requests 🔒 18 & 👆Multiple fandoms. space for cringe brain rot, all welcomed! 90's Bitch.Call me cosmic (she/her). on archive of our own (same name). 🌌🍬🌙
If you wanna support my caffeine addiction to keep writing. Please click the link 👇🏼
Just your friendly neighborhood weirdo that writes for multi fandom blogs. I'm also an artist and working on a book. In my free time I help
⚠️ Be aware my writing can be very dark, not limited to uncomfortable terminology/wording, mentions of sexual situations, sadomasochistic & violence.Read at your own risk.💜⚠️
READ: Don't copy, translate or steal any of my work, if you wish to collaborate or use for inspiration.. send me a message ✨.
REQUESTS: I will not write pedophilia, beastiality, incest, homophobia, or r@pe, dub con is the farthest I might go depending on the context.
✨Enjoy✨
Happy reading my beautiful word sluts, my dm's are open if you wanna chat,feel free to comment and let me know what story made you cry, laugh, moist I don't care love y'all xoxo (updates may take some time, please stay tuned)
One shot stories
Hazbin hotel
Alastor
(Wip)
Stories multiple chapters
Hazbin hotel
Alastor
Link to my alastor playlist ^
too little too late Alastor x F!reader
Summary.You move on,but the heart wants what it wants. (Wip currently being rewritten)
Chapter1 Chapter2 Chapter3 Chapter4
Violent delights Alastor x F!reader (romantic ) x good omens Crowley and Aziraphale (parents) (wip currently being rewritten)
Summary! Alastor and you are friends, and it's complicated.
Chapter1 Chapter2 chapter 3 chapter4(NSFW)
WWE
Roman reigns
(Home is where the heart is) x!femalereader
Summary.if it ain't broke don't fix it. (Currently finishing up)
Chapter 1 chapter 2
Stranger Things 🧇
it's the little things (Eddie Munson x reader she/her) (wip tbd)
Summary. Secrets are no fun, secrets hurt someone.
Chapter 1
-🔪Slashers🔪-
House of 1000 Corpses/The Devil's Rejects (no longer wip at this time)
-Otis Driftwood- 🐇 *language, sexuality, violence (you've seen the movie, you know)
people who only use conventional social media are so funny bc they’ll casually be like “can I see your tumblr??” are you Insane. this is no instagram or twitter. this is my vault of secrets
After a hiatus, and looking at all my wips, my alastor stories will be rewritten because well clearly I hate myself 😂 and I feel I can do them better with new and fresher ideas. Old works of any of my stories will still be up on my master list, so I can see how far I've come with my writing. Also will be creating a Google doc for tag lists, I'll explain more when I post it, but pretty much I'll have you tag yourself and then write what story you want to be tagged for. Thanks for all your patience and I'll be back soon.
I also have revamped my Alastor Spotify playlist. It's full of Southern Gothic inspired songs as well as others that I feel capture the vibe of our deer 🦌 hubby. Love you all!
Author's note: this is my first request and I’m so excited!
I'd really like to thank the very dear and sweet @cosmiccandydreamer for writing to me... I hope you like it! ❤️
If you have any requests for me, please write to me, don't be shy!
Warnings: smut and period blood, I’m saying it all!
If you don't like the topic it's okay, but please just move on immediately, thank you 😘
🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸
LOVE IS RED
Something was wrong.
Father Paul Hill felt it as soon as he closed the rectory door behind him, shutting out the chilly winter evening.
The Christmas tree in the small living room was off, as was the Nativity.
The colored fairy lights you had hung together in the adjacent kitchenette weren't pulsating in that slow, cozy rhythm you loved so much.
There wasn't smell of cooking in the air; in fact, the stove was empty.
The entire old house was engulfed in darkness and silence and this was truly a rare occurrence since you had moved in with him a few weeks earlier.
"Love?" he called as he took off his boots, scarf and coat, leaving everything in the entryway along with his bag.
No answer.
He frowned instantly.
His supernatural powers allowed him to see perfectly in the dark, as well as smell your intoxicating scent from miles away, so he knew you were there.
The waves of pain and discomfort hit his chest like a high tide rising quickly and devouring everything in its path, and his feet automatically carried him down the short hallway.
The bedroom door was closed and you were inside.
He tried to enter quietly and saw you immediately, curled up in a fetal position, hugging his pillow.
You weren't asleep, but you were hurting enough to be unable to react to his presence.
Normally, you would have smiled up brightly at him, quickening your pace to meet him and throw your arms around his neck.
He would have lifted you effortlessly, hooking your legs around his waist and kissing you with all his adoration.
It's strange how the little things—the everyday ones we quickly become accustomed to, leave a heaving abyss when they're taken away from us.
“Love? It's me,” he tried again and a small whimper rose from your cocoon.
Paul walked around the bed, joining you at your half of the mattress by the window, and turned on the pink salt lamp on your bedside table—the one he had gifted you for your birthday.
You buried your face in the pillow, moaning.
“Hey, what’s up darling?”
Your skin was pale, features tense, your body shaking with big shivers.
"I don't feel well, maybe I caught the flu…”
He nodded slightly, running a loving hand through your hair and resting it on your forehead.
"You're hot, but like always. I don't think you have a fever. Do you want me to call Sarah?”
You groaned again, drawing your knees higher to your chest.
"No, please. Just stay here with me.”
Paul leaned over the bed, kissing lovingly your temple.
"Sure thing. Maybe I could heat up some soup for you.”
If possible, your face paled even more, your nose wrinkled and your mouth pouted.
"I don't think I can eat, I feel like throwing up..."
He frowned, scanning your entire body intently.
He reached out to your stomach, touching it over your clothes.
