#Tiles Erode | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yuebinnie · 8 months ago

Text

Proverbs 5:19

☾ Pairing : Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel) x Fem!Reader

☆ Warnings : mdni. Priest!Alastor, implied chubby!reader, noncanon Alastor, dubcon, coercion, blasphemy, abuse of authority, blood kink, blood drinking, squirting, multiple orgasms, fingering (f receiving), cunnulingus, catholic prayers used in a sexual context, scriptures used to coerce, cum eating, size kink, loss of virginity (implied, not talked about), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, literally just smut

☾ WC : 9.8k

☆ A/N : Taking a break from Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea to write Alastor smut ^^ This contains heavy Christian imagery, so if it's something you are uncomfortable with, this fic might not be for you! I really enjoyed writing this; it's my first time writing smut for Alastor, so hopefully I do not disappoint you all. I also posted the fic on AO3, if you'd prefer reading there. Have fun!

There was something about going to church that felt incredibly soothing. The deafening silence every time you walked in during the early hours of the day, steps echoing against the painted ceiling and colourful rose window, the shadows dancing behind the burning wicks of the candles set on each side of the main aisle, the smell of dust dancing in the air like a reminder of how desolate the people who came to visit truly were. You had not always been religious, but you had found peace in believing that there was a divine truth, that being good in this life would give you eternal bliss.

The church was a small one, and an old one; how it was still standing you had no idea. It was annexed to a small decrepit churchyard with moss-covered headstones that dated from at least two centuries ago. To any passersby, it'd be believed to be abandoned, as the outside of the building was quite literally falling apart, the bricks slowly eroding and the tiles covering the roof covered with the same moss as the headstones. The exterior appearance did not matter however, only the inside did; that's where God resided after all.

Despite its age, the inside and of the church was well kept. Yes, the rose window was cracked, and, as an attempt to keep the place as pure as possible, electricity had never been installed. The candles did the job of keeping the inside lit, and as for the temperature, well, dressing warmly was mandatory during the colder months of the year. The benches were old and the varnish that had once covered them was long gone; dents and chips could be found here and there, but they were still sturdy. The altar was small and simple, a wooden thing settled on a small stage that hovered only a few inches above the floor. Near the entrance sat a confessional which reeked of mould, but in the absolute presence of God, the smell was easily forgotten.

You had a habit of going to pray most days when you were not bedridden from the exhaustion of spending the night reading your favourite verses. 5 AM; the perfect time to pray, just as the world welcomed the sun's warmth and light. Very rarely did you meet anyone else; it had happened a few times, mostly old people nearing death coming to ask for absolution for their sins. Otherwise, the only person you had seen was the priest, whom you only had spoken to once or twice. He would look at you while you kneeled and mumbled prayers and verses, a smile plastered on his face.

It was the only downside of it all, that unsettling presence. The priest, a handsome man you had apologized to God for finding attractive, was always smiling. It was a bone-chilling sight; it made you feel as though he could see right through you, like he had access to every single thought that cluttered the inside of your mind. He had asked for your name once and had told you to have a 'delightful rest of the day'. That day had turned out to be horrible, as you had learned your grandmother was diagnosed with stage four cancer and only had a few months left. You had prayed for her, but God had decided to take her, nonetheless. Your subconscious had linked the priest's words as a direct cause of your grandmother's tragic diagnosis, and you had tried your best to avoid talking to him ever since.

When you woke up that morning, sweaty and feeling stickiness between your thighs, you felt sick to your stomach remembering the dreams that had plagued your mind in your slumber. A faceless man, dragging his lips down your stomach, his fingers touching your body in a way that was so sinful; the only logical explanation was that you had been visited by an incubus, an agent of evil. God was testing you, letting evil reach you to see if you'd be as faithful as Job or if you'd succumb to sin like Eve had. You cleaned yourself and changed your nightgown to proper clothes, putting a slightly warm coat on before leaving your house.

The sun had not yet started to show itself, and a thick fog floated above the quiet streets. The sky was covered with grey clouds that seemed to hang low, you wondered if you could touch them if you reached up, but your mind was too preoccupied with your predicament to try and touch something so close to Heaven. Mind running faster than a hare trying to escape a wolf, you tried to convince yourself simple prayers would do, but a loud voice kept coming back, telling you this could only be forgiven by confessing. The thought of having to talk to the priest whom you had convinced yourself was the catalyst of your grandmother's death made you want to cry, but the thought of failing God and disappointing Him was far more upsetting. You reached the church as the first rays of light made the dew covering the Earth glisten, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open.

Your eyes fell upon the priest, who was bent down in the middle of the aisle, a long match in his hand as he lit the candles up. You froze, your eyes running across his shoulders and back. The door closed loudly behind you, and you jumped; the man's head snapped in your direction, his smile growing when he saw who had just walked in.

"You are quite early today, my dear," the priest stated simply, his focus going back to the unlit candles that still begged to melt under the burning flames. "Luckily enough, our Creator does not sleep; we're under scrutiny every second of our time on this earth."

You gulped at the words, the implications they held. You crept closer to the man, fidgeting as you thought of what to say. You let out a small quiet sigh, biting down your bottom lip as you stopped and stood a few feet away from him. The man straightened up and turned in your direction, his head tilted to the left as his gaze travelled across your face, "Oh my, whatever has you this upset?"

Your cheeks flushed as your eyes shifted from his eyes to the floor, the shame of what you had yet to confess weighing down your shoulders like the cross your Saviour had carried through heat and pain. You felt tiny, the priest towering over you; he had to be close to two feet taller than you. Had this been how Lucifer felt when he was at last pushed to meet his fate in the depths, a force greater than all administrating the final judgment? Sinfully powerless, a mere weak being? Tears gathered at your lower lash lines as you spoke, oh so quietly, your voice like the echo of an echo, "Father, I have sinned."

Seconds passed, silent ones, before the man hummed and walked past you, making his way to the front of the church. You twirled around, your eyes landing on where the priest now stood, in front of the old rotting confessional. You gulped, nodding to no one in particular before slowly making your way to the man who was stepping into the booth, the door closing behind him. You did the same, slowly closing the door after giving the empty church one last look, your eyes lingering a few seconds on the nailed Christ resting behind the altar, seemingly judging you.

You sat down, cringing at the creaking of the wood beneath your weight. The grille was pulled up, the silhouette of the man on the other side vaguely distinguishable. You took a deep breath, then spoke softly as you brought your right hand to your forehead, the gesture almost instinctual, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." You put your hand on your thigh, staring at the unmoving priest, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is.... too much time, since my last confession. I am a university student, in my last year to obtain a bachelor's degree." A low hum was heard, and you shifted in your seat, trying to find the exact words for your confession.

"Father, something terrible happened last night. In my weakened sleeping state, evil befell me. I was plagued with sinful dreams. You must understand, I am thoroughly devoted to Christ and our Lord, never have I let a man, or anyone, disgrace the body I was given; never have I had thoughts or dreams of this kind. I fear my will is not strong enough, that this evil shall come back and torment me. I fear I will fall into sin, just as our first predecessors did. I am nothing but willing, Father, so please, do help me. I am sorry for all these sins, and the sins of my past life."

You sniffled, wiping away the tears that had fallen down your rosy cheeks, your eyes glued on the silhouette of the man beyond the grille. His silence made you want to cry even more; were you a lost case? Had your fate already been sealed, your soul now tainted because of the touch of evil in such sacred places? You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth as you waited, seconds becoming minutes.

"This evil you speak of, what exactly has it done to you?" His voice seemed to have dropped lower, the sound a bit raspier. You furrowed your brow slightly at the question; you had been clear about the incident. As if feeling your hesitation, the priest continued, "Ma chère, only by knowing exactly what this evil put you through can I give you absolution."

You felt a blush creep up your neck, and flinched as the crack of thunder was heard beyond the church walls; your heartbeat quickened, was this Him telling you to obey?

You let out a small breath, before speaking up, the words shaky, "As I slept, this evil... Entered my dreams. It took advantage of my defenselessness. It disgraced my soul and my body. Upon waking up, there was... Remains of the sinful things it had my body do." You could feel the man's stare on you despite the grille separating you, causing yours to drop to your knees, feeling vulnerable.

"What sinful things did it inflict upon you?" Rain had started falling, as if the sky itself cried for you; the sound of it hammered against the roof, a continuous wail of grief for your poor soul.

"Father, I don't understand how this is necessa-"

"Do you not want absolution? Do you desire to be locked out of His kingdom? The choice is yours," his tone was harsher, demanding, even. You gulped and shook your head; no, that was not what you wanted. It was the furthest thing from it.

"I apologize for questioning your words, Father," you began, fidgeting with the hem of your coat, "From what I can remember... This evil took the shape of a man. A faceless man. I was in bed, and it joined me, and... We, uh, we kissed. It took my nightgown off." Your hands felt clammy, and you couldn't help but press your thighs together as you recollected the events of your dreams. "It kissed my breasts, then my stomach. It went... Down there, and stayed there until my whole body tensed up. Afterwards, it pushed itself inside me, it thoroughly disgraced my body. When I woke up, my body showed signs that it had reacted to the defiling. Father, please, believe me when I tell you that I was coerced by evil."

Thunder was heard again, breaking the silence that had settled between you and the priest. As the minutes passed, you became uneasy; was the man disgusted with you? Could he sense the sins radiating from your being? He cleared his throat, breaking your train of thought. Your eyes went back to his silhouette, waiting for him to speak up.

"I fear this is beyond the power bestowed upon me, dear," his voice was silky, it made warmth spread inside your chest, as if the vibrations it had created affected your very cells.

Your eyes widened; that was impossible. You had confessed and explained the evil that had haunted you. You had done exactly what He told His followers to do, confessed and asked for forgiveness. You shuffled closer to the grille, tearing up as you begged, "Father, please, there must be a way. I will do anything; I will suffer just like our Saviour has if it's what it takes. I'm supplying you, help me get rid of this evil."

“Very well,” the man said. You watched as his silhouette stood up and opened the door of the booth before it disappeared. The door of your little chamber opened, and you turned your head to look at the tall priest, who adjusted his glasses as he stared down at you. You took a few seconds to really look at him. Despite his smile that made shivers run down your spine, the man was handsome. His skin was tan, his hair dark and styled in an old-fashioned way. His features were sharp, intimidating, almost. Towering over you, his shoulders were wider than some quarterbacks’, and his waist was ridiculously small compared to them. His hands seemed to be twice the size of yours, and you found yourself wondering how he managed to button up his shirts with such big hands.

You looked back at his face as you blushed, realizing the man before you knew of your body in such intimate ways. You slowly stood up as you held his gaze, unsure of what to say next. He took a step aside and gestured for you to step out of the confessional, before closing the door behind you. The priest smiled down at you, “Follow me, dear.”

He started walking down the aisle, the flames of the candles on each side of it dancing as he passed by. You hesitantly followed him, looking out one of the small windows to see the rain pouring onto the world as lightning illuminated the sky. He stopped at the altar and turned to you, his smile ever present. You stopped in front of the stage; sinners did not belong anywhere close to that sacred place. The man stayed silent and with a gesture of his hand, permitted you to step up. You gulped and got on the stage, feeling extremely out of place.

“There is one way for you to repent,” he began, his stare fixed on you, “Though it is a bit unorthodox. The choice is yours, but you must remember that there is no place for sinners in Heaven.” He watched as you nodded quickly; you were eager to be forgiven, to go back to being free of sin. The corner of his lips twitched before he uttered one word, “Strip.”

Your eyes widened as your face turned a deeper shade of crimson. Stripping? You searched his face for hints of dishonesty, hoping he was playing a sick joke on you, but to your dismay, he was serious. Your body was frozen as you looked at him, not even the booming thunder making you flinch.

You opened your mouth to ask why, but the man beat you to it, answering your question before you even uttered a word, “Only by showing Him precisely how this evil tainted you can you be absolved. There is no need to be shy, ma chérie; isn’t He all-knowing? All-seeing? Wasn’t the shame of nudity created by His first creations’ sin? There is no purer form of devotion than to go beyond the embarrassment and bare yourself to Him; than to accept the vulnerable nature of your existence.”

He brought his right hand up to lay it flat against the wooden altar, observing you as you fought an inner battle with your dignity. His words were true, the wisdom of a man devoted to God, of someone who knew scriptures and their meaning. As if feeling your unmoving incertitude, he spoke up once again, “Proverbs 28:13.”

You blinked up at him, mind searching for the verse you had read many times before. You licked your bottom lip with your tongue before reciting softly, “He who covers his sins will not prosper, but whoever confesses and forsakes them will have mercy.” The priest hummed, and you raised your gaze to the crucifix hung on the wall behind the altar, feeling as if He was patiently waiting for you to submit to His will. You puffed out a small breath as you nodded to yourself, a hand coming up to the zipper of your coat, slowly bringing it down to then shrug off the piece of clothing and letting it fall on the floor.

You could already feel the wet cold seep through your thin sweater, but you ignored the feeling as you grabbed the bottom of it and lifted it up until it was completely off you; it dropped, finding its place next to your coat at your feet. Your eyes were unfocused, staring into thin air as you slipped your thumbs under the elastic band of your skirt, pushing it down so it pooled at your ankles. You stepped out of it, getting slightly closer to the priest whose gaze was burning your skin despite the goosebumps covering it. You brought a hand to your back, unclasping your bra before slowly taking it off, baring your breasts to the man. Your nipples hardened as the freezing air licked them and you bit hard down your bottom lip as you slid your underwear down your legs, then stepped out of your shoes, leaving you only wearing your lace-arbored anklets.

The man lifted a hand in your direction, a silent request for you to grab it. You did so all while avoiding looking up at him and followed him as he made his way behind the altar, his fingers squeezing yours slightly, “Our Lord blessed you with rare beauty, dear one, what a shame it led evil to you.” You gasped softly as his other hand wrapped around your waist, your eyes shooting up to look at him. He was still smiling, though his eyes seemed clouded with something you could not put your finger on.

