#there were some butchered prayers

[growing-yet-into-magic]

I think that playing "funeral" is an important part of child social development in the same way that playing "house" and "marriage" are, simply because it's a rite of passage that you will be expected to participate in either directly or indirectly, but I also remember that instead of burying my dead fish in the backyard little!me decided to host an ancient Egyptian opening of the mouth ceremony for my betta using a flosser as a scepter and wrapping the poor guy in toilet paper. So. Mileage per child may vary I suppose

[tarjapearce]

Heathens (Pt. 1)

Priest! Miguel O'Hara x Nun!Reader

art by @maxro_art on IG (Her Deliverance AU is ❤️❤️🤌🏻)

WARNINGS: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. If you're sensitive regarding religion, please don't read this. Masturbation in holy places, explicit language, wet dreams, Female anatomy, oral ( F receiving) Gentle Dom Miguel, Corruption kink, overused tropes cause yeah, a tinge of yandere undertones if you squint, mutual lust, Not Proofread ~

Summary: Father O'Hara had a little lamb ~

A/N: Another for the Miguelverse ~ Reblogs and comments are much appreciated c:

Main Masterlist

From all the places you could've find solace from war, The house of God was the least of lieus in your list. Not that you had a choice.

Family long gone after unsuspected explosions decimated your town, followed by constant tragedies such as losing friends along the way either by enemy and merciless hands or sickness. In the end, it was only you. You had outlived them all despite your short age. And now, they lived crammed up in your memories.

Happy, smiling and very much alive. Sometimes you'd see familiar faces on stranger's bodies. Grief had slowly nested within your soul and when all hope seemed lost, the chapel had saved you from what surely would end up in your premature death.

The blackest of black matched the crispest white you had ever seen, they were all donned in their beatific robes, prayer beads dangling at every gentle step they did. And there it was, epiphany unfolding itself before your experienced in horror eyes. It was your call.

All the answers to your laments and aching heart were sent as them. Nuns of the Mistbourne Parish. A church located in the outskirts of a now rundown by conflict Nueva York. The church that now played a major role in taking in as much people within their sacred walls, before they could be dispatched to a more adequate place.

Without hesitation, you had joined. And now, six years later you still remained with them. Early twenties had settled right for you as a nun. Ever devoted, compassionate, and diligent.

As time went on, the main city was reconstructed, burying it's dark tragedy under freshly built towers, hiding the pain under the rugged carpet full of concrete and wire homes, like nothing ever happened. Like if war had never stepped upon it and gave it a much needed renewal at people's lives expenses.

But no matter how many changes time brought, life in Mistbourne's Parish remained the same. Untouched by the technological advances from the outer world. There was always something to do, as simple as it was. And so far, you've been satisfied with it.

The only alterations worth of mention was your holy family expanding.

A new couple additions to the staff. More sisters, an eighty percent of them were beyond fifty. You were the youngest, their child. After all some ended up raising you within the house.

And him. The new priest.

The tallest and bulkiest man you've ever seen. As much as staring was considered rude and borderline a sin, it was unavoidable to do so, when his rusty brown eyes fell upon you. Their color unique, like he was. Never in your life had you seen someone like him, or another man besides the butcher and the guard. He had definitely been a regular man before coming here.

The soft weary expression lines in his sharp countenance revealed his own fair of lived experiences.

He towered over you, crisp white dot on his black rimmed neck line, parading his status with modest pride, and golden praying beads dangling on his narrow hips, you held yours while asking forgiveness for keep staring.

"Father."

Father O'Hara. In his mid thirties, broken family also torn by war, wearing his vows in the shape of a ring on his right hand.

"Sister"

His voice deep yet gentle, like a lullaby. His steps took him away to his own residence. The rectory outside the church.

It made sense as to how some workers were renovating it in the past few weeks. The parish last priest had been sent off in sacred duties, only to realize later that he had killed a man. Cops and detectives surely made a show out of it.

Dark times, according to Sister Lianne, one of your mother figures. But now, Father O'Hara had taken his place, erasing all traces of the previous man with concise and pithy actions.

He took his role seriously. Said masses on sundays, visited the sick, baptized people; but his most popular feat was to hear the confessions. The most intimate secrets revealed to him by either your fellow sisters or people from the town that came to expiate their sins in hope to be forgiven.

You'd sometimes run into each other, bumping casually in the narrow wooden floored halls, you'd often apologize, only to reciprocate a polite smile on both ends. He'd sometimes help you out by carrying things a bit too heavy, or you'd help him out lighting up the altar for his speech.

Yet, his hands in one occasion took an accidental taste of your body dimensions underneath your beatific robes, while preventing you from falling down the stairs. He'd scold you for being careless and carrying things that obscured your sight.

After many sorries on your behalf, you returned to the cells and went straight to your own dorm, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

His hands felt burning upon remembering the dents of your form, the curve of your waist and certainly the warmth that irradiated from you, so so close from his.

Unexpectedly it had brought memories from his past. His old life where he'd have his lovely and temporary companion for the night impaled deliciously with himself before war and hell broke loose. Before he was forced by the subversives that raided his town to create a new fake identity in the spot as they heard him speak spanish or fight a war he hadn't started, much less would end. And so, his life as Father O'Hara begun.

Odd enough, the sudden and thoughtless choice had granted him peace after witnessing so many terrors his fellow human could be capable of. His need of help has always been stronger than anything and when he finished licencing some sacrifices were required.

Poverty vows weren't an issue since his previous life had been modest yet good enough to go by. Little difference between his current lifestyle.

The obedience vow took him a little longer to fully yield. But he accomplished it to a T, just to avoid more trouble. He faked it until he made it.

His chastity vow had been a quite the challenge to perfect, but no matter how much the temptations paraded before him in the many parishes he was assigned to, he didn't give in. His libido had been sapped out of his body, like a campfire after completing it's useful cycle.

Not because of his brand new sanctity invested by holier-than-thou elders, but rather a broken mind full of grievance and other negatives that always haunted him. The gunshots and bombings too fresh in his mind.

It had been years since he touched someone in a way that wasn't holy. Since he had provoked things in someone else that clearly would make him go under the laicization from the clergy without second guessings.

Until he held you the other day.

Both of your eyes too enraptured in eachother that had sent an igniting spark to his spine. Reviving all those inactive nerves he thought his existencial toll severed long ago. His eyes had gave a brief rake over your face.

Wide and round eyes staring back, both in awe and surprise straight into his soul. Nose flaring softly just like your mouth, whose bottom lip trembled at the little erratic breaths your lungs exhaled upon being in physical contact with a man for the first time in ever, while cheeks bloomed with a not so discreet flush. And your body heat.

Jesus all mighty.

It was dangerously tempting. For a brief moment his past self had taken over, but quickly vanished upon hearing steps. Earning you to fix your crucifix and cowl nervously and him to fist his hands to refrain himself to take another taste and fix his collar and cassock.

To his conclusion, the robes you wore did not match what was underneath. He noted much, but having you wear that loose habit only fuelled his now active and sinful imagination. An opposite from your habits' purpose.

Priest life was hard, and the Celibacy vows were his biggest damnation. Mind often plagued with 'I shouldn't have done this.' 'This is ridiculous' 'Fucking idiot' 'Why did I even lie about this?' But even so, priesthood was better than ending up dead or mutilated by mines somewhere in the battlefield, in the middle of a war he didn't started, much less would end.

Government later was forcibly recruiting all those men, be them widowed or married. It didn't matter. War wasn't for him. Neither Priesthood.

But he'd bear it. He'd bear it until he was put in another parish church full of older and witty ladies he'd definitely wouldn't lust after.

----

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The sweet voice behind the confessional punctured walls, perked up his ears. He had memorized a lot of things, your voice included.

"I... I haven't confessed in weeks. But it grows me concerned that... my mind is somewhere else."

Silence. You were met with silence as expected, it also encouraged you to keep talking.

"A man has flooded my thoughts and no matter how much I try to occupy myself, he's there. Leading me to temptation and sin."

A man?

His brow quirked as he slanted over the little wooden division between you, to hear better and take a peek on your face. The only men he could think of was the guard, the butcher and himself. The only men inhabiting the same area as you.

"How does this man tempts you?"

"He... He visits. In my dreams I mean and..."

A low 'forgive me, God' echoed in your stall. His throat dried and his hands rested on each side of his knees, gripping at the fabric of his pants.

"He does things I know I shouldn't partake in... But, it feels too real."

"You sound scared. Does it frightens you?"

"Very much so. But it is a strange sort of fear, Father."

"What kind of fear then?"

It took you a long pause to muster

"A fear of him stopping his visits in my mind."

He gulped.

Your hands took the crucifix and held it tighter, "For him to stop doing such sinful things to me, even in my dreams."

"Have you sinned in the carnal affairs?"

"N-No. I would never. I've never engaged in them, Father."

His groin twitched, as a hand raked over his scalp. A shaky breath that was forced to come out in silence. Only when he thought you couldn't be more innocent, there you were proving him wrong.

"Ever?"

"I promise to you with my life, I've never."

"I must know" He wetted his lips with his tongue, "What kind of things does this man does to you?"

"W-What?"

Your spine straightened up instantly, eyes wild, staring another hole into the already punctured division. Cinnamon color in his skin, the only brief glimpse you managed to see. But even so, his gentle yet cornering voice brought you down from your initial jump.

"I need to know, so I can dictate a penance."

The flush on your cheeks returned, burning bright upon remembering the all too lucid dream you've been having about your secret man. That, even though visited frequently, you still didn't know his face, just his body as it smothered yours wholy in a constant merciless and scorching rut.

All what you remembered was him feasting between your legs like a starved man. His hands maneuvering your soft mounds to then give a gentle squeeze.

"His hands are the ones that bring the sin, Father."

"Explain yourself"

His voice was sultry, buttery rich and smooth on the other side of the stall. A subtle order. To your dismay, that same demon had a similar voice tone. Alluring, speaking to you in a foreign language it had you mewling and asking for forgiveness every time you remembered, cause you had begged the faceless man for more.

"He touches and... t-tastes places I shouldn't allow no man to delve in." With a thick gulp you continued, "His tongue is... marvelous."

His eyes widened for a second as his hand hovered over his crotch

"Marvelous?"

"I feel the biggest sinner by admitting this. Please, do forgive me."

"Accountability is part of the process."

He tried to sound as professional as he could, but little did you know his mind was torturing his already crumbling resolve with such vivid details. Celibacy wasn't a problem, until now. Hearing such sinful words coming from such a unsuspecting thing like yourself, a virgin that is, made his old self to re-emerge.

Disguising himself as a sheep, while he fought through his holy learning years to tame his wolfish appetite.

There were plenty of ewes in the flock , but so far the only one that made his mouth water was you. A perfect little lamb. And now, this. We're you set to making him break his vows?

No. You weren't. He was reaching his limits to break celibacy and you were just having wet dreams about someone that definitely made him wonder about your past life. A past lover? No. Not even that. A possession? A demon? No. Definitely not.

He had heard things whenever on lunch duty. Mindless talk that revealed more to him from others and you than they intended to. You, a nun. Picked up from a ravaged village nearby and raised within  the nuns, meaning, you had zero idea of what pleasure meant.

He believed, but wasn't a complete blinded idiot to faith. Your body was asking for physical and forbidden relief. Just like his.

But again, the golden band around his right hand not only forbid but also was the perpetual reminder of what was a stake.

"I know, Father. But... this man has such power over me that has pushed me to sin. He... he has pushed me to take such vulgar matters in my own hands."

Maker's mercy

His cock twitched harder and he was unable hold back and gave a firm  squeeze while biting his lip to quiet himself at the long forgotten and heady pleasure that was drowning his body in an alarming rate.

As if done of being fed lies and a quick and sloppy handjob for ages. It was disgusting how easy was to sin, how well his body ached and reacted to such stimulus. How effortlessly his old habits had caught up to him.

He was the one that needed a penance now, cause he couldn't shake the image of you spread with your legs wide open, naked, sliding your fingers in between your weeping folds. You'd certainly have your mouth shut or lips bitten to avoid having anyone hear you.

He had closed his eyes while his jaw clenched, occasionally sweeping his tongue over his lips to keep them moist.

"Say it. Say your sin."

He commanded in a voice that had your cheeks flustered and your pearly nub a throb. His hand half squeezed half stroked over his clothed groin. Swollen and needy cock begging to be set free and properly taken care of.

"I..." A dry gulp and your hands went to your crotch, begging your nature to behave. Cheeks impossibly red.

"I've enjoyed touching myself after dreaming a man... f-fucks me, Father."

The word 'fuck' coming out your delicious looking yet pure lips, had his teeth gnawing at the insides of his cheek, self control harder to keep under the leash. It barked, howled even demanded for more explicit details.

Instead, he sighed quietly and cleared his throat. The sudden noise had you gripping the skirt of your habit in shame.

Miguel didn't say much besides the prayer of absolution and a couple of more prayers as your penance. The same right hand that was squeezing his cock was now being kissed by you, to confirm your forgiveness. Plump, warm and soft lips caressed his ring finger.

And once you were gone, his hand took control on its own, slid under his soutane to stroke himself. If you felt like a sinner, he was the devil himself.

The vice like grip in his own cock made him shudder, sensation foreign yet so welcoming after years without it. A little whine escaped past his gaping mouth, exhaling pecaminous breaths as he stroked like teenage boy that just discovered masturbation for the time ever. Sloppy, desperate and wet motions echoed in the now sullied stall.

He fisted his hand tighter, thick fingers coaxing a much needed release, hips rutting into his choking hand. Quiet whimpers and an array of curses flew out his mouth.

His flushed tip swayed and shook under his own rough ministrations while his jaw clenched, he clawed at the chair when hot and thick spurts of his cum dribbled down his hand and wrist before time; pooling in the hollow of his palm while earning a gutural growl that dissolved into a shaky whimper, as he curled against the wooden and punctured wall for a brief lapse of seconds to regain his composure.

"Fuck..." He had to lay against his chair to keep the light-headedness at bay, drowning in his own made pleasure, panting like he had run a marathon for hours.

He shouldn't have lied back ago. And  definitely shouldn't have become a priest. He was soiling their already tainted reputation. His old self was back to stay.

He cleaned up his hand under his robes to then leave to change. He was given a glimpse as you were picking up some harvest in the orchard while he was making his way back home.

---

Window's glasses echoed with the soft rain. The parish has been quiet during weekdays, but busy for you. As winter approaches the harvest must be picked, the grains sorted and the meats stored.

You saw Father O'Hara less and less, and when you did, they were mere glimpses. He was as busy in meetings with other priests, or preparing for the mass that was now given twice a week.

If you weren't in the garden or the laundry, you were in the choir.

Lingering yet brief gazes chased each other. He had heard some nuns speaking about him, some had wonderful things to say, saying that he had been one of the most efficient priests the church has had.

Others mentioned between hushed and bashful whispers about his physical condition and how they caught him go for runs at crack of dawn a couple of times.

And you, just wanted to go to confession again and ask for forgiveness. Not to spill the advantures you had in your dreams with a man that oddly resembled like Father O'Hara, but to unleash your heart's desires to wonder what was beyond the parish.

It was your life, all you've ever known so far. But one of those trips to the city during a beneful visit to another location, had left you amazed. How could a world so different like yours could be considered bad and straying?

But again, vows. Your vows bound you, and once broken, there was no turning back. But right now all that mattered was to get to the dorms. The rest was out in another visit to the city, you were to stay to finish your tasks in the kitchen.

Weather changed so abruptly that one moment you were taking the last basket of vegetables inside, to then run for the dorms to seek refuge. But they were far and the only thing in sight was Father's O'Hara rectory.

It was either getting a terrible fever from the cold and unforgiving rain or ask him to lend you an umbrella to mitigate the glacial numbness spreading through your body. Another reason you barely went out during these days, rains in the countryside were merciless.

Miguel was tending his own garden when the rain begun drenching. Even more when the thunders broke the peaceful white noise. He removed his soutane and shirt off leaving his inner vestments free, but the desperate knock on his door made his undressing ritual to stop.

While quirking an eyebrow, he approached the door and opened it. Eyes widened in surprise upon seeing you, soaked through your bones. lips blue and shivering from the cold.

"P-Please-"

"Jesus. Come in."

He ushered you in, then rushed to get a towel. A frown in his face deepened upon hearing your teeth clatter, clothes stuck to you like a second skin.

"C-Can I... borrow your... u-umbrella?"

Without much though he smoothened the towel against your face, drying it.

"An umbrella? Really?!"

A vehement shake of your head, while trying to get him off you.

"You're freezing cold, the dorms are too far for you to leave. Don't be stubborn."

"I... I don't h-have clothes."

You mumbled through rattling teeth while your eyes darted hazily over his naked torso. He sighed.

"Unbelievable. You're freezing to death and you're worried about clothes. Get them off, I'll put them to dry."

He grumbled while taking more logs into the fire to what would be his living room. If it wasn't for the glacial and biting freeze that refused to leave your body and the foggy thinking in your brain, your cheeks would be beyond red. Crimson even from such simple act.

A weak nod you gave. Your hands stopped bracing your shivering body to focus on removing the cowl and headdress. Releasing through shaky motions your soaked hair that wasted no time to stick on your face and neck.

The next was your crucifix, and praying beads, the tempo you removed them could make a slug to easily win the race, this alarmed him greatly. He had seen what hypothermia did, way before turning himself into this holy persona.

Without much thought, he peeled off your habit that weighed you down.

"Qué mierda más pesada" (Such a heavy shit)

He held you by one arm as he removed the outer layer off. Your eyes drooped and he gave you a little shake.

"Hey, hey, look at me."

Eyes concerned raking over and it dawned on you. Those eyes, the same beautiful and unique eyes were the same that visited in your dreams.

A difficult gulp rolled down your throat as Miguel kept undressing you while grunting. Wet clothes were a pain in his beatific ass. Shivering dicreased, but your lips remained blue, a new shade of purple drawing over them.

"I-It's so cold" You mumbled through laborious breaths.

"Course it's cold. You're soaked! What were you even doing?"

