#ccmisery

This is just the outline for the story, but I haven't really written anything yet.

So the gist of it: placeholder name is Misery, or Welcome to Misery, (sorry—not sorry to Stephen King, lol). It's a small town, mostly dead, where nothing happens. The MC can choose between three backgrounds.

Background one:

You grew up not knowing your real father was a priest. His death exposed the secret when he named you in his will, turning you into Misery's favorite piece of gossip and permanently changing how the town, and your own mother, looks at you.

Background two:

Two years ago, you fell asleep at the wheel and drove off a bridge. You survived, but your best friend Xavier didn't. His family hates you, the town avoids you, and you've never forgiven yourself for a mistake you replay every night.

Background three:

A late-night dare spiraled out of control, and a fire destroyed Phil's small business. He never recovered and now lives on the street, and even though the fire wasn't entirely your fault, Misery decided you're the one to blame, and you've been carrying that guilt ever since.

All of the backgrounds serve as a way to shape why MC is a mess and why the town dislikes MC.

3 ROs.

Father Gabriel Gray. Father Gray, but MC will call him Gabe. Gray genuinely wants to help people, even when he feels unworthy of the role. He's desperate to prove—to the Church, to God, to himself—that he can be better than the mistakes that got him sent to Misery. He wants to fix the world around him because it keeps him from looking too closely at the parts of himself that never healed. Overall, he has temper and anger issues. Our dear Father discovered a fellow priest was exploiting vulnerable people in the previous parish. Gray confronted him, lost control, beat up the guy, and sent him to the hospital.

The Church couldn't publicly punish Gray without exposing the scandal, so they transferred him quietly, calling it a "renewal assignment." Misery became his exile.

For those who can't romance Father Gray, we have Sister Madeline. She is church staff and the main support for Father Gray. Madeline was born and raised in Misery, always the dependable girl people relied on but rarely truly saw. Her home life was unstable for most of her childhood, and the church became her refuge long before she formally joined it.

You can't romance both it will either be Father Gray or Sister Madeline.

2nd Ros: Is Frankie. Think of them as Invisigal from Dispatch personality-wise. Frankie was born and raised in Misery and never managed to leave it, no matter how many times they tried. They have a dark past, but never talk about it. They fell out with most of their family, and eventually took over shifts at the local bar when they needed something steady. They've been running the bar ever since.

3rd RO is Noah/Noelle Gump. N Gump grew up as Misery's golden child, born into the only wealthy family the town has ever had. The Gumps own half the real estate, sit on every committee, and treat Misery like their personal legacy project. N was raised to be the polite, the polished heir/heiress who would carry the name Gump with dignity. The family expects nothing but high expectations from N. Perfect grades, perfect manners, perfect future.

But N never quite fit the mold. Instead of taking a cushy family role or following the path laid out for them, N joined the sheriff's department, choosing a job that actually lets them help people instead of maintaining appearances. If MC romance them, the family will hate on MC every chance they get, but N doesn't care, so… some good let's-go-against-my-family romance will happen.

That's all I have for now, will probably change some stuff, like names, and maybe one of the backgrounds. I don't quite like some of them. We'll see if this ever gets made, lol.

You barely make it to the gazebo by the main gate when you hear Noah calling after you. "El, please—can we talk?"

But instead of slowing down, you pick up the pace. Noah does the same, catching up to you and grabbing your wrist, forcing you to stop in your tracks.

"Just wait, please," he pleads. "I just want to talk."

You finally turn to face him, and Noah's hand slides away from your wrist but he doesn't step back. He looks at you, then away, then back again, unable to decide where his eyes are supposed to land. You don't say anything. You're not sure what you'd say even if you could get your mouth to cooperate.

Your hands are still shaking from what his mother said, and your throat still feels tight, and all you can think is that you're standing on Gump property in the dark like some kind of trespasser, which is exactly what Eveline would call you if she looked out the window right now.

"I'm sorry," he finally says. "Sorry about my mother. She was—"

"Being herself?"

He winces, then nods. "Yeah. That."

The insults flood back, and you can hear Eveline calling you trash in her pristine entryway, and threatening to make your life worse, as if that's even possible. You swallow and push the thoughts away. At least you stood up to her.

Noah runs a hand through his hair, while the other hand flexes at his side. You're pretty sure he wants to reach for you again but doesn't know if he's allowed. "You did the right thing," he says. "Bringing Morgan home."

"I know," you say, crossing your arms. It's supposed to create distance, supposed to be armor, but somehow your feet stay planted, and you don't step back.

"If something had happened to her—" His voice cracks a little. "If she'd been hurt, or—"

"She wasn't," you cut him off.

