#old man shadow with stubble save me

[beesinmymoth]

What if Shadow was a pathetic old man like stan pi—(gunshot)

[halfway-happyyy]

home to you {jack abbot}

synopsis: it takes a traumatic event for doctor jack abbot to realize he's through being casual about his next-door neighbour.

no warnings, straight fluff, scattered use of the nickname kid. this is the direct result of thirsting over this HOT old man for the past month.

“I’m not looking for anything serious at the moment.” 

Jack Abbot had breathed life into those words with his lips pressed against your neck, their vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure up the length of your spine, and to what felt like every nerve ending in your body. His hands, and the extraordinarily skilled fingers that belonged to them, roamed every inch of skin you could spare, and the neural pathways that sent signals to your brain to speak were absolutely not firing on all cylinders, because it took you a ridiculous amount of time to murmur, “well that makes two of us then, because neither am I.” 

And yet, while neither of you were actively looking for anything serious, the right side of your bed remained occupied by the weight of his body most mornings.

He held his cards incredibly close to his chest, and most of what you knew about him (which still wasn’t much) was information he had dropped for you like breadcrumbs. He’d been married; and though his wife had fought bravely, she succumbed to the disease which had ravaged her in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. He had done two tours with the military, which had done nothing for him, except to permanently part him from his right leg and to leave him with an intense desire to work in emergency medicine. He was a creature of the night in every sense of the word and had jumped at the chance to take a position as the night shift attending physician at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. This meant that at seven in the morning, when you were debating about getting up and ready for work, he would just be coming off of the night shift. 

When you considered the way in which you first crossed paths with him, you still cringed. Over a year ago, you’d been battling a persistent craving for oatmeal raisin cookies. You had everything set out to make them minus the cup and a half of white sugar needed, and was at a loss for what to do considering the early morning hour. Enter your mysterious, hardly-ever-seen next-door neighbour. You had heard the sound of his key turning in the lock and waited a couple of minutes before plucking up the courage to go over and knock on his door. You doubted you’d ever forget the first time you really got a good look at him. He, in his navy, blood-spattered scrubs, and the black stethoscope still around his neck. His salt and pepper hair which still held traces of its original copper, and the five o’clock shadow that stubbled his devastatingly handsome face. 

“I’m so sorry to bother - I would have asked 708 but she’s on holiday at the moment and I really just need a cup of sugar if you can spare it.” 

He’d cocked his head to the side, mild confusion giving way to mild amusement. 

“Sugar?” He’d rasped.

You nodded. “I’m making cookies and I just ran out. The store doesn’t open for another hour and a half.” 

“What kind of cookies?” 

You’d felt the blush seep into your cheeks before you murmured oatmeal raisin. 

He nodded approvingly. “I can spot you the sugar, if you promise to save me a couple of cookies.” 

“Yeah, I think I can manage that.” You’d grinned. 

“We’ve got ourselves a deal then. Wait here, I’ll be right back.” 

And, the rest was history. 

Jack had exited the elevator just as you were locking up. He propped himself against his door for support and offered you a small, tired smile. 

“Rough night?” you asked, despite the fact that you could tell just by looking at him that his shift had been a brutal one. 

He nodded. “Lost a vet last night.” 

Oh.

He rid the emotion from his throat with a short cough. “Not a single scratch the entire time he'd been over there, and a drunk driver nails him.” 

Your heart sank. 

“I'm so sorry, Jack.” 

He offered you another sad, fleeting smile and shrugged a shoulder. “That's the job, right?” 

“What are you going to do now?” You asked.

He released a breath of warm, pent-up air and shook his head. “Try and sleep. I've got an appointment with Carson in a couple of hours, which I'm looking forward to.” 

The silence lingered on a little while longer before he asked you what your plans for the day were. 

“I’m waiting to hear back from a friend if she needs me to go to Pittfest with her or not.” 

He lifted his eyebrows. “Fun.” 

“Maybe,” you laughed. “But being surrounded by a bunch of drunk, loud, barely legal people isn't exactly my idea of a great time.” 

“That’s fair,” he breathed. “But take care of yourself if you do end up going, yeah? You’d be amazed at how fast dehydration can set in.” 

“Alright, Doc. I'll watch out.” 

He fished his keys from his pocket and turned back to you. Whatever he wanted to stay was still lodged in his throat, as if he were mulling over whether he should say it or not. 

“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight? Before my shift starts? That is - if you're not slummin’ it with the barely legals all day?” 

You couldn't help the smile that bloomed on your face. 

“Yeah, Jack. I'd like that.” 

He grinned down at the ground before turning back to you and nodding his head. “Alright. I’ll see ya then, kid. Take care.” 

“Yeah, you too, Jack.” 

~

You woke with a start to the incessant sound of your phone ringing and a slick sheen of perspiration covering every square inch of your body. You glanced at the clock beside your bed and cursed the glowing red digits. 4:15 pm. Not much time to get ready before you had to meet up with Jack. You reached for your phone and gasped when you saw the number of missed calls you’d had from him. Taking a deep breath, you pressed his name and leaned back against your headboard for support. 

He picked up on the first ring. 

“Jesus kid, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the last half an hour. Where are you? Are you okay? Are you safe?” 

His tone was thick with worry and entirely foreign to you, and it made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. 

“I’m fine, Jack. I’m fine. I’m at home, I just woke up from a nap.” 

He hesitated a beat before rasping, “you didn’t end up going to Pittfest?” 

You shook your head. “No, Maggie found a more enthusiastic partner to go with her.” 

You heard his audible sigh of relief even over the crackling static. 

“Oh, thank god.” 

Swallowing hard, you finally managed to ask him what on earth was going on. 

“There’s an active shooter at the festival. I’m headed back to the hospital to help. Please, please stay home. Don’t leave for anything,” You were too stunned to speak. “I gotta go, kid. Promise me you’ll stay where you are.” 

“Of course, Jack. I promise.”

You’d given up on watching any news about the festival an hour in, the anxiety too much to bear. Maggie had contacted you around six to let you know that she and the person she’d gone with were both safe and back at her house, which was an immediate weight off of your shoulders. To keep your thoughts from turning to Jack, and how his colleagues were faring, you hunkered down in bed with a book you’d been in the middle of for ages. It did not help. Nothing seemed to scratch the surface of your mounting dread, and so for the second time that day, you closed your eyes and willed yourself to sleep. 

When you woke a while later, the sunshine that had been so prevalent before you’d drifted off had vanished entirely, giving way to an inky darkness. It was nine-fifteen PM, and you’d received a single text message from Jack from half an hour before that simply read - on my way home. Your shoulders dropped and you released a breath of air that felt like you’d been holding since the moment you spoke to him on the phone. It didn’t matter if you were up for the rest of the night now, all that mattered was that Jack was alright, and that he was coming home. 

You wandered out into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, and as you stood at the stove and waited for your kettle to boil, a knock at your door shook you from your reverie. 

You weren't entirely surprised to find Jack on the other side, and you let him in wordlessly.

Once inside your front hallway, he dropped back against the wall for support and took a long, tight breath. 

“You scared the shit out of me today, kid.” 

In the low, warm light provided by the lamp in your hallway, you could see the blood that spattered his scrubs. The crimson drops that had landed on his shoes, and God only knew where else. 

“I know,” you breathed. “I'm sorry.” 

He hoisted the cammo backpack from his shoulders, cleared his throat, and asked if he could get cleaned up here. There were layers to the question that remained unspoken - can I get cleaned up here because my apartment is so quiet, and so lonely that I can barely stand it. That I've been surrounded by calamity all day and all I need is just a few quiet hours with you. 

“‘Course you can, Jack. There are fresh towels in the cabinet beside the washroom.” 

He emerged a little while later, naked entirely except for a pair of black boxer-briefs. As he stood in the doorway of your bedroom, you watched in unconcealed awe as the water droplets he hadn't managed to towel off raced each other down the smooth planes of his freckled chest. 

“Do you require a formal invitation?” you quipped. 

Jack shook his head wordlessly, and pushed himself from the doorframe to join you. He sat perched on the edge of the bed, removed his prosthetic, and swung himself in beside you. 

“Is this okay?” He whispered, once the dust had settled. 

You turned to face him then, and in the sliver of pale orange light from the crack of the door, you could make out every freckle on his face. Every smile line (there were so many), and every miniscule scar was on spectacular display for you; a frontrow seat to the worlds most wondrous man. In the year that you two had spent dancing around your feelings for one another, you had grown so fond of his face, and of the strong, sure hands that spent so much time repairing, and helping people.

“Yeah, Jack. This is okay.” 

“Can I tell you something?” He whispered.

You swallowed hard. “Yes.” 

“Today made me realize that I have absolutely no interest in being casual about you anymore.” 

Oh, shit.

“There was a period of about five seconds today where I let my thoughts travel to the absolute worst scenario where you were concerned, and to put it plainly- I couldn’t bear it.” He cleared his throat. “And if I’ve learned anything in the past eight years, it’s that I have to be transparent with the people I care about because life is so fucking short.” 

It occured to you that this might all be coming from a place of adrenaline and fear. And while you wanted nothing more than to be with him, you dreaded the possibility of him making a mistake or rushing into anything because of that.

“Jack, I need you to know that this is all okay - that if this is all only ever what it’s going to be between us, I can handle it.” You reached toward him to trace a fingertip down the bridge of his nose. “I know how I feel about you, and if this is all that you’re capable of sparing right now, I'll still happily take it.” 

He shook his head. 

“In the year that you and I have known each other, you’ve never asked for more. You’ve never waivered under the insane hours, or the emotional baggage a guy like me tends to accumulate, and you deserve more.” He reached for your hand and brought it to his lips, deliberately brushing each knuckle. “I want to give you more.” 

“Okay, Jack.” 

He quirked an eyebrow. “Okay?” 

You nodded and leaned forward to press a kiss to his lips.

“You’ve laid it all out on the line for me, and I want it, I want you.” 

And as you watched a slow, sleepy smile tug the edges of lips skyward, happiness warmed inside of you like sunshine through a stained glass window.

[theogonize]

house and you as pill/smoke buddies is on my brain rn mhmmm...

it probably starts when he catches you on the roof, blunt in hand, sighing into the void. your lab coat is abandoned on the sill. hard day at the hospital, child patient. couldn't save them. you know this is a high stress job, emotionally draining and you've never been good at coping. so there you are. some diazepam you swallowed down thirty minutes prior already in your system. must've kicked in already. house see's you and he's instantly intrigued by the arch of your back and the curve of your hips. perfect in those tight pencil skirts you wear. he doesn't know you but he's dying to figure out.

"i think you've stolen my spot." he clambers up to you. he's surprised you hadn't turned when you heard the cane. were you so deep in thought? you turn to look at him. register him. disheveled looking older man, 5 o'clock shadow, piercing blue eyes... and so you're type. you try to recall who he is. definitely a physician from the absence of a lab coat. is this the infamous...

"dr. house," he states. obviously the speed of your reaction, or lack thereof had intrigued him. your pupils were dilated and your breathing was irregular... though you might attribute that to present company "and you should not be this high while still in the hospital."

you breathe out the smoke you inhaled with a slight smirk. it makes him smirk too. you turn your back to the view and face him and subsequently eye his frame. he returns the favor, a lot less suggestively then you were. but of course he can't hold you to it, the way your eyes flutter is mostly because of the weed. heavy, intoxicating eyes. something tells you he doesn't mind it.

"don't tell. i'll leave in a minute and you can have your space back" you say.

"i said you stole my spot... who says you have to give it back?"

you smile and scoot over, tilting your head slightly gesturing him to join you. he pops two vicodin innocuously but you notice.

"damn, you swallow your pills dry? you're a sociopath" you giggle.

"i thought you as a doctor would be careful throwing around serious medical terms like that" he says, feigning an accusation. there's something about the intensity of eye contact you're holding. you've just met the guy and there's wayyy too much sexual tension in the air.

"not in the psychiatric department so no one can hold me to it," you say, blowing smoke in another direction. some part of house wanted you to blow the smoke right at him, not breaking the mutual eyefucking going on at the moment.

"how else did you get the lorazepam you've taken?" he asks, a sly tone like he has you all figured out. this was just a question to get you to spill the beans about your department. god you made him so curious. rarely had he seen a hot young doctor brazenly smoking after, presumably, taking a little something something. one so open to converse with an old man whose in her business.

you chuckle at his self assuredness.

"wanna take another guess?"

house uses this to shamelessly eye you. you're well put together, great sense of fashion. nice proportions. your body, not the outfits... he'd prefer you without them surely. no tremor. no injury, so no usual pain medication. you let out a heavy sigh and house darts his eyes towards your chest. great rack, he thinks, almost like he's going to put it in this mental patient report he's creating.

"hmmm, haloperidol? you don't strike me as the psychosis type though... i don't see anything indicating you inject yourself with ativan. diazepam?"

"you know your anxiety medication, doc," you smile. he sighs abashedly. god he's hot. something about that rasp in his voice, good god, paired with the vanity radiating off his skin... it does something to you. you finally introduce yourself, partially because you need him to call you by your name in the same raspy, smug tone.

"pediatric pulmonology..." he puts a hand to his chin, scratching his stubble as if contemplating something serious, "it's always the childcare specialists trying to overdose on the hospital terrace. dont blame you, if i had to deal with those parasites i'd want to kill myself too."

you shoot him a look. your sure you dont need to tell him the stakes of the job, the weight on your soul when a child with an obvious chronic and fatal condition comes into intensive care. the cruel hand fate plays on a mere baby. "kids are a product of their environment." you put plainly. you look away into the distance. "and i'm not trying to kill myself. not yet anyway." he stops prodding, obviously he's ticked you in some way.

"are you trying to kill yourself? doctor house?" you stare at him now, and then move your eyes to the almost empty bottle of vicodin.

"oh, i'm an addict. an addict whose due for a refill." he puts the bottle at eye level, as if examining a test tube. you can't help but give a defeated smile at his bluntness. you stare off into space again. a hollow silence follows. you don't dare look at house once.

"you mind if i take a hit"

his question catches you off guard. there's an earnest in his blue eyes. almost as if involuntarily, almost hypnotized, you hand him the joint. your fingers brush as if on purpose. your breath hitches again. and house notices, coloring his eyes a different shade of vain. he puts the blunt to his lips, your eyes follow his every move with heed. the pink of his lips soon emit the familiar smoke. he looks you right in the eyes as he blows it onto your face. you bask in the smoke letting it cloud you. cloud your judgement for a split second as you lean forward. for a kiss? maybe but

house puts the blunt to your lips this time, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip. you look up at him through your lashes, eyes blown out wide. he's so tall, even with his cane. he lets you intake the smoke for a second longer than you like, maintaining the intense gaze on you. there's a kick in your stomach. maybe it's something. maybe it's nothing. maybe you're just high. but you swear you've never been wetter.

[elvisbdoll]

One last dance

Trigger warning: sad, sadness very sad. VERY VERY SAD. I warned yall 😭😭

Graceland, 1977.

The house was quieter than she remembered. No laughter echoing from the den, no voices drifting from the kitchen. Just the distant hum of cicadas outside and the soft creak of the floorboards beneath her heels.

She never thought she’d step foot in Graceland again, not after everything. Not after the way she left.

But when the phone call came—his voice, low and broken, asking her to come just this one time—she couldn’t say no.

And now she was here, standing in the Jungle Room, bathed in the dim, golden glow of the lamps. The air was thick with the scent of leather and cologne, and time itself seemed frozen in the room’s wild, exotic décor.

Then, she saw him.

Elvis Presley.

The man she had loved, the man she had left.

He stood near the corner of the room, draped in a loose, bejeweled robe, his figure heavier than before, his once-vibrant blue eyes dulled by exhaustion. The shadows clung to his face, accentuating the deep lines carved by sleepless nights and the weight of fame. But even now, even like this, he was still Elvis.

A sad smile pulled at his lips. “Knew you’d come, darlin’.”

She swallowed hard, her heart aching at the sight of him. “You didn’t give me much of a choice.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, but there was no real joy in it. He took a slow step forward, his bare feet silent against the shaggy carpet. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout you. ‘Bout us.” His voice was raspy, worn. “Reckon I ain’t ever stopped.”

She exhaled shakily. “Elvis…”

He lifted a hand, stopping her. “Just one last dance. That’s all I want.”

Her breath hitched.

“Dance with me, baby,” he murmured, stepping closer, his scent—faded cologne and something distinctly him—enveloping her. “Like we used to.”

She shouldn’t.

She should walk away, turn her back before the ache in her chest consumed her completely.

But when he reached for her, his fingers trembling as they brushed against hers, she couldn’t resist.

The old record player in the corner crackled to life, the needle finding its groove. The soft melody of Unchained Melody filled the air, haunting and slow, wrapping around them like a whispered memory.

He pulled her into his arms, and she let him, her cheek resting against his chest, listening to the slow, uneven rhythm of his heartbeat.

They swayed in silence, the years melting away, leaving nothing but this moment.

His grip tightened, as if he were afraid she’d slip away again.

“I dreamed about this,” he whispered against her hair. “All them nights I laid awake, I dreamed you’d come back.”

She shut her eyes, the sting of unshed tears burning. “I never stopped loving you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his blue eyes searching hers. “Then why’d you leave?”

Her throat tightened. She could tell him the truth—how it hurt to watch him destroy himself, how she knew she couldn’t save him, how loving him felt like drowning.

Instead, she placed a hand against his cheek, feeling the slight roughness of stubble beneath her fingertips. “I was scared.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t push her for more.

The song swelled, the words wrapping around them like fate itself.

“God speed your love to me…”

She felt his body shudder against hers, as if some unseen weight had finally become too much to bear.

“Elvis,” she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Come with me. Leave all of this behind. Just for a while.”

He let out a slow breath, closing his eyes as he leaned his forehead against hers. “Wish I could, baby.”

She knew he wouldn’t.

The world would never let him go. And maybe, deep down, he didn’t really want to be saved.

The record player crackled, the final notes fading into silence.

She pulled away first, her fingers lingering for just a second longer before she stepped back.

His arms fell to his sides, his gaze never leaving hers.

“Goodbye, Elvis.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

He gave her a slow nod, his expression unreadable.

As she turned and walked away, she felt the weight of his gaze on her, felt the unspoken words hanging in the air between them.

She didn’t look back.

And when the news broke weeks later—that Elvis Presley was gone—she wished, more than anything, that she had.

Tags 🏷️: @jhoneybees @i-r-i-n-a-a @gyratingpresley @kxnnxy @iloveelvisss @buglass @rjmartin11

[scoutswritingcorner]

Asthma is a distinguished gentleman(not really he's a cannibal) and I wanna see Asthma In a top hat- and a mustash.

Or funny enough him in w bowling ally- not like a Bowling ball but I mean those pin things you knock over I want Asthma in it

Facial Hair Headcanons

Hazbin Men x GN! Reader

TW:None??