The way he scolded you felt like someone you've known for years was giving you a lecture. So casual, homey, normal. It was Miguel O'Hara speaking, not Father Miguel. The ever gentle and patient man you've been helping.

"Jesús bendito, con cuánta cosa te vistes." (Holy Jesus, so many layers.)

He murmured while pushing you to his chest as he removed the dress that covered your underwear. It felt like a heatless body had been thrown over him, but the warmth irradiating from him felt heavenly. Your form instinctively nuzzled your head on his chest. He had to stop to gulp at the sensations

Even though his mind slapped itself, His couldn't help but wander over your shivering and weak body.

"W-Wait"

A small dark patch hovered above the joint of your legs. Taut peaks followed by lovely areoles ever standing and shivering under the flimsy white fabric of a short nightgown that proved even harder to remove since it clung to you like a second skin, refusing to abandon your body.

He peeled you off of everything despite your protests, but was sufficiently prude to not look over your naked form. A minute too slow and it would be late. Like the young boy in his arms, that had died out of cold once the subversive groups arrived in the forsaken town, they had forced him and the rest to go through a frozen river. He made it, but the boy didn't.

His mind wasn't in the tip of his cock.

That will come later.

But his brain had only one single purpose right now. To keep you alive but for that he needed keep you warm.

Despite the recklessness of his actions, he pulled a freshly folded duvet around  while pulling you ontop of his chest and sat together near the fire. Hands moving to dry your hair as much as he could. Your skin was full of goosebumps, frosty to touch, that relished into any source of heat available. His torso, the duvet and the raging bonfire made your head spin.

It felt like his hands, rubbing some life back into your arms while he shielded your body, embracing your form with his torso and limbs. Like a paramedic on duty. Your cheek smooshed against his solid chest, it made him shudder with your own coldness but eventually the body heat treatment would be effective.

"Sorry" it was all you managed before your teeth shuddered again, and his fingers caressed your neck, placing a new wave of delicious heat on your skin.

"You'll be fine."

Your body was slowly but surely returning to it's temperature. Miguel remained there, basking you within his body, fingers gingerly caressing as much cold skin as he could under the duvet. Even his breath provided a little heat. Your erratic breaths collided against his skin, earning a discreet shudder from him.

You had drifted off to limbo, trying to sleep a bit, but unable to completely do so. Not when a man, the Parish Father nonetheless, was holding and nursing you back to an acceptable temperature with his own.

"Father O'Hara..."

Miguel's ears perked up upon you mentioning his name.

"It's Miguel."

He mumbled while drawing lazy circles on your lower back. The fire and the duvet had kept you toasty to curl even more towards him. Teeth no longer clattering.

"Thank you, Father."

"Stop."

His eyes rolled in annoyance, as his hands stopped caressing your skin to then rub his face.

"Stop calling me that."

"But that's your-"

"I don't like it."

He grumbled while looking down at you.

"Call me Miguel."

"I can't do that. Feels too disrespectful."

"I'm not Father O'Hara here, understood?"

You nodded

"Are you cold?"

"I am. Not as before but yes. Has it stopped raining?"

His own smell was making your mind a puddle, some of that fragrant incense remained etched on him.

"No. Just got worse."

You sighed while resting your head on his chest. Heartbeats a mellow lullaby.

"I'm sorry for all of this."

"You were cold and soaked." He pointed dully and bored.

The duvet was brought closer to your chest while staring at the flames. Fingers tracing a lazy and mindless pattern in his abdomen.

"I was picking up the last batch of harvest when rain poured on me."

Your toes curled in as a soft breeze flickered the fire and he tilted his head to watch you closer.

"Now I'll have to explain why there isn't enough corn."

"We'll go by. It's ok."

"Are my clothes ready yet?"

A snort that  would be translated into an 'Are you kidding me?', your brow furrowed.

"You'd be lucky if they get dry during the night."

Another defeated sigh. But a sudden thought however made your cheeks burn faintly.

"D-Did you see me naked?"

"No."

Oh.

There was a silent pause before you spoke again. Curiosity tempting.

"Have you seen other women naked?"

He huffed playfully while pushing your hair away from your lovely and sweet face.

"Yes. I was a regular man before all of this."

His fingers curled up in his hand, morphing into a lazy fist

"Do you miss it?"

"Would be a liar to say if I don't."

"You... You've had sex before?"

He chuckled while with an open palm, took a taste of your skin, deliberately roaming your lower back. You shuddered.

"I did. Plenty of times."

Your audible gasp made his eyes droop hazily in a smirking grimace.

"I was told it felt marvelous."

You looked up at him and he pulled your chin upwards, he really had to keep his restrain under a leash to not take you here and there, instead, he cupped your face and hovered his lips over yours

"Do you want me to teach you, Sister?"

He was the demon. The very same one that visited in your dreams and left you a soaked mess. A little too late you'd noticed that he wasn't wearing his vow ring. It was placed somewhere else you truly couldn't care less at the moment.

You only nodded.

"Use your words, dear"

"Please", you gulped, "Teach me."

It was in that moment that he sealed your lips with his. Your first kiss ever. Chaste and sweet at the beginning that slowly turned into this obscene display of his mouth assaulting yours with his tongue in between gentle licks and bites of his lips.

A shaky whine then a whimper escaped your throat upon feeling his hands skimming down your spine. He only let you go when you tapped out for air.

"How often am I on your mind, pequeña?"

Finally the demon in your dreams had turned into a reality. Eyes were closed, unable to look at yourself melting under his touch. Nipples perked against his chest.

Plump and hot lips caressed yours but they stopped. Hands pulled you upwards, Miguel turned you around so your back was now colliding with his chest.

"You're still cold."

Cheeks grew impossibly red while he slowly peeled off the duvet out of your body, leaving you bare before him. You gulped as he moved your hair to a side and slowly kissed up and down your neck.

His hands were unable to resist any more and cupped your mounds, like in your dream. Calloused palms, rough against soft breast.

"Qué maravilla. Is this how your dream goes?

Legs smothered together, a little strip of hair etched to your pubic mount. He hummed in appreciation to then part your legs above his. Cunt pulsing at the coolness of air brushing past it.

Both of your legs dangled ontop of his as you remained nested above. Your heart beat at the playful moves his middle and index finger pulled on your nipple as his free hand darted over the joint of your inner thighs. You could feel him trembling underneath, the restrain made his breath hitch.

Your own turned erratic once more as he slid three fingers in between your folds. A shy Ah escaped your lips while he used two of them to part the outer labia

"Look at that, little one. Is that what you touch when thinking of me?"

Drunk eyes darted between your legs and his skillful hand, the engorged and pearly clit peeked out as one of his fingers flickered slowly. Focusing the right amount of pressure in it that had your moans shaky. He paused to adjust his fingers as they caressed and rubbed as much flesh as they could.

Mouth etched to your ear. Deep and needy breaths fanned behind you

"So so pretty. Look at that"

He made a show of his fingers coating themselves in your slick. One of his digits hovered over your entrance, slowly it disappeared inside. A muffled groan echoed in the void space

A wet and shlicking sound came from his ministrations, head unable to move, too enraptured into watching him sliding in and out. Skin bloomed with a new wave of goosebumps as his tongue licked your neck and earlobe, rewarding you for taking one finger deliciously, that he licked up clean before going back to rub at your clit.

"Want to add another?"

A breathless and hissing yes.

You didn't know who was with you right now since Father O'Hara couldn't. Your brain still refused to believe they were the same man. One preached and talked mass every Sunday, the other had your head spinning while his fingers explored your insides with such gentleness it only increased your whimpers and need for something more and bigger within you.

"Does that feel good, Hm?"

A dumb nod while more escaped your mouth repeatedly

"More?"

"Please!"

How could he deny to such petition? Even most when you were gripping him so deliciously and pulsating with every stroke he delivered in, grazing at your sweetest spot.

"Like this?"

He increased the tempo and your breath hitched, hips moving to meet his fingers aiding them to reach deeper and deeper.

Breaths turned into short and shallow pants, blood rushed to your cheeks. One of his digits pushed past between your lips meeting your moist muscle that wasted no time into kissing it. All you could hear was yourself and your weeping pussy that demanded for more.

But they weren't enough. Brain was sent into an override when the climax washed over you. All the pent up need and lust drowned you. Strong pulsations dictated the contractions that trapped and milked Miguel's fingers. Mind split in two in a shattering and core shaking spasm.

Mouth gaped, eyes heady and drunk with blind hot pleasure, body convulsed while an array of mumbles and clumsy curses flew out of your mouth to finally end with a delicious quivering cry.

"It's okay, shh, it's okay, pequeña." He cooed you through it while kissing your neck. Heart pounding in your ears.

It took you a moment to breath properly. How could you have missed this? How could you remain so ignorant to this? Alienated from something you were often told it was dirty and condemning.

He had only touched in the right places and you were melting. But why stopping there? You knew he also wanted you, his hard on pressing over your lower back, begging to set free.

"M-More"

He shook his head with a proud smile

"Can't do that, preciosa"

A capricious whine came through your throat, "Why not?"

"Cause, as much as I'd love to take you until you recite the bible backwards to me, you know what could happen."

"You don't want me, then? Why stopping now?"

"Far from that. And we must be discreet. Wouldn't want you to be whipped by Sister Lianne."

He took your hand and kissed your wrist. While his other limb pulled you closer to him.

"I am the only one that shall leave marks on you, my dear. Is that clear?"

"Yes, but-" He took your chin in a gentle but firm grip.

"Is that clear?"

You nodded with a pout.

"Lay on the bed."

"What? "

"Lay on the bed, so I can taste you."

Miguel could fulfil that fantasy. With Bambi-like steps you pushed yourself up and walked over his bed. Plush surface welcomed your body under a creak.

"Spread them."

Toes curled up for a second before spreading them open. Clit already tingling with a foreign yet needy sensation.

He kneeled before you, like he did every day he worshipped the Lord. But this time it wasn't God, but you. Nose nuzzled over your inner thighs while taking a whiff of your scent. Tantalizing and so alluring for his own senses.

Slow and deliberate kisses were placed above your flesh, the strip of hair that decored your pussy, to finally sink in between soaked folds.

The mewl you gave only made him feast upon you. Hands grope the sheets by instinct as he spreaded you further.

His tongue lapped and curled at your hole, slurping it without refrain and inhibitions. Devouring it like it would be his last meal.

Your dream had felt too vivid, yes, but this was completely different. This was in a whole new different level. His corruption had tainted your soul and it was gladly welcomed into your arms.

Legs twitched and shook while your head was thrown back, chest heaved with shallow breaths, unable to breath properly as his tongue was set into fucking your drooling hole.

The way his tongue fucked, dribbled and guzzled your cunt had you mewling and moaning the filthiest things you didn't think possible you could get out.

Good was an understatement, heavenly was a measly word to compare what you felt like. It was maddening and he gave you no rest.

Have you ascended? No. He just wrapped your supple thighs around his head, preventing you from squirming too much, holding your hips in place as his sloshing and assailant mouth gave you no rest.

You hadn't recovered completely from the other orgasm when a new one had approached. Lurking around your senses.

His name was moaned, over and over and when your hands were done of clinging onto the sheets, you held onto his hair. Silky and smooth chocolate locks slid under your fingers.

Eyes peeked over you, and he had to pause for a moment to squeeze his cock. Aching and weeping for him to let him free and make you his. But that would come later.

That would come much later when he had more leisure time and when he'd get protection. As much as he wanted to wreck your snug cunt, he didn't want you to be whipped and shamed like another nun was when the higher ups found out she was pregnant by an outsider.

"Miguel"

His name on your lips rich and tasty, like him.

Your voice snapped him out of his trance to immediately go for your clit. Plump lips pursed and captured the engorged nub. While his hands pushed your legs up and folded them, giving a complete access to your pulsating pussy.

He slurped and souped while his tongue teased. Wet laps sent jolts through your spine each time he tasted you.

Too much. Too good and too soon, yet he didn't stop. He shook his head like a mad dog subduing it's prey and that move alone had you gushing over his mouth. He quickly gobbled it all down.

You whined, cried and blabbled, even tried to pull his head away but he delivered you a last stroke with his tongue to then lick his lips clean.

"Please"

You mumbled through blown breaths as he watched you with a lust blown glare.

What had he done out of you?

"Greed is a sin, my dear."

What had he created?

"But if you're good enough, the wait will be worth it."

His little lamb was so willing for him, aching to be tainted, corrupted even more. And his task was to banish such whims.

He'd given you a taste of what laid ahead. A promise of a much unholy reward if you followed this path with him. But your resolve had been made the first time you came.

He'd be your first and last. There wasn't any need for another to teach you what he was compliant to demonstrate.

You'd be his to fuck. His to tame and corrupt.

You'd be his.

---

Taglist:

@plumplumpurin

[hereforthehitsbaby]

Good to be Back | Cooper Adams/Abbott x F!Reader

Synopsis: You have lived across from the Adams' for what feels like ever, since you started your bachelor's degree. You notice Rachel's car peeling out of the driveway with such force it causing the ground to shake. Before you could escape back into your home, your eyes connect with Cooper's. "Care for a drink?"

Warnings: Language, Infidelity, Rough Sex, Bondage, Oral F!Receiving, Oral M! Receiving, PIV sex, Implied Age Gap (legal), Mention of Disappearances, Spanking, Choking, Daddy Kink (Heavy), F!Reader, Mentions of The Butcher

Rating: M

Author's Note: Fandom hopper oh my god...but I cannot stop thinking about Cooper Adams!!

Word Count: 5K

Tagging Moots: @rubyfruitjungle @babygorewhore @cherryinterlude @vamplreslayer (If you do want to be tagged going forth, please let me know! If not, I can remove you! (: )

If you would like to be tagged for my fics, please fill this out

Invisible. The notion itself holds mystery. One not being seen by the world, but observing all of the tactics. It's the equivalent of being a ghost, or a fly on the wall; taking in every moment, every conversation. It can be useful, but also can be deadly. One small slip up and it was forever embedded in the air. There was no way to escape the truth when it slipped through intoxicated mouths - or fake bodies. But there is a perk to knowing everyone's dirt. Easy to manipulate, and easy to interject.

That is how your next door neighbor is, but you have no idea.

It has been so long since you were last home, God it must have been an eternity. After graduation you wanted - no needed - to get away. Something about being stuck in Philly made you ill. When the opportunity arose to get the fuck out you hopped ship faster than you were brought into this world. The freedom, independence; sights to see and a life of adventure to live. You thought that is how it would be, you were wrong.

College life wasn't as everyone made it out to be. You should've known it was bullshit from when you first stepped on campus, your roommate fucking some random on your bed. It set the entire tone, first it was your bed getting defiled, then it was your desk. Before you could even process what was happening, your life took a complete turn. That one frat party.

That's a moment you hate remembering. It was fun but the aftermath was scary enough. You were always warned about frat parties, what could arise. But being a young, naïve student you had everything stacked against you. This didn't even happen in your freshman year, but your senior. Every time these guys were throwing a shindig you found yourself buried in schoolwork - wanting nothing more than to let these dude’s fuck off. With your final year coming into play you wanted to branch out, though you wished you hadn't.

The party was fuzzy, all you remember was what you were told. But it happened so quickly - one day you're a wallflower and the next, the talk of campus. Eyes burned holes into your soul with every step you took, every glance was directed at you. You couldn't handle it. Something needed to happen, you begged to whoever was listening to give these guys the revenge they deserved. The things that they did, what was said - someone needed to take them down. In fact it only took a week, and your prayers were answered.

It was freeing, hearing around campus how those four dude’s just disappeared. Poof, out of existence. The matter was dropped; life was normal again. Curiosity got the best of you when you heard their names, exactly who did you wish to for this to happen? Like everything else in life it all slips away, becoming of the past. Life ticked on with its duties - you couldn't let go. From the beginning to the end everything went by quickly; a college graduate and ready to take on the world.

Graduating was suppose to mean getting your dream job, working in the field that you loved - but everything took time. As you packed up your car with the memories of the last four years, you couldn't help but reminisce. Four years worth of memories and mistakes, tucked away in the cheapest cardboard boxes. Why did life have to change so much when you were just getting comfortable again? Although you will miss college it was a good riddance, now you could prep yourself for the world.

It wasn't ideal to head back to your hometown but, it was needed. Your family hasn’t seen you in a while, plus job searching is better when you don't have to pay for room and board, especially in this economy. The four hour drive felt like an hour, tunes blasting through the car as you head back into the vortex. Your hometown felt like it was a time warp, one giant forcefield keeping everyone and everything in. Breaching that meant coming to terms that you, as well, might be stuck. Only for a few months, that's it.

As you turned down your old street, it felt like something straight out of a movie - it looked fake. Perfect houses with perfect families, this was some Truman show shit if you have ever seen it. Before you could get wrapped up in conspiracies, you saw your home - smiling softly as you rounded the corner. Pulling into the driveway there was a heavy shroud on your chest - things were out of place. Fixating on the note from the garage door you saw only a glimmer of what it said:

Going to be out of town for a month for our retirement trip. Love you, be safe!

“Great”, you thought. Just when you wanted to see your family they were gone. There was something naughty about having the house all to yourself, not worrying about anyone barging in. A smirk spread across your lips whilst shutting your car off, wrapping your lanyard in your palm. Breaking you out of your thoughts was the door slamming, screaming followed behind. It was instinctual to not be nosy, but let's face it. As you slid out of the driver's seat, you slowly reached for the backdoor - peering over to see who exactly was yelling. For a split second you caught the image of a man and woman yelling at one another while a boy and a girl sat in the backseat. Cocking an eyebrow, you leaned forward a bit more to peer out your back window.

Cooper Adams and his wife Rachel were exchanging some very colorful words, your eyes shot wide open at their argument. It felt wrong to listen in, but they didn't have to know. You bit your top lip in anticipation of what he would say next, but before the argument could officially commence, Rachel was slamming the driver’s door - and speeding so fast out of the driveway it left marks across yours. Seeing how close the car got to you made you jump, smacking your head against the roof of the car. Backing out you rubbed the swollen top, holding back tears.

