#Konrad is his one safe bet ya know

[moar-pixxls]

Salve, here's a RQOTD for you! Which OC claims they’re tough and have no emotions and don’t care about anyone, but as soon as That One Person is in danger they go all psycho. BONUS: Who is That One Person?

Well, Ronan doesn’t exactly claim that he’s cold, but he sure does have a habit of shoving his feelings and emotions right back from where they came from and then slamming the fucking door on em for good measure. The easiest (and quickly the most obvious) way to get him pissed is to mess with Konrad, though. Dude is protective -coughCOUGHlowkeypossesiveCoUgH- AF… So. Yeup.also me answering one of these like 20 years late whoops I am a badman also also tho THANK YOU FOR THE ASK !! despite my badness

[u-ntitled-s-eries]

Demonic Priest AU x Reader - Wayward Home

I wrote a thing for the Demonic Priest AU created by @betasuppe. I want to say this is a one-shot, but I'm already imagining the next encounter. Someone send me some climbing gear 'cause I've fallen down a rabbit hole and I need to get out.

The only thing Emmet knows about the person watching him is that they are very much real.

Even without the help of Ingo sweeping along the walls and creeping around the corners, he still catches a fleeting glimpse of someone just out of the corner of his eye. First the tip of a shoe from behind the open doorway. A few minutes later, he spots a shoulder and arm through the window.

It’s just a small distraction, nothing that takes him away from performing the sermon, but it’s enough to make the mind wonder. Fresh faces, especially the sweet ones, often meander outside the church. Curious or perhaps even spiteful of the congregation, but unwilling to join the masses. A new neighbor, maybe a tourist, or perhaps a timeless nobody looking for something new. It doesn’t matter, Father Konrad welcomes people from all walks of life. And if it’s the last two, perhaps he can have a little fun himself. Start with the foot and then the arm…

The sermon concludes, and they agree to linger a bit longer than usual today; the best newcomers often prefer to show themselves once everyone else is gone, and Sunday Mass regrettably brings in the biggest draw. So he stays behind, listening to pointless thoughts and feelings before responding in kind. When his mind starts wandering, Ingo helps him keep track of what they say and what they want to hear.

Then, outside the mindless chatter, they notice two things. One is that the people are funneling to the door faster than normal. The second is the faint sound of a guitar. The crowd only has to turn toward him before parting to let him pass through.

Worn out shoes taps against the sidewalk while your arms move, plucking and pressing the strings of the guitar in your hands. Baggy clothes hang off you, seemingly jumping in time with your movements. Low and heavy notes strung together into an upbeat song that has a few people nodding along in time. Your voice is warm but the words are almost growling out with how much force is put behind each sound. The youngest children, whose parents dragged them to church despite their obvious objections, squeeze past the adult and run up to you, nearly tumbling onto the sidewalk with how quickly they stop. You glance up at them from your stoop with a playful grin and nod in time to the beat. And they start nodding along with you. Then they start dancing and clapping. The church is empty; anyone who hasn’t gathered around you has left altogether.

The music stops, but the silence only lasts for a second before applause and cheers take its place. A few people step up and drop a coin or a bill into the open case resting at your feet. Parents herd their children away, some with more ease than others, and you playfully wave goodbye as they stare back with wide eyes. And just as quickly as they had gathered, the crowd disperses, splitting into two groups heading up and down the street, until it’s just you standing at the bottom of the church steps and him at the door. You ascend the stairs.

“I take it you’re the one runnin’ this place?”

There’s an accent when you talk, and it’s hard to tell if the roughness in your voice is from performing or just how you speak. You’re clearly new in town, but there’s a shine in your eyes that only comes about from years of experience.

“I’m Father Konrad,” he introduced, offering his hand, which you happily shake. Calluses and cracked skin scrapes against his palm, only to be soothed away by the warmth of your own.

“Pleasure to meet ya.” You turn back the way you came, almost leading him down with you before letting go of his hand. He still follows behind. “I hope ya don’t mind me borrowin’ your flock. I figured a church on Sunday was a safe bet.”

A quick glance inside the case shows the meager sums you managed to earn. You scoop them up and drop them in the hole-riddled pocket of your jacket before lowering your guitar into the case. Like how a mother lovingly cradles a baby before placing it in a crib.

“You’re not from around here. What brings you to the city?”

You shrug and pick up the case. Stickers and scratches litter the black leather. Some look brand new, others are so faded that it’s impossible to read out even in the midday sun.

“Just passin’ through. Figured I’d stay a while, see the sights, then head on out.”

If there were ever a perfect opportunity, it just placed itself right at their feet. It would be best to take you right now, before anyone else notices you. But a good meal should be savored, should it not?

“And how long will you be staying?”

“A couple a’ weeks; a month, tops.”

A month. The thought of waiting so long makes his stomach turn. It would be a challenge, but so very worth it. What hides behind that smile and gleam? Ingo has always preferred the soul over the flesh, but even Emmet is curious to see what will happen once they crack open that outer shell and peek inside. For now, it’d be best to lay the trap and wait. Who knows, maybe he can sneak a taste before they take you apart.

“Perhaps you’d be willing to come inside the church next Sunday.”

Something shifts. He can sense it before he even realizes what it is. Your eyes narrow just a bit and you laugh. Not unkindly, but certainly not the same warmth you so freely offered his flock just moments ago.

“I’ve got plenty a’ questions for God. And if ya ask anyone who knows me, they’ll tell ya I’d give my right hand for some answers. But with all due respect, sir, I think I’d rather just wait ‘till I see God and ask him myself.”

Proud and dismissive words spoken with the resignation of defeat, all wrapped up with a friendly smile. Just the act of unraveling your words has him feeling a twinge of discontent; it's hard to tell if where - or more appropriately who - it's coming from. You chuckle and wave goodbye, but it feels like you’re looking down at him from the bottom of those stairs.

“See ya ‘round.”

This is going to be a verrrrry long month.

My Brain: ♫ Why do you write like you're running out of time? ♫