#serial obidiah

[the-writhing-mist]

HV Serial Obidiah Part 2

Word Count: 2523 Themes: 18+, medieval, dark fantasy, demon/edritch being x human, general sexual content, D/s, relatively vanilla, m/m, trans character, trans male, talking about dysphoria and bad trans feelings like insecurity

General Info: This is a side story not continuous with the main plot revolving around a character named Obidiah. It’s rather loose in form, please excuse the unpolished writing.

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The summer sun was slow to set, the light lingering long after the oranges and yellows had given way to a luminous twilight in indigo. At the end of an old cobbled road leading down from the building that used to be the silversmith’s guild before they found a place in the more prosperous sectors of the city, the stones began to break up, sprouts of grass finding their way in the gaps, until, at last, the last house marked the edge of the town. There was a lantern set out, the merchant himself leaned up against the outside.

He had his arms crossed, head down. His hat left in the house, he had made some effort to gather back up his hair but it always seemed to slip from the knot. The coat he wore had quilted padding and numerous pockets, hiding his relatively slim figure, and he wore yet more numerous layers underneath. It made sure his shoulders were pointed, exaggerated the length of his arms, and well hid the curve of his hips.

Obie hardly noticed when the knight approached, catching only movement in his periphery, then turned fully to look up. “Oh. You came,” he said. “Ah,” but was slow to find his footing. “Good, good. I’m glad for your enthusiasm.”

“You did not attend the service either it seems,” said James with a sly look about him.

“Ah?”

“It is not yet over.”

“Oh. Oh, yes. You are right. No. No, I am,” he then pushed a gulp of air through his lips and turned back up to the man. “Not quite the sort for it, I admit. Let’s go inside, shall we?”

The knight raised his brow and nodded to the door.

“Tell me,” Obie said, taking them inside. “You are a noble knight, my friend. Have you been east to Timpan?”

“Yes,” James said, taking a look around the room. It was well-lit with several oil lanterns and a couple of cases were laid out on a table, facing away from them. A door at the back opened up to the rest of the house. The wood was warped, in poor condition, and the door barely fit in the frame. “I was there with the forces the Count of Martom sent to aid in the crusade.”

“Oh, you are a crusader? You should know, then. The demons of Timpan are far fiercer than any here in the west.”

James let out a laugh, “So they say.”

Obie took a place besides the cases, “I have just the thing to show you. You may even recognize them. After all, in such a land beset by forces most demonic, there yet remains good, God-fearing people who have survived only through the most stalwart of protections.”

He procured a set of copper bowls, setting them out on the table. Along their inside rims was an inscription, a spell of protection, and James watched him as he did so, focusing more on the man’s hands, his wrists, the way his fingers grasped them so gingerly. Stepping closer, he saw in the cases items of the like he had never witnessed: red-dyed scrolls tied with string made of reeds, strange cylindrical metal chimes set with a small mallet, numerous small bottles of powders and gels, and a square of embroidered silk.

James listened to the merchant’s stories and tales, at one point making his greetings to the owner of the house—the old lady Weirol who brought each a sip of wine—but quickly their discussion fell from trinkets and coin to more personal matters.

“Have you been to Timpan?” James asked, holding up one of the bowls to the light.

“Ah. Yes. I am. Well, actually, I am from there originally,” Obie said, feeling the late hour grow on him. But then he sat up, realizing quickly such a fact could cast doubt upon him. “I mean. My. Uh. Well. I’m not a heathen like the most of them, I’ll have you know. But it does lend itself to certain connections, I’m sure you understand.”

James put it back down on the table, turning to him and saying with a smile, “My father was from Timpan. And he was quite the heathen.”

“You,” Obie said, his brow knotting, taking note of James’ long, dark hair that curved around the left side of his face. “How did a son of Timpan find placement in the Count’s army?”

James gave him a smile, “My mother was the Count’s sister.”