A/N: LISTEN I KNOW YOU JUST SAID ALASTOR BUT NOW YOU’VE GOT ME THINKING AND THATS DANGEROUS. Also it’s giving gender envy so let me have this as I can’t have facial hair rn. Also Alastor’s could be seen as platonic or romantic. Platonic with Angel Dust

-🦌Alastor🦌-

-🦌 Now I really don’t see him having a lot of facial hair, he either cuts it all off or on the off chance he does leave it to grow out, he’s gonna have a handlebar mustache with stubble around or just the mustache itself.

-🦌 If he catches you staring at it he’s either gonna disappear to shave it off or puff his chest out with pride. Please tell him if you like it, your opinion is the only opinion that matters to him (besides his own but that goes unsaid)

-🦌 He won’t let anything else grow out as in 1920’s to 1930’s small mustaches were the thing back then. Either the handlebar mustache or the English mustache.

-🦌 His facial hair is going to be a black/darkish brown as his hair. He pairs it with a good suit and god be damned he’s got everyone taking a second glance at him. 

-🦌 The stubble or 5 o’clock shadow makes him more iffy, he likes it but he also likes everything about him to be cleaned up nicely. To him it looks gross and he will definitely shave that off, unless you say something to him. Then he might keep it just to annoy you with it.

-🦌 I’m talking about like, rubbing his cheek to your cheek to make you feel the hairs and it always make you laugh. He tries and fails on annoying you but he always wins cause he gets to see you smile and hear you laugh.

-🦆Lucifer 🦆-

-🦆 I know canonically he doesn’t have facial hair but let me dream damn it.

-🦆 To me Lucifer either has a full on beard to no beard at all. There is a small inbetween, which is a goatee. He will be hellbent on having a goatee if he’s not wanting to have a full beard.

-🦆 This man has a rigorous routine of beard upkeep. He’s not playing when it comes to himself. He may have depression but to him self care is very important and it’s okay to have bad days and ask for help. 

-🦆 For his full beard? It’s either a Ducktail beard or a Hollywoodian style beard. He loves to run his fingers through it and feel all powerful (despite him being the Literal king of hell).

-🦆 Another man who asks your opinion on if he should keep the beard or go to his normal goatee or no beard at all, he’s not picky.

-🦆 You compliment him or say something about his beard (could be sexual or not) his cheeks go bright red and he gets super flustered but his chest puffs out proudly.

-🦆 Like the rest of his hair, it’s blonde but there is a more noticeable white streak if he has the beard. Don’t point it out please, he gets upset. He’s not old, he’s in his prime. (GOD IM SWOONING A WELL GROOMED BEARD GETS ME-)

-🎰 Husk 🎰-

-🎰 Husk our favorite bartender and our grumpy loveable cat. Before anyone can say anything, hush. I know he’s all fur and a cat but let me have this okay?

-🎰He’s grumpy and I’ll be honest, he just looks like a guy that let’s his facial hair grow out all the time.

-🎰 I do see him having the Balbo facial hairstyle or the imperial mustache. The only way you can differentiate it is by the longer fur on his snout and chin. 

-🎰 Once again, it’s mainly white with some black hair in it to deal with the pattern of his fur. Once again, the only beard care he does is trimming and brushing it at best.

-🎰 He loves kissing you as it’s only other ways you can tell if he’s growing his facial hair out, the little hairs just brushing against your chin and lips. But he saves that for private moments.

-🕷️Angel Dust 🩷- 

-🕷️  Now this one will be short but I don’t see Angel really like having a lot of facial hair. THE SAME THING WITH HUSK I KNOW HE IS FUR BUT PLEASE LET ME HAVE THIS-

-🩷 He will only allow stubble and only for a little bit before he shaves it off completely. So get used to it.

-🕷️ Baby boy can’t have any due to his line of work and also he doesn’t like how it feels.

-🩷It ruins his whole night time/facial routine and if he can’t shave that morning or night, he’s gonna be grumpy all day.

-🕷️ If he does let it grow out, it’s gonna be white but with specks of pink in there. It’s more prominent on his jawline and chin but if you look real close you can see more on his upper lip it’s just very hard to see.

[firstprincehornyramblings]

Hello and happy Sunday morning. <3 I was absentee Wednesday but I am glad to be back and in the writing swing. Thank you to @onthewaytosomewhere for the tag

Let's jump right into it, I have three WIPs I'm working on at the moment, in various states of completion, so I'll give you a little taste of each, under the cut so it's not SO obnoxiously long.

-

Hairstylist Henry and his least Favorite Client

“That’s what you’re focusing on right now, making it to the employee section?” Henry asked, tugging Alex’s shirt over his head and tossing it on the table alongside the jacket. “Well, that depends,” the brunette began in a coy tone, his fingertips gently untucking Henry’s dress shirt, “Am I allowed to undress you too?” “Well, you can’t very well fuck me with my clothes on, can you?” “Oooh, I’m getting laid in the employees only room. I bet you bring all your boys back here,” Alex hummed, tugging Henry’s shirt off and draping it over the clearly assigned clothing table. “You’re making me regret it and we haven’t even started yet,” Henry tutted, obviously playful. His hand slipping between them as he ran his fingers over the growing hardness under Alex’s dress pants. “Christ, I missed having your cock in my mouth,” he panted, already dropping to his knees.

A Halloween Costume Assignment Misunderstanding

The sight of Alex stepping out of the bathroom made Henry’s eyes widen as he stared on in awe. Alex was clad in perhaps the tightest outfit Henry had ever seen. It was a fireman costume, complete with suspenders, a shirt that hugged Alex’s skin so much so that his abs we’re visible through it, and pants so tight they had to be illegal. Perhaps it was because Henry knew the dimensions better than he knew the route to the grocery store, but he swore he could map out exactly where Alex’s cock begun and ended in those trousers. There certainly wasn’t the remotest chance that Alex had on any underwear. His dark curls were tousled messy, a week-old stubble on his face, and he’d smeared what looked like a bit of black eye shadow on his high cheeks and forehead to replicate ash. Henry was salivating. “Are you… David Bowie as a be- Oh! You’re David!” Alex laughed as soon as he connected the dots, “That’s really cute, baby,” he added still chuckling. “Oh my- fuck me, Christ alive, look at you, you look like a firefighter in a porno,” Henry sounded both exasperated and completely enamored, it was a feat. “And I’m… in a beagle onesie, oh that…” he stopped speaking words then, opting to audibly grumble.

Sugarbaby Alex <3

Alex watched the man stand up, he was tall, maybe a few inches taller than Alex, but there was no reason to admit that out loud. Blond hair that was cut neatly save a few stray pieces had fallen onto his forehead as he stood up. There were flecks of silver strands lining his temples, but he’d aged gracefully from what Alex could see. He looked mature, not old, or perhaps Alex just had the wrong idea of what thirty-eight looked like. Either way, he was confident it didn’t normally look like this, high cheekbones and full lips, a broad frame and thighs that looked thick even in dress pants. The closer this man got, Alex could see a tiny mole at the corner of his mouth, an identical one on his chin. Briefly Alex caught himself wondering if there might be any more perfectly placed moles somewhere else on this man’s body. Or maybe even a dusting of light freckles like Alex saw along the blond’s nose, maybe on his chest or shoulders. Alex couldn’t see much else, due to the dress shirt the blond had on, buttoned and tucked in neatly; covered by a sweater vest. Was the outfit what was considered casual in England? Maybe just in this house? Or was it simply because Alex was coming? Questionable attire aside, Alex could feel his heart in his throat. His hands felt sweaty, and it wasn’t the fireplace. His cheeks were warm, and he knew he must be blushing. See, the thing was, Alex had noticed men before, he’d even fooled around with them. But he wasn’t entirely sure that he was actually into them. Standing here though, in this room, locking his eyes on bright lighter ones, Alex knew one thing: he was instantly sexually attracted to this man. “Henry is more than fine, you can call me Henry,” the blond offered, interrupting the racing thoughts Alex had. Henry extended a hand to shake, somewhat awkwardly, like he didn’t think it fit the situation, “I hope your flight was well, I’m glad to see you made it.” “Ah, right, Henry, nice to meet you,” Alex managed smiling, even if it was certainly a bit nervous, “Uh, yeah, the flight was great. First class was really nice, thank you. I uhm- I’m glad to be here,” he nodded before reaching out to shake the other man’s hand. It was soft, warm, and slightly smaller than Alex’s hand. He fought a shudder, convincing himself that he didn’t feel electricity run up through his arm as their palms met.

-

okay that was super long, if you made it this far, thank you i love you, kissing you <3 YAY TAGS (no pressure tags darlings)

@taste-thewaste @eusuntgratie @henrysfox @mikibwrites

@softboynick @catdadacd @sheepywritesfics @henryspearl

@basil-bird @caressthosecheekbones @henfox @anti-homophobia-cheese @redlipstickandglitter

@thesleepyskipper @tailsbeth-writes @thighzp + literally anyone else I'm sleepy and forgot, or anyone who sees this and wants to tag me, I love reading yall's stuff. <3

[starlight-and-whiskey]

A Place to Rest Your Bones: Pt 16 - John

Pt 15 Pt 17

A small leap of hope fluttered in your chest when you heard a knock at the door, a reflex you couldn’t stamp out no matter how many times the world insisted on disappointing you. But the moment you pulled it open, that spark of life fizzled into a dull ache. The figure on your doorstep wasn’t Arthur. How could it have been? It had been two years since you’d last seen him, two years since you’d felt the warmth of his weight, solid and reassuring against you. “Ma’am,” the scarred, dark-haired man said, in a quiet, uncertain tone. You cringed at that word, recalling how your momma once used to bristle at it. You could see it in your mind’s eye as clear as day. You at the tender age of eighteen, Arthur sprawled on the floor beside you, a lopsided grin on his lips. Your mother's chuckle ringing through the evening air. Oh, hush now with that, you make me feel old.

“My name is John Marston, I—”

“I know who you are,” you interrupted softly, gaze drifting downward. The worn black leather of the hat he clutched in his hands made your heart twist. Your breath caught at the familiar bullet hole in jagged marks at the brim, the stitches you’d traced with your fingertips so many times, and suddenly the rest of the world fell away. Despite the inevitability of it, you somehow imagined Arthur’d make it through, that he'd make his way back to you like he always did.

“He’s gone, ain’t he,” you managed, voice tight in your throat.

John hesitated, as if searching for a gentler way to say it. “Yes, ma’am.” He swallowed. “I’m… I’m real sorry.”

For a long heartbeat, you just stood there, hand fisted around the door’s edge, wishing you hadn’t bothered to hope when you heard the knock. Eventually, you stepped aside, with a feigned smile and a ‘please come in’.

Wordlessly, you pulled two glasses from a shelf and a half-full bottle of whiskey. John settled into the chair opposite you and lay the hat gently on the table’s scarred wood. You stared at it, tears prickling. The house felt too big—too quiet. There should have been a broad, familiar figure taking up space, hat tipped low, a wry smile tilting his lips, a scruff of stubble as he kissed your jaw. Instead, you had a visitor you barely knew, delivering the final blow you’d so dreaded.

John looked at the glass of whiskey you poured, his fingers brushing against its edge as he drew it closer. He didn’t drink, just stared into the amber liquid like it might hold the answers to all the unspoken questions hanging between you.

“He talked a lot about you,” John said after a moment, his voice low and careful, as though treading on sacred ground. “Wrote about you a lot…in his journal, I mean. Kinda feel like I know you.”

You let out a soft, sad chuckle, taking a slow sip of your own glass. “Likewise,” you murmured, your voice trembling slightly. “He talked about you and Jack. A lot.”

A long awkward pause passed between you, the mention of Arthur’s voice, his words, filling the room in an almost tangible way, like he was still there, sitting in his usual chair with his lopsided grin and steady presence. You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to continue. “How did he…?” The words trailed off, your mind filling the blanks with the worst imaginings. You couldn’t bear the thought of him wasting away, a shadow of the strong, steady man you’d known, the one who had always carried the weight of the world for others, without you being there to at least hold his hand. You hated imagining him sallow and weak, rotting in some sickbed, alone and carrying the guilt he always bared like a brand.

John shifted in his seat, looking down for a moment before meeting your eyes. “Saving my life,” he said simply.

A bittersweet smile tugged at your lips, your chest tightening. You nodded, the tears threatening to spill as you quickly swiped them away with the back of your hand.

“He had a habit of that,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah”, John said solemnly with a hollow chuckle, taking a slow sip from his glass. “Got my girl out, bust her out from Pinkerton’s that took her. Got our boy. Few of the girls.”

A pause stretched between you both, the weight of shared grief settling like a heavy blanket. “He was a good man.”

John leaned back slightly; his eyes thoughtful as the twinge of a smile lightened his eyes. “Reckon he’d argue that point.”

You let out a small, almost involuntary laugh, the sound raw and quiet as you glanced down at your whiskey. “Yeah,” you chuckled, the word carrying a weight of fondness and pain. Your smile grew, soft and absent, as memories of Arthur filled your mind. “He would, wouldn’t he?”

“But he was. More than most”, John nodded, his own smile faint and distant.

“Can I ask you something?”, your voice tight with apprehension

“Sure.”

“Was Dutch as bad as Arthur said? In the end, I mean.”

John remained silent for a long moment; his gaze lost in his glass and jaw gritted.

“Arthur said you grew up with him too”, John said lowly, to which you could only nod. “Yeah – he was that bad in the end,” John finally said bitterly, setting the glass down with a hollow thunk. He shook his head, running a hand through his dark hair. “We ended up on this train job. The last job. I got shot, and Dutch left me. Same as he did with Arthur. Left me for dead.”

“Half crawled my way back to the camp, and Arthur tried to talk sense into him, but Dutch wouldn’t hear it. Guess Micah had his claws in him too deep. And you know what they did?”

You shook your head.

John’s gaze grew distant, as though he were staring through you at something only he could see. He let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face before finally speaking.

“I get back and there’s this big stand-off”, he paused, swallowing hard. You could see the flicker of anger and grief in his eyes as he set his glass aside. “Arthur was there, pointin’ guns at Dutch - and there's Miss Grimshaw – and…and she tried to stand up to Micah.”

You recognised the name. The stories from Hosea and Dutch when you were younger. The drawings from Arthur’s books.

“Micah shot her, right there in cold blood.” He sucked in a trembling breath. “She went down, and Dutch didn’t even blink. Just…pulled his gun on Arthur.”

A chill ran through you, your heart pounding at the mental image. How the man who’d tenderly tucked you into bed as a child could become so cold. “But...he didn’t do anything to stop it?”

“Not a damn thing,” John answered, bitterness sharpening his tone. “I think Arthur realised how far gone Dutch really was. But by then, the Pinkertons were closin’ in. Next thing I know, Arthur’s pushin’ me to run, sayin’ we had to save what was left, or we’d all die right there in that hole.”

John leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his glass dangling from his fingers. “We made it to the mountains, Arthur and me. Dutch and Michah chasin’ us, and Pinkertons, and just gun shots, and our horses went down.”

You thought about reaching a hand over to rest over his but retracted it to cradle your glass.

“And Arthur said he couldn’t go no further”, John said quietly, his jaw tightening. “He gave me his hat, his satchel, and told me to go. And I did… I went. I heard the shots, heard ‘em yellin’, and I just kept runnin’. I didn’t look back.” His voice cracked, and he drew in a trembling breath, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “But I should’ve… I should’ve been there.” You swallowed thickly, forcefully raising your gaze to his. “You know somethin’, John?” He sniffed, shaking his head as he cleared his throat. “Last thing Arthur said to me was that he wanted to get your boy safe. You and your family.”

John’s gaze softened, and he nodded, though the guilt lingered heavily in his expression. The silence stretched between you both, heavy with shared grief. Finally, John lifted his glass again, staring at you with a hollow sort of determination. “He didn’t deserve what happened to him,” he said quietly, raising his glass. “To Arthur.”

You raised your own, your voice barely a whisper and your heart screaming with loss as you chinked your glass against his, the ring echoing memories of Dutch and Hosea promising new horizons, now long dead. “To Arthur.”

As the chink rang out into the night, John shifted uneasily, like there was one last piece of unfinished business weighing on his mind. His gaze flicked down, and he pulled something from a familiar satchel.

“Before I forget, he wanted me to give this back to you,” he said quietly, holding out a small, time-worn silver pocket watch. “Said he borrowed it a long time ago.”

A flutter of recognition sparked in your chest the moment you caught sight of it. The tarnished metal glinted dully in the lamplight, a faint nick in its casing that made you recall how you’d once held it in your palm, decades ago. Slowly, you reached out and took it, your fingers brushing over the engraved design as your breath stilled in your chest. “Said you borrowed it to him.”

You stuttered a ragged breath, a wry, sad chuckle escaping through the tightness in your throat. “Caught him trying to steal it”, you remarked around restrained tears as tens of years unfolded in your head, "when he was about fifteen."

You could almost see Arthur as a scruffy teenager, cheeks flushed with guilt as he stammered that he was simply looking. The adoration in his eyes when you’d said he could keep it for a while.

John offered a subdued nod. “He said it meant a lot, that you, uh… well, he said it was your pa’s…” His eyes darted down. “Left a note saying to bring it back here, and… how sorry he was that he never returned it sooner.”

Your hand tightened around the watch, your thumb rubbing along its worn edges. “Thank you,” you murmured to John, voice thick and tears pricking the corner of your eyes. “Thank you for bringing it.”

John nodded, his throat working as if there were more words he hadn’t quite mustered. Sheepishly, he dug again into the satchel, rummaging until he procured a bag with its brown paper crinkling softly as he set it on the table. “He also said… if I ever visited, to give you these.” A faint, unsure smile ghosted across his face. “I wasn’t sure. Hope they’re right.”

Puzzled, you reached out and touched the bundle. The faint, sweet scent confirming what your heart already guessed. Carefully, you unwrapped the twine to reveal a handful of lemon candies, wrapped in wax paper, the innards round and glistening. The sight of them brought a sudden lump to your throat, memories of rushing back in an overwhelming cascade. Hosea smuggling them into your pudgy hands when your momma wasn’t looking. Arthur secreting them to you by the fire with a “figured you’re never too old for lemon candies.” The clack of them against Arthur's teeth as he kissed you for the first time. The day Arthur planted the fruit tree, and you placed a palm against the sweat of the shirtless muscles of his back, only for him to slip a candy from his mouth to yours in a chaste kiss.

Your chest constricted, tears prickling at your eyes. “He… these were my favourite,” you confessed, voice hushed.

The sharp cry from the other room seemed to slice through the hush of the cabin, startling both you and John out of your grief-stricken reverie and the sweet memories of the past. Your heart jerked, and you sat upright.

“Pardon me,” you muttered hastily, pushing up from your chair. John blinked, brow knitted in confusion, as he watched you hurry across the room to a small bedroom door. Outside, the wind whistled softly in the eaves.