Peering across the street, Cooper ran his hands through his brown locks - tugging hard. There was something sexy about how mad he was, frustrated even - but it hurt your heart. You've known Cooper since you were in college, considering that's when he moved here. All you knew was that he was a firefighter - nothing more and nothing less. There were a few occasions when you found yourself looking for the fire department’s calendars – for research purposes. Mr. October happened to be your favorite. Cooper’s gaze caught yours, showing a bit of embarrassment. He didn't think anyone was around to see what happened. Giving him a sweet wave, you smiled small in condolence at what you witnessed. He didn't return your gesture, remained at the end of your driveway - his hands fixated on his hips. "I'm sorry you had to witness that."

His words pierced deep, something about the low tone sent sparks through your body. The way his broad shoulders squared up to yours. His fucking stance in itself made you want to drop. Those impure thoughts flew through your mind as he stared at the ground, awaiting your response. Catching on you shook your head, leaning back against your car. "Don't be sorry, are you okay?" Cooper saw this as an invitation to move forward, his hands in his front pockets. When he was in front of you, he couldn't look in your eyes - instead focusing on his home. The way he held himself was strict, he was so tense all the time. It was understandable with the line of work he did but this was different, he was frustrated. "I'll be okay - back from school so soon?"

He changed the subject as fast as he sauntered over to you, not wanting to focus on the negative. You shot Cooper a smile as you held your house key from your lanyard, motioning to your car filled with boxes. "I'm officially done, graduated last week." This was the first time you saw Cooper smile since you've been home - heat rushing to your cheeks. In a way you felt as if he was reading you, browsing through your entire life story off of one sentence. Lost in your own train of thought you didn't realize how close he got, his shoulders parallel to yours - boxing you in. His right hand placed on top of the roof, dangerously close to your head. Swallowing down every ounce of dignity you had. His russet brown eyes poured over every inch of you, tracing you through the clothing.

"Congratulations, I hope you got spoiled for that big accomplishment." Honey, that was the best way to describe his tone. Molasses and honey flowing in a splendid river, drowning you with every syllable. His musk - fennel and pine radiating off of him made your stomach flip, muscles contracting. You had no control over your body anymore, it was like a flip was switched. You watched as Cooper trailed his left hand over your arm, dragging his nails against the grain. His right hand fell to your neck, fingers resting at the base whilst his thumb rubbing circles by your throat. With a hard grasp, he pulled you forward - inches away from your face. "Did you get spoiled, sweetheart?”

Words could not form, no matter how hard you tried to muster them out. All you could do was shake your head as a form of no. Both of your hands fell slack to your sides, growing clammy by the second. Cooper was not happy with your answer, pouting playfully as he dug his thumb harder against your neck, causing your breath to hitch. It was a huge accomplishment, but you didn't want people to go out of their way to celebrate it. So, after you went to commencement you had a small lunch with your close family, then went back to your off campus apartment. Nothing too out there, enough to satisfy you. "Will you let me spoil you, and be a good girl?" His words made you weaker, slumping slightly into his touch. You couldn't shake the fight you saw earlier, how angry they both were. This was proof Cooper needed to blow off steam but, you felt guilty. A married man, father of two - you didn't want to intervene. "Baby, I'm getting divorced - that's what the fight was about."

That was enough for you to lean up to his lips, pressing your body flush against his. There was something about being out in the open for everyone to see that made your body burn hotter. There was a chance you could be caught by anyone. Cooper felt it too, but it was too good to stop, you were too intoxicating. His large, calloused hands slid across your lower back to drape around your ass, cupping it like it was the last thing his hands would ever do. Entangled in the pleasure you let a hearty moan slip from your mouth to his, the bulge pressing harder against your thigh. Delicate hands laced their way to the back of Cooper’s neck, scratching over the tender skin. He licked at your bottom lip, begging for entrance. Obeying his silent command you parted your lips, bringing your left leg up higher to lace around his waist.

The taste of whipped cream on his breath drove you mad, his scent lingering in your nostrils as he passionately kissed you - growing harder with each motion. You couldn't handle it anymore as you grinded down against his bulge, lightning shooting through your core. Cooper’s hand slid from your throat to the base of your neck, tangling his fingers in your soft strands. With a single twist of his hand, he yanked your hair back - making you gaze into his eyes. A devilish smirk rested upon his lips, swollen from how hard he made out with you. A small whimper left your mouth, tiny enough to show you turned on you were by his actions. The hand that was once secured to your side pulled your keys out, waving the lanyard in your face. "Lead the way." He smirked, draping the lanyard down the valley of your breast - watching your shudder at the feeling.

You reached up to snatch your keys away, swaying your hips as you headed for the front door. Cooper sat back to watch how your ass shook with every step, wanting to take you right then and there on the lawn. Bringing his hand down he began to palm himself, trying to relieve some of the tension his cock was holding. Out of the corner of your eye you could see it too - causing your core to ignite. To tease him further you arched your back - pushing your ass out enough to wiggle it as you slid your key in. When you least expected it, the hard crack of Cooper’s hand came down across your backside; you swore it echoed through the neighborhood.

The yelp that left your mouth was masked with Cooper’s hand, gripping at your face so hard you felt it against your teeth. Without any more effort you spun the doorknob to the left, kicking it open. Cooper ushered you inside with haste, the hard oak door slamming into its respected slot. You have never seen a man be this passionate, this rough - it made you ache all over. Standing in the foyer of your home, you gulped as you watched Cooper’s eyes blacken. There wasn't an immediate danger lurking between you both, but it felt like it - he looked as if he was going to snap. Biting hard on your first finger, you tried to jet away towards your room - to not avail. It was like Cooper read your mind - knowing exactly what you were going to do. "Now princess, where the hell do you think you're going?"

His large, calloused hand came down on your right wrist - yanking it behind your body as you pushed you into the wall separating the kitchen from the dining room. You could hear the metallic clank of his belt coming undone, groaning at the sound. Prepping yourself for the feeling of his hardened cock against your thigh, you slid your ass out a bit more - only to earn a hearty smack to the reddened flesh. "Fucking Christ, you enjoy being a brat?" The sinister smirk on his lips sent sparkles through your eyes, hearing just how lust filled he was becoming. The cold, smooth leather of his belt slid against your wrist. With a rough tug, Cooper slid your left wrist into the makeshift cuffs - cranking the end of the belt back so your hands were snug. As his fingers left your leather-clad wrists, Cooper came up to lace his fingers through your hair - ever so gently pulling you back to his mouth. His musk invaded your senses as his free hand trailed down your front - paying the softest attention to your throat. You couldn't help but slide your eyes closed at the feeling, wanting more.

Taking you out of your moment was your body being forced away from the wall, pushing you along until you were face to face with the marble countertop. This was new, must have been one of the new renovations. There was a second where Cooper completely let go of you, watching as you stood eyes forward - not daring to look back. The anticipating was killing you; you needed his touch. Sweat slid down your brow as you tried to shake your hair out of your face, letting your heart calm for a minute. The warm grasp of Cooper Adams returned but, in a harsher way. He didn't warn you when he yanked your shorts down, pooling them around your ankles. Without being told you kicked them off, wanting them far away. The cold air of your home ran through the heat produced between your legs, never realizing your panties were discarded as well.

Lost in the thought of how your core ached, Cooper had the advantage - tossing you up onto the new countertop, legs spread wide open. "Is my good girl aching for me?" You couldn't help but chew on your lip at his words, the praise shocking your cunt. Nodding gently, you batted your eyelashes in his direction - watching as his drank up your appearance. His fingertips returned to your thighs, pushing hard into the skin - knowing it was going to bruise tomorrow. Slowly he massaged his fingers upwards, draping them over your inner thighs - ghosting over your hot cunt. It was driving you mad, you needed - wanted his touch, his mouth, his everything.

The bucking of your hips into his hand only caused the fury to set itself onto Cooper, his eyes narrowing to your face. Slamming his right hand onto the countertop next to your thigh, he reached forward with his left to grip at your neck, pulling you fast towards him. "Words, use your words." Your pupils were blown out, no color except black showed. The way your expression held lust only made Cooper grow harder - wanting you more than anything. "Y-yes, Daddy." The name came out with a smirk, eyeing him up and down. Cooper’s grip on your neck got tighter, pressing his plump lips flush against yours. The heat of the kiss made you moan into his mouth, wanting him to know what effect he had on you. As the kiss got deeper he slid his hands away, unbuckling the cuffs on his shirt as he dragged the long sleeve's back, exposing his forearms. Cooper trailed his hands down to his slacks, pulling them off with ease - brief's following right behind. The slap of his erect cock against his stomach made you moan, eyes widening at his size.

"Daddy, y-you're so big..." You couldn't help but stare at his length, the wetness of your core seeping down to the counter. He would break you, split you in half - he will be the biggest cock you have ever taken. There was something ignited in Cooper when your eyes cascaded over his length, his ego growing - knowing he was big. Hearing you say it only made him ache harder. Licking his lips as he pulls back from your mouth, he pulled your ass to the edge of the counter - leaving sloppy kisses on your inner thighs, red marks littering the soft skin. With your hands pressing into your back, all you could do was whimper to Cooper - puppy dog eyes boring into his. "I need you to be loud for Daddy, okay? Don't hold back."

Obeying Cooper’s command, you braced yourself as his hot tongue slid up your seam - flat against your slit. The feeling in itself made you want to jump, stuttering your hips into his mouth. Cooper did not like that, pinning your hips down to the counter with his massive hands. He made sure to never leave your eyes, especially as he bit right where the crease of your pelvis met your thigh - tugging at the skin. You could feel your eyes rolling into the back of your head as he dove back into your steaming cunt, lapping at your arousal. Cooper was a pussy eating champ, you fucking knew it just by how he sucked your clit - rolling it in between his teeth and lips. The attention he was paying your nerve bundle made your whole body flop. You couldn't moan, no - screams were leaving your throat. Each swipe of his long tongue had you falling apart - enough to where Cooper slammed you back down onto the counter. The grunt he let out into your cunt made your orgasm approach quickly. Bucking your hips up, you let a string of whimpers slide out, signaling how close you were. "C-Coop… I-I-I'm gonna...."

"What did you just call me?" Cooper pulled his head back from your thighs, your essence glistening upon his lips. One of his eyebrows cocked in your direction, rubbing little circles into your hips. It was painful how fast your orgasm approached, but not letting it burst. The torture Cooper was pushing onto you made you want to cry. You could help but grind your hips against the air - hoping to at least reach that point you once were at. "Brats don't get to come." He tsked into your ear, biting on your lobe. You couldn't help but pout as you strained yourself, wanting something to help take you to the brink. "D-Daddy please...I-I need your mouth."

Cooper pulled you off of the counter, shaking his head at you. The tears swelling in the corner of your eyes made him soften for a moment, rubbing your cheek with his thumb. Even though he was dominating you in everyway you needed, he didn't want to push you into something you may not have wanted. With a stray tear that fell, he made sure to kiss it away - peppering sweet kisses all over your face. Rubbing into his lips, you licked yours - lowering yourself to your knees. Lurching forward you returned his kisses to his hips, thighs and lower stomach - making sure to never break eye contact. "L-Let me make it up to you, Daddy."

Before you could let Cooper respond, you licked one singular line up his shaft - watching at his thick length twitched against your lips. As you came to the top you let your tongue swirl over his swollen tip - lapping up his precum. Cooper couldn't help but slam his eyes shut - wrapping his fingers in your hair to make a ponytail. Opening your mouth all the way, you let Cooper position your mouth over his tip. Nodding in anticipation, Cooper slammed your mouth down onto him - taking him fully in. It was way too much for your to grasp - choking slightly on the girth of him. Tears spilled from the corners of your eyes as you hollowed your cheeks out - suctioning tightly around him. "Oh fuck, princess..." He tossed his head back as he moaned out, jetting his hips back into your face.

This was a new sensation for you, never ever being face fucked. With Cooper it felt so natural, your undying hunger strengthened with every thrust. The way his tip slid against the back of your throat made the butterflies in your stomach erupt. You couldn't handle it anymore, feeling your wetness sliding down your weakened thighs. With every bob of your head against Cooper’s cock it shot electricity through your nerves, wanting him more than anything. Through tearful eyes you watched his expression - how his forehead scrunched up, his bottom lip pulled taut between his teeth. He was trying so hard to suppress his moans for you, but it was sexier hearing them. Lightly you dragged your teeth up his shaft, causing him to pan his eyes back down at you. Cooper humped himself into your face with such aggression it made you gag more, spit dripping from your mouth over your clothed chest. As you clamped your eyes shut to breathe through your nose, you felt how his hips stuttered - shooting his creamy rope right down your throat. With weakened thrusts, he slowly started to ease out of you, rubbing his thumb over your wet chin. "Such a good little princess for Daddy, you did a great job." He cooed, placing a kiss to your forehead. The praise shot right into your cunt.

"Now it's Daddy's turn - I want you to cum on my cock. Can princess do that for me?" The eagerness to your nod made Cooper laugh at how adorable it was, helping you up to your feet. As he spun you around like the princess you are, he pressed your face into the cold countertop - it felt so good on your warm cheeks. The feeling of his toned legs kicking your open made you squirm, arching your back ever so slightly for him. Cooper leaned forward, pressing his lips to your shoulder as his cock slides between your folds, gathering your wetness on his shaft. The way he pressed his tip into your clit had you moaning out ripples, it couldn't - no - wouldn't stop. Each slow thrust of his hips caused your body to jolt, not even fully given in yet. Just then, with a snap of his hips - he sheathed his thick cock inside your wet heat. The scream you let out was enough to break the wine glasses sitting on the countertop - it felt so fucking good!

"I bet those college boys couldn't fuck you like Daddy can. Am I right princess?" He didn't give you time to adjust as he plowed into you from behind, scratching his way to your shoulder and back. The pain mixing with pleasure made you rock your entire body against him - wanting to hold and caress his form. Your wrists writhed against the leather belt, still bound from earlier. Cooper saw you struggling - taking that as his cue to release your hands. The way they flopped to your side felt unreal as he demolished your pussy. Gaining your strength back, you pressed against the countertop, pushing your hips back to meet Cooper’s thrust. "N-never, y-y-you fuck me way better, Daddy. I-I can't get enough of your b-big cock!"

Your words had Cooper laughing sinisterly - lust lacing his tone. It became too much to deal with, his dirty words flowing through your brain as his cock hit that spongy spot within you. From the way you were angled you could feel everything. The way his tip punched your cervix without a care, how your walls tightened around his girthy shaft. How with every thrust you felt your entire body come undone. Nothing in life brought you as much bliss as Cooper was, this was your whole world. You have been fantasizing about Mr. Adams ever since you first laid your eyes upon him. Now you had him where you needed, and you were never going to lay off. "Princess, I-I'm gonna-" Before Cooper could finish his sentence, he was coming undone within you. Ropes of his sweet seed painting your walls - this is when you were thankful for having an implanted contraceptive. Feeling his seed shooting in you was enough for your orgasm to spray - drenching his cock with so much force. The moans, groans and whimpers slipping from yourself and Cooper echoed throughout your vacant home - this was the best day of your life.

Cooper pulled out of you with ease, rubbing his gentle fingers across your behind. Every stroke made you weak, feeling like jelly under his grasp. Pulling you upwards to his chest, he swept you up bridal style as he made his way to your living room, seeing the new conversation pit your parents had installed. It was essentially like a giant bed with seats, causing you to laugh lightly into Cooper’s chest. As he stepped down the stairs, he pulled blanket from one of the seats over you both, pulling you closer to him. Turning around to face him, you wrapped your left leg over his, rubbing small circles into the stubble lining his chin. The moment was perfect, too perfect. The way Cooper looked at you with so much admiration and love, made your entire soul flutter. "It was me." He mumbled out, looking at you with no emotion to his words. It was like his body was taken over by an unseen force, his hand going ridged against your side. "What was you?"

He let out a gentle sigh, chewing on the inside of his cheek, never leaving your gaze. He was debating heavily if he should tell you, or leave it alone. But it felt wrong to not let you know. He slid his hand to cup your cheek, kissing you as soft as silk - lingering over your swollen lips. His large hand cupping your back as well, drawing patterns with his thumb as he let those forbidden words out; "Those guys at the frat party, I made them disappear." His words make you go stiff, eyes widening as you realize what he did. The ones who hurt you, who humiliated you earlier last year - Cooper disposed of them. Your breath grew more erratic as you realized what was going on, there was only one question flowing through your brain. "Did you...did you kill them?" It was weird, you should've felt afraid - but you felt the opposite, safe and sound within Cooper Adams’ arms.

"Yes, for you. They were going to get away with what they did to you, and I didn't want that to happen. I wanted them to feel the fear you did. I wanted them to feel the way they made you feel, I only want to protect you from the evil this world holds." Little did you know, Cooper was the evil this world held. He was after all, The Butcher.

[jewish-vents]

I’m Jewish through my dad but I wasn’t raised in the community(i learned what Purim was two weeks ago, i was fully not in it), so when I got to college last august I decided to really dive in and it’s been a beautiful sort of homecoming for me. I joined SAEPi and got into Chabbad leadership at my campus, and I’m almost at the point where I can do the Chabbad Shabbat prayers before and after dinner without stumbling over my words. Gonna surprise my grandma if I see her in the summer. Anyways.

When October 7th happened it was a shock to my system, because I was a baby Jew barely getting my feet. My parents never mentioned antisemitism to me as something that could affect me in the future, it was always a thing of the past. But I was right there standing in the doorway between jew-ish and Jewish, and it pushed me over the edge. I had many friends with family in Israel. I had a couple friends whose friends died in the attack. Everyone in that group was my family. It felt personal.

When the march in dc happened I went with one of my friends, and it was sad, but amazing to see in person how strong we are. In the plane terminal on the way home he and I got cornered and called baby killers, among other things, because he was wearing a kippa and his Israeli first responder coat. That was my first time experiencing antisemitism and it was terrifying, even though I didn’t get hurt. It was terrifying even though my friend was built like a tank and would’ve protected me. It was terrifying just to sit in the train car with him and watch a woman stare at him with wide eyes like he was some kind of criminal. I stepped closer to him as if to remind her he’s human. I stared back at her with just as much fear and watched her snap out of it, confused.