He let go of your hand and grabbed the other side of your waist before effortlessly hoisting you up on the altar, the skin of your ass stinging from the cold of the wooden surface. Your gaze was questioning, and the man recited, his voice low and quieter than it had previously been, “I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service.” You gaped at him; a true man of God, that’s what he was. “Offer your body to Him, and you shall be absolved. Show Him what evil has done to you, so He can forgive and make you pure again,” he held your stare, his pupils slightly dilated. You nodded once, and the priest stepped aside, leaving you to face your Saviour in your naked glory.

You slowly leaned back, using your left elbow to not completely lie down on the wood. You brought your trembling right hand to your lips, the tip of your index finger stroking the pink flesh as you recalled where the lips of the faceless man had touched you. They lingered there for a few seconds before dipping to your neck, dancing around the column of your throat as your eyes fluttered shut; if goosebumps had not already been covering your body fault of the moist cold, they would have appeared, the feeling titillating. Your chest rose and fell in a timely rhythm as you dragged your touch to your breasts where your finger gently caressed your right nipple. Your lips parted, small breaths making their way out as you gathered with your small hand the heavy fat of your breast, squeezing. You could feel the stare of the priest on you, but you attempted to ignore it as you kept going.

Your fingers went down your stomach, using your nails to slightly scratch the skin, and they stopped a few inches below your belly button. You opened your eyes and looked at the crucifix; His peaceful expression, despite being nailed and in pain, gave you courage and you spread your legs, giving your Saviour the perfect view of your most intimate era. You nibbled on your bottom lip as you slowly brought your fingers down, choking on a soft moan when they made contact with your clit. The simple touch made your composure fall a little, your lips parted as your face reddened, feeling more exposed than you had ever felt before. You gently pushed against the bundle of nerves, gasping as your fingers started to move, following a small eight-pattern.

You could feel your heartbeat thundering against your ribcage, matching the loud striking of the heavenly fire against the earth beyond the safety of the church walls. Soft pants left your mouth as you started working on yourself, closing your eyes to focus on the memories of the previous night. Every touch and stroke were vividly drawn in your mind, your fingers moving in an almost instinctual way, leaving you a whimpering mess. You moved your elbow that was holding your weight, slowly leaning your back against the cold wood, before bringing the now free hand to your face, covering your mouth with it as your thighs trembled. Your body was thrumming, humming with new sensations, your mind as foggy as the early morning that had welcomed you when you had stepped out of your home.

Lost in pleasure, you jumped, your eyes shooting open as you felt long fingers wrap around your wrist, the priest looking down at you, his own eyes sharper and darker than they had been earlier. Your fingers nestled between your thighs stopped moving as you stared at him, but he tsked, “My dear, you must not hide anything from Him. These lovely, sinful sounds you make, are not to be repressed. Let them be; let Him hear what evil inflicted upon you,” his voice sent a chill down your spine, your back arching slightly. You watched as the corner of his lips twitched and let him pull your hand away from your mouth, gulping as you nodded weakly. “Good girl.”

Your breath hitched at the praise, eyes not leaving his’ as your fingers started to move once again, bringing your legs up to rest your heels against the altar, spreading your legs a bit more. As if in a trance, your gaze fixed on the priest as you moaned and gasped, your hips twitching as you rubbed your clit. You saw his Adam’s apple bob, his eyes narrowing as you used your free hand to caress the skin of your stomach, slowly inching towards your left breast. Your fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance, and with a bite on your bottom lip and a pinch of your nipple, you pushed your middle finger all the way to the second knuckle, your eyes widening at the feeling. You let out a throaty whine, pressing your head harder against the wooden surface that supported your weight. The cold was long forgotten, your body covered in a thin layer of sweat, muscles spasming here and there.

You slid your other hand between your thighs, the digits quickly finding your clit and gently stimulating it as you managed to push your finger further inside yourself. The faceless man from your dreams had used three fingers, and you could only wonder how your dream self had taken them, as you were struggling with a lonely, short finger. Despite the uncomfortable feeling, you bit down your lip and pushed your index alongside the finger that was already pressed inside you. Your face scrunched up at the stretch, a silent sob echoing through the dimly lit space. You felt your walls clench around your digits, your free hand still working on your clit as a way to make the dull ache more bearable. You waited a minute, giving your body time to adjust to the feeling, before carefully pulling the fingers out and thrusting them back in, a surprised whimper leaving your lips as a new feeling started to blossom in your lower stomach.

You arched your back and started speeding up the motion of your hands, unable to keep quiet as your body grew warmer and more tense. Your eyes fluttered open to look up at the priest, who was as still as Christ watching you from His cross on the wall. As you exhaled, you pushed a third finger in, welcoming the stretch with a high-pitched whine. Your knees dropped down onto the altar, leaving your womanhood fully exposed; you watched as the man glanced at where your hands were working in tandem to replicate almost exactly what the evil from your dream had done to you. You gathered the little concentration you had left and started muttering through gasps and moans, “Compassionate Father, you are the Lord who rescues His people. When I am overwhelmed with shame, help me find solace in you. You have said that you will help—though my sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are as red as crimson, they shall be like wool. Remind me that I have been purified by you, that the curse of sin and evil is no longer upon me. In your powerful name, Ame-” You were cut off by a large hand wrapping around your lower face, the feeling making your body jolt.

Right, it had to be the same as the dream; you had not uttered a prayer in it, far from it. You closed your eyes, moaning against the palm covering your mouth, as you focused on the growing tension in your core. Every second felt like minutes and every minute felt like hours as you quickly thrust your fingers in and out, all while you rubbed and nudged your clit. The pressure was almost unbearable, your whole body twitching as your hips tried to follow the movements of your digits as if they had a mind of their own. The priest moved his hand away, and you opened your eyes to watch him bring it to his mouth where he licked his palm, which was covered with your drool.

Something snapped inside of you and a loud sob made its way out of your throat as your muscles tensed up, your walls clenching tightly around your fingers as you stilled them, your mind unable to think about anything beyond the blinding pleasure that took over your body. Your eyes rolled back, pitiful sounds leaving your mouth as your back arched from the altar, your thighs squeezing together, trapping your hands between them. This felt so much better than it had felt in your dream. You teared up; the Lord’s love was so strong; evil could not even compare.

After a few seconds, your body relaxed, and you were left panting and sweaty, as if you had just run a marathon. Slowly opening your eyes, your vision became clearer as you blinked, a smile tugging at your lips as you looked at the crucifix, then up to the priest who had not moved. You removed your hands from between your thighs and brought your left one up to wipe the pearls of sweat on your forehead with the back of it. You wrapped your right arm around your chest, trying to hide your breasts as you spoke up, your voice small but hoarse, “Have I done it, Father? Am I free of sin? Has our Lord given me absolution?” Hope lingered; you had done what you were told to do, you had been good, and your Lord was good and forgiving, He had to have seen how faithful you were.

The man’s eyebrows raised before he let out a small chuckle, shaking his head slightly, “My dear, this was only your confession. The truest and purest form of confession.” Your smile dropped. You looked at him as he made his way closer to the wall, where he stopped in front of the crucifix that had observed you as you worked on yourself. His chin tilted up as he looked at it, before his head slowly turned to look at you, “But confession is not enough for this type of sin, sadly; you must also be cleansed.”

You sat up, your brows furrowed, watching as the man stepped closer to you. He stood in front of you, his right hand coming to rest on your thigh, just above your knee. His touch was warm and inviting, but you still wondered what his words meant, so you asked, “Cleansed?”

His thumb stroked your skin as he hummed and brought his other hand up to your shoulder, pushing your hair behind it, “Yes, dearest, cleansed. Your body was defiled by evil, it must be purified. You’ve shown our Lord and Saviour how, and now He shall reclaim your body as His’.” You looked at him, your eyes round and big, trying to make sense of the words that had just been spoken. A small pout appeared on your lips, and the tall priest bent down, his face now closer to yours as he said, his voice slightly louder than a whisper, “You are so easy to read, you know? But to ease your confusion; I shall represent our Lord and make you pure again.”

You froze, the realization of what the man meant hitting you just like David’s stone had hit Goliath. You gaped at him, your mouth opening and closing, searching your brain for the right words to speak, afraid to insult God and the man who stood before you. You gulped and said after taking in a deep breath, “Our Lord… I cannot think of mentions of this procedure in the scriptures,” you blinked, your eyes shining as you looked into his’. “Father, has this procedure been tested before? Where does it come from?”

His long fingers dug into the fat of your thigh as you saw the muscle of his jaw clench, a small whimper leaving your lips at the feeling. He kept squeezing, his creepy smile growing, “Are you implying my authority was not given to me by our Lord? That my will does not stem from His’? That I would go against scriptures, something I have devoted my life to?” You shook your head quickly; you had messed up. You were to never question the words of a priest, for he was much closer to God than you were, and you had done just that. This evil needed to leave; it made you do, think and say things that would only make you unworthy of Heaven.

“Father, do forgive me! This evil, it has taken control of my body and sou-”

“There’s no need for that. I shall make your sins a purest white than Abraham’s sacrificial lamb. You will be reborn a new woman, utterly sinless,” he inched his hand higher on your thigh, “That is what you want, isn’t it? To let your God make you pure again?” You gave him a slow nod and his smile widened as he brought his free hand to his face, removing his glasses and putting them on the altar next to you. He nudged your knees open and settled between them, sliding a hand against the back of your head as he sang praise to you, “What a good girl you are, ma chère.”

His lips smashed against yours and you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you tried to follow his lead. The hand resting on your thigh slid to your waist and forced you to get closer to him, his chest pressing against your naked breasts. You moaned into the kiss, pictures of your dream flooding your mind, causing you to wrap your legs around his tiny waist and arms around his neck. You ran your fingers through his hair, letting the man run his tongue along your bottom lip, your mouth opening slightly in response. His kisses travelled down your chin, to your throat, his teeth nipping at your skin as you let your head fall back, giving him better access.

His mouth slid to your chest, and you lowered your chin to look down at him as he wrapped his swollen lips around your left nipple. You grabbed a handful of his hair and pressed him closer to you, arching your back slightly. His eye shot up to look at you, humming against your skin, the vibration leaving you a whimpering mess. He separated from your pink, wet bud with a last lick, smiling as he flicked your other nipple with his thumb, “So eager for absolution, aren’t you?” Your soft pants were interrupted with a small gulp as you nodded once again; there was nothing you wanted more. He ran a hand up and down your thigh before grabbing it and removing it from his waist, doing the same motion with the other one a few seconds later. You silently watched as he kneeled, his face a few inches away from your exposed core. The sight made your heart skip a beat.

Something caught your eyes on the wall, and you looked up, seeing a rainbow light up the crucifix hung on the wall; the rain and thunder had dissipated as suddenly as they had appeared, and sun rays were beaming through the colourful tainted glass of the rose window at the entrance of the church. A small smile tugged at your lips, this had to be a sign you were on the right path. You bit down your bottom lip and gazed down, seeing the priest eyeing your womanhood, a hungry look on his face. Your cheeks reddened as you waited for the man to do something.

He slowly inched closer, and let his nose nudge your puffy clit, causing you to gasp softly at the feeling. You felt something warm run up and down your slit, your grip on his hair tightening as he flattened his tongue against your entrance. Your brows knitted, a small noise leaving your lips as he started to move his wet appendage up and down, moving his head slightly as he did so to get his nose to bump against your clit with each lick. His hands went to your ass, and he brought you even closer to his face; you wondered how he could even breathe.

Your mind started to wander as pleasure slowly took over your limbs; was the man between your legs mistaking you for a wine-filled chalice? The slurping noises his mouth was making against you travelled through your body and rendered you dizzy. You pushed his hair back from his forehead and his eyes shot open to look up at you as his fingers dug into the fat of your ass. His pupils were dilated to the point that you could barely see his iris and there was wetness spreading on his cheeks and nose. Lips parted, you sighed and slightly scratched his scalp with your nails, leaving the man groaning as his stare was still fixed on your face. One of his hands made its way down your thigh and disappeared from your view before it reappeared; a dainty wooden-beaded rosary was dangling from his fingers.

The priest took his mouth away from you, a wide smirk painting his lips as he grabbed your wrist and dropped the prayer beads in your much smaller palm. His other hand came forward and started stroking the skin of your inner thigh as he wrapped his long digits around yours, forcing you to hold the rosary. He licked his bottom lip before speaking up, “You know how this works, don’t you?” His smile grew as he watched you nod, “Perfect. Recite them in your head, except the Five Decades; you must recite those aloud. It’s Thursday, so Luminous Mysteries. Whatever your Lord has planned next and does to you, you must keep going, understood?” You nodded again but he shook his head, “Use your words, dearest.”

“I understand, Father,” you said, your voice small.

The man hummed and let go of your hand, dropping it to your other thigh, massaging the skin there as well. His gaze dropped to where your thumb moved to make the Sign of the Cross on the small crucifix pendant. You closed your eyes as you started reciting the Apostles’ Creed, surrendering your body to the faithful man kneeling before you. His lips pressed against you as you finished the first prayer, your finger moving to the first bead. He fell into a now familiar rhythm, leaving you incapable of staying silent as you breathed out soft moans. Something prodded at your entrance and slowly slipped in as you fell back against the altar with a thud. You arched your back as it kept going, much deeper than you had reached with your fingers. It pumped in and out a few times before the man added a second finger, the pressure and stretch making you whimper.

His tongue kept alternating between sucking on and flicking your clit as you busied yourself with prayers. The priest hummed against you before removing himself; you opened your eyes and lifted your head from the wooden surface, eyes widening when you saw blood on his chin and bottom lip. He removed his fingers from you and showed them to you; they were bloody too. You stared at him silently, uncertain of what to say, but he broke the silence, “See what the evil has left in you? Aren’t you so lucky your Lord is ever so forgiving? That he’s cleaning you up to make you free of sin?” You nodded and bit the inside of your cheek. His eyes were gleaming as his fingers went to your lower stomach, smearing the blood on your skin, which made goosebumps appear.