He could feel the pain gathering there in a tight vortex.
"Do you have cramps? Maybe you ate something that made you sick. What did you have for lunch?”
You were on the verge of tears.
"A tuna sandwich, nothing special.”
The frown on his face deepened, drawing those lines you usually enjoyed kissing, joking about how he was the youngest and sexiest ninety-year-old ever.
His fingers slowly moved up, barely touching you, and paused in your hair again to massage lightly your scalp.
You sighed for a brief moment of pleasure.
"You have a headache too."
It wasn't a question.
He could feel all your physical pain, the nervousness of not being able to enjoy the evening with him.
“Yes. My head is killing me. My stomach too. Not to mention my back—"
It wasn't like you to complain, you almost never did, and being a helpless witness to your suffering made him feel terrible.
He kissed your forehead, lingering to smell your scent—
Something was strange, different...
"Okay, how about I give you a couple of painkillers and pour a nice cup of your miracle herbal tea? The one with ginger and a hundred other herbs I can never remember…”
You smiled at him for the first time since he'd gotten home and even though it was drawn and tired, he knew it was sincere.
"You're really the perfect man. But first of all, can you give me a hug?”
Paul didn't have to be told twice.
With all the gentleness he possessed he sat you up, taking you in his arms.
You curled against his chest, clutching his soft cardigan between your fingers, head resting where you should have felt his heart beating.
One hand slid up your neck, resting on the nape, while the other gently pushed you against him between your shoulder blades.
He heard you sigh deeply, letting go completely as he peppered you with little kisses wherever he could reach.
And then, just when he hoped you could fall asleep and rest, that vortex in your lower belly suddenly stopped, grew in volume and in a second imploded.
Your gasp came along with his realization as the first gush of blood—slow, thick—stained your panties.
“Oh my God—”
The smell immediately filled his nostrils, clouding his brain.
It was sharp, copper-sweet, enveloping, like the juice of a forbidden fruit.
“Paul—I’m sorry, I—”
He didn't move.
His pupils dilated, the tips of his hidden canines pressed under the gums with a dull discomfort.
He slowly pulled away from you, placing his hands on the mattress, scratching the duvet.
You were worrying your lower lip, studying the situation.
“It's my period. It's quite early—”
You finally looked into his eyes with shame, but at the sight of the golden reflection in his brown irises, you froze.
“Paul? Is everything okay?”
Your voice was small, shy, little more than a whisper.
His throat worked.
He exhaled slowly, nostrils flaring, trying to stay himself—to stay human.
But God, you smelled divine, irresistible.
It was something he had never thought about, yet now it seemed natural, inevitable—
He swallowed and kissed your mouth.
“I can help you, my love.”
You blinked a few times.
“What—”
“I can make it better—I can take some of your blood away.”
Paul saw on your face the exact moment you realized what he was offering you.
Your breath caught.
He touched your burning cheeks so gently you barely felt it, then leaned closer, gripping your hip with a grounding hand.
“Let me taste you. Let me drink your pain away.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
You didn’t move, just stared at him with wide eyes.
Your body was still stiff, but your mind suddenly sparked alive, wide awake.
“You don't have to,” you whispered, not quite trusting your brain to continue.
Paul’s forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your lips.
“I know, but I can feel how much you’re hurting right now,” he murmured, voice soft and smooth as velvet. “And I know what you’re thinking—that it’s disgusting, or wrong, or something you should hide.”
He swallowed hard.
You felt the motion of his throat only inches away from your skin.
“But it’s not.”
Your heart thundered in your chest, breath short and shallow.
Your mind was in a sort of limbo, clouded by the desire to trust him and give in and the pressure of the taboo.
“It’s natural. It’s… beautiful. It's you. And I want to do it. For you. With you.”
His voice was rawer now.
“But I’m not going to do it unless you want it,” he added, his thumb brushing slow circles along your cheekbone. “You know that, right?”
You nodded and he beamed.
“Use your words, darling. I need to hear you say it.”
You summoned all your courage. "Yes, Paul. Help me—please.”
He exhaled like a man released from quicksands, his fingers already sliding down your thigh. He pushed the blanket away, helping you lie down and checking that you were comfortable among the various cushions.
Then he hooked his fingers under the waist of your leggings, asking your permission with a look that said more than a thousand words.
You nodded, whispering a faint, barely audible yes—but that was all he needed.
The black cotton and wool blend slowly slid down your legs, leaving you in only one of your warmest sweaters.
He looked between your thighs and his eyes shone in the pink penumbra, almost pure gold.
The white thin fabric was damp, a dark shadow blooming in the middle.
He licked his mouth and instead of shame you felt a rush of arousal straight to your core.
“Paul—” you began, but your voice cracked.
He shook his head, looking at you.
“No apologies, darling. No shame. I love you. Let me take care of you.”
And then he leaned down.
His lips pressed to your neck first—right in your pulsing point, sucking reverently, then slid down, groping your covered but sensitive breast.
When he reached your stomach he pulled the jumper up just enough to expose your tender belly skin—hot and trembling, and you opened your thighs for him automatically.
“Good girl—my sweet, brave girl…”
Paul lay down in the middle and started kissing even lower, on the waistband of your underwear, his nose brushing bottom up the red patch that betrayed you.
He inhaled deeply, groaning against the fabric like he was already drunk on you.
“God…” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You smell like Heaven.”
Your legs shocked, instinctively trying to close, but his strong hands parted them again.
"We'll get all the sheets dirty—" you tried to reason one last time, but you knew damn well it was a lame argumentation.
He looked at you from between your thighs, smiling.
"Well, luckily someone invented the washing machine and we won't have to go to the river to wash..." he joked, then without warning licked the dirty cotton flat tongue—never breaking eye contact with you.