Last week was holocaust awareness week at my college, and one of the things I did was spend a couple hours in the plaza reading the names of people that died. I found 34 Feldmans and Fotts. I found family names, Chana and Fayge and Jeshua and Sophia Feldman one after the other, and still am wondering if that was part of my family that didn’t make it to the US in time.

I called my grandma and asked for everything she could remember about her family lineage and how we got here, everything she had from that part of her life. I thought that there would be plenty to lean into, family recipes and heirlooms and stories, but there was barely anything. She has a Star of David necklace and a ton of repressed memories, next to nothing else. The recipes I could find were through my great aunt, some short instructions from my great grandmother on the back of a letter she sent to the aunt about what to ask for from a kosher butcher.

My family made it here in 1915 and 1921, they escaped before the holocaust, but they still weren’t untouched because of the ways they were ostracized and othered when they got here. My grandmother will barely admit she’s Jewish because none of her kids passed it on, it’s easier for her to let it go. I didn’t understand this until I realized that one couldn’t be hurt by the grief and pain of a family they aren’t part of.

Even those that survive are not left unscarred.

How could this not be personal? How could it not be generationally affective when it’s pushed so many to minimize their Jewishness out of self preservation? Raise their kids thinking they aren’t Jewish and hope their names never end up on a list of living or dead Jews? People still don’t see us as human. the antisemites still want to scar us. They want us to forget who we are.

It’s unreal to me when goyim act like American Jews in the current day are unaffected by the past and safe from antisemitism. I’ve been here less than a year and have been screamed at in an airport, have uncovered serious intergenerational trauma, and realized that of my Jewish family I have nothing to hold on to but a torn in half piece of paper with a sentence long tangent about brisket.

We are strong and we will outlive them, but god are we still fucking fighting for our lives.

.

[beejunos]

SINNERMAN | Alastor x f.reader | part 2

Summary: After Sir Pentious’s failed attempt at spying on the hotel, the Vees approach you to make a new deal—a deal that you can’t refuse. Help them take down Alastor, and you will get to kill him again.

After all, the great butcher of New Orleans had killed your brother, so it was only fair that you had killed him in return. And you would love to do it again.

Tags: Alastor x f!reader, slow burn, obsessive behaviour, enemies to lovers, spying, murder

PART 1. | PART 2. | Part 3. | AO3

Chapter 2. Offers of Champagne

Even if your office had modern technology incorporated into the older environment, you still preferred the sound of an old record player over the more modern ones. There was just something so soothing about an older record player, with its raspy and non-clean sound. 

It almost made you wish that you had died at an older age so that you could have experienced the evolution of music, but thankfully, your staff members loved to share the music they had loved to listen to while alive with you, and you often listened collectively to someone's choice in music at the end of a work day. Your only rule was that if they were going to play their music in the afternoon in the office, they had to use the LP record player and never a CD. 

The look on Vox's face, as he re-entered your office and heard the soft music from the record player echoing in the large open-plan office, had been equally confused and intrigued, and you wondered if his home was comprised of primarily modern technology. He was, after all, the owner of Prids tech giant.

"Oh, sinnerman, where you gonna run to? Sinnerman, where you gonna run to?" Oh, how you wished you had been alive to hear Nina Simone sing this song.

You stood still by the door to your private office, waiting for Vox to approach. He kept closing and opening his fists as he got closer and closer to the open door, his shoulders tensing as a slight buzzing sound came from him. 

"I did not expect you and your colleagues to get the 1500 souls so fast. You are full of surprises, Mr. Vox." You did not intend to torment him; you had never tormented any clients before, but you could not help yourself to tease him a bit. He was just so reactive, and your grin only grew as he shot you an irked glance.

The last thing you hear of Nina before closing the door behind Vox is her prayer for the Lord to save her. Oh, how ironicly fitting for Hell. 

"It was not too much of a hassle," lied Vox as he sat down on the same moss green couch he sat on the first time the two of you met.

In reality, Velvet and Valentino had been furious with Vox that he had agreed to the deal without talking to them beforehand, but because of the nature of dealmaking in Hell, they could not back down from the contract. It was binding, and everyone's hands were tied. You could not not fulfil their request, and they could not ignore paying you. 

"It has only been three business days. Usually, it takes weeks until I get paid for these delicate contracts," you said, folding your wings over the backset of your green armchair as you sat down. Even if wings had turned out to be a terrific addition to your afterlife, they could be quite a nuisance to live with. Sitting down in chairs and even sleeping could be quite an ordeal that had taken you some time to get used to, but it didn't outweigh the freeing feeling of flying.

As you cross your legs in front of you, effectively accentuating their curve in your black pencil skirt, you say Vox's eyes flicker down briefly before looking back up at your face. The disadvantage of having a TV screen as the face of your demonic form was that every eye movement one made became far more apparent to the observers. 

You dully noted Vox's small attraction toward you and filed it away in your mind. Keeping the information if you ever had to manipulate him again when his obsession wasn't driving his actions.

"Well, as you may know, you can always trust us to deliver," disclosed Vox, trying to give you a confident and suggestive smirk. You leaned your arm against the armrest, using your hand to cover the grin that pulled at the corner of your mouth.

Vox had a charm to him in a very pathetic way, but then again, you had never met a man who wasn't pathetic.

"After this meeting, I don't want you or your colleagues contacting me unless it is absolutely necessary. If you need me, you will first contact Claudine, and she will contact me. The less we interact, the easier my job becomes." 

Vox nodded in confirmation. His eyes glowed with determination. 

The transfer of souls was a harmless and relatively uneventful ordeal compared to whenever a deal was struck. You and Vox would shake hands, just like any other deal, but this time, there would be a golden light and the outlines of chains spinning around your hands instead of the sickly green light you were more used to. You could feel the souls moving from Vox's being over to you, and it felt almost like you could breathe easier. Your wings and ears twitched as you inhaled deeply at the feel of your powers expanding inside you. 

When you let go of the overlord's hand, Vox looked paler than usual. His hand shaking as he pulled it towards himself. 

"Would you like a cup of tea? Maybe something to eat?" you asked softly, feeling sorry for the sinner. Even if transferring soul contracts from one sinner to another doesn't look like a burdensome experience, it could drain the energy of the one giving the souls away relatively fast. You had found that the best remedy for that specific type of fatigue was to drink something warm and have something small to eat. 

Vox only nodded before he sank down further into your sofa. 

On the outside, Hell and Pride could seem like lawless societies where the laws of the jungle prevailed, and to a certain extent, it was so, but there was also a part of Pride where people grasped after power with greedy hands. If not through physical means, then by being the most cunning person in the room. 

Most sinners playing these games desperately tried to be the ones playing the game of chess instead of being the pawns on the playfield. However, only a few of the sinners were able to become players instead of tools in these vicious games. 

After all, this was the Pride ring of Hell. Reputation and connections were everything, and you prided yourself in having lots of connections all throughout the city and even beyond it. 

Connections and deals were the silent currency of Pride, and thanks to you being rich in this, you were able to get into a highly private gala event that you knew the princess of Hell, Charlotte "Charlie" Morningstar, would attend. 

While Vox had argued in your meeting that you should have just gone to the hotel and introduced yourself to the princess instead of waiting a week, you claimed that a tactic like that would not have been natural and could have created suspicion in the others. Something that you did not have the luxury of even considering. 

Instead, you went with your idea, which led you to the private gala and to mingle with highly prolific sinners and demons in a penthouse overlooking the city. 

As you walked through the penthouse after politely leaving a conversation with a gorgon-like demon and a sinner with two heads, you grabbed two glasses of champagne as a staff member passed you by. Your green and black striped satin dress swayed like water as you moved through the crowd, heading to a downfallen Charlie, who had unsuccessfully tried to talk to someone about her hotel. 

"I would not morn the conversation you may have had with that sinner," you said in a soft voice, pointing with the champagne glass in hand at the shark demon Charlie had just talked to, "Mr Dubois is known for his drug dealings, and he is also a compulsory lier who is probably the worst thief I have ever seen." 

"Oh, really?" Charlie sounded genuinely surprised as she looked over at Mr Dubois, who was trying to talk to a representative from the Wrath ring. How the shark demon had made it into this gala was beyond you. Maybe he had a PR specialist who could work magic? 

You offered the princess the extra glass of champagne you had brought, which she took gingerly. Creating a better opportunity for you to trap her in your conversation. 

"I saw your interview on the news about your hotel." You said while taking a small sip of the bubbly alcohol, leaving a red lipstick stain on the rim of the glass. "I'm sorry for how that woman, Katie Killjoy, treated you." 

Charlie almost looked physically pained by your reminder of that event, and you felt genuinely sorry for the girl. 

You assumed she was here to find more influential people supporting her dreams, but you knew she was fighting a losing battle. Charlie could, of course, be good at networking-after all, you did not know her that well, but you would rather guess that her dreams of rehabilitating sinners were so ludicrous that no one wanted to listen to her. You would even go so far as to say it was a miracle she had gotten someone like Alastor to help her, and you were dying to find out the bastard motives. 

"I must say, you are very brave in pursuing your ambitions. I know many sinners who, in secret, would be open to the idea of salvation and seek it if they could." It was half a truth and half a lie, your unique skill. You did know many sinners just like yourself, sinners who had done horrible things in self-defence or to protect someone else, and that had landed them a one-way ticket to the burning pits of Hell. But they were not evil souls. They did not thrive in misery or seek to hurt others; in your opinion, they would be the best candidates for the rehabilitation program. The problem was, though, that these sinners, like so many others, believed that they deserved to be in Hell, and that was what kept most of them away from the Hazbin Hotel. 

That, and the hotel's horrendous marketing. 

"Oh, thank you! That's very kind of you," said Charlie, turning more toward you. "I don't think we have met before. I'm Charlie. Morningstar." 

Her last name came out softer and more hesitant than before, and you wondered if the princess was a bit embarrassed by her heritage or if she was just modes. 

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Charlie. I am Monroe; I own the PR agency downtown," answered you using your sinner name. Most demons and sinners used a false and made-up name in Hell, including you. It was easier to detach yourself from your humanity, effectively accepting that you were a sinner, the scum of the afterlife, if one used a pseudonym of sorts. It was easier to live a life in Hell as someone else, the thing that everyone expected you to be, and with a new name, it became more prominent that you were a new "person". 

Only a handful of sinners used their human names in the afterlife, like Alastor, and every single one of them gave you the creeps. 

It was just something so disturbing of a sinner keeping their human name. It was as if they still saw themselves as their human selves or were proud of the lives they had lived. 

Rosie, the overlord of Cannibal Town, was the only sinner who still kept their human name and who you enjoyed spending time with. But that was mostly because she made the second-best cup of tea in all of Pride, after yours, of course.

"I must confess, princess." You leaned over towards Charlie, tilting your head down as you looked up at her, making your eyes look bigger and more innocent than you were. You wanted to create the feeling that your conversation was just for the two of you. A private and personal confession between friends. For that was what you wanted her to see you as, a potential friend. 

"I believe your Hazbin Hotel is Hell's best shot against the exterminations, and I want to help you in any way I can."

"You do?!" Charlie whispered quite loudly back towards you as a childish light danced in her eyes, almost making you regret deceiving her. 

"Yes, I do!" you said, faking excitement. "I think the hotel could really work. I don't know if I can help with the redemption part, but I'm somewhat of an expert in PR, and I think if we could just change the hotel's reputation, sinners would flock to the hotel like bees to honey." 

"But you are a sinner, yourself. Don't you want to be redeemed and go to heaven?"

You looked over at Charlie with genuine surprise. It seemed that you had underestimated her. 

You had assumed that Charlie's excitement would cloud her judgment and not question your involvement in her business, but you had not guessed that she would ask you if you did not want to be redeemed instead.

You inhaled and sighed softly as you closed your eyes. To Charlie, it would look like you were contemplating her question, but in reality, you were quickly thinking of an excuse for why you should be hired and not enrolled in her rehabilitation program.

"One day, maybe I'll be ready for the possibility of being redeemed, but I don't believe that is in the cards for me right now."

"The first step is just to want redemption," said Charlie softly, placing her hand on your arm to comfort. You gave her a genuine smile as you put your own hand over hers. 

The princess was too soft and trusting for her own good.

"The things I have done are not actions that can be redeemed so easily, and I still believe I need to atone for my sins," you lied straight through your teeth. There was not a single atom in your demonic body that believed that what you had done was wrong, and you never would. You had saved New Orleans from a bloodthirsty serial killer, and because of that, you believed that your actions had been justified.

"But let me work for you and help you with your dream. I could begin there, and one day, when I think I'm ready, I will tell you I'll resign, and you can enrol me in your program." 

The only time you would ever consider redemption was after you had killed Alastors demonic body, making sure that his soul would never return. Only when that monster was eradicated from every cosmic plane would you get on your knees and ask the heavens for forgiveness. 

Excited at the prospect of having another sinner join her cause, Charlie happily agreed to hire you as the hotel's PR specialist. And just like that, you had your way into the hotel and its inner workings. 

You and Charlie continued to talk enthusiastically about the hotel and the people who lived there throughout the event. Both of you had decided to move to the balcony that stretched around the whole apartment, looking out over the city. The red night sky was devoid of stars but illuminated by the divine light from the gate to heaven. It was a beautiful mockery of your hellish existence, a constant reminder of your wretched existence. 

While the night sky was starless, the twinkling lights of the city lit up the evening in a colourful display of technology and consumerism. Shouting sinners, car horns, and guns fiering could be heard in the distance. Prids every present ambience. 

Hell was truly beautiful in its own vile ways. 

"And then we have Vaggie; she's my girlfriend and is kind of in charge of the hotel's security. She will probably ask you some questions before you start working, but don't take it personally! We've just had some problems with other sinners before, but nothing serious," rambled Charlie, waving her hands around exuberantly so the content of her glass spilt over. She had not had one sip of the alcohol whilst you were almost finished with yours. 

"Alastor also stays at the hotel, but don't you worry! He has been trying to be helpful, even if his motives for why he is at the hotel are maybe not ... that wonderful." As she talked, you could see that Charlie grew increasingly uncertain when talking about the radio demon, and you wondered if she knew why he was there in the first place. You decided to ask her, making your voice meek, hoping the princess would interpret it as fear for the other demon. 

"Well, he says that he is bored and likes to see souls struggle to accomplish anything meaningful." 

That did sound a lot like the Alastor you had once known. Seems like Hell had not changed him one bit.

"But other than that, he's been pretty harmless!" 

Ha! That almost made you laugh. 

"Actually, I think he's here somewhere," remarked Charlie absentmindedly and turned around to look back into the apartment where everyone was talking more freely because of the alcohol. 

"What?!" you hissed before you could control yourself. Your whole body tensed up like a string on a bow. Charlie had, thankfully, not noticed your drastic change in emotions and continued talking.

"Yeah, he came with me since Vaggie couldn't. He left to talk to someone he knew, I think. I haven't seen him in a while, though."

It felt like your blood was boiling inside you. Every muscle was tense and ready to fight or flee. Your claws dug into the balcony railing, threatening to leave marks. 

"Oh no, wait, there he is!" exclaimed Charlie, calling the demon's name, who had just appeared by the glass door to the apartment. You turned around slowly and, for the first time in ages, came face to face with the monster that haunted your very existence. 

His demonic presence had not changed one bit since the last time you saw him all those years ago. Still the same tall freak with the ever-present grin you hated more than anything. Oh, how you yearned to erase that smile for good. 

His red eyes landed on you, and a shiver travelled up your spine, making your wings tense behind you. His gaze was soft, but there was a sharpness to them that you knew all too well. It was the same calculating gaze you had been so intrigued by and later come to hate. The calculating gaze of a killer. The same gaze that he had unknowingly taught you to make. 

His eyebrow lifted slightly as he looked at you, and you could feel your heartbeat buzzing in your ears. 

"Why, hello! I see that you have met Charlie. The name's Alastor; it's a pleasure to meet you." 

You felt like someone had pulled the rug from underneath you. The bastard did not even remember you!

The chock that incapacitated you took some time to shake off, but it took you long enough for both Charlie and Alastor to give you funny looks. It wasn't until you screamed at yourself in your own head to speak that you were able to croak out a greeting. 

He didn't even remember you.

Hmm, I wonder what consequences will come out of this~

Taglist: @martinys-world @tremendoushearttaco @fairyv-ice @azmosposts

[vide0-nasties]

Going to be rambling insanely about Ghost and probably what his feelings on the monarchy would be, coming from one deeply damaged povo to another.

Anyway, specifically around the time the parasite in chief in her idiot hat (thanks Eccleston lub u) died and passed said idiot hat on, I was seeing a lot of (fun and gentle-ribbing, mind you!) posts about Ghost getting razzed about the queen croaking and maybe him being sad about it or something - I don’t really remember bc I have shit for brains and I just latch onto what bits my adhd will allow.

SO. I really don’t think Bruv Innit gave two shits about Liz buying the farm, bc he grew up working class in a working class town to a drug addicted, drug peddling dad, and a fairly nondescript mom who likely didn’t have a way to get her and her kids out of that shit situation (per ‘09 MW lore and some presumption). I imagine dude was dragged around a shitload of council estates and his dad’s friends’ shitty crash pads, no stability whatsoever, where food insecurity was a big ass forever-looming deal, mom had no idea if her 20 year old vauxhall was going to make it another trip to her minimum wage part time job, and school was forever on the back burner bc when it came to school supplies/trips vs eating and keeping the lights on. You can guess which one won.

If we’re also going with him being about 35-40ish, he would’ve been 10-12ish or so around Diana’s divorce and then her death. So, here’s this starving, horrendously abused kid, with his starving, horrendously abused mother and little brother, drowning in a system that is pretty much just letting them sink to the bottom, nothing is being done about the evil sperm donor that ruins everything for them, and he’s obliterated constantly by TV coverage and tabloids and radio DJs talking about this goddamned family’s stupid fucking drama. Charles cheated, Diana left, her poor boys in their fancy private schools with their endless wealth and glowing skin and brand new clothes that don’t stink of consignment shops are sad.

