#god moth won’t shut up

[winnies-one-super-crazy-project]

definitely not foreshadowing anything with that

definitely definitely not

hypothetically. what would your opinions be on a grumbo wedding with Grumbot as the flower girl in a fic /silly

YES

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 5; ghoap x reader) masterlist

-

Give him blood and he’ll give you something new to chew on.

Except that isn’t the way it goes. Not this time at least.

He tries to talk Ghost out of it, but it falls on deaf ears. Blatantly ignored. The car barrels down the motorway under the cloak of night, a swell of stars overhead as the city falls farther behind. Radio shut off. Johnny thinks if Ghost had his way, the radio would’ve been pulled out entirely, just wires and an empty, black cavity in the dashboard, but it’s a rental. 

And no one wants to deal with the paperwork involved in damaging military property. Not even Ghost.

Ghost won’t so much as glance over at him. Unaffected as ever, as if they didn’t just fuck. Johnny’s stomach hurts when he thinks about it. Even without her knowing, he’s broken his girl’s trust. Not for the first time; maybe not even the last. His guilt echoes not only that he let Ghost make him come, but that he liked it—that the buzz in his bones says do it again, please god, again, please let me come, I need to come, touch me, please—

He thinks about his girl, then turns to Ghost again.

In the pit of his stomach, Johnny knows this is wrong. In his rational mind, he knows it. If he were in a better place, he wants to think that he’d make a real attempt to change Ghost’s mind, maybe get him to turn around at the next gas station, but he can’t deny the excitement bubbling in his belly at the prospect of seeing his girl again after a week of nothing. 

The silence has been eating away at him. Bits of his brain flaking away, moth-eaten. Checking his phone again and again to no new messages, getting the same voicemail message whenever he calls. Something flutters high in his chest, an itch he can’t scratch; it tells him to take off in the middle of the night, drive all the way back home and pound on her door until she’s forced to answer it, forced to talk to him face to face.

Again and again, he tries looking at it from her perspective—tries to empathize with her. What he would’ve done in her shoes had she allowed a coworker to grab his dick in front of a crowd of strangers. It’s more than fair, he thinks. His own shame leaks out of his pores in the middle of the night, sleeping on top of the covers because he sweats right through the sheets. 

And yet, he keeps butting up against his own anger. Talk it out with me, yell at me, he growls into her voicemail, anger growing as the days pass one by one. 

It’s the road that alerts him to their arrival into the city more than anything. More cracks in the asphalt, the car rattling over sewer depressions and potholes in a way that says home sweet home. Usually it’s a source of comfort, like seeing the silver lining on grey clouds or the iridescence in an oil spill, purples and greens catching the light. Not now. Now the road winds like descending into the underworld, each turn coming with a sinking feeling. 

They park down the road from the flower shop, tucked just out of sight. A cool breeze wafts over his hot face when he steps out of the car. It nearly rocks him back. When he glances up, his heart stutters at the sight of her bedroom window, sealed tight now. Only cracked open during their sleepovers, when Johnny runs a bit too hot at night for them to sleep comfortably with the window closed. 

“Should I…do ye want me to give her a call to wake her up?” Johnny asks tentatively, shutting the car door softly so as not to make a noise. 

Ghost shakes his head. “We’ll let ourselves in.”

Johnny’s picked hundreds of locks in his time; he’s jimmied open doors with crowbars, set up explosive charges, used a good old fashioned ram from time to time—no stranger to the trade—but it feels decidedly uncomfortable with Ghost at his back, staring down at him as he breaks into his own girlfriend’s apartment. 

“This is a bad idea,” he grumbles, turning the pick in the lock until he hears a familiar click inside. 

Ghost doesn’t answer, just raps his knuckles against the back of Johnny’s head. A silent get a move on. 

Her apartment looks the same but different when they enter it. His muscles remember the layout though. The pink couch in the living room with two dimpled pillows on either side, the footstool by the door, the stand with her shoes all piled in neat little rows, the vase on her kitchen island with a fresh new bundle of flowers, fragrant when he dips his head to take a whiff. He’s loved flowers ever since meeting his girl. 

Ghost doesn’t try to muffle his footsteps for once. He rummages through her cabinets and drawers with all the finesse of a first time burglar looking to get caught. It smacks of intentionality. Johnny’s worked with him too many times in the field to know that if Ghost wanted to disappear into the darkness, he would. He’d be the thing creeping silently through the shadows, tread lighter than air, close enough to touch but never see. 

So it’s more than deliberate when he noisily shuts a drawer. Baiting her out. 

It’s no surprise when Johnny hears her creep around the corner from out of her bedroom. He’s tucked in the shadows of the living room, just out of the light, so he sees her first when she comes silently down the hall, whole body trembling with fear, the bat she keeps beside her bed drawn over a shoulder. Even her hands shake around the grip.

Of course she yelps when Johnny says her name, stepping out of the shadows, swinging wild. He winces when the bat smashes into a lamp, shattering it on impact. 

“Fuck!” she screams, scurrying backwards into the wall behind her. Several framed pictures rattle against the wall, nearly knocked off their hooks. 

“Noisy, isn’t she?” Ghost grumbles from the kitchen, tossing a bored glance over, unbothered by the commotion. He undoubtedly heard her creeping down the hall as well. 

“What the fuck?” she gasps, chest heaving when she breathes. Her eyes dart from Johnny to Ghost’s massive form in the other room. Poor nervous thing. She must recognize Johnny’s voice saying her name even through the panic because her lips droop in a frown, more confused than petrified.

“Hen, it’s jus’ us—nothing to worry about,” Johnny coos, hands stretched out in front of him to show he means no harm. 

It gets her to lower the bat, but only just, the slightest dip that has him darting forward to pry it gently from her hands. The ceramic shards on the floor will have to be swept up later, but he’s relieved that at least she didn’t step on any of them. 

Up close, she’s just as pretty as he remembers. Pretty as pie. How could she not be? In the glow of youth still, not like it's been a decade since they last spoke face to face—only a little over a week. A sight for sore eyes, even though Johnny’s narrow when he stares down at her and thinks about the week of his texts and calls going unanswered. His jaw undulates, rage held back by the thin thread of her scent that wafts under his nose, making him lean into her. 

Breathe in and out. 

“Us?” she repeats, brow furrowing.

She glances over at Ghost again, the man still ambling around the kitchen, at home in her little one bedroom apartment like he visits her frequently. Like it’s his as well. 

“Aye…Ghost wanted to come—Simon wanted to apologize…for the other day,” Johnny explains. 

“You broke into my apartment in the middle of the night…so Simon could apologize for sexually harassing me?” she says, the disbelief smacking in her words. 

“Hen, it's no' nice to say it like that—” 

“No time like the present,” Ghost says, not ashamed in the slightest. “Heard you weren’t taking Johnny’s calls. Might not’ve had to do this if you’d picked up.” 

Johnny doesn’t believe a word of that, but there’s no reason to call him out on it now. 

He can see her wrestle with a trifecta of emotions competing for first place. Anger, embarrassment, and then, a smidge of worry holding up the rear. Aware of the fact that she woke up to two grown men, one practically a stranger, breaking into her apartment under the guise of having a conversation. His heart aches at the thought. The lion’s share of the blame rests with him, but still it’s her that suffers for it. 

“You…you shouldn’t be here,” she rasps, flinching when Johnny lays a hand on her waist, towering over where she’s still cowered against the wall. Bat gone now, defenceless. Her pupils narrow to a pinprick. He almost tuts, poor thing. Scared out of her wits. 

It feels so good to touch her though. Soft and yielding. 

“‘Was Simon’s idea, hen, but, ah—” his breathing picks up when his fingers tighten on her waist and she squirms “—I was goin’ crazy thinkin’ ye were pissed for what happened last week. Couldnae get a wink of sleep—kept closin’ my eyes and seein’ your face. Nearly broke me.”

“I am pissed at you,” she snaps, temper getting the better of her.

“I ken, I ken,” Johnny coos, ducking his head until his lips graze her temple. “Simon’s sorry—we came all the way here so he could tell ye to your face, but fuck, hen, I’m sorry too—shoulda said something instead of standin’ there like a fuckin’ dolt—”

“You should’ve,” she interrupts, still fuming mad, an iceberg melting right in front of them. It makes his cock pulse.

“—Aye, hen, I’ve no excuse, none at all. Shoulda told Simon to fuck off and keep his hands to himself—”

“Careful, Johnny,” Ghost says warningly, finally stepping into the living room. He fills out the archway imposingly, almost forced to twist his body on an angle to step in. 

Her eyes cut over to Ghost, narrowing, lips pursing. Johnny’s heart jumps in his chest. It’s one thing to see his girl again in the flesh, but to see her all righteous and on the verge of an argument—he could bend her over the back of the couch now, sink into the plush, delicate folds of her pussy, reacquaint himself with deep, languid thrusts. Heaven after not getting his cock wet in a week.

He flinches when he thinks about the last person to touch his dick. 

“So you’re sorry?” she says to Ghost, her disbelief clear. Difficult to see why she wouldn’t find it hard to believe that the man that shamelessly grabbed her ass in broad daylight in front of a group of his colleagues and her boyfriend would now choose to apologize. 

Johnny knows the answer is no when he sees the way Ghost’s eyes rove over her body, taking stock of her little cotton pajamas and her bare feet curling against the cold floor. Ghost tilts his head to the side, eyes travelling back up to meet hers. “Sure I am, bird. Don’t I look sorry?”

Neither of them answer that. Arguing with Ghost feels different, like inviting in danger. Moving too suddenly in front of a hungry dog, jowls loose and salivating for a bite. 

He takes a step closer. “Complete pillock, wasn’t I? And now Johnny’s getting the silent treatment ‘cause of it. Just couldn’t bear another second of him moping around base on the verge of tears.” 

Johnny frowns at that. His girl frowns too, but there’s something more to it. He wouldn’t blame her for not accepting Simon’s apology, if he could even call it that—nothing about it rings sincere, more like words spoken softly to call a kitty over—but questioning it feels worse somehow. Like detonating a bomb at two thousand feet above ground. 

“…Okay,” she says instead, voice trembling a little. “Apology accepted. You guys can go home now.”

“Bird’s forgiving, huh, Johnny?” 

Johnny preens despite himself. “Aye. She’s a good girl, Lt. Told ye so.”

Ghost nods. “That’s right. A good girl who’s gonna let us make it up to her ‘til we have to report back in forty-eight hours.”

“Wait, you can’t—” she starts, then cuts herself off when Ghost’s eyes flash.

He can’t help the way he shudders at the helpless look on her face. Downturned eyebrows, pretty lips slack with disbelief, just the slightest hint of a whine building in her throat that dies when it dawns on her that nothing short of calling the cops will make the two of them leave. 

And she’s a good girl—would never call the cops on him. His perfect girl. Sweet as pie. 

Johnny falls in love a little bit more when she presses her squeezed fists against her eyes and exhales. “Fine. I’m too—I’m going back to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.”

Ghost doesn’t react to her acceptance. It’s taken as a simple fact of nature—he says something and it happens. He speaks the world into being. 

“I’ll take the couch,” he grunts, finally sitting down to unlace his boots. He looks comically large on her little couch—it’s more than likely that his feet will hang off the end, if not everything from the knee down. 

Johnny already figured as much. No point in them driving all the way back to base when they both have the next two days off duty and there’s a perfectly serviceable couch for Ghost and the other half of her bed for him. He thought they’d have to convince her a bit more or strong arm her into it (a putrid thought; he’d rather have sweet talked her into the idea), but his girl always manages to surprise him in the best way. 

On that thought, he looks over his shoulder towards the bedroom door, cock throbbing again at the thought of getting to hold his girl’s body against his. Touch starved dog. Mangy mutt, tongue lolling out at even the possibility of a pet. 

Ghost must notice the object of his gaze because he sets him straight. “You can take the floor, Johnny.” 

His tone brooks no argument. When Johnny whirls around, the words already on his tongue, she’s my girl, I’ve already slept in that bed ten times over, the sight of Ghost’s bare face, the mask now off, dangling in his hand like some scrap of fabric, makes him lose his train of thought. It’s not often he’s granted the luxury of seeing Ghost’s face—wide, clean shaven jaw, buzzed blond hair, old burn marks like a half-moon around his eye, nasty old scar slicing through his lips—and to see it now, here, makes something in him give. 

Saturnine man with a wolf’s appetite. Ravenous. 

It burns him that his girl looks slightly relieved at having the bed to herself. Irks him. Makes his jaw clench on a mean remark, half tempted to spit out something cross. Just because things have gotten complicated, now he’s not welcome in her bed? After the week he’s spent toiling, trying to make amends? Pleading desperately over the phone, stewing in guilt and heartache—Johnny knows she’s a good girl, but if he finds out that she’s replaced him with someone else in the week since they last saw each other—

Even the thought makes him see red.

He watches her as she turns around to retreat back to bed, more than a little displeased. 

“Give Johnny a little kiss before bed, why don’t you, bird?” Ghost lightly suggests. Not a suggestion. 

She freezes mid-turn. His expression dares her to put up a fuss. Johnny again nearly clucks his tongue, troubled on her behalf. Her spitfire nature is snuffed out easily under that stare. Grown men with experience in the field wither under Ghost’s stare. It’s no weakness of hers that she acquiesces time and again to his demands, glancing up at Johnny from under her eyelashes before shuffling over, pressing the lightest of kisses to his cheek. 

“Better than that,” Ghost grunts, unimpressed. 

His poor darling. Humiliated now. No skin off his back though. Johnny’s heart pumps double time when she presses her lips to his; soft petals that spread when he slips his tongue into her mouth, too eager after a week of nothing. Touch starved. Desperate to sink into her, lap his tongue over her lips and the roof of her mouth and press her jaw open to spit messily in her mouth. Take it, hen, every piece of me.

She rips her lips from his and dances away when he tries to get his hands on her, eyes wide, casting one last glance over at Ghost before hightailing it back to her room. 

He barely resists going after her. Only Ghost’s stare roots him in place; his voice in Johnny’s head that rumbles, heel. I’ll tell you when to go.

He still doesn’t know what it says about him that he angles himself towards it. Bows his head to it. Moth to a flame that shocks him to the bone when he touches it.

Ghost tosses him the second pillow from the other end of the couch and takes the only blanket for himself. No matter. Johnny’s bivouacked on snowy cliff sides, chilblains blistering his toes for weeks; nights spent camped in torrential downpours, his tent on the verge of collapsing; windswept baysides chilling him to the bone. He can handle a pillow on a hardwood floor. 

The ebb and flux of an ocean in his ear, and then Ghost’s voice from the couch: “I’ll take first watch.”

Whole body falling loose as if snipping a cord tethering him to the world. 

“I’ll clean up the lamp in the morning,” he mumbles, vision already blurring. Ghost hums low in his throat.

He falls asleep with Ghost’s voice in his head, his girl’s taste still in his mouth.

[author-morgan]

Title: Unwritten Prophecies Pairing: Deimos!Alexios x fem!Reader Rating: M Word Count: ~6.3k Summary: You are meant for the gods, but beneath the wrath of the storm, he asks the one question no oracle is ever granted—what do you want?

...but your sweet sinless sensation is not my style...

THE MASKED CULTISTS trickle from the cave. Eupheme—your sister in training—leaves too and urges you to do the same and be free of the darkness hidden below the sacred Temple of Apollo. But you won’t go. Not yet. All evening, the Pyramid under the great, bronze serpent has called to you, a moth to a flame. You move toward the artifact in a trance, the voices you’ve heard since entering the cave growing louder with every step...until there’s silence. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

You know the rough voice and to whom it belongs. “Deimos,” you breathe, heart racing at the sight of the Cult’s champion as he emerges from the shadows—his golden armor nigh glowing in the dim firelight.

He steps closer, warm-tawny eyes darting from the artifact to you. Most of the cultists are frightened by the power of the Pyramid—a force they cannot truly comprehend or control—and none of the would-be Oracles have ever shown any inclination for being able to harness its potential for prophecy. Deimos looks down at the artifact and can feel its call and energy thrumming in his veins. He has never doubted that he has the blood of gods. But to find another like him? A blessing and a curse.

“Does it speak to you as well?” He asks. The edge in his prior words faded.

“Yes,” you answer. The voices grow more numerous, louder. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus on a single thread of the tapestry of history and fate. “Of the past.” There are glimpses of Leonidas at Thermopylae, Themistokles at Salamis, and battles even more ancient for which there are no tales to be told or heroes to be celebrated. “The present.” Perikles gathers with his generals in the shadow of the Parthenon, and Spartans train for the upcoming war. But then the landscape becomes unfamiliar—seven hills—and wood and mud villages spring up on the banks of a mighty river, growing larger, grander, until the city of bricks turns into one of marble. An Eagle rises. “And of events that have not yet come to pass.”

Deimos extends his hand, fingertips barely touching the smooth bronze plates covering the artifact, a gesture for you to do the same—and a test. You know not what you’ll see—the future or the past, but the Cult’s champion hopes it will be the latter. Stepping closer, you reach out to the Pyramid, pressing a hand against one of the sides as Deimos does the same.

The oracle has spoken! To prevent Sparta's fall, the child must fall first. Your breath catches as a woman lunges forward. Her face twisted in anguish. She fights against the hands restraining her but her cries are swallowed by the wind and rain. “Please! You can't! No! No, no.” Lightning streaks across the dark sky. “Nikolaos!” At the cliff’s edge is an ephor of Sparta, holding a swaddled babe aloft in the air, inching closer to the chasm below Taygetos.  

And then the fall. The scream. A sister’s outstretched hand.

The vision twists, shifting like smoke, and you see something else—the boy again, older this time. His body hardened and face set in an expression too cruel for a child. A woman stands before him, cloaked in shadow, her voice smooth, coaxing. "Your family abandoned you,” Chrysis tells Deimos. Lies repeated so often they become the only truth the boy has ever known. “Your mother left you to die.” The priestess steps forward, cradling an object swathed in dark linen. She lays the gift before Deimos and reveals a sword—the Sword of Damokles. “But I will give you new purpose, my child."

You stumble back from the Pyramid and glimpse Deimos, breath coming in sharp, shallow pulls. He stares down at you, his expression a storm of barely contained rage, but there’s a rawness, vulnerability even, that you’ve never seen before in him. "You saw it," he murmurs, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it. Not the voice of Deimos—the Cult’s blade—but the voice of a broken man who has spent his life trying to reconcile with the prophecy spoken by Praxithea when he was only a babe. A prophecy that tore his family apart and doomed him to this life of pain and suffering.

You swallow, hard, and nod. "Yes."

