: you Who take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us."

You find yourself once again tangling your fingers in his hair, lightly scratching his scalp with your fingertips and smiling to yourself when he leans into it slightly without lifting his head from your shoulder.

"You Who take away the sins of the world, receive our prayer. You Who sit at the right hand of the Father, have mercy on us." He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "For you alone are holy. You alone are the Lord. You alone, O Jesus Christ, are--ohh--are most high."

"Are you close, Father?" you ask sweetly.

You hear a sharp inhalation then feel, more than see, him nod against you.

"Together with th-the Holy Spirit in the glory of G-God the Father. Oh! I'm--I--" He trails off into a loud moan as he spills over your hand.

You smile, pleased with yourself when you notice the dazed look on his face. Your movements gradually slow as his body relaxes, then you finally let go entirely. Holding his gaze, you raise your hand to lick his release slowly from your palm, watching his blush deepen.

"Amen," you murmur.

[underratedcharactersimagines]

Doctor Octavius/Otto finding out about your size kink would include :

(Woooo more prompts! Woooo Otto 😏Hope it is as requested and you all like it :3 Gif not mine/credit to the original owners.)

-Him definitely catching onto it rather quickly and already using it against you as he notices how stunned you are by his presence, looking right down at you and making you feel even smaller and shorter than you might already be

-Him finding pleasure in purposely making himself even taller than you as he uses his tentacles to elevate himself, teasing you even more as he stalks you before cornering you and trapping you

-Him having quite a habit of reminding you how much smaller you are compared to him, whether it be your pet name or as he’s teasing you, he sure enjoys taking complete advantage of your love for how much bigger he is

-Him gladly making you feel so much smaller whenever he easily picks you up or just holds you completely to himself, pointing out how clearly flustered you are and definitely teasing you about it constantly if it’s his size that has you tongue tied

-Him definitely taking advantage of how easily he can have complete control over you as you’d kiss each other, his hands and claws roaming you freely and reminding you how strong he really is

-Him leaving you no control as he’d easily put you in your place and restrain you with his claws, pressing himself against you to make you feel how big he is and going down on you at his own leisure knowing well you’re loving every second of your surrender

-Him making you feel even smaller with the way he’d explore your body with his hands and lips, and would just easily grope you or spank you, taunting you about being at his mercy

-Him taunting and cooing you about being smaller than him and whether or not you can handle him, especially as you’d touch him in return or would go down on him, praising you endlessly of course when you’d manage

-Him easily putting you in any position he feels like fucking you or feels like you deserve as he pleases, enjoying to make you feel so weak and needy at his mercy

-Him of course loving to make you feel protected for as he holds you and takes care of you afterwards, pampering you endlessly despite just having to tease you constantly about loving him for being so much bigger than you

[mandeelion]

bow thy head and prey // an AU father paul turned theology college professor x f!reader fanfic [midnight mass fandom]

this is 1,000% dedicated to @star-spangled-man​ for putting this thought into my goblin brain and now i literally can’t quit thinking about it. so basically, this is all your fault miss ma’am. hope you enjoy. *shoots finger guns and slowly backs away into the darkness*

tags: @rothko-mirror​ / @girlwiththenegantattoo​ / @lovepollution​ 

this is exactly the way i pictured him when i wrote this, if anyone’s curious. because HOLY FUCKIN’ HELL. I’D BE PISSED OFF AT HOW HOT HE IS IF I WASN’T SO BUSY THIRSTING AFTER HIM IN LITERALLY EVERY ROLE HE’S EVER PLAYED DAMMIT. your honor i’d like to file a formal complaint against this man. because of reasons. ……anywaaaaaay, here’s the fic hahaha.

THEOLGY:  the study of the nature of God and religious belief.

“when he’d call you up to his desk as he’d hand back assignments to the class, your heart would shiver with pleasure at his gentle smile that you decided was reserved only for you as he’d compliment you on your work. and he always complimented you on your work.”

Keep reading

[welcometothecrockpot]

And we’re back!! Lord help me, I write long chapters but I had a ton of fun writing this so I hope whoever reads enjoys it too! Warnings for content are listed below and feedback is always appreciated ❤️❤️

Father Paul/John Pruitt x original character

Multi chapter WIP, horror/drama

Chapter 2 of 7- 5,526 words, warnings- religious imagery, mentions of chronic illness, canon consistent animal death, mild gore, suggestive imagery

[Chapter 1]

[2]

A fitful night mercifully succumbed to the light of morning with the rising of the sun, the sky clear and blue as if it hadn’t just been churning with so much turmoil. The shrill cry of the gulls shook Meredith awake from her restless sleep and the room slowly came into focus. Her eyelids felt like they weighed triple what they should. She’d spent the night slipping in and out of sleep while the storm boomed outside of her window. The image of what she saw, what she thought she saw, she couldn’t shake it from her head. It sat there in her mind and had even begun to gain new features- pale skin, pointed ears, a heavy brow. All she wanted was some sleep, but the noise of the gulls was making that unattainable.

Rubbing the weight from her eyes, she sat up from her bed and shuffled into the kitchen. She moved about quietly, careful not to wake her aunt. Her mug clinked on the counter while she prepared her coffee, the smell of it alone already brightening her senses. After a moment, it occurred to her just how loud the gulls were, and the frenzied sound wasn’t stopping.

Once her mug was empty, Meredith had gotten dressed and was slipping her boots onto her feet. Following the noise, she headed toward the west bank and squinted at the sky ahead, swarming with winged scavengers. The piercing cacophony was enough to make her want to cover her ears when she made it to the beach, and she wasn’t alone. A handful of other islanders were also stepping out onto the sand, and a few were already down by the water looking at… what is that?

Dozens, maybe even hundreds of small bundles of what she thought might have been debris littered the beach, a horde of seagulls pecking away at it. But as she got closer, she smelled it. Her eyes widened and her stomach dropped. They were carcasses. Cat carcasses, all of them. So many bodies. It looked like many, if not all of the strays from the Uppards. She stepped up to the nearest body and crouched down to have a look, startling a few gulls away from it. It was waterlogged and already overrun with insects in addition to the peck marks from the birds. There wasn’t much to tell at first sight other than that fact that there was a deep wound in its neck. Scanning the beach, she didn’t see a single sign of what could have happened anywhere.

“Hey! You gotta stay off the beach! Don’t get too close!” a voice called out over the screech of the gulls.

A man dressed in denim with dark hair and a beard approached her from further down the shoreline and she straightened up to apologize, “Sorry! I just- I’m a…”

“It’s alright, I just can’t have folks getting too close,” he said, stopping in front of her. “We just don’t wanna spread it if this is some kind of disease or infection.”

His accent distinct of New York and the sheriff’s badge on his jacket caught Meredith’s eye before she answered, “Sheriff, yes exactly, um, I’m a veterinarian.”

He raised his eyebrows and nodded, “Oh! Ok, yeah, maybe you can help us then. I’m thinking we burn ‘em. Should take care of anything infectious.”

“Yeah… yeah that should do it. But, uh, I should take a couple of them with me, for necropsy. Maybe I can figure out what did it.”

She kept her gaze down as much as possible. She’d always been intimidated by cops and this little interaction was no different. Aunt Carolyn told her about the new sheriff, Hassan was his name. She also made sure to tell her how good looking he was. She wasn’t wrong. All these facts combined made her particularly nervous.

His concern was showing on his face, but he nodded in agreement once again and replied, “Ok. I trust that you’ll contain them appropriately. If you find anything, please keep me updated.”

Her heart leapt a little before she answered positively, “Yes. Absolutely, I will. Thank you, Sheriff.”

“Thank you, Doctor-?” he asked, offering his hand for her to shake.

“Brown, Meredith Brown,” she answered, taking his hand, large and warm, in hers.

“Thank you, Doctor Brown.”

He broke eye contact then turned to rejoin the group of men behind him and Meredith let out a breath of relief.

--

The lock clicked as she turned her key then pushed the stiff door open at Island Main Veterinary Clinic. She hadn’t been inside yet, but it was as dismal as Meredith expected. A layer of dust blanketed every surface and the air smelled stale. When she flicked on the lights, she could see stacks of old supplies that no one had bothered to remove and heaved a sigh. It was bleak, but it was hers. After opening a few windows and propping the door open, she carried a tattered cooler inside. She hoped she could find some gloves somewhere in those boxes, but no such luck. Only expired syringes, some questionable reels of suture, rolls of bandage material she could probably make use of, but no gloves. Off to a great start.

Browsing the shelves at the general store didn’t bring much fortune either. There was a limited selection of medical supplies, but again, no disposable gloves. Fortunately, she had a talent for improvising. With her purchase of a utility knife and rubber kitchen gloves in hand, she stepped back out onto the road, determined to complete the task at hand. Aptly named, the clinic was located in a converted house on Main Street, between the small post office and a block of old houses that once belonged to the more affluent island settlers. Down at the end of the road, she could see the narrow steeple of Saint Patrick’s just peeking out above the trees and a quiver of anxiety twisted her stomach.

It stood there, looming overhead, a physical reminder of her shame. Meredith blinked and tried to shake those intrusive thoughts from her head, her face beginning to heat up, then turned to walk back to the clinic and nearly choked on her own breath. There he was, like a higher power itself just heard her thoughts. Father Paul was walking alongside young Leeza Scarborough in her wheelchair, just out of earshot, headed the opposite direction of the church.

Panic struck her in her chest and without thinking, she dashed back into the store, backing away from the door while she tried to catch her breath. This was ridiculous. She ran away from him, just like she did yesterday. Was she running from him or from herself, from her own feelings? Maybe both. Then the back of her neck suddenly tingled, and she turned to see the cashier staring warily at her from behind the register.

“Um, s-sorry,” she croaked from her dry throat before pushing willfully through the door again.

Squinting in the sunlight, she saw his silhouette disappear around the corner and the tension in her muscles graciously released. This wasn’t going to work. Crockett was too small to avoid anyone, she should’ve known that already. Outside of avoidance, there was sufferance. But she wasn’t ready to seek that out just yet, not when her stomach still took flight at a mere glimpse of the back of his head.

Getting back to utilizing her arduously earned professional skill had a surprisingly calming effect as Meredith slipped the rubber gloves onto her hands back at the empty clinic. She prepped the wet table best she could with her limited supplies, setting out the utility knife within reach before reaching into the cooler. Wrapped in the plastic bag, she lifted out the first of the small carcasses to lay it on the metal grate, a copious amount of sand coming along with it. She began with a careful inspection of the exterior of the body, taking note of every surface. It was a male, a rather mature male judging by the diseased state of its teeth and seemed to be fairly untouched by the scavenging sea birds.

The chest, abdomen, limbs, and skull all appeared intact. The only wound she could find was to the neck. Even though it was the only sign of trauma, it was certainly significant. The skin and subcutaneous tissue layers had been macerated and the muscle torn, leaving the major blood vessels completely destroyed. Even the cervical vertebrae were disarticulated. She’d never seen anything like it. A wound like that could easily be fatal on its own but she had to be thorough and do an interior exam.

She reached for the utility knife and made a Y-incision, cutting her way through layers of noticeably pale tissue as she went. Her brow furrowed while her eyes scanned over the body in front of her and she felt a strange shiver run down her back. She began to cut somewhat frantically, looking for something that remained missing. Meredith stood there and blinked at the viscera, that creeping unease turning in her stomach. Then, remembering she had a second carcass to examine, she quickly pulled it from the bag and repeated the process, this time with a nervous urgency. But it was exactly the same.

Could a person have done this? She didn’t think so. She’d find cleaner cuts, tool marks, something to suggest human involvement. Plus, how could someone do this to almost two hundred cats? This wasn’t a case of someone, more like something.

Her level of panic began to subside but that eerie feeling stuck with her long after she took a few photos and wrapped up the bodies to keep in the freezer, just in case. She thought about going straight to the sheriff to tell him about her findings but, it was already getting late, and Aunt Carolyn was likely starting to make dinner. So, she scrubbed and rinsed the wet table before washing up and grabbing her jacket.

The sky had begun to turn a shade of brilliant pink by the time Meredith stepped out onto the clinic’s porch and turned her key in the lock. She took a deep breath of evening air and hoped that a nice cup of hot tea would help wash away the pent up dread tightening up her chest. But then a rush of butterflies flew up into her throat and stopped her in her tracks when she turned around to descend the porch steps. For the second time that day, she crossed paths with Father Paul, leaving her unconvinced that God, any God, wasn’t hearing her thoughts.

This time he saw her, giving a small smile and a wave in her direction. Sufferance. She could already feel her face flushing when she returned a tentative greeting and walked down the short flight of stairs to the road where he stood, paying extra attention not to trip over her own feet. It’s ok, you’re fine, this is fine, she repeated in her head in an effort to keep herself together.

“Meredith, it’s good to see you,” he said softly as she approached.

She forced down the nervous quiver running wild through her body, set off by his genuinely innocent statement, and replied feebly, “You too, um, Father.”

She wanted to go find the nearest patch of sand and bury herself in it. But he seemed to sense her dismay and replied with a smile, “Ah, yes. I suppose that must have come as somewhat of a shock. My apologies. I didn’t want to stir up any worry over the Monsignor the day we met at the ferry.”

The heat in her cheeks subsided a bit with the levity of his tone, bringing an easier smile to her face when she shook her head, “No, no it’s- it’s alright. I was actually wondering what brought you to the island. Not many new faces around here unless there’s a reason.”

“You’re not the first person to say that, actually,” he chuckled.

It didn’t take long for Paul’s calming presence to ease the tension that had tied her into knots while they strolled, Meredith accepting his offer to walk her home. Her nerves, they were still there, but they were placated by the lyrical sound of his voice, the graciousness of his words, and the softness of his essence. Maybe it was his divine purpose that made him this way. Divinity, that’s what it was.

“So, your aunt, she was the one who brought you back here?”

“Mm, she was,” Meredith nodded. “She’d been trying to for years, but the time just… didn’t feel right yet, I guess.”

“Is the time right now, then?” he asked, catching her eyes with his.

She blinked as a flicker of her heart in her chest raised goosebumps across her skin, then she answered, “I suppose it has to be.”

Father Paul responded with a warm smile before turning his gaze toward the sunset. But Meredith couldn’t stop looking at him. His lean frame was dressed in a zipped sweater over his clerical shirt and slim fitting jeans down his impossibly long legs. She could have eaten him alive with her stare but caught herself just in time, averting her gaze before he turned back to ask her, “You’re a doctor, a veterinarian?”

Fighting against the heat traveling back up her face, she nodded, “That’s right.”

“Well, that’s wonderful. What a wonderful skill- healing. Healing God’s creatures, those who can’t even speak. We’re lucky to have you here.”

There was no hiding the flush that lit up Meredith’s cheeks as her pace slowed and she blinked at him, her lips parting but no sound leaving her mouth until she forced a quiet, “Thank you.”

The two came to a stop in front of her aunt’s house and Father Paul returned another gentle nod. She tried to come up with something to say, but her mind refused to bring forth any coherent thought beneath the frenzied buzz of her confused emotions. Such a simple conversation stirred up a tangled mess of feelings inside her. There was a familiarity mixed together with a strange allure, certainty and uncertainty, together, tempting her closer but also pushing her away.

A pang of anxiety bolted down into her stomach when he blinked at her, and reality came rushing back with the cool air on her burning face.

“Well, I hope to see you there. On Wednesday.”

“Wednesday?” her voice snuck out just loud enough for him to hear.

The way he looked at her only stirred her frazzled mind further when he answered, “Ash Wednesday. And the, uh, the potluck.”

“Oh! Yes. Yes I’m sure I’ll- I’m sure I’ll be there.”

His teeth flashed from behind the amiable curve of his lips before his path turned back toward the church. “Goodnight, Meredith.”

“Goodnight… Father.”

Meredith stood in the road as if her shoes were planted in the gravel, watching his figure disappear with the fading light until a crash from inside the house startled her into motion. Throwing the door open, she rushed in to find a shattered baking dish along with pasta and tomato sauce spread out across the kitchen floor. Aunt Carolyn stood motionless with one hand clutching the other tightly while she stared wide-eyed at the mess around her feet, the door to the hot oven hanging open. A silent gasp caught in her chest before she rushed to her aunt’s side, holding her by her elbow to help keep her steady.

“Auntie, what happened?” she asked calmly, despite the tightness in her throat threatening to shake her voice.

Aunt Carolyn blinked at the floor for another moment before she seemed to suddenly realize Meredith was there and quietly answered, “Oh, oh I’m fine, dear. I’m fine. I just- just a little spill, that’s all.”

Meredith’s eyes traveled down her aunt’s trembling hands where she saw a bright red blister beginning to form beside her quivering thumb. Her heart dropped to the floor, and she struggled to maintain her composure while she steadily lead Aunt Carolyn to the sink to gently run cool water over the burn.

After patting it dry, she sat her on the couch and closed the oven door, then fetched the first aid kit from the bathroom. She wondered if this has happened before, when she wasn’t around, or if this was the first of it. They didn’t speak a word to each other while she spread ointment over the inflamed skin and lightly wrapped it with a protective bandage while the tremors continued. She never spoke much about it, her Parkinson’s. Whenever Meredith expressed any concern, she’d act like she didn’t know what she was talking about, as if acknowledging it existed made it true. As if ignoring it made it go away.

That always frustrated Meredith. She lost track of how many times she’d said it- once the tremors started, she had to move into assisted living on the main land. Those conversations always ended with a begrudged nod and a change of subject. But now that it was happening, the idea sat in her stomach like a rock. She knew it was what was best for her, she could tell there were bouts of confusion too, but once she left this place, she knew it’d wither her away.

She smiled through her uneasiness at Aunt Carolyn once she finished bandaging and patted her hand. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this. I’ll go clean up and you turn on the tv and relax. I think Jeopardy is about the start, don’t want to miss it.”

Auntie’s eyes turned glassy when she returned a grieved smile and said, “Only if you listen in with me.”

Later that night Meredith swept the last of the food scraps from her improvised dinner of grilled tomato and cheese sandwiches into the trash before tying up the bag and fetching her shoes to take it outside. The tension and sorrow that choked the air in the house had dissipated with the sound of their laughter when they resumed their usual routine of seeing who could come up with the funniest answer to the questions on Jeopardy.

But that rock still sat in her stomach. She’d been thinking about it for a while but tonight, her mind was made up. She was going to stop looking for listings and just stay there. Her aunt needed her, even if she wouldn’t say it, and she wasn’t going to let her fade away in a nursing home, not yet at the very least. She wanted something to remove her from her disarray surrounding Father Paul, but this wasn’t what she had in mind.

Her breath fogged in the cold night air when she stepped outside. The temperature must have dropped with the sun. She pulled the fabric of her sweater tighter around herself and took brisk steps out to the garbage bin, tossing the bag in. Then everything around her suddenly felt eerily still. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck and her belly drew tight. Out there in the dark, images of the figure she saw out in the storm and the corpses on the beach flashed before her eyes and in a rush of panic, she turned back toward the house and let out a sharp scream when she nearly collided with a shrieking pair of wings.

