Summary: You are Father Paul's preferit (un)holy hymn.
Author’s Notes: okay, I’m honestly panicking while posting this. Not only is this my very first time writing Father Paul—and in second person, no less, but it’s literally my first ever attempt at smut and it came out very blasphemous… So please consider yourselves warned and be kind, I have enjoyed writing it so much and english is not even my mother tongue!
Also, quick heads-up: the Midnight Mass timeline and details are not strictly followed here, though there are some direct references to the show. I’m not sure if that technically makes this an AU, but once again consider yourselves informed. ❤️
Warnings: porn with a little bit of plot, sex (semi-public in church), explicit language and content, blasphemous context, oral f. and m. giving and receiving, masturbation, religious trauma, priest kink, blood and vampires, mention of death, so I beg of you if this things are not your cup of tea just pass by…
But at the very end it is a love story, I promise!
Father Paul Hill had always thought of himself as a patient, honest man and, above all, a man of God.
He had been so even in his former life, back when he was still John Pruitt, Monsignor at Saint Patrick’s on Crockett Island.
The Lord had placed him through many trials over the decades, demanding suffering and sacrifice, and he had borne them with all the humility and fervor he could summon.
Like the martyrs condemned to death.
Like Christ, bleeding out upon the cross.
And though he had stumbled, though he had sinned, his unshakable faith had finally rewarded him.
It had lifted him at the very lowest point—not only of his own life, but of his entire flock’s—and poured blessings upon them all, miracles so radiant he could barely keep his tears from spilling.
Yet, everything he believed about himself, in the last weeks had crashed apart like waves against black stone whenever it came to you.
Young, beautiful, tender.
You had arrived on that scrap of land surrounded by the ocean with the sweet fragrance of innocence still clinging to you.
Untouched. Unspoiled.
The first time he had seen you—by chance, outside the island’s little shop—was an early spring afternoon, still a bit cold but with the flowers around on the verge of blossoming.
The conversation between you had flowed so easily—gentle, respectful, yet alive with a spark that pulled at him in ways he refused to even think about.
You had blushed under his gaze again and again, lowering your eyes at his careful and gentle compliments, lips trembling with shy smiles.
You had told him—bitterly but softly—that you were angry with God.
Angry He had not been there in your moments of need, that He had allowed your wounds, your trials, your scars.
And so you told him you would not go to Mass.
He had not insisted, he had no right to.
Instead he had told you that his church would always remain open for you, that his ears–his arms, would always be ready to receive you.
That he would listen to you, no matter the hour, no matter the subject.
He would sit in silence if that was what you needed, that he would never demand… only receive.
He had been very clear: he wanted to hear your voice.
And you had given it to him so willing.
What had started as a lovely friendship soon became something else… deeper, sweeter.
Your voice weaved itself into his veins, your laughter quickened his pulse—the sound of temptation itself took root in his chest.
A few more encounters—at first accidental, then not so much—and you had begun to sing whole hymns just for him.
The first time he had kissed you, you’d sucked in such a desperate breath through your nose that he couldn’t stop a smug little chuckle as his fingers trailed lightly over your cheek, slipping into your hair to tilt your face to his.
It was a heavy summer day, sky gray and damp, wind rushing through the tall grass and carrying away the soft moans that slipped from your mouth as his tongue tasted you with desperate hunger.
For a while—too short a while—it was simply like that: kisses that began tender and slow, only to turn into merciless battles of lips, teeth and spit.
Hands tangled in each other's hair with measured force—his always found your breasts, your waist, your thighs.
He had noticed, even if he had said nothing.
As your relationship deepened so did the intimacy and your clothes shifted with it: jeans, leggings and oversized sweaters gave way to shorter skirts and tight tops, or light little dresses that fluttered in the summer air.
The first time he truly had touched you, you’d moaned in such a way that his cock swelled painfully inside the skinny jeans he’d bought after returning rejuvenated from the Holy Land.