“Oh God! Please, Paul!” you gasped, not even sure what you were begging for.
He chuckled and finally hooked his fingers into your underwear, tugging them down slowly, carefully, like unwrapping a holy relic.
The cool air hit you first, then his hungry gaze—dark, lustful, absolutely worshipful—fixed on the crimson slick warmth between your folds.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Absolutley perfect.”
He settled himself better against the mattress, then starting from one leg he kissed and nibbled slowly—oh so slowly—your smooth skin from the inside of your knee to your groin, purposely skipping the exact center that had begun throbbing for him.
With a cruelty that had nothing christian about it, he devoted the same treatment to the other leg, driving you to the brink of madness.
"How is it? Do you like it?”
You nodded frantically, grabbing your bottom lip with your teeth and passing your fingers through his hair.
“You decided to torture me, instead of helping me... you're a bad boy, Father.”
A pleased chuckle escaped his mouth and when he looked straight into your eyes, the golden reflection had yet taken complete possession.
“You're right. My apologies, sweetie.”
Again, he didn't look away as his middle and index fingers carefully traced your outer lips, dipping in just a little.
Your heart exploded in your chest, in your throat, in your ears—everywhere, as Paul smelled the dark blood he had collected, closing his eyes and sighing.
The tip of his tongue came out to slowly graze his fingertips, then the first phalanges disappeared completely into his mouth.
The sound that escaped his throat was more a growl of pleasure and satisfaction than a moan, and you felt a new wave of excitement wash over you without restraint.
When he lifted his eyelids his gaze was that of a lethal predator, and you know you were his willing, compliant prey.
The mischievous grin he gave you revealed his elongated, pointed canines—a terrifying and exciting sight at the same time.
“It's time for my snack. Let me feast on you.”
And then, he finally lowered his head against your cunt.
The first, long swipe of his tongue made you cry out, your back pressing violently against the sheets.
He moaned into you and the vibration shot straight through your core—his tongue caressing, tasting, savoring.
The metallic tang of your blood was addicting and he buried his face in it, devouring you.
He licked your dripping folds with steady, greedy touches, drinking you down like the holiest of sacraments—his lips sealed around your clit, tongue plunging deep into you, pulling whimpers and moans and cries from your throat.
“Paul—oh my God—”
The pressure and pain in your womb eased more and more as he drank from you, leaving room only for pleasure, for the total abandon in that act that most people would find disgusting.
“It’s so good—you’re so wet for me.”
His breath against your hot flesh made your skin crawl.
Your hands flew to his hair, fingers curling tight into his dark curls as you rocked helplessly against his mouth—pressing, tugging.
He groaned again, the sound raw and guttural—almost inhuman; his tongue worked harder and faster, fucking your leaking hole as though the taste of you had snapped something wild and insane inside him.
He suckled at you like a sinner—filthy, hungry, reverent, every lap of his tongue both dirty and devout.
You were already close—so close—your cries breaking into the night, his name torn from your throat like a forbidden prayer.
He pulled back just long enough to rasp against your trembling thighs, his lips and chin soiled with your blood and glistering with your juice.
“Let it go, love. Give it to me, give me everything.”
And before you could respond, he was back at your pussy, stroking you with his tongue, his nose pressed against your clit, his hands spreading your legs open like in a merciless offer.
You whimpered pathetically, your whole body trembling, and his hidden grin turned feral, triumphant.
He dove back in, tongue circling your clit in precise flicks that made your hips buck uncontrollably.
“Fuck—yes—Paul! Please!” you cried, nails digging into his scalp.
“That’s it,” he groaned into you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core. “Say my name. Let this whole fucking island know who own you.”
His tongue pushed deep again, fucking you with obscene greed, his nose nudging your sensitive clit until you were thrashing against him.
“You’re close, aren't you?” he teased, pulling back just enough to spit on your cunt before lapping it up like it was the holiest thing he’d ever done. “So pure. So sweet. So fucking perfect. My little miracle…”
He placed your legs on his shoulders and entered your warmth with two thick fingers, curling them inside you and against your special spot.
The assault on your clit resumed with a new rhythm and suddenly the heat in your belly coiled tight, unbearable.
“Please, Paul—please—I’m gonna—”
He looked up at you then, face wet and sweaty, mouth swollen, eyes burning.
“Do it,” he snarled. “Cum for me. Cum on my tongue, let me drink you down—now!”
That was it.
Your muscles went stiff, your back arching off the mattress as your climax tore through your whole body—shattering, pulsating, violent, blissful.
You screamed his name without brakes—the sound high and broken, as he moaned into your dripping pussy, devouring every wave of your orgasm, sucking the hot release, swallowing every sweet and salty drop, drinking like he’d never get enough.
Your vision blurred in white flashes, your chest heaved, and you collapsed back against the ruin sheets—boneless, trembling, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity.
You can hear from far away Paul murmuring blessings against your soaked folds, still lapping at you as your thighs trembled around his head.
He pressed one last kiss to your swollen clit, reverent, before dragging his mouth up your body—leaving a trail of small red footprints.
Hovering over you—a wonderful and obscene mess of blood, fluids and love, he pressed his forehead to yours and smiled tenderly.
“How are you feeling now, angel?”
You didn't answer, you simply pulled him toward your face, kissing him with everything you felt and didn't know how to express.
"Much better, thank you. Now it's your turn, Father.”
You pressed a hand to his butt, meeting his throbbing erection—big, hard, hot.
Warnings: hurt, angst, but quite the happy ending. Some language, some smut.
DON'T SPEAK
“Don't speak, I know just what you're saying
So please stop explaining
Don't tell me 'cause it hurts.