White feathers drifted through the air as she caught sight of a gull taking to the sky, calling out its dismay while it flew. Her heart was pounding so hard, it shook her chest, and she quickly ran inside, catching her breath once the door was shut and locked behind her. Her body trembled and she felt the sting of tears in her eyes, frustrated over how ridiculous that was. It was just like when she was a kid, when she was scared or had unwanted thoughts, it always made her cry. Whenever it happened, she’d go sleep in her aunt’s bed with her. After sipping a glass of water, she retrieved her pillow and quietly lifted the covers on Aunt Carolyn’s bed to slip beneath them.

Once her head sank into her pillow and a deep breath in filled her lungs, her thoughts began to quiet, and her eyelids grew heavy. She’d figure it all out, given time.

--

“Well, I hoped to be able to provide more insight for you but… I’m at a bit of a loss.”

Sheriff Hassan raised his eyebrow at Meredith from across his desk in the back of the general store. She figured it would be best set expectations from the start.

“A loss?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair.

She shifted in her seat and lowered her eyes to the papers littering the desk and answered, “Yes. I did a thorough examination and I- I don’t quite know how to explain my findings.”

“Well,” he exhaled, luring Meredith’s eyes back up. “Don’t explain them, then. Just tell me what you found.”

That creeping feeling returned to her stomach, but she swallowed it down and reached into her coat pocket for her camera. “If I may, I took some photos to show you.”

The sheriff nodded, his expression matching the tension that now filled the room, and she turned the screen toward him.

“The, um, exterior of the body, both bodies, showed no damage except for a large wound to the lateral neck,” she said, looking up at him before hitting the button to the next photo, then the next as she spoke. “The interior tissues and organs were completely… drained. I cut all the way down to the aorta and I… found no blood. Anywhere. I- I would expect to find blood left behind once the heart stops pumping but, there’s nothing.”

Her heart had begun to beat faster by the time she reached the last photo and Sheriff Hassan locked eyes with her as she finished, “Complete exsanguination through a single large wound, a- a bite wound, in the neck.”

Saying it out loud made it all the more real, more terrifying, and it took a moment for the sheriff to speak, breaking through the wall of suspense between them. “What could’ve done this?”

“That’s the thing, I don’t know.”

He leaned back and folded his arms over this chest, his gaze on the floor until he asked, “Sharks, maybe?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Sea predators tend to dismember, pull away chunks of flesh. This was one bite, all blood drained from it, not a bit of organ or muscle missing otherwise.”

“You’re sure it’s a bite?” he questioned next.

“The way the tissue was shredded and- and crushed, that was a bite,” Meredith answered before looking him in the eyes once more. “I’m sure of that.”

They sat in silence for a moment while her heart pounded up into her ears before he nodded slowly and replied, “Well, try not to worry. From what I can tell, this island has eyes and ears everywhere. We’ll keep watch for anything else strange.”

His authoritative demeanor should have brought more comfort to her than it did, at least as much as she hoped it would. But she nodded in agreement, nonetheless. There wasn’t much else to do now.

She kept herself occupied for the remainder of the day with planning and ordering supplies for the clinic, much of it she’d have to travel to the main land to bring back to the island herself. If she was honest, she was improvising all of it. Determination and what could only be described as luck are two things she’d always relied on. Maybe it was luck that brought her a loving aunt to raise her when she had no one else and maybe luck got her into graduate school. She’d been told throughout her life that it wasn’t luck, it was God. Everything that was good, was given to her by God.

God. But if God gave her everything, what was she working so hard for? That was what she couldn’t understand, why she never could share her aunt’s faith. The idea made her feel powerless. The notion that her path was laid out only by faithfulness, not her own accomplishments, it felt empty, and that always stuck with her. And what about those who believed but still had so little, were oppressed or disenfranchised, and never granted the blessings they seemingly deserved? That didn’t sit well with her either.

Wednesday had arrived and Meredith sat in the pew next to Aunt Carolyn, struggling against her intrusive thoughts while Father Paul spoke his inspiring homily. Ash Wednesday, repentance, rebirth and restoration. If we keep our faith, God will heal us. If we keep singing praises, the same God that took everything away will bring it all back. God will heal our island.

Her heart squeezed in her chest. His words beckoned feelings that she couldn’t identify. Like her subconscious mourned the loss of her estranged religion, dead and buried beside her path to independence. It was strange, the effect he had on her. The velvety cadence of his voice stirred her faith within its grave all while her desire to be on her knees carried her mind to a far less godly place. He was like the Apple in the Garden. The Forbidden Fruit is all the more tempting than those within reach.

That familiar heat grew in her cheeks when she stood to follow her aunt up to the altar. This time it wasn’t for the sacrament, but for a blessing- a smudge of ash on the forehead, a reminder that nothing is permanent. No, not even the anxiety tightening in her throat would last forever, even if it felt like it would. She stepped forward, keeping her eyes down before slowly trailing them up the royal purple chasuble until they met his. Like the breath had been sucked out of her, she felt her head become light and the walls around her grew distant.

“Meredith, remember you are dust,” his voice echoed in her ears.

She remained still, unblinking as his thumb reached out to make contact with her heated skin. “And to dust you shall return.”

The blackened cross painted onto her forehead tingled furiously long after she made her way back to her seat, her fingers buzzing with pins and needles, and she tried to focus on not showing how heavy her breath had become. For a second time, approaching him in the church had rendered her into a walking cliché. Her heart pounded and her palms dampened with sweat, becoming nothing but a flurry of hormones and nerve signals. Even after mass had ended, it was difficult for her to look at him. His body draped in holy vestments only reminded her of acts illicit beneath the gaze of the watchful crucifix.

Shame had become an emotion all too familiar to her. It occupied so much of her mind but did nothing to quell the inferno of sinful fantasies that invaded her thoughts. She could distract herself, but they always came back. Thoughts of her back against the altar, whispered prayers for repentance heating her skin while she clung to those gilded robes.

--

The grass had turned green just in time for the annual Crock Pot Luck. Ceramic dishes and serving bowls crowded the rickety folding tables set up on the town square lawn where nearly everyone on the island had gathered. The spring festival was always a favorite for Aunt Carolyn and Meredith had loved it as a child, but it lost some of its appeal as she grew older. Social gatherings were often a little tense on Crockett, everyone in the small community knew a little too much about each other sometimes.

Meredith left her aunt to catch up with her book club friends and wandered around among the tents and picnic tables while the local band played covers of Dave Matthews songs. It was a bit surreal for her, seeing some faces that she hadn’t in quite some time, evidence of years passed overlaying like a mask. She noticed a few people eyeing the bar area and looked to see a bearded man with a large mastiff at his feet gulping down a solo cup of keg beer.

Joe Collie was a man everyone knew of but didn’t know well. All she knew about him was what everyone else knew- Joe drank. He drank a lot and often too much. The town had been happy to leave him be to slowly drink himself to death until things went too far when Leeza Scarborough ended up on the other end of his gun barrel, and then in a wheelchair. An accident, yes, but there was no forgiveness for Joe after that and suddenly his drinking became everyone’s business.

Then in the corner of her eye, Paul’s tall figure came into view and a jolt of anxiety caused her to flinch and turn away. Despite her will to endure it and maintain her composure, her impulse to avoid him hadn’t gone anywhere. She was still trying to run from him like a love struck teenager. And now, so many prying eyes around her were making it worse. She took a quick step in a hastily chosen direction, her heart beating a little faster until a startling sound suddenly caught her attention.

All eyes followed the sound to find Joe in the grass on his hands and knees, wailing over a dark colored heap on the ground. It took a moment for her to understand what she was seeing before Meredith bolted forward to kneel down beside him. His dog laid on his side, gasping while blood tinged froth poured from his mouth.

She quickly swept her fingers through the back of the dog’s throat to find nothing blocking his airway, only the foreboding foam. Dread crawled its way down her back, the graveness of the situation showing itself to her. But stoicism was all she could rely on now, she had to try. It only took a moment before he became nonresponsive and his pulse absent, bringing Meredith to her knees over top of him with her hands locked together atop his ribs.

“Joe, do you know what happened?” she called out over his screams while she began forceful compressions on the large dog, but he didn’t seem to hear her.

No one uttered a single word as they watched her continue to push with all her might while Joe called out his dog’s name. The seconds ticked by, slowed by adrenaline, and as they turned to minutes, still no sign of life.

Joe had fallen silent and nodded without looking at her when Meredith panted, keeping her voice gentle, “Joe… I’m going to stop, ok?”

She let her hands slide off of his chest and sat back on her heels to catch her breath, Joe’s resumed cries making the only sound despite the large crowd gathered around them until the sheriff spoke up, “Any idea what happened, Joe?”

He gasped for a breath, then turned to shout, “He was poisoned! That’s what happened!”

A moment of shocked silence passed over the crowd before Meredith swallowed the lump in her throat and asked, “Could he have gotten into something?”

But Joe had no room for any benefit of doubt, restating his conviction and pleading to the group, “You don’t like me? That’s fine! Shit, I’d die, and I don’t care so much ‘bout me neither, but what did he ever do? What did he ever do to you?”

“Joe, maybe he ate something. Maybe it was an accident,” she lightly asserted.

“An accident?” his tone was set for further argument, but ultimately trailed off when his eyes briefly met Leeza’s before casting his gaze back down to his motionless companion.

Meredith then sat quietly with Joe while sheriff Hassan dispersed the crowd, leaving them to mourn the loss until the sun reached the horizon.

--

She found herself in the church after dark, uncertain how she got there. The lights seemed dimmer than usual. Then a shadow cast over her. Was she on her back? Father Paul looked down at her from above, his expression unreadable but his gaze soft. A hand trailed up her thigh and she could hear her pulse racing in her ears. Warm breath against her neck, her body grew stiff. A gasp for air and whispered prayer. Then a spark on her lips. They were sealed by his, muffled moans trapped inside. She welcomed the dark behind her eyelids while she took her turn and swallowed him down.

A sharp breath rushed in, and her eyes opened to take in the familiar sight of her bedroom ceiling. Her heart thumped against her chest while she took a moment to settle in to the waking world around her. That was the most vivid one she’d had yet. Sweat dampened her forehead and she threw her covers off before turning on her side, her breath beginning to slow. Even in her dreams, she couldn’t outrun him.

[see-you-in-a-new-light]

NSFW: Father Paul kink prompts/headcanons!

Hi there lovelies! Here is my gift to the wonderful @thegardenarcher for the Hamish Linklater Secret Santa organized by @the-weird-dane !

I've been looking forward to this event all month, and I hope that this writing does justice to your amazing self. I wanted to include as many fun prompts as possible, so I decided to make a headcannons/short fic list instead so you get the best of all worlds hehe. I haven't written smut in AGES so I hope I'm not too rusty! Apologies for taking so darn long - I hope you enjoy and have the loveliest new year! ♡

Minors, do not interact!

CW: priest smuuuut, extended o~r~a~l, public, rope-play, Father Paul switch energy, I wrote the reader as afab but would be happy to change anything <3

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* NSFW below the cut! *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Extended Oral/switch vibes:

When the church is empty and darkness falls on the quiet and unassuming town, Paul turns off all of the ceiling lights, locks the doors, and lights a couple candles near the pew that he had instructed you to wait by. When he returns to you all too slowly, he lifts your body with grace and ease and lays you down on the pew with a gentleness that you had never known. For years townsfolk had whispered their holy prayers upon these seats, and now your priest pressed his body against yours on the ancient wood, radiating an intense heat against you. Anyone could see the two of you if they had been strolling past the tall stained glass windows and stopped to notice the flames, but this was part of the thrill; he ensured that your bodies were pressed together as close as possible on the wooden pew to create a feeling of safety and closeness and an alluring illusion of privacy, knowing that ultimately anyone could enter the church at any time to witness your undoing.

When he begins touching and tasting your body, he takes his sweet time starting at your forehead and down to your nose and cheeks, making sure to not miss an inch of your skin on his way down. He does this not only because he cherishes every moment that his mouth is on you, but because you make him take his time - he loves being at your every command and is the most obedient of servants to you when it comes to making you moan. There isn’t a single part of your body that Paul misses; placing gentle kisses across your collarbones and the dip where your shoulder meet your neck, lightly grazing his fingers over your stomach and leaving goosebumps in their wake that he can barely make out against the candlelight, and whispering sweet prayers of amazement at your precious body in place of the praises of the lord he had spoken in mass earlier that day. He knows that at nighttime it is his place to worship you, and you don’t allow him to taste you fully until he’s honoured every part of you.

By the time you finally consider letting him put his sweet, prayerful lips where he craves, he’s looking up at you pathetically for permission as if to ask if his worship is good enough for you. Does he deserve to taste you? Has he earned your moans that he so desperately could draw out with his tongue if you just allowed him to? He looks at you, begging not with words but with wide pupils, flushed cheeks, and breathy, lust-coloured whimpers, patiently waiting for you to give him the sign.

When you finally allow him to go down on you, he does not waste a single moment. His tongue is warm and wet and desperate and he stops trying to hold back the precious sounds that your body elicits from him. At the first taste of your wetness, his delicate and nearly fragile moan is hot against you, causing you to buck up against his mouth, much to his delight. His dark, low, and yet heavenly soft sounds of pleasure at the taste of you vibrates against your body, and he’s absolutely fucking pathetic for your body. He holds onto your hips for dear life, his long and loving fingers pressing into your hipbones to urge you ever closer to his mouth.

Orgasm finds you easily, from his incredible teasing and dedicated touches, and he doesn't move his mouth away from you as you grind against him with your fingers in his curls. He laps you up, pressing his tongue flat against your opening as you rock up and down, holding you close to him and not letting go even as you come down. He doesn't stop, with his mouth desperately licking up everything, his eyes closed in focus and pleasure while you wriggle from overstimulation in the most magical way. The man is a mess for you, completely undone, and obsessed with having you in his mouth.

Secret Sex:

Paul hadn’t experienced physical touch in years. He had tried to keep his precious moans and sighs inside of him while he bounced you up and down his cock against the wall in the back hallway of the church, but as the townsfolk were still filing out after mass, the danger of the situation made him even more desperate. He knew that Bev was waiting “patiently” outside to congratulate him on such a moving mass as she did every damn time, and that her patience could and would evaporate at any moment and force her to search every nook and cranny of the church. He knew that Wade would be waiting out front to get his opinion on the church’s latest involvement in Crockett, tapping his foot and glancing at his watch while the island’s priest was busy frantically and haphazardly pushing his impressive length in and out of you. He knew of his importance to the people of the seaside town, and knowing that his reputation could be ruined by one person finding his cock burrowed inside you after mass when people hadn’t even finished leaving made the anticipation almost too much. He tried desperately to not alert those still leaving the holy space, but as he reached release and spilled his warmth into your awaiting body, a pathetic “Jesus Christ” was mewled all too loudly into the air - the door clicks open.

Paul sits dutifully in the confession booth for the guilt ridden adults of the island to spill their secrets, all the while holding a secret of his own. As they admit their wrongs and pay their dues, Paul plays with your hair as you sit between his legs in the booth with him. His cock enters your warm mouth and grows harder as his breath hitches, and he tries to remain calm and collected to not give himself away. As your tongue works slowly up and down, teasingly delicate, he attempts to navigate his exhalations of pleasure to match the woeful admissions; “ahhhhh... well, God, you see, God, he understands.” Not suspicious at all, as he bucks into your mouth during his Godly duties, praying that they are too focused on their own guilt to notice his odd behaviour.

Rope-play/switch vibes:

When Bev went to check on Monsignor Pruitt when he first arrived back on the island from his trip, she hadn’t expected to see you appear from the back rooms to greet her instead. “Oh, I’m so sorry, he’s unfortunately a little tied up at the moment, but if you’d like you can wait out here till he’s done! It shouldn't be too long.” Leaving Bed slightly perturbed (as was her nature), you return to the bedroom with a skip in your step. Seeing the display of luscious ropes tied delicately around his strong arms, legs, and abdomen filled you with a devilish spark. The precious look of shock on his face when he realized that you would be continuing your session until Bev grew impatient and left, or the unbareably delightful threat of her coming into the bedroom to see him tied up, had his eyes flutter closed with a moan. "Lets take our time, yes?"

[plainlo-inthemorning]

The Night Father Paul Let You Sit on His Lap

Warning: PRIEST SMUT. Children, avert your eyes. And always use protection IRL.

This is my Secret Santa gift to @see-you-in-a-new-light for the Hamish Linklater holiday event created by the lovely @the-weird-dane

I hope you enjoy! Happy New Year :D

Summary: He laughs again, a little more at ease this time. But his mouth snaps shut so fast it’s almost comical when you adjust yourself and ‘accidentally’ grind down on his lap…

When you come back from the bathroom, your chair at Erin’s long dining table has been taken by the mayor’s wife, Dotty, who, by the sound of her uncharacteristically boisterous retelling of some non-dispute at the convenience store with a pesky tourist last summer, is on her third or fourth glass of wine.

At least.

You’re betting that her rapt audience at the end of the table – her husband, Ed and Maggie Flynn and another elderly couple you don’t know that well – are not far behind.

You smile to yourself, even if you are now standing a little awkwardly in the middle of the room.

It’s good to see the parent generation of Crockett Island letting loose for once.

They deserve it.

When Erin, your old high school friend, had spontaneously gone up to the stage at the Crock Pot earlier today, clapped her hands together to get everyone’s attention and invited people over for drinks and a bite to eat later in the evening, the proposal had initially been met with uncertain side-glances.

It’s been that long since the good people of the island actually socialized with one another outside of church gatherings and said (poorly attended) Crock Pot ‘festivities’.

Beverly Keane, the self-righteous bitch, had had the audacity to snicker out loud at the suggestion, as if she personally couldn’t think of anything more ridiculous than spending her free time in the company of an unmarried pregnant woman (the horror!), and a former convict.

Yes, you hadn’t failed to notice how she had made a point of shooting her nose up at poor Riley too, who had been standing to a side, eyes to the ground, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

It was the new, charismatic priest, Father Paul Hill, who had warmly accepted Erin’s offer, effectively shutting Bev up when he’d proclaimed it a great idea, and that he for one would love to cap off the day in good company with his neighbors.

After that, a decent crowd had followed the priest’s lead (doctor Gunning and her date being notable exceptions), and if you hadn’t already found him quite alluring, watching him all but usher the island dwellers after Erin, beaming like a happy, handsome puppy, would have done the trick.

For someone who’s only supposed to be stationed at the island for a few weeks tops while the old Monsignor Pruitt recovers from illness on the mainland, Paul sure seems keen to get on everyone’s good side in church as well as outside.

Perhaps he’s a little lonely, you think. Him being fairly young and living a life in solitude.

Also, you absolutely wouldn’t blame him, if he felt like hiding from Bev for a few hours, knowing that she would never set foot in Erin’s house…

You have a feeling Bev is trying to make herself a permanent fixture at the priest’s small rectory, probably coming and going as she pleases, considering how she had been bossing Monsignor Pruitt around for the past years.