“Oh. Oh!” Obie stood up with a start. “My lord! I-I did not realize.”

“Ah,” James sighed. “Like I said, I have not been back there in many years.”

Obie’s face fell back into a scowl.

“James,” the demon whispered into his head from places unknown.

“Yes, Nyn?”

“It appears I do, in fact, have an interest in him,” she said. “There is a small, silver statue within his care, of the kind found even further to the east. It is not with this set. Ask about it.”

“Do you, uh. Have any items from further east?” James asked.

“Well! Funny you ask! This fabric—”

“More than that?”

“Uh. Yes, I do. They are with my wagon.”

“May I see them?”

“Yes, of course,” Obie said, but was forced to sort out his thoughts again. “Yes. Okay,” he said again, then exited out the side door and James followed behind.

The moment they turned the corner, Obidiah whipped himself around, a piercing dagger hidden in his robes pointed at James stomach. “What is your game, knight?” he hissed.

“I, uh,” James stammered, raising his hands. “I mean no harm.”

“No harm? When we both know you’ve seen so clearly through me? You seem so barely interested in a purchase. You just mean to make small talk? Ply me with wine then lead me out into the dark to take advantage of me?”

“I don’t—”

“I know your like. And I’ll have none of it. The moment men like you realize the truth of me, it always turns like this.”

“The. I’m.”

“James,” said the demon.

“Are you just going to let me be accosted, Nyn?” he thought back.

“You’ve gotten yourself into a predicament. Take care to get yourself out of it.”

“The. Truth of you?” James stuttered, feeling the bite of the blade dig under his armor with a winch. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, don’t play dumb!” Obie hissed in a whisper.

“I admit, I find you attractive but—”

“That is exactly what I mean!”

“You were. Cute,” he stuttered, biting down into a grimace as he felt the tip in his gut.

“Oh, of course,” Obie hissed. “The cute little woman pretending she’s a proper merchant.”

“Wo—” James started with dismay.

“Don’t say it,” Nyn chided him. “Don’t make me waste my magic on keeping you alive when you’ve so insisted on playing a fool. We’ve talked about this before and still you learn nothing.”

“What are you talking about?” he said instead. “I believed us. Both men. Of the same cut. Admittedly—well—you know. Given to certain. Indiscretions.”

The grip on the dagger relaxed and he could feel it loosen its hold on his stomach. Obie stepped back, staring at him with a scowl. “You’re matri.”

“Yes,” he said, holding onto his wince. “You aren’t?”

Barely lit by the light from inside the house, Obidiah turned his head to the side, looking into the darkness of the treeline, the pale light only grazing the outline of his head. “I’m something worse,” he said.

James let out a small, self-effacing laugh, finally letting his joints relax, “Being matri is not even the half of it. I’m a witch too. No need for protection from demons when I’ve already pledged myself to one.”

Obie turned back, his face catching the light again and making his scowl clear. He then let out a small laugh as well, saying, “Heh. I guess we both ought to be burned at the stake.”

James chuckled again.

But then he saw Obidiah collapse onto his knees, the coat billowing around him as he fell and put his hands over his face to claw into his hair.

“Obie. I’m sorry,” said James, taking a step forward.

“I’m so tired,” he said, his voice shaking.

The knight found himself taking a knee by Obidiah, struggling to think of what to say.

“Nyn?” he thought to the demon.

But there was no reply from her. And he looked up to Obidiah, breathing shallow as he took in the sight of the man’s naked anguish. His shoulders were tensed, bunching up the heavy coat around his neck, back heaving though he was trying not to cry.

“I try so hard to play a man and still, they always find out,” he said, letting his hands fall to his lap. “I always fail. It’s a fool’s errand, but I’m the fool. I don’t know why I do it. People assume and then. It suits me. But it never lasts. Because it’s a lie.”

“I could really use your help, Nyn,” the witch pleaded in his mind.

“James,” her voice came back. “Have I not said that Harrah is cruel?”