Don't speak, I know what you're thinking
I don't need your reasons
Don't tell me 'cause it hurts!”
🌀🌀🌀🌀🌀🌀🌀🌀🌀🌀🌀🌀🌀
The summer air on Crockett Island pressed down like a sentient thing, thick and damp, settling against hot skin until every breath felt stolen.
Inside the rectory the wooden walls and the small fan did little to help.
The heat clung, wet and sweet with the faint scent of incense, old books and him—mint and pine.
Sweat gathered behind your neck, at your hairline, and at some point you had simply stopped wiping it away.
What would have been the point?
The annoying humidity would only return—heavier, demanding, making you more and more nervous with every passing day.
You felt Paul watching you secretly, more and more often.
You had seen how his gaze lingered a moment too long before he forced it away, as though every longing glance were a sin he had to repent for immediately.
Since that strange night at your cottage, things between you had become like that—a relentless seesaw between desire and restraint, his priestly vows and your freedom, between sin and rectitude.
You knew he didn’t think of you as a sin to be ashamed of, but the torment you had glimpsed in his sad eyes made you suffer anyway.
You wanted to be his peace, not his war.
His total salvation, not the dirty temptation of the flesh.
But you were too in love and frankly too selfish to do the right thing: walk away from him, for his good and yours.
Mornings were spent at the rectory: dusting, sweeping, washing... Beverly Keane wasn't at all happy with your presence there, but Paul had been adamant.
At lunchtime you went home to devote yourself to your novel, which had surprisingly taken a turn you would never have expected.
Afternoons bled out with fiery canvases of orange and purple into starry evenings, marking the rhythm of your secret ritual.
After his parish duties, he often joined you for dinner, sometimes at the rectory but more often at the cottage.
You eat something simple and fresh, sometimes sipping wine and always chatting about this and that—from how your day had gone to more intimate conversations about your past and dreams.
Sometimes you went out for a short walk nearby, even though Paul had become increasingly reluctant to indulge you because of that mysterious, ferocious animal that had chased you a few weeks earlier.
It seemed it was the very same unidentifiable beast that had killed all the cats in the Upwards, as well as frightened some lonely islander in the night with cries that were halfway between a roar and a death rattle.
You had tried to investigate, to dig a little deeper, but Paul had been evasive and uncomfortable, so you had decided simply to trust him.
So, more often and willingly, he sat at your table, sermon sheets spread before him in neat disorder, while you typed on the couch, the steady clicking of your keyboard filling the cozy silence.
Despite your refusal to approach God again, he read you the most important passages of his speeches and you listened carefully, always giving your honest opinion.
His voice—while reading about Jesus, passages from the Gospel and reflections for the community, was an anchor in the stormy sea of your dangerous relationship, his presence beside you steady and grounding.
Sometimes the same voice, but lower and hoarse, told you how beautiful you were, how bright—how much he desired you, how much he wanted you night and day in ways he shouldn't have even imagined.
Every time the silence between you felt too electric, charged, as though something invisible passed between you—a current waiting to spark in a fire.
When he rolled up his sleeves, baring the strong line of his forearm, the tendons flexing as he wrote, you found yourself staring longer than you should. You had imagined what those hands would feel like on you, not just when they brushed your skin in tender touches, but when they pressed, held, explored—claimed.
You had wondered how his long, manicured fingers would feel inside you, deep and exploratory, devoutly preparing you to welcome more of him.
When he unhooked his white collar, leaving it open hanging by his shirt, images of him taking you hard with your legs wide open and that holy piece of cloth between your teeth, so the whole island wouldn’t hear you—had flooded your mind like a tsunami.
And then there had been the goodnights, the cruelest ritual of all.
His arms always folded around you, strong, protective—too careful, and you had to force yourself not to melt into him completely.
His lips touched your forehead, your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth with kisses that lingered a little longer and closer each time.
Every time you held your breath, praying he would close the distance but terrified he would at the same moment.
His hands lingered at your waist, his thumb brushing skin that suddenly felt feverish, or slid just barely to your hips.
He didn't know—couldn’t have known—how your pulse jumped beneath his touch, how your thighs pressed together trying to ease the sweet ache, but time after time it had been more and more difficult to just smile at him and hold back.
Outside that enchanted reality, the island had been changing.
At first you thought the excessive summer heat was playing some sinister trick on your tired brain, but each day the islanders had looked refreshed, younger, stronger, their faces brighter and smoother, their steps lighter and faster.
You noticed the way old men carried nets on their shoulders without strain, or women laughed loudly without coughing.
They looked renewed, uplifted in their spirits, but somehow it was wrong, unnatural.
And no one questioned it.
They only smiled and chatted, basking in the gift of that new stolen time.
You should have been happy for them—and in some way you were—but you also felt the spooky of it curling eerily in your stomach, as if the island air itself whispered that something was being undone.
Every night before the goodbyes Paul repeated the same words: ‘Don’t go out alone in the dark. Promise me you’ll call me if you need anything.’
His voice was always low, harsh, more persuasion than request.
You nodded every time, but a part of you longed to disobey, to test the edges of his worry until it broke, proving the true extent of his feelings for you.
Not to mention the appeal that mystery, the unspoken and the unknown had on you.
Something was working beneath the surface, something only you noticed and Father Paul knew about—something he wanted to protect you from.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That evening Paul had joined you at your cottage later than usual, held up by a last-minute meeting at the Rec Center.
You had left the keys in your secret spot, a rich salad and a glass of white wine waiting for him on the kitchen table with a little note beside it: ‘I’m taking a shower. Make yourself at home.’
The sound of running water in the bathroom was an invitation to a banquet that had required all his willpower not to accept.