You slipped into the dimly lit bedroom, crossing to the simple wooden crib in the corner. A small figure leaned against the rails, tiny fists clenched as they wailed in overtired frustration. The child’s blonde hair curled in soft wisps at the nape of their neck, and when you scooped them up, their tear-filled blue eyes crinkled in relief at the sight of you. Your heart squeezed painfully at the thought of whose eyes they resembled.

“Shh, it’s all right,” you murmured, lifting the babe to your breast. “I’m here.” The baby gave one last whimper before burying their face into your shoulder, a wet sniffle brushing your collar. You stroked the child’s back, breathing in the faint scent of talc and that sweet scent only babes seem to carry. You couldn’t help but think of Arthur, your heart constricting painfully at how he’d once pondered about a family with you, never imagining that this would be the outcome.

Reluctantly, you glanced at the doorway, where John was sitting, shoulders tense and awkward.

Slowly, you walked back to the table, sitting down with your toddler’s pudgy fingers gripping at your hair. You caught his gaze, and he looked… stunned. “Is it…?” John asked, the words halting in his throat as his eyes traced over the child on your hip. Your heart thudded heavily. The last time Arthur was here—neither of you knew. You hadn’t realised you were pregnant until a few precious days after he’d left you for that final time. A secret you never had the chance to share with him, because he never returned. Because he could not return. You sniffed and nodded. “She’s Arthur’s.”

John seemed at a loss. He hovered a moment, shifting uneasily in the chair opposite you. “I… did he know?” he asked quietly, glancing from you to the baby, who gazed back in guarded interest.

You shook your head, voice catching in your throat. “No,” you whispered. Gently, you combed through your daughter’s downy blonde curls, her bright eyes so unmistakably Arthur’s that it stung. “I never got the chance to tell him. I found out after.”

The child fussed, rubbing tired eyes with chubby fists, and you pressed a reassuring kiss to their head. Settling her into your lap, you found yourself inhaling deeply to steady the swirl of emotion—and the torrent of questions you were sure John was wrestling with. This had been your secret, your shared hope with Arthur that he might come back and see the family he never thought he deserved. “She got a name?” “Beatrice”, you smiled sadly. “After his mother. Reckon he might’a liked that.” What you didn’t expect was for John to shift closer, crouching on the floor beside you to tuck a weathered finger into her chubby fist. “Hey darlin’”, he whispered, and you winced as a flood of memories overcame you.

Beatrice blinked, glancing at John. She made a soft noise, half in greeting, half in lingering sleepiness. John’s mouth curved into a broad smile as her fingers curled around his.  “Hey there,” he said, so softly that your chest tightened again. “Your papa would’ve loved you.”

[vmiuchi]

Can you do a one-shot of Linde and an amab reader meeting at a bar and having a fling? Yk like the whole "you're a boy and I'm a boy, people can't know about this but ur sexy asf ahaha" type shit

NO ONE HAS TO KNOW

Mikko "Linde" Lindström x AMABreader. One shot.

word count: 986

The bar was the kind of place that had settled into its own decay. Wood-paneled walls soaked in decades of smoke and sorrow, a floor that creaked beneath every step, and lighting so dim it felt like dusk no matter the time. Helsinki had its fair share of hidden places like this—bars that didn't advertise, didn’t update, didn’t try. They just existed. Like old ghosts, stubborn and quiet.

You liked it that way.

Your whiskey-cola sat sweating in your hand, half-full and going warm, but it didn’t matter. The drink was an excuse to stay seated, to keep still, to listen to the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of glass on wood. The bar was nearly empty tonight—just you, the bartender, and a few shadowed silhouettes in the back corner booth. You could smell the ghosts in the walls—cigarettes, spilled whiskey, something heavier underneath. Regret, maybe.

Then the bell above the door chimed.

You looked up, slow and instinctual, and saw them walk in.

Four of them, maybe five. All dressed in the same vague style that said they knew what it was like to be on stage, even if they weren’t performing tonight. Laughing low, sharing stories like old soldiers after a long tour. It wasn’t loud, but their presence shifted the air. Like the temperature dropped a degree or two.

You went back to your drink.

But you noticed him.

Tall, lean, hoodie pulled up halfway, sleeves pushed to the elbows. Tattoos ran up his arms like vines, subtle under the bar lights. His hair fell into his face, catching in his stubble. He didn’t speak much when the others laughed. Just smiled, eyes scanning the room lazily—

Until they landed on you.

It was brief. A flicker.

Then he followed the others to a booth near the back.

The bar settled again. Your drink tasted colder.

A few minutes later, the same man stepped away from the booth and made his way to the counter. He moved like someone who didn’t care to be watched but knew he was anyway. A rhythm to his walk that couldn’t be taught. Familiar to anyone who’d lived onstage long enough to become part of it.

He sat beside you without asking.

You didn’t move.

He glanced over once, then looked forward. “What’s that?” he asked, nodding toward your glass.

“Whiskey-cola,” you replied. “Not fancy, but it works.”

He gave a quiet hum of approval. “Good choice.”

He waved the bartender down and ordered a round—three beers, a vodka, and something dark you didn’t catch. His voice was low, and when he spoke Finnish, it rolled smooth off his tongue.

Once the bartender walked off, he turned back to you.

“I’m Mikko,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought: “You can call me Linde, if you want.”

You gave your name in return. It came out quieter than intended.

He smiled—not full, just at the corner of his mouth, like he knew something and wasn’t planning to share it.

“I saw you when I walked in,” he said. “Didn’t mean to stare.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that.

He saved you from answering. “You here alone?”

You nodded.

“Good place for it,” he murmured, glancing around. “Too many people talk too loud these days.”

Something about the way he said it made the space around you shrink. The noise of the bar dulled. You could feel his presence like a hand against your shoulder, like the heat from his body was wrapping around your own.

The drinks came. He handed over a few bills, scooped the glasses into his hands, and stood.

But before he turned to leave, he leaned in just slightly. “Don’t disappear, yeah?”

Then he was gone—back to the booth, back to the others, who laughed and raised their glasses without asking where he’d been.

You sat a while longer, heart thrumming a little too fast. You didn’t know what any of that meant. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

And then—

You stood.

Made your way toward the back of the bar, past the booth where Linde sat. He didn’t look up, but you felt his eyes on you all the same. You pushed into the narrow hallway that led to the single bathroom.

You didn’t lock the door. You didn't need to.

You barely had time to steady your breathing before the door creaked open again and Linde stepped inside, closing it softly behind him.

Neither of you spoke.

He looked at you like he was searching for something in your expression. You weren’t sure what you gave him, but it was enough.

He stepped forward.

The kiss wasn’t sweet. It was quiet, yes—but hungry, aching, like the silence between two notes in a song that never resolves. His hand found your jaw, rough fingertips grazing the edge of your skin. Your mouth met his like it was supposed to, like it had waited for the right chord.

It was over as fast as it began.

You stared at each other in the cramped dark, breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours for a second.

“This... stays here,” he said, low.

You nodded.

“I don’t...” he started, then stopped. “It’s easier if it doesn’t follow me home.”

You understood.

He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a pick—black, worn, nicked at the edge. He pressed it into your palm without another word. His fingers brushed yours, lingering just enough to leave a trace.

You looked down at the pick.

By the time you looked up again, he was already slipping out the door, back into the murmur of the bar. When you returned to your seat, the booth was empty. Drinks half-finished. Chairs askew.

Gone like a sin at church.

You ran your thumb over the pick in your palm, memorizing the curve.

No one had seen.

No one would know.

And maybe that made it real.

Just for a night. Just for you.

[sergiosimptellitto]

Chapter 5: The burden of the body

I write this by the dwindling flame of the candle, hands shaking, heart pounding as if I had run a race. Yet this was no holy endeavor, no spiritual climb upon a mount of prayer. It was a descent. A collapse.

My body betrayed me tonight.

I had barred the door and thrown myself upon the floorboards to pray, to extinguish the ember that smoldered in the depths of this cursed flesh. But the ember became a flame, and the flame became a pyre. Against the silence of the room, with only the sound of my breath and the beating of a heart that felt like a hammer upon an anvil, I yielded.

I fell.

How long, O Lord, must I bear this thorn? Must every shadow of a thought drag with it a serpent, coiled and ready? Must this body — the very vessel meant to carry the sacraments, to bear witness to holy mystery — rebel like some beast upon its keeper? Must this hand, anointed for holy service, be cursed with knowing its own lust?

It came upon me like a flood, an ache burning low and deep, until thought became a mist and prayer a faint, strangled whisper. I tried to fix my heart upon the Cross, upon the holy wounds, upon the Virgin’s immaculate veil, upon anything that would save me from myself.

But the beast rose within, and I was conquered.

I sank to the floor like Adam cast from the garden, and when the shame came upon me, it was as a hand upon the throat. My seed spilled upon the earth — a blasphemy, a waste, an offering to silence. My breath came ragged, like the death-rattle of some beast I had hunted within myself for years.

And after? After came the terror. The terror that this was not an accident, not a stumble upon the holy path, but a betrayal. An altar overturned. An icon desecrated.

I have washed my hands until the skin felt raw, scoured every inch as if burning water could wash away guilt. But it lives within. The beast lives within.

My body is a witness against me. My desire is a witness. Will God Himself witness it too, and turn His holy face away?

O Lord, have mercy upon this wretch. Do not leave me to the dark, to the silence, to the grave that craves the ruin of a priest too proud to ask for help.

Have mercy. Have mercy. Have mercy upon this broken thing.

"I hate you so much."

The whisper leaves her lips like a prayer gone wrong. Not to God, not for mercy. To herself.

"I hate you. Why can’t you be put together for once?"

She stands before the washbasin, veil stripped from her hair, fingers brushing the long, thick braid that has come undone in the night. The strands crackle like dried wheat. Broken ends cling to the comb as she tugs, and she bites down upon the sting of fresh tears. The hair is too much, too wild, too stubborn — too ugly. Always too much.

It all started because she remembered the way he had looked at her.

It was late, the room quiet except for the faint crackle of a waning candle. The sound of the old walls settling and a midnight wind brushing the windows. But her heart was anything but quiet. It beat wildly as she replayed the scene from earlier that evening — how those dark, deep-set eyes, long-lashed and arresting, had stopped upon her for a moment too long.

Geoffredo. Even thinking his name felt like invoking a holy psalm. He was beautiful, impossibly so. Not in the loud, triumphant way of some statuesque hero, no. His beauty was subdued, a quiet strength, a paradox of sharp lines and soft gazes. The streak of white hair upon the right side of his temple was like a banner upon dark silk — a reminder of trials weathered. The faint stubble upon the curve of his jaw spoke of earthly grit. His nose, slightly bulbous, was a charming quirk upon an otherwise austere canvas, hinting at some warmth hidden beneath. The long, elegant fingers — a man’s hands molded by prayer and ink and a life upon pages — spoke poetry when he spoke. His voice rose and fell like a slow hymn, sometimes sharp and brilliant, sometimes soft and hopeful. Even when he was arrogant — and she knew well how sharply that tongue could cut — it was captivating. The sound wrapped itself around her thoughts and refused to leave.

That afternoon, when he spoke, when his voice gave way to silence, those deep brown eyes had met hers and refused to flinch. They weren’t cursory glances. They were long, slow moments — moments that pressed upon the air like the weight of a holy relic. What had he seen when he looked at her? What?

The thought refused to release its grip, refused to yield to sleep. So she rose from bed and stepped across the room, brushing the veil from her hair. The mirror hanging upon the wall was a witness, and tonight it felt like a judgment.

She drew closer. The candlelight revealed every flaw she had tried to forget. The braid upon her shoulder, long and too thick, too heavy. Not lustrous silk like some holy icon, but frayed, stubborn threads. Broken ends that refused obedience. She pulled the braid apart, releasing a wave of long, dark hair upon her shoulders — and grimaced. Too much. Too long. Too damaged.

Her fingers sank into the tangle as if trying to make sense of it. Too much hair. Too much weight. Too ugly.

Then came the inspection of the rest — the soft, rounded stomach that refused discipline. The calves too strong, too thick for delicate beauty. The arms that bore witness to countless hours of kneading dough, of hauling laundry, of cooking meals for others. The ears that poked out awkwardly from the curtain of hair, making her flinch at the thought that those beautiful brown eyes had noticed.

And her neck… she pressed her hand upon it, swallowing as she traced its length. Not long. Not elegant. Not like those holy statues upon altars. Not like the Madonnas upon holy cards.

"I am disgusting," she whispered. The words shook within her chest like a prayer gone wrong. Not plain. Not modest. Not even humbly beautiful. Disgusting.

What had he seen? What had those dark, solemn eyes witnessed as they roamed across the length and breadth of this unworthy body? What had he thought as he drew upon that sacred silence between them? What had he felt? Disappointment? Disgust? Amusement? Or some quiet, patient pity?

"I can teach the children that hands are made for prayer and help, that eyes are made for loving witness, that a mouth is meant to speak mercy…" she said aloud, brushing shaking fingers across her own lips. Yet she felt none upon herself tonight.

She sank upon the floor, the veil falling forgotten from her hands. The room was quiet, too quiet, save for the sound of her own breath and the sting of hot tears upon her cheeks.

"If this body is Yours, Lord…" she breathed, voice breaking. "Why can I not bear it?"

A long silence. Not holy. Not hopeful. Not yet.

Just silence — and the sting of knowing that tonight, no prayer felt holy enough to quiet the ache.

Most nights, she doesn’t pray for beauty. Not anymore. Not when the silence of a dark room reminds her that beauty has always felt like a foreign currency, one she can never spend.

Most nights, she prays for a reprieve. A reprieve from this fragile, frustrating, uncooperative body. A reprieve from having to witness herself and hate the witness. A reprieve from the sting of knowing that the world, and often the men in it, measure worth by angles and contours she doesn’t have.

More and more, she finds herself wishing she could be a thought, a voice, a prayer. Pure and unseen. No sharp edges for the world to reject. No surface for judgment to land upon.

“Why must I carry this?” she whispers sometimes, brushing hair out of her tired eyes. “Why must this be part of belonging? Part of being?”

It’s not vanity. It’s exhaustion. An ache lodged deep in the marrow. To wish herself incorporeal is, in some sense, to wish herself closer to the holy—to the realm where none of this would matter anymore.

And still she wakes. Still she goes about the work. Still she serves. Still she loves.

But the ache? The ache doesn’t vanish. It settles, quietly, like dust upon a book. Waiting for the moment when no one is looking, and she can finally sigh, and ask aloud to the silence:

“Why am I bound to this? And when, Lord, when can I be free?”

Neither of them know it yet, but they get out of bed at the same time, they impulsive go to their respective restrooms and throw up.

Both of them disgusted respectively by the burden of an earthly body, loathing the flesh prision that encompassed, no, caged their respective souls and minds.

The morning air was crisp as Geoffredo settled into a worn wooden chair at the long worktable. The manuscript he was supposed to be annotating lay open before him, and the quill felt awkward and heavy in his hand. But it was not the Latin text or the fragile parchment that weighed upon him. It was the thought of Maranata.

He had tried to pray as he rose from bed. Tried to bury himself in scripture, in the orderly precision of syntax and grammar. Yet every line he read refused to adhere to its sacred context. Every word became a whisper of her voice. Every line drew the faint silhouette of her figure upon the page.

He liked what he had seen when he looked at her. Not like a lustful boy chasing a whim, nor like a desperate man chasing a mirage. No — it was different. Deeper. Terribly, beautifully deeper.

In that moment, when those long lashes lifted and those quiet, shy eyes met his, he hadn’t felt the sting of guilt. He had felt a quiet sort of knowing. As if some veil had been pulled from the room, and beyond it he could glimpse another life. Not one with a crozier upon an altar or a crimson hat upon his head, no. Not a patriarch enthroned upon marble, nor a cardinal draped in silk.

He had seen a house. Not a cathedral, not a palace, but a house. Its windows warm and golden in the Roman twilight, its hearth crackling quietly. The sound of tiny feet upon wooden planks. The lilt of a woman’s voice singing soft psalms as she kneaded dough upon the table. The faint smell of fresh bread upon the air. And she — Maranata — was there. Not as a visitor. Not as a guest. As a wife. As a mother.

In that moment he had not felt like Father Tedesco. Not like a priest, or a scholar, or a man weighed down by vows and obligations. In that moment he felt like a man called forth by God Himself. Not called to the altar or the pulpit, but called to the hearth. To a quiet life lived in holy obedience, holy sacrifice, holy belonging.

He tried to banish the thought as he pressed quill to page. Yet every word he transcribed spoke to him of permanence. Every line he drew upon the manuscript felt like a path leading towards her. The thought rose upon him like a tide — warm, unstoppable, holy in its own right.

What had she felt, when she met his gaze? Did she sense the prayer rising within him? Did she see, buried deep, the ache for belonging that refused to be silenced? Could she imagine herself beside him — her hands upon dough, upon book, upon the fine threads of a veil? Could she imagine children, countless and laughing, filling a house too long quiet? Could she imagine being called “wife” to a man too long called “father?”

He pressed the quill harder upon the page until it nearly snapped. The sting of guilt surged then, rising like a wave. What sort of priest was he? What sort of man? To desire such things? To imagine such a life? To long for a hand upon the curve of a waist, the warmth of a body pressed upon him in the night? To long for belonging as if belonging were a right?

He pulled a hand down his tired, bearded face and closed the manuscript upon itself.

“Domine,” he breathed quietly, almost broken, “Domine, si vis, fac me purum.”

Lord, if You will, make me clean.

And yet, deep within the silence that followed, he felt another voice. Not holy, not bold, but soft, quiet, impossibly human:

What if this too is holy? What if this too is a calling?

He pressed the quill down upon the wood until the tip splintered.

For the first time in years, the holy terror within him gave way to something new. Not guilt. Not fear. Not resignation.

Hope.

The morning mist still lay upon the grounds as the scholars shuffled into the main hall for breakfast. The long table was sparsely occupied, only a handful awake this early. Geoffredo spotted Maranata pouring tea and carrying a plate of freshly baked bread for Etienne.

He watched for a moment before approaching, clearing his throat just enough to make her glance up.

“Buongiorno,” he said quietly, brushing a hand down the spine of a book he held, as if to justify the conversation. “I wanted to tell you… it is rare to find someone here who speaks so quietly, with such humility. It is a rare quality among these scholars.” The words came out measured, the faint hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It suits you.”

Maranata met his gaze for a moment, a hint of surprise softening her features, she has to be held back from speaking her mind “So he likes me better when I shut the…up….” she says avoiding to use profanity even inside her head.

Then she smiled faintly and shook her head, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face.

“The Lord had to refine me, Geoffredo,” she replied softly, setting down the tea. “He knows I am too rebellious.”

He tilted his head, skeptical but serene, brushing the rim of the teacup with long, delicate fingers. In that moment, he believed she was being modest. Believed she spoke out of some holy restraint, some pious grace learned through trials.

He smiled quietly, almost approving.

But he was wrong.

Maranata was not being modest. Not in the slightest.