“So, you have. But am I just to tell him that his god is cruel?”

“But James. You know very well why he is distraught,” she said.

“You must think me such the charlatan,” Obidiah said, setting his palms out in front of him. “And here I am, wailing like the girl I am. What’s the point, when it all comes unravelled in the end?”

“I,” stammered James. “The demon my fate is cast in with is the god of secrets. Those of us that serve her,” he said, waiting to see if she would object to his reveal. But she said nothing, so he continued, “We all have secrets.”

“I’m sure it does you good,” Obidiah said, a tear clearly falling down his face where it was caught in the light.

“But they’re. I was the Count’s nephew, I spent so many years in a life of piety and repentance. In part just because of the nature of my ancestry. But.”

“I have no mind to sell my soul. If it is an offer you are preparing to make, witch,” he said, a glower upon his face.

“No. Of course not,” James said, his gaze falling to the grass and clovers beneath them. “I just meant that your secret is safe with me.”

He could see Obie’s hands rubbing at each other, turning to look up at the stars. His voice came back, still despondent, “You know what the worst part is? I. I know I am a liar. Because I knew what you were doing, yet something in me wanted it. And I let myself think of it without thinking of the consequences. And that fact is a splinter in my heart. Because I know it comes from the part of me that makes me into a liar.”

“Heh,” James scoffed, suddenly reminded of his earlier thoughts. “If something like that makes you into a liar, then it makes me into a liar too. The men of Matrea are not famous for taking each other to bed because of any love for womanhood. It is quite the opposite.”

“No,” Obie said quietly. “You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?” James asked.

“My flesh is a betrayer. It knows what it wants and what it is despite my best efforts to deny it.”

James raised his brow, “I am no stranger to that, either. And neither am I a woman.”

“It’s not the same,” Obie protested.

“I am consort to a demon. She is capable of much beyond most mortals’ imaginations. There is little I am a stranger to.”

Obidiah fell silent, staring pointedly at the witch of a man sitting next to him. His rugged face, the braids tied into his temple, the dark eyebrows and soulful eyes. “Why have interest in mortal men if she can grant you anything you wish?” he asked.

“Ah,” he said, a bashful smile crossing his face. “She is a thing far beyond me. Sometimes I. Hm. It is complicated. But suffice to say, she is not a man, no matter how convincingly she plays one for my sake. It’s not quite the antidote for my particular brand of poison.”

“Why would I be any different?” Obie said.

“I. Ah—”

“I believe you should stop, James,” the demon said to him. “As much as I appreciate you speaking good of my name and deeds. He gives voice to the doubts because he has need to hear himself say it and for someone to listen. It is not on you to convince him of something he already knows well enough. Though you are of the same sex and similar inclination, he is right. It is not the same. And trying to force your perspective will do nothing to ease his misery.”

Looking back up to Obie, James said aloud, “I believe you. That you are more man than woman.”

“You do?” Obidiah said, holding his hands in fists against his thighs now.

“It is not so strange,” James said. “That is all I meant to say. I have even met others like you in the past.”

“You have?”

“On occasion.”

“I just hate it,” Obie said, turning his face into the darkness again. “I don’t even know if. If something like your demon could change me. Would I do it? I don’t know. I’ve thought about it before. There are legends of tinctures. And magic. And pacts with spirits and fairies. But. It’s. I’m fine before people found out. It’s nice coming to a new place, where no one knows. Where it doesn’t matter. But, then, I can never get close to anyone. I can never. And then I find myself wanting so desperately to be speared by men like you. There is such a fire in me sometimes. And I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Night had fully set, leaving them in darkness with only the lanterns from inside to light their forms. The crickets and frogs of the distant brush sang in the sinking humidity, blanketing them in a warm summer night. James breathed in deeply, content to let the silence between them pass as though it said more than he ever could. Obidiah sat on his shins, rubbing at his knuckles. After moments passed, a shadow crossed through the light.