You studied his face, his sharp, dark hooded eyes were staring at you under his defined eyebrows, his plump lips were stretched in a smile; his tanned cheeks and chin were coated with a sheening coat of your wetness and blood. His hair was now messy—your doing—and his fingers were slowly making their way back to your slit. Without thinking about it, you reached out and cupped his cheek with your free hand, rubbing your thumb against his bottom lip. His tongue darted out to lick your digit as his fingers sank back in you, knocking the breath out of you. Your eyes closed shut as you gasped, your hand falling from his face to rest on your hip. You heard him laugh under his breath before the warmth of his mouth was back on you. Your mind reminded you of the rosary you were holding, and you started reciting the Hail Mary.

As you neared the end of the Glory Be, you felt the man add another finger, the stretch making your eyes tear up as you mewled weakly. The words of the prayer passed in your mind, disappearing as he started to thrust them in and out. Your walls clenched tightly around his digits as your chest rose and fell quickly, panting as your body tried to get adjusted to the burning feeling.

Your fingers landed on the first Decade, and you gathered all your strength to start reciting the prayer, your voice shaky, “Then Jesus came to Galilee to the Jordan to John, to be baptized by him. John would have prevented him, saying ‘I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?’ But Jesus answered him, ‘Let it be so now; for thus it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness.’ Then he consented.” You were interrupted by a yelp as you felt the priest’s teeth grazing your clit, your free hand landing in his hair, gripping it. Your hips kept twitching as you kept going, stuttering through the words, “And when Jesus was baptized, he went up immediately from the water, and behold, the heavens were opened and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove, and alighting on him; and lo, a voice from heaven, saying, ‘This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.’”

The drag of the man’s fingers had turned pleasurable, and you felt your muscles tense up, the feeling in your lower stomach rapidly growing. You pushed on the back of his head, searching for more friction, and you moaned out loudly when he started mumbling against your clit as his fingers kept moving, “Oh my Jesus, forgive me of my sins, save us from the fires of hell; lead all souls to Heaven, especially those who have most need of your mercy.” You could not register the words but the movements of his lips on you made you come undone, your back arching from the altar as your thighs trapped his head in place, your hips lifting to follow his fingers and urge him to press his tongue harder against you. Your every muscle tensed up, crying out as the waves of your orgasm hit you just like the Red Sea had crashed into the Egyptians as He closed its parting. You spasmed around him, your walls trying to push his fingers out, and you felt wetness drip down your ass.

He separated from your clit, kissing it softly as he removed his digits from you, slowly standing up as you cracked your eyes open, your body still jolting randomly as it calmed down from your high. The light coming from the rose window had moved, and from your angle, it looked like a halo surrounding the priest’s head; a breathtaking sight that had you gape in awe. You watched as he tugged at the collar of his shirt, taking his Roman collar off and letting it fall to his feet. Your wetness was dripping from his lips which were harbouring a soft smile, his hands moving unhurriedly to unbutton his cassock. His eyes travelled up and down your spent body, then to the rosary you had forgotten you were still holding; you clenched your fingers around it and moved to a new bead, your lips moving silently as you recited the Hail Mary in your mind.

You kept your eyes on his hands as they reached the last button, the man shrugging off the black piece of clothing, revealing he was wearing a white tank top and black pants underneath it. You gulped at the true size of his shoulders; you had thought his cassock gave the illusion he was large, but even with it off, he looked huge. The smallness of his waist only accentuated how massive the built of the priest was. He had muscles but they were lean; despite it all, he looked strong and exuded a masculine aura that had you squirming in place.

Your observations were interrupted by his voice, “Do you feel like the weight of your sin has lessened, ma chère?” You dipped your chin once; you did feel lighter. The man grinned wider as his hands wrapped around your waist, bringing your torso up effortlessly so you were now sitting. He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning over so his lips pressed against the shell of your ear, whispering, “You did so well, dear, you’re almost as pure as the day you were born. There’s only a step left in this procedure, but it will hurt at first.” He pressed a hand on the back of your head and pushed forward, forcing you to bury your face in the crook of his neck. You inhaled and felt his fingers massage your scalp gently.

He smelled so intoxicating; a mixture of moss, rain, coffee, tobacco and a hint of something floral emitted from his skin. You realized you had pressed your lips against the man’s neck when you felt him tense up, his hand stilling in your hair. You backed away slightly, blushing so brightly you were grateful he could not see your face, muttering an apology. His body relaxed again, and he hummed, “There’s no need for apologies. Bite down my shoulder—don’t be scared to bite hard—it will make you focus on something else.”

You opened your mouth to ask what he meant but pressed your lips together when you heard a zipper, followed by the shuffling of clothes between your bodies. You brought your hands to his chest, the rosary still in your hand, fingers fidgeting with the beads as you felt one of his large and cold hands spread your thighs a little further apart. You felt his fingers run up and down your slit and you gasped at the feeling, your nails slightly digging into the muscles of his chest. A wet sound travelled up to your ears and you closed your eyes, a shiver running down your spine when you felt a hand drop to your hip, kneading the fat there, and his voice, now a low murmur, “Bite down.”

You barely had the time to process the words that you felt pressure against your entrance which ceded, your walls wrapping around something so thick you shrieked before sinking your teeth into the man’s shoulder. It felt like you were being split in half; the thickness slowly forced its way inside you as tears gathered at your lower lash lines before they dripped down your cheeks. You bit down harder and pulled away quickly when you felt iron-tasting warmth coat the inside of your mouth, but the hand still in your hair pushed you against the bleeding bite mark, the priest almost growling, “Bite, and drink. At this moment, I am God; I am Christ. His blood is mine, and my blood is His’. Savour, dear one, and let me cleanse you inside out.” You let out a shaky breath before sinking your teeth back in his flesh, your brows knitting as he pushed his length an inch deeper inside you, “So obedient.”

You let the blood fill your mouth and swallowed, cringing at the taste but unwilling to go against Heavenly orders. Your arms snaked around his waist as he kept slowly pushing himself into you. The pain was unbearable, but your mind went to Christ, and how much he had suffered for the sins of all; the ache between your legs was a pinch compared to what he had endured, so you toughened up and let your tongue lap at the blood. Your brain felt foggy, and you could only take it as a sign that it was your body reacting to being filled with the divine energy pouring out from the priest. His length reached deeper than his fingers had, and you wondered how much of it you had left to take in.

You soon had your answer, the man stilling as his pelvis pressed against yours; he was so deep in you, stretching you so wide. Your mouth detached from his neck, and you pressed your forehead against his skin, panting loudly as you tried your best to relax your walls around him. The hand that was in your hair made its way to your waist, squeezing gently as you felt his lips press against your ear once again, “Your Lord is so pleased with you; you’re taking his cock so well. You’ll be redeemed in no time.” He slowly pulled out, leaving only his tip in, before thrusting in you at a medium speed, leaving you sobbing against his neck. It was overwhelming, the feeling of his length rubbing your inside and the warmth spreading in your chest, God’s love making you burn up. The feeling started to transform from pain to pleasurable pressure, your pained cries turning into needy moans.

You had managed to reach the tenth Hail Mary in your mind, your fingers reaching the second Decade. You whimpered out the beginning of the Second Luminous Mystery, “On the third day there was a marriage at Cana in Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there; Jesus also was invited to the marriage, with his disciples.” The priest started moving faster, his hips meeting yours at a much quicker speed; you whined as his tip hit a certain spot inside you, the rosary dropping on the floor as you dug your nails into the man’s shoulder blades. You could not concentrate on anything other than the drag of his length against your walls, panting and gasping each time he bottomed out.

He slightly pulled away from your body and looked down at you, his hips still moving as he brought a hand to grab your jaw from under, forcing you to look at him. He eyed you before crashing his lips against yours, moaning as he tasted his blood in your mouth. You slid your hands up to his hair, tugging at it and scratching his scalp as your teeth clashed together, tongues dancing. You pressed your chest closer to his’ and sighed as your nipples rubbed against his tank top, the feeling sending electric shocks to your core. You parted away from his lips, catching your breath, and your eyes opened and landed on the crucifix watching you; you smiled softly—oh how good was His clemency. Your gaze went back to the priest who was slightly panting, his lower face covered in blood—just like yours— as he smirked at you, sliding his hand to your cheek, stroking the skin tenderly.

In half a second, he pulled out and manhandled you, so you were now bent over the altar, your breasts pressed against the wooden surface as your feet dangled in the air, his large hands holding you up. His knee nudged your legs open wider and you felt him slip back inside you, the new position bringing a different sensation. His hips met your ass, and he started thrusting into you eagerly, loud smacks echoing through the church. You held yourself up on your elbows, holding your head up as you looked at the front door; if someone were to walk in, they would see the priest cleansing you, a Godsent blessing.

Your elbows started to tremble, and the man noticed; he slid a hand below your stomach and hoisted you up against his chest, your back pressed against him. He held you up, his arms wrapped around you as his pelvis smacked against your ass, your feet dangling one foot above the floor. He slid a hand down, his fingers running down your slit, groaning as he felt where you two were connected. He ran them up again and pushed his middle finger against your puffy clit, gently rubbing it as he kept working himself in and out of you. Your head fell back on his shoulder, and he took the opportunity to attach his lips to your neck, kissing and nibbling at the skin.

You truly never had felt anything like this; if you had been a fool, you’d have thought you were glowing from how fulfilled you felt. The familiar tension grew in your lower stomach, lewd noises leaving your mouth as the man dug the fingers of his other hand into your flesh, holding you closer to him as his movements became erratic. His groans and grunts were sending shivers down your back, only adding to the multitudes of sensations you were currently drowning in. As if he could feel you were close to reaching your orgasm, he mumbled against your neck, “Let go, ma chérie. Let evil leave your body, let God replace it with goodness.”

Your breath hitched and with a few more nudges on your clit, the pressure building inside you snapped. Your vision went white as you came, the feeling different from your previous releases. Even through the waves of pleasure, you could feel something drip down your thighs and could hear squelches as the priest kept thrusting his length in you. Your mouth was open, silent cries leaving your throat as you clenched tightly around the man. You felt his lips move against your neck, but you were too lost in feelings to understand what he was saying.

Your tensed-up muscles slowly relaxed as the remains of your orgasm washed over your body. You whimpered as the man kept moving, your core feeling overstimulated by his length still burying itself inside your sensitive walls. He quickly pushed your front back against the altar, grabbing your hips as he moved both his hips and yours in sync, your nails digging into the wood as your ass smacked against him. His thrusts were harsh and fast, leaving you breathless; tears were streaming down your cheeks at the delightful ache.

His hips stilled, his length buried deep inside you, as he groaned lowly. You felt your inside be flooded with warmth, whining as you dropped your forehead against the wooden surface, the cold of it grounding you. You were panting, the warmth creating a pleasant pressure inside your core as the priest rubbed his thumbs over your Venus dimples. He stayed inside you for a few more seconds, before easing out of you, leaving you feeling empty. He once again manhandled you so you were now sitting facing him, holding your limp body up as he dragged a hand up your moist thigh, grinning, “See this wetness? It was the remains of evil leaving your body.” His hand reached your slit and he gathered a sticky white substance on his fingers, bringing his hand up close to your lips, “And this is goodness. Do remember, my dear, your sins are scarlet and they shall be as white as snow.”

You gaped at him; he truly was a man of God. He pushed his fingers past your lips, and you let him, wrapping them around his digits as your tongue licked at the goodness. The taste was bitter, but as your eyes met his’, all you could think about was how caring and selfless the man standing in front of you was. You had come to him, worrying about your purity, and he had completely cleansed you of sin and given you his own God-gifted goodness, not asking anything in return. He removed his fingers from your mouth and brushed your cheek with the back of his index, his smile not faltering, “What is this look you are giving me?”

You blinked a few times, your cheeks flushing as you realized you had been staring, “Father, I must thank you. My body and soul were barren, and you made them anew again. I do not know how I could ever repay you.” His eyes narrowed at your words, his hand reaching to grab his glasses before he put them on and ran a hand through his hair. It dropped to your thigh and drew shapes on there, his gaze not leaving yours.

“Alastor,” he said simply before stepping away from you and bending down to grab your clothes. Your expression turned to a confused one as you watched him slip your underwear up your legs, your skirt following. You let him dress you, his fingers skilfully clasping your bra behind your back before he motioned you to lift your arms so he could slip your shirt back on. Once dressed he let his hand lay on your thigh again, before he spoke up, “My name is Alastor. Call me by it and your debt is repaid.” He grabbed one of your hands and dropped the rosary in it before grabbing your waist and helping you down the altar, “Keep this, use it whenever you feel evil is near.”

You nodded up at him and smiled, your grin faltering for a second when you saw that the crucifix on the wall had detached and was now hanging upside down. Oddly, you thought nothing of it and you looked back at Alastor, your smile spreading wide, “Thank you, Fa—Alastor.” You squeezed the rosary between your fingers, watching as he bent down once again, but this time to grab his cassock and Roman collar. You stood silently as he buttoned it up and placed the white collar around his neck. He straightened the fabric with his hands, before meeting your eyes.

“You look quite a mess, dearest, you’d better go home and clean yourself.”

Your hand flew up to your face where dried blood was caked on your chin and around your mouth, and you felt a blush creep up your neck at his words; he did not look any better. Despite it, you nodded, shifting on your feet as you thanked him once again, “I cannot express how thankful I am, Alastor, truly. You, uh, you should probably get cleaned up too; people would probably wonder why there’s blood smeared on their priest’s face.” The man chuckled and nodded before bending down to grab your coat, handing it to you once he straightened up. You took it and quickly slipped it on, putting the rosary in one of the pockets.

You clasped your hands together and bit down your bottom lip as the man put a hand against your back and urged you to walk with him. You walked down the main aisle silently, stopping once you had reached the end of it. You turned to him and opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it, “Go, now. Enjoy your newly found purity.” You smiled and dipped your chin once; he grinned back, “I will see you tomorrow, though I am hoping you will not walk back in here with that same pitiful expression you had earlier.”