Deimos reaches for you—rooted in place beneath the great bronze serpent. You’re unsure what the Cult’s champion will do. You imagine few in Hellas know the full truth of what happened that night on Taygetos and the years following as they molded him into nothing short of a monster. His callous fingertips brush against your cheek, and trail to stop at your neck, his hand hovering there. He leans closer, breath ghosting over your cheek. “If they know you can use the artifact...” Deimos doesn’t have to finish the statement for you to understand—it is a rare show of mercy.

PRAXITHEA TELLS YOU to take leave of the lesson. Between her two students, you have always excelled in learning and perfecting new teachings compared to Eupheme. A clear sign of the gods’ favor. At this point, it seems obvious you will be chosen to wear the title of the Oracle of Delphi—the highest servant of Apollo—after Praxithea.

Returning to the home Elpenor gifted you in Kirrha, you find Deimos sitting on your floor, his back and arm contorted to stitch a wound on his shoulder blade with one hand. You cross your arms, frowning—at both the sight of the Cult’s champion injured and the dark stain on prized Tyrian red and blue fabric. “You’re bleeding on my favorite rug,” you chide, stopping in the doorway with arms crossed.

He looks back and meets your gaze, a flicker of relief brightening his scowl. Sighing, you go to Deimos and kneel, taking the threaded needle from his blood-slick hands before sitting behind him. He doesn’t flinch or tense when the hot point passes through flesh. “Did you foresee this?” He asks. You think there’s a hint of humor in how he says it.

“Your stubbornness leading you to my home instead of Lykaon when you’re hurt?” You query in turn, equally amused. “The gift of foresight would not be needed for that,” you tell him. It’s a terrible habit of his, turning up unannounced and uninvited, more often than not covered in the blood of others and not his own—this time is an oddity, but you’ve found yourself in this moment before, too.

There’s a dry chuckle in Deimos’s throat, though it’s cut short by a sharp pull of the catgut thread through his torn skin. He exhales heavily, tilting his head slightly, but he still does not flinch—of course, he doesn’t. Pain is an old companion. One he has long since ceased to acknowledge. You work in silence, one stitch after another. “You should be more careful,” you murmur. A pointless request, but one you speak often in hopes he will listen one day.

Deimos snorts, shaking his head. “Careful?” He sounds appalled by the thought—being careful hasn’t won him battles or infamy. He is dread incarnate, ruthless, and indomitable. “Is that what you want me to be?”

Your fingers still for half a breath before you resume your work with a sigh. “I would prefer it over reckless,” you tell him. There are times you worry his wounds will be beyond your and Lykaon’s skills to mend. He may have Ares and Athena’s favor in battle, but he is only a man, in the end.

“You wound me,” he deadpans.

“You’re already wounded,” you retort, knotting the stitch and cutting away what’s left of the thread and needle. “But that’s hardly new.” He hums, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, but he does not argue. His hand lifts absently, fingers brushing over the back of yours where they rest against his shoulder. You’re always here for me, Deimos thinks. The voice in his head is quieter than usual. Even when you shouldn’t be.

Dark clouds gather on the horizon as you mix a sweet-smelling poultice to soothe the puckered skin around Deimos’s fresh stitches. And though he should return to Delphi and report on his mission in Achaia, he lingers, sipping watered wine and eating grapes with fresh cheese—content with this fleeting moment to be in your company.

He lingers until the summer storm takes hold of the evening—wind howling, rain lashing, and thunder rolling between flashes of lightning. It does not seem as if Zeus’s wrath will end before the morn breaks. “Stay,” you tell Deimos, seeing he means to leave. The Cult does not like him to roam Phokis at his own bidding—Praxithea will be none too happy to learn of this night either, but consequences be damned. A part of you has grown tired of the sacrifices required to please the gods. “I would not force you out in this storm.” As if commanded by your words, a clap of thunder rattles the small villa. You step closer to Deimos, reaching for his hands. “Stay,” you say again, softer this time. Not a demand. Not a command. A choice.

Deimos stays.

The first kiss is chaste. It’s careful—tentative. Just like the very first. His fingers brush along your jaw, moving back into your hair. Deimos’s breath catches—just barely—but you feel it warm against your lips. His eyes flick to yours, searching for something unspoken. You could pull away. You should pull away. But you don’t.

And the second kiss…the second kiss is not chaste. His hand knots in your hair, pulling you closer as if the gods themselves might rip you from him if he loosens his grip. You melt into him, tasting salt and copper where a fresh split on his lip lingers as he urges you to lay back on the pallet of linen and silks.

“Deimos!” You gasp, pressing against his shoulders, but it’s like trying to move a stone wall. Truthfully, though, you only want to pull him closer—you have since the first time he decided to kiss you by the falls of Lalaia. But the years of training and lessons under Praxithea and the Cult’s desire for you to succeed as the Oracle of Delphi scream at the forefront of your mind. “You know the Pythia must be untouched,” you remind him.

“I know,” he breathes, his voice low and rough. Deimos doesn’t move, still caging you between his musculature and the floor pallet. There’s something different in his eyes as he looks down at you, keeping your gaze —something dangerous. And it’s not just the raw strength and fury he carries into battle or the untamed rage that makes him the Cult’s Champion. It’s something treacherous, something he’s supposed to never feel. Longing.

“You’ll belong to the gods,” he says, the words taste bitter on his tongue. You and he are kindred. You should not belong to the gods; you should be with him. “That’s what they say, isn’t it?” Deimos’s eyes are burning with darkness and madness. He shifts, one hand cradling the back of your head, his thumb running over your jaw. The Pythia must remain pure. Sacred. Untouched by mortal desire and hands. You swallow the growing lump in your throat. “But what do you want?” Deimos asks.

It’s the first time anyone’s asked of your desires since Praxithea took you and Eupheme in. Your fingers tremble where they press against his chest. He is warmth, strength, and everything you have ever been told to resist. You want this. You want him—more than you’ve ever wanted to be the Oracle of Apollo, lying to the masses at the Cult’s bidding when you see truths in the Pyramid. Perhaps, in his own selfish way, this is another show of mercy, to save you from a life that now terrifies you.

Deimos tilts his head, waiting—daring—you to give a truthful answer. His breath is warm against your skin. You can feel the weight of his question pressing against your ribs, stealing the air from your lungs. What do you want? The words coil around your mind and heart like a snake, sinking its fangs into every doubt, every moment you’ve silenced your desires in hopes of appeasing the gods and the Cult. Everything to carry out your duties but still keep Deimos for yourself.

“You already know what I want,” you whisper, fingers curling around the back of his neck, under his matted and adorned locks. He almost smiles as his thumb traces the curve of your cheek, then lower, featherlight against the column of your throat. Possessive. Claiming. And yet, he hesitates. The Cult has stolen much—his childhood, his family, his identity. They have taken from you, too, twisting your visions, binding you to a fate you never chose. But this moment? It will only ever belong to you and him.

So, you do the only thing you’ve never been allowed to do. You pull him down—taking his face in your palms and angle his head in the way that you like best—and kiss him. Deimos groans into your mouth, surprised by your eagerness. Your lips part with his only for breath, and even then, he chases you—mouth brushing yours again in a kiss deeper, slower, more desperate than the first and the second. You’re not sure which of you is trembling more.

His lips leave your mouth, trailing along your jaw until settling just below your ear. “The gods cannot have you,” he breathes. The remnants of whatever resistance in you are lost to the wave of him, and the only thing that’s left in its place is a raw need like you’ve never felt before. You don’t know what to say, so, in the end, you settle for his name. Just his name. Said quietly with all the desperation and longing that has been making your life hell ever since he first kissed you. Deimos. He inhales sharply, leaning down to rest his forehead on yours.

You press against his uninjured shoulder, not to push him away, but to give yourself room to sit up, to breathe. He sits back on his haunches and sluggishly reaches for the linen ties holding your dress together, and you give him a small nod, encouraging him to unravel you. As he gently tugs upon the tie, the fabric sags upon your shoulders, allowing you to push it aside, and then rise to step out of it altogether. His breath catches at the sight of you standing above him—flesh never touched, never kissed, never marked by a mortal.

Deimos’s jaw tightens, restraining himself from touching you as he pleases. But the longer he sits there staring—gawking like some clueless boy and reverential as a devotee at prayer—the more emboldened you become. You kneel in front of him and reach for the bronze pins at his shoulders, the ones keeping his dark chiton in place, and unfasten them. Deimos shrugs the linen away and lets you guide one of his rough hands to your chest as you lay back again amongst the linen and silks, pulling him with you.

“Touch me,” you whisper, noticing the way his tawny-gold eyes darken when his calloused palm fully embraces one of your breasts. It’s all the urging he needs. He surges forward, mouth moving toward the spot where your jaw and neck meet, the stubble on his cheek scratching ragged against your flesh. He palms your breasts, reveling in your softness against his rough-hewn hands. The backs of his knuckles trail along your ribs, tracing along your hip until he squeezes the meat of your thigh. His mouth. His hands. It’s already almost too much.

And then his fingers find the weeping want between your thighs—all for him—and slide through your folds, gathering the slick there. You gasp, mouth falling open, eyes slipping shut, and legs parting just a fraction more. Deimos watches the rise and fall of your chest quicken, and your fingers twist into one of the blankets beneath you as he draws out the slow torture. But then, just as you want to speak protest, a finger slips into your cunt, curling pleasantly.

Nipping kisses bite and trail down your neck, leaving mark after mark as his finger slips in and out of you before easing in another. Your hips begin to roll of their own accord into the heel of his hand, craving the unfamiliar friction. Deimos feels his cock twitch beneath his loincloth with your little moans, incessantly throbbing and straining against the material, longing to be inside of you—to claim you as his own.

“They would have denied you this,” Deimos breathes at your ear. “You would have never known a man’s touch” —he moves quicker, and your breath hitches when his fingers move a certain way, catching a spot deep within that makes stars explode behind your half-lidded eyes— “never would have known my touch.” Your back arches from the pallet. It’s as if you’d been struck by the lightning and storm raging outside, body bristling with long-repressed pleasure, something only Deimos can cure. You reach for him, fingers twisting into his matted locks, beckoning him to kiss you again, and he does.

Your release is fast approaching, like a tidal wave of heat flooding across your body with its intensity. Deimos’s name emerges from your lips as if it is the only word you know. He takes pride in being the first to see you like this. The first to make you feel like this. The pinnacle of your release makes you feel like you're floating, legs weak in the blissful aftermath. You exhale, chest heaving from exertion as you loosen your hold upon his dark hair.

Deimos withdraws his fingers from your warmth—glistening in the low light—and brings them to his mouth. He groans. It's as if he’s sampling the fruit of the gods. You shiver under the heat of his gaze, but then, he’s kissing you again. Open-mouthed, desperate, and rough. You cling to him, hands running over his chest, finding the scars on his arms and back.

He feels your fingers move towards the ties of his perizoma, and he doesn’t stop you, observing you in rapturous hunger instead. His breath hitches, mouth moving inward to press a string of hot kisses against the column of your throat. Freeing his cock from its confines, you move yourself up upon your knees, aided by his strong, firm hands, coming to rest just below your bottom. The flushed tip of his length nudges against your cunt, prompting you to sigh. “Please.”

In a sluggish descent, he lowers you onto his cock—gently as he can manage—the both of you shivering in tandem. The low, throaty groan that escapes him makes your stomach churn with molten heat, letting you find your own pace. He’s big, but he fills you perfectly. Mouths dance together and then clash again, kiss after kiss of pure ardor, and you brazenly give his lower lip a tug with your teeth. It’s messy and hot, feverishly so, bringing both of you to heel as you happily drown in desire and pleasure withheld for so long.

Your cunt is tight around him, slick with arousal as you continue to lower yourself, inch by blissful inch, until he’s fully sheathed inside of you. Deimos’s heavy pants flutter across your throat, mouth pressing near the curve of your jaw. His hands are resolute in guiding you, rocking you up and down along his cock, chest to chest with you.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths weave together, forming a heated cacophony that fills your chambers. The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your flesh is mesmerizing, leaving a wave of goosebumps to crawl across your skin. The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost makes you sob from delight. The friction of your bodies, with your chest brushing against his, knees squeezing near his waist, hands gripping his shoulders. This must be better than even the Golden Fields of Elysium.  

A burning sting begins to dance along your thighs, the exertion of muscle as you ride him, moving up and down in somewhat rhythmic motions. His cock spearing you over and over again, filling you completely before you nearly draw yourself out and back down again.

“Gods,” You sigh, nails sinking into the muscle of his shoulders, your countenance one of complete and utter pleasure. Leaving behind angry red crescents against his sun-kissed skin, you don’t want the feeling to end. “Deimos, please!” With a simpering moan, your head begins to roll back slightly. Spurred by your softly-spoken praise and breathy sighs, Deimos does not relent, hands sinking into your thighs as he guides you against his cock—the angle causes friction to blossom, chests bumping together, bodies wholly tangled up within one another.

He nips his way along your collarbone, bringing you up enough to trap one of your nipples within his mouth. The head of his cock remains buried within your cunt, the warming of it making you writhe. He holds you steadily, greedily. It’s his turn to take what he desires. One of your hands twists into his matted dark locks, tugging on them as if you were attempting to wrangle him into submission. His mouth peppers warm, needy kisses around the valley between your breasts before he lets you sink yourself back down, cunt clenching around his cock.

Shameless strings of sinful noises leave you in droves, eyes closed in a state of ecstasy. Deimos groans with you, vocalizing his own pleasure as he coaxes you down towards the silk and linen pallet. With a brief bob of the head, you find yourself beneath Deimos, content between your thighs as he hitches one leg around his hips. The calloused plane of his palm slides down to your ankle before coming back up to wrap around your calf—you shiver at his touch, even with the warm, humid air and the building heat between the two of you.

Like this, Deimos can look upon your face and see the way your visage contorts into pure pleasure when he rocks forward, his cock burying itself deep into your cunt. His skin is flushed, and his expression is a mix of reverence and awe, even if you’re too lost to notice.

Your hands move, one finding purchase against his bicep, the other on his shoulder as his pace quickens. It’s a chase, galloping after his release as he bends to kiss you, releasing a grunt into your mouth when you roll your hips into his. You don’t care if he’s a touch rough with you—gods, you needed him, just like this. Just as he is. Rough and brutal. Heat swirls within your stomach, gnawing at your bones and making your toes curl in delight.

“Deimos,” you cry, and that nearly sends him soaring over the edge, cock throbbing inside of you. The friction of your pelvis grinding against him almost makes his resolve shatter into two. He’s lost count of how many times his cock has sank into you—it’s all blurring together. The inevitable rush of euphoria reaches him as his release comes, hot and blistering, making his vision blur. Teeth bared. He groans your name. Your nails dig into his bicep, a gasp torn from your throat when he thrusts into you again before stilling—his weight braced above you on trembling arms.

You coax him down, letting him rest atop you. He pillows his head upon your breast, breathing erratic but calming. You run your fingers through his damp hair, down his back. It’s a moment you’ll savor—a moment you may never have again. Another flash of lightning cuts through the warmth of the firelight, a clap of thunder following, but the silence between is longer. The storm is passing.

After a while, Deimos moves to lie beside you, half-propped on one arm, his tawny-gold eyes fixed on your face—the glow of the sheen of perspiration, the flush of your cheeks, and the soft smile upon your lips. He’ll commit it all to memory, just in case…he shakes away the dark thoughts of what the Cult would do if they knew. His other hand rests on your stomach, fingers spread out almost possessively.

For a long time, neither of you speak. Words feel clumsy, and there’s little to be said when actions speak so much louder. Eventually, you turn on your side and move closer to him, brushing a knuckle along the stubble on his jaw. Deimos. His name lingers in the air between you. He exhales, hearing you breathe his name like that is a balm and a fresh wound all at once. You curl farther into him, and his hand moves up, splaying across your ribs, feeling the rise and fall of your breath. Deimos rolls onto his back, drawing you with him, and you rest your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes. “Get some rest, my love,” you tell him. He presses a kiss to your temple—soft, a vow. You are his, and no man—not even the Cult or Praxithea—or god can have you now.

PRAXITHEA IS FURIOUS. Her protégé ruined. Years of meticulous training carelessly thrown away without a second thought—the marks on your neck speak unto themselves, as did your request to a servant for a cup of silphium tea. A moment of weakness, lust, and worldly desires. All things Apollo’s servant must be free of, immune to.

“You have been defiled!” She shouts, pacing before stylobate rostrum. “The Pythia must be chaste.” It was among the first lessons she taught you and Eupheme—to always shun the attention of men and love only Apollo. “A virgin!” Praxithea turns to face you, eyes burning with her fury and grips your face with bony fingers, nails digging into your cheek and jaw. If she cannot have you to do the gods’ bidding, then she must smite the man who had the gall to ruin you. “Who has sullied you?” The old oracle asks, voice like a serpent’s hiss.

You squeeze your eyes shut, flinching away but unable to escape the crone’s grasp. Heavy footfalls echo off the temple floor, and you meet Deimos’s tawny-gold eyes as he walks into the firelight of one of the braziers and smile, slowly, deliberately. There is no shame nor regret in your eyes or expression. Praxithea follows your gaze, and realization dawns upon her. “You.” She spits, turning to see the Cult’s champion—she should have known.

Deimos comes closer, his presence a tempest. His black-and-gold tunic hangs loose around his broad shoulders, and in the dim light, you can still see the faint crescents of your nails raking down his chest. Shadows flicker across his sharp features, his golden eyes gleaming with pride and defiance. You were meant for the gods, but now you are his. 

Praxithea lifts her hand to strike you. Punishing Deimos is beyond her, but you are still her student and ward. “Hurting her would be unwise,” he grits out.

Deimos does not bow before gods or mortals. He does not shrink beneath the weight of an old oracle’s rage. He steps onto the dais as if to defile it further. Praxithea stiffens as he nears both of you. Her grip tightens on your jaw before she wrenches her hand away as though your flesh has burned her. Her fury is still palpable, though—eyes blazing with righteous wrath. “Of course, champion,” she placates.

You step away from Praxithea and to Deimos’s side, your choice made, and path changed. You will not serve as a false oracle. You will not be bound by Apollo and his temple. You are his. And the gods nor Praxithea can have you now…but the Cult, they will still get what they desire, one way or another.

THE ORACLE OF Delphi packs a small bag with shaking hands. She must leave, quickly, before more of the Cult soldiers arrive, or worse, their champion. Because of her, Elpenor is dead. And one of the only people in all of Hellas who has the power to stop the Cult now knows the workings of the shadow organization. You try to calm her when you arrive at the chora, but she is hysterical. “Eupheme, what is it?” You ask, pleading, taking her hands into your own.