“I bet she’s totally into Paul. Dreams about him at night and draws little hearts around his name in her burn book and shit like that”, Erin had said, hilariously matter of fact the other day, and you had almost spit out your dinner laughing.

You’re inclined to believe her, though.

All in all, it’s been a nice week on the island for you, spending your holiday catching up with Erin and a couple of your other high school friends, Evelyn and Peter, who have also taken time off to come home.

Or: None of your parents actually live here anymore, having all left after that devastating oil spill, but you still like to return every few years to breathe in the ocean air of the place that shaped you growing up.

And now that both Erin and Riley have moved back more or less permanently, you think you may migrate over more frequently.

Of course, it had been Erin’s suggestion that you, Evelyn and Peter stay with her, like a mini reunion of sorts, and you’re so glad you accepted, even if the last-minute travel expenses were a bit steep.

You have a sneaking suspicion Erin may have put the thing together with Riley’s wellbeing in mind too.

His quiet, haunted demeanor is a constant reminder of how much he’s been through since you last saw him several years ago, and your heart breaks for him a little when you think of how spirited – if not downright cocky – he used to be when you were kids.

Always the charming troublemaker, always trailing after Erin.

It appears he’s still doing the latter. Good for them if they can find a way back to each other after everything the world has thrown at them (and, in Riley's case, everything he has thrown back at it...).

He has been opening up more over the past days, relaxing into the warm company of his old friends, and you regret not openly calling Bev out for giving him dirty looks today.

You, Erin, Evelyn, and Peter (who was Riley’s best friend at school) all feel protective of Riley these days, and you ought to have taken the witch down.

During your childhood, relations between neighbors and colleagues on the island had been less strained. Less burdened down by this odd ‘them and us’ mentality that has seeped into the tiny community and cleanly divided the island into die-hard cult-following believers (cough, Bev, cough), everyday believers and non-believers.

Back in the ‘golden days’ (God, now you sound old), barbecues between friends would turn into impromptu garden parties for everyone who happened to pass by.

There was less vicious gossiping, fewer frontlines being drawn up.

It was, for the most part, a carefree time, before the financial crisis hit in 2008, followed by the oil spill that saw the fishing industry crumble to its knees.

Before Monsignor Pruitt, much like the soul of the island, deteriorated into a permanently confused shadow of his former passionate self on the dais.

Before the likes of Ms. Keane came into power (where had she come from? You can’t remember. She was probably hatched by a dementor and exiled from Azkaban in the early days of time).

Today, many of the houses on Crockett are in dire need of fresh paint. Mailboxes appear even more crooked than when you were a kid and no longer romantically so, weeds creeping across the dirt roads that used to be streets.

If it wasn’t for the two small ferries still sailing stoically back and forth twice a day, you suspect the mainland would have completely forgotten about Crockett a long time ago.

An island out of time.

Perhaps, if only people would make an effort to take care of each other again and not shut themselves away in their homes...

Starting with tonight.

The lively chatter around the dining table and the fact that the adjacent kitchen has also filled up with guests leaning casually against the cupboards, making drinks and laughing (a whole batch of non-believers, Bev!) speak of the possibility of turning things around on Crockett.

If not financially straight away, then for the sake of the community spirit.

And in the middle of it all sits a stranger, already wielding such an influence over his congregations’ faith in both God and one another.

One smooth talker.

And good-looking.

So very good-looking.

Being naturally seductive never hurt anyone trying to get a message across.

You’ve had a hard time taking your eyes off the devout Father since you first saw him at church on Sunday (Erin dragged you all), and today at the Crock Pot when you, Evelyn, and Peter had said a proper hello, explaining that you all knew the old Monsignor, Paul had acted more than happy to meet you.

Walking up to the bench where he sat talking to Riley (who looked like he was about to make a run for it), Evelyn had, less than discreetly, grabbed your arm and squeezed it in the gesture universally known between close single friends as “HOT property straight ahead” – only for the two of you to actually bump your hands together with a loud smack when you both eagerly shot them out to shake Paul’s.

Crockett’s currently best looking though sadly least available bachelor had smiled a little befuddled, while Erin giggled, and Riley and Peter rolled their eyes.

You had blushed bright red, but that had been nothing compared to the feeling when Paul’s large hand finally did close around yours, his fingers brushing against your wrist and sending a very much not unpleasant tingle down your spine.

“We’re having a bit of reunion”, Erin had told the priest, her voice laced with bubbling laughter, and it had taken you a few seconds too many to realize that the source of her amusement was in fact you, holding on to the priest’s hand and gazing up at him with unguarded interest.

Not that he had seemed to mind, though.

Not at all.

His expressive brown eyes had searched your face too with a curiosity that…did things to you.

There was no point in denying it.

When you had withdrawn your hand and Father Paul turned his attention to Evelyn and Peter, you had felt like a cloud put out the sun.

“How wonderful for you all to be back here”, Paul had exclaimed with genuine warmth.

“I imagine this must have been a nice place to grow up, huh? So safe and peaceful.”

Perhaps he was once a small-town kid himself. Or the exact opposite, always longing for big skies and strong winds rustling the curtains of his bedroom.

His bedroom.

There’s a stray thought you won’t be following.

“Hey, Y/N, come sit! We were just about to play our old game!”

You’re brought back to the here and now by Evelyn who’s gesturing at you to come back to the table.

Her and the rest of the ‘gang’ are sat at the other end from the grownups. You’ll always think of them as that, no matter your own age.

Also missing a chair, Evelyn’s now magically perched on Peter’s lap (they always did have a flirt going at school), and Erin is dealing out cards for what you suspect is the version of poker the five of you invented as teens.

There are quite a lot of alternative rules involving shots, as you remember it.

Someone has put on what sounds like an 80’s greatest hits playlist.

Wade, the mayor, most likely.

Who knows what he and Riley’s dad, Ed, got up to when they were the youngsters running wild on the island decades ago?

“No room!” you mouth at Evelyn, who’s quite tipsy and then some and thus not taking no for an answer.

“Y/N, for God’s sake, just sit down anywhere!” she chides you and then, wouldn’t you know it, she wags a finger at the hot priest with the wavy black locks of delicious hair himself, Father Paul.

He’s sat opposite your friends looking a little out of place, even if he’s the one half-responsible for the merriment.

You’re guessing he’s probably not very used to going to parties when it comes to it.

“You can sit there!” Evelyn is saying, gesturing haphazardly at Paul and then at you.

“It’s either sit on his lap, or Riley’s, if we’re going to play.”

Riley looks decidedly alarmed at the suggestion, and so, emboldened by the couple of home-mixed drinks you made in the kitchen first thing when you got here, you turn to Paul and put your hand on your hip.

“Well, Father?” you say, and raise an eyebrow. “Can I?”

Evelyn and the others are suddenly watching the scene with intense interest and you’re grateful for the bad music being so loud or this would have gotten incredibly embarrassing, incredibly fast.

Maybe it already is.

If so, you’re just about tipsy enough yourself to push ahead regardless.

“Uh, um…”

Poor Paul is looking around him for a fast exit that’s not there, and you’re half a second from laughing it off and turning to Riley who’ll just have to man up and not be such a baby about having a girl who’s not Erin sit on his lap, when the priest makes a snap decision that takes everyone by surprise.

“Of course, sure”, he says with a slightly forced nonchalant smile, and pushes his chair back.

“Be my guest.”

A silence falls over the table as all eyes turn.

You’re honestly a little stunned that Paul didn’t just get up and bid you all goodnight, but he may not have wanted it to look like he fled.

And this is so, so much better.

Excitement flutters in your stomach.

Hell yes, you’re going to sit on the hot priest’s lap and drink and play cards with your old friends.

At the parents’ end of the table, several pairs of jaws nearly hit the floor.

This will go down in Crockett lore as the time Y/N, notorious flirt in her young years, came home and shamelessly cozied up to the visiting priest.

Good thing neither you, nor Paul are staying for long.

That’s probably the only reason why the priest dares to be this blasé about it.

Except he’s not, you notice with a thrill, as you sit down on his lap and feel his fast, hot breath on your neck.

He swallows a little when you adjust yourself, legs on either side of his thighs and your back to his chest, so you face your friends on the other side of the table.

You’re wearing a short summer dress (way too summery for the weather), and as the skirt hikes up a bit, your exposed thigh makes contact with the grey denim of Paul’s slim jeans.

Even though your legs are covered by the table, it feels positively wicked, and no doubt most of the people in attendance are thinking the same thing.

Even if the parents are now trying their modest best to resume their own conversation.

For Paul’s sake, you hope nobody will throw about snide comments tomorrow.

He’s just being a friendly, hip young’ish priest, showing that he can, um, accommodate all kinds of worshippers’, um, needs.

Right?

You make yourself snort with laughter and have to fake a cough into the new drink, Evelyn has pushed across the table to you.

Bev would combust into flames if she were to walk in.

“Okay, then! Crock Poker it is!” Erin finishes dealing out cards, and you gingerly take up yours while Peter lists off the ‘rules’, making up a couple of new ones along the way.

“We’re playing together”, you say to Paul over your shoulder, and lean back a little to show him your hand.

If he wanted, he could easily rest his chin on your shoulder in this position.

He doesn’t, of course, but even so the intimacy of it all is making your scalp prickle.

“Um, okay. I’m afraid I’m not great at card games, though.”

The priest laughs a little nervously and you assure him that that’s no problem, you’re not great at it either.

“Which is why I may get a bit drunk from this, with all Peter’s rules. Just giving you a warning”, you grin, winking back at him. “You’ll be my designated driver.”

He laughs again, more at ease this time … but his mouth snaps shut so fast it’s almost comical when you adjust yourself once more and ‘accidentally’ grind down on his lap.

You feel the muscles in his thighs tense under you, and it sends waves of heat straight to your core.

The game commences, and as expected, soon you, Evelyn, and Peter are doing shots while Riley and Erin stick with cola and lime.

Paul has a root beer in front of him on the table, but since you sat down on his lap, he hasn’t reached for it, perhaps because he’d have to reach his arm around your waist, and he seems intent on sitting still as a mouse so not to cause any, well, friction between your bodies.

You, however, have no such qualms, and the more you drink, the more you delight in subtly squeezing your legs around Paul’s thighs, and leaning back just a little further whenever you say something to him, your hair brushing against his black buttoned shirt.

Every time you catch a glimpse of his collar, you feel a shameful rush of adrenaline.

He’s keeping up appearances, but to you there’s no mistaking the way his breath hitches in his throat when you lean forward to pick up a card from the table and then sit back, placing a palm on his thigh to steady yourself.

Again, the table and tablecloth are partly covering your movements, but touching him like this with your hands still feels radical.

You’re straightening up to take a sip of drink when you feel it:

The fingers of his right hand near the hemline of your skirt.

You stiffen for a second and so does he, but when you exhale, his fingers move.

Up.

Slowly pushing under the hemline.

Tracing a slow pattern on your bare flesh.

“So, Paul, tell us about your background! I feel like we don’t know you at all.”

Oh, Evelyn…

Totally oblivious to what’s happening, your friend slaps a card on the table, then looks to Paul with slightly unfocused eyes.

“Well…” Paul shifts a little, but his fingers don’t leave you.

Instead, he suddenly becomes rather talkative while his hand continues on its expedition.

Not so chaste after all…

The secrecy, the dare, is a turn on for him, you realize, as you feel him slowly growing hard.

You’re acutely aware that there’re only a couple of layers of fabric separating his cock from the wetness between your legs.

You lean over the table again to take a card from the stack.

…and grind your ass against his length when you sit up.

He stifles a groan in the middle of a sentence, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smirking.

You feel like the sexiest woman alive, tempting the priest like this in the middle of a room full of people.

But then Erin shatters your little bubble of lustful bliss when she asks you if you’d mind popping out to the shed at the back of the garden to get a few extra bottles of wine for ‘the parents’, who are going through the ones already on the table at an impressive speed.

Yes, Erin, dearest, you think, I do mind.

“You know the house, please, Y/N”, Erin pleads from her spot wedged in between Riley and Peter (who make no attempt to get up, typically).

It’s true. Also, you are seated closest to the door.

But dammit, you don’t want to move off the priest’s lap.

Not that you can say that out loud.

Grudgingly, you get up (Paul has to push the chair back, his hand quickly leaving you), and you try not to look too sullen as you make your way through the kitchen and out the backdoor to the garden.

The cool evening air against your hot cheeks sobers you up a bit, but your thigh all but burns where Paul’s fingers touched you, and your mind is racing.

Who is this guy?

Did he really come to Crockett voluntarily or is he some kind of renegade priest-gone-bad who’s been specifically sent out here to Nowhere Land by the church to atone for sins committed elsewhere?

It definitely didn’t feel like he had never laid hands on a woman before.

When you left the table, he had been offering Evelyn some vague, yet drawn-out cliché about giving thanks for the present and not looking back which would be quite befitting of someone hiding a shady past.

The stars are out, you notice, and you stop in the middle of the garden to look up and take a few deep breaths.

Gazing at the night sky always calms you. Centers you.

Unlike gazing into Paul’s eyes…

“Hey…”

You turn to find the very same Paul coming down the few wooden steps from the house, his footing a little uncertain although he must be stone-cold sober.

At least you think he is.

“Um, I just wanted to see if you needed help carrying something,” he says, running a hand through that gorgeous raven hair of his, and looking a whole lot less self-assured now that it’s just the two of you.

No convenient tablecloth to hide forbidden desires in plain sight.

The air between you is so charged you want to laugh.

Help you carry something?

Yeah, okay, Father.

A moment of near-awkward silence passes as you look at him and try to find the courage to say anything else than a plain “Sure”.

Which is exactly what you end up saying anyway.

Ugh.

You walk to the shed and step inside, looking for the cases of wine on the shelves lining the walls. Leftovers from Erin’s mom, you think bitterly. Good thing they’re being cleared out.

There’s a single lightbulb dangling overhead, but when you reach up to turn it on, Paul is right there behind you, gently taking your wrist.

You gasp in surprise, and he lets go of you.

Then he closes the door and you’re enveloped in darkness.

You can’t see a thing and your heart is beating out of your chest, but before you can ask him what’s going on, the priest speaks, his velvety soft voice very close to your face.

“I’m sorry for what just happened,” he murmurs. “In there. I put you in a very awkward position, and I feel bad for, uh, taking advantage like that. It was very wrong of me. I don’t know what came over me, but I’m truly, terribly sorry. I’m not that kind of man…”

He inhales as if searching for the words.

“…normally.”

You try very hard to steady your own breathing.

“And do you know what’s come over you now, Father? Having locked us in here and turned off the light, I mean?” you ask him, as innocently as you can manage.

“Um, well, I just thought…”

More silence.

Then:

“No. No, I honestly don’t. And I guess there’s no point in being anything but honest.”

It sounds like he’s smiling.

Okay.

This is happening.

Without being able to see, all your other senses are firing at full power, and you feel the change in the air when he moves a little closer still.

His breath ghosts over your face but he doesn’t touch you.

Goosebumps spread all over as it dawns on you that he won’t; he’s waiting for you.

He’s waiting for permission.

You reach a hand out, your fingertips grazing the buttons of his shirt.

His breathing is heavy, but so is yours.

You place both palms on his heaving chest and slowly run them up to his shoulders (he's so tall!), then down his toned arms while he stands perfectly still, letting you feel your way.

Your eyes have adjusted enough to the dark by now that you can see the outline of him, but only just.

You have no idea what expression he’s wearing, but somehow that makes this whole crazy scenario even hotter.

Whether he personally prefers the dark because he thinks he can hide from God or something ridiculous along those lines, you don’t care to know.

He’s here.

Your hands slide down his waist, his belt.

There’s a sharp intake of breath when your fingers play with the buckle and, smiling in the dark, you lean in closer till you can feel him against you. Feel his hardness through the front of his jeans, and the way his arms twitch in his attempt not to move.

Your hands travel upwards again, and he exhales a little – only to stop breathing when you reach his face and lightly trail his features.

You feel his eyelashes flutter shut.

His mouth is slightly open when you brush your thumb over it, but you resist the impulse to see if he’d actually suck on it.

(He would, you know it.)

You weave your fingers through his soft, thick hair while your other hand caresses his cheek. When he leans into your touch with a small sigh, you feel like the blood in your veins has been replaced with sparkling champagne.

There’s really only one thing to say:

“Kiss me.”

And though you can’t see it, you know he has opened his eyes.

His large hands find your hips, gripping you almost tentatively at first, then with more purpose, as you press yourself to him and one of his hands come up to grab a fistful of your hair.

He doesn’t pull, but his grip is not exactly light either and it makes you shiver with want while your walls constrict in anticipation for what’s to come.

Then his lips are on yours, and as the world falls down and you melt into him, there is nothing but his touch in the dark, making you feel like you’ve never been kissed before in your life.

Your tongues meet and you nearly mewl with lust while he digs his fingers into your hip with a force that’s bound to leave blue marks.

Paul’s the one to break the kiss, tugging your head back a little by your hair, and a frustrated moan escapes your lips.

The priest chuckles, his thumb rubbing your sore hipbone.

“Are you sure you want this?”

His voice is hoarse with his own desire.

“Are you kidding me? Fuck, yes,” you answer breathlessly, and he chuckles again.

To hell with the fact that you know absolutely nothing about him, or that you’re standing in Erin’s freaking shed, of all places, with a house full of semi-God-fearing townsfolk and school friends behind you.

If you have to rip open those obscene slim jeans with your teeth, you’ll do it (because, honestly, by buying pants like that he’s pretty much begging for it).

You’re reaching for his belt when a thought enters your mind.

“Wait, have you… have you done this before?” you ask, fingers pausing at the buckle.

What if the man’s a virgin?

In that case, a rushed one-night stand in a garden shed in near darkness may not spell great success.

For either of you.

Also, sober Erin may be onto to you at some point within not too long.

Paul lets go of your hair, both his hands coming to rest on your waist.

“Yes,” he answers after a few seconds, a slight strain in his voice.

You have a million questions.

You don’t ask a single one.

Before you can unbuckle his pants though, he turns slightly away from you, and it feels like he’s reaching for something.

“Wait…” he says. “I thought I saw…”

“You can see in here?” you ask incredulously, and he hesitates for just a beat before assuring you that no, he can’t see a thing.

But before closing the door he did notice a stack of deck chair pillows.

“Oh, you just happened to notice those, did you?” you ask playfully and now you’d wish you could see his face. If he’s blushing or he's cool as a cucumber.

“I think you’ll be happy I did,” comes his reply that’s just the right amount of dry sarcasm and mischievousness to make you even wetter.

He lets go of you, and there’s a sound of him moving some things around on the floor, and then he’s taking your hand, guiding you down onto the pillows he’s spread out.

The man knows his way around tight dark spaces.

You’re taking that as a very good sign.

Paul carefully lays you down on your back, and from there you can actually see him a bit better in the faint, pale moonlight now coming through the spaces around the doorframe.

