#Hymn For The Wicked

[godkilller]

HITMAN AU thread continued with @dokuhai from here.

BOLD OF RANGIKU TO EVER ASSUME GIN WASN'T WATCHING HER AKIN TO A CIRCLING HAWK, especially in the midst of her shows -- where the venue was packed tight, patrons were allowed up close and personal within arm's reach of her. He made some minor adjustments to the performance's allowance of crowds so close, putting up a railing barrier between them and the stage, but there was only so much allowed that could still offer everyone an unobstructed view of the Karakura City beauty. Ultimately... someone who was willing enough to commit by all means a suicide killing to send a message and spark further gang violence wouldn't mind scaling the 4-foot-tall barrier to knife her in the throat. Security guards spaced apart could react in time, ideally, but the opening still remained -- no matter how slim, it was one that Gin intended to focus upon outside of the various other ways Rangiku's heart could be stopped.

Needless to say, his own heart rate was elevated for more reasons than one during her performances. Perhaps one day, if the venue was smaller and more easily manageable, he'd have the time to truly appreciate her craft. For now, he seemed fully capable of appreciating her beyond the scripted dance and sway of her body upon the stage -- she needn't try, he was already entranced, though Gin did his damnest to not show the success of her allure. Did she know he thought of her endlessly?

He couldn't help but let out a single brief scoff of a chuckle, her words on his tattoo -- the brand of belonging to the corrupt nightlife of Karakura City, to the most dangerous and powerful man within the country no doubt -- of how it suited him, despite its negative connotation and often fear-inspiring realization it granted to any who caught a glimpse. He was not a person who brought on the feelings of 'safe' like Rangiku now experienced -- contradictory of her to glimpse upon a mark of ink that signified just how much of a killer he was and feel as though she was with a protector. How quick romance could wedge its way into murderous skill ---- there was a softness to the fact that he'd kill for her, wasn't there?

The serpentine slithering up his arm and over his shoulder, splaying into rolling coils onto his back, was extensive, and yet only those who knew Ichimaru Gin well enough to get his shirt off of him could ever know the full extent of his devotion toward killing in the name of Aizen Sousuke. Their discussion, her seeing more than a glimpse, was inherently intimate.

❝ Suits me, eh? ❞ A low murmur whilst pale fingers delved through stray wavy strands, the back of his knuckles brushing in a feather-light graze against the slender formation of her shoulder blade. His smile was tangible, spreading slow, easing into the playful purr of his voice. ❝ Why, Rangiku, are you admittin' you like a bad boy? ❞

For all of his dismissive and diverting ploys, Gin wasn't stupid; annoyingly so, he was aware of the fact that Rangiku seemed interested in him in return. She was accustomed to acting that way with her clients, no doubt, but the tells were there for this being a spark of mutual interest. So he flirted back, unrestrained, easing away from the futility of attempting to remain uninterested in her.

The space between them felt addled with yearning, as though tugging at the edges of themselves to step forth and close it -- a simple biting urge that could equally so speak of soul recognition; you know me, even if Aizen took everythin' away -- you'd still know me. At least, he hoped that was the case, as though banking the entirety of himself still existing based on the possibility that she could see what he could no longer recognize in himself. They were both stripped of armor here, her of her performer's outfit oddly used the same way Gin donned a bullet-proof vest.

He'd be an idiot if he ever tried to convince her or himself that this was merely part of his job. Did his gaze linger now, stealing away a glimpse of her as she dressed to engrain into his memory? Well, yes, and he didn't feel too terrible about the fact that he caught her topless from the bar portion of his attached kitchen -- considering she wasn't cowering to cover herself, he felt no guilt in enjoying a more human indulgence of checking her out, her breasts and curves silhouetted against the bright haze of the television screen behind her as she slid his shirt over her head. He'd not dart his eyes away if she looked toward him, he had a hunch she wouldn't protest the intrusion. Matsumoto Rangiku was a bombshell in whatever she was (or wasn't) wearing. The shirt was baggy on her frame as it wasn't snug on his, either, but she was still voluptuous enough for her figure to shine through.

That in and of itself was an oddly instinctual thing to feel pleased by -- the sight of the woman of his affections wearing his clothes, as though the deed left her scent-marked and claimed, scratching an itch he didn't know existed until now. He thought shamelessly of kissing her whilst pouring them both a drink, eager to return from the connected kitchen and be near her again. Gin approached and subsequently sat, placing their drinks on the coffee table a few feet in front of the couch she was now nested upon, looking comfortable and far more relaxed herself. His shoulders mirrored that sentiment, and Gin sank in his seat with a huffed breath as she clicked through the scrolling selection of action movies available to watch.

❝ I could go for somethin' mindless -- how 'bout one of those stupid racin' movies, y'know, there's one where they drive a car into space or some shit. ❞ His hand reached to skim atop hers, not quite snatching to take the remote and relieve Rangiku of her browsing duties, but playfully wriggling to slip the device from her grasp, leaning in to be more playful about the act. That, or he'd inspire her to demand she retained it and hijack their movie session away from some ridiculous car-themed action movie toward something of her tastes instead -- he wouldn't mind either way.

[onlyhurtforaminute]

DRUID LORD-CHAMBER OF GHASTLY HORROR

[chores4days]

started rereading francessa’s book and i completely forgot how much part one hurts me and it probably ( definitely ) doesn’t help that i took it upon myself to go ahead and reread the epilogue too

[haloreign]

tag dump.

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for —(and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: eek not a request but an idea that wouldn't leave me alone! thus... we embark on a mulan-esque story that i hope u will enjoy <3 big thank you's to @strangerstilinski who listened and helped immensely as i whittled a hunky idea down to a plot

word count: 2.9k

synopsis: Someone in the Illryians Mountains has been making a name for themselves— a bastard like Azriel and his brothers, ruffling the feathers of a war camp's Lords. But they seem to have no loyalty to the fighting legion, or much to anyone for that matter. fem!reader

— CHAPTER ONE :: STRANGERS

Frost was everywhere.

Despite all the eerie memories that tainted them, the Illyrian Mountains were hauntingly beautiful, even Azriel could admit that.

Pine trees stretched up tall, their timber trunks hidden beneath the snow-leaden branches. It was a sea of swirling frost. Snowflakes eddied down from the frozen sky, a soft blanket of white draped across the landscape.

He was sure that some, maybe the likes of Feyre and her artist's eye, could see that beauty easier than he could.

Beautiful, Azriel thought bitterly, but fucking freezing.

Normally, dealing with the likes of the war camps that riddled these mountains was left to Cassian. He had that raucous, fiery way about him that was far better suited to it. Enough pride to challenge the warriors and more than enough eager attitude to back his taunts if need be.

But Cassian was currently very much occupied— and highly unsuited to crack the whip against some rowdy Illyrians in his current state.

Azriel couldn't help the smile at the thought of when he'd last seen his brother.

Freshly mated Cassian looked as though he had tiny hearts circling around his head at all times. He resembled a puppy following his nose, always that wicked grin on his face as he trailed after Nesta. His adoration was impossible to miss.

Cassian had more than earned the time off. He deserved to celebrate properly, to have a couple weeks with no badgering worries, with no bickering Illyrian warriors to deal with (beyond his usual two).

So, as a mating gift to his brother —and partially to escape a house filled with intolerably mated couples— Azriel had taken over his duty temporarily. To oversee the war camps he detested so much.

Today, he was to investigate the rumoured stirrings amongst the camps and assess the level of threat it posed. More often than not, these sorts of stirrings were simply whispers of rebellion but nothing more.

There was an easy fix; a visit from one of the most powerful Illyrian warriors in history, or even from Rhys himself. It always made the Illyrians a little nervous and those whispers of a coup would sweep away with the wind in a matter of time.

This time, however, the network of spies that operated under Azriel had not come back spinning such rumours.

Instead, there was talk of Lords with ruffled feathers. Lords with bruised egos due to a single bastard warrior, rising in the ranks and not playing by the rules.

The familiarity of the situation was almost too ironic, Azriel thought. He had half a mind to tell Rhys what he had learned and leave them to it. Cauldron knew these brutal camps needed a bastard to challenge their ways from time to time.

But still, there was always the potential for such a warrior to pose a threat in the future. Azriel could not leave a possible danger to brew. No stone left unturned.

The snow beneath his boots was beginning to melt.

He had been standing in the cold and peering up at the war camp ahead, barely seen through the heavy snow falling, for too long now. Snow was gathering on his wings, tendrils of ice shooting through their sensitive membrane. Find the bastard.

Shaking off the snow, he began to walk.

—

Gods forsaken males and their egos.

The bone in your forearm ached, having taken the brunt of your initial fall in the mud. It's covered in it too, the muck of the ground that always seemed to linger. Always a layer of dirt beneath your fingernails. Truly, one of the many incredible appeals of the Illyrian mountains was never actually being clean.

You'd probably hate it more— if it didn't do such a good job of masking unwanted scents.

But right now with a jagged cut that tears up your left arm, all the way to the elbow, you're cursing the mud. It's likely festering with uncountable grim diseases. You'll have to flush the wound to properly clean it before it begins to heal.

That means water. That means energy that you don't particularly feel like summoning to fetch it. You cast your glance to the window.

Outside, the Mother's Kiss howls loudly.

The southerly chilled wind current that Illyrians don such a precious name is quite fitting for their backward ways — to expect a kiss from your mother to have such a sting on the face.

Tonight, the current seems particularly fierce. The windows of your shelter rattle in warning. A storm had blown through camp rather unexpectedly and you'd caught the worst of it, tangled up in a snarling fest against Brudam.

Brudam, who is responsible for the current state of your arm. Your lip curls at the mere thought of the arrogant male. Your wings bunch up tightly and you huff quietly to nobody.

He'd caught wind of the broth you had made that had filled the stomach of three ravenous bastards in the camp. It had been just enough to keep them on their feet. Tonight, you know that one hot meal might very well be the difference that helps them survive the night.

But Illyrians are a tough breed— and they don't take kindly to people giving handouts, as Brudam had put it.

You preferred the term leveling the playing field.

As if Brudam and his Lord father had ever experienced to ache of starvation. Ever had to sleep in the snow with nothing but their own wings for warmth against a blizzard.

Another deep pain twinges in your arm and you hiss, drawn out of your thoughts. If you have to pick your wins, you can at least admit you're glad he had only found out about the broth— and had seemed none the wiser to the healing tonics you were slipping the freshly-clipped girls.

It ached to see them and their quivering wings. The way the muscles in their backs buckled when they tried to spread their wings, a cut too deep into the wrong nerve. It ached to see it, yes, but beneath that pain was an ocean of bitter and furious fire.

But your righteous anger would not help these girls.

You were not the most proficient healer and the tonics you were attempting... it was hard to say if they would make any difference in saving any females' wings.

You were gathering knowledge as best you could though, scraping together herbs that scarcely grew in the frozen climate. It was a poor imitation of something that might work.

Whether it would be enough... that was up to the Mother. But you had to try.

You assess the wound on your arm once more, wondering about the reserve of water you had in your small hut— whether you could both clean your wound and have enough to hydrate.

Another glance out at the wintry snowscape outside. You grimaced. If you didn't, you would have to bear the blistering chill of the Mother's Kiss to get more.

Weariness weighs on your bones. You hadn't been prepared for the fight, hence your almost embarrassing injury, and it drained you more than you expected.

You stand with a sigh and drag your feet toward the tiny cauldron filled with melted snow collected earlier in the day. It hangs over the fireplace, the embers within long since snuffed out. Your motion stirs them up.

For a moment, you stare into the fireplace. The water in the cauldron shimmers. The shelter creaks around you, bending in the wind.

It's covered in soot, marred by the flames that usually lick it from beneath it. The lip of it, however, is still clean enough to see your own reflection. You peer into it.

And in that reflection, you find a tall figure with massive wings looming above their shoulders standing behind you.

Your heart spasms in shock and you have to swallow your gasp of surprise. Your eyes dart up, frantically hunting for a weapon. You grab the closest object you can, your hand closing around a kitchen fork. And before they get the chance, you twist and lunge, arm raised.

The floorboards groan as your boots slam into them, darting forward to attack. But the male dodges you easily, your strike passing through empty air.