“The sister came to me,” Eupheme admits. Kassandra. You have heard the name whispered in the shadows—have seen her in visions and memories not your own. “I must leave Delphi,” she cries. After facing the Monger, she needs to get far away from Phokis before it is too late. She stiffens in your embrace. “Deimos,” she utters, looking over your shoulder, her voice trembling. You step away from Eupheme—still grasping onto her hand—and turn, seeing him stride forth into the villa’s courtyard.

Eupheme’s grip on your hands tightens for a moment before she lets go, stepping back as though distance can protect her. But there is no outrunning Deimos—not here, not now. He tilts his head, seeing the Pythia’s plan clearly laid out—she means to run. You feel Eupheme’s breath hitch beside you—so soft no one else would notice. But you do. “I could take your head,” Deimos says, voice low and dangerous. “Just as Elpenor’s was taken.”

You step into his path when he moves forward, stopping him before he can reach the sitting Oracle with a hand flattened against the center of his golden breastplate. “Deimos, please” —his tawny-gold eyes flit down to you, his lips pressed into a taut line, the harsh lines between his brows lessen, if only a little— “Eupheme had no choice,” you tell him, a convincing lie.

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

You keep your hand against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath the plate. His body is tense, a coiled serpent ready to strike, but he hasn’t pushed past you—and you know he won’t. “I have foreseen this.” Another lie. “The Gods—Khaos and Kosmos—willed this to be.” You stand a far better chance against his wrath than Eupheme ever would, and for that, you will risk the storm to save a friend.

Deimos looks between you and Eupheme, jaw tightening, then he nods in the direction of the door—a noise somewhere between a sigh and grunt leaving his throat. “Go,” he tells the Pythia with reluctant restraint. Eupheme gathers her things and rushes out of the chora, fleeing into the night, and you know you’ll never see her again.

His attention returns to you—there’s a spark of danger in his eyes, burning gold in the firelight. Deimos reaches for you, his hand rising to rest on your cheek, and you close your eyes as his thumb trails across your cheekbone before slipping lower to your neck. “What else have you not spoken of?” He asks, tilting his head as he looks down his nose at you, fingertips pressing into flesh, but not ungently.

“Only that which will forfeit my life,” you tell him. And yours.

“Come with me.” It is not a request this time. You follow him from the villa—a white horse is waiting at the entrance. Deimos places you astride the beast's back, then mounts behind you, spurring the stallion toward the Sanctuary of Delphi high in the mountains. He doesn’t speak—never having been one for needless words—but the look in his eyes when you glimpse him over your shoulder is unfamiliar. Kassandra’s arrival in Phokis has shattered the careful balance of things. The old order crumbles, and in its place, chaos reigns.

The Temple of Apollo looms above. But it is not your destination. He brings you to the Cave of Gaia.

You look around the empty chamber and then down at the Pyramid, pulsating with energy even though the bronze plates are coated with blood and scattered around the floor—a remnant of his rage. “Why are we here, Deimos?” You ask, a whisper swallowed by stone.

"My sister," he starts, face twisting in anger. "She was here among the Cultists. I–" He stops himself, stops pacing too, jaw clenching. His hands curl into fists at his sides. His memory and hers are the same but different. For years, he knew the truth of his past. There was no doubt what happened that night on Taygetos, but now...Deimos shakes his head and looks at you. "I need to know," he tells you.

"Know what?" You challenge.

The truth, but his pride won’t let him say it. He swallows hard, his voice dropping lower than a whisper. "My fate."

You study him—can see his anger give way to something else. It nigh breaks your heart. You know he is not a god, not even a demigod, just a man, but to see him act as such. He’s never looked this vulnerable, broken. "You’ve never believed in fate,” you counter.

He exhales sharply, frustration flickering across his face. "Tell me anyway,” Deimos grits out.

Taking a long breath, you reach out to the Pyramid and let the artifact's power take over. There are flashes of red and blue flames and battles on land and sea, but he stands in gold-and-white, drenched in blood. “You walk the path of fire, but the flames do not consume you. Not yet.” And then there is a flicker of hope shining through the violence and suffering—redemption. Deimos doesn’t move. He barely breathes.

Your voice drops to a hush, yet your words strike him like a blade. "Blood calls to blood, Deimos.” You can see his sister and mother—and him—standing atop Mount Taygetos, an echo of the night when he was only a babe. Both he and Kassandra have their blades drawn, and Myrrine of Sparta weeps for her children, Kassandra and Alexios. “You will have to choose. Between the path of the serpent” —you look up at him— “and the path home.” His face twists, as though he will refute that this is his home, but before he can speak, you continue. “And you already know which will lead to your destruction.”

Sighing, you step around the Pyramid, your hands rising to cradle his face, to force him to focus on you—not the dark thoughts burrowing into his mind or the decades of lies. “Deimos.” The feather-soft whisper of his name brings his gaze to yours. Alexios. Your smile is faint, fleeting. He will not believe what his sister or mother says, but you—he hangs off your every word as though they are a lifeline. “When those who would name you Alexios, speak, you must listen.”

His fingers curl around one of your wrists, keeping your hand against his cheek. Everything will be different now—there will be no return to the old ways. And should the Cult learn of what you’ve told him this night…he dreads to think of what they will do. “You should leave too,” Deimos mutters. “I can no longer promise to keep you safe.”

THE SHIP WHICH will bore you away from Phokis and the Cult of Kosmos is The Nauplios, a merchant vessel bound for Thrace. They are meant to sail with the rising sun, but a full purse of drachma and jewels assures the cover of darkness will be an ally. Kirrha’s harbor is silent in the early morning, save for the wind rustling the rigging and cloth sails of the docked boats and triremes and the breaking of small waves against the pale stones and wooden piles. Deimos has come to watch you leave—his bidding is the only reason for your departure.

The captain nods for you to join them aboard, but you’re not ready. Lowering the hood of your chlamys, you turn to face Deimos—for the last, but not final time—you rise, settling your lips upon his. Deimos doesn’t move at first, but then his hand finds your waist, fingers tightening into linen and wool, pulling you closer. His lips are warm, windburned from the sea, and rough from battle, but they part beneath yours, answering in kind. The wind tugs at your cloak, urging you away, but you linger, pressing yourself into the heat of him as though pleading with him not to send you away. A shout from the ship reminds you that time is slipping through your fingers. The captain waits. The sails are ready.

“Remember,” you breathe against his mouth, fingers curling into the open neck of his black-and-gold chiton. “You are Alexios of Sparta before Deimos.”

His fingers curl around your wrist, holding you back from stepping aboard the ship. He knows he is not supposed to feel like this, but he has—for years. Deimos hesitates, keeping you with him for a moment longer before he finally ousts the reticent question haunting his every waking thought since the path forward became clear. “Do we meet again in this life?” He asks.

Deimos is relieved to see you smile—an answer on its own. Yes. You lift a hand to rest on his scarred cheek, thumb tracing the raised scar before slipping down, combing through the growing stubble on his jaw. “As strangers, my love,” you tell him softly, a glimmer shining in your eyes. “And as old friends.”

[Deimos taglist: @alexandra-alle / @athy-lex / @certifiedlittleshit / @chaotic-spooky / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @gallimaufrea / @hereforreadandwrite / @Idkjj04 / @jadynchronicle / @joossieisdabomb / @kitkitvm / @ksziggy / @missmannequin / @morganamayne / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @novastale​ / @qhbr2013 / @rigshak / @stormyblue90 / @thatrandomfeministgamer / @thepreciouspurrsian / @vymyn / @wallsarecrumbling ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Deimos taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[annaisabookworm]

Going to the Eras Tour with Theodore Nott head cannons.

A/n this is my first time ever writing so I’m really nervous but a little excited!

“Oh cara Mia….” Theodore’s jaw drops and his eyes turn into cartoon hearts he becomes a golden retriever when he sees you step out of the hotel bathroom in the outfit you’ve put your blood sweat in tears to, you’ve worked on it for MONTHS and learned how to sew for it.

Oh and he tells you. He won’t shut up about how good you look for FOUR HOURS your face is flushed and so so so red and he just chuckles

When you get to the stadium you of course bring all your bracelets that you’ve spent moths making and you bring hundreds of them on binder rings and Theodore’s honestly shocked to see how popular you get as soon as you show up outside the stadium

Every single swiftie compliments your outfit within minutes it seems your hundreds of bracelets have been traded and people regardless give you so many bracelets theodores arms become covered in them aswell some even ask if they can get a picture with you and you smile and nod

When you get to your seats on the floor theo smiles and laughs at your jaw drop shock

“What you didn’t think I’d get the best for mia cara” he says kissing you and giving you the biggest grin ever.

“theodore we’re in the freaking front row” your in a total state of shock it’s a bigger deal to you than if he were to be proposing.

If the day couldn’t get any better after you posted a photo of yourself at the eras tour TAYLOR FREAKING NATION reposted YOU. Theodore knew how big of a deal this was since you’ve been hyper fixated on the eras tour for weeks

You SCREAM the absolute LOUDEST during the man because during your time at Hogwarts (you’re currently a sixth year) you’ve faded a lot of unfair sexism (theo would never-) Theodore however just sat down during that song seemingly knowing his place

It’s safe to say this was the best concert of your life and you cry tears of joy during every song and lose your voice for a week after.

Theodore gathers confetti in the merch bags(he bought you everything even though you told him not to) for you while you savor the last moments

Your feet start to hurt because of the gorgeous boots you’ve worn for three hours and he picks you up as your a paper weight and carries you all the way back to the hotel despite your protests

It’s safe to say that’s the best night sleep you’ve ever had and the best night of your life

Theo is so in love with you and has the biggest smile ever on his face for you while you cuddle with him in the hotel.

In the moring Theodore is awoken with the loudest happiest scream you’ve ever had. You’ve never been so happy tears fall down your face of joy and you silently unable to speak bc of your voice show with your shaking hand the notifications from Taylor mother freaking Swift. On your Instagram is a photo of you and Theodore smiling the happiest you’ve ever been and there is a like and comment from TAYLORSWIFT13 saying “OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU! ❤️” and Theodore’s jaw drops. He knows you’ll never shut up about it ever again

“oh Merlin, you’re gonna marry me now that Taylor Swift liked a photo of us aren’t you” he says teasingly and you nod laughing silently

The end <3

[abbysbasement]

this is an interest check for a longform thing i post at a later date [read in a noncommittal audhd tone] because i kind of have passion to partake in the fandom experience again and want to write kink content now [not all gross like this] for the later release [please read the content warnings] thanks love yall bye

FLIES —

CONTENT TAGS:

will i get ran off this app, this is for the real freaks only, fem!reader, dubcon, dark!ellie (?), ellie is stalker (infected) adjacent, tentacle sex, ellie has a dick made out of cordyceps fungus, odd coloured cum, vaginal pen (r!receiving), oral sex (e!receiving), aphrodisiac usage, sex-pollen adjacent, canon tlou universe adjacent –parallel reality where ellie aligns with the fungal infection instead of humanity–, bondage elements, the mycelium from the tlouhbo universe exists in this fic instead of spores, [this is not tlouhbo ellie or ellie from tlou1, and that is the only parallel with the hbo universe, this takes place in an alternate version of the tlou2 timeline, really self indulgent and gross honestly, graphic sexual content, impregnation, oviposition (of the fungal kind), DDDNE

ellie williams but tainted by the end, cordyceps tangling and twining around the base of her brain, the infection spreading through her nerves and carving her psyche, painting svelte features with an unconscious danger, a wrought twist of bulging veins coalescing around a right eye that pools with blood. this ellie williams isn’t infected, she /is/ the infection, the one god of this world, with an owlet head that wrings around in the small dark, pierces through each noise, lips twisting in satisfaction when they find /you./, you won’t notice the oozing of gore, or the sinuous growths teeming from a high cheekbone in the dim, flickering warehouse light, muddy yellow bulbs teeming with flies creating dirty, pallid illumination, blurring how she stands comforted in the mycelium, enhancing an almost kiddish mischief and the charming snaggle of a tooth that quiets your gut’s latent fear. so you shut it up, and trust her, from your curiosity, or desperation, and because the apocalypse has been so, so long. 

“how did you know I was here?” you’ll say; just making conversation, holstering your pistol, stepping closer into this room, into this darkness, over coils of mycelium that shrink and flinch underfoot. 

your folly. 

“I could feel it.” and her voice will be soft and warm, like fresh leather.  A friendly smile and a steely, glazed over leer takes you in.

“I think it was fate.”

It was like a moth to a flame; spider to a fly.

[bloogers-boogers]

Angel Dust: Satan?

Lucifer: contrary to popular belief, no, gross. We’re brothers of wrath nothing more, nothing else.

Angel Dust: Nifty?

Lucifer: are you insane??

Angel Dust: Answer short king

Lucifer: NO.

Angel Dust: Mammon

Lucifer: seriously?

Angel Dust: *arches a brow skeptic*

Lucifer: no!

Angel Dust: any incubus?

Lucifer: a few

Angel dust: juicy~, the queen?

Lucifer: Angel. Thats my wife.

Charlie: Ex, actually….

Angel Dust: *shrugs* you never know

Lucifer: *groans* yes

Angel Dust: Eve

Lucifer: this goes the same for Lilith. I would not go into further details

Angel Dust: *mischievous smirk* Adam

Lucifer: ….

Lucifer: Do I have to answer all of these??

Angel Dust: looking quite suspicious right now, short stuff

Lucifer: *rolls his eyes* yes. It was just one time! At a meeting… okay, let’s skip to the next one!

Vaggie: wait, which on-

Angel dust: nice. *smirking* Alastor

Lucifer: the bellhop?! I would fuck Adam twice if I could skip fucking that asshole. Literally.

Charlie: *disturbed* daaaaaaaaaaad…

Lucifer: no! Absolutely not!! Absolutely disgusting

Angel Dust: Vox?

Lucifer: Who?

Angel Dust: Carmilla?

Lucifer: Did.

Angel Dust: What? Really??

Lucifer: complicated

Angel Dust: okaaaay, now I have to know. Zestial??

Lucifer: Did.

Angel Dust: oh god, this is amazing. Okay, okay. Any of the ars goetia?

Lucifer: yes. Won’t say their names for obvious reasons

Angel Dust: Noah

Lucifer: huh?

Angel Dust: y’know, the guy from the boat ?

Lucifer: *wincing confused* the guy… of that flood on earth, the one that ascended to heaven after dying that Noah???

Angel Dust: yep, that dude

Vaggie: *annoyed* Angel, now you’re just naming people you remember from the bible, how in all hell can Lucifer, the devil, trapped in hell fuck a guy that literally lives in he-

Lucifer: did.

Vaggie: what

Lucifer: finding angels to fuck with is as easy as finding a nun fucking a priest on a confession booth at church. I fucked a few

Angel Dust: *laughing in disbelief*

Lucifer: I mean, it wasn’t so hard to fuck your ex boss, he’s all ‘saint’, ‘THE man’, and ‘perfect’ until I bend him over and made him suck my-

Charlie: OKAY!! Dad, we get it. Lets— *breaths hardly* let’s just finish this already or not finish at all

Angel Dust: wait, wait! I still have a few

Charlie: *GROOOOANS*

Angel Dust: how about Valentino? He brags alot about royalty ‘having done that’

Lucifer: who?

Angel Dust: moth guy, tall, purple, an complete dick, bald-

Lucifer: the pimp overlord?

Angel Dust: Pretty much

Lucifer: fuck no. I believe Lilith did once tho… for… punishment reasons

Angel Dust: excuse me, how the FUCK are those punishment reasons

Lucifer: she didn’t do him, it was mostly a trench fork up his ass doing all the work

Charlie: *crying in Vaggie’s comforting embrace* omygoodness

Angel Dust: Again. How is that a punishment???

Lucifer: is this over? Can I go???

Angel Dust: no! I need to know a few others!! And I have questions!!

Lucifer: *sighs tired* can we just skip to the questions?

Angel Dust: *upset but shrugs* alright. Out of everyone mentioned who did you enjoy the most fucking?

Lucifer: *opens mouth*

Angel Dust: that isn’t your wife or Eve *quickly adds*

Lucifer: *shuts mouth*

Lucifer: *thinks for a few seconds* okay hear me out. As much as he’s bratty, arrogant and an asshole he makes it up by being a good lay. Adam.

Angel Dust: was he a bottom

Lucifer: I would not answer that

Angel Dust: *smirk* so you bottom

Lucifer: *pissed and falling for the bait* did you not hear?? I bend him over. I made him fall on to his knees and beg for IT,CRY AND PLEAD FOR MY MERCY. CRUSHED HIS INSIDES AND I WILL DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN TO PROVE A POINT

Angel dust: *smiles proudly* okay~ next question! How many bottoms, switch and tops did you fuck?

Lucifer: 50 bottoms, 22 switch, 1 top

Angel Dust: I have a feeling that one top was Lilith

Lucifer: you’re correct. Can I go now

Angel Dust: so a dom-apple daddy when fucking in wedlock and a submissive husband with mommy wife ~

Lucifer: do not ever call me or Lilith that ever again.

Angel dust: who would you fuck or fuck again if given the chance to?

Lucifer: *deeps breath* okay. Hear me out again.

Charlie: Dad. If you say Adam again all my respect for you will be 30 feet under this hotel in split seconds from that sentence and I will ban Angel Dust from choosing games for game night for eternity

Lucifer: *closes his mouth* *opens his mouth again* I was gonna say Lilith but now my mood is ruined because I would totally fuck Adam again if he didn’t despise me that much or tried to kill you, and well— ..now dead I guess??

Charlie: *pinches her nose and groans even louder*

Lucifer: he has a nice ass okay?!! I cannot rank that ass lower then ten! He was meant to be a pillow freak

Angel Dust: so I’m banned from choosing? Great.

Lucifer: besides, your mother fucked him too! And that was after the fall. Like, three thousand years ago. Why aren’t you upset at her??

Charlie: *astonished* because I didn’t know!!??

Lucifer: *slow blinks* oh. Well now you know!! *throws confeti at her* ta-daaaaaa!

[cryptidwithaninternetconnection]

The LATEOTW Eldridge AU

an AU I want to explore for Light at the Edge of the World when the main story is finished and we all take a break :] /nf

@sagehyperfixates @the-excellent-papyru @tabsters

in which most of the main cast (including most, if not all save for a few side characters) Minus Casper, Circe, and Raptor are Eldridge horrors, some in disguise, most not

Claire: Uses a disguise the most, still Kaos’ chosen but in the way of an older god adopting a younger god, most aware of human emotions, most comprehensive true form (classic mess of eyes and wings, a few teeth thrown in along with the occasionally seen tiny violet that Casper gave her human form) when distressed, a few eyes open up around her body, usually under the “main eyes” but occasionally found on the back of her hand, on her shoulders, arms, etc.