The ember burning within her was not extinguished by refinement, nor silenced by trials. It was tempered, yes — shaped and molded — but it still glowed deep and bright. What he mistook for humility was a sheer force of will wrapped in silence, a quiet conviction honed by a lifetime of grappling with the Almighty.

And she watched him for a moment longer, brushing the flour from her hands, knowing deep down that this beautiful, proud man had no idea of the fire that lay dormant behind her serene gaze. Not yet.

“Buon appetito, Dottore,” she said quietly, with the faintest hint of a smile.

Then she left him to ponder the taste of warm bread and the sting of words half-understood.

1986. Texas. The church’s basement.

The air was thick with the smell of cream of mushroom soup and casseroles lined upon a long plastic table. The sound of chatter and soft laughter floated across the room as the women circulated. They spoke of “raising godly children” and “keeping a holy home,” punctuating every second sentence with a giggle or a nod. The theme that night? “A Virtuous Woman,” illustrated by a poster of a pearl and a Bible verse pasted upon it.

Maranata was younger then, but the sting of isolation felt older than her years. She stood by the edges of the circle with a paper plate in hand, listening as sister after sister exchanged compliments about the “tender heart” required for serving their husbands and children. Someone spoke of submitting “just like the Bible commands.” Someone else spoke of making “inspirational lunch notes” for the kids. Someone else spoke of the secret to making a casserole “just like Grandma used to.”

Maranata felt herself burning inside, the sound rising in her ears until it felt like a ringing.

Then came the words that snapped the cord:

“The husband is the spiritual leader of the household…”

“No.” The word came out sharp enough to kill the sound of spoons scraping across plastic.

Every set of eyes turned to her. The room was suddenly still.

“No,” she said again, louder, setting down the paper plate with a sound like a gavel. “God is. A husband is the head of the household, yes. An honorable role, a holy role, but still human. The highest praise and honor goes to the Lord. Not to a man. Never to a man.”

A silence fell like a heavy cloth upon the room.

“Didn’t Tzipporah save Moses from the Lord’s judgment?” she asked quietly, voice shaking just slightly. “Didn’t Abigail go over her husband to do charity and help David when he was a fool? Do we forget this? Do we forget that no Christian should neglect the privilege—or the obligation—of knowing the Word of the Lord, regardless of sex?”

Her voice rose, soft but firm, a flame in a room that suddenly felt too cold.

“The Apostle Paul said that children have milk, but the mature have solid food. And yet here, every lesson we have is milk. Not solid food. Not a word about wrestling with God, about knowing Him deeply. Not about grappling with scripture until it marks your very bones.” She drew in a breath, brushing a hand across the surface of a Bible someone had left on the table. “My soul is starved. And every gathering feels like a plate of buttercream.”

No one spoke. No one moved.

The hum of the ceiling lights felt like a witness.

Maranata glanced down at the Bible, then across the room. “If a woman can pray and raise children for the glory of the Lord, can she not also learn the glory of the Lord herself?”

A long silence.

Then the sound of a fork falling from a plate. A throat cleared. An awkward glance exchanged.

But no answer came.

Maranata drew herself to her full height and offered one quiet, concluding thought:

“The Lord is not diminished when a woman knows His word. The church is not weakened when a woman’s hands turn scripture like a plough. We were made for more than cursive Bible quotes upon teacups. We were made for Him.”

She pressed her Bible to her chest. Someone shifted in their chair, but no one spoke.

Then she turned and left the room. The sound of the door shutting felt like a seal upon the moment.

And it was then, and every day thereafter, that Maranata promised herself one thing: Never to accept spiritual scraps when she was called to feast upon the very bread of life.

The house was quiet when she came in, save for the hum of the ceiling fan and the sound of crickets beyond the screen door. The sting of the church basement still clung to her as she sank into the armchair across from her father’s desk.

Pastor Isaiah was tall, broad-shouldered, and sun-tanned from a lifetime of working the land and preaching to God’s people. His voice was deep, slow like a drawl, and when he spoke, every word felt chosen.

He didn’t scold. Not yet. Not until he’d listened.

“They came to you?” she asked quietly, brushing a strand of hair from her veil. “The housewives?”

A faint smile crossed the pastor’s lined face. He sighed and settled back. “They came, yes,” he said. “More flustered than offended, I reckon. ‘This girl,’ they said, ‘and her words.’”

Maranata sank further into the chair, brushing the surface of the Bible she held tight. “It’s not Biblical,” she said sharply, voice shaking. “The Word of God doesn’t segregate study by gender. It doesn’t reduce one half of His people to casseroles and lunch quotes. The Gospel doesn’t teach silence except in obedience to the Holy Spirit. Not silence because women can’t understand or because ‘they can only comprehend cream sauce and muffins’.”

Her father watched her quietly, brushing a hand down the length of his Bible. When he spoke, it was slow and warm.

“Darlin’, I agree with you. You’re right. The Lord gave you that gift — that tongue, that sharp, holy voice. Not every woman has it, but you do.”

“Then why don’t you say something?” she pressed, voice rising.

He gave a low chuckle, soft like a sigh. “Because, my little theologian, you’re right — you rarely ever are wrong. But understand this too: Women crave a space where they can speak openly. To pray openly. To share openly. You can stand firm for the glory of God and still make room for the weaker sister. Not weaker in worth or worthiness, but weaker in understanding, weaker in voice. We have room for both.”

She frowned, brushing hair from her veil. “Then make the space for both. Let the Word draw its own borders. Let women pray together if it comforts their heart, and let women teach together when the Spirit moves. Let the Holy Ghost govern their spaces.”

The pastor smiled faintly. “That’s what you have, Maranata — a holy ache for obedience and belonging. The world needs both.”

“Then why segregate?” she pressed. “Why teach women like children?”

“Maybe because some feel safe in that space, Maranata. And some don’t.” He sighed, brushing a hand down the length of the worn Bible in his lap. “Maybe the answer is making room for both. Not silencing one or the other, but making room for both. Not every sister can stand in a room of men and speak openly about her burdens — about infertility, about loss, about broken marriages. Not every brother can understand the sting of that silence.”

She shook her head, voice softening now. “Then maybe…maybe the men should ask the Lord for patience. To listen. To bear one another’s burdens. To understand. Not segregate, not build walls, but ask the Lord for patience and love to empathize with those burdens.”

Her father watched her for a long moment, pride and ache in equal measure upon that weathered, sun-dried face. He smiled, slow and deep.

“Maybe they should, Maranata,” he said quietly. “Maybe that’s why the Lord gave us daughters like you. To stand in the breach. Not to win every argument, not to silence every voice, but to witness for the holy and the true when others forget.”

He rose then, brushing a hand across her hair. “My little theologian,” he said, voice breaking, “you’re right. You’re right more often than you’ll ever know. The Lord gave you that voice for a reason. Never forget that.”

And in that quiet room, the sting softened, replaced by a holy, stubborn warmth that would follow her for the rest of her days.

Geoffredo returned from breakfast, brushing a stray crumb from the lapel of the jacket he now wore. A letter, cream paper with a faint imprint of the Archdiocese, lay atop his bed. The seal was broken. He sank down, drew a breath, and read.

“My dear son, The heart is a strange thing. What rests upon it can feel like a thorn, or like a seed. You came to the altar with a heart burning for service, but service takes many forms, and God speaks in whispers as well as in thunder. Do not close your heart to the possibility that the Almighty might ask you to tend a different altar. The priest of the household is no lesser a calling than the priest of the Church. To raise a holy family is to raise a holy city upon the hill. Should you one day discern that your path lies not within the cassock but upon the earth with a wife and children, do not mistake it for defeat. The Church needs holy fathers as much as holy priests. Whatever your future, walk with humility and obedience, and He will guide your steps. In prayer, Father Lorenzo”

He read the words once. Twice. A silence settled upon the room, broken only by the sound of the wind brushing through the trees. Slowly, Geoffredo set the paper down upon the coverlet.

For the first time in years, he allowed himself to imagine. Not a parish, not a pulpit. Not incense curling upon cold marble. But a kitchen bathed in morning light. The smell of fresh bread. The sound of tiny, laughing voices tumbling down a hallway. The warmth of a hand resting upon his own.

A hand that was hers.

Maranata, serene and strong, brushing dough from her apron, smiling as she turned. The veil upon her hair a reminder of holy obedience. A child at her side. Another upon her hip. The faint curve of a belly hinting at another life upon the way.

He drew a sharp breath. The room blurred, and for a moment he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until the sting subsided.

Then, as if fearing that even this thought might be a betrayal, he sank to his knees upon the floor. The paper crinkled between shaking fingers as he pressed it to his chest.

“Domine,” he whispered hoarsely, “if it be Thy will… show me the path. Let it be holy. Let it be right. Let it be for Thee.”

The silence deepened. Yet this silence felt different than any he had known before.

It felt like permission.

He sank down upon the narrow bed and felt it instantly — the sting. The sting of the knotted rope upon the tender skin of his spine, freshly punished for the night before. The sting that he refused to dull or shy from. The sting he had earned.

Each breath pulled the sting closer, as if God Himself pressed upon him, reminding him with every ache that this body was not to be trusted. Not to be indulged.

Last night, when he had spilled himself in the dark, dreaming of Maranata, it had been too much. Too vivid. Too holy and too carnal. Too long in the imagining, too sharp in the knowing. He had punished the sin as soon as he rose. The rope still lay upon the floor, its tail damp with faint spots of crimson.

He drew a shaking hand down the length of his chest and wondered, with a faint pulse of terror, if she too would be called upon to purify herself this way. No. Never. The thought rose and recoiled, burning and blasphemous. The thought of striking Maranata was a profanation akin to tearing the veil from the altar itself. No, she would be holy. Pure. Untouched.

A wife like that would have no cause for the sting of the lash. No reason to bear marks upon pale, delicate skin. Not like him. Not like this ruin of a man, molded by guilt and discipline.

She would obey. Surely she would obey. Surely obedience would rise naturally within her, like a flame upon holy oil. The thought calmed him.

He drew a breath, resting upon that fragile conviction. A wife would bear the children, raise the girls, guide the little hands upon holy threads. And when the boys came — strong and stubborn — when they tested the boundaries of obedience… then, perhaps, discipline would be required. A sharp voice, a hand upon a narrow shoulder. The sting upon a boy’s palm until the lesson was learned.

But the girls? Never. Girls were delicate. Girls came forth closer to obedience, closer to the veil. Not like the sons. Not like the cursed, stubborn strain of Adam upon the earth.

He pressed the palm of his hand harder upon the sting upon his own spine and felt the sting deepen. The sting was holy. The sting was right. It kept him orderly. Kept him clean.

He exhaled slowly and sank deeper into the bed, swallowing down the guilt like bitter wine.

For him, for her, for the children he might one day claim, this was the order of things. The holy order.

God upon him. Him upon the household. The wife upon the veil. The children upon the earth.

A holy order of obedience. An orderly kingdom upon the ruins of desire.

And if tonight brought another faint whisper of Maranata upon the veil of his thoughts, if the sting upon his spine rose fresh and burning at the sound of her name… he would bear it.

He would bear it for all of them.

The night has passed in silence, yet my heart roars.

I pray for discernment, and the Lord gives visions that haunt and guide. Visions of a future wherein the burdens upon my shoulders shift and multiply, no longer as a priest upon an altar, but as a patriarch upon the hearth.

I see her clearly now. Not merely the figure upon the threshold of a dream, but the woman herself. Maranata. Not by accident did the Lord place her upon this path, upon this land. Not by accident does she bear that holy name upon her very being.

How can she possibly say no? The thought itself strains understanding. What woman molded by Scripture, tempered by obedience, molded by grace, would spurn the hand of a man called upon by God? Willingly and joyfully, she would come forth, veil upon veil upon veil, knowing herself chosen for a holy office within the home.

I can almost witness it — the glimmers upon her lashes as she hears my voice pronounce the sacred charge upon her life. Not as priest upon penitent, but as husband upon wife. Not as master upon servant, but as shepherd upon lamb. Will she not shed tears of obedience? Will she not rise from that holy yielding with a smile upon her lips and the glory of God upon her heart?

Why should she hesitate? What higher calling can she claim than the bearing forth of children upon a holy earth? What better service can a woman give than to bear forth and nurture the seed, to make holy the hearth, holy the bed? Surely the Lord Himself has shaped her hands for kneading the dough, her tongue for whispering prayers upon the ears of our children.

I am consumed by this knowing. Not desire as the world knows it, but a holy conviction that swells within like flame upon dry wood. I am the rod, the staff, the guide. She is the soil upon which holy seed must fall. The thought of rejection is an abomination upon holy order. The thought of “no” is akin to blasphemy itself. Will she not weep with gratitude when she is called forth? Will she not lift herself upon holy knees and give thanks for a life that shines as the lamp upon the hill?

I pray tonight for obedience, for both her and I. That I may bear the sting upon my spine until such a day arrives, when God Himself gives witness to the merging of our paths. Until the veil upon her brow is lifted, and the holy order is made flesh.

Fiat voluntas tua. Fiat. Fiat. Fiat.

In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

[jinxbunnyx]

~Kidnapped~

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Hey yall! I know it’s been a HOT MINUTE since I posted on here but hopefully I’ll be able to post some more :D Enjoy this short little prompt :)

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A large light illuminated above me, my head reeling with pain as I squinted into the darkness around me. I didn’t remember much, one minute I was walking Cujo, my Doberman, outside and the next..thrown into an unlabeled van.

My chest ached and I could already tell I was going to be bruised the next day. My hands, in old fashioned style, were tied behind my back to the cold metal chair. I would’ve untied the knots myself, they felt easy enough, if my hands hadn’t been gloved.

“Well well little missy. Seems we caught a fine one today, don’t you agree boys?” A male voice came from the shadows around the room. I did what I could to keep my breathing even, yet the situation was terrifying.

“Yes sir, she’s a beaut~”, one of the men stepped forward, gripping my chin between two of his fingers. He was a tall, lanky guy. Shaggy blonde hair and dark green eyes with a horrible shave job.

Another stepped forward chuckling, “Yeah, I wonder how much she’d sell for..” the second man was a shorter, fat guy with long hair piled on his head into a long greasy man bun. His brown hair matched his sunken brown eyes and baby face.

I yanked my face out of blonde guy’s fingers, a scowl under my breath, “Touch me and you’ll regret it.” I spat, my hard glare landing on the third and final man stepping forward. He was clearly the leader, a tall muscular man with stubble running across his jaw, his cold blue eyes stuck in a permanent glare towards me.

“And why might we regret it miss? Got someone we should be..scared..of?” I matched his glare, while he lowered his face to mine. Taking my chance, I gathered as much spit as I could and let loose, getting a large wad directly in his eye. He reeled back, disgusted and wiping it off before he grabbed my neck, causing any air I had before to evaporate.

“I really hope whoever you think is going to save you shows up. I would love to watch them see you bleed out, cunt.” He laughed psychotically, throwing me back up against the chair.

Just then, a loud howl stole all of our attention. With terrified faces between man bun and blondie, I smiled sweetly. The leader of the group whipped around, looking at me with a curious expression.

“You touched me, you hurt me.” I giggled, their faces sinking into panic as the howling got closer, “He doesn’t like it when people hurt me.”

Suddenly, the doors of the building burst off their hinges, a large wolf at the entrance. Glowing yellow eyes and dark grey fur with snarling teeth. It stalked towards us, scurrying off toward the darkness where it couldn’t be seen.

“H-Hey where’d it g-“ Man buns timid sentence faded into a scream as he was dragged into the darkness. The sound of bones cracking and blood spewing surrounding the remaining two men. Then blondie fell to the ground, sucked into the blackness as well. The same horrific sounds around us just as before.

The wolf appeared again, this time infront of the leader. It stalked towards him with intention, never blinking. “Stay back!” The leader yelled, whipping out a knife, his arm visibly shaking, “ILL GUT YOU!” He screamed. The wolf continued, starting to stand. The leaders knife clattered to the ground as he craned his neck to look at the wolf in its full glory.

Standing at a good 8ft tall, blood dripping from its canines and large ears alert. The wolf was huge, its arms built up with muscle, same with its legs. It snarled, grabbing the leader between its claws.

“Never touch my wife.” The wolf growled, before crushing the leader between his fingers, throwing him across fhe room. I looked up towards the wolf, smiling.

The wolf, my hero and husband, morphed into his handsome human self, untying the ropes and pulling me close.

“Are you hurt honey? How long have you been here?? You need to be more careful outside..Cujo came running home after you had been kidnapped. I’m so glad you’re safe, baby..” he nuzzled into my neck. My husband was a large guy. Standing at 5’10, with large arms and thick thighs, complimented with a bit of a belly. His deep ocean eyes complimented his short brown hair and his soft demeanor.

“I’m ok now love.” I buried my face into his chest as he picked me up, carrying me home.

~End~

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[ofdeedsglorious]

"Welcome, @toadmiretoweepover, knight of Pendragon!" Llawgad grinned, spreading his hands in greeting to the man before him.

To think the shield of, what had been his name... Acricor? Something like that. To think it would have worked so easily to lure in a warrior of the Red Dragon's court! He stood from the rickety old throne that he'd claimed when this castle had been discovered abandoned in the wilderness. A slight twitch of his hand had the door being closed and barred behind Yvain, his men slowly moving in to encircle the knight. How lucky it was that the plan had worked, otherwise the message he sent ahead would have just made him a laughing stock.

"Forgive me for not having any fine accommodations for a lord of your...status," Llawgad chuckled, scratching at his stubble, "but we do have a room readied for you. Of course, should you swear loyalty to me then we can skip any potential unpleasantness. I am a magnanimous ruler, after all!" Not that he expected the Knight of the Round to bend the knee easily.

But it was always fair to ask.

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It was unusual for Yvain to be late when it came to predicted journey times.

Unusual, but not entirely unheard of, really. They were Knights of the Round, and usually they could disappear for weeks or even months when questing. Or even when doing a simple errand. But the elder Yvain was usually fairly punctual when it came to his travels. Gareth hummed softly, scanning the room as though her cousin were to suddenly manifest from the shadows in the corner.

As expected, of course, nothing happened.

"Speak, then," Arthur's voice rang out over the crowded room, all present turning to face first him and then the unfortunate messenger.

"I-I was ordered to inform you, u-under pain of death you must understand, King Pendragon," a curt nod from the King, "that, ah... That one of your Knights is now a captive of th-the self-declared true heir of the rule of Powys, to the north..." The reaction brought on by this revelation was immediate, whispers breaking out across the crowd. Her fellow knights had varying levels of annoyance and anger showing on their faces. Gareth clenched her fists, a sinking feeling in her stomach as she looked once more to her Uncle on his throne while the merchant continued. "He says... He will only free the captive should you name a champion from your Knights to do battle with him."

Well, nothing to it then.

"I will go, Uncle," Gareth declared, stepping forward from the crowd despite Agravaine's hiss of her name. "Sirs Gawain and Lamorak are away, as are Sirs Percival and Yvain. And Sir Lancelot needs to rest off his last quest. I gladly take the burden to defeat an arrogant bandit on the road."