It would have taken so little to gain access to a small slice of private paradise...
He pictured your wet skin glistening in the trembling light of the lavender candle you had surely lit, your nipples hard from the ocean breeze coming in through the small window, your hair dripping down your back, drops slowly sliding to your plump buttocks and even further down, between your legs—
He stopped in his tracks right in the middle of the small living room, lit only by the screen of your open laptop calling his name.
He approached it with genuine curiosity—he had asked you more than once to let him read a small excerpt from your novel in progress, but you had always bubbled some vague ridiculous excuse and he hadn’t insisted.
The cursor blinked on the last sentence like a little heartbeat, glowing faintly in the dark.
Just a little peek…
He knew it was wrong, a sin, but the curiosity to connect with your inner world, with your imagination, was too much even for him.
He scrolled up the page and the words that appeared before him made him freeze and boil at the same time.
The story wasn't just a story; it was a passionate confession.
Your fingers had spilled out truths and fantasies you couldn’t speak aloud.
On the page, a dark haired priest named Paul was possessing a girl who, from the detailed physical descriptions, was clearly yourself.
He didn't want to be presumptuous, but the further he read the more the male character resembled him in every way.
In the filthy text the man of God wasn't careful, he didn't restrain at all.
He touched you where you craved him most, his mouth claiming yours with a hunger that left no air between you.
His hands slid over the curve of your breast, caressed your belly, gripped your hips, adventured down between your parting thighs—beneath the thin and damp fabric.
You had written it all—every dirty desire, every image that had burned too hot to keep inside your mind.
The language was explicit, raw—too much and incredibly not enough.
He felt his body respond immediately to that crazy scenario, his cock hard and swollen against the zipper of his jeans.
He swallowed hard, leaning closer to the screen, sweat beading on his forehead.
The uncensored words overwhelmed him.
She was kneeling before him, hands bound behind her back with his priest's belt, the rough rope biting into her soft skin—leaving purple nasty marks.
Father Paul looked down at her, eyes blazing with a desire his holy vows could no longer contain.
“Open your mouth,” he ordered, his voice a low growl.
She obeyed, her lips parting tremblingly, and he thrust his hard, throbbing cock between them, filling her throat with a firm stroke.
She gasped and moaned, his salty taste invading her tongue as he grabbed her hair, fucking her mouth with a ferocity that made a rush of arousal wet between her thighs.
“You're mine, my sweet little whore,” he grunted, pulling her up to slam her carelessly against the wall—his hands tearing apart her dress, exposing her swollen breasts and stiff nipples.
Then he penetrated her without warning, his cock plunging into her tight, wet hole, each hard thrust an echo of their sin.
Something were watching from the shadows, fueling his lust as Paul fucked her merciless, sweat dripping all over their joined bodies until he spilled inside her with a repressed roar, marking her as his forever.
Paul felt all the blood rush to his crotch, his heart pounding wild in his ears, and his hand shook while snapping the laptop shut—and there you were, right in front of him.
You stood still like a marble statue a few steps away, wearing a light white cotton dress and hair still damp.
Your eyes were wide, filled with terror and shame, and your trembling mouth contrasted against the pale skin of your face.
He wanted to die.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Paul didn't speak.
You stared at him.
The laptop was still closed.
The air was still warm.
Your skin still lightly damp from the shower.
But yet, everything had changed.
His chest rose and fell in a rhythm far too fast to be calm and his face—always so composed, so calm—was painted in panic.
You saw it all: the wild flicker in his eyes, the desperate way his fingers tightened around the edge of the PC, as if it could hold the lid on what had just been unleashed.
You couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
The blood in your head screamed, pulsing painfully in your temples.
“Did you read it?”
Your voice was raw, your throat dry, your heart pounding so hard you could barely hear your own words.
Paul didn’t answer right away.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, his mouth trembled.
You took a step forward, fists tight at your sides.
“Did you fucking read it?!”
He looked like he wanted to speak but didn’t trust himself to do it.
“Yes,” he whispered finally. “I did.”
Silence dropped like a sharp blade between you.
You felt your cheeks burn—not from arousal, not this time.
It was from humiliation, shame. From the unbearable realization that every burning desire, every fantasy you’d repressed, every obscene thought, every filthy word you had typed alone in the dark—he had read them.
He had seen you stripped bare in ways no one ever had.
He had read it. He had read you.
And the look in his eyes only made it worse: he had liked it.
You saw it in his face, the way he swallowed hard, the way he refused to meet your gaze for more than a second, the bulge in his damned skinny jeans—still there even as guilt overtook lust.
“How much?” Your voice barely came out, you were shaking like a dry leaf in the cruel November wind.
You cleared your throat, tried again. “How much have you read?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed nothing.
“Enough,” he admitted softly.
His honesty broke the last bastion of your dignity.
“Oh my God,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I can’t believe it… How dare you—”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t mean to?!” you almost yelled, taking another step toward him. “You sat there and read my manuscript! That’s not curiosity, that’s a complete violation of—of—”
“I’m sorry, really.”
Paul took a tentative step forward, hands raised like you were a wounded creature, like he didn’t want to frighten you further.
“I didn’t mean to invade your privacy,” he said, voice ragged. “I just… I saw the screen open and—”
“And decided to read my porn.” you snapped, crossing your arms on your chest for protection.
He flinched.
“It’s not just porn,” he said quickly. “It’s—it’s true. It’s beautiful. It’s you.”
You laughed, bitter.
“Did you at least like it?”
You didn’t recognize your own voice anymore.
You wanted to hurt him.
Because he had seen too much.
Because he was still here looking at you with… pity.
His eyes went enormous, two bottomless pools of chaos.
Silence.
Thick, uncomfortable, insufferable.