You don't stop, turning and striking for him once again. The male sways back again easily to avoid your swing and you scowl.

Quickly feigning one way, you watch as his hands, weaponless, move to defend his gut — and you change direction, fast. Neck exposed, you snarl as you sink the fork deep into his shoulder.

The male hisses in pain.

You falter for a moment at the noise but it's a mistake. His hands move so fast you barely see them, gripping your wrist that holds the fork and twisting it down to the ground, immobilising you from using it.

You snarl again and tug against him fruitlessly. A swell of panic begins to rise within you as you tug again, again, again. His hold doesn't falter.

"Stop," The male commands you quietly.

This time when you tug, he opens his fingers and you fly back onto your ass, wings flaring out a moment too late to catch yourself.

You expect him to trudge forward, to beat an attack down on you now that you're less defended, but he doesn't move from his spot.

In fact, you realise as you stare at him, cheat heaving, he hasn't attacked you at all.

His weapons, which there are many of them, stay strapped to his side, glittering against the snow's reflected light. You spot the siphon on his hand, a churning sapphire colour — and clock the matching one on his other hand.

This was not just any Illyrian warrior in your home.

Faintly, your panic subsides as you realise that if this male meant to hurt you —to kill you— he very well could have done so by now.

You let your eyes trail up, taking in the face so hidden in shadow, and recognize that the darkness swirling around him is not ordinary shadow.

The revelation has you sitting up a bit straighter, the bindings around your chest pulling tight. You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.

What do you say to one of the most powerful Illyrian warriors in history —one who served on Rhysand's inner circle, friend of the High Lord of the Night Court— when you've just stabbed him with a fork?

As if your thought had reminded him, the male —Azriel, you know his name to be— shifts and reaches for the utensil still sticking out of his shoulder. He yanks it out without a noise of complaint.

Then he says, "Considering your choice of weapon, it's no surprise Brudam cut up your arm."

You scowl at him but at a closer look, you can see that his expression isn't condescending. No, with his raised brows, he almost looks... impressed.

"I wasn't expecting visitors." You bite back defensively.

Azriel's eyes dance with amusement. He throws the fork onto your table with a clatter. "That's how you greet visitors?"

"Uninvited ones, yes."

His amusement fades, the planes of his face shadowed and yet still handsome. Like most Illyrians, there's this incomprehensible sense of elegance to him, an alluring pull tied to his very demeanor.

But looking at him now, even in the dimness of your shelter, you could see Azriel went beyond to type of beauty that usual Illyrians had. An unparalleled grace, an unmatched Adonis.

He is the most beautiful male you had ever seen—and you had just stabbed him with a fork.

"Sorry," You mutter eventually when he doesn't say anything.

You shift onto your knees to stand, your hand coming to cup beneath your elbow— the ache of the injury had begun to bleed back in now that you weren't focused on fighting off an intruder.

"You're forgiven." He says. You can see lightly, through the dimming light, the faint blood on his neck you've caused.

"You fight well," He comments, with the air of a compliment. Something like amusement is in his eyes when he says, "Even with your unusual choice of weapon."

You glare at him as you climb to your feet and all but collapse into a chair. You don't even have another to offer to him. Buried beneath your leathers, your chest aches in pain — a reminder that it's been bound for far too long. You ignore it and tilt your chin towards him.

"Why are you here?"

You're actually sure that even if you offered Azriel a chair he wouldn't take it, given how stiffly he stands before you. He takes a moment to answer, his gaze flitting around the small room you both stand in. Calculating, categorizing.

"There were rumours of a warrior turning up trouble here."

He fixes his hazel-eyed gaze on you. You steel yourself beneath it. "A couple days in your camp and it became clear who the outlier was."

A couple days? For some reason, you can't believe that he's been surveying this place without detection from anyone. Another glance at his shadows, the dark masses that hang around his shoulders, and you can believe it a little more.

Besides, it's hardly as though the Lords would deign to tell a bastard like you anything important.

You clench your jaw but don't say anything.

"Brudam mentioned you feeding some warriors." Azriel continues, his tone unreadable. Though something, you couldn't tell what, glittered in his eyes. "Not very in the spirit of Illyrians."

You scowl at him again. Even if he had once faced these conditions before, you wondered if his time away, spent Cauldron knows where, had softened his memory.

"It's not against any law."

"No, it isn't," Azriel says. His eyes narrow. "But making healing tonics without a Healer's jurisdiction and selling them to young females is."

Your heart stops for just a moment. How could he know that? The last batch you had dropped off had been over a month ago.

Without thinking you snarl back, "I'm not selling them, you prick."

Something blooms on Azriel's face, surprise and a hint of smugness.

Your mouth snaps shut as you realise what you've done. You curse yourself. Slumping back in your chair, your wings sag with you and you let them droop onto the floor, uncaring. He could very well be here to kill you, given the knowledge of what you had just admitted.

For a long moment, there's just silence.

You stare at the floor and wonder which version of the High Lord is true; the Court of Nightmares whose power ripples through these camps and keeps them in line. Or the rumours of a softer side, a dreamer.

You wonder, more importantly, which of those this male before you is friends with.

Something in the floor creaks when Azriel finally moves. He crosses the room swiftly to the fireplace and gathers two logs from the stack of firewood beside it, tossing them onto the pile of ash.

You watch, perturbed, as he hunches over the fireplace for a quiet minute— and when he pulls back, a small flame is burning on the wood. It dances on the log, entrancing and amber-coloured.

Heat begins to fill the room. You pick your wings up and stretch them towards it, grateful for how they begin to warm. You hadn't quite realised the extent of your chill until right now.

It's such a kindness that hasn't been shown to you in many years. Surprise and silent gratitude bloom in your chest.

Azriel turns back to face you. You school your surprise away.

"What's your name?" He asks, his voice gruff.

It's been a while since anyone asked that either. Bastard. Mongrel. Imposter. There are a thousand other words that have become your name whilst growing up here.

You can't tell him your name. In the same way you can't tell anyone here your real name without revealing too much about yourself.

So you shorten it and tell him that instead.

Azriel nods. Doesn't repeat it, doesn't blink at your hesitance. Instead, he just says, "Like I said, you fight well. You could be better though."

You frown at the backhanded compliment, something in you sneering at the jab at your fighting skills. Worse, you know he's right.

If you had weapons suited to your size, exercises that focused on your agility more than your brute strength... There's a good reason you have to work twice as hard as every other warrior in camp.

Azriel looks at your arm, no longer bleeding and beginning to stitch itself up. Shit, you really need to clean that first.

"Clean that and get a good night's rest." He orders, not meanly. Then he crosses the space of your shelter in a few paces of his long legs, heading for the door.

"You—" The question dares to come out of you. "You're not going to turn me in?"

Azriel pauses, one hand, one scarred hand you can now see with the fire going, on the door. So, the rumours of that were true.

"No," He says lowly. He sees you staring, and as if on command, the shadows swirling around his shoulders dart down to cover his hands. They and the doorknob in his hand disappear from sight completely.

You evade your eyes back up to his hauntingly beautiful face. His expression is stony, unreadable. He stares at you for a long moment, the dancing fire reflected in his hazel eyes.

"I'm going to train you."

[NEXT PART: ALLIES]

[azen13]

I literally have no idea how this came about but I was just thinking about Yandere!Blade and...yeah.

CW: Yandere Themes, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Mentions of Blood

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Every night, Blade drops his sword and prays at your altar.

You are his Aeon. After Yaoshi touched him with THEIR wicked fingers and Lan forsook Blade by not giving him mercy, you are the only thing in the universe worth worshipping.

Oh, and by the stars does he worship you. Only after properly bandaging his wounds and cleaning the blood from his hands does he allow himself the blessing of touching you. His grip is reverent, his voice murmuring the holiest of hymns that only you may hear into your ear. It's strange, Blade thinks as he holds you, how you can manage to make him see beauty in the world once more.

He only hopes you can forgive him one day for keeping you tucked away from the cruelties of the cosmos. After all, you are the one thing he cannot risk defiling.

[tojisun]

dunno where this came from bc i honestly just wanted a short ramble and not smthn long but here we are :'D this is an extension from my rambling yesterday about simon x reader but it's a dowry of blood au (brides of dracula retelling). i havent finished the book yet tbh but if ur planning on reading it, i do just wanna give a warning that it's dark and prose-heavy

cw: death/massacre; blood drinking; vampire-turning and stuff; inaccurate references to dracula lore

the village is gone. burnt. fire crackles amidst the broken hymns of the dead—they don't sing, not anymore of course, but their losses are catastrophic. you never realized how the apocalypse could be so loud.

you stand at the centre of the chaos, bloodied. bruised. ruined. the lone survivor.

the only one who was lucky enough to be saved.

brought out from the pyre, you were dragged into the shadowed corners and hidden from the pillagers who slaughtered everyone you loved and everyone you knew. you shook in your grief, screams erupting from the base of your throat, but all were silenced by an ice-cold palm over your mouth.

"shh, little one," he said. the first of his words; the first of his kindness. "you must be quiet."

your fury sputtered into anguish, the loss descending to you like the first drop of snow. tears spring from your strained eyes, staining even his hand; you did not know how to compress the bloating agony that was pressing into your lungs. your only comfort was that he seemed to favour you enough to keep you safe, even if just for a moment. 

rain had fallen by then—it seemed like it knew that tragedy had struck this little place. it extinguished enough of the fire, washing away the smell of ashes and leaving only the pungence of iron. blood.

with it, your adrenaline wore off, and you began to feel the extent of your pain. of course, you were not unscathed, but you didn’t expect your body to be so brittle. 

you fell, tumbling into the muddy ground and right before his feet. you croaked in pain, lungs constricting. it was becoming a lot more difficult to breathe, to speak. you wondered why death came to you slowly.

he knelt down by your side, cold hand brushing away at your dirty hair. he was speaking to you softly, words passing through his lips in soft lilts. you struggled to hear him, your ears ringing, numb, as your mind pulsed in your skull.

you groaned, begging him to stop. to go away. you had nothing to pay him back with, nothing to entertain him, so you told him just as much. you told him to let you die in silence because how else could he save you?

“that is troubling,” was all he said, his words were rumbled from the depths of his chest like he hadn't used his voice in eons. 

you peeled your eyes open, wondering what it must be that he was after, then you finally saw what he was—pale skin gleaming underneath the moonlight with eyes dark like wine. he was not a human. he couldn’t have been one.

your mother told you tales of the wicked. of those cursed and abandoned by the almighty father—she told you of their beauty, of their wealth, of their hunger.

(they do not know how to love, she said as she tucked you underneath your sheets. they only know how to deceive.)

your body locked, heart congested with fear—your body knew then, didn’t it? that this being that held you close was far more terrifying than the invaders. that your body survived the fire, the greed of humanity, only to be devoured by the devil.

“please,” you whimpered, the will to live burning inside you once again. you didn’t care about the pillagers, you didn’t want their mercy, but this being. this creature of the dark, oh how you craved his clemency.

“please, save me.”

“i cannot save you,” he said. 

his hand fell to your throat, grasping it gently, almost reverently. he swiped his thumb along the expanse of your skin to feel the way you swallowed. 

“but i can help.”

you tried to reply, to beg once more, but the words could not be sounded out, your throat having been too ruined for any prayer. you shook with your desperation, turning your eyes to him to express your ragged hope. you prayed that he may see your plea. you prayed that he may bless you with his curse.

he smiled, fangs glinting before your eyes. then, he murmured, “of course.”

(mama? how do you know when your prayers are answered?

well, sometimes it starts off painful.

painful?

yes, little star. but then, it becomes euphoric. freeing. good suffering.)

his teeth tore into your skin, ripping apart the muscles as it hunted for the blood. you screamed, throat scratching at the intensity of your pain; it was unbearable, burning unlike that of fire, scalding as it slithered down your very being. something was happening then. something unholy. 

you were being remade. reshaped. taken apart one bloodied fragment at a time.

you felt like you were at the precipice of death, so close to the edge and into eternal damnation, but he would not let you. chained to his hunger, your body writhed underneath the extent of his power; burning. burning. burning.

he was your new pyre. 

he was hell.

you begged for anything to subdue the pain; for a touch kinder, warmer; for the ceasing of it all. 

and it did.

his lips left the sensitive patch of your neck, pulling away with a hummed smile as though it were ambrosia he was sucking out of you. you stared at his lips, stained with your blood, and, within a fraction of a heartbeat, unrelenting hunger coursed through you.

you yowled, your mind heavy and your body sore. you felt lost; you felt like you were drained and left as nothing but a shell of what you once were.