You let out a small laugh as you gestured that you agreed before giving him one last glance and turning around, walking towards the door. You could feel his stare burn holes in your back but ignore the feeling, pushing against the door and stepping outside, the sunlight momentarily blinding you. You sighed loudly, looking around to make sure no one was close; the last thing you wanted was someone seeing you limp, your face bloody. You began to make your way back home, ignoring the way your thighs stuck together from your and Alastor’s bodily fluids. You thought about his words, and strangely, you found yourself disagreeing; you hoped the faceless man would come back. You had tasted true goodness, the powerful and unconditional love and mercy of God, and you wanted more of it.

#alastor smut #alastor #alastor fanfiction #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #smut #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel smut #priest alastor #reader insert #alastor x reader smut #alastor x you #yueyan writes...

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distant--shadow · 4 months ago

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The Witch and the Widow – Chapter One – The Lake

Laudna Bradbury had murdered her husband.

Maybe murdered. Apparently. That is what brought Imogen here - indirectly, at least.

Not that she's with the law enforcement or anything. Not that, definitely, though ironically being an officer - an interrogator - would suit her well, at least on paper. Passion and enthusiasm would be a different question - and that's why she's here. Sorta. Indirectly, again, for a different question. Words travel, by means of mouth or ink or thoughts (apparently, she had found out), even though thoughts should not travel past the head that they were made in. But they did, and continue to do so, and Imogen had heard enough accounts about the man himself (the Lady’s husband, when he was alive and after the fact), had seen enough women squashed under the boots of the men they were tied to to intimately know and understand a flash decision made in a moment for self-preservation-

all too often women tempered their instincts to allow themselves to become the soil underfoot rather than the sole of the shoe

so much as to say that Imogen does not care much if Laudna Bradbury had murdered her husband.

She cares more about what the words whispered and weaved and waded in the time after wrote:

Laudna Bradbury had used witchcraft to murder her husband.

The only utterances of magic Imogen had heard of, had seen, had unexplainably received taken telegraphed by inner voice and grey matter before that rumour, were her own.

Imogen needs answers, desperately, as though a necessity purely imperative like breathing and eating, and so she brought herself to the source of the lake before it divided and weakened and meandered from river to muddy stream to drink directly from her-

(it.)

Laudna Bradbury is a widow, a widow who continues to live on the estate her husband’s heraldry and wealth had afforded them, company kept by a small team of housemaids and gardeners and the like.

and it is a large estate, a lot to look after, for sure, certainly, with its couple hundred maybe more years in age and just as many acres. There's hairline cracks in the stucco, a missing roof tile here and there

but there is no denying that it is a fine example of architecture, certainly was the highest of fashion at the time. A grand country house with an East Wing and a West, bay windows and towers and pleasing ratios between alcove and doorways and arches and walled topiaried gardens that extend from north to south, illustrations in stained glass ornately framed with flowering climbing ivy

statues that step out from domesticated bordering jungles, now appearing more as gargoyles thanks to the decay of time, noses eroded like they have rotted off, birds’ nests of briars thorned crowns or horns

rosemary bushes skirt the main building’s façade, perfuming the sometimes hot-and-humid, more often brisk-and-grey air carried through the opened lead-lined boiled sweet coloured window panes into the dark mahogany-panelled and silk-embroidered tapestried interiors.

Off of the West Wing there is an extension nearing the height of the gargoyled walls that surround the estate. This is the wall that fortifies the Lady Bradbury’s private garden; with doors adjoining directly to her study - both of which are off limits. Imogen doesn't know much of pretty and imported flowers, but she knows local common sense, knows what berries to pick and which weed’s sap causes a blister that will never heal again should it brush her skin.

Through small cracks in the masonry delicate tendrils curl out; leaves crawling, surfacing, small purple flowers with yellow tear-drop centres blooming.

Deadly nightshade.

She wonders what else grows behind the wall, patiently biding its time until the decay of such allows it through.

It is in the stables that Imogen spends most of her own time; her years of experience working under Master Faramore awarded her an earnest recommendation, and it sure helped that a couple of the Lady’s mares and a stallion were from his own livery, that they had been raised and trained by Imogen's own hands before they left them.

She needs answers, so she has taken herself to them, to the lake to drink from. She observes from a distance, listens to any whisperings and wonderings that bed with her in the servants’ quarters.

The days are long, mostly spent between mucking and feeding and exercising and grooming the horses and watching the Lady Bradbury taking a walk around the herb garden with knees as muddied as the kitchen staff’s, or cutting bark segments from off of the trees that dot the grounds as if she were operating in front of an amphitheatre of flora and fauna students whilst Imogen brushes down one of the horses or shovels hay

and despite the distance and Imogen's best efforts to remain subtle, the Lady Bradbury’s eyes would sometimes catch hers observing (staring, admittedly), and she would smile, and perform a barely perceivable curtsey (one of many behaviours outside of expectations), and Imogen would tip her brimmed suede hat in return, and would think of how despite the fact that the Lady’s practices of class and boundaries and what is proper were different, a bit odd, nothing of the woman's behaviour suggested that of a killer - only the situation that she stood in - the peculiarly beautiful widow with a walled off poison garden. And so maybe the same is to be said of her magic, should she even be harbouring or practicing any (although admittedly her appearance certainly is bewitching…)

and it's like the instances before but unlike them - Imogen stealing glances of the Lady Bradbury as she potters about her estate (she probably really does potter, she fills so much of her time with crafting and making. Imogen wouldn't be surprised to see her pale skin elbow-deep in caked-on terracotta pigment digging out clay rich soil into old whisky barrels to have carried by willing hands to a throwing room with a secret kiln.) but on this day, when their eyes in new routine now inevitably meet across the wildflower-speckled field (that in itself is unusual, highly out of vogue, it isn't the acres of well-kept uniform lawn and paths laid with talking-point pebbles imported from the coast that the other estates boasted and Imogen had glanced when ferrying Master Faramore’s horses elsewhere) the Lady Bradbury takes pause, before she starts to make her advance towards Imogen.

shit.

She's been brushing the same patch of short thick hair on Foie Gras’ shoulder for so long that she's surprised there isn't a bald patch. Maybe the Lady Bradbury is worried as such. Maybe Imogen has been too obvious in her observing (admitted staring). Maybe she has been found out.

She feels her brow start to perspire, the muscles in her limbs wishing to move erratically and awkwardly and restlessly and to carry her to stand out of sight hidden behind the thick neck of the horse like an obvious child playing hide and seek behind a tree trunk, or to flatten the creases in her breaches and her linen tunic and pick out the strands of hair and hay that have lodged themselves into their weave, untwist the grasp of her suspenders over her shoulders - but she practices restraint - is trained and cautious and intentional and thorough she was only being thorough with the mare, casts her gaze in iron like the blacksmith hammering the horseshoes and steels herself for the Lady Bradbury’s approach.

Her skirts are full and structured and plumed by many layers of petticoats that hide the movement of her feet across the wildflower lawn, causing her to appear to be drifting like the bees do from petal to petal, pollen dusting her pleats though ghostly her skin in contrast to the fine fabrics that she dresses for the part, black in mourning, still, bodice tight and sleeve leg of mutton, an ornate decorative layer of black lace laying over each yard of textured textile like spider webs on porcelain patterns, her husband's tableware collecting dust in the kitchen cupboard.

real impractical for how tending towards practical the Lady dares to be, hands on, too busy for errant hairs in piano key ivory and ebony windswept and loose from the high bun she pins in place with a cameo broach, a memento mori engraved in silver and inlayed with ruby eyes and tied with red ribbons. Her skin also proudly displays the age and perhaps trauma that her hair does, lines from laughter and furrowed brows and the feet of the crows that cry from the top of the chimney pots

Imogen has heard her call them her children (the birds that is, not the wrinkles) - has heard her talk to them as if they are responding, oftentimes giving her own tampered voice to do so (and to Imogen’s amusement)

The Lady never had children of her own; those are their own rivers of rumours within themselves. Imogen did not care for that stream of gossip at all.

The Lady steps closer, and the yet-to-be familiar fog of her mind cocoons Imogen, water transmuted into mist against jutting rock at the plummet of rapids, relief from the laborious work and humidity, her previous restraint to keep her body in check breaking as she visibly swallows and licks her lips, suddenly aware of how dry they had been.

The Lady Bradbury rests her hand on the back of Foie Gras’ neck, fingers long and pale and decorated in black lace like mother of pearl inlay and marquetry on a lacquered curious curio cabinet that perhaps Imogen had eyed through a stained glass window standing in the corner of the out-of-bounds office.

“Good day. It's Imogen, correct?” her delicately veiled fingers comb through the mare’s mane, her dark mahogany eyes seeming to look over the gloss of Foie Gras’ coat to inspect the way the late morning sunlight rests upon its sandy hues before turning her attention back to Imogen with a smile.

She hadn't spoken much to the Lady since she was hired a few weeks back - not much being that this is the third time, after her interview and a brief acknowledgment when being shown around by one of the housemaids the day she started.

The Lady Bradbury’s lips are painted a deep purple, an unusual colour for sure; Imogen had only seen illustrations and paintings of the dignitary from era’s passed in shades of peach and pinks and reds, stencilled in exaggerated shapes, and as with the landscaping of grounds, to wear such obvious make up itself is frowned upon, old fashioned, conveniently equated with providing false fronts.

The Lady’s teeth are bright, especially in comparison to the purpled dark lips.

and sharp

especially in comparison to how soft-

“You must pardon me, have I got it wrong?”

shit, fuck-

“Oh! n-no-” Imogen was staring, definitely “I apologise m’lady. You are right, it is Imogen.”

God dammit - she’s gonna get herself fired, fired for daydreamin’ and giving the horses receding hairlines and ignoring the Lady of the Manor when she addresses her-

The Lady chuckles to herself delicately, an act displaying a markable absence of frustration and bewilderment.

“From Master Faramore’s, yes? How are you finding the new environment? I am sure the stables here pale in comparison to his, but I do not believe that they afforded such space and the opportunity for frequent walks around such a beautiful lake…”

“Certainly, m’lady. There are less of them so they get more attention, they can be well looked after-”

“Indeed, plenty of grooming at the very least-”

Imogen can feel the hot blood rush to the surface of her cheeks, unable this time to wrangle her body’s motor reflexes.

“I have yet to visit the lake m’self, I am sure they enjoy bein’ taken by you though, they always seem happier when they come back.”

“Is that so? Well, I must insist you see the lake for yourself, if not only to relish the fact that you took great part in an amount of their contentedness.”

The Lady Bradbury looks to her expectantly, Imogen expected to have a reply for the unexpected.

“Would you accompany me this afternoon?”

Imogen can read thoughts. She can read thoughts but what if the Lady Bradbury can too? Or what if she can tell that she is imposing? Would she find herself in the bottom of that lake on her very first visit? A drink more filling than what she had wanted, her lungs full and void of buoyancy. Imogen can read thoughts but she dares not to read the Lady’s.

She can feel them, though, that first and second and now third time in her vicinity, feel how they are different, an audible silence amongst the swarm of bees wings and small talk and anxieties

At some point the Lady had stepped around Foie Gras’ head to stand beside Imogen

She smells like sage and gunpowder

On the day of her interview she had smelled of eucalyptus and raw animal fat-

“You’re quite the thinker, aren’t you?”

Of that she is guilty, though usually she can argue that the majority of the thoughts that weigh her down are not her own.

“Apologies m’lady, I wasn’t sure I had heard you right. Did you want a horse saddled for you for this afternoon?”

Imogen had never thought that her accent sounded particularly thick or clunky, but it felt as heavy as her mind tends to be around other company when speaking with the Lady, her tongue all thick tangled muscle swelling against the roof of her mouth and her teeth.

Perhaps this is some sort of witchery. She waits for the molasses to take a hold on her muscles and limbs, for the her skull to be crushed concave from the inside

But it doesn’t happen.

The Lady smiles (again)

“Almost. One for you and one for me, if you would accompany me around the lake - there isn’t a cloud in the sky today and it would be a shame to keep the clear reflections of the mountains to myself and Foie Gras here.”

Imogen is thrown. Yes, y’all could argue that this is exactly what she came here for; time alone with the Lady Bradbury, the opportunity to form a rapport or to subtly pluck at her brain but there is something in the way that she carries herself, how she talks to Imogen with ease and lack of formality that is alarmingly disarming, and leaves Imogen cloudy on why she came here in the first place-

“C-certainly, if it’s what the Lady wants-” she chuckles (again, again) waving her hand dismissively before catching herself and laying it over the patch of hair on the mare’s shoulder that surprisingly hasn’t thinned from all of Imogen’s enthusiastic (distracted) brushing.

“I will take Ceviche; you seem to have formed quite the bond with Foie Gras.”

Imogen can only nod with lips parted in silenced protest as she feels her cheeks flush again.

The walls of the stable are thick and stone, absent of windows save for the upper halves of the handful of wooden doors that allow for the horses to pop their heads out in eager greeting to Imogen as she walks towards them with their buckets of feed.

It is a clear day, as the Lady Bradbury has said, hot and humid and Imogen is grateful for both the surroundings and the company of the stable.

As she rakes the trodden-in and dirtied hay across the flagstone floor she allows the earthy scents of the dried grass to remind her of the smell of the sage, the crumbling mortar imitating gunpowder.

She wipes the back of her shirt sleeve across her brow, skin also sweating at the wrist where the gloves wrap work-beaten leather over shielded skin

Soft skin, mostly - save for where her fingertips appear to be frost-bitten.

A fairly visible reminder of why Imogen is here, should she forget again in the Lady’s presence-

Not that she would dare to take off the gloves.

That would only lead to questions.