Akiva: on a scale of Claire to Gaia and Kaos on the scale of comprehensive true form, Akiva is right in the middle, if you don’t look at them for too long you’ll be fine, but stare too long and it will appear that everything is clipping into itself like a poorly rendered video game, a tangle of moth wings and antennae, and quietly screaming yet sewn-shut mouthes, the only one unstitched and biggest being the one you hear, the others fall silent under Gaias influence. Uses a disguise always, even if nobody is there, they won’t risk Casper seeing their true form. When distressed, their form flickers and one can see the silhouette of moth wings behind them.

Camryn: on the higher scale of incomprehension, Casper has never seen her true form in any time frame due to how Camryns true form molds to be uncomprehendable to the viewer, everyone seeing something different and equally distressing. Uses a disguise 90% of the time, treats it like a bra where she only wears it when company (Casper) is around. When distressed, Camryn’s eyes shut all the way, skin crashing into skin and melding her eyes shut, even though their mock eyes, Camryn still finds this process uncomfortable

Delphi: A mix of cat ears and tails, one sometimes sees bat wings, her true form looks like someone spawned in a lot of Minecraft cats and their all entity cramming into each other, Casper sometimes hears cats meowing near Delphi, even if Ghost (Delphis familiar) is nowhere to be seen, Casper usually chalks this up to hearing things or Ghost hiding. When distressed, one can sometimes see the tips of cat tails poking out from under Delphis human skin.

Ember: Right alongside Kaos and Gaia, her true form is various things on fire and cramming into each other, the screams of mortals she’s controlled being heard if you get too close, her hypnotism working by luring someone close by either faking being a nice-smelling candle, or by flirting in her human form, having no clue what she’s saying and having the least firm grip on human emotions of the group, excluding Gaia who just. doesn’t care about humans because of what the scientists did to Lucia. When distressed, Embers mock eyes can turn purple in some lighting, people chalking it up to messy lighting

on that Topic, Gaia! Her form is a large collection of plants and swirling human souls trapped and clamoring for room, all plants oozing and dripping with chlorobrene, a chemical found in all living things, which when “polluted” can turn into a sort of poison that mind controls conscious beings named “Biomaline” when distressed, Gaias human skin can start to ooze biomaline as a defense mechanism, Gaia having to force it to come out clear to pass it off as sweat.

now for Kaos! Not much to say for this fella, pretty much unchanged from the original au, enormous humanoid form that’s complexity made of a galactic concrete-type substance, arms alone being the size of large skyscrapers. Kaos does not have a human disguise as of writing this, but if they did, it would flicker in the form of the eyes starting to ooze a galactic goo type thing.

The story I have in mind so far:

so I think this would mostly play out in similar ways, possibly minus the Phoenix Society Headquarters due to the beyonders not needing to actively conceal themselves and just using advanced disguises. Possibly much more angst in the form of Casper feeling alone sense none of these weird people seem to get how primally scared they are of dieing, either this weird group is suicidal (not unbelievable) or something isn’t right,, but what?

I think the story’s first real thread could go along the lines of Claire’s human disguise freeing Akiva from their prison (maybe the scientists knew of Akivas nature and made a cage specifically for them) and Casper walking into the facility like normal, albeit the other two acting more awkward and disconnected, Claire never having interacted with a human before, let alone a human young! Akiva being awkward because huh?? Humans can have young?? Humans can be not terrible?? Both are pretty suspicious of Casper initially, avoiding them somewhat, but an incident that led to Casper breaking down and screaming about what happened to their family and spilling all the gorey details, Claire can’t help but sprout a few eyes, all of them crying, Casper not noticing due to a lack of glasses and blurry and tearful eyes, Claire and Akiva end up making a pact above an asleep Casper to claim the kid as their chosen, giving way for Kurayami, who doesn’t change in this AU, albeit not being inclined to leave Casper alone as much.

let me know how this looks!! I like this a lot Ngl :>>

[mr-1-2-3-4]

Insane Asylum- @mythrite @pampanope @tw1nkee28 @kings-out-of-pocket-hell @lemons-pears @olibird

Patients-Mori, Jack, [RED], Kit and Delta

Staff-Pixel, LoveHurt, 7-11, Graves, Switch and Moth

Pixel was walking through the halls doing his rounds of security, as Switch did hers on the other side of the asylum, Pixel checked Mori’s cell and didn’t see him from the window of his door. He unlocked the door to the dark cell and walked in shining his dim flashlight around

Pixel-“Bailey are you in here?”

Pixel shuts the door and looked around before his flashlight started flickering before shutting off

Pixel-“damnit, I knew I should have replaced the batteries”

Pixel said as he felt a hand on his shoulder, and immediately knew he was fucked or safe depending on Mori’s mood

Pixel-“oh god damnit”

Meanwhile LoveHurt was posted outside Jack’s cell with a look of irritation while Jack flirts and talks to them

Jack-“come on you have to let me out~ I’m sure you won’t regret it~”

LoveHurt-“not happening.”

Jack-“come on you let Kit out”

LoveHurt-“for good behavior. Kit didn’t go crazy and try to eat Switch’s face off like he did last week.”

Jack-“can you at least come in here~ I been so lonely~”

LoveHurt-“no.”

Jack-“oh well I’m just going to get out tonight again, I broke my vent again”

LoveHurt sighed and unlocked the door and went in and looked around, they went over to the vent and checked it noticing it had not been touched before getting tackled, hearing Jack let out a chuckle, LoveHurt looked unimpressed by Jack’s behavior and the fact they fell for the trap

On the other side of the Asylum 7-11 was dealing with [RED] while taking him back to his cell

[RED]-“come on I shouldn’t even be here, I just got a bit silly”

7-11-“a bit silly my ass. You when mad”

[RED]-“it wasn’t even that bad, and now I can’t even get a kiss?”

7-11 stopped walking for a bit thinking, before unlocking a closet and throwing [RED] inside

7-11-“your going to get me fired one day if you keep tempting me like this”

[RED]-“I love you too🥰”

7-11 got a signal from Switch’s radio that she needed an escort for Kit and passed the request to Graves, who was in the area Switch was in.

Graves walks over to see Kit literally bouncing off the walls of the common room. Switch was just banging her head on the wall, sick of Kit’s antics

Kit-“I GOT THE ZOOMIES, I CAN'T STOP!!!”

Graves-“let me guess, you gave him a kitkat?”

Switch-“yes, I was waiting for him to tire himself out, but then I noticed my monster I got from Pix was half empty and I didn’t touch it.”

They both look at each other, then at Kit who was being a menace, both laying down waiting for Kit to pass out. After what felt like forever Kit fell and landed on Switch

Switch-“you’re my best friend. You’re just a damn crackhead.”

Switch said picking up Kit by the back of the shirt and dragging him to his cell while he slept getting dragged on the floor.

Moth who was in his office with Delta heard everything on the radio before unpausing the show he was watching with Delta on his laptop, because he was well behaved for the week

Moth-“damn. I know Lily did not just reject Vin”

Delta sign language-“Vin likes Mike from the last episode”

Moth-“I know but I now have to give you extra walk time”

Delta lets out a raspy sound from his throat, indicating a laugh

Moth-“don’t laugh at me😤”

Mr.1234-

[gopped]

so… remember when I said I wanted to create the most 2015 out of character most cringe fanfic about durgetash and I had that pole asking if I should actually write it (as well as some actual serious durgetash which I will.) well…. I did it. Any bad use of grammar/ spelling are 100% on purpose, this is not a serious fic aka please don’t think this is how I actually write.

enjoy 984 words of pure torture.

Hey my name is The Dark Urge but everyone calls me Durge for short. I’m really poggers and epic because I was born from the blood of Bhaal, yeah Bhaals my dad, suck on that posers. I have ivory-white scales and eyes the color of blood being splashed on the deepest of rubies. And I’m a storm sorcerer, studying to do magic is for losers! Plus I have this super cool slayer form that literally makes me so badass. As the true spawn of Bhaal you could say I have it all, I have a whole cult at my beck and call, all the different corpses I can eat… but there’s one thing I don’t have yet. There’s this one guy….. The chosen of Bane, we made like this pact thing that says I can’t harm him but it never said I couldn’t fuck him. And by the gods I will. I want him to be my shmoopie snuggluffagus cutie pookie patootie pudding muffin, but my dad is like a total buzz kill so I have to apologize for even thinking about putting a ring on that. Anyways his names Enver Gortash but he prefers for me to call him Enver because we’re close like that and I’m special and all that fun stuff. Plus I’m so much better that the depressed pile of dust and bones we also have to work with, ugh he’s such a boomer.

So here I am walking into Moonrise Towers so we can start discussing our super foolproof evil plans for how to take over the world. My super platform docs stomp against the stone steps to enter the tower, I glare at a few of the various subjects of other cults, idk which ones though, all I know is they’re not as cool as I am. Their probably posers and preps for all I know. But again, I don’t care. I make my grand entrance into the throne like room, doves flying behind me as light shines behind me, I’m just that important to like the world and stuff. I whip off my super cool angular anime sunglasses and I look around the room I see my pookie schmookie goth fantasy man boo-boo bear sugar goober standing off to the side and I see the old decaying grandpa corpse sitting on the big chair at the end of the room. Ugh, he’s the worst, and not even in a fun way, he won’t shut up about how his daughter doesn’t want to talk to him anymore and how he’s literally only here because of her, like how boring can a backstory get? He begins to speak. “Ah how nice of you to finally join us, you’re over an hour late.” He grumbles out, I swear theres like a moth living where his brain should be doesn’t he know that you have to be fashionably late? “Umm yeah.” I say, “that’s the point, what kind of nerd actually shows up on time.” I say rolling my perfect blood red eyes, making sure I show my sharp teeth as I scoff at him for extra effect. “Whatever, let’s just start the meeting already.” The reanimated corpse groans out, bones cracking as he repositions himself in his high chair. I cross my arms over my chest because I’m mysterious and awesome as the guy begins to speak, I don’t pay attention my sister is probably around here somewhere I’ll just ask her for the spark notes version. Gods I want to kill someone. Like I don’t have to, but I’m bored and it’s something I enjoy doing. Then I notice something in the corner of the room, while the old man goes on and on I go and investigate, the something I noticed was a cultist, not one of mine of course, they knew better. Upon further inspection, they don’t even seem to be a cultist, their robes look homemade with no reference to what they’re even supposed to be wearing. And they seem to be snooping around too, ugh it’s probably some Harper spy or something. Well, might as well get my kill count up while I’m here I guess… I approach them and before they could even begin to utter an excuse I shove my dagger in their mouth, dragging it against the roof of their mouth and tongue and pushing it down their throat. I watch with glee as the fear in their eyes gets worse as they start to choke on their own blood. I wiggle my blade, making the gashes in their mouth wider as I do so. I could stop there, but where’s the fun in that? I pull my dagger out to watch them cough and sputter out their own blood, uselessly clawing at their throat. Ugh, what a poser, I bet that even before I did that they wouldn’t be able to name 3 MCR songs.. I shove the spy onto the ground as they look up at me almost pleading with their eyes. Ugh it’s disgusting. So I take my dagger and I begin to hit them, it’s at this point I notice that the boring guy stopped speaking and the room was silent except for the occasional blood gurgle. I pull out the persons intestines and that’s when Gorts and my eyes meet across the room. It’s like so romantic like I swear someone casted like stop time or something… him and his pepsi dark eyes… I tuck some of the blood around my tympanum, gods he’s like so hot. Like the hottest I’ve seen in my 40 years of dreadful existence. Then he walks over to me and my heart goes doki doki he knees beside me on the other side of the now corpse and we start making out. No lips no tongue, all teeth. And then we took control of the netherbrain and got married.

The end.

[bipolarmetalhead]

Horror story #1

The old house stood on a hill overlooking the town, its darkened windows like vacant eyes staring out at the world. Everyone knew the stories about the Blackwood Manor, whispers of strange noises, unexplained shadows, and a chilling presence that clung to the very air around it. Despite the rumors, I, a foolhardy history student named Sarah, was drawn to it like a moth to a flickering flame. I craved the truth, the tangible connection to the past, even if that past was shrouded in fear.

One crisp autumn afternoon, armed with my camera and a backpack full of snacks (which now seemed ridiculously inadequate), I ventured up the winding path to the manor. The iron gates groaned open like the jaws of some monstrous beast, and a shiver ran down my spine despite the sunshine. The house itself was a gothic monstrosity, its stone facade covered in ivy that seemed to writhe and reach out.

Inside, dust motes danced in the slivers of light that pierced through the grimy windows. The air was thick with the scent of decay and something else… something acrid and metallic, like old blood. I started my exploration, my footsteps echoing through the silent halls. The grand staircase creaked ominously under my weight, each step a countdown to something unknown.

The library was the first room I explored properly. Books lined the walls, their leather spines cracked and faded. As I ran my fingers over them, a cold gust of wind swept through the room, even though the windows were sealed shut. A book fell from a high shelf, landing with a thump at my feet. I picked it up. It was a journal, its pages filled with elegant, spidery script.

As I began to read, the story unfolded. It was the diary of Elias Blackwood, the last resident of the manor. He wrote of strange occurrences, of shadows moving in the corners of his vision, whispers in the dead of night. He spoke of a growing dread, a feeling of being watched, of something… inhuman… lurking within the walls. His entries became increasingly frantic, his handwriting more erratic. The final entry simply read: “It’s here. God help me.”

Suddenly, the temperature in the room plummeted. The air grew heavy, and a low growl echoed from the depths of the house. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. The shadows in the corners of the library seemed to deepen, to coalesce. I could feel eyes on me, cold and malevolent.

A whisper, like dry leaves skittering across pavement, brushed my ear. “Get out,” it hissed.

I didn’t need to be told twice. I dropped the journal and scrambled out of the library, my breath catching in my throat. The growling intensified, closer now, and I could hear the distinct sound of something heavy dragging across the floorboards.

I fled through the house, the unseen presence hot on my heels. The whispers followed me, taunting, malicious. I burst out of the front door and didn’t stop running until I reached the bottom of the hill, the manor looming behind me like a silent, watchful predator.

I never went back. I tried to tell people what I experienced, but they dismissed it as my overactive imagination. But I know what I heard, what I felt. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I still hear the whispers, feel the cold breath on my neck, and see the shadows moving in the corners of my room. The Blackwood Manor claimed a piece of me that day, a piece I can never get back. And I know, with chilling certainty, that I wasn’t the first, and I won’t be the last.

[valentine-cafe]

Lets go another villain round!

Villain characters and a reader (the most ordinary human being you could possibly imagine) who just fell into their laps - literaly or figuratively, it up to you - due to some dimensional bullshit going on. They are very confused about the situation too, constantly apologizing and are quite messed up by it. (One step if not sitting and they'll hit the floor looming like some exeptionally miserable ragdoll. But at least that's not spining.)

. ˚◞♡ 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒗𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒏'𝒔 𝒍𝒂𝒑◞ ₊˚

𖹭. in which you fall into their laps 

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ꒰ PRIMORDIAL HUSBANDS ꒱ it was all so sudden. you’d barged through the trees and out into the lake. the two husbands conversing on talisen’s lake island. the man had began hissing at the sudden feel of something uninvited in the waters.

and alessio had been quick to fish you out of there. gods, you looked so panicked, it was adorable. but how did you come here. . . not even you knew.

you were frantically apologising over and over, it ended up with talisen gripping onto you and telling your to shut up.

“we won’t hurt you, it’s fine, just stop panicking.” he’d groan at you. flicking your nose gently. while alessio carefully placed you next to him. helping you cough up that last bit of water that was in your lungs.

“we’ll get you back home.” he’d sigh. “but if you tell anyone.”

gods x reader, siren x reader, sorcerer x reader

 

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ꒰ HERRERA HUSBANDS ꒱ they would most likely have been the very reason you even got there in the first place. body crashing down on theirs after an attempt at making a sort of dimension door to a different verse.

instead, they grabbed someone else from the outside verses. you flailed around. looking around with wide eyes. where were you? what was this place? — oh god did you land on someone?

you did. you scramble off of them in realisation and stare back at them with a paling face, apologising and picking up your backpack off of the floor. trying to find a way out.

“now hold on darling. stay here.” you’d heard one of them ask of you. jìngyí moving to the door nearby and rishen coming closer to inspect you and assure you were alright. gods, you looked like you had just been running to work before getting flung to them.

yandere x reader, mad doctor x reader, mad scientist x reader, snake monster x reader, spider-mantis-moth x reader

 

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ꒰ VALERIUS ꒱ was with his girlfriend lucía, peacefully reading beside her as she painted for the art assignment she’d been given for her uni class.

the both of them had gotten so surprised when you flopped onto the couch so suddenly. in confusion, Valerius had picked you off of the couch and held you up in the air. lucia moving to look at you with searching eyes to make sure you weren’t hurt.

“gods— you okay? where did you even fall from— ah, debería llamar a rishen— ( I should call rishen )” the words fell out of the young woman’s mouth, her hands fumbling around to find her phone.

all while vale listened to you trying to explain how you got here, and how you are so sorry for interrupting. much less landing on both of them like that

“I mean you didn’t really know you were landing on us.” he’d try to tell you, halting his words as you apologised more. it only drew a tired sigh from him.

demon x reader, rhytaari x reader

 

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ꒰ JÌNGYÍ VERSELESS ꒱ you almost fell into his boiling cauldron, had he not caught you before you did. his eyes had been stern, analyzing you. trying to figure out how you even got here in the first place. you weren’t a demon, nor a being of power.

just a simple human. apologising and spluttering in his arms.

with a tired sigh he shook his head and summoned a portal back to where you came from, assuring you had a safe landing before throwing you back.

“safe travels.” he’d chuckle and continue with his work.

demon x reader, necromancer x reader, alchemist x reader

[a-cacophony-of-silent-words]

Still Breathing Part One: Into The Tiger's Den

Chapter 5: Homecoming

Whining is not something Bruce has ever been particularly good at dealing with, so of course both his sons have perfected their skills in exactly that. He knows he’s been something of an enabler over the years, giving in when they just won’t stop and he feels overwhelmed. Alfred’s always been better at putting his foot down, particularly when they’re injured. God, Bruce wishes Alfred were here right now, but he left an hour ago. So Bruce is stuck dealing with this on his own.

“I want to go home, Bruce.” Jason flails as much as his injuries will allow, which isn’t much but it has the desired effect. “How long are those quacks going to keep me here? It’s been months!”

It’s been two weeks.