“good. that’s good,” he crooned, his eyes wrinkled in his joy. “this hunger is proof of your new life.”

he brought his wrist to his lips and bit into his own skin. the first puncture oozed out with blood; you watched it pool, beading, before it trickled down the length of his arm. your throat constricted, tongue heavy all of a sudden in your mouth.

a taste. you craved for a taste.

he smiled as he pressed his wrist to your lips. “go on,” he murmured. “drink.”

you were delirious, or you must be, for you to have listened to him—your weak hands grasped at his wounded arm, pulling it closer to your maw.

you drank. 

that experience of having the first drop on your tongue was indescribable. it was like you have never eaten before; like you have never been fed. never been nourished.

it was like anything that sustained you before had been erased from your memories; you don’t remember the taste of your mother’s cooking anymore, nor the sweets that your grandmother brought home with her for you on occasions when her mistress remembered to reward her, nor the milk from your father’s cows. 

every sweet memory was washed away by the blood pouring down your throat; every gulp a sinister promise of what would be irreversible.

your body sang, skin mending itself, and bones healing underneath torn muscles. numbness filtered in—it had never felt like salvation before.

lost in your new paradise, you didn't notice as your saviour cupped your cheek once more. his touch was gentle. it was kind.

he leant forward and kissed your forehead—a reward for surviving.

“my name’s simon,” he whispered, nuzzling you. “and you will be my bride, won’t you, my dark miracle?”

your mouth left his arm, reluctant but necessary, because even before he said his name, you knew he was your master. you knew that in exchange for this new life he’s cursed you with, you were to be obedient to him no matter what. 

you nodded, breathless and ragged.

“yes, my lord.”

[bloodiedrogue]

FEED ME

SUMMARY: You ride Astarion's thigh and he lets you drink his blood. That's it. That's the fic. It's horny as all hell.

PAIRING: Ascendant Astarion & Spawn Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 1,519

WARNINGS: 18+ sexual content, thigh riding, praise/degradation, orgasm denial (if you squint), penetrative sex (reader receiving), blood sucking, spit kink, allusions of religion.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Honestly this is just so gross I apologize I literally have no excuse other than I'm going to hell probably. :')

MASTERLIST

-

Patience has never been your virtue. 

In fact, it’s something you’ve sorely lacked your entire life, believing you deserve to be treated in a timely manner regardless of circumstance. Because of this, it often feels like an uphill battle when you’re forced onto Astarion’s thigh, dripping with sweat, begging for release as you grind against the fabric of his trousers. 

“Patience, pet,” he always says, holding your face —tightening the grip he has with rough fingers that make you whimper at the thought of your own prolonging. 

Every time, you have to fight the urge to clench your jaw and grind your teeth. To showcase displeasure in the face of God as he graces you so slowly and intimately. Allowing you to pant against his chest and lock your arms around his neck as he trails soft patterns into your flesh. 

Deep down, you know it’s a gift. To be able to touch him in any sort of way is an act bestowed. An act meant to be cherished, so you wait. Telling yourself it’ll be worth it in the end as you listen to the whispers that flutter against your ear.

“That’s it, keep going.” 

His voice is like a hymn. Every verse of instruction, spoken like a blessing, forces you to hold your breath and shift your weight further against his leg. Feeling the pressure build so slowly you can’t help but whimper in frustration, you hear him laugh. The reverb of his torment rattling against your aching hands that gently thumb his throat, seeking more. 

Barely above a whisper, you beg. Pleading through the desperate buck of your hips, you ask for indulgence. For absolution. For him to pity your starving cunt as it continues to brush against him, unable to pass that final threshold. 

All he does is laugh again. The wicked tone piercing your flesh like a knife as his fingers dig into your hips, forcing you further down. “You’ll get what you’re owed,” he tells you then, grinning —bearing his teeth tauntingly. “Once you take it.”

At that point, it feels like he’s punishing you. Forcing you to take penance —to perform your devotion in a way that he enjoys.

You’re not sure you’ll ever understand it. Why he does the things he does. Why, without fail, he prolongs your needs to feed and fuck —to feel him fully firm inside the walls of your sex. 

Even now, as you try to distract yourself from the agonizingly slow speed at which you ride his thigh, feeling him give you that little extra push as you grind further down, all you want to do is lean forward and sink your teeth into his flesh. To suck the wound and lap away the crimson blood that’ll pool within your mouth. 

It makes you hungry just thinking about it. Starved. Filled to the brim with every desire he so effortlessly dangles in front of your face. As if you’re a malnourished dog and he’s offering himself like raw meat.

You lick your lips and think of what he might taste like. How his blood compares to that of the people he feeds you. Would it be warm and sweet like honey? Would it thicken against your tongue, allowing you to savour its flavour before it slips down your throat? Or would it feel more like a cool glass of water? Refreshing and light —easy to gulp down? 

“Mm, I see someone’s getting a bit hungry.” 

A part of you wants to narrow your eyes to showcase your displeasure, but you don’t dare. Instead, all you do is close your mouth, realizing how slack it is as a pooling of spit collects at the corners. 

It makes you embarrassed. Feeling the drool that slips down the edge —watching as he reaches to wipe it away with a huff, calling you pathetic. Telling you that only good girls get their fill. 

“I won’t give you what you don’t deserve,” he says, leaning in, staring into your eyes as they instantly twitch away, averting their gaze as your mind begins to shift. Focusing on the feeling of your core, aching with heat as you tremble through distracted movements still thinking of his taste. 

Feeling you falter, he forces you to look at him again. Gripping the bottom half of your face, his nails dig into the plush of your cheeks, commanding you to keep his gaze. 

“Look at me,” he says. 

There’s a force behind his words that quickly reminds you of the position you're in. That despite being physically above him, in all other cases you’re actually far below. Lower than the dirt he walks on, meaning you shouldn’t take this moment for granted. 

Realizing this, you nod your head against the placement of his hand, feeling it loosen ever so slightly as you take a deep breath, preparing to move. Jutting your hips forward, you then start with languid motions.

Getting the feel for what you like, you test out different weights, dropping your hands towards the top of his thighs to further support yourself.  As you do, you feel Astarion’s hands begin to slide out of their original places. The one on your hip moves to cup your ass while the other, still remaining firmly on your face, begins to stroke your cheek. As if to further coax you through the snapping of your pelvis as it starts to rock in place. 

Both gestures work to encourage you. Somehow, despite their subtleties, you feel the support they offer each time you grind against him, feeling that imaginary band begin to pull further apart. As he palms your backside, giving it a little rough tap here and there, the only thought behind your eyes is that of his prior instruction. 

That you need to take to receive.

Pushing your hands further into his legs, you let out a heavy breath that quickly tails out into a moan, making him smile and stroke the base of your cheek so lovingly you almost whimper in response. “That’s it, darling, keep it up.”

You nod, unable to form coherent thoughts as your folds brush against the fabric; the texture serving as that extra push you need to keep yourself going. To motivate the motions as you push and pull, feeling it continuously build until your mouth is split open again he’s ripping you off of him. 

It leaves you disoriented, being quickly tossed to his other thigh ass first, watching as he palms the fabric that rests over his cock before allowing it to spill out. 

Once it’s on full display, you look back up at him with such desperate eyes that you’re almost surprised when he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you back, praising you all over again. Telling you what a job you’re doing as he maneuvers your legs around his waist and begins to slide in. 

It’s slow but smooth, the way he slots himself into you. Immediately, feeding you a piece of that hunger you crave, you’re rewarded with a quiet hum of approval as you rock your hips against him, feeling the way he juts inside in response. 

It leaves you breathless upon impact. The weight of your torso leisurely bouncing on his cock, forcing you to wrap your arms around him again. Almost instantly, they take hold of his throat with the crook of your arms, allowing him better leverage to push you up only to pull you back down as he grunts through each movement —groaning as you provide him with enough impact going down to hit that spot that has you twitching around him.

By then you’re both moving in perfect tandem. As he offers you your earned pleasure, you begin to moan his name in prayer, repeating it as a thank you for his benevolence.

In response, he smiles through a heavy breath and maneuvers his wrist to his lips, never breaking eye contact as he drives his teeth into the base of the flesh, forcing the blood to enter his mouth before he reaches for your chin. 

Once he’s had his fill he presses a thumb to your lips, applying the smallest amount of pressure as he continues fucking into you, watching with bated breath as you open up wide for him, granting him the access he needs to feed. To take your cheeks in his hand and angle your head back so that he can slowly release the blood into your mouth. 

As soon as it hits your tongue you can feel yourself become sated. While he drives himself further, snapping his hips in timed sessions, you can barely focus on the sweetness of his taste. How it tickles your tongue going down but still manages to ease all the previous aches of hunger. 

Looking up at him, you smile with blood stained teeth, deliriously laughing through the final pumps before both of you are coming together, twitching against each other’s flesh as presses both hands against your spine, willing you to have your fill as he offers you his neck, continuing to fuck you through your orgasm. 

-

@poohxlove @gaiasmight @sassy-stupid @novarex @v-gremlin @sapphiccloud @lipstickghoulie @kuroitsukyo@jjfchk@idiotsatan@bluestuesday@bloopthebat@art-by-greenie@heneralmoon@sukunababe@dreamingaboutyousworld@ranfithegood@haniscrying@liadamerondjarin@the-lake-is-calling@marina-and-the-memes@rookieoftheyear@zraloci-cpr@kaetmo@snickerdoodle-daydream@wowowwild@d1anna@raswiet@conniesbbymama@venus-wrts@demonicthorns@kihten@deadglamsheep@sanscas@spammypasta@leighsartworks216@rose-gold-blue@p1ssmagg0t@hellish-writes@ghostinvenus@otayz@sexysquatch@sleepyeclair@colorful-anxieties@alina-exe@ilana-the-lasagna@lillifer@girlwiththepapatattoo@y2cade@acelin-ginsberg@pinkuranium@catrad0rable@scarletrosesposts@qwnamidala@itsrosebabe@bunnyperi@queenofcarrotflowers-s@tatumadams20@spkyxszn@chlort@f3v3rs@awkwardwookie@joy-the-reader@warm-milk-with-honey-blog@vertigocrime@iyis@wildpiper@pebblethestone@tillywasneverhere@bex-03@kaetmo@revemiya@staticspouse@itzagothamcitysiren@djarinsmixtape@when-the-night-came@epicy0n@bababahannah@sleepyred1703@lotus-99@lofcompass@r4d10h34d5@vampninjaz@itsmekalou@offbrandhand@yikes-buddy@konenichi@rainonarden@oceanbluesixeyes@bodtyworship@maydayitsjay@greasyslimebucket@yeeteth-the-raven@fantasyfairysworld@allexthakatt@flowersaretheshit@morglyne@thespectacularspaceace@cephiss0@use-your-telescope@furblrwurblr@kloverfield@angelofthorr@writervaul-t@starved-kitten@minixluvr@crowley--aziraphale@sapphicwren@alionera-blog@jennithejester@dezedrol@thisisew@saladalpaca@applepiewithbacon@httpbiohazard@aurasyn@nerdoodles@kingpinthedevil@itzkawaiix@domainoflostsouls@silverskylan@uminootome@helpidkwhatimdoingwrong@deadlyinfernos@blackbirdswhispers@sarahskywalker-amadala@writingmysanity@f3v3rs@jayjones03@quietlyebbie@optimisticprime3@eyes-for-daze@sunnytalia3@megoshh@maddiedott@cappsikle@mostbeautifulnightmare@lynnlovesloki@simpytheshrimpy69@astarion-archive@smaranshakthi@autistic-deer@shadowfeart@freckled-petals@candied-lavender@hp-art-studio@ghouligan@satelliteapotheosis@waywardwitch-hel@pandimoostuff@mythoughtsofinsanity@ilovelovelylove@oneandonlyizabelle

TAGLIST NOW CLOSED!