You were on the cramped little rectory couch and he had started to rub you in slow, teasing circles over the smooth fabric of your panties.
He hadn’t been able to resist the dampness he felt on his fingertips and by simply shifting aside what was in his way, he’d pushed a finger inside your molten heat, reveling in the sensation of your body pulling him deeper.
His thumb had found your clit, playing lazily with it, and the cry of raw pleasure that filled the room when you came had rung in his ears for days.
A little later, on a Sunday morning just before the most anticipated mass of the week after Leeza Scarborough’s miracle, you had slipped to your knees beneath his desk without warning.
While he read over his sermon, your lips wrapped around him, your hand stroking in rhythm, the holy words above drowned out by the obscene wet sounds below.
Your tear-glossed eyes locked onto his, urging him with every muffled whimper, blasphemous little sounds that had him spilling down your throat before he could even gasp out a warning.
Not that you had been the least bit displeased.
As soon as he could, he returned the favor in the austere kitchen of the little house you’d rented to finish your book in peace—the one that was meant to launch your success.
You sat wide-legged on the table, that ridiculous short black dress with tiny red roses bunched up around your hips while his head was buried between your thighs, one hand teasing a bare, aching nipple.
Your fingers tangled in his hair as shameless moans spilled out of you, dragging him closer, guiding his mouth and tongue exactly where you needed them the most.
When he finally lifted his eyes to your face and gave your clit a slow, deliberate lick, you screamed his name so loudly he feared the neighbors might have heard every tremor of your orgasm shaking through you and worse, known exactly who had given it to you.
An hour later, while you were making dinner with him watching your every move and sipping a glass of red wine, his mind couldn’t help but drift further, conjuring things that once had meant everything and now felt like almost nothing.
Millie was practically the way she’d been forty years earlier, when they had fallen in love and loved each other on that very island, conceiving their daughter.
The Angel’s Sacrament truly was a blessing from the Lord, a gift so immense he couldn’t possibly keep it for himself—though for now it remained a secret elixir, slipped to others only through Communion.
On the journey back from Jerusalem, while buying and building his new identity, bribing customs officers just to move that heavy, priceless trunk, he had pictured it countless times: the moment he would see his beloved Mildred young and glowing once more.
He had been certain it would be the happiest moment of his life.
Her husband was dead.
She was well.
Finally, she was free.
They could have found a way to be together, maybe even shepherd that blessed flock hand in hand under the daylight.
But then, just a week later, you had stepped off the noon ferry and ruined everything.
You shattered his plan, ripped apart his certainties, and turned his very existence inside out.
You had become everything to him, though he could not trace when or why.
Nothing he craved made sense anymore unless you were at the center of it.
His old life had rotted into a pale, useless memory, stripped of its weight, no longer capable of squeezing his heart with grief and pain.
In his chest, the love for you and the love for God had fused into the same blinding flame: indistinguishable, inseparable, like the sun mirrored across the sea until both sky and water shone with the same light.
You were his own personal sacrament, his gospel, the flesh and blood reflection of divinity.
When he finally had you whole, burying himself deep inside you with all the desperation that had been tormenting him, autumn had descended on Crockett with storms, dancing dead leaves and an everlasting thirst for blood, casting a low golden shadow on everything.
Then suddenly you had gone, left him hollow and desperate when you boarded that damned ferry a few days earlier, bound for the mainland to spend Thanksgiving with your family.
You had sadly whispered that you didn’t want to go, clinging to him in the barren rectory like a sinner at confession.
Your ties to them were faint, fragile threads you could have severed easily—yet when your grandmother had begged almost in tears, you had yielded.
Because that was you: mercy made woman.
Good, gentle, selfless, sweet… too pure for this world, too radiant for the filthy claws of men.
Too much even for him.
And yet he was far too selfish, far too possessed, to ever think of letting you go.