"I know, and it's because of you," he says, and takes a step closer, shrinking the gap between you.

This is dangerous, you think to yourself. It's dangerous to be standing in the shadow of his family's gazebo with the lights from the mansion framing his face and making him look even more cute than he already is. Cute and guilty. Guilty because the last time you and Noah talked… you fought.

The fight was about Father Gray. Noah had cornered you after church and said something about the priest taking too much of a liking to you. Instead of listening to what he had to say, you went on the offensive and accused him of treating you like some kind of charity case. Because why else would Father Gray care about you? You're a total mess, after all. The whole town hates you. Why would Noah think Father Gray's kindness was suspicious instead of seeing it as the only decent thing anyone in this town has shown you in months?

The two of you went at it for a couple of minutes, and then you said the words that broke him. "At least someone in this godforsaken town cares about me." You said the words because you wanted to hurt him, and you did.

You'd watched Noah stiffen, saw the sadness take over his eyes. "I care," he'd said. His voice had gone quiet, way too quiet. "I care about you, too. I cared way before that priest came to town, and now all I see is the two of you together and—"

But you'd walked away. Cut him off mid-sentence because you couldn't hear the rest. Couldn't let him finish whatever he was about to say, because if he said it out loud then it would be real. And if it was real, then you'd have to deal with it, and you were not ready for that.

And now here you stand in front of him again, in the dark with the night breeze picking up, turning the air cold. You shiver, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself.

Noah notices you trembling, and he reaches up, his hand halfway to your shoulder before he stops himself. His fingers curl into a fist and drop.

"It's cold," he says. "You want us to go talk in the pool house? It's heated."

You hesitate. You should say no. Every sensible part of your brain is screaming that going anywhere private with Noah Gump is a terrible idea, especially after what his mother just said, especially with the way he's looking at you right now. But your teeth are starting to chatter, and the pool house is warm, and maybe you're tired of always doing what you should.

"Okay," you hear yourself say.

Idiot.

The walk to the pool house takes less than a minute. It's tucked behind a row of hedges, far enough from the main house that you can't see the windows anymore. Noah unlocks the door, holds it open for you, and you step inside.

It smells like chlorine and clean towels. There's a small sitting area with leather couches, a kitchenette, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the covered pool. The more you look around, the more you're afraid you'll leave a stain if you sit down, but then the door clicks shut behind you.

You turn to say something, but Noah is already moving. His hands come up to frame your face and he's backing you against the wall, and then his mouth is on yours. Your back hits the smooth surface and you gasp against his lips. He's a little rough, the golden boy. His tongue slides into your mouth, and he groans in frustration, hips grinding against you, trapping you between his body and the wall.

How long has he wanted this? Weeks? Months? Years? The moans alone are proof it's been forever, and the rational part of your brain screams at you to push him away. Instead, you kiss him back, whimpering as you thread your fingers through his red hair and suck on his tongue.

"El…" his whole body shakes as he kisses you harder.

Your mouth opens wider for him, and his tongue slides against yours once again and your knees go weak. Noah's breathing turns ragged. His hips press forward and you can feel him getting hard against your thigh, and that's when you panic.

You can hear Eveline's voice in your head calling you trash, and you plant both hands on Noah's chest and shove. He stumbles back, lips swollen, and eyes still dark with want.

"No, no, no—" You move to the other side of the room, putting the expensive coffee table between you, and shake your head. "What the fuck are you doing, Noah?"

He stares at you like it wasn't obvious. "I wanted to kiss you," he says, simple as that. "So I kissed you."

"No." You shake your head again. "We can't. You're my friend, and we shouldn't—and I'm not—" Your voice cracks. "I'm not right for you."

"Says who?"

You glare at him. "Your mother, for starters," you say. "Did you miss the part where she called me trash? Where she told me to stay away from you? From all of you?"

Noah sighs, and it's an exhausted and frustrated sound. He closes the distance between you again, and you back up until your shoulders hit the opposite wall. Still, he keeps coming, until he's standing right in front of you, close enough to touch.

His hand reaches up. His fingers gently brush your cheek, and you hate how good it feels. How much you want to lean into it.

"Ella," he says slowly. "I don't care about what my mother says."

"You should."

"I don't."

His thumb traces along your cheekbone. You can't breathe. You can't think. All you can do is look up at him, look at those green eyes that are so much warmer than his mother's, at the soft curve of his mouth—and feel yourself crumbling.

He leans in.

"Noah—" You put a hand on his chest, but this time, you don't push. "I don't think this is a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because." You swallow hard. "I like you, but… Father Gray…"

The effect is immediate. Noah goes rigid, and his hand drops from your face. He takes a step back, then another, and when he looks at you, all the warmth from earlier is gone. "Father Gray?" he repeats. "Right. Of course. Father Gray."