A nod given with a blessing after a brief pause, and then Gareth turned to leave. To fetch her horse and armor.

Once that was done she mounted Thistle and, with a sharp whistle, set off from the castle. Powys was to the north in the mountains so that was where her road would lead. Through the forests surrounding Arthur's autumn court to a kingdom far older than her uncle's lands.

She had a cousin to save.

[littlefreya]

Prince Of Darkness

Summary: There'll be no escape tonight, the devil always gets what he desires.

Pairing: Devil!August Walker x Unnamed OFC (3rd person pov)

Word count: 6k

Warnings: 18+, DARK! NonCon, kidnapping, stalking, breeding, exhibitionism, loss of virginity, supernatural stuff, sex in a cathedral, mention of heaven and hell. Please proceed with caution. 

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own

A/N: I have put a lot of effort into this story, and I’m really anxious af. We all like to see August as a demon, but I decided to go all the way... And I’m nervous at your response and going to die after hitting submit. So bye.

Many thanks to the love of my life @agniavateira​, for support, brainstorm and beta. And to @crimsonrae​ and @wondersofdreaming​ who held my hand. 

Please give feedback and reblog if you enjoyed my work. 🖤

Title: Prince of Darkness

Blood painted the streets, courtesy of the blinding scarlet lights that danced upon gravel and tar before dwindling into darkness. The soft, beaming glow pulsed with the muffled beats of a monotonous song that played inside the luxurious nightclub. Like thundering war drums, it rumbled in the ears of the elegant man who stood along the shadows. 

Leaning against the cement, he took a sip from a glass of spiced Bordeaux and brushed an index finger over his thick moustache to wipe away misguided droplets of wine. 

‘How could anyone enjoy this abomination?’ He wondered with a guttural groan, never quite grasping this electronic noise thing; but then again August was older than this music, and his tastes far exceeded cheap and trivial antics. He was a man driven by the appetite for destruction and forbidden delights, and tonight, he was finally about to obtain both. After decades of anticipation, the succulent fruit was ready to be plucked. 

Oh, what an intoxicating and delicious mist his unsuspecting beloved emanated, setting his heart aflame with her sheer ripeness.  

‘It’s been so long, so painfully long.’ 

Time had lost its meaning as he waited, curving and swerving into a stream of an infinite river flowing with decay and death. 

But as the old saying went: all haste comes from the devil. 

So the man lingered against the wall, a sparkle enkindled and crackled in his eyes, morphing into black wells whilst the waves of her honey-liqueured ambrosia grew pungent, seeping through his airways and sinking in his throat. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly, revelling in the sound of harsh tapping heels that echoed louder with every step until she came summoned into the naked wilderness of the city street. 

‘Beautiful and innocent as the garden of Eden. Of course, of course...’

The stranger scrutinised the young woman with another sip from his wine and a bite of great intrigue - but stoicism and silence, for now, were his most valuable allies. 

Clad in a lithe black dress and a stylish leather jacket to keep herself warm from the chill autumn breeze, she fished for the mobile device in her purse while distress washed her wrinkling brow. Illuminated by the bright screen, her face sulked as for the seventh time in the last 30 minutes, her attempt to find an Uber bore no success whatsoever. 

Was there something about tonight that all drivers were kept occupied, or had her luck simply run dry? 

Showing her face to the moonlit sky, she sighed in great frustration. This must have been fate’s retribution to a mindless bad decision; she should have left with her friends, but staying alone to fruitlessly catch the eye of the uncaring bartender seemed more significant as the buzz of alcohol dimmed any ray of logic. Now deep into the night, walking home alone didn’t appear to be the most sympathetic solution, yet it occurred to her that there wasn’t much of choice.  

“You seem distressed.” 

Equal to a dark chant sputtering words of witchcraft, the low yet incredibly soft baritone of his voice slithered from the corner and crept down her spine with icy scales. A lurching hollow flared within her gut, her neck seized by the tight grip of a serpentine phantom. 

His vibrato sounded like a voice that called her through a dream she never had before; despite the unsettling arctic spasm gyrating through her shaky limbs, it lured her to return a stare and meet the cryptic face behind the seducing chant. 

Two sharp glaciers glimmered at her as the stranger sauntered into the penumbra, momentarily lit by another flash of neon red that broke onto his face and highlighted his ethereal features. Her lips drew open, her nipples hardening against the fabric of her dress as a shiver ran through her. To say that the stranger was handsome would be an understatement, as it almost seemed as if he was ‘designed’ by a sculptor - carved cheeks led a path to slightly pouted lips, and a stark, dimpled chin was shadowed by dark stubble. His chocolate-brown hair was elegantly combed to the side, with a couple of large lustrous locks gently nestling over his brow.

Though it wasn’t his good looks that left her riddled with prickly goosebumps, but the unprecedented magnetic haul that made her feel as if she was physically drawn toward this mysterious man. 

Frightened by the unbidden reaction of her own body, she quickly retreated to gawk at the phone and provided no answer to his inquiry. A strange yearning to submit grew between her clenching thighs, a primal response to his striking looks and charms. 

But she killed the seed before it set roots in her flesh. 

‘They said Ted Bundy was charming as well…’ she mused. Frivolous as she wanted to be, getting murdered was undoubtedly not among her plans tonight. 

Revelling in her silent reply with an arched brow, he tilted his head when a blinding flicker abruptly caught his keen eye. Kissed by the pale moonlight’s beam, a small silver cross rested upon her collarbone. His sharp fangs begged to peek with sardonic amusement, but he kept his lips clamped, not wishing to scare her too soon. 

There was to be plenty of that later...

“May I offer you my help, sweetling?”

Threading his long fingers between the smooth stem and clasping them around the bowl, he lowered the glass to the side of his hip, dragging the girl’s unwilling eye to the healthy bulge in his groin. 

Her lips drew open as a surge of staggering heat flushed at her apex. 

It seemed enormous... 

“Name’s August, like the emperor, but you can call me whatever your heart desires...”

Embers burnt at her cheeks; in her belly, the odd mystical calling continued weaving at her core in an urge to accept whatever it was he had to offer. Her eyes warred to tear her gaze away from his nether region as her lashes fluttered to meet the abysmal glance that bestowed both frost and fire through her tendons. 

There was something archaically familiar about this man as if she knew him before the days had names. Yet she swore, it was the first time she ever saw his striking face. 

“I can take you wherever you need to go.” 

Breath laced with wine titillated her nostrils as the words spilt from his lips, whilst another crimson ray broke upon the marble of his face. Never had he urged, but instead suggested with a tongue soaked with honey. Still, a blazing aura of danger encircled him. And even though the very natural fear of walking home alone grappled her, it still seemed like a much better plan than entrusting her life to a stranger who was twice her size. 

Deciding to keep her tongue knotted, she turned and began striding away. ‘Best not to engage him,’ she thought, but once she moved past his bulky figure, her heart suddenly picked up its pace and her legs refused to function as if they no longer belonged to her. 

Seconds stretched into eternity. The thought that this civilised savage will assail her and drag her into the night scratched at the back of her head. But the worst of it was the simmering throb. Unforgiving, like gathering storm clouds, it thundered the closer she walked by him and then gradually died out as she finally managed to move away and free herself from this invisible bond. 

Savouring the final drop of wine, August watched amused as the frightened little lamb quickly oscillated on her feet, scampering into the horrors offered by the dark. It was funny how fear made animals act so heedlessly and rush straight into the burning heart of peril. 

A toothy grin peaked his chiselled cheeks. Always the gentleman, he shifted from the concrete, discarding the glass carelessly to shatter on the sidewalk. His sinew stretched in a relaxed ripple of an apex predator before he straightened both vest and jacket and stroked his thick moustache. 

Though her heavenly fragrance still soaked the air, the girl was already gone from normal eyesight. It was a pity to see her leave, yet there was no need for him to rush.

There was never really a choice for her. 

Strangely, the night kept growing unnaturally darker. A great ocean of blackness and crystalised stars spread from above, casting looming shadows across the tall buildings that resembled a maw filled with rotten teeth. The tepid wind that blew between the vast concrete monoliths was nothing but the breath of a mythical beast intoning her name through the shadows.

Clawing at her forearms, she meandered through the inert street with a wary eye. Desolate neon signs flickered hauntingly, bequeathing a vibrant beacon of dread over the shimmering, onyx road. Not a living soul was in sight as if the world descended into stillness, dominated by an eerie, dead silence save for the harsh echo of her hasty heels. And yet, the long path felt anything but lifeless. With every step landed on the ground, she could sense the movement beneath the surface: swarming vile things, slippery and scaled. Unseen by the human eye, they hissed dirty little secrets and slithered with sinister hunger, drizzling down their fangs. 

‘You can already feel me inside you, can’t you sweetling…’ Remaining hidden, he had to admit that watching the little lamb leap shivering into the slaughter has been somewhat of foreplay.

A veil of fumes emitted from her parted lips. The air became colder, summoning a terrifying truth that made her lungs clench around the black void that abruptly filled them with the notion that maybe... maybe… that chill, liquid-like thing that threatened to touch her ankle wasn’t just in her crazy imagination.

There was something out there, something undeniably familiar. This unusual gust of wind brushing at her nape has accompanied her since she could remember herself, an unsettling breeze bidding that evil lurked between the creases, holding its sinewy fingers clasped together while waiting for her to answer his hushed calling.

‘And once you finally answer, there is no turning back…’ 

Fear gnawed its frosty fangs at her bones, puncturing tiny painful cavities that were needles in her flesh. Tonight, of all nights, the same hazy feeling became stronger than ever before. Deep inside, she knew she would meet her end. Pressing the oily pads of her fingers at the sharp corners of her pendant, she inhaled and chanted a prayer, refusing to succumb to the noxious malice when a frozen pin pierced her heart.

Like the lark calling on the dawn, an unbidden chant carried her name.

Drenched with frigid sweat, she exhumed a shuddering breath, praying to God that it was only her imagination playing tricks on her ears. 

‘The greatest trick he ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist.’

Indeed in the darkness, leered the beast. All teeth and malicious glee, August moved from one shadow to another, feasting on the aphrodisiac that was the mixture of her harrowing terror and unveiled desire. If only she knew the trail her scent left for him to follow - he could smell her from miles away. 

The little flower between her legs began blooming the moment their entities finally encountered one another, and it was his ancient name her dew had dripped for.  

‘My sweet little thing, tonight I will finally grant you a purpose...’ 

Like a hound awakened from a deep slumber, he flexed his bulging muscles and tailed her in utter silence. The same spell that burnt in her core seethed the blood gathering in his ardent loins. Since the dawn of humankind, he had more women than any other man on this earth, yet none has evoked such hunger in him. 

He would have eaten her alive and torn her to shreds if only he didn't have bigger plans for her.

Still hidden by the unnatural night, August stalked from behind, the blaze of his enkindling burn licking her path as he crept further to ensnare his prey. He wished she could see herself through his own flaring glance, how beautiful she was with tears of despair rolling down the tender slope of her cheeks. 

His beloved girl; his, by ancient law. Spirited as a rageful tempest, she insisted on escaping her prophesied fate. Muscles and bones strove against the panic that turned her boiling blood frigid. But no power, physical nor divine could revoke this otherworldly attraction that bound her to him. His bidding could never be undone and as much as his blood relished from the thrill of the chase, it was time to put an end to this dance and seal their union. 

Appearing from a stygian haze of a spectral nightmare, the beast drew his claw to grasp the fleeting girl��s shoulder.

The world froze along with the scream that died in her throat. Cold, slippery wet, the phantom serpents slinked around her ankles and held on to the ground as the thing behind her bit his nails into her collarbone. His touch was no ghost, but as real as the quiet moon that voyeured her fate from above and did nothing. A wretched gasp of anguish shuddered through her airways as his fingers stalked forth to cinch at her neck. 

His grip was tighter than the icy finger of death, yet its caress was the sensual lick of a gossamer tongue. 

It was almost as if he worshipped her. 

Shadows befell her as the assailant leaned close, wafting a mist of intoxicating fumes scented of poisonous elixirs and an ancient forest that laid deep between the veils of the underworld, hiding forbidden mysteries that none dared speak of. Seeping through her orifices, it stung her eyes and raked remorseful tears. 

“Please…” she broke into sobs, shaking her head at the dawning of her fate.

The man inhaled deeply. Though she could not see him, the joyful malice that danced on his pleased breath roared in her ears.

“Do not fear me.” The sonorous rumble caressing her ear was hardly a surprise in its familiarity.  It was him, the handsome bewhiskered gentleman from earlier. But of course, it was always him: the whisper in the dark, the slithering things moving beneath the tepid ground, and the smell of burning pyres. 

But who the hell was he?!

As if he read her mind, his hand twisted around her nape and with a careful sway, turned her to face him. The voice inside her head warned her over and over again not to look at him; yet the temptation was too great, peeling her eyes open to stare at the thing that made her heart drop to her gut.

Vast, raven wings spread from each side of an Adonis figure, their intimidating length denying her widened eyes to look at anything but the dark god that soared tall in front her. No, not a god, a devil. A pair of small golden horns peeked from the mane of long curls, and the heavenly icy gaze she remembered from earlier had melted into an abysmal lake of fire.

He was beautiful.

He was monstrous.

And just like that, she descended from the earth, swept into a thick swamp of darkness that swallowed her whole. Never letting so much as her feet kiss the ground, August scooped her into his strong arms. Peering down upon her, he broke into a delightful grin, already enamoured with his delicate new bride. The pang of lust tingled in his groin, though despite the raging need to claim her now, it was her screams he desired more than all as he would consummate their eternal marriage. 

Wicked tongues of fire licked up the shallow air, casting a faint amber glow into the abominable sombre of a vanishing nightmare. Shy as feral nymphs, the bursting sparks ascended melancholily, whispering tales of perishing days that fell to harmony with a strange mumbling chant. Still locked in a void of unconsciousness, the fallen girl shifted with disquiet, her hands restlessly clutching at a virginal silk gown that covered her body. 

Vaguely remembering a horrifying dream of a demonic entity, she woke with a sudden electric jitter. A peal of breathless pants pushed through her heaving chest before she slumped into the intense relief one experiences from a brush with either death or a ghastly fantasy. 

“Thank God…” she whispered with a fist pressed to her breast.

Yet, something was amiss. The low vocal melody continued despite her state of clarity, tangled with the eerie presence of a hundred cutting glares that stabbed her crawling spine. Slowly and carefully, she lifted her head and scanned her surroundings. 

The blood drained from her face.

Swaying like shadowy wraiths stood men cloaked in black velvet hoods. Tears of milky boiling wax trickled from the candles held by their stringy fingers, yet they didn’t seem to flinch as the burning rivulets seared their flesh. Their hollow eyes were fixated upon her while words of a dark sacrament sputtered from their lips and reverberated through the endless archways and ribbed vaults that towered above them. 

Her trembling muscles were briskly stifled under the unsettling realisation of her whereabouts - a cathedral, a thousand years old if not more. Burning torches lit crumbling pillars and statues of monstrous winged creatures that encircled them from every niche, their malicious shadows dancing upon dusty obsidian bricks. Unglazed windows were barred by black iron, the beautiful floral shapes preventing any means of escape. 

Only the fractured ceiling held a cheap shred of hope, as a vast rupture of broken stone exposed her to the scarred carmine wolf-moon.

If only she had wings…

Bones rattling beneath her crawling flesh, she sat upon the hard surface with wells of despair. Her hands clutched around the edge of the bed, only to be kissed by the sharp corners that pierced the delicate flesh. Hissing with pain, she lifted her arms and stared below at what appeared to be a midnight-black marble creased with golden veins and saplings-like patterns. 

It was beautiful, just like the creamy gown that covered her body.  

“Do you like it, bride?” 

Rising from the crowd like a flame among charred coals, appeared her handsome abductor. Suitable to a true evil prince, a long red cloak enrobed his broad, sturdy form, the velvet hem trailing behind him like a thick river of blood while he marched forward with no haste in his dauntless mien. Human once again, August offered the most endearing grin; two profound dimples embellished his scruffy cheeks, and his eyes shone brighter than a frozen sea. 

Yet in her sullen gaze, he was nothing but a monster.

Abruptly enraged and driven by pure instinct, she jumped off the marble and paced backwards. Tears of anger and fright rimmed her swollen lids and her bare feet nearly collided as she shook her head at August who was neither impressed nor concerned by this foolish protest. 

“You stay the fuck away from me!!!” She warned with a scream and hastily turned away. 

Lost in some trance, the praying mob never stirred, granting the girl a fair chance to escape the bewhiskered man who was still several strides away. Her feeble legs made three to four steps when her muscles swiftly turned to stone, and her stomach lurched. 

‘No! It couldn’t be! How?!’

Curls shining like precious coils of onyx, August emerged in front of her, continuing his relaxed gait as if this was a natural occurrence. His bright icicles melted into malicious dark pools of twisted desire, and his tongue briefly laved his plump lips at the sight of pure disbelief that cascaded over her face. He could feel right under her skin, hear the thrumming heart that both chilled and fumed for him. Further beyond her thoughts, his betrothed yearned to be defiled and torn open by him. 

It was her destiny, whether she liked it or not. 

Still she fought, so ferocious and defiant, flinching away from his attempts to seize her. It was almost comical to watch her deny him, knowing that her fate would be no different; she will spread her legs and submit to his conquest. And yet, her battle was immensely appealing; what better bride to the dark lord than a woman who breathed fire.

“Who are you?!” She cried, her trembling voice rising with panic and her cheeks soaking with tears, “What do you want from me?!”

August's face was devoid of mercy, her whimpering hisses did nothing to deter him and only further increased the appetite of the deprived wolf that circled in his gut. With a wring of his wrist, his fingers snapped at her elbow, hauling her against his rock-hard chest with such might her heels hovered above the ground. 

Writhing in his grip she flung her hands at his face, clawing streams of crimson to trickle down his cheeks. The notion of hurting this vicious man brought somewhat of a sick joy; but her onslaught died at once, and her mouth fell agape as his skin healed with not even a trace of injury. 

“Oh God, what are you?!” She shuddered. 

Still holding her elbow hostage, his free hand travelled to the hem of the white gown, the long, perverted fingers twisting around the fabric before yanking it off at once. A resounding rip echoed through the tall arches, causing the chanting choir to halt their susurrations at once. 

All eyes were afloat as the cold air kissed her skin. In vain, she attempted to cover herself only to be felled by the restraints of August’s grasp. 

“God?...” The man finally spoke, his melodic voice ending with a sonorous hum that sprouted through her arteries like a deadly toxin. Not less poisonous, his gaze trailed down her form, worshipping the very sights of his delightful prize. 

“Not God, but once I was an angel,” he suggested and leaned down to inhale her skin with a gratified growl before he flicked his wide tongue at her chest.