He’s on his knees, one on either side of you, and this time he doesn’t stop you when you reach up to undo his belt.

His cock is straining against his jeans and from what you can make out of his features, his eyes are hooded with desire as he looks down at you.

Somehow it still feels like he can see you a lot better than you can him, but it must be your imagination.

When voices suddenly reach you from the house, with the kitchen window facing the garden, you’re reminded that you don't have all the time in the world, as much as you’d like to.

“Take off your shirt and collar,” you demand, and with what looks like a slight smirk, Paul obliges, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it off his shoulders to reveal a very nicely sculpted torso.

The collar he puts down next to you a little more carefully, and you have the good sense not to make any jokes about it.

“Good. Now take off your jeans as well,” you say, and again the priest does as he’s told, and stands up to pull off his boots and socks, then his jeans till he’s standing over you in boxers that barely contain his erection.

With rays of moonlight illuminating parts of his pale skin, accentuating his build, he looks more divine than any god you know.

And slightly dangerous, too.

You don’t know why it comes to you, but it does, and it’s there:

Something within the priest is not quite right.

Besides the obvious breaking of sacred vows, he’s currently engaging in, that is.

You don’t have time to reflect on it though, as Paul now kneels between your legs and slowly pushes your dress up around your waist, then pulls it over your head (taking your bra with it!), revealing your breasts and soaked panties to him.

Hopefully he can’t see as much, but he can sure feel it when he traces the wetness with his fingers, humming appreciatively as he does so.

“Such an eager little lamb…” he muses, and you would have giggled were it not for how swiftly he pulls the garment down and off your legs, one of his knees spreading your thighs wider as soon as your most intimate parts are exposed.

“I think I would have loved to toy with you, to please you in all the way you should be pleased, but I’m afraid our time here may be rather limited…” he whispers, lowering himself down so he’s resting on his arms, his lips leaving kisses down your collarbone, the curves of your breasts...

“… which is why I’ll have to fuck you fast, now.”

Before you can respond – or gasp again – he covers your mouth with his hand.

“And you’ll stay very quiet while I do that, of course. We can’t risk ruining the party.”

His tone is at once both playful and slightly menacing, like he’s on a bit of a power rush.

Somehow it aligns very well with his intense magnetism at church.

He’s a man who loves to lead the way.

“Are you going to be a good girl for me?” he’s asking you now, and you can only swallow and nod, assuming he can see you.

“I knew you would.”

He removes his hand from your mouth, which he instead covers with his own.

His kiss is hungry, possessive, and when you put your arms around his neck, he breaks away to grab your wrists and pin them over your head, using one hand to hold them there, while his other finds your throbbing sex.

You arch your back off the pillows and bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out when two fingers part your slick folds, but when he proceeds to penetrate you, pumping his fingers gently in and out, you can’t stifle a desperate whimper.

You’re so turned on, you can already feel the coil tightening in your core, and when you squeeze your walls around the priest’s fingers, he’s the one trying not to moan.

“Don’t worry, I won’t deny you what you need”, he pants, removing his fingers from you so he can pull off his own underwear and settle between your legs.

He’s still holding your wrists, so you can only squirm under him when he aligns himself against your entrance and very slowly, so slowly you think you’ll lose your mind, pushes his cock into you.

It’s for your benefit though – he’s so big it actually hurts a bit when he stretches you, and you try to remember to breathe to accommodate him better.

“That’s it,” he praises you between his own gasps. “Just take it all, like that.”

The muscles in his shoulders and arms tense hard from refraining to thrust into you before you’re ready, but you’re so overcome with thirst for him that every delaying effort makes you want to scream.

“Please, Paul,” you moan, straining against his hold on your wrists.

His eyes immediately find yours and his movements stop.

Oh god, is he thinking you want him to stop?

You look him dead in the eyes.

“Just fuck me, Father. Hard.”

He kisses you again, then whispers:

“Didn’t I tell you to be quiet?” but you can tell he’s smiling, even if he’s too close for you to see it.

You’re about to say something back, when he pushes all the way into you, filling you so perfectly it’s nearly enough to send you over the edge.

As if he can tell, the priest tightens his grip on your wrists in warning.

“Oh, you’re not allowed to come before I say so, okay?”

You nod, remembering to keep quiet for him like a good girl, and he starts thrusting into you with deep, hard blows that knocks the air out of your lungs every time his hips snap against yours.

You’ve never been fucked like this before, but you never want him to stop.

And yet you know he has to, soon.

He knows it too, and when he reaches a hand down between your bodies to massage your clit, you think he’s going to let you come.

“Ughhh, yes, please”, you beg, not able to hold it in, as Paul works you quickly towards the edge.

But he’s not letting you off that easy.

A devilish glint flashes in the priest’s eyes, and he pulls out of you, quickly flipping you onto your stomach on the pillows, and then grabbing your hips to pull your ass up.

“I didn’t tell you you could come yet, did I?” he growls, pressing his cock past your dripping entrance again, and you scramble to get up on your elbows.

“Well, did I?” he’s asking you, pushing deep inside you.

“No,” you gasp.

Then, throwing caution to the wind, you add:

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

You feel his cock twitch inside you, and he tightens his grip on your hips.

“What did you just say?” he asks through clenched teeth, his breathing ragged, thrusts slowing to a halt.

“Forgive me, Father”, you mewl, going with it.

“I have sinned and need to be punis---” The last word is hardly more than a muffled sound as he thrusts into you so hard, your face is pushed into the pillows.

“You are a little sinner, aren’t you?” he rasps, gamely playing along, and as in reward, he reaches around your body to tease your swollen bundle of nerves while continuing his thrusts.

His fingers are slick from sweat and your juices, and they slip and slide over your clit while you fist into the pillows and whimper pathetically, trying not to come before he gives you permission.

He’s clearly enjoying delaying your pleasure, but finally – finally – he bends forward, plants a kiss on your glistening back, and speaks the words.

“Now, little lamb, now you can come for me. Come for me, and I’ll absolve you of your sins.”

His fingers don’t stop moving over your overstimulated nub and you come so hard you can’t hold yourself up anymore, exploding stars blinding your mind.

He fucks you through your orgasm while you writhe under him, and only when you’re completely spent, your body going limp on the pillows, does he let go himself, gasping as he spills his seed inside you.

For a while, none of you move, your labored breathing filling the shed, but then there’s a sound outside and you both start, Paul pulling out of you and straightening up.

Someone just opened the backdoor to the garden.

“Fuckfuckfuck!” you mutter and push yourself up to you knees, desperately searching for your panties on the floor.

Paul is a lot more efficient.

Somehow, he’s up in a flash, pulling on his boxers and handing you your underwear, and by the time you’ve managed to get hold of your dress and pull it over your head, he appears to be all dressed.

How?!

There are at least a thousand buttons on his shirt for christsake!

“Y/N,” he whispers urgently, grabbing your arm and pulling you in close as steps approach the shed.

He smells of sex and aftershave and something that’s just him, and the blend is intoxicating.

You have to actively shake your head to focus.

“Say that I left. That I went home.”

So dominant just minutes ago and now legitimately frightened to being found out.

You want to whisper back something smart about him maybe not thinking things through before stripping off in someone’s back yard, but then the door to the shed is being opened, and Paul steps behind it, shielding himself from sight.

Evelyn, who else, pops her head in, squinting in the darkness.

“Helloooo”, she croons, having crossed over from tipsy to plastered since you last saw her.

“What on Earth are you doing out here, Y/N?? Erin sent me to rescue you…and the wine. Or maybe she just sent me to get wine…”

You’re so relieved you don’t have to deal with Erin or Riley asking actual sober person questions that you laugh and put an arm around your friend, gently steering her out of the shed again as she tries to cross the threshold.

“Thank you, Evie, for rescuing me. I was just, um, deciding which bottles to bring in. So much stuff out here, you know”.

Evelyn nods dramatically.

“Yes. Very sad,” she slurs. “You know what else is sad, Y/N? The hot priest left! Didn’t even say goodbye…”

“Oh?” you respond, trying to sound casual, but you might as well not have bothered. Evelyn is already moving on.

“But! But, Y/N, look at the moooon!”

She staggers into the middle of the garden to look up, swaying dangerously from side to side.

You hastily step back inside the shed and look around you for the wine, but Paul shoves four bottles into your arms before you can get your bearings.

Again, how?!

He pushes the door closed with his foot, and takes your face in his hands, kissing you.

You pray Evelyn is as drunk as she looks and sounds.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “This was a rare gift.”

He brushes a lock of hair out of your face, and you want to touch him so badly, but you have the stupid bottles to hold on to.

“I thought so, too,” you reply, not wanting this to be your last exchange.

You’re trying to think of something else to say, but he beats you to it.

“Um, maybe, if you want, and you don’t wake tomorrow with a paralyzing moral hangover, you could come by the rectory sometime during the day? Just to talk, I mean. I feel like we…skipped past the talking part rather quickly tonight.”

His hands are by his sides now. Something about that feels so wrong, so demonstrably distant, seeing as your naked bodies were just pressed against each other.

And his cum is leaking into your underwear.

“Please touch me…”, you whisper, and he immediately puts his arms around you.

“I’ll come by,” you smile up at him, certain that he can see you, even if you can’t see his face now the door has closed behind you again.

“I’d love to talk. I’m sure you’ve got some fascinating stories to share.”

He chuckles softly.

“See you tomorrow then,” he says, planting a parting kiss on your nose in a gesture so sweet, it feels as intimate as the fucking you did on the floor.

You giggle like a schoolgirl.

“Okay, Resident Hot Priest of Crockett. Sweet dreams till then.”

You leave the shed and find Evelyn twirling on the grass, still looking up at the sky.

“The moon is fuuull, Y/N, have you seen? I think me and Petey are finally gonna do it tonight. Full moons make people SO HORNY!!!”

She shouts the last part at the top of her lungs into the night, and you nearly drop the bottles laughing.

Things are definitely looking up on Crockett Island, you're sure of it.

Thank you for reading!

You can check out my other Father Paul smut fics here:

The Night Father Paul Went Shopping for Slim Fit Jeans

The Night FatherPaul Got Tied Up (sequel to Slim Fit Jeans)

The Night Father Paul Removed His Collar

A Dirty Bedtime Story (tiny oneshot)

Something different, for those who have watched Tell Me Your Secrets:

Baby, it's cold outside (John Tyler x Reader)

[savages-divinity]

*eats you out to relieve your stress AND mine*

[gamingaquarius-deactivated20250]

Behave.

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

Mini description: Sexy times with Father Paul.

Pairing: Father Paul Hill x f!reader

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

Rating: E X P L I C T.