[askzloyxp]

Bubbles pot and fires fume, In the forest quietly looms; Hide your kids and lock your home: Something Wicked this way comes.

Darkness parts and moonlight glints, As the echo sings their hymn. Adder's fork and blind worm's sting, Do not play, you will not win.

Toil and trouble, eye of newt, Sweat of yours and chimney soot, Speak your truth, get on one knee, You already were like me.

Priests not here and God is gone. Do not fear, they had you wrong. There's no use to cross or pray:

Something Wicked came your way.

Wrote this ages ago and really wanted to do some illustrations to go with it before I post, but never got around to it. Maybe some day, I could really use doing some personal art these days

[yanderemommabean]

Obey me Simeon feeling so sinful and awful for accidentally raising his voice at Mammon (who deserved it but thats beside the point). The only way he can feel better and properly repent is if he ties you down and has you cum multiple times on his clothed dick. Think of it as divine scolding, like he is at a confessional or worshipping a shrine. By enduring hours of your writhing, overstimulated pleas while his cock slowly gets drenched but never freed. It will make Simeon sincerely reflect on his actions- he needs you to do it for him. Ignore the way he smiles so widely and cums in his pants so fast, this is very serious punishment for him. He will remember this (as he recorded it) and wont ever raise his voice again<3. Simeon keeps his promises. Although he never promised that he would return your panties

"I truly am repenting, I hope you see that" he pants, breathless but still holding on tightly as he rocked his hips upwards, his cock twitching and coated in not just your essence, but also his own. He's wrung about three orgasms from you so far just like this, your body being the holy grail he cannot drink from if he chooses to continue his sinful ways. This is to show him what he'll miss out on if he cannot obey and be the guiding light he was made to be. He doesn't even allow himself to bend down and lick a stripe up your throat, as much as it pains him to see that sweat go to waste and your soft pliant skin not be marked. But He isn't worthy. He has to repent. Your body is the altar he prays to and your whimpers are the hymns that heal his lost soul, and with every arch and whimper he can pull from you and himself like this, it's one step closer to erasing the dark pit that has seemed to form in his soul. A slow roll of his hips, just right, the perfect pressure and once again you're spewing that delicious essence he wont be able to drink down and swallow like he so desperately wants to. His cock twitches in need, soaked and sticky from the mix of the mess you two are making, but he cannot give in. No. He can't slide every inch inside of you while you blubber and cry and beg for the angel. For, He fears, he hasn't been very angelic. Only a holy being should be able to touch you and he has to remind himself about that thin line he's been walking. "Bless me with your symphonies, cure me with your essence, remind me of all I have to lose my dear. My soul has wandered too far and has forgotten what it was placed in this world for. I beg of you for your forgiveness, and for your discipline. I repent. I repent, I repent, I repent!" He yells, eyes wide and crazed as he presses his cloth-covered cock against your own privates over and over again, your body feeling just how hard his own was pulsing and twitching, practically begging.

As if he truly was being tortured to do better.

His body hunches forward, sweat covering both your skin and his as he allowed the two of you to catch your breath, his eyes peering up at you through long eyelashes as he gives a wicked, almost deranged smirk and steals a soft peck from your lips. "I promise...I swear on my soul I'll be the angel you need me to be. I'll be the one you can turn to when hell takes a toll and I'll be the one to soothe those aches. I'll do my best to stay worthy of you, my love. I do remember saying I needed to do ten of these rituals, didn't I? It seems we have about six more to go".

-Mommabean (I hope you liked! Comment if you want beans! I LOVED this prompt / idea! )

[yoonia]

the bedroom hymns ● chapter list

⟶ Title | The Bedroom Hymns: a Bluebeard’s twist ⟶ Summary | A threat against your father’s empire has forced him to send you away from the only place you have known to be your home, from the heaven-like prison which you have always dreamed about escaping, only to find yourself in a new kind of confinement. Haunted by the questions about your father’s past and the dark tales that seem to follow him, the thousand mysterious doors and the secrets waiting for you to reveal, and the mysterious Prince that has been following your shadows between realms, you are off to a new adventure in the Land Far Far Away.

⟶ Pairings | Min Yoongi x female reader ⟶ Genre | Fairy Prince!Yoongi, Princess!reader, Fantasy au, Fairy Tale retelling au, Faerie au, Angst, Mystery, Smut ⟶ Ratings & Warnings | +18 / M for Mature; this story contains classism, threats of assassination, curses, dark magic, rumours about serial killers, mentions of abductions, mentions of arranged marriages, betrayal, manipulation, depiction of war, fantasy typical violence, mentions of blood and wounds, minor descriptions/depictions of injuries, fantasy weapons (swords, etc), mentions/depictions of death, mentions/depictions of domestic abuse, alcohol use, mentions/depictions of plagues/illness — also includes mature and explicit sexual scenes (...more details will be added as I continue writing this piece...) ⟶ Status / Current word count / Total word count | ONGOING; latest update: chapter xxiii. serendipity-3 (Sept 9th, 2024) - 192,000 words of n/a words  ⟶ Main Masterlist | Mailbox | Taglist | Feedback | Music Playlist | Ko-fi

𝕺𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖚𝖕𝖔𝖓 𝖆 𝖙𝖎𝖒𝖊, 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝕱𝖆𝖗 𝕱𝖆𝖗 𝕬𝖜𝖆𝖞…

⏤ Written by @yoonia for the Once Upon A Fantasy collab; with @jamaisjoons​​​, @yeoldontknow​​, @inkedtae​​​, @opaljm​​​, @kookdiaries​​​, @kth1fics​​​

⏤ Crossposted on: AO3, Wattpad

⟶ Chapters

⇢ prologue. the bluebeard’s tale

⇢ chapter i. when the stars are aligned

⇢ chapter ii. the wicked king

⇢ chapter iii. dreamers

⇢ chapter iv. in bloom

⇢ chapter v. homecoming

⇢ chapter vi. the castle by the sea

⇢ chapter vii. the secret doors

⇢ chapter viii. chasing shadows

⇢ chapter ix. secrets

⇢ chapter x. wanderers-1

⇢ chapter xi. wanderers-2

⇢ chapter xii. alias

⇢ chapter xiii. red strings-1

⇢ chapter xiv. red strings-2

⇢ chapter xv. crescendo

⇢ chapter xvi. respite

⇢ chapter xvii. divulgence

⇢ chapter xviii. the fairy prince

⇢ chapter xix. visions

⇢ chapter xx. traces

⇢ chapter xxi. serendipity-1

⇢ chapter xxii. serendipity-2

⇢ chapter xxiii. serendipity-3

⇢ chapter xxiv. serendipity-4

⇢ chapter xxv. masquerade

⇢ chapter xxvi. the golden door

⇢ chapter xxvii. the king’s secrets

⇢ (...more chapters coming soon...)

⟶ References, Feedback, & DIscourse

⇢ visual references ⇢ story feedback & theories

⟶ Patreon specials

⇢ visual moodboard

— © Yoonia, all rights reserved. reposting/modifying of any kind is not allowed. unsolicited translations are not allowed.

[dotomuses]

sagau p1 : miss miko's mumbles. he/they for reader, but no anatomy or dni. tw: none.. tevyat is kinda mean to reader but thats all lol.

💌 no actual reader content right now... just a small something to get started, somewhat an insight on tevyat's views on the reader?

" a hidden source of ancient knowledge, scrolls shoved deep within the akademiya's restricted shelves, gathering dust, painting colourful tales of a primeval deity.

a deity unlike the archons, unlike the dragons and unlike the scattered minor gods and beasts of tevyat, a deity who held no significance to tevyat's intricate laws. a deity with no magnificent creatures to call his own, no powers or blessings to give to kneeling worshippers, yet a deity whose swiftest glance struck the mortals of tevyat tongue-tied and reeling.

"let us adorn you with our flowers!" bellowed the trunks of sumeru's towering thorned trees, "let us sing to you!" whispered mondstadt's wailing, whining gales, "rest on our shores," mewled fontaine's raging currents "or drift on our currents, and let us take you far away from all...". inazuma's thunder cried and screamed, loud as a nursery of hungry children, hungry for the god's attention. natlan's rumbling rocks fell from their perches as avalanches, running like babes wanting to be coddled by their mothers, into the arms of the god. snezhnaya's unwavering snow storms fell and fell, adorning themselves with the prettiest snow flakes, just for a look, the lightest praise, from the god.

the deity's devotees were all children of violence, creatures of doom, beings of hate. but to him, they were the scorned, the regretted, the rejected. they were the most precious of all, the worthiest of his stories, the likeliest to trust in his well-crafted chronicles.

he spoke of worlds outside tevyat, worlds overcome with cold, never receding snow and ice. worlds made of gargantuan ships, each city a large cabin, housing pelicans of metal, and people of stone. worlds where reality and expectation went hand in hand, singing songs of people's dreams, bubbling with emotion, joy and grief.

most of all, he spoke of revelation. to him, to his creatures, to his loveliest of children, it was the solid truth, the undoubted phrases that left the tongues of the cosmos higher than celestia itself. but to the archons, to the people, to every other creature, they were a fraud. a liar, who insulted the archons with his reign over their wicked beasts, who wished nothing more that to provoke celestia's wrath, and be stricken so far into the abyss, he himself would someday become one with it. his hymns stitched words, words that revealed the truth of this world, the truth that-"

yae miko laughed lightly, covering her mouth with her hand, pink pigment shining brightly against her nails. "what a lovely story you've made up for me, traveler, paimon," she began, watching the pair carefully, "paimon makes the loveliest story teller... but do tell me what set you out to recite this fascinating little thing." she added, an eyebrow arched elegantly.

paimon scowled, her little face scrunching into displeasure. "miss yae miko!" she stomped her foot in the air, "we didn't make it up! traveler already said so! she said we got it from sumeru! and won't you answer our question?!" she cawed, pointing dutifully at her companion, who smiled sheepishly.

yae hummed thoughtfully, a finger to her chin "do remind me of your question little paimon" she feigned a small yawn, covering her lips politely, "i'm afraid you've bored me asleep with this one, i can barely recall anything..." paimon looked ready to blow a fuse, ridiculously oblivious to yae's teasing, her rubber heart being prodded at, and easily provoked with yae's taunts.

"we'd asked if any of this makes sense to you miss yae, any familiarity?" traveler began, her voice lofty and slightly strained from unuse, "we've tried with other companions, but not even the akademiya scholars have anything to say." yae miko smiled, her shiny canines concealed, eyes shut in a relaxed manner.

"i'm afraid not traveler, but if nobody seems to recognize this odd 'deity' of yours, why are you so persistent on finding somebody who does?" yae enquired, pressing her lips together in a thin line, shaking her head "perhaps they're just fiction you know... another dashed, yet rather thorough attempt i must confess, at a bestseller."

paimon sagged midair, like a suspended sack of rice. "all this trouble for nothing?" she wailed, "i told you we should have called quits after al haitham said he knew nothing! and i told you we should've called quits again when faruzan shooed us away!" paimon scolded, crossing her arms at the traveler. her companion only raised her hands in surrender, smiling apologetically, and turning back to the other woman facing her.

"thank you for your help miss yae" traveler spoke, pressing her palms together, "we're sorry to have bothered you with something so trivial..." yae miko only molly-coddled her in response, shaking her head left and right. "it's quite alright dear, you've provided me with quite a bit of entertainment... be off now, i'm sure you have much work to get to."

she eyed the parchment paimon read out of so enthusiastically, hesitating from the probable absurdity of the question she thought of asking. "tell me traveler, would you mind if i held on to this for a while? perhaps we could make use of it at the publishing house..." paimon opened her mouth to refuse like a little gentle lady, adamant on keeping all their travel's treasures to themselves, only for the traveler to respond first. "i don't see any use for it, i suppose you could hang on to it miss yae."

yae miko brightened, eyes gleaming happily at her conquest "i'm very glad traveler, you've done me a great favour," she said, taking the scroll from her "now, i shan't hold you back any longer. do visit!"

traveler nodded, waving goodbye as paimon tugged on her scarf, yowling "i told you so!"s, "you should have listened!"s and an accusatory "why did you give it away?". yae lifted her hand in farewell, which dropped solemnly as soon as the traveler was out of sight.

she flourished the paper open, a sudden, uncharacteristic scowl on her face, painting her lovely features in disgust and scorn. "even in exile you bother us all, charlatan." she murmured to herself.

she ought to burn it, and throw its ashes to the fish, but held back. the lovely swirls of the letters mesmerising her, drawled along the page in a dance, elegant beyond words. her frustration only grew, chanting that no matter how much beauty liars weaved in their words, they were still lies.

and no matter how beautiful a liar was, they were still a liar, and would remain one until repentance.

and (name) would never repent.