“I—” he started. “I swear, I just… I know what I read. And maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did. And I want you to know that I’m not judging you. I could never judge you.”
“Spare me the sermon, please,” you spat, your voice shaking. “Don’t you dare stand there with your holy hands and tell me it’s okay to fantasize about choking on your cock!”
He paled; you could see little beads of sweat getting stuck at his hairline.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was your shallow breath and the echo of your own words still hanging between you like smoke.
Then his voice, low, trembling:
“There’s nothing wrong with what you wrote,” he said softly, carefully. “Desire isn’t shameful. I don’t think you’re disgusting.”
He was looking at you like he wanted to fall to his knees and cry.
You laughed without joy.
“But I do.”
Paul took a step forward. “Please don’t say that. You’re—”
“Don’t tell me what I am, Paul.”
Your voice cracked again.
“I trusted you. And now you’ve seen me at my most—at my worst. And now you can’t unsee it.”
Paul’s face contorted, pain twisting in every line.
“I wanted to understand you,” he said. “I wanted to know what was going on inside you because I care. More than I should. More than I’m allowed, and you know that!”
You looked at him like you didn’t know him anymore.
Like maybe you never did.
“I must delete it,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. “I never should’ve written it down.”
Paul’s eyes softened. “Don’t say that.”
You shook your head violently.
“No?” Your jaw clenched. “Then what should I say, Paul? That it’s okay? That I can just sit down and eat dinner with you while you replay the mental image of me on my knees with your belt around my wrists?”
A beat, then—stupidly. “I already am,” he murmured.
Your breath caught, mouth wide open.
He realized what he’d said a moment too late.
“Get out,” you said.
His eyes widened. “What?”
“I said—get out.”
He blinked. “Please. Let’s just talk about—”
“Get out of my house, Father,” you hissed, using the title like a dagger.
He didn’t move.
“Paul,” you stepped back, voice trembling now. “Please. Just go.”
But he took one step forward instead.
“If I leave now—if I walk out that door without fixing this—I’m not sure we’ll be able to later.”
“I don't care.”
“Don’t say that.” His voice cracked, hands trembling. “Please, don’t—don’t shut me out.”
You glared at him, eyes bright with unshed tears.
“If you don’t leave, I will. I’ll walk all the way to Erin’s, alone. Right now, in the dark.”
His lips parted like he was about to say something—maybe even something that could fix this mess, or at least stop the bleeding—but you raised your shrugged.
“Or maybe I should go to Hassan?”
Paul stiffened like you'd hit him, the hurt in his expression was impossible to hide.
Your threat wasn’t real—not really, but the fear in his eyes told you it had landed.
Paul’s mouth opened, his voice was hoarse. “Don’t do it, please—”
“Okay,” you snapped, voice fierce through your fresh tears. “I won't, if you leave right now. You’ve been saying it every night—don’t go out alone. Well, tonight I will, unless you leave me the hell alone. And don’t you dare try to stop me.”
He broke, you saw it happen.
His face fell, his chest sank, his shoulders hunched and the last ounce of fight left his body like a candle dying out.
He stood there another breath longer, then turned toward the door.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered one last time.
You turned away for not seeing the truth in his eyes, as well as in his words.
The door creaked open, then creaked shut.
A moment, then you crumpled, collapsing on the floor and against the nearest wall, your knees buckling, the sob already ripping from your burning throat.
You had never felt so exposed.
So filthy.
So alone.
And worst of all, a part of you—deep, alive, aching—wished he hadn't listened to you, wanted him to come back immediately.
Your hands clutched your head like you could keep it from splitting in two.
You had wanted him for so long, and now he was gone…
And it was all your fault.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The days that followed were empty, long, endless.
You buried yourself in silence, in dust, in chores.
You went to the rectory only when you knew with certainty he wouldn’t be there.
You tried to erase from your brain the sight of his hands scribbling sermons, the smell of pine and mint that clung to your clothes, the way his eyes softened when they found you across a room.
No more dinners at the cottage.
No more walks under the purple sky.
No more quiet laughter over poured wine.
It was as though someone had cut the thread that tied you together and left the two halves dangling, frayed and useless.
Paul had tried to talk to you.
Gently, never forcing.
A soft ‘hello’ when your paths crossed on the island, a whispered ‘I hope you're well’ when he get the chance.
A piece of paper left under your door with just three words: ‘I miss you’.
But you never answered.
You couldn’t, crushed by the weight of bashfulness and forbidden desire.
So you retreated deeper.
Into shame.
Into silence.
Into loneliness.
Until one windy and heavy damp night, your need betrayed you.
You tried to sleep.
You tossed, turned.
Your skin felt hot as in hell, the cotton sheets too rough, your breath catching at the slightest brush of fabric against your thighs.
You’d tried everything—your favourite herbal tea, reading, stretching, opening the window to let in the salty breeze and listen to the ocean.
But nothing cooled the thoughts, the ache, the raw necessity.
Nothing silenced the echo of his voice in your mind, whispering sweet nothings near you ear.
Your skin crawled at the mere thought of his thin, perfectly shaped lips, of his eyes that begged and commanded at the same time.
At some point, you just gave up and slipped out of bed, still barefoot.
Still in your thin white panties, bearly covered by an oversize t-shirt.
You stepped out onto the porch.
The fog was thick tonight, almost milky under the moonlight, swallowing the outlines of houses and trees in the distance.
The few lights in the center of the island were dim, blurred, gently eerie in the pearly darkness.
The ocean murmured behind you, a restless whisper.
Despite everything, you had kept your promise: it was the first time you went out at night without him.
You didn't even know exactly what you wanted to do—you just wanted to see him, just for a minute, but your bare feet still met the cold, wet earth.