‘Jammed in between horse-drawn carriage and stable door’ - she used to say, before the purple bruised tips started to migrate further, splitting out like surfaced capillaries that encompassed her fingers one knuckle at a time

They mark half-way over her palms now – like someone had dipped fine dense vegetable roots in an inkwell and struck them in lashings across her hand, punishment obfuscating her palmistry.

She hears one of the horses whinny – Ceviche most likely, a little restless, the black stallion not having been let out onto the fields yet today, as Imogen was now preparing him for his ride to be taken shortly.

The Lady’s saddle is very ornate, the leather finely tooled and decorated with organic flowing arrangements that resemble leaves and petals and insects with patterned wings or many many limbs

Its material and stitching is kin to the other saddles, the ones for notable guests and stablehands alike, brands the same maker’s mark

After a short amount of time observing (staring), Imogen suspects that the Lady tooled it herself.

The Lady does not ride sidesaddle – she straddles the stallion proper.

Imogen can only assume that she changes from her garden-strolling undergarments to allow for this, having never worn a crinoline herself - that would both be out-of-class, and, more importantly (to Imogen at least) - real impractical.

She had noted as such about the Lady on the first day she had seen her taking one of the horses (it was Carpaccio, a black and white paint) out of field.

It was the first instance of out-of-expected behaviour that she had witnessed.

Imogen can admit to herself that such a small thing had ignited her warming to the widow.

Imogen allows the Lady Bradbury and her steed to take the lead, pace set by the older woman’s enthusiasms making themselves known in short enough time from pointing out ‘notable’ forms in the sloping rock faces lining the well-worn path, covered in blankets of moss and ferns and tall stems of bell-shaped pink and white foxgloves and pomanders of wild thistles.

“I just can’t help but imagine what tiny creatures would love to make home between the cracks in the rock and the tree-stumps.”

“’lotta mice and rats I imagine, probably squirrels-”

“Well, yes, certainly…”

Ceviche’s slow walk carries on ahead of Foie Gras��, and the Lady sways with his gate in the saddle, though despite this Imogen could just about read the slight deflation in her shoulders when she had replied to the Lady’s statement.

Her head turns over her shoulder, gaze searching and challenging Imogen’s, caught staring (again), dark eyes hollows of homes burrowed in rocks, the high sun exaggerating high cheekbone architecture, pleasing ratios of brow to bridge of nose.

“…I refuse to believe that there are no imps or fairies when the land is so perfectly carved for them.”

“I can only say I’ve heard stories…” Rumours, rivers.

“Certainly, else you would not be here, would you?”

The Lady holds her gaze a moment longer, as if expecting Imogen to have an answer worth vocalising for that. Imogen feels her pulse begin to thud at her temples, the sweat returning to her hairline and underneath the cuff of her gloves.

The Lady giggles melodically and dismissively, returning her attention to whatever catches its fancy on the path ahead.

“How ugly it is that we must quarry and build. I have thought more than once about leaving the manor to the animals and the girls and making my home in the cave by the lake- oh, I am so very thrilled to show it to you.”

Her excitement cuts the atmosphere, spring back in her step transposed through the steed’s, one hand off of his reins and gesturing in the air.

“You can see it from the upper floors of the house – though that is rather rude of me to say, isn’t it? If you will allow that injustice to fall upon the architect and how societal structure seems to love its walls and assigning basement dwelling.”

Imogen finds herself inadvertently allowing Foie Gras to fall at a pace beside the Lady and Ceviche.

“That’s alright, most nights I tend t’lodge in the stables; eases my mind that I’ll be near the horses should anythin’ happen.”

“Plenty of wild animals around, yes? They do get spooked so easily.”

“I like how you’ve named ‘em – it’s fun.”

“Oh!, You do? I am so glad! You are the one who has to be calling their names most often after all.” Imogen may be in early days (hours) of learning the Lady’s tells, but the smile that creases the skin around her nose and mouth and deepens the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes feels genuine.

“It does often make me chuckle, I assume you’re fond of raw meats?”

“I suppose you would think so, wouldn’t you?”

“Are y’not?”

The Lady takes pause, her look introspective.

“Have you ever eaten horse?”

“w-what? Of course not – do people actually do that?”

“Mmhmm, across the waters – in all directions. It is certainly a common custom. What makes horse any different from beef?”

“I could never – we share a bond, they let us- they give us-” Imogen's tongue is too thick and heavy again, blubbering with words that do not come easily to it as they do her head. She allows herself a deep breath, collects what little face she has, remembers the presence she is in (a Lady regardless of murder or witchcraft) “-in all honesty I rarely eat any meat, the more time ya spend with animals the more guilty ya feel about doing so.”

“How peculiar…maybe you need to spend more time around carnivores.” The Lady laughs at her own joke this time, hand patting at the side of Ceviche’s neck, the horse unaware of what words have been said. Imogen is thankful, in this instance, though she will admit she has tried more than once to see if her mind reading extended to her four-legged friends.

“But they’ve got no choice, that’s how they were made.”

She mimics the Lady’s movements, lovingly patting Foie Gras at the same spot on her neck.

“Made…yes…You have incisors don’t you? Canines?”

“I do, but I don’t have a mouth full of ‘em. Most of our teeth are as flat as these fellas over here…” she ruffles the mare’s mane “-though I won’t deny that gettin’ bitten still hurts something fierce.”

“Makes you wonder what sort of damage you could do if you so chose to, after all, your eyes are not on the sides of your head.”

The lake is beautiful.

Of course it is. It displays itself naturally basined, wrapped in the embrace of the mountains surrounding draped in forest cloak, walls both man-made and much older obfuscating its view from the ground floor of the estate.

The lilac and blue hues of the pebbles are familiar, lining the vegetable patch borders in the garden, larger stones used for holding stable doors open.

It is quiet over the lake. The terrain raised around it shutting out the winds, only the quiet breeze that drifts through the canopies on the mountain crests giving a gentle whistle to the waters below, an enjoyable confusement between what is wind and what is the crashing of the tender tides.

The waters are clear blue with a hint of turquoise, green given by either the surrounding plant life’s reflection or by the ones that live underwater.

It reminds Imogen of the lakes in the mountains from her childhood. It is something else new.

Their horses slow to a stop, on the Lady’s cue.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

“It really is - no wonder why the horses come back so happy.”

“And will you be as such on your return?”

“Certainly m’lady, thank you for allowing me such a privilege”

“It is not mine to give, though I will make it explicit that you may come down here whenever you wish – providing the horses are happy, of course. That is what I ask of you.”

Imogen thinks she is blushing again, but the feeling is further inside her than her veins, a warmth radiating.

“You take good care of the servants at the estate, don’t you?”

For the first time, the Lady seems thrown by what Imogen offers, a step behind instead of two larger-horsed paces ahead.

“They take better care of me.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone wish to leave their home to the help.”

“It would be the very least I could do.”

“You give ‘em food and a roof over their heads-”

“They sow the seeds, they tend to the animals, they butcher their meat and harvest the wheat to bake the bread. I have been so lucky that they have yet to poison me.”

“I can only say from ma short experience that I’d find that hard t’understand.”

Her face softens again. It feels both comforting like a blanket but then uneasing like having the lights blown out.

“Funny thing, perspective…”

Lady Bradbury slides off of her horse, heels of her fine boots falling into the gaps between the pebbles, though her footing remains certain, experienced.

On the surface of the lake the trees grow downwards, the birds fly with their bellies exposed to what lies in the waters.

The Lady halts, dropping to one knee as she makes short work of the laces on her shoes.

Imogen isn’t sure if she should be offering to remove them for her, jumps down from Foie Gras and jogs clumsily on uneven surface towards the Lady regardless.

“There are old stories of this lake, you know-”

Lady Bradbury confesses a little breathlessly, lung capacity limited by the press of her thigh into her stomach. She swaps her knee for the other on the ground, starting on the other lace.

“I won’t tell of them just yet, I would hate for them to be off-putting.”

She stands straight again, the sieved remnants of harsher winds that have made it over the mountains’ embrace wishing to make field mouse nests of her hair, spiderwebs of the lace collar around her neck, footprints of birds’ feet fossilised in the marble cornering her eyes.

She looks at home at the lake, certainly a natural thing - flesh and blood and bones cocoons to silk cotton to yarn to lace – Imogen wonders what a marvel the Lady could paint and chisel into the mouth of an open cave.

Balancing, she pulls each shoe free, grin knowing, slightly manic, intensely catching Imogen before she gathers the length of layers of skirts into one hand and steps into the clear waters.

Imogen swears she sees something conjure beneath its surface to greet her.

Laudna Bradbury had (maybe) murdered her husband – (maybe) with witchcraft, most importantly - but Imogen has bigger questions that require her answers, and so she follows the Lady into the lake.

#imodna #critical role #imogen temult #laudna #bells hells #here it is folks #the 1800s ish AU in an unspecified location!#thank you to my boy freshy for being my proof reader #im feeling more aware than ever about how much of a mess my writing is to read #this will be up on ao3 once ive got my invite #but unil then...#browz writes #(!!!!??????)#recommended reading #look at me use that tag on myself #comments are fuel for typing bbz

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yandere-wishes · 1 year ago

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𝕆𝕦𝕣 ℙ𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕪 𝕃𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝔾𝕚𝕣𝕝

Summary: You try to escape from two fearsome Sith Lords. Surprisingly they take it rather well.

Author's note: This is totally getting a part 2. Or maybe a series we'll see.

Warnings: dark, absolutely no regard for the rule of two, sorta a vent fic (venting that these two are so fine and I can't get them out of my mind), slightly fluffy.

The empire's warships have a tendency to blur reality. The interiors of their large hulking exoskeletons house endless corridors and makeshift chambers. Vast, endless arrays of space. They've been optimized for housing droids, clones, and artillery. Not for escape, not for an endless search of a freedom that has long since eroded.

Calling yourself anything but desperate would be a lie. Your feet run to the chorus of your broken heartbeat. The need for freedom, the need to escape spreads through your body like a poison. You know it'll end up killing you, either from exhaustion or by their sabars. But you have to try, you have to run. Even if you've left fragments of yourself in the warm bed the three of you sleep on. Even if you forgot your heart under Anakin's pillow and your soul still lingers in Maul's warm embrace. Maybe freedom is worth cutting off pieces of yourself, if only in the hope that someday they might grow back.

There's something wrong with the corridors you're sure of it. You've never been one for directions, instead relying on the holo screens and navigation systems to lead the way. Mirror images as far as the eye can see. Identical, plain. Nothing substantial to store in your memory. There's something ironic about this situation, a punchline that doesn't quite land. You half haphazardly tug on the skirt of your nightgown, desperate for anything familiar. You're not sure why.

You remember how Anakin called you pretty this morning, still hazy, still clinging to the sensation of slumber. Perfect blue eyes too dazed to look at you. Really look at you. The chosen one gazes at your ghost, your ethos. the perfect doll he and Maul had morphed you into. Behind you

Maul pulls you to his chest. Hand running up and down her side, trying to resurrect you into his dreams. It's only when Anakin's eyes close, seeling the shimmering blue orbs, that you crawl out of bed and into the unknown.

You're lost, abandoned in absolute desolation. The marble tiles bleed frost into the soles of your feet. Somewhere in the distance, you feel a disturbance in the force. Too far away to matter, yet leaking with a potent rage that burns. It's hope you think, albeit pathetically, maybe it's better to capitulate this pointless crusade and wait for the Sith lords to find you. The crash comes just as you're about to stop. You bump into him, falling in the process. All armor and steel. The Stormtrooper's mask is off giving you a clear view of his scarred face. His eyes flash, some dreary emotion too obscure to read, he offers you a gloved hand, something human something casual.

You stare frozen.

When exactly did you stop comprehending human idiosyncrasies?

When exactly did you start reading every interaction as a threat?

He's a monster, you think, just like the ones you've been warned about. Lectured time and time again by both Anakine and Maul. Monsters pry on little girls, especially ones who wander off on their own. Monsters lurk behind unsuspecting walls, ready to pounce when their prey approaches. You wonder if, the definitive definition of "monster" could be passed on to the two Siths who call themselves your lovers.

There's blood, too crimson to be real. Metallic aromas wafted through the air. You've only now noticed how close the disturbance in the force really is. Close enough to distinguish itself. To reveal that, in actuality, it's not a disturbance at all.

It's two...

Something cold yanks at your forearm. Pulling you to your feet. for a split second, your nerves calm. The familiarity of the cybernetic arm grants you a heavy ease. Anakin pushes you over to where Maul is standing. Golden eyes burning holes through the stormtrooper's armor. 'He didn't do anything' you long to say. But the words wisely die on your tongue as Maul grips your shoulders. Anakine's saber is lit, stabbing through the soldier's armor as if it were flesh. As if killing him where as easy as killing a rogue thought. "You're quite a foolish soldier for daring to touch that which belongs to your commanders. Even more imbecilic for so much as looking at emperor Palpatine's disciple."

Maul's grip on your shoulders tightens, eyes never once leaving the bloodshed. One of his hands instinctively roams to your belly, then slides down to your thigh. Rubbing it ever so gently as his claws pierce your soft skin. You close your eyes trying to make yourself smaller. You hate how his touch grounds you. How the familiarity plucks at your heartstrings. When he touches you like this you wish you would forever rot in his arms.

"'I'm sorry" You don't know why the words come so easily. As if they've been itching to spill from your tongue. Maybe it's easier to say 'I'm sorry' rather than 'You've broken my perception of love, of reality and now I can only find comfort in your darkness.' "Hush" Maul's anger spills with every syllable. His claws dig deeper, earning him a pained hiss from his doll.

"You're not sorry, in fact, you rather enjoyed this didn't you? Running away making us chase you down, I never thought your species would enjoy being the prey so much, little one." Anakin walks over, saber seethed at his side. His every step promised pain, retribution. He's angry, furious. They both are, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, they'll end it all today.