💌 gahh i feel kinda lame.. its been a while since ive written anything and speedran this on 13% charge. had a dillema choosing between faruzan and yae for this intro piece, but i hope its turned out ok. ill try uploading the next part soon. bye bye!

[dev1lm4n]

untold

pairing: post-outbreak!joel miller x brothel worker!reader

summary: fragments of memories during your gradual (and rather horrendous) infatuation towards your number one frequenter, joel miller.

word count: 3.8k

warnings: explicit (18+) mdni, oral f receiving, sorta dark undertones but honestly joel's a sweetheart

notes: do reblog or comment if u enjoyed it! don't be shy to hit my ask box as well ;)

Love is stupid.

It’s lawless and frankly, holds no value in the realm you’re familiar with. Love could only exist in a world of unsullied brilliance, orderly conversations, washed hands, clean clothes, and good manners. Untarnished by the hands of the wicked, of the seven deadly sins; where birds sing out morning hymns and festive lights strung out wintry nights. Only then can love flourish. To think that such an innocent tenderness could exist within your barely nine feet by six room would be utterly idiotic. 

“You gotta pack the cigs first.”

“Huh?”

“God, you’re helpless.”

You didn’t even realize he’s tucked in a crisp stick on the very corner of your lips. His brown eyes gentle on yours as he flicked his lighter on, effectively igniting the tobacco-filled end in a slow drawl. Inside Boston’s most popular brothel after the end of government and the start of flesh-eating monsters, it was never brighter than the gathering gloom of dusk. Even at midday. It was always bleak. The bed was a plank of wood on legs, thin quilts and a ragged blanket hardly helping you through winter. But with him, it’s always a warm furnace. 

His rough fingers were quick to snatch the worn-out box of Marlboro from your loose grip. Exquisitely, he proved his familiarity with the product by ‘packing’ the filter against his palm. You weren’t sure what the action provoked, but it still had you looking up at him with stars in your eyes - twinkling fondly as if he’d just pulled out a magical rabbit out of a top hat. He looked down at you with such reverence, a little too much respect for the common whore you were, though you undeniably basked in it like fresh summer air.

Joel Miller was your light at the end of the alley. Your beacon of hope. 

“Breathe, girl.”

He chuckled oh so lovingly.

“You’re strugglin’ like a damn rookie. Come on, girl. I know you got this,” he spurred on like a goddamn sports coach.

Ungracefully, you retched on the new stench entering your airway. The taste proved to be unsuited to yours as it left some sort of disgusting filament sheet over your taste buds, yet you struggled to keep it on the edge of your lips.

Whatever Joel gifted you needed to be preserved or consumed in the finest way possible; it was a rule consistent to every paying patron you’ve dealt with, though it’s a compulsory need to be met when it comes to him. He was so engrossed in the entire fiasco playing out that he failed to give you the next crucial step to smoking a cigarette - to inhale.

“It tastes like shit, Joel. This is worse than Johnny’s battery acid cum.”

“Yeah? What ‘bout mine?”

Without giving you a much needed warning, Joel let his fingers tentatively slide along your neck. He was moving with such expertise, as if he knew exactly where the windpipe is, where you’ve been struggling terribly to inhale. He dragged his forefinger down a straight line before finally cupping the base of your neck in a firm grip. Commonly, when a customer manages to get you in a situation that’s prone to escalate dangerously, you’d be quick to retaliate. With him, it was.. different. You felt at ease, even when he’s practically in the position to strangle you.

“You taste good.”

You grinned sheepishly. Joel’s eyes traveled from where red consumed the wilted edge of your cigarette to your heaving chest. Still bare with prominent buds making their grand appearances, though the sweat from your previous endeavors had finally dried down into a light sheen. You’re undeniably angelic in the midst of all the monstrosity occurring all around him, in a way that cleared his mind and freed him of his terrors, and it sparked a feeling of guilt deep within him. You didn’t deserve this. Any of this.

“Another go at it then?” 

“Joel!”

It was the fourteenth of February.

Not until Joel Miller came prancing around with a fucking bouquet. 

Valentine’s day used to be a big deal around Boston. You could still conjure up images of the old world; a symphony of vibrant colors. Streets were adorned with heart-shaped decorations and shops showcased a dazzling array of chocolates, obnoxious bouquets, and greeting cards. The smell of cocoa and vanilla was still vivid, embedded in the back of your head even after years of being exposed to the reeking stench of sex and sweat. Working in a brothel, you learned to exploit people’s needs for romance and affection, even so, no madman has ever gone out of their way to put some thought into romancing a whore.

“Mmph.. oh.. right- right there.”

“Please, Jo- Joel. My clit. It’s right- please, no.”

Your eyes fleeted down towards where he’s located - right between your trembling thighs. He nestled his tongue towards where your natural heat is radiating from, effectively lapping up every spurt of wetness that managed to escape from your twitching hole. His tall nose constantly nudged at your bundle of nerves, each time causing your back to arch and your pelvis angled directly to where his sloppy muscle is located. You’ve told him your worries; that you were a hooker for fuckssake, you fuck guys for a living and that’d instantly make you deem unworthy of being eaten out.

Joel didn’t care one bit. Not when you’re making such sweet noises at his ministrations.

“Gotta be patient, pretty girl.”

He’s making a show out of it and it drove you insane. You averted your gaze away from him, head lolling to the side to meet his handmade bouquet propped up loosely on the small bedside table. They were fresh, some open and others in bud; you’re a little bummed you’d never get to see the ones in bud flourish as your little room was equal to a jail cell, lacking natural light. A prudent shade of pink caressed each petal, yet the kind of color that feels confident, proud to bring a newfound radiance to the shabby furniture.

The flowers felt like a mockery, a tongue stuck out to your face, everybody knew he was a madman for bringing you such gestures.

“Pay attention.”

He demanded, a carnal need for more laced in every syllable that dribbled off his lips. Joel’s eyes stuck to yours and in that moment of truth, you’re both spellbound under each other’s magic. Times like these made your brain race into untouched territory; of whether he loved you beyond the messy sheets and hushed whispers, of whether you’d escape the brothel and strive for your own. He was quick to ground you as he caressed the sides of your vulva with his ring and pointer fingers, tickled the needy hole with his middle, and pressed his thumb along each and every groove as he sought for where you ached the most.

A gentle lick upwards initiated a sharp jolt that could only be described as electrical. He pressed the end of his tongue flat against it again, then twirled gentle circles around it, and all you could do was twist the worn bedsheets in a messy crumple, splay your legs out more, and submit to his wishes. This was your gateway to heaven. He brought you the only kind of heaven you’d beg on your knees for - not the ones of unadulterated truth and clarity, but the one that’s true to the shrill, sullen, and violent world you’re living in.

It was beautiful. A moment you’d like to snap and pin with a red magnet to the refrigerator door, but it’s fleeting nonetheless.

Fuck Joel Miller and the way he’s making you feel.

“Don’t stop. Please.. please.. oh, please.”

You pleaded with all your heart, body, and soul. Nirvana was near; you could see your salvation in front of your two frantic eyes, presented among the stars scattered everytime you closed your eyes, but he cut his little performance short.

“Not yet, sweet girl.”

“You’re just my kind of man.”

Stuffed inside a dimly lit alley, amid the patronizing starlight and the warm milky glow of the moon, you leaned idly against a chipped cobblestone wall. Your figure was clad in a worn-out dress, edges tattered and stitches pulled from extended use, that hinted at both vulnerability and resilience. The night air carried a symphony of whispered conversations, muffled laughter, and faint clinking of glasses from underground taverns. It was humiliating the way your hopeful eyes met fleeting glances of passerby, assessing each one for a spark of interest, but this was your way of living. Your way to survive.

A tug on your rod, a salt and pepper man approached you with hesitant steps. You recognized the look in his old wearied eyes easily: curiosity and guilt.

“You really are. I’m really good, you know, Cherie.”

With practiced ease, you mustered a welcoming smile and gestured him to come closer in a way that made it seem like you’re withholding the world’s biggest secret. You had a certain charm when it came to attracting patrons, choreographed mannerisms that portrayed you in the sweetest manner possible. A small shy shrug here and a gentle tug of your lacy sweetheart neckline, you became a femme fatale. A true enchantress on the prowl. 

It’s one of those nights where you’re eager to make a score. Joel Miller, your number one frequenter and main source of income hadn’t popped his nose in for a whole week, and despite your thriving loyalty to him, you’d rather stash up on credits than starve. The need didn’t necessarily sweep off the guilt. You felt wrong for scouting strangers from the street to offer your services, to cater to their curiosity and help them crush the weight of societal expectations, to return their diminished ego. It felt like you’re betraying him. Another stupid thought of yours that hit the curb as soon as the older man caressed your side, his grimy fingers dirtying the pure cotton.

You felt disgusted, but really, it’s just like every other day.

“Everybody says I’m pretty.. and all the other men like me.”

He’s falling. You could watch the exact moment in real time as he weighed out his options, making peace with his moral compass.

“Don’t you like me?”

“How much-”

Bingo! Bells dinged above your head. Jackpot.

“She’s mine for the night.”

What you saw first was his thick finger, dug upon the male’s shabby shirt, forceful enough that the fabric underneath crinkled in an uncomfortable manner. Dirt underneath his nails, fingertips coarse from all the physical work he’s exerted, and everlasting scabs decorating the ends of his knuckles. You knew who it was before he brought his face to light - onyx orbs oozing off disdain as he peered from your potential patron’s shoulder. Joel could kill a man from how tightly he’s eyeing you, up and down, side to side as if trying to reason with your misdemeanor.

You watched as your ‘Cherie’ scurried off into the dark, a slow whistle drawed out of your jutted lips.

It was pissing you off. His fucking audacity.

“I’m not yours for the night,” you chimed stubbornly.

“Yeah?” Joel closed any visible gap between the two of you, trapping you between the chilly wall and his heaving chest. Your eyebrows knitted with jeering derision and in return, he scooped up every last flaky ration card from his pocket and stuffed it in your balled hand. “Now you’re mine.”

“You’re always mine. Morning, day, and night. Fuckin’ remember that in your pretty little head,” his voice taunted each and every part of you as his scruff made sweet contact with your helix. You shuddered, rocked with adrenaline. “Can you do that for me, girl?”

“Yes.”

“What’s this from?”

You sat by Joel’s relaxed knees, prim behavior with your calves tucked underneath your thighs. Gentle eyes illuminated by the gentle sway of brilliant gold. By the flickering yellow the room is dark, the shapes of the furniture distinguishable but the colors were so muted that they are almost gray. It was a different kind of night; there was a prominent uneasiness in the way he’s studying you, the lines he’s provided as guidance slowly blurring away with each and every flicker of amber. He’s never done this before. Laying loose in front of you, letting you unbutton his flannel, having you set the pace - you weren’t sure what he’s trying to convey with the sudden acceptance.

Joel is a man of closed doors, and so the prospect of seeing what’s behind thrilled you.

You looked up at him. Eyes interlocked in some kind of mutual understanding as your hand extended, cold fingers ghosting over his bare skin, and only when he gave you a hesitant nod did you let it crane down. He jolted ever so slightly, a twitch in his hooded eyes. Your thumb ran over the expanse of his lightened scar. It felt odd. Not in a weird way - just in a different, intriguing way. In a way that kept you tuned to the intimate aspect of the exchange.

The most you’ve seen from him was his pelvis bone, the thick of his unshaven bush, and his cock. He’s always made sure it’s all about you, despite being the one paying. And you respected that, all the time. Though it’d be a lie if you said you didn’t want to tear at his clothes, tug at his remaining buttons, unbuckle his belt with both hands to see all of him.