Word Count: 1,770.

~~~~☆☆☆~~~~☆☆☆~~~~☆☆☆~~~~☆☆☆~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep reading

[dionysus-lover-ao3-deactivated2]

This is the first time I write for this character. Be kind guys, and let me know what you think! I value all of your opinions💚

«We will always live in the castle»

John Tyler × F!reader

AU inspired by the novel «We have always lived in the castle» by Shirley Jackson

Rating: Expl!cit (dubc*n and somn*philia)

Work in progress - follow the link on the title for chapter 1 and mind the tags

[hot4haim]

“Go ahead… use me”

[punx-n-princexes]

[plainlo-inthemorning]

Baby, it’s cold outside

A John Tyler (Tell Me Your Secrets) x Reader fic.

This is very much a stream-of-consciousness kind of thing. Hope you'll enjoy! :)

Warnings: Mature readers only. Mentions of sexual assault, angst. The character of John Tyler is essentially a monster, even if he's played by our darling Hamish Linklater in the show.

They used to be no more than scattered headlines to you, buried in the news flow.

Horrible, of course, each one.

But so many of them.

Every year so many, so similar in tone you can’t let yourself take them all in.

Can’t let the fear in.

Stories of women being stalked, beaten, raped and threatened to silence by terrifying strangers.

By abusive partners in their own homes.

In an alley. A carpark. Fancy hotel rooms.

The boss’ office.

But they’re happening to other people, not to you or, thankfully, anyone you know.

You’re ashamed to admit it, but sometimes they feel more like cautionary tales than actual events taking place all over the country, including in your home state.

To be a woman in the world is to be constantly, consciously alert, sure.

But it is also to unconsciously filter the news of endless violence against other women, or you’ll become paralyzed.

You won’t be able to go anywhere alone.

And you’re not one to live your life fearful of the dark.

That’s what you’ve always told yourself and others.

And yet after the baby is born and you take her home, the less you sleep the more you feel things change around you.

At first it happens gradually, but soon you stumble over an invisible threshold into the wilderness.

The headlines won’t be ignored.

The missing women whisper to you from the evening news.

Women who were once someone’s babies being taken home from the hospital, coddled, and loved and now broken or worse, disappeared in the night.

Or in broad daylight.

You think of the mothers out there, desperately hoping for their daughters to call and say they’re okay, desperately fearing that it will be the police on the line.

You shiver and hold your baby closer to your chest.

But you don’t turn off the news.

You can’t stop watching, reading.

And doesn’t it seem like the stories are slowly moving closer to home?

A woman is raped in her own car after an office party in a neighboring county.

Another emerges with bruises all over from a dingy motel on the outskirts of the city, your city, too much in shock to give a proper description of her attacker.

Two months later, a 19-year-old girl disappears from the campus of the university where you yourself once went.

She was going on a date, is all her friends know.

There are no other leads.

The local news anchors talk of nothing else for days.

A morning paper evokes Ted Bundy’s name, and you start crying over breakfast and on the other side of the table your husband puts down his section and comes over to hug you.

You cling to his arms and weep for the girl who is gone, for the women who live not two hours from your daughter, from Ella’s bed.

But really, a voice insists, you’re crying for yourself and the baby.

You’re so sleep deprived but when you do lie down, when your husband insists you try and get some rest while he takes Ella, your eyes flutter open on their own accord.

“You’re just utterly drained”, comes the well-meaning voice of your best friend over the phone, reminding you of when it was her who used to call you in tears.

“I felt like I was unravelling the first six months with Charlie. First, he wouldn’t feed, then he cried 24-7 for weeks on end. I became a zombie and, remember, Peter was no help.”

Her marriage is still not going well.

“At least your man is pulling his weight.”

She tries to squash the bitterness.

But she’s right.

Your man is going above and beyond when he’s not at work.

Every day, he looks a little more exhausted than the one before, but he doesn’t complain, never tells you that you’re overreacting.

Even though you are.

You can hear yourself going on and on about the news.

You talk about the missing teenager with your gossipy neighbor when you meet her at the grocery store, and you both agree that your city no longer feels the same.

Another one of your friends gently reminds you, again, that these kinds of stories existed before your maternity.

But you can’t focus on anything other than the thought of Ella growing up in a hostile, dangerous world with wolves lurking behind every tree.

You lock the door when you come home, checking it three times during the evening and once more before going to bed, even though your husband is there, brushing his teeth in bathroom, having gone through every room with you because you made him and he’s a good man.

I’m unraveling.

You can’t sleep.

You lie awake in the dark and stare into the ceiling and you imagine the things happening in the street outside your window.

You think of the women who haven’t been following the news as closely as you. Of your friends who told you to get some perspective.

You think of them returning to empty apartments, empty houses without looking over their shoulders when they fumble with their keys.

Those whose roommates are not home, those who live alone.

You think of them opening their front doors and feeling a gush of hot breath on their necks, gloved hands shoving them into the hallway.

Tying their wrists together with duct tape, pulling them by the hair to the bedroom.

You think about these things, and you want to crawl out of your own skin, so you get up and go to the nursery, you pick up your daughter, you cradle her.

She wakes, of course.

You sit with her on the plush carpet on the floor and you’re glad for her company although now you won’t be able to put her down for another hour at least.

But you sit in the dark and listen to her little sounds.

After some time, your husband comes in, hair a mess, eyes barely open.

He plumps himself down next to you with a heavy sigh.

“What’s going on here, love?”, he asks, his soft voice thick with sleep.

“I can’t close my eyes”, you say.

You’ve told him so many times by now.

Please, don’t tell me I’m being stupid.

But also, please tell me I am …

You’re both silent for a while.

He puts his arm around you, his big, warm frame a rock you can moor yourself to.

He rests his chin on your shoulder and for a minute you think he’s about to fall asleep like that, until he nuzzles your neck with his nose.

The tip is cold, and you can’t help giggling.

You can feel him smile into your hair.

“You know I’m here”, he murmurs.

“I’ll always protect my girls.”

And you say, “I know that, but you can’t be here all the time.”

He sighs again, and you feel silly because you can hear what you sound like.

“We have to keep living our lives”, he says, a little strained, echoing your own words from back when the world made more sense.

“That’s all anybody can do. That’s what we have to do.”

You love him for saying ‘we’ even though you’re the one fighting ghosts.

“I know”, you say, and find his hand and squeeze it.

He squeezes back.

“And hey”, he says, a yawn almost swallowing the words, “there hasn’t been anything on the local news for some time now, has there?”

“If anyone had been caught, we would know,” you say.

It’s not enough that the anchors have moved on to other topics. That no new women have come forward.

You’re afraid you won’t sleep until all the rapists and murderers and violent spouses in the entire country have been caught.

You don’t tell your husband that.

Instead, you bring the baby into your bedroom in her old crib next to your side of the bed even though you agreed a while ago that she was going to sleep in her own room, and it has been going so well.

This is more for you than her, and your husband doesn’t protest.

He’s out like a light as soon as his head touches the pillow.

You finally find some rest with your back curled up against him and a hand on Ella’s crib, listening to their untroubled breathing until your eyelids become heavy.

It’s three weeks till Christmas and the following morning you actually start to look forward to the holiday season.

You had almost pushed it from your mind.

Not enough room in the filing cabinet of news headlines categorized form scary to immediate threat.

But this will be the first year celebrating Christmas as a family.

Naturally, Ella is too young to remember anything of it, but to you and your husband this marks a new era of sorts.

You’ve invited your brother and his boyfriend, as well as your mum.

You think of this while you make coffee, your husband lying on the couch in the living room with Ella who’s cooing happily in her own secret language.

All is so close to being well.

And then he gets up with Ella, comes to the kitchen table where you’re laying out breakfast and he shatters your peace.

He has to go away for work for a few days next week.

You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

He’s bouncing Ella in his arms, shooting you side glances.

He knew it would not be well-received.

He’s leaving me alone here.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

You place the plates on the table.

It’s part of his job. Always has been.

The only reason he’s been stationed at the local office for the past eight months is because he wanted to be home with you and the baby as much as possible.

You know this.

You know it was only a matter of time before he’d have to start traveling regularly again.

But the mere thought of him leaving fills the house with long shadows.

What a short-lived peace it was.

Your husband goes to put Ella down on a blanket in her playpen.

A dreamcatcher and a string with paper animals dangles overhead and your daughter looks at them transfixed, at once lost in her own little world.

When your man comes back, his arms snake around your waist and he locks eyes with you.

Not a pep talk…

“Love, it’s only two days …”

You swallow hard and nod, trying to put on a brave front.

You will not start crying over him having to go to work.

You will not be this tiny, terrified person.

“Of course. It’s fine. We’ll be fine,” you say, but your bottom lip wobbles treacherously.

He kisses you, his fingers running through your long hair.

“Why don’t we ask your mum to come down?”

It’s a good idea but you shake your head.

“No, it’s okay. It’s a long drive for her. She’s already coming for Christmas.”

You attempt a composed smile and nearly succeed. Progress.

At least the tears have not fallen yet.

“Alright. Maybe one of the girls can come keep you company then…”

It’s sweet how he worries, ever the planner that he is, and you probably will ask a friend over, but you feel an urgent need to reassure him here and now that you can manage on your own.

You need him to see you as your old self and not as a neurotic going in circles even as he and everybody else are right:

There haven’t been any fresh horror stories on the news for some time now.

Am I depressed or just really, really tired?

“Two days. Two nights”, he says.

“Two days. Two nights”, you repeat.

You find his hands in your hair, wanting to reassure him with another smile.

You have till next week to find a way not to panic when he walks out the door.

You call a friend who doesn’t have kids. You propose a sleepover, not mentioning that she’ll essentially be babysitting you.

She has other ideas in mind.

“Oooh, we should go for a cocktail! Like old times”, comes the excited reply, and you almost laugh, reminding her that, um, there’s just the small matter of Ella not being of an age to appreciate bar hopping just yet.

“Yeah, yeah, I know”, your friend says, “but what about letting someone watch the baby just for one night? Just for a few hours? It would do you good!”

Next to you at the table your husband looks up from his laptop and smiles encouragingly.

“Do it,” he mouths.

“I don’t know…” you say into the phone.

Leaving Ella to go out? It feels radical.

“Look,” you friend counters, matter of fact, “you need to get out of the house a bit. Honestly, you’re starting to sound a little cuckoo over there. I think a large mojito might help rewire that brain of yours.”

You take a deep breath.

“I could ask Amanda if she’s free…”

Your cousin. Reliable. Lives close by. Tough as nails.

“Yay!”

You hang up. Your husband is beaming at you, arms comically thrown over his head like his favorite team just scored the winning goal.

It’s enough to make you embarrassed for setting the bar for success so low.

Success at behaving like a normal human being.

“I guess I could have one drink if Amanda can watch Ella for an hour or two…”

“You should!”

Also, what if your angst starts affecting Ella?

And so, it’s decided.

One mojito it is. Next Thursday.

The week goes by way too quickly.

Thursday morning comes and your nails dig into your palms, leaving little half-moons when your husband bounces down the stairs with his overnight bag.

He kisses you, then Ella who’s perched in your arms, and then he’s off and the house feels so quiet even though, really, it’s no different from any other day when he goes to the office in the morning.

Only you know he’s not coming home tonight.

It’s no use counting the hours.

You pace the kitchen for a while, Ella dozing off.

Tiny dust motes dance lazily in the rays of morning sunlight coming through the large windows to the garden.

All is well.

All is well.

You won’t turn on the news or start trawling the headlines online.

And somehow the day turns to evening, and you don’t.

Amanda arrives at seven.

Ella is sleeping peacefully in her room. There is formula ready for her if she wakes.

“I’ll be back in a few hours”, you say.

Amanda winks at you and pats you on the back on your way out.

“Don’t hurry, seriously. I don’t mind. I’m sleeping over after all. Just try to have some fun, okay?”

You take a cab to the bar and when you walk in, you feel as if time has been turned back.

Loud chatter and music greet you; you’re wearing heels for the first time in a year and a half, and you’ve put on a black, simple but flattering dress that your husband never fails to compliment you on.

Not that he’s seen you in it in ages.

You got dressed in defiance of the fears that screamed at you to wear unshapely pants, a huge sweater and a paper bag over your head.

Your old self wouldn’t have thought twice about putting together a more revealing, more sparkly outfit, but as it is now, the black dress is making you feel like you’re positively living on the edge, which is so ridiculous you need a drink, ASAP, to get over your present self.

It’s a bustling downtown bar, for Christ’s sake. Almost everyone is more dressed up than you.

Your friend waves at you from a high table and you walk over and let her envelope you in a bear hug.

She smells of perfume and cigarettes and her smile is so happy and it’s all so familiar you start to feel more at ease.

Welcome back to the world of the living.

You order drinks and the first sip alone sends little electrodes firing in your brain.

You haven’t had alcohol in so long but oh it feels so good the way the warmth slowly spreads through your veins.

You and your friend talk about old times, when you would stay out dancing till dawn and then drag each other back to campus.

You talk about the boys and girls that were, the ones who were never to be, of how being a responsible adult is not always what it’s cracked up to be.

You’re deep in reminiscing and on your second drink when a man approaches your table.

He smiles, showing off perfect white teeth, says he’s sorry to interrupt and asks you if one of you is called Jane?

He’s looking for a Jane.

It’s such an obvious opener, both you and your friend snicker, and his smile grows wider, he’s pleased to have your attention.

“Really, I’m looking for Jane. I’m supposed to be on a blind date,” he says, but he’s chuckling, aware that he's bombed.

His eyes are kind and his features attractive.

“Why don’t you buy us a drink while you wait around for ‘Jane’?” your friend asks him teasingly, and he happily bites, taking your orders and going up to the bar.

“He’s cute!” your friend whispers dramatically although she’d be better off shouting with how loud the music is.

You sip your drink. “Very. But is he here alone?”

“So? Lots of guys go out alone. They don’t all hunt in packs like us,” she laughs.

Because they don’t have to.

Then the man is back with three drinks that he puts on the table, and you sneak a peek at your phone and decide to stay half an hour more.

Amanda wrote you just before saying everything was going fine, don’t worry.

Your single friend is putting on the charm with the stranger, and he’s not immune, but you notice him looking at you when she talks, smiling at you with interest.

He would have been your type too, in the ‘old’ days.

Easy on the eye, good manners.

And he’s wearing a classic white shirt, which you’ve always found way sexier than guys just wearing t-shirts going out.

“So, what’s the story with you?”, he asks when your friend excuses herself to go to the bathroom, and the man drags his chair a little closer to yours to hear you better.

You can smell his cologne.

It’s not entirely unpleasant.

You don’t feel like telling him you’re out for the first time in a lifetime since giving birth.

Immediately, though, the impulse to be someone else for a minute, to flirt a bit, summons a rush of guilt.

So, you just tell him, and if the reveal that you’re a married mum is a let-down to him, he’s hiding it well.

“I’m sure you’re a great mother”, he says and smiles, and it doesn’t sound like a line, it sounds like he means it, and you actually blush a little.

It truly has been a long time since you’ve been out.

You feel some of your old self-esteem growing back.

Your friend returns, but the man doesn’t move his chair, staying just a little closer to you than before.

She notices, you friend, and when the man is not looking, she raises an eyebrow at you.

“My, my, look at you go”, it teases, and you roll your eyes at her, stifling a grin.

Okay, yes, so you’re enjoying yourself.

After finishing the third drink, however, it’s time to call it a night.

It’s past ten, and you’re somewhat hoping that the man will shift his focus to your friend who, judging by the way she’s playfully batting his arm when he makes a joke, hasn’t given up hope.

“Are you leaving already?” The man looks up at you when you stand and there’s no mistaking the disappointment in his tone.

Still, you hope your friend doesn’t hear it (fat chance).

“Yeah, I have to get back to the baby,” you say, and he nods, of course, yes. Right.

You hug your friend and thanks her for making you come out, and she squeezes you and says you must do it again soooooon.

She’s slightly tipsy, but then so are you.

Well, you’re drunk.

Not a lot, but some.

You probably shouldn’t have accepted that last drink after all.

Your university self would have looked down her nose at how low your alcohol tolerance has become (although maybe you should be the one berating her, in retrospect, for the gallons of cheap wine she consumed back then).

You’re outside checking for a cab when the man is suddenly right there too, startling you.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you”, he laughs. “I just realized it might be time for me to head home as well. It is a Thursday after all.”

“Right”, you say, and look over his shoulder for your friend. She’s nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, she stayed”, the man explains, nodding towards the bar. “Met someone she knew”.

He rocks back and forth on his heels and looks up the street, rubbing his palms together.

“Not a lot of cabs, huh? Probably the weather. A tiny bit of snow and nobody can be bothered to bike or walk in this city.” He laughs again.

You hadn’t really noticed the snowflakes in the air before now.

“Mmh,” is your contribution to the conversation, as you take out your phone to call an Uber.

There’s a text from your husband, asking if you had fun.

Everybody's awfully concerned that you should be having fun.

You met at a bar, too, a thousand years and a baby ago.

“So, I don’t mean to be forward or anything, but do you wanna share a car?”

What?

The man is smiling but when you don’t smile back his expression turns sheepish.

“I’m … sorry? Your friend said you live east of the river, and I’m going in that direction too, so if you wanted to split the fare, maybe we could…”

“No, thank you.”

You don’t elaborate. Women shouldn’t have to.

Even so, you smile to dispel the awkwardness.

Good girls will be good girls.

He’s simply being nice.

And you did just spend an hour or so talking to him with no reservations.

He puts up his palms in a placating gesture. “Fair enough. You can’t be too careful these days, I get it. I’ll just wait for a cab.”

“Uber might be faster”, you offer, helpfully, while pressing the phone to your ear.

“Yeah, I know, but my battery’s dead, so…”.

He holds up his phone with a ‘what can you do’-shrug.

You look up and down the street. Not a cab in sight.

The snow is really starting to fall.

Your feet are freezing so you take little steps on the spot, shifting the weight from one foot to the other.

How did you not catch an ammonia in your heydays of wearing stilettos and skimpy skirts in winter?

You’re patched through and book a car. Five minutes tops.

The man is still looking up the street in vain, distractedly smoothing a wayward lock of dark hair behind his ear.

He really is quite good looking, in an everyday-man kind of way.

And you’re starting to feel a bit bad.

“I can call a car for you, if you want?”

He turns to you.

Is that a small flash of disappointment in his dark eyes again, or are you just imagining things?

“Oh, that’s so nice of you,” he says. “Thank you.”

You get back on the phone.

30 minutes for the next car.

“Are you serious?” you ask the operator. “I literally just booked a car two seconds ago and the wait time was five minutes.”

You glance over at the man who looks expectantly at you while the operator apologizes for the wait with the usual What can I tell you ma’am, it started snowing, we don’t have a lot of drivers out tonight, maybe try the app instead, sometimes there are cancellations etc.

A car pulls up to the curb. Your car.

Ugh, okay.

You get off the phone and put it back in your bag.

“Well, there are no cars coming for a while so, yes, let’s just share this one.”

The man’s eyes light up and he grins.

“Great! Thank you so much. You’re a life saver. It’s on me then.”

“No, no, really, no need. It’s fine”, you wave off his offer and get in while he goes around the other side and gets in next to you on the backseat.

“It was really getting cold, huh?” He looks like the cat who got the cream.

You just want to get home.

You’re starting to feel tired.

Probably the alcohol.

“Still just one stop, or?” the driver asks in the mirror.

“No, two”, you say, then realize you already gave your address to the operator before.

Nope, not letting the paranoia in tonight.

The man tells the driver his destination.

It’s a street you’ve never hear off, but the driver plots it in on the GPS and you’re off.

The city is turning a Christmassy shade of white.

It’s a fifteen minutes’ drive to your street and the man talks animatedly all the way there, even though your replies become more and more curt.

God, you’re so tired.

He tells you of his work, but you're only half listening. “I do PR for this fund … no, not a hedge fund. Like a non-profit thing for families in, um, need. Only it’s not non-profit, haha..."

You’re jolted awake as the car stops outside your town house.

“Okay, well, goodnight. Thanks for the drink.”

You climb out of the car, a little clumsily.

He did say he wanted to pay, and you have no qualms letting him.

Get inside, heels off, kiss Ella, fall into bed face down.

Only when the car takes off do you realize that the man has gotten out too.

“Wait, what? What are you doing? Didn’t you tell the driver…?”

“Um, yeah.”

He looks around and shoves his hands in his pockets like a little boy who knows he’s done something cheeky.

“I just thought I’d see you to the door. No offence, but you seem a bit drunk…”

You are, in fact, suddenly sobering up real quick.

“I’m fine”, you snap. “I didn’t ask for you to follow me home.”

A cold pit in your gut is growing.

“No, sorry, I know, it’s just…I worried about you. With you being home alone and all…”

His voice is weirdly paternal.

What the fuck? What did your friend tell him?

“I’m not home alone, okay? One of my friends is staying over. Did you think I left the baby to go out?!”

“No, of course not, what I meant was…” he’s searching for the words but taking a step forward at the same time.

You don’t wait to hear what he has to say.

You turn and run, nearly tripping up the front steps of the house. Damn heels!

You can hear him apologizing and saying something inane about “chemistry” while you turn the key and hurry inside the hall, slamming the door shut behind you.