He had kissed your forehead and forced a smile, even as the taste of losing you poisoned his mouth and heart.
God forgive me, he thought as he carried your bag down to the dock, his hands aching to clutch your body instead of the cheap fabric, aching to brand himself into you before the world could steal you away.
At the foot of the ferry’s ramp, you had turned to him with a smile that was not just skin but soul, not just words but eternity.
Then the engine roared, the waves split open, and Sturge steered the boat into the fog.
You dissolved into the salt and the mist and he was left gasping, empty, as though the Body of Christ had been torn from his tongue mid-Communion.
When the night came down something inside him snapped.
He had thought the hunger was cruel before, but now it was merciless, gnawing at him from the inside, turning his veins into burning wires that screamed only your name.
Blood alone could no longer satisfy him; it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough again unless it was pulsing in your throat, warm between your thighs, dripping from your kiss.
You were gone only hours before, yet already his body betrayed him—his cock aching against the restraint of his jeans, his lips remembering the taste of your cum, his fingers twitching for the silken heat of your flesh.
Every prayer he tried to mutter shattered into vicious curses, every Ave Maria became your name, every drop of faith twisted into lust so consuming it felt like divine fire.
He prowled the empty church like a beast in a cage, eyes on the crucifix, daring Christ Himself to condemn him.
“She is mine,” he whispered into the silence, voice raw, broken. “She is no sin. She will never be.”
The candles flickered with his blasphemy, shadows trembling as if even the walls recoiled from the sacrilege that was boiling in him.
And yet he didn’t repent.
He couldn’t.
He would gladly trade salvation for another taste of you, another chance to spill his sin between your thighs, to feel your moans echo in the hollow of the church until God Himself was forced to listen.
All he could imagine was that holy and forbidden sacrament dripping from his lips into your mouth, holy wine and unholy hunger mingling until neither of you could tell where grace ended and sin began.
He finally understood what it really meant to die and reborn, only in your arms he could rise again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The day of your return had crawled toward him with a damned, sluggish cruelty, every hour stretching itself thin just to torture him a little longer.
During that infernal week he had clung desperately to the mask of normalcy, gripping with nails and teeth the role his flock expected of him—but everything had unraveled in the span of a single, cursed heartbeat.
Joe Collins had died on the wooden floor of the rectory.
A tragic accident, yes, yet he had drunk his blood, pieces of his brains straight from the wound, unable to restrain the frenzy.
He had drained him dry.
Beverly Keane had found him the next morning in the parlor drenched in gore, tears, horror and the raw, visceral need for you.
She had helped him clean himself while Sturge and Wade Scarborough disposed of the poor soul’s corpse.
But then he too had died, writhing in unspeakable agony with the horrifying certainty that he would never see you again.
His only regret, whispering the Act of Contrition through fevered lips while his bones shattered inside him, was never having told you ‘I love you’ aloud.
He could only pray he had shown it in other ways—in the worship of your body, in the reverence of your name whispered as if it were Scripture.
His heart had slowed to nothing, his breath had thinned, his eyelids had fallen heavy.
The rosary slipped between his fingers as life abandoned him.
Father, forgive me, for I have sinned…
But you—out of all his sins, you were not one of them.
You could never be.
You were his holiest blessing, the most bright miracle God had ever granted him—lifting him toward Heaven every time he pushed inside you while you asked for nothing but his love, his name gasped into his ear like the sweetest word in the whole Creation.
Later he had woken again in the night, shuddering, drenched in cold sweat, muscles locked so tight they felt like iron, bones aching as though shattered and reforged in the same instant.
Bev had tended him with wide, trembling eyes and frantic prayers murmured in the dark of his chamber, while Sturge and Wade scurried back and forth, obeying her orders without a word or a question.
Dawn had broken pale and merciless, the sunlight searing his skin even through the curtains—literally melting him into grotesque scraps before stitching him back together in a matter of minutes, leaving only a faint sting.