One step after another.
You had barely reached the entrance to the path that led through the woods, when you saw him.
Paul was there.
Standing at the edge of the trees, in the middle of the mist.
He wasn't in his usual priestly black and jeans, but in a simple t-shirt, loose at the collar, and pajama pants that fitted slightly large.
His curls were tousled.
Eyes tired but attentive.
He was watching you as if he was sure you would pass by.
You expected a rebuke, but he didn't speak.
He looked devastating in his seriousness.
“Come to me.”
You didn't know if he actually spoke, or if you heard his voice in your head, but you obeyed anyway.
You walked to him slowly, as if pulled by an invisible string.
Your slip clung to your skin with every humid breath of wind, your nipples hardened under the thin cotton.
His warm gaze dropped to the lines of your body, then climbed back up—pausing at your breast, your mouth, your eyes.
You stopped a step away.
He didn’t move.
Didn't reach.
Didn’t touch.
Only looked.
That was worse, a torture.
That was unbearable.
“Say something,” you whispered.
He swallowed.
“You called me.”
Your lips parted, trembling.
“I didn’t.”
Paul nodded, slowly, never breaking eye contact.
“You did,” he said. “With your thoughts. With your skin. With your desire."
Finally he moved.
His thumb brushed your lower lip, your cheek, slowly tracing your cheekbone.
He was soft, hot, reverent.
You closed your eyes and it felt like absolution.
“I don’t know how I know,” he murmured, stepping closer. “But I felt it. Like… like I wasn’t allowed to stay away tonight.”
Now you were close, your bodies practically glued together.
"I felt you needed me. That this time you wouldn't send me away.”
He leaned in, watching you carefully.
Your heart was thumping everywhere in your body.
You were shaking, then his lips brushed yours once.
Just a caress.
Twice.
Then his hand cradled the back of your neck, and the third kiss came harder, hungrier.
Like he’d waited a lifetime for it.
You stood on your tiptoe to reach him better, gasping when his other hand gripped your ass and pulled you against him.
You felt him all—hard and real beneath the wet fabric—and moaned shameless into his mouth.
Paul deepened the kiss.
It became greedy, messy, full of teeth and tongue.
One of his thighs slid between yours and you rode it instinctively, the friction wild and maddening.
His hands came both down on your ass, helping you move.
Every rub branded you.
“You have no idea,” he rasped against your lips, “how long I’ve wanted you to do this.”
“Oh please—please, fuck me,” you breathed.
He lifted you effortlessly—your legs wrapping around his waist like they belonged there.
He pushed you back against the nearest trunk, grinding into you until your eyes rolled back.
Your t-shirt hiked up and the cool air kissed your bare thighs, your boiling cunt.
You clung to him, whispering his name like a prayer as his mouth traveled down your throat, to your collarbone, to the collar of your covering.
He tried to slide it off your shoulders, but at the resistance of the fabric he simply tore, baring your panting tits to the moonlight.
To him.
He stared.
A man starved.
A man broken open.
“Jesus,” he whispered, but not in prayer.
And then his mouth was on you—kissing, sucking, dragging moans from your lips as his tongue circled your nipples, his hands holding you firmer, like he feared you’d vanish if he let go.
Paul kept moving against you in a timeless pace—you could feel his erection exactly where you needed it most.
You were whimpering, moaning, practically screaming.
You were so close already.
And just when it was becoming too much, when you knew you were about to come in his arms—the world turned.
The wood scraping your back vanished.
The warmth of his strong body dissolved.
The fog-filled forest faded into gray smoke.
You woke up.
Alone, in your bed.
Drenched in sweat and slick.
The sheets twisted around your hips like a noose.
Your heart thudded violently between your thighs and you bit your hand to stifle the cry of pleasure that was already in your throat.
Holy shit.
It had been a dream.
The umpteenth.
Just another cruel, vivid dream.
You sat up, dazed, trembling, clutching your naked chest—fuck, your t-shirt was practically torn to shreds.
"Damn, I'm going crazy—”
But when you turned on the lampshade and swung your legs out of bed, your bare feet caught your full attention.
They were covered in wet, black earth and small leaves.
You looked down, towards the door of your room.
There, on the floorboards, were dirty bare footprints, but they weren't yours—too long, too big.
You covered your trembling mouth, running into the silent living room.
There was no one there, yet he had been there, with you undone in his arms.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of course the ferry that morning was late.
The kind of late that gave you just enough time to regret everything.
Just enough time to panic because he might come after you.
Just enough time to hope he actually would.
The wooden dock creaked under your feet as you paced, your light canvas bag—packed with just the essential, thudding against your leg with every step.
The ocean was churned by the strong wind coming from the southeast, sky and water merged into a single gray sheet without borders.
The air smelled damply of salt and rust.
You didn’t want to cry, not yet.
Crying would make it real and you couldn't afford it right now.
You had almost convinced yourself you could do it, again.
Leave.
Forget.
Start again.
As you had done before, as was probably your way of dealing with problems.
Very mature, yeah…
But you had to seal off the part of your soul he had made his home yet and survive.
Once again, you had left no note. No explanation.
You kept telling yourself that you were making the right choice, for both of you, but then—
“STOP!”
The shout hit you like a slap.
You turned, your heart in your throat already, and saw him.
Paul.
Running toward you, cardigan unbuttoned, hair disheveled, his collar twisted to one side.
He looked… undone.
Not holy. Not restrained.
Just a man chasing what he couldn’t bear to lose.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he gasped, slowing only when he nearly stumbled on the dock boards.
His chest heaved, eyes ablaze.
In that moment he was not the calm, composed priest who read the Gospel with gentle reverence.