Maul's chambers have always been a testament to Dathomir, bathed in deep scarlets and endless ebony. You wonder if he's homesick for a place he's only visited in his worst ephialtes. After the incident in the corridors, they drag you back to the Zabrak's room. Neither bothering to say a word. Merely permitting their rage to engulf you, subduing you into submission. It's an unwelcome surprise when they begin to prep for the day. Throwing on their black cloaks, prior to choosing your outfit. An abnormal affinity settles across the room. Too unnerving to go unchecked.

They dress you each morning, a ritual you think, some attestation of love that's never been quite right. Maul drapes you in velvet dresses. Each one harbors a sui generis softness that sits erroneously across your skin. Their opulent sensation only brings forth feelings of aversion and despair. Their softness an ode to your imprisonment.

the dresses come in shades of crimson, detailed sometimes in black, sometimes in gold, and sometimes in a frigid blue that sends shivers running up your spine.

Anakin fusses over your accessories, why they feel the need to dress you so extravagantly daily is beyond you -as you've come to realize many things are- On days when Anakin's hubris reaches its apex, he bathes you in gold. Astonishing glittering collars across your neck and Kuat bangles hanging from your wrists. When he's sober from his pride he chooses black diamonds. Simple and exotic. scintillate and opaque.

Allusions to the dark side.

A hidden reference that crawls inside you.

Once, back when you'd been sure defiance was still an option. Back when callow hope still dared to flow through your veins. Back when you'd been a jejune, stubborn thing. You had refused to wear one of the dresses they'd bought. Adimant in your refusal until Maul had stuck out his hand. Summoning the Force to remind you just who held the supreme authority here.

The Force had strangled you, clawing hungrily at your neck. You felt your bones caving in on themselves, watched with exacerbating hysteria as your feet abandoned the floor. He'd only released you when he was sure you were near death's adorned door. Permitting you to molder on the floor akin to a ragdoll.

Anakin had chastised you after you'd conjured enough strength to sit up, gasping greedily for air. He'd broken two fingers that day. One still harbors a small scar.

A Promise ring.

An augury.

There are days, few and far between. When they've deemed you've been behaving adequately for long enough. That they permit you the choice of which dress you'd fancy wearing for the day. It's a rare event, reserved as a special treat. You think it's their way of proposing variety, giving you the illusion of choice. Making you feel a little less smothered.

Today is not one of those days. Today, you feel them pick you apart, only to reassemble you in their image. Drowning you in extravagance. A reminder, one whose deprecating nature weaves itself within your muscles. You, little girl, are nothing more than a doll. And dolls should know their place.

No sooner do you feel the final lace fasten across your back, that Anakin is tugging you outside the door. Metal arm clasped around your forearm.

Maul follows behind molten gaze locked on your face. The hallways bend to their will as if the walls themselves quiver with their presence. You recognize this corridor, recognize the frigid forlorn.

There's something wrong with Emperor Palpatine's throne room. It's surreal, makeshift. His real throne lays somewhere cold, somewhere even his apprentices don't dare wander off to. The ironclad throne has never felt right. Never felt like it held any real power. Just terror, just dread, just hatred. But here it is in all its glory. Left to two apprentices who'd rather treat it as a toy than a sacred place.

Anakin dramatically throws himself onto the throne. One leg thrown over the armrest as he leans against the other. His other leg planted firmly on the ground. He keeps you steady on his thigh. Torturing you with his distant, disappointed look. Maul stands in front of you. His eyes liquid gold melting into you. You see the galaxy in them. Hear it whispearing secrets meant to be forgotten. It's Anakin's voice that rattles you from your disjointed thoughts.

"You caused us so much worry angel" he's being nice. You don't trust that. There's something sinister plaguing his words.

"You know Ani, she may cease escaping if you'd cease to spoil her." Maul leans down, gripping your chin and squeezing. " The brat forgets her place, merely cause you'd rather coddle her than discipline her."

Anakin glares, a shift in his eyes, blue bleeding into gold. "Hmm, Maul, you're starting to sound an awful lot like Kenobi right now."

"Why's that? Did the old fool tend to also point out your shortcomings?"

You wonder who this Kenobi is, as you watch the Siths' exchange crude childish vitriols. Maybe he'd make a better lover than the two men you have the misfortune of being adhered to.

They never could truly see just how similar they were.

Two sides of the same coin.

One born of copper, the other, black rose petals.

Subconsciously you reach out. Grasping Anakin's robotic hand, fiddling with the panel, peeling it away to gain access to the wires and circuits. You have a bad habit of ripping things open. Anakin learned this the first time he kissed you and you tried to gnaw at his chest with your nails. Not in malice, but rather to satisfy a ravenous curiosity. A raging need to open him and see just how he ticked. You'd wished to perform an autopsy on his soul. Rip him open and devour all his secrets. Back then you'd wondered if you could kiss sunrises into Anakin's eternal night. Strip him of bleak blackened skies and introduce him to stars and a moon that shines. He'd only vaguely permitted it. Opting to pluck the stars lying within you. Swiping them for steel and lava and other mundane things that fueled his incessant rage.

Anakin's head dips, lips pressing on your jugular vein. "You're ethereal" Anakin mubbles against your skin, like the dying prayer of a collapsing star. He's so pretty when he kisses your neck. Biting away pieces of you. Stealing your light for himself.

"Princess" Maul seethes venom pelting from his words. You realize you'd been ignoring him. Something he's not too fond of. "What in the stars was going through your pretty little head?"

he looks like he'd love nothing more than to wring your pretty little neck right now. "I just..." your words feel heavy. Tiny bullets polluting your tongue. It feels so cruel to say when you know just how much they love you. "I just wanted some freedom. Just a bit of space."

"Dumb little angel" Anakin chastes. You lower your head in embarrassment watching Maul kneel in front of you. He cups your cheeks, placing a soft kiss on your head. "You can never escape us beloved".

"I love you," says Anakin. All you hear is, I'll haunt you, I'll break your ribs one by one so that I may possess your heart. Maybe they mean the same thing.

"And I'm pretty sure if Maul could feel normal emotions like everyone else, then he'd love you too." You can't help but let out a giggle as Anakin throws his head back laughing. A rare melodious sound, that causes your heart to skip a beat. Maul merely rolls his eyes before pecking you on the lips.

You trace your fingers across Maul's chest, feeling the pummelling of two hearts. A double heartbeat. Two melodies entwined, You wonder who he harbors in those hearts. One for love and one for family. You nip at his bottom lip. Ushering the blood into your mouth. He tastes of Ichor and smoke. Of sadness and rage. From behind you feel Akanin bite into the hollow of your flesh. Leaving traces of himself upon your skin.

"Our pretty little problem" Anakin mumbles.

You're a problem, a vexation draped in velvet, an unsolvable equation. Trapped between a love that seethes through your body like a toxin. Engulfing you until your mind relents. Maybe it's easier this way. Easier to say 'I love you' without the double entendre.

You do love them.

A rather arduous conclusion to reach.

Maul and Anakin.

Palpatine's apprentices.

Your lovers

Yeah, that sounds about right...

💜💜: @athanasia-day @hotpinkboots @jenn-patterson-69 @nickiiiixoxo-blog @the-chains-are-the-easy-part

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hometoursandotherstuff · 4 months ago

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Very spacious, original, 1959 mid-century modern in Duluth, MN. 3bds, 3ba, $525K.

But, I wonder if this is why they decided to get out.

The underside of the house is deteriorating and water is eroding the ground that it's on, but the listing says it's solidly in the rock.

Inside, you can see how spacious it is, and how it needs decor.

There are so many closets. They could use a good cleaning and polish.

It just looks so dirty and neglected.

I like the 3 sided fireplace.

This is so spacious. The slate floor could use a good polishing, too.

The kitchen needs some work. The stove is too small for the space and I don't know what's happening above it. The copper tile backsplash is kinda cool, but the cabinets need a good degreasing and polish.

This bedroom is nice and has an en-suite. The carpet needs to be torn up, though.

The bath has original blue tiles and an interesting sink.

I would say that this larger room is the primary, b/c it also has access to a deck.

It has an en-suite. I like the one-piece sinks. There's plenty of storage in here, too, plus a makeup vanity.

I also like the gray tub and sink. This bath was retiled and I'm not sure about the sink. It may be original.

Here's a bonus room- an indoor pool, but it looks like a total gut. Black mold on the wall and the liner looks shot. Not to mention the carpet.

The roof looks like cement.

There's a walkway under here.

0.34 Acre lot

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/3328-E-Superior-St-Duluth-MN-55804/61518190_zpid/

#mid century modern homes #fixer uppers #unusual homes #houses #house tours #home tour

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separatedway · 2 months ago

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The wind battered against the snow-capped mountainsides, bringing flurries of gray and white that cut across the spy's vision, obscuring any visible landmarks in the storm. Ada trudged through, bundled in a long coat, her eyes covered by polarized goggles, and the lower part of her face wrapped in a scarf. The folds of her ushanka hat were tied underneath her chin, and a gloved hand reached above her face, palm outward to shield her lenses from the snow as I.R.I.S scanned the bleak landscape for her point of entry.

The village had long been abandoned, the bones of the houses still stood, even though plenty of walls and windows had been stripped by years of heavy wind. Ada can only see the new cityline in the distance because of I.R.I.S's multispectral scanning.

It would be easier to penetrate Immol's borders by the outskirt sewers, old tunnels the new buildings were built on. The village cistern should connect to it.

The grate had already been eroded away by years of neglect and exposure. Ada climbed on top of the stone rim and braced her hookshot on the edge, digging her heels into the corroded metal. Jumping once, the metal creaked, and bent. Twice, it groaned and sank. A third jump, and the grate falls down with a clamor, Ada rappelling down the sides with the cable, retracting the hook when she's underground.

Instantly, the temperature around her is much warmer, and the absence of light make the goggles she wears more cumbersome than useful.

She strips off her goggles and face mask, activating the light on her ear piece to navigate the stony passage. Water trickles into the sluices, but the levels are much lower than any actively used sewer. Lucky her.

It's a few minutes navigating closer to the city, when she spots a beam of light from the surface.

And the sound of a phone ringing ahead.

She reaches behind her ear to turn off the light, walking quietly to see what had happened.

Someone fell, her first thought, looking up. Then, looking down-

Leon?

Crumpled against the tiles, bleeding, not moving-

She jumps down and takes off one of her gloves to touch his face. Still warm. She slides her fingers down the side of his neck and counts the seconds. One, two-

Still breathing. Still has a pulse.

She pulls his arms out in front of him and manueuvers him on his side, resting his head on one tucked arm, and laying him out in recovery position.

His body is dotted in bite marks. Not deep- he wasn't bleeding out too much.

He hit his head.

The phone rings again, and Ada pulls it out to look at the facetime request. Ingrid Hunnigan.

Ada answers.

"So, you're Hunnigan," she starts, "Leon's out cold, but stable. Is he outfitted with any first aid?"

@piecemover

#piecemover #realdeadeye #timeline 2020

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poisonf0rest · 10 days ago

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𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧

Plip, plop, plip, plop.

“The walls are crumbling.”

Plip, plop, plip, plop.

“Can you feel it? The ocean is rumbling.”

Today marks the beginning of a new era.

After years of disproven theories and failed experiments, the Byrgenwerth Council has finally granted you approval to perform the surgery you’ve been perfecting since your days as a student: a procedure that will grant eyes to the inside of the brain.

A method to elevate the mind to the plane of the gods.

A way to see beyond.

You’ve been tinkering away in the laboratory for hours already, prepping for your opening surgery as you disinfect drills, scalpels, and needles all from muscle memory. Shoulders stiff from hunching over the tub, you set out the last set of equipment to sterilize and dry, lacing up your white coat before stepping into the main corridor.

Strange, you don’t remember it being flooded before.

Wading through the murky liquid, you feel it slosh at your ankles with every step, the once pristine tiled floors of the Research Hall’s grand entrance were now cracked and eroded under the layer of water stretched as far as the eye could see.

No matter. Your surgery is scheduled for a quarter past, you have no time to waste on such trivial matters. You’ll simply ask one of those orphans to begin mopping up this mess.

Continuing forward, the building seems to deteriorate with every step: grand columns and statues of Church scholars from decades past erode before your eyes, the mist eating away at the very soul of the Hall, leaving it deserted and ugly and starving. It beckons you further. Closer.

You pause at the base of the stairs. The railings have all but rotted, and at your feet is a patient- which you do not know- scrambling for something in the water as she mutters incoherently.

“Where is your caregiver?” You ask, beginning towards her until she lurches forward, tripping over her bound ankles as she slips down the last few steps, falling headfirst into the murky water with a dull crack.

Rushing to her side, you help her up, “Are you alright? Tell me how I–” Dark liquid clings and oozes down her hair and skin. Like a rotten egg cracked open.

Her face is gone.

You feel her body twist and contort against your palms, elongating as the patient garbs rip and tear along all the new angles that should never exist on a human form. And over her head is a leather bag, strapped onto her shoulders and fastened around her neck with layers upon layers of buckles fastened so tight that dried blood sticks them to the bag itself. There is no face left. Under the leather there is nothing but a bloated, tumorous mass that bubbles with fluid, and when the patient tries to speak again it sounds like the roar of the ocean.

You do not scream.

You have seen this before.

After all, you are the one doing this to them.

“Oh,” The patient pulls away from your hold, gasping as she goes back to groping around in the water. “Has someone, anyone, seen my eyes? I'm afraid I've dropped them in a puddle.”

Plip, plop, plip, plop.

What is the suffering of one when it could mean the salvation of a thousand?

What is justice in the face of true madness?

You do not know. You simply listen to the science, to the teachings of the Great Ones, and pray that They are right. Pray that this was all worth it.

Plip, plop, plip, plop.

The further up you climb the more patients you run into, all in a state of transformation and decay due to the surgeries you and your fellow researchers conducted on them. Most simply stagger about, blind under their leather bags and bloated heads, others wriggle like worms in the puddles forming from the cracks on the floor, and some are nothing but heads, praying to gods who will not listen.

You try and listen. Anything to ease their suffering.

Suppose that’s a little hypocritical though, isn't it?