“I miss Alfred and Dick and the manor! I miss Dick’s stupid dog jumping right in the middle of me every goddamn morning! I miss my room! …Bruce. Bruce, I miss homework! Get me out of here before I go completely crazy! You’ll have to lock me up in Arkham! I’ll become a new villain to rival the likes of Kite Man and Killer Moth! You’ll have to call me Homework Man or something.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to stave off the latest in a series of headaches, Bruce tries, “They want to keep you for a while longer, Jason. It’s only reasonable, son, you almost died. Just… try to bear with it.”

“Like hell.” Jason pouts, crossing his uninjured arm over his chest and looking away. This should be a triumph. It’s the first time since the incident that Jason’s been well enough to pout, but all Bruce can do is groan.

“Wow, you can just feel the cheeriness in this room all the way down the hall, I swear.” The only time Bruce has ever been happier to see Dick was the last time he saved Bruce’s literal life.

Jason seems less enthused. “Great, the cavalry’s arrived.”

“Hey, I heard you say you missed me, kiddo, you don’t get to take that back.” Dick laughs when Jason makes a face.

“Oh, shut up, Dickface.” Jason grumbles as Dick sits on the edge of the hospital bed.

“Don’t talk to your brother like that,” Bruce scolds, knowing it’s useless the moment he opens his mouth. He doesn’t know why he bothers.

Sure enough Jason is disappointingly unfazed. He just raises an eyebrow at Bruce before turning his attention back to Dick. “Convince him I’m well enough to go home.”

“You’re asking the wrong person there, Little Wing,” Dick answers, though there’s a hint of sympathy in his voice despite his refusal. “If it were up to me you wouldn’t be going anywhere for another six months.”

Jason sighs, dramatically, a talent he’s nurtured quite admirably throughout his time as Robin. “Ugh! Get me Babs or Alfred! We need someone with some real sense in here!”

“They’d tell you the same thing, Jay.” Dick says, patiently. “Being homesick doesn’t mean you’d recover any faster at the manor.”

“Doesn’t mean I’d recover any slower, either!”

Bruce mainly tunes them out as they continue their argument. Jason’s not ready to go home yet, no matter how he protests. Worse, Bruce isn’t sure he’ll be properly equipped to care for Jason at home yet. Jason hasn’t shown any hints of psychological trauma from the incident thus far, but he’s regrettably good at hiding such things until they reach a breaking point. He’s been practicing that since long before he came to live with Bruce and it’s something he’s stubbornly clung to despite Bruce and Alfred's best efforts. It’s something that’ll be difficult to navigate around if--

“Why do you even care?” Jason snaps, abruptly, and something in his tone brings Bruce’s attention immediately back to the conversation happening in front of him. There’s a tension in Jason’s shoulders, a set to his jaw, and just an over all air that Bruce is not a fan of. God they do not need Jason and Dick at each other’s throats again. He needs to step in now before it explodes.

But when he looks over at Dick, he pauses. Because Dick is calm. Not calm before the storm. More Dick Grayson with a plan calm. He glances at Bruce for a moment, but just speaks to Jason. “Because that’s what brothers are supposed to do right? Care about each other? So why don’t you tell me why it’s so important to go home right now, instead of say, in a week?”

It takes a moment, Jason’s face going through a range of expressions before it all finally explodes. “Because I hate it here! All I can do is think and think and remember and it’s all driving me over the fucking edge, Dick! I fall asleep and I wake up and there’s… what if… And I just… I…”

Dick is faster to react than Bruce, carefully wrapping his arms around Jason before the tears really start to fall. Letting Jason cling to him and murmuring a gentle, “Shh, it’s okay, Jay, it’s okay. I got you.”

With a strangled sound, somewhere between a sob and a hiccup, Jason buries his face in Dick’s shoulder. Jason never cries, never lets himself show emotions like this at all. Bruce grips Jason’s shoulder with one hand and winces a bit when Jason’s hand leaves Dick’s back to grab Bruce’s wrist tightly. In the silence that follows Bruce finally understands. It’s more than boredom, more than homesickness.

After several hitching breaths, each deeper than the last, Jason mumbles, “Please… Please just take me home.”

“…They might insist on keeping you for a few more days,” Bruce says as softly as he knows how, exchanging a look with Dick over the top of Jason’s head. “But… with Alfred’s medical training, they might allow it. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Okay… okay.” Slowly, bit by bit Jason’s grip on Bruce and Dick loosens until he’s let go entirely.

Reluctantly, Bruce lets go as well and Dick follows suit.

Bruce makes his way to the door slowly watching out of the corner of his eyes as Dick gently ruffles Jason’s hair and says something, low and quiet. Something that makes Jason laugh. Bruce pauses in the doorway, just for a moment. Just to take in the sight of his boys. His sons. He's still not sure what he did right for the universe to bring them into his life. He sighs and leaves the doorway to begin his arduous task. There's going to be a lot of paperwork.

.

The towering face of Wayne Manor has never looked so good. It’s home. Jason’s coming home! He missed it so much. If asked he’d never be able to describe the joy welling up in his chest at seeing Alfred standing in the open door. He can’t wait to get inside, back to his room and his books. He can’t wait to eat Alfred’s cooking again! It’s been forever since he had something that didn’t taste like rubber and grossness. Alfred couldn’t make something as nasty as hospital food if he tried!

A joyful bark announces Ace only seconds before the huge German Shepherd bounds out of the bushes and slides to stop a few feet away. He circles them for a moment, lowering his head, sniffing at the wheelchair. Jason just shakes his head at the antics. This dog is supposed to be a trained guard dog, but he’s always been more of a goof ball. Apparently satisfied that the chair isn’t very interesting, Ace yips happily then, before Bruce can stop him, hooks his front legs over the right side of the chair – Jason’s uninjured side by some coincidence – and starts desperately licking Jason’s face.

Jason can only laugh and scratch the dog’s ears. “Yeah, yeah, love you too, ya silly mutt!”

It’s then that Dick finally intervenes, grabbing Ace’s collar and pulling him off. “Okay, Ace, let the kid breathe.”

Ace whines but otherwise just follows along beside the wheelchair, close enough to pet but not so close as to be in the way as they continue on to the house.

“Welcome home, Master Jason,” Alfred says and somehow his voice doesn’t crack under the weight of all the emotion it contains. Product of a big heart, Jason suspects.

He feels a bit awkward now, not for any good reason, it’s just a little… hard to take those kind of emotions directed at him. So he just smiles sheepishly. “It’s good to be back! You didn’t change anything in my room, right?”

“Perish the thought, young sir!” Alfred’s mustache twitches in such a way that Jason’s long taken to mean he’s terribly amused by the suggestion. “I hardly needed to. It remains as immaculate as the day you left it. Unlike Master Richard’s current room as you can imagine.”

“My room is just the way I like it!” Dick squawks with mock indignation. “I can find everything whenever I want and that’s all that matters!”

Alfred winks knowingly at Jason. “Of course it is.”

“If you all don’t mind--” Bruce sounds like he’s spent all day herding cats, which between Jason and Dick bickering, the paparazzi being bastards as usual, and all the hassle of getting Jason discharged from the hospital isn’t all that far from the truth. Jason’s pretty sure that Bruce would rather deal with the entire population of Arkham than go through any part of this morning again. “--I’d like to get Jason situated in his room.”

“And then you’re going to take a nap right?” Dick prompts lightly. Wrangling Bruce into getting some proper rest has been a trial and a half and Dick’s been doing most of the work.

“If it will get you to stop asking me that, then yes,” Bruce grumbles, only proving that he needs to get some real sleep.

Jason shrugs his good shoulder and decides to back Dick up. “Hey, after all you’ve put up with you deserve an old man nap.”

“I don’t know how to take that…” Bruce sighs, but there’s a deep fondness there suggesting he actually knows exactly how to take it.

Dick still pipes up with a quick. “From Jason? It’s a declaration of affection.”

“Oh, shut it, Dickie.”

“You shut it.”

“I’d like it if you both gave it a rest.” Bruce says, wryly as he pushes the wheelchair into the house.

Something seems different the minute they get passed the door, but it takes a moment before Jason realizes what it is. “You installed an elevator? When—Why?”

“According to the doctors you’ll be in a wheelchair or on crutches for quite a while yet. It seemed like a worthwhile investment.” Bruce shrugs like it’s nothing, which for a guy with literally millions of dollars to his name it probably is, but still…

“Okay but when?”

“I contracted the workers as soon as they told me you’d recover… or rather I asked Alfred to do it.” Bruce smiles a little. “It accesses every level of the house, including the cave, though that requires a special code that I’ll show you later.”

At that Jason leans over closer to Dick and, affecting his most dramatic stage whisper, says, “By which he means he’ll tell me in about six years when I finally convince him that I’m well enough to go back on patrol.”

Dick nods and joins Jason in giving Bruce the stink eye.

“Boys…” Bruce sighs.

“Hey, I’m injured! That totally grants me a free pass to make fun of your paranoid ass, Pops.” Jason probably delights way too much in the way Bruce smiles every time Jason even gets close to calling him ‘Dad’.

With a clap of his hands, Dick starts shooing them all towards the elevator. “Come on, you three, I thought we were taking Jay up to his room, not lollygagging in the lobby! Let’s get a move on!”

“If it was not abundantly clear already, Master Richard has developed something of an infatuation with the manor’s latest renovation.” Alfred informs Jason with a fond smile.

Jason laughs. “Really?”

“There’s a control for speed.” Those are the magic words.

Automatically interested, Jason leans forward a bit. “How fast?”

“It’s not a toy, boys.” Bruce tries, but he has to know they’re not listening.

“Fast.” Dick answers Jason’s question with a mischievous grin.

“Hot damn!” Jason exclaims. “I gotta try this shit out!”

Alfred pats his shoulder. “There will be plenty of time for that later, young sirs. For the time being, why don’t we get Master Jason settled in his room.”

“But, Alfie!” Jason whines, giving Alfred his best puppy-dog eyes and thoroughly upsetting the actual dog in the room that Dick has to hold back from crawling into Jason’s lap.

Unfortunately, Alfred developed an immunity to pleading long before Jason came into the picture. “Next time.”

.

For the first time since he woke up, Jason is alone. Alfred’s preparing dinner, Dick left to go prepare for patrol, and between Jason, Dick, and Alfred they actually did manage to convince Bruce to go take a nap in his own goddamn bed. So Jason has his room, his thoughts, and the laptop linked up with the computer in the cave all to himself. It’d be wrong to say he conned the laptop out of Bruce, but well… he had only managed to get it on the pretense of needing to catch up on homework. Something which he is definitely not going to be doing, at least not right now. Joking around is all fine and good, but knowing Bruce it really will be ages before he lets Jason anywhere near the cave. Longer still before Jason will be able to look in to any theories he might have, but he wants to get a head start any way. The only way he’ll get that is by watching the video of the man who rescued him.

Either the video from Jason’s mask was destroyed by… what happened or someone, probably Dick, buried it deep. Jason can’t find it. He kind of doubts it’d be all that useful anyway so it’s probably for the best. The one from Bruce’s cowl, or at least an edited down version from the looks of it, is sitting out in the open like they’d expected him to do this. Which knowing this family they probably did. Whatever. Jason hits play on the video, no use fussing about it.

The video starts with Bruce digging through the rubble pile apparently not hearing the voice calling for him at least not until the guy shouts his real name. Bruce finally looks up and Jason gets his first real look at Alvin. The video’s a little blurry and there’s so much smoke and dust in the air that it’s difficult to get a good read on him. The best Jason can do is, he looks like a half drunk college student who grabbed someone else’s jacket when he got kicked out of a bar during a fight. That leather jacket really doesn’t look like it fits with the rest of the guy’s aesthetic. There’s blood stains on the sleeves and he’s carrying himself like he’s got a bruised rib. That’s about all he can gather from this clip.

Looks like most of the direct visuals of Jason’s injuries have been cut, which on some level Jason’s kinda grateful for. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t need to be seeing that shit. The next clip is in the jeep, Bruce keeps taking his eyes off where he’s going and glancing at Alvin, which is making Jason want to scream at him, but that can wait, the closer look at Alvin is appreciated.

His clothes are scuffed up, though some of them look like they were probably pretty fancy once upon a time. His hair is black and long enough that he’s managed to tie it back, though that seems to be doing nothing to keep some of it from escaping to fall in his face. A bit on the smaller side, both in height and frame – that jacket looks a little big on him. He’s covered in dust and blood, looks like he’s been through hell. Maybe literally, that’s probably possible. They should ask Raven about that or something. Whether he came from hell or not though one thing’s for sure, he definitely looks out of place. Like somebody plucked him out of some college dorm and plopped him right in the middle of the desert. He’s not even well equipped enough to be a kid on taking a trip around the world before college.

He does look a bit familiar though. Jason could swear he’s seen him or someone who looks like him before. It’s like it’s not exact, just some features are the same, but not all of them. A bit like he’s seen someone related to the guy before. He can’t quite place it though so he keeps watching.

They get to the camp and after a few minutes of Bruce looking back and forth between the medical tent and Alvin who’s being patched up by an assistant he finally approaches Alvin and really talks to him. From the moment Alvin opens his mouth the Gotham accent is clear as day. It’s pretty ritzy too. No wonder he seemed familiar, Jason probably has seen someone who looks like him. Probably at one of those godawful parties Bruce made him go to or something. Dammit, why can’t he remember?

Next time he gets dragged to a gala he’s going to pay extra special attention and be on the look out for anyone who looks like Alvin, even just a little bit. Maybe – just maybe – this will lead somewhere.

He hopes.

.

Next Chapter →

First Chapter

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[twst-trash]

❥• 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧-𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐝

Tumblr ate my last upload for some reason, so if you see this one please like/reblog it again 😩

Summary: Leona invites you to a royal gala in the Sunset Savanna and you learn that he likes you more than he tries to let on.

wc: 5.2k (!)

content warnings: Jealous!Leona x fem!reader, 18+ smut. Jealousy, breeding kink, scenting, Pining™️. Featuring a cliché love rival and my own take on Queen Kingscholar. Just a little something I wrote to pull me out of the funk I’ve been in lately.

“Tch, I hate this kind of shit.” Leona mumbles as he fiddles with his cufflinks in the mirror. His hair is tied into an unkempt ponytail, stray mahogany locks cascading over his face haphazardly. He looks so different standing there in formal attire- you’re so used to seeing him in his barely buttoned NRC uniform and god-awful sandals- but his demeanor remains unchanged. A small smile pulls at the corner of your mouth as you watch him jam an ungracious finger between his canine and incisor, double checking for any hidden crumbs leftover after brushing his teeth this morning.

Behold, you think, the ever elegant Second Prince: Leona Kingscholar.

(Truthfully, you were more than surprised when Leona showed up to the Ramshackle Dorm before winter break and propositioned the trip back to his homeland.

“I gotta take someone with me to this stupid gala.” He had said to you, hunched in the low arch of the doorframe. His body was comically compressed, folding in on himself as he tried to bully his way into the dorm. “My brother won’t shut his trap about needing me to bring a partner. Said he’d just pick someone at the palace to be my chaperone if I couldn’t get anyone.”

You looked the beastman up and down, an eyebrow quirking inquisitively. “So you want me to waste my winter break babysitting you?”

A subtle flash of hurt crossed his features for just a moment before an almost imperceptible rumble started in the back of Leona’s throat. “You know what? Forget about it- I shoulda known you’d be a brat about this.” He all but growled, contorting his body once more as he motioned to close the door.

“Wait.” You sighed and grasped the doorknob before Leona could pull it shut. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t go.”)

And thus you had been thrust into the mirror portal to the Sunset Savanna, woefully unqualified for a fancy royal party.

Leona’s tux, an amber-gold suit that fit sophisticatedly against his body and nipped in at his well-defined waist, only serves to remind you of how underdressed and unprepared you are for the occasion. No matter how juxtaposed by his behavior, Leona looks like royalty- and you, markedly, do not. It was one of your main arguments against coming: the fact that your wardrobe lacked anything acceptable for the foreign diplomats that were apparently visiting the palace. Hell, even your NRC uniform was an old moth-eaten hand-me-down nearly unacceptable to attend school in, but Leona had insisted that he’d find you a dress some way or another.

“Amali probably has somethin’ you can wear.” He had mentioned to you before, sizing you up in a way that made you feel small. “She’s always collecting dresses to sew and repurpose, she’s gotta have something in your size.”

Even if his sister-in-law could perform the miracle of making you look the part, you were still miles away from acting the part. Of course, if Leona were your only benchmark for royal behavior, you’d have already mastered the art. Unfortunately, you have also met Amali Kingscholar, who is effortlessly elegant and poised in all the ways that you are not.

– but even cotillion classes and dresses lined with ridiculously expensive tulle could not prepare you for the most jarring part of coming to the Sunset Savanna. No, the most jarring part of coming to the Sunset Savanna is learning that Leona is the most eligible bachelor in the kingdom. It makes sense when you stop to think about it; he’s the second prince, a (supposedly) soon-to-be graduate of Night Raven College, and, you can begrudgingly admit, devastatingly attractive. From the moment you arrived in the Sunset Savanna, Leona had been bombarded by attractive Lionesses, sticking sweetly to his side and glaring daggers at you for even stepping foot into the kingdom. Their stories were all slightly different (“Remember me, Leona? We used to play together as cubs!”, “I’m the baker’s daughter- you used to love to come in and try our mince pies.”, “Cheka and my niece go to the same preschool!”) but served the same purpose: to endear themselves to the boy you had been not-so-secretly pining over since you had accidentally stepped on his tail in the botanical gardens.

You struggle to define your relationship with Leona, still unsure if you can call yourselves friends. You certainly didn’t consider him to be a friend in the same way you saw Ace and Deuce, though he seemed to be around just as often. It wasn’t entirely your fault for being unsure; Leona purposely made himself hard to read. He’d accuse you of never leaving him alone but invite himself over to the Ramshackle Dorm for a nap on your couch in the same breath. The lion had finessed himself as an immovable fixture in your life, yet you held each other at an arm's length, too afraid of something to get to know each other better (much to the chagrin of Ace, who emphatically exclaims that the two of you need to ‘bone each other and get over it already’ at any chance that presents itself).

Despite the bickering and posturing and fights that Ruggie regularly needs to mediate, Leona is still always there, for better or for worse. He’s still the one who gives you too much money when he sends you to fetch him lunch (‘and get yourself somethin’ to eat if there’s some leftover, I guess’) and the one who’s always suspiciously present to bail you out whenever you find yourself running into trouble. Maybe that should be enough for you- knowing that he cares in his own way. Maybe it shouldn’t feel so awful to see other people flirt with him and, even worse, see him flirt back. Still, as the castle workers flit in and out of Leona’s spacious bedroom, commenting on his attire and using every stray thread or crooked tie as an excuse to allow their hands to linger, you can’t help the sharp sting of jealousy that shoots through your viscera.