You refrained nonetheless. It looked like it was taking all of him to be this open, you wouldn’t want to scare him off with your rashness.

“Got bitten by a very scary zombie.”

He lied, adorably, was he trying to make you smile?

“Joel.”

He’d die happy at the sight of you right now.

“I thought we’re tryin’ to make this fun?”

“Fun, sure. Not absurd!”

“Okay, okay, it’s uh.. I wasn’t careful with a knife.”

You hummed softly. Not entirely sure if it was more so a mundane kitchen injury or a mugged-in-the-street injury. Your eyes traced the contours of his chest, a canvas sculpted with strength and tenderness. With sweet delicateness, your fingers continued their journey; gliding ever so softly over his warm, smooth skin up to where his gallbladder is supposed to be. Speckles of gray and black coarse hair trickled over your adventure. Each sensation rippled through your fingertips, awakening your senses to the subtle textures. Every stroke was a personal exploration, an expression of gratitude. This was where you found your solace.

“This one?”

“A trip over to Vermont gone wrong.”

“Drugs?”

He hesitated. A beat of silence from the two of you emphasized the noises from beyond your thin walls: a myriad of moans, foul words, and skin slapping.

“Somethin’ like that.”

And so, your voyage proceeded, each movement a testament to the admiration you held towards him. You wondered if he felt the same way. If he’s ever thought of the fruitless hopes you held towards him. If he’d ever longed for your existence the way you did everytime he missed his scheduled visits. You need him in the most desperate way possible, beyond the way he buried himself inside you, beyond the amount his physical existence could give. Lost in your own thoughts, you let your fingers lower.

Lower.. lower.. and lower until it rested over his clothed cock.

“And what’s this from?”

“You.”

Joel Miller has an odd habit.

Every girl in your brothel knew that he’s a peculiar one; no man has ever been this dedicated to a hooker before, to the extent where you’ve had some curious questions, wondering if he’s proposed to you or do something of the sort. Men are greedy pigs who could only take and take, every whore has established that, so the sight of his reverence astonished them. He’s too good to be true. A once-in-a-lifetime abnormality. What they’ve yet to discover was of his equally peculiar habit.

Joel loved leaving a small reminder of him everytime he’s forced to leave in weird hours of the night. A small, brightly colored post-it that’s frequently left with a stack of ration cards - always insanely over the common charge - and a trinket of some sort if you’re lucky. What he wrote consisted of a broad variety. An extension of his intrinsic need to capture and remember fleeting thoughts, to show his deep fondness of you, to let you feel the parts he’s too afraid to reveal. You’ve always chalked it up to sympathy. A poor whorehouse girl like you needed pitying and he’s doing that to fix his torn morals. 

You’d rather die than commit to the thought of him being in love with you.

He couldn’t possibly be. He’s him and you’re you, the two of you have established that.

Out of the many he’s left in your shoebox-sized room, the first one will always be the most memorable one. You remembered that it was in the peak of summer, heat almost seared your skin off your bones as a group of cicadas screamed their hearts out. The establishment is finally quiet at four in the morning. Most guests have finally stopped their endeavors and spent the night holding their pretty whores or leaving satisfied, and so you finally have the time to yourself. To relish in the satisfying silence. You lit a new candle and saddled it in its special nook - a spot on your bedside table that’s garnished with remnants of wax.

Your eyes met your pay. A good stack that was equal to three days worth of food and a place in the brothel.

Satiated, you reach over to make a proper count. That was when you discovered the vibrant yellow square, greeting you with a mystifying aura. Scribbled with a smudged wet ink, you predicted he used some kind of ballpoint pen to write the remark. Your first thought was of how corny it is. A snort uncontrollably left your lips as you observed the object closely. Never in a million years would you expect a brothel visitor to leave behind a hearty “Thank you for being here tonight” note.

You used to consider them strange, but over time you found yourself looking forward to the trivial gesture.

“Stay safe” was a quick and easy one. 

“You reminded me that life is full of surprises” bore through your heart even when it made you cringe. 

“Smile for me, pretty girl” had you by the throat.

“Can’t wait to fuck you good” elicited warmth between your thighs. 

“I’m gonna miss you” made you long for him.

This morning was the same as every day. You rose from your slumber at exactly four in the morning, grumbled at the sharp sensation down your bad back, pulled your sheets at every edge, lit a lone candle, only then could you finally relish in the daunting silence. It was so quiet you could hear every beat of your heart, every time you inhaled coldness and exhaled warmth, every time your heart squeezed at the fact that he’s not here. Just like every other day, Joel Miller left you alone. In the dark.

Your line of vision moved from where your legs were planted on the freezing wooden board, to the very top of your bedside table. This was where he first broke the sacred routine, because there wasn’t a thing on top of the rotten wood. Your pay’s not there and moreover, his post-it notes were nowhere to be seen; it’s humiliating to admit you’re a lot more concerned about the latter.

Colors drained from your face. The pink from being so deeply enamored with his gentle affection, the red from being wrapped up in a lustful haze over him, the blue from being left in the dark when he knew just how much you despised it - each and every last emotion mingled into a puzzled mess. In frantic panic, you kneeled onto your knees to try and see if it dropped down underneath, but nothing met your hand other than a glob of dust and hair. Your hope slowly began to dwindle, tears welled up in your eyes at the thought of being swindled. He wouldn’t do that, would he? That was until you made the decision to pull at your drawers with a sharp tug.

What you saw was even more baffling.

Your tongue went dry.

There were stacks upon stacks of ration cards. Every single color available at your disposal: grass green, tan, olive, and faded salmon. You’ve never seen that many officially-issued ration cards in one place before. It exceeded the amount held by soldiers when giving out pay, exceeded the best tip you’ve received in the whole year  you’ve worked, exceeded foolish dreams you’ve had of it. You let your fingers run through each fold, instinctually counting the number in each band when you knew for a fact that it’s much more than you’ll ever need. There’s a catch to this. 

You continued to rummage through your drawer, searching for his note, anything that might give you a clue to what the sudden influx of pay may signify. What met your fingers next was something blunt. Hard, stiff, and cold so it must be a metal of some sort. You took hold of what you could only assume to be the handle. Lo and behold, you’ve just discovered a revolver, it’s metal surface tarnished with age. Your heart raced as you gingerly picked up the weapon, the weight of it unfamiliar and dangerous. Joel has always hated when you interfere with his world, of guns and drugs, of robbery and murders, so what’s with the change of heart?

Beneath where the revolver was hiding was the item you’re looking for.

His note.

“I’m heading West. Tommy needs me.”

He’s not coming back. He doesn’t have to say it word for word.

“Ration cards will last you three months at best.”

Droplets of salty tears started dirtying your cheek as you clutched onto the note. Your heart shattered with each and every word, his instructions painfully etched deep in your wounded soul. You need him, you breathe him.

“Gun’s loaded. Use it to keep you safe.”

The words on the paper, though seemingly innocent and void of any emotions, held a sanction of finality.

“Leave the brothel. Find some place safe.”

Time seemed to stand still as you retreated further into yourself. This was your way out, yet it stung like shards of glass.

“I lo-”

Your eyes glazed upon the tear on the very edge of his note. A sign of cowardice. You knew what he meant to say, you knew what he tore off the page better than anyone else.

Fuck Joel Miller and the way he made you feel.

[i-only-ever-asked-questions]

Aziraphale's bibles

Have you ever noticed how many bibles Aziraphale has just lying about? So. Many. Bibles. Oodles of bibles! In S1 we only saw two, one on top of the desk that he used for checking the number of the beast in Revelations; and the other one on the desk surface, right behind his angel mug when he sat to read The Book (not that book, the other book, the one with the true prophecies).

In S2, we see no less than five bibles on his desk alone and more around the bookshop.

The first one is on the left, right under the little "For the Young: Hymns for Church and Home, with Forms of Services" book, which incidentally opens to: "So shall no wicked thing draw near, To do us harm or cause us fear." (This angel has no shame).

Then there are three more in the desk's middle compartments. One, with a green cover, is on the left slot, right above the tray with pens (this one is a New Testament only). The other two, both with black covers, are right behind the mug, where the RadioTimes watermark is. They look identical but they could be two volumes of the same edition or two different editions. We can probably assume one of these is supposed to be the one from S1. The desk in S1 didn't have compartments, it had drawers so there were no books in that area.

The last one is the on on top of the desk, on the right. This would be the same he used in S1 (although the bible itself is different)

On his right side, sometimes he has an easel where he displays a large book. This is not a bible itself, but an illustrated book of biblical motifs. Sometimes it is closed and sometimes it is open. He normally has it on the Adam and Eve page (cheeky!) but in Ep 2 he opened it to the Book of Job page instead.

There is yet another one in the shelf that Gabriel Jim is organizing

And there is one more in the first backroom (the one with the computer where he talks with Gabriel and Sandalphon). It is on a little table by the door of the private backroom (the one where he confers with Crowley in)

But there is a set of bibles that are even more important to him than any of the other ones. Although the show never mentioned it, the book tells us that in addition to his passion for prophecy books, he also loves and collects misprinted bibles*:

"And he had a complete set of the Infamous Bibles, individually named from errors in typesetting. These Bibles included the Unrighteous Bible, so called from a printer’s error which caused it to proclaim, in I Corinthians, “Know ye not that the unrighteous shall inherit the Kingdom of God?”; and the Wicked Bible, printed by Barker and Lucas in 1632, in which the word not was omitted from the seventh commandment, making it “Thou shalt commit Adultery.” There were the Discharge Bible, the Treacle Bible, the Standing Fishes Bible, the Charing Cross Bible and the rest. Aziraphale had them all. Even the very rarest, a Bible published in 1651 by the London publishing firm of Bilton and Scaggs."

This collection of bibles is hiding in plain sight and readily on hand. Just ask Jim!

The rest are right there on Aziraphale's desk. The tags are hard to read but I found, from right to left, The Treacle Bible, The Discharge Bible, The Unrighteous Bible, then three that I couldn't decipher, the Standing Fishes Bible and The Charing Cross Bible. One of those three is supposed to be the Buggre All This Bible, but none of the tags seemed to fit.

*All the bibles mentioned are real except for the Charing Cross Bible and the Buggre Alle This Bible which in the GO world was printed by Bilton and Scaggs, the publishing company that also printed The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. I have a whole post about Bilton and Scaggs if interested. Now, looking back to S1, as part of his restoring the world, Adam replaced Aziraphale's misprinted bibles with Just William books. Let that sink in... Adam moved Aziraphale's bibles from their righteous place. No wonder Crowley realized it right away. These are Aziraphale's bibles for Go- for Sat- for Somebody's sake!

Fortunately by S2 everything was back to normal.

[gravidwithlore]

Thinking about pregnancy in religion, but instead of being viewed as shameful, pregnancy is celebrated, revered, and considered holy in itself.

Priests who physically take on their parish's sins and wicked thoughts, their mass and confessions include them being bent over the altar and bred by the worshippers. Their prayers come out as moans of pleasure and rapture, the rhythm of their hymns staccato-ed by the rhythm of hips roughly slapping against each other. When the priest starts to grow round with child they are celebrated, the child considered holy and pure, a redemption of their sins, the village spiritually cleansed through the time the priest and holy vessel has spent gestating their baby. When a priest gives birth to multiples their parish is considered to be even more blessed with each additional child brought into the world. One knows a good and holy priest when they see one surrounded by a gaggle of children, possibly with a toddler on their hip or a babe feeding at their chest, and already unmistakably pregnant again already.

Or priests who protect the people from demons, but exorcisms don't involve dispelling away the demons presence entirely. They use themselves as bait for the demons instead, to distract them from innocent or wayward villagers.

One way they could do this is by utilizing their holy symbol, carved and hallowed for this very purpose, which allows them to draw the demons essence into themselves. But because of their training and holy power, this manifests as a pregnancy. The priest will be a holy vessel to purify and redeem the unholy force within, to eventually be born cleansed and new. The length of the pregnancy depends on how powerful the demon was, low power baser demons take a few months, but extremely powerful demons could possibly take years and years. The families who have experienced exorcisms this way often adopt the child born and raise it as a sign of their own devotion to their religion and gratefulness to their priest.