“Are you boys okay out there?”

It was the old woman.

“Yes, everything is fine,” Obidiah shouted back.

“Alright. Don’t stay up too late, Obie. You’ll miss your chance to claim your spot at the markets,” she said.

“I know,” Obidiah said, his head falling as he tried to stop himself from smiling. He then looked back up to James, saying, “You wanted to see the far eastern items?”

“Well,” he said, lifting himself to standing. “My Master did.”

“Oh,” Obie said, losing his expression though it had just dawned on him. “I think I know what it is, too.”

“She said there was a statue.”

“Yes. Yes, I know it.”

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[the-writhing-mist]

HV Serial Obidiah Part 1

Word Count: 1723 Themes: 18+, medieval, dark fantasy, demon/edritch being x human, general sexual content, D/s, relatively vanilla, m/m, trans character, trans male

General Info: This is a side story not continuous with the main plot revolving around a character named Obidiah. It’s rather loose in form, please excuse the unpolished writing.

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He wore a blue coat of generous size and color and a hat topped with a wispy plumed feather. Under the hat was coarse, greying hair tied that he had tied back at his shoulders. Long strands hung loose, falling over his face, a curtain to hide the marks of his lies as he leaned forward to answer a customer’s question.

This potion will soothe the nerves.

An ointment to make rashes disappear.

Willow bark. Incense. A miracle powder. Dragon’s blood and copper spoons.

A sigil. A talisman. An ancient prayer.

Teas and glass beads and symbols of the evil eye.

Two distinct lines were carved besides his mouth, once cherubic dimples, now like a cut in marble. They twitched as he spoke, as he told stories and weaved fantastic tales of his wares. His face was otherwise remarkably smooth.

He was set up in the markets of the sister city to the famed capital of Vivencia known as Cordalys. It was a bustling town by the coast, north from James’ native Martom. The sun was setting, casting Cordalys in tones of fire and honey, the shadows from the stone buildings and the passersby fingering over the cobblestone roads and reaching back up walls.

James stopped at the booth. He wore his armor and braids in his dark hair, with red marks in his skin and stubble on his face. His master and familiar in the form of a black saw-wing swallow landed not far away, keeping a watchful eye over her servant.

The glint of the armor caught the eye of the merchant, who leaned forward and asked, “Good ser. Now, aren’t you a strapping figure. Have you heard of silver mugwort? One of the seven herbs of fortune cited by Saint Obras, protection from disease and demonic influence alike. Good for righteous men such as you.”

A smile cracked on James’ lips, knowing he was nothing righteous nor a stranger to the influence of demons. From the shadows, he heard the demons’ voice in his head, “Curious.”

As the merchant in the large blue coat pulled out some of the aforementioned herb, James returned her thought, saying aloud, “Is there truth to it?”

The leaves had a gleam to them, caught by the fading rays.

The demon responded via their link, “No. It is an unpleasant smell, that is all.”

But the merchant responded, “Of course! It was used by the venerable Obras himself when beset by the terrible fiends of the demon known as Siv!”

“That is a lie. Xiv never encountered Obras,” said the demon.

James gave the merchant an apologetic smile, looking to the other items set out on the table.

But the act did not go unnoticed, as the man moved on to the necklaces, small pieces of glass bound in small pieces of leather, “Oh, I see you are a man of much wisdom. These carry the very symbol of Saint Obras that rests deep in the woods of Yorl: his eyes! They channel the essence of his sainthood and his protection wherever the wearer may go! Do you know the story of Saint Obras the demonslayer?”

“I’ve been to Yorl,” James said, smiling to himself over the fact that his master made her home in Yorl.

“Ah! I can see you are much traveled, good ser. Surely, you, above anyone here, know that danger lurks around every bend. It would be bereft of me to let you leave without some extra protection. Especially for such a striking and handsome figure as you are, ser.”

“He’s not lying there, at least,” the demon said.