Sorrows - sorrows, prayers. 🫶

It’s a story he’s seen countless times, the only difference is money and coverage. And, realistically, the women in the stories he knows aren’t killed in car wrecks, they’re killed by their infuriated husbands who think they’re owed something catching up. Maybe that’s why his mom doesn’t leave the cocksucker that trapped her, she could’ve ended up another council house Diana that no one gave a shit about.

He grows up, becomes a butcher’s apprentice, joins the army. Straightens his brother out, makes sure his mom is set up nice, finally beats the shit out of his dad. And all the while, there looms the most fucking pointless, parasitic family in England: living off taxes taken from the public, god knows how much land and how many castles, even owning all the fucking swans on the island.

Relics, vampires, leeches.

But, you know, twenty years down the road, he’s pushing 40, his services to the country are done in the dark, the family he tried so badly to save were brutally cut down anyway, and when he goes to Tesco, the price of a fifth of piss Smirnoff is insane, and he’s still got Soap swimming in his head mid-rant bc his mam’s fucking knee replacement appeal has been denied for the third time and she can’t even walk anymore, Gaz is moving for the second time in a year bc he just can’t afford to live close to his parents even on his salary, meanwhile there was a stretch where it looked like Philip was surviving solely by being pumped full of virgin blood and straight stem cells.

So, yeah, if anything he probably said cheers when the news broke and cracked a couple extra jokes that day.

“What d’you call one dead Windsor? A good start.”

Edit: This is picking up some traction. @50cal-fullauto-astarion is my CoD blog if you like my Call of Bullshit stuff, this is my main and I don’t really go into CoD here

[captain039]

Part 2 Stains of red

Astarion x omega!reader

Warnings: Vampire things, blood, light gore, witch things, fantasy things, swearing, age gap, heats, smut, shameless flirting, virgin reader, indulging in pleasure xD, pining, jealousy, possessiveness, angst, masturbation

Previous part <-

Astarion was there the next day some strange glint in his eyes as he sat boredly at your table.

“If you are bored, go elsewhere” you stated reading over a book and organising some herbs.

“The villagers are dull” he stated finger on his lips as he watched out the window.

“Did you hear someone died?” He asked and you froze looking to him.

“No, gods, another one? who was it? What happened?” You asked attention on him as he seemed unfazed. He smelt awfully fresh also, clean water and soap, a little too clean.

“Butchers boy, I don’t know his name” he shrugged and you frowned.

“He was here yesterday” you stated.

“Was that him?” He questioned still overly unfazed and you frowned at him, studying.

“Your witch powers won’t work ok me darling” he grinned standing up and peering at the book you were reading. He stood awfully close and you held your breath, glancing to the puncture scar on his neck. He always tried to cover them up with ruffles and high collars, for some strange reason your own teeth ached. You breathed out and stepped back, shaking your head.

“I’ll head to the village tonight, say my respects” you said brushing off the way your heart pounded.

“You will not” Astarion said too quickly and angrily eyes narrowing.

“It’s just the village I’ve been there plenty of times, it’s not like you’re my father!” You huffed at him hands of your hips.

“It’s the right thing to do” you added going to your room to pick an outfit. You heard Astarion growl and leave making you frown and watch his form disappear in the forest, why was he acting so strange?

Over the last few years members of the village have been found dead, brutally or strangely, the guardian of the dead did not share his input either on such things as he usually did.

Astarion had hung around like a fly, trying to concentrate with him around was hard. You hated how your body would go warm whenever he was near, or your mind would wonder to such dirty thoughts whenever he was close. You were thankful for magic, you blocked your thoughts from anyone and anything that wanted to peak inside, a safe in your mind where all your darkest secrets lied. You began to prepare dinner, the funeral would be tonight no doubt, you were also in need of supplies. Astarion was reading a book by your table, head resting on his hand which leant against the table, you wondered what he was thinking.

“After dinner I’m going to get ready, stay, leave or come with me I do not mind” you stated eating your stew. His face turned in a scowl and he snapped his book shut making you jump slightly b

“I’m hungry anyways” he grumbled and left making you huff at his behaviour.

You headed to the village after eating and getting ready. You headed to the funeral fire and saw the villagers already gathered around. You stayed back a bit listening to the speech the elder gave before the young man’s body was a lit with fire and sent to the gods. You said a small prayer wishing him safe passage to the after life. You headed back to the village, Gerrin was usually open till late anyway. You headed to his shop, ears sharp to the sounds around you. A little too sharp when you heard a moan. You froze and glanced to a dark alleyway, two people were there a woman pressed against the wall and a man against her. You flushed seeing his hand clearly down her skirt, her hips stuttering against his hand. Gods you didn’t mean to stare, but Ruby eyes looked your way with a blood stained mouth. You flushed and quickly darted down to Gerrins shop.

You panted as you slammed the door, leaning against it, unaware of Gerrins odd look.

“You alright?” He asked cocking his head.

“Huh?” You said dumbly cheeks a blaze. Gods why did you wish it was you against the wall. You shook your head furiously going around the shop and picking up what you needed.

“Ten gold” Gerrin said and you handed him ten gold coins and thanked him quietly.

“Goodnight” you nodded your head before leaving in a rush. You glanced down that same street, sighing in relief when you didn’t see them there. You rushed back to your cabin and closed the door a little harshly before sighing. You rested your basket on the table and groaned as you flopped into bed. Between your thighs was hot and slightly wet making you flush and bite the inside of your cheek. You stood, closed your windows and locked them, blew out the candles and stripped before lying on your bed and getting under the covers. You clenched the sheets mind replaying the scene you saw only putting yourself there. Your hand trailed down your stomach and to your cunt, you bit the inside of your cheek as you imagined Astarions slender fingers sliding through your folds, whispering about how wet you were for him. Your back arched slightly as you slowly began to finger your self hearing Astarions voice echo in your mind.

‘Such a pretty thing’ he’d whisper in your ear, gently kissing down your neck. You added a second and sighed continuing the scene.

‘I wouldn’t want to hurt you sweetheart, relax for me’ you whined softly pressing your thumb to your clit and slowly rubbing.

‘You can do it’ his voice whispers in your mind.

“Come for me’ it added as you quickened your pace and felt your stomach coil and release. You moaned quietly and panted as you felt yourself orgasm fingers still slowly moving before you pulled them out. You were in a slight bliss before reality came back, your cheeks on fire again as you stood and grabbed your gown on shaky legs. You washed your hands and sat at the table suddenly guilty about what you had done. Unaware of who lied in the forest.

Next part ->

[humanpurposes]

From Eden

Chapter 1: Little Novice

Danes attack Wincombe Abbey and a young novice crosses paths with a group of mercenaries and their Baby Monk // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Osferth x Original Female Character

Warnings: bit of violence and death, suggestive themes if you squint, there will eventually be smut

Words: 4000

A/n: not me starting another series oops but i can't resist the baby monk

Today saw the first snowfall of the year. A few flakes landed on Bridget’s sleeves as she sauntered past the hard and frosted soil of the vegetable garden, past the pigsty and towards the stream that circled Wincombe Abbey. She swung an empty pitcher back and forth as she hummed the least melancholy hymn she could think of.

They had guests currently. Lady Aethelflaed of Mercia had arrived two days ago, bringing with her a group of guards who were camping at outside the Abbey. Bridget had been tempted to walk past the men on her errand, but the Abbess was already in a foul mood and she didn’t fancy testing her temper. Not unless it was for something interesting.

She had spent her morning as she always did. Prayers first. Her knees were never not bruised by the flagstone floor of the chapel, but with winter settling in they were numb too. Then she saw to the goats and the pigs. Then she helped in the kitchen. Finally, she got to eat in the hall with her Sisters. Bread with some winter preserves and slices of cured ham.

When she got to the stream, she placed the pitcher by her feet. With a final glance over her shoulder to the solitary stone building of the Abbey, she hopped across the water on a sparse path of rocks and made for the line of trees ahead of her.

The woods were the only place she felt like a living person and not simply a novice in a habit.

Bridget couldn’t stand how quiet life the Abbey could be. The Abbess, a stern but fair woman, told her it was because she was restless and unappreciative, but perhaps she was simply not well suited to mindfulness and prayer. Sometimes she could find things to laugh about with the younger girls, but then the Abbess would scold her for her “impiety”.

Once she was amongst the trees she tugged at her habit. In the summer she might take it off, but it offered some extra warmth in the colder months.

Her preferred weapon was where she left it, leaning against the trunk of a young oak tree. A broken bit of a branch, small enough for her to wield and heavy enough to hit against the trees.

She twirled it through her hands, just as her brother used to show her. From the few memories she had, she remembered he could do all sorts of impressive tricks with his sword. He could spin it and slice it through the air in controlled and precise movements.

It had been a decade since she had seen her brother, but she tried to keep his teachings with her, swinging branches at tree trunks, imagining she was a great warrior, like David slaying Goliath. Technically David had slayed Goliath with a rock and a sling, a detail the Abbess insisted was important. Bridget could invent a thousand reasons why, but she didn’t care to.

Especially when she was younger, she liked to imagine herself as a warrior when she was tasked with cutting wood or slaughtering and butchering the pigs. They were both hard work, but she was always willing to do it, if only to have an excuse to be destructive for once. She found it could be quite cathartic.

After a particularly harsh blow against a tree that cracked the branch almost in two, she froze. She heard horses. She hoped they would move on, but she made out a few figures in the distance, figures who appeared to have spotted her and were moving closer.

She dropped the branch and fixed her habit, to find a lock of her hair hovering over her forehead. She tucked it back in as the faces of the riders came into view.

There were five who rode at the front, four men and a woman with pale, blonde hair and strange markings on her face. A larger group, no more than twenty, hung back a little.

“A nun,” one of the men called. He rode in front of the group, their leader, she supposed.

“There we are then, you’ll feel right at home, Baby Monk,” another said. He had a gruff voice and an Irish accent. One of the other men laughed. The woman didn’t react at all.

“Is the Abbey nearby?” The leader asked.

Bridget frowned. He had an accent she could not place. “You are Danish?” She looked amongst the rest of their group, and they each seemed to find her accusation amusing.

“What is my religion to you, girl?”

“I would like to know if you would seek to do us harm.”

He raised a brow. “And you believe the best measure of a man to be the gods he follows?”

“I believe the best measure of a man is his intentions,” she said, meeting his eye and determined to keep her expression stoic.

But apparently he was pleased with her response. “You and I are similar in this respect,” he said, loosening the grip of his reins. “We seek the Lady Aethelflaed.”

“Would you seek to do her harm?”

“Only the good kind,” the Irishman mumbled with a smirk.

The leader rolled his eyes. “She and I are friends. I have come to offer her my protection.”

Bridget looked into the eyes of each of their group, the leader, the Irishman, the one who from his hair also looked to be a Dane, and the younger man riding at the back of the group. The woman had an unsettling gaze, she was the only one Bridget felt she felt compelled to look away from. The Abbess would call the markings on her face the markings of a heathen.

“There is a bridge over the stream,” she said, pointing through the trees. “Cross there. There will be room for your horses in the stables.”

She watched the men move away, each of them offering thankful smiles. She concealed her own, and headed back the way she came, across the stream and to the abbey with the empty pitcher.

Lady Aethelflaed welcomed them warmly and named their leader as Lord Uhtred. After it was agreed that they were decidedly not Danes (not the kind who would attack an Abbey anyhow), they settled in the hall, where Bridget and the nuns brought them bowls of stew and bread.

She expected them to eat like the Mercian guards, wolfing down bread and stew like they hadn’t seen food in days, but Lord Uhtred and his men thanked her graciously as she placed bowls on the table and went round to ladle out more stew for them.

Until she came to the man sitting at the end of the table, beside Lady Aethelflaed. He was the youngest of the group, with wide blue eyes and a sharp jaw. He kept to himself, slightly hunched over his stew.

She was rather fascinated by his robes and the small silver cross around his neck. If he had a slightly worse haircut he would look like a monk. But that was ridiculous, why would a monk be travelling with a group of mercenaries?

She approached him and waited for him to notice her. He looked up at her a smiled vaguely.

She indicated to the pot she was carrying.

“Please,” he muttered, holding out his bowl.

She dished a few spoonfuls for him and he smiled again, a little wider this time. She smiled back.

She wondered where he might be from, why he served a Dane if he wore a cross, how far their group had travelled and how many tales they might have.

“May I ask your name?” He asked.

She had been so distracted trying to think of something to say that his question took her by surprise.

“Oh… Bridget,” she said. “And you?”

“I am Osferth,” he said. He was very softly spoken, she thought. There was something so gentle and subdued about him.

“Are you a monk, Osferth?” She asked.

He glanced down at the cross hanging from his neck. “I was, I left my order to serve Lord Uhtred.”

“And now you are, what, a mercenary?”

Osferth chuckled to himself and shook his head lightly. “I am not much of a fighter just yet.”

“But you have a sword, and your friends are warriors.”

“I am still learning. In the meantime I can only practice and pray to God for courage and strength.”

She felt a light feeling in her chest she was sure she hadn’t felt in years. That’s what she prayed for too, even when the nuns told her she should be praying for patience and forgiveness.

“How did you—”

“Bridget.” The Abbess called, glaring at her from across the table.

Bridget nodded her head to Osferth, a farewell, she supposed, and headed back to the kitchen. One of the girls followed behind her, with a now empty pitcher of ale.

“The Irishman is handsome,” Bridget whispered into her ear once they were through the doors.

The other girl’s mouth fell open.

“What? Surely it is not a sin to look?”

The next morning, the Abbess ensured Bridget stayed in the kitchen. “So you might not be so easily distracted,” she warned, leaving her to peel and slice an endless amount of vegetables.

The Abbess seemed rather distressed at hosting Lord Uhtred and his men. “Ravenous permanently,” she grumbled, marching in through the kitchen with the remains of their breakfast. “They are eating into our winter stores.”

“So why let them stay?” Bridget muttered, dragging the edge of her knife over the skin of a few carrots.

“Because it is our place to show kindness,” the Abbess insisted through her teeth. She emptied the plate into a bucket by Bridget’s feet. “Take that out to the pigs.”

Bridget made no verbal protest. She placed the knife down and left through a small door that led out to the side of the Abbey, just as she had done the previous day. The skin of her cheeks stung when it met the icy morning air. The snow was heavier today. She blinked a few flakes out of her eyes and marched quickly towards the pigsty.

She made sure to scratch them behind the ears, poor things, left out in the cold.

She made her way around the building, to the front doors of the Abbey, and blinked.

And blinked again.

No, there was defineately an army of Danes lined up on the other side of the bridge.

“Good morning, nun!” One cried from atop a grey horse.

“Who are you?” Bridget demanded, but her voice came out a little more broken than intended.

The man chuckled and nodded to the bridge.

They had three hostages, each with a knife being held to their throats.

But with the order from their leader, the first hostage’s throat was sliced open, his body carelessly left to fall to the floor.

Bridget couldn’t bring herself to scream and choked out a broken sort of gasp.

They made no demands, made no moves towards her, and there was no indication they intended to kill the other two hostages. Not yet.

She slowly stalked towards the doors, unable to keep her eyes away from the danger.

“We will wait!” The man on the horse called, “for Aethelflaed!”

She ran to the kitchen first.

“To the hall!” She cried, moving to shut the windows.

The others all stared at her for a moment.

“Now!”

“What is the meaning of this?” The Abbess asked, bolting the door to the gardens as the others fled the kitchen.

“Danes,” Bridget breathed. She hadn’t realised her lack of breath or the restless feeling creeping under her skin.

The Abbess’s skin turned pale. She placed her hand on Bridget’s shoulder and ushered her towards the hall.

The nuns and novices had raised alarm amongst the men. Half of them were already reaching for their weapons.

Bridget and the Abbess slammed the doors of the hall with an ominous thud.

“What is it?” Lord Uhtred demanded.

“Danes. Outside.”

Every man was on his feet in an instant, and the sound of unsheathed swords rang through the hall.

“How many Danes?” The Irishman asked.

Bridget faltered. She hadn’t thought to count them. “More than twenty. Less than fifty.”

A few men moved towards the doors and the windows, but Lord Uhtred ordered them to hold for the time being.

He turned to Bridget. “Do you know what they want?”

“He asked for Lady Aethelflaed.”

“But they may not know we are here,” he said to his men.

“They know someone is here,” Osferth’s voice came. He was still sat at the table and had not drawn his sword.

“But they have hostages,” Bridget said. “They killed one man and they have two more.”

“We remain inside, and we remain silent,” Uhtred ordered, coming towards Bridget and the Abbess. “They must believe you are unprotected,” he said.

He looked between them for a moment, and turned back to Bridget. “Would you speak with them?”

Her heart must have stopped for a moment. “What?”

“We cannot save the hostages, but you can save the lives of the men and women here.”

“And Aethelflaed,” Osferth added.

“You must deny she is here; convince them you have nothing to offer.”

Her restlessness was starting to feel like fear, but she understood Lord Uhtred’s plan, and she could not say why, but she was inclined to trust him.

Until the Abbess interjected. “No!”

Bridget’s heart sank a little. “Abbess, I can do it—”

“No, child, this is my house. This will be my responsibility.” She turned to Lord Uhtred. “I will do it.”

Bridget followed Uhtred and some of the other men into the entrance hall. She stood by one of the windows, out of sight of the Danes, occasionally stealing glances of the Abbess as she stepped out to attempt a negotiation.

“We know him,” a voice muttered beside her. She looked up to see Osferth’s jaw hovering over her. “His name is Haesten.”

The Abbess made her plea for mercy.

In turn, a second man had his throat slit.

“Deny her presence again and a third man dies. And I will burn down your nunnery, and everyone in it.”

Bridget placed her hand on her throat. She could feel her heart pulsing.

A hand gently came onto her shoulder, but Osferth said nothing. His hands were larger than she realised. It wasn’t exactly calming, but she liked it.

True to the words of the Dane, the third man was slain, and when the Abbess reached for an axe she was met with a spear to her chest.