"Noah—"

"No, I get it." He laughs, but it sounds fake. "Every time. Every single time I try to get close to you, it's Father Gray this, Father Gray that. What is it with you two?"

"Nothing." Your voice rises a little. "There's nothing with us. He's a priest, Noah."

"A priest who can't seem to keep his eyes off you." Noah's hands clench. "A priest who finds every excuse to be alone with you. A priest who—"

"Who what?" You push off the wall, anger rising in your chest. "Who treats me like a human being? Who doesn't look at me like I'm some kind of scandal? God, Noah, I'm sorry if someone being nice to me makes you jealous, but that's your problem, not mine."

"I'm not jealous."

"Bullshit."

His eyes flash. "Fine. Maybe I am jealous. Maybe I'm fucking tired of watching you run to him every time something goes wrong. Maybe I'm tired of being your secret friend who has to hide in train yards while he gets to walk beside you in broad daylight."

"It's not my fault that we can't be friends in daylight," you retort. "Your family hates me."

"And I keep telling you that I don't care about what my family wants."

"That's not fair."

"None of this is fair!" His voice rises, bouncing off the glass walls. "I've been here, Ella. For years. I've been here. And every time I think we're getting somewhere, every time I think maybe you finally see me as more than just—just some emotional support friend—you shut me out and run to him."

Your hands are shaking. "That's not what I'm doing."

"Then what are you doing? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're using him to keep me at arm's length."

You hate that part of you immediately agrees, even if you don't want to admit it.

"You don't know what you're talking about," you say, but your voice shakes. "Father Gray is… he's complicated. He understands things about my life that you couldn't possibly—"

"Because I haven't tried?" Noah steps closer again, and now there's anger in every line of his body. "Because I haven't spent years trying to understand you? Trying to be there for you? Christ, Ella, what do I have to do? What does he have that I don't?"

"He's not asking me to be something I'm not!"

The words explode out of you before you can stop them.

Noah freezes.

You're breathing hard now, hands still shaking, and you can feel the sting of tears threatening at the corners of your eyes. But you will not cry. You will not fucking cry.

"Father Gray doesn't want anything from me," you say, shrugging. "He doesn't want me to be different, or better, or worthy of his family's approval. He just… he sees me. That's it. That's all."

"And I don't?" Noah's voice cracks. "You think I don't see you?"

"I think you see what you want to see." You wrap your arms around yourself. "I think you've built up this idea of me in your head, this version of me that fits into your life, and the second you realize I don't—the second your mother reminds you what I am—you'll wake up. And I can't—" Your voice breaks again. "I can't survive that, Noah. I can't be your mistake."

He stares at you for a beat, and you watch as the anger drain from his face. "You're not a mistake," he says quietly.

"Your mother would disagree."

"My mother doesn't get to decide who I—" He stops, and runs both hands through his hair. "Fuck it. Go to him. Go to your priest. I don't care."

With that, he violently opens the door and walks out of the pool house, leaving you alone in the dark.

You're still shaking. Your heart won't slow down, your lips still swollen from a kiss that barely lasted a second, and somehow, your brain keeps circling the same unfinished sentence.

"My mother doesn't get to decide who I—"

Who what? Who he loves? Who he hates? Who he wants?

"God is not happy with you."

The words leave your mouth almost in a whisper, and you're not even sure Ella hears them. Granted, the words are more for you than for her because the past few days have been torture—no, worse than torture, something closer to penance.

During the church charity event, she spent the entire night calling you Gabe, brushing against you as if by accident, lingering just long enough to make your pulse spike. At one point, she even pressed into you in the broom closet when you went looking for hand sanitizer, her body so close that you could feel her warmth through the thin barrier of your clothes.

She's temptation made of flesh and bone, soft skin and heat you ache to hold onto. A sin, plain and simple.

You shouldn't be thinking about her this way. You don't want to. You try not to. But she's so damn hard to resist, and the more you pray for distance, the closer she seems to get.

Is God punishing you? Maybe.

It's also been hard to ignore Noah's lingering looks whenever he comes to Mass with his family. It always feels like he's staring too long, judging you in silence, like he can see straight through you and recognize the weakness there, the hunger you carry for his best friend. If only hunger was all it was. It's more than that, and you're grateful, deeply grateful, that he doesn't know the filthy thoughts that swarm your head whenever Ella is around.

But tonight, you're not thinking about Noah. Tonight, you're struggling to remain the man God expects you to be. Somehow, there's a voice in your head whispering that you should give in and ask for forgiveness in the morning, after… after you finally get a taste of what it's like to reach for the forbidden fruit.