He had told them everything then: the journey to the Wailing Wall as John Pruitt, the cave in the desert, the Angel who had blessed him with youth and strength.
The trunk that carried salvation back home, the new identity of Father Paul Hill, the Sacrament mixed with the Communion, the divine miracles…
But also the thirst for blood, the sudden pain.
Death and resurrection anew.
He hadn’t needed to argue.
They had seen him die and rise with their own eyes, recognise the Sacrament’s power inside their flesh.
Sturge’s back no longer ached as hell after decades at sea, Wade had watched his own paraplegic daughter walk again, and Bev—well, Bev had never needed proof.
Her faith was unshakable.
She was the one who had the idea that Mass would be moved to the evening, just after sunset, so their priest could talk with his people without burning to ash.
And while the promise of great miracles awaited Crockett, he had waited for something greater still: you.
He would have to confess everything to you as soon as possible—why he could no longer walk in daylight, why your secret walks had to end and above all why you would have to take the Sacrament into your own body.
You, who had stayed true to your original word of never setting a foot inside a church–even if it was his.
You, who had been so much angry with God…
One thing at a time, he told himself, sitting at the desk in the vestry with a sermon on resurrection spread before him, the sacred words writhing and twisting until they blurred into something obscene.
He missed you so bloody bad.
Every verse of sacrifice made him see your thighs parting for him, every psalm of devotion echoed like your moans against his mouth while he pistoned deep inside you.
His hand slipped the belt loose, popped the button and zipper open and dragged out his cock hard and aching, stroking himself lazily to the memory of your lips parting in a whimper of pure pleasure beneath him, your tear-glazed eyes shackled to his.
The very image of you on your knees on the floor–not in confession but in worship of a far darker kind, burned him alive until his climax spilled hot across the sermon pages, a benediction turned to blasphemy.
Fuck.
Just before noon his phone buzzed and he all but launched himself across the vestry desk to read it.
Your name pulsed on the tiny screen like a sacred spell.
If it had been anyone else maybe he would’ve paused to marvel at how far technology had come—a miracle unimaginable to a man born in the 1930s.
But this was you, and when it came to you every thought bent to a different logic.
He answered at once, telling you to come directly to Saint Patrick’s as soon as you stepped off the boat—no stops at home, no chatter with anyone.
The urgency in his tone had convinced you without a single question.
By the time you arrived, the sky above the church was bleeding with the fierce, warm hues of sunset, a vast canvas burning like his soul on fire for you.
The sun sagged low, weak against the misty ocean horizon.
Your scent reached him before your footsteps did, sweet and undeniable, flooding his sharpened senses.
He could feel your heart galloping, every beat echoing inside his chest as though it were his own.
In the wavering glow of dozens of candles he had lit with reverent care, he listened the damp wood creak beneath your shoes, the old door groaning as you pushed it open.
He smiled, head tipped back against the peeling wall, eyes fixed on the crucifix above the altar, overflowing with love and gratitude.
Finally you were home.
“Paul…?”
Your voice was low, timid, almost afraid.
He stepped from the shadows so suddenly that you gasped, your bag thudding to the floor in a puff of dust.
In a single, swift motion he had you in his arms—lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist, your back pressed hard against the door he kicked shut behind you.
His mouth seized yours in a kiss that was both a welcome and a punishment, his tongue driving past your lips without permission, tangling with yours in a wet, chaotic rhythm.
His hands roamed like a starved man—into your hair, along your cold cheeks, down your sides, cupping your ass through sheer black stockings, squeezing the softness of your thighs.
You were already singing his favorite hymn in the shape of your breathless moans.
“I missed you so fucking much. You’re never leaving me again.”
He ground you against the wood with nothing but the weight of his body, fumbling your coat open, tugging the scarf free, squeezing your breasts together with trembling, hungry hands.