This was someone else.
Your Paul.
Unraveled. Desperate. Dangerous.
“Paul,” you breathed, already backing away. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He stalked toward you like a storm rolling over the sea.
His black shirt was half untucked, as if he’d run straight from the rectory, from God, from himself—sticking to his torso.
“Well, yeah—You shouldn’t be leaving in the first place.”
His voice was charged with emotions too tangled to be recognisable, breath shallow, face flushed with heat and fury. “What the hell are you doing?”
“What I should’ve done weeks ago.”
You tried to keep your tone steady, but it shook anyway.
“This is wrong. We’re wrong. Whatever is happening between us, it’s—”
“It’s real,” he growled.
Your heart seized, gut squeezed.
“You know it is. You had felt it too. Last night…” He stepped closer, you took another step back.
“Do you think I don't know what happened? I was there with you!”
You shook your head, clutching the shoulder strap of your duffel bag.
“I don’t want to talk about dreams, it was—”
“It wasn’t just a dream.” His voice lowered, darkened. “I was awake, crying for you alone in my bed.”
He advanced slowly, forcing you to retreat further and further.
“I swear to everything I know—I swear to God Himself, I heard you calling my name. I tasted you with my tongue, I held you with these hands!”
His fist clenched against his mouth.
“Next thing I know is I came in my sleep like a fucking boy in hormonal crisis, and when I woke up my whole body was shaking because I couldn’t believe it hadn’t actually happened!”
You looked around, worried that some fisherman or passerby might hear you, but luckily the pier was deserted.
“Go home, Paul.” You hated how thin your voice sounded yet.
“I will,” he said, rough. “But not without you.”
“We are not home.”
He laughed—short, hollow. “Bullshit.”
You stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“I said bullshit,” he repeated, stepping even closer.
By now you were at the edge of the dock, another step back and you would have fallen into the ocean.
“I found this—”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, teared shred of fabric.
Your breath stopped.
Your night t-shirt.
“It was between my fingers when I woke up. You tell me how it got there.”
Your mouth parted but nothing came out.
You swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”
“Stop it! Stop playing around!”
Your pulse thundered in anger.
“I never played,” you snapped, trembling.
“Then why are you running?”
The laugh that came out of you was bitter, unhappy, cutting.
“You're a priest, in case you don't remember it. Father.”
The ferry finally honked in the distance.
Paul blinked, stopping like he’d been shot.
“You called me. You called me, and I came to you. Something happened, and you think you can just leave? Pretend none of this is real? After what we shared—”
“It wasn’t real,” you repeated, even though you knew it was a lie. “It can’t be.”
“Why not?” he demanded.
“Because staying here, with you, it's killing me!” Your voice cracked. “Because I can’t keep pretending this is right.”
His jaw clenched.
His hands grabbed your waist, pulling you towards him, so close you could see the sweat at his hairline, smell the heat of his skin beneath the spicy sting of incense.
“Tell me you don’t want me,” he said, low and deadly serious. “Say it. Right now. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me.”
You opened your mouth and again, nothing came out.
“You can’t, right?” he whispered. “Because you do. And so do I.”
“Paul…” You tried to free yourself, but he didn't let you. “Someone might see us—”
The salty wind stirred his hair, caressing his clean-shaven face.
God, how you wanted to just give in, fall into his arms and let him do whatever he wanted.
“You haunt me,” he murmured, ignoring your protest. “Every hour. In my bed. While I work. In my prayers. In my goddamn sermons. You think it is easy for me to control myself?”
You shook your head, eyes burning. “You’re not allowed to want me.”
“And yet I do.” His voice was hoarse now, like it hurt to speak. “With everything I am. With everything I’m supposed to give to something higher.”
A thick silence fell between you, pulsing. Alive.
Then he moved.
One of his hands shot out, grabbing the strap of your bag on your shoulder.
The contact burned.
You whispered, but let him take it.
Paul’s face was close.
So close you could feel the heat of his breath against your lips, the tremble in his fingers where they curled around your waist.
“You are under my skin,” he whispered. “Like blood. Like salvation.”
Your mouth trembled, vision blurred with fat tears.
“I would give anything,” he said, eyes locked to yours, “anything—to forget you.”
His grip tightened while your first sob escaped your throat.
“But I can’t. I don't want to.”
You were openly crying now, soft like summer rain.
The ferry’s horn pierced your ears, shrill and cruel, making you jump.
You turned toward the ocean, the red flashing light of the boat that would take you away from Crockett Island forever now visible in the haze on the horizon.
Your heart skipped a beat, stomach twisted in a nauseating grip.
“You are not a sin,” he said hoarsely, turning you around with a gentle hand on your cheek. “You never will be. What you wrote in that file is nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to run away from. You are everything I always prayed for but told myself I didn’t deserve.”
You stared up at him, breathless, dazed and shaking.
“Then why—?”
“Because I’m afraid.” He leaned his forehead to yours, closing his eyes. “Afraid that if I really touch you, I’ll never stop. Everything will change forever, for both of us. And I don't know if that's what you want—what you deserve.”
You pressed lightly against him, taking a deep breath. “And if I stay?”
His thumb brushed your parted lips, his fingers held you in place without pression.
“Then I will spend every second of what’s left of me proving that I can love you without hiding behind God.”
The ferry honked again, Sturge would have seen you any second now.
You looked past your shoulder, then at his eyes, full of hope and something more...
“Take me home, please.”
The smile that blossomed on his face was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen—and it was all for you.
"Come with me, darling. I promise you won't regret it.”
Finally finishing up my Roman x reader (ex Jason fic) I swear I love Jason mamoa and I will be writing a nicer fic about him soon but this chapter whew I'm so sorry
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