A groan of approval emitted from his lips, the sheer coat of sweat that layered her bosom was soaked of freshly brewed fear, his most favourite savour. His wet, velvety snake swept the sweet-briny wetness and licked further down her breasts, twirling around the erect nipple.

Unintended, she moaned. A river of delights rushed between her grinding thighs.

“No!”

Wrongful, unwanted bliss awoke in her. She felt desecrated and allured at once. Her fickle body deceived, mistaking this vile conquest as consensual. And the more August took, the more she desired; her dutiful womb demanded to consummate this bond, almost as if the beast had bewitched her a long while ago, embedding his essence in the marrow of her bones. 

August grinned against her skin, the scent of her arousal fresh in his nose while his lips travelled to kiss down her sternum and the slope of her torso. His thick whiskers left a trail of fluttering butterflies.

“Have sympathy, my love. I had built my own realm and waited in the forlorn abyss. Empires fell and worlds disintegrated into ashes while I waited for thou,” he explained and clutched the cheek of her behind in his claw, squeezing it possessively. “I have longed for your touch since the day your ancestor promised you to me, little lamb. A hundred years’ worth of waiting for the bargain to reach its end, and for you to finally be ripe.” 

The beast pressed one last languid kiss below her navel, a guttural hum exuded in between his lips, huffing hot against her belly. Slowly he rose to his full height, towering above his helpless victim who hugged her arms to cover her naked body and watched her nightmare unfold once more. Cold wind chilled her damp cheeks as August flung the blood-red cloak and exposed his naked figure before her.  

He was massive, a masculine build fit for a warrior angel, covered with thick bulging muscles and dark hair. Lips parted, she forgot herself, gawking in awe and allowing her gaze to trail down to his unapologetically monstrous cock. Firm and throbbing, it dripped with hunger, urging to find release inside her clenching cavern.

She didn’t even know a man could be this vast, but alas, he was no man at all.

It was at that moment when blackest wings spread before her that realisation finally struck through like a blunt hammer to the back of her head. Covering her mouth she cowered away, her exposed back hitting the raised altar behind her. 

August was no man nor god, but Lucifer himself. 

Seeing the hope die in her eyes, the devil sneered. 

“No, no, no! This can’t be real! This isn’t real!!!” She yelled, pathetic little hiccups sputtering from her lips.

August tilted his head, giving a scornful pout and scoffed with amusement. “Am I not?” He asked as he lifted an arm to flick his fingers, summoning two of the hooded servants to approach the dais. Their eyes were soulless gems embedded to a grey face that was cracked like a broken eggshell. 

“I am real, beloved, as real as the child you will conceive me tonight.” 

Shrills of terror flew through the great hole in the ceiling. Kicking and screaming, she fought as the men seized her arms and dragged her to the altar, forcing her flat down and holding her arms to prevent her from escaping. They never blinked at the ferocious war she waged against them, though an impish smile slowly possessed their faces as their master strode forward. 

“Sweet little lamb,” August chanted, enamoured with his fiery bride while he sauntered by the edge of the altar. His Adonis body golden in the candlelight, his fingers squeezed and pumped the ravenous demon that hung heavy between his legs. The twinge in her womb rose in response, a low roar thrumming as it yearned to succumb to its unbridled purpose. Sheen, the arousal trickled between her kicking legs and onto the smooth stone, making her cheek flame.

Much to August’s pleasure. 

“Our son will burn this world to cinders,” he promised and snaked his fingers at her ankles. Calmly deflecting her attempts to kick against him, he dragged her toward him until her knees folded over the edge and spread between his thighs. The platform was in the perfect height, positioning her delicious Eden at the height of his blessed demon. 

“You will make an excellent mother.”

Her entire body shook, her cunt clenching along her sobs in both defence and beguiling need as August leaned in and grazed the silky pink crown between her wet petals. She begged he wouldn’t be able to invade her, but her prayers fell to deaf ears.    

“Please don’t do this to me! I will do anything… please!” She wailed a bargain, still trying to escape the servants’ grip and looking at him pleadingly, “I… I...haven’t been with a man!”

“Oh I know…” August beamed and stroked himself back and forth between her engorged lips. Vamping flames tingled at her flesh, her core foolishly squeezing around nothing in demand for this wretched monster to defile her.  

“You’ve kept yourself for me, didn't you? I have waited for you too, for centuries even, but now our waiting has ended, and I can finally love you.”

With one brutal thrust, he breached through the gates of her sacred haven, corrupting her purity and ripping her open with the elegance of a savage. 

Exasperated bats fluttered their wings over the red moon at the sound of her pained howl. Eyes flared to the bleak sky above; the girl watched them in a daze, disbelieving the blazing demon that scorched her from inside as he nestled himself between her resisting gates with no intention to cease. 

In his villainy, August pushed further. Stunned thunders of ecstasy erupted from his lips, all to humiliate her along with the dark minions who circled the altar to pervertedly witness this sacrilegious ritual in which their master ravaged the unwilling maiden. Ignoring her body’s vehement protest, he forced himself unfathomably deep, only stopping until the head of his cock kissed the gateway of her cervix.

Crystalised tears rolled down her temples and stained the cold marble beneath her body. Slit impossibly sore, she twitched and sobbed at the overwhelming feeling of being invaded by another entity. Her once protected realm was now under the domain of a ruthless prince, and he took no prisoners and granted no mercy nor care at her vain endeavours to push him out. 

He would never stop. He would have her again and again until her sacred little womb would be plentiful with his seed. 

“Tight,” he blurted out in a blissful huff and reached his talons to bite into her quaking thighs. Spreading her wider, he hooked his hands below her knees, moulding her into a vessel to be fulfilled. Arctic orbs glazed down her naked figure, his plump lips cooing at her aching whimpers. The taut and hairy muscles of his gut flexed as he carefully withdrew his vicious cock, coated in the crimson sorrow of her maidenhood.

Hollow pain throbbed in her empty cunt as he suddenly abandoned her. Distressed and overwhelmed, she hoped he would stay out, yet her traitorous body coveted his return in a false faith that it would ease the fervid twinge that soared to her belly and even burnt in her breasts.

It was far from true.

No less vigorous than before, August plunged back inside her, stretching her again, shaping her as his own as she yipped and struggled to escape. His head threw back with a roar of divine pleasure, feasting at the thrill of her dauntless veils wrapping around him like a succulent flower. For a moment there, he wondered who preyed on who. Her concupiscent little cove sucked him so wantonly it threatened to swallow his raging cock. 

‘But of course, every virgin is destined to become my whore.’

Hot and heavy, his shaft seized the void that had always been inside her, their heaving organs collided in euphoric bliss like two broken shards that were lost for decades and finally pieced back together. And even though she seared with every jerk or shift he made, the impassioned flames licked at the seams of her twitching cunt in waves of ache and foreign desperation. 

“No…” she whispered, shame singeing her throat as the little pesky sparks enkindled where the devil had violated her. Vision blurry, she gazed at him utterly mystified. Part of her warred to stoke the fire that screamed heresy, while the other begged to yield to her demise.   

As August pulled away again and thrust harder, a breathless moan tore from her lips.    

A cutting grin radiated onto his face. “It feels so good inside you,” he sang and slid one hand to stroke all the way down from her sweat-ridden thighs to her belly, feeling the movement of his cock with every push and shove. 

He was taunting her, yet she couldn’t care less. Over the cinders of pain and virtue, a garden began to bloom. With every abysmal stroke of his swelling shaft, she could feel green saplings and coy vines growing within her uterus—soft, beautiful tendrils stalked through her arteries, sprouted through her cove, and engulfed his swelling demon as well.

She was no longer burning but becoming alive. Pained cries suddenly evolved into asphyxiation of bliss. Beyond her realisation, she undulated her hips in the desire to endure each of his wet claiming thrusts. Her spine coiled against the surface, further allowing him easier passage to nourish the wilderness that continued spreading through her blood. 

Noticing the change in her, approving groans rumbled in his throat; his little bride was growing tighter around his demon, her quivering lips and fluttering lashes the image of true Elysium. It was not long before he would plant his seed in her fertile lush. Her cunt milked and suckled around him, demanding to be bred by the devil. 

“Yes, my love! Give in to me! Give in to your primal sin!” August urged, enhancing the rhythm until he was thrusting into her like a battering ram, the sinful elixir of their union smearing on his groin and dripping down her rump. “Descend with me!” 

In her delirium she witnessed magical nightshades and sinewy stalks growing amidst the gritty bricks, encompassing the ominous cathedral with bright colours. 

It was paradise on earth, given to her by the unearthly rapturous joy of having this demon violate her, slamming harder with growing frustration until his thick girth ripped through the last threads of her self-preservation and that which she tried so hard to deny erupted through her clenching core.

Euphoria. 

For a lingering moment, she had wings of her own, pale as precious pearls and lustrous stars. Tingling waves of ethereal white heat burst at her seams, purifying her as she flew above the cathedral, and watched their ungodly union from above. But her wings suddenly caught aflame and before she knew it, she crashed onto the earth with a secondary, more violent climax. 

The beast’s roars erupted into a brutal thunder, causing the sturdy pillars of the cathedral to quake and crack like thin glass. With all his might, he clutched her thighs and hauled her against him, slamming his swollen cock deep into her belly and releasing his smouldering, milky essence until it seeped from her sleek. August’s wings flew open as he found his own rapture, blazes following through and consuming the ancient hall. 

This was no longer a hallucination. 

This was Inferno.

Still radiating with orgasmic glow, she screamed horrified as everything around them vehemently burnt to coals. Even the soulless servants crumbled into dust, accepting their fate without so much of a yip. The fire raged and died within seconds, leaving nothing but broken pillars and ashen smoke.  

Shortly, the tepid air of night caressed her naked skin as they remained alone in the ruins of what was once an ominous cathedral. Still buried in her viscera, August broke into a low, stretching groan of relief which made her immediately return her eyes to him. Shame rose bitter in her throat and new fresh rivulets trickled on her cheeks.  

After all that he had done to her, she could see nothing in him but a beautiful monster.

“My beloved queen,” August keened to comfort her and moved his hand to tenderly stroke her lower belly. 

A toothy smile broke upon his face, his eyes gleaming with surprise as he felt the life that had already begun growing in her angelic fortress. A son, strong and glorious as his father. For the first time in his long existence, the devil was truly elated and he vowed in that moment that he would give her much, and much more. But first, she needed to be cared for. 

Her assaulted hole convulsed with pain as he pulled himself out, leaving a trail of creamy fluids to dribble at his departure. Sniffling and shaking, she watched him bemused, as he climbed onto the altar and moved to lie beside her. Though she no longer flinched as he touched her, what was the point of it anyway? He had already destroyed her and stolen her innocent soul.  

“You make me so happy, my beloved queen,” August had murmured as he gripped her jaw and pressed his lips to hers. His kiss claimed her breath, pillaging whatever left of her chastity and wit until she absentmindedly kissed back, forgetting herself as his tongue bested her will. 

When he broke away, the taste of spiced ruby wine and blood lingered in her mouth. 

“An eternity awaits us,” the devil explained as he pecked her nose and her forehead lovingly, to which she shivered - out of fright or out of want, she couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

“You had made me the happiest, now give me the chance to grant the same favour, ask for anything you want in the world and it shall be yours,” he begged and wrapped her in the shelter of his strong arms to lie down with him on the smooth stone surface.

Absentmindedly, she welcomed the protection offered from his embrace and stared silently as flakes of cement broke from the remnants of the wall floated in the air around her before she opened her mouth. 

“I wish for…” 

Her whisper faded into the dark.

*Disclaimer: I do not own Mission Impossible or August Walker

Beautiful dividers by @firefly-graphics​

[miekasa]

more boyfriend headcanons: love languages

↯ pairing: eren jaeger x (fem) reader

↯ genres and warnings: modern au, college au to some extent, fluff

↯ notes: i cannot stop thinking about him, so have 50 more head canons about this absolute menace. despite the title, he can and will turn anything into a love language, so beware.

annoying the hell out of you (quality time)

You’ve heard of girls sitting on their boyfriend’s laps and hugging them/falling asleep while they play games, now get ready for: boyfriends hugging you from the back while you attempt to do any mundane activity bc they miss you.

Because that’s Eren. About almost anything, because his physical affection, when not in the presence of other people, is absolutely on ten thousand and one.

The only public place he doesn’t mind cuddling up to you is the library. He doesn’t mind putting his arm around you or leaning his head on your shoulder, or even doing the sitting hugging thing in the library. Mostly because few people are there anyway.

Mind you, you’re the one who even showed him where the library was, and now he doesn’t know how to act. “Eren it’s not a ‘cuddling spot.’ It’s the library where I—and lots of other people, including yourself—go to do homework.” “If not cuddling spot, then why library chairs and study rooms cuddly?”

Particularly when it’s getting late and you’ve been crammed in the library for hours, and Eren just wants you to pack it up so he can drive you home. He’ll squeeze himself between your body and the back of your chair, wrap his arms around your stomach, and lay his cheek on your back.

Most times he falls asleep waiting for you to be finished. Sometimes he gets impatient and tickles you until you agree to leave. Either works for him.

He doesn’t not like holding hands in public, but it’s not his go to either. If you’re walking together, sometimes he’ll wrap his arm around your shoulder—usually after some cocky comment—or even walk behind you with his hands on your shoulders like it’s a two person conga line.

He doesn’t kiss you in public a lot, and never around his friends. They can see the literal hearts in his eyes when he’s around you though, so it’s not like he has to. On occasion, he will kiss your cheek. It’s kind of random, but you don’t question it.

In all honestly, whenever he gets affectionate or cuddly in public is all pretty random, even to him. Sometimes he’ll just be standing around you and he’s hit with the urge to engulf you in a hug and kiss your cheeks and he has to stop himself like, “....Why did I just think about doing that?”

Partially because he wasn’t outwardly hugged or shown affection a lot as a child, so sometimes he gets to urges children do to just want a hug. But he’s also pretty bad and/or new at processing his emotions like that so he mostly stands there like 🧍 looking at you with lovey dovey eyes instead.

Touchy when he’s drunk. But that’s not exclusive to you; anyone in a five foot radius of him will be subject to his arm slung around their shoulders, or him being slumped over their back, or random head ruffles.

Most commonly Armin, but I think we all knew that. Sometimes it’s Jean, and Jean is an even messier drunk, which results in the both of them actually being overly affectionate with each other in a strange, but endearing way. They both deny it to their graves when they’re sober, though.

Hovers around you. Constantly. Like a shadow. 

Does not leave you the hell alone when you’re in the kitchen. Will make it 100x more difficult for you to cook or just maneuver, which is ironic seeing as the most gourmet thing he can cook up is bagel with cream cheese. 

Sometimes Eren seems unaware of his size in comparison to you and your friends. It’s very sweet that he laughs with his whole body, but he’s got to realize that if bumps into you because of his sporadic laughter, that he might accidentally knock you into next Tuesday.

Likes when you touch his hair, doesn’t matter where or when, or who’s around. He loves it, all of it.

Will press his face against yours if he has stubble, just to be annoying. Like always.

If you hadn’t gotten it from everything else, he just likes to annoy you in general. But, like, affectionately. I keep saying it’s his love language and I mean it. Really—what it is is that he likes spending time with you, but he also likes annoying the hell out of you, too.

Bites. Not in a sexy way—well, unless you want him too—but, just because. Bites your shoulder when you’re not expecting it, bites your cheek while you’re in the middle of watching a show. Sometimes he takes your hand in his and your think it’s going to be sweet and he’s going to kiss it, but really he just brings it to his mouth to bite it.

Bites your ass, too. Again, just for fun. Because he thinks he can get away with it. Biting is a love language I’m telling y’all.

Likes to give you piggy back rides, even if you don’t ask for them or need one. You could be going from your room to the living room and Eren insists on carrying you there. 

And for some reason, he thinks that because he likes to hold/lift you, that that should apply to you as well?? Like he’s not 6′1 and big bodied, hello?? Eren you cannot just jump on top of people, you’re grown. 

He lets you dress him a lot. His fashion sense isn’t bad, and to be honest with you, I think he’d be a little bit of a hypebeast LOL. I don’t mean decked out head to toe in Supreme (god forbid...) but definitely has a bit of a sneaker obsession.

Not that he keeps them clean or is obsessive about creasing them he couldn’t care less. He just thinks they’re cool. Maybe even some accessories too, like those KAWS toys. Not a lot because they’re hard to get, but is really proud of his little growing collection.

But if you want to dress him up, he’s down for it. Would even let you buy him a pea coat so he can pretend to be a scholar. (He’s not BYE). He’ll tell you if something really isn’t his style, but he’ll wear it if you tell him he looks hot 🙄

Kinda forces his way into your life in little ways. Like, he’ll start adding his favorite snacks to your grocery lists. Moves a pair of your shoes from the door to make room for his own when he’s over. Basically claims two drawers for himself in your dresser. Annoying. Endearing.

Lowkey has his own intricate skincare routine, but he likes doing it with you more. He’ll make it a whole thing, and buy wine, and stupid drinking card games, and sit with you on your bed for 2 hours playing while your face masks dry. 

Texts you if you’re in the same room as him, but not paying attention to him. Especially if you’re doing schoolwork.

Throws pillows at you while you’re sitting at your desk to get your attention. He could just say your name, but it’s so much more fun this way (according to him anyway). It’s all fun and games until you smother him with one. 

Thinks arguing with you is cute, and sometimes says or does—or doesn’t do, for that matter—things just to incite an argument. Not a big one, or something serious, just petty things to rile you up so he can kiss and make up for it. For example, he’ll purposely putting the dishes in the wrong place, or hiding the remote from you, or putting his clothes in the wrong hamper.

“Eren, I swear to god, if you don’t stop putting the water bottles on the top shelf—” “What are you gonna do it about, pretty girl? Hit me with it? You can’t even reach—ow!”

being your loudest hype man (words of affirmation) 

The amount of pictures he has of you... criminal. From off-guards, to posed photos, to selfies, to screenshots, he has them all tucked away in a little folder with your name and a string of very inappropriate emojis after it.

Screenshots 90% of your snaps to him, even if his just of your eyebrows up. Sometimes because he thinks it’s funny, sometimes to save the picture because he likes it, but mostly because he knows you don’t understand WHY and that’s gives him the most satisfaction 😌

Loud and annoying in your comments on social media too. Hype man almost to a cringe fail level. He doesn’t care though, he has to let it be known. 

You could post a simple picture of you and Mikasa at lunch and Eren is in the comments screaming as per usual. @jaegerbomb: do i see TWO pretty best friends??? fuck it up besties 😫🥵🥵😜

GOD. HE WOULD RESPOND WITH “SO TRUE, BESTIE” TO ANYTHING ONCE HE LEARNS WHAT IT MEANS.

Oh, but he doesn’t take to it lightly when you call him bestie, or refer to him as your friend in any capacity. He’s your boyfriend, and would like to be labeled as such.

If you did that prank where you pick up the phone while you’re around him and say “Oh, I’m not too busy, I’m hanging with a friend right now,” he would pout about it for days. Days. Doesn’t get over it, and reminds you of your transgressions every two to three business weeks.