It’s far too easy to forget that Leona is a prince with the way he acts, but the longer you spend in the palace, the more it becomes the only thing you can think about.

“I hate this shit.” Leona repeats again, scowling at his reflection in a way that almost confirms your suspicion that his ever-sour expression is practiced. He throws the jacket off of his shoulders and onto the floor with little regard, watching as the fabric crumples in on itself. You’re sure that the maids, who had flattened out every solitary wrinkle several times over, wouldn’t mind having more work to do if that meant being able to run their hands along Leona’s broad chest once more.

“Mhm,” You hum affirmatively. “You’re making it hard to forget that you do.”

“Shut it, herbivore.” Leona rolls his eyes. He undoes the first few buttons of his undershirt and folds the sleeves above his forearms in an attempt to get more comfortable while he still could. “Aren’t you supposed to meet Amali to get fitted, anyway? Gala’s in about an hour.”

“Just wanted to make sure you were actually getting ready- isn’t that part of my job as chaperone?” You say, waggling your eyebrows at him. Leona shoves you and you fall onto his bed dramatically, a breathy laugh expelling itself from your chest on impact. “Is that any way to treat a guest? Not very princely of you.”

“Dramatic brat.” He grouses, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you. You can’t help the way your eyes trail up his forearm, admiring the shape of his muscles. “Think you oughta remember you’re in my palace. I could throw you out of the guest bedroom and let you succumb to the elements tonight.”

You prop yourself up on your elbow, unable to stop the smug grin that’s plastered onto your face. “You’d never.”

“Wanna bet?”

He bows his head, bringing his face closer to yours. You take a sharp breath despite your attempts to remain calm. If Leona got any closer, you’re sure your erratic heartbeat would give you away, too. It’s the closest you’ve been to him since having to share a bed during Azul’s contract and the first time you’ve really looked into his eyes. The emerald pools of color were usually masked in a layer of apathy or annoyance, but those features were noticeably absent from his expression as he stared back at you, pupils dilated and lips parted ever-so-slightly. His gaze travels down to your own lips and you feel your face heat from his scrutiny. All of a sudden, you’re self-conscious. Are your lips chapped? How is your breath?

You’d be lying if you tried to convince yourself that Leona wasn’t always so pretty, especially now as he peers down at you, eyes half-lidded and trained on your unmoving lips.

“You think I wouldn’t?” He mutters, close enough to feel his breath on your cheek. His tone is deathly serious. You’re not sure he’s still talking about throwing you out, not when his lips hover right above yours

- and then there’s a knock.

“My liege?” A small voice calls from outside Leona’s door. The sound is enough for Leona to pull back, creating a considerable amount of distance between the both of you in mere seconds. The cloud of static uncertainty is all at once lifted. “Queen Amali is looking for your guest.”

“She’s here.” Leona barks back as he stands from his place on the bed, a twinge of irritation dripping off every syllable. “Take her, we ain’t doin’ anything important.”

The female servant slowly opens the door, oblivious to the palpable tension present mere moments ago. Despite coming to fetch you, her gaze is fixed on Leona. She looks at the fabric on the ground with a frown and moves into the room to pick it up.

“You shouldn’t have taken off your jacket, sir. The guests should be arriving soon.” She sighs, opening the jacket for Leona to pull his arms through. The way she stares at him is not lost on you, and neither is the way that her hands linger on his chest for too long after adjusting his lapels. And he’s not stopping her. The way he could be so close to you in one moment and have another woman feel him up in the next makes your head spin.

“Ahem.”

The servant’s head turns to you, embarrassed, as if she had just taken stock of the fact you were there. “Right! So sorry, miss. Please follow me to Queen Amali’s chambers.”

You make sure to flip Leona off as you leave the room.

-----

The dress very nearly fits you without any alterations. The amber-gold dress matched Leona’s suit perfectly and was sleek against your body, dipping low to reveal the valley between your breasts. The slit that starts high up your thigh makes you question whether or not it was appropriate for the gala, but Amali was more than happy to pass the dress along to you.

“If it weren’t for the foreign diplomats coming, you probably would’ve been dressed in traditional Sunset Savanna attire.” Amali explained as she contemplated aloud about taking in the waist to have the fabric rest taut around your midsection. “But I’m glad it’s not- I’d love to have that custom made for you the next time you visit.”

The diplomats are already lining up in front of the palace by the time you see Leona again. Amali had insisted that you take your time with her personal makeup collection before the gala began. Being an all-boys school, NRC was unfortunately lacking in the makeup department, so aside from the times that Vil decided to experiment on you, you weren’t used to wearing makeup anymore. Still, slightly unblended eyeshadow aside, you thought you had done a decent job.

You can see Leona waiting at the bottom of the staircase, still fiddling with his cufflinks before the sound of your heels against the marble draws his attention. His eyes wash over your body, unashamedly staring at the way the fabric swishes in time with your steps as you head down the stairs from Amali’s personal sewing room.

“Well look at that,” He starts, still looking you up and down. “The herbivore cleans up well.”

He holds out his hand in an unexpected show of chivalry, and you happily take it. Leona holds you close as you enter the ballroom, amazed by the grandeur of it all. Only a few people besides the Kingscholar family and yourself were present in the room, including a small orchestral band that was in the final stages of setting up for the event. Tables were stationed near the back of the room, donned in expensive-looking gold tablecloths. You could see waiters chatting with each other as they set up their trays by the tables. You feel out of place as an attendee- in your mind, it would make more sense if you were working the party, serving food and drinks along with the busy team of servers.

Leona’s arm around your waist reassures you that, at least for tonight, you belong out here, with him, as an honored guest to the Kingscholar family.

It seems like the ballroom swells with people in the blink of an eye, the previously idling band already playing some smooth, sophisticated tune as the servers begin to mingle into the crowd, carrying glasses of champagne and bite-sized hors d'oeuvres.

“I have some things to take care of,” Leona leans down to whisper into your ear, squeezing the side of your hip reassuringly before pulling away. “I’ll be back, okay?”

You watch as he crosses the ballroom, side still tingling from the ghost of his touch. It’s hard to know what to do by yourself here. You’re unsure if it’s appropriate to socialize, gazing around the room to see if Farena or Amali were available enough to at least let you hover by them. Unfortunately, the King and the Queen are just as busy as Leona, talking to several important-looking people while Cheka runs about with some other royals around his age.

As for the business Leona needed to take care of… Your stomach churns at the sight of more women (and men) making flirty faces at him, touching him in a way that’s too familiar. You can’t help but wonder if he knows them. If he’s grown up with them, if they knew him more intimately than you ever would. A small part of you can dismiss the threat of the palace workers- they’d probably have no real chance of being with Leona- but the foreign royalty and big names in the Sunset Savanna sure do. Probably even more than you.

You grumble a small ‘thank you’ to the server whose tray you snatch a champagne flute from. You drink it far too fast to appear cordial, setting the empty flute back onto the tray before grabbing another one. Tonight was going to be a long, excruciating night.

— - -

It had been nearly an hour without Leona at your side. You sit at one of the tables near the corner, sulking, feeling like you’ve been stood up on a date. The champagne servers were now avoiding you, trying to wean you off from the golden liquid, so you had resorted to hoarding a small plate of hors d'oeuvres to yourself. Drowning your sorrows in beef tartare wasn’t the way you thought you’d be spending winter break. You’d long lost track of Leona in the bustle of the ballroom. If it weren’t for appearances, you would have already made your way back to the guest bedroom.

You feel a tap on your shoulder, instantly perking up.

“Fuck Leona, took you long enough-“ You begin, but as you turn around, the man behind you is most certainly not Leona.

The man looks down at you, raising an amused eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’ve been waiting for that lazy oaf this whole time.”

Normally you’d take offense to the insult on Leona’s character, but your anger at him abandoning you and the buzz of champagne wins out in the moment. Still, you cross your arms, apprehensive of the stranger in front of you. “I’m not waiting for anyone.”

“I’ve been watching you for a little while now,” the man admits, taking a seat next to you. His ochre eyes survey the empty champagne glasses and pile of hors d'oeuvres in front of you and chuckles to himself. “I can tell a heartbreak when I see it.”

You scoff, pulling the plate closer to you defensively. “I’m not heartbroken.”

“Mind telling me who you are, then?”

The beastman in front of you isn’t unattractive- quite the opposite, actually. His golden eyes are piercing, looking at you intensely. The shock of red hair that sits atop his head almost reminds you of Farena’s, but shaved along the sides so that the top could be neatly swooped over. His ears and tail have alternating streaks of orange and black pigment running across them, reminding you of a tiger.

“You first.” You challenge. He chuckles at that, standing from the table once more.

“Taiga.” He replies simply, bowing slightly and extending his hand. “Care for a dance while you wait for nothing?”

Normally you wouldn’t bother, but the jealousy you feel from seeing Leona with other women all night is still settled in the bottom of your stomach. Against your better judgment, you take his hand as he guides you to the dance floor, immediately seizing your waist and holding you close. You’re not accustomed to ballroom dancing at all, but you move slowly, letting Taiga take the lead.

His body is warm against yours, overwhelmed with a smell so unlike the beastman you were familiar with. It feels wrong, almost, to be dancing with someone other than Leona, but you weren’t exclusive- if he could dance and flirt and be touched, so could you. You sway together, awkwardly, to the tune of the live band the Kingscholars had hired.

“Taiga.” A voice growls from behind you. You’re startled out of your thoughts as Taiga pulls you closer.

“Ah, so the second prince makes an appearance.” Taiga smiles. “I was starting to wonder if you had abandoned the little one here. I was just looking after them for you.”

You scoff in disgust and try to wriggle out of his grasp, but he holds on strong.

“You have five seconds to get away from them.” Leona says, nearing the end of his patience. You can’t see Leona, still held in place by Taiga’s grip, but you can tell that he’s seething.

“Sorry, your majesty.” Taiga says, his voice dripping ingeniously, “I didn’t realize they were your mate. Your scent is just so weak on them- I guess that’s a problem you second princes have to deal with.”

That does it.

“If I catch you talking to my mate again, I’m reducing your whole country to dust.” Leona snarls, baring his teeth to the shorter male. “Write that down as a threat against your kingdom, I don’t give a fuck. I’ll have an embargo put on your kingdom’s ass from here to the Shaftlands if you so much as breathe in their general direction, just you fuckin’ see.”

Taiga releases you from his hold, throwing his hands up defensively. “You’ve made your point. No need to get testy. I’m sure your brother wouldn’t take kindly to learning you were making threats on his behalf.”

Finally free from under the tiger’s slimy grasp, you move to stand beside Leona. If the memory of his overblot wasn’t so recently etched into his mind, you’re sure the man in front of you would be nothing more than a pile of dust by now.

But Leona restrains himself, gripping your wrist and escorting you out of the ballroom and into the hallway leading to his room.

“You always find a way to get involved with the worst people.” He says under his breath.

What, like you? would be your playful answer, but you’re still angry at him for leaving you alone. “I don’t even know who that is.”

“Taiga Hon.” He practically spits. “First born prince to some-fuckin’-where. Certified asswipe and thorn in our sides. Even Farena doesn’t like him.”

You’re silent as the both of you walk further and further from the ballroom. Despite your lingering rage, you’re still relieved to be away from the room full of strangers and back in Leona’s presence.

“Don’t want you bein’ touched like that by anyone else.” Leona mutters, “‘specially not that princely Tiger fuckhead.”

“You’re one to talk.” You scoff, wriggling your wrist out of his grip. “Constantly flirting with your maids, letting them touch you too closely when they fit your tux, and now we’re at a gala where you��d rather entertain other lions and lionesses than pay attention to your date? You know, the person you kidnapped from their peaceful winter break at NRC?”

“So, I’m your date, hm?” Leona smirks, emerald eyes sparkling with delight as your face flushes.

“You’re insufferable.” Of course that’s the one thing he takes from your tirade. “But I’m your mate, apparently?”

“It’s just beastman talk,” He grumbles, though you can’t miss the uncharacteristic blush that spreads across his face. “Don’t let it get to your head, herbivore.”

“Right.” You hum affirmatively, almost bitterly. “I guess your real mate could be any one of those palace workers or lionesses back in the ballroom.”

Leona pauses, stopping in his tracks at your words. Before you can realize what’s happening, Leona has you up against the wall, wrists pinned above your head as he smashes his mouth into yours.

Your heartbeat is erratic, rattling against your ribcage as Leona presses into you. It feels so good to finally have him so close. His knee spreads your legs, bypassing the slit of your dress and pressing right against your clothed cunt. He swallows your moan, tongue working against your own, before he pulls back.

“It’s always been you, herbivore.” He mumbles against your lips. “You’ve always been mine.”

“I’m yours.” You breathe as he trails his lips along the side of your neck, nipping your collarbone in a way that makes you subconsciously rub against the leg between your thighs.

“And I’m yours.” Leona echos, releasing your wrists from his grasp. He lifts you with ease, placing your legs on either side of him, palms hot against your thighs as he leads you back into the bedroom. You wrap your arms around his neck, comforted by his familiar smell.

He pushes his bedroom door open and immediately lays you down on the bed. He discards his tuxedo jacket, carelessly tossing it aside, and quickly works to unbuckle his belt. Finally free of its constraints, you marvel at his erect cock, clenching your legs together at the sight.

“Had to stop myself from pushing your panties aside and fucking you right in that hallway.” Leona whispers hotly in your ear as he presses into you once more. He undoes the zipper along the side of your dress before peeling the shiny fabric off of you and tossing it to join his pile of clothes on the floor. “You really did look amazing in that dress.”

You gasp as he palms the outside of your panties, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth at your reaction.

“Already so wet for me.” He chuckles, trailing a finger up and down your clothed slit.

“Stop teasing.” You hiss impatiently, hips rolling into his touch.

“Patience, herbivore.”

He presses a kiss to your clothed pussy, nose bumping against your clit. He shoves the thin fabric aside and flattens his tongue against your entrance, lapping at your wetness. Your breath stutters out, gripping mahogany locks to try and ground yourself as Leona takes you with his mouth. His tongue expertly swirls around your clit, suckling lightly as he inserts his fingers deep inside your pussy.

His fingers and mouth work in tandem to unravel you; his free hand comes up to knead your clothed breasts, a muffled take it off spoken against your folds. You quickly remove your bra and Leona’s hand wastes no time in seizing your nipple between his forefinger and thumb.

“I’m close, Leona,” You gasp, clutching the back of his head even harder. He doesn’t let up, his hot mouth fully engulfing your clit, sucking and licking as his fingers press against the spongy roof of your pussy. Your body tenses as you hit your peak, wave after wave of pleasure coursing through your body as you cum.

“Mm, good girl.” Leona hums as he pulls away, a satisfied smirk plastered onto his face as he strokes his cock to the sight of you. He spreads your legs wider, folding you in on yourself as he teases the tip of his huge cock between your folds. You moan again, still sensitive from your first orgasm, but eager to accept his cock nonetheless.

“Want this?” He asks, tapping his cock against your clit. You can barely manage to whimper a yes, please before he’s slowly sinking into you. You can hear his own breath hitch as he’s engulfed in the warm, wet walls of your pussy.

“Fuck, you’re so tight.” Leona groans, stilling his hips as he bottoms out, waiting for you to grow accustomed to his length.

His head is buried in your neck, biting and nosing you, smearing his scent all over you as if to make a point.

“Move.” You whisper, a tiny command, gripping tight onto his shoulder.

Leona doesn’t have to be told twice, slowly withdrawing his cock before slamming it into you once more. His pace is unrelenting, barreling into you hard and fast, like you’d disappear out from under him if he didn’t.

“Mine.” He grunts before capturing your lips in his. “You’re mine.”

“I’m yours.” You affirm, breathlessly, fingernails scratching Leona’s back and leaving crescent-shaped indents in his flesh. His hand slips between your thighs, rubbing your clit with his thumb. It’s all too much, and you can feel the height of another orgasm approaching.

“You’re squeezing so tight around my cock,” Leona growls into your ear. “I’m gonna fucking cum inside of you.”

“Yes, fuck yes!” You whimper, your own orgasm threatening to wreck your body.

“Love this fucking pussy,” Leona mewls again. “Wanna fill you up so everyone knows you’re mine- have my seed dripping out of you while you talk to those stuffed shirts out there. Get you round with my cubs so everyone knows that You. Are. Mine.”

The last three words are punctuated by three deep thrusts that send you over the edge, chest heaving as your pussy pulsates around Leona’s cock. White warmth fills you as Leona cums deep inside, fucking you through the last throes of your orgasm.

He rolls over, sticking to your side sweatily and kissing the side of your neck. You turn to face him, arms wrapped around each other. It’s silent as the two of you bask in the afterglow.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous.” Leona suddenly speaks up, one tired eye opening to look at you.

“Is that why you were so flirty?” You groan, fighting the urge to smother him in a pillow.

“Maybe.” He says, closing his eyes once more. If he hadn’t just blown your back out, you’d murder him.

“You’re an ass.”

“They’re all social climbers, anyway.” Leona adds, sleepily. “People around here either hate me or want to use me for their own agendas.”

“In speaking of- should we go back to the party?” You ask, but Leona’s head is buried into your shoulder as he grunts in the negative, unwilling to move from his spot next to you.

And you don’t want to go, either.

-

The next morning at the breakfast table, Cheka is full of energy. It’s much too much for how early it is, and though Leona had insisted that the two of you stay in bed through breakfast, you forced him to go.

“We already slept through the rest of the party last night,” You said exasperatedly, practically dragging the lion out of his own bed. “We have to show up for breakfast.”

“You two must’ve been tired last night.” Amali says slyly, a knowing smile forming on her lips. “Didn’t even stick around for the main courses.”

“Let them have their fun, Amali.” Farena laughs, his voice booming. Like father, like son, you think as you watch Cheka play with the toys he had brought to the breakfast table, two stuffed warthogs he was smashing together with an exaggerated ‘bam!’- boisterous and far too loud. “We were young once.”

She hums, watching your embarrassed expression. “I’m glad you liked the dress last night.”

“Of course, thank you again!” You exclaim, glad for the change in subject, “It was beautiful- I’m surprised you had something in my size.”

Amali laughs, her gaze shifting to Leona. “You didn’t tell her?”

You cock your head, now also looking at Leona. “Tell me what?”

Leona would never tell Queen Amali Kingscholar to shut up; he was raised to respect women, especially his brother’s wife. Instead he grumbles a ‘don’t’ as Amali giggles at his expense.