Safe.

“What the…?”

Amanda is quickly coming down the stairs, worry written all over her pretty face.

“Are you okay? Why are you slamming the door like that?”

You burst into tears.

“This guy followed me home and he’s outside now!” you sob, but before Amanda can say anything, there’s a loud knock on the door and you both jump.

Amanda comes to first and, fuck how you love her, instead of asking questions she actually hammers her palm against the door, shouting, “Get away from there, you creep! We’re calling the police!”.

You can hear a shuffling of feet outside the door and the man muttering something, but Amanda’s not having it.

“You have two seconds to get down those steps and piss off, do you hear me?!”

There’s a silence, then footsteps retreating.

You both hurry to the living room to peek through the blinds. The man is standing on the pavement, looking up at the house.

In the dark you can’t see his face, but the blue light from the phone in his hand is easily visible.

“He said his battery was dead…” you whimper, and Amanda pulls out her own phone.

“Right. I’m calling the police on his stalker ass. How did he even follow you here…?”

As if the man heard her, he starts walking down the street and soon you can’t see him from the window.

“Maybe he’s gone home…” You crane your neck but he’s out of sight.

Amanda presses her cheek against the glass next to you but of course she can’t see any better.

“We should still call the police.”

Two days and two nights.

You couldn’t even make it 24 hours without falling apart.

You tell Amanda how stupid you feel, tears streaking down your face, and try to explain how you met the man at the bar, but she shakes her head vigorously.

“No, honey, this is not your fault, no matter what.”

She pulls you away from the window and sits you down on the couch.

“Men can’t go around following women like that. I heard him too, right? Banging on the door and all. I’m calling the police, and you’re going to give a description of him.”

And so you do, but not before going upstairs to kiss and fuss over Ella who obviously wakes up and lets her dissatisfaction be known.

Then, on the phone with the officer, you listen, cheeks flushing, when he asks you how much you’ve had to drink, and whether you willingly shared the car or not, and more things that makes you feel even more stupid.

He tells you that you can come by the station tomorrow “for a chat". If you want. Then they can get in touch with the Uber driver and get the man’s address.

If you think it’s necessary.

It’s a half-hearted offer to say the least.

Afterwards, you call your husband who answers on the third ring.

He’s in bed, sounding sleepy, but you hear sheets ruffling as he sits up when you tell him what happened.

He says he’s driving home, right now, and you want to tell him not to, that his work is important, and he’s already missed too much of it, but you also want him here, with you and Ella, as soon as possible.

So, you don’t protest and try not to think about how he’s the only breadwinner seeing as your freelance business is all but dead in the water, and Amanda nods supportively next to you.

Then you call your friend who’s still at the bar, sounding considerably more inebriated than when you left her, but giddy because she’s met a colleague she’s fancied for months and they’re going to her place and aww can you believe it, he’s the one I told you about, and you don’t have the heart to tell her about your bad experience just now.

She’s okay.

It can wait till tomorrow.

Amanda sleeps in your bed while you sit by Ella’s crib for the rest of the night, not able to look away from her.

You go through the evening and search for red flags.

Maybe he was just being friendly. Pushy, but well-meaning.

Maybe you had seemed more drunk than you were.

But he did lie about his phone.

That detail gives you goosebumps.

What was he hoping for?

Did he think he could overpower both you and Amanda if he got inside?

Did he have a weapon on him?

You shudder.

Yes, you’ll go to the station tomorrow and then to hell with how the officers may or may not look at you.

Or if they ask you what you were wearing. Are they still allowed to do that?

When your husband pulls the car up in front of the house early in the morning, you breathe a sigh of relief you’ve been holding in for so long, it’s almost like gasping for air.

You fly into his arms the second he’s in the door and he lifts you right up, and you wrap your legs around his waist and bury your face in his neck as he strokes your hair and whispers that he’s home, he’s here, I’m sorry you had to go through that, love, and I’ll fucking kill him if he comes anywhere near this house again.

His scent is so soothing to you, his arms so strong around you.

You glue yourself to his chest and promise that it won’t be like this every time he has to go away, and he shushes you and says it’s alright, nothing is more important than you and Ella and that guy sounds like a god damn psycho.

He’s bleary-eyed from driving all night and his shirt is crumbled under his jacket, and you try once again not to think of how if, worst case if, he was to lose his job while you’re still on maternity, your financial situation would be stretched very, very thin.

He has another trip coming up in another two weeks.

Three days, out of state.

You’ll have to make sure he goes and that he won’t be riddled with guilt for doing so.

You go to make some more coffee, and Amanda says goodbye and then good morning to your husband (you hear them talk in the hallway, and you’re so unbelievably glad she was here, that she saw the man too).

Then the front door opens and closes, and your knight in crumbled shirt and tie heads upstairs to see to Ella, and you lean against the kitchen counter, and take in the smell of fresh coffee and the faint sounds of the people you love the most in the world.

It’s still snowing, a thick layer of frosty powder now covering roof tops and parked cars, but your home is a sanctuary.

You should get one of those doorbells with a proper camera and video.

And maybe stop sharing Ubers with strange men … you still have to properly explain that one to your husband.

You’re pouring coffee into a mug for him to take upstairs when the doorbell – the old, non-video optimized doorbell – rings.

For a second, you start at the thought of the man standing outside last night.

Could he have the balls to come back? Maybe to apologize in the sober light of day?

In that case, he can do it front of both you and your husband.

That you’d actually quite enjoy watching, you think.

Your man may be mild-mannered, but he’s no push-over.

And though you’ve very rarely experienced it, there is a darker side to his temper you don’t quite know the depth of (you can count on one hand how many heated arguments you’ve had – at least two involved the assembling of IKEA furniture, one was about him obsessively commenting on your driving skills).

You straighten your back and go to open the door. Firm strides.

It’s not the man from last night.

It’s two police officers.

“Oh”, you say, surprised. “I thought you wanted me to come down to the station?”

One of the officers looks momentarily confused, but the other one remains stone-faced.

“Ma’am, is your husband home?”

His eyes are steel, unblinking, and seem intent on boring into your skull.

“Um, yes, he just got here, but don’t you…”

“If you could call him, ma’am? Now, please. We’d like to talk to him.”

“I…okay…”

Why would they…?

You turn around but your husband is already halfway down the stairs, staring at the two officers.

He has Ella in his arms.

He’s frozen mid-step.

The expression on his handsome face is one you’ve never seen before, and it sends chills down your spine.

It’s as if the light has gone from his eyes.

His beautiful, large brown eyes.

Ella is babbling and kicking her legs, but he’s not paying her any attention.

“John, what…”, you begin, but one of the officers speak over you.

“John Tyler, I have to ask you to come with us.”

Tyler?

“His name is not Tyler, it’s…”

Once again, you’re cut off.

“If you’ll hand over the baby, sir. And step outside. Now.”

The voice of the steely-eyed officer matches his glare.

John comes down the stairs, very slowly, and hands you Ella without taking his eyes off the two men.

His movements are eerily calm, but you can see the muscles tense in his forearms and jaw.

Why is he not saying anything?

One arm holding Ella, you reach for his hand, and he finally looks at you.

“John, what’s going on? What is this?” your voice is several notes too high.

“Sir, come with us.”

One of the officers steps inside the hallway.

John ignores him, taking your face in his hands, in that way he does.

He leans his forehead against yours, in that way you do, looking into your eyes while his thumbs caress your cheeks.

“All will be fine, love. It’s all fine. This is just a misunderstanding.”

His voice sounds like a stranger’s.

He smiles.

It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What do you want with him?!” you turn to the officers, which is not easy, as John is still holding on to your face, a little too strongly, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

You’re reminded for the millionth time of how much Ella looks like him.

You shake your head, and he lets go of you, arms falling to his sides in a surreal stance of defeat.

The officer with the eyes, his mouth is in a tight line and for a moment you think he simply won’t answer you, but then he does, and your life as you know it is over, just like that.

Cleanly divided into before and after you were told that your husband is being charged with several accounts of rape, possible abduction, violating his probation and hiding from the authorities.

For nearly four years.

Still, John doesn’t say anything.

Now he’s just looking at Ella, whose contented gurgling has turned into cries.

“I left the bottle upstairs…” he murmurs, as if to himself.

“Let’s go.” One of the officers takes your husband by the arm and he follows them out the door without resistance.

Like a sleepwalker.

You sink to the floor with Ella as you watch the officers handcuff him and put him in the car.

He doesn’t look back at you, not once.

You don’t know if it’s you or Ella screaming.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Later, when all the questions come from all sides, and you sit very still in a room without windows and decline the offer of anything to drink for fear that you won’t be able to hold a cup without spilling its content, stills from true crime documentaries flood your vision.

The one with Ted Bundy and his unsuspecting girlfriend.

The one with the guy who tattooed the women he murdered and his unsuspecting girlfriend.

The girlfriend who went to jail because nobody could believe she didn’t know. Including you.

Now, nobody believes you either.

At least not the police. You can see it in their eyes.

Your testimony, your proclaimed innocence, is a provocation to them.

Even if John has apparently told them the same.

Apparently.

You haven’t been allowed to see him yet.

It’s a lie that time heals.

Every day is worse than the one that went before as the case expands and the worms keeps slithering out.

For every grisly item of evidence they present you with, for every picture they show you, another piece of your soul dies.

You thought you built a home. According to the police, you lived in a cage.

And you locked yourself inside with the wolf.

An imposter masking as a man.

According to them, you’re lucky you didn’t end up as a statistic on the news.

Do you want to know where he went last week, on his “work trip”?

You don’t. They tell you anyway.

You want to disappear forever.

On the rare occasions sleep comes, you dream that things are normal, that he’s breathing next to you, that you can feel his weight shift on the madras, and then when you wake up, the nightmare starts all over.

John’s pillow still smells of him and you can’t bring yourself to change the case.

Some nights you cry into it until you feel like you’re suffocating.

Other nights you can’t even go near the bedroom without being overcome with nausea.

You don’t remove his suit jacket from the chair he left it in, in Ella’s room the morning he came back.

Your family is in shock.

Your brother calls you numerous times to say he can’t believe it, that they all know John, and this is absurd.

Days later, after speaking to the police, he yells over the phone, vowing to “destroy the bastard, if he ever gets out”.

You hang up on him.

The phone rings again. It’s an editor from the local news asking for a statement.

You mother comes to stay.

Amanda comes to stay.

Friends hug you, and hold you, and all of them have so many questions, whether they speak them out loud or not, you can’t bear to be around them.

You tell the police the story of how you met John.

You tell it again to the psychologist they bring in.

You tell it to yourself in the dark of your kitchen when all the city is quiet.

You whisper all the little details out loud to remind yourself that it happened:

The first time he met your friends.

The first time he met your family.

The day he proposed, on a beach down south, his eyes so hopeful as he presented you with the ring that turned out to be two sizes too small but so, so beautiful you’d been secretly amazed he could pay for it (the police confiscate it. You don’t want to know why).

The day you signed the rental lease on the townhouse, not quite believing your luck that it was within your budget.

The Wednesday evening you told him you were pregnant, and he dropped his fork in the middle of dinner and swept you off your feet and carried you straight up to the bedroom and in no uncertain terms promised to love and adore you, all of you, come what may, crazy mood swings and weird cravings, bring it on.

The Sunday morning Ella arrived, only three days over time and so eager to meet the world, you almost didn’t make it to the hospital.

Waking in the hospital bed after a much-needed nap and seeing John sitting in the chair next to you, tiny wrapped-up Ella sleeping in his arms while he looked down at her with so much awe, your heart felt like it was going to burst.

He always wanted a little girl.

When you try to spot the lies, the cracks in the façade that the police insist must have been there all along, even with Ella, you feel your sanity become a liquid thing, spilling dangerously fast out of all the holes shot through your reality.

So, you keep going back to the very first night.

Three years, two months and seven days ago.

Eight days ago.

Nine days ago.

You play it on repeat until your memory of the memories takes on a life of its own, colored by the present.

A dream in a dream.

He comes up to you in the bar you always go to on weekends because of the amazing cocktails.

He’s looking all dapper and grown-up compared to the other men in there. Dark blue blazer jacket over a checkered shirt.

A little older than you, just like you prefer it.

He has mistaken this place for another bar where he was supposed to meet a friend, he says, running a hand through wavy dark hair flecked with grey.

You instantly want to touch it.

He acts a little nervous, a little bumbling, but it feels like a front. Like when Superman plays Clark Kent and everyone in the audience is in on it.

You can feel him under there.

The confidence.

He knows he’s charming.

And maybe he knows that you know that he’s giving you a line.

It feels like a dance, and it doesn’t take long for him to drop the act.

He sits down.

You’re both quick-witted, and your fast banter is effortless and effortlessly flirtatious.

You make each other laugh, frequently, and it makes you feel high and sexy and ready to conquer the world.

By the look of him, he’s feeling it too.

He doesn’t take those adorable puppy dog eyes off you.

The friends you came with, totally forgotten on the sideline, leave. You couldn’t care less.

The bar is crowded and it’s loud, and John and you are sitting so close together on the bar stools your knees are touching, and you feel his breath tickle the sensitive spot behind your ear when he leans in to make himself heard over the music.

Somebody elbows you in the shoulder while trying to get the bartender’s attention, and you’re almost shoved into John’s arms.

You both laugh, and you know you’re a little drunk by now because you let yourself slide off your bar stool to stand between his legs, your palms on his thighs.

You smile up at him, hoping your look is one of sexy mischief and glad you wore one of your good dresses, and he smiles back although, peculiarly, he suddenly does seem a bit flustered.

His hands tentatively move down your bare shoulders, like he’s not sure if he should be touching you, and you stand on tiptoes and bring your mouth close to his ear and he bows his head a little and you ask if he wants to get out of there.

The boyish grin is back, making him look younger than he probably is.

Yes.

Yes, he would very much like that.

When you get outside, he helps you put your coat on, and you feel a surge of adrenaline at the way he eyes your body.

You link your arm with his as you walk down the street.

You have recently moved into your own, tiny flat not far from the bar, and right now you don’t care that you may have left some dirty laundry on the floor when you got ready, or that there are definitely a couple of old dishes in the kitchen sink.

This man, this deliciously tall, hot, funny, and charming man who looks at you like he wants to eat you with a spoon, is coming home with you, and that’s that.

You’ll hand him the spoon.

But on the walk, something in the air between you shifts.

He grows quiet.

His laugh, when he does laugh, sounds like a short bark with no follow-up.

You feel your cocktail buzz dissipating as the worry that you’ve read him wrong creeps in.

Maybe he isn’t that interested after all.

It feels like he’s changing his mind about the whole thing with every step, and the guy you just flirted up a storm with at the bar is retreating to somewhere else.

The clacking of your heels on the pavement sounds too loud. Garish.

Then your body makes the decision all on its own before your brain catches up: You stop, effectively pulling John to a halt as well.

“What…”

You don’t allow him to say anything, you throw your arms around his neck, taking him by complete surprise.

And you kiss him.

Really, really kiss him.

Your fingers weave through his gorgeous hair, and with your other hand you clutch the collar of his jacket to pull him even closer to you.

At first, he goes rigid and you’re afraid he’ll push you away.

But then he relaxes into the kiss, bit by bit until finally his arms wrap around you.

Grinding your body against his, you can feel him growing hard, and when you slip your tongue into his mouth, he even moans a little, making you smile against his lips.

(...Baby it's bad out there)

When you break the kiss, his look is a wild mix of lust and confusion and something else, something complicated, you can’t place before it’s quickly buried.

“Look, John”, you say, emboldened by what you so far see as a win.

(…Say what's in this drink?)

“I think you’re hot and smart and if I didn’t make my intentions quite clear before, I’ll just come right out and say it now so there’s no…confusion.”

You wink at him.

He swallows, still a little blindsided.

(...No cabs to be had out there)

You pull his face down to yours and touch your forehead to his, looking into his eyes.

“We’re going to go to my place and have sex. Lots of it, preferably. And then sometime tomorrow, we’re going to have breakfast. If you behave, I’ll even make it. And then maybe, just maybe, we’ll have sex again.”

(…I wish I knew how)

You kiss him once more, sealing the deal.

“I hope that’s okay with you,” you add, mischievously.

(...Your eyes are like starlight now)

He stares at your lips, dumbfounded, then at you.

He blinks twice, like something clicks into place.

(…To break this spell)

Then a wolfish smile spreads on his face, making the cute crinkles around his eyes return.

One hand comes up to grasp your chin, his fingers unexpectedly hot against your skin despite the cold night.

(...I ought to say no, no, no, Sir)

“And if I were to put up a fight…?” he asks, smirking, thumb trailing your jawline, his eyes hungrily scanning your face, your neck…

You have the confidence to smirk right back, heat pooling between your legs.

Game on. He’s in.

And now you can’t wait for him to be in you.

“Then I’d have to find some way to…persuade you. I can be very, very demanding,” you say.

(…Mind if I move in closer?)

“Hmmm”, he hums, pretending to be mulling this over, his other hand resting on the small of your back, keeping you close.

He’s quite amused, you can tell.

“I don’t usually sleep with strange women I’ve only just met, you know.”

(...At least I'm gonna say that I tried)

He puts on a serious face, but the side of his mouth is twitching, and you giggle at the schtick.

“Don’t worry, I won’t judge you.”

(…I really can't stay)

You wink at him again and reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

There’s that odd expression.

(...Baby don't hold out)

You bat your lashes at him.

“Let’s go, you.”

He hesitates for a heartbeat.

Then he squeezes your hand and cocks his head, obligingly.

“Lead the way …You.”

(…Baby it's cold outside)

[mypoisonedvine]

𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐟***𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 | soft!dark/yandere John Tyler x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: John's dreaming of a chance to relive some of his favorite Christmas memories— and maybe make some new ones— but his picture perfect family holiday is still missing the most important part: a family. that's where you come in.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: just under 10k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (DUBCON and NONCON, this is a dark fic and john tyler is a very bad person— softer here than canon, but still very bad), kidnapping/stalking, manipulation, yandere vibes, amnesia, mommy issues, breeding kink, very awkward uncomfortable sex, painful sex/pain kink, overuse of classic christmas songs, nonlinear timeline

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: thank you @trelaney for being a sounding board, proofreader, and enabler for this fic!!

December 19

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know…

You stirred, struggling against the heavy weight that kept your eyelids shut. You crinkled your nose and brow when you couldn't seem to shake it off, and when you turned your face to the side, you were surprised to feel the texture of velvet beneath your cheek.

You got your eyes open just enough to get one clear image: a house, one that you didn't recognize, with a fireplace just across from you and two stockings hanging over it.

You assumed the twinkling green blur in the corner of your eye was a tree before your eyes fell shut again.

Writhing around a little, you found that your whole body was heavy and dense— and draped in a wooly blanket.

Where the treetops glisten, and children listen to hear sleigh bells in the snow…

When you managed to get your eyes open again, time must’ve passed; you couldn’t be sure how long, but the song had ended, and the record that had been playing it was spinning while the needle was stuck at the center, playing a repeating loop of static.

A figure emerged from the corner of the room, taking the needle off and setting it on the hook.

He turned and stared down at you; his face changed when he saw you fighting to keep your eyes open and look up at him.

“Oh, you’re up,” he realized as he knelt down beside the couch you were laying on. “God, I was so worried about you… did you get enough rest? Did you have nice dreams?”

He reached up and ran his hand over your hair, stroking the top of your head, and you blink back at him in confusion. You could almost place him…

"...John?" you mumbled blankly.

He wrinkled his brow. "Uh, yeah…?"

Realization seemed to dawn on him at the same time that you were more confused than ever.

"Do you not remember me, sweetie?" he asked softly.

"N-no, I remember you— you came into the bakery…" you answered as you searched your mind for that day, his face across the register from you— you could recall little details like the pink box he'd been holding when he left, the color of his checkered button-up shirt… but you couldn't put together much more than that. And it was a distant memory; it felt like ages ago.

He let out a slow sigh. “Dr. Barlow warned me this might happen…”

You tilted your head slightly, but he reached out to stop you.

“Hey, careful, you might still be sore,” he warned. “You hit your head pretty hard… the hospital discharged you, said you would be fine, but… apparently this kind of thing can occur, brain injuries are sort of random.”

You furrowed your brow, darting your eyes over his face. The wrinkles around his eyes and on his forehead, the gray intermingling with black in his hair, seemed so much older than the way his gaze fell on you or how his smile tilted. “I hit my head?”

“Yeah, last night. You’ve been asleep since 11 and it’s almost noon,” he chuckled. “I’ll be honest, I was starting to worry, but I figured you needed your rest.”