“I missed you too… these days without you were unbearable…”
Thank God for the sweater you had chosen—a deep V-neck that allowed him to bury his face against your perfumed skin, kissing and licking every inch before dragging fabric and lace aside to take your nipple between his teeth.
He sucked hard, greedy, while his other hand rolled the other pink peak, drawing a voiceless cry from your throat, your head thrown back, your fingers tangled tight in his hair messing with it.
“But now we’re together again,” he whispered, voice honeyed with devotion. “And I want to hear you. Always. Do you remember?”
His words broke something inside you, heat flooding down your belly to pool between your thighs until your mind went white with delirium.
“Paul… I want you too, but —aahh!—not here… in church…”
The low laugh he let slip reverberated through the sacred stillness, breaking against your bodies as he pulled off your nipple with a wet sound.
His gaze locked with yours, shameless, as he pushed his cock against the very ache that throbbed for him.
You moaned, filthy and unrestrained.
He laughed again, thumb tugging down your lower lip.
“I know exactly where we are. But I don’t just want you…” Your cheeks were burning now, painted with a pretty blush. “I love you. And I’m going to make love to you here, before God Himself.”
Your swollen lips parted just slightly in surprise, your eyes big and wet.
His fingers left your face, tracing the line of your throat where your pulse thundered. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath hot and uneven.
“Do you feel that?” he whispered, rolling his hips into you, his erection hard and undeniable. “That’s how much I need you. That’s how much I’ve missed you. How much I love you.”
The words were a confession and a curse all at once, spoken with the fervor of one of his sermon.
“I–Paul, oh my God… Paul–”
His free hand tugged impatiently at your clothes, desperate to bare more of your skin to his mouth and eyes, to his worship.
The crucifix above the altar loomed behind him, its silent witness only fueling the fire licking at his veins.
“Good girl–yes, say my name,” he demanded, voice thick with lust, teeth brushing the shell of your ear and gently biting down. “Say it like a prayer. Loud. I want Him to hear you too.”
You just obeyed, happily.
His mouth left your skin only long enough to growl against your lips, devouring your kiss as though starving, suffocating your whimpers.
In one swift, urgent motion he finally tore your coat from your shoulders, tugged your sweater up and off, pushed your skirt high over your hips.
“God, look at you,” he muttered, voice hoarse with reverence and hunger. “So fucking perfect… and all mine.”
He freed himself from his jeans with trembling haste, his cock long and flushed pressing hot against your thigh while he tore apart your stockings and panties, guiding it between your folds with one hand, sliding the tip through the slickness that had been waiting only for him.
The first thrust inside you stole the air from your lungs, your cry muffled against his mouth as he bottomed out just for filling you completely again, desperately.
Pinned against the heavy wooden door your body arched for him, nails biting into his shoulders through the black shirt, ankles crossed behind his back pushing him deeper.
He moved with a rhythm that was both brutal and worshipful, then his hand slid up your throat, fingers curling gently but firmly around the delicate column.
He held you there—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that you were his, body and soul.
Your pulse pounded beneath his thumb, and he felt it like a second heartbeat against his palm.
“Look at me,” he growled, hips slamming forward, driving you crazy on the edge of your climax already.
You did, your eyes wide and glassy in the flickering candlelight, and that was when you saw it—the glow in his gaze.
Gold, burning low, inhuman and divine all at once, shimmering through your soul.
The sight made you tremble around him, your walls clenching so tight he groaned, forehead falling to yours.
“I love you too… Christ, I love you so badly—”
He kissed you in tears, his thrusts growing harder, longer, deeper–each one pushing you into the old wood until it creaked like it too was about to break under the force of his devotion for you.
His hand at your throat tightened just enough to make the world go hazy, your breath stuttering as his name tumbled from your lips in ragged, broken pleas.
The gold in his eyes blazed brighter, flickering like candle flames on the verge of consuming everything.