Tells you you look hot all the time, regardless of what you’re doing or wearing. He means it, too, genuinely, he thinks you’re hot. But he does get a kick out of how potentially embarrassed it makes you.

Tells you you’re smart and beautiful and his favorite person on the planet. He means it, always, even if the delivery isn’t romantic. Although, he would argue that telling you he would “tap that” is very romantic. 

for him: receiving gifts & words of affirmation

Eren would be really humbled and honored to receive a gift from you. He needs to receive physical affection, too—but something about you thinking about him enough to buy or make him a gift that he’ll love and cherish really hits home for him. He doesn’t have many people who would do that for him.

If you buy him anything, he’s using it the second it’s out of the wrapping paper. You buy him shoes? He’s wearing them the next day. A new case for his phone? Rips the old one off in an instant. A little trinket for his keychain? He can barely remember to carry his keys in the first place, but suddenly he can’t ever forget them now.

He just can’t get over the fact that you think about him and know him well enough to tailor your purchases to his liking. It’s almost an impossible concept to him, and really reassuring that you love him as much as he loves you.

On a similar note, he actually doesn’t mind couple items, as long as they’re not obvious and/or corny. Down to have a pair of matching hats or phone cases or even sneakers. You don’t even have to always/only wear them at the same time, just knowing you have the same thing at home kinda makes him feel fuzzy inside.

He also thinks it’s hot. He can’t explain why knowing his girl has the same kicks at him is hot, he just knows it is.

As much as he likes telling you how hot you are, Eren also likes to hear that you find him attractive—and that you like him, in general. For the most part, he gets that from your physical reciprocity and quite literally letting him hover around you like a fly, but it’s nice to be told with words every once in a while.

For as much as he knows it, he gets a little caught of guard whenever you tell him you love him. He knows you love him, but hearing it sometimes is a little surreal to him. Very reassuring, too, and everyone needs a little reassurance from time to time.

[raekahwritings]

BNHA Gods AU - Thanatos - Shindou Yo

GODS AU! - What kind of shitty god are you?

Pairing: Shindou You x Reader

Rating: Explicit, NSFW, Minors, DO NOT ENTER.

Warning: NSFW, Mentions of non-consent, slight blood/gore/murder,slight yandere.

Word Count: 2016

Authors Note: This was written in one night, I really wanted to make it in time for this collaboration despite everything going on right now. I hope you all can forgive me since this wasn’t proof read but hopefully you all can enjoy the Gods!AU Shindou!

GODS!AU Collaboration: Please check out the collab here from @lemonlordleah-shinzawa-kitten​

The age of gods was long over. They no longer walked this earth. No one worshipped them; they became the words of fiction and stories.

Let the gods guide you.

Live your life well and the gods may reward you.

Do not turn away from the path of good, lest the gods punish you.

Where were the gods when you needed them? When your mother had dressed you up as a pretty doll, when you smiled and jumped in the excitement of a new dress, and when she had shown you to a portly older gentleman. He took you, none-too-gently, and placed a bag of coins into your mother’s palm. She had left brusquely, curtly, and took care not to look you in the eyes.

How long had it been since then? Your childhood had gone by in the mess of yelling, screams, and scullery work. When you were old enough? You now lay on the floor with your clothing strewn apart, dried tears on your face and a voice hoarse from screaming.

This was a life where no gods deigned to visit—this was a place of vileness, sordidness, and loathsome men. You were nothing more than a commodity to them—they had no qualms about leaving you on this dirty floor.

God, you had prayed so many times. Save me.

You’d been delivered to them, lent like broken toy until they called the brothel master to fetch you.

You had been defiled too many times to believe that any God would help you now.

Where were you? What had they consecrated this time? They had laughed and they had jeered while you had cringed at the blasphemy they spewed. They had taken their belts to mark you, left you bleeding, and then poured acridly old liquid, “—better hope this fucking holy water works.”

“They would laugh at this.” You blinked away the tears, blinked to see the dormant idolatry of Thanatos nearby. You scrabbled at the ground, trying to find a perch to lay your hands on so you could get up. You winced at seeing the dried blood and spilt fluids. If there was a moment for Thanatos to judge you, this would be now.  

But would he?

Gods had come and gone, with nary a care. You tried to stand, tried to ignore the mess they had made, and you glared at the idolatry. “You didn’t stop this.” You pointed to the empty room – “You’re supposed to be some merciless, hateful god of death.” You scoffed, knowing it was pathetic. Here you were, reaching a level of desperation to talk to some useless piece of stone and an empty room like it would answer you. But all the resentment, anger, and bitterness spewed out – here and now— you hissing, “You’re a fucking piece of shit god.”

And yet.

“If my life was enough of a price, would you come here and now? Or am I too dirty for someone like you? You want a precious little girl, an innocent naïve little sheep?” You furiously took the idol, glaring before slamming it as hard as you could to the floor. Take that, you fucker.

You watched the idol shatter into pieces, the useless stone rolling away. You should fear your own blasphemy and yet… satisfaction had you feeling smug.

“My, my, that doesn’t seem very nice.”

Holy fuck. You whipped around—the room was empty. When had someone come in? You nearly screamed at the mysterious voice, your arms reaching out to blindly shove at the culprit while you stumbled backwards.

A masculine hand caught your arm, tsking at you and he emerged from the shadows with a disappointed look. You nearly fell backwards but his iron clasp had you standing upright.

“Who are you?” Shock and fear colored your tone, the smugness was fleeting as you look to the door, a door that hadn’t budged since the scraggle of men had left earlier. How did he get in? You looked at him, swallowing nervously, your gaze flitting up and down to make out this stranger in the darkness.

“You called me and yet, you still ask me?” He stepped further into the firelight… You looked up at this dizzyingly tall man, you could make out the messy, dark locks framing his chiseled face. But more so, you found yourself staring into eyes the color of pure jade. He was far too handsome, his features bold and brooding, the stubble on his face giving him a heathenish look. He was broad and lean, the muscles of his arms and chest visible through his disheveled shirt.

Someone who made you stop breathing.

“No.” You breathed— “You’re lying.” You called no one, he was here to take you back to the brothel, you tried to wrench your hand pathetically away. He couldn’t fool you, no matter how handsome he was.

“Calm down.” He pulled you into his chest, you were the one falling forward as he stopped your mewling struggles. You heard those words countless times; it had always preceded the acrid smell of chloroform…

“I don’t want to go back.” You choked out, letting your wrists fall slack. “I don’t want this.”

His voice lilted up, questioning. “Go back where?” You could almost believe the sincerity in his voice, the confusion, the perplexity of the situation. But people loved playing with you, toying with you in these games— men liked playing with women as if it were a game of cat and mouse. You curled your fingers into your palms, once again trying to suppress any kindle of hope—because you inevitably always were sold back.

Meanwhile, Thanatos, the god you had summoned with your blood, piety, and holy water—looked heavenwards in frustration. “Girl, speak your name.” He commanded—you answered obediently.

How? You didn’t mean to answer him.

“I am Thanatos. Now speak plainly. I’ve heard your desperate cry for help, for vengeance.” He leaned back against the stone table, tugging you into his lap. “Now can we dispense with the formalities? I’d much rather you call me Shindou instead.” You found yourself caged in—your chest against his bare one as he gestured for you to look up. “You summoned  me. And while I normally ignore mortals…” He let his hand fall loosely to your back—you stiffened, squirming—as his calloused fingers brushed against the filth on your skin, the torn scraps of fabric that hid nothing from his gaze.

“I was personally interested in this offering of yours.” You stilled. There had been no one in the room with you to hear your vitriol words—but this was the temple of Thanatos. Could it be?  “Oh. You don’t believe me?” You looked doubtful. Well he couldn’t blame you. His lips curved, expecting this reaction. He waved a hand in the air, letting the firelights flicker to black and purple flames, letting it dance across the room hauntingly for you. You watched transfixed. “But parlor tricks? A dime a dozen.” He said dismissively. He tapped the table, a prompt for the shadows around you to contort menacingly and snaking up your legs.

You jumped more into his arms, away from the strangely prying and invasive shadows as it crawled disturbingly high up your body.

“Girl, they’re simply an extension of me.” You could hear the humor in his tone, see the shadows snake away as he chuckled at your close contact with him. “But I suppose I can be nice for a bit.” He let the darkness recede and the orange firelight to flicker back.

“Now that’s settled, may I discuss your price?” You… took a moment to blink, to really focus on him. Something about him, the closer you were, was making your senses hazy. He seemed to realize, crooning gently to you. “Oh baby, I know gods are supposed to be tempting to mortals and all that but where’s the little spitfire that threw a little tantrum at me? I quite enjoyed it.”

The haze dissipated a bit. You… had thrown down the idolatry, you had committed blasphemy in the actual face of a god. You wanted to die, the shame overwhelming you. Thanatos—no, Shindou simply laughed though—“Baby, don’t think of me as one of the pious assholes. I don’t need you to prostrate yourself to me and those hopeless,” he waved at the ostentatious ornaments adorning the room, “piece of shit, ugly crap of me. I’m a lot more handsome in person, don’t you think?” You couldn’t disagree.

This kind of man—God, you corrected yourself—exuded charisma, aura, sexuality that vibrated with your own being. Like you were made for him, your body melted against his light touch.

“Demon got your tongue? I can fix that.” Shindou cradled the side of your face, leaning in to press a kiss. You gasped, giving him an opportunity for his tongue invade your mouth—ravishing and giving you no air to breathe. He reached down to anchor your hips against his, drawing you more into his lap and letting his hardness press into your dampened, slickened ache between your thighs.

But you were dirty and filthy. You pushed him, and he let you, you knew his strength far outstripped yours. “I can’t.” You shook your head. “You must’ve seen what happened…” It wasn’t just one disgusting man, it was many who had left you sticky and ruined with their fluids on your unwilling body.

Even now.

“Seriously? Shindou sighed. He tutted at you like a child—which as a mortal, you must’ve been. “I came all this way out for your offering, for this delectable and luscious body and you dare to impugn me with your sense of shame?” He cocked his head. “Like I didn’t know? All those men…” He parted your legs, let the sticky fluid drip. “All those men, and they didn’t break your spirit. You come to me, fiery and burning with revenge, and I answered your call. What could be more attractive than this?” Albeit… Shindou did frown. “I don’t care for those worms to mark what’s mine. I guess they all have to die, wont they?”

Your eyes widened… your words caught. You wanted to protest—the mocking feeling of horror should’ve come at the thought of such senseless murder and death…. But you could only feel the sense of relish, of pure desire to see the blood of your captors. You bit your lips, futilely trying to hide your anticipation and eagerness.

“Ah, that’s my girl. I knew you and I would get along.” Shindou pulled down the rags of your dress,  watched your nubile body pull close to his and you shivered—his hardness grinded against you—a god like this wanted you. You could hardly believe it. You whimpered as he bit down your throat, bit at the junction of your shoulders while you bled. He licked the bloody trail down your ample breasts, swirling his hot tongue around the hardened peaks and making you arch in muted pleasure.

“Oh no, you can’t stay quiet.” He let the shadowy tendrils return, let it wrap around your throat and craning your neck backwards. His hands traced over your slickened breasts, pinching, pulling, vibrating as you screamed in pleasure and pain. “Sounds quite nice.” He mused, condescendingly. His hands eventually travelled to your taut thighs, teasing the inside of them, and drawing them further apart.  His fingers brushed against the dirty cum—he didn’t care for it but he supposed he’d just have to fuck you enough so you’d be dripping with his own cum—all the more reason to cleanse this lustful, vengeful darling of a human.

He had waited for someone like you. Other gods deigned to have their innocent little virgins on their sacrificial alter.

He wanted a tainted, corrupted human whose lust rivalled their desire for revenge—a human he could turn into his little fuck toy of a god, one who would stand by his side as he ruled over mayhem, murder, and death. Preferably, begging for his cock and drunk on cum – not a bad start, he mused. Not a bad start.

[vampiric-prometheus]

Nowhere To Hyde

Chapter 2: Observant Shadow

Rather than seeing stars, Hyde blinks into consciousness from within the dark of a grand lounge lit by a fireplace. Laughter is the first thing to pierce his ears, some old gentleman chuckling at a comment joked about by another man. The waft of wine comes second, a stinging scent resting on the tip of Hyde’s nose. He wrinkles said nose, but finds that his face doesn’t move all that much. It’s strange enough for him to glance downwards, taking in his frame, noticing that his body is nothing but a dark stain upon one of the walls of this room. Where the lamp and firelight doesn’t reach (where shade is cast) Hyde stands, a shadow intruding on some rich gent’s party. And that’s when Hyde notices the back of the good doctor.

Jekyll is a tall man, his inky hair pulled neatly into a tied tail, which drapes elegantly over one of his broad shoulders. His skin is olive in shade, his raised left hand proposing a toast with a glass of cherry wine. Jekyll’s voice sounds smooth, kind, akin to the comforting flames that flicker nearby. Hyde would love to comment more about the good doctor’s appearance, but after the drinks are pressed together with a chime of glass, Jekyll takes a step towards a nearby chair. As the good doctor moves, Hyde finds his own point of view shifts, remaining behind the doctor at all times, glued to the dimly lit walls of the room. Ah… so apparently, he’s not just any old shadow. He’s Jekyll’s shadow. Fitting, but irritating and restrictive.

Hmm… can he do anything from this position? Knock over a glass to scare someone? Whisper nonsense into a gentleman’s ear for a laugh? Hyde tries to move his arm toward a nearby table, but his body feels anchored to the darkness, shots of pain passing along his limb when he pushes too hard. Abandoning that, Hyde snaps open his jaw: “Hey, fellas! Save some wine for me, won’t yah?”

Nothing. Nobody flinches, no-one glances around to search for the new voice. Jekyll doesn’t even look over his shoulder, or frown, or anything of the sort. Hyde pouts. Guess he’s just stuck spectating, then.

Whilst contemplating how to un-stuck himself (perhaps he should try to fall asleep or something? No, that surely won’t work-) Hyde watches the gentlemen slowly leave one by one, each retreat followed by a chorus of goodbyes. Eventually, only two men remain: Jekyll, still sitting within that comfortable looking chair, and some other fella seated beside him by the fireplace. The pale fellow has bronze short hair that’s all neatly brushed to one side, his stubble also nice and tidy, hugging tight along his square jaw. There’s something shy about him, perhaps from the way his shoulders seem subtly drawn into his large frame, or from the way his grey gaze avoids making eye contact with the good doctor.

“Jekyll,” the man begins, fingers absentmindedly tangling together in his lap, “If you wouldn’t mind, I would like to speak with you. About your will?”

Wait, this is the lawyer guy? What was his name again?

“Oh Utterson,” ah, right, thanks for the answer Jekyll, “You know that I would really rather not discuss this topic. I’m aware of your concern towards the terms, but I must insist: should I die or disappear, all of my possessions and wealth are to be left to Edward Hyde. It’s a… matter of great importance to me. Alright?”

Ohhh, so that’s where Hyde plucked the name ‘Edward’ from! That’s the name on the will, the name he has to go by for things to make sense. It’s a good thing his subconscious seemed to remember this, in the end.

Emerald eyes note how Utterson shuffles uncomfortably within his chair, his voice lowering despite the lawyer and the doctor being alone in the room (save for the spectating shadow, of course); “I understand, but Hyde… I have heard talk of him.”

The good doctor sits further upright. Hyde, meanwhile, doesn’t know whether to grin victoriously or to shrink into a little ball.

Jekyll’s voice also lowers, though he speaks with a cautious hint to his tone, “Ah, you have? May I ask what was said?”

“...It was talk of a cruel act.” The lawyer says carefully, eyes upon his hands, but the rest of his body facing Jekyll with confidence, “I do not wish to gossip, but… I believe you should know that your newest friend brought injury to a child. And from what I was told, he covered the incident with your own signed expenses.”

Okay, yep, maybe Hyde should be curling up into a ball. He’s fairly certain the good doctor would be scowling his way, should Jekyll know of his existence in this room. Though, thinking of that… if Jekyll is currently unaware that Hyde is listening in, was Jekyll watching from the shadows when Hyde was running beneath the stars? Was the good doctor made to observe his other self carelessly stumble over a child whilst captured by his awe of the sky? Yeesh, Hyde certainly hopes not. Dealing with that situation was already irritating enough, let alone with the embarrassing knowledge that Jekyll may have been watching. Judging. Clenching his teeth in disgust at every little mistake his counterpart partook in.

“-am glad to hear, at least, that Hyde thought to help pay for the child’s medical expenses.” Ah shit, did he miss a part of the chat? Oh well, Jekyll’s still talking regardless, having leant forward in his seat towards Utterson, “I only hope that this whole situation is just a misunderstanding and was merely an unfortunate accident.”

The lawyer’s slight frown implies that he doesn’t believe the trampling to be a ‘mere accident’. Hyde scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“Please understand, my friend,” Jekyll continues insistently, “That this does not change my stance towards my will. I am in a strange position with Mr Hyde, though it is one that I do not wish to adjust.”

“...Harry,” Utterson says in a voice contrastingly soft, considering his tone so far has been all matter-of-fact, “You know that you can trust me. We have been friends for as long as I can remember. So you know, then, that if you come clean to me with more details about this situation, I will work my very hardest to get you out of it.”

Jekyll sighs, one both disappointed, yet oh so fond. Hyde feels his own heart flutter within his chest, causing one of his hands to smack against his ribs in surprise. What’s that feeling supposed to be? Why did it sync up with that weird little sigh of Jekyll’s?

“Utterson, your kindness is as endless as always. I thank you for your concern, really I do, but please, do not stress yourself over this matter. Here, to assure you, I shall swear to you;” the good doctor moves his hand towards Utterson’s arm, but dares not touch it until the lawyer gives him a timid nod of permission. Jekyll then gently squeezes his friend’s arm, whilst making a statement that causes Hyde’s eyes to widen: “The moment I choose, I can be rid of Mr Hyde. Alright?”

Well, excuse you, Jekyll! The moment he chooses, huh? Hyde seethes, hissing from his rising wrath. He’s barely had time to exist and the ‘good doctor’ is already making statements about being rid of him? Why did Jekyll ever bother to mix together all of those chemicals, then? Was this not what he wanted from his little concoction?

Then again… perhaps this is just deceit to silence Utterson’s concerns? If Jekyll was choosing to get rid of Hyde, then he wouldn’t be sitting here insisting on keeping that name within his will. No, he’d be denouncing the name Edward Hyde immediately, cutting all ties and associations with it. Hyde’s rage slowly mellows, begrudgingly accepting that, perhaps, the good doctor is saying these cruel words in his shadow’s interest.

It takes Utterson a while to respond, grey eyes averted to contemplate over the dancing embers of the fireplace. Finally, the lawyer stutters, “I-I hope it is not rude to say that those words are reassuring to hear.”