You shifted slightly on the couch beneath you, feeling like you’d been dropped right into the middle of something, with no idea of the beginning and no way to guess the end.

“Do you… really not remember anything since the day we met?” he breathed, looking a little terrified when you nodded. “Oh… okay, it’s… a little worse than I thought, but that’s okay. Dr. Barlow said the memories usually start to come back over time…”

He scratched the back of his neck nervously as he looked away. “What happened since then?” you asked, despite being almost afraid of the answer. How much time had you lost?

“After we met at your bakery, I couldn’t stop coming back once I’d had a taste…” he explained. “Of your cookies, of course,” he added with a nervous smile and a glance to the side, making you chew your lip as you noticed the suggestive language. “I asked you out, miraculously you said yes,” he enumerated, “and, well, a year later—”

“A… a year?” you stammered.

“Yeah,” he frowned in a worried sort of way, “a year. Things got pretty serious between us, you told me about how much you wanted to get out of the city, and, well—” he motioned to the house behind him, looking like you’d stepped into a Christmas card— “here we are. Very, very far out of the city. We’ve made a great little life here for ourselves. A-at least, I think so…”

“I forgot so much…” you whispered in disbelief, searching your mind for any moments from the last year from this man you hardly recognized— that you apparently lived with— but finding nothing.

“You didn’t forget your famous gingerbread recipe, I hope,” he winked, apparently trying to cheer you up, lighten the mood or something. “What’s the secret ingredient again?”

“Orange zest,” you answered, and he cracked a smile.

“That’s my girl,” he cooed as he kissed your forehead. You didn’t quite flinch when he did it, but you did move away, and he pulled back with a sad look in his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

“I just…” you sighed. “I’m sure you must’ve kissed me a thousand times in a year together, but, for me—”

“It’s like the first time,” he finished as he understood. “I get it. This must be… a lot for you to take in.”

“Yeah,” you chuckled breathlessly, “but… I’m gonna try to remember.”

He gave you a small, but playfully devious, smile. “Well, maybe I can help you remember.”

You bit your lip slightly as he carefully reached forward to lift the back of your neck with his hand, running his thumb over your jaw, moving his gaze from your eyes to your lips. You felt your breathing pick up a bit as he leaned closer, catching your gaze again as you looked up at him nervously, forcing yourself not to be uncomfortable by this man— this stranger you loved— moving closer.

Figuring it was better to relax and trust whatever muscle memory you might have, you let your eyes fall shut; after a moment, you felt his lips against yours.

He kissed you softly, which you appreciated since it was still a lot for you to process, and after a few moments you managed to force yourself to relax into it.

There was an awkwardness, a hesitance and unfamiliarity, to the way he moved his lips— it felt like both of you were trying to dance without learning the steps. You felt a small gasp slip out of you when you felt his tongue carefully run over your bottom lip, venturing forward a moment later to graze your teeth.

You fought the urge to pull back; your hands reached up to push him back at his shoulders instinctively, but you managed to stop yourself at the last second and simply rest your hands on his shoulders instead. You even found yourself gently feeling the soft fabric of his cranberry-colored sweater beneath your fingertips, and it made him hum lowly into the kiss.

Slowly, but surely, you began to relax. Yes, it still felt like kissing a stranger, but that didn’t make it necessarily unpleasant. You certainly wouldn’t call it comfortable, but you couldn’t deny that as his large hands cradled your neck, his lips moved gently with yours, his tongue carefully tasted you… it wouldn’t be a stretch to call this enjoyable.

You dared to move your hands a bit, reaching up to delicately lace your fingers into the thick, dark hair at the back of his neck. He kissed you deeper when you did that, using his hold on you to tilt your head so he could open his mouth wider and, in turn, push deeper into yours.

You couldn’t remember the last time you were kissed like this— well, of course you couldn’t, after your injury. But even without the last year having been lost to a hit on the head, you were pretty confident nobody had ever kissed you the way John was kissing you now: like you were the only thing on his mind, like he missed your more than anything even though you’d only been knocked out for a day or so.

When he pulled back, you almost leaned forward to chase him for more; he clearly noticed, because he smiled as he looked down at you with those piercing brown eyes. “You remember more than you thought,” he smirked. “Does it all feel a little more familiar now?”

“Yes,” you answered with a smile, because you knew it was what he wanted to hear— and because it was what you wanted to believe. But as he stepped back and stood up and helped you off the couch until you found your balance, you took in the house around you and felt like it was impossible that it could've ever been your home. It all seemed a little too perfect.

December 21

Yes, it was a little strange to lay next to him in bed, resting your head on his shoulder. But you liked it— it felt like something you definitely could’ve enjoyed for the past year, even though his arm draped around your waist made your heart beat faster in a way that was more uncomfortable than romantic.

But, he’d been patient with you, and you were thankful for that. Unfortunately, you hadn’t remembered anything you’d forgotten yet— and so you were spending more time having him tell you the stories again.

“Our first date?” you prompted, looking up at him; you did think he was good-looking, and he’d been incredibly kind and charming, so you understood what attracted you to him originally. Still, you wished you could remember anything past that.

“A brunch place, you got French toast and I got migas.”

“We went out for brunch on a first date?” you laughed.

“Don’t look at me, it was your idea!” he shrugged. “I guess you thought dinner was too much pressure.”

“Okay, second date?”

He nodded. “Riverside park. We fed the ducks, I made a joke about how I’d never brought a can of peas on a date before, you thought it was way funnier than it was. I bought you ice cream—”

“What kind?”

“Two scoops of rocky road on a waffle cone,” he answered quickly.

“Two scoops, on a date? What was I thinking?” you choked.

“I don’t know, but I did have to finish it for you,” he smiled.

“Third date?”

“Dinner, finally— an Italian place.”

“What date did we…?” you wondered aloud.

“That would be date… six,” he recalled.

“Really? That long?” you scoffed, and he grinned as he looked down at you where your head rested on his shoulder.

“Don’t say that, you’ll give me an ego,” he warned, and you let your gaze move from his smile to where your hand laid on his chest— your fingers toyed briefly with the sparse hairs you found there. When you looked back up at him, his smile was gone, and something new was in his eyes. He leaned in a little closer— you instinctively flinched away, and he let out a breath as he laid on his back again and stared up at the ceiling. “Yeah, okay,” he whispered awkwardly, the sting of rejection obvious in his tone.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, “I’m not— it’s complicated.”

“No, it’s fine, don’t apologize,” he assured half-heartedly, “I understand, I just thought maybe… I don’t know, I just hoped for a second, because I thought it might be nice if we could—”

“I know it’s normal for you, John, but I just— I can’t remember that, it feels so foreign,” you explained. “I mean, it took me six dates last time.”

“Six dates over more than a month,” he added. “I’ll wait as long as you need, but I’ll be honest: a month is a long time to not be able to touch you, or kiss you, or feel you… I mean, before your accident, we could get up to almost once a day.”

“A day?!” you repeated, jumping up into a sitting position simply from shock.

“Yeah!” he chuckled. “I know… honestly, I had trouble keeping up with you sometimes.”

“I’ve never been… active like that with a boyfriend before,” you admitted sheepishly.

“Well, nobody’s ever made you feel like I do,” he explained, defending himself when you gave him a slightly scandalized look: “that’s what you told me.”

“Jeez, you’d think passion like that would be hard to forget,” you mumbled awkwardly.

He smiled at you as he sat up, propping himself up on his elbows. “It’s unforgettable, darling,” he purred. “The way it feels when we’re together…”

He trailed off, reaching forward to run his hand lightly over your thigh; you felt a chill run up your spine, equal parts unsettling and titillating.

“Let me remind you,” he whispered, but he sat up further as you started to lean away. “I-I don’t mean physically, necessarily. If you’re not ready. I just mean, let me try to tell you how it is.”

You bit your lip for a moment. “Okay…”

“Well, I mean, where to start,” he chuckled, both of you adjusting to get more comfortable. “Uh, well, there was this one time— we’d just moved in here, early March… it was our first night in this bed, right here—” he patted the mattress beneath you both— “but it was basically empty everywhere else. You kissed me, and I could tell you wanted to go further because, well, there’s this way you kiss me when you want me to make love to you… anyways, you kissed me and I ran my fingers down your back… I remember that you arched your back a bit when I did it, you moaned a little into my mouth— I wished I could taste every noise you made for me.”

You shifted awkwardly where you sat on the bed. No, you couldn’t remember what he was talking about, but he sure was painting quite the picture of it.

“I laid you down on your back, I kissed you everywhere I could find,” he continued, voice getting a little lower. “I tasted you where you needed me most,” he added darkly, “and I could taste how badly you needed me.”

Fuck. You felt a pulse hit you right between your legs, and you understood what he meant by ‘need’ very clearly.

“I felt so powerful, making you come that way,” he admitted. “You squirmed under me a little but you moaned my name and I thought about how I’d never loved my name until I heard you say it like that. You sounded like an angel, you always do.”

You realized he was leaning in a bit closer, speaking quietly such that you had to lean in as well to hear him. Your heart beat a little faster.

“And being inside you?” he continued, making your breath catch. “I don’t even know how to describe it. It feels like… coming home. It feels like belonging somewhere. Trust me, darling, once you remember how we are together, you’ll remember that we’re made for each other.”

The way he said it made it impossible not to believe him. Just as you felt your tongue absent-mindedly dart out to wet your lips, and your eyes drifted over his form in contemplation of the pursuit of what he’d described, he surprised you by jumping up off the bed with a smile.

“Anywho,” he prompted, knocking you out of your trance, “I’m gonna go bring in some more firewood before it gets too dark out. Do you mind starting dinner soon?”

“Um,” you choked, “no, yeah, I’ll preheat the oven.”

“Great,” he nodded, leaning down to give your forehead a peck before starting to leave.

“Uh, John?” you blurted out, stopping him in the doorway as he turned back to look at you.

“Hm?”

“Uhh…” you stalled. “I thought maybe I’d make a pot roast tomorrow– slow cook it, I mean. How does that sound?”

“Sounds delicious,” he hummed.

He left you still reeling, your body finally seeming to remember something your mind didn’t– and even crave it, without you really knowing what it was.

If only you could remember how to actually ask for it!

December 4

Aamna hummed a little to herself as she put a new tray under the glass display. You recognized it as a Christmas song but couldn’t place the title, or any of the words.

“You’re already in the holiday spirit?” you noticed, and she didn’t look back at where you were standing behind the register to answer, but you still caught her rolling her eyes.

“You know Christmas starts the day after Halloween in my book,” she scoffed. “Not all of us are grinches like you.”

“I’m not a grinch!” you deflected. “I like Christmas, I just… don’t feel it yet. It usually kicks in for me later.”

“Later?” she pressed.

“Yeah, like… the twenty-third or so.”

“Oh my god,” she frowned, standing up and crossing her arms at you. “That’s sad.”

“True,” you admitted.

“But still, I thought making all those gingerbread cookies–” she motioned to the ones she’d just put on display for sale– “would get you in the mood for festiveness and stuff.”

"Does anybody actually like gingerbread?” you scoffed. “Or are we just all into it for the aesthetics?”

A deep, yet unassured voice interjected from the corner— “I-I like gingerbread.”

Aamna leaned out of the way to reveal a man with dark hair and dark eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiled, standing up from his seat in the corner of the room— damn, he was tall— and rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “You do?” Aamna smirked, being the one significantly better at getting a word out when a tall, dark, and handsome stranger enters your bakery.

He stepped closer, approaching the counter with a tilt of his head as he looked at the desserts on display. “I used to make it with my mom all the time growing up,” he continued, “I guess that’s why people like gingerbread: nostalgia.”

His eyes sparkled a little as he looked at you; you noticed him raising his eyebrows, waiting for a response, but your mind went blank.

“I’m… sorry if I interrupted,” he mumbled.

“No!” you choked. “No, you’re fine…”

“So, gingerbread’s all about the nostalgia,” Aamna jumped in after another brief pause. “What about fruitcake?”

“Oh, I’m not that nostalgic,” he chuckled. “It’s disgusting.”

Aamna glanced over at the fruitcake in the glass display, and the man followed her gaze and winced playfully with a nod of understanding.

“Except that one, which I’m sure is great,” he added.

“I made that one,” she smiled.

“Then I’m sure it’s… delicious,” he returned, hitting the last word with a certain subtle intonation that made you shiver a bit without knowing for sure if it was intentional on his part.

Aamna bit her lip for a moment, glancing down as one of her hands reached up to nervously fiddle a bit with her hijab.

“That’s cute,” he hummed, motioning to the scarf, “the little… candy canes…” He reached up like he might touch it, but he didn’t. “It’s nice— it’s festive.”

“Oh, thanks,” she giggled. “I actually have one with little, uh, gingerbread men on it, too.”

“Really? Guess I’ll have to come back tomorrow to see it,” he smiled.

Just as she looked like she might actually manage to emit little floating cartoon hearts from her head, a timer went off from the kitchen and she perked up. "Oh! The petit fours!" she chirped, dashing around the counter and through the saloon doors to the back.

And so it was you and this man, him staring at you with a friendly smile and you too nervous to look back for more than a split second before you started to wring your hands with anxiousness.

“So, you’re not a gingerbread fan,” he prompted, “but what do you like here?’

“Me?” you confirmed, continuing when he nodded. “Uh, basically everything— I really love the Danish butter cookies, and the peppermint meringues—”

“Did you make them?” he interrupted.

“O-oh, uh, yeah, I made them both,” you nodded. “I actually… created the recipe, for the meringues.”

“Wow!” he beamed, way too impressed. “That’s incredible. You made the whole recipe? You just came up with it?”

“Yeah, well, that’s what I do,” you shrugged.

“That’s great,” he encouraged. “And the Danish butter cookies, did you make that recipe, too?”

“No, that one’s a classic,” you explained, “it’s over a hundred years old— I bought the card at an estate sale. Family heirloom… not my family, but, still…”

“That’s sweet,” he praised with a lopsided little smile. “You kept someone’s family tradition alive— that’s really special.”

You fought the urge to shyly glance down at the floor like Aamna had— but you understood now why she’d done it. “Oh, uh, thanks… I hope you’re right.”

"I wish I could bake, but I'm totally hopeless," he admitted with a chuckle. "That's why I'm here— gotta outsource the holiday cheer since the most festive thing that's ever come out of my oven is coal."

“Do you want any gingerbread, after defending it so fiercely?” you pressed.

“Oh— I don’t know…” he dismissed, trailing off.

“What?” you chuckled. “You can’t abandon these innocent ginger-people, no one else has any interest in buying them but you!”

“Well, I didn’t actually say I like all gingerbread— I like the memories,” he reminded you, “I like my mom’s. Most gingerbread isn’t as good as my mom’s.”

“So, if it’s as good, you’ll buy some?” you concluded.

“Of course,” he nodded. “But I won’t know how good it is until I buy it.”

You smiled deviously as you reached into the display and grabbed a gingerbread man, one with a big icing smile and a squiggly line all around his silhouette and a green piped bowtie. “Well, you know, bakers have a tradition of eating the cookies that break before they can be sold,” you explained, dropping the pastry onto the counter and watching him crack in half from his right shoulder to his left hip. “And what do you know! This one’s broken. I’ll split it with you, since you’re here…”

You handed him the top half and watched him smile as he took it— without saying anything, just looking each other in the eyes, you managed to coordinate taking a bite at the same time: you ate his foot while he went in straight for the head.

Truth be told, you didn’t hate gingerbread, and these were relatively decent— nutmeg-y, mildly sweet, crunchy outside but soft middle… you understood the appeal to a certain extent, but you just didn’t like the spiciness and the aggressive aftertaste of molasses.

You were focusing so much on the taste of your own cookie, since you hadn’t actually tasted it since you designed the recipe, that you didn’t notice the man’s reaction until you heard a sniffle. Looking up, you caught him running his hand over his cheek quickly, eyes red and watery.

“Oh!” you mumbled quietly. “Are you… are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he assured in a rush, swallowing the bite and giving you a nervous smile as he wiped his eyes again. “Yeah. I’ll buy some.”

“Okay…” you nodded, not wanting to press and choosing to focus on the register so he wouldn’t feel your stare. “How many?”

“How many do you have?”

You stammered as you tried to remember. “Oh, uhh… I think, about three dozen. Minus the free sample…”

“Okay, well, I’ll take those,” he nodded quickly, seeming to have pulled himself together as he smiled down at you and stuff his hands in his pockets.

“You want three dozen cookies?” you repeated in quiet disbelief.

“Yeah— one-fifty a pop, should come out to a little over fifty?” he prompted as he started to open his wallet.

“No, that many would actually be considered a catering order, the pricing is different,” you explained. “Uhh— let me… let me figure this out,” you stumbled, trying to do the math in your head. “It’s usually $10 for a dozen but these are considered large so it’s—”

You stopped with a little gasp when his hand rested on yours; you blinked up at him quickly. “Just let me give you a $50."

You struggled to get a sentence out with him still touching you. "O-okay, but let me give you some freebies, too— as a thank you for making such a large purchase…"

"They're really great," he added, like selling you out didn't make that opinion clear. "You… didn't get that recipe at an estate sale, right?" he pressed with a furrowed brow, seeming a little disappointed and yet relieved when you shook your head. "They just taste exactly how I remember…"

"Nope, I tested that recipe from scratch," you shrugged. "I don't even really like them, I just figured they tasted enough like what people want from a gingerbread cookie—"

"How can you not like them? They taste like decorating in the kitchen and pressing the shapes into the dough, songs around a piano, gifts around a fireplace…"

"You said it yourself, you like the memories," you chuckled sadly. "I… don't really have any memories like that, so they don't taste like anything to me except molasses."

He seemed to get very serious for a moment— too serious. "That's a shame," he said.

After arranging all the remaining gingerbread men— even the ones that were still in the kitchen— in a box for him, you searched the display shelves for any random things to add. You tossed in some mini-tarts, a few sugar cookies, and a cherry turnover; the last one was probably worth more than you were giving it away for, but you figured he'd earned it.

The man waited patiently as you finished off the process by tying a ribbon around the box.

"Thank you…" you began as you handed him the box. You wondered if you'd ever sold a box this heavy before.

"John," he finished as he took it from you, leaving the bill on the counter. "Merry Christmas."

"You too," you returned, stunned, as you watched him leave: carrying the box like he most delicate, precious thing, pushing the door open with his back and disappearing down the street into the night.

December 22

"Woah, hey, let me help you," he cooed as he held your arms, keeping you upright.

You weren't usually this bad— a little rusty, sure, but you knew your legs were especially wobbly because of your recovery from the injury. You stared down at your feet, laced into the skates, shaking as they carved into the frozen lake.

“You just have to find your balance,” he assured. “Be careful, it’s not like a rink out here: the ice is uneven.”

He let you go and you took a breath as you skated forward on your own. Of course, he was literally skating circles around you with ease, while you were still holding your arms out shakily to try to keep your balance. You cried out for just a second when you almost slipped, but you recovered.

“I’m not gonna let you fall,” he promised, making another loop around you as you gained some speed. “You trust me, right?”

You nodded a little, but you were mostly focused on not eating dirt– or, in this case, snow.

It only took a few moments for you to gain some confidence, and the two of you were able to skate alongside each other along the outer edge of the lake.

“Did we do this a lot before?” you asked as you admired the frozen, snow-laden trees in every direction. At least one of the perks of forgetting the past year was getting to see this beautiful forest like it was the first time.

“Not a lot, but sometimes,” he answered. “We went out too early one year and the ice cracked and you fell in. You were fine in the end, but I had to keep us both away for a while after that… I get too scared when bad things happen to you.”

“Yeah, that sounds scary,” you sympathized.

“Oh, I was a wreck,” he admitted. “I’m honestly kind of glad you don’t remember that– and it’s a good thing you couldn’t see me after you slipped on the deck and hit your head, either… I was totally freaking out. For a second, I thought…”

He sighed, waiting a moment before starting over.

“I was worried that you might–” he began again, but stopped and looked away. You furrowed your brow and leaned in closer to him.

“What is it?” you pressed softly.

“When you hit your head before,” he started once more, and you caught the waver in his voice, “I was worried you were really hurt. Like– like you might not get better.”

You were moved by his obvious terror at the idea of you being critically injured. It wasn’t like he hadn’t made it clear that he cared for you, but it was different to see it like this.

“I think when you woke up, you were confused why I was sort of unphased by your memory loss,” he posited as he used his woolly mitten to wipe away a stray tear that had fallen down his cheek, sniffling and collecting himself. “It’s just because I was so happy you woke up at all. Dr. Barlow assured me you would, but… for a while there I really thought I’d lost you. And I honestly know I couldn’t take it– going on without you, I mean. It might sound pathetic, but I really couldn’t do it.”

You chewed your lip as you considered that. He really meant it, you knew that much, and you were amazed that someone was so dedicated to you– let alone someone you felt like you barely knew. But you figured you knew him well enough, didn’t you? Sweet, considerate, a little meticulous, incredibly patient… no wonder you’d moved in with him so fast, started building a life out here with him. It wasn’t what you expected for yourself: last you remembered, your business was thriving and your future was foggy but focused on your career and your accomplishments. And now you were living the simple life, in a cabin in a forest with a guy like John who seemed like he’d just stepped out of a Hallmark commercial or something.

It seemed like exactly the sort of thing you should want; and over time, you were learning to find joy in this strange little reality that had been dropped in your lap.