Or perhaps that makes you their god?

Some patients have undergone trephination three or four times. None have gotten better. But the true chances are noticeable. Sure, there is a base loss in appearance and more human-like qualities. However, that is in exchange for insight into something even greater, something beyond the average human’s comprehension. It is the key you’ve been searching for.

They are lucky, you reason, to be the chosen ones for this grand endeavor. After all, each and every patient here enlisted themselves for research, wholeheartedly believing in the holy crusade the Healing Church has undertaken to cleanse Yharnam. It is your honor, truly, to be working alongside such devotion.

After all, in a city without hope, there is only so much one as an individual can accomplish. Either you're a scholar, a killer, or fodder for the prior. Fodder to feed the stars, fodder to raise hell. It gets harder to tell which way is up with every passing day.

Are we rising?

Or sinking?

Plip, plop, plip, plop.

Finally, the staircase ends, falling apart behind you, and you pull on your surgery gloves. You smile to yourself as you prepare for the operation, remembering just how close you are to finding the knowledge of transcendence. The Council has entrusted you- Micolash himself has entrusted you- and this could very well be the next stage in humanity’s correspondence with the realms beyond.

Up until now, all of your patients have stagnated. Despite their altered forms, they were still undoubtedly stuck on this plane of existence, only sometimes slipping to the higher planes of the Great Ones once you drilled more gray matter into their brains, recalling the dripping pattern of rain and the roar of the ocean.

Water, you hypothesize, is the key.

Bodies of water act as liminal spaces- gateways, if you will- from our own world to one of the Great Ones. Like looking down at one’s own reflection, that relationship mirrors the relationship between the world of the gods and that of our own: our realm is merely a moment’s imitation of true existence, one that is warped and fragile, disrupted with but a ripple.

To be able to reach beyond the water’s surface, to break free from the role of a mere reflection and sit atop the true world alongside the Great Ones. That is your purpose. That is the goal of the Research Hall.

And so this is all but a necessary sacrifice.

Walking into the vast operating room, you feel the burn of the spotlights as you set the tray of tools down aside the patient, the rough click of metal on metal reverberating through the room. The rest of the researchers watch you, like spectators at the coliseum as they surround you from the observatory decks. You hope Micolash is among them. You hope Lady Maria is there too.

Strapped to the table is a patient you’ve come to know well, a woman who was as dedicated to finding the key to ascension as you were. Your first success.

“Saint Adeline,” you greet, bowing even though she cannot see you through the leather bag buckled around her head.

Adeline giggles. “Ma’at, Themis, my beautiful Yama. Has the day of judgment arrived?”

She tries to reach for you, but the buckles strapping her to the operating table chain her in place. As if knowing she’s being watched, her voice drops into a drowsy whisper, “Is the ocean falling? Rumbling?”

You hum in response, filling up a syringe with brain fluid- not your discovery, not your choice in name, you’re aware it’s rather silly- the grayish amoeba crawling and bouncing along the vial. However, you were the one to recognize its use, for once extracted from a patient whose transformation was complete, you hypothesized that re-injection into a brain could stimulate the formation of internal eyes.

And today, your hypothesis will be proven correct.

It has to.

“Yes, Adeline, today the surface will break.” You prepare to make the opening incision, a drill straight through the occipital bones, only to drop your hands when you realize there is nothing in them.

Adeline smiles up at you, and you curse at yourself for never noticing how beautiful she was. Paler than moonlight both in skin and hair, blonde strands cascading over the operating table as she sits up, taking your face in her palms. Wrenching your body towards hers, her grip fractures your wrists, lips brushing by your ear as she gives you one last kiss. Breath as cold as ice, eyes as pale as the moon.

"Only an honest death will cure you now."

Plip, plop, plip, plop.

She is dead.

Everyone is dead.

A rogue Hunter broke into the Research Hall, slaughtering everyone in the observatory deck in the midst of your surgery, blood from the bodies pooling down over the railings and steps. Years of research- of true progress - destroyed by a man worth little more than a beast.

You can hardly think. You just run.

Church Hunters are killers by nature, beasts who oh so easily give in to the Scourge. Clearly, this one was already lost, driven mad by his own bloodlust.

Dying screams and unanswered prayers echo down every hall like a haunted church during worship, and no matter how far you run their last words ring in your ears and rattle your skull. The air tastes like iron and you feel something warm trickle down your lips. Your nose is bleeding.

Running into a laboratory, you duck as bodies are thrown against priceless equipment, vials shattering and blood splattering onto countless records as the Research Hall runs red. The water runs red. The ocean rises.

Surely someone has raised the alarm, more Church Hunters should be coming to the rescue, but by then you fear it may be too late for—

“Stop running, you fucking scum.”

You freeze.

You swore you had outrun it. You swore it was behind you, lazy and greedy in the carnage it had already created. And yet here it stood, blood-soaked and snarling before you.

Death itself.

Hunched in the corridor before you was the rogue Hunter, standing in the ocean of blood as he bites into a trapped scholar’s neck, the poor boy writhing with a violet scream until he goes limp in the Hunter’s arms, drained.

Vampyre. Vileblood. Accursed beast.

“Monster.”

He smiles back, fangs bloody and bare. “Likewise.”

With a lunge, the Hunter is upon you, but it is not the harsh tile but rather a soft thud of soil that breaks your fall. The petals of crushed sunflowers shrivel under your body as they dim in their dying moments.

No, not sunflowers, there is no sun, not anymore. Instead, these ghostly imitations of sunflowers seem to feed off of something else entirely, curling around your bleeding legs and stretching towards the Hunter as he too appears in the gateway to the garden.

Unsheathing his claymore, the Hunter stalks forward, shadows warping his form with every arch he passes under, ticking closer and closer and closer still. But instead of swiftly delivering you the killing blow, the Hunter stalls, pausing at the last archway before the garden as he sees a patient writhing against the marble.

Their bloated head was too large for their deformed shoulders to support, and instead of fleeing they were doomed to writhe on the dirt, chained limbs flailing with every gurgled cry. The Hunter barely wastes a moment, cutting free the patient’s bindings before a dull thud echoes down the garden walkway.

You watch the patient’s head roll across the marble and scoff from your place on the ground. What a waste of a valuable test subject.

Even in death’s face you can’t help but laugh at the self-proclaimed righteousness of this Beast. “Do you think yourself a savior?”

At first, he doesn’t grant you the dignity of a reply. “I hold no illusions. I'm just a different breed of monster from you, heretic.” Swinging his claymore, it glints the same violent red as his hair. It’s as beautiful as it is blinding. “But at least I’ll die knowing I haven't condemned hundreds to an early grave for the selfish illusions of gods and power.”

You laugh, “Illusions? Your kind will never comprehend the truth. Their lives were willingly offered for the sake of evolving mankind, so that no plague or war or sin could corrupt us again.”

The Hunter is above you now, kicking a boot onto your chest as he forces you to the floor with the tip of his claymore pressed to your throat.

You simply greet the kiss of metal with open arms, saying a final prayer in hopes the Great Ones accept you in your next life. “Kill me, Beast. Kill me, but know that our pursuit of knowledge can never be quelled.”

“You call it knowledge, I see only carnage.”

“And the dog can stare at language so long as it desires, but it shall never speak.”

“Then howl.”

And with a single slash, the Hunter severs your head from your shoulders.

Plip.

We fail to realize our own latent potential until the moment it is lost, and we sense its absence. Ironically, this is the very nature of insight, like the moment one licks one's own blood, only to be startled by its sweetness.

And your blood, mon cherí , was oh so sweet.

Plop.

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

Every night, without the sun ever coming up, the lunar cycle inches closer to the full moon. And with every cycle, the neverending hunt grows more violent and vicious.

And when the full moon finally takes up Her place in the sky, She hangs low with a silver glow and the promise of blood. She is enchanting, haunting, and hungry in a way only the divine can be: utterly insatiable.

The early spring snow has long since melted, slathering cobblestones in a bloody sludge, the cold air tainted with the rotten stench of iron and the screams of the Beasts, newly transformed and starving. Down the flickering streets, far in the distance, and even inside alleyway buildings, the howls of the damned are inescapable.

Everybody who has once called Yharnam their home is dead, dying, or transforming into something else entirely.

You’re not sure which is worst.

Where the Beasts go the Hunters follow, two sides of the same twisted fate, and the hunt quickly turns into a bloodbath. To quell public panic and unrest, the Healing Church has deployed wave after wave of Hunters, and soon both man and monster prowl the streets of Yharnam, nearly indistinguishable as they are doused in red and silver.

The Church has eyes everywhere tonight, and yet, with so many injured you cannot help but keep your clinic doors open. You took an oath, and you shall keep it no matter how dark this night gets.

Within hours, your clinic is overwhelmed.

The main floor only has three rooms, several dozen cots crammed in between supplies and maze-like walkways, and the stench of gore and panic overwhelming the small space. Even with extra makeshift cots you and the orphans scrambled together, several dozen Hunters and injured civilians lay sprawled across boxes of medical equipment, bleeding out against tables or on each other.

You tried to mandate Scourge infection screenings at the door, checking for darkening veins or fogging pupils, but with only the children and yourself left to run the clinic you’re quickly overrun and forgo the physical examinations. Perhaps that was the first mistake. By the second toll of the bell the clinic already reeks of blood and piss and sweat and death. Combined with the rising temperatures due to the growing crowd of bodies and the overlapping screams of your patients, it was nearly unbearable.

For the sake of basic sanitation, you tried to delegate each patient to their own area and medical equipment, but cross-contamination is inevitable as panicked townsfolk and aggravated Hunters scramble and fight for the quickly dwindling supplies. It was a nightmare come to life.

“Doctor!”

Turning, you nearly barrel into an elderly woman, helping her out of the way before you rush to Alison, who is still calling your name as she and Edwin fight to keep a patient down. He’s a Hunter, you quickly realize, pinned onto the cot as he thrashes and screams, a black rot squirming and crawling like a parasite burrowing into the gash across his open stomach.

“ Merde ,” you curse, watching the rot spread, “It’s the Scourge. Edwin! Strap his limbs down and ensure no other patients come near.”

The boy nods, already shouting orders to the other children as they struggle together to tie down the screaming Hunter as you force panicked observers out of the way.

Running past, you shove past the door to your lab, scrambling up the stairs and between the numerous experiments until you find the mixed cultured samples of Diluc’s vampire blood.

There was no time to check which of the trials- if any- actually contained an antibody capable of fighting the Beastly Scourge, but you’d be damned to have collected this much information and not try when a patient was dying right below your feet.

You pick one randomly. “Please,” praying into the syringe, you fill it with culture #9801. “Work.”

Downstairs, someone screams.

A few seconds later, you hear a loud crash, a body hitting the floor, then nothing but panicked shrieks, chasing you down the stairs as you burst through the clinic doors.

The infected Hunter was already in the midst of transforming, one furry arm freed from the restraints and thrashing widely at the air, snarling like a mad beast as Edwin and Alison fight to keep the other limbs locked.

Disregarding the flailing claws of the half-beast, you duck beneath the equipment, crawling until you lay under the mad Hunter’s cot. Snapping up, you lunge to avoid getting pierced, twisting around the bottom of the cot before thrusting the syringe into his side, pushing down as you watch the gray liquid inject. He howls and you tremble, fighting to keep the needle lodged in his rotting skin.

Then the Hunter lies still.

A moment of silence.

And, before your very eyes, he begins to revert, fur receding and bones snapping back into place as he groans and gasps in human pain. It worked.

It worked.

It really worked.

Giddy with hope, you’re already running through countless possibilities of furthering testing on mice and the logistics for mass producing a vaccine, the reality of finally creating a cure for the Beastly Scourge so impossibly wondrous you’re physically shaking. Biting your cheek does little to hide your smile, and it's only another look around the packed clinic that reminds you of the task at hand.

Rolling out from under the cot, you instruct the children to leave the man’s restraints on, just in case, you tell yourself, and move them on to treat new patients.

Notes can wait. Plans can wait. Hope can wait.

Your patients cannot.

You repeat the mantra over and over, yet it does little to ground you against the flurry of thoughts surrounding this potential cure. Which, in hindsight, is probably why you failed to notice a fallen medical tray, boot skidding across the metal surface as your ankle rolls out from under you.

You couldn’t even process the fall in time to scream. Only a blink, and your vision swoops to the ceiling as you plummet backward.

But you never hit the floor.

An arm wraps around your waist, holding you tight the other hand re-balances you from the small of your back. Then you’re hoisted up, the walls shifting back in place. Even so, your savior’s touch lingers, the burn of his palm radiating even through your lab coat. He smells like smoke.

“Careful.”

You breathe in deeply despite yourself, “Diluc.”

You didn’t even notice him enter.

But then you falter. Why is he here? Your Hunter makes it a point only to arrive when the clinic is empty, or at least sneak by to avoid as many people as possible. There is no way he wouldn’t have heard- or frankly smelled- the blood and panic in your clinic from miles away with his enhanced senses.

Your brows furrow, and Diluc flinches ever so slightly as your fingers graze his jaw. “Is something the matter? You look weary.”

Refusing to meet your gaze, Diluc notices Alison and Orton struggling to drag another cot through the crowd of patients, and vanishes from your side. He single-handedly lifts the bed and sets it down across the clinic hall, reappearing beside you within a fraction of a second. His palm immediately returns to rest against your back.

“You seem busy.”

Avoiding the question. Typical.

And yet it’s really quite hard to stay mad at Diluc when he subconsciously hugs you tighter, shielding you from the mass of patients pushing past, so clearly overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd and yet lingering by you. For you. Not only that but the heat of his touch and the looming reminder of how much his form towers over you makes you far more distracted than you’d like to admit.

But before you could even think of teasing him for the habit, Diluc pulls you even closer still, making your tongue twist in your mouth as your jaw goes slack. His hand comes up, skimming past your collarbones as it pauses by your neck.

Is he—? Here? Now?