“He asked me to order it for you.” She says, nudging Leona with her elbow. “He wanted something that’d match his suit, the possessive brat. I was surprised he got your measurements so accurate- someone must’ve been paying attention.”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your own lips as you watch Leona shift uncomfortably, pretending to be more intrigued by stirring his porridge than the conversation at hand.

“Thank you.” You whisper to him, squeezing his hand. He grumbles something close to a ‘welcome’ underneath his breath, and you know in that moment that he’s been yours this entire time, too.

- - -

As the students of Night Raven College return from their winter vacation, flooding the hall of mirrors en masse with presents they received over the break and embarrassing stories of family hot on their tongues, Ruggie is the first one who notices. Even if his keen senses couldn’t immediately pick up on your intermingling scents, it doesn’t take an apex predator to notice the lovesick glances Leona exchanges with you as the both of you simultaneously enter the hall.

After all the pining, the fights, the tension so thick that Ruggie could sink his teeth into it, he could finally rest and stop playing Cupid’s referee to your will-they-won’t-they schtick. He smiles to himself and thinks of the betting pool posted in his dorm room, dollar signs humming through his veins as he anticipates the happy payday.

“Took you long enough.” The hyena snickers as Leona approaches, coming to greet him as you break off to meet with your friends.

“Yeah.” Leona says with an uncharacteristic softness, his eyes trailing after you as you greet Grim (making sure he hadn’t burnt down Ramshackle in your time away, no doubt), Ace, Deuce and the others -

“It did.”

——

10 points to anyone who can tell which Disney character I based Tiaga off of.

the lion header is by firefly-graphics!

[introverted-imagineer]

Renegades (Part 2)

Warnings: Language, Violence, Religious Themes, Romantic Themes. 

‘You cannot ignore me forever, young one’ he said so philosophically. 

‘Yeah? Well I’ve been doing it for all these years so far’ I snarled back

‘And yet, you end up here, in this unhappy place, you can’t escape fate Y/N, it has come to you’

‘You aren’t real, you are an illusion, a ghost, a figment of my imagination’ I sternly retorted, more to convince myself more than anything.

‘People travel great lengths to find me Y/N, I see all, yet people do all to see me’

‘Then why don’t you go annoy those people’

‘Who are you talking to?’

My body jolted at the sudden interruption, abruptly sitting up to find Leif in the same spot as last night, only standing with a curious and concerned look on his face. ‘Nobody…just myself’ I whispered, burying myself into the blanket. I could sense Leif sitting there, that puzzled look of contemplation on his face. ‘I forgot you were there’ I mumbled, more to myself than Leif. I could hear him smirk at the comment. 

That was a rule when I was young…when he first started to appear. Mother put it down to the side effects of the flu…but his visits became more frequent as I grew older. Frightening as he was, his eyes sewn shut, his lips the colour of liquid tar, pale and hooded like a lost soul in the night. His presence however was never as petrifying as it seemed to others. Although nobody else seemed to be able to see him, my mother shook in her boots whenever she caught me talking to him. ‘You are not well Y/N, there is nobody there’ she would say soothingly, calmly brushing my hair back. Looking back though, I think she was more afraid of me than him. The rule was set in place when it became too frequent and too much for her. Never ever let anyone know anything. 

‘Are you going to kill me now?’ I whispered, my eyes averted to the floor so as to not look him in the eyes. That look of his, so painfully intriguing. It would be less troublesome to keep my eyes averted than to find myself encapsulated in his gaze. I could see his feet freeze in place as his feet pivoted in my direction. ‘I won’t’ he said under his breath to himself as he busied himself by adjusting the axe in his belt. It was comforting, even if he didn’t mean for me to hear, but that only applied to my existence confined within these walls. On the other side…that was a different story. 

‘Am I the only one left?’ I timidly questioned, my only ounce of protection being the blanket I desperately wrapped my body into. He took in a deep breath, one that encapsulated the whole of his body as it heavily moved up and down. He turned around as if offended by the question. ‘Maybe you should just focus on yourself’ he huffed as he reached for the door, slamming it shut behind him. The board jiggled behind him as I could hear the wooden plank slide back into the place where Mother Brynhorn had done before. 

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

I hated this place, I hated everything about it. From the windowless rooms that served more as torture chambers, to the mice that scuttled through the gaping holes in the stone-cracked walls, to the daily routine of silence and prayer that made one's knees cripple each day. But most of all, I hated the people. The evil, cruelness that radiated the walls. Christians, they called themselves, a people living truly under God’s rule. 

But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.

Love, however, did not apply to farm girls who saw things that others could not… 

Outside this existence, I was just a daughter to a humble family. Christian, rural, a child amongst many. The youngest of brothers, a welcome blessing to my mother as she had said. Father had not too much to say on the matter of having a girl, but there was one thing that was undeniably true. Once I was born, my father barely ever touched my mother again. 

‘Danger comes to you my child’ 

‘Didn’t I just tell you to leave me alone’ I snarled as the poltergeist stood in the corner of the room. 

He didn’t say anything, just stood there, looking into my soul through his. He didn’t need eyes, he clearly had something more powerful. But as mother says…it’s not real. 

‘The God’s have sent me to you, it is no choice of mine, nor is it yours’ he murmured in a tone that sends shivers down my spine. 

‘Well you just tell the Go…’ I begun to lecture, before I looked up to see his presence disappear. A piercing screech scraped across the outside of the door making my teeth chatter. The door flung open to reveal Leif stood there, another man by his side watching over. 

‘You must come with me’ he sa himid quietly, a sensation of dread in his voice. I grounded my feet flat on the floor, clutching onto the lumpy mattress as I adamantly shook my head in disagreement. ‘you must’ he said, taking a step forward. I took in a deep gasp as anxiety and panic took over. Whimpers came out as I stuttered, pleading to be left alone. Dying alone in this room of starvation, cold, eaten alive by rats was more desirable than facing the Vikings on the other side of the door…their King in particular whose brief encounter was enough to haunt my dreams forever. I could hear Leif inhale a deep breath, his strong hand then clasping onto my upper arm, prying my body from its place, practically storming out the door and down the corridor. 

My terrified cries of pleas went unnoticed by the Greenlander, his counterparts loitered up and down the corridor, laughing at my cries of distress. Leif however had his gaze fixed upon the task at hand. Taking me to my death. 

I collapsed to the floor with a loud thud, the door to the grand hall slamming shut behind me as Leif took a step back from the large circle of Vikings stood in a circle around the ceremonial throne. My body shook as it collided with the cold wooden floor, my teeth sounding as they slammed together chattering as my chin shook. My state of despair was pleasing to the Vikings as they roared in laughter, downing sacramental wine as if it were water. A muffled shout sounded from the ceremonial throne. I slowly looked up to find Elder Aefentid tied to the seat, his mouth gagged by the ropes that usually rested around his waist. His look mirrored my petrified state.

‘Well, I didn’t expect to see you here young one’ that deep haunting voice taunted. The Vikings in the room went silent, standing to attention as the doors to the hall slammed shut. Every eye in the room was fixated on the man behind me. I kept my head down. 

His footsteps loud, paced forward incredibly slowly, coming closer and closer to me as I sat knelt on the floor with my eyes glued to the floor. I body jolted as a gentle brush of fingers danced on my head. His thick finger swirled the locks on top of my head, wrapping them around his finger. ‘And yet, here you are’ he noted, as if it were a grand performance. His body slammed to the ground, as he knelt next to me, clutching my neck within his palm, forcing me to look at Elder Aefentid. His petrified eyes looked back at mine. I let out a wail, letting out a deep cry. The King chuckled to himself, wrapping his other arm around my body, pulling my body into his embrace as he placed his lips upon my temple. ‘Shush, shush, shush’ he cried, performing to the spectators around him. His cruelness not escaping me. His grasp around my throat slightly tightened threateningly. ‘Tell us child, who is the man in the chair?’ He beseeched. Hot tears fell down my cheek as I tried to shake my head, but the King's hand held onto my neck rigidly, trapping my face where it was. His clutch tightened even more, stopping the already weak airflow from travelling to my lungs. ‘I will ask you again, who is the man in that chair?’

‘E..El…Elder Aefentid’ I choked out in a whisper. The King shook his head, his eyes averted to the ground, dissatisfied with the answer to the question he so desperately sought. ‘He is the leader here’ I whispered. The King's demeanour changed from one of dissatisfaction to genuine pleasure as his mouth broke into a grin, a deep laugh emitting from his stomach. The King stood from the floor, his hand unclasping from my throat, using my head to hoist his balance from the ground. The Vikings around him joined in with his laughter as the King paraded around the circle. ‘THIS MAN, A LEADER!’ He cried to his subjects. Their roars of laughter emitting even louder. However one stood apart from all the others, quiet, stone-faced, impassive. Leif Erikkson stuck out like a sore thumb. 

Canute walked up to the constricted man in the ceremonial throne. Elder Aefentid, yesterday a powerful malicious leader, today a prisoner in his own home. The King mockingly ripped the rope from Elder Aefentid’s mouth, his neck whiplashing at the speed and strength which he did. 

‘YOU VIKING SCUM, GOD WILL SEE TO IT YOU ALL ROT IN THE DEEPEST DEPTHS OF HELL’ he screamed, his throat slightly raspy in his delivery. The Viking King rounded the throne, looking undeterred by his verbal assault. The King stood there, leaning against the side of the throne, his arm extending, pointing his finger directly at me. ‘You speak old Norse, tell me what your leader said’ emphasising the term leader in a tone of disparagement. I could feel my jaw drop from beneath me, while my muscles clenched and my throat closed. ‘What. Did. He. Say?’ He demanded, taking a step forward between each word toward me. 

‘He urges you to seek Christ’ I retorted. The King seemed sinisterly pleased. ‘THIS MAN CLAIMS TO SERVE GOD’ he cried to the Vikings. This seemed to spark a different response. Instead of a roar of laughter, the Vikings responded in anger, grunting and yelling. The King walked toward Aefentid, reaching into his shirt, and pulling out a bejewelled crucifix tied to his neck. I could swear his eyes popped out of his skull at the thought of Christian Vikings. The King chuckled at Aefentid. ‘KING ÆTHELRED WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD FOR THIS’ he cried. 

At his threat, his attention was captured by everyone in the room, even Leif Erikson directed his gaze toward the bound man. ‘Æthelred’ The Viking King repeated, lowering his gaze to look directly into his prisoner's eyes. ‘What did he say child?’ His voice called, not breaking contact with Aefentid as they stared at one another. ‘H..he says the King will seek justice…’ I stuttered out. ‘FILTHY LITTLE VIKING BITCH’ Elder Aefentid cried, leaning to the side in order to catch my gaze, making sure his words penetrated my very soul. The Viking King turned around, all eyes in the room now directed at me as I sat on the ground in the middle of the room. ‘And?’ The Viking King questioned, his hands gesturing toward me. ‘He is displeased with me’ I whispered. 

The Viking King simply nodded, standing back up to his tall figure, grasping the rope from the ground, and shoving it violently back into Elder Aefentid’s mouth. ‘While I am displeased myself…’ he spoke, directing his gaze between Leif and me, his disappointment more directed at Leif. ‘Your speaking our language is very….opportune’ he said, scheming as he spoke. I could see out the corner of my eye Leif’s chest rise and fall deeply, whether it was out of relief or frustration I didn’t know. ‘Your life will be spared for now, you will spend your days helping me …refine my knowledge of the saxon language’ he said, wiggling his finger satisfied with his cunning plan. ‘But if you should be unsuccessful, or deceitful, you will suffer a fate worse than death’. His plan struck me to my core, I was a farmer's daughter, now a postulant, now a teacher to a Viking King. Which of the three was worse, I couldn’t be sure, but I was terrified at the thought of spending my days alone with the Viking King.  Elder Aefentid continued to scream profanities and muffled screams at the occupants of the room, but his cries went unnoticed by the Vikings as they busied themselves. Behind the throne, out of nowhere, he appeared again. The hooded figure stood solemnly beside the throne, unnoticed to everyone else, nodding his head at me. 

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

A new beginning had dawned on the Monastery. I was so used to silence, that even the sounds of people talking outside in the corridor put me on edge. I had not seen any of the sisters or brothers since Elder Aefentid sat in his mighty chair, only he was puny. 

I spent the days confined to my tiny windowless room. When the King demanded it, I was escorted to the Monks Library where the King required me to translate words, and passages and teach him to communicate in the Saxon language. So far, it had been fine, but The Viking King, Canute, made sure I knew what was at stake. He was always armed and made it known he had no issues punishing his property. I was still a servant, a prisoner, the only thing different being the man who demanded everything. 

It seemed an age the since the Vikings had first come. Some days it seemed there were more, other days less. The Viking’s clearly weren’t here for a sabbatical, nor to raid. The Monastery seemed however, a convenient stop in their greater plans. As time went on, their faces became more familiar. Sometimes they’d leave as a group for days, others would go individually. Leif Erikson seemed to have disappeared altogether…  

While King Canute had demanded I help him refine his knowledge of the Saxon language, from our first private meeting it seemed clear that he didn’t really need all that much help. His intention was unclear, but there was something sinister about his presence as if he were probing for something more valuable than language. As each session went by, the King was more curious about concerns of the Monastery, the fields around, and why nobody else seemed to live anywhere near here…how often travellers came through. I spent more time answering questions than I did teaching him anything. 

The King sat concentrating as he studied the symbols and texts of parchment that the Monks spent their days so delicately scribing. 

‘Tell me child, what is the relationship between your leader and King ÆTthelred?’ He asked cautiously. ‘I don’t know, the sisters aren’t allowed to converse with the brothers’ I muttered. The King turned around, coming back to sit at the grand table in the middle of the library. ‘What is your connection with the Saxon King?’ He probed. I almost wanted to chuckle at the absurdity of his question. ‘I don’t understand?’ I whispered, my shoulders tensing as his nostrils flared in an unsatisfied manner. ‘I mean, do you work for the King?’ He said, reaching his hand across the table, clutching my wrist and squeezing it tightly. I could feel the blood flow to my wrist stop, my wrist turning pale under Canute’s clutch. ‘He comes here for communion and spiritual cleansing occasionally…only the Monks have been in his presence’. His grip loosened, but the clutch on my wrist remained. ‘The Queen comes sometimes too, but only Mother Brynhorn is permitted to speak with her’ I exclaimed. ‘Who is his Queen?’ He questioned, his grip tightening again, cramping my hand. My fingers curled into themselves, rigid and stiff at the pain. ‘Queen Emma of Normandy’ I seethed out in pain between clenched teeth. 

His grip released as he smiled pleasingly to himself. ‘Normandy was founded by Vikings, did you know?’ He said more as a statement rather than a question. I shook my head. The truth was, I did know this as Elder Aefentid had cast cruel words at the Queen, but keeping this information withheld was likely to stop more questions and threats from King Canute. The King shot up from his seat, pushing the chair across the room behind him. 

The door slightly opened, and a familiar face crept in. As our gazes connected, it was evident the shock upon my face, as his at mine. Since the grand hall, Leif Erikson had seemingly disappeared.  Our concentrated stares were broken by Canute rising from his seat at the table. I stood to attention as the King’s chair scooted against the floor with a loud scrape. 

 ‘Ah, Leif Erikson, just in time, please take the prisoner back to her room’. 

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

Leif Erikson spared no mercy in escorting me back to my small room. His hand clutched my arm as he strode two paces ahead of me as he walked down the corridor, dragging me alongside him. He constantly clutched the hilt of the axe on his belt. 

When we arrived at the boarding wing, Leif roughly opened the door, taking a look around to see the Vikings still watching him. He thrust me forward, shoving me onto the lumpy mattress. A few of the Vikings stood watching, chuckling to themselves as they prompted his vulgarity. ‘Good luck with that one Greenlander’ they called, lifting their goblets in a cheers motion, throwing a surreptitious suggestive wink in his direction. I could feel my heart beating fast, their euphemism did not escape me.   The Greenlander nodded his head, stepping into the room cautiously, and closing the door behind him. 

I scurried back on my hands, retreating into the corner of the room, clutching the bottom of my skirt so as to somehow create an extra layer between us. Leif took a deep breath, his eyes glancing up and down at me. His eyes captured mine, but his face showed no emotion. I could feel my body shake. He gently reached down, undoing the belt that sat around his waist, loosening it, and untying it slowly string by string until it came off. ‘P…please no….I….I….I’ve never’ I stammered. He lifted his eyebrow quizzically. As he took a step forward, I let out a yelp, closed my eyes, and cradled myself in a protective state. The end of the bed dipped as he sat down on the edge, he let out a loud sigh as a rustling noise emitted. I sat there, cradled into myself waiting for him to pounce, lay his hands on me, or even say something. But it was just silence. 

His hair was tasselled and knotted, coming out of the bun I remembered it had been in before. His face was smeared with dried mud that cracked on his forehead, indicating a level of stress as his brows creased. His clothes were uncomfortably damp, chafing against his body. His gaze locked to the floor, seemingly defeated, yet relieved at the same time.  

We sat silently, I sat there looking at him trying to piece the puzzle together of how he ended up in such a state. It had been weeks since I had seen the Greenlander, as Canute constantly referred to him as. He sat there, his elbows leaning on his legs, sitting there, solemnly content in the silence. ‘Leif’ I whispered, being careful not to move nor startle him as he sat silently in a meditative state. He let out a grunt, shaking his head slowly as if to say please. 

‘I wouldn’t do that to you’ he whispered, wiping his sleeve across his nose as his neck dropped further down. 

He sat in silence for longer, the room becoming darker as the sun set outside. I gently got up from the bed, circling in front of him, kneeling on the floor between his legs. Up close, his face was one of utter exhaust. His eyelids dropped as he tried to hold his eyes open. He could barely acknowledge my presence as he sat there, his body swaying as if it were about to buckle beneath him. I gently reached up to the collar of his damp coat, gently untying the strings, trailing down his chest until the fasteners were undone. He sat there rigidly, not saying a word, not making a move. I gently ran my palms under the fabric of the coat, my hands pressed against his solid, large shoulders. I pushed against them, almost revelling in the feeling of the sheer tightness of his skin. I ran my palms down his arms, sliding the coat off his body, gently peeling it from him. His shirt underneath, although still intact, was ripped and muddied. Whatever activity Leif Erikson had been up to, it wasn’t a leisurely trip. His arms limply fell from their resting place on his thighs as he allowed me to slide the wet coat off his arms, freeing him from the constricting material. His chin tilted only slightly, enough for our gaze to connect again through his drooping eyelids. 