James scowled, silently conveying his thoughts back, “Are you calling me handsome?”

“No,” it said plainly. “But it is a genuine sentiment from our friend.”

James took a moment to take a closer look at the man. His skin was like butterscotch, hair cold by comparison to its warmth, and his almond eyes gleamed from under dark and distinctive eyebrows. “What is your name, my friend?” James asked.

“Ah,” it seemed to catch him off-guard. His dimples twitched to give him a smile, showing two pearly incisors only slightly crooked. “Obidiah, good ser. My friends call me Obie!”

“Where are you from, Obidiah?” he asked.

Obie leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table, “Oh, everywhere! Here and there, there and here! Are you from these parts, good ser?”

“James,” the demon chided. “I recommend caution.”

“You said yourself,” he thought back, letting a smile cross his lips. “The sentiment was genuine.”

“I fear you have become reckless as of late,” it said in return. “Do not forget that he sells protections against beings such as I.”

“I was born in Martom,” James said, picking up one of the charms.

“Martom? Oh, Martom! Good, good! I’ve been there once or twice myself. Lovely little fief. Oh. You know,” he said, his voice dropping as he leaned forward, the thin red-dyed linen spread over the table pulling as he did. “I’ll soon be heading south myself. You wouldn’t happen to be able to put in a good word with the local lords, would you?”

“Probably not,” James said, holding the charm up to the light. The eye was painted on a piece of glass with a heavy black paint. “I have been away for many years.”

“Ah, a traveler of the same cut as mine own, I see,” Obie said with a fox-like grin. “Hmm. I’m sure your discerning eye has crossed many wonders. Perhaps, I can interest you in a viewing of my more,” he paused to give a glance in either direction, “select wares. Imported from the east. If you’d like to come by after the evening service.”

“I believe I may have been mistaken,” said the demon.

“Mistaken? You?” thought James in response.

“Do not get cocky, James. I simply meant he may not be as entirely antagonistic as I first assumed. It is the nature of his trade to convince even himself, after all,” she said.

The small, black bird looming on a tent post took flight, circling around them in the air.

James set down the talisman back on the table, leaning into the table and looking Obie directly in the eyes. They were soft, brown eyes, obscured by a fan of brittle hair. With a slight tilt of his head, James lent him a suggestive smirk.

The merchant seemed taken aback by the gesture, his tone breaking as he said, “If you want, that is. I have. Um.”

“James,” the demon chided. “Your game is clear, yet you have not said a word to clear it with me.”

“Well? Master? Do you dissuade me from my efforts?” he thought to the demon.

“Just know that for this man, it is not such a simple effort.”

“But do you permit it, Master?”

“Very well,” the demon said in response. “I may have some interest as well.”

“I think I would very much like to see your collection,” James said.

Obie looked down, the blush on his face barely visible from behind his hair. “Yes, of course,” his voice picked back up. “Are you planning to attend service?”

James smirked. “No. I’m a stranger to the parish here.”

“Ah. You—? Ah. Understandable. It seems. Very well, ser. Um. I,” Obie stuttered. A rush of blood had clouded his mind to be so pointedly under the gaze of the knight. He caught himself, though he had momentarily forgotten where he was, and looked back over the items laid out on the table. “I will. I will soon be—hum—I must collect my things.”

“Where should I meet you?” James asked.

“Ah,” said the merchant, still looking over his things though he had need to quickly collect his thoughts. “Down the old silversmith’s street. There is an old house by the outskirts. The old woman, Weirol, lives there and I am a guest of hers. The bulk of my things remain with her.”

“How generous of her.”

“Yes. Yes, she is a kind woman. And,” he said, looking back up at the knight, then again over the charms and glass bottles lined up before him. “A generous customer. But we can discuss that later. We. Can discuss things later? We’ll discuss things later?”

The knight gave him a knowing smile, charmed by how bashful the man had shown himself to be. “Sounds good to me.”