Bridget flinched into Osferth’s chest, keeping her hands over her eyes.

“Aethelflaed!” Haesten cried. “How many more men and women must die to save your bony arse?”

“To the hall,” Osferth said, taking one of her hands in his.

When she glanced once more out the window, Haesten and his men were moving past the bodies of the hostages and the Abbess, towards the doors.

Bridget, Osferth and Aethelflaed gathered the nuns and novices to the back of the hall, while Uhtred and his men lined up behind the doors with shields, spears and swords.

“Will you not fight?” Bridget asked Osferth.

“I told you, I am not much of a warrior,” he said solemnly, as he and Lady Aethelflaed positioned themselves before the others.

Bridget frowned, but tried to distract herself by whispering assurances to some of the younger girls.

When the doors finally burst open she felt utterly helpless. The fighting was kept by the doors and the entrance hall, while Osferth and Lady Aethelflaed watched with their swords drawn.

And when two of the Danes broke through the line protecting the door, they moved together. Lady Aethelflaed fought better than the monk, she thought.

She watched as a third man fought through, overwhelming Osferth while Aethelflaed was still preoccupied.

Bridget couldn’t stop herself. She darted towards the table and grabbed a knife. She supposed the man could have easily turned to her and lodged his axe in her chest, but he didn’t get a chance to even look at her before she rammed the knife into his neck, sending a spray of blood through the air.

The rest of the room was a haze. Something warm and wet landed on and dripped down her cheek.

Suddenly she felt two hands against her shoulders. She blinked.

Osferth’s blue eyes were glaring at her. “That was foolish,” he said.

Three men lay dead on the floor. Swords continued to clash in the entrance hall but Haesten and his men were retreating.

Osferth and Aethelflaed moved out to join Uhtred, while some of the nuns came to wipe the blood from Bridget’s face.

She told them of the Danes and the Abbess’ death. Some of the girls cried, some prayed. She came to clutch her own cross around her neck. But her hands would not stop shaking and her heart would not rest.

She killed a man. Really, it hadn’t been much harder than slaughtering a pig, but at least it felt a little more justified.

If the Abbess were not dead, she would have screamed at her, told her she was ungodly, no better than a cold-blooded murderer, or any of the Danes who ravaged villages and stole from innocent Mercians.

They stayed huddled in the hall until dusk, when Lord Uhtred seemed to finally come to a resolution.

The woman with the markings on her face, Skade, was a seer, and Haesten agreed to take her in Aethelflaed’s place.

Bridget watched the exchange from the doors to the main hall, and a shiver slipped down her spine when Skade turned to Uhtred with a dark look in her eyes.

“You are cursed once more, Uhtred of Bebbanburg.”

Bridget had hardly slept that night. She lay eyes closed, still in her robes and the white headscarf she wore under her habit, listening to the gentle snores of the girls in the beds around her and aware of the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

The moment she heard the first whistle of birdsong at dawn, she was up. She pulled on a pair of boots and looked around her bed. But it occurred to her she owned nothing, save for her little silver cross.

She hurried through the abbey, past the open doors of the hall, now empty.

The men were outside, securing their saddles and mounting their horses.

She spotted Lord Uhtred as he was helping Lady Aethelflaed pack her own mount.

Osferth was by his horse, talking to the Irishman.

“Lord Uhtred!” Bridget called over the noise of the horses.

He turned to her with a small smile. “Fear not, we have not emptied your food stores—”

“I want to come with you,” she said.

She had the attention of the others now.

Uhtred chuckled to himself. “I already have a stray monk, I have no need for a little novice.”

Bridget’s skin still felt strange where it had been stained with blood. “I fought better than him.”

“Not a particularly high standard,” the Irishman joked. Osferth’s head sunk, but he was smirking too.

“So you killed one man and now you offer yourself as a warrior?” Uhtred asked.

Her breath caught in her throat as she finally realised the ridiculousness of her proposition. She could swing a branch, cut firewood and bury a knife into an unsuspecting man, but that would hardly help her in a true battle.

“With practice, perhaps?” She said, pressing her nails into her palm. “But I have some skills as a healer also. I’ve assisted the Abbess with all sorts of ailments, no doubt you encounter your fair share of injuries?”

“She’s got spirit, Uhtred, at least give her that,” Aethelflaed said.

“Please,” Bridget said, “give me the chance and I will prove myself to you.”

They each shared a few pointed glances.

“I admire your determination, but I cannot bring a girl onto the battlefield against armies of Danes. I cannot guarantee your protection and I cannot even offer you a horse.”

“Lord? She can ride with me,” Osferth said quietly. “With your permission of course. I can look out her.”

Uhtred raised his eyebrows. “Very well.”

Bridget felt herself smile, wide and showing off her top row of teeth. It felt uncomfortable but she didn’t try to stop herself.

The others were already starting to move off as she approached Osferth as he stroked the nose of his horse.

“Have you ridden before?” He asked.

“No.”

“You’ll sit behind me; I’ll help you up.”

Bridget nodded.

She watched as he placed his left foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over to the other side. “Easy,” he insisted, holding out his hand to her. “Don’t be afraid to use your strength.”

She followed his movements as best she could, but her skirt wouldn’t allow her to bring her leg to the other side of the saddle. She fell back onto her feet with a disgruntled huff.

“Other foot then, and slot both legs onto one side of the saddle.” He held out his hand again. “Ready?”

“Wait.” Bridget looked back to the space around her. The stream, the woods, the doors to the place that had never really felt like home. She reached for her headscarf and pulled it off her head, letting it fall to the ground. She didn’t suppose she would have any use for it now. Her hair fell down her back in a messy braid.

She looked back up at Osferth, between his hand, his eyes, and briefly to the curve of his upper lip. She held his hand tightly and hauled herself up onto the horse, her arms and legs trembling slightly at the effort.

Once the horse was settled Osferth gave it a gentle kick and they began to move. Bridget latched onto his shoulders as they began to sway with the movement.

“What if I fall off?” She asked, suddenly horrified at the prospect.

“You won’t fall off,” Osferth said, “use your thighs.”

“What?”

“Grip with your thighs,” he said.

She did so instinctively. Something about it felt… strange.

They cantered to catch up with the group and Bridget gripped Osferth’s shoulders a little tighter. Until he took one of her hands and placed it on his waist, so she wouldn’t impede on his arms. She muttered an apology and unsurely placed her other hand around him.

A few days ago she hadn’t so much as spoken to a man in years, except an incident where a nearby farmer had broken his leg, and even then she only wordlessly assisted the Abbess to bandage his limb.

Now she had her arms around a man’s torso, close enough to feel his warmth from under his winter cloak as her body rocked against his back.

“You’re frozen,” Osferth said, briefly brushing his thumb over her hand.

“It’s winter.”

“Did you not have anything warmer to wear?”

“We don’t attach ourselves to material items,” she said in a mockingly wistful voice.

He huffed a small laugh and pulled the horse to a stop before swinging his leg around the its head, landing on the ground in one smooth movement.

He undid the clasp on his cloak and held it up to her.

“Thank you,” she said, wrapping it around her shoulders, “but I don’t want you to get cold.”

He mounted again, a little awkwardly with Bridget already in the saddle. “Hold it around me. We can keep each other warm.”

She shuffled closer into him. Osferth brought one hand off the reins and pulled the corner of the cloak around his arm as Bridget settled against his back, resting her head at the base of his neck.

Thank God he couldn’t see her as her cheeks started to burn against the cold and the snow.

[nightcolorz]

loveee the armand music discussions i feel the need to talk about some of my most armand songs of all time (no mitski this time as we’ve already discussed that ^^)

- notre dame by Paris Paloma (literally any paris paloma song tbh esp the fruits and labour but notre dame isn’t appreciated nearly enough) Very very religious guilt armand, angel symbolism heavy, also very cult era armand in paris. I would put lyrics here but oh its the whole song. its the entire song.

- Abstract (Psychopomp) by Hozier. again impossible to put specific lyrics but the song being about painful memories, getting past traumas with new loves, and heavy symbolism of a hurt animal in the road and the singer feeling kinship with it is just so SO armand imo its impossible to explain. i always think of a deer being the “poor thing in the road” in the song though it is left to interpretation, and armand’s doe eyes very much come to mind with that.

- Spellbound by Siouxsie and the Banshees (Following the footsteps of a rag doll dance, we are entranced, spellbound) Both these lyrics and the intense sound of the song bring to mind Armand’s heavy use of and skill with the spell gift, especially in TVL (for books) and s2ep5 (the show) You do feel entranced by his spells even if you don’t realise it and this song captures it perfectly (also i think S&TB are very armand overall so honourable mentions to Cities in Dust, Arabian Knights and Melt which are all sooo armand as well i just didn’t want to make this so Siouxsie-centric)

- Devils Don’t Fly by Natalia Kills (Angels were never meant to fall, and you were the loveliest of all) This song reminds me so much of 2018 YouTube but oh the lyrics are so very armand. Always called an angel, even referred to it as shorthand, but so torn religiously that he could never be holy, never be more than a demon with what he is and has been through. But being made so young and so beautiful, its very fallen angel of him.

- speaking of angels, Not Strong Enough by boygenuis (Always an angel, never a God, I don’t know why I am the way I am) I don’t feel like i need to explain this one it just Is

- Teen Idle by Marina (I want back my virginity so I can feel infinity, I want to drink until I ache, I want to make a big mistake, I want blood guts and angel cake) & (Adolescence didn’t make sense, a little loss of innocence, the ugly years of being a fool, ain’t youth meant to be beautiful?) Just something about Armand finding his worth through his beauty and physical desire, not to mention the utter horror of having to be a teenager forever, seen as that same sort of obscene beauty forever. The line about drinking and making mistakes feels very Venice-era as well, with Amadeo’s main coping mechanisms being getting blackout drunk on the daily and sleeping with people he knows he shouldn’t because he doesn’t feel like he’s good for anything else or even able to do anything else (which of course also leads to his death eventually)

- Jolene by Dolly Parton (Your beauty is beyond compare, with flaming locks of auburn hair) Definitely sillier but reminds me a lot about how people in the books (especially lestat) wax poetic about how beautiful Armand is and fear it somewhat in a mix of jealousy and insecurity.

- Dominion / Mother Russia by Sisters of Mercy. this one is much more vibe based that lyrical but there is the detail of armand being described as russian in the books and also the lyrics being very repetitive and prayer like (as well as the ‘some say prayers’ line) very much remind me of his repetitive prayers both when young and in the cult

- Swan Upon Leda by Hozier (One more sweet boy to be butchered by men, But the gateway to the world is still outside the reach of them, Would never belong to angels, Had never belonged to men) This song is overall about sexual violence and reproductive rights, but these lyrics deeply remind me of Amadeo’s abuse as a child and young man, and of men feeling a right to him and his body because they found him beautiful, angelic.

I have about a million more but I won’t go on too much. Hope you like my choices and give them a listen if you’re unfamiliar with any (to anyone reading this <3)

AHHHHHHH THANK U FOR THIS IM OBSESSED!!!! GONNA ADD THE ONES THAT ARENT ALREADY ON MY PLAYLIST RNN!!! (I already have got not strong enough, Jolene, devils don’t fly, teen idle, and Notre Dame, we r the same person). U get Armand like no one else mutual kittenbradensgf. Devils don’t fly made me laugh because it’s also on my Armand playlist because 2018 AMV YouTube songs r always so Armand to me 😭 !!! Ur so right the lyrics r so him. angel of darkness is on mine and I can’t stay it’s entirely ironic, lmao. Ugh this is my favorite I’m gonna run in a room and listen to these forever, ur analysis is so good

[digitaldoeslmk]

do you have any nezha hcs? either from lmk or form investiture of the gods, he’s my fav and i’m curious what you think abt him

i love him sm just in general!!! and i got a few HCs that go for Nezha in my JTTW au and for the by the book au!

he does Indian classical dances as well as peking opera roles like wu xiaosheng or changkao wusheng

he has very frizzy and rebellious hair, wearing it in anything but buns is a nightmare for him

he's positively insufferable when it comes to pranks, he never stops or even lets up. absolute menace.

him and his brothers are often meeting up to do whatever in big cities, just having a fun time and vibing. they'll absolutely never let each other live down the stuff they did when they were younger, but they also never stop loving each other in their own weirdass way

they didn't know what "cain instinct" was for the longest time, but once they did that had a big laugh about it in a "hahaha we do that!" way

picky eater. dear LORD he's a picky eater and will throw a FIT over it

as an older god, past FSYY and JTTW, he's more serious and focused on his duties, but he still loves a good practical joke

him, Ao Bing and Yang Jian are banned from a few heavenly pavillions and halls due to... past misdemeanors (Partying Too Hard)

him and Wukong are thick as thieves. if you tell one something, the other will hear about it in a matter of seconds really

he has no issues whatsoever with killing, but he really struggles with or even being around for butchering animals. if he does, he has nightmares of his suicide for a few days

he rarely works up a sweat in general, but when he does, it smells like lotus perfume

he can also grow actual lotus flowers as hair decorations for fancy occasions

he can shapeshift between his child, youth, and older man appearances as needed, though more often it depends on his mood for the day

for the by the book au in specific:

he masks his wheels as rollerskates and wheelies, but sometimes as a motorbike

fashion style is punk but make it hanfu, with some techwear influence. it screams "DTF (Down To Fight)"

loves Chinese rap and rock, and modern poetry

celebrates Buddhist holidays and meditates, and he often joins Hai'er and Wukong to gatherings and lectures

he takes a liking to MK and Mei both, and often tips the scales in their favor when he can

follows Mei online and watches her livestreams, and he often gets in discussions with her about motorcycle mods and specs

has an online persona so people don't flood his inbox with prayers (it happened before with Wukong, he'd rather avoid that happening to him)

his body was made with pink and white lotus flowers, but he always prefered the blue-purple ones. he only told that to Ao Bing and Wukong, and they both often give him blue lotus-themed gifts on special occasions

[magicalqueennightmare]

Not Exactly a Win (C)

When it's time to face Homelander can those of you against him keep from killing each other long enough to take him out?

Canon storyline Part 3 to Not Exactly Babysitting & Not Exactly Lying

Warnings: it's the Boys so lots of crazy shit happens

Cabin fever, a truckload of combined trauma or just the universe deciding it was against each and every one of you had you, MM, Frenchie and Kimiko piled up in one apartment going batty.

MM was going through it because he'd ended up beating the shit out of Janine's step dad because the idiot was one of those that thought supes were untouchable. Kimiko and Frenchie were still on the mend from Nina's goons and you, well you didn't want to look internally enough to attempt at picking apart your issues.

Ben..Solider Boy was Homelander's father. Solider Boy was responsible for MMs family being killed years ago and many more things that had you wanting to peel your skin off. Butcher was unstable even for him and from what Annie told you she'd discovered about the temp V... he wouldn't be around for much longer and had possibly signed Hughie's death certificate as well.

On the plus Frenchie had tracked down the gas that could incapacitate a supe. You had one vial and one shot to stop Soldier Boy and Butcher from sacrificing every innocent person in Vought tower. You wanted Homelander dead but not at the expense of having blood of your hands that hadn't wronged you.

You really shouldn't have went off grid for so long because you'd missed a shit load. You'd nearly dozed off in the spare bedroom when MMs voice calling your name made you jolt out of bed and you were halfway to the living room before your conscious brain could catch up.

There stood Maeve, barefoot and covered in blood "Nice to see ya Y/N" you looked from her to MM "What the hell is going on?"

By the time Maeve was through catching all of you up to speed and had changed into a spare change of your clothes Annie was back with Hughie who happened to be sporting a large bruise on the left side of his face "Who the hell decked you?" You asked and he shrugged "Butcher?"

In the last forty five minutes all of you had confronted Butcher and Ben, been double crossed by Maeve and locked into the safe that took up part of Butcher's office. It didn't take long for you and Annie to bust out but it took long enough that they had a decent head start.

The working plan? Kimiko and Frenchie go to the lab in Vought tower and hope Frenchie could concoct the gas needed to stop Soldier Boy while you, Annie, Hughie and MM got in the middle of three supes and Butcher.. oh yeah and try to keep the casualties down to a minimum. Always the easy things in life huh?

You never expected to walk into the scene that was in front of you. Butcher and Soldier Boy were fighting,Maeve was facing off on Homelander while Ryan lay not far away clearly hit with a blast from someone.

Soldier Boy had Butcher flat on his back with his shield raised over his head about to bring it down. You and Annie moved together, her sending a shot of electricity that mixed with your flames to slam right into Soldier Boy and knock him back from Butcher.

Solider Boy glared at you out of everyone "Don't do this Blaze. I said I'd kill the asshole and I fucking will. Who cares if one brat is collateral damage? Youre not fucking weak like them" You looked at MM then Annie before glancing at Butcher and held his gaze for a heartbeat before shrugging "Deal's changed"

MM fired the shotgun in his hand while you,Annie and Butcher hit Soldier Boy with everything you had while Hughie worked the coms overhead to evacuate the building.

Everyone was down. Annie was slammed into a wall, Butcher was knocked out, Kimiko had gotten tossed and you were down but trying to shield MM should Soldier Boy turn on him. You were well and throughly fucked.

As if some random God finally decided to get off their ass and answer prayers all the lights started to get brighter and you saw Annie get to her feet. HUGHIE!

The lights started to bust as Annie drew the power and right before Soldier Boy could slam the broken pieces of his shield into her chest she slammed him with a blast that knocked him back and gave all of you an opening. You ran for the gas canister Kimiko had dropped and threw it to MM while you Annie and Kimiko grabbed Soldier Boy.

The moment the mask hit his face he growled "I'M NOT GOING BACK IN THAT FUCKING BOX"

Nothing happened how you would've wanted it. Maeve was dead to the public eye and to Vought. She'd ended up tackling Soldier Boy out of the window to save all of you from his blast. As for Soldier Boy, from what Grace could tell you he did indeed end up back in the fucking box but in her people's hands now.

Ryan had chosen Homelander, you were fairly certain Butcher was dying from the effects of the temp V even if the two of you hadn't talked much and Neuman was now in position to be the next vice president.