You could feel him everywhere—in your throat where he held you, in your chest where your heart hammered against his, in your core where he drove himself again and again until you thought you’d broken.
“Say it,” he demanded, his voice a guttural order, sweat dripping from his wet-soaked hair, hips snapping into you with brutal precision. “Say you’re mine—say it before God Himself.”
“I’m yours,” you gasped, the words tearing out of you, desperate, unholy but true. “Always yours.”
Your confirmation broke something loose in him.
With a growl half-prayer, half-blasphemy, he pounded into you until white stars burst behind your eyes.
The hand on your throat tightened as his other slid down to your clit, thumb circling it with merciless skill.
The combined assault sent you spiraling, your climax hitting like lightning, body convulsing, a cry torn from you that echoed through the church like a hymn of pure, holy sin.
“Oh my God! Yes! Paul, oh my God!”
Your walls clamped down around him, milking him with every spasm of your release.
He buried himself to the hilt, head thrown back, eyes glowing gold as if heaven itself burned inside them.
His groan was low, guttural as hot pulses of release flooded you, each one a claim, a promise.
He stayed there, panting and trembling, holding you gently as though your body was the altar and he the priest who had just consecrated it with his own sin, feeling every shake of your flesh.
His lips pressed to your temple, breath ragged.
“I love you,” he whispered again, softer now, reverent.
You clung to him with your whole body, surrendering yourself to him with a trust that made his heart tremble.
“Tell me, my sweet angel…” his voice was only a soft whisper, trembling somewhere between fear and faith. “Do you really love me? Do you trust me with everything you are?”
Your answer came without hesitation, a breathless vow. “Yes, with all of me. Always. Forever.”
A shudder passed through him—relief, hunger, need, revelation.
His mouth crashed against yours, desperate and bruising before his lips slid lower, tracing paths of fire down your jaw, your sore throat. Then, without warning, his teeth sank into your flesh.
The sting was sharp, electric, then molten in languid waves.
A cry tore from your throat—half pain, half ecstasy—as his fangs pierced deeper, as he drank from you like you were the only chalice that had ever mattered to him.
The pull of his mouth was frantic, greedy, yet impossibly reverent, and you felt yourself unraveling, every drop he took binding you tighter to him.
You moaned and moaned, the pleasure rising once again between your legs.
When he finally tore himself away, his lips glistened with your blood.
His gold gaze, fever-bright locked with yours as he raised his own wrist to his mouth, tearing the skin open with a practiced bite.
Crimson welled instantly, slow and thick.
“Drink,” he commanded, pressing the wound to your lips, voice hoarse, trembling. “Take me in, my miracle from Heaven. Be one with me. I beg of you.”
Your heart thundered, fear clawing at the edges of your mind, so many questions burning your tongue…
But your trust—your faith in him held firmer.
You parted your lips and slowly tasted him, never leaving his eyes, lapping at the wound like a little cat at its favourite milk.
His blood was hot, copper and rich, bathing your tongue and sliding down your throat like forbidden wine.
The instant it entered your system heat exploded in your veins, a frenzy unlike anything you’d ever known.
He groaned at the sight, hips driving into you once more as you drank.
“Yes… that’s it… take me, my love. My blood, my body, my soul —they’re yours.”
The Communion bound you together in a madness both divine and obscene.
Your body writhed against his, shaking, overwhelmed by a new hunger that mirrored his own.
His blood fueled your heartbeat, ignited every nerve, sparked your orgasm one more time.
"You are so good to me, baby... So precious..."
You clung to him, fingers digging into his hair and clutching for dear life as your moans mixed with his growls again, your bodies moving in a rhythm almost animal, too primal and sacred to be anything less than pure worship.
In that moment, in the penumbra of flickering candles and smells of incense, there was no God above, no devil below—only the two of you, locked in your own holy sacrament, lost in the ecstasy of blood and love.
“Bless me, Father, for I want to sin with you for the rest of my life.”