A breath of laughter escapes Jekyll, “Not at all, my friend.” The good doctor pats the lawyer’s arm in a reassuring manner, before moving his hand away, “Now then, let’s allow the topic of Hyde to sleep, yes? Though, I suppose I do have one final request regarding him, if you wouldn’t mind?”

Hyde’s attention snaps sharply towards the back of Jekyll’s head, synchronised with the tilt of Utterson’s own head towards the good doctor’s. God, what is it now?

“I really do have a great interest in Mr Hyde, Utterson. If something should ever happen to me, please promise me that you will ensure he is properly given all of his rights. He may be… ‘difficult’ at times, but I think, if you knew more about him, you would seek to help him just as I do.”

Utterson shakes his head in disbelief, though his awkward stiffness afterwards implies that he hadn’t intended to perform that gesture so blatantly, “From what I have heard of Hyde, I’m not sure that I shall ever like him–”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Jekyll cuts the lawyer off, though not harshly, “I just need to hear you promise me that you will help him, when I am no longer here. Even if only for my sake. …Please, Utterson, this will take a great weight off of my mind.”

Gaze shifting to the lawyer, Hyde studies Utterson’s expression, drinking in its conflicted layers. Confusion is the strongest emotion present, worry and distaste for the situation closely following it. But hidden beneath that furrowed brow lies a spark of curiosity, almost lost within those dull grey eyes. Sadly, the emotions are all dispelled by a reluctant sigh, “Alright. I promise.”

There isn’t much to see, after that. Hyde simply watches the two gentlemen sit staring at the fire together, silent yet seemingly comfortable now that there is quiet between them. He can’t help but yawn, not at all understanding the joy of this stillness. Hyde would love to move, go find something fun to do, but stupid shadows have no agency to do that.

Time passes. Utterson stands with an excuse of it being late, even though it had already been ‘late’ when the lawyer had sparked the topic of the will. The men exchange a handshake, Jekyll again waiting for Utterson to nod before contact is initiated. Hyde watches the good doctor and the lawyer move towards the hallway, away from the light of the lounge.

Hold on, don’t shadows need light to be cast– oh God, Jekyll, wait!

The moment the good doctor steps into the dark, Hyde is gone.

Author note: you can also read Nowhere To Hyde on AO3. Find me there as “Duckvenger”. :D Have a good day!

[break-me-kacchan]

One hundred sleepless nights

Word count: 3930. 

I was thinking about making this a small series. Let me know if you would like a part two please.

Summary: I thought of doing a little story based on the song one hundred sleepless nights- Pierce the Veil. You and Bakugo were fuck buddies. Have been for years when the unthinkable happens. 

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A text that read “He’s gone, come on over” was all Bakugo needed to finish what he was working on and to head over to your home. Every time Bakugo pulled up to your home he always felt annoyance prick at the back of his skull. He could give you this big house and all the finer things you had come accustomed to with the addition of a caring partner. Not one that slept around with other women and certainly not one that would let you stray and become another man’s lover.

He slid out of the driver seat of the vehicle he was driving and clicked the lock button as he took the steps down the front path to your front door. He paused on your front porch; this part was still awkward for him. The choice between opening the door or knocking. He stood his head hung a little low as his fists clenched and un-clenched. He was lost in thought and did not notice you opened the door until you cleared your throat.

His head whipped up a smile creeping onto his features but when he saw your tear-stained eyes the smile stopped completely.

He rushed over to you as you stood one hand on the door and the other shoved into the pocket of Bakugo’s hoodie you were wearing.

“Love. What’s wrong?” Bakugo asked rushing forward to pull you into his embrace. Your head rested against his strong chest as your breath drew in his sweet smell. You relaxed slightly but only long enough for another sob to rack your body as it pressed against his chest.

He never wanted to see you like this, not even in the beginning.

*FLASH BACK*

You stood in the corner wearing an 8 thousand dollar dress your husband picked out for you. You gulped back the rest of the champagne in your hand before placing the glass on the tray of the waiter passing by and grabbed another glass.

Your husband was a well-known scientist. He assisted heroes with making adjustment to the equipment they use and their costumes. He was brilliant and when he asked you to marry him at such a young age you were blind. You agreed and just after your 18th birthday you were wed to your high school sweetheart.

Here you were, wearing a beautiful; backless; emerald floor length gown. The Hero Gala, where heroes spoke with the men and women who helped them upgrade their hero gear needs. Also, company awards were going to be given out, by your husband of course. Your husband, the man you haven’t seen in almost 3 weeks, returned this morning from his vacation with his mistress just for this Gala his company was holding.

It wasn’t always like this between you and the man that you married. It was good once but he started to make a name for himself and suddenly you weren’t the only one he wanted to scream his name.

He started to change though. You noticed after moving into your first home that things were different. You cooked dinner and made your husband’s lunch as you always did, even when the two of you had plenty money, you continued because you thought he liked the love notes and special snacks. Long story short he didn’t and it wasn’t until your husband was a big shot in his company getting ready to venture out on his own you noticed he didn’t.

The lunch you had made for years was left in the fridge every time you got up to start your day lately. He no longer came home for dinner and finally he slept out at least 3 nights a week. You knew what was happening but refused to believe it, at least you tried until you went to his office to see if he wanted to enjoy lunch with you and that’s when you caught him. Pants around his ankles and his hands gripping some intern’s hair as he bobbed her head back and forth.

By the time your husband noticed you it was already too late.

When the two of you spoke about it he had said he had love for you but wasn’t in love with you anymore. You understood, he was amazing, of course he felt this way about you. When he had all those other women of course he didn’t care for you like that anymore. He didn’t want you leaving even though he was the one who stepped out. All he could think of would be the scandal for his new forming company. He suggested an open relationship and suggested you have “friends” as well.

So there you stood, in the corner drinking champagne by the mouth full, grabbing another glass every time someone carrying a tray passed by. Feeling a little tipsy you stepped out onto the balcony behind you and you huffed against the railing over looking the gardens below.

You leaned over the railing slightly and looked down at the drop. It was maybe 20-25 feet.

“I wouldn’t jump if I were you, I might have to jump into save you.” The voice startled you. Turning quickly to see who was speaking you nudged the glass sitting next to you and it came crashing down below in the ground.

“Fuck, you scared me and now my drinks gone.” You breathlessly replied to the voice. Staring at the dark figure that was blocked by the shadow of the doorway.

You heard a chuckle and then saw the figure step forward into the moon light. ‘That’s Ground zero’ You thought to yourself. Your husband worked on the new improvement to his old cuffs. You know because you heard your husband talk about having issues with some of the improvements Bakugo asked for.

“Here.” Bakugo held out a glass of champagne and you took it, staring up at the hero.

“Thank you.” He nodded and stepped forward coming on you right side as you turned back to face the gardens. You sighed and took a sip of the glass.

Bakugo swirled the champagne in his glass and turned to the left looking at you. He could tell you were tipsy by the way your cheeks flushed as you took another sip of your glass, half way gone now since he handed it to you a moment ago.

“So what brings you out here when you could be in there mingling with everyone?” You asked as you finally looked over at the man standing next to you.

Bakugo chuckled and placed his free hand on the back of his neck rubbing it slightly.

“Tch.” You nodded you head to his answer and looked behind your shoulder back at the party going on behind the two of you.

“There’s all these damn extras in there and they keep coming up to me all flirty and easy.” It’s fucking annoying.” He huffed out and his eyes squinted in agitation. You scanned the crowd and from where you stood you could see your husband standing next to a beautiful blonde woman. He was so close to her, moving a piece of hair out of her face. Even from that far away you could see the blush on her cheeks.

“At least your husband isn’t trying to shove his dick in any girl interested.” You said nonchalantly turning back to the gardens.

At your comment Bakugo’s head turned to see exactly to what you were referring. Your husband, a man Bakugo has worked with, was whispering something in some girls ear.

“You let him do that?!” He scoffed and turned back the same way you were. He took a sip of his drink and looked at you as you spoke.

“He does what he wants, always has.” You sighed and looked down at the ring on your left hand. “I thought he loved me but I know he doesn’t. At least, not anymore. It was his suggestion to keep or marriage together while-“ Tears started to brim your eyes. It still hurt to think about.

“He goes out and fucks other women while his WIFE sleeps in a bed all alone? That’s fucked up.”

You snorted a laugh and chugged the rest of your drink. He looked over and watched you as you spoke softly.

“In the beginning sure, I let the guilt of him choosing other women take over me. I couldn’t eat, sleep or be happy.” You turned your attention to Bakugo instead of the gardens. “But you know what, I woke up one day and decided if this was going to be my life than I would live it. Now he fucks whoever and I spend my time doing things that make me happy.”

Bakugo turned his head to look at you as you closed your eyes and took in a deep breath.

“That’s still fucked up.” He grumbled.

You turned opening your eyes to look at Bakugo. His hair stuck up in different directions, his jaw line was covered in stubble, and he had the most beautiful red eyes you had ever seen. His chest was broad, and his arms were strong looking. All the alcohol wasn’t helping as you caught yourself staring and sunk your teeth into your bottom lip.

“Yeah well, when everything is fucked up you just get more fucked up.” You held your empty glass of champagne and wiggled it in the air. “Would you like to accompany me to get another drink?” You asked as you picked up the bottom of your dress with your empty hand.

Bakugo reached out and caught your wrist before you could step forward. You turned and started at his face.

“You need a real drink none of this champagne crap.” His had slid down your wrist until it clasped your hand. Your fingers intertwined with Bakugo’s and he squeezed your hand and led you through the crowd at the Heroes Gala and to the front door just as someone stepped onto the stage taking all the attention in the room so the two of you could slip out without being noticed. Once you both made it outside Bakugo handed his ticket to the valet and a car pulled up a few moments later.

Bakugo removed his hand from yours and opened the passenger side door for you. You smiled and slid into the front seat. It was funny, you’ve talked to Bakugo for 20 minutes max and he was already more of a gentleman than your husband ever was.

*END OF FLASHBACK*

Your face was pushed against Bakugo’s chest as your sobs racked your body. You felt weak and sick. You couldn’t keep anything down and your husband decided to take a trip to Cancun with his mistress for the week and you felt so alone.

Well at least not entirely alone, you did have Bakugo nuzzling you into his chest and that made you feel less lonely.

“I’m so tired Katsuki.” You whimpered into the fabric of his t-shirt. Your eyes hurt from all the crying you’ve done today.

“Baby, it’s okay. Why don’t we go take a nap or something?” He moved his head from its rested place on top of yours and looked down at you. “Hmm?” He said after you continued your silence.

You moved back from him and rubbed your eyes with the corner of his sleeve. You looked up at Bakugo. A slight smile warmed at the corner of his lips and just when you thought you were done crying you started again.

The water works were uncontrollable. They came down your face in a steady stream and you gasped for air as you fell to the floor. Just before your knees hit the floor Bakugo caught you and swiftly pulled you into a bridal carry as he made his way to the couch in your gigantic living room.

“Y/N, I need you to tell me what’s wrong. I hate seeing you cry when I don’t even know why you’re upset.” He spoke softly to you as he got comfortable with you in his lap. He pulled a cover off the back of your couch and pulled it over top of you.

You looked up through your tears at the man you’ve fallen in love with. He is there for you when you need him unlike your husband who was off doing who knows.

The tears continued to flow as you looked at him and admiring his beauty. You loved him. You did, honestly. If he asked you would leave your life and your good for nothing husband and be Katsuki Bakugo’s girl but you know deep down that Bakugo is your lover and he didn’t sign up for any of this bullshit you and your husband had gotten into.

Reaching up you wiped your face again as Bakugo stared at you his eyebrows knitted in confusion his arms wrapped around your waist pressing you into his body. On occasion you had cried while he was with you but never like this. Plus, Bakugo didn’t really know what to do.

He was unsure because he isn’t a very emotional personbut he would be here for you no matter what. He wanted to be your hero, he wanted to treat you to date nights, movies and gifts on your birthday but that wasn’t his place to do that seeing as he was your mistress, and you already had a husband.

Thinking of your husband made Bakugo so angry. How someone so smart could be not only blind but fucking stupid was beyond him. If he had you he would never let you go.

“I’m tired Katsuki. I’m so tired of everything.” You finally replied to his question.

“ Okay… you said that already-“ You pushed away from Bakugo and stood up, almost loosing your balance but you caught yourself.

“No, I’m tired Katsuki, I’m tried of people I care about always leaving me. I’m tired of not feeling good enough, I’m tired of being pushed aside for someone else. I want someone to love me! I want someone to care for me that way I care! I have lived in this house for years by myself! I don’t think I can do it anymore!” You moved both of your hands to your hair and grabbed a fist full, gritting your teeth before yelling through them.

“I’m falling apart, I’m not sure if I can handle this anymore! It’s gotten out of control this whole-“

Suddenly Bakugo moved and was in front of you, grabbing your wrists. Pulling your hands from your hair he placed his lips against yours. You were so angry but as soon as his lips touched yours you melted. Your lips moving against his as his grip continued against your wrists.

He pulled away and placed his forehead against yours. You opened your eyes and met his in return.

“Your husband is a fucking idiot. He doesn’t deserve you. If you’d let me I’d tell him who your real hero is and then whisk you away where he could never find you.” Bakugo whispered and brought on of your hands to his lips and kissed the skin on the back of your hand.

You chuckled a small smile playing at your lips. You stood in front of this beautiful man and looked at him with tears-stained cheeks but he still thought you were the most beautiful person on the planet. You closed your eyes and sighed. A much as you wanted that you knew the truth.

“I can’t leave Katsuki it is more complicated than that, I’m-“ You started to tell him why you were so upset. Why you couldn’t just run away from your husband and live happily ever after, but he interrupted you.

“That makes no fucking sense Y/N! I’m offering to take you away from this shitty as life you have in this house! I want to take you with me when I leave, I want you to want to come with me!” He shouted at you as he threw his hands up in frustration dropping yours completely and turning to pace in front of you.

“Bakugo-“ You started again only to be caught off.

“It’s Katsuki!” He shouted tears brimming his eyes as he looked back over at you.

Your heart shattered and you lifted your hand to reach for him but he turned away again.

“Is he really that important to you that you’d let him walk all over you and treat you like this?! Cause given the chance I know I could do better. I think about you all the time, you are the only thing that runs through my mind! You’re going crazy? I’m going crazy being without you..” When he first spoke he screamed but as his confession lengthened he got softer. At the end he finally turned to look at you.

His eyes found yours as you stood one hand covering your mouth as you listened to his confession. Stepping forward to him testing the proximity. He didn’t move just continued to watch you. You quickly closed the space and wrapped both arms tightly around his neck standing on your tip toes.

“Katsuki, I need to tell you something.” You whispered into his ear. A blush rose to your cheeks as you thought about what you were about to say. You’ve been seeing Katsuki for a few years and had always been so careful.

“I’m pregnant.” Like word vomit it tumbled out of your mouth making you sick. The both of you were frozen against each other until Bakugo pulled you slightly away to meet his eyes.

His heart was sinking. It was over that perfect life with you he was dreaming of he will never have if your husband finds out he’s having a child. His eyes narrowed as he investigated yours.

“He must be excited.” He said as he removed your arms from around his neck. You were confused and slightly hurt. Didn’t he hear you? You said you were pregnant.

“Katsuki-“ You reached for him again but he stepped back.

“I should probably leave you alone then.” You breath got caught in your throat. “I wouldn’t wanna come in between your ‘Perfect’ family!” It was your turn to step back as his voice got loud again.

He knew that was not what you thought of your situation. Why was he acting like this towards you. Before you knew what was happening your hand reached up and hit him across the face. You were angry.

He grabbed your wrist after it connected with his cheek.

“Let go of me!” You screamed at him. The slap left Bakugo in shock, but it did clear his brain a little. He opened his mouth to reply to you when you yelled again.

“Get out of my house right now!” Your words cut him like daggers. Why were you so angry about his comment when you were carrying your husband child? Then it clicked that was her plan all along to invite him over and end things between them. ‘No’ He thought. ‘She wouldn’t do that.’

“Katsuki,” He perked up at his name and met your gaze. “Please leave.”

“Y/n. I’m sorry I’m just conf-“ He started to speak but you cut him off ripping your hand from his grasp.

“I’m serious Bakugo, I can handle this on my own since you want to act like this. GET OUT!” He flinched at the use of his last name. You rushed forward and pushed his chest with your hands as hard as you could.

He was shocked as you pushed him away and he slipped on the step leading to the entry way of your home. He landed on his ass as he stared at you. He could tell you were furious with him. You were still screaming but he couldn’t hear. Your hair was in the messiest bun he’d ever seen, his hoodie was way too big on you and your whole face was bright red. He tuned into what you were saying just as he stood up.

“-It’s not even his baby it’s yours! I haven’t slept with him in years, I’ve only ever been with you! Leave like everyone else! I can’t just run away! My whole life is tied in a big knot attached to the ring on my finger! Just get out Bakugo!” You jolted forward and pushed his chest again towards the front door.

“Just go..” You said as you pushed Bakugo towards the door again. He was in shock. You, Y/N L/N were carrying his baby in your womb. As quick as his excitement rose it faded just as fast as the situation dawned on him. He blinked a few times, and the threshold of the door caught the back of his boot making him fall for the second time.

His ass hits the stones as he looked up at you with wide eyes. You stared back at him radiating anger. He expected you to yell at him some more, but he wasn’t expecting what happened next.

You slammed the door in his face and if that wasn’t bad enough, he heard the lock slide and click into place. Bakugo sat there shocked staring at you front door hoping you would open it and invite him back in. After a few minutes he stood up dusting off his hands on his jeans.

He stepped forward and placed a hand on the door along with his forehead. He was just about to knock and yell your name when he heard you crying.

Your back was pressed against the door and your head was in your hands as you cried.

What were you expecting? A happy ending with a doating husband and a baby. No, you knew better than that. Your husband would care once he found out he was going to try to convince to stay with him and raise the baby. Your husband can’t have kids and you know this would only tie you to him further and make escape impossible.

Bakugo lifted his head deciding he cause you enough trouble today seeing as you were carrying a baby. He turned from the door and headed to his car. He looked back up at the big house.

You stood up after a moment and looked out the window near your front door and saw Bakugo standing there staring at your house. You thought he had already left. As stared out the window at the man you love you watched him turn to his car to leave.

“I love you Katsuki, maybe it could have worked if I hadn’t been so stupid.” You whispered to yourself as you placed a hand on your little baby bump. Thinking back to the agreement you made with your husband, his word chilling you to your core. ‘Any child you carry is going to be my child. They’ll be my successor.’

That was when you decided finally to take your life in your own hands. You went to your room and started shoving clothes in your suitcase. Once you were ready to leave you went out to your car throwing your suitcase in.

You stared at the big house standing in almost the same spot as Bakugo earlier. The only difference being there was no one to watch you leave. You slid into the car and started the engine, backing out of the driveway towards something new.

Little did you know your adventure would turn out to be a nightmare for one person and he was hell bent to get you back.