You’re still in the midst of processing the initiation of this very public display when Diluc frowns, his hand brushing past your jaw.

“How…” Ever so gently his fingers tilt your head back, tracing across your neck with a touch so cold it almost feels like the tip of a blade. “When did you get this scar?”

“Scar?”

Startled, break from Diluc’s hold, picking up a medical tray for a makeshift mirror as you crane your chin backward.

Sure enough, slashed across the near entirety of your neck was a needle-thin scar, silver and almost invisible in the low light. You would have thought it a trick of the fluorescent clinic lights or side effects of your fatigue if not for Diluc questioning it first.

How had you received the scar?

You can’t remember.

Your vision swims for a moment, distorting as if a veil has been thrown over your eyes, focusing and unfocusing as if the cloth of reality danced and fluttered just outside your perception. Seeing through omission. Noticing only that which is not there. Remembering that which has not happened yet and what is to come.

It rushes against your ears, a sound strong enough to be a feeling, like getting tossed under the waves until your very sense of being is distorted, not knowing which way is up.

A blink and it’s gone; you’ve resurfaced, and your head throbs in its absence.

“Saints.” Groaning, you cradle your temples, muttering that you’re fine over and over again as you manage to hear Diluc’s voice through the roar of the surf.

He says your name again, louder this time, and the sound of the ocean cuts off with the scream of a child. What the fuck. You look wildly around the clinic, and yet there are no children in sight, only a young maiden and a few young Hunters getting treated for their wounds.

“If there something you’re keeping from me—”

You force a smile. “I’m fine, Diluc. Just a little tired from all of this,” you motion, arms sweeping across the clinic and towards him before running your hands up your face and into your hair. Even so, you keep the grin, eyeing the infected Hunter still sleeping peacefully in his cot. “Enough about me, did you see it? The cure?”

He still looks abnormally tense, eyeing you with something you can’t quite place, something between reverence and regret that makes your chest pang. You step forward, about to ask again when another voice cuts across the chaos of the clinic.

“Pardon me, are you the lead physician of this establishment?”

You jolt away from Diluc, whipping around as you find a young man— A patient? A Hunter?-- grinning in an almost overly-friendly manner as he approaches the both of you with clasped hands. Correction: as he approaches Diluc , clearly mistaking him for the physician.

Clearing your throat, you step before the stranger, offering him a gloved hand that he takes half in reflex and half in confusion. “Correct. However, if this is a request for quicker treatment, allow me to remind you that we treat every patient here equally and you or your friend will simply have to wait your turn.”

The man's face lights up in surprise, and he immediately shouts out an apology. “I beg your pardon, I only assumed that–” the man stops himself, nearly doubling over in laughter as curls of thick blonde hair flop with every hearty chuckle. “I suppose that was the problem to begin with, no? No more assumptions. A pleasure to meet you, m’lady.”

“Doctor will work just fine.”

"Oh, well beg your pardon, Doctor. You may call me Alfred!" He says, offering a deep bow and salute, his elbow pulled across his waist as he bends down, almost parallel with the ground.

You shift in place. Despite Alfred’s unfaltering smile you cannot help but feel on guard around the boyish man: a type of unnerving fight or flight instinct one gets when cornered by a being that resembles something almost human.

A wolf in sheep's clothing. A monster in human skin.

A mirror.

Scanning his heavily embroidered cloak, you note its uncanny familiarity, a solid gray from top to bottom and covered in tight lapels and buttons. It was adorned with the rune stitched right into the center of his chest, revealed only when the heavy cloak hanging from his shoulders swung out to the side.

That’s why you recognize them. They resemble Choir garbs. Not exactly, and he’s definitely too young to also be an orphan, but the similarity is undeniable.

And that rune, you now remember what it stands for: God’s Executioner.

You instinctually go for the dagger kept sheathed away in your lab coat. One strike. The clinic begins to warp with silence and static, and somewhere through the haze you watch Alfred lean closer, your vision narrowing into the hollow dip of his throat. One strike to the carotid artery, and the monster will bleed to death almost instantly.

Trembling, your arm raises, snaking under your coat almost in slow motion, clasping around the handle just as someone’s hand stops yours in an iron grip.

“M’lady?”

Their touch snaps you back to the present. Breath is punched back into your gut, and your senses are rushed with the smell of gore and rubbing alcohol, remembering the chaos of the clinic and the conversation you were in the midst of having.

Alfred’s smile is twisted with concern, but you’re hardly coherent enough to stop him from coming closer as he continues talking about something or other you can’t quite hear above the roar of your own heartbeat.

“The Doctor is rather overworked right now.” Your hand is nudged away from the concealed blade, and your back hits something firm, grounding you. ”Excuse us.”

Diluc. It was Diluc’s hand that stopped yours just moments before you brandished your knife in the middle of the clinic. It was Diluc’s chest you’re pressed up against, an almost casual position if one failed to notice his hands lingering around your hip and wrist.

Saints, what is wrong with you?

Alfred opens his mouth to speak again, but your Hunter cuts him off with a curt nod, turning the both of you away before pushing towards the clinic's back door. You squirm against his hold, constantly twisting around as you watch Alfred’s gaze obsessively follow you.

“Diluc, that man was wearing a Holy Shawl.”

“I am aware.”

“You- you don’t understand, he’s a hunter.”

“I know.” Diluc keeps pushing you forward, turning your neck back around when you fight to look behind you.

“No, no, you do not. He is a hunter . An Executioner, a hunter of Vilebloods, and he saw you-” This time when you turn back, Alfred is gone. You scan the clinic wildly, fighting against Diluc’s grasp.

Diluc calls your name. “I know.” His hands slowly cup your cheeks, forcing you to quit looking erratically over his shoulders and finally meet his gaze. “I knew.”

The overwhelming smells and sounds of the clinic fade away as the sudden rush of the cold night air nips at your skin, the clinic’s back door clicking shut as Diluc leads you into the dim alley. You don’t realize how much you’re shaking until you try and pull his hands from your face, your fingers trembling against his own.

How could you have been so fucking careless? You’re not a registered physician, not as far as the Healing Church is concerned, and that alone could be grounds for punishment, anywhere from mutilation to public execution. Not to mention, as a woman there’s no guarantee accusations of witchcraft or colluding with the devil wouldn't be charged against you as well. Now not only have you put your practice and patients at risk, but also Diluc and the children, not to mention jeopardize the cure you’ve only just managed to—

You need to get the Church off your trail.

It’s only the lingering heat of Diluc’s palms against your face that keeps you anchored from the voices rattling your skull with promises of violence. Breathe.

You step back. Diluc lets you. Inhale. Your eyes are still locked with his, and your breathing syncs with his own, and you watch the worry fade from his crimson gaze before you curse at the ground. Exhale.

“Don’t.”

“What?” You flinch at your own tone.

Diluc crosses his arms, blocking your path back into the clinic as you are forced backward. “I’m not a fool. You almost brandished a knife at a church executioner, you’re not thinking clearly.”

You scoff. “Very well, so I panicked. But if you had let me lure him outside alone I could have taken care of—”

“What, and you believe the Healing Church would simply fail to notice when the Executioner they assigned to investigate this clinic doesn’t return?” A snarl, and you swear his eyes glow red in the dim light. He steps forward and instinctively you shrink back. ”I knew you were reckless, but I never took you as plain stupid. Do you want a larger target on your back? You like throwing yourself in danger?”

Before you could even think to respond Diluc lets out a curt, mocking laugh, humorless as he motions between the two of you before snapping back to you. “Of course you do.”

Now it’s your turn to see red.

How dare he.

How dare that impulsive, violent, martyr of a Hunter accuse you of being the reckless one.

And then— “You will stop seeing patients.”

The sheer absurdity of the request is enough to give you physical whiplash. “Excuse me?”

Not a request. A demand.

You gape up at him, insults and plain curses boiling up against your throat as you stare at Diluc’s apathetic, unchanging face, scowling down at you as though disciplining a bratty child or spoiled dog.

“I certainly will not .” You step towards the clinic, the screams and prayers of patients resounding even through the door frame. “Tonight's Hunt has no end in sight, and already there are dozens who need my help. Not to mention I finally might have a cure for the Scourge.”

“That is precisely why you must lie low! You saw the Executioner prying, what makes you think the Church won’t send more dogs?”

"This is my duty, Hunter. Just as you have yours."

Diluc snarls, "I'm fully aware of what being a doctor entails. But you are not—" He catches your gaze, tired and frustrated, and goes silent. Fuck. How is it that everything he says around you comes out wrong? He thinks it might be the curse of being undead. Oh, how easy if he could blame it on his lack of a heart, to blame it on Vampirism to blame it on the Church. But he feels it, he feels it skip when you look at him like this, he feels it tremble as he fails again and again to hold on without leaving claw marks and open wounds instead.

His anger has a way of always attacking the people he wants to protect.

“You’re right,” You whisper. “We have only failed before, but that is precisely why we cannot fail again. If I can somehow manage to get the Church to distribute this cure, everyone in Yharnam could be immune in only a week's time. We could stop the Scourge in a matter of days- is that not worth every risk?”

"It was foolish. There was no guarantee that cure would have worked."

You stare at him, and by the gods are you tired. You’re tired of reaching, tired of convincing yourself that there must always be a catch, a drawback, a trap, that every effort is just an illusion of hope waiting to shatter. You simply want the conviction to truly believe that for once the world will get better.

You think you have to hope.

After all, that is why you saved him, is it not? It’s why you couldn't pull the trigger all those months ago. It’s why, after knowing all these reasons not to, you’re falling in love with him.

A sigh, and you're overwhelmed with the need to hold him. So you do, resting your head against his chest. He’s warm. "There are never guarantees, Diluc. Every treatment is subject to trial and chance, but at the end of the day I still treat my patients, and you still hunt your monsters."

And Diluc wants to fight back. He wants to stop you, to stop you before you truly cross the point of no return. To tear himself open and display the horrors of what the Hunter’s contract has forced upon him, anything to make you realize how much of a privilege the option of ignorance and the ability to just look away is.

But all that you hear next are the screams coming from inside the clinic.

You tear yourself away from the Hunter, jerking towards the backdoor before Diluc stops you, one hand pulling you backward as the other lands on the hilt of his greatsword. He unsheathes his claymore with practiced ease, kicking the door wide as you both push into the clinic.

The stench of blood and gore nearly knocks you over.

Bile crawls up your throat, and you drop to your knees in time to dodge an operating table hurled at the door. Diluc cleaves it in half, the pieces clattering to the floor. A Beast, writhing in pain as its ribs crack open, fur and limbs emerge from its writhing body in bloody spurts, still half restrained to a cot as it screeches and drags behind him.

You lunge for your rifle, aiming for the Beast’s head when you recognize that torn uniform, the Hunter garbs. He’s the patient, the patient you cured.

The rifle trembles and your finger loosens on the trigger. “I can’t...” The cure had worked.

You can’t kill a man.

But your Hunter knows no such hesitation. Diluc moves with an eerie grace, his sword flashing in the dim light of the clinic as he meets the Beast before it lunges at the mob. Blade strikes claw and the monster roars. Diluc ducks a swing, twisting his grip before punching the claymore upwards, slicing through the Beast’s ribcage as blood sprays in an arch across the clinic walls.

"Stop! Don't kill him!" You cured him. You saw it, the cure worked. It had to have worked.

Diluc pauses unnaturally, stopping mid-swing as if his heart and instinct were fighting for control. "Are you mad?” It snarls and he drives the blade in again. ”It’s the Scourge, it's beyond saving!"

You shake your head, your eyes locked onto the Beasts. You can see it, the pain flickering in his cloudy, poisoned gaze, the slight twitch of his furry limbs as they resist the transformation. Only a human would fight that hard to stay alive.

But Diluc doesn't listen. The Hunter sees only a Beast.

Panicked, you’re about to drop your aim when your head rushes with an eerie ringing, a muted toll of bells throbbing through your ears as your balance gives. You barely register the pain of your knees ramming into the tile as your vision spins, throbbing in time to the ringing. Then, with a suddenness that makes you jump, it speaks.

The Beast’s snarls part to form words, his voice now broken and guttural, as though attempting to make human speech from an animal tongue. "You believe you can save me?" it howls in laughter. "You believe you can break the curse that’s been wrought upon us?"

Fool.

Foolish greedy human, always wanting knowledge that should never have been yours.

Diluc steps back as though stunned, his sword lowering slightly. The Beast takes advantage of the momentary distraction and charges towards him. Your body moves on instinct. With a bang, your rifle goes off, the Beast howling as it convulses over its bleeding stomach, its flesh bubbling around the silver bullet with the stench of rotten flesh.

Diluc takes the opening, claymore following a clean arch over his shoulder. The metal sings, hitting the clinic’s floor at the same moment the Beast’s head does so too, its massive body following suit in a bloody heap.

The screams of the other patients fade into the background as you stare at the lifeless body of the beast. Diluc turns to look at you, and you ground yourself in the inferno burning in his eyes. Such a violent, violent red.

“Did you…” Diluc kneels before you, and you cling to him, gaping. “Did you hear him?”

The Hunter's brows furrow, and he lifts you slowly, as though scared of startling you. “Hear what?”

You don’t remember.

Your gaze flickers back to the corpse of the Hunter. You lock eyes with his decapitated head, skull morphed into something half-wolf half-man, eyes still blown open as he stares back, frozen in horror.

He’s dead. The Hunter is dead.

Your cure failed.

And yet, before it failed it worked, did it not? There was a moment of time where it worked, where it truly worked, and in that moment alone you imagined a Yharnam cleared of the Scourge and of the rot. And it was beautiful.

You have to try again. You must find the cure. No matter the cost.

You don’t even realize you’re muttering it to yourself, over and over again until Diluc’s hand clasps onto your shoulder, ripping your gaze off the Hunter’s mutilated body and back to his own.

Diluc’s words are quiet, recited more to himself than you. "You cannot save everyone."

You know, and yet.

“If I don’t, then who will?”

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