“Well,” Obie said, tapping on the table with his fingers, fully intent on finishing a thought.

But James cut in, saying, “See you then.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” he said.

As he walked away, the small black bird landed on his shoulder and he heard in his head, “You are certainly pleased with yourself, James.”

“It was not so long ago it was beyond me to pursue such things without fear of reprisal. Do you blame me for the fact that through your graces I am now free?” he thought back to her with a smile.

“I do not. After all, such was the terms of our agreement. However, I have need to make sure you know your place in that agreement at a later occasion.”

“I'll be looking forward to it.”

“Such a perverse thing you are, James.”

He looked to the small black bird and let out a heavy sigh. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

“Such is a plain and obvious fact,” it said in response. “But do not get ahead of yourself.”

On the other end of the market, Obie put his face in his hands. “God. What am I going to do?” he muttered through his fingers.

The old cobbler with the stand next to him gave a cackling laugh, “Seems he saw right through you, Obie.”

“Oh, shut up, Staldwell,” Obie hissed into his palms.

“That armor, though,” the old man said with a whistle, coming up to Obidiah and leaning against the table. His hair was sparse, with dirt lining his pores, and he was dressed only aged, sweat-stained linens. “Bet he’d make a right pretty husband. Maybe it’s time ye took up the life God set out for ye.”

“Staldwell,” Obie said with a groan, pulling his nose up from his fingers. “Am I really that obvious?”

The old man just shrugged, saying, “Sure he has a pretty coin to part with too.”

Obie let out a sigh, looking back over his collection.

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[the-writhing-mist]

HV Serial Obidiah Part 3

Word Count: 1407 Themes: 18+, medieval, dark fantasy, demon/edritch being x human, general sexual content, D/s, relatively vanilla, m/m, trans character, trans male, piv sex

General Info: This is a side story not continuous with the main plot revolving around a character named Obidiah. It’s rather loose in form, please excuse the unpolished writing.

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It was a small space. Filled with junk and blankets and clothes. Moreover, it was clear he slept here, from the small cushion tucked in between wooden slats that held his things. Some of it was cleared out, the space where the cases inside had been taken from, and other items were loose, lost under cloth and trinkets. An ox slept in the yard outside, fast asleep at that moment, and Obidiah hung a peculiarly shaped oil lantern up on the inside to find the statue.

The space was much too small. And, between the low light and the humidity of the night, the both of them found their thoughts drifting elsewhere. James watched Obidiah dig through his items, pulling out a long, thin case, his mind lingering on what the bulky coat revealed of his shoulders, of his back, how his elbows moved as he opened the case, those long fingers holding a delicate silver statue of a strange serpentine dragon with antlers atop its head.

“It has a curse set upon it,” Nyn said in his head.

Obie set it in James’ hands, saying apologetically, “I’m sorry I assumed.”

“What do I owe you?” James asked.

“You. Would you like it as a bribe?” Obie said with a smile. “You’re an appreciative gentleman, aren’t you? And I’ve got secrets to keep. I promise, I do well enough for myself. Why this, though?”

“She said a demon put a curse upon it,” James said. “We may be able to identify the source.”

“Is that a good thing?” Obie said with a scowl.

“We are trying to find the others of the old gods who have survived. But. Um,” he said and set the statue aside, putting it on the top shelf. “I did not come here solely for this.”

Obidiah shifted on his feet, suddenly too close to the other man, noticing the sweat sticking to his neck, the dark body hair peeking out of his gambeson, the knots in his hands. He looked back up as though nothing in him had expected the subject to come up again.

“I,” James started, cracking a smile as he went. “Am a man who desperately wants to spear you. And I barely know what to do with myself.”

“Me either,” Obie murmured as he looked back over James, unable to put much voice through his throat as his head suddenly felt light.

“I guess,” James said between breaths. “I. Well. It is up to you.”