"Are you doing okay back there, Gabe?" Ella asks again, her back still pressed against you.

Gabe.

You swallow hard, trying to steady yourself. From her lips, your name sounds almost like a moan, and you wonder if she even realizes what she's doing to you, or if torturing you comes as naturally to her as breathing.

"I think she's almost gone," Ella says quietly, peeking out to check if Sister Madeline is done with her rounds.

The two of you have been stuck in the confession booth for nearly five minutes now, and the priest's side feels impossibly small with Ella pressed this close to you because it's not meant to hold two people. You'd stepped into the booth to grab your Bible when Ella walked in behind you, and before you could even greet her, Sister Madeline walked into the room to make sure everything was in order for tomorrow's Mass.

Getting caught with Ella in such a small space wasn't an option, so you let her push you in and the two of you stayed quiet. Besides, how would you even begin to explain that you didn't invite her in, that she was the one pushing boundaries, that being cornered with her in here was accidental?

No, you can't. And Sister Madeline would probably never believe you either.

So here you are. Cramped into the narrow space with Ella on your lap, both of you waiting in silence for Sister Madeline to leave, pretending this is temporary, pretending it hasn't already crossed a line you promised yourself you'd never cross.

The weight of her is unbearable. She's not heavy, but every ounce of her pressed against your thighs makes you pray your black pants are tight enough to hide the inevitable boner. Her back is warm against your chest, and you can feel the slight expansion of her ribs each time she breathes. She seems so relaxed, so calm, and so in control.

You on the other hand, you're not controlling anything.

Your hands are holding the wooden armrests, fingers aching from how hard you're gripping. You haven't touched her, and you keep telling yourself that you won't touch her. You just need to hold it for another few minutes, and Sister Madeline will finish checking the hymnals and the candles and whatever else she's decided needs attention at nine-thirty on a Tuesday night, and then Ella will climb off your lap, and you'll go back to the rectory, and you'll kneel on the cold floor of your room and pray until your knees bruise.

That's the plan.

"She's reorganizing the pamphlets now," Ella whispers, tilting her head to peer through the lattice screen. "Who reorganizes pamphlets at this hour?"

"Someone who takes her responsibilities seriously," you say, your voice already sounding hoarse.

Ella shifts. Just a small adjustment, her hips settling deeper into the cradle of your lap, and the friction sends a jolt straight up through your cock that makes your jaw clench so hard your teeth ache. She has to feel it. There's no way she doesn't feel what's happening beneath her, the evidence of exactly how seriously you're failing at this, and yet she doesn't move away, doesn't stiffen, and doesn't acknowledge it at all.

You close your eyes.

Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum—

"Gabe?"

"Don't call me that."

"Father Gray," she corrects, and somehow that's worse. "You're breathing really loud."

"I'm aware."

"Just saying. If Madeline hears—"

"She won't hear anything if you stop talking."

Ella goes quiet. For exactly four seconds. You know, because you count them. Then she shifts again, and this time her hips roll backward, a slow, grinding press against you that is so intentional, that your hand leaves the armrest and grabs her hip before your brain even registers the movement.

Your fingers dig into the soft denim of her jeans. You can feel the bone underneath, and the warmth of her skin bleeding through the fabric. You meant to stop her. That's what you tell yourself. You grabbed her to hold her still, to prevent her from moving, to keep this from becoming something you can't walk back from, but you don't push her away. Your hand stays exactly where it is, thumb pressing into the curve above her hip bone, and you feel her stomach contract under your grip.

"Don't," you say.

The word has no conviction. What is supposed to sound like a warning sounds like begging. Even worse, a desperate, hollow plea a man makes when he already knows he's lost.

Ella turns her head just a little, and suddenly her mouth is right there, right next to yours. She glances down at your hand resting on her hip and swallows. "You grabbed me," she says softly.

"I know."

"You probably shouldn't do that, Father."

Yeah, probably. There are a lot of things you shouldn't have done. Getting reassigned to this small town. Befriending the scandal child. Getting stuck with her inside a confessional booth and fighting the urge to kiss her every second she's this close. Yeah, there are a lot of things you shouldn't have done, but just like grabbing her hip, it's already too late to undo whatever damage has been done.

"Does that mean I'm sinning?" Ella whispers.

Is she? Your grip tightens instead of loosening. You should physically remove her from your lap, open the booth door, and walk out into the nave where God, Sister Madeline, and every carved saint lining the walls can watch you make the right choice for once. But... you don't

Out in the church, Sister Madeline's footsteps move toward the sacristy. Then comes the sound of a door opening, then closing. Then silence fills the room.

That's all it takes for you to lean forward, closing the almost nonexistent gap between you. "No, you're not sinning," you murmur. "But I am."