“I’m just about worn out,” John announced, skating to a stop as you turned your blades sideways to do the same. “Wanna head inside soon?”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” you agreed. “Except that the worst part is trying to walk back in these skates.”

“I can fix that problem,” he offered with a grin, and before you could ask what he meant, he’d picked you up and all but thrown you over his shoulder in spite of your giggled yelps of protest.

He carried you back to the house with relative ease, and something about this show of strength made you more nervous than you expected, though you couldn’t place exactly why. Once you were inside, he insisted on taking your skates off for you even though you would’ve been just fine doing it yourself, before he disappeared into the kitchen to ‘bring you something’ (not vague at all, thanks John).

You shed your fluffy layers while you waited for him, left only in your dress and stockings; and he returned a few minutes later with a drink in a mug patterned like a pleasantly-tacky Christmas sweater, looking especially proud of himself.

“Nothing to warm you up after a night on the ice like some cocoa, right?” he smiled as he set the steaming mug down in front of you, and sat next to you at the round kitchen table.

“Is this whipped cream?” you asked as you poked at the lump of fluffy white something floating on top.

“No, it’s Cool Whip,” he explained. “You know, the stuff that comes in the tub that you keep in the freezer? It’s similar to whipped cream, obviously, but a little more flavorful– and it helps cool it off.”

“I’ve never seen Cool Whip in hot chocolate before,” you noticed.

“It’s how my mom used to make it,” he added. A silent moment passed– maybe a slightly awkward one as well. “I must sound so obsessed with my mother,” he realized with a nervous laugh. “You’re probably like ‘oh my god, is this guy like Norman Bates or something?’”

“No, I’m not thinking that,” you lied.

“I really– I just think about my mom a lot during the holidays,” he explained as he glanced around at the festive interior, the wreath over the fireplace and the tree with its flashing lights. “She passed a long time ago, you probably forgot that. And it was hard for me. I mean, it’s hard for anyone to lose a parent, but… we were close. And she was really into Christmas, she always made it so amazing. It’s hard for me to do this without her.”

You nodded a little in understanding, taking a sip from your mug as you listened. He seemed to notice whatever reaction you hadn’t meant to show, because he looked at your face and smiled.

“It’s good?” he presumed.

“Yeah,” you breathed, almost in disbelief, “it’s… really good. Damn. You make a mean cocoa.”

“I try,” he chuckled. “I’m so glad you like it.”

Another moment passed as you sipped at the drink, feeling each gulp warm your chest from the inside out.

“I just want you to feel safe here,” he added. “And I want you to feel comfortable with me.”

“I do,” you offered, but your tone gave away the underlying hesitance you still felt.

“Christmas without my mom is hard,” he reiterated, “but with you… it’s a lot better. It feels like I have a family again…”

As his words trailed off, you caught a few words of the song playing in the other room: hang a shining star upon the highest bough…

You smiled as you set down the mug and stood up, extending your hand towards him. He looked a little confused as he stared at the hand and then met your gaze. “Dance with me?” you prompted.

He took your hand and smiled back at you, and the two of you moved away from the table and closer to the living room where the music played faintly through the record player.

And have yourself a merry little Christmas now…

The dance was a bit more energetic at first, then slowed down to just a gentle sway as you dared to rest your head on his chest; his hand on your back kept you close, his steps guided yours.

You let your eyes fall shut as you took in a deep breath, appreciating the warm, homey feeling you associated with the smell of the house and the feeling of his sweater against your cheek. His hand squeezed yours, and you looked up at him with a little smile, just as he smiled down at you with those brown eyes sparkling in the light of the tree.

He moved his hand and stepped back, and before you knew it he was spinning you around; you gasped and laughed a bit, letting him guide you back into him. It was just a bit exhilarating, yet shockingly comfortable. Maybe some muscle memory was kicking in from dance lessons you couldn’t recall. He did it again and this time you were a bit more prepared, though you still giggled from the thrill of it and he laughed with you if only to share in your joy.

It all seemed so sudden: one moment you were just laughing together, the next he was pinning you back against the wall, kissing you breathless. You yelped a little in shock, but it was almost entirely lost to his tongue inside your mouth as he breathed heavily and his hands roamed all over your body.

You only got a moment to breathe when he moved down to hungrily kiss your neck. "John—" you choked.

"Shh," he soothed, "it's gonna be good, okay? I'm gonna make it good."

You whimpered as he started to pull up your dress, pressing his hips up to you. A new wave of defiance empowered you when you felt his erection through the thick layers of clothes. "John!" you gasped, roughly shoving him back; and you just barely managed to knock him off balance and get him to stop.

For one split second, you caught his rage, but it shifted to bewilderment and then exhaustion immediately. "I-I'm sorry," he whispered. He sighed and dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his eyes with his palms. "God, darling, I'm so sorry… I just— I miss you. I know you're here, but—"

"I understand," you breathed, still trying to calm yourself after the adrenaline rush of trying to fight him off.

"I'm awful," he groaned. "I'm really so awful, you're still recovering and you're trying to get used to all this, and I'm just so in love with you that I can't even treat you right… you really deserve so much better than me."

"N-no," you sighed, "don't say that… you're not awful, John, you've been so good to me. I just wish I was ready to give you what you need."

"All I need is you, beautiful," he promised as he stepped closer again, this time much more gentle and patient as he held your face in his hands. "I can wait until you're ready. I would wait forever for you— I used to tell you that, before. Do you remember?"

You wrinkled your brow as you thought about that. He leaned in closer, speaking in a low whisper by your ear.

"I've waited my whole life for you," he whispered, and you gasped as your eyes watered.

"I… I remember…" you realized. It was distant, like a memory of a dream, but it was there. John beamed and you found yourself laughing as you looked up at him and wrapped your arms around his neck. "I remember that!"

He pulled you into a hug, and you cried joyfully into his shoulder. "I love you, darling," he reminded you.

"I love you too," you convinced yourself to reply. And it almost felt right.

December 23

He must’ve known something was different this time, because he sat up in bed as he saw you standing in the doorway in your nightgown. You used to hate wearing nightgowns like this, usually sleeping in a baggy old t-shirt or something; you still struggled to imagine how you’d been wearing this for a year.

“Is everything okay?” he asked you, and you said nothing (yet) as you nervously approached the bedside. He frowned when you shivered, lifting the covers for you. “C’mon, get in, it’s cold,” he encouraged, and you slipped into the warm sheets beside him.

You looked up at him as he waited patiently for whatever it was you obviously wanted to say; you took a deep breath before finally finding the courage to say it. “I… I’m ready,” you whispered. “I want to… do what we used to do.”

“We used to do a lot of things,” he teased with a smirk.

“John,” you groaned in frustration, “please… you know what I mean. I don’t want to make you wait anymore. I don’t want to wait anymore…”

He nodded in understanding as he pulled you into a kiss, and you fought to relax as you reached up and wrapped your arms around him.

He began to delicately climb on top of you under the covers; you struggled not to try to close your legs as he carefully spread them open and slotted himself between them. With your nightgown falling away, only your thin panties protected you from the chilly night air that blew in a draft under the sheets for a second.

You squinted your eyes shut tight when you felt his erection, throbbingly hard even through his pants, pressing up against you between your legs. He rocked his hips slightly, and you gasped as it made your panties rub up against your swelling clit.

He smiled into the kiss and did it again, forcing a whimpery moan out of your lips. “Baby,” he breathed, sounding in awe of you. He reached down and pulled the panties down your thighs, groaning as he ran his fingers through your folds. “When you said you were ready, I didn’t know you were this ready. Why didn’t you tell me you were this needy for me, darling?”

You were more wet than either of you expected, clearly. You’d soaked his fingers already, without him even putting them inside you– and he apparently didn’t intend to, since he pulled his hands away to quickly shove his pants and boxers down.

In the dark, you couldn’t see his cock, but you felt the head bump against your thigh and smear a little precum there. You swallowed thickly as you tried not to freak out, but you really wanted to freak out. This felt a lot less comfortable than you had hoped it would; you were fighting inside your mind to find the familiarity in this that you must’ve had by now. You’ve been with him for a year, you tried to convince yourself, he’s hot, he’s nice, just get over yourself and have sex with him!

“You’re sure you’re ready?” he whispered, sighing when you nodded. “Fuck, okay…” he breathed before he kissed you again, lining himself up with your opening.

He stopped kissing you to stare down at your face as he pushed his hips forward, slipping the head of his cock inside.

It was instantly and patently obvious that he was far, far too big for you. “John,” you gasped, “John, it hurts!”

“Shh, hey, it’s okay,” he whispered, “that happens sometimes— when it’s been a little while. I’m gonna be gentle with you, okay? Just breathe, just give it a moment and it’ll feel great…”

He gave you a few more inches, a low groan falling from his lips as you whined through your teeth.

“Just a little more,” he encouraged under his breath, shushing you gently as you whimpered, “shh, just a little more, baby– you can take it all, I know you can…”

You couldn’t believe the feeling when his hips were flush against yours; you couldn’t believe that anything had ever been this deep in you before, let alone with such apparent frequency. It felt like he was forging a new path in you– was it always this difficult to take him? How were you able to stand it for a year?

“Oh fuck,” he gasped, tightening his fist in the sheets beside your head, “fuck! You’re so tight…”

Much sooner than you were ready for, he pulled back and thrusted into you again; you choked out his name, almost a plea to stop but not a very effective one since he took it more as a compliment.

“Yeah, that’s me inside you,” he assured with a purr, giving you deep– if not particularly fast– thrusts. “That’s my cock in you. Do you like it?”

You figured he expected you to say that you did, but you couldn’t even get out an answer, honest or not; you were too busy breathing fast and heavy as he reached down to hold your hips close to his.

“I wanna hear you say that you like this,” he instructed. “You tell me all the time that you love the way I fuck you. Doesn’t it feel good, darling?”

He reached down to rub his thumb over your clit, drawing a gasp from you as your walls clenched down on him from the unexpected stimulation. He grinned as you let out a shaky moan– there was still a sting to it, but you were obviously getting used to the feeling.

“You like it when I touch you there?” he whispered. “Or should I stop?”

He slowed the movement of his thumb and you whimpered, reaching up to grab his shoulders. “D-don’t stop,” you pleaded. He chuckled quietly as he kept rubbing your bud, and it helped you with the stretch of his cock inside you since it made you a little more wet.

After you got comfortable with the pattern, you felt a throbbing sort of pleasure growing more powerful inside you; the pain had finally subsided and you could feel each stroke pushing against something beautifully sensitive inside you. He pressed down harder on your clit and you heard yourself moan much louder than you expected. “Fuck,” he sighed when he heard it, “you sound so pretty. Do it again.”

This time he pinched your clit, and you certainly moaned– though it was almost a cry, too.

“Oh, baby,” he groaned in a deep, gravelly voice, and a chill jumped up your spine. He panted your name over and over as he moved faster inside you. “So good, you’re so good— that’s a good girl, that’s my good fucking girl…”

His praise made you eek out a whimper, chills running over your skin. His thrusts inside you still stung just a bit, but each one stroked deeper spots within you that made your back arch and your mouth fall open into a pant.

“I know you love it,” he purred. “Fuck, I know you love this. This is what you were missing, right? You wanted me to take care of you? I remember just what you need, darling, don’t worry…”

He rubbed your clit faster, harder, with more desperation as you started to squirm a bit beneath him.

“It’s so good,” he groaned, “baby, you’re so good– feels like heaven, god, I missed you so much…”

“I-I missed you too,” you whined, hearing him chuckle thinly before he kissed you again.

More pressure on your clit made you choke on a moan; faster thrusts made you gasp. It was coming, and it was coming way too quickly– too quickly for you to stop it now.

“John— I’m—” you breathed as your hands gripped onto his back, feeling his muscles shift beneath the skin. “I’m gonna—”

“I know,” he encouraged softly, “I know, you’re doing so good for me, just like that— come for me, beautiful. I wanna feel it.”

Your body was conflicted by the raw pleasure of your orgasm, and yet the sharp pain each time your walls involuntarily bared down on him– it reawakened the sting of taking something so large inside you, and you sobbed weakly with each painful clench of your channel. Your nails dug into his back, and your teeth sunk into your bottom lip.

As the last wave subsided, you went limp beneath him. You were so sensitive now that you sort of just assumed he would slow down and give you a moment, but exactly the opposite happened.

“Feels so good when you come for me,” he moaned as he picked up the pace, “love feeling that pussy squeeze me.”

You felt a little self-conscious hearing him talk like that, and in your half-delirious post-orgasm haze you reached to try to push his hips back so he wouldn’t go so deep while you were still feeling the aftershocks, but he grabbed your hands at the wrists and pinned them beside your head.

“Fuck,” he grunted as he fucked you even faster— erratic, senseless thrusts making the whole bed shake, “fuck, you’re so fucking dirty, my filthy little whore.”

You gasped, tears pricking your eyes instantly as a sick self-consciousness swirled in your gut. “S-stop,” you whispered. “John, stop!”

He slowed to a stop with a furrowed brow as he stared down at you. “What?” he panted, obviously confused and struggling to refocus on conversation.

“Why… why would you call me that?” you whimpered.

“O-oh, baby,” he cooed, leaning down to wrap his arms around you, “darling, I didn’t mean it like that— you like it when I call you names.”

“No I don’t…” you breathed shakily.

“Well, you did,” he tried to explain, “before… but you don’t have to like it, I just— I just thought you would, I’m sorry, I didn’t… you know I adore you, beautiful— it’s not meant to insult you. I’d never want you to feel bad about yourself.”

“Okay…” you mumbled awkwardly.

“Can I… keep going?” he asked. “I was so close… I won’t say anything this time, I’ll be quick, I just… I was really close.”

“Okay,” you repeated, hiding a grimace as he started to move again. That sick feeling in your stomach hadn’t gone away, and what he was doing just made it worse. His little groans beside your face felt sharp in your ear like they were crawling into your brain and you started to tilt your head towards your shoulder to stop them from getting inside; his hands held your body tighter even when you arched your back to try to get away.

He buried his face in your neck, whispering praises to you, telling you he loved you, but you just turned your head away and hoped it would be over soon. It was, and yet it felt like forever.

You heard him moan your name quietly and slow down to a stop: for a moment, you didn’t understand what had happened, until you felt the pulse of his cock at your entrance, pumping his hot, sticky come deep in your channel.

The realization that he’d just come inside you made you let out a shaky, nervous sigh; you must be on the pill, right? And you just don’t remember going on it. But wait, that can’t be right because you haven’t been taking any pills since you woke up, other than the ones for your head injury that he’d been giving you: but you were on something, an IUD maybe? Otherwise he wouldn’t do that— or maybe he had a vasectomy? How could you know? He was a stranger and you were an amnesiac.

He let out a long sigh, staying buried inside you far longer than you would've preferred as he slumped down on top of you, nearly crushing you with his weight. "You're so amazing, darling," he breathed.

He fell asleep rather quickly, keeping you pinned down under him and wrapped up tight in his embrace. You, though, stayed awake for what felt like hours, staring out the window into the darkness. You could just barely see snow falling, covering the dense forest outside in a thick layer of white.

The storm's too heavy, your mind whispered to you in the silence, you'd never make it.

And yet you longed to run. To trudge through the freezing snow, seeking civilization in any direction, just to get away from him. It didn't even matter if you believed him anymore, if you actually thought you'd simply forgotten a year of being with him. Even if it was true, you would never believe you'd actually been in a healthy relationship for the last year. Whether it was a lie or not, the truth was obvious: you were trapped.

December 18

He tilted his head back and looked down at your face over his cheekbones as he delicately applied the bright red pigment to your lips. It was a little difficult to do while you were limp and unconscious, so he held your jaw with his free hand to keep your head from falling too far to the side and the lipstick drawing a big line all over your cheek: then he'd have to start all over!

Still, as tedious as it was, it was the perfect final touch to his fantasy coming to fruition.

He stood up and stepped back, absent-mindedly tilting his head as he stared down at you, taking in the sight: You looked exactly how he’d pictured you would, and the dress he’d picked out fit you perfectly. Of course, he chuckled to himself when he realized what he’d forgotten, and he dashed to the bedroom to get it.

Waiting inside the ornate jewelry box, a string of pearls. He smiled as he carefully picked it up; you have to be gentle with real vintage stuff like this.

Bringing it back to the living room, he knelt down and reached behind your neck to clasp it. Now it was perfect. He planted a soft kiss to your cheek, and whispered by your ear: "I've waited my whole life for you."

December 25

"Merry Christmas, darling," he hummed sleepily into your ear as he pulled you tighter into him.

You blinked your eyes open, seeing the bright white snow outside shining in the morning sun. It was objectively beautiful, and yet even surrounded by a warm embrace and weighed down under a thick downy blanket, you still shivered at the sight.

“Do you want to have breakfast first?” he asked excitedly, kissing your neck between words. “Or can I give you your present now?”

Present. Right. It’s Christmas. And you couldn’t remember going shopping for his gift– or where you hid it before wrapping if you had bought him something.

“Come on, let’s go look under the tree,” he prompted excitedly as he hopped out of bed and guided you with him.

You couldn’t remember the last time you were so excited for Christmas that you got out of bed in your pajamas to rush to the tree– and for once, it had nothing to do with slipping on some ice and hitting your head. You simply hadn’t had a Christmas like this before you met John; you had long since given up on the picture-perfect idea of the holidays that you saw in every commercial and postcard and shop window. And now that it was here, you had to swallow down the sick feeling in your throat as he sat you down on the floor between his legs, his arms wrapping you in a hug from behind.

“It’s been so hard to keep my gift a secret,” he admitted. “I’ve been wanting to give it to you for so long.”

“I… I don’t think I got you anything,” you mumbled awkwardly as you stared forward at the tree, not finding anything you remembered wrapping for him. You’d hoped so much to remember by now… “I don’t have a gift for you,” you concluded with a sigh.

“Your gift to me can be saying ‘yes’,” he whispered as he held the small velvet box out in front of you.

Your breath caught in your chest like the ankle of a hunter in an iron bear trap. It’s not like you weren’t expecting the diamond ring to be waiting inside when he opened the clamshell lid, but still, seeing it sparkle under the lights on the tree made you a little nauseous.

“I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone like you,” he hummed, “and now that I’ve found you, I can’t let you go. I want you to wear this and— and I want you to be my wife.”

You blinked as you stared at it, feeling tears run down your cheeks.

“Say yes,” he encouraged, “please.”

You heard yourself say it, but you didn’t really remember thinking that you would. Then again, what else could you do? He had you trapped here, he’d proven he was willing to hurt you— and he was right, it would be so much easier if you just gave in to him. He lifted your left hand and gently slipped the band around your finger. It fit perfectly; of course it did.

“Mrs. Tyler,” he grinned, “I like the sound of that. A lot. Don’t you?”

You examined the ring on your hand for a second, a little too stunned to be impressed by the massive stone though you were a little mesmerized by its refractions of the light. Finally, you gave a dazed nod in response to his question. He sighed proudly as he hugged you tight, lifting your newly-ring-adorned hand to his lips to kiss it gently.

"There is one gift you're going to give me in return," he added in a low purr. You yelped quietly as he pushed you down and pinned you to the floor, kissing you roughly. You squirmed as he pressed his body onto yours; of course he was already hard, and you whimpered into the kiss because you were still sore from last time– you didn’t think you could take the pain again. “Well, I guess it’s my gift to you, too,” he continued as he kissed a path down your neck, reaching down to push your nightgown out of the way so he could palm at your chest and grope your thighs. “I’m gonna give you my seed.”

You grimaced and pushed at his shoulders, trying to get him away.

"By this time next year, it'll be our baby's first Christmas," he whispered.

“John, please,” you sobbed, “please, don’t–”

He cut you off with another sudden kiss, pulling your panties down your kicking legs. “I know, I know,” he soothed in a pitying voice, “you want it so bad– you wanna be a mommy, I know, darling.”

Cries to stop fell into silence as he kissed you harder, holding you down and effortlessly conquering you in your weak fight.

You gave into it eventually, finding it was easier to go limp than to hurt yourself trying to get him to stop. He wasn’t going to stop; you knew that, and it was better when you accepted it. It was almost nice, actually. He did know how to make you feel good, once you let him hurt you for a little bit first. And his words washed over you and brought you comfort, words of praise and affirmation. At least when you were his good girl, when you were his pretty wife, when you were his darling, you knew who you were. And when he kissed your tears away after he was done, when he held you close and you were all warm and numb and full of him, you wondered how you ever could’ve forgotten who you were.

“You are so beautiful, Mrs. Tyler,” he cooed softly, cradling you on the floor beneath the tree. “I love you so much— I’m gonna make you so happy, darling, I promise.”

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know,

where the treetops glisten, and children listen to hear sleigh bells in the snow.

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, with every Christmas card I write,

may your days be merry and bright,

and may all your Christmases be white.

[mypoisonedvine]

guys it's okay if you don't read this and if you do it's okay if you don't like it but if you do read it and you do like it please reblog it