Swallowing as though it would do anything to ease his quickening breath, Obie uttered a weak, “I,” but then put his hand on the other man’s chest, overtaken by the sheer dismay over the fact he was able to do so at all.

“Well,” James said with a scoff, giving him sarcastic look. “I would take off my armor, you know.”

“I. Uh,” Obie said, setting his temple against the armor. The witch-knight’s heartbeat was barely audible from beneath, a weighty rumbling, and a hint of the warmth of his body soaking through. “I don’t even know your name,” he said after another swallow, closing his eyes to add a wispy, “But I.”

“Oh, I forgot about that part, did I?” James said with a self-effacing smile, reaching back to undo the straps holding his armor up. “It’s James. Ser James of Martom.”

“Ser James,” Obie said to himself in a rush of breath, leaning back against the shelving as he watched the knight set aside the breastplate.

“What do you think?” James said, still with more straps to loosen.

“I think,” Obie said, grasping at the fur lining his coat, unsure whether he was ready to take it off. “You are. A very dangerous man, Ser James.”

Free of the protective shell and one layer of padding, he twisted his wrists, stepping forward towards Obie. “Well, I am a heathen witch,” he said with a grin.

Standing back up on his feet, Obie put both hands against James’ collarbone, feeling it through the basic shirt that remained. He removed them briefly to toss aside the coat, then set back to feeling the reality on his fingertips. The musculature beneath. The warmth. The thick, jet black hair that fell over his shoulders in waves. He looked up, feeling a set of calloused hands set on his hips, the word, “James,” falling from his lips before he licked them and gripped the tufts of wavy hair to bring the witch’s own lips towards him.

Set loose, he pinched those lips between his own, feeling the stubble scratch his face, their breath against each other’s skin and the low purr in James throat as he rifled through the still many layers the merchant wore until he found skin.

Obie put his head against James’ chest, feeling seconds away from fainting. He needed to catch his breath. The knight’s hands ran over his back and his flesh trapped between them. He bit down, saying woefully, “My body reveals too much of me.”

James minded little, nipping at his neck with rapid breaths punctuated with the occasional sighing whimper.

“Stop. Ser Wandering Hands, here. I. Hm. I,” he said, but then pulled himself away.

“Yes?” James said, though he had been drowning and suddenly found air again.

“It. Is. I. I want to remain dressed.”

“Ah.”

“Like I said. My body. Is. Oh, but I do want you. God. James. I just,” Obidiah said between gasps. “Here. I can’t. I just. I want,” he stuttered, turning around and fitting his torso between the shelves where he normally slept. “Just. Like this.”

Fully turned around, Obie pulled up his layers, revealing the line of his breeches, which he tugged at till the full view of the skin was exposed, the tangle of hair and fluids exposed. James put his hand over the left cheek, letting the warmth seep into his skin.

“Are you saying. To,” the knight only barely got out.

“Yes.”

“But I would so like to kiss you more.”

“For God’s sake, witch. A man offers you honey and you balk about the dew? Don’t be so picky. You offered your spear, did you not?”

“Oh,” James said with a heavy sigh, taking a step forward. “Oh, give me strength,” he muttered with rushed breath, placing his other hand against Obie’s hips.

“Was that an actual request?” Nyn cut in.

“Nyn,” he thought in response, but barely had focus enough left for it. “Do what you will.”

“You are lucky I am so charmed by the sight of my servant in the throes of carnal ecstasy.”

With his thumb, he gripped into the skin, pulling back on the folds. They were stuck together, but the tension saw them break free from the sweat and honey, showing clearer the viscera waiting for him.

“I,” Obie said, his breath escaping from him further as the anticipation hit, “I don’t want to think about it. I just want to feel it. Please.”

James bit his lip as the warmth sunk in his fingers and the musk brushed past his nose. With the thumb, he reached in further, pressing into the rim and eliciting a sharp gasp from his partner. Sucking on his own bottom lip, he pressed his hand in further, twisting it to cup the flesh and then rub into the gash. He seized the other hand, grasping at his trappings to free himself as he ran his fingers along the folds.