Or if you want to get down and dirty about it, the priests distract any demons found torturing their parishioners by spreading their own legs and compelling the demons to let out their frustrations and rage on them instead. Taking on the burden of being the demons plaything, being used to it's satisfaction during its time on the mortal plane, and often left waddling through their pews with the demons spawn. The people of the village recognize and deeply appreciate their priests sacrifice, and the community come together to support them in whichever way they may need. Even if what they need is obviously influenced by the unholy essence within (which is to say what they need is often to get fucked 25/8)

Paladins who worship and fight for deities of fertility and growth, birth and prosperity, life and bounty. When they have done great deeds on behalf of those they worship, they are often given the blessing of a belly steadily growing round with their demi-god offspring. Sometimes these paladins take it as a sign to retire and raise their new family somewhere safe, their active duty over though they continue their loyal and steadfast worship of their diety. Some continue to adventure, a bit more carefully then before with the little ones tagging along as they travel, the children always letting off a faint holy essence from the strong protective magic both parents weave about them. A paladin of these deities who have large families, are surrounded at all times by children of all ages, are respected as legendary paladins indeed.

A paladin of these deities who has been serving for years and has never been blessed in this way by their deity are often considered suspicious, and rumors swirl that they have forsaken their oath a long long time ago, if they even took it seriously to begin with.

Pregnancy out of wedlock, not a source of shame and impurity, but instead considered a blessing of a union. Some stricter sects won't even allow a betrothal unless a couple has already conceived and at least one of them is clearly growing round with child. It is so normalized and expected that when romantics think of a traditional wedding, they picture themselves waddling down the aisle, full of their beloved's child. Their lover watching them with unconcealed pride and affection, their vows reiterating their commitment to cherishing and growing their new family. The strictest sects sometimes won't even allow the wedding to commence until they're clearly in labor, only allowed to struggle and groan down the aisle once they're in active labor. Spreading their legs and screaming their child (or children) into the world on the altar, held and encouraged by their soon to be spouse. The cries of the couples firstborn ringing through the church halls holds greater weight than any spoken vow.

A temple of monks hidden deep in the mountains, their acolytes training culminates in embarking on a pilgrimage. These new monks are tasked to give their bodies to whoever may desire it, to bring people joy and pleasure no matter how briefly it lasts, to be subservient and pliant to those they serve on their journey. Some pilgrimages take longer than others, but they almost always return waddling, heavy with child and out of breath from the trek through the steep mountain path, but with beaming and satisfied smiles, confident in their beliefs and teachings in way they hadn't been when they left. Its not even uncommon for a monk returning from pilgrimage to come back holding a curious young child's hand, a toddler secured with soft cloth to their back or front, their belly already gravid and low, obviously on the verge of giving birth where they stand. These monks are considered to have found extra enlightenment on their journey and are heralded back as among the wisest of their number.

Crusaders who travel, not to conquer a land, but to connect cultures and create bonds between lands. Instead of meeting head on in a gritty battlefield, meetings are held in much more comfortable places filled with soft pillows and silks. Instead of the sharp sound of swords clanging against each other, or the metallic sound of armor and shields moving; cries of pleasure and the wet slapping of hips permeate the air. A crusader who comes home with a distinct gravid waddle are celebrated, but the most revered and successful crusaders are the ones that never return, but instead send letters home about their new home and gush about how they're almost due with multiples, but are already excited for their new spouse to knock them up all over again so they can continue to grow their new family.

The head of a religious order, considered to be the closest to their deity over anyone else, always being tasked to carry and bear their deity's offspring. When a new leader is chosen or elected, the final ritual of ushering in their new era is always a consummation of the renewed commitment to being they worship. The leader cannot make any serious changing or sweeping reforms until it has been confirmed by the council that their belly is beginning to round out with child, until then all their decisions need to be council approved. The proof of their divine leadership takes time to grow, divine beings are practically immortal, so it makes sense their offspring take a long time to grow. Symptoms such as morning sickness, cravings, and mood swings are closely analyzed to predict the future of their reign. Their libido however is analyzed as a litmus test to how close their relationship is to their deity. Only their deity may enter them in the same way they did so consummate their new relationship, but it is rare for their deity to make an appearance, so the leader must make do with their worshippers tongues and fingers. Those with especially high libido have been known to use statues and other instruments used in divine worship to fuck themselves senseless, panting from the exhertion of worship, eyes rolled back to the heavens, singing their garbled praises to the deity that blessed their body with it's heavy holy offspring.

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: here we go honeys. when me and aly (<3!) tossed this idea around months ago, this was the big question; how to do the reveal and what comes after. naturally it was as angsty as possible tehe <3 cw: canon typical violence

word count: 4.2k

synopsis: Azriel mourns a mistake that will haunt him for eternity as he races back to you. You play the leading role in one of your nightmares, but you can't seem to wake up.

CHAPTER SEVEN :: MATES

It's too loud and he can't think— that's the only coherent thing that Azriel can seem to grasp as he stumbles forward in the snow.

His shadows burst into a wild frenzy as he staggers towards the cabin door. It's not snowing here but the wind current is fast and wicked, tunnelling over the hilltop. His breath locks in his chest and even as he gasps, he can't seem to catch it.

It's too loud, too much— every single thought and feeling within him is just climbing over one another, overlapping, melding into each other so he can't tell where one ends and another begins.

Sadness, misery, torment, upset, anger. His emotions are thrown together with yours, a thousand afflictions all battling for his attention and he can't fucking think.

He shoves the cabin door open, falls through it, and it slams shut behind him.

Like a puppet getting its strings cut, all at once the noise... stops.

As though the very action of closing the door had managed to silence the bond between you and Azriel.

A different, very real fear suddenly burrows deep in his heart.

Still gasping for air, he shoves a hand against his chest and searches within himself desperately for that tether, his eyes crushing shut. For a moment, his heart hangs in the balance, teetering on the edge of agony.

And then— there.

Golden and rooted in his very soul, the bond that connects him to you. Only once he's found it does he release the breath captured in his lungs. He breathes an audible sigh of relief and shudders lightly, his knees giving out slightly.

He lets himself slump back against the cabin door as his scarred hand slips from his chest, his wings curling forward around himself. His head swims with the overload of new information, the first dregs of it only just sinking in.

You... were not the person you said you were.

...Was that such a bad thing?

Still breathing hard, Azriel's gaze turns to stare hard at his hands, their delicate scarring paining him nearly as much as the memory does. He thinks back to their origin.

Thinks back to a space too small for a growing boy, thinks of the darkness. He thinks of the never-ending misery that seemed to torment his life in a way he feared he would never escape.

It had taken a very long time for that fear to diminish in size; or perhaps, Azriel had just learned to grow around it.

But the cruelty of those mountains and the Fae that resided there was something he was intimately familiar with. The world up there, between the pines, was kill or be killed. Rise to the top of the food chain or spend every waking moment trying to figure out how to survive.

Isn't that what you had done? Learnt how to endure the conditions, to withstand the brute force of the winter and the merciless Illyrian way?

And wasn't that what he had done, all those years ago? Perhaps, the two of you weren't so different.

But his mind keeps snagging: liar, liar, liar.

Some vicious, prideful voice in his head makes a different point— he did it the right way. He didn't deceive anyone.

He fought for all he had, trained harder than any of his camp-mates to overcome every wretched obstacle in his way, earned his place at the top of the Blood Rite by being better, by working harder and winning.

Even with his... set back with learning to fly, he had still conquered it. He'd earned his place.

But… no, that wasn't right, was it?

He'd earned it, yes, but only because there was no other choice.

He had been kicked down at every possible chance, stalked for being born from a father who detested him and none of it was his fault. He'd earned his title as warrior but he had done nothing to reap every extra hurdle to get there.

Azriel had endured a great many terrible things in his life—and it took effort to recall that it wasn't fair. That it was an injustice he shouldn't have had to bear.

Sometimes, he hated how deeply ingrained the Illyrian way was within him. How it had changed him in the most unsavoury of ways, giving him an Illyrian pride that overtook his rationale at the worst of times.

It echoed out in the most unfamiliar of ways, like a hidden piece of himself he'd forgotten about— forgotten the person he'd needed to become to survive those camps.

So when Azriel thinks of the lie you've been hiding it, protecting yourself, the forgiveness is already there. It always was there. He could never had truly held it against you.

You had lied, yes, but as if there was any other way to survive. As if he could fault you for picking the option that let you fight, let you grow strong, let you keep your wings.

He remembers your words suddenly.

Please, I- I just wanted to keep my wings.

A sinister horror creeps up his throat and Azriel lurches forward, his forearms slamming against the cabin floor as his body forcibly retches. His stomach clenches tightly and bile floods his mouth but nothing comes out but his ragged breath.

How young had you been?

He knows to make your lie feasible it had to have been too young. Nine years old? Eight? He tries to recall the age that Lord Mylind said you started turning up trouble but it only succeeds in fueling the harrowing feeling that was running through his veins.

Azriel sags forward, his eyes drawing closed as he presses his forehead to the cool wood of the ground, trying to contain his growing dread. Still curled around himself, his wings quiver in the wake of his revelation. His shadows try soothe him, whirling down the planes of his neck.

You were pleading with him.

And... he had left you.

His stomach heaves once more, his breath a mixture of raspy pants.

It's impossible not to recount every single interaction you've had over the months, turning over every memory and seeing the other side of it with startling clarity.

The lone cabin, the outlier to the group. The tenseness in your shoulders when asked about the Blood Rite or your absences from training that Lord Mylind had spoken so crudely about.

Your drive to train and learn; the utter disappointment at the inadequacy of your tonics.

You had so much on the line, so much more than he ever could have imagined.

Azriel bites his cheek meanly as he recalls the conversation in which he asked why you hadn't completed in the Blood Rite. It makes perfect sense now; the exposure of the challenge was far too big of a risk and as a bastard, you would automatically be a target.

Even if you managed to succeed, which he had no doubt you could, the tattoos... removing your shirt...

All dead giveaways.

Your voice echoes in his mind.

Azriel, please, you have to understand—

You had begged him and he left you, he left you.

His body gives another awful retch, the horror of what he had done beginning to truly settle in. Gods, in a thousand ways you had been more trusting and vulnerable that he had ever known. Allowing him into your shelter, into your life...

Letting him get close to you, knowing that the closer he got, the more your secret threatened to reveal. And you let him anyway.

Azriel lurches to his feet, swaying for only a moment, his head reaching a clarity he so desperately lacked earlier.

He needs to go back. He should have fucking never left.

Somewhere between his ribs, there's an wallowing ache on the bond. A jolt of sharp pain.

Hand flying to his chest, Azriel stares at it and desperately prays to every god he can think of that he isn't too late to fix this. His eyes flick over to the Siphon on the back of hand, dim and lifeless. Drained.

Fuck. He snarls in his frustration. He can't even winnow back to you.

Turning and pressing back out the door, his boots smash through the snow outside for only a few steps— til he beats his mighty wings and takes to the skies.

Whether the bond had snapped for you or not, it didn't stop him from gripping that thread tightly and pouring every sincere intention down it. I'm sorry. I’m coming back. I’m sorry. I never should have left. I'm so fucking sorry.

He could only hope that you somewhere on the other side, connected to the same red string of fate, you could feel him coming back to you.

—

He's taking too long.

It's the thought that's stuck on loop, like a record that keeps skipping, repeating the same part over and over again. He's going as fast as he can and still, he knows he's taking too damn long.

As his wings strain from the long journey, the endless labyrinth of trees whirring past beneath him too fast to see, Azriel glimpses down at the siphons atop his hands.

They're still gleaming in that lacklustre way but there's more of a shine to them now. He can feel it too, the well refilling with a slow drip, the build up of his power.

His keen eyes scour the landscape, narrowed as he analyses the distance between here and Exordor. It's still far— it will stretch the reserve of magic that's barely begun to replenish but Azriel doesn't care. He'll do anything to reach you.

He squeezes his eyes shut, brow furrowing, and folds the fabric once more. The world spins as he pushes through the fabric of it, feeling the strain in his bones. The snowy entrance to your shelter comes into view.

He lands with a sickening crack, his knees bending to catch himself as he touches down, one heavy motion into the snow which spins up in a flurry. It's raining heavily, the drops coming down with a vehemence, creating a thunderous applause against the frozen ground.