--------------

You sat next to Kimiko on Frenchies desk watching the news report as Butcher said "Well that bitch has got to go" you let out a breath "Lets get back to work boys"

[ghostwise]

Matacuervos, ch. 5 - The wise assassin 2.2k words - cw: allusions to childhood trauma and child abuse A return visit to El milagro brings buried secrets to light. Read update on AO3 - Read from ch. 1 on AO3

As a young boy, he’d mastered the art of escape.

Out through the window with the loose screen, over the wall separating the apartment from the brothel, and around the corner into the alley (where he’d once witnessed a heartbroken suitor serenade one of the whores until a guard was called to drag him away). Then through the gaps of the iron fencing and out into the street. The path led between the apothecary and the butcher, where the crowds would conceal his small figure. At last! He would escape in this manner, sprinting down the street—and enjoy every instance of freedom, for he knew he’d certainly get a beating once it ended.

And it always ended. Of course, what choice had he but to come back at the end of the day?

Now he made the journey in reverse.

His jaw was set in a grim expression as he hurried down those familiar streets.

Even with Hamal at his side, he was wary of what he’d encounter there, at the place of his first sorrow; a run-down apartment he’d seen plenty of times in his dreams. Meanwhile everything had stayed mostly the same. The apothecary seemed to have fallen into some ill repute, with delirious and dazed customers exiting as they passed, and the butcher had changed ownership. The iron fence was gone—torn down and replaced with a low brick wall covered in graffiti and grime—but it was just as well, because he would not have been able to slip in between the railings. Not after 20 years away.

And it mattered little whether they were spotted. Thankfully they weren’t.

As they finally approached the apartment where Zevran had lived out his meager childhood, he heard small and scuffling footsteps. He stopped and grabbed onto Hamal’s hand to keep him close as they watched from the shadows.

Here it was. His only childhood home.

It looked better than he recalled.

There were no broken windows. The walls sported a fresh coat of paint.

The children were, a gaggle of them, dressed a great deal better than the rags he had lived in once. Why, they even had shoes on, running in and out of the building with toys in hand. And the fact that they were free to go outside at all, not locked indoors the entire day, was especially striking to him.

They were talking amongst themselves, or playing, or perhaps even being unkind to each other—he couldn’t tell, couldn’t hear them—but there, a ponytail yank! And a responding kick! One of them, apparently in charge of supervising his peers, quickly broke up the conflict. And back they went to the patched up ball, kicked against the side of the building with a thud.

Hamal looked at him. Zevran shook his head, unsure of what he was feeling. But he whispered, “Thank the Maker. They are still here.” And he squeezed his hand.

“We are not too late,” Hamal ventured after a moment. “What’s the plan?”

He was right. They still had a slaver to catch. And time running out, and no idea how to do it. Zevran had only his own fortitude and a prayer between his teeth. And Hamal, of course.

“Keep watch,” he said. “If anyone tries to take them, you know what to do. I will pay another visit to El milagro.”

.

As he walked, Zevran thought hard about blame. He hadn’t yet decided how to parcel it out. Who was to blame for his unfortunate life?

Certainly Atanasio was to blame, but Zevran had killed him in Antiva City, and it hadn’t been enough. Guildmaster Talav had been in charge of House Arainai when he was purchased, but he, too, was dead; killed years ago in one of the Crows’ frequent exchanges of power. And Grandmaster Eoman… well, Zevran had plans for him.

What of Sra. Amilcar, who had overseen his purchase? She was to blame for enabling the cruel deed, and worse, she was to blame for impeding their search, and for her continued involvement in these crimes. But she seemed too meek to have acted alone all these years. Someone else was involved, someone with connections. Whose pockets were growing fatter with each stolen child?

He would wrench answers from somewhere, that much was certain.

And he was waiting for Gloria Amilcar when she returned to her office.

The moment she closed the door, he spoke as low and even and close to her ear as he could: “Stay quiet, or you’re dead.”

In the instant of her strangled gasp he was gripping her by the shirt. He held up his hand, pressing a finger to his lips with a look that, was severe yet still implied the possibility of kindness. His daggers were not concealed, but brazenly worn on a bandolier. This was key to the ruse. He saw her eyes flick to their sharp edges at once.

“I don’t need to use these. But that depends on you entirely.”

He locked the door before dragging her to the desk.

“I am giving you a rare opportunity, Gloria,” he intoned, pushing her into the chair. “You might save your own skin yet, but only if you act accordingly.”

Here, she finally composed herself enough to speak. “How did you get in?”

“Crawlspace,” he scoffed. “Brief though my last visit was, it told me enough information for even a novice Crow to infiltrate your humble little hovel. It did not escape me that the parlor is bigger from the outside. My, my. What are you hiding, that you need a concealed passage along the building’s west end, I wonder? Clandestine meetings? Illicit lovers?”

She knew better than to hint, deny, or argue. But she grew a shade lighter, whispering simply, “Crow?”

“Do not act surprised! You gave me to them.” He paused, and gestured down to his figure. “Is it so unlikely that I return in their form?”

At his words she recoiled, and there was a genuine starkness to her face. Her eyes had grown wide, lined with terrified tears. Not of compassion, but of fear: fear for her own life.

Zevran smiled wide.

“First things first. How many children are you selling today?”

“I don’t…” She grimaced. After a moment, she squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “None.”

Zevran stared her down. He sucked his teeth and drew one of his daggers, and pushed the hilt into her chest with the blade angled to catch the light—a showy move, completely safe, yet it earned a small scream from her.

“Keep your voice down,” he said quietly. “And do not lie to me.”

“I’m not selling anyone!” she insisted in a rush. “I run the books for Sr. Rossi, that’s all!”

“You really believe that,” Zevran mused. “Tell me! How many children?”

“Th-they are not sold ,” she continued, “they are contracted, it’s a very reputable business, they’re granted opportunities, training-”

“For the Crows?”

“In a factory in Salle, please! I know nothing about the Crows!”

Zevran asked again, voice dipping into a menacing pitch. “How many?”

Gloria shut her eyes. Her cheeks were damp with tears, her body shivering. “Just two. The oldest. They are nearly of age, but they do not want to work here, so they will go work in Salle.”

“How vile,” Zevran said, voice dripping with disgust. “Where will you meet this slaver?”

“N-not a slaver… Th-the apartments out back-”

“How often do these ‘reputable opportunities’ come by?”

“Every four years or so! This is… so many places do this, you must understand. I don’t know what happened to you but it isn’t what you think-”

“You must think me stupid,” Zevran said bitterly. “I remember the day I was sold. I saw the money with my own eyes. I knew I was being bought.”

“A contract fee! Ten years’ work in the factories, then you’d be allowed to strike out on your own! And be all the more prepared for it, with a wealth of experience and learning. Far more than you would ever gain in a brothel.”

“If you are so convinced you did no wrong,” Zevran said slowly, “Why such a rush to chase me off when I was last here?”

“Mm.” She licked her lips, and turned to look at him nervously. “You were—digging into things.”

Zevran stared at her. He found her utterly hateful in that moment. He did not find her particularly clever, just weak-willed. She was not even very committed to hiding her employer’s secrets, now that it was she who had a knife pointed in her direction. But was she speaking truthfully?

He kept the dagger pointed squarely at her now, wrist steady, ready to cut her vocal chords in a split second if needed.

“The Crows pay you a pittance for their recruits. Do you know how many end up dead? Do you remember my friends?” He hissed. “I was the only survivor!”

“If—if that is true I am truly sorry.” She cringed, face wet with tears and spit. “It was not supposed to be this way. But I can help! I can find you the best lawyer in Antiva! You don’t need to hurt me! Please! I’m sorry I chased you off, I didn’t know why you were here!”

Zevran shook his head. “Why else would I be here?”

“I… I don’t-”

“What are you hiding from me?”

Her defenses had crumbled. She stared at her reflection in his blade, and took a breath.

“I processed the payment that undid your father, boy.”

The dead silence that followed might have meant his death, had he been facing anyone even remotely competent.

Zevran stared at her, processing her words, and his grip slackened on his blade for just a second—then, just as quickly, he corrected himself and pushed the tip of the knife against the fabric of her blouse, where the high neckline covered her paper-thin skin.

“I am here for the man who transported me to the hands of the Crows; the man who plans to give them more children to break! Nothing else. I don’t care how ignorant you claim to be, you will help me.”

The words came out in a desperate seething.

“My companion is positioned somewhere very close by! One misstep, and that’s you and your fellow slaver full of arrows, understood?”

.

As Zevran grappled with the revelation Sra. Amilcar had set upon him, Hamal grappled with language.

In his best efforts to conceal himself while guarding the apartment where El milagro housed the worker’s children, he’d climbed into the heights of a temachaca tree by what seemed to be a boarded up attic window. It seemed like a perfect place to keep watch from, secluded from the main road and well out of view, but then a voice had spoken through the wooden beams, nearly startling him enough to make him lose his grip on his weapon.

“¿Hola?” the voice asked, with that lovely Antivan lilt that rose up, then descended, then flipped up again like a song. Before he could locate its speaker, it continued, “Ah, ¡es el esposo de Zevrán! Espereme un momento, ahí voy. ¿Que hace aqui arriba?”

Hamal cursed inwardly, considering his options.

The light voice had distinctly said Zevran’s husband. The rest was, well, a blur. He could not leave, for the children still needed guarding, and this he would do at any cost. But though he had been recognized, he had no way of recognizing the woman in return.

He got down from the tree.

Nadia came to meet him, a basket at her hip. “Asi es. Bien que lo reconocí,” she said, then launched into a flurry of Antivan that left Hamal reeling. This was appended with a permutation of her first question question: “¿Qué hace aquí?” 

Hamal hesitated. He saw Nadia’s eyes flick to the apartment, then return to him with confusion that sublimated into suspicion.

“¡Cuidando!” he said hurriedly, fairly certain that was the word he wanted. “Ah, shit, wait… Hay peligro. Yo guardo.”

She stared at him, brow furrowed. “¿Donde esta Zevrán?”

“Adentro de El milagro,” Hamal said, and, when she turned to look towards the brothel, he sputtered, “No, no! No vaya. Aqui. Ah- robo, es un robo.” He pointed at the children, and received only an alarmed look in return.

“¿Robo?” Nadia dropped her basket and warily pulled a small blade from her skirts.

“No!” Hamal exclaimed, for he had not been trying to threaten to rob her. He dropped his bow, hands held up in what he hoped would be understood as a gesture of peace.

“Ayudo! Yo ayudo, guardo. Zevran ayu- ayudas a… a cuidarte… oh for the love of the Creators, woman!” His voice broke in frustration. “We mean no harm! But the children are in danger.”

“Alguien viene a robarse a los niños,” she said slowly. “Usted y Zevrán vienen a prevenirlo.”

“Si,” Hamal breathed, relieved. Then, he tilted his head, struck by something.

“Zevran?”

Nadia raised a brow. “¿Si? ¿Zevrán?”

Were it not for his albinism, he might’ve grown a shade paler.

“Fenedhis,” he said. “Is that where the accent goes?”

[frozen-heart]

Thoughts on episode 8

Here we go again! Lots of thoughts & feelings.. So let's go!

I won't lie I was gagged when I first watched this episode. I was on the edge of my seat!

But now that I've had time to let it sit in my brain I just can't help but think that it was... lacking.. It wasn't bad, but was it good?

Reveal

I once mentioned before how I didn't want it to be Wes, but I was still shocked when he did his thing this episode.. Mrs Langsberry being Bloody Rose was fine. She was suspicious from the start, but I had other theories that I liked more. But it definitely makes sense with Tabby being the final girl.

I don't really know if I like Wes as the big bad. I didn't dislike it, as much as I thought I would before I watched this episode. But other theories captured my heart more..

Kelly

I'm glad Kelly survived. I was sure she would and here we are :D

I still don't get why Bloody Rose attacked her. It was so random, even for this movie plot thing. It didn't fit Bloody Rose at all. And then Bloody Rose standing there and watching Faran go in to save Kelly? Go girl give us nothing.

I'm sad they cut Kelly's storyline short. As if Kelly's mom just needed to have a talk with Kelly to stop literally ABUSING her?! And the weird reactions from the girls, when Kelly said there was no more prayer closet time with her mom gave me an ick.

I was also weirded out how she's suddenly included again after Imogen THREATENED to make her life a living hell. And Kelly got over her cult mindset and trauma way to quickly!

I loved her hug with Faran and I hope these two end up together. I've been shipping them since season 1.

Also, not that I care, but where was Greg? That storyline with Faran and Greg is just left in the open. Did Kelly find out? Did they just have a one time thing?? Hello?

Imogen & Johnny

The whole time after Imogen attacked Johnny I was screaming internally for someone to get him out of the fucking freezer T_T That poor guy. I thought Imogen killed him 100%! I thought that would carry out into season 3! But no.. Why didn't she call the police? I mean even in Rosewood, which has the worst police department in history, they were called when dead bodies showed up! I love Imogen, but that was so stupid. I get freaking out on Johnny and I can still excuse her knocking him out, but anything after? Questionable. Choices were made. Still love her tho.

I'm a bit sad because I came to love their relationship, despite it being rushed. I don't think they would get back together, but who knows with this show.

Dr Sullivan

I actually can't believe they butchered Dr Sullivan's character. I know she's a crappy therapist! But you can't make me believe she's so money hungry that she does all of this for a fucking book! She felt like a totally different character! In the original PLL she was still helpful and kind to the Liars and in this she had some good bonding moments with Imogen..

Why was she kidnapped in the first place? That was so random. And stopping therapy is like the last thing the Liars need. Especially Tabby and Imogen. Why is Tabby's mom okay with them stopping therapy?

I also can't get over this timeline with Archie/Dr Sullivan and the og show. It still feels out of character for Archie to randomly kill her son and only now killing her. I gotta admit it was brutal to murder her without answering her question about her son, but that whole story felt like a lie.

Clanton

AND PLEASE WHERE IS CLANTON??? It always seemed like Archie killed, because Clanton ordered it. Archie isn't actually A, Clanton is. He's the mastermind behind it. And it seems like that whole thing was just dropped?

I also thought Bloody Rose would have a bigger team. I mean it had this while Bloody Rose cult, but besides Wes and Mrs Langsberry, there was no one else involved that we knew or cared about. That was a bit dissapointing.

Jen/Noa

I was hoping till the end that Jen turns out to be evil. Especially when she accused Christian and Johnny of being suspicious, as if she hadn't suddenly turned up in Millwood as well?! That was so suspicious and I hoped they would follow through... The bar is so low and they still didn't deliver. Why did they wait until the last episode to TRY to make Jen likable?

Noa/Jen/Shawn storyline was really the biggest failure of this season and really dragged the quality down for me. As if there were no consequences for Noa and Jen after stealing money and wrecking Shawn's car?? Then Noa stealing a car (which was justified in that situation). How are these two not in jail right now???

Overall

I feel like the episode had a good pace until the time jump they did after Tabby's test. It was way to rushed!

I think I'll have to rewatch this episode. Maybe the whole season to really know whether to like it or not. For now I actually think I prefer season 1 overall, which is really surprising to me. When the first two episodes came out I was sure I would love this season more. I know many hated the reveal of season 1. I don't remember my initial thoughts I had back then, but I still think I preferred that reveal for now. Even if it was a random twin situation 😭

And where was Ash?? I thought he would have a bigger part in the reveal.. Where were the moms? Where were the parents overall this season??

That's it for now. I hope I didn't miss anything. Maybe I'll have more thoughts after rewatching the entire season

[moodymisty]

So I had these sitting around for a bit and didn't have any use for them, so i just decided to clean it a bit and then post it. So here, two snippets of a nailsremoved!AU to be balm on the wound of the inevitable tragedy that is Angron. Apologies about any incohesiveness due to it's rough nature. I'm trying to get more confidence in my own writing and posting more of the ideas that I don't spend 80 years on.

Relationships: Angron/Fem!Reader (an AU of my 'stolen historitor' saga)

Warnings: None really apart from typical 40k talk and Angron's general existence

Snippet 1

The only word you can use to possibly describe it, is euphoric.

Never in a million years, in all of your hopes and prayers and desperate pleas, did you ever think it would even be possible. Even he hadn't; Though as with much of his life, he'd accepted his inevitable fate with the same despondent anger as with much else.

You shouldn't be awake, but you can't help but watch him for a moment.

Angron sleeps sitting. Perhaps its a remnant of his time in the gladiator pits. That would make the most logical sense to you, watching as his chin presses against his collarbone. He has one leg bent and one straight out, his left elbow resting on the bent one. He's prepared to fight, even in his sleep. Even his chainaxes are still within reach. You know if you even shifted towards them, they'd be in his hands within the blink of an eye.

But it's still odd to you, not seeing them. The nails were such a poignant, overt part of Angron's silhouette, that their removal has been an adjustment. It feels like a part of him is missing; In an odd sort of way.

You accidentally shift, and he opens his eyes. You smile at him.

He grunts. You snuffle closer to him and lay against his side, content to stay there for the time being. He doesn't remove you, so you assume it's fine.

You’re happy, but it’s bittersweet.

You know that while Angron no longer feels the full punishment of the nails against every other emotion but rage, that portions of the nails that couldn’t be removed; The pieces that replaced parts of his brain will always give him pain. To say that he is cured is laughable as like some sort of sick curse, he can have no relief in his life. A more accurate description would be that they neutered the Butcher’s Nails to give Angron some breathing room.

"Does it still hurt?"

You say softly, feeling his massive hand flop on your hip.

While there is no longer any nails for you to soothe, he does still feel as if your company gives him relief. Perhaps that's just another human emotion he's only just now been able to taste.

“No.”

You don’t know if he says it because it’s true, or he merely mistakes the neutering of pain as full relief it would make sense, given how long he’s lived with the nails; The pain becoming part of him and even its slight removal could feel like it was gone.

He could also just be lying. Though perhaps it would be more accurate to say refusing to show weakness. Someone like him won't simply admit that pain is affecting him. He'll never show his stomach to anyone, now matter how close you may be to him.