Obidiah was quickly adrift, gripping at the quilted blanket with his long fingers. He shifted back, trying to push himself further into the palm of the witch. James shook his head, letting out a heavy sigh at the sight. With the butt of his hand, he pressed into the rim, mashing flesh of the head together with his fingers. It was the way his Master had taught him, to tease so lightly the organ matching his own in all but size.

“Ah!” shrieked Obie at the sensation. “Oh!”

“Heh,” James exhaled, saying, “Like that?”

“Ohh,” Obie groaned with a low growl. “Just fuck me. Please.”

“Really?” he teased with a grin.

“I said I don’t want to think too much about it,” Obie pleaded.

“Right. Sorry,” James said, taking back his hand to pull down his trousers.

“Master,” he thought idly, standing poised with his cock hanging so heavy in his hand.

“The man said to fuck him, James. Are you not going to oblige him?”

previous——navigation——next

[the-writhing-mist]

The Characters

(I will be continually updating this)

Harvester

Nyn Naura Ma Gorggia

The Mist: Writhing, Deep Without Limits, Consumes All

The titular demon of the primary timeline and whom the title "Harvester" refers to. She used to be the god of wisdom and secrets, associated with the dragon Tiamat. As literally a mist, she is able to take on various forms by condensing that mist. She enjoys engaging with her servants sexually, but she has no such drive herself.

Ser James of Martom, The Cultivator

The main character of the primary timeline. Starting out as a good, god-fearing knight bound by shame over his sexuality, he is later perhaps most aptly described as "a bi-sexual porn addicted sex deviant" (to quote Michigan Republican Todd Courser). He is primarily defined by his shame kink.

Fawn della Rose, The First Vessel

Fawn has been with Nyn the longest of her servants. She fits into the classic reversal of the innocent princess thought to be kidnapped by a dragon. Fawn is a sub and a little who loves being pampered.

Francesca of Yorl, The Second Vessel

Cesca is a loyal Vessel of Nyn. She has lived in the woods removed from civilization her entire life. Cesca is a big, buff, genderqueer service top. She enjoys filling a domestic role, taking care of the other servants by cooking them meals and such.

Ivy Mason, The Third Vessel

Ivy is a classic satanic witch that treats with her demon lord in exchange for a deeper knowledge and magical power. She's a fiery masochist that enjoys pushing boundaries.

Minor Characters

Luvisi: James' horse.

Castille: A fellow crusader. He's a big gay bear that fancies himself a monster hunter.

Sigurd: A fellow crusader. An asshole.

Merric: A fellow crusader. Also an asshole.

Simon: A fellow crusader. A nervous man.

Evelyn: A fellow crusader. An old man of faith.

Harrah vek Torre ven: The principal deity of the Harvester universe, referred to simply as "god" for the most part.

The Sacrifice

Ket Zur Vinva

The Weaver: Sinks To The Bottom, The Sound Of A Distant Siren Heard While Looking Up Into A Dark Sky

The main demon of the Sacrifice timeline. A god of the flesh and sensation, she easily controls humans to serve her whims.

Prince Cassius

The primary figure of the Sacrifice timeline. He is a sickly young man who is unfit for the crown.

Archduchess Octavia

Cassius' mother and owner of the lands surrounding Ionsida.

Ser Percius of Ionsida

The scout sent off by Octavia to make contact with the surrounding settlements.

Ardent of Matrea

The primary servant of Ket Zur Vinva. A sadistic hedonist, he used to serve Nyn Naura Ma Gorggia in the past.

Serial Exclusive Characters

Obidiah of Timpan

A merchant and charlatan who sells protection against demons. He's from Timpan, which is roughly equivalent to modern-day Syria. Obi is a gay trans man.

Modern Versions

Georgia Waters

James Martom

Ivy Mason

Fawn della Rose

Cassius