Around him, the trees groan and shudder as they bow to the powerful energy. Birds take flight, cawing as they do. In the distance, there's a loud snap, carried with the wind.

Azriel stares right into the cabin.

His stomach threatens to lurch again at the sight. The door to your shelter is wide open.

His mate, where is his mate?

Stretching out the doorway, there are obvious signs of a struggle. The muddy snow has been kicked around, the boards nailed to the inside of the door are fresh with splinters, and... and...

The blood. Crimson, scarlet, fucking red blood coats the floorboards, a ghoulish splatter of it leading from your bed out the door, turning the slurry of melted snow a soft pink. He knows from the pull in his chest that you're not here.

This isn't just some attack. They haven't just ambushed you, they've... found out.

Where before he had felt terribly ill, bile rising, there is only icy and raging fury. In the distance, another snap sounds and his shadows beg him to pay attention to it, their whispers kissing at his cheeks. Water soaks his dark hair, stray raindrops rolling down his face.

Azriel ignores them and stumbles forward one, two steps and stops, his heart soaking in the reality of what had happened.

He had left you and they had taken you.

They found out and they hadn't killed you, they had— they had—

The snap in the distance. This time when it sounds, it yanks Azriel's attention, his head whipping towards where it's coming from. It's towards camp. Dread curdles up in his gut, latching onto each notch in his spine and burrowing deep.

Every instinct in his body roars into overdrive as he realises what it is he can hear in the distance — the crack of a whip against skin.

—

One of your nightmares has come to life, dragging from the murkiest parts of your mind and taking the treacherous form of Brudam.

You keep begging yourself to wake the fuck up.

It can’t be real— this can’t actually be happening, you think desperately, none of this was ever supposed to happen- you had- it was- you secret was something you guarded with your life.

"Wake up," You plead to yourself deliriously. Your wrists are already feeling chafed from where they're bound against the wooden pole, the steel that binds them cold as ice. The rain has soaked you to the bone.

"Wake up," You all but sob, trying futilely to pull against the restraints on your wrists.

It only succeeds in tugging on the stakes driven through your wings, a searing, fiery type of pain the ripples along every nerve in them. A sob scrapes up your throat, answering the pain's call. It hurts, it hurts, it fucking hurts in a way you haven't known before — everything, every cell in your body, is being tortured.

A shredding deep in your gut as though you've taken a fistful of claws to the stomach makes you seize, your vision flashing wildly. Even now, your cycle continues its bloody rampage. You can't stop crying, can't stop your body from convulsing in pure agony.

Somewhere behind you, your ear pick up the shifting in the mud, Brudam preparing to strike again.

Even sobbing, you tense up, unable to stop yourself—instinct drives you to hastily try tuck your wings, trying to pull them from their spread position. They catch on the stakes pinned through them meanly, the delicate flesh tearing with a sickening squelch and sending rivers of pain up into your body.

You cry out a strangled gasp, your head bowing further forward, trying to escape what's to come.

The blow rains down onto your unprotected wings all the same.

It's pure fire. Like they've doused the membranous skin of your wings with oil and set them ablaze, fiery hot pain licking at the tendons, tracing all the way up to your bare back. Your teeth grit to contain your scream. Tears streak down your face, lost in the thrum of the rain.

"Wake. Up." You demand to yourself again, panting heavily now.

You can't take much more pain or you'll be unconscious soon and some awful part of you knows, that's when they'll take your wings. You'll wake up midway to the worst nightmare of them all; the splintering sound of them cutting them off your body.

There's a boot pressed suddenly to your lower back, pressing meanly.

"Oh no, this isn't a dream," Brudam taunts as he leans down, all too happily. His tone shifts to something harder with his next words, nearly spitting the words. "I knew there was something off about you, you mutt."

His voice climbs to a shout, addressing the crowd gathered around you. "I always knew you were a FUCKING TRAITOR!"

There's a roar from the crowd, lead by the antsy group of warriors you've grown up and trained beside. All of them are eager to see justice delivered for your lies. None of them are pleased to have been duped, much less by a female.

They know, everyone knows. There's no coming back from this. Even if it weren't from the scent of blood from your cycle, your bound chest—revealed through your cut away armor— is proof enough.

Another convulsion rocks your body, the pain from your cycle making itself known. You're burning hot from every laceration on your skin and freezing cold from being bare in the icy rain. Your defence gets swallowed up in your pitiful whimper.

The mud behind you shifts again, Brudam no doubt winding up for his next hit.

You hold your breath, capturing the next sob in your throat. Your wings tug inwards, despite how you beg them not to, and your wrists ache as you try to wrench them free fruitlessly.

A sense of finality sinks in. You're going to die here.

A part of you feels like maybe you'd always known it would end like this, one way or the other. It's tired. So fucking tired of living in your intricate lie and spending each and every moment of your miserable existence on alert. On defence. Waiting for a break that never seems to come.

It's that part that can't, in any capacity, be truly upset at Azriel.

You can't resent him for leaving when you're the one who lied.

You can't regret him finding out, without regretting ever meeting him—and that means... regretting all the happiness you've truly felt.

But there's also an anger swirling within you, a rage that is as icy as it is hungry for vengeance.

Inexplicably, it feels unknown. Not your own. It starts somewhere in your chest and it only feels like it's getting bigger, growing in size, glowing hotter.

In the drone of the rain, blackness swims before your tired eyes as they begin to slip shut— only, no, they haven't closed.

The darkness is real and in front of you. It's surrounding you, curling up from under your captured arms. Despite the loud protests from your anguished body, you lift your head shakily. You're still quivering, quiet hiccups pushing out your lips.

"What are you doing, witch?" Brudam snarls from behind you, his boot on your back digging in harder. You wince, the motion dragging your wings against the splinters of the stakes. You shake your head, unable to form words.

It isn't me, you want to say.

But you're not entirely sure that's true either. The black plume is only around you, rising as though it is coming from you. Protecting you.

"Brudam!" A loud voice cuts across the rustling, nervous crowd, cutting through the din of the rain clear as night and sounding as deadly as venom. The courtyard falls into silence.

Your heart lurches up your throat. You know that voice.

Something within you cleaves in half, torn by opposite forces. On one side, there the mountainous evidence of your miserable life, of every thing that's worked against you time and time again. Of the fact that things don't work out for you, they never have. You're a fool to believe that would change now.

The other side... is a terrible, feeble hope.

Because he came back.

"Shadowsinger," Brudam greets with a sneer. The boot on your back shifts and then retreats, the warrior turning away from you. Agony tears through your body again and you hold your breath, shuddering through the silent pain with gritted teeth. A dangerous hope starts to cling to your heart.

"One chance," Azriel growls. The hair on the back of your neck rises at the promise of violence in his voice.

"Let her go."

Brudam snorts unattractively, forcing a bitter sounding laugh out. You focus on trying not to throw up as the pain fogs your brain, bile filling your mouth.

"Not fucking likely."

"Walk away." Azriel snarls his demand, sounding angrier than you've ever heard him.

"Over my dead body, bastard," Brudam spits back, the mud shifting as he digs his feet in, preparing to fight. His hand tightens around the whip in his hand.

There's a moment of silence, the wind carrying a whistle, the trees swaying as if leaning closer to listen in, two warriors sizing each other up in the pouring rain. Your ears strain for Azriel's response.

"Gladly."

And then the courtyard is doused in pure shadow.

—

Azriel moves without hesitation.

Illyrian warriors are fiercely trained to fight through every type of conditions, battling in the harshest of all seasons. Snow, sleet, rain, shine. They're disciplined to go days without sleep, to fight and win, even with one arm pinned behind their back.

But what defence is there against losing your sight?

Azriel hadn't even known his shadows were capable of such a thing. Their usual whirling expands in a blink of an eye, spreading out into a storm-cloud of blackness that drapes itself across the landscape. People murmur and bleat in fright as it creeps out deathly fast, snuffing senses and blinding everyone in the courtyard except him.

Like Rhys' own cloak of darkness, of midnight — but no, it's not night, it's shadow.

Azriel doesn't dwell on it, doesn't hesitate. Not when there's still territory, still enemies, in the space between him and you.

There's a ripple of unease from the warriors but Azriel's already advancing, the shadows beneath his boots silencing the shift of his feet. Through the darkness, Brudam gives himself away with an animalistic snarl and leads Azriel exactly to his his target.

He swings powerfully and Heartstriker does what it does best—aims true.

The bones in Brudam's shoulder makes a horrible sinking crack as the blade pierces it through, the brute giving a fiendish cry of pain.

Azriel drives it all the way through, his anger aiding his strength as he swipes out Brudam's feet. Heartstriker buries itself deep into the mud, driven by the weight of Brudam's body as it hits the ground.

All Azriel can think is that he should fucking gut him, should skin him alive. He should pull that blade and drag it forward, force it through all the muscle and shatter every bone on the way, until it pierces his awful heart.

The mating bond within him roars at him to do so, every inch of his body, of his soul, enraged at the state he'd found you in, the agonising hurt bestowed on you by this male—but it's not his kill. Azriel knows that.

So instead, he draws the Truth Teller with deft, deadly accuracy and then sinks it in deep into Brudam's groin, til the tip reaches mud on the other side.

Brudam howls, his whole body twitching as it tries to curl up against either blade unsuccessfully. Between the rain and the shadows, he's too incapacitated to do anything except wail.

Azriel doesn't waste a second, already moving. There's a warrior approaching on every side but between the gift of sight and silence in the shadow, he's devastatingly lethal.

One goes down with a slice across his throat, crimson soaking his front. The next crumbles after too many jabs of Azriel's dagger land in his torso, too slow to block them when he can't see them coming. The next, his head cut from his shoulders in one mighty swing.

Their cries join the thunder of the storm but somehow, through it all, all he can hear is the softness of your weak breath. Wounded. Fading.

Azriel's vision goes red. He moves expertly, his kills efficient until the burning rage in him gets too much and then he's slashing with pure malice, teeth gritted in hate, as he cuts down any warrior who stood by and watched. All he can feel is the thread between you and him, nearly torn from how much they've hurt you.

When the clashing of steel stops, the last foe dead, only the din of the rain remains.

Like a vacuum has opened somewhere in the sky, the inky cover of his shadow is sucked away, leaving only his sluggish moving shadows and exposing the bleak day. Carnage lies all around him. Bodies upon bodies of warriors.

Azriel can only see you.

You're still strapped to that torturous pole, your beautiful wings forcibly spread out and pinned, like you're being laid out for dissection. Across the flesh of your wings is a sickening number of thin, scarlet lines, gently bleeding.

Beneath you, in the mud, is the remains of your armor and Azriel can trace the scar that'll be left on your back from where it was cut off. The binding on your chest remains, now stained with blood.

You aren't moving.

He sprints without thought, without reason, following the bond. He finds the thread within his chest, grasps it tight, and tugs desperately. You don't even flinch.

A fear mounts inside him, more heart-wrenching than he's ever felt before. A glance down at his siphons reveals their still dull appearance—fucking useless to him.

Azriel staggers to his knees as he reaches you, his scarred hands reaching up to pry off the steel that binds your wrist to the wooden pole—ripping out chunks of the wood at the same time with his rapid, panicked motion. Your hands fall limply to your sides. He feels sick again.

"Y/n?"

He's scared to touch you, scared to do more damage that he's already caused, so so frightened that he just found you and you might already be gone.

He doesn't know what he'll do if you die. He can't—the thought is suffocating in itself, like a black hole that opens and starts pulling in his entire world— you can't die or he'll— he'll- nothing will matter anymore.

RHYS. He throws the plea out desperately, nearly delirious at the sight of your unmoving body. The words sound like a sob, even in his own mind. You have to help me.

Where are you? Rhys' voice fills his mind in an instant.

Then... a haggard breath sounds, like drawing through a mouthful of blood. You cough lightly, barely audible, and murmur, "...Azriel...?"

Something explodes inside Azriel, a burst of pure energy that fills him with relief so overwhelmingly he could cry.

Exordor. He barely manages to think properly, to even respond, beyond the staggering emotion. Come immediately. Please. I need you to- she needs—you have to help her. Please.

I'm on my way.

[NEXT PART: STRANGERS (AGAIN)]

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