He stares at you. Hard. It’s always impossible to tell what he’s thinking until he inevitably says it.

“You worry too much.”

Your lips purse, and Angron grips your face not too hard, but hard enough to make your cheeks empty of air.

"I'm not the only one. I'm just the only one who admits it." The gladiator makes a disgruntled, irritated face and looks away.

Snippet 2

What an odd moment in time, Sanguinius thinks.

To imagine that out of all of his brothers, the one hailing from Nuceria would be the one to change so drastically. And to think they'd almost thought him lost.

Such is the nature of life, he guesses. For things to change so quickly. Even in their long lives it doesn't seem to slow down in the slightest.

Sanguinius looks across the massive room, watching the World Eater's Primarch interact with the only human he's given time of day. A question must've been asked, as they look up to him with a curiosity and Angron glances down to give an amused scoff.

It's barely there, but he sees it. It's just barely noticeable in the slightly softened look in his eyes. But the angel is keen, and catches it. He speaks up to either of the men in his presence, to neither in particular.

"I've never seen that man crack even the smallest smile. And it's been, what, three hundred years?"

Sanguinius' wings are fluffed, comfortable in the presence of two of his closest brothers. They've even seen Konrad smile; Though context proves to be a valuable marker in regards to him in particular. Magnus crosses his arms and looks towards Horus, not having heard him when the two of them exchanged an amused chuckle at Sanguinus' observation. Odd, for the Warmaster. Normally whenever he's in the Angel's company on Terra, it's hard to keep a laugh off of his lips.

"Have you, brother?"

Horus looks towards his brothers with a soft, charming smirk, one that fades ever so slightly as he looks to Angron. He thinks back, trying to remember a moment where the man hailing from Nuceria had ever shown anything but rage boiling just beneath the surface.

He lets out a soft chuckle when he comes up completely empty, and shakes his head.

"No, I don't think I have."

With all three in agreement Sanguinus makes some sort of lighthearted jest to Magnus at Angron's expense, looking away from the Warmaster for a moment. He doesn't let his perfect veneer drop, as he sees the old gladiator speak words not audible to him at you.

Horus watches for a moment longer, and then walks away.

[davidluongart]

Dionysian grapevine 🍇

Currently available as prints and all forms at Redbubble !

The pose, fashion choice & jewelry were inspired by the previous Indo-Greek bodhisattvas that which I had once shown and reblogged here - compassionate figures who delayed their Buddhahood & help prayers/worshippers to achieve nirvana in their cycle of samsara. (which kind of fit well on the “death, resurrection and rebirth” theme of Dionysus, to be honest; besides his journey spreading the knowledge of “winemaking and its cultivation” across the Mediterranean, Middle East-North Africa, and South Asia. From being almost butchered by the Titans, later being driven mad by Hera to rescuing his mother & lover, Semele and Ariadne from the underworld realm of Hades in some myths.) Despite sharing some similarities with early Christian saints, such as them dressed in princely fine robes and bejeweled from hair to toe, bodhisattvas do not associate with any historical persons or martyrdom at all.

The background was inspired by various late Roman - early Byzantine golden frescoes and mosaics of lush grape vines, specifically, the one they found in the Vatican underground necropolis (with the god “Sol Invictus” in the center, identified with “Helios” of the Greeks) and this Pompeii piece which currently exhibited in the National Archeological Museum of Naples.

[ohnothisisathing]

Diplomacy: The Engagement

Written for Hideduo Kiss week Day 4: Kiss on the hand. I didn’t have time to post it during the event so here it is a week late. Royal au, kind of. You’ll see. A true AU unlike my Stardew au’s. Pardon the little bit of world building. Philza and Ramon are in this one briefly with mentions of others.

Content warning: dead animal. Rated 17+

It’s kind of a misunderstanding that got Fit here.

It all started with their first alliance with the Verde Kingdom. Their King and Dan had a bit of romance that ended in a kid, but also a tragedy and before he died the king decided to form an alliance between the Verde Kingdom and Red territory as a symbol of their love and the love for their lost child.

The problem was that the tribes of the Red territory don’t have any nobility to match the standards of Verde’s nobility. The closest they had to offer were Philza, a strong warrior with a position of leadership gained through blood spilt so his will would be done, and Mouse but there was a very real danger that someone would get eaten staying with the demons so her tribe sent Jaiden.

Where the misunderstanding comes in is that Philza had no family so when his betrothal to the second prince of Verde was announced, the Verde prince had none of Phil’s family to help butcher the boar he’d caught to seal their engagement, as was Red custom.

So Phil asked his old hunting buddy to help out and it was Fit’s honor to help out his old friend, but to the Verde Kingdom it gave the wrong impression on what Fit’s place in the world was. By their views Fit would do to fit their quota of nobility and was sent to Verde to marry the 1st prince. In retrospect, after living in Verde for years and learning how the nobility’s multiple spouses brought entire families into higher status to the point where the nobility of Verde have little if any blood relation, it makes sense where the miscommunication happened. Phil’s damn laughter and lack of correction when it was decided though makes Fit certain the old bastard did it on purpose.

One child, widowing, abdication of all rights to a throne, moving back into Red territory, and regular trips to the merchants of the Amarela Order for said child later and he’s ended up here for his second betrothal.

To be fair, Fit had no idea that Pac was important to the Amarela Order. Turns out he was close to the head of their order, Saint Felps, in some way that was unclear to Fit. It’s supposedly a similar connection as the man that qualified to be married as the second spouse of Crown Prince Roier of Verde, so it was a big deal. That and Fit’s weird status outside the territory made this whole thing a part of the diplomatic nonsense he thought he’d left behind. What started as being bullied by his child into asking his boyfriend to marry him turned into an alliance under the scrutiny of their most formal of courting traditions.

According to the Amarela Order’s customs, Fit had to build an alter of his betrothed’s chosen deity in his home, spend one day of prayer with Fit’s chosen deity, and then spend a week with their soulmate, who, in Pac’s case happened to be the chosen of the Goddess of Creation and not just the guy with the best weed Fit’s ever bought from the Amarela Order. Then because of diplomacy Fit had to spend an additional few days learning about the Order in their most central towers. It is in doing all this that Fit learned that they did not have a concept for family except the person chosen since childhood to accompany them through life to share their intimate life with outside their deity, and he still had no idea how Pac was connected to Saint Felps even after meeting the guy. After days of travel, weeks away, and one soulmate’s blessing later, Fit was looking forward to seeing Pac again only to find out he’d gone on the hunt.

That is objectively a good thing since it means that they would be engaged soon in the eyes of both their homes, but Fit misses his boyfriend. Ramon keeps making comments about how mopey he is being and he has to admit that he is really starting to get pathetic after just one day. It was normal for a hunt to last days and he’s waited several weeks to see him. He can wait a day or two.

Fit tries to distract himself and act cool, but as soon as the horn blows announcing his arrival back from the hunt, Fit's nearly running to the edge of the village, Ramon sticking close behind.

He is excited to see Pac, but he isn’t expecting the emotion that overcomes him seeing Pac dragging the carcass of a large boar behind him. Pac who has used his considerable strength and capability to provide food and leather and fat, just for Fit and soon they would celebrate that continued commitment with the post hunt feast to celebrate their engagement.

He feels the hand on his shoulder without seeing Philza, but he knows he came back with Pac. He’d seen Phil unruffled with the two bows around his torso before Fit had looked at Pac and couldn’t look away.

“That thing was a bitch to catch. Three days Fit. He could have gotten a different one but he insisted on the biggest, meanest one. You should have seen it, mate. It didn’t go down with arrows so he had to stab it in the heart! It was wicked!”

“Yeah, he’s really strong,” Fit manages to get out past the big feeling stealing his breath, still processing and not taking his eyes off Pac. It’s quiet for a moment and Pac is only a few steps away when Phil speaks again.

“It’s a crazy feeling, isn’t it? Watching someone come back from a hunt for you.”

Fit turns to his friend at his softly spoken words, meeting his knowing eyes.

“I’ll see you later. I have to give Chayanne the herbs I picked for him. He’s been preparing for days for the feast. And tell Pac I will be back soon to help him and Ramon butcher his kill, okay?”

The enormous feeling in him somehow grows bigger at Philza’s offer and he can’t help smiling at his old friend.

“Thank you Phil,” he says with layered sincerity, “you’re too good to me.”

“No problem. See you Fit. See you Ramon.” Philza waves at Pac and heads back into the village to his children.

“Oi Fitch! Ramon!” Pac yells at them and, against tradition, Fit walks toward him.

“Oi Pac! Bom dia, bom dia, bom dia!” Fit says, as Ramon waves an excited greeting, signing the Amarela word for ‘dad’ at his soon to be official father, bouncing on his toes as soon as he’s in front of Pac.

“Bom dia Fit!” Pac says back, still hauling his kill, exhaustion washing away from his face with his smiled greeting. Ramon barrels into him with a hug around his middle and Pac moves a hand to place on his head, but sees the dried blood on it and thinks better of it.

“Hello nenê. You’ve gotten so big since I’ve been gone. It feels like years,” Pac feigns distress and sighs looking down at Ramon while Ramon looks smug at being called big. Fit smiles in amusement at the two, putting a hand on Ramon’s shoulder.

“Big and strong. Soon enough he’ll be bringing a boar home of his own.” Fit feels the way Ramon’s shoulders square up under his touch and watches him duck his head to hide his smile from Fit. It will never get old the way his words affect the boy.

“Not too soon,” Pac says pointedly at Ramon and turns his gaze to Fit.

“Fit why didn’t you tell me you were so important, huh? I went hunting with your…king! How could I not get the biggest boar with him watching? Not that I wouldn’t get you the best one, but it made me so nervous. What if he says I can’t marry you?”

“Calma calma calma Pac. First of all, despite being a bastard, Phil is not a king, and even if he could prevent the engagement from happening, which I guess he technically could, he approves a little too much.”

“Really?” Pac asks earnestly and Fit ignores all implications that Phil has that much say in what he does in order to reassure his soon to be husband.

“Of course! You’re so strong! And he told me how you stabbed the boar to death. That’s amazing!”

He sees Ramon’s excitement as he signs ‘Pai, you really did that?’ at Pac. In answer Pac pulls out a knife from the holster on his lower back and holds it up to Ramon, blood still caked into the grooves of the silver.

Ramon’s eyes get wide as he holds his hands out for the knife. Pac lets it drop gently in Ramon’s smaller hands and he holds it with wonder.

“Ramon, I shot two, no four arrows into the boar and it still charged at me. It would have stabbed me, but I got it first.”

Ramon looks like Pac had put the stars in the sky. He grips the knife handle in one hand so he can clumsily sign ‘can I show this to Chayanne?’

“Yes, that would be fine,” Pac agrees but still looks at Fit to make the final say. Ramon turns to look at him as well.

“As long as it’s okay with Pac, but Phil said Chayanne was busy preparing for the feast…and he’s gone” Fit looks fondly as his son runs off to look for Chayanne. He turns back to Pac and sees him looking fondly too.

“He adores you,” Fit says, “He can’t stop talking about how you’re going to be his father too. I think he’s more excited about this marriage than I am.”

“Is he more excited than you Fit?” Pac teases, “Is that why you haven’t kissed me yet?” 

Fit grins at him and looks him up and down, drinking in the image of him. It’s been a long time since he’s had the pleasure. Fit’s emotions and how rugged Pac looks post hunt only make him a more tempting sight.

He’s not supposed to, but he can’t help wrapping his arms around Pac’s shoulders and feels something ease in his body having him close. He feels Pac lean heavily against him.

“Fit if you stay like that I will never move again,” Pac muffles against his shoulder.

Fit takes one more moment to feel him in his arms before releasing him and holding him at arms length to be sure he stays steady. Pac’s eyes slowly open and he groans.

“I take it back. Hold me Fit.”

Fit laughs and lets go of him.

“To answer your question, I’m not supposed to kiss you right now. I’m not even supposed to hug you. Not until after the feast.”

“What?” Pac looks alarmed. “Why did you not tell me? Does this mean we can’t get married? Did I mess this up after all of this?” 

Fit puts another hand on his shoulder, to which Pac moves away from like it burns him”

“No no no, You’re okay. Calma Pac. Nobody saw, and really it’s tradition, but also practical. You’ve got a lot to do for the feast and the whole village is relying on this meal today. Can’t get you distracted or make an injury worse. Believe me it’s happened before.”

Pac lets out a relieved sigh.

“Thank the gods Fit. Okay, I won’t let you or your village down. You can rely on me.”

Fit smiles warmly at him, feeling warm at Pac’s dedication.

“I know I can rely on you Pac.”

Pac moves to haul up the rope holding the boar again when Fit remembers something.

“Wait, shit, one more thing. I almost forgot. Let me have your hand.” 

Pac gives him a curious look and cautiously gives his hand, understandably reluctant, but trusting Fit in the end. His eyes widen when Fit kneels before him on the ground. 

Fit grips the hand still caked with blood from the kill Pac made to seal his future with Fit and gently holds it in both of his hands. He brings his lips down on the knuckles and presses a kiss there.

“I come back with the holy blessing of the Saint of the Amarela Order and his wishes and that of his progeny for more blessings in our life together,” Fit recites the words the Saint had told him to memorize for this moment and presses a second kiss to his hand.

“I come back with the sacred blessing of the other half of your soul and his patron goddess for shelter and protection for the new life we’ll create together,” he recites the words given to him and lays one last lingering kiss on his knuckles, savoring this last bit of connection.

“And I come back with the inner blessing of the god of my homeland, may he have mercy on us and turn his wrathful gaze away from our misdeeds in a life full of adventure.”

He looks up at Pac only to see him frozen. He has let the rope holding the boar carcass fall out of his hand completely even though he holds the pose like he’s still holding it. His eyes are locked on the clear, amber beads tied around Fit’s right wrist, every one of them blessed by the Saint of the order, Pac’s soulmate’s goddess, and prayed on by Fit to the god the Wastelands. Thrice blessed, and when they are wed, Fit will slip it around Pac’s wrist and seal their marriage, according to the Order’s traditions. Since it currently sits on Fit’s wrist, it’s just a promise of what’s to come, should Pac accept.

Pac slips a finger under the beads as if testing what they’d feel like against his skin and it makes Fit swallow thickly. Pac quickly moves his fingers away and turns his gaze to Fit’s face, a look of disbelief and awe on his own face.

“For me?” Pac asks like it’s any question. Fit just nods.

“Fit you’re, you’re so…you’re too good to me.”

“So do you accept?” Fit asks with a bit of tease in his voice, but he’s suddenly, irrationally nervous. They’d already agreed to this.

“Yes, Fit yes! I accept all three blessings. What the fuck, Fit? We’re actually getting married!” Pac looks a little manic and Fit stands up cautiously.

“And that’s a good thing, right?” He asks, a bit worried. Sometimes feelings change when things get real.

“Yes! I don’t know. No, Yes! Of course! You-“ Pac lifts up Fit’s wrist with the beaded bracelet now catching the light and puts several fingers underneath it as if to point it out to Fit that it is in fact around his wrist and how ridiculous that is, but quickly moves his fingers out like he’s realized he’s done something wrong. Fit is just enjoying his touch honestly, not sure where he’s going with this, but he already said yes so whatever this is Fit’s okay with it.

“Why did you do all that when I’m not supposed to touch you?” Pac whines, “Wait. Are you not supposed to kiss me, but you kiss my hand? What is that?”

He looks accusing and it makes Fit smile. Back to normal.

“It’s a loophole. Your traditions can’t be held higher than mine, thus loophole.”

“I seem to remember you saying it was practical.” Pac taps a mock-thoughtful finger on his chin.

“It is,” Fit grins unrepentantly. Pac smiles back at him, enjoying this game.

“How am I supposed to not get distracted after that?”

“Just stay in the moment. You’ll be so busy you won't even notice the time,” Fit tries to reassure him and remembers something, “also Philza said he’d help you and Ramon with butchering so you better not leave him waiting.”

That did seem to straighten Pac out. He nods and moves to grab on to the rope tied to the boar.

“I still can't believe you are related to the king,” Pac says as he starts walking again.

“Not a king and not related to him. And hey! Were you not going to tell me that you are close to freaking Saint Felps? What?”

“Ah you met Felps. How was he?”

“He’s Felps. Sublime. Beyond our comprehension. Makes great ravioli. Can’t be trusted to drive a boat. It was one of the most un-real experiences I’ve ever had, and that’s saying something, but I still don’t know how you’re related.”

”Oh, yeah. You haven’t met Richardson yet. I told him I wanted to introduce him to you myself so he must have stayed away when you were visiting Felps. I’m surprised he listened to me.”

“Richarlyson…” Fit trails off, for some reason the name sticks in his mind. Not that he doesn’t know it. Pac has talked a lot about Richarlyson, the kid he is the shared caregiver for with a handful of other people, but he has no idea what that has to do with the Saint until suddenly his thoughts move to a young boy with fluffy hair so big that it covers his eyes.

“Richas?” Fit asks with alarm, using the name Felps had called the child. Certainly he can’t mean the child being raised to be the next Saint of the Amarela Order. Pac groans.

”So you did meet him. I knew he wouldn’t listen to me,” Pac sighs as he follows Fit to where they butcher animals in the village.

“My mind is blown Pac. You share a child with Saint Felps?”

“Yes. I guess I never mentioned that, huh?” Pac says sheepishly and it calms Fit down to see such an endearing look.

”It’s fine. It just caught me off guard. I only met him briefly, if that makes you feel better. He just waved, said hi, and gave his blessing for our engagement. Now I understand the cheeky smile and why Felps scolded him.”

“Yeah, he’s devious, our Richas. Sorry for not telling you about Felps. I did not mean to keep that a secret.”

”There’s nothing to forgive. Besides, I understand. Ramon almost inherited the Verde Kingdom after my ex-husband died.”

”What?”

”Yeah.”

”Fit, how did we end up like this?”

”I haven’t stopped asking myself that and I have no answers, but it led me to you so I can’t complain,” Fit says with a shrug. Pac sets the boar down and smiles at Fit.

”Yeah?”

”Yeah. Now get to work. I’ll see you at the feast.”