Nothing needed to be said though, his exhaustion was clear. I gently grasped onto his shoulders again, pushing him down into a laying position on the mattress. He let out a gentle sigh of relief, grateful for even the comfort of the world's lumpiest old mattress. I grabbed the blanket from the end of the bed, draping it carefully over his body. 

By the time the blanket had draped over him, Leif Erikson was solemn in slumber. 

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

‘Y/N you’re sick, you need help’ my mother pleaded with teary eyes. 

‘You promised it wouldn’t come to this, you swore we’d never tell’ I screamed back, scuttling along the floor and gazing up and my mother in fear. 

‘I couldn’t keep it from him, he saw you, this is the best thing for you’ she breathlessly exclaimed, crawling toward me pleading. 

‘It’s time to go Y/N’ My father sounded from the other end of the room sternly.

‘Please…Please don’t do this, it doesn’t need to be like this’ I screamed. But he stood there, firmly in place, firm in his hand, firm in his decision. 

‘They are already here Y/N, you are going’ he said sternly, stiff in his body language as if to say this conversation was annoying more than anything.

I could feel my head hit the back of the wall, there being nowhere else to escape to. 

‘She’s in here Father’ he called, turning around to greet those once strange eyes, but now so familiar. ‘Elder Aefentid, we are so grateful, our daughter needs more help than we can give her’. My father's tone changed so matter of factly as if he were a helpless man trying so hard to help his daughter. I couldn’t help but feel this was all too convenient for him. In his clutches, Elder Aefentid stood in the room, a bible in his clutch, a crucifix held firmly in his grasp. 

‘Do you see him now child?’ Elder Aefentid questioned as he cautiously tip-toed into the room. Of course, I could, he hadn’t left all day, only stood there warning me that my fate was to unfold. I shook my head ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about father…’ I whispered through teary cries. 

‘DO YOU SEE HIM NOW CHILD?’ He screamed. 

‘Y/N’ 

I bolted up with a scream. I could feel my limbs unstick from one another as the feeling of cold sweat engulfed my body. The room was black, the floor cold beneath me, the only break of light coming from a single candle. The orange hue gently lit the face of Leif as he sat on the bed, his eyes full of unease. 

‘You were yelling’ he said matter of factly, his tone clearly masking confusion. ‘I wasn’t yelling?’ I said questioningly, but I had known this to happen before. ‘You were yelling’ he said again in a much calmer tone, the light flickering in front of his face. I took in a deep breath, taking in every crevice of his face, the way his jaw chiselled, tensing and relaxing as his throat bobbled as he took in a deep gulp.  I nodded curtly, as if to say I know, but I don’t want to know. 

Leif sat on the bed, his legs over the side as he sat at the head of the bed. ‘How did I get here?’ He solemnly questioned, grazing his fingers over the mattress as the blanket lay gently across his lap. ‘You tell me, you were awfully tired’ I whispered back, shrugging my shoulders as he looked down at my place on the floor. There was something intense about his gaze, the way his eyes flickered up and down my body, a sense of curiosity and uncertainty as we sat between the flickering of orange. It was improper for me to be alone in here with him, but knowing there were plenty more Vikings on the other side of the door, I can’t lie in saying I wasn’t grateful for Leif’s presence. 

His demeanour changed as he directed his gaze back to the floor, uncomfortable with the obvious query that loomed over us both. Where had Leif Erikson been all this time? Whether the details really mattered, but why he had come back, that was the mystery. 

‘I will leave’ he whispered gingerly, slowly playing with the loose thread of the blanket that draped over him. His movements were slow, unwilling. When he rose from the bed his knees cracked beneath him, a gentle seethe of pain emitted from his teeth. ‘You’re hurt’ I breathed, getting up abruptly to steady his frame as his legs slightly wobbled beneath him. ‘I am fine’ he said as he stiffly straightened his rigid back, that cracking as well. ‘Just stay’ I whispered abruptly as I grabbed onto his biceps. As I stood there, only the smallest gap between us, his body towered over mine, his head dropped naturally as I looked up to meet his gaze. His eyes flickered, as mine did his. An eeriness of caution, waiting for the other to do something. But one thing was clear, I wasn’t willing to move, nor was he. ‘I um…’ I stuttered, as my fingers seemed to linger onto his skin much longer than was friendly. 

*SLAM*

My palm flew to my face as I let out a shriek, my body jumping in fright at the sound of a pound against the door. Leif Erikson didn’t seem to even startle. My hands flew from him as I took a step away. The murmur of slurred singing in old norse could be heard as metal clanged against one another. Leif strode toward the door, poking his head out as I silently shook in my shoes, awaiting whatever the Vikings were doing. He silently closed the door, pressing a finger to his lips as he turned toward me. ‘Too much mead tends to bring out the lively side of Vikings’ he whispered in amusement. His smile seemed suppressed as he let out a long breath through his nostrils. I smiled back gently, tilting my lips just enough to show I appreciated his attempt at humour in my state of scare. 

‘Maybe I should…’ he trailed. I simply nodded. ‘I would appreciate it’ I said. Leif quietly untied the fasteners of his belt, letting the tight fabric fall to the floor. I gently sat down at the end of the bed as he uncertainly took a seat at its head. The light flickered in the pitch-black room, only offering glimpses of one another. 

I could feel a tingle deep within my stomach. My brain was telling me all the things I should know. This is improper, this is immoral, this is a disaster waiting to happen, and God will punish me. But something deep within my body shook, an urge I couldn’t shake. Like a roaring fire in my stomach that set my heart alight. I could feel the rhythmic pounding of my heartbeat turn to pulsate so strongly that radiated down my torso all the way down to my legs. I squeezed my thighs together, a poor attempt to suppress that pulsated between my legs. I could sense a tenseness as the blanket shifted beneath me. I glanced down to find Leif’s fingers nervously digging into the bed. My body involuntarily shivered as if something shot down my spine. ‘You are cold?’ He whispered, breaking the tense silence that encapsulated the room. ‘A little’ I whispered back, digging into the blanket with my fingers. Leif reached down to the ground and grabbed his coat, only to let out a dissatisfied breath. ‘It’s still wet sorry’ he said defeatedly. 

The room retreated into silence again, the only sound emitting being a gentle sizzle of the flame as it burnt the candle. The feeling of desire was uncomfortable, but the obvious silence of awkwardness was unbearable. I gently grabbed the blanket from Leif’s side, draping it over both our laps as a symbol of peace. Leif seemed taken aback but relieved at the notion of not having to sleep on the floor. 

The mattress was thin, our arms and legs pressed against one another tightly as the width of our bodies overcrowded the tiny bed. I could hear Leif breathing, as he could probably hear mine. Just as short and nervous as each other. 

‘There is no need for any more nightmares Y/N…nobody is here but us’ he solemnly whispered. I could feel the tears prickling in my eyes. The sincerity in his voice had a gentle shake to it as if he was nervous but his desire to say it was more important than the thought of making a fool of himself. It was as if another entity had taken over my body, without thought, fear, or contemplation I felt my hand reaching down beneath the blanket, scuttling underneath the surface blindly until my fingers finally found what they were looking for. 

As cautiously as my shaking fingers were, our fingers entwined loosely, as if neither of us was certain that this was okay or not. But even in their loose entwined grip, neither of our hands moved until sleep took over. 

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

[xtinyaurora]

Can you write punishment sex with dom yandere/possessive/psycho female or gn reader please it would make me super happy because there's not really any dark smut with dom reader for atz or in general but if you can't that's okay.

Ateez reaction: Punishment sex with Yandere!Y/N

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➼ requested?: yes

➼ genre: yandere, smut

➼ pairing: sub!Ateez x Dom!neutral!reader (Mingis reaction includes the reader ridding him, but I didn’t mention a gender / it’s just a random hole, you can choose which one, lol.)

➼ Word-count: 1,4k+

➼ Warnings: nsfw content, strong language, cursing, spanking, spitting, slapping, punching, breaking bones, fingering, toys, hair pulling, violence, humiliating/ degradation, pet names, blood, yelling/ screaming, cuffing, bondage, yandere themes, kinda psychopathic, dark themes, mature themes, jealousy (?), and a lot more 💀

➼ Note: This is not based on their real behavior or meant to represent real life. This is simply a fan fiction. In no way am I condoning, justifying, encouraging or promoting yandere behavior or lifestyle. Read at your own risk!

➼ A/N note: Thank you so much for requesting this. Also, I’d love to get some feedback for this one!

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Park Seonghwa

You slowly traced the whip over his naked body, laughing at his frightened state. His hands were tied above his head, bound to the ceiling. The blindfold on his eyes made it even harder for him to figure out your next movements. Another harsh slap on his upper body was made, making the boy cry out in pain. „What? Can’t take it, anymore? Well, that’s what you get for yelling at me, dumb bitch!“ you shouted at the now crying boy. He begged for mercy, making your lips curl up again. You got closer to him, grabbing his ass and squeezing it hardly. A quiet moan escaped his mouth, but got replaced by a much louder one, after you entered two fingers into his butthole. You felt how he sneezed his red ass on your fingers, now whining. „Psssh, I don’t wanna hear you, is that understood, Hwa?” The boy quickly nodded his head, you giving him a light kiss on his shoulder. „Good boy. Let’s start playing then.”

Kim Hongjoong

„Agh!“ did boy growl out loudly, after you hit him with the metal chain, again. „Shut up, I said I don’t want to hear any noises, didn’t I?” you screamed at him, receiving a cried out „Yes! S-sorry.” You then grabbed his neck screaming so hard that your spit flew into his face. „You better be fucking sorry, slut! And you better don’t make the same mistake twice, touching yourself and watching strangers fuck, is that understood?!” He started to cry harder, scared of how far you’d go. „Yes! I won’t do it again, I am sorry! I just couldn’t hold back, I don’t know what came over me, I am just a dumb pet.” You let out a chuckle, making the cuffed and kneeling male look up to you. He watched you with his teary eyes, you slowly getting nearer to his face, letting go of his neck. You started to kiss him, then you sucked his neck, leaving hikeys on the pretty boy. Soft moans left his mouth. „This feels so good.” He then received a hard slap on his cheek. „You’re not supposed to enjoy this, Hongjoong. This is your punishment, so shut up or I will be even rougher with you.”

Jeong Yunho

„Does this feel good?” you asked the puppy like boy, squeezing his giant dick while moving the vibrator in and out his hole. „Hell yea!” Did he moan out loudly, making you smirk. „Oh yea? Do you know what will feel even better you slutty bitch?” did you ask, stopping your movements. He looked at you, a fucked out expression sitting on his face, sweat flowing down. He watched you as you went to the table, opening the box which was placed on it. You opened it, looking at all the knives which were laying in there. You picked out a karambit, holding it up, admiring it. You stopped when the boy that was tied on the chair started talking. „Oh god, please don’t.” You smirked again, raising one of your eyebrows. „Oh babyboy, did you really think I will pleasure you for misbehaving, not following the rules like I taught you to? Oh, how sweet you are, my giant puppy. Let me make your beautiful body even prettier, yea?”

Kang Yeosang

Blood was dripping from his body, hands tied behind his back, head on the ground, kneeling at the same time. He breathed heavily, trying to catch his breath. „You like that, dumb bitch? Like getting fucked by toys, huh? Oh, baby, I will make sure that this hole gets ripped apart, don’t worry about that. Now let’s see if you ever dare to kiss someone else’s that is not me, stupid thing.” You pulled at his leash that was tied around his neck. „If I talk to you, then you look me in the eyes!” you screamed at him. You then spitted right into his face. Yeosang twisted his face then, making you mad. „What? Are you disgusted by me you ungrateful bitch?!” you screamed again. Another spit was followed. You then took of all of your cloth off and laid down in front of him. He looked at you confused, you giving him an angry expression in return. „Get to work you idiot.”

Choi San

San screamed extremely loud, not being able to take the overstimulation he was now receiving. His sensitiv red nipples hurted from the clippers you puttet on, but damn this boy loved the pain. You see, San generally loves pain, that’s why he loves to misbehave from time to time, so he can get a good, painful punishment. You grabbed his balls digging your nails in them, another scream leaving his mouth. You pulled the toy out of him, starting to stoke him slowly, making him moan. „You like that?” „Yes! Please, keep going.” You got on your knees, sucking him slowly. A lot of whines started to leave his mouth. In the middle of nowhere, you bit into his dick. It was so hard, that it started bleeding. „Ouch!” „What, can’t take it Sanie? Isn’t this what you wanted? Be grateful for whatever I give you.” The boy hysterical nodded, apologizing and waiting for your next move.

Song Mingi

His hands and legs were tied to the bed posts, a mouth gag in his moth. You were currently riding his cock, him crying from being overstimulated, not being able to move or speak. You slapped him. Then punched him with your fist a few times. You focused on putting as much as force in your punch as possible and you kinda succeeded. Not only did his nose started to bleed, but you heard how his bone cracked. A satisfied grin started to form on your face. Mingi started to cry harder, about to reach his fifth high of this night. You started to bounce harder, being close yourself. „Wanna come, Mingi-ah? You little bitch, do you deserve to come another time, huh? I am the only one who makes you feel this good and I am the only one who’s allowed to make you feel this way, is this understood?! If I see you near someone that is not me again, than trust me I won’t only hurt them, but you in a way that no one wants to experience, okay? Get that trough your dumb head, big boy and don’t dare to disappoint me again.”

Jung Wooyoung

„Fuck, yes!” screamed your handsome but bratty boyfriend. You was laying in the ground, you stepping on his dick. Wooyoung is another one that loves pain and another one that wanted to get punished. „You dirty little bitch, who told you to enjoy this, huh?” He provocatively smirked at you, actually making you mad. Oh, you will whipe that smirk out of his face! You stepped harder on him, his face changing within a second. „Not so funny anymore, huh? How about we go a level higher. Should I put a nail through your dick or should I just chop it off your dirty body, huh?” The boy started smirking again, his next sentence making you go wild. „You can suck me off instead.” You immediately grabbed his neck, squeezing it as hard as you could. „Okay you little brat, that’s enough! Who do you think you are talking to, huh? Don’t you dare to disrespect me like that EVER again. I am the one who’s above you, so keep that dirty tongue in that shitty mouth of yours or I am going cut it off instead.“

Choi Jongho

„Agh, eighty seven! Eighty eight. Eighty nine.” and so on. Jongho was currently on all fours, while you were whipping his ass with a long wooden stick. He started to cry even harder, so lowered is head but got pulled up by you again, since you had putted a leash on his neck. „Ouch, fuck! Please give me a second.” begged the boy, but you had no mercy. „What? I don’t think that I heard a number. Guess we have to start all over again.” He was startled by your words, turning around quickly. The tears that were formed in his eyes started to fall. „P-please don’t. I didn’t mean to.” You scoffed, harshly grabbing his hair. „Oh yea? And you really think I care about that? You only had one job, Jongho. It’s not my fault that you’re too dumb to do it. I’ve warned you before. I’ve warned you not to break the rules or there will be consequences, but you didn’t listen. You choose this yourself, so shut up and start counting from zero again.”

[ladybugmeat]

7.

THE PARDONER’S TALE

I remember the tough buttons on mobile phones that, like unripe fruit, fought to be pressed.

I remember good drink and how it licked my tonsils and stuck in my throat like hot glue.

I remember hands that would tremble like the wings on a moth.

I remember the passing coffin with its gauze of white chiffon you could see right through.

I remember the exact moment Dave turned to me and said I wasn’t drunk or dreaming.

I remember the exact moment Death looked like my sleeping body.

I remember that once I sat up, Dave said that it would be after him or I sooner or later.

I remember that someone or other once said ‘I intend to live forever or die trying.’

I remember, in a churchyard a mile from here, a broad oak tree along from where the suited-boys lunched.

I remember there was a day, stood at its foot, I found a bushel of pound coins.

I remember finding it wholly enchanting how its trunk made a hollow to rest my head.

I remember Dave insisted that I pick up a six-pack of K-ciders and two Cornish pasties.

I remember that the day’s light was stiflingly blue with potential.

I remember the jangle of coins would send me to choke on my own breath.

I remember Dave insisted I leave quickish.

I remember he had a strange look in his eyes.

I remember that I didn’t like the way he kept counting the coins and then counting them again.

I remember the tinny muzak in the off-licence and how it made me do a terrible thing.

I remember the opaque bottle of cough syrup and how the brown liquid mixed seamlessly with cider.

I remember that someone or other once said ‘I intend to live forever or die trying.’

I remember that I approached him with no guilt, only joy.

I remember that Death moved faster than I had anticipated.

I remember the white blade of Dave’s knife and how it sunk into my stomach as if it were warm cake.

I remember how the open cider washed through the open wound.

I remember that Dave was Death and Dave was Avarice.

I remember you should dial 999 for an ambulance.

I remember the tough buttons on mobile phones that, like unripe fruit, fought to be pressed.

[Through emulating the form of Joe Brainard’s ‘I Remember’, there is the effect of Janus - The ancient Roman God who summons both past and present. Segueing between desire, regret, and anecdote, the speaker’s voice is panoptic. The Pardoner’s Tale depicts ‘The Three Rioters’ who decide to find Death and slay him. This fictive tale of glutton is overlayed with the drunken meditations of those pictured.]

THE PLIGHT OF THE PARSON

Finns Black is 630 years old today. His speech has the same delay as the street’s pipes. There was a patina of age that kept his thoughts private for a good moment after one expected him to speak. And when he did, a person would often make their excuses to catch the first bus. Pulling the chaser of Cherry Wine from his lips, Finns Black restrung the four folds in his brow. His words were simple. Jesus was the only way. It was a fine rhetoric - fully complete, a constrictor knot.

Out in the street, young crowds jeered when Finns Black passed. He took refuge in a narrow cafe where people were too busy eating slim sausage stew to see what he saw. The waitress looked upon him kindly. She pulled his bike inside and parked it in the cloakroom. ‘Are you interested in giving your life to Christ?’ Finns Black touched her arm before she could leave his table. The woman handed Finns Black a cigarette and a lighter. ‘You don’t have to pretend Finns. I have a pack for you upstairs in my locker. Wait around later and I’ll get you them.’

Finns Black watched the heavy blonde waitress pull the cafe shutters shut. Walking towards him, she held out the blue striped Benson and Hedges. ‘You do know that you won’t reach the Celestial City if you don’t give yourself to Christ…’ Finns Black lit a cigarette. The woman looked at him and smiled.

[Within Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, ‘The Parsons Tale’ is an arduous renounciation of sin. I have taken the Parson’s character and transformed him into a disenchanted figure of contemporary life. Contrast to Chaucer’s Parson, Finns Black is fallible, vulnerable, and scared.]